Produced by Al Haines.





                                  *THE
                              NIGHT CLUB*


                                   BY
                                HERBERT
                                JENKINS


                               Author of
                                "BINDLE"



                        HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED
                       3 YORK STREET, ST. JAMES’S
                             S.W.1 MCMXVIII




                      FIRST EDITION 20,000 COPIES



         _Cahill & Co., Limited, Printers, London and Dublin._




                                   TO
                            FREDERIC CHAPMAN
                        FROM WHOSE FRIENDLY AND
                        UNCOMPROMISING CRITICISM
                         IN THE PAST EVERYTHING
                             SEEMS TO DATE




                               *CONTENTS*

CHAPTER

      I. FORMING THE NIGHT CLUB
     II. THE COMING OF SALLIE
    III. THE PRIME MINISTER DECIDES TO ADVERTISE
     IV. THE BOY
      V. THE BARABBAS CLUB
     VI. I FAIL THE NIGHT CLUB
    VII. A SURPRISE BEHIND THE VEIL
   VIII. THE MAKING OF A MAN OF GENIUS
     IX. MRS. BILTOX-JONES’S EXPERIMENT
      X. THE NIGHT CLUB VISITS BINDLE
     XI. THE GENERAL BECOMES A MEMBER
    XII. THE MATER
   XIII. THE ROMANCE OF A HORSEWHIPPING
    XIV. GINGER VISITS THE NIGHT CLUB
     XV. A DRAMATIC ENGAGEMENT
    XVI. THE MOGGRIDGES’ ZEPPELIN NIGHT
   XVII. SALLIE AT THE WHEEL




                            *THE NIGHT CLUB*



                              *CHAPTER I*

                        *FORMING THE NIGHT CLUB*


The idea originated with Bindle, who is never so happy as when listening
to or telling a story.  Sooner or later he will so guide conversation as
to challenge from someone a reminiscence, or failing that, he will
himself assume the burden of responsibility, and tell of how he
engineered one of his "little jokes," as he calls them.

"I likes to ’ear ’im tellin’ the tale," Bindle remarked one evening, as
we sat in Dick Little’s flat.  Dick had just finished an extravagant and
highly-coloured account of an Oxford "rag."  "Fancy young gentlemen
be’avin’ like that," Bindle continued, "instead o’ learnin’ to be
parsons.  P’raps that’s why they looks such gentle Jims when they gets
into a stiff collar," and Bindle buried a wink in his tankard.

A number of us had formed the habit of drifting into Dick Little’s flat
in Chelsea on Sunday evenings for a smoke, a drink and a yarn.  That was
in Dick’s bachelor days and when he was working night and day at "Tims"
(St. Timothy’s Hospital).  There would be Jocelyn Dare, the writer and
inveterate hater of publishers, Jack Carruthers, who tolerated everybody
except Mr. Lloyd George, sometimes Tom Little, Dick’s brother, and about
a dozen others, including a lot of men from "Tims."

One Sunday evening in May, when the air was heavily-scented with
blackthorn and laburnum, Bindle and I arrived on Dick Little’s doorstep
within two seconds of each other.

"Hullo, J.B.," I hailed as he was closing the outer door of the
mansions.  We always call him "J.B.," following Dick Little’s lead.

"Cheerio, sir," he responded, holding the door open for me to pass and,
giving vent to an elaborate sigh of relief, added: "I’m glad to get in,
that I am.  I never feels safe till I gets ’ere.  Lord! ’ow them young
women do make eyes at me.  I s’pose it’s the Spring.  It ain’t safe for
me to be out, it ain’t really, sir."

We were the first arrivals, and it was during the next ten minutes that
Bindle made his proposal.

"Why shouldn’t we ’ave a little club, sir, wot does nothink but tell the
tale?" he asked.

That was the inception of the whole idea. Dick grasped hold of it
eagerly.  He is a doctor and doing his best to kill himself with
hospital work, and I think he saw in Bindle’s suggestion a welcome
change after a strenuous week’s work.  We discussed the matter during
the next ten minutes, and, when the other fellows arrived, they were
told of the new order of things and, with one voice, acclaimed Bindle a
genius.  It must be confessed that the men from "Tims" are unrivalled in
their capacity for acclamation—they revel in the robustious. It
frequently involves Dick Little in difficulties with his neighbours,
especially with a choleric old general who lives in the flat beneath.

"I always wanted a night club," explained Bindle when he had
disentangled his limbs from the eager hands that had hoisted him
shoulder-high.  "It ’ud sort o’ cheer Mrs. B. up to know that ’er ole
man was goin’ to ’ell quicker than wot she thought."

After that it was always "The Night Club."  We seemed to adopt the name
as a matter of course.

We arranged to meet on Sunday evenings at nine o’clock.  Each member of
the Club was liable to be called upon to tell a story, after being given
a reasonable notice.

"Didn’t we ought to ’ave rules, sir," enquired Bindle of Dick Little.

"Once you start making rules you are undone," broke in Tom Little, "for
you have to frame other rules to modify those already made. At Oxford——"

"Is it to be a cock and hen club?" interrupted Carruthers.

"A cock an’ wot club, sir?" enquired Bindle, pausing in the act of
lighting his pipe.  "A cock an’ wot club?"

"Are ladies to be——"  Carruthers got no further.  Bindle deliberately
replaced the match in the box, which with his pipe he returned to his
jacket pocket.  Then with great solemnity and deliberation he rose and
walked towards the door.

"Hullo!  J.B.," cried Dick Little.  "What’s up?"

"If you’re goin’ to ’ave ’ens, sir, this ’ere cock’s off, see?"

"Come back, you silly ass," laughed Tom Little.

Bindle paused irresolutely and looked from face to face.  "Is it ’ens or
no ’ens, sir?" he enquired of Dick Little.

"Why, no hens, of course," shouted Jim Colman, one of Tim’s men, giving
Bindle a thump between the shoulders that would have made most men
wince.

"Right-o, gentlemen; then this ’ere cock withdraws ’is resignation, an’
all’s serene again," and Bindle returned to his seat and the occupation
of kindling his pipe.

Thus it was that women were barred from the Night Club.

The first meeting, however, ended in a fiasco. A fellow named Roger
Blint had been called upon to tell a yarn, which proved him to be
utterly devoid of narrative skill.  It was something about a man who was
jilted by a girl and, in consequence, went to the war, returning a few
months later with his breast a rainbow of ribbons and his pockets
jingling with medals, crosses and stars.  We were all much depressed.

After the others had gone Bindle, Dick Little and I conferred together,
and it was decided by a majority of two to one that I was first to hear
the stories, write them out and read them to the club.

I protested that I was too busy; but Bindle had finally over-ruled my
expostulations.

"No, one ain’t never too busy to do a little bit more," he said.  "I
once ’ad a special kind o’ performin’ fleas, wot was the busiest things
I ever seen; yet they wasn’t too busy to give me a nip or two now and
then.  You got to do it, sir," and I felt I had.

We developed into a curiously motley crowd. One night Bindle brought
Ginger along, and Ginger had remarked "I don’t ’old wiv them sort o’
clubs."  He refused all other invitations. We had among us a retired
policeman, a man who kept a coffee-stall, Angell Herald, the famous
publicity agent, the Honourable Anthony Charles Windover (now Lord
Windover), and many others.  Had we accepted all the nominations, we
should have been an uncomfortably mixed crowd.  Dick Little was
particularly anxious to introduce a "Polish" barber whose name was
Schmidt, on the strength of his having exhibited in his shop-window the
following notice:—

                   "I am an alleged Russian subject,"

but we had blackballed the worthy Schmidt.

"Because a cove says a funny thing," remarked Bindle, "doesn’t always
mean ’e’s funny.  Sometimes ’e can’t ’elp it, poor chap."

As a result of the story about Sallie, Jack Carruthers’ sister, she
became the only woman ever admitted to the Night Club.  There was not a
man in the assembly but was desperately in love with her from the moment
he heard the tale.  Never was a queen more deferred to and fussed over
than Sallie.  To Bindle she was "the sport of sports."  "She ain’t
always flapping ’er petticoats," he said admiringly. "Yer wouldn’t know
you ’ad a bit o’ skirt ’ere except when yer looks at ’er face."

Bindle was Sallie’s cavalier.  If the atmosphere seemed to get too thick
with smoke, it was he who threw up the window, or propped open the door
until it cleared.  When Jack Carruthers was not present, it was always
Bindle who put Sallie into her taxi; it was an understood thing.  One
night the Boy, quite unthinkingly, endeavoured to usurp Bindle’s
prerogative.  Bindle had looked him up and down for a moment and
remarked cheerily: "All right, ’Mr. ’Indenburg,’ you jest wait till I’ve
finished, then I’ll come and take you ’ome."

Bindle is a journeyman pantechnicon-man, with an unquenchable thirst for
fun.  He is small, bald-headed, red-nosed, cheery.  To him life is one
long-drawn-out joke.  He is blessed with a wife and brother-in-law
(Alfred Hearty, the Fulham greengrocer), whose godliness is
overpowering.  Bindle is a cockney by birth and in feeling.  He loves
mischief for its own sake; but underneath there is always gentleness and
consideration for the unfortunate, and a kindly philosophy without which
laughter is an insult to life.

Of the other members of The Night Club little need be said.  Most of
them are doing war-work in some shape or form.  Windover is a captain on
the Staff, Carruthers is in the R.N.R., Dare is in munitions, his heart
"plucked" him for the army, and the rest are doing their bit to the best
of their ability.  To one and all Sunday is a relaxation from a
strenuous week of work, and the presiding spirit of our assemblies is
our unanimously-elected chairman, Joseph Bindle.

Although Bindle is a laughing philosopher, he has several streaks of
granite in his composition: among them independence.  One of the first
questions raised was that of drinks.  Dick Little, whose generosity is
embarrassing, had said that was his affair.

"Very well, sir," was Bindle’s comment; "then you breaks up the Night
Club."

Enquiry elicited from Bindle the announcement that unless we all paid
our share, he "wasn’t taking anythink."  From that time it became an
understood thing that each member became responsible for one evening’s
refreshments.  We had fought Bindle as long as possible, but he was
adamant.

It was quite by chance we discovered later that when his turn came to
pay, he had worked overtime for a whole week so that Mrs. Bindle should
not go short on account of his pleasures.

Bindle had suggested that when the time came a selection of the stories
might be printed. It was explained to him that short stories do not
sell; the British public does not like, and will not read, them.

Bindle had pondered over this for a while and, finally, had said with
decision: "Then we’ll make ’em read ours.  Me an’ Mrs. B. don’t neither
of us seem to fancy cold mutton, an’ when there’s a bit over you should
jest see wot she can do with it.  She can turn it into anythink from
stewed rabbit to mince pies."  Then turning to me he continued: "You
done me proud in that other little ’ymn book o’ yours, sir, although
’Earty and Mrs. B. don’t seem quite to ’ave recovered from the shock o’
bein’ famous, and now you can tell all about our Night Club.

"You jest tell about Miss Sallie, sir, ah’ Young ’Indenburg, the Cherub
(Bindle’s name for Angell Herald), an’ Mr. Gawd Blast (Jocelyn Dare);
why them alone ’ud make any book famous.  Then you might add jest a sort
of ’int, yer know, sir, that I’d be in it an’ then, wot-o!"  Bindle did
a few fancy steps towards his tankard and took a good pull.  "With Miss
Sallie, Young ’Indenburg, an’ me, sir, you got the real thing."

That settled the matter, and here is the book, short stories disguised
as a book of consecutive interest, just as Mrs. Bindle’s cold mutton
masquerades as "stewed rabbit" or "mince pies."  It’s a fraud, a
palpable fraud, but as Bindle says, we all keep "a-poppin’ up like
U-boats, that people’ll sort o’ get fond of us."

Many will say I should have been firmer; but the man who can withstand
Bindle when he is set upon having his own way is a being of finer moral
fibre than I.

The hour, when it came, for deciding which stories should be included
and which omitted, would, I thought, be the last of the Night Club.
Nobody agreed upon anything.  Sallie refused to allow the story to be
told of how she did what the whole power of Germany has failed to
do—tricked the British Navy.  At the mere suggestion of printing even a
covert reference to himself, the Boy became almost hysterical. Angell
Herald, on the other hand, felt that all his yarns should go in, and
said so, intimating also that he had several others.  Furthermore he
hinted that he might get us some advertisements to go at the end of the
volume, _provided_ it satisfied him!

Finally it was agreed that Dare and I should decide what stories were to
be included, and from our verdict there was to be no appeal. Bindle’s
last words on the subject were—

"You jest put me an’ Miss Sallie on the cover an’ you’ll see."




                              *CHAPTER II*

                         *THE COMING OF SALLIE*


When the Night Club was formed it was definitely agreed that it should
be for men only, like the best stories and the most delightful women;
yet at the third sitting Sallie Carruthers became the one and only woman
member.  The circumstance was so unexpected that it can be understood
only as a result of a thorough description of Sallie, and the difficulty
is to know where to begin—the end is always the same, a precipitate
falling-in-love with her.

It is all very tedious for Sallie, who does not seem to like being
fallen-in-love-with.  To use her own expression, "It spoils it."  What
it is that it spoils she does not seem able to explain, and if pressed
she replies despairingly, "Oh! everything."

To a man Sallie is an enigma.  She seems desirous of rebuking Nature.
She claims from a man comradeship and equality, and he who is not
prepared to concede this had better keep out of her way.  If some poor
wretch, not knowing Sallie’s views, happen to be with her in the country
and pause to help her over a stile, he never does so more than once.
Sallie’s eyes will smile her thanks and convey a reproach at the same
time.  On the other hand, in a drawing-room or at a theatre, Sallie
would not be likely to overlook the slightest omission.

There is about her a quality that is as personal as it is irresistible.
I have never known her fail to get what she wanted, just as I have never
known her to appear to want what she gets.  If Sallie asks me to take
her up the river on the Sunday I have invited Aunt Jane to lunch, I
explain things to Sallie, and there the matter appears to end; yet on
that self-same Sunday Sallie and I go up the river, and on the Monday I
have a letter from Aunt Jane saying that I am quite right to take every
care of an internal chill!

To describe Sallie is impossible.  She has very large, expressive, grey
eyes, exceedingly long lashes, carmine lips, nondescriptive features,
masses of dark brown hair that grows low down upon her forehead, and the
quality of attracting the attention of everybody in her vicinity.  She
dresses well, is the victim of moods, seems to eat nothing, and is as
straight as the Boat Race.

With a word or a glance she can annihilate or intoxicate.  I call to
mind one occasion, when what might have been a delightful dinner was
being ruined by a bounder, who monopolised the conversation with
pointless stories. Sallie waited her chance.

"I have a grandfather," began the bounder.

"Have you?" enquired Sallie in a tone full of sweetness and meaning.

The man subsided.

One day Sallie rang me up, and by the impatient "There?  There??
There???  Oh, bother!" I knew that something important was in the air.

"I am," I replied.

"What?"

"Here, of course," I replied.

"I’ve got it," said Sallie; "I’ve got it."

"Heavens!" I responded.  "How did you catch it?  Hadn’t you better go to
bed?"

"You’re not a bit funny.  Aren’t you glad I’ve got it?" she queried.

"Certainly, very glad if you are."

"Jack gave it to me."

"Really?  Has he got it too?  What is it?"

"A car, of course!"

Now this was characteristic of Sallie.  I did not even know that she
desired a car; probably her brother Jack, who gives her everything but
the good advice she so sadly needs, was as ignorant as I.  Most likely
he had planned the whole thing as a surprise, just as I once gave Sallie
a punt as a "surprise," and learned later that for a month previously
she had been taking lessons in punting.  But that’s just Sallie.

"It’s so wonderful," Sallie went on to explain.  "It does such funny
things. Sometimes it barks like a dog—(I shivered, I knew what that
meant for the car)—and sometimes it purrs just like Wivvles."  Wivvles
is a Persian kitten of no manners and less——but Wivvles can wait.

At times Sallie is very trying, although unconsciously.  She has a habit
of taking the first syllable of her friends’ surnames and adding a "y."
Windover, for instance, becomes "Winny."  Poor Graves, who is very fat
and moist, she calls "Gravy," and it hurts him just as it hurts dear old
Skillington, who is long and learned, to hear himself referred to as
"Skilly."  It would, however, hurt them both far more if Sallie were
allowed to guess their real feelings.

Having to some extent explained Sallie, I must proceed to tell the story
that resulted in her becoming a member of the Night Club.

Bindle had arranged that I should tell the first story, and in honour of
Jack Carruthers, who is Dick Little’s particular pal, and a foundation
member of the Club, I decided to tell how Sallie had once personated an
admiral’s daughter and what came of it.



                                  *I*


On coming down to breakfast one June morning I found awaiting me a
telegram.  It was from Jack Carruthers at Sheerness, and read:—


"got hilda here bring malcolm sallie dora for week end cruise meet you
sheerness pier four oclock friday jack"


"I’ll be damned if I do," I cried aloud.

"I b-b-beg your p-p-pardon, sir?" said Peake, who entered at that moment
bearing before him the eternal eggs, bacon and kidneys. Peake is
entirely devoid of culinary imagination.

"I remarked, Peake," I replied with great distinctness, "that I’ll be
damned if I do."

"Yes, sir," he responded, as he placed the dish of reiterations on the
table before me; "b-b-b-but you said ’addock on W-w-Wednesdays and
F-f-fridays, sir: this is only T-t-tuesday."

"I wasn’t referring to fish, Peake," I said severely, "but to Mr.
Carruthers and the _Hilda_.  He has invited me to take another cruise
with him."

A look of fear came into Peake’s eyes.  I had recently threatened to
take him with me on the next occasion that I sailed with Carruthers.
Peake is an excellent servant; but he has three great shortcomings: he
has no imagination, stutters like a machine-gun, and is a wretched
sailor.  For stuttering he has tried every known cure from the
Demosthenian pebble to patent medicines, and for sea-sickness he has
swallowed the contents of innumerable boxes and bottles.  The result is
that he stutters as much as ever, and during a Channel crossing is about
as useful as a fishing-rod.  It has never come to my knowledge that he
has sought a cure for his lack of imagination.

"I b-b-beg pardon, sir.  I thought you m-m-meant the breakfast.
S-s-shall I pack your things, sir?" he questioned, as he stood regarding
me wistfully, his hand on the handle of the door.

"What I said, Peake, was that I’ll be damned if I do, which does not
involve packing.  You will not pack my things, and please don’t again
suggest doing so; it annoys me intensely.  That is all."

Peake withdrew with the air of a man who has heard, but does not
believe.  I was convinced that he was already planning how he should
spend his time during my absence.  I ate my breakfast in silence, read
the shipping casualties to steady my determination to decline
Carruthers’ invitation, and smoked four cigarettes.

Being unable to get my mind away from the _Hilda_ and her skipper, I
determined, therefore, to go out at once and send him a telegram of curt
refusal.  With my fifth cigarette between my lips I set forth.

The reason for my determination was Dora coupled with Malcolm.  Dora
bores me, and when Malcolm tries to flirt with her, which he does in a
manner that reminds me of a cod making love to a trout, I become
demoralised. Dora is Sallie’s pal and the wife of some man or other whom
I have met and forgotten: no one would think of burdening his mind with
anything belonging to Dora that she is not actually wearing at the
moment.  Dora is extremely modish and regards a husband as she would a
last year’s frock.

In the Earl’s Court Road I encountered Sallie.  She was engaged in
meditatively prodding with the forefinger of her right hand the lifeless
carcass of a chicken.  I approached unseen.

"We should reverence the dead, my friend," I remarked gravely.  She
turned suddenly, with a little cry of pleasure that digested the kidneys
and dismissed Malcolm and the _Hilda_ from my overburdened mind.

"Oh, I _am_ glad to see you," she said, "awfully glad.  Can you remember
whether a good chicken should be blue or yellow?  I know it’s _one_ of
the primary colours, because that’s why I remember it?"  And she knit
her brows as, with a puzzled expression of doubt, she regarded the row
of trussed birds upon the poulterer’s slab.

"You are confusing the primary colours with the primary pigments.
They——"

"Please try and help me," she pleaded; "I’m so worried.  The housekeeper
has gone to see a sick relative, and I have to forage for food.  It’s
awful.  I hate eating."

Sallie looked so wretched, and her grey eyes so luminous and pathetic,
that I took the chickens in hand, purchased two saffron-coloured
specimens at a venture, and we proceeded to the fishmonger’s.

Sallie’s shopping completed, I told her of Jack’s wire and my
determination.

"Oh! but we _must_ go," she said with conviction.  "We can’t let him
down."

I explained that I could not get away.

"I wish I were a man," Sallie sighed mournfully, and gazed down at her
very dainty tailor-made skirt, a habit of hers when she wants to engage
upon something a woman should not do. Then turning half round and
dancing before me backwards, she burst out, "But I should so love it.
Do take me, _pleeeeeeeeease_."

"Sallie," I said, "there’s an old lady opposite who is struck speechless
by your salvation tactics."

"Oh! bother the old lady," she laughed. "Now we’ll go and telegraph."

When I left Sallie, I had telegraphed an acceptance to Jack and wired to
Malcolm. Sallie composed telegrams, which must have caused them some
surprise on account of their extreme cordiality.  We then parted, Sallie
to call on Dora, I to telephone to Peake that he might after all pack my
bag, although there were three days in which to do it.  As a matter of
fact I did not feel equal to that I-never-doubted-you’d-go-sir look in
his eyes.



                                  *II*


Victoria Station had been agreed upon as the rendezvous, and there we
met.  Sallie looked demurely trim and appropriately dressed. Dora seemed
to have got confused between a yachting-trip and a garden-party, and had
struck an unhappy medium between the two. Dora has what is known to
women as "a French figure"; but what to man remains a mystery; she also
has fair hair and a something in the eye that makes men look at her with
interest and women with disapproval.

Malcolm is all legs and arms and sketch-book. He was quite appropriately
dressed in a Norfolk knickerbocker suit, with a straw hat and an
umbrella—appropriately dressed, that is, for anything but yachting.
Malcolm is a marine-painter, and what he does not know about the sea and
boats need not concern either yachtsman or artist.  He is tall and thin,
with the temper of an angel, the caution of a good sailor and the
courage of a lion.  He waves his arms about like semaphores, rates woman
lower than a barge, and never fails to earn the respect of sailormen.

Malcolm is a man of strange capacities and curious limitations.  Anybody
will do anything for him, porters carry his luggage with no thought of
tips, editors publish his drawings, whether they want to or no, people
purchase his pictures without in the least understanding them, and,
finally, everybody accepts him without comment, much as they do a Bank
Holiday or an eclipse.

Sallie and Dora between them had only a small valise, whereas Malcolm
carried a sketch-book and an umbrella.  He, as I, was depending upon
Carruthers for all save a tooth-brush.

There was the inevitable delay on the line, and we were over an hour
late.  Sallie was in a fever of excitement lest the _Hilda_ should sail
without us.  Malcolm, with that supreme lack of tact so characteristic
of him, explained what a ticklish business it was getting out of
Sheerness Harbour under sail with the wind in its present quarter.  He
thought that in all probability the auxiliary motor had broken down, and
that the _Hilda_ would have to depend upon canvas to get out, in which
case she must have sailed half-an-hour before.

When we eventually drew into the station, out of the train, down the
platform, through the gates, into the street, sped Malcolm, and we, like
"panting time toiled after him in vain."  He waved his umbrella to us to
hurry, not knowing that Dora has a deplorably short wind. On he tore,
and finally disappeared through the pier-gates without, as we afterwards
found, paying his toll, a privilege he had generously delegated to us.
When we in turn passed through the gates, it was to find Malcolm
hysterically waving his umbrella, apparently at the Medway guardship.
Suddenly the truth dawned upon us, the _Hilda_ had sailed. Probably
Carruthers had not received the telegram.

Arrived at the pierhead we saw the _Hilda_ off the Isle of Grain, two
miles distant, slowly slipping out of the Medway against the tide with
the aid of her auxiliary motor.  The sight was one of the most
depressing that I have ever experienced.  We looked at each other
blankly.

"It’s the cup of Tantalus," I murmured, with classical resignation.

"It’s that damned auxiliary motor," muttered the practical Malcolm.

"Commong faire?" enquired Dora, who is inclined occasionally to lapse
into French on the strength of her figure.  "Commong faire?"

"Noo verrong," replied Malcolm in what he conceives to be the Gallic
tongue.

I made no remark, but with Sallie stood idly watching a steam-pinnace
approaching the pier-head from the Medway guardship that lay moored
directly opposite.

"I know!" Sallie suddenly said, and I knew that she really did know.
There are moments when I am at a loss to understand why I do not run
away with Sallie and marry her in spite of herself, merely as a
speculative investment. She is exquisitely ornamental, and her utility
equals her æsthetic qualities; more would be impossible.

At Sallie’s exclamation Dora and Malcolm drew towards us.

"Tell me the name of an admiral," Sallie cried, her large, grey eyes
diverted from epic contemplation of the universe to a lyric
mischievousness.  "I want an admiral."

"Try a lieutenant to begin with," Malcolm suggested, and was withered.

"An admiral," said Dora.  "Nelson; he was an admiral, wasn’t——?"

"Van Tromp, Blake, Benbow, Villeneuve, Collingwood, St. Vincent,
Cochrane——" glibly responded Malcolm.

As the responses were uttered at the same time, Sallie probably heard
little of what was said.  Suddenly becoming very calm, she addressed
herself to Malcolm.

"I want to know the name of an English admiral of the present day.  Are
there any?"

"Plenty," responded Malcolm.  "Crosstrees (I dare not give the real
name), First Sea Lord, May, Meux, Jellicoe, Beresford, Scott, Beatty."

"Is Admiral Crosstrees married?" queried Sallie calmly.  "Has he
grown-up daughters? Is he old?"

"Any First Sea Lord who has not grown-up daughters has evaded his
responsibilities as an officer and a gentleman," I remarked.

Suddenly Sallie took command.  Motioning us back, she went to the
extreme end of the pier and looked down.  A moment later, the white top
of a naval cap appeared above the edge, followed by a fair face and five
feet six of a sub-lieutenant.  Sallie addressed herself to him, and,
taking advantage of his obvious confusion, said: "Will you please take
us out to that yacht," pointing to the _Hilda_.  "She has gone without
us, and——well, we want to get on board."

When the sub. had recovered from Sallie’s smile and her carnation tint,
he stammered his regret.

"I’m most awfully sorry; but I’m here to take liberty men aboard.  I’m,
I’m, afraid I can’t, otherwise I would with er—er—er——"

"What are liberty men?" questioned Sallie, looking at him with grey-eyed
gravity.

"Men who have been ashore on leave," was the response.

"Can you signal to that?" asked Sallie with guile, nodding at the
guardship.

"I beg pardon," replied the bewildered sub, fast breaking up beneath
Sallie’s gaze.

"Does the captain know the First Sea Lord, Admiral Crosstrees?"

"I—I don’t know," he replied, "I——"

"I am Miss Crosstrees.  Will you please tell me who you are.  I should
like to know, because you are the first officer I have met who has been
discourteous to me.  I will not trouble you further," and she moved away
like an outraged Mrs. Siddons.

"I—I’m awfully sorry, Miss Crosstrees.  I didn’t know——of course——if you
can get down.  I will most certainly——"  He collapsed into confused
silence.

"You will take us then?" Sallie questioned, approaching two steps nearer
to him.

"Certainly: but er—er—can you—er?"

Sallie looked down.  A perpendicular iron ladder led down to the pinnace
some thirty feet below.  It was not pleasant for a woman.

"Will you go down and—and——" faltered Sallie.  He was a nice youth, who
understood and disappeared, I after him.  Then came Sallie, easily and
naturally as if accustomed to such ladders all her life.  Dora followed,
almost hysterical with fear, and finally came Malcolm, with his umbrella
and the valise in one hand and his sketch-book between his teeth. I
could see the men were impressed with his performance.

I did not at all like the adventure.  It might end very unpleasantly for
some of us, and the "some," I knew, would be Malcolm and me. I was by no
means reassured when I saw that the sub. was steering the pinnace
directly for the guardship.  Did he suspect?  I racked my brains to try
and recollect if the First Sea Lord were married, if he had a family,
if——.  It was as if from far away that I heard the sub, hailing the
guardship through a megaphone.

"Admiral Crosstrees’ daughter wishes to be put aboard that yacht, sir.
Am I——"

"Certainly," came the reply, as the officer of the watch came to the
side and saluted. Hands bobbed up from everywhere, and it seemed as if a
dead ship had suddenly been galvanised into life.  Sallie’s bow and
smile were much appreciated, every man taking it unto himself.  That is
Sallie’s way.  She can slay a regiment or a ship’s company with a
glance, whilst another woman is exhausting herself in trying to enlist
the interest of a stockbroker.

Out we rushed after the _Hilda_.  Sallie, now that she had gained her
point, became absorbed in contemplating the Isle of Grain, and watching
the white wake of the pinnace.  Occasionally a slight, half-sad,
half-contemplative smile would flit across her features.  She had
forgotten everything—yachts, pinnaces, subs, and was just alone with the
things that mattered, the sea, the sky, and the green fields.

Dora chatted with the sub., whose eyes repeatedly wandered to where
Sallie was standing quite oblivious to his presence.  Malcolm was in
deep converse with one of the crew, whilst I watched the others,
especially Sallie. I find it difficult to keep my eyes off Sallie when
she is within their range.  She is an interesting study for a man with
the chilled physique of a St. Anthony; for the rest of us she is a
maddening problem.

The _Hilda_ was labouring dully, heavily through the broken water,
whilst we raced, bobbed, jumped and tore after her.

Malcolm hailed her through the megaphone, and there came back in
Carruthers’ drawling voice:

"Awfully glad you’ve come!"

The bowman brought the pinnace dexterously under the _Hilda’s_ port
quarter, and Sallie clutched at the yacht’s shrouds and sprang aboard.
The sub. watched her with frank admiration.  Sallie does everything in
the open most thoroughly well.  I have seen her fall flat on her face at
the winning-post in her determination not to be beaten by a
longer-legged and swifter opponent.  How truly admirable she was, struck
us all very vividly as we strove to hoist, pull, and push Dora, aboard.
In spite of its æsthetic glory, Dora’s figure possesses very obvious
limitations in the matter of surmounting obstacles.

Immediately she was on board, Sallie went up to Carruthers and gravely
shook hands (Sallie hates being kissed, I speak from careful
observation), and drew him aside.

"Jack, until that steam launch is out of sight I’m Miss Crosstrees,
daughter of the First Sea Lord.  Don’t let any of the crew give me
away."

"Or the guardship will sink us," I added.

Carruthers looked puzzled, but with a cheery, "all right, Sallie, my
bonnie," he went to the side to thank the sub.  Carruthers would
cheerfully imperil his immortal soul for Sallie. The sub. was brought
aboard, and we all drank to the eyes that are brightest, in 1900
Champagne, I have forgotten the brand.  The sub. was very obvious, and
we all guessed the eyes he pledged—all save Sallie.

As the sub. stood at the side preparatory to descending into the
pinnace, Sallie held out her hand, which he took as if it had been some
saintly relic.

"I shall always remember your kindness, Mr. ——" (I dare not give his
name for fear of the Admiralty censuring him).  Then with an arch look
added, "I shall tell my father."  And the pinnace that had brought a
sub. went away with a potential Sea Lord.  When the pinnace was about a
hundred yards off Dora waved her handkerchief.  "Why is it that Dora
does these things?"  I saw the mute question in Sallie’s eyes.  The men
would have cheered had they dared.

"Carruthers," I remarked as the pinnace sped away from us, "will you put
me ashore at once?"

"Why, old man?" he questioned blankly.

"Your most excellent sister," I retorted, "has been posing as the
daughter of the First Sea Lord of the Admiralty, without even knowing if
he be married or no.  I call it disgraceful, and it is likely to produce
a pained feeling in Whitehall when it becomes known.  That sub. is bound
to write to the Admiralty and demand the command of a Super-Dreadnought
for his services.  I demand to be put ashore at once."

When Carruthers had heard the story he laughed loud and long, and,
putting his arm round Sallie, proclaimed hers the best brain in the
family.

The log of the Medway guardship would persist in obtruding itself upon
my vision. There would be an entry relating to the First Sea Lord’s
daughter and the service rendered her.  The wretched business haunted
me.  I sought out "Who’s Who"; but that gave me no assistance.  If the
First Sea Lord had a daughter, it might be all right; but if he had not?
However, there was nothing to be done but to try to enjoy the trip, and
forget the Admiralty.

The _Hilda_ is a 200-ton barge-rigged, sailing yacht, possessed of an
auxiliary motor; a boon to the wind or tide-bound yachtsman.  Some men
affect to despise the aid of a motor, but Carruthers argues that a
mariner is not less a mariner because he harnesses to his needs an
explosive-engine and a propeller.

Once aboard the _Hilda_ I felt that our adventures were ended.  It was
perfect weather for idling.  The previous day’s rain had cleared the
heavens of all but a few filmy clouds.  There was a good sailing breeze,
and the _Hilda_ bent gravely over as she cut through the water on her
way seawards.  Malcolm was for’ard, lying on his back looking aloft at
the swelling canvas.  There is no sight so grand or pleasing to a
yachtsman’s eye as that obtained from this position, and Malcolm knows
it.  Carruthers was at the helm flirting outrageously with Dora. Sallie
was talking with old Jones, the bo’sun and mate, about his latest
grandson.

The crew of the _Hilda_ are to a man devoted to Sallie.  Tidings that
she is to be one of a cruising party means much and self-imposed extra
labour, both as regards the _Hilda_ herself and her crew.  Everything
and everybody are smartened up, and Vincent, the cook, ages perceptibly
under the strain of thinking out a menu that shall tempt Sallie to eat.
His brow never clears until Sallie has paid him the customary visit of
ceremony, which to him is more in the nature of a religious rite.

"Chef"; (she always called him "chef") "it was delicious!  Thank you
very much indeed," Sallie would say with a grave and gracious smile
befitting so great an occasion, a happy, boyish look would spread itself
over Vincent’s sombre features, and the crew would know that there was
to be some dainty at their next meal; for Vincent, when happy, which was
extremely seldom, radiated good-will and distributed his largess with
unstinting hand.

There is no ecstasy like that of idleness, and no idleness to compare
with that felt upon a yacht running before a breeze.  Yesterday’s
troubles are wiped out, and to-morrow’s anxieties seem too far off for
serious consideration.  I was standing musing upon the beauty of the
day, watching the _Hilda’s_ track which seemed to trail off into
infinity, when I became conscious that the little streak of grey smoke
that I had been gazing at for some time came from the funnels of a
destroyer, which was evidently being pushed.  She was fetching us back
to her at a rare pace, and was obviously heading our way.  For some
minutes I continued idly to watch her.  Suddenly the old misgiving
assailed me.

Sallie’s deception had been discovered, and the irate captain of the
guardship had sent to demand an explanation.  I strolled over to
Carruthers and told him my fears.  He grinned with obvious enjoyment.
Carruthers is imperturbable.  He looked over his shoulder at the
destroyer.  After a time he called to Sallie, who was sitting amidships,
musing.

"They’re coming to fetch you, Sallie," he said cheerfully, and then
explained his fears. "Shall we fight for you, my girl, or calmly give
you up?"

Sallie clapped her hands with glee.  To be chased by a warship was a
novelty she enjoyed to its fullest extent.

"Will they fire, do you think?" she enquired of Malcolm, trembling with
eagerness.

"They’ll probably megaphone us to come up into the wind," responded the
practical Malcolm.

Sallie’s face fell.  I really believe she half hoped that the destroyer
would endeavour to sink the _Hilda_.  By this time everyone aboard had
become conscious that something unusual was happening.  The crew stood
grouped amidships, talking in undertones and casting side-glances at our
little party standing round the wheel.  It was now apparent to all that
we were the destroyer’s objective.  On she came like a mad thing, her
grey snout tearing at the waters and throwing them over her humped-up
shoulders.  She looked like some wicked gnome bent on the ruin of the
inoffensive _Hilda_. Sallie’s eyes danced with glee.  She had never seen
anything so magnificent as this sinister creature that came bounding
towards us.  We all watched breathlessly.  Presently a crisp, metallic
voice sounded through the megaphone:

"Yacht ahoy! we want to board you."

A few sharp words from Carruthers and we flew hither and thither, and
soon the _Hilda_ with mains’l and tops’l brailed came up into the wind.
It was all quietly and prettily done, and our nimbleness much impressed
the destroyer’s crew, as we afterwards learned.

The destroyer was soon beside us.  We expected another megaphone
message; but no, they were lowering a boat.  Dora became anxious and
asked, could we not hide Sallie? Nothing short of extreme physical force
could have hidden Sallie at that moment.

The destroyer’s boat was soon under our lee, and an officer with the
stripes of a lieutenant-commander sprang aboard and saluted Dora and
Sallie.  The _Hilda’s_ crew stood gazing at us in undisguised amazement.
What was going to happen?

Sallie stepped forward.

The officer looked round as if seeking someone.

"Can I speak to Miss Crosstrees?" he enquired, looking from one to the
other.

"I am Miss Crosstrees," said Sallie stepping forward.

A look of bewilderment spread itself over the young man’s face.  Then,
as if with sudden inspiration, he plunged his hand into his waistcoat
pocket and withdrew a small gold pencil case and held it out to Sallie.

"I think you dropped this in the pinnace. The captain of the
guardship—er—er—sent me after you with it."  The poor fellow seemed
covered with confusion.

"Thank you," Sallie said, as she looked up at him with great, grave, but
smiling eyes and with that damnable demureness that sends men mad about
her, "but it isn’t mine.  I didn’t drop anything in the launch.  Thank
you so much," she smiled.  "It is so kind of Captain ——. Will you thank
him for taking so much trouble?"  Then after a moment’s pause she added,
"No; I will write," and beckoning me to follow she descended to the
cabin, where she wrote two blazing indiscretions, one to the Captain of
the guardship and the other to the sublieutenant who had taken us off to
the _Hilda_.  I strove to prevent her: I remonstrated, I expostulated, I
implored; but to no purpose.  All I was there for, it appeared, was to
tell her that a launch was not a pinnace, to post her as to other
technicalities and to do the spelling. When we returned on deck the
L.-C. was drinking champagne, whilst the crew of the destroyer’s boat
drank a mute toast in grog. In their pockets they had already stowed
away a handful of Carruthers’ cigars.

With much goodwill the boat put off, was hoisted aboard the destroyer,
which swung round and, with a valedictory moan from her syren, darted
off home again bearing important despatches from Sallie to the Captain
of the Medway guardship and one of his junior officers.

"What did you say in that note?" I enquired of Sallie, visions of a
prosecution for forgery flitting through my mind.

"Oh, I just thanked him," said Sallie nonchalantly; but I saw by the
dancing lights in her eyes that there was something else.

"And——?" I interrogated.

"Oh!  I told him the truth and asked him to come to tea and bring that
nice boy who had helped us."

"Sallie," I remarked severely, "captains of battleships do not generally
take their junior officers out to tea."

But Sallie only smiled.

Later the cause of the young officer’s confusion was explained in a
letter he wrote to Sallie. He was engaged to Miss Crosstrees.


There was an unusual silence at the conclusion of the story, unbroken
even by Bindle’s mallet.  Bindle insisted on a mallet upon being elected
as chairman.  It was obvious that Sallie had cast her spell over the
Night Club.

"I’d a-liked to ’ave been one o’ them officers. A real sport ’im wot
didn’t give ’er away," remarked Bindle at length meditatively.  Then
turning to me he enquired:

"Don’t yer think, sir, we ought to sort o’ revise them rules about
ladies?  We didn’t ought to be narrow-minded."

"He’s got Sallyitis," laughed Carruthers.

"Yes, I got it bad, sir," flashed Bindle, "an’ I want a smile from ’er
wot give it to me."

"What about your views on hens?" enquired Dare.

"Well, sir," replied Bindle with quiet self-possession, "a single little
’en won’t do us any ’arm."

And that is how it came about that Sallie Carruthers was unanimously
elected a member of the Night Club.

I doubt if anything ever gave Sallie greater pleasure than this tribute,
particularly as she was always treated as one of ourselves, except by
Angell Herald, who could never forget that he was something of a
"ladies’ man."




                             *CHAPTER III*

               *THE PRIME MINISTER DECIDES TO ADVERTISE*


One of the characteristics of the Night Club is its mixed membership.

"Rummy crowd, ain’t we?" Bindle had remarked to Sallie Carruthers the
first night she was present.  "There ain’t a pair anywheres, except
p’raps you an’ me, miss."

And so it was, the only thing we have in common is our humanity.  To see
Angell Herald doing the "ladies’ man" to Sallie is a sight that gives
the rest of us a peculiar joy.

"’E do work ’ard, an’ she bears it like a good un," was Bindle’s
comment.

Angell Herald’s views on women are those of the _bon viveur_ of the
saloon bar.  When he addresses Sallie his whole manner changes, just as
most people’s idiom undergoes revision when they write a letter.  You
can see the dear fellow pulling himself together and, metaphorically,
shooting out his cuffs and straightening his tie as a preliminary to
opening fire.  His manners are superb, elaborate, suburban.  If Sallie
happen to wander near the door, Angell Herald dashes forward and opens
it, attracting general attention and arresting everybody’s conversation.

"He’s got more manners than breeding," Dare once whispered to me after a
particularly elaborate demonstration of Herald’s politeness. If Sallie
rises, Herald comes to his feet with a suddenness that has been known to
overset his chair.

He has no humour, but many jokes—most of which are for men only.  It
took him some time to gauge his company, when Dick Little introduced him
to our circle, and it came about thus.

One evening he had told a particularly pointless "man’s story," and his
was the only laugh that announced its conclusion.  Dick Little strove to
smooth over the hiatus; but Bindle, whose disgust was obvious, had
thrown a bomb upon troubled waters by enquiring of Dick Little with
great innocence, "Let me see, sir, I think you said you was out o’
carbolic’!"  From that date Angell Herald’s stories were merely
pointless without being obscene.  Sallie’s presence was a good
influence.

In spite of his limitations, Angell Herald is not a bad fellow, and he
told us many amusing stories of the "publicity" world.  He knows Fleet
Street thoroughly from the "box-office" point of view, and he seems to
regard the editorial aspect of the newspaper world with amused
tolerance.  "Where would those scribblers be," he would enquire with
fine scorn, "without adverts.?  Yet would you believe it," he had once
said to Dare, "they look down upon us?"

"Most extraordinary," Dare had responded.

"Still it’s a fact," Angell Herald had assured him, with the air of a
man who knows from a friend at the Admiralty that fifty German
submarines were sunk during the previous week.

Angell Herald was always the publicity agent, even when telling his
stories.  Dare had once said with great truth, "There is more herald
than angel about the dear chap."

Dare was particularly interested in the following story:—


The morning had begun badly.  The coffee was cold and the bacon burnt.
Angell Herald spoke to Mrs. Wiggins about it, and she had promptly given
notice.  In Mrs. Wiggins it was nothing new for her to give notice.  She
generally did so twice a week; but this was the third time during the
current week, and it was only Tuesday.  Angell Herald had been forced to
apologise.  He hated apologising—except to a client.  Then there was an
east wind blowing He disliked east winds intensely, they affected his
liver.

On the way to the office he called in and had his hat ironed.  He also
bought a rose.  He always buys a rose when there is an east wind, and he
likewise always has his hat ironed; it mitigates the pinched expression
of his features.

As he entered his office, he was conscious of not replying to Pearl’s
"Good morning."  Pearl is Angell Herald’s clerk, the only member of his
staff.  With somewhat ambiguous humour Angell Herald calls him "the
pearl of great price," as every fortnight with painful regularity he
asks for a rise—he never gets it. When Pearl is not asking for a rise,
he is soliciting a half-holiday in which either to marry a friend, or
bury a relative.  Pearl is entirely lacking in originality.  That is
what makes him a most admirable clerk for an advertising man.

On this particular morning, Angell Herald each had a funeral on the same
day.  They closed the office and met at Epsom!  Neither referred to the
matter subsequently.

On this particular morning Angell Herald saw that Pearl was in a state
of suppressed excitement.  Something had happened.  Was it another
friend desirous of getting married, or a double death?  Pearl himself,
however, settled the matter by saying:

"There’s a letter from No. 110 Downing Street, sir."

Then, of course, his employer knew that it was merely insanity.

"Don’t be an ass, Pearl," was the retort. Angell Herald allows Pearl a
considerable amount of licence, because he is valuable to him.
Furthermore, he permits his subordinate to joke sometimes, in lieu of
increasing his salary.

Pearl’s reply was to produce a letter, franked with the stamp of the
Prime Minister.  Angell Herald tore it open, hurriedly, and read:—

To Angell Herald, Esq.,
       382 Fleet Street, E.G.

DEAR SIR,

Your name has been given to me as an expert in the matter of publicity.
I shall be glad if you will call here at 10.30 to-morrow with regard to
a matter of considerable importance.

I am,  Yours faithfully,
                B. LLEWELLYN JOHN.


Angell Herald was overwhelmed.  Mr. Llewellyn John, who had held office
for years with the Waightensea Ministry, and had just formed a
Government of his own, was sending for him, Angell Herald, Publicity
Agent, and furthermore had signed the letter himself.  It was
bewildering.  What could it mean?

Angell Herald, turning to Pearl and, pulling himself together, announced
casually:

"I shall probably be some time, Pearl.  I have an engagement with"—and
he mouthed the words—"Mr. Llewellyn John, at Downing Street, at 10.30,
which will probably occupy me some time."

The burnt bacon, the cold coffee, Mrs. Wiggins’ notice; all were
forgotten in the dropping of Pearl’s jaw.  It was a delight to his chief
to see the clerk’s surprise.

At 10.25 sharp, Angell Herald was enquiring for Mr. Llewellyn John at
110 Downing Street. It was clear that he was expected.  He was led along
a corridor, through a wide hall, and eventually into a large room.  From
the further corner a little man, with generous grey hair or a more than
conventional length and a smile of bewildering sunniness, rose and came
towards him.

"Mr. Angell Herald?" he enquired.

Angell Herald bowed.  He had momentarily lost the power of speech.  The
Prime Minister held out his hand, Angell Herald grasped it. He was
prepared to grasp anything to make up for his silence.

"Pray, sit down," said the Prime Minister. "I want to have a
confidential chat with you."

Angell Herald sat down.  He twirled his hat in his hands.  He was
conscious of the perfume of his rose, and that he was behaving like an
ass.  He looked round the room.  He felt he could do anything in the
world save look at this great little man, who sat smiling opposite to
him.  It was Mr. Llewellyn John who broke the silence.

"Now, Mr. Herald.  I hear you are an expert of publicity methods."

Angell Herald bowed.

"You may be wondering why I sent for you?"

Angell Herald muttered something to the effect that he was.

"Well," said the Prime Minister deliberately, "it is because I have
decided to advertise."

"To what, sir?" blurted out the astonished publicity agent.

"To advertise.  Why should not a Government be advertised just as a
pill, a concert-singer, or a rubber-tyre?  Everybody advertises, and we
must advertise.  Those who don’t will go to the wall—or in Opposition,
which is the same thing."

Angell Herald introduced a tactful little laugh.  It was a success.

"Certainly," he replied, beginning to feel more at ease.  "Quite
naturally, I agree with you.  Now, an inspired article, for instance, in
_The Age_, an illustrated interview in _The Briton_, with pictures of
yourself playing with dogs, children and things, a——"

"My dear sir, those are obsolete methods. We are living in a new age, an
age that requires novelty.  If you advertise in the right way, you will
get your public; but you have to hit it very hard to make it look.  My
friend Mr. Chappledale, for instance, he advertises; but there is no
originality in his methods.  Sir Lomas Tipton, he advertises; but how?
I might endeavour to get together a football team to ’lift’ the English
Cup; but what good would that do?"

"Quite so," was the dazed response, "quite so."

"Take the late Lord Range, for instance," continued Mr. Llewellyn John.
"He understood modern methods.  Instead of stating, as some antiquated
Minister might, that the King and country needed 300,000 high-explosive
shells, he said: ’Lord Range calls for 300,000 high-explosive shells.’
He was up to date, and he got them.  A magnificent fellow Range. Didn’t
care a—ahem! for anybody.  Was even rude to me," he muttered
reminiscently.  "I liked him for it.

"Now take the Cyrils, that famous Parliamentary family dating back for
centuries.  They do not know how to advertise.  Ten years hence there
won’t be a Cyril in the House of Commons. There may be a few in the
House of Lords—that depends on democracy.

"Then there’s my old friend Waightensea. He did not advertise as the
needs of the political situation demanded he should, and the result is
that he has had to go.  It does not matter who you are in these
days—bishop or blacksmith, Prime Minister or pierrot—you’ve got to
advertise—the war has brought us this!"

Hitherto Angell Herald had regarded himself as second to none in the
advertising world; but Mr. Llewellyn John made him feel a child at the
game.

"The most far-seeing man in Europe has been the Kaiser.  He was the
first who understood the true value of advertisement, and he ran it for
all he was worth.  We laughed at him, but we listened.  Some people
think he overdid it a little," this with a smile; "but still among
monarchs he certainly was the first to appreciate that you have got to
run a monarchy rather as you have a patent medicine, spend ninety per
cent. of your money on advertising, and the other ten per cent. on the
article itself—less if possible."

Again the Prime Minister flashed upon his visitor that bewildering
smile.  Angell Herald hinted that this would be a very big business,
involving many thousands of pounds.

"Quite so," remarked Mr. Llewellyn John. "Now, the point is, what can
this additional expenditure be charged up against?  It can’t be
travelling expenses, because even a Prime Minister could not spend five
figures a year on travelling.  Secret Service would be difficult.
Personally I rather lean to the Naval Estimates."

"The Naval Estimates!" cried Angell Herald.

"Exactly," was the reply.  "We are always a little inclined to be
penurious over the Army; but if there is one thing that an Englishman is
generous about—always excepting the question of meals—it is the Naval
Estimates.  Yes," he continued, as if to himself, "I think we might
charge it up against the Naval Estimates.

"It is of no use making speeches, no one reads them.  We don’t care for
politics.  We are a nation of grumblers in search of scapegoats.  As you
know, I broke into epigrammatic utterances.  Look at their success.  You
will remember what a sensation I created with that clarion call of mine,
’Now we sha’n’t be long!’ the cables and Marconi installations thrilled
and stuttered it throughout the habitable globe.  I followed it with
’’Arf a mo’,’ which was even more popular.  My greatest cry, however,
was ’Pip-pip!’ which has been translated into two hundred and
eighty-seven languages and dialects."

Angell Herald smiled sympathetically.  He had never felt so much like a
schoolboy undergoing instruction than as he listened to this remarkable
man, who was teaching him his own business.

"And now, for the future," continued Mr. Llewellyn John, "we are going
to strike out a new line.  I intend to advertise my Ministry, advertise
it as no ministry has ever been advertised before.  I will make the
Kaiser look parochial and Mr. Moosephalt provincial.  Now let us get
down to brass tacks.  America is wonderfully apt in her expressions.  I
only discovered this after she joined the Allies.  Have you a notebook
with you, Mr. Herald?"

"Yes, sir," replied Angell Herald, hastily drawing one from his pocket,
relieved at having something to do.

"Now listen," the Prime Minister continued. "I propose to have pages in
the principal newspapers devoted to separate subjects.  One will be, for
instance, ’The Home Life of England.’  There will be pictures of myself
and family enjoying the home life, entertaining my friends at home,
golfing, playing hop-scotch with my children——"

"But," interrupted Angell Herald, "isn’t the Home Life stunt a little
played out?"

"Exactly, my dear Mr. Herald, exactly.  That is just what I was coming
to.  There will also be pictures showing me entertaining guests at the
Ritz-Carlton, at the Opera, at the pantomime, at the theatre, at the
races, at Westminster Abbey, at boxing matches."

"But," interrupted Angell Herald, "how is this to be called ’The Home
Life?’"

"My dear sir, the Larger Home Life, the Larger Home Life.  Get that well
into your mind.  I am appealing to the great public, not the relics of
the early Victorian Era, the Little Home-Lifers, sitting one on either
side of silly artistic fireplaces, gaping into each other’s stupid eyes,
and looking and feeling unutterably bored.  Let us have the Large
Home-Lifers. Occasionally, when the weather is warm, I shall put in an
appearance at the public swimming-baths; my figure will stand it."

"Excellent!" Angell Herald murmured. "Wonderful!"  He was thrilled by
this man’s genius.

"Then another would be ’The Fleet’—Great Britain’s Love for Her Navy.’
It’s a fine call, it’s a thrilling call.  I shall have myself
photographed entering the train, lunching in the train, getting out of
the train, being received by the local authorities.  Then I shall see
myself pictured with Sir Goliath Maggie on board _The Aluminium Earl_.
I shall make a speech about the Nelson touch, dragging in the
_Chesapeake_ and _Shannon_, and touching lightly upon the story of the
_Revenge_.  No, on second thoughts I cannot do that.  America has come
in, and Spain may at any moment.  No," he added musingly, "that will not
do.  They say I lack statesmanship, and that would give them an
admirable peg.  No, we’ll let that go."

"Then again I shall deal with the Woman Question, from a new point of
view.  I shall speak more or less sympathetically upon the subject of
revolutionary propaganda and sedition.  Here I shall bring in another
famous epigram I have prepared.  ’The Hand that rocks the Empire rules
the World.’  I shall be photographed receiving flowers, having my hat
knocked off by an irate woman, possibly being embraced by another woman
in a moment of political ecstasy.  That will appeal to the public
tremendously."

"Excellent!" murmured the bewildered publicity agent, conscious of the
inadequacy of the word.

"But there is one important thing.  To each of these huge scale
advertisements there must be a moral.  There must be something that will
appeal to the imagination of the Briton, and, as you and I know, nothing
so appeals to him as that which touches his pocket.  It is Democracy
that will rule the world in future.  Now in the case of the Home Life of
England, for instance, I shall comment upon the unnecessary extravagance
that I have observed in certain quarters, notably the gorgeous uniforms
of the officials at the Ritz-Carlton.  I shall pass a Bill quickly
through the House taxing silk stockings for men and the wearing of
calves. That will please the public.

"Then with regard to the Navy, I shall call attention to the enormous
amount of brass-work. I shall incidentally refer to the fact that
something like a quarter of a million per annum is spent on brass-polish
for the Navy. I shall give the necessary orders through the First Lord
that all brass-work shall in future be japanned, and so on."

"Mr. Llewellyn John," Angell Herald burst out, "what a loss you are to
the advertising world!"

The Prime Minister smiled, and continued:

"Then there comes the personal question. There must be little paragraphs
about myself constantly in the papers.  For instance, as I am leaving
this place I slip in getting into my car, and have to be led back into
the house. There will be photographs of the policeman who rushes up, the
look of solicitude on his face.  There will also be photographs of the
policeman’s wife and the policeman’s daughter—possibly a son or nephew
serving at the front. My family will be photographed at the windows,
looking out anxiously to see what has happened. There can also be a few
personal particulars about my chauffeur.

"Later I shall be photographed limping out of the house and being helped
into the car by three secretaries, four policemen and my chauffeur.  In
the press there will be comments upon my stoicism.  How, in spite of
being in obvious pain, I put the affairs of the Empire before those of
my own person.  Later, possibly there may be an attempt to abduct my
daughter. Another time there can be an attempt on my life."

"On your life, sir?"

"Oh, yes, yes," he continued airily.  "These things can always be
arranged.  You see, I can be walking in some lonely place, and you can
come up and—well, knock me down."

"Me!" gasped Angell Herald in ungrammatical horror.

"Exactly," he replied, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the
world for a publicity-agent to knock down a Prime Minister.  "A great
sensation would be created, and it would extend to the ends of the
earth.  We could suggest that the Kaiser was deeply involved in the
plot.

"Again, I can slip on a banana skin, and run a shirt Bill through the
House providing that everyone who eats bananas must carry about the
skins until he gets home, where they must be put in the dust-bin.  This
would gain for me the vote of every human being who has ever slipped on
a banana skin.

"Finally we come to the epigrammatic phrases.  There is one I have in
mind that should create a sensation.  It is: ’One of these days you’ll
see what you won’t wait for.’  I got it from one of the furniture men
who assisted when I moved into No. 110; a droll fellow, an exceedingly
droll fellow. His name was—let me see, yes, Joseph Bindle.  I thought of
asking him to join my Ministry, but I remembered the prejudice that one
has to fight in this country in all matters affecting innovation.
Another phrase that may be useful to us is: ’All is not cult that
kulturs.’

"Oh! by the way, couldn’t we run ’The Twenty-three Gentlemen who are
always too late’ on the lines of ’Ten Little Nigger Boys?’  I think
there’s something in that.

"But we must first have some refreshment. Ah! here it is."

A maid entered with a tray on which were two glasses of milk and three
small oatmeal biscuits.  Angell Herald took the milk, but refused the
biscuits.  Mr. Llewellyn John took the other glass and a biscuit, which
he put on the table beside him.  When the maid had retired he explained
with a laugh:

"My official lunch, the photographer and cinema operator will be here in
a minute.  We expect great things from both the photograph and the film.
’An Ascetic Premier’ we are calling it.  Now drink your milk."

Angell Herald gulped down a mouthful of the unaccustomed fluid, and put
down the glass well out of reach.

"Yes," continued Mr. Llewellyn John, "there is a vast field before us.
Now, Mr. Herald, will you or will you not throw yourself wholeheartedly
into this project?  It is a chance of a lifetime.  Will you become the
first Head of my Publicity Bureau?  You can name your own terms.  I want
you to do the thing thoroughly, and no expense will be spared."

For some reason or other Angell Herald found himself dumb.  He could do
nothing but gaze at Mr. Llewellyn John in bewilderment. He strove to
speak.  His tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth.  Mr.
Llewellyn John looked at him in surprise.

"Do you hear me, sir?  Do you hear me, sir?" he vociferated, banging his
hand on the table.  "Do you hear me, sir?"

Then something seemed to happen.  The scene faded, and Angell Herald
found that it was not Mr. Llewellyn John’s voice, but that of Mrs.
Wiggins; and he was in bed, and somebody was knocking outside his door,
obviously Mrs. Wiggins.

"Do you hear me, sir?" she repeated.  "It is eight o’clock, and I’ve
knocked three times."


"An’ you dreamt all that, sir?" enquired Bindle of Angell Herald.

"Every word of it," Herald replied as if scorning to lay claim to
imagination.

"Wonderful!" was all Bindle said, and the eye that looked over the brim
of his pewter caught mine and the lid slowly drooped and then raised
itself again.  There is a world of expression in Bindle’s eyes—when
taken singly.

The story had really been a "rag" planned by Dick Little and Dare, whom
Angell Herald had told that he dreamed he had been asked by Mr.
Llewellyn John to become Minister of Publicity, and we had looked
forward with some interest to see how he would take the yarn.  He had
accepted it, without comment.

"That chap would accept anything that he thought increased his own
importance," said Carruthers after Angell Herald’s departure.

"Fancy them a-knowin’ all about me at Downin’ Street," remarked Bindle
as he rose to go.




                              *CHAPTER IV*

                               *THE BOY*


The "Assassins," as Carruthers called Tims’ men, were all-powerful at
the Night Club.  They were always in sufficient strength to form a
majority; but in reality Bindle exercised a sort of unconscious
despotism.  When a question arose, we instinctively looked to Bindle,
who in turn looked to Sallie.

"When I first ’eard that frogs come out o’ tadpoles, I couldn’t ’ardly
believe it," Bindle once remarked, "but when I looks at the Assassins
an’ remembers that they’ll become doctors in top ’ats, with a
you-leave-it-to-me-an’-I’ll-save-yer-if-I-can look, well, after that
I’ll believe anythink."

"What’s the matter with us?" enquired Roger Blint, a little dark man
with a quiet manner and a violent soul.

"Well, as far as I can see, there ain’t nothink wrong wi yer as men; but
doctors—!"  Bindle shook his head despondently.  "I wouldn’t trust my
young life to one of yer."

Bindle fixed his gaze on Jim Colman, the recognised leader of all
demonstrations, physical and vocal.  Colman has the instincts of a
mob-leader, but the most delicate "touch" among the younger men at Tims.
He is destined for Harley Street and a baronetcy.

"Look at Mr. Colman," continued Bindle. "’Ow’d jer like to ’ave ’im
’oldin’ yer ’and an’ tellin’ yer to get ready for an ’arp?"

"Well, what about Bill?" enquired Colman. "He looks harmless
enough—what?"

Bill Simmonds is a little sandy fellow, with a bald, conical head, who
beams upon the world through gold-rimmed spectacles, which give him a
genial, benevolent expression.  He looks for all the world like "a
clever egg," as Dare once described him.

"Well," remarked Bindle, judicially, examining Bill Simmonds’ face, "I
might be prepared to trust ’im wi’ my soul; but as for my body, well,
give me Mr. Dennett or Mr. Smith.  I’m like Mrs. B.; I like ’em big."

Hugh Dennett is an international three-quarter who has made football
history, whereas Archie Smith was the amateur champion heavy-weight when
the war broke out.

"I ain’t got anythink to say against you as sports," said Bindle
encouragingly; "but as doctors, well, well!"  And again he shook his
head with mournful conviction.

Tims’ men never talk "shop," but from scraps of conversation among
themselves that I have overheard, theirs is a strenuous life. Sometimes
they do not see their beds for three consecutive nights; yet they are
always cheery and regard whatever they have to do as their "bit."  One
complaint they have, that they are not allowed to go to the front.

All seem to find in the Night Club relaxation from strenuous days and
sleepless nights. According to Bindle, who is a recognised authority
upon such matters, they are a cheer-o! crowd.  It was they who had been
loudest in their support of Sallie’s election, and when "the Boy’s"
story came to be told, they were equally definite in their view that he
must be invited to join our exclusive circle.  These were the only two
instances of stories told at the Night Club resulting in our membership
being increased.  Incidentally the Boy fell in love with Sallie, and
this formed an additional bond of sympathy between him and us.



                                  *I*


To his brother officers he was always "The Boy."  The men, with more
directness of speech, referred to him as "The Kid," whilst at Whitehall
he was known as Second Lieut. Richard St. John Custance Summers, of the
8th Service Battalion Westshire Regiment.

How he managed to secure his commission no one ever knew.

"Must ’a been ’is bloomin’ smile," was the opinion of the platoon
sergeant, expressed to the company-sergeant-major.  "The men make fools
o’ theirselves about the Kid."

Chubby-faced, languid of manner, forgetful and "frightfully sorry"
afterwards, even in his khaki he did not look more than sixteen. At mess
he sat as if he had collapsed from sheer lack of bone necessary to keep
him rigid.  He literally lolled through life.

In carrying out his duties, such as he was unsuccessful in evading, he
gave the impression of being willing in spirit, but finding great
difficulty in getting his body to respond to his wishes.

One day the Colonel, a big blue-eyed man, whom the men called "the Kid’s
nurse," had told him that he had "the spirit of a martinet, but the body
of a defaulter," which was not a bad description for the C.O., who did
not incline to epigram.

When given an order, the Boy would salute, with that irresistible smile
of his that got him out of some scrapes and into others, then off he
would lounge, all legs and arms, like a young colt, although as a matter
of fact he was below medium height.  When he made a mistake the N.C.O.’s
and men contrived to correct it, with the result that his was the
smartest platoon in the battalion.  The Senior Major had once said to
him:

"Boy, you’re the slackest young cub I’ve ever met, yet you get more out
of the men than the Colonel and I combined.  How is it?"

"I suppose, sir," replied the Boy with great seriousness, "they see I’m
such an awful ass that they’re sorry for me."

The Boy got more leave and took more leave than any other officer in the
division, and no one seemed to resent it.  He never did anything in
quite the same way as another youngster would, and he was a constant
source of interest to his brother officers.

One roystering night he had returned to his quarters in a state
ill-befitting "an officer and a gentleman," and the
company-sergeant-major, aided by a corporal, had put him to bed and they
had mutually sworn eternal secrecy.  In the morning, although the two
non-coms. had managed to convey to him that only they knew of the
episode, the Boy had gone to the Colonel, and before the other officers
said:

"I returned to barracks last night drunk, sir.  I was very drunk and I
think I was singing.  I’m sorry.  It sha’n’t occur again."

The Colonel asked who had seen him, and on being told that only the
company-sergeant-major and a corporal knew of the incident, he burst out
with:

"Then why the devil do you tell me about it?"

"I wanted you to know, sir.  It was rather rotten of me.  I know you
hate it, sir, and it’s a bad example."

The C.O. turned aside to hide a smile.  The idea of the Boy being an
example to anyone or anything amused him; but being a disciplinarian,
and understanding something of the Boy’s nature, he stopped a week-end
leave due some ten days hence, and from the Boy’s smile as he saluted he
saw that he had done the right thing.

One day the Boy was given charge of his company in a sham fight, at
which as everybody knew the Brigadier was to be present.

With his command, the Boy was like a kitten with a skein of wool.  He
got it hopelessly tangled.  Perspiring and swearing N.C.O.’s strove in
vain to evolve order and find out exactly where they were.

Suddenly, with a yell to fix bayonets and charge, the Boy darted forward
followed by the men in a manner that would have broken the heart of a
drill-sergeant.  They had blundered upon an enemy field battery in the
act of limbering up, and the Boy returned to camp with six guns and a
stream of prisoners, and the Brigadier had spoken to the Colonel of the
exploit.

"Talk about luck!  Blimey!  That Kid’ll save the bloomin’ regiment one
o’ these days," grinned a private, as the boy marched with rather a
bored air at the head of his day’s bag.

The Boy continued to avoid as if by instinct all the duties he possibly
could.  Indeed, he was apparently aided and abetted by officers and men
alike.  When at last the word arrived to prepare to entrain for an
unknown destination, the Boy’s chief concern had been about his kit.
The C.O.’s instructions had been definite and incisively expressed.  He
ordered that nothing be taken that was not absolutely necessary, and had
added that he did not want to see France lumbered up with cast-off
articles of kit of the 8th Westshires.

There had been rather a heated argument between the Boy and his captain
as to the interpretation of the word "necessaries."

"My boot-trees and manicure set," said the Boy, "are as necessary to me
as your trousers are to you."

"Rot!" the captain had replied.  "You’ll be thinking more of your skin
than of your nails when you get out there."

The Boy had compromised by leaving the boot-trees and taking a pocket
manicure set.

In the trenches he was the same imperturbable, languid half boy, half
man he had been in England.  He was as indifferent to shells and bullets
as to the grins of the men as he lolled against the parados polishing
his nails. Sometimes he would bewail the lost boot-trees as he surveyed
his hopeless-looking foot-gear.

At first the uncleanliness of trench life had roused him from his
accustomed languor, but later he accepted this and what it entailed, not
with philosophic calm, but because protest involved effort.

Even when towards the end of the September that culminated in Loos it
became known that the 8th Westshires were to take part in "the big
push," and whilst officers and men were eagerly discussing their
chances, he remained his sunny, imperturbable self.

On the night before the charge, the Colonel had sent for him to go to
his dug-out, and there had told him that early in the morning he was to
go back with an important message to Divisional headquarters and await a
reply, which he was to bring back after the action. Without a word the
Boy gave the necessary acknowledgment and saluted, but there was a
mutinous look in his eyes as he wheeled round and left the Colonel’s
dug-out.

He spoke to no one, although many of his brother officers watched him to
see how he would take it.  The C.O. had conferred with the Senior Major,
and decided that he could not risk the Boy’s life, a view that was
entirely endorsed by every officer and man in the regiment.

For hours the Boy stood brooding and polishing his nails.  Then, just
before "stand-to" he disappeared.  His captain was the first to discover
the fact, and enquiry was made along the whole line of trenches, but no
one had seen the Boy for at least half an hour.



                                  *II*


The guns had opened their brazen throats in a frenzy of hate.  Overhead
shells whistled and hissed, lumbered and howled as they tore towards the
enemy trenches, a hurricane of screaming hate.  Gusts of shrapnel spat
death from above, and rifle and machine-gun bullets buried themselves
impotently in the sandbags amid little puffs of dust.  Slowly dawn
shivered into day—a day of greyness and of death.

In the assembly-trench the 8th Westshires were waiting.  Heavy-eyed and
silent they gazed towards the enemy lines, hidden by a curtain of dense
yellow smoke.  Against the parapet scaling ladders were placed ready.
At a word, a short snapping sound barked along the trench, the ladders
suddenly became alive, as men scrambled up and passed over the top, or
fell backward with a dull thud.

"No rushing, a steady advance in open order," had been the Colonel’s
last words to his officers.

The 8th Westshires formed up and, as steady as on parade, advanced.
They had not proceeded more than thirty yards when with a sigh a breeze
swept past them and carried the yellow gas beyond the first enemy
trench, like a curtain of fairy gauze.

Machine-guns and rifles poured a merciless fire into the Westshires.
Everywhere men were dropping, silently or with little coughs of
surprise.  They advanced a further twenty yards and then faltered.  With
a shout the Colonel dashed on waving his stock.  The moment of
uncertainty seemed to pass, when suddenly the Colonel dropped.

"My God!" muttered the Senior Major, as he saw the indecision pass like
a wave along the line; he also noticed several men had turned and were
stealing back to the trenches they had just left.  "They’ll—they’ll——"
and there was a sob in his voice.

Just at the moment when retreat seemed inevitable, a figure rose from a
small shell-crater, and with a yell that no one heard waved on the
Westshires.

"It’s the Boy," gasped an officer.  "Where the hell——"

"It’s the bloomin’ Kid.  Well I’m damned!" roared the colour sergeant.
"’Ere, come on, or they’ll nab ’im."

This was enough for the Westshires. Capture the Kid?  Not if they knew
it.  With a howl they raced for the enemy trench, overtaking the Boy two
yards from the sand-bags. The men’s blood was up.  They tumbled into the
first trench, and with a sickening "sog sog" their bayonets got to work.
Little coughs and grunts told of men doubled up.  Everywhere cries of
"Kamerad" were heard.

"It’s no use yellin’, sonny," one man was heard to say.  "You’ve got to
’ave it—you’ve go to ’ave it!" and he drove his bayonet into a German’s
massive loins.

The Boy had come through untouched.  Like a moth he flitted about from
place to place, and wherever he was, there the fighting would be at its
fiercest.  Not only had the second line of trenches been taken in
accordance with instructions, but the Westshires had crushed all
resistance in the first, which they should have left to a following
battalion.  The work done, the Boy called two stretcher-bearers, and
went back in search of the Colonel.



                                 *III*


That night the Colonel sat in a German dugout, with a heavily bandaged
leg.  He had refused to go to the rear.  He must first see the Boy.

When he entered, the Boy saluted and stood as if waiting for something
that he knew would happen, but in which he was not particularly
interested.

"What have you to say?" the Colonel enquired with unsmiling eyes.  In
the 8th Westshires officers and men alike dreaded the absence of that
smile which seemed so much a part of the Colonel’s eyes.

The Boy hung his head.  "I’m sorry, sir," he said, in a low, husky
voice.

"You remember my orders?"

"Yes, sir."

"Yet you absented yourself without leave."

"It was——" the Boy stopped; his voice seemed suddenly to forsake him.
Then after a moment’s pause the words came in a rush.

"It was the old dad, sir.  I’ve never let him know I’m such a rotter.
If he knew I was sent to rear before the charge it would have crocked
him.  He—he—thinks no end of me."

The Boy stopped again and looked at the Colonel.  "I crept out this
morning, and lay in a small crater near our trench until the advance.  I
was going to join up and I thought I should get killed.  He would sooner
have me dead than not there.  I’m sorry, sir—I’m——"  The Boy’s voice
trailed off into a sob.

"You know what you did to-day?" enquired the Colonel.  The smile was
back in his eyes, but the Boy did not see it.

"Deserted!"  The word came out with a jerk.

"Yes, you deserted—that is, technically—but you saved the whole
battalion from being cut up and—possibly disgraced."

The Boy looked at the C.O. in wonder.  He blinked his eyes uncertainly.

"I—I don’t——"

"Listen, Boy!  You were sent out by my orders on listening-patrol, and
told to join up with the Battalion when it advanced.  You did so, do you
understand?"

"But listening-patrols aren’t sent out under bombardment, sir."

"Damn you, Boy, what the devil do you mean?  Am I C.O. or you?"  The
Colonel wanted to laugh and simulated anger to preserve his authority.

"I’m sorry, sir; but——"

"Well, never mind about listening-patrol. I shall send an account of
your services to the General that will get you the D.S.O., possibly the
V.C.  I will write to the—er—old dad myself."  The Colonel’s voice was
husky.

"Now, get out, Boy, damn it—get out at once!"

And the Boy got out.


There was the vigour of conviction in Bindle’s play with his mallet, and
the hum of talk at the conclusion of the story made it obvious that the
Boy had considerably enlarged the circle of his friends.

"He’s a dear!"  Sallie blinked her eyes vigorously.  They were
suspiciously moist.

"’Ere, ’ere, miss," agreed Bindle.  As a matter of fact Bindle always
agrees with anything that Sallie says.

"I say, Windover, couldn’t you bring him round one night?" enquired Dick
Little.

"I’ll try," said Windover.  "He’s stationed at Wimbledon now."

"And did he get the V.C.?" enquired the practical-minded Angell Herald.

"No, the D.S.O.," replied Windover, "with promotion to a first
lieutenancy."

"What a shame," said Sallie, and turning to Windover she said, "You will
bring him, Winnie, won’t you?"  Sallie and Windover are old friends.

And that is how the Boy became a "Night-Clubber."  He is a strange
combination of impudence and innocence; but there is one way of bringing
him to heel.  It was quite by accident that I discovered it.

One evening he had been roasting poor Angell Herald rather badly, and
although that astute person was sublimely unaware of what was taking
place, both Dick Little and I thought things had gone far enough.

I happened to have with me the manuscript of the story of how the Boy
got his D.S.O. Without a word I started reading from it in a loud voice.
I had not got six lines down the page before he slowly dragged himself
out of the armchair in which he was lounging, his face crimson, and,
walking towards the door, remarked:

"You’ll find me on the mat when you’ve done reading rot."

That is the Boy all over.




                              *CHAPTER V*

                          *THE BARABBAS CLUB*


I have some acquaintance with authors; but of all I have encountered
Jocelyn Dare is in many ways the most remarkable. Careless, generous,
passionate, he is never so happy as when narrating the enormities of
publishers.  His white, delicate fingers will move nervously, his long
black locks fall over his alabaster forehead, and his black eyes flash
as he describes the doings of these "parasites" and "pariahs," as he
calls them.

He is a thoroughly good fellow in spite of this eccentricity, never
withholding a helping hand from anyone.  I believe he would succour even
a publisher if he found one in need of help; but he can no more resist
denouncing the fraternity than he can keep the flood of raven hair from
falling over his eyes when he becomes excited.

Bindle likes him, and that is a testimonial. They have something in
common, as Dare’s heart, like Bindle’s "various" veins, is a bar to his
doing his bit, and Dare feels it as much as does Bindle.

"I like to listen to Mr. Gawd Blast ’ammerin’ tacks into publishers,"
Bindle would remark appreciatively.  "An’ don’t ’e know some words too!"

Dare’s vocabulary is almost unique.  He is a master of the English
tongue.  At rhetorical invective I have never heard his equal, and I
have encountered a Thames lighterman in one of his inspired moments.
Bindle would sit in mute admiration, watching Dare as he flung the
mantle of obloquy over "that cancer polluting the face of God’s fair
earth."*


*To those who are not authors it should be explained that Dare refers to
publishers as a whole.


It was Dare who told us the story of the author who, unable to extract
his royalties from a publisher, seized him by the beard and swore he
would hang on until the money was forthcoming.  "And that," he
concluded, "is why not one publisher in a hundred wears a beard."

It was Dare, too, who told us of the author who went to a certain
well-known publisher with a manuscript, saying, "My previous books have
been published by—(and he mentioned the names of three honoured
firms)—and they were rogues to a man, did me right and left, only I
could never catch them, not even with the help of the Society of
Authors.  So I’ve brought my new book to you, Mr. Blank."

The publisher was delighted at the compliment and, smiling in his most
winning manner, enquired, "And may I ask why you come to me, sir?"

He waited expectantly, his lips still bearing the after-glow of the
smile.

"I come to you, Mr. Blank," the author replied impressively, "because
you are an honest man."

And the publisher fainted.

Dare would laugh with the joyousness of a schoolboy when telling these
yarns.  But there is no malice in him.  He is as mischievous as a puppy;
but as soft-hearted as a woman.

There is something strangely lovable about Dare.  Certain of his
mannerisms are in themselves feminine; yet he is never effeminate.  One
of these mannerisms is what might be called the fugitive touch, which is
with a woman a caress.  He will lay his hand upon your coatsleeve just
for a second, or put it across your shoulders, a slight brushing
movement, which betokens comradeship.

He adores children.  I have seen him, when exquisitely turned out in top
hat and morning coat, pick up a howling youngster that had come a
cropper, brush it down, stay its cries and stop its tears, and send it
home wreathed in rainbow smiles, clutching a generous-sized bag of
sweets.  Such is Jocelyn Dare.

When the time came for a story, he told that of the Barabbas Club.  For
some time I hesitated to write it up for the Night Club. I regarded it
as too limited in its appeal.  At last, however, I decided to let the
Club judge for itself.  Dare took great interest in the writing of the
story, and himself read and corrected the typescript.



                                  *I*


"My dear fellow," said Jocelyn Dare, "the Seven-headed Beast of the
Apocalypse is nothing to it.  It’s absolutely unique."

With the air of a man who has completed a life’s work, Dare tapped some
sheets of manuscript that lay upon the table, selected a cigarette from
the box with a care and deliberation usually bestowed upon cigars, and
proceeded: "You are a doctor, whose mission in life is to purge and
purify the human body; I am a novelist whose purpose it is to perform
the same office for the human soul."

From the depths of a particularly comfortable easy-chair, Dick Little
looked up good-humouredly at his friend.

"You’re a queer devil, Dare.  One of these days you’ll get a
shock—poseurs always do."

Dare laughed easily, and Dick Little continued.  "But what have
publishers to do with the human soul?  That’s what puzzles me."

"There is only one thing, my poor Little," replied Dare, looking down at
the other with a smile of pity, "that makes friendship between you and
me at all possible."

"And that is?"

"Your incomparable understanding of my corpus, which you persist in
calling my liver. I give you all credit for this.  You know my
constitution to a nicety, and in a way you are responsible for my
novels."

"Good God!" ejaculated Dick Little, sitting up in his chair with an
expression of alarm upon his features.  "I hope not."

"Listen!" said Dare.  "A publisher is an obstacle to intellectual
progress.  He is a parasite, battening upon the flower of genius. That
is why we founded the Barabbas Club. It frankly encourages authors to
quarrel with their publishers.  No one is eligible for membership who
cannot prove conclusively to the Committee that he has been extremely
rude to at least one publisher.  I myself have been grossly insulting to
seventeen different publishers, on several occasions before their own
clerks.  I have taken three into Court—I confess I lost each case—and I
horsewhipped him who published _The Greater Purity_ because he failed to
advertise it sufficiently."

"And what happened?" queried Dick Little, who had heard the story a
score of times.

"I was summonsed for assault.  The magistrate was a creature entirely
devoid of literary perception.  He fined me five guineas, plus five
guineas damages, and two guineas costs. But wait!  Now here comes the
shameful part of the story.  Later I discovered that I had been wrong
about the advertising.  I wrote to that worm, that foul weed who is
poisoning the slopes of Parnassus, apologising for whipping him, and
will you believe it, he absolutely refused to return the five guineas
damages?"

Dick Little laughed.  He always laughed to see Dare upon his
hobby-horse.

"The result of that case was an addition to the rules of the Barabbas
Club, by which it was provided that, whenever an author horsewhipped a
publisher, with or without justification, the president of the club
should resign, and his place be automatically filled by the
horsewhipper."

Dick Little rose from his chair, stretched himself lazily, lighted
another cigarette and prepared to take his departure.

"One moment, my dear fellow," remarked Dare, "I must tell you something
about this, _The Damning of a Soul_."  He tapped the manuscript upon the
table.  "It gives a picture of a publisher, so vivid, so horrible, so
convincing, that I shudder when I think that anything so vile can be
permitted to exist by our most gracious sovereign lady, Nature.  It
tells of the gradual intellectual murder of a great genius through lack
of proper advertising by his publisher.  ’It is a masterly picture of
the effect of advertising matter upon imaginative mind.’  I quote the
words of our President. It will create a sensation."

"But what about libel?" enquired Dick Little, whose more cautious nature
saw in this same masterpiece a considerable danger to its author.

"There is my master-stroke.  My Beast, which transcends that of the
Apocalypse in horror-compelling reality, is, as was that, a composite
creature.  I have drawn upon the whole of the seventeen publishers with
whom I have had differences.  One supplies ’a nervous, deceitful cough,’
another ’an overbearing manner,’ a third ’a peculiar habit of crossing
and recrossing his legs,’ a fourth ’a swindling propensity when the day
of reckoning arrives,’ a fifth ’a thoroughly unclean and lascivious
life,’ a sixth ’a filthy habit of spitting into the fireplace from every
conceivable angle of his room,’ a seventh——"

"Enough!  I must be off," laughed Dick Little.  "I suppose it’s all
right; but one of these days you’ll get yourself into a bit of a mess.
There may be the devil to pay over this even."

Dare smiled indulgently as he shook hands.

"Good-bye, my Æsculapius," he said.  "If there’s trouble, I have behind
me the whole of the members of the Barabbas Club, representing eight
hundred and thirteen volumes, and the brains of the country.  Good-bye."
There was a note of weariness about Dare’s voice. Materialism was
exceedingly tedious.

"Well, it’s his affair, not mine," muttered Dick Little to himself as he
descended the stairs of Dare’s flat; "but they don’t fight with books in
the King’s Bench Division."



                                  *II*


Three weeks later, on returning from a fortnight’s holiday in Scotland,
Dick Little found awaiting him at his chambers the following note from
Dare:—


"Come round at once.  There is not the Devil, but the publishers to pay.
Bring a hypodermic syringe and a pint of morphia.—"J.D."


Dick Little had been out of the world, and he had forgotten all about
_The Damning of a Soul_ and his own misgivings.  Having seen a few of
his more important patients, he walked round to his friend’s flat and
found Dare in a pathetic state of gloom.

"Have you brought the hypodermic syringe and the morphia?" he asked
without troubling to greet his visitor.

"What!  Tired of life?" questioned Dick Little smiling.

"I am tired of a civilization that is rotten, and which makes injustice
possible."

"What has happened?"

"I published _The Damning of a Soul_ in _The Cormorant_, and arranged
with the editor for a copy to be sent to every publisher in the country.
Ye gods!" and Dare laughed mirthlessly.

"And what happened!" asked Dick Little.

"Twenty-five writs for libel up to date," groaned Dare, "and God knows
how many more to come."

Dick Little laughed loud and long.

"How many publishers went to the making of your Beast of Parnassus?" he
asked.

"Only seventeen; that’s the peculiarly damnable part of it.

"And what do they say at _The Cormorant_?"

"Well, I’ve kept away from the offices, where all the writs have been
served by the way, and I’ve written a formal protest to the
Postmaster-General against the use of the telephone for language that is
entirely unfit for even the smoking-room of a woman’s club.  _Now_ they
write; but as I don’t read the letters, it doesn’t matter so much."

"The editor is in a passion, I suppose?"

"No; he’s in a nursing-home.  He’s a master of diplomacy," replied Dare
wearily.  "I’d do the same, only I can’t afford the fees.  It’s the
general-manager who telephones.  I’m going to put him in my next novel,
curse him!"

"In addition to a writ," Dare proceeded, "each publisher has written me
a letter, ’without prejudice’ and with considerable heat."

"What about?" enquired Dick Little, thoroughly interested in the curious
situation that had arisen out of Dare’s unfortunate story.

"The man who crosses and recrosses his legs says that he is the only
publisher in the world with that characteristic, and that I accuse him
of unclean morals, as if a publisher had any morals, clean or otherwise.
He of the nervous cough objects to the adjective ’deceitful,’ and is
having his books examined by an accountant He who salivates into the
fireplace from impossible angles, is producing the testimony of three
specialists to prove that he has chronic bronchitis, and that it is
neither infectious nor contagious, and so on."  Dare’s voice trailed off
drearily.

"And what do you propose to do?" questioned Dick Little.

"Do?" enquired the other, listlessly throwing himself into a chair and
lighting a cigarette. "Do?  Why, nothing.  That’s why I want the
morphia.  I’m the imperfect, not the present tense.  I’m done."

"How about the Barabbas Club?" asked Dick Little.

"Dissolved."

Dick Little whistled.

"Dissolved," continued Dare, "because its work is accomplished, vide the
Presidential valediction.  I don’t see how; but it’s too tedious to
bother about."

Dick Little went to the sideboard and poured out some water into a
glass, then emptying into it the contents of a small phial that he took
from his pocket, returned to where Dare sat and bade him drink.

"What is it—a death potion?" enquired Dare lazily as he swallowed the
dose.

"Wait and see!" replied the other.

For a quarter of an hour they smoked in silence.  Suddenly Dare bounded
into the air, and rushed to the telephone.

"Piccadilly 1320, quickly," he shouted. Then a minute later, "That _The
Cormorant_? I want the general-manager.  Yes; it’s me. Oh, shut up!
I’ve got a plan.  Coming round. Three more writs?  Wish it were thirty.
We’ll do ’em yet—’bye."

Snatching up his hat and entirely oblivious of his friend’s presence,
Dare rushed out of the room; and a moment later the bang of the front
door told that he had left the flat.

"Never saw strychnine act so before," muttered Dick Little as he picked
up his hat and gloves and prepared to go.



                                 *III*


Ten days later as Dick Little sat in the consulting-room of his surgery,
waiting for seven o’clock to strike that the first patient might be
admitted, Jocelyn Dare burst through the door followed by the protesting
parlour-maid.

"Sorry, old man; but I had to tell you. We’ve won.  It’s a triumph for
Letters, and all due to your science and my brain.  As I said before,
your understanding of my corpus is incomparable."

"It’s five minutes to seven," remarked Dick Little evenly, "and the
first patient enters at seven."

"Of course.  Well, three minutes will suffice. I found a scapegoat."

"A what?"

"A scapegoat.  You see if I could prove that my publisher was some
particular person, we should have only one action to defend; but if that
publisher were dead, and we could square his relatives, then we were
safe.

"I set about discovering a dead publisher, and you would be astonished
to find how rare they are.  They seem to be immortal, like their asinine
brothers.  At last I lighted upon Sylvester Mylton, who died a bankrupt
nearly a year ago.  By great good luck I ran his wife to earth.  She was
in terrible straits, almost starving, poor woman."

"But what——"

"Wait a moment.  I showed her the article, and told her that I felt that
I had done a dishonourable thing in writing about the dead as I had
done, and would she accept five pounds as compensation.  Heavens!  I
don’t think the money pleased her so much as the knowledge that the
iniquitous Mylton had been pilloried. He had made her life a curse."

"So far so good.  I had to remind her of a few of his characteristics;
but she’s a shrewd woman, and hunger you know.  Now read this."  Dare
held out a copy of the current issue of _The Cormorant_, pointing to a
page bordered by the portraits of thirty publishers. Within the
pictorial frame appeared the following:—


                         THIRTY WRITS FOR LIBEL

                      AN EXTRAORDINARY OCCURRENCE

                         A SENSITIVE PROFESSION

"Three weeks ago we published a story from the brilliant pen of Mr.
Jocelyn Dare entitled _The Damning of a Soul_, in which was given a
vivid picture of an unscrupulous, immoral, gross, and dishonest
publisher—a man capable of any vileness, who had by under-advertising
the work of a promising young author, damned him for ever.  Soon after
the appearance of our issue containing Mr. Dare’s contribution, writs
began to rain in upon us until there was scarcely a publisher in London
who had not instructed his solicitors to proceed against us for criminal
libel, as, in our picture of the unscrupulous publisher, he thought he
saw himself depicted.

"Although we fully recognise the obligations of the living towards the
dead, we are, in self-defence, forced to publish a letter that we have
received from the wife of the late Sylvester Mylton, the well-known
publisher, who died some months ago.  It runs:—


"’DEAR SIR,

"’I have read with deep pain and regret the story in your issue of the
2nd inst., entitled _The Damning of a Soul_.  In the character of the
publisher I recognise my late husband. None can mistake ’the overbearing
manner,’ ’that peculiar habit of crossing and recrossing his legs,’ ’the
nervous, deceitful cough,’ ’the habit of spitting into the fireplace
from every conceivable angle of his room,’ although I must add that his
accuracy was astonishing. With regard to the other points, I can only
say that of recent years I declined to live with him because of the
creatures with whom he associated—I do not refer to his authors.  I
regret that you should have brought him so prominently before the
public, and I hope you will send me ten or a dozen copies of your issue
containing the story.

"’I am,
       "’Yours sincerely,
              "’ARABELLA MYLTON.’


"We can only express regret that so many publishers should have thought
our story referred to them.  We thought that Mr. Dare had painted so
vile and heartless a wretch as to prevent any self-respecting publisher
from seeing in such a creature any resemblance to himself.  Apparently
not.  Surely Mecænas is the most sensitive of beings.  We may add that
we shall defend each of the actions threatened.  We embellish this page
with portraits of the publishers who have caused us be served with
writs."


Dick Little read the page with astonishment.

"By heavens! what a score," he shouted. "And the writs?"

"All withdrawn, and the Barabbas Club has regathered and is dining me at
the Ritz tonight.  God knows who’ll pay the bill.  I must be off to
dress."

And that evening Dick Little thought more of the sensibilities of
publishers and the brains of authors than the ailments of his patients.


"Fancy publishers bein’ as bad as that," remarked Bindle reflectively,
as he took a long pull at his tankard.  "They seem to beat foremen."

"Publishers," said Dare, "are pompous asses.  If they were business
men—if they were only men-of-letters, I would embrace them."

"P’raps that’s why they ain’t," suggested Bindle.

Dare joined in the laugh against himself.

"I have known some publishers," remarked Angell Herald with
characteristic literalness, "who have been most excellent advertisers.
I fear Mr. Dare is rather prejudiced."

"Shut up, Herald," broke in Dick Little, "you’re thinking ’shop.’"

"P’raps they’ve got ’various’ veins* in their legs, or else their
missusses ’ave got religion," suggested Bindle.  "It ain’t fair to judge
no man till you seen ’is missus, an’ a doctor’s seen ’is legs—beggin’
your pardon, miss," this to Sallie.


*Bindle has been repeatedly refused for the Army on account of varicose
veins in his legs, and he shows a tendency to regard this affliction as
at the root of all evil.




                              *CHAPTER VI*

                        *I FAIL THE NIGHT CLUB*


One evening I failed the Club badly. During the previous week there had
not been a moment in which to complete the half-written story intended
for that particular Sunday.  I had done my best; but I arrived at
Chelsea with the knowledge that I had let them all down.

When I had made my confession, Bindle turned to me with grave reproach
in his eyes.

"I’m surprised at you, sir," he said, "I been lookin’ forward all the
week to this evenin’, an’ now you tell us you ain’t got nothink. Wot we
goin’ to do?"

My unpopularity was sufficiently obvious to penetrate the thickest of
skins.

"What about bridge?" ventured Tom Little. But Bindle was opposed to
every suggestion made.  It was clear that he was greatly disappointed,
and he seemed to find solace nowhere, not even in his tankard of ale.

"You done the dirty on us to-night, sir," he said during a pause in the
fusillade of personalities and rather feeble suggestions as to how thee
evening should be spent.  "Sort o’ thing a foreman ’ud do."

It was Jocelyn Dare who came to the rescue. "What," he asked, "can you
expect of a publisher?  He has sufficient manners to impress a
half-dipped author, and not enough morals to pay him what is his due."

"My dear Dare," it was Windover who spoke, "are you not inverting the
values?  Our friend Bindle here, for instance, might reasonably conceive
that you place morals on a higher plane than manners.  Bindle is young
and unsophisticated, you must remember he has arrived at an
impressionable age."

Bindle grinned.  He scented a battle between Windover and Dare, both
brilliant and amusing talkers.

"I’m a Victorian," replied Dare, accepting the challenge with alacrity,
"a member of the middle-classes, the acknowledged backbone of the
English nation."

"Yes, and like all other respectable backbones should be covered up,"
retorted Windover.

"Alas!" murmured Dare, gazing at the ceiling. "Once youth was content
with Arcadia, now it demands a Burlington Arcadia."

That was characteristic of Dare.  An epigram to him justified the most
flagrant irrelevancy. Then turning to Windover he added, "But I
interrupted you.  Let us have your views on morals and manners, or
should I say manners and morals?"

"Yes do, sir," broke in Bindle eagerly, "My missus once said I ’adn’t no
more morals than Pottyfer’s wife, I dunno the lady, but p’raps you can
’elp me."

"The association of morals and manners is merely a verbal coincidence,"
began Windover. "As a matter of fact they exist best apart.  Morals are
geographical, the result of climate and environment.  The morals of
Streatham, for instance, are not the morals of Stamboul, although the
manners of the one place will pass fairly well in the other. Manners are
like English gold, current in all countries: morals, on the other hand,
are like French pennies, they must not be circulated in any but the
country of their origin."

"Yes; but is this the age of manners or of morals?" asked Dare.  "That’s
what we want to get at."

"Of neither, I regret to say," responded Windover.  "We have too many
morals at home, and too few manners abroad."

"Excuse me, sir," broke in Bindle, "but wot do you exactly mean by
morals an’ manners?"

"You are right, Bindle, you invariably are," replied Windover.
"Definition should always precede disquisition."  He proceeded to light
a cigarette, obviously with a view to gaining time.  "Observing this
rule," he continued, "I will define morals as originally an ethical
conception of man’s duty towards his neighbour’s wife: they are now in
use merely as a standard by which we measure failure."  Windover paused
and gazed meditatively at the end of his cigarette.

"And manners?" I queried.

"Oh! manners," he replied lightly, "are a thin gauze with which we have
clothed primæval man and primitive woman."

"But why," enquired Sallie, leaning forward eagerly, "why should the
primitive and primæval require covering?"

It was Dare who answered Sallie’s question. "Mark Twain said, ’Be good;
but you’ll be lonely,’" he observed.  "Man probably found it impossible
to be good, being gregarious by instinct.  He saw that Nature was always
endeavouring to get him involved in difficulties with morals, and like
the detective of romance, determined to adopt a disguise.  He therefore
invented manners."

"I will not venture to question Dare’s brilliant hypothesis," continued
Windover.  "With the aid of good manners a man may do anything, and a
woman quite a lot of things otherwise denied her.  It is manners not
morals that make a society.  Manners will open for you all doors; but
morals only the gates of heaven."

"As a eugenist I am with you, Windover," said Dare; "because both
manners and eugenics are the study of good breeding."

"Excuse me, sir," broke in Bindle, "but do yer think yer could use a few
words wot I’ve ’eard before?  I’d sort o’ feel more at ’ome like."

There was a laugh at Windover’s expense, and a promise from him to
Bindle to correct his phraseology.

"Morals," continued Windover, "are merely the currency of deferred
payment—you will reap in another world."

"That’s wot Mrs. B. says," broke in Bindle; "but wot if she gets
disappointed?  It ’ud be like goin’ dry all the week to ’ave a big lush
up on Sunday, an’ then findin’ the pubs closed."

"Excellent!  Bindle," said Windover, "you prove conclusively that the
future is for the proletariat."

"Fancy me a-provin’ all that," said Bindle with unaccustomed dryness.

"Morality," continued Windover with a smile, "is merely post-dated
self-indulgence. There is a tendency to expect too much from the other
world.  Think of the tragedy of the elderly spinster who apparently
regulated her life upon a misreading of a devotional work. She denied
herself all the joys of this world in anticipation of the great
immorality to come."

"That’s jest like Mrs. B.," remarked Bindle, "Outside a tin o’ salmon,
an’ maybe an egg for ’er tea, there ain’t much wot ’olds ’er among what
she calls the joys o’ mammon."

"Mrs. Bindle," said Windover, picking out another cigarette from the box
and tapping it meditatively, "is in all probability intense. Most moral
people are intense.  They either have missions or help to support them.
They wear ugly and sombre clothing adorned with crewel-work stoles.
They frequently subsist entirely upon vegetables and cereals, they live
in garden-cities and praise God for it——"

"I, too, praise God that they should live there," broke in Dare.

"Exactly, my dear Dare, probably the only approval that providence ever
receives from you is of a negative order."

"You forget the heroes and heroines of morals, Windover," said Dare
gently.  "Penelope, Lucrece, Clarissa Harlowe, Sir Galahad."

"Manners, too, have had as doughty champions," was the reply, "for
instance, the Good Samaritan, Lord Chesterfield, and the wedding guest
in _The Ancient Mariner_.  Manners are social and public, whilst morals
are national and private.  All attractive people have good manners,
whereas—well there were the Queen of Sheba, Byron and Dr. Crippen."

Bindle looked from Windover to Dare, hopelessly bewildered.  He
refrained from interrupting, however.

"Our morals affect so few," continued Windover, "whereas our manners
react upon the whole fabric of society.  A man may be a most notorious
evil-liver, and yet pass among his fellows without inconveniencing them;
on the other hand, if he be a noisy eater he will render himself
obnoxious to hundreds.  Manners are for the rose-bed of life, morals for
the deathbed of repentance."

"All this is very pretty verbal pyrotechnics," said Dare with a smile;
"but you forget that the greatness of England is due to her moral fibre.
I grant you that morality is very ugly, and its exponents dour of look
and rough of speech, still it is the foundation of the country’s
greatness."

"There you are wrong," was Windover’s retort, "it is not her morality
that has made for this country’s greatness, but her moral standard,
coupled with the determination of her far-seeing people not to allow it
to interfere with their individual pleasures.  They decided that theirs
should be a standard by which to measure failure.  The result of this
has been to earn for us in Europe the reputation of being a dour and
godly people, who regard the flesh and the devil through a stained-glass
window.  They forget that to preserve the purity of his home life, the
Englishman invented the continental excursion."

"But what about puritan America?" broke in Dare.  "If we are smug, they
are superlative in their smugness."

"You forget, Dare," said Windover reproachfully, "that they have their
’unwritten law,’ said to be the only really popular law in the country,
with which to punish moral lapses. To explain the punishment, they
created ’brain storm’; but it cannot compare with our incomparable moral
standard.  It is England’s greatest inheritance."

Windover paused to light the cigarette with which he had been toying.
It was obvious that he was enjoying himself.  Bindle seized the moment
in which to break in upon the duologue.

"I don’t rightly understand all the things wot you been sayin’, you
bein’ rather given to usin’ fancy words; but it reminds me o’ Charlie
Dunn."

Bindle paused.  He has a strong sense of the dramatic.

"J.B.," said Dare, "we demand the story of Charlie Dunn."

’Well, sir, ’im an’ ’is missus couldn’t ’it it off no ’ow, so Charlie
thought it might make matters better if they took a lodger.  ’E thought
it might save ’em jawin’ each other so much.  One day Charlie’s missus
nips off wi’ the lodger, and poor ole Charlie goes round a-vowin’ ’is
life was ruined, an’ sayin’ wot ’e’d do to Mr. Lodger when ’e caught
’im.

"’But,’ ses I, ’you ought to be glad, Charlie.’

"’So I am,’ says ’e in a whisper like; ’but if I let on, it wouldn’t be
respectable, see? Come an’ ’ave a drink.’"

"There you are," said Windover, "the poison of appearances has
penetrated to the working-classes.  To the blind all things are pure."

I reminded Windover that Colonel Charters said that he would not give
one fig for virtue, but he would cheerfully give £10,000 for a good
character.

I could see that Bindle had been waiting to join more actively in the
discussion, and my remark gave him his opportunity.

"A character," he remarked oracularly, "depends on ’oos givin’ it.  I
s’pose I taken an’ lost more jobs than any other cove in my line, yet I
never ’ad a character in my life, good or bad.

"Now, if you was to ask ’Earty, ’e’d say I ain’t got no manners; an’
Mrs. B. ’ud say I ain’t got no morals, an’ why?"  Bindle looked round
the room with a grin of challenge on his face.  "’Cause I says wot I
thinks to ’Earty, an’ ’e don’t like it, an’ I talks about babies before
young gals, an’ Mrs. Bindle thinks it ain’t decent.

"As I ain’t got neither manners or morals, I ought to be able to judge
like between ’em. Now look at ’Earty, ’e’s as moral as a swan, though ’e
ain’t as pretty, an’ why?"

Again Bindle looked round the circle.

"’Cause ’e’s afraid!"  Having made this statement Bindle proceeded to
light his pipe. This concluded in silence, he continued:

"’E’s afraid o’ bein’ disgraced in this world and roasted in the next.
You should see the way ’e looks at them young women in the choir. If
’Earty was an ’Un on the loose, well——"  Bindle buried his face in his
tankard.

"’Is Lordship ’as been sayin’ a lot o’ clever things to-night; but ’e
don’t believe a word of ’em."

Windover screwed his glass into his eye and gazed at Bindle with
interest.

"’E loves to ’ear ’imself talk, same as me."

Windover joined the laugh at his own expense.

"’E talks with ’is tongue, not from ’is ’eart, same as ’Earty forgives.
A man ain’t goin’ to feel better ’cause ’e’s always doin’ wot other
people ses ’e ought to do, while ’e wants to do somethink else.  If a
man’s got a rotten ’eart, a silver tongue ain’t goin’ to ’elp ’im to get
to ’eaven."

Bindle was unusually serious that night, and it was evident that he, at
least, was speaking from his heart.

After a pause he continued, "My mate, Bill Peters, got an allotment to
grow vegetables, at least such vegetables as the slugs didn’t want. Bill
turns up in the evenin’s, arter ’is job was done, wi’ spade an’ ’oe an’
rake.  But every time ’e got to work on ’is allotment, a goat came for
’im from a back yard near by.  Bill ain’t a coward, and there used to be
a rare ole fight; but the goat was as wily as a foreman, an’ Bill always
got the worst of it.  ’E’d wait till Bill wasn’t lookin’, and then ’e’d
charge from be’ind, an’ it sort o’ got on Bill’s nerves.

"At last Bill ’eard that ’is allotment was where the goat fed, an’,
bein’ a sport, ’e said it wasn’t fair to turn Billy out, so ’e give up
the allotment and ’is missus ’ll ’ave to buy ’er vegetables same as
before."  Bindle paused to let the moral of his tale soak in.

"But what has that to do with morals and manners, J.B.?" asked Dick
Little, determined that Bindle should expound his little allegory.

"For Bill read England and for goat read niggers," said one of Tims’
men.

"You got it, sir," said Bindle approvingly. "As I told ’Earty last week,
it ain’t convincin’ when yer starts squirtin’ lead with a machine-gun
a-tellin’ the poor devils wot stops the bullets that there’s a dove
a-comin’.  Them niggers get a sort of idea that maybe the dove’s missed
the train."

"Talkin’ of goats——" began Angell Herald.

"We wasn’t talkin’ o’ goats," remarked Bindle quietly, "we was talkin’
o’ Gawd."

Whereat Angell Herald at first looked nonplussed and finally laughed!




                             *CHAPTER VII*

                      *A SURPRISE BEHIND THE VEIL*


Windover, or to give him his full name, the Hon. Anthony Charles
(afterwards Lord) Windover, apart from possessing a charming
personality, has a delightfully epigrammatic turn of speech.  It was he
who said that a man begins life with ideals about his mother; but ends
it with convictions about his wife.  On that occasion Bindle had left
his seat and, solemnly walking over to Windover, had shaken him warmly
by the hand, returning to his chair again without a word.

It was Windover, too, who had once striven to justify celibacy for men
by saying that a benedict lived in a fool’s paradise; a bachelor in some
other fool’s paradise.

Windover’s meeting with Bindle was most dramatic.  Immediately on
entering the room with Carruthers, Windover’s eye caught sight of Bindle
seated at his small table, the customary large tankard of ale before
him, blowing clouds of smoke from his short pipe.  Windover had stopped
dead and, screwing his glass into the corner of his left eye, a habit of
his, gazed fixedly at him who later became our chairman.  We were all
feeling a little embarrassed, all save Bindle, who returned the gaze
with a grin of unconcern.  It was he who broke the tension by remarking
to Windover.

"You don’t ’appen to ’ave a nut about yer, do you sir?"

Windover had laughed and the two shook hands heartily, Windover perhaps
a little ashamed of having shown such obvious surprise. As a rule his
face is a mask.

"I’m awfully sorry, I was trying to remember where we had met," he said
rather lamely.

"’Ush, sir, ’ush!" said Bindle looking round him apprehensively, then in
a loud whisper, "It was in Brixton, sir.  You was pinched ’alf an ’our
after me."

From that time Bindle and Windover became the best of friends.

When, on the death of his elder brother, killed in a bombing-raid,
Windover had succeeded to the title, we were all at a loss how to
express our sympathy.  He is not a man with whom it is easy to condole.
He and his brother had been almost inseparables, and both had joined the
army immediately on the outbreak of war.

On the Sunday following the tragedy, Windover turned up as usual.  He
greeted us in his customary manner, and no one liked to say anything
about his loss.  Bindle, however, seems to possess a genius for solving
difficult problems. As he shook hands with Windover he said, "I won’t
call yer m’lord jest yet, sir, it’ll only sort o’ remind yer."

I saw Bindle wince at the grip Windover gave him.  Later in the evening
Windover remarked to Carruthers, "J.B. always makes me feel exotic," and
we knew he was referring to Bindle’s way of expressing sympathy at his
bereavement.

Curiously enough, to the end of the chapter Bindle continued to address
Windover as "sir", possibly as a protest against Angell Herald’s
inveterate "my lordliness."

Windover’s story was just Windover and nobody else, and it is printed
just as he narrated it, with injunctions "not to add or omit, lengthen
or shorten a single garment."  I have not done so.


How long I had been dead I could not conjecture.  I remembered buying a
newspaper of the old man who stands at the corner of Piccadilly Place.
I recollected that it was my intention to justify, to the smallest
possible extent compatible with my instinctive sense of delicacy, the
letter of patient optimism that I had received that morning from my
tailor.  That was all.  There had been no death-bed scene, with its
pathos of farewells, no Rogers moaning piteously about his future, as he
invariably did when my health showed the least deviation from the
normal.  Yet here was I dead—dead as Free Silver.

In a dingy apartment of four garishly papered walls, upon a
straight-backed, black oak settle, I sat gazing into my top hat.  That I
was dressed for calling did not seem to cause me any very great
surprise, nor was I conscious of any tremor, or feeling of diffidence as
to my fate.  It seemed much as if I were waiting to see my solicitor
upon some unimportant matter of business.  I knew that I was there to be
interrogated as to my past life.  I was vaguely conscious that awkward
questions would be asked, and that the utmost tact and diplomacy would
be required to answer or evade them.

I was speculating as to the probable cause of my death, weighing the
claims of a taxi, the end of the world and a bomb, when the door
opposite to me opened and a tall angular woman appeared.  Given a dusty
crape bonnet, she would have passed admirably for a Bayswater caretaker.
I was taken aback: in my mind post-mortem interrogation had always been
associated with the male sex.

Marvelling that this unattractive Vestal should be an attribute to
Eternity, I rose and bowed.  My imagination had always pictured the
women of the Hereafter as draped in long, white, clinging garments, and
possessed of beautiful fluffy wings and a gaze of ineffable love and
wonder.  The thought of the surprise in store for the sentimental
ballad-writers induced a chuckle!

With a gesture of her lean hand, the Vestal motioned me from the room.
At the extreme end of a gloomy corridor along which we passed, there
appeared a grained door bearing in letters of white the words:—

                              MRS. GRUNDY
                                PRIVATE

My interest immediately became stimulated. Here was an entirely
unlooked-for development.

"Shall we go in?" I enquired, rather out of a spirit of bravado than
anything else.

The Vestal rebuked me with an expressionless stare.  Presently the door
opened with a startling suddenness and later closed behind us of its own
accord.

The second room seemed strangely familiar. On the mantel-piece was a
large gilt clock in a glass case, flanked on either side by an enormous
pink lustre with its abominable crystal drops. The furniture was either
ponderous or "what-notty", and every possible thing was covered, as if
to be undraped were indelicate.  On the chairs were antimacassars,
table-cloths hid the shameless polish of the wood, the pattern of the
Brussels carpet was modified in its flamboyancy by innumerable mats.
The walls were a mass of pictures, and in front of the only window were
lace curtains of a tint known technically as "ecru."  There were two
collections of impossible wax fruits covered by oval glasses, a square
case of incredibly active-looking stuffed birds, and a bewildering mass
of photographs in frames.  Here and there on tables were a few select
volumes, ostentatiously laid open with silk hand-painted bookmarks
threading through their virgin pages.  I identified "The Lady of the
Lake," Smiles, "Self Help," "Holy Living and Holy Dying," the works of
Martin Tupper, and the inevitable family bible.

At a large round-table opposite to the door sat a presence—a woman in
form, in clothing, in everything but sex.  It was quizzing Disapproval
in black silk, with a gold chain round its neck from which hung a large
cameo locket.  Its grey hair, very thin on top, was stowed away in a net
with appalling precision. It had three chins, and grey eyes, behind
which lurked neither soul nor emotion.  It was the personification of
the triumph of virtue untempted.

I bowed.  The eyes regarded me impassively, then turned to the massive
volume before them. It was bound in embossed black leather with gilt
edges and a heavy gilt clasp.  I was incredulous that the Sins of
Society could be all contained in one book; but decided that it was made
possible by the use of the word "ditto."  Society is never original in
anything, least of all its sinning.

In the hope of attracting to myself the attention hitherto considered my
due, I began to fidget.  Presently, and without looking up, Mrs. Grundy,
as I judged her to be, demanded in a smooth, colourless voice:—

"Your name?"

"Anthony Charles Windover," I responded glibly.

"Age?"

I coughed deprecatingly.

"Age?"  It was as if I heard the uninflected accents of Destiny.

"Is it absolutely necessary?" I queried.

"Absolutely!"

"Forty-three.  Of course in confidence," I added hastily.

"There is no confidence in Eternity."

"Then you, too, are a sceptic?" I ventured. She merely stared at me
fixedly, then proceeded to turn over the leaves of the tome in front of
her.  Soon she found what appeared to be the correct page.  After fully
a minute’s deliberate contemplation of the entry, she looked up suddenly
and regarded me with a solemn gravity that struck me as grotesque.

"Not a very bad case, let’s hope," I put in cheerfully.  "There have
been——"

"Silence!"

I started as if shot, and looking round discovered beside me the
impassive visage of the ill-favoured Vestal of the ante-room.

"I wish you wouldn’t bawl in my ear like that," I snapped.  "It’s most
unpleasant."

"Anthony Charles Windover," it was Mrs. Grundy who spoke in a voice that
was deep-throated and disapproving, "age forty-three."  She looked up
again with her cold and malevolent stare; "yours is a grave record; we
will deal with it in detail."

"Surely, Madam," I protested, "it is not necessary to go over
everything.  I am so hopeless at accounts."

"First there was the case of Cecily Somers," she proceeded unmoved.

"A mere boy and girl affair.  Cecily was young, and—well, it didn’t last
long."

"Then there was the case of Laura Merton," continued the
arch-inquisitor.

"Poor Laura," I murmured.  "I never could resist red hair, and hers
was——poor Laura!"

"There were circumstances of a very grave nature."

"You mean the curate?  He was a bloodless creature; besides it all ended
happily."

"You intervened between an affianced man and wife," continued Mrs.
Grundy.

"I am very sorry to appear rude, Madam," I protested hotly, irritated by
the even, colourless tones of her voice, "but it was Laura’s hair that
intervened!  Am I to blame because she preferred the ripeness of my
maturity to the callowness of his inexperience?"

"You caused her mother—an estimable lady—indescribable anguish of soul."

"She hadn’t one," I replied, triumphantly, "She was a scheming old——"

"Silence!" fulminated the Vestal again.

"Really, madam," I protested with asperity, "unless you request this
person not to shout in my ear, I shall refuse to remain here another
minute."

"There was Rosie de Lisle——"

"Ah, what ankles! what legs! what——"  I was interrupted by a gurgle from
the Vestal in whose eyes there was something more than horror. I turned
and found Mrs. Grundy obviously striving to regain the power of speech.

Conscious that my ecstasy upon Rosie’s legs had caused the trouble, I
hastened to explain that I had seen them in common with the rest of the
play-going world.

"Rosie was the belle of the Frivolity," I proceeded, "Bishops have been
known to hasten ordinations, or delay confirmations because of Rosie’s
legs.  She danced divinely!"

Rosie’s legs seemed to have a remarkable effect upon Mrs. Grundy.  She
hurriedly turned over the pages of her book and then turned them back
again.

"There was Evelyn Relton——"

"A minx, madam, to adopt the idiom of your sex, whilst my kisses were
still warm upon her lips——"  Another gurgle from the Vestal and a "look"
from Mrs. Grundy,—"she married a wealthy brewer, and is now the mother
of eight embryo brewers, or is it nine?"

"You—you are aggravating your case, stammered Mrs. Grundy, with some
asperity.

"I am very sorry, but your attitude annoys me; it always did.  I’m a
social free-trader, a bohemian——"

"STOP!" thundered Mrs. Grundy.  "That word is never permitted here."

"I think you’re extremely suburban," I replied.  "You might be Tooting,
or even Brixton from your attitude."

Ignoring this, Mrs. Grundy proceeded to read the names of a number of
women who had long ceased to be to me anything but names.  I could not
even remember if they were dark or fair, tall or short.  At last she
reached Mary Vincent, relict of Josiah Vincent, pork-packer of Chicago.

"Why, she was a most shameless person," I cried.  "I am surprised,
madam, that you should support such a woman.  She actually proposed to
me."

"Ahem!" coughed Mrs. Grundy, apparently somewhat taken aback.

"A fact!  She asked me if I did not think a middle-aged man—she was
always impertinent—would have a better chance of happiness with a woman
of ripe experience, a widow for instance, than with some mere
inexperienced girl.  Really a most offensive suggestion."

"It’s very curious," muttered Mrs. Grundy, as she turned over the leaves
in obvious embarrassment.  "It’s very curious, but I see no record here
of any such conversation."

"Ha!  I thought your books were defective," I exclaimed, now feeling
thoroughly at my ease. "Why, I have letters, shameless letters, from
Mrs. Vincent, which would make your hair stand on end."  I did not
appreciate until too late how thin and sparse her hair really was.

"We will proceed," was her response.  I was secretly glad that she had
dropped that even tone of inevitability and remembered Tully’s axiom
"make a woman angry and she is half won over."

"There was the case of Sir John Plumtree, 26th baronet.  You committed a
most brutal assault upon that most distinguished man."

"Plumtree was a bounder, more at home in his own country house than
among gentlemen. I certainly did punch his head in the club
smoking-room; but do you know why, madam?"

"There is no mention of the cause," said Mrs. Grundy, a little ill at
ease.

"We were discussing a very charming member of your sex"—(Mrs. Grundy
started and coughed, the word "sex" evidently distressed her)—"when
Plum, as we called him, growled out that all women were—I really cannot
repeat it, but he quoted a saying of a well-known Eastern potentate
whose matrimonial affairs were somewhat—"

"We will pass on," said Mrs. Grundy, huskily.  I thought I detected a
slight reddening of the sallow cheeks, whilst the Vestal coughed loudly.

"I should really prefer not to pass over this little affair so lightly,"
I remarked sweetly, seeing my advantage.  "There were several
circumstances which—"

"We will pass on," was the firm reply, "I will not proceed with that
specific charge."  The smile with which I greeted this concession did
not conduce to put my interlocutor at her ease.  "There are certain
unconventions recorded against you.  We will take a few of the most
glaring."

"Why this reticence?  Can we not take them all and in chronological
order?" I enquired, settling myself in the most comfortless of chairs.
Disregarding my request, Mrs. Grundy proceeded:

"On the night of June 7th, 1914, you dined with Mrs. Walker Trevor at
——," she paused and bent over the register.

"This is very strange," she muttered, _sotto voce_.  "I don’t quite see
the reason of this entry.  There seems to have been a mistake."

"Can I assist you?" I ventured, becoming interested.

She paid no heed to my offer, and after a few minutes’ silence proceeded
in the same half-muttering voice.

"Dined with Mrs. Walker Trevor, wife of Captain Walker Trevor, absent on
military duty, at Princes, P.R.  It does not say what prince, but rank
is——" She paused, then continued: "There is no breach of the conventions
in dining at a prince’s, even with a married lady whose husband is away.
I cannot understand the meaning of P.R. either.  It is very strange,
very strange indeed."

Here I broke in.  "Permit me, madam, to explain.  I think you are
labouring under a mistake.  Princes is a famous Piccadilly Restaurant,
which has lost some of its one-time glory through the opening of the
Carlton and the Ritz.  ’P.R.’ of course means Private Room.  It was
Millicent’s idea."

At this juncture there was a loud knocking, evidently at the end of the
corridor, followed by expostulations in an angry voice and interjections
of "Silence!" in what appeared to be a replica of the Vestal’s tones.
Mrs. Grundy looked up, scandalised enquiry imprinted on her visage.

"I’m goin’ in, I tell you," the angry voice was now just outside.  "Get
out of the way, you old Jezebel!  Silence?  I’m damned if I’ll be
silent.  Why I’ve sneezed three times already.  Draughty hole!  Get out
of the way I say."

The door burst open and there entered a little man in a very great
passion.  I recognised him instantly as the Duke of Shires, a notorious
viveur and director of wild-cat companies.  I leant forward and
whispered to Mrs. Grundy the name of her illustrious visitor.

"This is an unexpected pleasure, Duke," I remarked smilingly.  He
regarded me for a few minutes coldly.

"Who the devil are you, and who’s that old —— sitting there?"—indicating
Mrs. Grundy.  Then without waiting for a reply, he continued: "I know
you now: you’re the feller that said that dashed impertinent thing about
my being the Duke of Shares."

"I had the honour, Duke, of immortalising Your Grace in epigram.
Wherever the English language is——"

"Then be damned to you, sir," was the angry response.

"We were not expecting Your Grace yet," interposed Mrs. Grundy; I was
astonished at the unctuous tones she adopted in speaking to the Duke.

"No, nor I, confound it!  I’ve just been knocked down by a taxicab,
light green, driver had red hair, couldn’t see his number."

"I am extremely sorry," croaked Mrs. Grundy in what she evidently
intended to be ingratiating tones.  "Will not Your Grace take a seat."

"No, I won’t!" the Duke tossed his head indignantly.  "Draughty
hole—damn it, sir, what are you grinning at?"

The remark was directed at me.  The little man made a dive in my
direction, and in stepping back to avoid him I knocked my head violently
against what appeared to be the mantel-piece, although I had been
sitting several yards from it.

                     *      *      *      *      *

"What is it?"  I looked about dazed.  Two policemen were bending over
me, and behind them was a sea of interested faces that looked very pale,
I was out of doors, apparently sitting on the pavement, with my head
propped up upon a policeman’s knee.

"It was a banana skin, sir," responded one of the policemen, holding up
something before my eyes—(how the police love an "exhibit")—"you ’urt
your ’ead, sir, but you’re all right now."

"And Mrs. Grundy and the Duke?" I queried.

"’Ere’s the stretcher!" said a voice.

"It’s a bad business, I’m afraid ’e’ll——"

Then my mind trailed off into darkness and my body was trundled off to
St. George’s Hospital, from which the almost tearful Rogers later
fetched me in a taxi, bemoaning the narrowness, not of my escape from
death, but his own from destitution.


"I wonder wot ’Earty ’ud think o’ that little yarn," Bindle remarked
meditatively as he tapped the table before him with his mallet in token
of applause. As chairman Bindle modelled himself upon him who lords it
over the public-house "smoker."  "’E wouldn’t like to ’ave to give up
’is ’arp with angels flapping about."

"But it’s only a—a—sort of dream, like mine," interjected Angell Herald,
with a touch of superior knowledge in his voice.

Bindle turned and regarded Angell Herald as if he were an object of
great interest.  Then when he had apparently satisfied himself in every
particular about his identity, he remarked quietly with a grin:

"O’ course it was.  Silly o’ me to forget. Poor ole ’Earty.  I wouldn’t
’ave ’im disappointed.  ’E’s nuts on ’arps."




                             *CHAPTER VIII*

                    *THE MAKING OF A MAN OF GENIUS*


It was rather by way of an experiment that I determined to try the
effect of irony upon the members of the Night Club.  I confess I was
curious as to how it would strike Bindle, remembering that remarkable
definition of irony as "life reduced to an essence."  The story had been
told me by Old Archie, if he had another name none of us had ever heard
it, who keeps a coffee-stall not far from Sloane Square. He was a
rosy-faced little fellow, as nippy as a cat in spite of his seventy
years, and as cheerful as a sparrow.  He has seen life from many angles,
and there has come to him during those three score years and ten a
philosophy that seems based on the milk of human kindness.

Had he been gifted with a ready pen, he could have written a book that
would have been valuable as well as interesting.  "A man shows ’is ’eart
an’ a woman ’er soul round a coffee-stall," was one of his phrases that
has clung to my memory.  "Lord bless you, sir," he said on another
occasion, "there’s good an’ bad in everyone.  Even in a rotten apple the
pips is all right."

I chose a night for Old Archie’s story when I knew there would be a full
attendance, and without anything in the nature of an introduction began
the tale as he had told it to me.


In arriving at a determination to marry, Robert Tidmarsh, as in all
things, had been deliberate.  It was an act, he told himself, that he
owed to the success he had achieved.  From the time when he lived with
his parents in a depressing tenement house in Boulger Street, Barnsbury,
Robert Tidmarsh had been preoccupied with his career.  It had become the
great fetish of his imagination.

In childhood it had brought down upon him scorn and ridicule.  Studious
habits were not popular in Boulger Street; but Robert remained resolute
in his pursuit of success.  He saw that in time the star of his destiny
would take him far from Boulger Street—it had.  At the age of
thirty-eight he was head clerk to Messrs. Middleton, Ratchett & Dolby,
Solicitors, of 83 Austin Friars, E.C., wore a silk hat and frock-coat,
lived at Streatham, drew a salary of two hundred and thirty pounds a
year and had quite a considerable sum in the bank.  Boulger Street had
been left far behind.

In its way Boulger Street was proud of him; it had seen him mount the
ladder step by step. It had made him, nourished him, neglected him,
ridiculed him, and later, with the servility of a success-loving
plebeian, it respected and worshipped him.  He remained its standard by
which to measure failure.  The one thing it did not do was to imitate
him.

Robert saw that, economically, the way was clear before him.  His career
demanded the sacrifice; for somehow he could never quite rid his mind of
the idea that marriage _was_ a sacrifice.  Such considerations belonged,
however, to a much earlier stage of his reasoning. Whatever he had to
resign was laid upon the altar of ambition.  If destiny demanded
sacrifice, he would tender it without hesitation, without complaint.

As he had climbed the ladder of success, Robert found to his surprise
that his horizon was enlarging; but he was not deceived into the belief
that it would continue to expand to infinity.  Being something of a
philosopher, he knew that there must be limitations.  In a vague,
indeterminate way he was conscious that he lacked some quality necessary
to his continued progression.  He could not have put it into words; but
he was conscious that there was something holding him back.

Could he at twenty-one have started where he was at thirty-eight, there
might have been a prospect of achieving greatness for the house of
Tidmarsh.  This he now knew to be impossible, and he wasted no time in
vain regrets. His reason told him that, but for some curious shuffling
of the cards, he was unlikely to rise much higher.  "But should
twenty-six years of work and sacrifice be allowed to pass for nothing?"
He could not himself climb much higher, but if a son of his were to
start from the social and intellectual rung whereon he now stood, there
would be a saving of twenty-six years.  Then again, his son would have
the advantage of his father’s culture, position, experience.  Slowly the
truth dawned upon him; he was destined to play Philip to his son’s
Alexander.  From the moment that Robert Tidmarsh reached this conclusion
marriage became inevitable.

For weeks he pondered on the new prospect he saw opening out before him.
He was pleased with its novelty.  The weakness of the reasoning that a
son starts from where his father stands did not appear to strike him.
With a new interest and energy he walked through miles of streets
adorned with the latest architectural achievements in red brick and
stucco.  It was characteristic of him that he had fixed upon the avenue
that was to receive him, long before his mind turned to the serious
problem of finding a suitable partner in his enterprise.

Robert Tidmarsh’s views upon women were nebulous.  Hitherto girls had
been permitted to play no part in his life.  He had studiously avoided
them.  A young man, he had told himself, could not very well nurture a
career and nourish a wife at the same time.  He was not a woman-hater;
he was merely indifferent; the hour had not struck.

For weeks he deliberated upon the kind of wife most likely to further
his ends.  His first thought had been of a woman of culture, a few years
younger than himself.  But would the cultures war with one another?  The
risk was great, too great.  He accordingly decided that youth and health
were to be the sole requisites in the future Mrs. Tidmarsh.

At this period Robert began to speculate upon his powers of attraction.
He would seek to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirrors he passed in
the street.  He saw a rather sedate, dark-haired man of medium height,
with nondescript features and a small black moustache. In a vague way he
knew that he was colourless: he lacked half-tones, atmosphere.  He
studied other men, strove to catch their idiom and inflection, to
imitate their bearing and the angle at which they wore their hats.  He
began to look at women, mentally selecting and rejecting. One night he
spoke to a girl in Hyde Park, but he found conversation so difficult
that, with a muttered apology about catching a train and a lifting of
his hat, he fled.  As he hurried away he heard the girl’s opinion of him
compressed into one word as she turned on her heel, midst a swirl of
petticoats, to seek more congenial company.  That night he found his
philosophy a poor defence against his sensitiveness.

Robert Tidmarsh would have turned away in horror from the suggestion
that he depended upon a casual meeting with some girl in Hyde Park to
furnish him with a wife.  This was intended to be merely an adventure
preliminary to the real business of selection.  He did not know what to
talk about to women, and the knowledge troubled him.  When the time came
he found, as other men have found, an excellent subject ready to
hand—himself.

Robert may be said to have entered seriously upon his quest when he
joined a dancing-class, a tennis-club and learned to manage a punt.  He
afterwards saw that any one of these recreations would have supplied him
with all the material he could possibly require.  Eventually his choice
fell upon Eva Thompson, the daughter of a Tulse Hill chemist.  She was
pretty, bright, and to all appearance, strong and healthy.  He was
introduced to the parents, who were much impressed with their potential
son-in-law.

Mrs. Thompson was subjected to a dexterous cross-examination, the
subtlety of which in no way deceived that astute lady.  Accordingly the
result was satisfactory to both parties.  Eva herself at twenty-two had
all the instincts of a February sparrow.  To mate well she had been
taught was the end and aim of a girl’s life, a successful marriage, that
is from the worldly point of view, its crown of wild olive. To Robert,
however, marriage was the first step towards founding a family.  Risks
there were, he saw this clearly, but where human forethought could
remove them they should be removed.

One of the secrets of Robert’s success had been a singleness of purpose
that had enabled him to pursue his own way in spite of opposing factors.
He was always quietly resolute.  It was not so much by his perseverance
that he achieved his ends, as by the care which he bestowed upon each
detail of his schemes.  As in his career, so with his marriage, in
itself a part of the scheme of his life.  Too astute to be convinced by
a mother’s prejudiced evidence, or by his own unskilled judgment, he
determined to have expert opinion as to Eva’s fitness to become the
mother of an Alexander.  A slight chill the girl had contracted gave him
his opportunity.  During an evening walk, he took her to his own doctor,
who had previously received instructions.  Such a thing did not appear
to him as callous; he was not marrying for romance, but for a definite
and calculated purpose.

To some men marriage is a romance, to others a haven of refuge from
rapacious landladies; but to Robert Tidmarsh it was something between a
hobby and a career.  He asked but one thing from the bargain, and
received far more than he would have thought any man justified in
expecting.  From the hour that he signed the register in the vestry, the
training of his son commenced.

Among other things, Robert’s reading had taught him that a child’s
education does not necessarily begin with its birth.  Accordingly he set
himself to render his bride happy.  There was a deep strain of wisdom in
this man’s mind, which no amount of undigested philosophical reading
could quite blot out.  He saw the necessity of moulding his wife’s
unformed character; and he decided that first he must render her happy.
He took her to the theatre, with supper at a cheap restaurant
afterwards, followed by the inevitable scurry to catch the last train.
Occasionally there were week-ends in the country, or by the sea.  In
short the model son of one suburb became the model husband of another.

Months passed and Robert’s anxiety increased. As the critical period
approached he became a prey to neurasthenia.  He lost his appetite,
started at every sound, was incoherent in his speech, and slept so ill
as to be almost unfit for the day’s work.

There is one night that Robert Tidmarsh will never forget.  For two
hours he paced Schubert Avenue from end to end, his mind fixed on what
was happening in the front bedroom of Eureka Lodge.  The biting East
wind he did not feel.  He was above atmospheric temperatures.  His
life’s work, he felt, was about to be crowned or——he would not permit
himself to give even a moment’s thought to the alternative.  The
suspense was maddening. As he paced the Avenue he strove to think
coherently.  He strove to compare his own childhood with that which
should be the lot of his son.  Coherent thought he found impossible.
Everything in his mind was chaotic.  Had he really any mind at all?
Would he lose his reason entirely?  Then he fell to wondering what they
would do with him if he went mad?

He had got to this point, and had just turned round, when he saw that
the front door of Eureka Lodge was open and a woman’s figure standing
out against the light.  With a thumping heart, Robert ran the fifty
yards that separated him from the silhouetted figure as he had not run
since boyhood.  What could it mean—a mishap? As he stopped at the gate,
his trembling fingers fumbling with the latch, he heard a voice that
seemed to come from no-where telling him that his ambition had been
realised.  For the first time in his manhood he felt the tears streaming
down his face as he clutched at the gate-post sobbing.  Fortunately the
woman had fled back to her post, and he was spared what to him would
have appeared an intolerable humiliation.

During the days immediately following that night of torture, Robert felt
that his life was to be crowned indeed.  Hitherto the great moment of
his career had been when he was called into Mr. Middleton’s room, and,
in the presence of the other partners, told that he was to be promoted
to the position of chief clerk. Now a greater had arrived, and from that
hour, when a son was born to the ambitious and self-made solicitor’s
clerk, his life became one series of great moments.

Robert Tidmarsh early found the rearing of a man child productive of
grave anxieties.  The slightest deviation from what he considered to be
the normal condition of infants produced in him a frenzy of alarm.  His
forethought had provided books upon the rearing of infants. He consulted
them and his fears increased. Convulsions held for him a subtle and
petrifying horror.  A more than usually robust exhibition of crying on
the part of Hector Roland (as the child was christened) invariably
produced in his father’s mind dismal forebodings. In time, however, he
became more controlled, and the arrival of the customary period of
measles, whooping-cough, scarlet-fever and other childish ailments found
him composed if anxious.

But nervous solicitude for the boy’s health did not in the least
interfere with the father’s dominant preoccupation.  The question of
education was never wholly absent from his thoughts.  With so pronounced
a tendency to narrowness, it was strange to find with what wisdom and
foresight he entered upon his task. As if by instinct he saw that
influence alone could achieve his object.  He would form no plan, he
would guide, not direct his son’s genius.  Above all he would not commit
the supreme indiscretion of taking anyone into his confidence.
Sometimes he was tempted to tell Eva of his ambition, he yearned for
sympathy in his great undertaking, but he always triumphed over this
weakness.

Eva was a little puzzled at his solicitude about her health, and the
frequent cross-questionings to which she was subjected as to what she
ate and drank; but woman-like she saw in this only evidence of his
devotion.  He talked often of children whose lives had been imperilled
by injudicious indulgence on the part of their mothers.  When the time
came for the child to be fed by hand, Robert made the most careful
enquiries of the doctor and his father-in-law as to the best and most
nutritious infant foods.  The result of all this was that the child
showed every tendency to become a fine healthy young animal.

But in the care of the body, Robert Tidmarsh by no means neglected the
budding mind of his infant son.  When the period of toys and
picture-books arrived, the same careful discrimination was shown.  The
old fairy stories, with well-printed illustrations, diverted the young
Hector’s mind just as the best foods nourished his body.  When he tired
of literature there were cheap mechanical toys, bought in the hope of
stimulating the germ of enquiry as it should manifest itself.  People
shook their heads and thought such extravagance unwarranted; but Robert
smiled.  They did not share his secret.

As the years passed and Hector grew up into a sturdy youngster, his
father watched furtively for some sign as to the direction that his
genius was to take; but Hector, as if desirous of preserving to himself
the precious knowledge, refused to evidence any particular tendency
beyond a healthy appetite, a robust frame and a general enjoyment of
life.

With the selection of Hector’s first school, an affair productive of
acute anxiety and many misgivings, commenced the education proper of the
man-to-be.  The first official report, so eagerly awaited, was
noncommittal; the second proved little better, and the third seemed to
indicate that Hector was by no means an assiduous student.  If the boy
evinced no marked tendency towards the acquirement of book-learning, he
showed an unmistakable liking for out-door sports and stories of
adventure.  He was encouraged to read the works of "healthy" writers
such as Kingston and Ballantyne, strongly recommended by the book-seller
who had charge of Robert Tidmarsh’s literary conscience.  In the winter
evenings the boy would pore over the thrilling adventures of the heroes
with an attention that did not fail to arouse his father’s hopes.

The first tragedy between this Philip and Alexander was the discovery,
in the pocket of the younger, of a copy of _The Firebrand of the
Pacific; or The Pirate’s Oath_, a highly-coloured account of doings of a
particularly sanguinary cut-throat.  On this occasion Robert Tidmarsh
showed something almost akin to genius.  He took the book and
deliberately read it from cover to cover, subsequently returning it
without comment to his nervously-expectant son.  The next evening he
brought home a copy of _The Treasure Island_, recommended by the
bookseller as the finest boy’s book ever written, and without a word
gave it to Hector.  After dinner, the Tidmarshes always "dined," Hector
dutifully commenced to read.  At nine o’clock his mother’s reminder that
it was bed-time was received with a pleading look and an appeal for
another five minutes, to which Robert signified assent.  At ten o’clock
Hector reluctantly said good-night and went to bed.  At five the next
morning he was again with John Silver.  By six o’clock in the afternoon
the book was finished and Hector was at the station to meet his father.
As they walked home Robert felt a crumpled paper thrust into his hand.
It was _The Firebrand of the Pacific_.  Robert has never been able to
determine if this was not after all _the_ moment of his life.

At the age of ten Hector was placed at a school of some repute in the
South West of London, and three months later at the Annual Sports won
the Junior Hundred Yards and Junior Quarter of a Mile scratch.  Robert
was pleased when he heard of the achievement, but he was no Greek, and
the winning of the parsley wreath was not what he had in mind for his
son; still it was gratifying to see the boy outshine his fellows.

Hector showed an ever-increasing love of outdoor sports.  Cricket,
football, running, jumping—nothing came amiss to him.  His father
watched in vain for some glimmerings of the genius that his imagination
told him would develop sooner or later.  His hope had been that, by
means of scholarships, his son might reach Oxford or Cambridge, for he
had all the middle-class exaggerated opinion of the advantages of a
University education.  He saw him a senior wrangler, he saw his
photograph in the papers, heard himself interviewed as to his son’s
early life and pursuits.  From these dreams he would awaken to renewed
exertions; but always with the same lack of success.

Unfortunately perhaps for both, Robert Tidmarsh saw little in his son’s
successes. Athletics were with him incidents in a career, incapable of
being glorified into achievements. To him a judge was not a judge
because he had won his blue, but rather in spite of it.  He could not
very well expostulate.  No man, as Robert clearly saw, has a right to
rebuke a son for failing to realise his father’s ambitions for him.  For
one thing, he had no very clear idea himself what those ambitions were.
All he was conscious of was a feeling that in some way or other Hector
Tidmarsh was to carry on the torch that he, Robert Tidmarsh, had
lighted. He was to achieve fame in some channel of life; but it must be
a material fame, one that would make him a celebrity.  It never occurred
to Tidmarsh _père_ that a man capable of making a century at cricket, or
being the best centre-forward in the district, could be worthy of a
place among a nation’s contemporary worthies.

At sixteen Hector left school, regretted by masters and scholars alike,
for his was a nature that commanded liking.  By the influence of Mr.
Ratchett, who had always been particularly partial to his chief clerk
and, as an old Oxford cricket blue, was much interested in his clerk’s
son, Hector was articled to a solicitor.  In a flash Robert Tidmarsh saw
the possibility of his cherished dream being realised.  He recalled
instances of young men who had achieved fame in the field and
subsequently become successful in the more serious walks of life.  He
watched the boy closely, talked to him of law, encouraged him to study,
pointed out the greatness of this golden opportunity.  But in vain, the
boy’s heart was in sport, not in law.

Sometimes in introspective moments the father examined himself as to how
he had filled the role of Philip.  Had he failed?  Was he the cause?
Could he have prevented what now appeared highly probable, the
fluttering to earth of his house of cards?  He had never been harsh, had
he erred by being over lenient?

As he watched Hector, it slowly dawned upon him that for the first time
in his life he was about to experience failure.  His son was doomed to
be lost in the flood of the commonplace, would be respectable,
comfortably off, live at Streatham or Balham; but could never become
famous.  When this conviction became fixed in Robert Tidmarsh’s mind, he
grew gloomy and depressed.  The dice had gone against him.  It was fate.
It is only a long line of ancestors that enables a man to play a losing
game.  The Tidmarsh blood lacked that tenacity and fire that comes with
tradition.  It remained only to wait and hope and speculate from what
quarter the blow would fall.

At nineteen Hector received an invitation to play for the Surrey Colts.
He "came off," making a dashing fifty.  Mr. Rachett was there to shake
the young giant warmly by the hand as he returned to the pavilion, but
not his chief clerk.  In the heart of the disappointed father there was
a dull resentment against sport in general.  He saw in it a siren who
had bewitched his son, and diverted him from the path he should have
trod.  His secret was hard to keep.  He needed sympathy, someone to tell
him that he had done a great deal if not so much as he had anticipated.

One October morning the moment of final dis-illusionment arrived.  When
he came down to breakfast Hector was waiting in the dining-room with a
copy of _The Sportsman_, which he handed to his father, at the same time
pointing to a long description of a football match between two
well-known league clubs; it was headed "A Man of Genius," and ran:


    "The outstanding feature of the game was the marvellous display
    of the young amateur, Mr. Hector Tidmarsh, who was given a trial
    at centre forward in the home team.  His pace, his subtlety, his
    bustling methods stamped him as a great centre-forward.  The way
    he kept his wings together was a revelation.  Time after time
    the quintette raced away as if opposition did not exist.  The
    young amateur seemed to have hypnotised his professional
    _confrères_.  His shooting was equal to his feinting, and his
    forward-passing such as has not been seen for many a day.  In
    short he is the greatest find of the season, or of many seasons
    for that matter. The directors of the —— Club are to be
    congratulated in having discovered a man of genius."


Robert Tidmarsh put down the paper and looked at his son; but happily
bereft at the Comic Spirit, he merely articulated some commonplace words
of congratulation.  That morning two disappointed men commenced their
breakfasts, the father realising that his cherished ideal had finally
been shattered; the son depressed because a carefully planned surprise
had been productive of only a few colourless words, and upon them both
smiled a proud wife and happy mother, to whom fame for those she loved,
be it in what form it may, was a great and glorious gift to be welcomed
with laughter and with tears.


I lay aside the manuscript and proceeded to light a cigarette.  As a
rule at the end of a reading there is a babel of comment.  To-night
there was an unusual silence.  I looked round the room.  There was a
far-away look in Sallie’s eyes, which seemed unusually bright. Dick
Little was gazing straight in front of him, Bindle was recharging his
pipe with great deliberation and care.  The Boy was lost in the
contemplation of his finger nails.

"Silly ass!"

It was Angell Herald who had broken the silence, and snapped the thread.
All eyes turned in his direction.  Bindle, who was just in the act of
lighting his pipe, paused and gazed curiously at Angell Herald over the
flame of the match, then he turned to me and I saw that he understood.

It was Windover, however, who expressed the opinion of the Club upon
Angell Herald’s comment, when he muttered loud enough for all to hear:

"Oh! for the jawbone of an ass!"




                              *CHAPTER IX*

                    *MRS. BILTOX-JONES’S EXPERIMENT*


I do not think any of us really liked Angell Herald, his self-satisfied
philistinism constituting a serious barrier to close personal relations.
I have already commented upon certain of his characteristics that jarred
upon us all; but it seemed no one’s business to indicate, delicately or
otherwise, that he was not so welcome as we might have wished.

Dick Little had introduced him on the strength of a story he had heard
him tell at some masonic dinner, I think it was, and he had decided that
Angell Herald would be an acquisition to the Night Club.  Sallie thought
otherwise, and had summed him up as "a worm in a top hat": he always
wore a top hat.  It was the only occasion on which I had known Sallie
break out into epigram.  Both she and Bindle disliked Angell Herald
almost to the point of intolerance.  As a matter of fact he is not a bad
fellow, if his foibles are not too much emphasized.

His principal asset, however, is that he has a fund of interesting
experiences which, strangely enough, he rates far lower than the stories
he at first would insist on telling.

He assured us that Mrs. Biltox-Jones was no imaginary person and we,
knowing his limitations, believed him, and that her social experiment
was at the time the talk of Fleet Street.



                                  *I*


"Damn the war!" exclaimed Angell Herald, leaning back in his chair and
looking at his clerk, who had just entered.

"Yes sir," said Pearl, in a non-committal manner.  There are moments
when Pearl rises almost to inspiration.  His sympathetic utterance was
balm to his employer’s anguished soul.

Pearl accepts his chief’s moods or reflects them, whichever seems the
more expedient at the moment.  Incidentally Pearl has a heart that
filled the War Office with foreboding; so Pearl will never become a V.C.

When Angell Herald uttered his impulsive remark, with which Pearl had so
tactfully concurred, he had just finished reading a letter from Messrs.
Simoon, Golbrith and Cathpell, Ltd.  It consisted of three lines; but
those three lines had brushed away a hundred a year from his income.
This is what they wrote:—

"To Angell Herald, Esq.,
       Publicity Agent,
              382, Fleet Street, E.C.

DEAR SIR,

We regret to inform you that on account of the war we shall not be able
to renew our advertising contract for the current year.

We are,
   Yours faithfully,
(Signed) SIMOON, GOLBRITH & CATHPELL, LTD.


There was not a word of sympathy with the unfortunate publicity agent
for his loss, no touch of humanity or pity, merely a bare announcement,
and Angell Herald felt he was justified in saying, as he did say with a
great deal of emphasis, "Damn the war!"

He fell to brooding over this letter.  Publicity agents had been very
badly hit by the war, and he foresaw the time when—well, anything might
happen.  He was awakened from his gloom by Pearl.

"I’ve got a friend, sir——"

"I know you have, Pearl," was the response. "You have too many friends.
That’s the infernal part of it.  You are always marrying or burying
them."

"I have a friend," continued Pearl, imperturbably, "who says that new
conditions demand new methods."

Angell Herald sat up straight, and looked at Pearl.  Knowing him as his
employer did, this was a most extraordinary utterance.  There was in it
just a spark of originality.

"Pearl," said Angell Herald, "you’ve been drinking."

"No, sir," he replied, seriously, "I never take any alcoholic stimulant
until after dinner."

"Then you have a funeral in mind," was the reply.  "Something has
intoxicated you."

Pearl seemed to deliberate for a moment and then replied,

"Well, sir, I was going to tell you that my aunt’s second husband has
had a stroke, and he is not expected to live.  We are planning the
funeral for Thursday week."

Angell Herald felt that the loss of the Simoon contract had, as far as
business was concerned, done him for the day, so he went out, bought a
rose, and got his hat ironed.  He then turned into "The Turkey Trot" and
played a game of dominoes with his friend Harry Trumpet, who represents
the old school of publicity men: he calls himself an advertising agent.
He is a dull and stereotyped fellow, and, when Angell Herald feels at
all depressed, it always puts him in countenance with himself to come in
contact with Harry Trumpet.

"Harry is an ass," Angell Herald had once said; "but the amusing thing
is that he doesn’t know it.  I once met his wife and his wife’s sister,
and they don’t seem to know it either."

Having evaded Trumpet’s very obvious readiness to be invited to lunch,
Angell Herald went to his favourite place and did himself as well as he
could.  He was just drinking the last drop of claret, when Pearl’s
remark came back to him.  He remembered the old French saying "autre
temps, autre moeurs."  It was the only piece of French that he could
recollect, save the words "cocotte" and "très femme."

His mind wandered back to that "interview" with Mr. Llewellyn John, who
had given him such infinite instruction in the art of advertising.

It was, however, the agony column of _The Age_ that gave him his
inspiration.  There he saw an advertisement, which read:—

"A lady of considerable wealth desires introduction into Society.  A
stranger to London. Apply in the first instance in strict confidence to
X.Q. Box 38432.  The office of _The Age_, Paper Buildings Quadrangle,
E.C."


"A munition fortune," Angell Herald muttered to himself.  "She has made
her money, the old dear, and now she wants to get into high society, and
wash away the taste of Guinness in the flavour of Moet and Chandon.  In
other words, she wants publicity."

The word "publicity" suggested himself. Here was a woman desirous of
publicity, here was Angell Herald wanting nothing better than to get for
people publicity.

He returned to his office.

"Pearl," he said, "you can have that half holiday on Thursday week.  I
think you have given me an idea."

"Thank you, sir," was his reply, and Pearl proceeded to ask for a rise,
which was instantly refused, his chief telling him that time was money.

Angell Herald wrote a guarded letter to the lady desiring entry into
high society, telling her that he thought he might possibly be of some
assistance if she would kindly allow him the privilege of calling upon
her.  He received an equally guarded reply, making an appointment at the
office of a certain firm of solicitors in Lincoln’s Inn.



                                  *II*


Three days later Angell Herald was sitting in a room in the offices of
Messrs. Robbe & Dammitt, the well-known society solicitors, awaiting the
arrival of his fair client—as he hoped.  He was meditating upon the
old-fashioned methods of solicitors as he gazed round the room with its
dusty volumes of law books, its hard, uncompromising chairs, and its
long, stamped-leather covered office table, when the door opened, and
there sailed in—sailed is really the only expression that conveys the
motion—a heavily veiled female figure.  As he rose and bowed he recalled
Dick Grassetts’ description of his mother-in-law, "All front and no
figure served up in black silk."

"Mr. Herald?" she interrogated in a husky voice, flopping down into a
chair with a gasp.

Angell Herald bowed.

For fully a minute she sat panting.  Evidently the short flight of
stairs had been too much for her.

"You saw my advertisement?" she queried.

Again Angell Herald bowed.

"Well, what about it?" she enquired.  Her attitude was one of extreme
arrogance, which was oddly out of keeping with the inflection of her
voice and the directness of her speech. Obviously she was determined to
assume the attitude of the theatrical duchess.  It was necessary to put
her in her place.

"I saw your advertisement," Angell Herald remarked, "and remembering
what Mr. Llewellyn John said to me the other day——"

"Mr. Llewellyn John," she gasped.  "You know him?"

"Oh, yes," Angell Herald replied, airily. "As I was saying, he remarked
to me the other day, ’Without advertisement a man is doomed.’  That gave
me the idea of writing to you."

"Yes, go on," she said eagerly, as she raised her veil.

"Well, madam," Angell Herald continued, "you require certain social
opportunities," she nodded her head vigorously and gasped like a fat pug
that sees tempting dainties it is too full to eat, "and I think I may be
able to be of some assistance."

Angell Herald did not like the woman.  Her complexion was blue, her face
puffy, and she had innumerable chins, which billowed down to meet the
black silk of her gown.  She was hung with jewellery, and her clothes
were most unsuitable to her years.  In her hat was mauve and emerald
green.  She was literally laden with sables, which must have
considerably increased her difficulty in breathing, and her feet were
pinched into the most ridiculously small patent hoots with enormous
tassels that bobbed about every time she moved.  Although a man of the
world, Angell Herald was appalled at the shortness of her skirts.

She blinked at him through her lorgnettes.

"Well!" she said.

"May I enquire first of all," he enquired, "what methods you have
hitherto adopted?  I may tell you that everything discussed between us
is in strict confidence."

This seemed to reassure her.  After a slight hesitation she began to
tell her story.  It appeared that her husband had made an enormous
fortune in the early days of the war by contracting for porous huts and
brown-paper boots for the Army.  They had lived in Manchester, but now
they had come to London and taken what was literally a mansion in Park
Lane.  She had set herself to work to get into Society, and apparently
had been very badly snubbed.

She had subscribed liberally to the Red Cross and similar charities, and
attended every charitable entertainment that had been given since her
advent.  She had engaged, regardless of cost, a number of the most
famous artists in the country for a drawing-room concert in aid of a
certain hospital, and had sent out invitations lavishly to the whole of
Mayfair.  The result was that the artists had turned up; but not the
audience.

She had to pay the fees and eat the leek. Then she had offered to drive
convalescent soldiers round the Park.

"And they sent me common soldiers," she remarked, "although I
particularly asked for officers, generals if possible."  There was a
note of querulous complaint in her voice.

It was with something akin to horror that Angell Herald heard her say
she had written to _The Age_, asking what their terms would be to
publish a photograph of her daughter, together with a few personal
particulars.

"_The Age_, madam?" he almost shrieked. "_The Age_?  They never publish
illustrations."

"No," she replied.  "But they publish advertisements and theatrical
notices.  My daughter (she pronounced it ’darter’) is as good as a
music-hall actress, and a good sight better," she added.

She had left cards on everyone in Park Lane, (she called it "The Lane"),
and upon a number of people in other fashionable quarters, but had not
received a single call in return.

"Your only chance, madam," Angell Herald ventured, "is to get into the
public eye.  These are the days of advertisement.  You must get the
public to know you as they know our generals and our politicians."

"I know all about that," she replied, with a certain asperity.  "But
how’s it going to be done?"

"Well!" Angell Herald replied, "I will think it over and let you know.
Perhaps you will tell me to whom I can write."

For a moment she hesitated, and then saying, "Of course the whole
thing’s strictly in confidence?"  Angell Herald bowed—she handed him her
card.  On it he read "Mrs. Biltox-Jones, 376, Park Lane, W.," and in the
corner "Third Thursdays."  Angell Herald smiled inwardly as he thought
of the loneliness of this lady on her "Third Thursdays."

For a minute or two he gazed reflectively at Mrs. Biltox-Jones’s card.
Through his mind was running the "interview" with Mr. Llewellyn John.
He remembered the suggestion of the accident in stepping into his car,
how the Prime Minister had suggested that he should be assaulted for
purposes of publicity, and finally he recalled the suggestion of the
abduction of his daughter.  Without pausing to think, he turned to Mrs.
Biltox-Jones.

"You have a daughter, Mrs. Biltox-Jones?" he said, taking great care to
give her her hyphenated name.

She started.

"A daughter!" she said.  "Of course I’ve got a daughter."  Her tone was
that of someone accused of lacking some necessary member.

"Exactly," he said.  "That may solve the difficulty.  In these days," he
continued, "publicity is a very difficult matter."  Angell Herald put
his fingers together in judicial fashion and proceeded, "There are two
things that the journalist recognises.  One is ’copy,’ Mrs.
Biltox-Jones, and the other is ’news.’  Now news takes precedence over
’copy,’ just as birth does over money, at least, it should do."

"I don’t see what that’s got to do with the matter at all," snapped Mrs.
Biltox-Jones. Angell Herald could see that she had not formed a very
favourable opinion of him, or of his capabilities.  "I don’t understand
what you mean by ’copy’ and ’news.’"

"Well," he continued, "I once heard a journalist define the two."  Ha
was quite indifferent as to what Mrs. Biltox-Jones might think of him.
"A friend once asked him the same question, and his reply was, ’Now, if
a dog bit a man, that would be ’copy’; but, Mrs. Biltox-Jones, if a man
bit a dog, that would be ’news.’"

Mrs. Biltox-Jones was clearly annoyed.  She made a movement to rise; but
to rise, with Mrs. Biltox-Jones, was a matter of several movements,
persistent and sustained.

"One moment, madam," Angell Herald continued.  "In your own case, now,
in order to obtain the publicity you desire, you must endeavour to give
the Press something that it will regard as ’news’ in distinction from
’copy.’  Now, as far as I can see, there are two ways in which you can
achieve your object."

Mrs. Biltox-Jones began to look interested once more.

"First you might arrange to be seriously assaulted."

"Me?" she gasped.  "Me, assaulted? What on earth do you mean, Mr.
Herald?"

"Well," he continued, "You might arrange for somebody to meet you in a
lonely place, and knock you down."

"Knock _me_ down?"  The italics fail to do justice to Mrs.
Biltox-Jones’s look and tone. "Are you mad?" she demanded.

"No," was the response.  "I am endeavouring to help you.  If you will
listen calmly, you will see what I’m driving at.  The fact of a lady of
your position and wealth being publicly assaulted would appeal to the
journalistic mind, and would undoubtedly result in a great deal of Press
notice."

"But it would be so painful," she replied.

"Of course, there is always that.  It might even be fatal.  There is, of
course, an alternative measure, which I think, in your case, might be
even better: that is, the abduction of your daughter."

"The what?" she shrieked.

"The abduction of Miss Biltox-Jones. Imagine the sensation!  Think of
the ’copy’! Millionaire’s daughter abducted—I assume Mr. Biltox-Jones is
a millionaire.  I believe all Army contractors who are business men have
become millionaires.  Yes," Angell Herald added, "I think Miss
Biltox-Jones might be abducted."

"That shows you don’t know Gertie," said Mrs. Biltox-Jones, smiling
grimly.  At least, she made certain facial movements which were intended
to indicate a smile.

Mrs. Biltox-Jones seemed to be thinking deeply.  After fully a minute’s
silence she demanded, rather truculently,

"Will you abduct her?"

Angell Herald drew himself up with dignity.

"I am a publicity agent, Mrs. Biltox-Jones, not a professional abductor
of millionaires’ daughters.  Furthermore I have a reputation to
maintain."

"All right, don’t get ’uffy," was her response.

Angell Herald shuddered.

Again there was silence between them.

"Gertie’s always complainin’ how dull she is," Mrs. Biltox-Jones
muttered to herself; "she might like it for a change.  P’raps Martin
might arrange it.  Martin’s my butler, he does everythink for me.  He’s
been with the Duke of Porchester, and Prince Carmichael of
Dam-Splititz."

"Well," Angell Herald proceeded.  "Let us see Miss Biltox-Jones
abducted.  Imagine the Press the next morning.  You would apply to the
police, you would intimate the terrible news to every newspaper, and
there would be scare headings.  I merely offer this as a suggestion. As
a matter of fact, it is a little out of my usual line of business.  New
conditions, however, Mrs. Biltox-Jones, demand new methods."  Angell
Herald blessed Pearl for that exquisite phrase, and registered a vow not
to refuse his next application for a holiday in which to bury, marry or
bail-out a friend.  He could almost see himself giving him a rise.

"But how could I do it?" she enquired.

"That," Angell Herald replied, "I must leave to you, Mrs. Biltox-Jones.
I should gather that you are not lacking in resource or originality.  I
should try Martin.  English butlers are wonderfully resourceful.  Get
your daughter abducted and the result will be that your name will be
sounded throughout the British Empire.  I may add, by the way, that I
should see she was abducted for at least a fortnight.  That would give
time for a thorough Press campaign.  You would find that all the
Colonial papers would copy the story, and if Miss Biltox-Jones happened
to be handsome, as I should imagine she would be"—Angell Herald looked
very pointedly at Mrs. Biltox-Jones, and she preened herself like a
second-hand peacock—"then the sensation created would be the greater.

"I am afraid, madam, that I can do nothing more than make this
suggestion; but you may be assured that if you act upon it, you will not
lack the publicity that I gather all ladies of your position seek."

For a few moments she was silent, then said, "And what’s all this cost,
Mr. Herald?"

"Oh," he replied, "it’s a very trifling matter. Let us say fifty
guineas, shall we, especially as I am not able to be of any practical
assistance to you."

"I’ll send you a cheque."  Her jaw snapped with a determined air that
convinced Angell Herald that in the very near future Miss Biltox-Jones
would be abducted.

III

A little over a week later, Angell Herald had left the office to get his
usual simple lunch of everything the food restrictions permitted, and as
much in the way of extras as he could squeeze in, when his eye was
arrested by a placard of _The Evening Mail_.  He had already received a
cheque for fifty guineas from Mrs. Biltox-Jones, and had dismissed the
circumstance from his memory.  This placard, however, brought back the
whole story vividly to his recollection.  It read

                          ATTEMPTED ABDUCTION
                             AN AMAZON FEAT

Something seemed to link up that newspaper placard with the fifty guinea
cheque, and he purchased _The Evening Mail_.

On the front page of the paper, most of which seemed to be covered with
clever headlines, he read the following with something akin to
amazement:

            ATTEMPTED ABDUCTION OP A MILLIONAIRE’S DAUGHTER
                            A MODERN AMAZON
                     SOCIETY YOUNG LADY OUTWITS TWO
                           DESPERATE RUFFIANS
                         THE ABDUCTORS CAPTURED
                            AN AMAZING FEAT

"Last evening, about 9.15, Miss Biltox-Jones, the daughter of Mr. and
Mrs. Jeremiah Biltox-Jones, of 376 Park Lane, W., was motoring back from
Epsom, where she had been lunching with friends, when her car was
stopped by someone waving a red light on the middle of the road.  The
chauffeur, seeing the danger-signal, immediately pulled up, and a moment
afterwards, to his astonishment, found a pistol presented to his head,
and he was told that if he moved a muscle he would be shot.

"It was afterwards discovered that two masked men were responsible for
this outrage. The second man approached the car, and invited Miss
Biltox-Jones to alight, which she accordingly did.  He then informed her
that she was his prisoner, and would be taken away to await the payment
of a ransom.  But they had reckoned without their host, or shall we say
hostess.  It appears that Miss Biltox-Jones is an adept at physical
culture, ju jitsu and such like things.  With a swift movement she had
her attacker on his back upon the road; hitting him smartly on the
temple with the butt-end of his own pistol, she rendered him
unconscious, and before the other ruffian was aware of what had
happened, she had floored him likewise.

"With the aid of the chauffeur, the two men were bound, placed in the
car, and taken to the nearest police-station.  They are to appear this
morning before the magistrate, the outrage having taken place on the
outskirts of London, when further particulars of this strange affair
will probably be divulged.

"In the meantime we congratulate Miss Biltox-Jones on what must be
regarded as a remarkable achievement."


There followed an interview with the chauffeur; another interview with
Miss Biltox-Jones, together with her portrait.  She proved to be a not
uncomely girl of muscular proportions and determined expression.

For a moment Angell Herald was dazed at the turn events had taken.  He
inwardly cursed Pearl and his ridiculous advice.  He saw himself
involved in a most unsavoury business.  He even wondered why he had not
been sent for to attend the police-court proceedings. What was he to do?
There was nothing for it but to wait for subsequent editions of the
paper.

Engagements prevented him from returning to the office until nearly six.
As he entered he saw that Pearl was in a state of suppressed excitement.
He too had read the wretched story.

"Mrs. Biltox-Jones to see you, sir."

"What?" Angell Herald almost shouted.

"She’s been here three-quarters of an hour, sir.  She insisted on
waiting."

Never had Angell Herald felt such a coward. Why had he not foreseen that
she would descend upon him.  Could he turn and fly?  No: a man must
appear a hero before his own clerk. He would lose for ever Pearl’s
respect if he were to flee at that moment.

Assuming an air of nonchalance, he said he would see Mrs. Biltox-Jones
immediately, and, with shaking hand, opened the door of his room,
prepared for a blast of reproach such as it had never been his fate to
experience.

To his utter bewilderment, Mrs. Biltox-Jones was sitting smiling, and,
more wonderful still, holding in her hand a cheque, which she extended
to him, as she made certain bouncing movements, which he rightly
interpreted as preliminaries to her assuming an upright position.

Utterly bewildered, he took the cheque, What could be the meaning of
this new development? Instinctively he looked at the cheque; it was for
a hundred guineas.  Clearly Mrs. Biltox-Jones was mad.

"Mr. Herald," she began, in her wheezy voice, having got to her feet,
"you’ve done me a real service, you’ve got me what I wanted. You’re a
wonderful man."

"But—but—" he stammered.

"No, no," she continued.  "No modesty.  The idea was entirely yours.  Of
course I didn’t anticipate Gertie upsetting things like that; but then
you never know what Gertie will do, and the poor child so enjoyed it."

Angell Herald pictured the Gertie whose photograph he had seen,
"enjoying it."  Then his thoughts turned to the nefarious abductors.

"But the men," he asked, "Who were they?"

"Oh!  Martin arranged that.  One was his brother, and the other was
John’s second cousin.  John is my first footman.  But, of course, a
great general has to be prepared for everything, as you said the other
day."  (Angell Herald had no recollection of saying anything of the
sort.)  "So when I heard these two men had been caught by Gertie, I
decided to turn the whole thing into a joke.  Gertie was delighted, and
said that she hadn’t enjoyed anything so for a long time.  The
magistrate, of course, was most rude about it."

"But the butler’s brother and the—"

"They’ve been released.  The magistrate pitched into them; but still,
it’s all right, although Martin’s brother has a big bump on his head,
which will cost a good deal, and John’s cousin can be squared.  The
teeth he lost were not really his own, although he said they were until
I threatened to ring up my dentist and have his mouth examined."

"Yes," she continued, after a pause, "it was really a brilliant idea of
yours, Mr. Herald, and I thank you for it.  I shall recommend you to my
friends.  My husband has great influence in the city, and he shall know
what a remarkable man you are."

"And," began Angell Herald, "have the er—er——"

"Oh!  I’ve had heaps of callers.  Sir Jacob and Lady Wanderlust, Mrs.
Hermann Schmidt, Mr. Gottinhimmel, Mr. Lüftstoessel, Miss Strafestein,
and a lot of the best people in The Lane.  And they’re so patriotic.
They do _so_ hate the Kaiser, and they simply _love_ England. We have
become great friends."

Angell Herald congratulated her.  "And now I must be going," she said,
"I’ve got to arrange about compensating those two poor men.  If you knew
Gertie as I know her, you’d know they didn’t come off without severe
er—er—contoosions, was what the doctor called ’em."

Mrs. Biltox-Jones sailed out of the office wheezing and smiling.  Angell
Herald saw Pearl looking at him in a bewildered fashion, and he almost
fainted when handed the cheque and told to pay it into the bank.

The late evening papers were full of this extraordinary "joke."  By a
lucky chance, there was no news from anywhere.  The German Emperor had
not been patronizing the Almighty, and no one had shown on any of the
fronts the least inclination to push.  The result was that the
photographs of the Biltox-Joneses, of their butler, the butler’s
brother, of John, and John’s second cousin, filled every newspaper.  The
scene of the "outrage" was pictured, with a cross marking the spot on
the road where Martin’s brother’s head had been tapped.

In Angell Herald’s heart there was a great gladness and a deep gratitude
to Mr. Llewellyn John!  He had the greatest difficulty to restrain
himself from giving Pearl a rise.—Instead he gave him the cigar he had
received from Trumpet a few days previously.  There are no half tones
about either Trumpet or his cigars.


At the conclusion of the story Angell Herald, sat back with the air of a
man prepared to receive the congratulations that he knows are his due.
He was obviously disappointed when the only remark made was Sallie’s.

"Poor old thing."

"I should like to meet that clerk of ’is," "whispered" Bindle to
Windover.  "’E ought to be able to tell us some things, wot?"

"Ha, yes," muttered Windover abstractedly, "but it’s casting Pearls
before swine though."




                              *CHAPTER X*

                     *THE NIGHT CLUB VISITS BINDLE*


One Sunday evening on arriving at Dick Little’s flat I was greeted with
the announcement "J.B.’s ill."  I looked round at the gloomy faces.  It
was then that I appreciated how the Night Club revolved round Bindle’s
personality.

From a note Dick Little had received it appeared that Bindle had hurt
his ankle and been forced to lie up for a week.  His letter was
characteristic.  It ran:—

"DEAR SIR,

I been kicking what I didn’t ought to have kicked, and I got to lay up
for a week. Cheero!  I shall think of the Night Club.

Yours respectfully,
       JOE BINDLE."


We wondered what it was that Bindle had kicked that he ought not to have
kicked.  There was, we felt sure, a story behind the letter.

We looked at each other rather helplessly.

"Shall we begin?" asked Angell Herald. One of his stories was down for
that evening.

"We must wait for Miss Carruthers," said Jim Owen, a cousin of mine and
rather an ass about women.

At that moment Sallie and Jack Carruthers turned up and were told the
direful news.

"Oh! poor J.B.," cried Sallie, who had quite drifted into our way of
speech.

"What shall we do?" asked Jack Carruthers.

We all looked at each other as if expectant of a solution anywhere but
in our own brains.

"I have it!" cried Sallie suddenly clapping her hands, her eyes flashing
with excitement.

"Out with it, Sallie," said Jack, putting his arm round her shoulders.
Many of us envied him that habit of his.

"We’ll all go and see J.B.," cried Sallie.

Dick Little nearly got notice to quit through that idea of Sallie’s.
The yell that went up to the ceiling above was as nothing to the things
that fell from the ceiling below.  Tom Little was in a mad mood, and he
insisted that we should all form a ring round Sallie, and hand in hand
we flung ourselves round her; "flung" was the only word that describes
our motions. There were sixteen of us, and Dick Little’s rooms are not
over large.  It was a mad rout.

We were interrupted in our acclamation of Sallie’s inspiration by a
tremendous hammering at the door of the flat.  Dick Little opened it and
let in a flood of the most exotic language to which we had ever
listened.  It was talk that would have made a drill-sergeant envious.
It had about it the tang of the barrack-square.  It silenced us and
stilled our movements as nothing else would have done. It poured in
through the door like a flood. It gave an intensely personal view of
ourselves, our forebears and our posterity, if any.  It described our
education, our up-bringing and the inadequacy of the penal code of
England. We stood in hushed admiration, especially the men from Tim’s.

Sallie listened for about half a minute, quite unperturbed.  It is a
strange thing; but "language" has no effect on Sallie.  I have seen her
listening quite gravely to the inspired utterances of a Thames
lighterman.  This evening, at the end of half a minute, she walked to
the door, we crowding behind her to see the fun, for we had all
recognised the voice of General Burdett-Coombe, who lived immediately
beneath Dick Little.  Suddenly the General’s eloquence stopped.  He had
seen Sallie.

"Won’t you come in," she said looking at him gravely, with eyes a little
larger and a little grayer than usual.

"I—I—" stammered the General, then seeing us all gazing at him he burst
out.

"God bless my soul, what on earth have I done?  I had no idea there was
a lady here. I—I—"

"Please come in," said Sallie, "I want you to tell these men how
horribly badly behaved they are.  You were doing it quite nicely; but I
am afraid they didn’t hear it all."

The General looked from Sallie to the men, who had now streamed out and
were filling Dick Little’s small hall.  Then seeing Sallie smile he
suddenly burst out laughing, showing a set of dazzlingly white teeth
beneath his grizzled grey moustache.

"Routed, by heaven! routed and by a woman. My dear young lady," he said,
turning to Sallie, "I owe you a thousand apologies.  I—I’m afraid I
rather let myself go.  These young hooligans have knocked down my
electrolier.  I thought the whole blessed place was coming on my head,"
and he laughed again out of sheer boyish enjoyment.

From that day Sallie and General Burdett-Coombe became great friends,
and that was how it happened that the General came to join the Night
Club.

As he went down to his flat he once more apologised; but Sallie said
that he was quite justified in what he had said and done.

"Well, well," he cried after a swift glance to see if she were pulling
his leg, "Boys will be boys I suppose; but I wish they would leave my
electrolier alone.  Good-night all," and the chorus of "good-nights" was
almost as great in volume as the shouts that had greeted Sallie’s
inspiration.

"Now then you fellows, taxis," cried Tom Little.

Three men dashed downstairs to commandeer all the taxis in the
neighbourhood.  Tom Little and Bill Simmonds disappeared; but the rest
of us managed the crowd into the four taxis that were available.  As we
sped along to Fenton Street, Fulham, where Bindle lives, each empty taxi
that approached was hailed and some of the party got out and entered.
Eventually when we arrived at Fenton Street the procession numbered
eight vehicles.

The sensation we caused will go down to posterity as the greatest day in
the annals of the district.  Neighbours flocked to their doors.
Gramophones, which were tinnily striving to reproduce masterpieces they
had mis-heard, were allowed to run down, and soon what portion of the
street that was not occupied by taxis was filled with open-mouthed
residents.

The general impression was that it was a police raid, although how they
reconciled Sallie with the police was difficult to understand.

Just as we were knocking at Bindle’s door, Tom Little and Bill Simmonds
arrived in a ninth vehicle, out of which they hauled two large
suit-cases.

The door of Bindle’s house was opened by Ginger, who looked his
astonishment at seeing Sallie with some sixteen men behind her.

"Is Mr. Bindle in?" enquired Sallie.

Without attempting to reply Ginger called over his shoulder, "Someone to
see yer, Joe."

"Ask ’im in," came the cheery voice of Bindle from within.

"It ain’t ’im, it’s a lady."

"Come along in, Martha, I know ’oo it is."

Sallie passed by the open-mouthed Ginger, and we trooped in behind her.
Bindle was lying on a horse-hair couch with one ankle heavily bandaged.
His back was towards the door; but he called out over his shoulders,
"Come in, Martha, come in.  ’Ow’s yer breath and ’ow’s ’Earty?"

"It’s me," said Sallie, regardless as to grammar.

Bindle looked round as if someone had shot him from behind, saw Sallie
and the rest of us behind her.

"Gawd Almighty," he exclaimed in utter astonishment.  "I’m blowed if it
ain’t the Night Club.  Cheero! the lot," and "the lot" cheero-d Bindle.

Tom Little and Bill Simmonds then came forward with their suit-cases.
From these they produced what appeared to be an endless stream of
refreshments: bottles of beer, two bottles of whisky, a dozen syphons of
soda and a miscellaneous assortment of sandwiches such as are to be
found on public-house counters. For once in his life Bindle’s speech
failed him, as he watched the kitchen table being turned into a sort of
public-house bar.  Then slowly a happy grin spread over his face and
looking up at Sallie, who had come and stood beside him, said,

"This’ll do me more good than all the doctor’s stuff, miss."

I looked at Bindle closely, the voice was so unlike his.  Before leaving
Dick Little’s flat, Sallie had collected all the flowers that she could
find, which she carried in a big bouquet. Dick Little is fond of
flowers.

"Is them flowers for the coffin, miss," enquired Bindle, with a strange
twist of a smile.

"They’re for Mrs. Bindle," said Sallie with inspiration.

"Well, I’m—  Hi, stop ’im, don’t let ’im go."  Bindle’s eyes had caught
sight of Ginger, who was slipping out of the door.

Jack Carruthers made a grab and caught the delinquent by the sleeve.
Ginger seemed inclined to show fight; but three or four of Tim’s men
soon persuaded his that God is always on the side of the big battalions,
and Ginger was led back into the room.

"Ginger," said Bindle, reprovingly, "I’m surprised at you.  When Miss
Sallie comes to see us, you go sneaking off as if you’d picked ’er
pocket, or owed ’er money.  Wot jer mean by it?"

"I don’t ’old wiv——" began Ginger.

"Never mind what you ’old with, Ging, you’ve got to stand by and see
your old pal ain’t choked with all these good things."

A fugitive shaft of light came into Ginger’s eyes as he saw the array of
bottles on the kitchen table.  Tom Little and Bill Simmonds were busy
commandeering all the glasses, cups, mugs, etc., they could find on the
dresser, and unscrewing the tops of the beer bottles.

"Ow jer come?" enquired Bindle while these preparations were in
progress.

"Taxis," I replied mechanically, "There are nine of them waiting
outside."

"Nine?" exclaimed Bindle, his eyes open to their full extent.  "Nine
taxis in Fenton Street?  ’Old be ’Orace!" and he laughed till the tears
poured down his cheeks.  Bindle was in a mood to laugh at anything.

"An’ wot’s all the neighbours doin’, sir."

"Oh! they’re busy counting them," said Carruthers, "they think it’s a
police raid."  This was one of the few occasions on which I have seen
Bindle laugh, as a rule he grins. Presently, wiping his eyes with the
corner of a newspaper he had been reading, he cried "’Ere, a glass of
milk for the invalid."

Tom Little dashed for the largest jug and filled it up with such haste
that the froth foamed down the sides.  Bindle clutched the jug with both
hands.

"Excuse my getting up, miss, but ’eres to the Night Club."

We all joined in the toast.

"I wonder wot Mrs. B.’ll think of it all when she comes back," remarked
Bindle.  "Nine taxis an’ a police raid.  They’re sure to tell ’er."

The seating accommodation in Bindle’s kitchen was limited.  A chair was
found for Sallie, and several more were brought out of the adjoining
parlour; but most of us sat on the floor.  Windover occupied one end of
the fender and Angell Herald the other.  The comparison between the two
was interesting. Windover sat as if all his life had been spent on the
end of a fender, Angell Herald, on the other hand, as if he meant
everybody to understand that never before had he found himself so
situated.  Windover was enjoying himself, Angell Herald was acutely
uncomfortable.  He knew it must be all right by the fact of Windover
being there; but his whole appearance seemed to convey the fact that he
was unaccustomed to sitting on a fender with a china mug of whisky and
soda in one hand, and a ham sandwich of public-house proportions in the
other.

Windover seemed to find a quiet enjoyment in the situation.

"How did you hurt your foot, Mr. Bindle?" enquired Sallie.

"Oh!  I jest kicked up against somethink wot I didn’t ought to ’ave
kicked, miss," was Bindle’s response.

To further questioning he was evasive.  It was clear that he did not
wish to tell us what had happened.  It was equally clear that Sallie was
determined to know.

"Why don’t you tell ’em, Joe, what you did?"  It was Ginger who broke
in.  A different Ginger from him who had endeavoured to slip out of the
room, a Ginger mellowed by three bottles of beer.  Finding the whole
attention of the room centred upon Bindle, Ginger buried his head in a
large milk jug from which he was drinking.

"Look ’ere, Ging, you keep that muzzle on. You ain’t no talker."

Sallie-turned to Ginger, who had already fallen a victim to her eyes.
"Please Mr.—Mr.—"

And then it was I remembered that no one had ever heard Ginger’s name.

"We call ’im Ginger, miss; but you mustn’t let ’im talk.  ’E’s some’ow
out of the way of it."

"Please Mr. Ginger, tell us what happened?"

Bindle made a motion as if to stop Ginger, who replaced the jug on the
table and wiped his lips with the back of his disengaged hand.

"It was down at the yard, miss.  Ruddy Bill tied a tin on to Polly’s
kitten’s tail."

"But—but—" said Sallie, "I don’t understand."  She looked from Ginger to
Bindle.

"You are an ole ’uggins," said Bindle to Ginger.  "Yer couldn’t keep
that face of yours shut, could yer?  It’s like this, miss.  There’s a
little kid down at the yard wot’s got a kitten, all fluffy fur, and
Ruddy Bill tied a tin on to the poor thing’s tail, an’ it went almost
mad with fright, so—so my foot sort o’ came up against Ruddy Bill.  ’E
wouldn’t fight, you see."

"Ruddy Bill’s in the ’firmary," rumbled Ginger.

"Yes, an’ I’m on the couch."

Never had the Bindles’ kitchen witnessed a scene such as that on which
the Night Club descended upon it.  Even Ginger’s gloom was mitigated
under the influence of the talk and good fellowship, assisted by
unlimited beer. The kitchen floor was covered with men and mugs, glasses
and bottles of whisky and syphons of soda.  The atmosphere was grey with
tobacco smoke, and the air full of the sound of half a dozen separate
conversations.

Bindle had never looked happier.  Every now and then he cast his eyes
round in the direction of the door.  His dramatic instinct told him that
the culmination of the evening’s festivities would synchronise with Mrs.
Bindle’s advent.

"You’ll stay an’ see Mrs. B., miss, won’t yer," said Bindle to Sallie.
"She’s been a bit poorly of late.  I think ’er soul is ’urtin’ ’er
more’n usual."

"Mr. Bindle," said Sallie severely, "you must not tease her.  You must
smooth things, not make them rougher."

"I don’t understand women, miss," he replied, then after a pause he
continued, "There’s one thing yer can always be sure about, an’ that is
no matter wot yer think a woman’s goin’ to do, she’s bound to give yer a
bit of a surprise."

"As how?" enquired the Boy.

"Well, it won’t do yer no ’arm to learn, you wi’ that smile o’ yours."
The Boy grew scarlet.  "You’re in for trouble, Mr. ’Indenburg, sure as
sure."

"What is in your mind," enquired Carruthers. We all like to hear Bindle
on women.

"I was thinkin’ o’ that air-raid, last Saturday," he replied.  "Now Mrs.
Bindle, although she knows that death will be ’a release from the
fetters of the flesh,’ as she puts it, yet when she ’eard the guns she
bolted into the coal-cellar as if ’er soul was as shaky as mine. When I
gets ’ome there she was a settin’ on a chair in the kitchen a-’oldin’ of
’er ’eart, ’er face all white where it wasn’t black from the coal."

"And what did you do, Mr. Bindle?" enquired Sallie, leaning forward with
eager interest.  Sallie has a theory that in reality Bindle is very
considerate and thoughtful in regard to Mrs. Bindle.

"Well, miss," said Bindle after a momentary hesitation, "I give ’er
three goes o’ whisky an’ water."

"But I thought she was temperance," broke in Dare.

"She _was_, sir," was the reply.  "When she’d lapped up the last o’ the
third go, which finished up the ’alf quartern, she turns on me an’ she
jest gives me pickles."

"But why?" enquired Sallie.

"She said I done it a-purpose, makin’ ’er break the pledge, an’ that
Gawd didn’t ought to blame ’er, ’cause she was married to an ’eathen.
Funny ’er not thinkin’ of it before she’d ’ad the lot, that’s wot does
me.

"Talkin’ of air raids," he continued after a pause, "it’s funny ’ow they
seem to affect them as are surest of gettin’ an ’arp an’ trimmin’s,
while they leaves the ’eathen merry and bright. Now me an’ Ginger was on
the tail o’ the van when the ’Uns’ little ’ummin’ birds started a-layin’
eggs.  People yelled to ’im to get under cover: but the ’orses was
scared, an’ ’e goes to ’old their ’eads an’ talk to ’em in that
miserable way of ’is.  Them ’orses was never so glad in all their lives
to ’ear ole Ginger’s voice."

"And what did you do, J.B.?" enquired the Boy with interest.

Bindle turned and looked him full in the face.  "I ain’t in this story,
Mr. Clever ’Indenburg.  You can think o’ me as under the van. Ginger was
jest as cool as wot you was when you got that bit o’ ribbon for your
tunic."

The expression in the Boy’s face was evidence that Bindle had scored.

"Now take ’Earty," Bindle continued, "’E’s one o’ them wot’s got a front
row ticket for ’eaven; yet when the guns begins to go off, and the bombs
was droppin’, ’e nips down into the potato-cellar ’to take stock’,
although ’e ’adn’t ’ad a potato there for months.  Took ’im quite a long
time it did too, takin’ stock o’ nothink.  There was poor ole Martha
left to look after the shop.  Rummy card ’Earty. ’E’s afraid o’ too much
joy, thinks it might sort o’ get to ’is ’ead.  ’E’s nuts on ’eaven an’
angels; but it’s business as usual as long as ’e can.

"No," Bindle continued after a pause in which to take a pull at his
tankard and recharge and light his pipe, "the longer I lives the less I
seems to know about people.  There’s Mrs. B. ’oo’s always sayin’ that
’the way o’ the transgressor is ’ard’, yet look at me!  I’m always
cheerio, but she’s mostly like a camel wot’s jest found another ’ump
a-growin’.

"No one don’t never seem able to understand another cove’s way o’
lookin’ at things.  I ’ad a sister once, pretty gal she was, too, got it
from me I expect.  I used to get quite a lot o’ free beer from my mates
wot wanted me to put in a good word with Annie.  Seemed funny like to me
that they should want to ’ang round ’er when there was other gals about.

"Yes," continued Bindle after a pause, "there’s a lot o’ things I don’t
understand. Look at them young women a-gaddin’ about the West-End when
it’s war an’ ’ell for our boys out there.  Sometimes I’d like to ask ’em
wot they mean."

"They’re cultivating the present so that the future shall not find them
without a past," murmured Windover.

"Nietzsche says that woman is engaged in a never-ending pursuit of the
male," said Dare. "Perhaps that explains it."

"Sort o’ chase me Charlie," said Bindle, "well I ain’t nothink to say
agin’ it, so long as Mrs. B. don’t get to know.

"This place looks like a pub," Bindle remarked a few minutes later.
"Wonder wot Mrs. B.’ll say."

"That’s what you ought to have, J.B.," said Jim Colman.

"’Ave wot?" enquired Bindle.

"A pub.," was the response.

"I’d like to ’ave a little pub. o’ me own," Bindle murmured, "an’ I got
a name for it too."

In response to loud cries of "Name, name" from the "Tims" men Bindle
replied.

"I didn’t ought to tell yer, I’m afraid as it’s jest like salt, it makes
yer drink like a camel."

"Come on out with it," we cried.

"Well, ’ere goes.  I’d call it ’The Thirsty Soul.’"  After a pause, he
added, "If I was in the bung line I’d ’ave the tastiest things in yaller
’eaded gals be’ind the bar as could be found for a ’undred miles round.
Of course I should ’ave to get rid o’ Mrs. B. first.  She’s as jealous
as an ’en over a china egg wot it ain’t laid.

"It’s no use bein’ in the public line when you’re married.  Poor ole
Artie Ball found that out, ’im wot used to keep ’The Feathers.’  One day
’e took ’is barmaid out, an’ next mornin’ ’is missus took it out o’ the
barmaid—in ’andfulls, she did.  The poor gall looked like an ’alf
plucked goose when Artie’s missus remembered it was nearly dinner time.
Funny thing ’ow women fight over us," this with an air.

A hot argument had sprung up between some of the men from "Tim’s" as to
the possibility of balancing the human body in the same way that the
ancients balanced the figure of Mercury, viz. on one foot, the body
thrown forward. This had resulted in a determination of the ayes to
prove it by demonstrating the possibility of standing upon a beer bottle
with one foot.  Soon the infection spread throughout the room, and
everybody, with the exception of Sallie, Angell Herald and Bindle, was
endeavouring to emulate the classical figure of Eros on the fountain at
Piccadilly Circus.

Everybody seemed to be calling upon everybody else to look, and just as
they looked, down came the demonstrator.  It was this moment that an
unkind fate chose for the appearance of Mrs. Bindle.  To some extent she
had been prepared for the unusual by the line of taxi-cabs in Fenton
Street, and also by the tales of the neighbours, who had gathered in
ever increasing force.  Two local special constables, who had
endeavoured to "regulate the traffic" and control the crowds, had given
up the task in despair, discovering that no special is a prophet in his
own district.  One was a butcher, who found it utterly impossible to
preserve his official dignity in the face of cries of "Meat! Meat!" and
"Buy!  Buy!"

By the time Mrs. Bindle arrived, the police-raid theory was in danger of
suffering eclipse in favour of a German spy, the nine taxis, it was
alleged, having brought soldiers and officials from the War Office.

Mrs. Bindle entered her own home in a state of bewilderment.  For a
moment or two she stood at the door unseen, endeavouring to penetrate
the grey smoke, which was rapidly choking Sallie.  Windover was the
first to catch sight of her, and he descended hurriedly from his bottle.
Then Sallie saw her and next Bindle.  Soon the whole room had its eyes
fixed upon Mrs. Bindle’s attenuated figure, which stood there like an
accusing conscience. Bindle grinned, the rest of us looked extremely
sheepish, as if caught at something of which we were ashamed.  Once more
it was Sallie who saved the situation.

"Oh, Mrs. Bindle," she said, going across the room, "I hope you’ll
forgive us.  We heard that Mr. Bindle was ill and came over to see him.
I wish you would keep these boys in order."  She looked at the "Tim’s"
men with a smile.  "They are always playing tricks of some sort or
other."

Mrs. Bindle looked round the room as if uncertain what to do or say.
Then her gaze returned to Sallie.  We looked at her anxiously to see
which way the wind was likely to blow. We almost cheered when we saw a
frosty smile flit across her features.

"I’m sure it’s very kind of you, miss.  Won’t you come into the
parlour?"

With Mrs. Bindle, "Won’t you come into the parlour?" was an announcement
of friendship, and Bindle heaved a sigh of relief.  Sallie beckoned to
Jack Carruthers.

"Jack," she said, "Get those boys to clear up."

Without waiting for Jack to deliver her instructions, everyone set to
work to clear up the chaos, and in three minutes the place was as
orderly as it had been before our arrival, save for a pile of glasses
and mugs in the sink.  The bottles had been stowed away in the
suit-cases, and the kitchen looked as it did before the descent upon it
of the Night Club.  Mrs. Bindle had fixed her eyes on the bunch of
roses, looted from Dick Little’s flat.

"Oh, I brought those for you, Mrs. Bindle," said Sallie.

That broke down Mrs. Bindle’s last defences. At Windover’s invitation,
and in spite of Mrs. Bindle’s protests, several of the Tims men set to
work to wash up at the sink.  Windover did the washing, whilst the
others wiped, amidst a perfect babel.

Mrs. Bindle looked from one to the other. Presently turning to Sallie
she asked in a whisper, "Is the lord here, miss?"

"The lord?" questioned Sallie in surprise.

"Bindle says a lord belongs to your club. Is he here, miss?"

"Oh!  Lord Windover," cried Sallie laughing, "Yes, he’s here."

"Is that him, miss?" enquired Mrs. Bindle gazing at Angell Herald, who
stood apart from the others with an awkward air of detachment. Sallie
shuddered as she followed Mrs. Bindle’s gaze and saw the white satin tie
threaded through a diamond ring.

"No, that’s Mr. Herald.  Lord Windover’s washing up.  Winnie," she
called out, "I want to introduce you to Mrs. Bindle."

Windover approached, eyeglass in eye, with a jug in one hand, a towel he
had snatched up in the other, and a red bordered cloth round his waist.

Sallie introduced him and he bowed with his usual exquisite grace,
chatted for a few moments, and then returned to his duties at the sink.

In Mrs. Bindle’s eyes there was a great wonder, and as they returned to
Angell Herald, a little disappointment and regret.

Finally we all trooped off the best of friends. Bindle declared that he
was cured, and Mrs. Bindle said she was very pleased that she had come
in before we had taken our departure. We stowed ourselves away in the
taxis and, as the procession started, Fenton Street raised its voice in
a valedictory cheer.

"Winnie," said Sallie to Windover as we bowled eastward at a penny a
furlong, "To-night you have wrecked Mrs. Bindle’s cherished ideal of the
aristocracy.  I shall never forget her face when I told her that the man
who was washing up was the lord!  She had fixed upon Mr. Herald."

Windover screwed his glass into his eye and gazed at Sallie in silence.

Thus ended one of the most notable nights in the history of the Night
Club.




                              *CHAPTER XI*

                     *THE GENERAL BECOMES A MEMBER*


On the Monday morning following our visit to Bindle, Dick Little had
descended to General Burdett-Coombe’s flat to make a formal apology.
The old boy had laughed off the incident as of no importance, refused to
allow Dick Little to pay for the damage, and vowed that he liked young
fellows with a spice of the devil in them, had been young himself once.
He gave his guest a glass of Trafalgar brandy, and had readily accepted
an invitation to be present at next Sunday’s gathering.

"Damme, sir, I think it will be safer up there than down here," he said
as he gazed ruefully up at the ceiling from which hung the wreck of his
electrolier.

From that time the General became one of our most regular members, and
was well in the first flight as regards popularity.  He proved a
splendid old fellow, full of good stories of his campaigning
experiences, modest and kindly, for all his gust of anger on the night
of our first meeting.

From the first he was Sallie’s slave.  One night he was raving to
half-a-dozen of us about Sallie’s eyes.  "Such eyes," he cried, looking
from one to the other as if challenging contradiction, "I never could
resist grey eyes.  Why damme, sir, if I’d married a girl with grey eyes
(the General is a bachelor) I should have been as harmless as—as——"

"A taube, sir," suggested the Boy slyly.

The General turned on him like a cyclone.

"When I was your age, sir, I should have been shot for interrupting a——"
Then the Boy smiled that radiant, disarming smile of his and the General
made a grab at him and missed.

"Wot’s a ’towber,’ sir?" Bindle enquired of Windover in a whisper.
Bindle’s whispers are as clearly heard as those of the villain in a
melodrama.

"Before the war, J.B.," replied Windover, "’taube’ was the German for
’dove’; since then it has become the vehicle of frightfulness."

Bindle looked from Windover to Dare with wrinkled forehead.

"Stripped of its corrosive verbiage, Windover means that ’taube’ is the
name of a German aeroplane."

"Oh! a tawb," said Bindle, his face clearing. "’E do love to wrap things
up, don’t ’e?" he added, indicating Windover with an ever-ready thumb.
"Anyone could see ’e ain’t married."

Later in the evening I heard the Boy say to the General in what he meant
to be a whisper—

"I hope I didn’t offend you, sir.  I ought not to have said——"

"Tut, tut," said the General.  "It’s all right, Boy.  Damme; but times
have changed since I was a youngster," and he pinched the Boy’s arm
affectionately.

Upon the subject of the new armies the General was particularly
interesting.  It was easy to see that, coming from army stock, he found
the civilian soldier difficult to reconcile with military tradition; but
he was a sportsman above all things.

"My Gad! sir," he had exclaimed to a few of us one evening some days
after his return from France, where he had been in an official capacity,
"they’re wonderful.  I was prejudiced, I confess it.  Imagine an army of
stockbrokers, lawyers, fiddlers, clerks and chauffeurs. What could they
know of soldiering?  But when I saw them, talked with them, why damme,
sir, they made me feel a child at the game."

"Keen!" he exclaimed in answer to a question.  Then he laughed, "Why
there was one young lieutenant-colonel who started as a private two
years ago, a splendid officer, and he actually told me that he hated
soldiering, hated it, sir, yet was carrying-on as if he cared for
nothing else.  It’s amazing!

"In my time," and the old boy straightened himself to his full five feet
nine inches, "the prospect of war sent us half wild with excitement; but
these fellows don’t like it, have no enthusiasm, want to get back to
their pens and tennis-rackets; yet they’re born soldiers.

"They talk about funk and feeling afraid in a way that would have got a
man ragged out of his regiment in my day;——Damme, I don’t understand
it!"

"So you don’t altogether disapprove of the new army, General?"  It was
Sallie who enquired.  She had just entered unobserved.

"Disapprove!" cried the General spinning round and shaking hands.
"Disapprove!  It’s a privilege for an old fogey like me to be allowed to
talk to such fellows."

"General," said Sallie quietly, "I think the chivalry of the old army is
equal to the spirit of the new," and the General actually blushed, at
least the red-brown of his cheeks took on a bluish tinge.

When the time came for the General’s story I was embarrassed by the
choice he offered. There were yarns about every quarter of the globe,
and half the races of the earth. Wherever there had been a chance of a
brush, the old boy had managed to get sent somewhere close at hand, and
when the smoke had burst into flame, he invariably discovered that a
month or two’s leave was due to him.  All his leave seemed to be spent
in getting attached to someone else’s expeditionary force.  Reading
between the lines it was easy to see that he was a good officer, and he
never seemed to find much difficulty in getting a staff appointment.



                                  *I*


It was one of those Indian Frontier affairs of which the world hears
little.  In high quarters there is a vague consciousness that something
has happened, a paragraph or two in the newspapers, with a list of
casualties, announces the return of the heroes, a few families are
plunged into mourning and there the matter ends.

An expeditionary force was trailing its sinuous, sensitive body wearily
along upon the homeward march.  The officers were gloomy and short of
speech, the men sullen and dispirited.  In the hearts of all there was a
glow of dull resentment.  They had not suffered defeat it is true; still
no crushing blow had been struck, and to-day as they toiled silently
along in a cloud of dust there was dissatisfaction, a smouldering
passion of discontent.

Brigadier-General Charles Stanley de Winton Mossop, C.B., was a man of
theories, and the soldier understands theories in direct ratio to their
successful application.  He is a cog in the great machine of war, and is
content if the whole mechanism work smoothly.  If he be conscious of any
friction of the parts, he unhesitatingly condemns the engineer.

Two months previously, some five thousand men of all arms, had set out
elated at the prospect of active service.  Even the old campaigners were
cynically jovial as they told the "recruities" what to expect.  "You
wait, sonnies," Sergeant Tonks, a weather-beaten old veteran of twenty
years’ service, had said good-humouredly, "You just wait, you’ll see!"
They had seen!  They had seen two months of soldiering under service
conditions with nothing to show for it, and their ideas of applied war
had undergone considerable revision.

They had seen two months of arduous campaigning against a foe that had
never learned the meaning of defeat; had never retired or broken but to
come again.  A foe that sniped all night, and hung about the flanks all
day; now showing itself ahead; not threatening the rear, with a special
eye for a rush at awkward moments.  Striking camp had become a positive
torture, and the hour before dawn a period of imaginative suspense; for
the men’s confidence had been shaken.

At first the subalterns had talked sagely about "protection on the line
of march," scouting and the value of "cover."  They had views, and a
healthy competition had sprung up amongst those in charge of
scouting-parties and "flank guards."  They had worked with an almost
incredible zeal.  Every likely bit of "cover" was not only carefully
examined, but examined with enthusiasm, even if it were no larger than a
man’s head.  There had been innumerable false alarms, which demonstrated
clearly their watchfulness.  But that was now a memory.  The natural
eagerness to excel had been damped, and there had insidiously crept into
the minds of all the suspicion that they were badly led.

Brigadier-General Mossop had evolved what was then an entirely new and
original conception of the art of war.  The present command gave him an
opportunity of putting into practice his pet scheme of communicating
orders, in the event of night attack, by coloured fires and rockets.  He
had lectured his officers upon the impossibility of conveying commands
accurately by word of mouth in the darkness and confusion of a night
attack.  Incidentally he had pointed out the advantages of his own
method.  They had listened respectfully, received his written "Orders of
Night Attack" in grim silence, and among themselves had dubbed their
commander "Old Brock"; and "Old Brock" he remained to the end.

There was one young subaltern, inclined to regard soldiering as a
subject for serious study, who regarded Old Brock’s craze for novelty as
a grave danger.  In a perimeter camp of 5,000 men, rocket communication
was, to his view, ridiculous.  It might, he argued, at any moment
involve the force in disaster.  He cast many speculative glances at the
chest in which the fireworks were carefully arranged in compartments,
each numbered with embossed figures, enabling them to be felt in the
dark.

For days the young subaltern went his way wrapped in his own gloom.  At
length the clouds seemed to disappear as if by magic, and it was noted
that he was very frequently seen with the sergeant who had charge of Old
Brock’s chest.

After a week’s march, the force was well into the enemy’s country.  One
dark night a nervous sentry had fired his rifle and explained the
circumstance by an account of shadowy forms. Voices barked out
peremptory commands, men clutched their rifles and formed up, maxims
were cleared and everything made ready. Presently a rocket rose with a
majestic whirr and broke into a hundred green stars.

"Old Brock’s at it," murmured Major O’Malley.

"That’s _Prepare to Receive Enemy_," murmured a subaltern, who had given
much time to the study of his Chief’s "Orders."

"Rather late in the day to prepare," growled a captain of gunners.
"Might as well say ’Prepare to cut your teeth.’"

The men stood silent, some with a grin of expectation as they gazed in
the direction of the Brigadier’s tent; others with a queer shivery
feeling at the base of the spine, which communicated itself to the knees
and teeth. The butt-end of a rifle struck the ground with a dry, hard
snap.  "Silence!" barked a voice. There was a murmur of deep
expostulation, passionate but repressed.

Then a curious thing happened.  First a Roman candle vomited its
coloured balls into the inky night, casting a ghostly green light upon
the upturned faces.

"_Enemy breaking through to the East_.  My God!" gasped the subaltern.

There was a movement among the men, and a splutter of rifle-fire which
soon died away.

"As you were," shouted a voice.  A moment’s silence.  Next there rose
three red and blue rockets, then a swarm of whirring, hissing,
serpent-like streams of fire, lighting up the whole encampment as they
broke into a thousand points of fire.

It had been the Brigadier’s theory to fire the rockets at an angle so as
to light up the surrounding country whilst leaving the encampment in
darkness.  There was a laugh from the ranks, a short, sharp, snapping
sound that died almost with its own utterance.  More rockets followed,
then a red fire gradually sprang into being, dull at first; but growing
in volume until eventually it embraced in its ruddy glow the whole
country for half a mile round.

"There ain’t much fun in watchin’ fireworks when yer can’t say wot yer
think o’ them," grumbled one man in a whisper to his neighbour.

The subaltern was busily engaged in trying to read the "Orders of Night
Attack."  He muttered brokenly from time to time.  "_Enemy repulsed
North.—-Withdraw to inner defences.—Square broken to West—Fix
bayonets._"—He ceased, and only the crackle of bursting rockets broke
the stillness.  The red fire began to wane, the rockets ceased, and the
darkness became more pronounced.  Later, no enemy being discovered, the
guards were re-posted and the camp reassumed its normal appearance.

How it happened that the new code of signalling went wrong was never
satisfactorily explained.  The Brigadier was furious, and next day
subjected Sergeant "Rockets," as he was ever afterwards called among the
men, to a searching examination.  The sergeant could never be persuaded
to give an explanation of how it occurred, or what took place afterwards
in the Brigadier’s tent.  There was a story current to the effect that
"Rockets" had deliberately brought about the fiasco as a protest against
innovation; but the currency of camp-stories is no index to their
accuracy.

Three days later an attack upon the camp at dawn had been repulsed with
loss; but it had not been followed up.  The men chafed and murmured
among themselves; the officers saw a golden opportunity for a decisive
blow pass unnoticed.  "Old Brock," who alone seemed tranquil, penned
lengthy dispatches descriptive of the enemy’s defeat and discouragement.

So matters went on.  Nothing more was accomplished beyond a few
successful skirmishes, which to the Brigadier appeared in the light of
important victories.  The correspondents, there were three, chafed and
fretted.

"It’s a damned shame," remarked Chisholme hotly, "that the men’s hearts
should be shrivelled up by such an example of official incapacity.
There’ll be more heard of this when I get near the telegraph," he added
significantly.  "You chaps shall get your own back, or* The Morning
Independent* is a pulseless, chicken-hearted rag."

Chisholme’s directness and picturesque phraseology were proverbial.  On
this occasion his remarks were directed at Major Blaisby and another
officer lounging about the correspondent’s tent.

Chisholme had an influential family behind him and this, coupled with
the high value he placed upon his own opinions, assured his two friends
that, sooner or later, there would be the devil to pay, and the
knowledge comforted them.  In spite of his insufferable habit of
bragging, Chisholme was popular.  Strictly speaking he was a
non-combatant; yet he had already had several opportunities of showing
his mettle.  On one occasion at least he had performed an action which,
had he been in the Service, would have assured him of the V.C.

Between Correspondent and General a coolness had sprung up.  Once the
Brigadier had taken occasion to rebuke him for his recklessness, urging
as a reason for the remonstrance the possibility of some portion of the
force being involved in a disaster, owing to his precipitancy and lack
of judgment.

Now that the —— Punitive Expedition was upon the homeward march.  The
casualties among mules had been extremely heavy, even for a frontier
force, and the Brigadier was faced with a grave problem.  At a spot
about four days’ march from the frontier, he announced his intention of
establishing a temporary post to guard the sick, the guns and the
surplus ammunition.  It was a risky proceeding; but the force was
running short of food, and must make forced marches to the frontier.

A day was spent in throwing up hasty defenses ("Ruddy scratches,"
Sergeant Tonks called them), a day spent in active speculation as to who
would be selected for the command.

When Major Blaisby of the —th Gurkhas was informed that the Brigadier’s
choice had fallen upon him, he flushed with pleasure: but when he heard
that only fifty men were to be left with him he almost gasped with
astonishment.  The news spread with the rapidity peculiar to camps, and
Blaisby was the centre of a group of brother officers eager in their
congratulations, and fervid in their denunciations of the insufficiency
of the force.

Blaisby and Chisholme had been on intimate terms, in fact a warm
friendship had sprung up between the two men.  Immediately on hearing
the news, Chisholme had marched straight to the Brigadier’s tent and
requested to be allowed to remain behind as a volunteer. He met with a
curt refusal.

That night, those who were collected in the correspondent’s tent, were
treated to a remarkable display of eloquence.  Chisholme, with his back
to the tent-pole, poured forth a burning stream of protest at not being
allowed to stay.

Blaisby stood by moody and silent.  At length he was persuaded by his
impulsive friend to seek out the Brigadier and ask for a larger force.
He left with unwilling steps.

In the midst of a particularly eloquent passage on the part of
Chisholme, Blaisby returned. He was white to the lips, and there was an
ominous quiver about the corners of his mouth. A dead silence greeted
him.  Then it was that Chisholme showed himself to be something more
than an orator.  Walking up to Blaisby he linked his arm in his, and led
him out of the tent.  When he returned alone the Correspondent’s tent
was empty.  There is a fine sense of chivalry among English gentlemen.

Two hours later Chisholme made his way through the darkness to Blaisby’s
tent.  The two men paced up and down conversing earnestly in undertones.
The soft light of the false dawn was touching the Eastern horizon before
they parted.  Chisholme returned to his tent and threw himself down to
snatch an hour’s sleep.  Blaisby continued to pace up and down until the
light grew stronger, when he fetched a small portmanteau from his tent,
and at this improvised table he sat writing letters until reveille
sounded.

As soon as the Brigadier was stirring his orderly informed him that
Lieutenant Blaisby wished to know when it would be convenient to see
him.  The Brigadier, suppressing an exclamation of impatience, bade the
orderly shew him in.  For half-an-hour the two remained together.
Finally Blaisby left the tent with a grim, set face and went to seek
Chisholme.

The sun was well up when the march was resumed.  As the main body got
into motion the men broke out into "Auld Lang Syne."  The Brigadier sent
an A.D.C. to "stop that damned folly."  There was a wringing of hands as
his comrades bade farewell to Blaisby. Three hearty cheers split the
air, bringing a frown to the Brigadier’s face.  He said nothing, feeling
that the men were none too well in hand.  As he rode along by the side
of his Brigade-Major he surprised that officer by remarking "Blaisby is
a very able officer,—we shall hear more of him."

Chisholme remained behind until the rearguard was almost out of sight,
then with a hasty handshake and a "God bless you, old chap" he galloped
off.

Blaisby now found himself with thirty-five native and fifteen white
troops, two subalterns and a young surgeon, in all fifty-three.  He
walked round the hastily formed entrenchment and viewed the whole with a
calm impassive face.  Turning to the senior sub. he bade him call the
men together.  In a few words he told them that they were upon a very
dangerous service.  The work would be arduous and the fighting hard, but
they must remember that their own safety and the honour of the corps
from which they were drawn depended upon their exertions.  The men
cheered, and the eyes of the little Gurkhas flashed at the thought of
handgrips with the enemy.

Directly the mid-day meal was over, the force was divided into three
parties: one was sent out scouting, another ordered to sleep, whilst the
third, under Blaisby himself, set to work with pick and spade.

For two days and nights they worked without cessation: entrenching,
scouting, sleeping; sleeping, entrenching, scouting.  "Blaisby’ll be a
corpse or a colonel before the year’s out," remarked the junior sub.  At
first the men worked doggedly, as well-trained soldiers will. They were
taking the measure of their commander, watching him furtively whilst on
duty, discussing him eagerly over their pipes when relieved.  Soon they
began to fall under the spell of his personality, and a wave of
enthusiasm took possession of them.  The private is ever ready to
acknowledge a master mind, and next to knowing that his officer is a
gentleman, he likes best to feel that he is a being of superior
attainments.

At the end of two days, a formidable array of defences had been
completed.  In the centre a pit, some six feet deep and thirty feet
square, had been dug.  This was roofed over with canvas.  A cutting
three feet wide gave entrance to "the oven," as it came to be called,
which was to act as arsenal and hospital for the worst cases.  The guns
and much of the surplus ammunition were built into the camp-defences.

Everything now being ready, the men were ordered to rest.  Never did men
sleep so in the history of war.  They were sick of sleep; yet Blaisby’s
personality had taken such a grip of their minds, that eyes would close
mechanically at his approach.  He wished them to sleep; they would sleep
if it killed them.

One night Blaisby happened to overhear a remark of the surgeon.  "It’s
all very well to say sleep," he grumbled, "But how the devil is a man to
sleep unless he’s tired?"  The next day orders were given to keep the
men occupied with sports.  Running, jumping, wrestling, skipping,
sparring and every conceivable form of exercise was indulged in.
Blaisby gave prizes in money, until his small store was exhausted, then
he turned to his kit and distributed all he could actually spare as
prizes. The men were thus kept interested and occupied.

On the third day after the departure of the main body the enemy was
sighted; why they had not attacked at once was never explained. The next
day a movement was observed upon some rising ground, to the eastward.
Forms were observed flitting about, tiny dots of white relieved here and
there by a splash of brilliant green, as a banner caught the rays of the
setting sun.  That night a keener watch than ever was kept.

An hour before dawn, a rifle shot snapped out sharply upon the crisp
night air.  Absolute silence reigned.  Presently a sharp challenge rang
out, followed by a shot and a yell, then a trailing splutter of reports,
then silence again. The enemy drew off on finding everything ready for
his reception.

After this the little garrison knew no repose. Attack followed attack,
and seldom a night passed without an alarm.  It was evidently the object
of the enemy to wear out the defenders with constant watching.  On one
occasion they almost rushed the defences, and were repulsed only at the
point of the bayonet.  Blaisby grew grave as he saw the casualties
increase.  The suspense and frequent alarms began to tell their tale.
The men were worn out, and although they slept whenever opportunity
offered during the day, it was always with the possibility of being
awakened to repel an attack.

Each night Blaisby spent upon the look-out platform, and was frequently
to be seen at dawn scanning the horizon to the south through his
field-glasses.

One evening, after a more than usually spirited attack by the enemy,
Blaisby sat silent at the table, whilst the senior sub. and the surgeon
talked over the day’s work.  They had been puzzled at the action of
their commander after the repulse.  He had selected ten of the Gurkhas
and taken them into the "Oven," posting a sentry at the entrance and had
remained there with the junior sub. until dinner-time.  The senior sub.
and the surgeon were piqued at not being confided in.

The surgeon had just finished a lengthy harangue upon the methods it was
desirable to adopt in savage warfare, ridiculing the textbooks as
academic.  As he concluded he raised his eyes from their gloomy
contemplation of the end of his cigar.  They became fixed, his jaw
dropped.  The senior sub. half-turned to see the cause.  He uttered an
exclamation!  At the entrance of the tent stood a grim and ghastly
figure, with rolling eyes and grinning lips.  The two men stared as if
bewitched at what appeared to be a reincarnation of Beelzebub.  The
apparition remained motionless save for the movement of its eyes,
hideous, unearthly eyes, encircled with rings of red and surmounted by
white brows.  Then there was the great red mouth and the diabolical
black horns which sprang suddenly from snowy hair.

Every bone in the dusky body was outlined in white.  The two men turned
almost appealingly to Blaisby, who sat impassively watching them.

"Sorry to startle you; it’s an experiment," he said as he made a motion
with his hand at which the figure disappeared, "upon men whose minds are
trained against superstition."

That was all.  He rose and went out, leaving the surgeon and senior sub.
speechless and indignant.  At midnight eleven ghostly figures emerged
from the "Oven" and slid away into the darkness.  Shortly afterwards
Blaisby mounted to the look-out platform where he stood silent and
immovable, his gaze directed eastward.



                                  *II*


Whilst Blaisby and his men were busily occupied with the defense of "Old
Brock’s Folly," the main body of the Expeditionary Force had reached the
frontier.  The Brigadier appeared uncertain how to act.  The officers
were moody, and the men silent, almost sullen. Orders were obeyed
without alacrity, without zeal, without cheerfulness.

Two days passed without any preparations for the relief of the "Post."
At length with a rather over-done careless air the Brigadier remarked to
his Senior Colonel upon the spiritlessness of the troops after a
"victorious campaign."  The Senior Colonel made an equally casual
rejoinder.  The men were tired, he had frequently noticed a similar
state of affairs at the end of an expedition.  There the matter had
ended for the moment.  Later a further remark from the Brigadier had met
with a like evasion on the part of his subordinate.

That Brigadier-General Mossop’s nerves were disordered was plainly shown
by his lack of decision.  Orders were given and countermanded; elaborate
dispatches were penned, only to be destroyed an hour later.  At last the
Senior Colonel was startled by a point blank request for his opinion as
to the advisability of despatching a force to relieve the post without
waiting for further supplies.

A decisive, "I consider it highly expedient, sir, if not too late," was
not reassuring.

For two days the Brigadier pondered over the significant words.  "If not
too late."  He saw the possibility of the dreaded official reprimand.
At length the order was given: a third of the force was to retrace its
steps and relieve the little garrison, "If not too late," the words
obtruded themselves upon the Brigadier’s mind and irritated him.

Thus it happened that, after days of inactivity and indecision, the
Relief Force set out under the command of the Senior Colonel. As it
swung off to the brisk notes of the bugle, spirits rose as if by magic,
jokes were cracked amongst the rank and file, the old jokes that
yesterday would have fallen flat now drew a hearty laugh.  All were
elated at the prospect of a brush with the enemy.  This was to be a
fight to the finish.  The Senior Colonel was a soldier of a different
type from the Brigadier. He had no theories, as theories are generally
understood.  His dictum was to fight—and win. If there were heavy
casualties, he deplored it as a necessary feature of his profession.
The men knew this—there would be hard knocks and they thanked God for
it.

Shortly before sunset on the third day, the force halted behind some
rising ground about four miles south-east of the "Post."  The enemy had
been located and the Senior Colonel was not the man to wait.  He had
resolved to push on and risk a night attack.  Half the column was to
make a detour and approach from the north-east, whilst the other half
attacked from the eastward.  After a hasty meal and a short rest, the
first party moved off guided by the stars and a compass.  Silently it
disappeared into the darkness.  An hour later the other half set out.

Chisholme, who had managed to be included, was well ahead with the
advance guard of the first column.  After an hour’s steady marching to
the eastward they bore round to the north and later swung round to the
south-west.  Half an hour passed and the scouts brought in word that the
enemy’s camp lay about a mile ahead, a little to the westward of the
line of march. Presently the advance guard halted to allow the main body
to come up.  The order came to continue the advance "with great
caution."

Scarcely were they in motion again before a point of red fire caught
Chisholme’s eye, followed by several similar lights.  Wild yells broke
the stillness, more lights followed until the whole encampment was
bathed in a blood-red glow.  Through his night-glasses, Chisholme saw a
veritable pandemonium.  Dancing forms—eerie, horrible, devilish—moved
rhythmically to and fro, each the centre of a sphere of hellish light.
Was it some nightmare of the Infernal Regions?  Could he be dreaming? He
looked round.  Officers and men were gazing wonder-struck.

The noise was fiendish: hoarse shouts, shrill cries, terror-stricken
yells split the air. Gradually the glow increased in volume.  Wild forms
were seen silhouetted sharply against the light, rushing hither and
thither in a frenzy of terror.  Slowly the strange figures approached
the camp: dancing and swaying, without hurry, without excitement.
Chisholme rubbed his eyes, then looking again beheld a wild mob of
fleeing tribesmen coming straight towards him, bent only on escaping
from the furies.

A few short, sharp orders rang out.  A moment later the crackle of
rifles drowned the cries.  A machine-gun began to stutter and spit.  The
terrified tribesmen paused stunned and dropped in dozens.  Firing was
heard to the southward—the others were at it also.

At this moment the advance was sounded. The main force had come up,
deployed and with a yell rushed forward to the charge.  A portion of the
enemy broke away to the north; but the majority stood transfixed with
terror. Some threw themselves upon the bayonets, others stood
impassively awaiting death.  A few who had weapons showed fight; but
were soon cut down.

A couple of rockets rose to the westward.

"Thank God," muttered the Senior Colonel, "we’re in time."  The work of
slaughter continued grimly, silently: short sobbing coughs were heard as
the cold steel found its mark.

Presently the recall was sounded.  The men were becoming scattered and
the Senior Colonel was troubled about those queer figures still to be
seen gathered round the fire.  Collecting a few men together, he
advanced.  As he approached, the forms started whirling and dancing, the
coloured fires burst out again and the astonished officer saw eleven
careering forms, skeletons apparently, with white hair and black horns.

"Well, I’m damned!" he gasped.

"And Hell within jumping distance," muttered a voice.

"Who goes there?" rang out the challenge apparently from the tallest
devil.

"Friend," was the reply.

"Advance and give the countersign."

"Who the devil are you?" burst out the Senior Colonel.

"Servants of Her Britannic Majesty, Queen Victoria."

With shouts and laughter officers and men alike rushed forward, and
there was a babel of congratulatory voices.



                                 *III*


Dawn was breaking when Major Blaisby finished his account of what had
happened during those four eventful weeks.  "It was Chisholme’s idea,"
he concluded, "that I should ask the Brigadier for the fireworks in
order to give his system an extended trial."  He did not add that the
object of the request was to placate his superior, in order to obtain
the maxim.

When the light became stronger, the Senior Colonel examined the
defences, and complimented Blaisby in his short, gruff manner. "You’ve
made a fine show, Blaisby," he said in conclusion, "A damned sight finer
show than I should have made."

Chisholme had his opportunity later, when _The Morning Independent_
printed a series of brilliantly written articles upon the campaign and
its ending, and although more moderate in tone than many expected,
Brigadier General Mossop saw in those articles the explanation of his
receiving no official mark of approval for the way in which he had
conducted the —— Punitive Expedition.


"An’ where did you come in, sir?" enquired Bindle of the General, when
he had finished "leading the applause" with his mallet.

"I?" said the General, "What do you mean?"

"Well, sir, I wondered if by any chance it was you wot mixed the
fireworks so as they all went off wrong."

The General laughed.  Sallie said the General was at his best when a
laugh caused his teeth to flash white against the surrounding tan.

"A shrewd guess, by jove," he exclaimed, "Yes, it was I who mixed the
fireworks."

"And what would you do sir now if a sub., under your command, were to do
the same," enquired the Boy languidly.

"Confound you sir, if it were you I’d have you shot," he shouted.
Somehow the General seemed always to shout at the Boy.

"No, you wouldn’t, General," said Sallie, giving the poor old boy a
sidelong glance that temporarily threw him off his balance.

"And why, may I ask?"

"Because I should ask you to let him off."

"Then," said the General with decision, "_I_ should deserve to be shot.

"An’ is that Major alive now, sir?" queried Bindle.

"Who, Blaisby?  Yes," replied the General; "but that’s not his name.  If
I were to tell you who he is and what he is doing to-day, you’d
understand the awful risk the country ran through the Commander-in-Chief
of India giving commands to rabbits instead of soldiers."

"I’m glad he got through," said Sallie meditatively.

"You can never keep a good man back," remarked the General in that
modified tone of voice he always adopted when speaking to Sallie.

"Wot’s ’e goin’ to do if ’e’s got various veins in ’is legs, I wonder?"
I heard Bindle mutter as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe.




                             *CHAPTER XII*

                              *THE MATER*


Except when "roasting" Angell Herald, the Boy is not much given to
speech.  Humped up in the easiest chair available, he will sit
apparently absorbed in the contemplation of his well-polished
finger-nails, or preoccupied with the shapeliness of his shoes and the
silkiness of his socks; yet his mind is keenly alert, as some of us
occasionally discover to our cost.  A sudden laugh from those about him
will demonstrate that the Boy is awake and has scored a point, more
often than not at Angell Herald’s expense.

There is something restful and refreshing in the fugitive smile that
seems to flicker across the Boy’s face when, by accident, you catch his
eye.  He is one of those intensely lovable and sympathetic beings who
seem constitutionally incapable of making enemies.  As mischievous as a
puppy, he would regard it as an "awful rag" to hide a man’s trousers
when he is late for parade.  Then he would be "most frightfully sorry"
afterwards—and really mean it.

We all became much attached to him, and looked forward with concern to
the time when he would be drafted out to the front again. After the Loos
battle he had been attached to the depot of the Westshires at Wimbledon.
From Windover we learned a great deal about the Boy, who seemed
possessed of one unassailable conviction and one dominating weakness.
The conviction was that he was "a most awful ass" and "rather a rotter":
the weakness was "the Mater."  He seldom spoke of her, but when he did a
softness would creep into his voice, and his eyes would lose their
customary look of amused indolence.

Mrs. Summers was something of an invalid, and whenever he could the Boy
would spend hours in wheeling her bath-chair about Kensington Gardens
and Hyde Park, or sitting with her at home playing "Patience."  This he
would do, not from a sense of duty; but because of the pleasure it gave
him.

He seemed to go through life looking for things that would interest or
amuse "the Mater."  From France he sent a stream of things, from
aluminium rings to a German machine-gun.  There had been some trouble
with the Authorities over the machine-gun, which had been put on board a
French train and the carriage heavily prepaid.  The thing had been held
up and enquiries instituted, which had resulted in the Boy paying a
visit to the orderly-room to explain to his C.O. what he meant by trying
to send Government property to S. Kensington.

"But, sir, we took it, and the men didn’t want it," the Boy explained
ingenuously.

"Boy," said the Colonel, "In war there is only one thing personal to the
soldier, and that is his identity disc."

"I’m most awfully sorry, sir," said the Boy with heightened colour.

"Now look here Boy," said the Colonel, "If by chance you happen to
capture a battery of howitzers, I must beg of you for the honour of the
regiment not to send them home.  Look at that!"  He indicated a sheaf of
official-looking papers lying on the table before him.  Between
Whitehall and G.H.Q. an almost hysterical exchange of official memoranda
had taken place.

"These are the results of your trying to send a German machine-gun to
your mother," and in spite of himself the Colonel’s eyes smiled, and the
Boy saluted and withdrew.  There the incident had ended, that is
officially; but out of it, however, grew a tradition.  Whenever the 8th
Westshires captured anything particularly unwieldy, the standing joke
among the men was, "Better post it to the Kid’s mother."

One day an enormously fat German prisoner was marched up to the Field
Post Office labelled for the Boy’s mother.  The Bosche, a good-humoured
fellow, appeared to enter heartily into the joke, not so the post-office
orderly, who threatened to report the post-corporal who had tendered the
"packet."

The morning following the taking of the B——n Farm after a desperate
fight, the Senior Major, then in command, was surprised to see an
enormous piece of cardboard fashioned in the shape of a label, attached
to the wall. addressed

    +−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−+
    |  MRS. SOMERS,                 |
    |      860, Prince's Gate,      |
    |            S. Kensington,     |
    |                London, S.W.   |
    |    With love                  |
    |  from the Kid.                |
    +−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−−+


Between men of the Westshires and their officers there was complete
understanding, and the Senior Major had smiled back at the grinning
faces that seemed to spring up all round him.  Unfortunately the
Divisional Commander, a martinet of the old school who could not
assimilate the spirit of the new armies, had tactlessly chosen that
afternoon on which to inspect the captured position.  He had gazed
fiercely at the label, demanding what the devil it meant, and without
waiting for a reply, had expressed himself in unequivocal terms upon
"damned buffoonery" and "keeping the men in hand."  Finally he had
strutted off, his cheeks puffed out with indignation.  That occurred
after the Boy’s return to London.

Dick Little possessed an enormous bible with Gustave Doré’s
illustrations, a strangely incongruous thing for him to own.  One
evening the Boy dug it out from the chaos of volumes that Dick Little
calls his "library."  For some time he turned over the leaves
industriously.  I was puzzled to account for his interest in Doré’s
impossible heights and unthinkable depths.

That night he staggered off with the Doré’s anticipations of eternity
under his arm, which he had borrowed from Dick Little.  Bindle watched
him in obvious surprise.

"’Andy little thing to read when yer strap-’angin’ in a toobe," he
remarked drily.

"It’s a bible," I explained.

"An’ wot’s Young ’Indenburg want with a bible?" enquired Bindle in
surprise.

"You’ve probably awakened in his young mind a thirst for theology,"
remarked Dare, who had joined us.  But Bindle did not smile. He was
clearly puzzled.

On the following Sunday, Bindle tackled the Boy on the subject.

"Why jer go orf wi’ that little pocket bible, sir?" he enquired.

The Boy flushed.

"I thought the Mater would like to see it," was the response, and Bindle
began to talk about pigeons as if he had not heard.

We had often asked Windover to describe the Boy’s mother; but he had
always put us off, saying that he could never describe anybody, except
the Kaiser, and King Edward had done that before him.*


* Windover was evidently referring to King Edward’s remark, "The fellow
is not a gentleman."


Sallie was greatly interested in the Boy’s devotion to his mother, and
she lost no opportunity of drawing him out.  At first he was shy and
uncommunicative; but when Sallie is set upon extracting anything from a
man, S. Anthony himself would have to capitulate.

From the scraps of conversation I overheard, I came to picture a son
full of tender solicitude and awkward devotion for a little white-haired
lady with a beautiful expression, a gentle voice and a smile that she
would leave behind as a legacy to her son.

I could see the old lady’s pride at the sight of the red and blue ribbon
on the Boy’s tunic, at the letter his C.O. had written to the "Old Dad,"
her thankfulness at his safe return.

We found ourselves wanting to meet this little white-haired old lady
with the smile of sunshine, and hear her welcome us in a gentle, but
rather tired voice.

She would be interested in the Night Club, concerned if we did not eat
of her dainty scones, or would it be shortbread, anxious that we make a
long call.  There would be glances of meaning and affection exchanged
between her and the Boy, which we would strive not to intercept, and
feel self-conscious should we by chance do so.  Then she would ask us to
come again, saying how glad she always was to see her boy’s friends.

During the long talks that Sallie had with the Boy, Bindle used to
fidget aimlessly about, the picture of discontent.  He always became a
little restive if Sallie showed too great an interest in the
conversation of any man but himself.  It was Bindle in a new guise.

One evening the Boy, who arrived late, was greeted by Bindle with,

"’Ullo! sir, you doin’ the Romeo stunt? as Mr. Angell ’Erald would say."

"The what, J.B.?" enquired the Boy innocently.

"I see you last Thursday at South Ken. with a bowkay as if you was goin’
to a weddin’. ’Ooo’s yer lady friend, Mr. ’Indenburg?"

The Boy flushed scarlet.

"Mr. Bindle," said Sallie severely, who has intuitions, "I’m cross with
you."

"Wi’ me, miss?" Bindle enquired in concerned surprise.  "Wot ’ave I
done?"

"It’s all right," broke in the Boy.  "The flowers were for the Mater."

Bindle became strangely silent, for some time afterwards.  Later he said
to me—

"’E seems fond of ’is mother."

"Who?" I enquired.

"Young ’Indenburg.  I’m sorry for wot I said."  Then he added
meditatively.  "If I ’ad a kid I’d like ’im to grow up like ’im," and
Bindle jerked his thumb in the direction of where the Boy stood
listening to the General’s views upon army discipline.

"Mr. Bindle," said Sallie who came up at that moment, having detached
herself from Angell Herald’s saloon-bar civilities, "I’m going to see
Mrs. Somers on Wednesday and I shall tell her about your remark.  _I_
think he’s a dear."

"I’m sorry, miss," said Bindle with genuine contrition.

"She must be a very wonderful and beautiful old lady to inspire such
devotion."

"Oo, miss?"

"The Boy’s mother," I murmured.

"I’d like to see ’er," said Bindle seriously, and we knew he meant it.

The Sunday following I asked Sallie about her visit to the Boy’s mother,
and I was struck at the strangeness of her manner.  It was obvious that
she did not wish to talk about it. I made several attempts, Bindle also
tried; but with equal unsuccess.

If Sallie is determined not to talk about a thing, nothing will drag it
out of her, and seeing that she had made up her mind I accordingly
desisted.  Bindle saw for himself that it would be better to let the
matter drop.

"Funny thing ’er not wantin’ to say anythink about it," he muttered.

We were both greatly puzzled to account for Sallie’s strange behaviour.
I noticed that her eyes were often on the Boy, and in them was an
expression that I found baffling.  Sometimes I thought it was pity, at
others tenderness.

It was two weeks later that the mystery was solved.  I had invited
Bindle to tea in Kensington Gardens, and we had sat rather late
bestowing the caterer’s cake and biscuits upon birds and gamins.  In
this Bindle took great delight.  The game was to convey a piece of cake,
or a biscuit, to a young urchin without being caught in the act by a
keen-eyed waitress.

"When she catches yer it’s like bein’ pinched wi’ yer ’and in a bishop’s
pocket," explained Bindle, which was rather a good description.

After tea we walked slowly through the Gardens.  Suddenly Bindle
clutched my arm.

"Look, sir!  Look!" he cried excitably, pointing to a path that led off
at right angles from the walk we were following.  "It’s Young
’Indenburg."

I saw approaching us the Boy, pushing a bath-chair, the occupant of
which was hidden by a black lace sunshade.  Instinctively Bindle and I
turned down the path, for we knew that in that bath-chair was the
beautiful old lady who had given to us the Boy.

Suddenly the Boy looked up and saw us.  He stooped down and said
something to the occupant of the bath-chair.  A second later the
position of the black sunshade was altered and—several things seemed to
happen all at once. The Boy stopped, came round to the front of the
bath-chair and presented us, a strange tenderness alike in his voice and
expression as he did so, Bindle dropped his stick and I received a
shock.

Where was the beautiful, white-haired old lady, her smiling eyes, the
gentle lovable mouth——?  I shuddered involuntarily, and after a few
minutes’ exchange of pleasantries, during which I behaved like a
schoolboy and Bindle was absolutely dumb, I pleaded a pressing
engagement and we made our adieux.

For some minutes we walked on in silence. I seemed to see nothing but
that pinched and peevish face, to hear nothing but the querulous,
complaining voice.

So that was the Boy’s mother.  I turned to Bindle, curious to see the
effect upon him.  I had never before seen him look so serious.

"I’m glad I can’t remember my mother," he said, and that seemed to end
the matter.  We never referred to it again.  Somehow it would have
seemed disloyal to the Boy.  Later in the evening, when the Night Club
was in session, the Boy said to me,

"I’m awfully glad you saw us to-day.  I wanted you and J.B. to meet the
Mater."

There was on his face the same expression and in his voice the same
softness I had noticed in the afternoon.  I caught Sallie’s eye, and I
remembered her reticence.

"Then he must get it from the Old Dad after all," I murmured, and Sallie
nodded and passed on to a group at the other end of the room.




                             *CHAPTER XIII*

                    *THE ROMANCE OF A HORSEWHIPPING*


The more I saw of Jocelyn Dare the more I got to like him.  Beneath the
superficialities of the poseur there was a nature that seemed oddly out
of keeping with the twentieth century.  He was intended for the days of
chivalry and the clashing of spear against breast-plate.  To his love of
children I have already referred, and with animals he was equally
gentle.  I once saw him in Piccadilly, immaculately dressed as usual,
with his arms round the neck of a bus-horse that had fallen and was in
danger of being strangled by the collar.

Dare, Sallie, and Bindle became great friends, and would talk "animals"
by the hour together.  Bindle would go further than the others, and
would discourse with affectionate regret of the "special sort o’
performin’ fleas" he had once kept.  At first Sallie would shrink from
these references; but when she saw that Bindle had been genuinely
attached to the little creatures, she braced herself up to their
occasional entry into the conversation.

"Have you noticed," Angell Herald once whispered to me, "how Bindle’s
fleas seem to annoy Miss Carruthers?"

The whisper was loud and came during one of those unaccountable hushes
in the general talk.  In consequence everybody heard.  It was an awkward
moment, and Angell Herald became the colour of a beetroot.

It was Bindle who saved the situation by saying with regret in his
voice: "I lost ’em more’n a year ago, so that can’t be."

Dare would often drop in upon me for half an hour’s chat.  If I were too
busy to talk, he would curl himself up in my arm-chair and become as
silent as a bird.

One night he was sitting thus when I aroused him from his reverie by
banging a stamp on an envelope with an air of finality that told him
work was over for that night.

"Finished?" he queried with a smile.

I nodded and lit a cigarette.  I was feeling brain-weary and Dare, with
that ready sympathy of his which is almost feminine, seemed
instinctively to understand that I required my thoughts diverting from
the day’s work.

"Ever horsewhip a man?" he enquired languidly as he reached for another
cigarette.

"No," I replied, scenting a story.

"Well, don’t," was the reply.

Dare then proceeded to tell me the story of the one and only
horsewhipping in which he had participated.  The story came as a
godsend, for I had nothing for the next meeting of the Night Club.



                                  *I*


"If you intended to horsewhip a man, Walters, how would you begin?"
enquired Jocelyn Dare of his man one morning at breakfast.

Without so much as the fraction of a second’s hesitation Walters placed
the omelette before his master, lifted the cover, gave a comprehensive
glance at the table to see that nothing was lacking, then in the most
natural manner in the world replied, "I should buy a whip, sir."

That was Walters all over.  He is as incapable of surprise as water of
compression.  He is practical to his finger-tips, that is what makes him
the most excellent of servants.  I have met Walters and I use him when
Peake, my own man, evinces the least tendency to slackness.  If Dare
were to take home an emu or an octopus as a household pet, Walters
would, as a matter of course, ring up the Zoological Gardens and enquire
as to the most desirable aliment for sustaining life in their respective
bodies.  To Dare Walters is something between an inspiration and a
habit.

"Stop!" cried Dare, as Walters was about to leave the room.  "This is a
matter of some importance and cannot be so lightly dismissed."

Walters returned to the table, readjusted the toast-rack at its proper
angle, and replaced the cover on what remained of the omelette.  One of
Walters’ most remarkable qualities is that, no matter how suddenly he
may be approached upon a subject, or how bizarre the subject itself, his
reply is always that of a man who has just been occupied in a careful
and deliberate analysis of the matter in question from its every
conceivable aspect.

"Well, having bought the whip," Dare queried as he took another piece of
toast, "how would you then proceed if you wanted to horsewhip a man?"

"I should never want to horsewhip anyone, sir.  No one ever does," was
the unexpected reply.

Dare looked up at Walters’ expressionless face.

"But," said Dare, "I have just told you that I want to horsewhip
someone.  Will you have it that I am the only man who has ever wanted to
horsewhip another?"

"Begging your pardon, sir," said Walters. "But you do not really want to
horsewhip anyone."

Dare put down his fork and stared at Walters in interested surprise.
After a careful examination of his servant’s features he remarked, "I
have never disguised from you, Walters, my admiration for your capacity
of transmuting eggs into omelettes, your unerring taste in neckwear,
your inspiration in trouserings, your knowledge of Burke and your
attainments as a compendium of knowledge upon the subtleties of
etiquette; but I think you might permit me to know my own feelings in
the matter of horsewhipping."

"I beg your pardon, sir," Walters’ tone was deferential but firm.  "I
was with Lord Beaulover when her Ladyship eloped with Mr. Jameson.  His
Lordship was quite upset about it."

"But what has this got to do with horsewhipping?" questioned Dare.

"I was coming to that, sir," replied Walters evenly.  "His Lordship was
so kind as to ask my opinion as to what he should do.  His Lordship was
always very kind in consulting me upon his private affairs."

"And what did you advise?" queried Dare.

"I told him that the correct thing would be to horsewhip Mr. Jameson.
His Lordship protested that he was not angry with Mr. Jameson, but as a
matter of fact deeply indebted to him.  We were speaking in strict
confidence, I should mention, sir."

"Of course," said Dare.  "Go on, Walters."

"Well, sir, his Lordship eventually agreed that his duty to Society
demanded physical violence.  He was always most punctilious in——"

"But I thought it was young Jameson who whipped Lord Beaulover," broke
in Dare.

"That is so, sir," replied Walters, "But his Lordship did not on this
occasion see the force of my arguments that he should practise
beforehand. He was confined to his bed for a week and suffered
considerable pain.  I remember him saying to me:

"’Walters, never again.’

"’No, my Lord,’ I replied.

"’I mean,’ continued his Lordship, ’I’ll never go against your advice
again, Walters, never!’

"And he never did, sir."

"Is that all you have to say upon the ethics of horsewhipping, Walters?"
Dare enquired as he proceeded to enjoy the omelette au jambon, in the
making of which Walters is an adept.

"It would be advisable to make careful preparation, sir," was Walters’
matter-of-fact reply.  "There was the mishap of his Lordship."

"Yes," Dare mused as he poured out another cup of coffee; "there’s
always that danger. Life is crammed with anti-climax."

"Yes, sir!"

"How would you go to work, Walters?" Dare questioned.

Without a moment’s hesitation Walters replied, "I do not know, sir,
whether you have noticed that even battles now-a-days have to be
rehearsed."

"Ah!" broke in Dare, "you advise a répétition générale."

"The chief difficulty, sir," continued Walters, "is to get a good grip
of your man. May I ask, sir, who it is you intend to horsewhip?"

Dare looked quickly up at Walters.  There was no curiosity in his face,
he evidently required the information for the purpose of reaching his
conclusions.

"Mr. Standish," Dare replied, watching Walters narrowly to see if he
showed surprise. Standish and his wife were at that time Dare’s most
intimate friends, and they were constantly at his flat and Dare at
theirs.

Walters did not move a muscle.

"Mr. Standish has a very thick neck, sir," he remarked, "that makes it
more difficult."

Dare put down the coffee cup he was just raising to his lips and stared
at Walters.

"What on earth has that to do with it?" he exclaimed.

"It is more difficult to get a good grip of a man with a thick neck,
sir, than of one with a thin neck.  Fortunately I have a thick neck," he
added imperturbably.

Walters has always been a great joy to Dare; but there are times when he
is also something of a trial.  Dare suggested that he should explain
himself, which he proceeded to do.

According to Walters, rehearsal is the great educator.  If he were asked
his advice as to how to run away with another man’s wife, he would
insinuate that there must be a sort of dress-rehearsal.  His creed is
that to a man of the world nothing must appear as a novelty. Breeding,
he would define as the faculty of doing anything and everything as if to
the action accustomed.

On the matter of horsewhipping, Dare learned much during the next ten
minutes, and by the time he had finished his breakfast he found himself
in full possession of all the necessary information as to how to
horsewhip a man. The thickness of his own neck, Walters appeared to
regard as the special provision of providence that his master might
practise upon him.  Dare protested that it would hurt, and Walters
countered with a reference to the pile of old copies of _The Times_
awaiting a call from the Boy Scouts.  With these he would pad himself
and instruct Dare in how, when and where to horsewhip a fellow being.

But for Walters, Dare confesses, he would have made a sorry mess of that
whipping.  The whip seemed to get entangled in everything. It brought
down pictures, lifted chairs, demolished an electric light bracket, and
uprooted a fern.  In short it seemed bewitched. Dare could get it
anywhere but upon Walters’ person.  When somewhat more practised, Dare
brought off a glorious cut upon Walters’ right leg, which set him
hopping about the room in silent agony.  Greatly concerned Dare
apologised profusely.

"It was my own fault, sir," was Walters’ reply as he proceeded to bind a
small mat round each leg.  "I omitted all protection below the knee."

After a week’s incessant practice upon Walters’ long-suffering body and
patient spirit, Dare was given to understand that he might regard
himself as having successfully passed out of his noviciate.

When Dare confided to Jack Carruthers what he intended to do, Carruthers
burst out with—

"Good heavens!  Why, Standish is your best pal and his wife——"

"Had better be left out of the picture as far as you’re concerned, old
man," had been the reply.  "The modern habit of linking thought to
speech irritates me intensely: it shows a deplorable lack of half
tones."

Carruthers apologised.

"But why do you want to whip Millie Standish’s husband?" Carruthers
demanded, pulling vigorously at his pipe, a trick of his when excited.

According to Dare, Carruthers is sometimes hopelessly English, not in
his ideas; but in his method of expressing them—his ideas themselves are
Continental.  Dare told him that by saying Millie Standish’s husband,
instead of Standish, he implied that he, Dare, was in love with another
man’s wife.

Carruthers had blurted out that of course he was, everybody knew it.

Dare pointed out that he had got mixed in his tenses.  To _be_ in love
with a married woman is apt to compromise her: to _have been_ in love
with her, merely adds to her interest and importance in the eyes of her
contemporaries.

That is Dare all over.  He would stop his own funeral service to point a
moral, or launch an epigram.

Standish and Dare had been close friends until Standish fell insanely in
love with the young woman who dispensed "tonics" in the saloon-bar of
"The Belted Earl."  Standish was a bizarre creature at times, and, to
use Dare’s own words, "what must the braying jackass do but endeavour to
cultivate Fay’s (that was his inamorata’s classic name) mind, which
existed nowhere outside the radius of his own mystical imagination."

On her nights out he took her to ballad concerts, when her soul yearned
for the Pictures; and to University extension lectures, when her whole
being craved for the Oxford.

When she complained of the long hours and the "sinking" she felt between
meals, he advised her to eat raisins, and descanted sagely upon the
sustaining properties of sugar.  No one will ever know how he got
acquainted with her, for drink made him either sick or silly. However,
every evening between six and seven Standish ran into "The Belted Earl"
on his way home, consumed a small lemonade, and handed Fay her morrow’s
ration of raisins.

He confided the whole story to Dare, he was bursting with it.  Dare gave
him sage counsel built up upon the foundation of secrecy, but
instinctively he knew that it was impossible with a man like Standish.

One night Standish insisted upon Dare accompanying him into the
saloon-bar of "The Belted Earl" where he was formally introduced to what
Dare described as "a big-busted creature, with a head like a blonde
horse and teeth suggestive of a dentist’s show-case."

Fay’s conversation seemed to consist mainly of three phrases, which are
given in the order of the frequency with which they escaped her

  (1) Oh! go on, do!
  (2) I’m surprised at you!
  (3) Aren’t you sarcastic!

Standish strove to be light in his talk, possibly with the object of
matching his beloved’s hair; but, like that peroxide-exotic, his
thoughts were rooted in darker foundations.

As they left the place Standish enquired eagerly—

"What do you think of her?"

Dare became deliberately mixed over the pronoun, and replied with a very
direct description of what he thought of Standish.

He told him that he was confusing his conception of the soul with Fay’s
conviction of the body.  He scoffed at the concerts and lectures.  He
pointed out that the politic Fay suffered them because she had
imagination. "You are endeavouring to combine the instincts of a
lothario with the soul of a calvinist," Dare had said in conclusion.

The two men parted with their friendship considerably shaken.  Dare saw
no particular objection to Standish making an ass of himself over any
girl he chose; but he could not digest the missionary spirit in which
Standish chose to view the whole adventure.

At last Standish went a step too far and told his wife all about it,
requesting her to ask the unspeakable Fay to call.  This platonic
request was very naturally refused, and Standish made a fool of himself,
said that Fay was one of Nature’s ladies, and, given the right clothes
and environment, she would be an astonishing success.

Dare learned the story from both of them, and told Standish that such
bloods as he were wanted in sparsely populated colonies.  The upshot was
a breach between the two.

Millie Standish took it all rather badly.  She talked about leaving her
husband, and there was a quiet determined look in her eyes that Dare did
not like: it seemed to suggest the possibility of leaving the world as
well.  Dare talked about brain-storm and other alien things, and patched
things up for the time being.

At last Dare determined that shock tactics were necessary to bring
Standish to his senses, and here his chivalry asserted itself.  Millie
Standish had no brother, therefore Dare felt it incumbent upon him to
assume the fraternal responsibility of correcting Standish’s rather
Eastern views of life.



                                   II


Having become thoroughly practised, Dare waited outside Standish’s
office one morning and administered the necessary punishment. The affair
was an astounding success.  Never probably in the history of
horse-whipping had punishment been so admirably and skilfully
administered.  Standish’s clerks lined the windows and had the time of
their lives.  They dared not cheer; but it was obvious on which side
were their sympathies.

"Funny sensation whipping a man," remarked Dare, meditatively when he
told the story, "It’s so devilish difficult to hit him and avoid your
own legs, even when you’ve had a Walters to practise on."

The next day Dare received a note from Mrs. Standish, which made it
clear that so far from appreciating his chivalry, she was engaged in
mourning over her stricken lord, moistening his poultices with her
tears.

"Queer things, women," said Dare; "chivalry is as dead as Queen Anne."

Later in the day Dare was served with a summons for assault and battery.
The affair was assuming an aspect which caused him considerable anxiety.
If the matter were aired in the police-court, then the whole story would
come out, Millie Standish would be humiliated and Standish himself would
be made utterly ridiculous.  Dare decided to consult old John Brissett,
his solicitor, who immediately got into touch with Standish’s solicitor
and told him that if the matter went into court he should supoena Fay.
The result was that the lion became as a lamb.  Brissett made it quite
clear to Standish’s solicitor, who in turn made it clear to Standish,
that his respectable intentions would be entirely misunderstood.  The
upshot of it was that the summons was withdrawn.

"And was that the end?" I queried of Dare.

"The end?" he cried.  "Good God, no! Three days later Millie Standish
cut me dead at the Latimer’s reception.  Women are oblivious to chivalry
as I said before."

"So all was well," I said.

"All was not well, my dear fellow," was Dare’s reply, as he gazed up at
the ceiling. "All was peculiarly and damnably ill. Horsewhipping is a
luxury far beyond my means," and he started blowing rings.

"But the summons——"

"Was withdrawn, true; but Fay was still alive alas! and with every
’tonic’ she dispensed in the saloon-bar of ’The Belted Earl’ she told of
the noble way in which I had whipped Standish for her sake.  That was
Millie’s doing.  I could swear to it, she made Standish tell Fay that I
did it because I was jealous of him and—oh, it was hell and chaos and
forty publishers all rolled into one."

"But Fay?" I queried.  "What of her?"

"She sent me perfumed notes (such vile perfume too) by the potman or
chucker-out every other hour.  Notes of adoration and of gratitude, in
which the terms ’hero,’ ’noble,’ ’chivalrous,’ with two v’s, occurred at
sickening intervals.  I had to leave London for nearly a month, and it
was at a time when I was busily engaged in a dispute with my publisher
which necessitated my presence in town.

"Alas!" he concluded.  "The tragedy of life is that it is always the
wrong woman who appreciates a man’s nobility."


"I never got no woman to appreciate my nobility wrong _or_ right, sir,"
said Bindle, at the conclusion of the story.

"Well, you’re a lucky man, J.B.," said Dare. "An old fogey who lived
some three thousand years ago said one of the disadvantages of matrimony
was that your wife insisted on taking her meals with you."

"Did ’e really, sir?" said Bindle, greatly interested.  ’"I should a’
like to ’ave known ’im."

"Mr. Bindle," said Sallie, "I am afraid you are a misogynist."

"I ’ope not, miss," said Bindle anxiously.

"Well you must remember that every time you say things against women you
are saying something against me, because I am a woman."

"Lord, miss, don’t say that," said Bindle half rising from his chair.
"I never thinks o’ you as a woman.  You seem to be a sort of——" and he
paused.

"A sort of what?" enquired Sallie.

"Well, miss, I don’t ’ardly like to say."

"Come on, speak up, J.B.," said Dick Little, "don’t be a coward.  We’ll
see that Miss Carruthers doesn’t hurt you."

"You must finish your sentence, I insist," said Sallie.

"Well, miss, I was goin’ to say you always seems more like a mate than a
woman."

That is one of the few occasions I have seen Sallie blush.  Dick
Little’s attentions, my devotion, Angell Herald’s elaborate manners, the
General’s gallantry; none of them had succeeded in bringing to Sallie’s
face the look of pleasure that Bindle’s simple remark produced.

"Thank you, Mr. Bindle, very much indeed," she said.

"But why?" asked Windover reverting to the horsewhipping affair, "why
should Mrs. Standish——"

"I expected," said Dare, "that some ass——"

"Psychologist," suggested Windover.

"The same thing, old man," was the retort. "I expected that some
psychological ass would ask why Millie Standish should behave so oddly.
I will tell you.  It transpired later that she had evolved a cure of her
own.

"She had after all invited Fay to her flat one evening, where she met
the smartest women and the cleverest men that Millie could collect. I
was not included," he added.

"Fay had turned up in a pale blue satin blouse, a black skirt and white
boots.  She had hung herself with every ounce of metal she possessed and
jingled like a cavalry charger. All the women were very nice to her,
tried to draw her out; but the men just stared, first at her and then at
each other.  It was Millie’s hour, and when Standish had put Fay into a
taxi, he had wept his repentance, been taken back to Millie’s heart, and
all was at peace."

"So your whipping came as an anti-climax," said Windover.

"Exactly," was Dare’s response.

"Alas!" remarked Windover, "A man can but do his best and a woman her
worst."




                             *CHAPTER XIV*

                     *GINGER VISITS THE NIGHT CLUB*


Bindle had on more than one occasion been urged to bring Ginger to the
Night Club; but Ginger finds himself "not ’oldin’ wiv" so many things in
life, that he is very difficult to approach.  One evening, however,
Bindle entered with the khaki-clad Ginger.  Awkward and self-conscious,
Ginger strove to disguise his nervousness under the mantle of his
habitual gloom.

"We been walkin’ in the Park," Bindle announced.  "I been quite worried
about poor old Ging.  Sunday evenin’ in the Park ain’t no place for a
young chap like ’im.  It puts wrong ideas into ’is ’ead."

Ginger grumbled something in his throat and with one hand took the cigar
Dick Little offered whilst with the other he grasped the glass of beer
that Windover had poured out for him.

"Funny place Hyde Park on a Sunday evenin’," Bindle remarked
conversationally to Sallie; "but it’s a rare responsibility with a chap
like Ginger."

"Now Mr. Bindle," she smiled, "if you tease him I shall be cross."

"Me tease, miss, you must be mixin’ me up wi’ Mr. ’Erald."

"Get along with, the yarn, J.B., tell us about the Park," urged
Carruthers, who liked nothing better than to get Bindle going.

"You should ’ear wot them Australian boys says about the Daylight Bill,"
he continued after a pause.

"The Daylight Bill?" queried Angell Herald.

"Well, you see, sir, its like this.  Them poor chaps says that they gets
a gal, and then, as soon as it gets dark, it’s time for ’er to go ’ome."

"But why——?" began Angell Herald.

"Oh, you work it out by the square root of the primitive instinct," said
Dick Little, which left Angell Herald exactly where he was before.

"They’re an ’ot lot, them Australians," Bindle proceeded.  "Ginger says
they go off with all the gals, an’ ’e don’t get a chance. Aint that so,
ole sport?" he demanded turning to Ginger.

"I don’t ’old wiv women," grumbled Ginger.

"Anyway the Kangaroos don’t give yer much chance of ’oldin’ ’em.  Fine
chaps they looks too.  I don’t blame the gals," Bindle added.

"Funny things gals," continued Bindle, "they’d chuck a angel for an
Australian. ’Earty’s got a gal to ’elp in the shop.  She’s a pretty bit
too, yer can always trust ’Earty in little things like that.  Well,
she’s nuts on Australians.  Poor Martha gets quite worried about it.
Martha’s ’Earty’s missis," he explained, "A rare lot o’ trouble she’s
’ad with Jenny.  First of all the gal took up wi’ the milkman, wots got
an ’eart and can’t get into khaki.  Then she chucks ’im an’ starts with
Australians; an’ ’e was a fivepenny milkman too, an’ now ’e can’t go
near the ’Earty’s ’ouse without it ’urtin’ ’im, so poor ole Martha is a
penny down on ’er milk."

Bindle paused and proceeded to pull at his pipe meditatively.

"Get ahead, man," cried Dare impatiently. "What happened to the fickle
Jenny?"

"Well," continued Bindle, "she seemed to get a new Australian every
night out, an’ poor ole Milkcans is lookin’ round for another bit o’
skirt."

    "Know this thou lov’st amiss and to love true,
    Thou must begin again and love anew,"

quoted Dare.

"One day Martha asks Jenny why she’s always out with Australians instead
of our chaps.  She looks down, shuffles ’er feet, nibbles the corner of
’er apron.  At last she says, ’Oh, mum, it’s the way they ’olds yer.’

"Yes," continued Bindle, "they’re fine chaps them Australians, an’ they
can fight too."  After a pause he continued: "Ole Spotty can’t stand
’em, though.  Spotty’s got somethink wrong with ’is lungs and the doctor
says to ’im, ’Spotty ole card, it’s outdoors or underground. The choice
is with you.’

"So instead o’ becomin’ a member o’ parliament, Spotty goes round takin’
pennies for lettin’ people sit down on the chairs in the Park.  It means
fourpence ’alfpenny an ’our now an’ rheumatism later.

"Them Australians can’t understand bein’ asked a penny to sit down, and
sometimes they refuses to pay, thinking it’s a do.  It’s a shame not to
let ’em sit down for nothink, after they come all them miles to fight.
So Spotty soon learns to sort of overlook ’em.

"One day an inspector reports ’im to the guv’nor, an’ ’e was ’auled up
an’ asked to tell all about it.  ’E did, also ’ow one of ’em offered to
fight ’im for the penny.  Spotty’s a slip of a thing like a war sausage.

"’I took up this ’ere job,’ says Spotty, ’to get well, not as a short
cut to the ’orspital,’ and he offered to resign; but they’re short o’
men an’ Spotty is still takin’ pennies, when ’e can get ’em without
scrappin’.

"Lord, the things Spotty’s told me about Hyde Park.  It ain’t no place
for me.  I told Mrs. B. one night, leastwise I told ’er some, an’ she
says, ’The King ought to stop it.’"  Bindle grinned.  "I can see ’im
goin’ round a-stoppin’ it by ’avin’ all the chairs put two yards apart,
an’ bein’ late for ’is supper."

"Are you a royalist, J.B.?" enquired Windover languidly.

"A wot, sir?" enquired Bindle.

"Do you believe in kings?"

"I believe in our King."  There was decision in Bindle’s voice.  "’E’s a
sport, same as ’is father was.  I’m sick of all this talk about a
republic."  Disgust was clearly expressed upon Bindle’s face and in his
voice. "Down at the yard they’re always jawin’ about the revolution
wot’s comin’."

"I don’t ’old wiv kings," broke in Ginger. "There’s goin’ to be a
revolution."

"’Ullo Ging, you woke up?  Well ole son, wot’s wrong wi’ George Five?"

"Look wot ’e corsts, an’ you an’ me ’as to pay, an’ everything goin’ up
like ’ell."

"’Ush, Ginger, ’ush, there’s a lady ’ere."

Ginger looked awkwardly at Sallie, who smiled her reassurance.

"’I s’pose, Ginger, yer thinks you’re goin’ to get a republic with a
pound o’ tea," said Bindle good-humouredly.

"There’s goin’ to be a revolution," persisted Ginger doggedly.  Ginger
logic is repetition. "After the war," he added.

"An’ wot jer goin’ to revolute about?" enquired Bindle, gazing at
Ginger’s face, which Windover has described as "freckled with
stupidity."

For a few minutes Ginger was silent, thinking laboriously.

"Look at the price of beer?" he at length challenged with inspiration.

"Well, Ging, ain’t you an ole ’uggins.  ’Jer think you’ll get cheap beer
if yer makes George and Mary ’op it?  Not you, ole son.  Wot you’ll most
likely get is no beer at all, same as in America."

"That’s a lie!"  We were all startled at the anger in Ginger’s voice, as
he flashed a sullen challenge round the room.

"Don’t get ’uffy, ole sport.  Wot’s a lie?" enquired Bindle, unmoved by
Ginger’s outburst.

"That they ain’t got no beer in America," snarled Ginger.

"J.B. is quite right," murmured Windover soothingly.  "In some States
there’s no drink of any sort."

Ginger gazed from one to the other, bewilderment and alarm stamped upon
his face.

"Well I’m——" began Ginger.

"Surprised," broke in Bindle.  "O’ course you are.  Fancy bein’ in the
army without anythink to wash it down.

"Now, Ginger," said Bindle after a pause, "tell the General ’ow ’appy
you are bein’ a soldier."

"I don’t ’old wiv the army," was Ginger’s gloomy response.

"What!"  There was the light of battle in the General’s eye.  "Then why
the devil did you enlist?" he demanded in his most aggressive parade
manner.

"To get away," was Ginger’s enigmatical response.

"To get away!  To get away from what?" demanded the General.

"You see, sir," explained Bindle, "Ginger ain’t ’appy in ’is ’ome life.
’E’s got a wife an’ three kids and——"

"Jawin’ an’ squallin’," interrupted Ginger vindictively.

"Why don’t you like the army?" demanded the General.

"Don’t ’old wiv orficers."

"With officers!  Why?"

"Order yer about."

"How the devil would you know what to do if they didn’t order you
about?" demanded the General rapidly losing his temper.

"Don’t ’old wiv the army," was the grumbled retort.

It is Ginger’s method, when faced with an awkward question, to fall back
upon his inner defences by announcing that he "don’t ’old wiv" whatever
it is under discussion.

"If you don’t hold with the army, with officers, with wives and
children, then what do you hold with?" demanded the General angrily.

"Beer," was the laconic response, uttered without the vestige of a
smile.

Ginger personifies gloom.  He would if he could snatch the sun’s ray
from a dewdrop, or the joyousness from a child’s laugh.  It is
constitutional.

"Poor ole Ginger’s ’appier when ’e’s miserable," Bindle explained; "but
’e’s a rare good sort at ’eart is Ging.  ’E once bought a cock canary,
wot the man told ’im would sing like a prize bird; but when the yaller
comes orf an’ there warn’t no song, and the bird started a-layin’ eggs,
it sort o’ broke poor ole Ging. up. ’E ain’t never been the same man
since, ’ave yer, ole sport?"

Ginger muttered something inaudible, the tone of which suggested blood.

"If you could catch that cove you’d be ’oldin’ ’im, eh Ging?"

"Blast ’im!" exploded Ginger.

Shortly afterwards Ginger took an ungracious leave.  The Night Club saw
him no more.

On the Sunday following Bindle arrived early, hilarious with excitement.

"’Old me, ’Orace," he cried joyously, and two of "Tims’" men supported
him in the approved manner of the prize-ring, flapping handkerchiefs
before his face.  Presently Bindle reassumed control of his limbs.

"What’s the joke?" enquired Dick Little.

"Joke!" cried Bindle.  "Joke!  ’Ere ’old me again."

After further ministrations he explained. On the previous day he had met
one of Ginger’s mates, who had told him that Ginger was undergoing seven
days C.B. for fighting in the guardroom.

"An’ wot jer think ’e was fighting about?" enquired Bindle, his face
crinkled with smiles.

We gave it up.

"Because one of ’is mates says we’re goin’ to ’ave a republic!  The poor
chap’s in ’orspital now," he added, "a-learnin’ to believe in kings, and
poor ole Ginger’s learnin’ that it ain’t wise to believe too much in
anythink."

"Well, here’s to Private Ginger, loyalist," cried Jim Colman, and we
drank the toast in a way that brought the General hurrying up from
below.

"I seem to been ’avin’ quite a lot o’ things ’appen last week," remarked
Bindle as he unscrewed the stopper of a beer-bottle on the sideboard,
and poured the contents into the pewter tankard that Sallie had given
him. After a long and refreshing drink he continued tantalisingly—

"Funny ’ow things ’appen to me.  Cheer-o! Archie," this to Old Archie
who had just entered, his face looking more than ever like a withered
apple in which were set a pair of shrewd, but kindly eyes.

"Tellin’ the tale, Joe," he remarked.  Then turning to the rest of us he
added, "Suppose poor old Joe was to forget ’ow to talk.  Evenin’,
m’lord," this with an upward movement of his hand as Windover entered.

"There ain’t no fear o’ that, Archie my lad," replied Bindle.  "I’m as
likely to forget ’ow to talk as you are to remember to put the cawfee
into the stuff yer sells for more’n it’s worth."

"What’s been happening?" demanded Blint.

"I see Mr. Angell ’Erald the other day," Bindle remarked.  "I was on the
tail-board o’ the van with ole Wilkes, ’im wot coughs to keep ’im from
swallowing flies."

"Did he see you?" enquired Dick Little.

"If ’e didn’t see me, there wasn’t no excuse for ’im not ’earin’
Wilkie’s cough.  They wouldn’t ’ave ’im as a special constable.  Rude to
’im they was.  Poor ole Wilkie ain’t forgot it, ’e’s a bit sensitive
like, not bein’ married."

"Never mind about Wilkes," broke in Tom Little.  "Get oh with the story,
J.B."

At times Bindle has a tendency to wander into by-paths of reminiscence.

"It was in the Strand," he continued, "an’ to make sure of Mr. Angell
’Erald not bein’ disappointed I cheero’d ’im.  ’E sort o’ looked round
frightened-like, then ’e disappeared into a teashop like a rabbit in an
’ole.  S’pose ’e suddenly remembered ’e was tea-thirsty," and Bindle
looked round solemnly.

"Perhaps he didn’t hear you," ventured Dick Little.

"When I cheero a cove, an’ Wilkie coughs at ’im, well if ’e don’t ’ear
then ’e ought to be seen to, because it’s serious.  Why the cop on point
mentioned it to me.  Said we’d set the motor-busses shyin’ if we didn’t
stop.  ’E was quite ’urt about it.  Seemed upset-like about poor ole
Wilkie’s cough.  No: ’e ’eard us right enough."

"He may not have recognised you," the Boy ventured, knowing full well
that Angell Herald would not be seen exchanging salutations with a man
on the tail-board of a pantechnicon.

But Bindle merely closed his left eye and placed the forefinger of his
right hand at the side of his nose.

At that moment Angell Herald entered the room.  He glanced, a little
anxiously I thought, at Bindle who, however, greeted him with unaffected
good-humour.

"When you come in, sir," he explained cheerily, "I was jest tellin’ ’ow
me an’ Wilkie ran across ’is Lordship last week.  Me an’ Wilkie was on
the tail-board o’ the van; but ’is Lordship come up an’—wot jer think?"

Bindle gazed round the room triumphantly. Angell Herald looked extremely
unhappy. Windover, on the contrary, seemed unusually interested.  Having
centred upon himself the attention of the whole room Bindle proceeded,

"’E took us into a swell place an’ stood us a dinner.  Lord, ’ow they
did look to see us, me an’ Wilkie in our aprons, ’is Lordship in ’is red
tabs an’ a gold rim to ’is cap, an’ a red band round it."

Bindle was enjoying himself hugely, especially as he saw that Angell
Herald was becoming more and more uncomfortable.

"We ’ad champagne an’ oysters, an’ soup an’——  Well I thought Wilkie ’ud
never stop."  He broke off to light his pipe, when it was in full blast
he continued.

"Presently a cove in an ’igh collar comes up an’ says polite like to ’is
lordship—

"’Would you kindly ask that gentleman to ’urry with ’is soup, sir,’
meanin’ Wilkie, ’there’s a gentleman over there wot says ’e can’t ’ear
the band, an’ this is ’is favourite tune.’"

"Mr. Bindle!" cried Sallie, who is very sensitive upon the subject of
table manners.

"I’m sorry, miss, but you see poor ole Wilkie never ’ad no mother to
teach ’im.  Yes," he continued, "we ’ad a rare ole time, me an’ Wilkie."

Angell Herald looked from Bindle to Windover.  His veneer of
self-complacency had been badly punctured.

"By the way, J.B.," said Windover, "I want you to come to lunch with me
again on Saturday.  You’ll come, Little and you, Boy."

It was Bindle’s turn to look surprised.  That is how he got a real
"dinner" with a lord, and Angell Herald had a lesson by which he
probably failed to profit.  To this day he believes Bindle’s story of
the mythical lunch. Bindle has never forgiven Angell Herald his "men’s
stories," and he unites with the Boy in scoring off him whenever
possible. Sometimes Dick Little and I have to take a strong line with
both delinquents.  Fortunately Angell Herald is more often than not
oblivious of what is taking place.

Sometimes we have a night devoted to Bindle’s views on life.  His
philosophy is a thing devoid of broideries and frills.  It is the
essence of his own experience.  Once when Dare had been talking upon the
subject of ideals, Bindle had remarked:

"Very pretty to talk about, but they ain’t much use in the
furniture-movin’ line.  One in the eye is more likely to make a man
be’ave than a month’s jawin’ about wot ’Earty calls ’brotherly love.’"

Bindle’s good-nature makes it possible for him to say without offence
what another man could not even hint at.

Windover once remarked that Bindle would go through life saying and
doing things impossible to any but a prize-fighter.

"An’ why a bruiser, sir?" Bindle had enquired.

"Well, few men care to punch the head of a professional boxer," was the
retort.

"It ain’t wot yer say, sir," Bindle had remarked, obviously pleased at
the compliment. "It’s wot’s be’ind the words.  I ain’t got time to look
for angels in trousers, or saints in skirts. There ain’t many of us wot
ain’t got a tear or an ’ole somewhere, but it ain’t ’elpin’ things to
put it in the papers."

"But," Jim Dare, one of "Tims’" men, broke in wickedly, "without
criticism there’d be no progress."

Bindle was on him like a flash.

"If an angel’s lost ’is tail feathers," he retorted, "you bet the other
angels ain’t goin’ to make a song about it.  If they was the right sort
of angels they’d pull their own out, to show that tail-feathers ain’t
everythink."

We made many attempts to get at Bindle’s views upon the Hereafter: but
although by nature as open as the day, there are some things about which
he is extremely reticent. One evening in answer to a direct challenge he
replied,

"Well, I don’t rightly know, I ain’t been taught things; but I got a
sort of idea that Gawd’s a sight better man than Joe Bindle, an’ that’s
why I can’t stick ’Earty’s Gawd.  ’E ain’t Gawd no more’n I’m the
Kayser."  Then after a pause he had added, "If Gawd’s goin’ to be Gawd
’E’s got to be a mystery.  Why there’s some coves wot seem to know more
about wot Gawd’s goin’ to do than wot they’ve ’ad for dinner."

Dick Little never lost an opportunity of getting Bindle started upon his
favourite subject—marriage.  One night he announced that his brother Tom
had become engaged to be married.

"’E’s wot?" interrogated Bindle.

"He’s done it, J.B.," Dick Little had replied with a laugh.

Bindle said nothing; but we awaited Tom Little’s arrival with no little
eagerness.  When he entered, Bindle fixed him with a remorseless eye.

"Wot’s this I ’ear, sir?" he enquired.

"What’s what?" Tom Little enquired, becoming very pink, and casting a
furious glance in his brother’s direction.

Tom Little’s demeanour left no doubt as to his guilt.  For some moments
Bindle regarded him gravely.  Tom Little proceeded to light a cigarette;
but he was obviously ill at ease.

"Wot’s the use o’ me tellin’ yer all about women," Bindle demanded,
"when, as soon as my back’s turned yer goes an’ does it.  Silly sort of
thing to do, I call it."

"Don’t be an ass, J.B."  Tom Little strove to carry off the affair
lightly; but Bindle was Rhadamanthine.

"I told yer not to," he continued, then after a pause, "Course she’s got
pretty ’air an’ eyes, an’ made yer feel funny an’ all that; but you jest
wait.  Mrs. B. ’ad all them things, an’ look at ’er now.  She’s about as
soft-’earted as a cop is to a cove wot’s ’carryin’ the banner.’"*


* Walking the streets through the night


"Shut up, J.B.," said Tom Little, looking round as if seeking some
loophole of escape.

"Well, sir," said Bindle with an air of resignation, "it’s your funeral,
but I’m sorry, I ’ope Gawd’ll ’elp yer; but I know ’e won’t."

Another evening Bindle had opened the proceedings by his customary "Miss
an’ gentlemen, I got a warnin’ to give yer.  There’s only two things wot
a cove ’as got to fight against, one is a wife in ’is bosom, an’ the
other is various veins in ’is legs.  An’ now I’ll call for the story."




                              *CHAPTER XV*

                        *A DRAMATIC ENGAGEMENT*


The Night Club has neither rules nor officials; that is what makes it
unique.  Bindle, Dick Little and I form a sort of unofficial committee
of management.  No one questions our rulings, because our rulings are so
infrequent as scarcely to be noticeable.  One of our great trials,
almost our only trial, is the suppression of Angell Herald.  He is for
ever proposing to introduce intimates of his own, and we are often hard
put to it to find excuses for his not being allowed to do so.

One evening he scored heavily against the "committee," by bringing with
him a tall man with long hair, a blue chin and an eye that spoke of a
thirst with long arrears to be worked off.

His first remark was "Good evening, gentlemen," as if he were entering
the commercial room of a hotel.  Windover screwed his glass firmly into
his left eye.  Windover’s monocle is always a social barometer—it
"places" a man irrevocably.  His face never shows the least expression;
but it is quite possible to see from his bearing whether or no a new
arrival be possible.

"Allow me to introduce my friend, Mr. Leonard Gimp, the actor," said
Angell Herald.

"Haaa!  Very pleased to meet you, gentlemen, very pleased indeed, Haaa!"
came somewhere from Mr. Gimp’s middle, via his mouth.

As host Dick Little came forward and shook hands: but it was clear from
the look in his eye that he shared our homicidal views with regard to
Angell Herald.

"Haaa! and how are you, Mr. Little?" enquired Gimp genially.

Little muttered something inaudible to the rest of us.

"That’s right!" said Gimp in hearty but hollow tones.  "What wonderful
weather we’re having," he continued beaming upon the rest of us, as if
determined to put us at our ease.

"Wonderful weather," he repeated.

He was a strange creature, with ill-fitting garments and soiled linen.
Before he began to speak he said "Haaa!"  When he had finished speaking
he said "Haaa!"  If he had nothing at all to say, which was seldom, he
said "Haaa!"  His air was confidential and his manner friendly.  It was
obvious that he strove to model himself on the late Sir Henry Irving.
The world held for him only one thing—the Drama; and the Drama only one
interpreter—himself.

Gimp sat down and, stretching out his legs, bent over and stroked them
from instep to loins, beaming upon us the while.

"May I offer you a cigarette?" he queried, picking up a box from the
mantelpiece and proffering to Dick Little one of his own cigarettes.

Gimp seemed to be under the impression that he had come to entertain us
and he began to talk.  His sentences invariably began with "Haaa!  I
remember in 1885," or some other date, and we quickly learned that with
him dates were a danger signal.

His idea of conversation was a monologue. As we sat listening, we
wondered how we should ever stop the flow of eloquence.  He plunged into
a memory involving a quotation from a drama in which, as far as we could
gather, he had made one of the greatest hits the theatrical world had
ever witnessed.  His enthusiasm brought him to his feet.  We sat and
smoked and listened, mutely conscious that the situation was beyond us.

Angell Herald was the only man present, besides Gimp himself, who seemed
to be satisfied.  The rest of us felt that there was only one hope, and
that lay in Bindle, who was unaccountably late.  Bindle, we felt sure,
would be able to rise to the occasion, and he did.

Gimp had reached a most impassioned scene in which the heroine denounces
the villain, who is a coiner.  Bindle entered the room unobserved by
Gimp.  For a few moments he stood watching the scene with intense
interest.  Gimp had reached the climax of the scene in which the heroine
says to the villain, "Go!  Your heart is as base as the coins you make."
He paused, pointing dramatically in the direction of Windover.

"’Ullo!  ’Amlet," said Bindle genially from behind.

Gimp span round as if he had been shot, and gazed down at Bindle in
indignant surprise.

"Cheero!  Where’d you spring from?" continued Bindle.

"Sir?" said Gimp.

"Your wrong," said Bindle, "it’s plain Joe Bindle, Sir Joseph later
perhaps; but not yet."

Bindle smiled up innocently at Gimp, who gazed round him as if seeking
for some explanation of Bindle’s presence, then a weak and weary smile
fluttered across his features, and he walked over to the side-board and
mixed himself a whisky and soda.

We seized the opportunity to break off Gimp’s demonstrations of his
histrionic powers. We gave him a cigar, and every time he started "Haaa!
I remember in 18——" somebody butted in and cut him short.

That evening Bindle was in a wicked mood. He flagrantly encouraged Gimp
to talk "shop," "feeding the furnace of his self-conceit," as Dare
whispered across me to Sallie.

"I went to the theatre last week," said Bindle with guile, "but I didn’t
see you there, sir."

"Haaa! no!" said Gimp, "I’m restin’."

"Sort o’ worn out," said Bindle sympathetically.

Gimp looked sharply at Bindle, who gazed back with disarming innocence.
"Haaa! a nervous breakdown," he replied.

"To judge by his nose, neuritis of the elbow," said Carruthers sotto
voce.

"What was the piece you saw, J.B.?" enquired Roger Blint.

"_Frisky Florrie_.  Them plays didn’t ought to be allowed.  Made me ’ot
all over, it did."  Then turning to Gimp he added, "I’m surprised at
you, sir, sayin’ there ain’t nothink like the drama."

"That is not the Deraaama," cried Gimp. "That’s a pollution," his filmy
eyes rolled and he jerked his head backwards in what was apparently the
dramatic conception of indignation.

"Fancy that, an’ me not knowin’ it," was Bindle’s comment.

"Haaa!" said Gimp.

"Won’t you say one o’ your pieces for us, sir?" enquired Bindle.  "I’d
like to ’ear real drama."

Gimp looked blankly at Bindle.

"J.B. means won’t you recite," explained Dare in even tones.

Gimp was on his feet instantly, vowing that he was delighted.  For a
moment he was plunged in deep thought, his chin cupped in his left hand,
the elbow supported by the palm of his right hand.  It was extremely
effective. Suddenly he gave utterance to the inevitable "Haaa!" and we
knew that the gods had breathed inspiration upon him.

Straightening himself, he shot his hands still further through his
already short coat sleeves, and gazed round.  Raising his left hand he
cried—

"Haaa!  Shakespeare."

Then he broke out into

"Ferends, Rhomans, Cohuntrymen lehend me your eeeeeeears."

Quintilian was thrown overboard: for there was nothing restrained in
Leonard Gimp’s declamation.  His arms waved like flails, his legs, slack
at the knee, took strides and then "as you were’d" with bewildering
rapidity.  It was ju-jitsu, foils and Swedish drill all mixed up
together.  One moment he was exhorting Windover, the next he was telling
Sallie in a voice that throbbed like the engaged signal on the telephone
how "gerievously hath Cæsar paid for it."  The emotion engendered by the
munificence of Cæsar’s will produced a new action, which broke an
electric globe and, midst the shattering of glass, the doom of Brutus
was sealed.

"That is Shakespeare’s Deraaama," he declared, as he resumed his seat
and proceeded once more to stroke his legs.

It was clear to all of us that something had to be done, and it was Dick
Little who did it.

Jocelyn Dare is a magnificent elocutionist, although he can seldom be
prevailed upon to recite.  To-night, however, he readily responded to
Dick Little’s invitation.  He selected Henry V’s exhortation to the
troops before Harfleur. After Gimp’s vigorous demonstration, Dare’s
almost immobile delivery seemed like calm after a storm.  He looked a
picturesque figure as he stood, from time to time tossing back the flood
of black hair that cascaded down his forehead. He has a beautiful voice,
deep, resonant, flexible and under perfect control.

Bindle seemed hypnotised.  His pipe forgotten he leaned forward eagerly
as if fearful of losing a word.  Gimp sat with a puzzled look upon his
face, impressed in spite of himself.

It was the first time the Night Club had heard Dare, and when he
concluded there was a lengthy silence, broken at last by Gimp, whose
voice sounded like an anæmic drum after Dare’s magnificent tones.

"Haaa! thank you, sir, excellent," he cried patronisingly.  "You should
go on the stage, haaa!"

"Well that knocks the bottom out of ole Shakespeare any’ow," said Bindle
with decision, as he proceeded to light his neglected pipe.

"It is Shakespeare," said Sallie.

Bindle looked at her over the lighted match, then to Dare and on to
Gimp.  Finally he completed the operation of lighting his pipe.

"Well," he said somewhat enigmatically, "that proves wot they say about
there bein’ somethink in the man be’ind the gun."

Soon after Gimp took his departure with Angell Herald, leaving us with
the consciousness that the evening had not been a success.

"You took it out of ole ’Amlet, sir," said Bindle with keen enjoyment.
"That ole phonograph in ’is middle sounds sort o’ funny arter ’earin’
you.  An’ didn’t ’e throw ’isself about, broke your globe too, sir,"
this to Dick Little, "an’ then never said ’e was sorry."

"He regarded it as the jetsam of art," said Windover.

"P’raps you’re right, sir," was Bindle’s comment.

That evening resulted in the committee making it generally understood
that no one was to be introduced to the Night Club without his name
first being submitted to and approved by Bindle, Dick Little and myself.

Some weeks later I happened by chance to run across Gimp in the West
End.  He thrust himself upon me and clung like a limpet, insisting that
I should have what he called "a tonic," which in his case consisted of a
continuous stream of glasses of port wine.  When we parted some two
hours later I had a story, in return for which he had received ten
glasses of port wine, for which I paid, and five shillings.  The last
named he had obtained by a "Dear old boy, lend me a dollar till next
Tuesday morning.

"Good-bye, my dear boy, God bless you," he cried with emotion as he
pocketed the two half-crowns and left me, turning when he had taken some
half-a-dozen steps to cry once more, "God bless you."

He did not inquire my address, and I am sure he did not know my name, so
that in all probability he is to this day walking London searching for
me to repay that dollar.

The story, however, was worth, not only the dollar but the port wine.

"Fancy Old ’Amlet ’avin’ a story like that in ’is tummy," was Bindle’s
comment.

This was Leonard Gimp’s story:



                                  *I*


"But how do you know I can’t do it, Mr. Telford, if you won’t let me
try?"  There was something suspiciously like a sob in Elsie Gwyn’s voice
as she leaned forward across Roger Telford’s table.  "Please let me try,
it means so much to me."

"My dear girl, a part like that requires experience and a knowledge that
you could not possibly possess.  The whole play turns on that one
character.  Now don’t be disappointed," he continued kindly, "you’re
doing very well and your time will come.  Now you must run away like a
good girl, because I’ve scores of things to do.  I shan’t forget you and
I’ll cast you for something later.

Seeing that further argument was useless the girl rose to go.

"Good-bye, Mr. Telford," she said soberly, blinking her eyes more than
seemed necessary, "I’m sure you don’t mean to be unkind; but really you
ought to give me a chance before judging me.  It’s not quite sporting of
you."

Telford placed his hand for a moment on her shoulder.  "Now cheer up,
little girl," he said, "Your time will come."  He opened the door and
closed it again after her—Telford’s courtesy and kindness were the
"joke" of the profession.

Roger Telford returned to the table and for a few minutes sat pondering
deeply.  He was the most successful theatrical manager in London.
Everything he turned his hand to seemed to prosper.  Rival managers said
he had the devil’s own luck; but instinctively they knew that it was the
sureness of his judgment that resulted in one success after another
being associated with his name.

In the profession he was regarded a "white man."  Many laughed at him
for being a prude, and he was known among the inner circle as "Mrs.
Telford," on account of his attitude towards the girls in his companies.
He had been known to knock a man down to teach him how to behave to a
"Telford girl."  Those who could not get into his companies sneered at
him as "a fish in an ice box"; but those who were in his employ knew
what a good friend he could be.  He was a bachelor and possessed a
reputation that not even his worst enemy could sully.  Men affected to
despise him, and a certain class of theatrical girl looked upon him with
contempt; but Roger Telford’s was a great name in the theatrical world.

"Little Elsie Gwyn wanted the part of Jenny Burrow in _The Sixth
Sense_," he remarked a few minutes later to Tom Bray, his stage manager
at the Lyndhurst Theatre.

Bray shook his head.  He was a man of few words.

"Exactly what I told her," said Telford; "but where the devil are we
going to get anyone?  There’s Esther Grant, Phyllis Cowan, Lallie Moore;
but none of them have got it in ’em.  They’re just low comedy turns.
This thing wants something more than that.  It wants dramatic grip, it
wants guts, and I’m hanged if I know of a woman who’s got ’em."

"There’s not much time," was the comment of the stage manager.

"Of all the damned uninspiring chaps, you beat the lot, Tom," laughed
Telford.  "Here’s the infernal show getting into rehearsal on Monday,
and you’re as calm as an oyster."

"Better cast the understudy, let her do it for a time," said Bray.

"It looks as if we shall have to fall back on Helen Strange," grumbled
Telford.

"She’ll wreck the show, sure," commented the stage manager.

"Damn!" said Telford, as he crushed his hat on his head, seized his
stick and gloves and went out to lunch.



                                  *II*


Elsie Gwyn had been on the stage three years, two of which had been
spent in the provinces, principally in understudying.  Like many other
ambitious people, she told herself that she had never had a chance.

"It’s rotten," she confided to a friend. "They always cast you according
to your face. They’re as bad as the American managers, who are always
talking about ’the type.’  Just because I’ve got fair hair and small
features and blue eyes, and a sort of washed out appearance (as a matter
of fact Elsie Gwyn was exquisitely pretty with golden hair, refined
features and deep blue eyes, almost violet in tint), they cast me for
vicars’ daughters, milk-and-water misses and the like.  I am sure I’ve
got drama in me, only no one will give me the chance to get it out."

"Oh! dry up, Elsie," her friend had responded, "you want to be Juliet in
your first year."

Elsie Gwyn had walked down the stairs to the stage-door of the Lyndhurst
Theatre feeling that if anyone spoke crossly to her she would inevitably
cry.

"It isn’t fair," she muttered to herself after saying good morning to
the stage doorkeeper, "it isn’t fair to say I can’t do it without giving
me a chance.  It’s rotten of them, absolutely rotten."

She seemed to find some comfort from this expression of opinion.

"When I’m famous, and I shall be famous some day," she told herself,
"he’ll be sorry that he didn’t give me my chance."  With this comforting
assurance Elsie Gwyn entered the small Soho restaurant she frequented
when in the West End and ordered lunch.

III

_The Sixth Sense_ had been put into rehearsal, and still the part of
Jenny Burrow had not been cast.  Bray had urged upon Telford the
necessity of securing Helen Strange; but Telford had hung out.

"I believe in my luck, old man," he said, "something will turn up.  I
shall wait till the end of the week."

This was Thursday.  Telford and his stage-manager were in the throes of
producing _The Sixth Sense_ from a company that, according to Tom Bray,
hadn’t a single sense, among the lot.  The theatre was all gloom and
strange shadows.  The company was grouped round the stage, leaving a
clear space in the centre for those actually rehearsing.  Some sat on
the two or three chairs available and three odd boxes, the rest stood
about conversing in undertones.

To the uninitiated it would have seemed impossible that a play could be
produced out of such chaos.  It was difficult to disentangle the
dramatist’s lines from Telford’s comments and instructions.  He was
probably the most hard-working producer in London, and the most
difficult: but his company knew that by working with him whole-heartedly
they were striving for a common object—success.  There was less
grumbling at his theatres than at any other in the kingdom.  If he
blamed unstintingly he paid well, and to have been with Telford was in
itself a testimonial.

"Good God!" he broke out, "you make love as if the woman were a
gas-pipe."

The youth addressed flushed and turning to Telford rapped back, "Let me
choose my own woman and I’ll show you how to make love, Mr. Telford."

Telford walked over to him and putting his hand on his shoulder said,
"My boy, I like that.  Go ahead, do it your own way and you’ll get
there."

That was Roger Telford all over.  He understood human nature.  He knew
that a man who could rap back an answer such as he had just received had
imagination, and he was there merely to direct that imagination.

"That’s better," he cried as the youth was warming to his work.  "Hi!
steady though, not too much realism in rehearsals, keep that for the
first night."

"My God!" cried Telford a few minutes later as he thrust his fingers
through his hair. "That’s not Jenny Burrow, that’s _The Pilgrim’s
Progress_.  The understudy was not a success."

Hour dragged after weary hour, lunch time came, three quarters of an
hour, and then back again.  There seemed no continuity.  First a bit of
this act then a bit of that: it was like building up a cinema film.  It
was depressing work this preparing for the public amusement. It would
have been more depressing; but for the vitality and personal magnetism
of Telford!

Two o’clock dragged on to three, three to half-past three, and thoughts
were turning towards tea-time, the half hour that was permitted at four
o’clock, when a startling interruption occurred.  From the direction of
the stage-door a woman’s voice was heard raised in anger.

"Engaged is he," it cried.  "Too busy to see me?  I _don’t_ think.  You
just run along and tell him that Florrie’s here and wants to see him,
and if he don’t see her she’ll raise hell."  The murmur of the stage
doorkeeper’s voice was heard.

"Here, get out of the way," said the voice. A moment after a girl
bounced on to the stage. She was young, stylishly dressed, fair as far
as could be seen through her thick veil.  The stage doorkeeper followed
close upon her heels muttering protests.  Turning on him like a fury the
girl shouted:

"Here, clear out of it if you don’t want a thick ear."

The man hurriedly stepped back a few paces. The girl who had announced
herself as Florrie gave a swift look round, then spotting Telford went
directly up to him.

"Said you were too busy, Roj.  Not too to see Florrie, old sport, what?"

Telford gazed at the girl in astonishment.

"You’ve made a mistake, I think," he said coldly.

"Oh, listen to the band," she sang.  "Look here, what’s your lay, what
are you after?"

Telford was conscious that the eyes of the company were upon him.  "I’m
afraid I don’t know you, and you’ve made a mistake."

"I never saw the lady before so she can’t be mine you see," sang
Florrie, who seemed to be in high spirits.

"I’m busy," said Telford, "and I must ask you to go.  You’ve made a
mistake."

"Is your name Roger Telford, or is it not?"

"I am Mr. Telford, yes."

"Oh! well, Mr. Telford, I’m Florrie.  Never heard o’ Florrie before, I
suppose.  Look here Roj., none of your swank.  You ain’t been keepin’ me
for two years to give me the bird like this.  You thought you’d done me,
didn’t you, writing that letter and saying all was over."

"I tell you," said Telford with some asperity, "that I do not know you."

"Oh, Roger boy, Roger boy," said Florrie, wagging her finger at him.
"Aint you the blooming limit?"  She placed her hands upon her lips,
threw her body back and regarded him with good-humoured aggressiveness.

"I tell you I’ve never seen you before.  If you refuse to go I shall
have you removed."

Telford’s anger was rising.

"Oh! you’re stickin’ it on that lay, are you? All right, I’m your bird.
Never seen me before, haven’t you?  I suppose you don’t remember
happening to meet me in "The Pocock Arms" two years ago last March do
you?  You don’t happen to remember seeing me home. You don’t happen to
remember taking a flat for me.  You don’t happen to remember giving me
money and jewels.  You don’t happen to remember getting tired of me?
And I suppose you don’t happen to remember writing a letter and saying
that it was all over and that you would give me fifty pounds to be off
and all the furniture.  Do you happen to remember any of those things,
Mister Telford?"

Telford looked round him bewildered.  The expression on the faces of his
company left him in no doubt as to their view of the situation.

"I—I don’t know who you are or what you mean," he stuttered.  "And—and
if you don’t leave this er—er—place I shall send for a policeman.
Saunders," he called to the stage doorkeeper who was still hovering
about.

"Oh you will, will you," screamed Florrie, working herself up into a
passion.  "You’ll send for a policeman will you?  Go on Saunders, if
that’s your ugly name, fetch a policeman.  That’s just what I want.
We’ll soon clear up this matter.  You just fetch a bloomin’ policeman.
Fetch two policemen while you’re about it, and bring a handful of
specials as well."  She laughed stridently at her joke. As her anger
rose her aitches disappeared, her idiom became coarser.

Seeing that Saunders hesitated she cried "Well!  Why don’t you go?"
Then she turned upon Telford.  "Send ’im for a rotten policeman.  Go on.
You dirty tyke.  You mucky-souled liar.  Never met me before? Never even
seen me.  After what ’as ’appened and what you done for me.  I was a
good gurl till I met you.  Why don’t you send for a policeman?"

Saunders looked interrogatingly at Telford, who shook his head.

"Ah!" screamed the girl.  "I thought you wouldn’t send for no
policeman."

"She’s mad," muttered Telford under his breath.  He looked helplessly
about him.  If there were a scene it might get into the papers, it would
certainly be a nine days wonder in the "profession."

"Now look ’ere," shrilled Florrie to the assembled company, "that dirty
tyke says ’e don’t know me, never seen me before this very hour.  What
about this?"  She produced a photograph from one of the large pockets in
her frock.  "To the only woman in the world, from Roger," she read.

She held out a recent photograph of Telford for the company to see.  The
writing was certainly very like his.  Tom Bray came forward and examined
it.  He looked grave.

"Well!" cried Florrie to Bray, "Is it like ’im.  I suppose you’re Tom
Bray, ’is stage manager.  ’E’s told me about you.  Called you an oyster
because you never get flurried, said all you wanted was a bit o’ lemon."

Tom Bray started and looked swiftly at Telford.  That was a favourite
phrase of the chief’s.

"It’s a forgery," almost shouted Telford, making a clutch at the
photograph.

"No you don’t, ducky," was Florrie’s laughing retort.  "We’ll put you
away to bye-bye," and she tucked the photograph down her blouse.

"What is it you want with me?" asked Telford mechanically.

"Oh! that’s it, is it," she cried.  "You think I want money.  You think
I’m a blackmailer, do you?  You just offer me money and I’ll fling it in
yer ugly face, I will, you dirty tyke.  I want to know what you mean by
writing me that letter—chucking me after what you done.  That’s what I
want to know.  I’m going to let all the world know what sort of a man
you are, Mrs. Telford.  I suppose you’ve found someone amongst all these
gurls here what you like better’n me."

Telford looked round him as if expecting inspiration from somewhere.  On
his forehead stood beads of perspiration which he mopped up with his
handkerchief.

Suddenly Florrie flopped down upon the stage and began to sob
hysterically.  "Roger boy, don’t chuck me," she wailed, trying to clutch
his knees, he stepped back in time to avoid her.  "Don’t chuck me.  I
always been true to you, I ’ave.  You oughtn’t to do the dirty on me
like this.  I won’t worry you, only just let me see you sometimes."

The girl’s self-abasement was so complete, her emotion so genuine that
more than one of those present felt an uncomfortable sensation in their
throats.

"What in God’s name am I to do?" Telford cried, half to himself; but
looking in the direction of the low comedian, Ben Walters.

"You might marry the girl," said Ben.  He regretted his words the moment
they were uttered.

In a flash Florrie was on her feet, her humility gone, her eyes flaming.
"Who are you?" she screamed, turning on him like a fury. "You’re the
funny man I s’pose, but you ain’t nearly so funny as what you think.
Anyone could be funny with a face like yours.  God made you a damn sight
funnier than what you know."  Then with withering scorn, "I’ve seen
better things won in a raffle."

Never had a comedian looked less funny than Walters at that moment.
With an almost imperceptible movement he edged away from his persecutor.

"Yes, that’s right.  You slip off, and if you can get anyone to buy your
face, don’t you ask too much for it.  Well!  What are you going to do?"
This to Telford to whom she turned once more.  Her movements were as
swift as her emotional changes.

"I—I told you you’ve made a mistake," repeated Telford; but he was
conscious of the futility of the remark.

"And I tell you you’re a liar," replied Florrie.  "A gurl ain’t likely
to make a mistake about a man what’s done to her what you’ve done to me.
I was a good gurl till I met you."  There was a break in her voice that
was perilously like a sob.  "Look what you done for me, look, look.  Oh!
my God!"  She buried her face in her handkerchief.  Her whole body
shaken with sobs, then slowly her knees gave way beneath her and she
sank in a heap on the stage, still sobbing hysterically.

"Jenny Burrow in real life," muttered Tom Bray.  "If she could only act
it all."

"Oh, Roj," she cried through her handkerchief. "Oh!  Roj-boy, you’ve
broken my heart. I love you so.  I’d ’ave done anything for you. I did.
I—I—an’ now what’s to become of me? What’s fifty pounds to a gurl whose
heart’s broken?  You—you played the dirty on me, Roj-boy, you played the
dirty on me.  They got to know all about it at home and father won’t let
mother see me.  I—I—we was such pals, mother an’ me, an’ it’s all
through you; but—but—" she struggled to her feet with heaving breast.
"I ain’t done yet.  I’ll pay you back, you and your play-actors.  I was
a decent gurl before I met you.  You—you—dirty tyke."  She fell back on
the old phrase from sheer poverty of vocabulary.

"You’re like all men," she shrieked.  "Like every cursed one of ’em.
You come into a gurl’s life, ruin it, then off you go and you give her
money; but I’ll break you this time, I’ll break you, I’ll smash you,
Roger Telford, I’ll smash you.  Damn you!  Blast you!  May hell open and
swallow you."

The vindictiveness in the girl’s voice made even the most hardened
sinner shudder.

"I’m goin’ to do myself in," she continued, "there’s nothing left for
me; but I’ll leave behind me the whole story, I’ll ruin you, just as
you’ve ruined me.  These are your friends round you, these ’ere men and
women.  Look at their faces, look at ’em, see what they think of you
now; you stinkin’, low-bred swine."

Telford looked on the point of collapse. Someone gently propelled a
chair towards him, on which he sank gazing round him stupidly.

Suddenly Florrie gave a wild hysterical shriek and fell.  For a moment
her limbs twitched spasmodically, then she lay very still. She had
fainted.  Several of the girls ran forward and began fumbling about with
the fastenings of her clothes.  They removed her hat and veil, and one
of them uttered a cry of surprise.

Suddenly Florrie sat up, and those about her, as if impelled by their
instinct for the dramatic, stood aside that Telford could see her.

It was Elsie Gwyn.

"Please Mr. Telford," she said smiling, and in her natural voice, "won’t
you give me a trial in the part of Jenny Burrow."

Telford stared as a drunken man might who had been roused by the glare
of a policeman’s lantern.

The company looked first at the girl, then at Telford, then at each
other.  Telford drew a deep sigh.

"My God!" he muttered.

A babel of conversation and chatter broke out.  Telford gazed at Elsie
Gwyn as if fascinated.

"Listen, everybody."

A hush fell over the stage.  It was Elsie Gwyn who spoke.  "I asked Mr.
Telford to give me a trial as Jenny Burrow.  He said that I was not
sufficiently experienced and could not create such a part.  I thought I
could.  Of course what I have just said was all——"

"Fudge and Florrie," broke in Walters, as if to reassert his claims as a
comedian.

"Exactly, Mr. Walters.  You’ll forgive me, won’t you?"

"Sure, girl," he said genially.  "There’s no one here who’ll ever want
to quarrel with you after to-day," he added, at which there was a laugh.

"Now, Mr. Telford," said Elsie, "can I or can I not play the part of
Jenny Burrow?"

"Play it, girl, I should think you could," cried Telford, jumping up
from the chair. "But you’ve given me the fright of my life. Come along
upstairs and we’ll sign a contract."

The two left the stage together, and the company trooped out after them,
knowing that rehearsal was over for that day.

Roger Telford was a sportsman, and too happy at the termination of his
nightmare to bear malice.  He was delighted to find that his luck had
not failed him, and that he had found an actress capable of creating the
part that he had found such difficulty in casting.


"She knew some fancy words," was Bindle’s comment.  "She ought to get
on."

"Was she a success?" enquired Sallie eagerly.

"She made the hit of the season," I replied. "Somehow the story leaked
out and got into the papers.  It was the biggest advertising boom
Telford has ever had.  The public flocked to see the girl who had scored
off Roger Telford."

"A great advertisin’ stunt," said Angell Herald.  "Wish I’d had it.
Some fellows get all the luck."

"She ought to have married him," murmured Sallie, gazing at nothing in
particular.

"She did," I said, "last season.  It was regarded as her greatest hit."

"Oh! how splendid," cried Sallie, clapping her hands in a way that would
seem like gush in anyone else.

Bindle looked gloomy disapproval.

"It’s all very well for you miss, but think of ’im an’ all them words
she knew."

"But, Mr. Bindle, she was an actress," cried Sallie.

"So’s every woman, miss.  They can’t ’elp it."

"Mr. Bindle!" Sallie reproved.

"Think o’ that poor chap goin’ an’ doin’ it after wot ’e’d ’eard.  Isn’t
it jest like ’em. Nobody won’t believe nothink till they’ve tried it
themselves.

"I ’ad a mate, a real sport ’e was.  ’E wouldn’t believe me, said ’is
little bit o’ fluff wasn’t like other bits wot I’d seen.  ’E talked as
if ’e could ’ear ’er feathers a-rustling when the wind blew, poor chap!
Then ’e did it."

Bindle paused as if overcome by the memory of his mate’s misfortune.

"’E ’adn’t ’ad ’er a month when ’e comes round to me one Saturday
afternoon.  I was sittin’ in the back-yard a-listenin’ to a canary and
wot Mrs. ’Iggins thought of ’er ole man.

"’You was right, Joe,’ ’e says, lookin’ about as ’appy as a lobster wot
’ears the pot bubblin’.

"’So you don’t ’ear the wind through ’er feathers now, Jim?’ I says.

"’There never warn’t no feathers, Joe,’ ’e says, ’only claws.  Come an’
’ave a drink?’

"When a cove wot’s been talkin’ about ’is misses says, ’Come an’ ’ave a
drink,’ you can lay outsider’s odds on ’is ’avin’ drawn a blank."

"J.B. never admits of the law of exception," remarked Dare.  "That is
the fundamental weakness of his logical equipment."

"Fancy it bein’ all that," remarked Bindle drily.

"As Sallie remarked," continued Dare, "this young woman was an actress,
and she was out for an engagement."

"An’ got a weddin’ thrown in," said Bindle. "Every woman’s out for an
engagement, an’ yer can leave it to them that it ain’t goin’ to end
there.  Well, ’ere’s for Fulham, an’ my little allotment of ’eaven.
S’long everybody," and Bindle departed, knowing that as Carruthers was
present he would not be required to call a taxi for Sallie.

It was unusual for Bindle to be the first to leave, and we speculated as
to the cause.  It was Sallie who guessed the reason as Bindle had told
her Mrs. Bindle was poorly, having caught "wot Abraham ’ud call a cold
on ’er bosom."




                             *CHAPTER XVI*

                    *THE MOGGRIDGES’ ZEPPELIN NIGHT*


"I’m tired," said Bindle one evening, his cheery look belying his words,
"tired as Gawd must be of ’Earty."  He threw himself into a chair and
fanned himself with a red silk pocket-handkerchief.

"What’s the trouble, J.B.?" asked Dick Little, handing Bindle his
tankard.

Bindle drank deeply and proceeded to light a cigar Windover had handed
him.  Bindle’s taste in tobacco had in the early days of the Night Club
caused us some anxiety.  One night Windover came in and began to sniff
the air suspiciously.

"There’s something burning," he announced. We all made ostentatious
search for the source of the smell.  It was Windover who traced it to
Bindle’s cigar.  Taking it from his hand he had smelt it gingerly and
then returned it to its owner.

"I think," he remarked quite casually, "I should change the brand, J.B.
We cannot allow you to imperil your valuable life.  Your tobacconist has
grossly deceived you.  That is not a cigar, it’s an offence against the
constitution."

"Is it really, sir," said Bindle anxiously as he regarded the offending
weed.  "I thought it ’ad a bit of a bite to it."

Windover had then launched into a lengthy monologue, during which he
traced all the evils of the world, from the Plagues of Egypt to the
Suffrage Agitation, to the use of questionable tobacco.  The upshot had
been that Bindle agreed to allow Windover to advise him in such matters
in future.  That is how it came about that at the Night Club Bindle
smokes shilling cigars, for which he pays Windover at the rate of ten
shillings a hundred, under the impression that they are purchased for
that sum.

I afterwards discovered that the offending smokes were known as
"Sprague’s Fulham Whiffs," one shilling and threepence for ten in a
cardboard box.

"The trouble," remarked Bindle in reply to Dick Little’s question, "is
that people won’t do the right thing.  I jest been to see Mrs. Biggs
wot’s in trouble.  Last week ole Sam Biggs shuts the door an’ window,
turns on the gas, an’ kills ’imself, an’ leaves ’is missus to pay the
gas bill.  It’s annoyed ’er."

"Is she much upset?" enquired Sallie solicitously.

"Somethink awful, miss.  She don’t seem to be able to get ’er voice down
again, it’s got so ’igh tellin’ the neighbours.  I told ’er that it
costs yer money to get rid of most things, from a boil to an ’usband,
an’ Sam ain’t dear at a bit extra on the gas bill."

The sittings of the Night Club invariably began and ended with
conversation.  Before opening the proceedings by calling for the story,
Bindle frequently eases his mind of what was pressing most heavily upon
it.  His utterances are listened to as are those of no one else. If he
be conscious of the fact he does not show it.

He has become a law unto himself.  He is incapable of giving offence,
because there is nothing but good-nature in his mind.

One of our members, Robert Crofton, a little doctor man, has a most
extraordinary laugh, which he seems unable to control.  It is something
of a cackle punctuated by a quick indrawing of breath.  One night after
listening attentively to this strange manifestation of mirth, Bindle
remarked with great seriousness to Windover:

"No one didn’t ought to make that noise without followin’ it up with an
egg."

From that date Crofton was known as "the Hen."

It took considerable argument before Bindle would agree to the inclusion
in this volume of the story of how Mr. Moggridge was cured of his
infatuation for Zeppelins.



                                   I


Mr. Josiah Moggridge was haunted by Zeppelins!  It is true that he had
not seen one, had never even heard a bomb explode, or a gun fired in
anger; still he was obsessed with the idea of the "Zeppelin Menace."  He
read every article and paragraph dealing with the subject in all the
newspapers and magazines he came across.  His children jackalled
industriously for this food for their parent.  If Dorothy, who was as
pretty as she was romantic, arrived home late, her olive-branch would be
some story or article about Zeppelins.  If Alan, who was sixteen and
endowed with imagination, got into a scrape, it was a Zeppelin "rumour"
that got him out of it.

Mr. Moggridge journeyed far and near in search of the destruction caused
by these air monsters.  Had the British public known what Mr. Moggridge
knew "for a fact," the war would have collapsed suddenly.  No nation
could be expected to stand up against the "frightfulness" that was to
come, according to Mr. Moggridge.  In regard to Zeppelins the German
people themselves were sceptics compared with Mr. Moggridge.

The slightest hint or rumour of a Zeppelin raid would send him off
hot-foot in search of the ruin and desolation spread by these accursed
contrivances.  The Moggridge girls came in for many delightful
excursions in consequence, for Mr. Moggridge was never happy unless he
had about him some of his numerous progeny. If Irene wanted to see the
daffydowndillies in Kew Gardens, it seemed almost an interposition of
providence that she should hear there had been a Zeppelin raid near
Richmond.  In justice to her it must be admitted that she would
discredit the rumour; but nothing, not even an Act of Parliament, could
turn Mr. Moggridge from the pursuit of his hobby.

No amount of discouragement seemed to affect him.  If he drew a blank at
Balham, he would set out for Stratford with undiminished ardour. Should
Holloway fail him, then Streatham would present the scene of desolation
he dreaded, yet sought so assiduously.  "Man never is but always to be
blest," might have been the motto of Josiah Moggridge.

Mrs. Moggridge was the type of woman who regards her husband as
something between a god and a hero.  To Mr. Moggridge she herself was
always "Mother," and as if in justification of the term, she had
presented him with one son, and eight daughters, whose ages ranged from
eleven to twenty-two.  Having done this Mrs. Moggridge subsided into
oblivion.  She had done her "bit," to use the expression of a later
generation.

Her attitude towards life was that of a hen that has reached the
dazzling heights of having produced from thirteen eggs thirteen pullets.
She was a comfortable body, as devoid of imagination as an ostrich.  Her
interests were suburban, her name was Emma, and her waist measurement
thirty-eight inches on Sundays and forty-two inches during the rest of
the week.

Mr. Moggridge was forever on the alert for the detonation of bombs and
the boom of anti-aircraft guns.  At night he would listen earnestly for
the sound of the trains that passed at the bottom of the Moggridge
garden. If the intervals between the dull rumblings seemed too
prolonged, he would start up and exclaim, "I believe they’ve stopped,"
which as everybody knows meant Zeppelins.

One night after the first Zeppelin raid (it is not permitted by the
Defence of the Realm Act to say where or when this occurred, or, for
that matter, in what part of the United Kingdom the Moggridges resided),
Patricia Moggridge, a petite brunette of twenty, all the Moggridge girls
were pretty, enquired, "What shall we do, dad, if Zeppelins come to
Cedar Avenue?"

Mr. Moggridge had sat up in sudden alarm. Here was he responsible for
the protection of a family, yet he had taken no steps to ensure its
safety.  Patricia’s remark set him thinking deeply.  He loved his
family, and his family adored him.  They regarded him as a child that
has to be humoured, rather than a parent who has to be feared.  They
obeyed him because they wished to see him happy, and Mr. Moggridge’s
conception of manhood was that "an Englishman’s home is his castle."

He was short and round and fussy, as full of interest as a robin, as
explosive as a bomb; but with eyes that smiled and a nature that would
have warmed an ice-box.  A crisis or a misadventure excited him almost
to the point of frenzy.  Starting for the annual holiday drove him
nearly insane with worry lest someone or something be left behind, or
they lose the train.

When Patricia asked her innocent question she was sitting on her
father’s knee "nuzzling his whiskers," as she called it, Mr. Moggridge
wore side whiskers and a clean shaven upper lip and chin, she was
unaware of what would grow out of her question.

Mr. Moggridge read industriously the advice tendered by various
newspapers as to what should be done during a Zeppelin raid.  He read
with the seriousness of a man who knows that salvation lies somewhere in
the columns of the Press.

One night he gathered together the whole of his family in the
drawing-room, including the two maids and the cook, and instructed all
in what should be done at the sound of the first gun.  He made many
references to a sheaf of notes and newspaper-cuttings he had before him,
which seemed to get terribly mixed.  He then enquired if everyone
understood; but the half-hearted chorus of "Yeses" that answered him was
unconvincing.

"Cook," he said sternly, "what would you do if Zeppelins came?"

"Please, sir, faint," was the reply.

The interrogation of other members of his household convinced him that a
further exposition was necessary.

Stripped of their verbal adornments, Mr. Moggridge’s instructions were
that on the first intimation that Zeppelins were at hand, the whole
household was to make for the basement.

Half-an-hour’s further "instruction" left everyone still more hopelessly
befogged as to what was expected of them.  The gist of Mr. Moggridge’s
instructions was:


(1) That everyone should make for the cellar without bothering about
dressing.

(2) That every bath, portable or fixed, tub, jug, or other vessel was
each night to be filled with water, and placed on the landings as a
protection against incendiary bombs.

(3) That under no circumstances was any light to be turned on (as a
precaution Mr. Moggridge turned off the electric light each night) or
candle to be lit.


"But how shall we find our way downstairs?" enquired Allan, his son and
heir.

"You’ll feel it, my boy," replied his father, unconsciously prophetic.

A few days later Mr. Moggridge read of the intention of the Germans to
use gas-bombs, and he immediately purchased at Harridges Stores fourteen
"Protective Face Masks."  That night he returned home feeling that he
had saved fourteen lives, including his own.

After dinner the household was once more summoned to the drawing-room,
where Mr. Moggridge distributed the gas-masks, and gave a short lecture
upon how they were to be worn. When he illustrated his instructions by
donning a mask, the younger of the two maids giggled uncontrollably.

Mr. Moggridge glared at her volcanically. "Girl!" he thundered, "do you
know that I am trying to save your life."

Whereat the girl burst into tears.

Mr. Moggridge rustled about among his notes anxiously, whilst his
hearers watched him with breathless interest.  He soon saw that no help
was to be expected from the Press, which appeared to be divided into two
camps.  There was the bomb theory and the gas theory, the one demanding
descent and the other ascent.

Mr. Moggridge was nonplussed and referred to the gas-bomb article.
Suppose explosive bombs were dropped when they were prepared for
gas-bombs and conversely?  Suddenly he had an inspiration.

"I’ve got it!" he shouted, as he danced excitedly from one foot to the
other.  "If you smell gas you go up to the attics: if you——"

"But how shall we know it’s gas unless we know what it smells like?"
questioned Alan.

Mr. Moggridge looked at his only son as at someone who had asked him the
riddle of the universe.  Alan was notorious for the embarrassing nature
of his questions.

"I shall know how to find that out," was all that Mr. Moggridge could
reply, and Alan felt that he had obtained a tactical victory.

"In the meantime, if you smell anything you’ve never smelt before you’ll
know it’s gas."

This seemed to satisfy everyone.  Nevertheless, Mr. Moggridge made
industrious enquiry as to what gas really smelt like.  No one knew; but
many theories as to the exact odour were advanced, ranging from vinegar
to sewage.  At last Mr. Moggridge heard of a man who had actually been
gassed.  Eagerly he made a pilgrimage to the district in which the hero
resided and as eagerly put his question.

"Wot’s gas smell like?" remarked the warrior, whose moustache was as yet
reluctant down upon his upper lip.  "It beats the smell of army cheese
’ollow, an’ that’s the truth."

And with this Mr. Moggridge had to rest content.  In the silent watches
of the night, many a member of the Moggridge household would awaken
suddenly and sniff expectantly for "a strange odour rather like strong
cheese," Mr. Moggridge’s paraphrase of the soldier’s words.

Mr. Moggridge decided to sleep at the top of the house—alone.  He had
moved up there and sent down two of the girls to sleep with their
mother, because he regarded the upper rooms as the most dangerous, and
he was not lacking in courage.  He regarded it as his mission in life to
protect those who looked to him for protection.  In his mind’s eye, Mr.
Moggridge saw himself the saviour of thirteen lives, possibly fourteen
if he had not to give up his own in the attempt.

Each night it was his self-imposed task to examine "the defences" as his
daughter, Mollie, called them.  On every landing and outside every door
were baths, wash-tubs, basins, pails and other vessels containing water.
Even when the lights were on, it was a matter of some delicacy to thread
one’s way through these watery entanglements.  The servants grumbled at
the additional work involved; but Mr. Moggridge had silenced them with
"a Zeppelin bonus," as he called it, and furthermore he had mobilised
his whole family to assist in this work of protection against fire.

"When I’ve saved your worthless lives, you’ll be grateful perhaps," he
had exploded, and it had taken "Mother" all the next morning to explain
to her domestic staff that "valuable" and not "worthless" was the
adjective her husband had used.

Outside his own bedroom-door Mr. Moggridge had placed the large dinner
gong on which to sound the alarm, and at the head of the stairs an
enormous tin-bath full of water.  It was so placed that the slightest
push would send bath and contents streaming down the stairs. Mr.
Moggridge argued that no fire could live in such a deluge.

In time Mr. Moggridge came to regard himself as something between a
Sergeant O’Leary and the Roman Sentry, with a leaning towards the
sentry; for there would be no reward for him.  He saw his family safe
and sound, whilst his neighbours lay maimed and dying.

"We are at war, my dears," he would inform his family, "and war is
different from peace," and there were none who felt they could question
this profound truth.



                                  *II*


The night of November 5th was bleak and cold and misty, and as Mr.
Moggridge prepared for the night he shivered, and prayed that no
Zeppelins might come.  He disliked the cold intensely, and pictured to
himself the unpleasantness of sitting for hours in a damp cellar with
very few clothes on.  Sleep always came readily to Mr. Moggridge’s
eye-lids, and within five minutes of extinguishing the light and
slipping into bed, his heavy breathing announced that he was in the land
of wonder that knows and yet does not know a Zeppelin.

How long he had slept Mr. Moggridge had no idea; but he was awakened by
what he afterwards described as "a terrific explosion" just beneath his
window.

"At last!" was his mental comment as he sprang out of bed, sniffing the
air like a cat that smells fish.  He rushed to the window and looked
out.  There were no search lights to be seen; but another explosion,
apparently in his own garden sent him bounding from the window to the
door.  Seizing the handle he tore it open and, grasping the
leather-headed hammer, began to pound the dinner-gong as if his
salvation depended upon his efforts.  "Zeppelins," he yelled,
"Zeppelins."  There were sounds of doors opening, a babel of voices, a
scream and then a soft-padded rush upstairs.  "Don’t come up here!  Go
down to the cellar," he shouted and, seizing the gong, he dashed for the
stairs.  There was another report, and an "Oh my God!" from the cook,
followed by a peal of hysterical laughter from the younger of the maids.

There was a yelp, a swiiiiiish of rushing water, a pandemonium of
feminine shrieks, a tremendous clatter of metal and crockery, as bath
caught pail, and pail overset jug to add to the torrent that rushed down
the staircase like a flood.  Mr. Moggridge had stumbled against the big
bath!

The avalanche caught the Moggridges in the rear, shriek followed
agonised shriek, as the cold water struck the slightly clad bodies, the
shrieks crystallised into yells of anguish as the baths, jugs and bowls
came thundering after the water.  It seemed the object of animate and
inanimate alike to get to the ground floor first.  At each landing there
was a momentary pause, just as a wave will poise itself before crashing
forward, then more crashes and shrieks and groans.  All had lost their
foothold, and were inextricably mixed up with baths and bits of
crockery.  At last the torrent reached the hall, where it lay gasping
and choking, wondering if this were death or the after punishment.

"My God!" shrieked Mr. Moggridge.  "Gas!"

He had forgotten his mask.

He struggled to rise, but the cook and half a foot-bath were firmly
fixed upon his person. He could merely lie and sniff—and pray.

The air was foul with an acrid smell that seemed to have permeated
everything.  To the Moggridges, heaped on the cold hall-tiles, saturated
and bruised, it carried a more conclusive proof of danger than the
buffeting received in the dash downstairs.  It was Gas! Gas!!  Gas!!!
They would be ruined for life, even if they escaped death.

Above the wails of the Moggridges and their retainers could be heard
explosion after explosion from without.  Policemen’s whistles were
singing their raucous, terrifying note.  A female voice was heard
laughing and sobbing wildly—the cook was in hysterics, whilst at last
from an inextricable heap of human limbs and bodies rose the courageous
voice of Mr. Moggridge.

"Keep cool, keep calm," he besought.  "You are quite safe here.  You’ve
got your gas masks. We——"

He was interrupted by a heavy and imperious pounding upon the knocker,
and a continuous sounding of the spring bell.  A disc of light could be
seen through the stained-glass windows of the hall.  From the shivering
heap there was no movement to open the door, nothing but cries and sobs
and moans.  The pounding continued, punctuated by occasional explosions
from without.  It was Alan who at last crept out of the corner from
which he had watched the avalanche of his family and its servitors, and
went to the door, unbolting it and admitting what appeared to be two
rays of light.  They ferreted about until they fell on the heap of
Moggridges.

Alan’s first thought had been to turn on the electric light at the
meter.  He now switched on the hall lights, discovering two policemen
and two special constables, who in turn discovered Mr. Moggridge.  He
had wriggled into a sitting posture, where he remained grasping the
dinner gong, as Nero might have grasped his instrument when disaster
overtook Rome, surrounded and held down by his progeny.

"Oh, turn off the light, do, please!" pleaded a voice, and there was a
chorus of cries and endeavours to make scanty draperies cover opulent
limbs; but the water had done its work, and one of the policemen,
remembering that he had sisters, turned his head aside, and the
"specials," for the first time since they had been enrolled, decided
that it wasn’t so lacking in incident after all, whilst owners and
possessors of Moggridge limbs sought to hide them beneath other
Moggridge limbs, and those who could not do so hid their faces.



                                 *III*


"You done fine!"  A happy grin spread itself over the features of the
speaker, a little man with a red nose, a green baize apron and a blue
and white cricket cap, much the worse for wear.  "You done fine," he
repeated, and then as if to himself, "Yes, them big crackers do make an
’ell of a row."  And Joseph Bindle looked at Alan Moggridge approvingly.

"Wasn’t it lucky I went to help Aunt Mary move?  If I hadn’t I shouldn’t
have seen you and——"

"And there wouldn’t a been no Zeppelin raid round your way.  Well you
’ave to thank Dr. Little for the stuff wot made ’em think it was
gas-bombs!  Fancy them runnin’ in your old dad for lettin’ off
fireworks.  So long, sonny," and with a nod and a grin Bindle passed on,
wondering if Mrs. Bindle had stewed-steak and onions for supper.


"Oh!  Mr. Bindle!" expostulated Sallie when the story came to an end.
Then after a pause she added, "Don’t you think it was a little cruel?"

There was concern upon Bindle’s face: he was troubled that Sallie should
criticise him. He looked from her to me, as if desirous that I should
share some of the responsibility.  It was the first time I had ever seen
Bindle abashed.  The dear chap is in reality as tender-hearted as a
woman, and it was evident that, for the first time, he saw things as
they appeared to Sallie.

"Well, miss," he said at last.  "I ’adn’t thought of it that way.  I’m
sorry for them gals," but in spite of himself the flicker of a grin
passed across his features.  "I was only thinkin’ o’ the old man wot
didn’t ought to be allowed to go about scarin’ people out o’ their
senses.  I’m sorry, miss," and Bindle really was sorry.  For the rest of
the evening it was easy to see that he regarded himself as in disgrace.
The way in which his eyes kept wandering to where Sallie was sitting,
reminded me of a dog that has been scolded, and watches wistfully for
the sign that shall tell him all is forgiven.

When Bindle returned from seeing Sallie into her taxi, I could see that
the cloud had been brushed aside; for he was once more his old jovial
self.

J.B. is a strange creature, as mischievous as a monkey; but as lovable
as—well, as a man who is white all through, and as incapable of hurting
the helpless as of harming the innocent. He has probably never heard of
the Public School Spirit; yet it has not much to teach him about playing
the game.




                             *CHAPTER XVII*

                         *SALLIE AT THE WHEEL*


It is one of Windover’s pet theories that if a man will but be natural,
he can go anywhere and do anything.  He claims that the Public School
benefits a man not by what it bestows; but rather by what it destroys.

"It clips the ragged edges of a man’s ego," he would remark, "and
teaches him that as an entity he has no place in the universe."
Windover will talk for hours on this subject. Simplicity of nature and
the faculty of adapting himself to any environment are, according to
him, the ideal results the Public Schools achieve.

In all probability Bindle never had any ragged edges to his ego.
Simple-minded and large-hearted, as much at home with the denizens of
Mayfair as the inhabitants of Hounsditch, he seems never at a loss.  He
is always just Bindle, and that is why everyone seems instinctively to
like him.  He always does the right thing, because he knows no wrong
thing to do.  Unlike Angell Herald, he is not burdened with two distinct
sets of "manners."  Bindle would discuss regicides with Hamlet, or noses
with a Cyrano de Bergerac with entire unconsciousness of giving offence.
He is one thing to all men, as Dare once told him, whereat Bindle
remarked, "But don’t forget the ladies, sir."

One Sunday evening, just as the Club was breaking up, Sallie remarked to
Bindle, "Next Saturday, Mr. Bindle, you must get a whole day’s holiday
and come with me for a pic-nic."

"Me, miss?" enquired the astonished Bindle. "Me an’ you at a pic-nic.
Well I’m blessed."

Bindle was taken by surprise.  He looked from Sallie to Windover and
then to me, as if seeking an explanation of why Sallie should invite
him.

"Just we four," Sallie went on in that inimitable way of hers, which
would make purgatory a paradise.  "We’ll take the car and luncheon and
tea-baskets.  It will be splendid.  You will come Mr. Bindle, won’t
you?"  Sallie looked at him with sparkling eyes.

"Come, miss?" cried Bindle.  "Come?  I’ll come if it costs me Mrs. B.’s
love.  You did say a motor car, miss?" he enquired anxiously, and
Sallie’s assurance that she had, seemed all that was necessary to
complete his happiness.

That evening Bindle and I left Dick Little’s flat together.  For some
time we walked along in silence, each engaged with his own thoughts.
Suddenly Bindle broke the silence.

"Wot did I ought to wear, sir?" he enquired. There was a look of anxiety
on his face, and unusual corrugations on his forehead.

"Well, J.B.," I remarked, "you’d look nice in muslin with a picture
hat."  His reproachful look, however, showed me that I had made a
mistake.

"I can’t wear them Oxford togs with ’er," he remarked.

It should be explained that when Bindle went to Oxford, impersonating
the millionaire uncle of an unpopular undergraduate, he had been fitted
out with a wardrobe to suit the part. Included in it were a loud black
and white check suit, a white waistcoat, a Homburg hat with a puggaree,
a red necktie and a cane heavily adorned with yellow metal.
Involuntarily I shuddered at the thought of what Sallie would suffer if
Bindle turned up in such a costume.

"No," I said with great seriousness, "they’re not quite suited to
motoring.  You must get a new rig out, J.B.," I added.

Still Bindle’s face did not clear, and I guessed that it was a question
of finance.

I proffered assistance; but that did not help matters.  It seemed to
make things worse: Bindle is very independent.  For some time we walked
along in silence.  Suddenly I had an inspiration.

"I’ll sell one of your yarns to an unsuspecting editor," I said, "and
we’ll share the plunder. I’ll advance you something on account of your
share."

In a second the clouds disappeared.

"You’re sure it’ll earn enough?" he enquired suspiciously.

I proceed to swear that it would in a manner that would have made Lars
Porsena envious. I was interrupted by a taxi pulling up with a grind
just behind, and Windover jumped out, paid the man and joined us.

"I quite forget," Windover began.  "Sallie told me to arrange to meet at
Putney Town Station, she’ll run the car through and pick us up there."

Bindle explained to Windover that the question of his wardrobe had been
under discussion and the upshot was that Windover, who is a supreme
artist in the matter of clothes, undertook to see Bindle properly turned
out.


On Saturday morning I was at the appointed place a few minutes before
nine, I looked round for Bindle, and then forgot him in watching the
struggles of a horse to drag a heavily-laden coal-cart up the rise where
the High Street passes over the railway.

The level reached, the carter drew up to the curb where the horse stood
quivering and panting, bathed in sweat.  Suddenly I became aware that
one of the men I had observed pushing behind the cart was Bindle; but
such a Bindle. No wonder I had at first failed to recognise a
blue-suited, brown-booted, dark-tied Bindle. Everything about him was
the perfection of fit and cut, from his simple crook cane to his
wash-leather gloves.  Most wonderful of all, Bindle carried his clothes
as if accustomed to them every day of the week.

With perfect gravity he drew off his right glove before shaking hands.

"D’yer like it, sir?"

I drew a sigh of relief.  The vernacular was unchanged; it was still the
same Bindle.

"J.B.," I said gravely, "I’ve never seen a better dressed man in my
life.  It’s an entire metamorphosis.";

"There you’re sort o’ wrong, sir.  It’s ’is Lordship.  D’yer think
she’ll like it, sir?" he enquired anxiously.

By "she" I knew he meant Sallie.

"Sure of it," I replied with confidence. Bindle seemed reassured.
Suddenly his eye caught the black line across the palm of his right
glove.

"Look wot I done."  He held out the glove for my inspection as a child
might a torn pinafore.  "Wot’ll she think?"  There was anxiety in his
voice.

"She’ll be rather pleased when I tell her how it happened," I replied,
at which his face cleared.

"I wanted a red tie to sort o’ give it a bite; but ’e wouldn’t ’ave it,
so ’ere I am," and Bindle drew on his right glove once more.

"Tell me all about it," I urged.  "Those clothes were made in the
West-End, I swear."

"Got it first time, sir," he remarked, as he drew from his breast-pocket
a suspicious-looking cigar with an enormous red and gold band round its
middle.

"Let me cut it for you," I broke in hastily, seizing the weed without
waiting for his acquiescence.  That band would have killed Sallie, so I
ripped it off.  As I did so Bindle made a movement as if to stop me, but
he said nothing.  As I raised my eyes from the operation, I saw his
regretful gaze fixed upon the band lying on the pavement, a shameless
splash of crimson and of gold.

Bindle lighted his cigar and I manoeuvred to get to windward of him.

"You was talkin’ about these ’ere duds, sir," remarked Bindle puffing
contentedly at what made me pray for Windover’s swift arrival: I do not
carry cigars.  "You was right, sir."

"In what?" I queried.

"They came from Savile Row, from ’is Lordship’s own snips.  You should a
seen ’is face when ’is Lordship said ’e was out for reach-me-downs for
yours truly."

It was easy to visualise the scene.  Windover easy, courteous,
matter-of-fact.  His tailor staggered, yet striving to disguise his
astonishment under a veneer of urbanity and "yes-my-lords."  Windover is
the most perfectly bred creature I have ever met.  If he were to order
riding breeches for a camel, he would do so in such a way that no one
would think of laughing, or even regarding it as strange.

"Took me round ’isself everywhere," continued Bindle.  "We got this ’at
in Piccadilly, these boots an’ gloves in Bond Street, also the tie."
Bindle looked round cautiously and then bending a little closer he
confided, "I’m silk underneath!"  He leaned back upon his stick to see
the effect.  I smiled.  "Wi’ funny things round me legs to keep me socks
up," and he grinned joyously at the thought of his own splendour.

"What did Mrs. Bindle say?" I enquired.

"’Ush, sir, ’ush!  She said about every think she could think of, and a
good many things she didn’t ought to know.  She talked about Mammon,
keepin’ ’oly the Sabbath day, about Abraham’s bosom.  Jest fancy a woman
married to a man like me a-talkin’ about another cove’s bosom.  Why
can’t she say chest and be respectable?"

"And what did you say?" I queried.

"Oh!" replied Bindle, "I jest asked ’er wot ole Abraham did when he got
a chill, an’ if ’e called it a cold on ’is bosom?"

I laughed, but Bindle continued seriously, "She arst me where I’d be if
the end of the world was to come sudden like."

Scenting a good rejoinder I enquired what he had said.

"I told ’er to look in the saloon-bar first, an’ if I wasn’t there to
try the bottle-an’-jug department.  I come away then.  Mrs. B.’s a rummy
sort o’ send-off for an ’oliday," he soliloquised.

After a pause he added, "I’d like to ’ave jest a peep at ’eaven to see
if Gawd is really like wot Mrs. B. says.  Seems to me ’e must be like
one o’ them quick-change coves I seen at the Granville.  Ole
War-an-Whiskers [the Kayser] says ’E ’elps the Germans to kill kids an’
’ack women about, Mrs. B. says ’e’s goin’ to give me pickles when I die,
an ole ’Earty seems to think ’E’s collectin’ ’oly greengrocers.  There
was one parson chap wot told me that ’E was kind an’ just, with eyes wot
smiled.  I don’t see ’ow ’e can be the ole bloomin’ lot cause——"

Bindle suddenly broke off, straightened himself, lifted his hat and
proceeded to pull off his glove.  I turned and saw Sallie bringing her
"Mercedes" along at a thumping pace. She bore in towards us and brought
the car up in a workmanlike manner.  Windover, who was seated behind
her, jumped out.

"Cheer-o!" said Bindle.

"Cheer-o!" replied Windover.  Probably it was the first time in his life
that he had ever used the expression: he is inclined to be a purist.

"You been stealin’ a march on us, sir," said Bindle.

"I was literally picked out of my taxi," explained Windover, "hardly
given time to pay the man, I should say over-pay the man, I had
forgotten the war."

I saw from the look in Sallie’s eyes that she was pleased with Bindle’s
appearance.

"Jump in," she said.  Sallie is always brisk and business-like when
running "Mercy," as she calls her car.

"You must sit by me, Mr. Bindle."

Bindle’s cup of happiness was now full to overflowing.  When he took his
seat beside Sallie I caught his eye.  In it was a look of triumph.  It
said clearly, "Jest fancy ’er wantin’ me when she could have a lord."

As we swung up Putney hill, Windover told me of his experiences in
clothing Bindle.  At my particular request he also gave me an
approximate idea of the sum involved.  It was worthy both of Windover
and the West End.

"But my dear Windover," I expostulated, "was silk underwear absolutely
necessary for this pic-nic?"

Windover turned upon me a pair of reproachful eyes.  "Phillips is
sensitive," he remarked, "and if he knew that any of his ’creations’
were put over anything but silk, he would close my account."

With that I had to rest content.  Personally I had seen no need to take
Bindle to Phillips at all; but Windover is an artist, he "composes" his
wearing-apparel as a painter composes a picture, or a poet a sonnet.  If
providence be discriminating it will punish Windover in the next world
for his misdemeanours in this by making him wear odd socks, or a hard
hat with a morning coat.  I told him so.

As we talked I noticed Windover snuffing the air like a hound.  He
looked at me, then moved the rug to see if there were anything at the
bottom of the car.  Finally he smelt the rug, still he seemed
dissatisfied, continuing to turn his head from side to side sniffing, as
if endeavouring to trace some evil smell.  Finally his eyes fixed
themselves on Bindle sitting complacently smoking his cigar.

"Good God!" he muttered as he screwed his eye-glass into his eye.  "I
thought it was a dead dog.  He must have run out of ’coronels.’" I heard
him mutter.

"You can’t raise a man from Fulham to Curzon Street in a few hours,
Windover," I remarked reproachfully.  "You taught Bindle to remove his
glove before shaking hands, and you also gave him very creditable
instructions in how to lift his hat so as not to look like a third rate
actor in a Restoration melodrama; but you omitted to instruct him in the
choice of cigars."

Windover has as delicate a taste in tobacco as in women; in other words
he is extremely fastidious.  I watched him as he turned the problem over
in his mind.  I could follow his train of thought.  It was obviously
impossible to sit inhaling the fumes of Bindle’s cigar.  It was
unthinkable again to tell the dear chap it was nothing short of a
pollution.  In all probability it was a threepenny cigar, the extra
penny being in honour of the occasion.  Therefore some other way out of
the difficulty must be devised.  I, had every confidence in Windover and
his sense of delicacy.  His eyeglass dropped from his eye, a sure sign
that the strain of deep-thinking was past.

Taking his cigar case from his pocket, he tapped Bindle on the shoulder
and whispered to him.  Bindle gave a quick look at Sallie,
surreptitiously threw away his cigar and accepted one proffered by
Windover, the end of which he promptly bit off.  Windover sank back into
his seat with a sigh, and I saw Bindle turn to Sallie, who changed speed
and put on the brakes.  He then calmly proceeded to light his new cigar,
quite unconscious that, in asking her to stop a car going at nearly
forty miles an hour, he had transgressed against one of the "Thou shalt
nots" of motoring.

"How did you do it?" I asked Windover.

"I told him that Sallie would be mortally offended if she knew he was
smoking one of his own cigars, it was her pic-nic and she had given me
some cigars with which to keep him supplied."

Tactful Windover.

Lunch we had in a field well off the main road.  Bindle’s face was a
study as we unpacked the luncheon hamper.  Sallie is very thorough, and
her pic-nic appointments are the most perfect I have ever encountered,
from the folding legless table to the dainty salt-spoons. For once
Bindle was silent; but his eyes were busy.  When the champagne appeared
with the ice and the ice-cream cooler, his emotions overcame him.  I
heard him mutter to himself, "Well I’m blowed."

During the meal the rest of us talked; but Bindle said little.

"You’re very quiet, Mr. Bindle," said Sallie at last, smiling.

"I’m too ’appy to talk, miss," said Bindle with unusual gravity, and
there was a look in his eyes that was more eloquent than his words. "You
see, miss, you can do this any day yer likes, and yer gets sort o’ used
to it; but I don’t suppose I shall ever do it again, and I want to make
sure that I’m enjoyin’ every bit of it.  I can talk any time."

Sallie turned her head quickly, and I could see that her eyes were
moist.  Bindle’s remark was not without its pathos.

After lunch Sallie took Bindle off for a walk, whilst Windover and I
stayed by the car. During the half hour they were absent, only one
remark was made as we sat smoking, and that was by Windover.

"I have come to regard Bindle as a social antiseptic," he said.

I knew it had taken Windover since lunch to arrive at this definition.

As the hours sped, Bindle remained silent and Sallie was content to
devote herself to the car.  Snug in one of Carruthers’ motor coats,
Bindle devoured with his eyes everything he saw; but what a changed
Bindle.  There was no cracking jokes, or passing remarks with
passers-by.  He did not even look at a public-house.  Instinctively he
had adapted himself to his environment.

"I think he’s the most perfect gentle-person I’ve met," Sallie had once
said.

After dinner Bindle became more conversational. It was an evening when
the silence could be heard.  In the distance was an occasional moan of a
train, or the bark of a dog; but nothing else.  The sky was clear, the
sun was spilling itself in deep gold upon the landscape.  The dinner had
been good, and within us all was a feeling of content.

"How is Mrs. Bindle?" enquired Sallie of Bindle.

"Oh jest ordinary like, miss.  ’Er soul still gives ’er a lot o’
trouble."

"Don’t you think," said Sallie with that smile of hers which seemed to
disarm her remark of the criticism it contained, "that you sometimes
tease her too much?"

Bindle’s grin faded.  "I been thinkin’ that too, miss," he said
seriously.  "But some’ow the things seem to come out, an’ I don’t mean
’er no ’arm really, miss."

"I’m sure you don’t," Sallie hastened to say.

"Well, take last night, for instance," said Bindle.  "We was talkin’
about the German Corpse Factory.  I’d been readin’ to ’er from the paper
’ow they turned the poor devils wot ’ad died doin’ their bit to kill our
chaps into marjarine, candles, oils for motor-cars, and that sort o’
stuff.  We was ’aving supper an’ I ’appens to say quite innocent like:
’If you an’ me was ’Uns, Lizzie and poor ole ’Earty ’ad died for ’is
country, a thing wot ’Earty never will do if ’e can ’elp it, we might be
a’spreadin’ of ’im on this ’ere bread, and that there candle might be a
bit of ’Earty an’ us not knowin’ it.’  Well, there ain’t much ’arm in
that miss, is there?  Yet she said I’d spoilt ’er supper, an’ she pushed
the salmon away from ’er an’ said I wasn’t fit to live with, an’ that
I’d got a dirty mind."

"J.B.," said Windover.  "My sympathies are entirely with Mrs. Bindle.
Your remark was extremely inappropriate."

Bindle looked round him from one to another. "Well, sir," he
expostulated, "wasn’t I right?"

"It was not a question of right, J.B.," said Windover, with mock
severity.  "It was a question of tact."

"Tack!" said Bindle.  "’Adn’t I taken ’ome a tin of salmon, and when the
breeze started didn’t I whistle ’er favourite ’ymn _Gospel Bells_?  Look
’ere, sir, I ain’t got much to learn in the way of tack wi’ women."

"You see," said Sallie gently, "a remark like that sometimes turns
people against their food."

"Yes, miss," said Bindle, "that may be; but if you’re a German you never
know what you’re spreadin’ on your bread.  It may be your uncle, or it
may be somebody else’s uncle, an’ that’s worse still."

"Mr. Bindle," cried Sallie, "if you say another word about anything so
horrible I shall—I shall—well, I shall drive on and leave you alone in
the field."

"I’m sorry, miss," said Bindle with great seriousness.  "I didn’t know
that you—that you——"

"That I was like Mrs. Bindle," interpolated Sallie.

"Good Lord! miss, you ain’t like ’er."

"Well, let’s change the subject," said Sallie smiling, "or I shan’t be
able to eat for a week."

"But it didn’t really spoil ’er supper, miss," said Bindle earnestly.
"She finished the salmon."

For some time we continued to smoke in silence.

"Funny thing, religion," remarked Bindle at last, a propos of nothing;
"it seems to get different people different ways.  Now ’Earty and Mrs.
B., they seem to think Gawd is near ’em in that smelly little chapel o’
theirs; as for me this is what makes me think o’ Gawd."  And Bindle
waved the hand holding his cigar to embrace everything about us.

"But why," enquired Windover wickedly, "should a cigar make you feel
nearer to God?"

Bindle turned to Windover and looked him straight in the eyes.

"I wasn’t jokin’, sir," he said simply.

"I beg your pardon, J.B.," and there was a something in Windover’s tone
which showed that he regarded the reproof as merited.

"If I was startin’ a religion," continued Bindle, "I’d ’ave people go
out in the country, an’ kneel down in a field, an’ look up at the sky
when the sun was shinin’.  They’d get a better idea o’ Gawd than wot
’Earty and Mrs. B.’s got."

"You’re a sun-worshipper then," said Sallie.

"Jest fancy anyone who made all this," Bindle’s eyes roamed about him,
"wantin’ to grill a poor cove like me because I ain’t done all the
things I ought to a’ done."

"But," said Sallie, "don’t you think that everybody has their own idea
of God?"

"Yes, miss," said Bindle.  "But they want to ram their own ideas down
everybody else’s throat.  I see in the paper the other day, when we
brought a Zepp. down, that they buried all the poor chaps wot was burnt
together.  They’re ’Uns," he added; "but you can’t ’elp feelin’ sorry
for wot they ’ad to suffer.  They ’ad a clergyman an’ a Catholic priest,
to read the burial service over them.  The papers said the priest was
there in case some of the dead ’Uns was Catholics.  It looks as if a
chap ’adn’t got a chance of goin’ to heaven unless ’e sort of got a
ticket from the parson of ’is own church."

Someone has described Anatole France as "a pagan preoccupied with
Christ."  The same description applies to Joseph Bindle.  He cannot keep
long off the subject of religion, and in all his comments there seems to
be the same instinctive groping for light.

"’Earty reminds me of a cove I used to know wot never seemed to get
thirsty except when ’e saw a pub; well, ’Earty never seems to feel
religious except when ’e sees a chapel, then it sort o’ comes over ’im.
If ’e really feels ’e wants to pray, why can’t ’e kneel down beside ’is
own ’taters.  If there’s a Gawd, ’e’s just as much in a greengrocer’s
shop as in a dirty little tin chapel, that’s wot I says."  Bindle looked
round as if defying contradiction.

"I think you are right," said Sallie; "but you must not forget that Mr.
Hearty does not share your views, any more than you share his. If
religion helps people to do good, it doesn’t much matter when they get
it, or where they get it from."

"Yes, miss, but does it ’elp?  You remember when the Lusitania went
down, well there was a pretty good scrap round Fulham way. One night
they went for a poor chap wot ’ad got a German name, an’ they wrecked
’is shop. They’d jest got ’old o’ ’im, when a big chap comes up wot’s
done time more’n once an’ tells ’em to chuck it.

"’But ’e’s an ’Un,’ yells the crowd.

"’Yus, but there’s only one o’ ’im and there’s ’undreds o’ you,’ says
Bill, an’ as they wouldn’t chuck it Bill let fly, an’ there was a pretty
old mess."

There was silence for a full minute broken at last by Bindle.

"Don’t you think Gawd likes a man to do wot Bill did, miss?" enquired
Bindle ingenuously.

"I am sure he did," said Sallie, "and what did you do?"

"Oh, I got a black eye, an’ Mrs. B. said she was more sure than ever
that ’ell was waitin’ for me.

"Wot does me about religion," continued Bindle after a pause, "is wot
people’ll swallow. There’s Mrs. B. now: she can’t take a pill without a
bucket o’ water an’ about a dozen tries, looks like an ’en ’avin’ a
drink, she does; yet tell ’er it’s religion an’ she’d swallow anythink,
an’ make believe she likes it.  If that whale ’adn’t been religious,
’e’d never ’ave got Jonah down."

Bindle paused and for a few moments watched a trail of white smoke from
a distant train.

"There was a cove somewhere in the bible called ’Fairy.’"

"Pharaoh, King of Egypt," murmured Windover.

"That’s ’im, sir," cried Bindle.  "Well look ’ow they say Gawd treated
’im."

"I’m afraid I’ve forgotten," I said with guile.

"Well," began Bindle, settling himself down for a story, "’E took to
collectin’ Jews, sort o’ got ’old of all there was in the market, same
as them Americans wi’ food.  One day the Jews got a-talkin’ to each
other about ’ome, though I never see a Jew yet wot wanted to get ’ome
when ’e could stay in someone else’s backyard."

Bindle paused to suck vigorously at his cigar, which showed signs of
going out.

"Pharaoh said there wasn’t nothin’ doin’, an’ they couldn’t go.  Though
’ow anyone can want to keep a Jew wot is willin’ to go ’ome does me.

"Then the Jews prayed to Gawd, and ’E made Pharaoh say ’e’d let ’em go.
Then ’E ’ardened Pharaoh’s ’eart an’ started givin’ Pharaoh beans."

"Was it not boils?" murmured Windover, examining the tip of his
cigarette with great intentness.

"Maybe, sir.  Well, first Gawd made Pharaoh agree to let the Jews catch
the next bus, then ’E strafed ’im, ’ardening the poor ole chap’s ’eart
till ’e didn’t know where ’e was. Wot I say is it wasn’t sportin’."

"I’m afraid you cannot judge bible history by Queensberry rules," said
Windover.

"It’s like lettin’ a bird go and then pullin’ it back by a bit o’ string
tied to its leg.  Poor ole Pharaoh couldn’t ’elp ’isself with Gawd
a-’ardenin’ of ’is ’eart.  That’s wot I don’t like."

"Your theology is a trifle unconventional, I fear," said Windover.
"Where did you learn about Pharaoh?"

"Yer can’t live wi’ Mrs. B., sir, without pickin’ up a lot about ’eaven
an’ ’arps an’ things," was the reply.

"Go on, Mr. Bindle," said Sallie.

"Well, miss," proceeded Bindle.  "There’s somethink about visitin’ sins
on children an’ grand-children.  I ’ad that out with ’Earty one night.
’Earty don’t like talkin’ religion wi’ me.  ’E says I ain’t got no
faith."

"What happened?" Sallie enquired.

"Well, I asked ’Earty why Gawd should punish a man for wot ’is father
did."

"’Because,’ says ’Earty, ’’e ’ad an ’ard ’eart, and wouldn’t believe in
Gawd.’

"’Wot ’ud you say, ’Earty,’ I says, ’if the police was to pinch you
’cause your father flitted without ’avin’ paid ’is rent?’  O’ course
’Earty says nothink to that; but mutters that we can’t understand the
ways o’ Gawd.

"Them ain’t the ways of Gawd, it’s the things these chaps says about
’Im.  When you’re strong, yer don’t go knockin’ over things wot can’t
’it back.  I knew a bruiser once, an’ ’e was as gentle as a lamb.  I
seen a chap want ’im to fight, an’ ’e wouldn’t, ’cause ’e was afraid of
’urtin’."

Bindle paused to relight his cigar, then when it was once more in full
blast he continued:

"Then they tells yer to love yer neighbours as yourself.  I’d like ’em
to look out of our window when Sandy ’Iggins an’ ’is missus is scrappin’
in their back-yard.  No," he remarked meditatively, "a religion like
that’s wasted on Fulham."

That is just Bindle, bringing down the divine to the level of men’s
eyes: and raising the earthly to the mountain tops.

It was nearly one o’clock on Sunday morning when the car slid from the
Fulham road into the street that leads to Fenton Street.  When we pulled
up, Bindle slipped out of Carruthers’ overcoat and got down.  As he said
good-night to Sallie we heard him whisper:

"I never ’ad a day like this before, miss."

We continued on our way in silence.  When Sallie dropped me into a
passing taxi, Windover remarked:

"I hope I shall be dead when Democracy discovers all it has been
denied."

I knew he was referring to Bindle’s remark to Sallie.



                                THE END