THE CRUISE OF THE "SCANDAL"

  AND OTHER STORIES


  BY

  VICTOR BRIDGES

  AUTHOR OF "A ROGUE BY COMPULSION,"
  "THE LADY FROM LONG ACRE," ETC.



  G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
  NEW YORK AND LONDON
  The Knickerbocker Press
  1920




  Copyright, 1920
  by
  VICTOR BRIDGES




  To
  COUSIN ROSE




I am indebted to the Editors of _The Red Magazine_, _The Bystander_,
and to Messrs. C. Thomas & Co., for their kind permission to
reproduce portions of this work.

V. B.




PREFACE TO THE AMERICAN EDITION

To offer a volume of short stories to the countrymen of Edgar Allan
Poe and O. Henry is an operation which requires nerve.  According to
my publisher it also requires "a foreword" which I find, after
consultation with the dictionary, is the same thing as a preface.
Now to write a preface to one's own book seems to me about as
embarrassing a task as any author can be asked to undertake.  It is
like standing outside the front door calling the attention of
indifferent passers-by to the more attractive features of one's own
house.  They managed things better in the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries when for a comparative trifle some great artist like John
Dryden was cheerfully prepared to furnish a flattering introduction
to the work of any author on the simple understanding that he was not
expected to read the volume in question.

Not possessing the pen of Dryden, and being additionally handicapped
by the fact that I have read the accompanying stories, I find myself
very much at a loss how to fulfil my publishers' request.  Desperate
situations demand desperate remedies, and I will, therefore, tell the
truth.  I wrote these stories in order to satisfy an inward
craving--not for artistic expression, but for food and drink.  I took
a great deal of trouble over them, and if they are not good they are
at least as good as I could make them.  I should not, however, have
had the audacity to offer them to the American public in book form,
except for the fact that they have sold well and are continuing to
sell well in England.  The most curious phenomena occasionally repeat
themselves, and it is with a wistful hope that something of the sort
may occur in the present case that I venture to launch the _Scandal_
on the time-honoured trail of Columbus.

VICTOR BRIDGES.

  CHELSEA; LONDON,
    January 2, 1920.




CONTENTS

The Cruise of the "_Scandal_"

The Man with the Chin

Tony and His Conscience

"Squarky-Woo"

With the Conquering Turkey

The Later Edition

The Ordeal by Water

The Strange Adventure of Mr. Bates

A Bit of Old Chelsea

The Microbe

Full-back for England

Elsie and the Rooks

The Bronze-haired Girl

His Reverence

The Nadir Bandar




The Cruise of the "_Scandal_"


"One must never forget," said George solemnly, "that rank has its
duties as well as its privileges."  I helped myself to another glass
of champagne.

"What is it you want me to do?" I asked.

"I have no wish to dictate to you in any way," he answered.  "I am
merely offering you my advice.  As your elder brother and the head of
the family, I naturally take an interest in your career."

"Fire ahead," I replied gratefully.  "I'm always ready to listen to
wisdom, especially from a Cabinet Minister."

There was a short pause.

"Well, then," said George, taking a thoughtful pull at his cigar, "my
advice is that you should accept this invitation from Lady Bulstrode,
and make up your mind to settle down."

"To do what?" I asked in dismay.

"To settle down," repeated George, with some firmness.  "If you are
ever going to do anything with your life, it's quite time you
started.  You can't go wandering about the world in this aimless
fashion for ever."

"But it isn't aimless, George," I protested.  "I always have an
excellent reason for going anywhere."

"And may I ask what your 'excellent reason' was for spending the
whole of last year in the wilds of Kashmir?"

"I wanted to shoot a snow leopard," I said.

George shrugged his shoulders.

"Exactly what I mean.  A year of your life thrown away on a frivolous
piece of sport."

"Frivolous!" I echoed.  "There's devilish little frivolity about
shooting a snow leopard.  You try it."

"Thank you," said George coldly.  "I have something better to do with
my time."

It was plain that he was getting a little huffy, and my conscience
pricked me.  With all his seriousness George is an excellent fellow.

"Look here, old son," I said.  "Politics are all very well for
you--you've got a turn for that sort of thing--but what on earth use
should I be?  I can't talk for nuts, and know rather less about the
game than this cigar."

George frowned slightly.

"Politics," he observed, "are not a game, and with regard to your
knowing nothing about them--I suppose you can learn.  You have plenty
of ability if you care to use it.  Sir Henry Martin was telling me
only yesterday that your paper about New Guinea in the _Fortnightly_
was quoted by practically every witness at the Royal Commission.

"Good!" said I.  "That must be why the editor wants me to write him
something about Kashmir."

George nodded his head approvingly.

"I hope you will do so.  Nowadays serious journalism is as good an
introduction to a political career as you could possibly have.
Besides, one would like to feel that all these years of wandering
about have not been entirely wasted."

"Oh, they've not been wasted, George," I said.  "I've enjoyed 'em
enormously.  The only thing is they've rather put me off what people
call civilization.  I can stand a couple of months of London, but I'm
afraid I should get frightfully fed up if I stopped here much longer."

George leaned back in his chair and drummed lightly on the table with
his fingers.

"That," he said, "is due to the fact that you have no steadying
influence in your life.  When you have once settled down to regular
work, you will find that this unfortunate restlessness will
disappear."  Then he paused: "It would be a good thing if you were to
get married," he added.

"What, on my income?" I exclaimed; for I knew George had rather
spacious notions about the family dignity.

George nodded.

"There is no greater help for a rising politician than the right sort
of wife," he remarked oracularly.

"My dear George," I said, "I don't want to grumble about the size of
my income--it has always been ample for my simple tastes--but when it
comes to marriage and living in London and being in Parliament, what
the devil's the good of nine hundred pounds a year?  Why, it wouldn't
keep some women in frocks!"

"There are some women," replied George, "who can very well afford to
pay for their own frocks."

I looked at him with surprise and pain.

"You are not doing anything so immoral as to suggest that I should
marry for money?" I asked.

George carefully removed the ash from his cigar.

"To contract an alliance with a wealthy woman," he observed, "is not
necessarily the same as what you are pleased to call marrying for
money."

"No, George," I said.  "I hope I'm sufficiently English to appreciate
the difference."

"Besides," he went on, disregarding my interruption, "marriage must
always be a matter of give and take.  If a woman brings you a
reasonable dowry, you, on the other hand, are able to offer her one
of the oldest names in the country, an unimpeachable social position,
and--er--a certain measure of youth and good looks."

I picked up one of the Savoy tablespoons, and contemplated my
reflection in its highly polished surface.  I can only conclude that
it did not do me justice.

"That's all very well," I said; "but where does one find these gilded
and easily pleased females?"

Again George's brow contracted.

"There are plenty of charming girls in society, who at the same time
are by no means paupers.  You are sure to find one or two at Grendon,
for instance."

I put down the spoon slowly.

"Oh, ho!" said I.  "Now I begin to understand.  We are expected to
combine business and pleasure this trip--eh?"

"If you mean to suggest that I have been talking the matter over with
Lady Bulstrode," said George coldly, "you are quite mistaken.  At the
same time, I know she would be only too pleased to see you make a
sensible marriage.  She has often asked after you when you've been
away, and when she heard you were in London she insisted on my
sending her your address at once."

"Lady Bulstrode," I said, "is a dear old soul.  I've always been in
love with her ever since I was a kid at Strathmore and she used to
ask me over to Grendon to shoot rabbits.  By the way, who's living at
Strathmore now?"

George looked at me a little suspiciously.  I think he believed me
guilty of trying to change the conversation.

"There's no one there at present," he replied, "except old Donald
Ross and his wife.  I want to sell the place if I can; it's no good
to us."

"Oh, don't sell it," I protested.  "It's the only one of our numerous
family mansions I could ever stand."  Then I paused.  "I left a boat
there last time I was in England," I added.  "I wonder what's
happened to it?"

"I should imagine it was there still," replied George.

I laughed, and finished my champagne.

"I wasn't suggesting you'd pawned it, George," I said.

A sense of humour not being my brother's strong point, this little
pleasantry fell on stony ground.

"Aren't we wandering rather from the point?" he asked.

"Not a bit," I said, with some cheerfulness.  "I was just thinking
that if I'm booked to go to Grendon in ten days' time it's highly
necessary that I should have a short holiday first.  A smart country
house-party bang on top of two months of London would just about
finish me."

"Well?" said George, raising his eyebrows.

"Well, that's why I inquired about the boat," I finished.  "I could
just put in a week's sailing nicely, and write my paper for the
_Fortnightly_ at the same time."

George looked at me with a kind of pitying interest.

"Am I to understand that you intend sailing about the coast of
Scotland for a week by yourself?"

I nodded.

"A certain amount of solitude," I observed, "is necessary for the
production of great literature."

George shrugged his shoulders.

"I suppose you are serious.  Personally I should find it difficult to
imagine anything less enjoyable, or anything less conducive to work."

"I shan't be sailing all the time," I explained.  "I shall make a
snug little base on Kerrin Island, and do my scribbling there."

"Kerrin Island!" repeated George incredulously.  "Why, the place is
deserted.  No one has been there for years."

"Yes, they have, George," I said.  "I spent a fortnight there last
time I was home, and, what's more, I built myself a most superior
hut.  Unless some of the fisher-boys have been monkeying around, it
ought to be as sound as ever.  I took a lot of trouble over that hut."

At this point George, who had been consulting his watch, apparently
decided that I had wasted quite enough of his time for the present.

"Well, please yourself," he said, beckoning the waiter with a
peremptory wave of his hand.  "So long as you go to Grendon I suppose
that's all we can expect.  I shall hope to hear soon, however, that
you are adopting some really serious and permanent interest in life."

"If it should take the form of an heiress, George," I said, "I will
wire you at once without fail."

* * * * * * *

Exactly two days after this sporting promise I found myself in the
excellent company of the sea and the sky about three miles off the
land, near Inverness.  I was not alone.  Sitting in the bows of the
boat, and looking out with interest towards the approaching coast of
Kerrin Island, was the most disreputable rough-haired terrier puppy
that ever forced his society upon his betters.  His name was Rufus,
and he had been presented to me by Donald Ross.  Perhaps it would be
more accurate to say he had presented himself, and that Donald, with
the simple philosophy of his race, had merely acquiesced in the
arrangement.  For from the moment that I had arrived at Strathmore,
Rufus had joyously but firmly adopted me as his new owner, and
nothing short of prussic acid would, I think have terminated the
engagement.

I must admit that I was glad of his society.  Not that solitude had
any terrors for me, but still a dog undoubtedly lends it a certain
harmony that it otherwise lacks.  One feels this more especially at
meal-times.

Anyhow, there we were, Rufus and I, quite contented with each other's
company, and thrusting our way merrily through the small white-capped
waves that rose and sank in the brisk off-shore breeze.  Although
only a four-tonner, my little boat, the _Scandal_, was a rare
sea-going craft, and the faithful Donald had looked after her with
such honest care that the sails and rigging were as sound as on the
day when I laid her up.

Dressed in an old pair of grey flannel trousers and a still older
shirt, I must have cut almost as disreputable a figure as Rufus.
George would have had a fit on the spot if he could have seen me, but
I can't say that even this sombre reflection depressed me very much.
Stowed away in the locker I had a large hamper from Harrods', a
change of kit, a "Primus" stove, and a generous supply of baccy and
books; and if a man can't be happy for a week on an outfit like that,
all I can say is that I'm devilish sorry for him.

There are two places on the island where you can get a safe
anchorage, one a small sheltered bay on the further side, and the
other a kind of shallow estuary looking out towards Strathmore.  I
decided on the latter as being the nearer, and steered the _Scandal_
towards the struggling growth of trees that half hid the entrance.  I
struck the channel all right first shot, and, running up the cove,
came round head to wind and let down my anchor.

Rufus watched the proceedings with considerable interest.  He
evidently realized we were going ashore; for the moment I hauled
alongside the tiny collapsible Berthon boat which we had been towing
behind us, he jumped in hurriedly with a little yelp of approval, and
sat down in the stern-sheets.  Then he looked up at me and grinned.

I hesitated for a minute as to whether I should cart any of my stores
ashore at once; then I decided that it would be better to land first
and make certain that my hut was still in existence.  Quite possibly
it had been spirited away in the interval by some enterprising
fisherman, and in that case I intended to make the tiny cabin of the
_Scandal_ my headquarters.  I am not lazy, but there is a limit to
one's enthusiasm for single-handed house-building.

A very few strokes brought us to the shore, which at this point
consisted of a marshy stretch of saltings about twenty yards broad.
I tugged the boat up out of the water, and, preceded by Rufus, who
kept on looking round to see that there was not some dark plot to
maroon him, I picked my way from tuft to tuft towards the edge of the
wild, heather-covered down of which Kerrin Island is chiefly composed.

The whole place is only about half a mile wide, but one cannot see
the hut until one is almost up to it, as it stands on the further
side of the island under the shelter of some rising ground.  I had
built it there purposely, so that it should be invisible from the
mainland.

Rufus reached it before I did.  Rounding the base of the little hill,
and coming suddenly into full view of it, I found him lying on the
grass, contemplating his discovery with every symptom of surprised
approval.

"Yes, my son," I said, "you may well look awe-struck.  That superb
edifice--" Then I stopped.

"Well, I'm hanged!" I added incredulously.

There, just to the right of the hut door, I had suddenly caught sight
of a wood fire, crackling and blazing away in the most cheerful and
unabashed fashion.  I stared at it for a moment in amazement.  Yes,
it was a wood fire all right.  There could be no doubt about that.
And furthermore, sitting complacently amongst the flames, I perceived
a large black kettle, from the spout of which little jets of steam
were shooting up into the air.

"Rufus," I observed, "there is some cursed intruder here!"

Rufus looked thoughtfully at the kettle, and put his tongue out.

"Yes," I said sternly, "I've seen that, but if you imagine I am going
to sell my birthright for a mess of pottage you're mistaken.  Tea or
no tea, out he comes!"

I strode across the intervening grass to the door of the hut, and
rapped loudly with my knuckles.  The result was unexpected.  I heard
a slight exclamation, accompanied almost simultaneously by the crash
of falling china.  Then, very clearly and earnestly, a rather sweet
voice remarked "Damn!"

I turned to fly, but it was too late.  There was a sound of quick
footsteps, the door opened abruptly, and I found myself confronted by
the prettiest girl I have ever seen in my life.

She was dressed in a short blue skirt, with a soft cream-coloured
shirt, open at the neck.  From under a red tam-o'-shanter her dark
brown hair hung down her back in two long plaits, reaching just below
her waist.  As for her face--well, I always think a beautiful face is
the most difficult thing to describe in the world, but if you can
picture a Madonna turned wood nymph, and delightfully sunburned at
that, you'll be somewhere around the mark.

For a moment her grey eyes contemplated me with calm surprise; then
her gaze travelled to Rufus, who promptly sat up and wagged his tail.

"That," I explained, "is his manner of apologizing."

She turned back to me, and her lips parted in a frank smile.

"I expect," she said, "that I ought to be apologizing instead.  This
is not my island, as--as you probably know."

"It certainly isn't mine," I returned, "and you were here first."

"Very well," she said.  "I'll accept the apology.  After all, you've
made me break a plate."

"Your nerves must be splendid," I said.  "I should have broken a
whole dinner-service."

She laughed cheerfully.

"It was silly of me to be startled, but somehow or other one doesn't
expect afternoon visitors here."  Then she paused.  "I don't know
whether you are a friend of the owner of the island," she added.
"Indeed, I'm afraid I don't even know who he is."

"His name," I said, "is George.  We are slightly acquainted."

"And did he build this hut?"

"No," I said proudly; "I did that."

She looked a little embarrassed.

"I really must apologize then," she said.  "I'm afraid I've been
making free with your property in the most unpardonable manner.  I
thought it was a kind of desert island."

"So it was," I said, "before you came--a most hopeless desert."  Then
I hesitated.  "If you won't think me inquisitive," I went on, "may I
ask how you managed to get here?"

She smiled.

"The same way that you did, I expect.  My boat's round the bend there
behind the trees."  She pointed away to the left towards the small
bay which formed the island's other anchorage.  "It's only a
three-tonner though," she added regretfully.

I looked at her with some interest.

"Are you accustomed to roam about the high sea single-handed in a
three-ton boat?" I inquired.

"Oh, yes," she said.  "Why not?  After all, they are the easiest to
handle."

"They are certainly the easiest to get drowned in," I replied.

She shrugged her shoulders.  "One must take what one can get in this
world.  It's not my boat, you see.  I only----"

She was interrupted by a violent hissing from the fire, which
temporarily disappeared in a cloud of steam.

"Oh, dear!" she cried, in dismay.  "There's the kettle boiled over.
You'll excuse me a minute while I make tea, won't you?"

She dived into the hut, reappearing almost immediately with a brown
earthenware teapot in her hand.

"You'll have a cup?" she asked, pausing for a moment on her way to
the fire.  "There ought to be enough for two, unless it's all boiled
away."

"You're very forgiving," I said.  "It's more than I deserve after
making you break a plate."

"It's the least I can do," she retorted, "after jumping your hut like
this."

She filled up the pot, and, coming back, placed it carefully on the
stump of one of the trees which I had cut down when I built the place.

"This is the table," she said.  "If you'll sit down on the grass and
wait one minute, I'll bring the tea out."

The suggestion seemed a sound one, so I accepted it without protest.
Whoever my hostess might be, she was certainly not lacking in
self-possession, and I felt sure that if she had wanted any help she
would have asked for it.

Selecting a comfortable place, I spread myself out on the grass, and
Rufus, who had apparently been on a short tour of inspection, came up
sideways and licked my boot.

"Rufus," I said, "we have struck a remarkable adventure."

He lay down and looked at me out of the corner of his eye.

"We have discovered a mermaid, a sea-dryad, an island goddess," I
went on.  "In fact, I'm not at all sure that we haven't found Astarte
herself."

He rolled slowly over on his back and pointed all four feet towards
the sky.

"I'm glad to see," said I, "that you have a sense of reverence."

It was at this point that, heavily burdened with accessories, the
goddess emerged from her retreat.

"I'm afraid it's a poor sort of tea," she said, as I jumped up to
help her unload.  "Do you mind a mug and condensed milk?  They're all
I've got to offer you."

"On a desert island," I said, "both a cup and a cow would be
painfully out of place."

"Still," she laughed, "I think if I were going to be here long I'd
give them a trial.  They might get acclimatized."

"It's an interesting question," I said, "as to which of them would be
broken first."

Taking her various burdens from her, I began to set them out in a
half-circle round the teapot.

"If I'd known I was going to have a visitor," she said, "I'd have
made some hot cakes.  As it is, you'll have to be content with
gingerbread and biscuits."

Then she sat down opposite me, and began to pour out tea.  I watched
her with a most pleasant curiosity.  I have been in a good many parts
of the world, and met some distinctly quaint people, but this
beautiful girl, with her perfect self-possession and astounding
absence of convention, baffled me completely.  Who on earth could she
be, and what was she doing on the island--my island--or, to be
strictly accurate, George's island?  That she was well educated--what
I believe is known in refined circles as "a lady"--was of course
obvious, but this only made the situation more puzzling than ever.  I
simply gave it up, and, accepting the cup of tea which she handed
across, waited calmly for any further enlightenment that Fate might
vouchsafe.

"You shall have your hut by six o'clock," she said, breaking a
biscuit and offering half of it to Rufus.  "I'll get my belongings on
board directly after tea."

"I hope you won't do anything of the kind," I answered promptly.
Then, feeling that my remark, though true and distinctly well
intended, was perhaps a trifle obscure, I hastened to add: "I never
use the hut when I come here.  I always sleep on the _Scandal_."

"On the what?" she asked, opening her nice grey eyes.

"On my boat," I explained.  "I call her the _Scandal_ because she
travels faster than anything else in Scotland."

Her eyes sparkled.  "I wonder if she could beat the _Penguin_?
That's my boat.  I've only hired her, but she goes like a bird."

"Well, if you'll stay till tomorrow, we'll have a race," I said.

She clasped her hands.  "It would be fun, wouldn't it?"  Then she
paused.  "But I don't think I ought to," she added regretfully.

"Why not?" I asked.  "Are you too proud to share an island?"

She shrugged her shoulders, smiling.  "No, I'm not proud; but it
would put me in rather an awkward position if somebody found out."

"Nobody will find out," I said reassuringly.  "The only person who
will ever know anything about it is Rufus, and he's a tactful
dog--aren't you, my son?"

Rufus, who was sitting up in expectation of some more biscuits, gave
a corroborative wag of his tail.

"Besides," I went on, "you ought to give me a chance of returning
your hospitality.  I was hoping you'd come and have breakfast with me
on the _Scandal_ to-morrow."

"Oh!" she said frankly, "I'd love to.  Please don't think I'm being
silly about it, but I really have to be careful what I'm doing.  You
see, I'm not supposed to be here at all."

"Of course not," I said.  "In fact, I don't believe you are here.
Things like this don't happen in real life.  I shall wake up in a
minute and find you were just a delightful dream."

She laughed merrily.  "Well, have some more tea first," she
suggested, holding out the pot.

I waited until she had filled the cup, and then I asked her a
question.

"Now, I want you to tell me the truth," I said.  "If I hadn't come
blundering in here, how long were you going to stay on the island?"

She hesitated for a moment.

"The truth!" I repeated firmly.

"Another three days," she admitted.  "I have to be back on Friday."

"Well," I said, "if you don't stay those three days, I shall never
forgive myself.  I really don't want to use either the hut or the
island, on my honour.  I've got my anchorage, and we shan't be in
each other's way.  In fact, you needn't see me at all if you don't
want to."

"But you've just asked me to breakfast," she objected.  "You're not
trying to back out of it now, are you?"

"Then you'll stay!" I cried joyfully.

Her eyes twinkled.

"I might," she said, "if you can really guarantee the discretion of
Rufus."

I drank up three-quarters of my tea, and poured out the rest as a
libation.

"It just occurs to me," I said, "that I haven't introduced myself."

She made a quick, protesting gesture with her hand.

"Don't then," she said, smiling.  "Let's stop just as we are.  It
will be much jollier if we know nothing about each other, and Rufus
can't betray us then, even if he wants to."

"But we've christened you already," I objected.  "We've decided that
you must be Astarte.  I think she was the lady who came out of the
sea foam, wasn't she?"

Astarte made me a little mocking bow.

"You pay compliments very prettily," she said.  "I shall call you
Stephen."

"Why Stephen?" I inquired.

She jumped up smiling, and brushed some crumbs from her skirt.

"You're shockingly ignorant of English history.  Don't you remember
that Stephen followed Rufus?"

I shook my head.

"Your wisdom leaves me breathless," I said.  "I can't go further back
than Victoria myself."

She laughed.

"Well, if I didn't know that, I shouldn't be much----"  Then she
suddenly stopped.

"You wouldn't be much what?" I asked.

"Never mind," she said.  "Let's put these things away, and then I'll
take you down and show you the _Penguin_.  I'd like to know what you
think of her."

* * * * * * *

To describe the next few days would be rather like trying to
recapture some strange, delightful dream after one has woken up.  I
only know that the time hurried away at that absurd and unnecessary
pace which Providence seems to reserve for the more charming moments
of life.  Of course, our surroundings were not unfavourable to
romance; but, apart from that, Astarte was one of those fragrant
people who have the power of throwing a kind of happy glamour over
everything.  Underneath all her self-possession and efficiency she
had the heart of a frank and joyous child.

I shall never forget her delight when she helped me unpack Harrods'
hamper on the first morning, and dragged out the various delicacies
those thoughtful gentlemen had provided me with.

"Well, you're the sort of person I like to be asked to breakfast by,"
she laughed, dumping them down one after another.  "A tongue, cold
chicken, _paté de foie gras_, champagne, cigars.  Oh, Stephen, you
are greedy!  Do you always look after yourself like this when you go
exploring?"

"I lived for a month once on dried apricots and snow," I returned;
"but I don't do that sort of thing from choice.  Besides," I added
recklessly, "I had a sort of feeling I was going to meet you."

She held up a reproving finger.

"You're not ashore now," she said, smiling; "and no sailor should
tell fibs at sea."

"Have you been reading Kipling's Brass-bound Man?" I asked.

"No," she said simply.  "My father told me that."

And this, I think, was the only occasion in all the three days in
which she volunteered any information about herself or her life apart
from Kerrin Island.

It must be admitted that we had plenty of time for exchanging
confidences had we wished to, Our day started at about 9 A.M., when,
after an early morning dip, Rufus and I would pull off to the shore
in the dinghy and meet Astarte, who had walked over from the hut.

Breakfast followed, a merry, easy meal, lasting about an hour and a
half, after which I would sail the _Scandal_ round to the farther
anchorage; while my guest, in the teeth of all polite convention,
cheerfully washed up the cups and plates.

Then came the great event of the day, our race round the island for
the Kerrin Cup.

This trophy had been presented by Astarte herself on the morning
after my arrival.  She had brought it over to breakfast with her--a
painful atrocity in green and white and gold, bearing a purple label
announcing that it was "A present from Strathpeffer."

"We must have a prize, you see," she had explained; "and I've been
wanting to get rid of this ever since I stole it."

"It's hardly an inducement to pulling out one's best sailing," I
objected, eyeing it with a slight shudder.

All the same, we most decidedly did pull out our best sailing; and
the Kerrin Cup changed hands with spirited frequency.  Astarte won it
the first day, I wrested it from her on the second, only, however, to
lose it finally and for good on the last morning.  She sailed her
little three-tonner with wonderful skill and daring; and, seasoned as
I am at handling small boats, I found I was up against an opponent
whose education was every bit as complete as my own.

It was all very jolly, but I think the evenings were the best part.
We always had supper outside the hut, to which I had transferred
about half the contents of my hamper.  With the aid of these and
Astarte's dazzling skill with the "Primus," we used to fare as
sumptuously as Dives, and I warrant with much better appetite than
that hardly treated capitalist.

And when supper was over, and the things washed up, we would lie
round the wood fire that we always made and discuss the morning's
race, and sailing generally, and any other pleasing topic that
happened to roll up.

And later on, when we had exchanged enough wisdom, we used to sing
songs to each other, accompanying ourselves on the banjo which a
thoughtful Providence had inspired me to ship on board the _Scandal_.
My own repertoire is confined to strenuous efforts such as _Rolling
Down to Rio_ and _Drake's Drum_.  But Astarte had a charming voice--a
deep, sorrowful contralto--and she used to sing sad little songs
about love and death, which always seem to me the two best things to
make music out of.  Besides, they were in such delightful contrast to
her own splendid joy in life.

It was only on the night before she went away that I found out how
fond I was of her.  She was lying on the grass, her chin in her hand,
and her grey eyes staring thoughtfully into the fire, as she listened
to my description of some impossible place in the ends of the earth
which I had once visited.  Anything about the ends of the earth
seemed to appeal to her with peculiar force.

In the middle of my story it suddenly struck me with an abrupt and
painful sense of desolation that on the following evening she would
not be there.  I went on talking, but somehow or other all the
interest and colour had died out of my yarn, and I finished as lamely
as George making one of his official excuses for the Government.

For a moment or two she looked at me without speaking.  Then she sat
up.

"What's the matter, Stephen?" she asked, pushing her hair back from
her eyes.

"Nothing just now," I said.  "I was wondering what Rufus and I were
going to do to-morrow."

"You must do that mysterious work you were talking about.  You
haven't begun it yet; and it's all my fault."

"But I can't work when I feel lonely," I objected.

"Two days ago," she said, "you told me a desert island was the only
place you could write in."

"Yes," I said; "but I was younger then, and not so experienced."

She laughed--that low, sweet laugh of hers that always reminded me of
deep water.  Then she leaned forward again, and a sudden flicker of
the fire fit up her eyes and hair, and showed me the soft curve of
her lips.  She looked so utterly adorable that for a moment I as
nearly as possible forgot the rules.  It was only with a big effort
that I crushed back a sudden wild impulse to take her in my arms.

As it was I jumped up, just a little abruptly.

"Astarte," I said, "it's time you went to bed.  All good sailors turn
in early the night before a voyage."

She looked up at me for a second with a grave, almost a wistful
expression.  Then she held out her hand.

"You're right, Stephen," she said.  "Good-night."

I bent down, and very lightly I kissed the tips of her fingers.

* * * * * * *

Midday the next morning found me, with Rufus by my side, standing in
sombre isolation on the extremest promontory of the island.  Three
miles away the _Penguin_, now merely a white speck on the water was
just rounding the big bluff of Strathmore Head.

"She's gone, my dog," I said, "she's gone!"  Rufus looked out to sea
and whined dismally.

"Yes," I said; "that's exactly how I feel.  But it won't bring her
back."

He threw up his head and howled.

"That's no use, either!" I added bitterly.  "If it was I should do it
myself."

Then, with a last glance seawards, I turned round, and, followed by a
very depressed puppy, I made my way slowly across the saltings to
where the _Scandal_ was at anchor.

I forget who first launched the theory that work was a successful
anodyne for baffled love.  Anyway, I can bear personal witness that
he was mistaken.  No one has ever worked much harder than I did
during my remaining three days on the island, and no one has ever
been more persistently haunted by the vision of an absent face.  I
wrote the whole of my article for the _Fortnightly_--thirteen solid,
chunky pages all about Kashmir--and at the end of it I found that I
was even fonder of Astarte than when she had left the island.

"This is the mischief," I observed to Rufus.  "What are we going to
do about it, my dog?"

Rufus wagged his tail and looked immensely sympathetic, but beyond
that he made no attempt to help.

"We must find her, Rufus," I went on.  "We must find her, even if we
have to spend the rest of our lives wandering about Scotland."

There was a short pause while we both contemplated this appalling
possibility.  Then, with a deep sigh, Rufus twisted himself round and
began to scratch his ear.

I watched him gloomily, wondering what was the best way of setting to
work.  If I had only had some due, however vague, I could at least
have followed it up; but Astarte had gone away from me leaving
herself as much a mystery as ever.

Apart from sheer luck, my only chance of finding her seemed to lie in
tracing the _Penguin_.  She had told me she had hired the latter, but
when and from whom were matters of which I knew nothing.  Still, a
boat is a boat, and any yachtsman or yacht-hand about the coast would
probably be acquainted with the little three-tonner, at all events by
reputation.  Of course, even then it by no means followed that I
should be very much forrader, for, granted that the owner knew all
about Astarte, he might quite conceivably see no reason for confiding
in me.

It was a pretty little problem, and after pondering over it all ends
up I eventually decided that the best thing to do at the moment was
to go on to Grendon, as I had originally arranged.  In the first
place, I couldn't get out of the visit now without appearing rather
rude; and, secondly, I was just as likely to pick up some information
about the _Penguin_ there as I was anywhere else.  Besides I very
much wanted to see old Lady Bulstrode.  She had always been nice to
me when I was a boy, and she was almost the only one of our family
friends who was not a confounded prig.

So on the Saturday morning, after fastening up the hut, I came back
on board the _Scandal_ and pulled up my anchor for the last time.  I
couldn't help feeling rather sad as we sailed down the little estuary
and turned our backs on the island, but Rufus, with the callousness
of extreme youth, appeared to be in the best of spirits.  Anyhow--he
stood up in the bows and barked at the seagulls with a vigour that
suggested an entire lack of any decent sentiment.

His only excuse for such disgraceful cheerfulness was the weather.
It was an ideal September morning, all blue and gold, with a nice
breeze off the sea, and that faint delicious crispness in the air
that almost reconciles one to the death of summer.

The _Scandal_, with every bit of sail she could carry, leaped merrily
through the water, revelling in her job like the gallant little boat
she was.  Even my own depression was not quite proof against such
joyous influences, and by the time we ran alongside the Strathmore
landing-stage I had as nearly as possible recovered my usual
serenity.  As medicine for a disordered heart, I'll back the sea
against literature any day in the week.

Grendon, Lady Bulstrode's place, is only about twenty miles from
Strathmore as the crow flies, but when one is hampered with a
fortnight's luggage and a dog, a crow is devilish little use as a
means of conveyance.  A motor would have been by far my easiest
method of getting there, but George had not suggested lending me his,
and it was impossible to hire one nearer than Rothnairn.

So after changing into the garments of civilization and collecting my
traps, which I had left with Donald Ross, I was driven to jogging
eight miles in the latter's open trap, and picking up the local
Highland railway at Craigmuir.  This abandoned me late in the
afternoon at a little wayside station some six miles from Grendon,
where I had wired to be met.

The Bulstrode family turn-out, with its magnificent red wheels, black
horses, and orange livery, was waiting there in answer to my summons.
Rufus and I got in amid a general touching of hats, and, reclining
comfortably on the cushions, rolled noiselessly off through the
magnificent Highland scenery.  For the first time I began to fear
that Rufus was a bit of a snob.  The languid hauteur with which he
acknowledged the subservience of the staff was worthy of a newly
ennobled lawyer.

It was just six o'clock when we turned in at the lodge gates of
Grendon and drove up the long avenue of fir trees.  I was received at
the hall door by the butler--a delightful old man whom I remembered
perfectly well from the days of my boyish visits.

With the charming candour of an ancient retainer, he at once began to
comment on my appearance.

"Eh, Master Guy, but you've grown, sir!" he remarked in an approving
voice.

"It's quite possible, Parkes," I said cheerfully; "especially as I
was only fourteen when I was here last."

"Fair grown out of all knowledge," he repeated, looking at me with
his head on one side.  "And brown, too, though you were always a one
for getting sunburnt, Master Guy."

"I've not lost any of my bad habits, Parkes," I replied.  "Where's
Lady Bulstrode?"

"Her leddyship's upstairs in her own room.  I'm to bring you straight
up to her, sir."

"Lead on, then, Macduff!" I said, smiling, and, tossing my cap on to
the table, I followed the old man through the big hall with its
innumerable weapons and stags' heads and up the broad stone staircase
that led to the gallery above.

He stopped outside the door and tapped gently:

"Come in," called out a decisive voice, and, turning the handle,
Parkes stepped forward.

"Master Guy, milady," said he, as though I were about fourteen, and
just come home for the holidays.

Lady Bulstrode, who had been writing letters, jumped up with
surprising alacrity.

"My dear boy!" she said, taking my hand in both of hers.  "My dear
boy!  I am so pleased to see you!"

She looked just as she did when I had seen her last in London, five
years before--old, shrewd, and kindly, with the same twinkling black
eyes, and, unless I am much mistaken, precisely the same wig.

"It's charming of you to remember me at all," I said.  "Parkes tells
me I've grown so big and black that no one would know me."

Parkes, who was still standing by the door, made a kind of
expostulating murmur, and Lady Bulstrode, with a laugh, pushed me
gently backwards into a chair.

"Sit down!" she said.  "Sit down and let me have a good look at you."
Then, turning to Parkes, she added: "Bring the whisky and soda up
here, Parkes.  I am sure Mr. Guy would like a drink after his
travels."

As the old man went out, Rufus, who up till then had been keeping
modestly in the background, apparently decided that it was time he
introduced himself.  Anyhow, he came squirming out from under the
sofa and sat down with much tail-wagging, in the middle of the room.

"I couldn't help bringing him," I explained apologetically.  "He
adopted me at Strathmore last week, and his motto seems to be the
same as Ruth's, 'Where thou goest I will go.'  Do you mind dogs in
the house?"

"I mind nothing," said Lady Bulstrode, "except rheumatism and
travelling third-class.  Come here, boy!"

She held out a hand to Rufus, who crawled up and seated himself
carefully with his back against her skirt.

"George told me you were in these parts," she went on; "or, as he put
it, 'pigging it upon some absurd island off Strathmore.'"

"Dear George!" I said.  "He has all the simple candour of a British
statesman."

"He has quite a high opinion of you," returned Lady Bulstrode,
"though he thinks you're a little mad."

"He's probably right.  Anyhow, I'm very thirsty," I replied, as the
door opened and Parkes came in with the whisky.

I mixed myself a long drink and, at Lady Bulstrode's command, lighted
a cigarette.

"I had a talk with George the other day," I said, when the door
closed behind us again.  "He thinks it's quite time I settled down."

"What do you think about it?" asked Lady Bulstrode.

"That doesn't matter," I said--"at least, not to George."

My hostess smiled.

"Still, even unimportant things are sometimes interesting."

"I think," said I, "that one Cabinet Minister in the family is quite
enough."

"Ample," agreed Lady Bulstrode hastily; "but, after all, there are
plenty of other openings in life for an energetic and honest young
man."

"Yes," I said, "and I've found mine.  So long as my nine hundred
pounds a year lasts, and I can live on the workers, I'm quite content
to go on tramping round the world--especially if editors will pay me
for scribbling about it.  I'm a born loafer, and I suppose when the
world is properly organized I shall be locked up in a labour colony."

"At least you'll be in good company," said Lady Bulstrode, "though I
think you make yourself out worse than you are," she added.

"No," I said.  "Mine is a useless life.  I've never had any illusions
on the point.  If I had, George would have shattered them long ago."

"George," she returned, "is too serious to live.  I tried to get him
up here for a few days, and he said things were so bad at Westminster
that he couldn't be spared.  Those were his actual words."

I nodded.

"They would be.  There's no bally mock modesty about George!  Who is
here, by the way?"

"Well, there's no one at the present moment except Alan's two
children and old Mrs. Fawcett.  I have got a regular smart
house-party coming for you to-morrow, though."

She looked at me mischievously.

"Go on," I said; "I can bear it."

"There's Miss Faversham and her mother"--she began to tick them off
on her fingers--"a good-looking girl, lots of money; her father is
the big contractor, Faversham and Kent, you know.  Then there are the
Gordons--the K.C. and his wife; and the McCullochs from
Innestair--another pretty girl there; and Raymond Sturgis--he's a
sort of cousin of yours; and old Lord Pembery and----"

"Great Scott!" I interrupted.  "Do you mean they're all coming in a
bunch?"

"More or less.  They will be here to dinner, anyhow.  I shall want
you to play host, Guy."

I groaned.

"Oh, it will do you good," she went on ruthlessly.  "You shall have
Miss Faversham on one side and the McCulloch girl on the other."

"If you're going to use threats--" I began with some dignity.

A sudden tap at the door interrupted me.

"Come in!" called out Lady Bulstrode.

I looked up, casually expecting Parkes, and for one radiant, blinding
moment I thought I'd gone mad.

Standing in the doorway was Astarte.  She was dressed in a plain
black evening frock, and the plaits of brown hair no longer hung down
her back.  But I knew her--knew her as instantly and surely as I
should know the sun or the stars.

So did Rufus.  With one loud yell of joy he leapt to his feet and
hurled himself upon her in wild and vociferous delight.

"Bless my soul!" remarked Lady Bulstrode.

"Rufus!" I said, with a tremendous effort, "control yourself!"

Astarte picked him up in her arms, and with a couple of pats soothed
him into something like sanity.  She was plainly as amazed as I was,
and I could see her breast rising and falling rapidly as she looked
first at me and then at Lady Bulstrode.  When she spoke, however, it
was in her usual delightfully calm manner.

"I'm so sorry," she said.  "I thought you were alone."

"My dear Grace," said Lady Bulstrode, fanning herself gently, "do all
dogs take to you like that?"

Astarte put Rufus down with a little laugh.

"Only well-bred ones," she said.

"Well, let me introduce you both.  This is Guy Heathcote, Grace; I've
often talked to you about him.  Guy, this is my friend, Miss Grace
Conway."

I bowed.

"I don't know how to apologize for Rufus," I said.  "I can only think
you must be like someone he knows."

"I expect I am," she answered with delightful frankness.  Then,
turning to Lady Bulstrode, she added, "I came to bring you your
change.  Here it is--four pound ten."  And she put down a little pile
of gold on the desk.

"Did the mare go all right?"

She nodded.

"Oh, yes, we went in and out in great style, and the children enjoyed
themselves enormously.  I mustn't stop to talk now, though.  I've
promised to tell them a story before dinner, and they won't go to
sleep if I disappoint them.  You shall hear all about our adventures
later."

She smiled--that dear, merry smile I knew so well--and the next
moment she had gone.

There was a short pause.  Then I took a deep steadying breath.

"Who is that beautiful thing?" I asked.

"That," said Lady Bulstrode with some pride, "is my governess."

"Your governess!" I repeated.  "What does she teach you?"

Lady Bulstrode chuckled.

"Well, when I say my governess, I am speaking as a grandmother.  She
is supposed to be looking after Alan's children, though as a matter
of fact she looks after me just as much.  I don't know what I should
do without Grace."

I glanced at her with some sympathy.

"And how did you find Grace?" I asked.

Lady Bulstrode shivered slightly.

"Don't, Guy," she said; "it reminds me of our local 'minister'--a
dreadful person.  Grace is the daughter of the only man I ever
loved--poor Jack Conway."

"What, the explorer?" I said.

She nodded.

"When he fell down that stupid cliff and killed himself, he left
Grace absolutely unprovided for.  It was just like poor Jack--a dear,
delightful man, but quite hopeless about anything to do with money.
I don't suppose he'd ever thought what would happen to Grace if he
died.  He took her away from school when she was about sixteen, and
for the last three years before he was killed they'd been wandering
about the world together in that absurd little ship of his, just as
if she'd been a boy."

"Ah!" I said thoughtfully, for I was beginning to "smell land," as
sailors put it.

"You see," went on Lady Bulstrode, "all Jack's income, such as it
was, died with him, and there was nothing left for Grace except the
copyright of his books.  Well, goodness knows Grace isn't a girl who
wants luxuries, but, all the same, you can't live on three volumes of
travels, even if they have been praised by the Royal Geographical
Society."

"It sounds rather indigestible," I admitted.

"And so," finished Lady Bulstrode triumphantly, "I persuaded her to
come to me and help me look after Alan's children.  Of course, she's
much too good to be a governess all her life, but I mean to marry her
to the first nice rich man who's got the sense to appreciate her.
I've got one in my mind's eye now."

I suddenly conceived a violent dislike for this promisingly placed
gentleman.

"I shouldn't think it would be difficult to fall in love with her," I
remarked casually, "unless one has a rooted objection to girls being
sunburned."

Lady Bulstrode laughed.

"Oh, most of that will wear off--she has just been for her holiday,
staying with some old school friends, and sailing about the coast,
and living in the open air.  I told her she'd ruined her complexion,
but I don't think she worries her head about that kind of thing.
She's a born gipsy, just like her father."

The booming sound of a gong from the hall interrupted our
conversation.  Glancing at the clock, Lady Bulstrode got up from her
chair.

"Come along, Guy," she said; "that's the dressing-bell.  I will take
you up to your room, and then you can tell me if there's anything you
want."

Closely followed by Rufus, who was obviously determined not to lose
sight of me in this strange establishment, I accompanied my hostess
along one side of the gallery, and up a small flight of stairs which
led to a couple of doors.

"Here we are!" she said, opening the one on the left hand.  "It's
Alan's old room.  I hope you'll be comfortable, Guy."

I glanced round the big, splendidly furnished apartment, and saw that
my things were all unpacked and laid out ready for use.  My eyes took
in the thick Turkey carpet, the deep easy chairs, and the luxurious
brass bedstead.

I looked up with a smile.

"I think I can rough it here for a night or so," I said.  "I'm used
to hardships."

Lady Bulstrode laughed again, and, giving me an affectionate pat on
the shoulder, left me to my toilet--and my reflections.

I could have desired no better company than the latter.  Indeed, my
first impulse on finding myself alone was to indulge in a kind of
sacramental joy-dance round the room; but the thought that there
might be someone underneath was sufficient to restrain my ardour.  So
I contented myself with going up to Rufus, who had jumped on to one
of the chairs, and warmly shaking him by the paw.

"Rufus," I said, "we've found her--found her first shot!  Who says
there's no such thing as Destiny?"

Rufus licked my hand, and then looked up as though to convey his
congratulations.

"We'll run no more risks," I went on.  "We won't let her sail away
this time, eh, my dog?"  Then I paused.  "Why, damn it, Rufus," I
added, "you're sitting on my dress-coat!  Get off it, confound you!"

He jumped down hastily in some apprehension, but I was feeling far
too cheerful to be annoyed.  When you have just found the woman you
love, even the spectacle of your dress-coat being used as a door-mat
fails to arouse any serious resentment.

While I changed I reflected pleasantly upon what I would say to
Astarte.  It was evident that she had told Lady Bulstrode little or
nothing about her holiday; and I was glad to feel that the whole of
those delicious three days was still a secret between us.  One thing
I was determined about, and that was that, if she was under any
misapprehension as to my feelings towards her, it should be swiftly
and effectively removed.  On the island I had been handicapped, for
any departure from the jolly fiction that we were just casual pals
would have spoilt everything.  Here, however, there was no such
barrier.  We were meeting on level terms, and it would not be my
fault if Astarte remained in any doubt as to how much I loved her.  I
went downstairs feeling what a journalist would call "agreeably
elated."

Dinner passed off in a very cheerful fashion.  Even the most sombre
person would find it difficult to be dull with dear old Lady
Bulstrode, and sombreness was not a vice from which any of us
suffered acutely.  Astarte, who had quite recovered her usual
self-possession, talked away with all her customary good spirits and
humour.  She told us about her afternoon's adventures with the
children--two little girls of five and seven, to whom she seemed
devoted--and discussed and described the coming house-party, most of
whom had apparently been there the previous year.  Like Lady
Bulstrode, she seemed to entertain a high opinion of the beauty and
charms of Miss Faversham and Miss McCulloch.

I kept up my end with a few picturesque details about the ends of the
earth which I still had left over from our conversations on the
island; and Mrs. Fawcett, a charming old white-haired lady, with a
peculiarly sweet smile, gave us some delicious reminiscences of the
late Queen Victoria at Balmoral, near which historic spot she herself
resided.

Afterwards we all adjourned to the big, rambling, book-lined
apartment which served a kind of triple function as a library, a
billiard-room, and a smoking lounge.  Here, with the stimulus of
coffee and cigarettes, we continued to talk until about half-past
nine, when Lady Bulstrode got up from her chair.

"I am going to bed, Guy," she said.  "These good people are sure to
keep me up to the most scandalous hours all next week, and I mean to
get some beauty sleep while I have the chance.  I am growing too old
for prolonged dissipation."

"So am I, Mary," chimed in Mrs. Fawcett.  "I shall come with you."

"I don't want to drag you off, Grace, unless you're sleepy," went on
Lady Bulstrode, turning to Astarte.  "Perhaps you'll stop and play
Guy a game of billiards."

"Yes, please do, Miss Conway," I said.  "It's against my principles
to turn in before ten, and I shall be frightfully lonely if you
desert me too."

"Very well," said Astarte quietly; "but I expect you're too strong
for me."

Lady Bulstrode accepted the candle I offered her.

"Don't you believe her, Guy," she said.  "Grace is a sort of female
John Roberts.  She beats all the men we have here."

"Mine will be an easy scalp, then," I returned.  "I haven't touched a
cue for two years."

"I am sorry for you," said Mrs. Fawcett kindly.  "Good-night."

"Good-night," I replied, opening the door.  "At least one can die
gracefully."

For a moment after they had gone out we both stood silent and still.
Then I closed the door, and came up to where Astarte was standing
under the big lamp.

"My dear," I said.  "Oh, my dear!"  And taking her hands, I gazed
steadily and happily into her wide grey eyes.  She made no attempt to
release herself.

"It just shows," she said, "that you can't play tricks with life.  I
thought that for once we'd managed to break the rules without being
noticed."

"What does it matter?" I retorted.  "I have found you now, and I'm
not going to lose you again.  Oh, Astarte, if you only knew how I've
missed you!"

"Dear Stephen," she said gently.  Then she released her hands, and
put them behind her back.  "I want to make things quite clear," she
added.  "It's all one can do now."

"Go on," I said encouragingly.

"I suppose Lady Bulstrode has told you who I am?"

I nodded.

"Well, in a way that explains everything.  You see, I spent three
years with father before he was killed, and the whole of that time we
were either sailing about in the _Hyacinth_, or else making little
expeditions into places like Patagonia or New Guinea.  You can
imagine what effect a life like that would have on a girl of
seventeen.  By the time I was twenty I'd almost forgotten that there
was any other way of living except in a ship or in a tent.  As for
wanting anything else," she shrugged her shoulders, "I don't suppose
two people have ever been happier together than father and I were."

For a moment she paused.

"Then," she went on, a little wearily, "he was killed.  I can't tell
you what that time meant to me.  You see, somehow or other I had
never thought of life without him.  He was so strong and brave and
splendid, it seemed impossible that he could die like other people.
I was trying to think things out, trying to make up my mind what to
do, when Lady Bulstrode wrote to me and asked me to come here.  So I
came, and here I've been ever since."

"And you've been--been happy?" I asked, for want of a better word.

"Oh, yes.  Who could help being happy with Lady Bulstrode?  She's the
dearest, kindest, jolliest soul in the world, and I owe everything to
her.  Still, as you see, I don't always tell her the whole truth."

"No intelligent person ever tells the whole truth," I said
reassuringly.  "Half of it is quite enough, as a rule."

"I thought it was--about my holiday.  You see, Lady Bulstrode would
have been miserable if she had known that I had hired a boat and was
camping out on an island by myself!  Of course, it does sound rather
a mad proceeding.  But after wandering about with father all that
time, I've got a sort of craving for the wilds, and now and then it
gets so strong I simply can't resist it."

"I know, Astarte," I said.  "I know."

"After all, there was no harm in it," she went on.  "If you and Rufus
hadn't turned up, no one would ever have been any the wiser.  That
did complicate matters."

"You make me feel like one of George's official explanations," I
protested.  "I'd have gone, you know, if you'd insisted on it."

She nodded.

"I didn't want you to go a bit.  I was awfully glad to have someone
to play with.  You see, I thought I should never see you again, and
that it wouldn't matter.  You can imagine what I felt like when I
found you were Mr. Heathcote."

"No," I said.  "I wish I could.  If it was anything like as----"

"I suppose George is your brother--Lord Mapleton?" she interrupted
hastily.

"You're right," I replied.  "Though George wouldn't be pleased at
your way of putting it."

She made a pretty little gesture with her hands.

"Well," she said, "it can't be helped."  Then she looked up smiling.
"We must just forget all about it," she added.

I shook my head.

"I don't think we can do that," I answered.  "You see, I want to go
to Kerrin Island for part of our honeymoon."

She made a slight movement, but I went on without giving her time to
speak.

"My dear heart," I said, "do you imagine that I'm going to let you go
again unless you absolutely send me away from you?"

Coming up to her, I took her two hands, and, lifting them up to my
lips, kissed them alternately.

She looked down on me with something very like tears in her eyes.

"You're a dear, Stephen," she said softly, "you're a dear; but--but
it can't be."

"And why not?" I demanded.

"Oh," she said pitifully.  Then, with an effort: "You see, I don't
love you, Stephen."

I looked steadily into her eyes.

"That's not true," I said calmly.  "I think we'll tell each other the
truth, dear, whatever it is."

"Very well."  She drew herself up, and her gaze met mine frankly and
unflinchingly.  "I do love you, Stephen," she said, "but I'm not
going to marry you, because I know all about you."

"I'm sorry for that," I said.  "It's certainly enough to prejudice
any one."

She smiled a wan little smile.

"Oh, my dear, I didn't mean anything unkind.  I only meant that Lady
Bulstrode has told me all about your career and your ambitions, and
how necessary it is you should marry a rich woman.  Do you think I'm
going to spoil your life because I'm fond of you?"

"No, I don't," I returned, "but I think you would if I gave you half
a chance."  Then I paused.  "As it is," I went on, "I shall simply
buy a marriage licence and a good second-hand thirty-ton boat, and
come and carry you off by force."

"I won't, Stephen--I won't.  I'm simply not going to ruin your career
for you."

"My career!" I echoed.  "Do you imagine I want to be a politician?
Do you think I want to sit on a stuffy green bench and listen to
people like dear old George, when I can sail the blue seas and love
you?"

"It certainly does sound more attractive," she admitted weakly.

"Of course it is," I said.  "It was what we were created for.  We'll
simply take up life where you left it off when your father died.
I'll buy that boat, and we'll wander about the world just as we
please for a thousand years, and we'll love each other like the sea
loves the wind and the night loves the stars."

I stopped for breath, and, with shining eyes.  Astarte leaned forward.

"My Stephen," she said, "you make it very hard."

I took her in my arms and kissed her dear, soft, half-open lips.

"Well," I asked softly, "have you anything else to say, Astarte,
before we play billiards?"

She looked up, and I saw the old, delicious smile breaking through
her tears.

"Only that I was right after all," she whispered.  "I said you were
too strong for me, Stephen."




The Man with the Chin


"I shouldn't like to marry a man with a chin like that," said the
girl in red.  Her companion, a ferret-faced young gentleman with his
hair parted in the middle, inserted his eye-glass and stared
deliberately across the room.

"Obstinate-lookin' beggar--what?" he drawled.

Unconscious of these criticisms, George Leslie sat at his solitary
table, only looking up from his newspaper whenever the door of the
room opened to admit a fresh arrival.  It was on the sixth occasion
that his inspection appeared to be successful.  His lips parted in a
smile, and, laying down his paper, he rose quietly from his chair.

The girl in red nudged her companion.

"She's come at last.  Kept him waiting long enough."

The ferret-faced young man indulged himself in another leisurely
survey.  "Worth it, too, by Jove!" he ejaculated admiringly.

His criticism, if a trifle crude in expression, was sound enough in
taste.  The girl who had just come in was most distinctly worth
waiting for.  Beautifully dressed, with a shy yet charming
prettiness, she moved across the tea-room towards Leslie, and held
out her hand with a little smile of apology.

"I am so sorry!" she said.  "I know I'm dreadfully late."

There was a momentary twinkle in Leslie's grey eyes.

"Twenty-one-and-a-half minutes," he said.  "Not a record, Nancy, by a
long way."

She sat down in the chair which he pulled up, and began to take off
her gloves.

"There's one nice thing about you," she answered, looking at him with
frank affection, "you never mind people being late, do you?"

"I occasionally make an exception in business hours," said Leslie.

"Oh, business!" She shrugged her pretty shoulders.  "I expect you're
simply horrid in business, George.  I'm sure you bully all those poor
people at the garage dreadfully."

Leslie shook his head.

"I leave that to Morton these days.  My time's taken up in making
them miserable at the works."

The girl laughed.

"I can just see you," she said.  "I suppose you stick your chin out
and growl at them like you do at me when you're cross?"

"Something the same way," admitted Leslie, "only not quite so
violent.  You see, they're not often as irritating as you are, Nancy."

She looked at him mischievously, and then suddenly clasped her hands.

"Oh, George," she said, "I'd quite forgotten.  Are you doing anything
next Wednesday?"

"Nothing more than usual," said Leslie.  "About eight hours' work."

"Oh, that's all right then.  It's father's and mother's wedding-day,
and the old dears want to celebrate it in some way.  I suggested that
we should go for a motor picnic to Beechwood--just the three of us,
and get you to drive us.  Don't you think it's a lovely idea?  You
know there's a dear old church there, where Cardinal Wolsey was
married or died or did something, and you and I can get away together
after lunch and have a look at it.  Both father and mother don't care
for that sort of thing, and they won't mind my going with you.  You
know father's taken quite a fancy to you since you came round that
day and showed him the new car."

Leslie leaned back in his chair and looked at her with a kind of
amused gravity.  Then he shook his head.

"Things can't go on like this, Nancy," he said.

Her dark blue eyes opened innocently.

"Can't go on like what?" she inquired.

"I mean I can't go on deceiving your people in this way."

Nancy drew back, pouting.

"Oh, George dear, I thought we'd settled all that."

Leslie smiled.

"You settled it, Nancy--I didn't.  But at the best it was only to be
a temporary arrangement.  Well, in my opinion, the time has come to
end it."

"But we can't end it, dear," protested Nancy, helping herself
delicately to a chocolate éclair.

"Why not?" asked Leslie.  "I can go to your father and ask him
whether he has any objection to me as a son-in-law.  If he has--well,
at least we shall know where we are, and then you can make up your
mind what you're going to do."

"Now you're being horrid," said Nancy.  "You know very well father
won't let me marry you.  He thinks, because you've made your money
yourself, and because you run a motor-car business, that--that----"

"That I'm not a gentleman," finished Leslie, smiling good-naturedly.
"Well, I can't help that, Nancy.  Perhaps he's right.  My point is
that it doesn't alter the question.  If you're going to marry me,
you'll have to do it some day either with or without your father's
consent."

"There's no hurry," protested Nancy weakly.

"Not the least," admitted Leslie, "but, on the other hand, there's no
reason for waiting.  The business is bringing me in an excellent
income, and we're only wasting both our lives."

Nancy stirred her tea, and looked at him sorrowfully.

"George," she said, "you'll make me cry if you go on like that.  Why
can't we stop as we are just a little longer?  Something's sure to
turn up."

Leslie shook his head.

"Nothing ever turns up in this world unless people dig for it.  Come,
Nancy"--he smiled at her--"if you like me well enough to marry me,
surely you can't mind my asking your father whether he objects.  I
know you dislike rows and unpleasantness of any kind, but there must
be a limit to everything."

Nancy wriggled rather unhappily in her chair, looking prettier than
ever.

"I don't know what to do," she said forlornly.  "I'm awfully fond of
you, George, and I would like to marry you, really I would, dear, but
I simply can't go and have a nasty, silly squabble with father and
mother.  You know they wouldn't hear of it.  They're frightfully
old-fashioned, both of them, and they think I'm sure to marry a duke
or something.  If I told them I wanted to marry you, they'd have a
fit.  I might just as well say I was going to run away with the
coachman.  Give me some more tea, dear."

Leslie, who did not seem to be the least annoyed, poured her out a
second cup.

"Well, it seems pretty plain, Nancy," he said, "that you'll have to
choose between me and your love of peace."

She looked at him with a kind of mock despair.

"Oh, George, are you going to desert me, just when I want your help?
I didn't think you were like that, or I shouldn't have loved you."

"But you must make up your mind one way or the other," protested
Leslie, laughing.

Nancy shook her head despairingly.

"What's the good of telling me that, George?  You know I can't make
up my mind; I never could.  Someone's always had to do it for me.
Let's just go on as we are for a bit.  It's awfully nice loving each
other, and no one knowing anything about it, and perhaps you'll save
father's life or something."

"If that's all it depends on," said Leslie ironically, "we may as
well begin printing the invitations."

"Now, you're not to stick out your chin like that and look cross,"
said Nancy.  "It's just as tiresome for me as it is for you; and you
ought to be nice and sympathetic, instead of being grumpy."

"I'm not a bit cross really," said Leslie.  "I should as soon think
of getting cross with a flower as with you."

Nancy brightened up wonderfully.

"Oh, that's sweet of you, George.  I love people to say things like
that to me, and you so seldom do it."  Then she paused, and looked at
him with mischievous, pleading eyes.  "And you will come and drive us
on Wednesday, won't you, dear?" she added.

The corners of Leslie's mouth twitched.

"Nancy," he said, "you're as wicked as you're beautiful."

"Oh, dear," said Nancy, "that's the second in two minutes."

* * * * * * *

Colonel Peyton pushed back his plate, and got up from the
breakfast-table.

"Well, it's a lovely day," he observed, looking out of the window.
"I hope that young man will be punctual.  Are you women ready?"

"Did you ever know mother late for anything, Father?" inquired Nancy
calmly.

Colonel Peyton chuckled, and shook his finger at her.

"It's you I'm thinking of, miss," he said; "you're the one that will
keep us waiting."

"Come along," said Mrs. Peyton, "and put your things on, darling.  We
mustn't keep the car standing."

Mrs. Peyton, having been brought up with horses, had never been able
to rid herself of the idea that a motor became restless under such
treatment.

Nancy laughed, and accompanied her mother upstairs, from which region
she shortly emerged, looking bewitchingly demure and pretty in a sort
of Kate Greenaway cloak and bonnet.

The Colonel, who was just struggling into his coat, gazed at her with
fond approval.

"Very nice, Nancy," he said; "very nice.  You remind me of your
mother."

The compliment--to Colonel Peyton it was a very genuine
compliment--had hardly left his lips when there came the loud hum of
a motor-car driving up to the house.  Nancy stepped forward, and
opened the door.

"Punctual to the minute," observed the Colonel triumphantly.  "It's a
pleasure to deal with a young man like that."

The young man in question brought the car round with a graceful
sweep, and pulled up noiselessly level with the doorstep.

"How do you do?" he said, taking off his cap, and bowing slightly to
Nancy and Mrs. Peyton.

The Colonel stepped out and offered his hand.

"How are you, Mr. Leslie?" he inquired.  "Very good of you to come
round and drive us yourself.  Now you're making cars of your own you
don't do much of this sort of thing, I suppose--eh, what?"

"Not often," said Leslie gravely.  "Unless people specially ask for
me, I generally send one of the men."

Nancy's eyes sparkled merrily.

"May I sit in front with the driver, Father?" she asked.  "I love to
watch him pull out the handles."

The Colonel looked a trifle embarrassed.

"Oh, I--I--er--expect Mr. Leslie doesn't like to be asked questions
while he's driving, Nancy."

It seemed to him curious that his daughter failed to recognize that
Leslie was a cut above the ordinary chauffeur.

"I hope Miss Peyton will sit in front if she wishes to," said Leslie.
"I don't in the least mind being asked questions.  One gets used to
it, you know."

Nancy did not wait for any further discussion, but jumped lightly up
into the vacant seat, while a solemn-looking butler proceeded to stow
a hamper into the back of the car.  The Colonel and Mrs. Peyton then
took their places, and Leslie, slipping in his clutch, turned the car
slowly round and started off up the road.

It was a beautiful summer day of blue and gold, and the twenty-five
miles to Beechwood lay through some of the fairest country in
England.  Pleasantly warmed by the sun, and lulled by the gentle
drone of the motor, the old people lay back in their comfortable
seats, and gazed contentedly at the passing scenery.  Not so Nancy,
who, sitting upright, with a demure smile on her face and mischief in
her eyes, proceeded to question Leslie with an apparently artless
enthusiasm as to the various parts of the car.  He answered her
seriously and politely, never smiling or varying from the respectful
tone of a temporary employé.

"I hope Nancy isn't bothering that young man too much," observed the
Colonel in an undertone to his wife.

Mrs. Peyton beamed good-naturedly at the couple in front.

"Oh, people of that sort like to be asked questions," she whispered
back.  "He's proud to show off his car to Nancy; you can be sure of
that."

"I only hope she won't make him run us into a ditch with her
chattering," was the Colonel's rejoinder.

That this tragedy was successfully avoided may be gathered from the
fact that half an hour later the car pulled up in a little woodland
clearing just above Beechwood village.  It was a charming spot
carpeted with soft mossy turf, and hemmed in on three sides with
trees.  From the fourth the Buckinghamshire countryside stretched out
in a magnificent rolling panorama of twenty miles.

After a brief and whispered consultation with his wife, Colonel
Peyton turned to Leslie.

"I hope you'll lunch with us, Mr. Leslie," he said.  "We have brought
plenty for four."

Leslie bowed.

"I shall be very pleased to," he answered.  And going round to the
back of the car, he proceeded to assist Nancy in getting out the
hamper.

The lunch looked most attractive spread out on a clean white cloth,
for, like many elderly soldiers, Colonel Peyton regarded food as only
slightly inferior in importance to religion and good breeding.
Seated beside Mrs. Peyton, Leslie found himself being patronized by
that complaisant lady with all the well-meaning condescension of her
kind.

"You must eat a good lunch, Mr. Leslie," she observed, helping him
generously to cold game-pie.  "I am sure it must be most tiring
driving that great heavy car."

"To say nothing of answering all your questions--eh, Nancy?" put in
the Colonel.  "Have some champagne?"  He held out the bottle to
Leslie.

The latter filled up Mrs. Peyton's glass, and then helped himself.

"Driving a car nowadays isn't a very tiring business," he explained,
"especially when one is used to it."

"Well, I mean to try it before long," said the Colonel.  "One has to
take to the infernal things in self-defence--what?  I shall probably
come down on you, now you've taken to making cars yourself.  Sir
Herbert Temple tells me they're excellent."

Nancy clapped her hands.

"Oh, Father, that will be delightful!" she said.  "And can't you get
Mr. Leslie to come and drive us?"

Leslie bit his lip to stop himself from smiling.

"My dear child," said the Colonel, "Mr. Leslie is much too busy a man
for that sort of thing.  It's very good of him to come to-day."

"I suppose the motor-car business is a very thriving industry,"
hazarded Mrs. Peyton vaguely.  "Do you make them yourself, Mr.
Leslie?"

"With a little assistance," answered Leslie.  "It's rather
complicated work, you know."

"It must be," said Mrs. Peyton sympathetically.  "The tyres alone,
for instance.  I can't think how you cut all those funny patterns on
the rubber.  What a perfect day for a picnic, isn't it?"

Having taken this abrupt æsthetic turn, the conversation wandered
away into general channels, until by a natural process it drifted
back to the immediate surroundings of the party.

"I want to see the church," said Nancy, throwing a little sidelong
glance at Leslie.  "I believe it's most awfully interesting.
Cardinal Wolsey did something or other in it."

"The church, the church?" inquired Colonel Peyton in whom lunch had
induced certain symptoms of restfulness.  "What church?  Where is it?"

"I believe it's down in the village," answered Nancy innocently.  "I
could walk down and back before you are ready to start."

"I don't think you'd better," said the Colonel.  "You'll probably
meet some drunken tramp."

"Well, perhaps Mr. Leslie would walk down with me," suggested Nancy.
"I do want to see the church frightfully.  That was why I suggested
Beechwood."

"I should be delighted to," said Leslie simply.

Colonel Peyton looked a little doubtful.  The young man certainly
seemed most respectful and well-mannered, but--but--well, well, after
all, where was the harm.  Having asked him to lunch, it would appear
rather unkind to refuse his well-meant offer, especially as the
suggestion had originally come from Nancy.

"Go along with you, then," said the Colonel good-naturedly.  "But
don't be late.  We want to start back by three."

Side by side, Nancy and Leslie set off down the hill.  For some
little way Nancy was bubbling over with suppressed merriment, which
only found its escape when they rounded the corner of the hill and
were out of sight of the older people.  Then she thrust her arm
through Leslie's, and broke into a long ripple of laughter.

"Oh, George dear," she said.  "I thought I should have exploded.
Your face was simply lovely!"

Leslie smiled contentedly.

"If it comes to that," he retorted, "you're looking rather nice
yourself this morning, Nancy."

Nancy squeezed his arm gently.

"That's very pretty," she said, "but you mustn't say that sort of
thing too often, George, or I shall think you've been practising.
Where are we going to?"

"Why, to the church, of course," answered Leslie.

Nancy wrinkled her nose.

"But I don't want to go to the church," she protested.  "It's sure to
be all dusty and stuffy, and there'll be some horrid old man who'll
want to crawl round with us and point out Cardinal Wolsey.  Let's go
and sit in the wood somewhere, and just talk."

Leslie shook his head.

"No, Nancy," he said sternly.  "I can't encourage such deception.
Come along to the church."

Nancy sighed.

"Oh, dear," she murmured, "that's the worst of loving a man with a
chin like yours.  I shouldn't be half so frightened of you if you had
a beard, George.  Will you grow one to please me when we're married?"

"You shall have whiskers if you want them," said Leslie tenderly.

Nancy laughed, and, withdrawing her arm, stopped to pick two or three
flowers that were nestling in the hedgerow.

"There you are," she said, putting them in his buttonhole.  Then she
turned up her face.  "You may kiss me now if you like."

Leslie put his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her very gently.

Nancy patted his sleeve.

"You dear, obstinate old thing!" she said.  "I believe you like me
rather, after all."

"I do a little," said Leslie quietly.

Walking side by side, they came out on to the bend of the hill that
leads down into Beechwood village.  The small hamlet with its
thatched cottages lay spread out below them in the warm July sunshine.

"What a sweet place, isn't it?" said Nancy.  "There's the church."
She pointed down to a little square tower, half hidden amongst the
trees.  "And, oh, look!" she added.  "There's someone outside with a
motor-car.  I suppose he's come to see Cardinal Wolsey too."

Leslie said nothing.  He was busy flicking away some dust from his
coat with his handkerchief.

"He's left the car and gone inside," went on Nancy.  "What fun!
Let's steal it, George, and go for a ride!"

"I don't think we'd better," said Leslie.  "He might be the bishop
inspecting."

Nancy shook her head.

"Bishops never inspect," she said decidedly.  "They sit at home and
swear at the Government.  I know, because my uncle's one."

"Well, we'll go inside too, and see what he's doing," said Leslie.
"Perhaps he's breaking open the poor-box."

They turned in under the old wooden gateway and walked up the
churchyard path.  The door of the porch was open, and as they entered
Leslie closed it behind them.  At that moment the organ broke softly
into music.

Nancy slipped her arm into her companion's.

"Oh, dear!" she whispered.  "I believe there's a service on."

As she spoke an elderly clergyman in a surplice came out suddenly
from a side door in the chancel.  He walked slowly to the steps, and
stood there with a book in his hand looking down the aisle towards
them.

"It's our wedding service," said Leslie simply.

All the colour went suddenly out of Nancy's face.  She stood for a
moment as if turned to white marble, while the sound of the organ
rose louder and louder, mounting up triumphantly into the fretted
roof, and filling all the church with its joyous harmony.  She tried
to speak, but somehow or other the words refused to come.  Then she
felt Leslie's arm tighten, and she was walking up the aisle, while
the music sank and died in low, melodious tones.  She had a vague
impression of two men getting up from the front pew.

"Gathered together--sight of God--face of this congregation--join
together--man and woman--holy matrimony--honourable estate
instituted----"

But this was impossible, absurd.  She couldn't be married like this.
What was Leslie thinking of?  The man must stop.

The monotonous drone continued:

"Have this woman--wedded wife--live together--God's ordinance--holy
estate matrimony--lover, comfort, honour, an' keeper--sickness and in
health--forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her so long as ye
both shall live?"

Leslie's voice came, cheerful and distinct:

"I will."

"Have this man--wedded husband--live together--God's ord'nance--holy
estate matrimony.  Obey him, serve him, love, honour, and keep
him--sickness--health--forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him
so long as ye both shall live?"

Nancy gasped.

"Who giveth this woman--married--this man?"

There was a shuffle of feet, and somebody stepped forward beside her.

Nancy found herself holding Leslie's hand.  Her mind seemed to be a
whirling wilderness of amazed protest.  What was she to do?  Why
hadn't she spoken before?  She wouldn't be married like this--she
wouldn't--she wouldn't!  It was hateful of Leslie!
She'd--she'd--What was it the man wanted her to say?

"I, Nancy, take thee, George--wedded husband--have and to hold----"

Somehow she had stumbled through the responses, and then she was
kneeling beside Leslie, and her hand was still in his.

It was too late now.  She was married--married--married, and all the
protests in the world would be worse than useless.  Even the parson's
drone seemed to ring with a note of finality.

"Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder."

Of what happened immediately after, Nancy never had any very clear
idea.  She remembered signing a book, and shaking hands with two
complete strangers, and being congratulated by the old clergyman.
And at last she and Leslie were alone.

It was then that Nancy began to cry.

"Don't, dearest, don't!" said Leslie.

He took her in his arms, and kissed her wet eyes and quivering lips.

"Oh, how could you--how could you?"  She hid her face against his
coat, and somehow the laughter forced its way through her tears.
"Oh, George, you beast, you beast, you bully!"

"It was the only way, my Nancy."

His voice was very tender, and the steady grey eyes looked down on
her alight with love.  She took his handkerchief out of his pocket
and dabbed her eyes.

"I'll never forgive you--never!  It was horrible of you, George!"
Then came the old mischievous smile, like a flash of sunshine through
the rain.  "However did you do it, dear?"

"I got a special licence on Saturday," said Leslie calmly.  "Then I
came down here, saw the parson, and told him to be ready at two
o'clock.  I said we might keep him waiting, so I would pay double
fees."

Nancy burst into a ripple of laughter.

"Oh, George," she said, "I think you must be the devil!"

"Well, he took up the bargain quick enough.  Then I told Morton, my
partner, to come down with another car and wait outside the
churchyard.  Directly he saw me coming he was to go in and start the
parson, and that's how everything was ready.  It was quite a simple
matter, really."

"But it's only just beginning," said Nancy.  "Think of father and
mother."

"I have," said Leslie.  "Morton is driving them home.  I have given
him a letter explaining the circumstances.  We shall go back in the
other car."

Nancy collapsed.

"And then?" she inquired faintly.

"Then I shall take you to Claridge's, and go round and see your
father.  I want to apologize to him."

Nancy shuddered.

"What do you think he'll say?"

Leslie took her two hands and drew her towards him.

"Dearest," he said, "your father and I are going to be great friends."

She looked up into his strong, kind face.  Then she gave a little
happy laugh.

"George," she said, "I'm glad you've got a chin like that.  It makes
me feel so safe."




Tony and His Conscience


The taxi pulled up with a jerk opposite Hyde Court Mansions, and the
Honourable Reginald Seton, in the glossiest of top hats and the most
delicate of grey frock-coats, stepped out carefully on to the
pavement.  Then, with the graceful deliberation that marked all his
movements, he extracted half-a-crown from his waistcoat pocket and
handed it to the driver.

The man pocketed the coin with a wheezy "Thank ye, sir," and, leaning
over from his box, inquired furtively, "Wot's goin' to win ter-day,
guv'nor?"

Reggie sighed.

"My bookmaker," he said, adjusting his field-glasses to a nicer
angle.  Then, with his head slightly on one side, he mounted the two
or three stone steps that led into the big block of flats.

The liftman, who looked like a dirty edition of the All Highest,
touched his cap as Reggie approached.

"Mr. Delmar's flat, sir?" he inquired, opening the door.

Reggie nodded.

"They tell me, sir," pursued the liftman, as he and Reggie progressed
heavenwards, "that Little Eva's very 'ot to-day--very 'ot indeed,
sir."

"How unpleasant for her jockey!" replied Reggie, with a slight
shudder.

The liftman smiled respectfully.

"It's a good tip, sir," he observed.  "I 'ad it straight from the
stable."

Reggie looked at him with admiration.

"Did you really, Smith?" he said.  "How clever of you!  The only
things I've ever had from a stable have been bills."

"Ah, well, sir," said the liftman indulgently, "you can afford to pay
'em."

Reggie shook his head.

"That's just where you're wrong, Smith; I can afford not to--which is
much more important."

The lift stopped at the third landing, and Mr. Smith flung back the
trellised iron gate.  Then he stepped out after Reggie, and, crossing
to the door exactly opposite, pressed the electric bell.

"Thank you, Smith," said Reggie languidly; "you are very efficient."

The bell was answered by a middle-aged, clean-shaven man with a face
like a tired mask.

"Good-morning, Ropes," said Reggie.  "Is Mr. Delmar up?"

Ropes stepped back, opening the door.

"Mr. Delmar is dressing, sir; I think he is expecting you."

"I know he is," said Reggie, advancing into the hall, and beginning
to take off his gloves.  "Has he ordered the car?"

"Nine-thirty sharp, sir."

Reggie smiled.

"Ah, well," he said, "I think we shall be ready by ten, with any
luck."

"Yes, sir," replied Ropes; "I should think so, sir."

"You were always an optimist, Ropes," said Reggie.

At that moment a door on the farther side of the hall was thrown open
and a voice--a peculiarly engaging, good-tempered sort of
voice--inquired cheerfully:

"That you, Reggie?"

Reggie laid down his hat and stick on the settee.

"The answer," he said, "is in the affirmative."

"Well, come in," replied the voice, "and don't be an ass."

Accepting the first suggestion, Reggie walked across the hall.

The room which he entered was as comfortable as a man's bedroom has
any right to be.  A wood fire was crackling away pleasantly in the
grate, and reflecting a comfortable glow on the two or three
excellent specimens of Mr. Finch Stuart's talent which hung upon the
walls.

On the bed sat Tony, tastefully draped in a white Turkish bath robe.
He was smoking a cigarette and helping himself out of a bottle of
champagne from the table beside him.

Reggie looked at him reprovingly.

"Tony," he said, "I thought you had long ago abandoned that
disgusting English habit of eating breakfast."

Tony shook his head.

"You have always misjudged me," he said.  "My real tastes are as
simple as a schoolboy's.  Have some?"

He poured out a glass and handed it to Reggie, at the same time
casting a critical eye over the latter's clothes.

"My dear Reggie," he said, "you are very beautiful, but do you think
that's the most suitable costume for motoring down to Newmarket in?"

"Quite," said Reggie contentedly, "if one goes inside."

"Oh," replied Tony, "you've arranged it, have you?  May I hear the
details?"

"Certainly," said Reggie, sipping gracefully from his glass.  "You
will perform your usual miracles with the steering-wheel, Musette
will watch you with grave approval, and Gwendoline and I will sit
behind and hold hands."

"And suppose Musette wants to go inside?"

Reggie smiled.

"I am not the least afraid of that," he said.

Tony got up from the bed and began to shed his bath robe.

"Well, you had better hold Gwendoline's hand as engagingly as you
can," he said.  "It will probably be your last chance, as far as I'm
concerned."

Reggie looked at him with a faint wrinkle in his forehead.

"Is it a riddle, Tony?" he asked plaintively.  "I am no good at
riddles unless I'm slightly drunk."

"The answer," said Tony, selecting a shirt with some care, "is Little
Eva.  It's very painful, but the fact remains that if Little Eva
doesn't win to-day there's an end of Antony Delmar."

Reggie paused in the act of lighting a cigarette.

"You're not thinking of poisoning yourself, are you, Tony?" he asked,
with interest.  "Because, if so, a doctor chap once told me----"

Tony laughed.

"You're always very helpful, Reggie," he said; "but, as a matter of
fact, I've not the least idea of doing anything so exciting.  I only
mean that unless Little Eva brings it off we've finished this
particular chapter.  I've no doubt Ropes will lend me a tenner, but,
bar that, I shall be what Pat O'Donnell used to call 'bruk to the
buff.'"

For the first time Reggie looked a little serious.

"Are things really as bad as that?" he asked.

"Worse," said Tony calmly.  "Much worse.  There are my unhappy
tradesmen to be considered.  That's the only point that worries me.
I hate doing a tradesman, Reggie, but I'm afraid I shall have to."

"Of course you will," said Reggie hopefully.  "We're always having to
do unpleasant things in this life.  It's what my uncle the bishop
calls 'our duty,'  You'll have to go bankrupt, Tony, and then borrow
a few thousands and start over again."

Tony, who was adjusting his tie with some care, smiled.

"It's a good idea," he said, "but, unfortunately, I've rather
forestalled it.  The five thousand that I've got on Little Eva with
Morris and Weaver was a sort of farewell testimonial from my friends.
I think I touched everyone except you and Ropes, and Ropes has been
paying the bills for at least a fortnight.  I really can't go on any
longer, or the poor fellow will have lost all he's robbed me of."

"Do you mean to say you've put the actual cash up?" demanded Reggie
in horror.

"I had to, my dear Reggie.  That little beast Murray, who runs the
business, wouldn't take a 'pony' from me unless he saw the colour of
it first."

"And what do you stand to win?"

Tony sighed.

"Twenty-seven thousand pounds," he said.  "It's a beautiful sum,
isn't it?  I could pay my bills and live for nearly three years on
it."

Reggie poured himself out the remainder of the champagne.

"You make me feel quite faint, Tony," he said, "you're so spacious."
Then he took a long drink.

"And what do you propose doing," he added, "if Little Eva's beaten?"

"I shall have to work," said Tony.

Reggie stared at him in unaffected amazement.

"Have to what?" he repeated.

"Work," repeated Tony.  "I believe it's very difficult and
unpleasant, but I don't see any other prospect."

A mingled look of horror and admiration crept across Reggie's face.

"What could you do?" he asked breathlessly.

"I might drive a car," answered Tony hopefully.  "I can't think of
anything else at the moment."

Reggie took a deep breath,

"You're splendid, Tony," he said.  "You remind me of Roosevelt.  But
of course it's absurd.  You must marry some woman with money.  There
are plenty of them who'd jump at you."

Tony shivered.

"Fancy being jumped at by a woman!" he said plaintively.  "It makes
me feel like a new hat."

"Well, you're a bad hat," retorted Reggie, laughing; "that's quite
near enough.  Seriously, though, my dear Tony, you can't possibly be
allowed to go under.  London would never be the same again.  It would
be as bad as Romano's being burnt down.  You must marry, of course.
What's the use of being the most popular man in London if you can't
marry a rich woman when you want to?"

"Well, suggest somebody."

Reggie pondered for a moment.

"Why not Mrs. Rosenbaum?"

Tony picked an errant thread off his perfectly cut blue suit.  "In
order to be facetious, Reggie," he said, "it is not necessary to be
disgusting."

Reggie sighed.

"I am doing my best," he declared.  "What about Musette?  She
obviously has the good taste to appreciate you, and she seems to have
plenty of money.  By the way, Tony, who is she really?  Cohen asked
me about her after he met her with you at Kempton, and when I said I
didn't know, the swine grinned.  If I hadn't had a pair of Gordon's
boots on I should have kicked him."

Tony shrugged his shoulders.

"My dear Reggie," he said, "I know very little more about Musette
than you do.  I met her exactly two months ago in the Bois, when, in
her extremely sensible way, she stopped and asked me to get rid of
some futile Frenchman who had been following her round for the best
part of an hour."

"How charming!" said Reggie.  "That sort of thing never happens to
me.  Did you hurt him?"

"I think he shuddered a little at my accent," replied Tony.  "Anyhow,
he cleared out, and I took Musette back to the Hotel de Paris, where
she was staying.  There I met Mrs. Watson, and they asked me to call
on them in London."

"It sounds like Phillips Oppenheim at his best," said Reggie.  "But
surely you must have found out something more since then.  What
relation is she to the old lady, and where does the girl get her
money from?"

Tony shook his head.

"I've no idea," he said.  "She has never offered to tell me anything,
and so, of course, I've never asked her.  We've just been
pals--that's all."

Reggie helped himself to a cigarette.

"Well, you can't live in Curzon Street on nothing," he said.  "I've
tried it.  They must have at least five thousand a year.  I think you
will have to marry her, Tony, and trust to luck."

Tony laughed a little uneasily.

"Perhaps she wouldn't marry me," he said.

"Any woman would marry you if you asked her nicely.  You have got
such an alluring voice."

Tony suddenly straightened himself.

"Well, I'm not going to marry Musette," he said.  "It would be a
damned shame."  Then he walked across the room and rang the bell.

Reggie said nothing.  With his head on one side he smoked away
thoughtfully at his cigarette.

The silence was broken by the entrance of Ropes.

"Is the car round?" inquired Tony.

"It has been outside exactly twenty minutes, sir," replied Ropes
equably.  "I have put in the luncheon basket and three bottles of
champagne.  Everything is quite ready, sir."

"Good," said Tony, picking up two or three stray sovereigns from the
dressing-table.  "I will now put on my coat, Ropes."

The impassive man-servant stepped out into the hall, reappearing a
moment later with a magnificent astrachan-lined garment, in which
Tony proceeded to envelop himself.

"If any one should call, sir?" asked Ropes interrogatively.

Tony picked up his cap.

"Tell them," he said, "that it is more blessed to give than to
receive."

"Yes, sir," replied Ropes gravely.

Three minutes afterwards, with Tony at the wheel and Reggie reclining
luxuriously in the beautiful limousine body, the big Rolls-Royce drew
noiselessly away down Piccadilly.  Whatever Tony's shortcomings might
be, he could certainly drive a car.  Threading his way through the
traffic with a very poetry of judgment, he glided round the corner of
Park Lane, and, cutting across the bows of an onrushing motor
omnibus, disappeared in the direction of Curzon Street before the
indignant brake-grabbing driver of the latter could recall a single
adequate word.

In front of a small, recently painted house he brought the big
six-cylinder to a standstill.  Then he turned round.

"I'll ring," he said.  "Don't you trouble to get out."

"I wasn't going to," replied Reggie pleasantly.

As a matter of fact, there was no necessity for the exertion, for
just as Tony was preparing to disembark, the door of the house
opened, and a tall, pleasant-looking girl, neatly dressed in blue
serge, stepped out on to the pavement.

Tony jumped down and took off his cap, while Reggie gracefully rose
and imitated his example.

The girl smiled gravely.

"I am afraid you must have had a bad night," she said; "you are only
twenty minutes late."

"Mine is the hand that dragged him from his lair, Miss Gilbert," said
Reggie languidly.  "But for me he would still be in his bath."

The girl looked at him.

"That was very kind of you, Mr. Seton," she said gently.  "I have
heard you are rather an expert at getting out of hot water yourself."

Tony chuckled.

"Bravo, Musette!" he said.  "Right on the point.  If you want to
follow it up, say you are going to ride inside."

Musette's eyes twinkled.

"Why, of course!" she said.  "Where else should I sit?"

Reggie, who was still standing, looked at her appealingly.

"You have driven with Tony before," he said, "and you know the risks
you are running.  Death is much easier on the box-seat.  Besides, I
want to hold Gwendoline's hand."

"I am not at all sure that it is respectable," said Musette severely.

"It will only be her left hand," pleaded Reggie.

"Oh, well, in that case," said Musette; and, without further
objection, she seated herself alongside of Tony.

Five minutes' flirtation with death brought the car to Portman
Mansions, where Gwendoline, a charming blend of Dresden china and
Paquin, floated delicately into the limousine.

Then away past Euston and King's Cross, up through the sordid
dreariness of Pentonville and so out on to the far-flung Broxbourne
road.

Once clear of the general traffic, Tony began to enjoy himself.  Over
the first ten police-ridden miles the big car glided along at a
steady twenty-five, and then, as the houses became fewer, and the
green fields began to appear on either side of the road, the index
finger on the speedometer crept encouragingly up.

Musette, who seemed to be blessed with delightfully steady nerves,
watched him with frank interest.  She made no attempt to talk, such
conversation as there was being almost wholly confined to spirited
comments from Tony on the extraordinary prevalence of deaf and lame
pedestrians.  Indeed, his only departure from this interesting
monologue was an occasional hurried request to Musette to "Give 'em
the Gabriel," a presentation which she effected with promptness and
efficiency.

From the tonneau behind, Reggie, who was softly stroking Gwendoline's
hand, surveyed them with languid approval.  "I don't suppose," he
said contentedly, "that there are four such charming people as
ourselves in the whole of England."

Gwendoline looked a little doubtful.

"I think Musette is very nice," she said, "but I don't quite
understand her."

"You should never understand any one," replied Reggie.  "It's like
knowing the answer to a riddle."

"Does Tony love her?" asked Gwendoline.

Reggie thought for a moment,

"I'm inclined to think it's more serious than that," he said.  "I
have an idea that he likes her."

Gwendoline wrinkled up her forehead.

"I can't love any one I don't like," she said decisively.  "I've
tried several times, and it's always been a failure."

"I can," observed Reggie frankly.  "I love lots of people, but I
don't think I like any one very much except you and Tony, and Martin,
my valet.  If you all died, I should become what my uncle calls 'a
slave to passion.'"

"It sounds rather nice," said Gwendoline.

Reggie sighed.  "It's dreadfully expensive," he observed.

Except for a slight misunderstanding with a farm cart on the borders
of Cambridgeshire, which Tony patched up with a charming apology and
a sovereign, no untoward incident marred the remainder of the drive.
Half-past one was just striking as the car entered the outskirts of
Newmarket.  Through the broad, grey main street, with its stray
race-horses and its lounging throng of gaitered, clean-shaven men,
Tony steered a sober and considerate course.  The town was full of
visitors, and almost every other man who passed either touched his
cap or waved a cheery greeting.

Musette smiled.

"You seem to be the best-known person in London, Tony," she said.

"To the police," said Tony modestly, "I believe I am."

A swift run up the hill, a sharp turn to the right, and the Heath,
fresh and green in the crisp October air, stretched out gloriously
before them.  Tony brought the car to a standstill just beyond the
enclosure, and then, leaning over, affectionately patted the
dashboard.

"Good girl!" he said.

Musette nodded.

"She has done splendidly.  You must give her a nice helping of oil
while I get lunch ready."

The latter operation did not take long.  A well-meant offer of
assistance from Reggie and Gwendoline was firmly, if politely,
declined, and by the time Tony had attended to the car's
requirements, a pleasing medley of champagne, lobster mayonnaise,
cold tongue, and Madeira jelly was set out invitingly on the portable
table inside the body.

"Here," said Reggie, raising his glass and leaning back luxuriously,
"is the health of the gentleman who invented that charming phrase,
'the idle rich.'"

"You might have drunk mine first," protested Gwendoline, "after
holding my hand the whole way down."

"Reggie," said Tony, "has the most perfect manner and the most
imperfect manners of anybody I know.  Musette, your health!"

Musette bowed gravely.

"My toast," she said, "is that you may all back the winner."

"Tony," said Reggie, "has backed Little Eva.  I think I shall do the
same.  The liftman told me that she was 'very 'ot.'"

"Is that what they call 'a tip?'" asked Gwendoline, wrinkling her
forehead.

"Hush, child," said Reggie, patting her hand.  "Such expressions are
not seemly for a young girl to use."

"I am sorry, dear," said Gwendoline, "but you might put ten bob on
for me.  I want some new gloves badly.  You have nearly worn out this
pair."

"I can't be left out," said Musette, producing her purse.  "Tony, you
look honest.  Here's a sovereign for Little Eva."

Tony took the coin.

"I'll hedge against you all," he said.  "It may bring me luck."

"Well, here goes my last fiver," said Reggie, with a sigh.  "If
Little Eva's beaten I shall dine with you all in turn next week."

"Have we time for a quarter of a cigarette?" asked Gwendoline.  "I
feel the gambler's tremors coming on.  Look at my hand.  It's shaking
like a leaf."

"A white rose petal," said Reggie gallantly, "would be a more
accurate simile.  Have one of mine.  They're Russian, and not paid
for."

Gwendoline helped herself delicately.

"Reggie," she said, "never pays for anything; he thinks it's vulgar."

"It certainly isn't common," observed Tony.  "Reggie carries it to
extremes, however.  I remember his tailor once saying to him with
tears in his voice, 'Ah, Mr. Seton, I shall either have to give you
up or else take my lad away from Harrow.  I can't afford the two.'"

"And which did he do?" asked Gwendoline puffing out a little cloud of
smoke.

Tony waved his hand towards Reggie's perfect frock-coat.

"There," he said, "is the answer."

Gwendoline shook her head sadly.

"I have always thought," she said, "that there was some dark secret
in Reggie's life.  Hallo, there's a bell.  Let's put away these
things and go and see what's happening."

Between them, Tony and Musette quickly packed up the _débris_ of
luncheon, and then, leaving the car in charge of a courteous, if
somewhat heavily suborned, policeman, they all four made their way
into the enclosure.

As is usually the case on Cambridgeshire day, the Heath was packed in
a manner which must have been highly gratifying to the directors of
the race-course.  On the further side of the track the spectators
stretched away down to the bushes in a long continuous line, while
both the stands and the enclosure were as full of people as such
superior and expensive places could rightly expect to be.

As soon as the first two races were over, there came a rush for the
paddock, where the Cambridgeshire horses were being saddled.

"I vote we stop where we are," said Tony, turning to the others.
"What does any one say?"

"Just as you please, as far as I'm concerned," said Reggie.  "I like
to have a look at the runners, but I'm always ready to be unselfish."

Tony laughed.

"Why, Reggie," he said, "if it wasn't for the tail you wouldn't know
one end of a horse from the other."

"Of course not," admitted Reggie calmly; "but I like to walk round
and say that so-and-so looks a bit fine-drawn, and thingumybob a bit
tucked up.  It's wonderful how people always agree with you."

"I shouldn't," said Gwendoline, with decision.  "I never agree with
you, Reggie, except when you tell me I'm beautiful."

Tony raised his hand.

"Don't quarrel, children," he said, "until after the race is over.  I
shall break down if you do."

"Here they come!" cried Reggie, as the small group of men clustered
round the entrance to the paddock suddenly scattered to right and
left.  "Look out for Little Eva."

A handsome chestnut, his coat gleaming like new bronze in the mellow
afternoon sunlight, was the first to appear.  He came out sideways,
prancing and shaking his head, and then, twisting round, galloped up
past the stands, sending the earth flying beneath his heels.

"That's Colchester, number twelve on the menu," said Tony.  "He's the
only one I'm afraid of."

"Let's hope he'll break his neck," said Reggie piously.  "Here are
the others."

One after another the fifteen runners cantered down the course, being
greeted with successive cheers that swelled or sunk according to
their position in the betting.  The loudest welcome of all was
reserved for the last, a beautiful, shapely black, carrying the
famous Rothschild colours.

Tony moistened his lips.  "There she goes," he said quietly.  "Pretty
mare, isn't she?"

No one answered; only Musette was looking at him.  The others were
gazing down the course after the horses.

From the stands the start was plainly visible.  One could see the
tall posts of the gate, and the various runners fidgeting about like
small black dots.  For about five minutes the movement continued,
while a silent tension gradually spread throughout the thousands of
watching figures.

The sharp ting of a bell, a sudden gasping cry, "They're off!" and
everyone was leaning forward, staring eagerly towards the broken line
that rolled unsteadily up the course.

On they came, while louder and ever louder the vast volume of voices
swelled into a frenzied roar of excitement.

"The Dryad wins!" "Colchester!  Colchester!" "Little Eva for a
hundred!" "The Dryad!  The Dryad!"

Neck and neck in the centre of the course three horses were sweeping
along, clear by a couple of lengths from the parti-coloured medley
behind.  A hundred yards from home and they were still level, the gap
behind them widening at every stride.  Suddenly one of them faltered.
A sudden shout, "The Dryad's beat!" burst from a thousand throats,
and the next moment, locked in an apparently inseparable stride,
Colchester and Little Eva came thundering past the post.

The wild cheering died down into a brief spell of almost intolerable
silence.  Every eye was glued to the tall frame, waiting the fateful
decision.

With a perfectly steady hand Tony lit a cigarette.  "Colchester's
won," he said quietly.  "A short head, I should think."

The words had hardly left his lips when a hoarse roar proclaimed the
hoisting of the numbers.

  12
   6
   9


Tony laughed lightly.  "I thought so," he said.  "Reggie, you've lost
your fiver.  Let us hope it will teach you not to gamble."

But for once in a way Reggie had no answer.  He was staring down the
course, biting jerkingly at an unlit cigarette.

It was Gwendoline who broke the silence.  "Poor Reggie," she said.
"I can't let you starve.  You must come and dine with us."

Tony thrust his hand into his pocket, and pulled out Reggie's
five-pound note.

"Musette," he observed, "there is still corn in Egypt.  What about
the Savoy?"

Musette, who had been looking at him with rather troubled eyes, shook
her head and smiled.

"No, Tony," she said; "I should be haunted by Mr. Seton's ghost.  You
must dine with me at Curzon Street."

"Perhaps it would be more decent," said Tony.  "After all, Reggie was
a friend of mine before he went under.  I'll send the fiver to the
Anti-Socialist fund."

Reggie, who seemed to have recovered himself, turned round with a
laugh.

"Yours is a callous heart, Tony," he said.  "Suppose we leave this
scene of vice and get back to town.  There's sure to be a poisonous
crush after the last race."

"I'm ready," replied Musette.

"So am I," added Gwendoline, "unless Tony wants to stay."

Tony buttoned his coat.

"Mr. Delmar's interest in racing," he observed, "is temporarily
suspended."

* * * * * * *

It was just six o'clock when the big dust-stained car pulled up
outside Portman Mansions.  Reggie opened the door, and Gwendoline,
after collecting her various possessions, rustled daintily out.

"Eight o'clock, Reggie," she said, "and there's a woodcock for
dinner.  Don't be late.  Good-bye, Miss Gilbert.  Good-bye, Tony; I'm
frightfully sorry Little Eva lost."

"Your griefs are mine, Gwendoline," observed Tony gravely.  "Where do
you want to get out, Reggie?"

"Oh, drop Miss Gilbert next," said Reggie.  "I'll come along with you
to Hyde Court."

A few minutes brought them to Curzon Street, where Musette alighted.

"Eight o'clock also, Tony," she said; "but I'm afraid there's no
woodcock.  It will be an impromptu feast."

"I'm not greedy," said Tony.  "It is one of my few good points."

Reggie climbed into the vacant seat alongside of him, and, waving
farewell to Musette, they slid off noiselessly round the corner.
Neither of them spoke until the car drew up outside Tony's flat.
Then Reggie laid his hand on his friend's arm.

"Don't be stupid, Tony," he said.  "Marry Musette.  You'll make her
very happy."

Tony remained silent.

"Very well," said Reggie, with a sigh; "it's not my business.  There
is only one other thing I want to say.  As far as it goes, Tony, you
know that what's mine is yours.  You'll let me do what I can?"

"My dear Reggie," said Tony, "there's only one luxury I can afford to
carry away from this absurd city, and that's the thought that there
was one person I never borrowed any money from.  Still, it's quite
charming of you, Reggie.  Come and have breakfast with me in the
morning."

Reggie nodded.

Leaving the car in charge of the porter on duty, Tony climbed a
little wearily up the stairs that led to his flat.  As he opened the
door he was met in the hall by the impassive Ropes.  Tony looked at
him with a smile.

"I see from your expression, Ropes," he said, "that you have been
reading the evening paper."

Ropes inclined his head.

"If you will pardon me, sir," he observed, "I was deeply distressed
to see that Little Eva had lost, very deeply distressed."

Tony took off his coat and hat, and handed them over to his sorrowing
retainer.

"Ah well, Ropes," he remarked, "we've had a pleasant time while it
lasted.  You must go to Lord North; he's been pestering me to give
you up for years.  You'll have a bigger scope there for your peculiar
abilities."

Ropes shook his head.

"I shall be sorry to disappoint his lordship, sir, but it would be
impossible for me to accept another place.  If you can no longer
retain my services, I shall retire."

"I suppose you are very rich, Ropes?" said Tony sadly.

Ropes bowed.  "Quite comfortably off, thank you, sir.  I trust, sir,
that, if you will excuse my mentioning such a matter, the question of
wages will not lead you to dismiss me before it is quite convenient.
I should be deeply distressed if you allowed such a consideration to
influence you, sir."

"You shall at least have the felicity of helping me dress for dinner,
Ropes," said Tony gravely.  "We will discuss these unpleasantly
sordid topics to-morrow morning."

Half an hour later a taxi pulled up outside Musette's house in Curzon
Street, and Tony, faultlessly accoutred, stepped out.  He was shown
into a room on the left of the hall, where Musette, gracefully
slender in a dark blue evening frock, was sitting back in an easy
chair, turning over the pages of a novel.

"It will be a duet," she said, holding out her hand, which Tony
kissed; "poor Aunt Jemima is in bed with a headache."

"A day of disasters," observed Tony.  "I felt it when I got up this
morning."

The door opened, and a neatly dressed parlour-maid announced dinner.

Musette laid down her novel and, rising from her chair, accepted his
arm.

"We'll hope, at all events," she said, "that the food will be an
exception."

They crossed the hall to the dining-room, where a small round table,
bright with silver and glasses, stood out attractively against the
black oak panelling of the walls.  The only light came from four
red-shaded candles in the centre.

Musette's "impromptu feast" turned out to be a dainty little dinner
which would have won the approval of Colonel Newnham Davis.  Some
excellent soup was followed by grilled sole, sweetbreads, and a
partridge, the whole concluding with an alluring symphony on toast in
which eggs and old Madeira supplied the leading motif.  Assisted by a
bottle of Lafitte, and a couple of glasses of "Bristol cream," Tony's
immediate troubles faded luxuriously from his memory.  He possessed
to a supreme degree that enviable gift of living in the present, and
as he chatted away cheerfully to Musette, the thought that on the
morrow he would be facing an unsympathetic world without a penny in
his pocket never once intruded its unpleasant image.

It was only in the small room afterwards, when he was sitting over
the fire smoking a cigar and watching the light flickering softly on
Musette's white arms, that the sudden realization of his position
gripped him.  With a horrible abruptness it occurred to him that this
was probably the last time he would see her.  Up till that moment he
had never thought about his relations with Musette.  Without making
love to her he had drifted into a kind of charming intimacy, quite
different from anything he had previously known in a fairly extensive
experience.  Now the thought that he was going to lose her appeared
to him suddenly in all its naked simplicity.  He stared into the
fire, trying to grasp the unpleasant revelation.

Musette leaned forward, looking up at him.

"What's the matter, Tony?" she asked.

Her hand was on the arm of the chair, and Tony, almost unconsciously,
laid his own on it.  Her soft and cool clasp answered him with a
little affectionate pressure.

"My poor Tony," she said, "you look as worried as Saul.  What is it?"

The devil, or whoever is responsible for our temptations, suddenly
brought up in Tony's mind the recollection of Reggie's parting words.
He looked down longingly into Musette's upturned face.  Here in this
strange gracious girl lay a wonderful escape from the black morass
into which he had stumbled.  She met his gaze with steady,
wide-opened eyes and a rather troubled smile.

"What is it, Tony dear?" she repeated.  "Tell me."

He slowly moved his hand until it imprisoned her arm, and then bent
down towards her.

"Musette," he whispered, "Musette."

Her breast rose and fell like some beautiful white flower, but she
remained silent and motionless.  Tony was so near now that he could
feel the warm breath from her parted lips, and for a moment he forgot
everything in the supreme hunger to kiss her.  It was as he did so
that his conscience suddenly broke through the habits of a lifetime.

He stood up quietly in front of her and put his hands behind his back.

"I was going to ask you to marry me, Musette," he said.

Musette nodded.

"But now," said Tony, after a short pause, "I am going to tell you
the truth instead."  He sat down and stared into the fire.  "I'm
ruined, Musette.  I owe about ten thousand pounds, and I haven't a
penny in the world.  I've spent and gambled away every shilling my
father left me.  I had the last five thousand I can possibly raise on
Little Eva."

Musette, who had been listening to him with the same half-grave,
half-smiling expression on her face, got up from her chair and
crossed the room to a small satin-wood writing-table in the corner.
She opened the drawer and took out something.

"Is this your cheque, Tony?" she asked, handing him a small slip of
pink paper.

Tony looked at it in bewilderment.

"I don't understand," he said.

Musette sat down and folded her hands.

"Murray brought it to me, instead of paying it into the bank.  I
thought if you asked me to marry you I'd give it you back as a
good-bye present."  She paused.  "As you haven't done so, Tony," she
added, "I think I shall have to cash it."

Tony dropped the cheque on the table.

"I don't understand," he repeated helplessly.

"My father's real name," said Musette, "was Morris."

Tony stared at her.

"Morris," he repeated mechanically.

Musette smiled.

"Well, he liked to think it was Morris," she added.  "I believe, as a
strict matter of fact, that it was originally Moses.  At least,
mother always said so.  Anyhow, he was a very good father.  He left
me his business, Tony, and Murray to help me look after it."

Tony jumped up from his chair.

"Great Scot!" he cried.

Musette shook her head.

"No, Tony," she said.  "He's a Jew, too, only, like father, he's
ashamed of it.  I'm the only one in the firm with any honest British
blood.  At least, I believe mother came from Dublin.  She was never
quite sure about it."

Tony said nothing; he only stared at her.

"It brings me in about nine thousand a year," added Musette, with
reflective inconsequence; "so it would be a pity to drop it, wouldn't
it?"

There was a silence, lasting for about a minute.  Then Tony came over
to Musette, and stood looking down into her eyes.

"Good-bye, Musette," he said simply.  "I am several kinds of a
blackguard, and I don't think it's very probable that we shall ever
see each other again, but at all events I didn't ask you to marry me."

Musette smiled.

"I think, Tony," she said, "that you are the only man who has ever
paid me a compliment that I care about."

Then, as Tony turned to go, she got up from her chair and stood in
front of him, with her hands behind her back.

"And I am sure, Tony," she added calmly, "that you are the only man I
know who would never bore me."

For a second Tony hesitated.  Then, taking her by the shoulders,
cool, fragrant, and smiling, he drew her into his arms.

And on this occasion Tony's conscience seemed quite satisfied.




"Squarky-woo"


Once upon a time there was a little mouse called Squarky-woo, who
lived behind the wainscoting in a house in Berkeley Square.  His
mother, who lived with him, was very old, and very grey, and very
wise.  He called her Mammy-ana, partly from affection and partly
because it was her name.  She was a widow, Squarky-woo's father
having met with a tabby catastrophe in the kitchen, which had
abruptly terminated his stainless career in the very flower of
mousehood.  It had been a cruel blow to Mammy-ana, who had loved him
dearly, and would not have lost him for all the cheese in Cheddar.
She had dragged his remains from the dust-heap on to which they had
been thrown, and lovingly interred them beneath the dining-room
floor, erecting over his grave the simple and touching memorial:

  REQUIESCAT
  IN
  PUSSIE


From that day onward she had lavished the whole affection of her
broken heart upon little Squarky-woo.  He was indeed a mouse of which
any mother might have been proud.  His coat was as brown as the
Thames water at London Bridge, his eyes were as black as Maria, and
his teeth were as sharp as needles and as white as ivory.  Deep down
in her heart Mammy-ana thought him perfect, but it must not be
supposed from this that she in any way neglected her duties as a
mother.  She insisted on his getting up at twelve o'clock every
night, and going into his hole at six o'clock every morning.  He was
never allowed to play with the other young mice, or to use any vulgar
expressions, such as "Go to Felis!" or "You be trapped!"  Above all,
he was strictly forbidden, on any excuse whatever, to go near the
kitchen in which his beloved father had met so dreadful a fate.

With the foolishness of youth, Squarky-woo chafed under this
admirable discipline.  Not that he ever complained to his mother--oh,
dear, no!  He loved her too much, and, besides, she would probably
have beaten him.  Of course, if she had done so, it would only have
been for his own good; but Squarky-woo, being modest by nature, felt
that he was quite good enough.  So he kept his thoughts to himself,
and did what he was told, and Mammy-ana frequently informed him that
he was the best behaved and the most satisfactory little mouse in the
whole of Berkeley Square.  "This," she would add, "is rather due to
your excellent upbringing than to any innate virtue that you yourself
possess."  And Squarky-woo, who had quite made up his mind to pay a
visit to the kitchen on the first possible occasion, used to bow his
head gracefully, as though recognising the truth of her remark, and
then wink at himself in the looking-glass under the dining-room
sideboard.

Though nothing can excuse such duplicity, especially in early life,
Squarky-woo's conduct was not really quite so reprehensible as it
appears at first sight.  He suffered from temptations of which
Mammy-ana was ignorant, for the other young mice had the most
offensive habit of jeering at him whenever she was not present.
"Yah!" they would cry, "Who's afraid of the cat?  Look at little
Stay-in-hole!"  Then they would tell him wonderful stories about the
kitchen, how the floor was strewn with crumbs, and how exciting it
was to creep in quietly and pick them up, while the great, ugly brute
of a cat nodded away sleepily in front of the fire.  And Squarky-woo
would grind his teeth with impotent fury, and swear to himself that,
come what might, nothing should stop him from sharing in their
adventures.

And so, one evening, when Mammy-ana had gone across the square to pay
a visit of congratulation (the cat at No. 4 having been rather
severely bitten by a stray dog), Squarky-woo seized the opportunity
of putting his long-cherished scheme into operation.  He waited until
twelve o'clock, when all the half-dressed people upstairs seemed to
have gone to bed, and then, creeping softly out of his hole, made his
way to the head of the kitchen stairs.  His heart was beating
furiously with excitement, and that strange, delicious ecstasy which,
alas! so frequently accompanies a first departure from the paths of
right flowed fiercely through his veins.  He listened for a moment or
two, scarcely daring to breathe, but the quivering of his own tail
alone broke the silence.

Very cautiously he crept downstairs, until he reached the basement,
where a small, blue jet of gas was flickering feebly in the draught.
Squarky-woo knew from this that the servants had all retired into
their holes.  He paused for a moment outside the pantry door, until
he heard the butler growling through his nose, which, according to
Mammy-ana, was a sure sign that he had gone to sleep.  Then, setting
his teeth, he scuttled off down the passage in the direction of the
kitchen.

To his intense surprise, the door was partly open; some careless
scullery-maid had evidently forgotten her duty.  For one instant he
hesitated as the memory of his father's fate suddenly rushed into his
mind.  But the thought of what the other young mice would say swept
away all caution, and, trembling with excitement, he crawled forward,
and peeped round the corner into the forbidden chamber.  In his
wildest moments he had never imagined anything so exquisite.  His
heart almost stopped beating, and, in a hoarse whisper, he ejaculated
to himself the single exclamation, "Crumbs!"  The floor was literally
strewn with them.  Bread, toast, flour, bacon, potato--minute
portions of all that made life sweet and radiant lay scattered there
in boundless plenty.  The dying firelight shone upon the silver
covers on the walls, and threw a faint, harmonious glow over the
entire banquet.

Tears of happiness gathered in Squarky-woo's eyes, and rolled gently
down his nose.  No wonder his father had risked everything in such a
cause.  Instead of a rash, indefinite shadow, Squarky-woo suddenly
saw him in the guise of an heroic martyr, and a great thrill of
family pride shot through his fluttering heart.  He raised his head,
and glanced savagely round the kitchen.  Where was that infernal cat?
She should pay bitterly for her deed of blood.

Fortunately, however, for Squarky-woo, the cat was otherwise engaged,
and with the exception of a few black beetles, who eyed him with
apathetic interest, he was in sole possession of the kitchen.  Well!
vengeance would keep, and the crumbs would not.  There they lay in
all their toothsome beauty.  He crushed back his more noble
sentiments, and flung himself upon the feast.

It was one of those rare occasions when the realization of a
long-cherished scheme is even more enjoyable than imagination has
already painted it, and so eagerly did Squarky-woo enter upon his
task that for some moments he was totally oblivious of all other
considerations.  At length, however, when the first glow of gratified
appetite was gradually cooling down, he began to realise that the
whole apartment was permeated by a delicate perfume for which none of
the fragments on the floor were directly responsible.  He stopped
eating and began to sniff the air with the rich satisfaction of a
true connoisseur.  "If that isn't Cheddar cheese," he murmured to
himself, "I'm a Dutch-mouse!"

As far as he could judge, the source of this delicious odour lay
somewhere in the direction of the fireplace.  In eager expectancy he
darted across the floor; and there, just in front of the grate lay
the most perfect slice of Cheddar cheese, surrounded by a curious
arrangement of wire and wood.

Now Squarky-woo had been brought up by Mammy-ana on an excellent
principle, carefully copied from the manner in which she had observed
human beings educated their children.  That such things as traps and
cats existed it was, of course, impossible to deny, but what they
were like in appearance, and where they were likely to be found, were
things that no decent-minded young mouse had any right to know.  The
great object of education was to launch one's children upon the world
in absolute ignorance of the darker side of life.

"My own little Squarky-woo," she would say to other approving
mothers, "is just as pure-minded as the day that he was born."

This being so, Squarky-woo had naturally no idea that the curious
thing in front of him was a trap.  He had often heard other young
mice speak of such things with bated breath, but had never dared to
ask what they were actually like, for fear that he should be laughed
at for not knowing.  So he walked round it, and sniffed at it, and
puzzled his head trying to make out what it was.  It could scarcely
be intended to keep the cheese clean; it was obviously not intended
to prevent anybody stealing it.  Well, it was no good trying to
account for human idiocy.  People who kept cats for pleasure were
obviously a little wanting in ordinary intelligence.  If they chose
to put their cheese into a sort of birdcage and leave it on the
kitchen floor, that was their own look-out.  He knew what to do with
it if they hadn't.

Hesitating no longer, he ran into the trap, and, catching hold of the
corner of the cheese with his sharp little teeth, gave it a quick
jerk in order to detach it from the hook.  Snap!  He leaped round
like a flash, but it was too late--_the door of the trap had closed
behind him_.  For an instant he scarcely realised what had happened;
and then the hideous truth suddenly broke upon him in all its
terrible reality.  He hurled himself recklessly against the wires,
but the cunning artificers of Birmingham had wrought them of the
stoutest copper, and he only bruised his tender little body, and made
no impression upon his prison.  In pitiful distress he turned round
and round, seeking in vain for some outlet.  There was none; and
Squarky-woo realized that nothing was now left to him except to face
a cruel and painful death without disgracing his lineage.

Meanwhile Mammy-ana had returned from her visit in excellent spirits,
the cat at No. 4 having been even more badly bitten than rumour had
related.  So it had been in a very genial frame of mind she had run
upstairs, laughing gaily to herself as she pictured the amusing
incident.  Her only regret was that she had not been present to
listen to the cat's squeak.  That would have been music indeed.

Before going out, she had told Squarky-woo that he had better not
leave the hole until her return, so she was very surprised, and not a
little annoyed, to find that he had disobeyed her.  "However," she
thought, "he is probably only in the dining-room or the drawing-room,
and I can't really be angry on such an auspicious occasion."

She trotted off to look for him, still chuckling to herself, and no
suspicion of the terrible truth entered into her mind.  Indeed, it
was not until she had thoroughly searched both apartments that she
began to get a little uneasy.  "Surely Squarky-woo could not have
been so madly disobedient as to go down into the kitchen!"  She
inquired of one or two mice she happened to meet, but none of them
had seen anything of her son; and one of them went so far as to
remark that he thought she always carried him in her pocket.  But
Mammy-ana was in no mood for joking.  A horrible fear was slowly
tightening round her heart.  She darted away to the head of the
kitchen stairs, and peering down into the dimly-lit passage, called
out nervously:

"Squarky-woo! are you there?"

A faint answering squeak echoed up the stairs.

"Come up at once," she cried.

There was a long pause, and then a feeble broken little sob: "Caught
in a trap."

The world seemed suddenly to reel round before Mammy-ana's eyes, and
it was only with a super-verminous effort that she stopped herself
from fainting.  Sick with dread, she hurried downstairs, and, guided
by the sound of Squarky-woo's voice, made her way straight to the
kitchen.  At the sight of her darling caught fast in the hideous
engine of destruction, the last remnant of hope fled despairingly
from her heart.

"Oh, Squarky-woo," she cried, "oh, you little fool!" and great tears
of misery almost blinded her.

Squarky-woo crushed back his sobs when he saw his mother weeping.

"Don't cry, Mammy-ana," he said, "I am not worth it.  I am only a
wicked, ungrateful little beast, and I don't mind dying."

Then Mammy-ana broke down helplessly and sobbed out that he was all
she had in the world, and that it was all her own fault for not
having told him what a trap was like, and that Heaven knew she had
done it all for the best.  A sad, twisted little smile flickered
across Squarky-woo's face, but he only shook his head and repeated
bravely:

"No, mother, it was all my fault."

"Oh," she cried, "I might have known what would happen.  Your
father's blood was bound to come out."

Squarky-woo's eyes lit up with a great pride.  "Yes," he said, "it
has taught me how to make a fool of myself, but it will also teach me
how to die."

"Listen," cried Mammy-ana suddenly.  "There is one faint chance.  If
the cat is not present when you are discovered, they will try to
drown you.  Just as they are going to open the trap I will attract
their attention, and if by any chance they open it a second too
soon--jump, darling, jump, for your life and mine."

A glimmer of hope stole into Squarky-woo's eyes, and he set his
little teeth with a grim determination that was good to witness.
Mammy-ana wiped away her tears, and kissed him through the wires.
And when the cold, grey light of morning crept through the chinks in
the shuttered windows, she was still beside him, softly encouraging
him with words of hope, and firmly resolved that if she failed to
save him it should be at the price of her own existence.

At last a heavy step outside warned them of approaching danger, and
Mammy-ana scuttled away and took up her position under the dresser.
The terrible and immediate necessity for caution kept her cool and
alert, though every nerve was tingling with savage determination.
Then the door opened, and a great, sleepy scullery-maid blundered
into the room.  Directly she saw Squarky-woo in the trap she gave a
scream of terror, and darted to the door.

"Cook, cook," she called.  "Come 'ere."

Mammy-ana heard the door of the cook's room open, and the angry
answer that came across the passage:

"Well, what are yer screechin' about, silly?"

"There's a mouse in the trap."

"Well, it won't eat yer."

There was a sound of flopping footsteps, and the cook waddled in,
looking anything but pleasant.

"Never 'eard such a noise," she remarked angrily.  "Ain't yer ever
seen a mouse before, fat'ead?"

She advanced towards the fireplace, and glanced down at Squarky-woo.
"Where's that blessed cat?" she inquired.

"Dunno," said the scullery-maid.

"What's the good of you?" demanded the cook scornfully.

Being apparently unable to find any satisfactory solution to this
problem, the scullery-maid only glanced nervously at Squarky-woo and
murmured, "Pore little thing."

"Pore little thing!" shouted the cook indignantly; "p'r'aps ye'd like
to make a pet of it.  'Ere, there's Jaimes.  Jaimes!  Jaimes!"

The footman--a tall, pale-faced young man--sauntered in in a state of
some incompleteness with regard to costume.

"What are you 'ollerin' about?" he inquired.

"You might tike and drown this 'ere mouse like a good feller," said
the cook.

"Mouse," he echoed sarcastically.  "Lor' bless us! it might 'a bin a
tiger from the row you was makin'."

He picked up the trap with a brutal indifference and strolled towards
the door.  Trembling with excitement, Mammy-ana slipped along the
wall after him.  He strode down the passage whistling to himself,
and, turning the corner, came to a standstill just alongside of a
large tin bucket full of water.  "Let's see yer swim," he remarked to
Squarky-woo, and, lifting the trap, placed his thumb upon the spring.
With a prayer in her heart, Mammy-ana leapt forward and struck in
with her sharp little teeth upon the calf of his leg, which was only
protected by a thin white stocking.  With an exclamation of pain he
started back, and unconsciously pressed the spring.  Up went the
flap, and out went Squarky-woo, just missing the bucket by the eighth
of an inch.  He came down with a terrible bang upon the stone floor,
but was up again in an instant, and, before the astonished footman
had recovered his composure, both he and Mammy-ana had disappeared
down a neighbouring hole.

"'Ave you drowned it?" called out the cook.

And James, who knew women, pulled himself together and said, "Yes."

Upstairs, in Mammy-ana's quiet little retreat, the final and
distressing _dénouement_ took place.  Squarky-woo crouched in a
corner awaiting his destiny.  For some time Mammy-ana eyed him in
stern silence.  Then she flicked her tail and Squarky-woo shivered.

"Come here," she said.

He made no motion.

"Come here," she squeaked, "you--you--wee, slickit, cowering,
timorous beastie!"

Horrified at her language, Squarky-woo turned to escape, but it was
too late.  With one bound Mammy-ana was upon him, and catching hold
of his ear with her teeth, she lifted up his tail, and beat him with
her own.




With the Conquering Turkey


I had just finished breakfast, and was slowly enjoying an especially
fragrant pipe, when my front-door bell rang with some violence.

"This is undoubtedly Pitman," I said to myself.

It was.  He came in stamping the snow off his boots on to my new
carpet.

"Sit down," I said harshly.  He seated himself obediently, and
tearing off the front page of the _News and Leader_, which had been
left at my house by mistake, I handed it across to him.

"Put your feet on that," I said, "if they'll go on, and don't move
until they are properly thawed, and whatever you do, don't remark
it's seasonable weather."

He followed my instructions meekly.

Pitman is a great friend of mine.  We live in the same village, and
he is a local architect.  At least, that is what he calls himself.
Some of his clients call him other things.  He is also married.

I am rather frightened of Mrs. Pitman, for she is under the
impression that I exercise an evil influence over her husband.  She
told another lady in confidence, who repeated it to me, that "no man
would live in a country village by himself unless he had something to
hide."

I tossed my tobacco pouch across the table.

"Light a pipe and explain yourself," I said.

"I thought you would be in bed and asleep," he began.  "You're
getting into vicious habits living alone.  When an unmarried man
takes to breakfasting at nine o'clock it's a bad sign--shows he can't
sleep."

"Pitman," I said pathetically, "you have not come out half a mile on
a snowy morning to try and be funny.  Out with it."

"Have you got any whisky?" he inquired.

"I thought there was some good reason.  There it is behind you.
Aren't you allowed to have it at home?"

"Not before lunch, and quite right, too; but that isn't the real
reason why I came."

"Have a cigar?" I suggested.

"No," he replied.  "I came to give you some information.  You are
coming up to town with me by the four o'clock train."

"What are we going for?" I inquired.

"We are going to buy a turkey," he said quietly.

I looked at him in amazement.  "Going to buy a turkey!  Why, you can
get a much better one here."

He smiled.  "Much better, but my wife thinks otherwise.  You see, she
was brought up in London, and she is still under the impression that
you can get nothing fit to eat outside.  She made up her mind long
ago to buy the Christmas turkey in town, and she was going up to-day
to choose one.  However, this morning the infant suddenly developed a
pain in its tummy, and she decided she couldn't leave it.  So I
volunteered, and was accepted."

"And you want an expert opinion?"

"Not at all.  I know a turkey when I see one all right.  I want your
society.  We'll dine somewhere and do a music-hall and come back by
the last train."

"But I never heard such nonsense," I objected.  "Trotting all round
London to buy a turkey!  It's ridiculous."

"Naturally," said Pitman calmly, "or my wife wouldn't have suggested
it."

"I will think it over," I said.

Pitman took out his watch.  "I shall call for you at three-thirty.
That will give you six hours to get ready."

"I dislike being hurried," I said irritably.

"We shall dine at the Piccadilly," he went on, "and I shall pay for
dinner."

"That settles it.  If you had said so sooner we should have been
saved all this superfluous conversation."

Pitman got up slowly and walked towards the door.

"You will take particular notice," he observed, "that I said
_dinner_.  There was no mention of drinks."

"I was hoping it was an oversight."

He shook his head.  "I am fond of you, Victor, but I have a sense of
duty towards my family."

Then, as Mr. Hall Caine would say, he went out into the snow.

He turned up again at a quarter to four in a fur coat, with a large
basket in his hand.

I looked at him in stern disapproval.

"I shall not come with you," I said, "unless you dress yourself
decently and leave the basket behind.  I hate walking about with
people who carry baskets."

"I don't," he said, "so you shall carry it."

"May I ask if you wish to lug the turkey about London?" I inquired.

"I don't wish to," he replied, "but the wife----"

I cut him short.  "In that case you have no choice.  Did she also
insist on the fur coat?"

"That was my own idea," he replied proudly.  "I have had it for two
years, and only worn it once."

"What happened?"

"Nothing.  It was in my room in front of the looking-glass."

"People will think I am your dresser," I objected.

"They will respect you as an artist," he replied.

"We won't argue the point," I said.  "Wait till dinner-time; then you
will be sorry you insulted me."

We arrived at Waterloo at a quarter to five, by which time Pitman had
reached a state of intense irritation.  The carriage had been full
the whole way, and its other occupants had done little but cast
furtive glances of admiration and envy at his coat.

"Thank Heaven we're out of that," he muttered, as he stepped on to
the platform.  "Gaping set of idiots!"

"It's nothing to what you're going through," I replied encouragingly.
"I warned you before we started.  What's the programme now?"

"Short's first," he said, "and then the turkey.  I can't do it in
cold blood."

We found a cab and drove across Waterloo Bridge, pulling up at Mr.
Short's eminent tavern.  Pitman said his nerves were out of order,
and suggested champagne.  I hate arguing.

"That's something rather hot in the way of coats," said the barmaid
pleasantly, as she snipped the wire.

Pitman was positively rude.

"You must excuse my friend," I put in, trying to smooth matters down.
"We are just going to pawn it, and he is rather sensitive on the
subject."

She smiled complacently.  "I wish you meant it," she said, and with
this cryptic remark she left us to attend to another gentleman.
Pitman turned to me.

"Look here," he began warmly, "I'm not going to be made a target for
your silly wit."

"It was the best I could think of," I protested.

He drank up the champagne, and became a little more cheerful.

"Those people in the train upset me," he explained.  "Come along;
we'll go and buy the turkey now."

"Where?"

"Smithfield Market."

"You ought to make a hit there," I said hopefully.

He glanced down at the coat with a nervous hunted sort of expression.
"I wish I hadn't brought the thing," he muttered.

"Wait till we get to Smithfield," I returned, "you'll wish it much
more then.  They're a nice, genial, outspoken set of people at
Smithfield."

As a matter of fact, our reception was distinctly disappointing.  But
for a few encouraging cries such as: "Yar!  Look at the bloomin'
millionaire!" "When did yer git it aht, guv'nor?" "Chuck us a quid,
Rothschild!" our entrance into the market passed off without any
special demonstration.

Pitman was distinctly hard to please.  We wandered about from stall
to stall, and at last drew up opposite one where a large gentleman
with a face like a blood orange was vociferously presiding.

"'Ere y'are, sir," he called out.  "The finest birds in London."
Then, glancing at my friend's coat, "Nothing but the best for you,
sir.  'Ere's the werry thing."  And he held out the most magnificent
turkey I have ever seen in my life.

Pitman, who is a bit of an artist, was at once taken with its
beautiful plumage.

"That's a lovely bird," he exclaimed, turning to me.

"Better ask a few questions," I suggested in a whisper, "or he'll
take you for a mug and overcharge you."

Pitman turned to the salesman.  "How old is it?" he demanded
suspiciously.

"I ain't got 'is birf stifficut," replied the latter affably; "but 'e
ain't come of age yet."

"Where was it brought up?" pursued Pitman.

The fat man preserved his composure.

"Hoxford College," he replied, winking at me.

"Is it an early riser?" I inquired.

"Shut up, Victor," said Pitman.  "How much?" he asked, addressing the
salesman.

"Let yer 'ave it for thirty bob, sir.  Twenty pahnd turkey for thirty
bob!"

"Right you are," said Pitman, handing across the basket.  "Put it in
here."

"Now we'll go and have another bottle of fizz," I remarked, as we
turned away from the stall.

Pitman nodded his head.  "The cold weather makes one frightfully
thirsty, doesn't it?"

"Nearly as bad as the hot," I agreed.

"We must be careful not to have too much," said Pitman.

"Drinking," I observed, as I led the way into a cheerful-looking
tavern, "is no longer a mere physical indulgence.  By legislation we
have turned it into an art."

"And the policemen are the critics," added Pitman.

I looked at him approvingly, and ordered another bottle of "Mumm."

All the better side of Pitman's nature steals out under the influence
of champagne.  As a rule, he is inclined to be taciturn and a trifle
selfish.  Touched by the garment of Bacchus, rare and unexpected
qualities develop with amazing rapidity.  In the present instance he
became almost morbidly tender-hearted.

"We'll take a four-wheeler to the Piccadilly," he said, finishing his
glass.

"Why not a taxi?" I inquired.

He shook his head mournfully.  "Don't want to jog the turkey."

"Nonsense," I objected.

"It's not nonsense," he retorted.  "How would you like to be shut up
in a bag?"

It was obviously no use arguing, so I gave in.  Going outside, we
summoned a seedy-looking growler and plodded off towards the
restaurant.  Pitman took the turkey out of the bag and placed it on
the seat opposite us.

"Beautiful bird," he said thoughtfully.

"Magnificent," I agreed.

Then he lay back and went to sleep.

I woke him up when the cab stopped.  "Come along," I said; "here we
are.  You sling on to the turkey.  I'll pay the man."

I followed him into the hall, and found him standing there with the
basket under one arm and the turkey under the other.

"Put those things in the cloak-room," I whispered hurriedly.
"Everyone is laughing at you."

"Let 'em laugh," he replied, looking round defiantly.  "You 'member
what Sol-Solomon says about thorns under a pot.  The turkey's coming
in to dinner with me."

"Pitman," I said, "I'm ashamed of you."

He walked up to the cloak-room, and deposited his coat, hat, and
stick.  Then he put the turkey into the basket.

"Shall I take that, sir?" inquired the attendant.

"No," said Pitman haughtily; "leave him alone."

"That will be all right," I interposed, giving the man a shilling.  I
was curious to see what would happen.

Pitman marched downstairs to the grill-room, carrying the basket.
The place was crowded.

"I want a table for three," he said to the waiter.

The latter looked at him curiously.

"Shall I take that outside, sir?"

Pitman drew himself up.  "Don't you dare to touch him."

We were beginning to attract attention, so I settled the matter by
leading the way across the room to the further corner, where there
was an empty table.  We sat down, and, taking the turkey out of the
basket, Pitman proceeded to prop it up in the vacant chair, to the
intense interest and joy of the people at the surrounding tables.
The waiter whose duty it was to attend to us entered into the spirit
of the joke, his sense of humour being probably quickened by a
prophetic instinct with regard to our financial value.

"Dinner for three, sir?" he inquired.

Pitman examined the menu with some deliberation, and settled upon a
satisfactory little programme.  He is acquainted with my weaknesses.

"My other friend," he said, pointing to the turkey, "will begin with
a little thick soup."

At this point the manager of the restaurant arrived.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but I'm afraid I must request you to remove
that bird," he began in a firm but apologetic tone.  "The other
ladies and gentlemen, you know, sir----"

This put Pitman on his dignity.

"If they object to my friends I will leave the restaurant," he
replied.

A genial-looking man at the next table here joined in the
conversation.

"I for one," he said, "am delighted to be in such interesting
society."

"You hear that!" cried Pitman triumphantly.  "Go away, manager.  No,
stop a minute; have a drink?"

The manager shook his head.  "Thank you very much, sir; but I'm
afraid it would be against my rules.  Of course, if the other guests
don't object to the bird I have nothing further to say."  He shrugged
his shoulders and walked away.

I shall never forget that dinner.  Under the influence of a third
bottle of champagne Pitman became magnificent.  His brilliant
conversation was distributed impartially between me and the turkey
and the people at the neighbouring tables, all of whom were intensely
sympathetic.  It would be useless to attempt to describe it, and to
tell the truth, I myself have a very imperfect idea as to what
actually occurred.  I distinctly remember, however, that about nine
o'clock I suggested the Hippodrome.

At first Pitman was obstinate.  He declared that it was not a nice
place to take the turkey to, but after a good deal of persuasion I
managed to overcome his scruples, and amidst a chorus of good wishes
we left the restaurant.

By the aid of a taxi we arrived at the Hippodrome without difficulty.
I took the turkey, and sent Pitman to buy the tickets.  He returned
just as I was trying to smuggle the bird into the cloak-room.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded indignantly.  "I've got
a stall for him."

"A stall!" I echoed.

"Yes, a stall.  Don't be selfish."

I gave it up, and followed him meekly into the hall.

I have a curiously indistinct recollection of what occurred
subsequently.  I remember being remonstrated with by a large
gentleman in uniform to whom Pitman explained the situation with some
emotion.

"Constable," he said; "it's all right, constable.  Promised my wife
not to let the bird out of my sight.  Got a stall for him--he won't
make any noise.  Well-behaved bird, sergeant; brought up at Oxford.
That's all right, off'cer."

Whether it was this lucid explanation, or the half-crown with which
he substantiated it, that brought the attendant to reason I do not
know, but without any more opposition we took our seats triumphantly
in the centre of the front row.

It was a cheerful, Christmassy sort of audience, and the turkey made
an instantaneous hit.  Indeed, it attracted far more attention than
the performance.  Pitman insisted on buying it a whisky-and-soda, and
got quite angry when it refused to drink.  It sat up rakishly with a
cigar in its claw, while he talked to it seriously about the sin of
ingratitude.  At last one of the performers refused to go on unless
we were removed.

With an injured air, Pitman tucked the turkey under his arm, and we
left the house amidst ringing cheers from the gallery.

By this time it was nearly ten o'clock, and as our last train left
London at ten-thirty, we drove off to Waterloo without any further
delay.  When we arrived at the station Pitman insisted on buying
three tickets.  He declared, with tears in his eyes, that nothing
would induce him to cheat the railway company; I suggested that he
might put the turkey back into the basket, but he shook his head.

"Promisht the wife not to squash it," he said thickly.  "Wouldn't
have me break my promish?"

"No," I replied sadly.  "Get in."

We entered the carriage, and Pitman sat the turkey up in the further
corner.  Then we both went to sleep.

I woke with a start just as the train was beginning to throb its way
out of the station.  Glancing carelessly through the window, I saw,
to my amazement, that we had arrived at our destination.  I flung
open the door and dug Pitman in the ribs.

"Come along," I yelled.  "Here we are!"

He scrambled out after me on to the platform, and the train glided
away into the darkness.

We were both of us rather upset, and Pitman decided that he would
come to my house and have a brandy-and-soda before going home.

"Nothing like brandy-and-soda for a nervous shock," he said gravely.

I felt a little doubtful about the brandy, but he seemed so certain
that I gave way, and we trudged up together to the cottage.  I
lighted the lamp in my little dining-room, and poured out a couple of
drinks.

"Pitman," I said, "we've had a ripping day."

"Ripping," he repeated.

I raised my glass.  "Here's luck," I said, "and long life to the
turkey."

With a cry of horror Pitman dropped his tumbler and collapsed into a
chair.

* * * * * * *

Then the hideous truth dawned upon me.

We had left the turkey in the train.




The Later Edition


George Barton pushed open the swinging doors, and came into the bank.
Several people were standing at the counter--a couple of tradesmen,
an old lady, an errand boy--while the cashier, an elderly,
harassed-looking man, was counting over a large heap of silver, which
one of the former had just paid in.  He looked up as Barton entered,
and nodded in the direction of the other customers.  Barton lifted
the slab that led through into the office, and walking up to a side
door with a frosted-glass panel, opened it, and hung up his hat upon
a peg inside.  Then he came to the counter, and began to attend to
the people who were waiting.  His work was characterized by a
mechanical swiftness noticeably absent in the movements of his
elderly _confrère_; so by the time that the latter had satisfied
himself that the pile of silver in front of him corresponded with the
amount on the slip, Barton had settled the requirements of the
remaining customers.  The cashier made an entry in his "scroll,"
filled the credit slip, and then, after carefully wiping his pen and
laying it on the desk, turned to Barton.

"I am going to lunch now," he said.  "If you have time, you might put
a few of these entries through"--he pointed to a twisted-up heap of
cheques and credit slips under a paper-weight.  "We have been rather
busy while you were out," he added.

"All right," answered Barton, without looking up from the book in
which he was writing.

For the next quarter of an hour the bank was practically deserted;
the silence only being broken by the scratching of pens, or an
occasional sigh from one of the two junior clerks, who were working
at a desk behind.  Outside, the world was bathed in the golden
sunshine of a perfect June day; but within, it was merely another hot
afternoon dragging on its ordinary monotonous round.  Barton soon
entered up the pile of arrears bequeathed him by his companion, and
added up the latter's scroll for him.  One of the senior clerks came
in from the manager's room with a pile of papers, threw them down on
the desk, and sauntered up to where he was working.

"How goes it?" asked the new-comer, taking out a pen-knife and
beginning to clean his nails.

"All through, up to date," said Barton.  "Do you want to get out
early?"

"Well, I do rather, if you can manage it."  He glanced over the
scrolls.  "I see you have been giving Weary Willy a hand."

Barton smiled.  "You would be here till six if I didn't.  It is quite
time the poor old chap got his pension."

"They ought to make you cashier," said the other.  "Furze wants to go
at the end of the year, if they will let him.  Why don't you apply
for it?"

Barton glanced round to see if they were overheard, and, speaking in
a lower voice, answered, "That is just what I did last week.  The
manager--he is a little brick, Blackmore--sent up a very strong
letter urging my fitness, and all that sort of thing; but the
directors wrote back and said I was too young.  Rather sickening,
wasn't it?"

"Why don't you go in for something else?" asked his companion.  "With
your brains you are wasted in a bank.  Any fool can do this sort of
thing."

Barton flushed slightly.  He was twenty-one, and the compliment was
obviously genuine.  "It is all very well, Steele," he said; "but what
can I do?  I haven't got a halfpenny in the world, and I have had to
keep myself ever since I entered this confounded hole.  I shan't stay
in it a minute longer than I can help, but at present--" he shrugged
his shoulders.

"It is a bit off, isn't it?" agreed Steele sympathetically.  "I
should leave myself, if I could do anything else.  By the way, do you
want a tip for the Manchester Cup?"

"Well, that's curious!" said Barton.  "You are the second to-day."

"Second what?"

"Why, I have just had a letter from a man offering to give me a tip.
What's yours?"

"'Kildonen.'  It's a dead cert.  What's yours?"

"I don't know till this evening.  The whole thing is rather quaint.
The other night I was coming down Shaftesbury Avenue very late, when
I saw a fellow being set on by two or three rough-looking brutes, so
I ran across to lend him a hand.  He was very grateful, and turned
out to be McFadden, the tipster--you know, the chap who is always
advertising in the sporting papers.  Well, he insisted on taking my
name and address, and this morning I got a letter from him asking me
to dine at the Troc.  He said he could put me on to a good thing for
the Manchester Cup."

"You back 'Kildonen,'" said Steele sceptically.  "I got it straight
from my brother, who is a pal of the trainer.  Ten to one McFadden
will put you on to some rotter."

"We shall see," answered Barton, getting up to attend to a customer
who had just come in.  "At all events, I will let you know what he
says."

* * * * * * *

Barton lit his cigar and, leaning back in his comfortable seat,
looked round the big restaurant with a quiet satisfaction born of an
excellent dinner, a bottle of good champagne, and a really
first-class Larranaga.  Barton's companion, a big, sun-burnt man,
with a large moustache, twinkling black eyes, and a face heavily
pitted with the remnants of smallpox, waited until the men serving
liqueurs and coffee had moved on to the next table, and then resumed
the conversation.

"I didn't want those chaps to get hold of what I was saying," he
explained; "they know me, and it would be all over London to-morrow."

Barton leaned slightly across the table towards him, and lowering his
voice, McFadden continued: "It's the chance of a lifetime.  Not a
soul witnessed the trial except Rainsford and Burch, and you can
trust them to keep it dark.  They want the money; besides, Rainsford
is the sort of man who would cut his throat rather than give away a
tip; and I know Burch has told no one but myself.  Even Relf, the
jockey, thinks that he was carrying about ten pounds less than he
was; so you can take it from me that, with the exception of us four,
there isn't a living soul who has an idea of what 'Mountain Lady' can
do.  She will start at twenty to one, and unless she is left at the
post or drops dead on the course, nothing will get near her.  Why,
just think, man, according to the trial, that would put 'Night-jar'
in at about eight stone four; while, as a matter of fact, he would be
carrying nine stone, and then be a hot favourite.  You must have
something on--something worth winning.  If you can beg or borrow 'a
monkey' for a couple of days you are made for life.  I could get it
on for you with Cook at twenty to one, but he would want to see the
cash first, and I have none to spare at present, or I would do it for
you.  It means simply picking up ten thousand.  I am sticking on
every penny I can spare myself.  We shall have to back to win, for
there won't be more than six runners but it's as safe as the Bank of
England."  His face was flushed with excitement as he finished.
Picking up his glass of liqueur, he drained it at a gulp.

Barton had listened intently; his eyes had never left McFadden's
face, and he felt sure that the man had been telling him what he at
all events believed to be the truth.  "It is very kind of you to have
given me the tip," he said, "and such an excellent dinner into the
bargain."

"Bosh!" returned the other shortly.  "Waiter! two more liqueur
brandies.  Look here, youngster, you acted like a gentleman the other
night--got me out of a damned tight place--and I never forget a pal."

Barton was silent for a moment.  "What about 'Kildonen'?" he asked.

McFadden laughed.  "Oh, I know the stable are sweet on him, but he
hasn't a dog's chance against 'Mountain Lady' at the weights.
Besides, he is a clumsy, bad-tempered brute at the best of times.
What I have told you is gospel truth, sonny; and if you like to send
me anything to Morley's Hotel, I'll shove it on for you.  Of course
do the business yourself if you prefer it; but, in case you wanted a
big deal, I thought you might have some trouble in getting it
on--see?"

Barton's face was, perhaps, a little paler than usual, but, beyond
that, there was no trace of any particular emotion in his appearance
or manner to betray the sudden thought that had flashed across his
mind while McFadden was speaking.  He sipped the second liqueur which
the waiter had just put down in front of him, knocked the ash off his
cigar, and then, leaning across the table again towards his
companion, answered quietly: "I believe what you tell me, and I am
very grateful to you for letting me know.  It is just possible I
might be able to borrow a few hundreds; but I should have to spin
some other yarn about it.  Now, if I were to send you something in
notes first post Friday morning, could you let me have them back, if
all goes well, on Friday night?"

"Why, of course!  Cook will pay up Saturday.  As long as he knows the
cash is there, he wouldn't want it till after the race, even if we
were to go down.  There is nothing dead certain, but this is just as
near to it as you can get.  It's worth risking something, or I
wouldn't put you on to it.  I have been messing about with the turf
for twenty years, and it's the best thing I ever struck."  He took
out his watch, and looked at the time.  "I must be off," he added; "I
have to meet a man at half-past.  You think it over, and do just what
you like; only don't talk about it."

He paid the bill, tipping the waiter generously, and they walked
upstairs.  At the door he turned to Barton.  "I have dealt with you
straight," he said; "you did me a good turn, and I always pay my
debts when I can."

Barton nodded, and held out his hand.  "If I can raise the money, I
will ask you to put it on for me.  In any case--thank you."

Through the warm starlit night Barton walked home to his rooms in
Bloomsbury.  His face was pale and drawn, and he walked fast, staring
straight in front of him.  A fierce excitement was tingling in his
blood; his brain and conscience seemed to be dancing together in a
mad riot of contradictions.  Through it all McFadden's words leaped
out in letters of fire: "It means simply picking up ten thousand."
He kept on repeating the sentence to himself.  Ten thousand pounds!
Was there anything impossible in the world with such a sum?  A
hundred paths, leading up the hills of power and fame, opened out
suddenly before his chained ambition.  He walked on quickly,
unsteadily, his hands clenched, his eyes shining.

He turned into Burton Crescent, and stopped before a dark,
untidy-looking house that stared forlornly on the ill-kept square in
front.  He had lived here for the last two years, a small bedroom on
the third floor being the exact amount of luxury permitted him by his
salary.  The hall was in total blackness--no reckless jet of blue
wasted on the hall burners in Burton Crescent--but experience had
taught Barton to dispense with such facilities.  He made his way
upstairs, stumbling over a sleeping cat, that fled away into the
darkness with a horrible scream.  His room was poorly furnished, but
saved from the usual deadly barrenness of such apartments by two
large shelves crowded with books, a fine engraving of Burne-Jones's
"King Cophetua," and one or two cheaper reproductions of well-known
pictures.  He locked the door behind him, and turned up the gas.

He began to feel a little more collected.  This excitement was
contemptible--the wine must have gone to his head.  He poured himself
out a glass of water, and drank it off.  The thing had to be faced
here and now, in all its radiant possibilities, in all its cold
reality.  He sat down in the frayed arm-chair and filled his pipe
with trembling fingers.  McFadden had spoken the truth, of that he
felt certain.  The man might have been deceived, but Barton doubted
it.  He was no callow novice at the game to suck in an ordinary turf
lie with such conviction.  Besides, he had hinted that Burch had
reasons for not deceiving him.  Then there was the chance that the
trainer himself had been mistaken; such a thing might happen, and, as
McFadden himself had said, nothing was certain, the mare might be
left at the post.  He lit his pipe and began to smoke quickly, trying
to see the thing in its right proportions.  On the one hand, years of
drudgery at the bank, mean sordid poverty, surroundings such as
these--he looked round and shuddered--to lead to what?  Who could
tell?  He knew that he had ability, but life was such a ghastly
lottery.  Handicapped as he was, without money or friends, what more
likely than that he should share the fate of others, fully as able
and ambitious as himself--men who had eaten out their hearts in the
labour and disappointment of existence, while life floated past on
golden wings mocking and out of reach?  And on the other hand, a
deliberate crime, a temporary theft; and then, either life itself,
full-blooded, working, joyous life, with success and fame to light
the road, or--he paused a moment--death.  There was no other
alternative.

He got up and crossed the room to the battered deal dressing-table.
Pulling open the drawer, he took out a small revolver, almost the
sole legacy of his father, a cashiered major in the Army.  Well, why
not?  His life was his own, there was no one dependent on him, no one
who would ever regret his death, except, perhaps, the fellows at the
office.  If he chose to cast it into the scale against destiny, who
had the right to question him?

He put back the revolver and paced slowly up and down the room.  It
would be so easy in his position at the bank.  He had a perfectly
free access to the cash, and was himself responsible for what he used
at the counter.  It was checked sometimes by the manager, but never
on Friday or Saturday; on those days Blackmore went away early to
play golf.  He could take five hundred pounds on Thursday night, and,
if he won, replace the same notes on Saturday morning.  If he
lost--well, there would be a headline for the papers, and another
vacancy for a head clerk in the bank.  It was stealing, of course;
sophistry had no place in his mental equipment.  Up till now he had
never done a dishonourable action.  The terrible example of his
father, and an instinctive dislike to anything underhand, had kept
him straight.  For a moment he hesitated--then suddenly some words he
had read in a book a few evenings before flashed into his mind.  He
repeated them with a sort of desperate mockery:

  He either fears his fate too much,
    Or his deserts are small,
  Who dare not put it to the touch,
    To win or lose it all.


Yes--Yes.  That was best.  "To win or lose it all."  He whispered the
last line over again; and knew that he had decided.

* * * * * * *

"You have made a mistake," said Steele, "and you will know it in
another twenty minutes.  Did you put much on?"

Barton smiled.  "Not enough to get excited about."

"I stuck a quid on 'Kildonen,' so I shall be a bit sick if he goes
down."

"Yes, that's a good deal to lose," said Barton calmly.

"I have to go around now to see Johnstone and Driver for Blackmore.
I shall be back in about half an hour, and I will bring a paper in
with me.  You will be sorry you did not take my tip when you see the
result--'Kildonen' first, 'Mountain Lady' nowhere.  Lucky for you you
didn't plunge."

"It would have been rather foolish, wouldn't it?"

"You look a bit off colour to-day, somehow," said Steele, tying up
some deeds which he was taking to the lawyers.

"I didn't sleep much last night.  I expect I want my holiday."

"Like the rest of us.  Two weeks in the year are no good to any one.
Well, so long!  Prepare for a disappointment when you see the paper."

"I am quite ready," answered Barton.

His fellow clerk laughed, and picking up his parcel of deeds, passed
out of the office.  As the swing-door closed behind him, Barton
suddenly realized that they might never meet again.  Steele had been
one of his few friends--a pleasant good-natured fellow, who had
always treated him with a faint touch of deference; an unconscious
tribute that some young men are always ready to pay to a stronger or
keener intelligence than their own.  Steele would be sorry if things
went wrong.  He was, perhaps, the only one who would think of him in
future with anything but contempt.

Three o'clock!  Another twenty minutes.  They were in the paddock
now.  Relf would be examining his saddle.  He could picture the
scene; the crush round the favourite.  No doubt "Mountain Lady"----

Some customers came in, and he got up to attend to them mechanically,
adding up the amounts, or paying out what was required, without the
least hesitation or inaccuracy.  He was scarcely conscious of what he
was doing; it was like a strange dream.  He felt as if he was looking
on at the tragedy of his own life.  How long had it been?  Twenty-two
hours!  He laughed to himself.  What fool invented the clock?  Last
night alone had been a lifetime.  There had been no time to-day.  It
had drifted past in a dull trance.  After hours of torture he had
waked to a state of mental exhaustion, in which thought at last was
numbed and powerless.

Five minutes more!  A tradesman was talking to him about the weather,
as he examined the endorsements on the cheques, and counted silver
and gold into little separate piles.  "Yes, it was beautiful: a
regular summer day.  It made one want to be outside, instead of being
stuffed up in an office.  However, business was business, of course."
A quarter past.  God--how the moments dragged!  They were lining up,
perhaps.  They might even have started.  In a quarter of an hour he
might be dead.  How those chattering fools would start if they knew!

There was a sudden lull in the work.  Four or five customers went out
almost together, and for a little while the office was empty.  A
strange apathy settled down like a mist over Barton's mind.  It was
all over now.  The paper would be out in a few minutes.

He went on writing, slowly, correctly.  He felt as though he were
being stifled.  Suddenly, in the distance, he heard the shrill cry of
a paper boy: "Winner, paiper; Cup winner!"  Something seemed to snap
in his brain.  A deadly calm succeeded the formless emotions that had
been racking him.  He laid down his pen, and getting up from his
seat, walked to the cashier's desk.

"I'm going out for a moment, Mr. Furze," he said.

The cashier nodded.  "Don't be longer than you can help.  We shall be
busy again in a minute."

"I shall be back almost immediately," answered Barton.

By the time he reached the street, the boy was quite close, a ragged
little urchin, darting from one side of the road to the other in
pursuit of customers.  Barton held up his hand, and the boy rushed
across to him.

"Paiper, sir; winner, sir!"  He held one out and Barton took it,
giving him a shilling.

"You can keep the change," he said.

With a quick "Thankee, sir," the lad ran on.  Barton stepped back to
the wall and opened the paper.  In the blank space reserved for
stop-press news was the single word "_Kildonen_."  It was in blue
ink, stamped in by a local agent.  Barton stared at it for a moment,
and then laughed.  So he had lost.  He felt no particular
emotion--just a vague disappointment.  Remorse and fear left him
untouched.  He had played with fate and been beaten; all that now
remained was to pay the price.

He crossed the road to a public-house opposite, and, going into the
saloon bar, ordered a glass of brandy.  A man who was sitting in the
corner saw the newspaper in his hand.

"What's won the Cup, guv'nor?" he asked.

"'Kildonen,'" answered Barton.  "You can have the paper if you like.
I have done with it."  He found himself speaking in a perfectly
level, disinterested voice.

Mixing a little water with the brandy, he drank it off, and walked
back to the office.  As he again crossed the road, a man raced past
him on a motor-bicycle with a huge pile of newspapers strapped behind
him.  The Fleet Street edition was evidently down now; he could hear
the boy's shouting higher and higher up the road.  He hesitated a
moment; it would be rather interesting to see if "Mountain Lady" had
been in the first three.  Then he shrugged his shoulders, and walked
on.  After all, what did it matter?

There were no customers in the office.  He passed through the side
door into the small anteroom where the staff kept their coats and
hats.  From here a staircase led down into the strong-room.  He knew
that, if he shut the iron door below, the sound of the shot could
scarcely reach the bank.  It was more pleasant to die without being
interrupted.

He walked downstairs quickly, and turned on the electric light that
illuminated the big safe.  Taking out his revolver, he tested the
trigger before putting in a couple of cartridges.

Now everything was ready.  There was no time to lose, for Furze would
probably be sending down for him in a minute.  He felt sorry for the
clerk who would come to fetch him.  He caught hold of the big, brass
handle, and was just swinging the heavy metal slab into its place,
when he heard the door open and someone running down the stairs.  For
an instant he faltered, and then, slipping the revolver into his
pocket, pushed back the door.

"Barton!  Barton!"  It was Steele's voice.  He rushed into the safe
with a paper in his hand.  "Isn't it too rotten?" he exclaimed,
flinging it down on the slab.

"I should have thought you would have been pleased," answered Barton
wearily.

"Oh, I am glad for your sake, of course; but, under the
circumstances, it's a bit rough on me, damn it all."

"What do you mean?" Barton cried hoarsely.

"Haven't you heard?" shouted Steele.  "Kildonen's'
disqualified--look!"  He thrust the paper into Barton's hands.

With a savage effort the latter choked back a deadly faintness that
almost overpowered him, and through the dim mist that swam before his
eyes, read the lines that Steele pointed out:

  MANCHESTER CUP

  KILDONEN 4.1          1
  Mountain Lady 20.1    2
  Rose Crown 7.4        3
  Sir Charles 11.2      0
    Also ran, Barcup and Flagstaff.


"Kildonen" was disqualified for bumping, and the race awarded to
"Mountain Lady."

The paper slipped from Barton's fingers.  If Steele had not caught
him he would have fallen himself.

"What's the matter, old chap?  Are you ill?  I never thought you
would take it like this.  You hadn't much on, had you?  Let me get
you a glass of water."  The astonished clerk helped Barton to a stone
slab, where he sat for a minute with his eyes shut.

Then he opened them and smiled.  "I am all right now, Steele.  I--I
have been feeling a bit ill this afternoon."




The Ordeal by Water


When I pushed open the door of the restaurant, the first person I saw
was Tommy.  He was lunching with another man, and, as usual,
conversing with such vigorous cheerfulness that he failed to notice
my arrival.  I walked up to him, and laid my hand on his shoulder.

"Hallo, Tommy," I said.  "I thought you were in Timbuctoo."

He spun round.

"Well, I'm jiggered!" he cried.  Then, with that artless directness
that so endears him to strangers, he added impetuously, "What the
dickens are you doing in this God-forsaken place?"

An eminent Bristolian at the next table snorted audibly.

"I was just going to ask you the same question," I replied, "only in
rather more tactful language.  I'm here on business."

"Sit down," said Tommy, clutching me by the wrist and dragging me
into a vacant chair.  "This is Mortimer--Jimmy Mortimer, of the Gold
Coast.  We're motoring, and you've got to join us."

"May I have some lunch first?" I asked, bowing politely to Mr.
Mortimer.

"Why, of course," said Tommy cheerfully.  "You're feeding with us.
Here, waiter, waiter, get this gentleman some lunch."

"Look here," he added, as the waiter slid off to fulfil the order,
"do you know anything about salmon fishing?"

"In theory," I said, "I know everything.  Why?"

"Because as soon as you've finished we're going to take you up to
Hereford, for a couple of days on the best salmon river in England."

I turned to Mortimer.

"Much laager," I said, "has made him mad."

Tommy chuckled.

"I'm not joking.  I've got two miles of the finest private fishing on
the Wye from Saturday to Monday, and a bungalow chucked in."

Mortimer nodded his head.

"That's right," he added.

I gazed at Tommy in mingled amazement and admiration.

"My dear Tommy," I said, "no one appreciates your powers of
acquisition more than I do, but how the devil did you manage it?"

Tommy lit a cigar with some contentment.

"It was a reward for a kind action," he explained.  "The place
belongs to an old boy called Quinn--Sir Cuthbert Quinn.  I ran across
him last week in a country lane near Bedford, trying to find out what
was the matter with his car.  He'd been trying for some time.  Well,
I hopped out and put things straight--it was only a choked jet, but
he was so grateful that he insisted on my coming back to lunch with
him.  While we were lunching, we got on the subject of salmon
fishing.  I happened to say how keen I was, and then he trotted out
the fact that he owned an island with a bungalow on it and two miles
of the best fishing above Symonds Yat.  'Would you like a week-end
there?' he said.  'I should,' said I, 'very much.'  Well, to cut a
long yarn short, he handed me over the key, and told me I could come
up for a couple of days and bring another rod with me.  I couldn't
think of any one else at the time, so I wired for Mortimer."

"Thanks," said Mortimer drily.

"Well, as you've got Mortimer," I observed, "you can't take me."

"Oh, that's all right," put in Mortimer; "I don't fish.  I've only
come for the charm of Tommy's conversation."

"I haven't got a rod," I objected.

"That doesn't matter," said Tommy, "neither have I.  But there are
two up there which old Quinn said we could use."

"How are we going to manage about grub?" I asked.

Mortimer laughed.

"The car's stuffed with it," he said, "especially drink."

That decided me.

"I'll come," I said, "but you'll have to call for my traps.  I'm
staying up in Clifton, so it's all on the way."

"Good!" cried Tommy.  "You buck up and finish your lunch, while we go
round to the garage and get the car."

The car, when it arrived, proved to be a 12-14 De Dion which had
apparently been a stranger to the sunny land of France for many
strenuous years.  In colour it had once been green.

"Not much to look at," said Tommy apologetically; "but she goes--eh,
Mortimer?"

"She would if I had her," admitted Mortimer, "for what she'd fetch."

Knowing, however, of Tommy's amazing genius for coaxing motion out of
discarded scrap-iron, I got in behind without a qualm.  With a
fanfare on the horn, we slid out of the garage, and then, clanking
like an ironmonger's shop in an earthquake, pounded bravely up Park
Street at a surprising velocity.

It only took me about five minutes to cast my week-end trappings into
a Gladstone bag and square accounts with the worthy lady at whose
house I had been staying.  Then off we thundered again through the
peaceful respectabilities of Clifton and Redland, out on to the
far-flung road that wanders northwards up the Severn Valley.

If the Zeitgeist had any particular purpose when it tossed Tommy's
atoms together, it must have been the production of a
super-chauffeur.  Amazingly erratic as he is in other things, his
driving and handling of a car more nearly approaches perfection than
any human effort I know.  In other hands the hired wreckage that bore
our fortunes would, I feel sure, have collapsed hopelessly long
before we reached Gloucester.  But Tommy, who, according to Mortimer,
had pored lovingly over it with a spanner for several hours that
morning, lifted it triumphantly, if complainingly, through all
demands.  At half-past six, dusty and incredibly vociferous, it
clattered into Ross, and, practically speaking, our journey was
accomplished.

We had a cup of tea at the hotel there, and then in the cool of the
evening clanked on cheerfully through the thickly wooded lanes that
led to Sir Cuthbert Quinn's bungalow.  The distance must have been
about six miles, and it was while we were covering this that we got
on to the question of how great a strain a salmon rod would stand.
Tommy had been telling us some yarn about how a man he knew had
jerked a fifteen-pound salmon clean out of the water, and I had
ventured to cast a little mild doubt on the accuracy of the tale.
Tommy had been quite indignant.

"Why, of course it's possible," he had declared.  "A salmon rod will
stand almost any strain.  The best swimmer in the world would be
quite helpless if you hooked him by a belt round his middle."

"Get out, Tommy," I said derisively; "he'd break you every time."

"I bet you he wouldn't," said Tommy.  "Look here, you get a good
swimmer--any one you like, I don't care who he is--and I'll bet you
five pounds I'll land him in under half an hour."

"Done with you," I replied.  "And what's more, I'll bet you another
fiver he breaks your line inside of five minutes."

Mortimer chuckled.

"There's money in this," he observed.  "We'd better advertise it in
the _Sportsman_ and charge for seats.  We might make quite a decent
thing out of it."

As he spoke we rattled round the corner of a deeply embedded lane,
and, of a sudden, the Wye lay before us, gleaming like silver in its
cool green valley.

"That's the bungalow," said Tommy, pointing to a low, red-tiled
building which one could just catch a glimpse of through the trees.
"The boathouse must be just below us."

We trundled delicately down the hill, for the road rather resembled
the traditional highway to Zion, and pulled up outside a
solid-looking building on the banks of the river.

Tommy stopped the engine, and we all clambered out.  The island lay
exactly opposite, its neatly painted landing-stage facing us across
the water.

"Why, there's the boat!" exclaimed Mortimer suddenly.  "Over there by
the steps--look!"

He pointed towards the island, and following his gesture, we all saw
a small dinghy apparently tied up to one of the willows that fringed
the bank.

We stared at it in amazement.

"Well, that's funny," I said.  "How did it get there?  There must be
someone on the island."

"Oh, no," said Tommy.  "Why, I had a card from old stick-in-the-mud
only yesterday saying that it was all clear.  There's probably
another boat of some kind in the shed."

He took the key out of his pocket, and thrusting it into the lock,
flung open the door.  The place was as empty as a barn.

Mortimer laughed.

"Your aged friend seems to be a bit of a humorist, Tommy."

"There must be someone there," I said.  "Most likely it's the
gardener.  Let's go outside and give him a hail."

We stepped out on to the bank, where Tommy let off a vigorous yell,
while I played an impressive voluntary on the horn.

"That ought to bring him out of his shell," observed Mortimer with
approval.

As a matter of fact, it did nothing of the kind.  The island remained
as blissfully untroubled as the garden of Proserpine.

"Try again," suggested Mortimer encouragingly and we repeated our
efforts with the same result.

"I'm getting fed up with this," broke out Tommy.  "There's only one
thing to do, and that's to swim across and fetch the boat."

"What a pity we haven't got a salmon rod," I remarked.  "We might
kill two birds with one stone."

"Don't you worry," retorted Tommy.  "We'll try that later."

He stripped off his clothes, and going to the edge of the bank,
inspected the water.

"Seems clear enough," he observed; "here goes."

There was a mighty splash, and he disappeared from view, emerging a
few moments later well out in the river.  Mortimer and I gave him an
encouraging cheer, and then watched him with some anxiety as he
ploughed his way across the strongly running current.  It seemed at
first as though he would be swept past the island, but, with a big
effort, he just managed to get clear of the stream in time and clutch
an overhanging bough some way below the landing-stage.  Then he drew
himself out, and answering our hail with a triumphant wave of the
hand, picked his way gingerly along the bank to where the boat was
tethered.

Unhitching the rope, he climbed in, and with a few strong pulls,
sculled back across the river.

"Bravo, Leander!" sung out Mortimer, as the boat bumped up against
the bank.  "How are you feeling after your great effort?"

"Deuced sore," returned Tommy, shipping his oars and stepping out on
to the grass.  "That seat's as hard as a millstone."

"Never mind," I said consolingly.  "You'll be too busy cooking the
dinner to want to sit down.  What shall we do with the car?"

"Oh, run her into the boat-house," said Tommy.  "There's plenty of
room there.  And then you might shove the grub into the boat."

Mortimer and I carried out his instructions.  With the expenditure of
considerable energy and language, we trundled that decayed scrap-iron
into the shed, and then began to transfer its contents to the bottom
of the dinghy.

By this Tommy had resumed his clothes and come to our assistance.

"I can't make it out, all the same," said Mortimer reflectively.  "If
there's no one on the island, how the devil did the boat get there?
Old Quinn must have got off somehow last time he left."

"Perhaps he's a Christian Scientist, and just wished himself ashore,"
suggested Tommy.  "Anyhow, it's no good worrying about miracles.
Catch on to this, and that's the lot."

He pushed over a bulky case of soda-water, which Mortimer, still
frowning thoughtfully to himself, tucked under one arm, and carrying
the remaining stores between us, we made our way down to the dinghy.

"I'll take the oars," I said; "it's just my distance."

"Don't overtire yourself," put in Tommy kindly.  "Remember there's a
stiff stream running."

"If you find it too much for you," added Mortimer, "we can always get
out and walk."

Disregarding such ragged efforts at humour, I pushed off from the
bank; and then, setting a course well up against the current, slowly
tugged my precious freight over to the island.  With the true
instinct of a waterman, I hit the landing-stage exactly, in fact, I
hit it so hard that Tommy, who was injudiciously standing up, was as
nearly as possible precipitated into the water.

"He thinks it's a bumping race," said Mortimer.  "That's the worst of
these 'Varsity men.  Here, catch hold."

He flung the rope to Tommy, who had jumped out on to the step, and in
half a minute the boat was hitched up tight to a convenient post.

Mortimer and I handed out the goods, which Tommy received and piled
up on the shore.  When we were finally unloaded we also disembarked,
and picking up as much as we could carry, mounted the wooden steps
that led to the front door of the bungalow.  Tommy inserted the key,
and flung it open.

"Here we are," he said.  "Not such a dusty sort of shanty, is it?"

The eulogy was by no means excessive.  Whatever else Mr. Quinn may
have lacked, he certainly had a nice eye for his surroundings.  The
large, low-ceilinged apartment, with its white walls, old-fashioned
furniture, and big, green-tiled hearth, combined in the happiest
degree the claims of comfort and good taste.  From the main room a
door on the left led into the kitchen, while at the back an arched
space gave access to a passage from which the three bedrooms opened
off.

"What's the programme now?" asked Mortimer.

"I don't know what you chaps feel like," said Tommy, "but I'm
uncommon hungry.  I vote we start by having some grub right away."

Mortimer held up his hand.

"Carried unanimously," I said.

"Right-ho!" responded Tommy.  "There's a cold chicken somewhere in
the baggage.  You chaps might unpack while I forage about the kitchen
and get things ready."

He disappeared through the door, taking off his coat, and Mortimer
and I set to work upon the various packages which we had brought with
us.  We unearthed an appetising-looking fowl, a ham, two or three
nice crusty loaves, a jar of butter, and numerous other aids to
successful salmon fishing, including enough beer and whisky to stock
a modest hotel.

We were contemplating the latter in a kind of pleased reverie, when
Tommy came back with a tablecloth under his arm, and a trayload of
accessories.

"I say," he began, "it's deuced funny, but I can't find any forks and
spoons.  Plenty of glasses and plates and knives, but not another
bally thing in the place."

Mortimer burst out laughing.

"I expect your aged friend eats with his fingers," he said.

"Or else someone's been in and cleared the lot," I suggested.

"Oh, they can't have done that," said Tommy; "or else the boat
wouldn't be here."

"Well, we shall have to do what we can without," remarked Mortimer.
"You fellows can tear off a leg each, and I'll have the pickings."

We pulled out a table into the centre of the room, and while I helped
Mortimer arrange the feast, Tommy went into the kitchen to have
another look for the missing silver.

His efforts proved as barren as before, and finally abandoning the
attempt, we settled ourselves down to do as well as we could with
knives and fingers.

"Here's to our week-end," said Tommy, holding up a glass of Bass.
"And death to the salmon."

"Death to the salmon," I repeated hopefully, raising my glass in turn.

We were just drinking the toast, when Mortimer suddenly sat bolt
upright in his chair and glanced quickly round behind him.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"'Sh!" he whispered.  "Go on talking loudly.  Don't stop whatever you
do."

We followed his instructions, watching him with amazement as he
jumped up noiselessly from his chair, and crept like a cat across the
room as far as the archway.  Here he stopped, bending down and
listening intently, with his hand to his ear.

When he turned, his face was alight with excitement.  He came swiftly
back, signalling to us to keep up the conversation.

"There's someone getting out of one of the bedroom windows," he
whispered across the table.  "Don't stop talking, but get to the
door, and make a sudden rush for it.  We're bound to catch him."

A smile of holy joy irradiated Tommy's countenance.  Next to
wrestling with a motor-car, a physical difference of opinion with a
fellow-creature appeals to him more than anything else in the world.
He leapt up, and instantly assumed command.

"You and Mortimer take the left; I'll go the other way.  Buck up, or
the blighter will have scooted."

Before he had finished speaking he had reached the door, clearing the
steps with a single jump and bursting his way through the shrubs like
a rather reckless rhinoceros.

Further strategy being apparently out of place, Mortimer and I
followed as rapidly as we could.  Darting up the path that ran round
the other side of the house, we emerged into the clearing behind,
just in time to see an unknown gentleman hurl himself frantically
into the fringe of undergrowth that lined the opposite bank.

In a moment Tommy, who was hard on his heels, had plunged in after
him.  There was a shout, and then the dull thud of two heavily
falling bodies.

"Come on," roared Tommy.  "I've got him."

As he spoke, Mortimer tripped over the root of a tree and went
sprawling full length on the grass.  I did not wait, but leaping over
a tangle of blackberry bush that barred the path, pressed on
gallantly to Tommy's assistance.

I found him tied up in an amazing network of agitated arms and legs.
As far as I could see, the stranger was underneath, and from the
somewhat unpleasant sounds which were rising into the air, I gathered
that he was finding some difficulty in breathing.

"Sit on his head," hissed Tommy's voice.  "Take care he doesn't bite
you.  He's as strong as a horse."

I was attempting to carry out his instructions when, with a mighty
effort, our visitor jerked himself clear enough to speak.

"All right, guv'nor," he gasped.  "I gives in."

He ceased to struggle, and, panting but triumphant, we released our
respective grips.

At that moment Mortimer arrived on the scene.  He looked down on us
with a smile.

"Well, you seem to have got him all right," he said.  "Who is it?"

Tommy mopped his forehead with the back of his hand.

"I think it's Sandow," he replied.  "Get up, my friend, and let's
have a squint at you."

The stranger rose rather stiffly into a sitting posture.  "You've
'alf choked me, guv'nor," he said reproachfully, putting his hand to
his neck.  "You 'adn't no call to 'andle me like that."

We all three burst our laughing.

"I'm sorry," said Tommy gravely.  "I was under the impression that
you were trying to kick me in the stomach."

The stranger grinned, and somewhat painfully clambered to his feet.

He was a massively built man of about forty, swarthy and
black-bearded, and clothed in the conventional rags of a
case-hardened tramp.

"Suppose we adjourn to the bungalow," I suggested.  "I'm sure we all
want a drink after this little romp."

Tommy took the stranger's arm and tucked it affectionately under his
in that unbreakable clasp invented by the Japanese.  Then dishevelled
and slightly out of breath, we retraced our steps to the house.

"Where will Mr. Sandow sit?" I inquired, as soon as we were all
assembled in the front room.

"I would suggest somewhere not too near the door," said Mortimer.
"I'm getting too old for these sudden bursts of speed."

"This will do," said Tommy, pulling up a rush-seated wooden chair
with his foot.  "Take a pew, my friend."

He dumped the stranger down into the seat, and as he did so there
came from the latter's pocket the muffled but quite distinct chink of
silver.

"There is music in the air," observed Mortimer thoughtfully.

"By gad," cried Tommy, "those must be our spoons.  Trot 'em out, my
son; the game's up, you know."

Somewhat reluctantly, the stranger inserted his hand into the gaping
orifice which served him as a pocket, and drew out a large number of
spoons wrapped up in a duster.  He laid them on the table.

"Thank you," said Tommy; "and now if we may trouble you for the
forks--ah, much obliged."

The forks followed, similarly protected, the stranger all the time
throwing little furtive glances round the room, first at one of us
and then at the other.

While this interesting operation was in progress I had been occupying
myself mixing drinks.  I offered one to Tommy, but he waved it aside.

"A guest," he said, "especially an uninvited one, should always be
served first."

I handed the tumbler to the stranger, who accepted it with a grin and
a nod.

"And now," said Tommy, when we were all three similarly equipped, "I
think it would be more friendly if we knew something about each
other."  He turned to the stranger.  "Wouldn't you like to tell us
your name, old sport?"

Our visitor looked at him cunningly.

"Me, guv'nor?" he said.  "I'm the Dock o' Wellington."

"Ah!" replied Tommy politely.  "I was sure I'd seen your face
somewhere.  If you won't think me inquisitive, may I ask what brought
you to the island?"

The duke took a long drink.  Then he jerked his thumb towards the
steps.

"That there ruddy boat, guv'nor," he replied casually.

"I said so," cried Mortimer.  "Now perhaps you'll apologize, Tommy."

"What I want to know," I interrupted, "is why you didn't clear out
when you heard us on the bank."

The duke eyed me contemptuously.

"And 'ave you raisin' the 'ole bloomin' country on me.  I don't
think!"

"No, no," broke in Mortimer; "his grace is a sound tactician.  If he
could have cut off with the boat and left us here, he'd have been in
clover."

"As it is," I observed, "he's in the soup."

"Still, it wasn't much good your making for the other side of the
island," went on Mortimer, addressing our guest.  "You couldn't get
off that way."

"Ho, couldn't I?" remarked the duke, with some scorn.  "If I'd 'a'
got to the bank fust you'd 'ave know'd all about that.  It'd take six
o' your sort to ketch me in the water."

Tommy brought his hand down on the table with a sudden bang that made
us all jump.

"By Jove," he cried, "here's the very man we want!  Listen here,
Whiskers.  Suppose we find a way of settling this little business
without handing you over to the police, eh?"

The duke blinked at him without any visible sign of emotion.

"Wotjer gettin' at?" he inquired imperturbably.

"Well, the fact is," explained Tommy, "I've got a little wager with
the distinguished-looking gentleman in the arm-chair.  I've bet him
that I could land the best swimmer in the world with a salmon rod
inside of half an hour."

"'Ave yer, guv'nor?" observed the duke.  "Then ye can take it from me
yer on a loser."

I gave a gentle laugh, which obviously nettled Tommy.

"Perhaps you think you could get away?" he said.

The duke finished his whisky with some deliberation, and set down the
empty glass on the floor.

"Think!" he repeated.  "I'm blinking well sure as no blinking salmon
rod would 'old me 'arf a blinking minit."  ("Blinking" was not the
precise word that he used, but it will serve.)

Tommy turned to me with a grin.

"D'you feel like taking it on?" he asked.

I looked the duke over with a critical eye.

"Yes," I said; "I'll risk it."

"Well, let's put it to him," said Tommy.  "Look here, my friend, if
you're so cocksure I can't land you, what d'you say to my having a
shot at it?"

The duke glanced suspiciously round the circle.

"Wot do I get out of it?" he demanded.

"You get out of going to quod," replied Tommy.  "Whatever happens,
we'll land you on the bank afterwards and let you clear off.  That's
a bargain."

"And what's more," I put in, "I'll lay you a pound to nothing that
you don't break the line.

"Ye might make it a couple o' quid, guv'nor," observed his grace
pathetically.  "It's worth that to 'ave a damn great salmon 'ook
shoved in yer."

There was a roar of laughter from all three of us.

"Well, he's a sportsman," I said, "whatever else he is."  Then,
turning to the duke, I explained that the performance would not be of
quite such a realistic nature as he imagined.  "We'll lend you a
belt," I said, "and fasten the line to that.  Then all you'll have to
do will be to dive in and see if you can get clear."

He rose with some alacrity.

"Ho, if that's all, I'm bloomin' well on!  It's a walk over,
guv'nor--that's wot it is, a ruddy walk over."

"He can have my belt," said Tommy, unstrapping the article in
question and tossing it across.  "I'll go and get a salmon rod.
They're hanging up in the passage."

He stepped through the archway, and took down a rod from the row of
pegs, carrying it out through the side door into the garden, where we
all three joined him.

Both Mortimer and I felt hugely excited, but neither the duke nor
Tommy betrayed any special emotion.

"You'd better take your Sunday suit off," said the latter.  "It'll
give you a better chance."

The duke shook his head.

"I'll just shift me boots," he announced.  "The water won't 'urt
these 'ere duds."

"On the contrary," said Mortimer unkindly, "it ought to do 'em a bit
of good.  But you'll find it devilish wet walking afterwards."

"They'll dry quick enough," replied the duke, "with this 'ere sun."

He sat down on the bank, and removed the decayed shreds of leather
that decorated his feet.  Then with some care he fastened Tommy's
belt round his waist.

"How are you going to fix the line?" I inquired.

"That's simple enough," said Tommy.  "There's a ring at the back, you
see.  I'll take off the hook and fasten the gut to that."

He suited the action to the word, and in about five minutes the
operation was completed.  Tommy tested his handiwork with two or
three stiff jerks, which the duke resisted by sitting peacefully on
the ground.

"Can he have the benefit of the stream?" I asked.  "If so, this side
of the island is the best."

"Oh, yes," said Tommy.  "I'll give you every chance.  All I bargain
is that Mortimer stands by with a walking-stick.  If I get him close
in enough to be touched, I've won the bet."

"Right you are," I agreed.  "That's fair."

The duke got up and inspected the stream.

"You can choose your own place," said Tommy.  "Only let's know when
you're going to dive."

"Hold on," I said suddenly.  "I'd better bring the boat round.  We
don't want the chap to drown, and if he gets loose in this stream,
he'll never fetch the island again."

I ran back to the steps, and getting into the dinghy, tugged her
round to where the others were standing.  There I caught hold of a
branch and steadied myself against the bank.

"When you're ready," I called out.

With delightful coolness the duke sauntered to the edge, where the
river was deepest.

"All right, guv'nor?" he inquired, looking back over his shoulder at
Tommy.

The latter nodded, planting himself firmly on the grass, with his
legs well apart.

There was a short pause, and then suddenly the tattered figure on the
bank shot outwards and downwards, taking the water with a splash that
sent the spray flying in all directions.  Tommy took a step forward,
and the line went screaming out like an angry wasp.

Tense with excitement, Mortimer and I stared at the spot where the
duke had disappeared.  He came up some ten yards further on.  The
line was still fastened to his back, but without a moment's
hesitation he set off down stream, swimming with a vigorous overhand
stroke that carried him along rapidly in the swift-running water.

He must have covered about twenty-five yards before Tommy made his
first attempt to check him.  We saw the line tighten suddenly, and
the point of the rod bend double beneath the strain.  The effect on
the duke was instantaneous.  Ceasing to swim, he spun round in the
water, and lay on his back apparently as helpless as a floating log.

Very carefully Tommy began to wind him in.  Nearer and nearer he
came, jerking along through the broken water, and making no attempt
to resist.  For a moment I thought it was all over, and then, just as
Mortimer was creeping down the bank with the stick in his hand, there
came another sharp "whirr" from the reel, and away went the quarry
down the stream as vigorously as a freshrun salmon.

"Look out!" yelled Mortimer.  "He's making for the rock!"

Away to the left a crest of grey stone reared itself above swirling
waters.  Towards this the duke was swimming rapidly with the evident
intention of fouling the line.

Tommy saw the danger, and just at the right moment put on the check.
The duke halted abruptly, paused for a moment just where he was, then
suddenly rising high in the water, dived beneath the surface like a
dog-otter.  There was a sharp snick, the rod jerked back with a swirl
of flying line, and Tommy sat down abruptly on the bank.

With a shout of triumph I grabbed my oars, and, shoving off the boat
from the bank, sped hastily to the rescue.

I was just in time.  Exhausted apparently by his great effort, the
duke was drifting feebly down the current, devoting his remaining
energies to keeping his head above water.  I grabbed him by the
collar, and, with a mighty haul, succeeded in lifting him up like
some enervated porpoise over the side of the dinghy.  With a grunt he
collapsed on the seat, and putting all my strength into it, I tugged
our craft back to the island.

Tommy, who is a sportsman to the backbone, was standing on the bank
with a stiff whisky-and-soda, which he had secured from the bungalow.

"Here you are, Captain Webb," he said.  "Get this down your neck, and
you'll feel better."

The duke took the glass and shifted its contents without a tremor.

"I'm all right, guv'nor," he said; "but you nearly 'ad me."

Tommy laughed and shook his head.

"Let's see where it broke," he said, turning his late quarry round so
as to examine the belt.  "By Jove!  Just about the ring, and as clean
as a whistle!  Well, we'd better fix you up with a dry shirt before
you go.  I've got one I can spare you."

"Thank ye, guv'nor," said the duke.  "I could do with a shirt."

Tommy disappeared into the house, returning a moment later with the
garment and a bottle of whisky.

"Take this too," he said; "it'll keep the cold out."

I groped in my pocket and produced a sovereign.

"Here you are," I added, handing it to our guest.  "I'll row you
ashore."

We got back into the boat, the duke hugging his whisky and his shirt;
and steering a course a little upstream, I pulled him over to the
opposite bank.  Tommy and Mortimer stood on the island waving us
farewell.

When we reached our destination, I stood up and offered him my hand.

"Good-bye, old friend," I said.  "Thank you for winning my bet."

Very slowly he withdrew a hand from his pocket, and with a sideways
glance at the island opened it so that I could see its contents.

"I'd never 'ave done it, guv'nor," he said hoarsely, "if it 'adn't
'a' bin for these 'ere wire-nippers."




The Strange Adventure of Mr. Bates


I

Through the uncurtained window the yellow light of the bar parlour
streamed out into the darkness of the November night.  Standing in
the road, his hand fingering the two odd coppers in his trousers
pocket, Mr. William Bates gazed irresolutely at the inviting gleam.
He was weighing the relative merits of a fire and a glass of beer at
the present moment against those of a crude but satisfying breakfast
of bread and cheese on the following morning.  A clink of glasses,
followed by a sudden burst of laughter, seemed to decide the matter,
for, casting forethought aside, he advanced up the cobbled pathway
and pushed open the door of the little country inn.

He found himself in a small, low-ceilinged room, lit by a hanging
lamp.  A wood fire was smouldering away on the open hearth, and round
its fragrant glow two or three men were seated in various attitudes
of convivial comfort.  They all looked up as he entered.

Mr. Bates, being an unobtrusive person by nature, seated himself
quietly on an oak settle against the wall.  An enormously stout man,
who had discarded his coat and was smoking a much-coloured
churchwarden, rose slowly from his chair.

"Even," he remarked in a genial rumble.  "Nasty night, ain't it?"

Mr. Bates nodded and shivered.

"Come a bit closer to the fire, mate," went on the landlord, for such
was evidently the stout gentleman's calling.  "You look fair
perished."

Two of the men moved back their chairs, and Mr. Bates, accepting the
invitation, shifted into a vacant seat at the corner of the hearth.

"Glass of beer, please," he said, as the landlord, with an
interrogative glance, threw up a small wooden partition that
communicated with the bar.

The refreshment having arrived, and Mr. Bates having parted with
three of his four last half-pennies, the general conversation
interrupted by his entrance was resumed.

"Seems to be something funny about it," observed the landlord,
looking across at the thin man with gaiters who was sitting on the
edge of the table.

"Blooming funny!" emphasized the local postman.

"Well, that were his message, any'ow.  'E says: 'Tell 'Orniman that
I'll be along with my box by 'alf-past nine, and that I'll be wanting
to sleep the night,'  'E's 'ad a proper row with the old man and
chucked 'is job--that's what 'e's done."

"Got the sack, more like," observed the postman, spitting ironically
into the fire.

"That's as it may be; anyway, I've gived the message."

"What's the Professor going to do?" inquired the landlord.

"Ah," said the man with gaiters.  "Advertise for summon else, I
suppose.  'E won't 'ave no women about the place, that's certain."

"Job worth 'aving," put in a red-whiskered man who had not previously
spoken--"at least, judgin' by the amount o' drink Andrew got through."

"No one can say as Andrew weren't free with 'is money," observed the
gaitered man.

"If it _were_ 'is money," put in the postman unkindly.

There was a sound of steps outside, and the sudden thud of a heavy
weight on the ground.

"Here 'i is," said the landlord.

The door swung open, and Mr. Bates, looking up, saw a man enter.  He
was a pale-faced, sandy-haired individual, with a sharp nose, watery
eyes, and a general air of somewhat dissipated insolence.

"Good 'evenin', gentlemen all," he remarked.  "Hallo, Potter!  Give
me message to Horniman?"

"That's all right, Mr. Andrew," answered the landlord.  "There's a
room upstairs if you want one.  I'll send George along to get your
box in."

"Wot's the meanin' of all this 'ere bust up?" inquired the
red-whiskered man, as the new-comer settled himself down with a large
glass of Hollands in front of him.

Mr. Andrew laughed with a fine assumption of independence.  "Jest got
sick of the old swine, and told 'im so," he replied.  "Nearly 'ad a
fit when I gave 'im notice."

"Must 'a' bin a blow to 'im," said the postman.  "Did you get your
last week's wages?"

Mr. Andrew looked across coldly.  "He offered me a cheque," he said,
"but I told 'im to keep it and get 'is 'air cut."

"And then you woke up, I s'pose," added the postman.

"What'll the Professor do without you, Mr. Andrew?" inquired the
landlord, anxious to relieve the somewhat strained situation.

"Have to look after 'imself for a day or two, I 'ope, and I've left
some work for 'im, I'll warrant you.  There's all yesterday's things
unwashed, 'is rotten old boots dirty, the stores mixed up, and every
window and door in the place unfastened.  I only 'ope," he added
viciously, "as some tramp'll come along and clean out the whole place
before 'e finds out!  I'd 'alf a mind to chalk up a notice on the
gate opposite, sayin' that the kitchen windows at The Firs was
unlatched, and that there was plenty of grub and drink for any one
who chose to walk in and 'elp themselves."

In the laughter that followed this spirited harangue, Mr. Bates
turned to his next-door neighbour, a quiet man who had not spoken
yet, and inquired in a subdued voice:

"The Firs?  Ain't that the house I passed coming along--a little
white place standing back on the left?"

"That's it, mate," answered the other.  "Professor Stenson's.  Andrew
'ere was 'is servant."

"Seems to me," observed the gentleman with gaiters, addressing the
hero of the evening, "as you've got your own back out of him."

Mr. Andrew grinned complacently.  "I don't believe in bein' put on,"
he admitted.  "One man's as good as another, I say, and I like to be
treated with proper respect."

"And not kicked out of the 'ouse, like a thief, at a minute's
notice," added the postman.

There was a moment of unpleasant silence.

"If you're trying to insinooate--" began Mr. Andrew hotly.

"I ain't trying to insinooate nothing," said the postman.  "It's my
opinion as the Professor's a gentleman--a proper gentleman 'e is, and
'e always treated you a sight too well.  If I'd been in 's shoes,
you'd 'ave been out of it long ago.  That's my opinion, Mister
Andrew, and if you don't like it, you can shove it in your pipe and
dam well smoke it."

So saying, the postman emptied his pot of beer, and, buttoning his
uniform, rose defiantly to his feet.  Before the heated atmosphere
had a chance to burst, however, the landlord again intervened, this
time with the full majesty of law behind him.

"One minute past ten!" he cried, snapping a huge watch which he had
extracted from the depths of his waistcoat.  "I'll be losin' my
licence, standin' 'ere listenin' to your jokin'.  Come along,
George--get up the shutters."

George, an aged, lop-sided gentleman, shuffled out from the bar, and
the whole company, with the exception of the indignant and heavily
breathing Mr. Andrew, rose reluctantly to their feet.  There was a
general feeling of disappointment that such a promising situation
should have come to so tame a conclusion.

Mr. Bates passed through the door with the rest into the darkness
outside.

Though it was not actually raining, only a shameless optimist could
have described it as a fine night.  A raw November mist brooded
unpleasantly over everything, offering a dismal contrast to the
warmth and brightness of the little bar-parlour.  Under the
circumstances, nobody stayed to gossip on the doorstep, even the
thrilling topic of Mr. Andrew's resignation being mutually abandoned.
There was a general turning up of coat-collars, the flare of a match,
a "Good-night, Tom!"--"Comin' my way, Potter?" and all the late
revellers clumped away to their respective homes--all of them, that
is to say, except Mr. Bates.  He, unfortunately, had no home to go to.

He stood still, listening to the retreating footsteps.  Then, with a
faint sigh, he thrust his hands into his pockets and began to walk
slowly back along the road in the direction from which he had arrived
at the inn.

He had covered nearly a quarter of a mile in this fashion when a few
yards ahead the dull yellow blue of an oil lamp suddenly appeared
through the mist.  Mr. Bates stopped and began to peer anxiously
through the gloom on his left.

"Ought to be jest about here," he muttered, "if I ain't made a
mistake."  The shadowy outline of a white gate rewarded his efforts.
He climbed carefully over it, and feeling his way by means of a wall
that ran at right angles to the road, arrived at a low stone
building, which, as far as could be seen in the darkness, bore the
appearance of a discarded cowshed.

Through an aperture that in more spacious days had probably been the
site of a doorway, Mr. Bates passed in to his hotel.  It was black
inside, with that peculiar quality of blackness which seems to affect
the breathing power, and there was a faint odour of immemorial cows.
Mr. Bates struck a match, and by its spluttering light glanced
nervously about him.  Against the opposite wall he detected a rough
manger, which seemed to be free of some of the less pleasing features
of the floor.  A year ago Mr. Bates might have sniffed at its
possibilities as a bedstead, but recent experience had rendered him
less critical.  Igniting a second match, he made a further
inspection, which resulted in the discovery of a couple of
indescribably filthy sacks.  One of these he rolled up into a pillow
and placed in the manger, and then, scrambling in himself and lying
down, he drew the other luxuriously over his tired limbs.  Some
twenty minutes later the sound of deep, steady breathing showed that
he was temporarily oblivious of the discomforts of the ill-arranged
planet.



II

One--two--three--four--five.

The last stroke of the village church clock died slowly away, and
only the dreary, persistent patter of the rain upon the dead leaves
disturbed the uncanny stillness of a sleeping world.

Mr. Bates stood irresolutely in the wet darkness, his hand upon the
gate which led into the domains of Professor Stenson.  At last, very
cautiously, he pushed it open and stepped inside.

Before him lay the drive, lined by laurels and overhung by several
gaunt, leafless elms.  It was even blacker than the roadway.  Step by
step he felt his way along, till all of a sudden the shrubbery came
to an end, and he found himself at the edge of a small gravelled
space facing the front door.

At the side of the house he could just discern a path, which appeared
to run round to the back.  Crouching down and moving his feet as
noiselessly as possible, he advanced along it, keeping one hand
against the ivy-clad wall to guide his steps.

After about twelve yards of this uncomfortable progress, he came
round the corner into a small square yard.  There was a back door
with two windows on either side of it, while above these again were,
apparently three rooms.  All were in complete darkness.

With his heart in his mouth, Mr. Bates crept up to the first window
and peered through.  He could see nothing.  It was like staring into
a sheet of black paper.  For a second he hesitated, and then, placing
his hand against the sash of the bottom pane, gave it a gentle
tentative push.  It yielded instantly to his pressure, sliding up a
matter of two or three inches with a wheezy rattle that made him
start back in a fresh access of alarm.  Surely someone must have
heard it!  He half turned to run, and then paused irresolutely, his
ears strained for the first sound of any movement within the house.

Nothing happened, however, and, after waiting several minutes, Mr.
Bates regained his courage.  Very gingerly he again raised the sash,
and with extreme caution inserted his head through the empty
window-frame.  It was the kitchen; of that there could be no doubt,
an unpleasing odour of boiled cabbage and damp clothes and dirty
plates attesting to the professional deficiencies of the owner's late
servant.

Raising himself upon his hands, Mr. Bates lifted his leg and
scrambled in noiselessly over the sill.  Then he felt in his pocket
for a match.  By the aid of a dry portion of his trousers he struck
it without any superfluous noise, and, shading it with his hand,
gazed nervously about him.

It was evident that Mr. Andrew's vaunt had not been an entirely idle
one.  The room was in a state of shocking disorder.  Heaped up anyhow
on the table were the dirty appliances of at least three meals.  A
mountainous pile of ashes beneath the grate bore eloquent testimony
to daily tasks neglected, and at least three pairs of uncleaned boots
scattered about the floor did nothing to remove the impression.  Mr.
Bates looked round with a disapproving and disgusted eye.  A tidy man
by nature and training, his fingers itched to set about this
confusion.

The flame of the match reaching his thumb, however, reminded him
sharply that he was there upon other and more pressing business.
Dropping the charred stump with a mild and whispered oath, he ignited
a second, and by its light perceived, on the further side of the
apartment, an open door leading into a larder.  On a shelf against
the wall he could just detect the outline of a cold chicken,
apparently still intact.

Mr. Bates did not wait for an invitation.  In a moment he had crossed
the floor and entered this attractive storehouse.  Seizing the
chicken, he held up the match and gazed round for further
contributions.  Half a loaf of bread was the first object to meet his
eye, and this, together with a small piece of German sausage, which
he found on a plate behind it, satisfied his requirements.  Thrusting
his booty under his arm, and throwing down his second match, which by
this time had burnt itself away, he stepped out into the darkness of
the kitchen.  As he did so, a slight sound made him pause.  An
instant later there was a sharp click, and then a blinding flare of
electric light suddenly flooded the room.

Mr. Bates staggered back against the wall, his plunder and his jaw
dropping at the same moment.  An elderly gentleman in a Jaeger
dressing-gown with a revolver in his hand, was leaning comfortably
against the kitchen door.  He was clean-shaven, with longish white
hair.  A pleasant, if somewhat ironical, smile lurked about his face.

"_Flagrante delicto_, Mr. Burglar," he remarked, "or, to use a
language with which you are possibly better acquainted, caught in the
act, eh?"

Mr. Bates licked his lips, which felt very dry.  "Yes, sir," he
whispered.

"You will oblige me by keeping your hands above your head.  Thank
you.  Now permit me to introduce myself.  My name is Professor
Stenson."

"Yes, sir," repeated Mr. Bates hoarsely.

"And yours, my friend?"

"William Bates, sir."

"And if you won't think me inquisitive, Mr. Bates, may I ask what you
are doing in my house at this time in the morning?"

Mr. Bates wriggled, his eyes glued on the muzzle of the revolver.

"The fact is, sir," he jerked out, "I was hungry, sir."

"Ah," said the Professor, "and I suppose you mistook The Firs for an
hotel.  That is the worst of modern architecture--it has no
distinctive note."

With this statement Mr. Bates apparently agreed.  At all events, he
offered no comment on it.  When he spoke again, which he did after a
brief pause, his topic was of an altogether different nature.

"If you please, sir," he stammered nervously, "would you mind not
pointing that thing at me, sir?  It might go off."

"I have no particular wish to point it at you," replied the
Professor.  "The posture is both fatiguing and ridiculous.  If you
will take your coat off and place it on the floor, so that I can see
that you are not armed, I shall be delighted to assume a less martial
attitude.  Be good enough to keep your hands from your pockets while
you are doing it, or I shall shoot you without hesitation."

With shaking fingers Mr. Bates proceeded to disrobe, being very
careful to hold his tattered garment by the extreme edge.  Having
shed it, he stood in his shirt-sleeves, looking about as dishevelled
and miserable a housebreaker as ever cracked a crib.

His captor gazed at him thoughtfully for a moment, and then lowered
his weapon.  Mr. Bates breathed an audible sigh of relief.

"And now we are at our ease," said the Professor, "I should be
interested to hear a little more about you.  If you won't think me
insulting, your methods, from the technical point of view, appear to
be deplorably amateurish.  Why didn't you lock the kitchen door?"

There was something in the Professor's tone which made Mr. Bates feel
a shade less like a trapped rat.  He even drew himself up with a
pathetic effort at courage.

"I assure you, sir," he said earnestly, "I am no burglar."

The Professor looked at him quizzically.

"I am inclined to agree with you, Mr. Bates," he said.

"It was very wrong of me to come in here, sir, I admit, but I was
hungry, sir--desperately hungry--and I knew I should find some food
inside.  I assure you, sir, I had no intention of taking away
anything else."

"And may I inquire why you were so certain about the contents of my
kitchen?  Indeed, how did you even know it was the kitchen?"

"If you please, sir, it was hearing what Mr. Andrew said at the inn
last night."

A sudden look of illumination flashed across the Professor's face.

"Oh," he said, "so that is how the land lies, is it?  I am indebted
to the gentle Andrew for the pleasure of your acquaintance, eh?
Well, come, come, don't be reticent, my friend; let us have the whole
story."

Bit by bit, with his eye still on the revolver, Mr. Bates proceeded
to relate the incidents of the previous night, from the time of his
entry into the inn.  The Professor listened to him without
interrupting, the same curious, half-ironical, half-good-natured
smile playing all the time about his mouth.  Once, when he heard of
the postman's final remark, he laughed out loud.

"So Mercury is evidently a gentleman of penetration," he observed.
"What did you think of Andrew yourself, Mr. Bates?"

"I didn't like him at all, sir.  He seemed to me a shifty,
incompetent fellow, and insolent, sir--very insolent."

"I dare say you are right," said the Professor.  "He was only
insolent to me once, but that may have been for lack of a second
opportunity.  Shifty he certainly was, and as for incompetence--well,
look at the state of this kitchen, Mr. Bates."

Mr. Bates looked.  "Yes, sir," he said warmly, "it's disgraceful.  It
was the first thing I noticed as I came in.  When I was--"  He
stopped abruptly.

"Well, well, well, when you were what?  Let us have it, my friend."

"I was going to say, sir, that, when I was in service, I should have
died of shame if any one had seen my kitchen in such a state."

The Professor raised his eyebrows.  "When you were in service, eh?
So you have risen in the world, Mr. Bates!  And how long is it since
you have exchanged the livery for the crape and jack-boots?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"When was your last professional engagement?"

"I have been out of a place, sir, since I left Mr. Houghton, eighteen
months ago."

"And what were you doing for Mr. Houghton?"

"Everything, sir.  He was a bachelor gentleman, and didn't care to
have women servants about the house, so I looked after him entirely."

"Dear me!  How extremely fortunate!" exclaimed the Professor.  "Your
visit is what the vicar would call almost providential, Mr. Bates.
Before I discharge my duty as a citizen, by handing you over to the
local policeman, you will be able to straighten out all this
distressing confusion for me.  If you do it efficiently, it will
doubtless be taken into consideration by the magistrate."

"Yes, sir," murmured Mr. Bates dejectedly.

"Well, suppose we start upon the boots, then.  It will be pleasant to
have a pair of boots properly cleaned again.  You will find the
brushes and some blacking in that cupboard."

Mr. Bates opened the door and took out the articles in question.  He
then collected the three pairs of boots which were scattered about
the floor, and silently set to work.  The Professor, sitting on a
corner of the kitchen table, with the revolver dangling in his hand,
watched him with amused interest.

When the last boot was finished and laid aside, he got up.

"Your work reflects great credit on you, Mr. Bates," he remarked
approvingly.  "I shall be proud to wear them.  Do you think you are
equally skilful at washing up plates and dishes?"

"I think so, sir," said Mr. Bates meekly.

"Well, we may as well make certain, eh?  Suppose you collect some of
these and bring them into the scullery."

He pushed open a third door, and turned on a switch.

"There is a gas-stove in here, so we can have plenty of hot water in
a few minutes."

Scraping the various remnants from the plates and dishes, Mr. Bates
heaped the latter up into two piles and carried them into the
scullery.  The Professor meanwhile had filled a large washing-up pan
with water and placed it on the stove.

"While we are waiting for it to boil," he said, "you might tell me a
little more about your past history.  In view of your
accomplishments, how did Mr. Houghton ever bring himself to part with
you?"

"Please, sir, he died."

"A pity," said the Professor.  "But surely you should have found
little difficulty in obtaining another place?"

Mr. Bates hung his head.

The Professor looked at him.  "Ah," he said, after a short pause.  "I
thought there must be some reason.  Come, Mr. Bates, what's the
trouble?  Never be afraid to speak the truth."

"I was out of a place for about three months, sir, and--and my wife
got very ill, sir, and I had spent all my savings.  The doctor said
that the only chance of saving her was to send her out of London.  I
went to call on a gentleman about a place, and while I was waiting,
sir, I--I--I saw a couple of sovereigns on the mantelpiece, and I
took them, sir."

"That was very wrong of you, Mr. Bates," said the Professor.

"Yes, sir."

"What happened?"

"The money was missed, and I was arrested, sir.  The magistrate was
very good to me.  He might have sent me to prison, but he only bound
me over.  I am very grateful to him, sir.  Still, that finished me as
far as work was concerned, sir."

"And your wife?"

Mr. Bates suddenly began to cry.  "My wife is dead, sir."

"Dear me," said the Professor, turning his head away, "dear me!"

There was a short pause, during which Mr. Bates began mechanically to
wash up.  The Professor sat in silence while plate after plate was
cleaned and put aside.  When both piles were finished, he looked up
at the small clock which was ticking away on the mantelpiece.  The
time was about five-and-twenty minutes to seven.

"It is a little early for breakfast," he remarked, "but I think that,
as you are here, Mr. Bates, I will take advantage of the fact by
getting you to cook me some eggs and bacon.  There ought to be
plenty, unless Andrew has excelled himself."

"Yes, sir," said Mr. Bates.

The Professor went out into the larder, returning almost immediately
with the required provisions.

"If you will cook these," he said, "I will go on with laying the
table."

"Oh, don't you trouble, sir--I can do it, sir," protested Mr. Bates.

"Please do what you are asked, Mr. Bates.  And you might make some
tea at the same time; the canister is on the shelf above you."

"Yes, sir."

"And bring it all into the kitchen as soon as it is ready."

"Yes, sir."

The fragrant smell of the hissing eggs and bacon was the most
exquisite torture to Mr. Bates.  An agonised longing to seize some of
the food and stuff it into his mouth almost dazed him with its
intensity.  Nevertheless, he firmly proceeded with his task, turning
out a succulent steaming dish, just cooked to precisely the right
point.  Then he made the tea, and taking down a plate which he had
put to warm, placed the whole lot upon a tray, and carried it into
the kitchen.  The Professor was sitting at the table, which was laid
for two.

"Excellent," he said, taking off the cover and looking at the
contents.  "But how is this--you have only brought one hot plate?"

"I thought that was all you would require, sir."

"But there is yourself, Mr. Bates.  I laid a place for you under the
impression that you were hungry."

"Oh, sir," said Mr. Bates, with a little gasp, "if I may have
something outside, sir!  I--I should hardly like to sit down with
you, sir."

The Professor raised his eyebrows again.  "Really, Mr. Bates, a
little more self-respect, if you please.  You must remember that you
are a burglar now, not a valet."

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Bates seated himself in the second chair, and the Professor,
whose appetite seemed suddenly to have vanished, helped him to about
seven-eighths of the eggs and bacon.  Mr. Bates fell upon them with
as much ferocity as his professional refinement would permit.

The Professor handed him a cup of tea, and after watching him for a
minute, got up and walked to where a telephone was fastened to the
wall.  He took off the receiver.

"Are you there?" he said.  "Please put me on to the London Exchange.
Yes, thank you.  Don't you bother, Mr. Bates, go on with your
breakfast.  Is that the Exchange?  I want 400 City.  Yes.  Help
yourself to some more tea when you want it, Mr. Bates.  Are you
there?  Is that Scotland Yard?  Professor Stenson.  Would you ask
Inspector Green to come to the telephone?  All right.  You will find
some marmalade in the white pot, Mr. Bates.  Is that you, Green?
Yes.  I want you to do something for me.  It's just to look up the
record of a man named William Bates, who was bound over at--where was
it, Mr. Bates?--ah--Marylebone, on--what date?--May 7th.  I should
like to have any information you possess."

He turned and contemplated Mr. Bates, who was staring at him with his
mouth open.

"Wonderful invention, the telephone, isn't it, Mr. Bates?" he
remarked.  "It keeps us so in touch with the actual facts of
existence.  But don't let my private business interfere with your
breakfast.  You must be hungry after your somewhat uncomfortable
night."

Mr. Bates said nothing.  He seemed content to stare and eat.

Another minute or two elapsed.  "Yes, I'm here," said the Professor
suddenly, turning again to the instrument.  "Thanks."  A pause.
"What--what's that?"  Another and longer pause.  "Oh, thanks very
much.  Yes, that's all.  I shall probably see you Wednesday.  I hope
to look in about that Stevenson case.  Yes.  Good-bye."

He hung up the receiver.

"Well, Mr. Bates," said he, approaching the table, "it appears that
you have spoken the truth."

Mr. Bates gulped down his last mouthful.

"Yes, sir," he said.

The Professor eyed him for a moment severely.

"It is, of course, my duty," he said, "to hand you over to the law."

"Yes, sir."

"But, being opposed to carrying duty to too logical an extreme, I am
prepared to make you an alternative offer.  If you would care to take
the place of the professionally defunct Mr. Andrew, I am willing to
give you a trial.  Your work would be to devote the same care and
skill to my comfort that you doubtless bestowed upon the late Mr.
Houghton.  Your wages will be fifty pounds a year, and I shall give
you a fortnight's holiday."

For a naturally reserved and properly trained servant, Mr. Bates's
response was unpardonable.  Rising to his feet, he staggered round
the table, and falling on his knees in front of the Professor, began
feebly groping for the latter's hand.  He was sobbing so loudly that
it was difficult to hear what he said.  It sounded like:

"Thank you--oh, thank you, sir!  God bless you, sir!"

For the third time the Professor raised his eyebrows.

"Really, Bates," he said, "a little more self-control, if you please.
You must remember that you are a valet now, not a burglar."




A Bit of Old Chelsea


We were strolling through the restful streets of Chelsea when we came
suddenly upon a picturesque little tavern close to the Thames.  It
was half covered with ivy, and from the wooden balcony above, long
trailing geraniums hung down and mingled with the dark green leaves.
There was a weather-beaten signboard with a picture of a
cunning-looking man in a cocked hat.  It was called the "Lord Nelson."

"That's a quaint old place," said George carelessly.

"Very," I replied; "so picturesque."

"I wonder what it's like inside.  Shall we have a look?"

"Certainly," I said.

I always try to fall in with my friend's wishes, even when I don't
approve of them.  I may be wrong, but that is my idea of friendship.

George is a journalist with a strange craving for the interiors of
taverns.  He says they are such excellent places in which to study
character.  From the outsider's point of view studying character
seems to be the chief part of journalism, and I should think few men
worked harder at it than George does.

We pushed open a door marked "Saloon," and found ourselves in a
narrow compartment just large enough to contain four people without
inconvenience.  One of the seats was already occupied by an
amiable-looking wreck, who was fast asleep with his head on the
counter.  The public bar exactly opposite contained five or six
navvies in various stages of intoxication, and the barman, a
smart-looking man of about thirty-five, was attending to their wants.

"Seems a bit tired," remarked George, looking critically at our
companion.

"Been studying too much character," I suggested.

George was just beginning a sarcastic reply when the barman came
across to take our orders.  We decided on two glasses of what I once
heard a temperance lecturer describe as "hell-filling alcohol," and
while the barman was getting them ready George entered into
conversation with him.

"Who's our friend?" he inquired, indicating the recumbent reveller in
the corner.

"Dunno 'is name," said the barman, snipping the wire off the Perrier.
"Calls 'im Billy Borndrunk round 'ere, and 'e seems satisfied."

"Got a pretty tough lot opposite, haven't you?" I asked.

The barman's face assumed an expression of intense disgust.

"Trash," he remarked.  "They're mendin' the Embankment, and come
along 'ere after work.  They fair mop it, I can tell yer, and then
they gits narsty.  I'll 'ave to learn 'em something afore I'm done
with 'em."

He was only five-foot-six, but he spoke with confidence, and I felt
that it was no vain boasting.

"You know something about it, eh?"

He closed an eye and smiled scornfully.  "Quite enough for any o'
them to go on with."

Then he left us, for the gentlemen opposite were becoming clamorous
for more liquor.

During the next few minutes we sat there in silence.  George was
evidently making a mental sketch of Billy Borndrunk, and with the
sympathy of the true artist I refrained from interrupting him.  I
amused myself by idly scanning the various bottles which were piled
up on shelves at the bade, together with a few packets of cheap
cigarettes and some weary-looking ferns.  This is a favourite pastime
of mine when George insists on taking me into taverns.  I like to
speculate dreamily upon the various flavours.  If one is not really
fond of drink one can do this without feeling ashamed.  It becomes a
purely intellectual pursuit.

Suddenly I was aware of a disturbance in the opposite bar.  A
dialogue was in progress between my friend the barman and a gigantic
navvy, proportionately inebriated.

"Pot o' 'arf-an'-'arf, an' not ser much jaw," demanded the latter.

"Yer won't get no more 'ere," replied the barman coldly.  "Yer drunk
as it is.  Go 'ome to bed."

"Oo-oose drunk?" inquired the navvy indignantly.

"You are," said the barman, "beastly."

Then civilization slipped off the navvy like a discarded cloak.

"I'm drunk, am I!" he roared.  "Tike that!"  His fist shot out, and,
landing somewhere in the neighbourhood of the barman's right eye,
drove that gentleman across the bar with such velocity that he struck
the counter close to us with considerable force.

"That's for yer cheek," observed the navvy in the voice of one whose
honour has been satisfied.

The remaining customers, with the honourable exception of Billy
Borndrunk, rose hastily to their feet, and a chorus of criticism
filled the tavern.  "Serve 'im right!" "Shut yer 'ead!" "Don't be a
fool, Bill!" "Hit him back!"  This last from George.

I remembered the barman's boast, and was silent in pleasant
expectation.

To my intense disappointment, however, the blow seemed to have cowed
him.  He pulled himself together and slowly retraced his steps,
holding his hand up to his face.

"You 'adn't no call to 'it me like that," he began reproachfully.
"What's your order?"

"Pot o' 'arf-an'-'arf; and when I comes in 'ere again, per'aps ye'll
be a bit more perlite--see?"

The navvy leaned across the counter and grinned derisively.

He never grinned again--at least, not under similar circumstances.
With amazing swiftness the barman whipped out a large pewter pot from
under the counter and struck him a swinging blow across the face,
sending him to the floor with a thud that shook the building.

"That's for _your_ cheek," he remarked.

Then he coolly picked up the cloth and began to polish the tankard.
"That's the worst o' them dirty faces," he observed.  "Spoils the
silver."

An awe-struck silence fell upon us all, while the navvy rose up
slowly with the brand of can upon his cheek.  I do not know how to
spell the words, or I would tell you what he said.  When he had done
the barman eyed him critically.

"I ain't got much time to spare for pleasure," he replied, "but if
yer likes to step round to the yard be'ind, we'll give that there
mark a bit o' company."

The navvy's eyes glistened, and the whole tavern, with the exception
of Billy Borndrunk, rose joyously to the suggestion.

The barman walked to the side door and called his wife.

"Annie," he said, "just look after the bar while I show these
gen'lemen our backyard."

We all trooped out, leaving Billy Borndrunk in sole possession.  It
seemed a shame that he should miss the fight, but it would have taken
some hours to wake him up, and by that time everything would have
been over.

Outside we were joined by two or three stray inhabitants of Chelsea,
who had been busily engaged in their usual strenuous work of leaning
over the railings and spitting in the Thames.  Scenting a welcome
diversion, they lounged up and listened with philosophic calm to the
navvy's lurid descriptions of how he was about to operate upon his
opponent.

Then there was a sound of bolts being withdrawn, and the barman
opened the gate that led into the yard.  It was quite small, paved
with cobbles, and surrounded by high brick walls: scarcely the place
that I should have selected for a fight unless I felt very certain
that I was going to win.  The barman closed the gate, and we all
ranged ourselves round the walls, while he and the navvy removed
their superfluous clothing and took up their positions in opposite
corners.  George, who is a bit of a sportsman, volunteered to act as
timekeeper.

There was a moment of almost breathless silence and then he gave the
word:

"Time!"

The barman took three quick steps forward, and planted himself firmly
in the centre of the ring.  In another second the navvy was upon
him--head down and hitting like a flail.  There was a gorgeous whirl
of arms, a couple of sharp smacking blows, and the navvy suddenly sat
down with his hand to his eye, while the little man danced away
apparently uninjured.

Two or three of the fallen warrior's companions advanced and set him
upon his feet.  "Go fur 'is wind, Bill," suggested one.  "Stand orf
an' fight 'im clever," added another.  "Close wiv 'im," said a third.

The navvy drew the back of his hand across his face and shoved them
roughly aside.  "I'll kill 'im afore I done with 'im," he muttered.

His friends retreated to the wall, and the two men faced each other
again.  This time it was the barman's turn to attack.  Without a
moment's hesitation he waltzed in, and, ducking a terrific swing,
landed a straight left on his opponent's nose that brought a roar of
mingled anguish and fury from its owner's lips.  Whether it was the
pain, or whether the blood of some forgotten French ancestor was
stirring in his veins, I cannot say, but the navvy now threw aside
all pretensions to following the rules of the ring, and, rushing
forward kicked at his enemy with all the force of which he was
capable.  My heart seemed to jump into my mouth for I felt certain
that the barman's hour had come.  The navvy's boot looked as if it
were capable of opening the door for any soul in England.

With a brilliant effort, however, the barman leaped on one side, and,
using his right hand for the first time in the fight, smote the navvy
a deadly blow across his disfigured countenance that stretched him
upon the yard and abruptly terminated the struggle.

George counted him out with all the dignity of a professional
timekeeper, but he made no effort to rise, for the barman stood over
him, waiting to rebuke him for his attempted treachery.  Then he
began to roll about as though in great pain.

"Brandy!" he moaned feebly.  "Gimme some brandy!"

The barman walked across the yard and picked up a huge bucket of
clean water.  He had evidently guessed the navvy's weak point, for
the latter rose quickly, if somewhat unsteadily, to his feet, with
the expression of a man who has narrowly escaped some strange and
horrible danger.  He staggered slowly to the gate, and then, turning
round, addressed his late opponent in a voice of dignified rebuke.

"Thash 'ow you lose cushtom.  I shan't come 'ere no more."




The Microbe


"Wot's a microbe, Sam?" inquired Bill Gerridge, putting down his
pipe, and looking up from the paper which he had been laboriously
reading for the last quarter of an hour.

"A microbe!" repeated Sam doubtfully.  "Why a sort o' hinsect--ain't
it, Mr. Parbury?"

"Well, it ain't exactly a insect," answered Mr. Parbury with some
deliberation.  "More like a reptile, as yer might say.  Somethin'
arter the nature of a rat with wings."

"Kind o' bat?" put in Bill.

"You've got it," agreed Mr. Parbury.  "Any'ow, they're dangerous
beasts."

"'Ow's that?" asked Sam.

Mr. Parbury took a long pull at his pewter tankard, and then replaced
it on the table.  "Yer know wot a mad dog's like, don't yer?" he said
impressively.  "Well, yer can take it from me that a mad dog ain't in
it with a microbe.  Once a microbe gets a fair 'old on yer, ye're a
goner an' no error."

"Why?" demanded Bill sceptically.  "Wot do they do to yer?"

"Do to yer?" echoed Mr. Parbury.  "Poisons yer!  That's wot they do
to yer.  Each microbe's got some special disease of 'is own like, and
'e only 'as to get in one nip an' 'e can pass it on--see?"

"Why don't they muzzle 'em or stamp 'em out?" suggested Sam, who had
a practical mind.

Mr. Parbury laughed scornfully.  "Ah!" he said, "that would take a
bit o' doin', that would.  The only chaps wot understands the way to
deal with microbes is doctors.  They get so used to 'em they can
'andle 'em like terriers.  Didn't I never tell yer that yarn o'
Spikey Joe's, 'bout the doctor wot were in the Scrubs same time as 'e
were?"

Sam shook his head, while Bill's naturally expressionless face
betrayed no sign of recognition.

"Fancy my not 'avin' told yer that," said Mr. Parbury musingly.
"Wonnerful interestin' story too.  If I weren't so uncommon dry, I'd
tell it yer now."

Sam waited a moment or two to see if Bill were going to speak, and
then remarked with a faint touch of resentment in his voice:

"Give it a name, Mr. Parbury."

Comfortably installed, with a fresh "bitter and Burton" at his elbow,
Mr. Parbury repeated, nodding his head and smiling gently to himself,
"It's a wonnerful interestin' story, that is.  Spikey Joe told it to
me 'isself one night at the Star and Anchor.  Ye mind 'ow 'e got into
trouble 'bout four years back, on account o' knockin' a copper over
the 'ead?"

"It wasn't the 'ead," said Sam.  "It was the stummick."

Mr. Parbury waved aside the objection as unimportant.  "Well, any'ow
'e got two o' the best for it, and it were while 'e were doin' 'is
bit in the Scrubs as 'e come across the doctor.  'E were a clever
sort o' chap were this 'ere doctor, but some'ow 'e'd gone the pace a
bit too 'ot, an' got 'isself in for forgery, see?

"They shoved 'im in the cell next to Spikey Joe, the bloke wot 'ad
been there previous 'avin' been took bad with the cholera, and sent
off to the 'orspital.  The fact were as 'e'd been bit by a microbe in
'is sleep, but o' course the warders didn't know nothin' about that,
'cause, 'aving been asleep at the time, 'e didn't know it 'isself.
So, without meanin' no 'arm, they goes and shoves the doctor in there
in 'is place.

"Well, one night this doctor were a-settin' quiet on 'is plank bed,
thinkin' 'ow nice it would be when 'is time were up, when all of a
sudden out pops the microbe.  'E'd found out as there were someone
fresh in the cell, an' it seemed to 'im that 'e might as well 'ave a
bite at this cove same as t'other one.  Course, 'e 'adn't no idea as
'ow it were a doctor, or 'e'd 'a' laid low.  D'rectly 'e come out 'e
sees 'is mistake, an' stops as if 'e were paralyzed.

"'Stead o' jumpin' up an' gettin' flustered, same as you or me might
do if we run across a microbe unexpected like, the doctor 'e just
sits there an' smiles to 'isself.  Ye see, 'e'd 'andled 'undreds of
'em in 'is time, an' knew wot to do.

"'Come 'ere,' 'e says, fixin' 'im stern like with 'is eye, an' as
soon as ever 'e spoke the microbe come to 'im as quiet as a lamb an'
tremblin' all over.  'E saw as 'ow 'e'd met 'is master.

"Now the doctor were a soft-'earted sort o' chap, and 'e kind o' took
to that microbe from the first.  In about a week 'e'd made a reg'lar
pet of it.  When the warder wot brought 'im 'is dinner 'ad gone away
an' shut the door cell, 'e'd give a gentle whistle, an' the microbe'd
come 'oppin' out of its 'ole as friendly as yer please.  It used to
climb up 'is leg an' sit on 'is knee while 'e 'ad 'is dinner, an'
'e'd always leave a little drop o' skilly for it at the bottom o' the
bowl.  When it 'ad lapped that up, 'e'd sit there an' scratch 'is
'ead, same as if it were a cat or a dog."

"Didn't it never 'ave a snap at 'im?" inquired Sam.

"Not it," retorted Mr. Parbury.  "Why, it were that contented an'
'appy that Joe used to 'ear it purrin' through the wall.  If it
'adn't been for one o' the warders, there wouldn't never 'ave been no
trouble at all.  This 'ere warder--Jackson 'is name was--were wot
they calls a Socialist.  'E 'ated the very sight of a nob, consekence
o' which 'e were always 'avin' 'is knife into the doctor.  One
evenin' 'e was a-goin' on 'is rounds when 'e 'eard the microbe
purrin' inside the doctor's cell.  So 'e kneels down, an' 'as a
squint through the peep'ole.  There 'e sees the doctor with the
microbe on 'is knee, tryin' to teach it to sit up and beg.

"'Wotcher got there,' 'e says, openin' the door sudden, 'a rat?'

"'No,' says the doctor, without so much as lookin' up.  ''E's a
microbe--a cholera microbe.'

"Bein' a hunedjicated sort o' bloke, the warder thought as 'ow 'e
were bein' got at.

"'Ho! a cholera microbe, is 'e?' 'e says, very sarcastic.  'Well
per'aps when you've quite done with 'im, you'll be kind enough to
'and 'im over to me.  We don't allow no pets in this 'ere prison.
You'll be reported for this--that's wot you'll be.'

"'Don't get excited about it,' says the doctor, quite cool, 'or
you'll bust your 'eart--that's wot you'll do.'

"'I'll teach yer to give me any o' your lip,' says the warder,
steppin' forward an' liftin' up 'is 'and threatenin' like.

"Afore 'e could so much as wink, the microbe gives one 'orrid sort o'
snarl, and springs straight at 'is throat like a blood'ound.  'E sees
it comin', and flings up the other 'and to guard 'isself.  'E were
on'y just in time, too, for the microbe's teeth come together with a
snap wot took the top clean off 'is little finger."

"Wot! clean orf?" interrupted Bill incredulously.

"As clean as if it 'ad been cut with a knife," repeated Mr. Parbury
firmly.  "The warder 'e turns round with a yell o' terror an' makes a
bolt for the door.  As 'e slams it be'ind 'im 'e 'ears the doctor
a-laughin' fit to die, an' tellin' the microbe to drop the bit of
finger wot 'e 'ad in 's mouth.  'E goes straight orf to the 'ead
warder as 'ard as ever 'e can lick.  'Look 'ere!' 'e says, 'oldin' up
'is finger, or rather wot were left of it.

"'Been cuttin' bread an' butter, Jackson?' says the 'ead warder, wot
fancied 'isself as a wit.

"'No I ain't,' says Jackson, a bit unpleasant like.  (Bein' a
Socialist, ye see, 'e 'adn't got much sense of humour.)  'It's that
there microbe o' B24's,' 'e adds, 'and afore I go near 'im again I'll
see myself and the 'ole bloomin' prison busted, I will.'

"'Wot are yer talkin' about?' says the 'ead warder.

"Then Jackson tells 'im all about 'ow it 'appened jest slippin' in a
little bit 'ere and there to make it more impressive-like.  'Talk
about tigers,' 'e finishes, 'why 'e come at me like a ragin' cyclone.
If I 'adn't kep' cool an' landed 'im one on the snout I b'lieve 'e'd
'a' tore my windpipe out.'

"'An' wot were B24 a-doin' while the melly were in progress?' said
the 'ead warder, takin' out 'is notebook."

"While the wot were in progress?" interrupted Bill and Sam at the
same moment.

Mr. Parbury looked at them pityingly.  "That's Eytalion for a scrap,"
he explained.  "'Doin' of?' repeated Jackson, 'why, 'e were
a-cheerin' of 'im on.  I tells you they're 'and in glove
together--that's wot they are--'and in glove.  If ye don't believe me
come an' 'ave a look at 'em yourself.'

"'Not me,' says the 'ead warder.  'I don't want no tops bitten orf my
fingers.  This 'ere's a case for the guv'nor, this is.'

"So as soon as ever Jackson 'ad 'ad 'is 'and tied up proper, 'e and
the 'ead warder goes along to the gov'nor's room.  'E were a retired
colonel, were this 'ere guv'nor, an' Spikey Joe says as 'ow 'is
language were that 'ot at times as even the convicts useter shiver to
'ear it.

"'Well,' 'e says, when 'e sees the 'ead warder and Jackson, 'wot the
blazes is up now?  Can't I never 'ave no peace?'

"The 'ead warder 'e salutes.  'Beg pardon, sir,' 'e says, 'but
Jackson 'ere's just lost the top of 'is little finger.'

"'Well, I 'aven't got the damned thing,' shouts the guv'nor.  'Wot's
the good 'o comin' to me?'

"'It's a matter o' Gov'rnment property,' says the 'ead warder, 'an'
accordin' to the regulations I 'as to account for its loss.'

"'Account for it then,' says the guv'nor, 'an' don't stand there like
a couple o' blistered idjuts.'

"Then Jackson 'e ups an' tells 'is story again, makin' out this time
as 'ow 'e'd fought that microbe for a matter o' ten minutes until the
doctor 'ad begun clubbin' 'im over the 'ead from be'ind with a boot.

"'I'll soon put a stop to this sort o' thing,' says the guv'nor
hotly, as soon as 'e'd finished.  'I ain't goin' to 'ave none of 'is
Majesty's prisons bossed by no bloomin' microbe.  You run along an'
fetch 'em both 'ere, an' look sharp about it.'

"The 'ead warder 'e turns to the second warder.  'Jackson,' 'e says,
'go and fetch B24, and see that 'e brings the microbe along with 'im.'

"The second warder shifts uneasy-like from one foot to the other.

"'Well, wot are ye waitin' for?' says the 'ead warder very fierce.
'Are yer afraid?'

"'I ain't afraid o' no convict,' says the second warder sulkily, 'but
I don't fancy tacklin' this 'ere microbe again, an' that's straight.'

"'You hear that, sir?' says the 'ead warder, turnin' to the guv'nor.
''E's a coward!'

"'Oh, well,' says the guv'nor, 'it's very nachural in a hunedjicated
man.  You fetch 'im yourself, Simpson.'

"The 'ead warder turns a bit pale.  ''Ave you thought, sir,' he says,
'as 'ow it may be dangerous bringin' of 'em in 'ere?  'E's a
desperate character, this B24, an' 'e might set the microbe at you,
sir.'

"The guv'nor draws 'isself up proudly.  'A English orficer ain't
afraid o' no darn microbe,' 'e says.  'You go along an' fetch 'im.'

"The second warder smiles.

"'An' you go with 'im,' says the guv'nor, 'an' 'urry up, the pair of
yer.'

"The 'ead warder an' Jackson salutes, an' goes out o' the room
lookin' about as 'appy as a pair o' blokes a-marchin' orf to the
gallows.

"Jest afore they gets to the door o' the cell, the 'ead warder lays
'is 'and on Jackson's shoulder.  'Jackson,' says 'e, 'one of us 'as
got to open this 'ere door.'

"Jackson nods 'is 'ead, and puts 'is uninjured 'and into 'is pocket.
'That's so,' says 'e.

"'Jackson,' says the 'ead warder again, an' 'is voice shook like a
haspen tree, 'Jackson, I'm a married man.'

"'I knows that,' says Jackson softly.  'An' 'avin' seen your missus,
I can understand 'ow it is you don't mind takin' a few risks.'

"'You ain't doin' yourself no good by bein' insolent,' says the 'ead
warder 'otly.  'You go and open that there door, or you'll be losin'
your job afore ye're many minutes older.'

"''Tain't my business to open the door,' says Jackson in an obstinate
voice.  'You're the 'ead warder, an' you 'as a right to the post of
danger.  Besides, maybe the microbe won't bite you.  'E looks a bit
partikler.'

"The 'ead warder gets very red in the face an' breathes 'ard through
'is nose.  'If I 'ad you outside the prison, my lad,' 'e begins, an'
then rememberin' 'is position 'e pulls 'isself together, an' walks
orf towards the door o' the cell.

"'E were that there riled that 'e as near as possible turned the key
'an went in without realizin' wot 'e were playin' at.  Jest as 'e 'ad
'is 'and on the door, 'owever, 'e suddenly comes to 'is senses, an' I
tells yer it give 'im a fair shiver all over to think 'ow near 'e'd
been to doin' it.  'E bends down 'is 'ead an' listens, an' 'e 'ears
the microbe a-grindin' of 'is teeth an' the doctor tryin' to quiet
'im down.

"'B24,' says 'e, rappin' at the door, an' tryin' to keep 'is voice
steady.

"'I b'lieve I 'ave that honour,' says the doctor.

"'The guv'nor wishes to see yer immedjut.'

"'How! does 'e?' says the doctor, 'that shows 'is good taste.'

"The 'ead warder 'esitates a moment.  'If I opens this door,' says
'e, 'will yer promise to keep that there microbe o' yourn from flyin'
at me?'

"The doctor laughs 'earty.  ''E won't touch yer if yer don't worry
'im,' 'e says.  'Jest keep that lop-eared Jackson out o' the light,
an' turn yer own face away, an' 'e'll be as quiet as a lamb, won't
yer, old boy?'

"The microbe gives a kind o' snarl, much as to say 'e weren't so sure
about it.

"Seein' as 'ow the guv'nor were waitin', 'owever, and there weren't
no 'elp for it, the 'ead warder turns the key an' pushes open the
door o' the cell.  Jackson e' takes a couple o' 'asty steps down a
side passage, an' out comes the doctor with the microbe a-sittin' on
'is shoulder.  When 'e sees the 'ead warder 'e fair chatters with
rage."

"Who does," asks Sam, "the doctor?"

"No, the microbe, o' course," answered Mr. Parbury; "an' wot's more,
if yer goes on interruptin' yer can finish the bloomin' story
yerself."

"Don't mind old Sam, Mr. Parbury," put in Bill consolingly.  "'E
don't never get no chanst to open 'is mouth at 'ome, so 'e 'as to let
a bit of steam off when 'e's out."

Sam was just thinking hard of something unpleasant to say in return,
when Mr. Parbury again took up the thread of his narrative.

"The doctor follows the 'ead warder along the passages to the
guv'nor's room, Jackson comin' along slowly some ten yards be'ind.
All the time the microbe kep' on grindin' of 'is teeth and lickin' of
'is lips in a way that made the 'ead warder's 'eart jump up an' down
like a piston-rod.  At last they reaches the guv'nor's room, an' the
'ead warder felt as if 'e'd got to 'Eaven.  'E gives a couple of
quiet knocks an' then steps 'astily aside.

"'Come in,' sings out the guv'nor.

"The doctor pushes open the door an' walks into the room.  The 'ead
warder an' Jackson follows behind, tryin' to look as if they'd just
let go of 'im.  'B24, sir,' says the 'ead warder, salutin'; 'an' the
microbe,' 'e adds as a kinder afterthought.

"The guv'nor was standing by the window with one 'and under 'is coat.

"'Ho!' says 'e, 'so you're the fellow wot's upsettin' o' my prison
and bitin' orf my warder's fingers, eh?'

"'Not guilty, colonel,' says the doctor, laughin' as cool an'
friendly as if 'e'd just dropped into 'ave a drink.  'It's our little
friend 'ere,' an' 'e pats the microbe's head.  'I only 'ope 'e 'asn't
poisoned 'isself,' 'e finishes, lookin' at Jackson.

"'Well, I can't 'ave it,' says the guv'nor.  'Warders are Gov'rnment
property, an' as such I'm responsible for 'em to the 'Ome Secret'ry.
Besides it's against the prison reg'lations for prisoners to 'ave
pets.  Take it away from 'im, Simpson.'

"The 'ead warder goes very white, but 'e shuts 'is eyes for a second
an' thinks of 'is pension, an' some'ow or other 'is courage come back
to 'im.  'E takes one step forward, but as 'e does so, the microbe
gives a angry kinder squeal an' leaps orf the doctor's shoulder
straight at the guv'nor.  The old man sees it comin', an' quick as a
flash, 'e whips out a squisher from under 'is coat."

"Wot's a squisher?" asked Bill.

"Why, one o' them bottles with a toobe an' a hinjarubber bulb.  Y'
see, bein' a hedjicated man, the guv'nor knew as 'ow there was only
one way o' dealin' with a microbe an' that were kerbolic acid.  One
drop of kerbolic acid will lay out the 'ealthiest microbe--stops 'is
'eart at once.  So while the 'ead warder an' Jackson 'ad been out o'
the room, 'e'd gone an' got a squisher an' filled it up with kerbolic
acid in case of accidents.  D'rectly 'e sees the microbe comin' for
'im, 'e whips it out an' lets drive.  But the microbe were that
cunning that when 'e sniffs the kerbolic acid 'e shuts 'is wings an'
drops on the floor like a stone.  The kerbolic acid goes over 'is
'ead an' as near as possible 'its Jackson in the eye.  Then, afore
the guv'nor could get in a second squish, the microbe nips in an' 'as
'im by the calf o' the leg.

"It 'ad all 'appened so sudden-like that the 'ead warder an' Jackson
were fair took by surprise.  D'rectly they sees the microbe catch
'old of the guv'nor, 'owever, they both dashes forward an' seizes the
doctor.  The guv'nor were 'oppin' round the room tryin' to get in a
second shot with the squisher, an' cussin' an' swearin' something
awful.  Spikey Joe says from the samples of 'is language as reached
the cells it's a marvel the microbe didn't drop 'is jaw and let go.

"'Call 'im orf--call 'im orf,' 'e shouts to the doctor.

"'Well, call your microbes orf,' says the doctor, alludin' rude-like
to Jackson and the 'ead warder.

"'Let go of 'im, you idjuts!' roars the guv'nor, 'oldin' on to the
table an' tryin' to kick the microbe with 'is other foot.

"They drops the doctor's arms, an' 'e starts rearrangin' the collar
of 'is coat.

"''Urry up!  'Urry up, man!' yells the guv'nor.

"'All right,' says the doctor coolly.  ''Ere, Cholera!  Cholera!'

"As soon as 'e calls, the microbe, wot all the time 'ad been 'angin'
on like grim death, lets go 'is grip, an' comes 'oppin' back to 'im,
waggin' of 'is tail an' purrin' like anything."

"But why did 'e let go when the doctor says 'Collar 'er'?" objected
Sam; "that would 'ave made 'im 'ang on all the 'arder."

"Not collar 'er, stupid," retorted Mr. Parbury impatiently;
"cholera--see?  Cholera microbe!"

"'Ow!  I see--'is name like."

"Jest so," assented Mr. Parbury.  "Well, when Jackson an' the 'ead
warder sees the microbe comin' back, they lets go the doctor an' runs
to 'elp the guv'nor.

"'Don't come messin' about me,' yells the guv'nor.  'One of yer ketch
'old o' that ruffian, an' the other fetch the prison doctor.'

"'E's away for the day, sir,' says the 'ead warder.  'Shall I go
outside and find another for yer?  Jackson'll 'old on to B24.'

"''Tain't no use,' says the doctor, breakin' in with a 'orrid sorter
laugh.  ''E'll be too late.  Ye'll both 'ave the cholera in 'alf an
hour unless I gives yer the hantydote.'"

"Wot's that?" demanded Sam.

"Kinder secret medicine," explained Mr. Parbury.  "Jest like each
microbe's got 'is special poison, so each poison's got 'is special
hantydote.  Bein', as I said afore, a hedjicated man, the guv'nor
sees the force of wot the doctor says.

"'Ye wouldn't murder us, man?' he says.

"'I ain't got no grudge against you,' answers the doctor.  'If ye
promises me on yer word as a English orficer yell let me keep the
microbe an' won't take no further notice o' this hincident, I'll save
yer life.'

"'An' wot about me?' cried Jackson, as was already beginnin' to feel
a bit un'appy like inside.

"'Oh, you'll 'ave to go through it.'

"Jackson busts out a-sobbin', and the guv'nor draws 'isself up proud.

"'A English orficer don't desert 'is subordinates,' 'e says.  'You
must attend to 'im, too--after you done me.'

"'Right y'are,' says the doctor; 'in that case you'll 'ave to put in
a application to 'ave my sentence rejooced.'

"'I'll see you 'ung first,' shouts the guv'nor.

"The doctor shakes 'is 'ead.  'I may be 'ung,' 'e says, 'but you
won't see it.  You'll be in the morchury.'

"The guv'nor starts explaining as a English orficer weren't afeared
o' death but the doctor cuts 'im short by pointin' out that every
minute 'e were talkin, the cholera were gettin' a better grip on 'im.

"That settles it, and they all goes orf to the prison surgery--the
'ead warder 'elpin' Jackson, an' askin' 'im kind like whether there
weren't no messages 'e could give for 'im after 'e was dead."

"Time, gentlemen, please--time!"  The gruff voice of the landlord
broke in rudely.

"That's always the way," remarked Bill bitterly, "jest as ye're
gettin' interested in the conversation."

"But wot 'appened?" demanded Sam eagerly.  "Did 'e cure 'em?"

"'E cured 'em right enough," replied Mr. Parbury.  "Leastways 'e
cured the guv'nor.  Jackson 'ad a go o' cholera, but 'e managed to
pull through."

"And did the guv'nor get 'is sentence rejooced?"

Mr. Parbury carefully finished the contents of his tankard and
replaced it on the bar.

"Yes," he said, "'e were a orficer an' a gentleman, an' e' kep' 'is
word.  'E told the 'Ome Secret'ry as 'ow 'e thought it weren't right
on the grounds of 'ealth to keep the doctor in the prison.  'E didn't
say 'oose 'ealth, so the 'Ome Secret'ry nachrily thought 'e meant the
doctor's, an' let 'im go."

"Now come along, gentlemen, _please_," repeated the landlord
impatiently.

"Well," said Sam, as he rose slowly from his seat; "it's a wunderful
interestin' tale, as you say, Mr. Parbury, an' it jest shows as 'ow
it pays to be kind to dumb animals."




Full-back for England


Very quietly the long reeds that hedged the Okestock football field
were parted aside, and a face peered cautiously through, taking a
long and careful survey of the immediate neighbourhood.  The face
belonged to Mr. William Yard, known to his more intimate friends in
London as "Pills," and to the police as one of the most daring and
successful burglars of the day.

A reason for Mr. Yard's prudence was not hard to find: the briefest
glance at his khaki-coloured clothes, plentifully dotted with
broad-arrows, made it quite evident that for the time, at all events,
any form of publicity would be painful to him.

The fact was that on the previous afternoon Mr. Yard had accomplished
the remarkable feat of escaping from Dartmoor.  An unexpected mist
sweeping down over the granite-studded hillside when he was at work
had suddenly inspired him with the idea of making a dash for liberty.
Without further thought he had flung down his spade and bolted into
its shelter, before either of the nearest warders had been able to
stop him.  It is true that a couple of charges of buckshot had
whistled by, unpleasantly close to his legs, but they had only served
to add to his already useful turn of speed.  By the time the other
convicts had been collected, and the mist had lifted sufficiently for
the warders to see what they were doing, Mr. Yard was some two miles
away in the opposite direction from which he had started, safely
hidden in a small plantation that fringed the main road to Okestock.

Here he had stayed until nightfall, expecting any minute to be routed
out by a party of pursuing warders.  No one had turned up, however,
his ingenious idea of throwing a circle while the mist still
concealed him having apparently put them temporarily off the scent.

Under cover of darkness he had stolen from his hiding-place, and,
following the main road at a judicious distance, tramped doggedly on
mile after mile, until the lights of Okestock some hundred feet below
him had shown him that he had reached the boundaries of the moor.

Utterly dead beat, he had felt tempted to throw himself down on the
open heather and snatch a few hours' rest.  But the dread of
discovery had urged him on, and, clambering cautiously down the
hillside, he had made his way along the deserted road until he had
reached the wire fence which bounded the Okestock football ground.
Here a stray gleam of moonlight coming out between the clouds had
shown him the patch of long, reedy grass behind the goal-posts.  With
a last effort he had crept into its shelter, and dropped almost
instantly into a profound sleep.

It was the sun which had woke him up eventually, a bright yellow
winter sun shining down out of a sky of cloudless blue.  For a moment
Mr. Yard had rubbed his eyes and stared at it with amazement; then
with a sudden shock he had remembered he was no longer a guest of the
Government.  He had tried to scramble up, but his numbed limbs had
refused to support him, and with a groan he had fallen back again,
feeling rather like a trapped rabbit waiting the arrival of the
keeper.

A few minutes' energetic rubbing, however, had been sufficient to
restore both his circulation and his confidence, and it was then that
he had pulled aside the reeds and peered out in the discreet manner
already described.

The first thing that met his eyes was the football pavilion, a small
wooden building on the left of the ground.  Instantly the
possibilities of a change of clothes jumped into his mind.

"There's bound to be some clobber kicking about in there," he
muttered to himself.  "Wonder if I can get in without bein' nabbed?"

That, as Hamlet would have said, was the question.  The public road,
as he remembered from last night, ran right alongside the ground,
and, to judge by the sun, the time was already past ten o'clock.
Still, it was no good lying like a hunted rat among the reeds.  It
was a case of neck or nothing, and Mr. Yard was not the man to fail
at a crisis.

Licking his blue lips, he raised himself to a crouching position, and
then, with a care which would have done credit to a boy scout,
elevated his head above the top of the reeds.

So far as he could see in each direction, the road was empty.
Hesitating no longer, he crept out from his hiding-place, and,
bending almost double, covered the distance between the goal and the
pavilion in almost the same time that it takes to read these words.

The door was in front, facing the yard; but Mr. Yard did not trouble
about this recognized means of entrance.  He hurried round to the
back, where he found a small window just large enough to admit a
man's body.  It was shut, of course; but this was a trifling obstacle
to a gentleman of his experience.  In about half a minute he had
forced it open, and, pulling himself up by the sill, scrambled
through and dropped on to the floor.

He found himself in a small matchboard apartment, set round with
wooden lockers.  There were also various pegs from which were
suspended one or two mud-stained jerseys and sweaters, an old
greatcoat, and a couple of pairs of blue football shorts, distinctly
the worse for wear.

To Mr. Yard's eyes, however, they were more welcome and attractive
than the flowers in May.  Stripping himself of his broad-arrowed
costume with feverish rapidity, he hastily arrayed himself in the
somewhat less conspicuous costume of a British footballer, minus the
stockings and boots.  A hurried search through the lockers revealed
both these luxuries, with the aid of which he promptly proceeded to
complete his outfit.

"Lor!" he chuckled, surveying himself with satisfaction in the broken
bit of looking-glass that hung from the wall.  "I never thought I
should be wearin' footer kit again.  It's like old days!"

There was no time for sentiment, however, and Mr. Yard was not slow
in realizing the fact.  Grabbing the greatcoat from its peg, he was
just about to make for the window, when a sudden shout outside
brought him to an abrupt halt.

"Hallo, Tubby!" sang out a cheery voice.

Like a cat Mr. Yard stole to the window.  Some thirty yards away a
young man with a bag in his hand was advancing towards the pavilion
across the next field.

Swiftly and noiselessly the convict crossed the floor to the other
side of the apartment, and peeped through a crack in the boards.
Another young man with another bag in his hand was approaching from
the roadway.

Mr. Yard swore, softly but fervently.

"Pipped!" he said; "pipped on the post!"

For a second he hesitated, and then returning to the spot where he
had dressed, picked up his late garments and stuffed them into one of
the lockers and shut the lid.

Having done this he sat down and waited events.

"I've got the key, Tubby!" called out the same aggressively jovial
voice.

"Right-oh!" responded the other.  "D'you know this bally window's
open?"

There was a grating in the lock.

"That's that old ass Smith again!" said the cheerful voice.  "I told
him to shut it."

Mr. Yard rose to his feet.  If he had to be captured he would at
least enjoy the memory of one really magnificent scrap.  There was a
sharp click, a bump, and then the door swung open.

"Hallo!" exclaimed the young man with the bag.

"Hallo!" returned Mr. Yard coolly.

The newcomer stared at him for a moment in amazement, and then, with
a sudden smile, put down his bag and advanced towards him.

"Mr. Logan, I suppose," he said.  "This is awfully good of you.  I'd
just made up my mind we should have to play one short."

He put out his hand, which Mr. Yard grasped and shook heartily.

At that moment the other young man entered.

"This is Logan, Tubby!" exclaimed the first.  "He's turned up, after
all."

"Good man!" exclaimed Tubby.  "But how the dickens did you get in?"

"Through the window," explained Mr. Yard truthfully.

"That's the style," laughed the other.  "Jack, why weren't you here
to receive your guests?  I suppose you came over in Sam's cart?"

Mr. Yard, who was trying desperately hard to get his bearings,
contented himself with a nod.

"Well, I'm most awfly obliged to you for turning up," said Jack.
"Old Morton had heard you were at Rundlestone, and suggested my
sending you a wire first thing this morning, when Collins cried off.
I never thought you'd be able to come."

"It was just chance," admitted Mr. Yard frankly.  "I got away
unexpected."

"We're jolly glad to see you, anyhow," broke in Tubby.  "The Battery
are sending over a beastly hot team, and we should have been
absolutely snookered without a back."

Mr. Yard suppressed a start.  In more innocent days, before the stern
career of burglary had claimed him for its own, he had figured as a
fullback of some local renown for a famous Yorkshire club.  And now
apparently it was in the same capacity that he was being so
hospitably received by these two unsuspicious young men.  Who the
missing Logan might be he could only guess.  Evidently some
well-known player who was staying in the district, and had been
invited over to assist Okestock at the eleventh hour.  "If he turns
up," thought Mr. Yard, "things'll be a bit hot."

His reflections were broken in upon by Jack.

"These morning matches are the deuce, you know, Logan.  Half our
fellows are in business, and it's a rare job to get a team together."

"One can't always get off when one wants to," said Mr. Yard
sympathetically; "I've found that meself."

"I shouldn't have taken them on," continued the other, stripping off
his shirt, and groping in his bag for a jersey, "if it hadn't been
that they're leaving Plymouth on Friday.  The Colonel was very keen
to have a cut at us first, as we haven't been beaten this year.  The
old beggar thought he'd catch us on the hop if he could fix up a
mid-week match.  He'll be awfully sick when he finds you're playing
for us.  I expect there are a lot of people after you when you're on
a holiday, aren't there?"

"Quite enough," confessed Mr. Yard.

A sudden sound of laughter and voices outside became audible, and
Tubby, walking to the door, flung it open.

"Here are the others!" he said.

Some seven or eight young fellows, most of them already changed, came
straggling across the field.  When they saw Tubby at the door they
raised a cheerful "Coo-ee!"

"The Campbells are coming!" called out one.

The words had hardly left his lips when a big brake, packed with men,
rumbled along the road and drew up at the entrance to the ground.

As the soldiers were disembarking themselves, Mr. Yard was being
introduced to the new arrivals on his own side.  On every hand he was
greeted with the warmest of welcomes.

"I saw you play a couple of years ago for Devon," said one youngster
admiringly.  "My word, you were in form!  Hadn't you a moustache
then, by the way?"

Mr. Yard nodded.

"I had it shaved off last year," he said.

By this time the slightly mistaken impression as to his identity had
become public property, and the visitors, who had all arrived in
their footer kit, were standing about viewing him with mingled
expressions of curiosity and respect.

The Colonel, who had brought the Battery over, a jolly-looking, fat
old man with a white moustache, came up and introduced himself.

"Glad to have the chance of seeing you play, Mr. Logan," he said,
"but it's a low-down trick of young Mortimer here roping you in.  We
weren't expecting to run up against an International fullback."

"You'll run up against him all right," interrupted Jack, with a
laugh.  "That's what he's here for."

Mr. Yard, who was beginning to get a little nervous about his growing
reputation, smiled uneasily.  He had not played for at least five
years, and although, thanks to the healthy limitations of Dartmoor,
he was in excellent condition, he could not help feeling grave doubts
as to whether he would be able to live up to Mr. Logan's formidable
fame.  However, there was nothing to do now but to go through with it.

Tubby, fully changed, came running out from the pavilion with a ball,
followed by several other members of the team.

"Here you are," he sang out, passing it to Yard; "have a shot at
goal!"

The convict caught the leather, and somehow or other the
once-familiar feel of it restored his waning spirits.  Taking a
couple of short steps, he sent it soaring away towards the goal, a
beautiful drop-kick that only fell short of the crossbar by a couple
of inches.

"Bravo!" shouted Jack, gazing after it admiringly.  "What do you
think of that, Colonel?"

"Too damned good altogether!" grunted the old soldier.  "I shall take
my boys back to barracks if he does it again."

There was a general laugh, cut short by a sharp whistle from the
referee.

The two sides lined up.  As far as looks went they seemed fairly
equally matched, the superior weight and strength of the soldiers in
the scrum being pretty well counterbalanced by the youth and speedy
appearance of the Okestock three-quarters and halves.

From the solitary glory of his position at fullback, Mr. Yard cast a
critical eye over his opponents.  A tall, fair-haired man who was
playing on the right wing seemed especially to rivet his attention.

"Who's that chap?" he asked Tubby, as the latter fell back in
preparation for the kick-off.

"Private Buckle," answered the latter, glancing in the direction he
indicated.  "You'll have to look out for him; he's about their best
man."

The full-back smiled unpleasantly.

"I'll look out for him all right," he answered.

For eighteen months Mr. Yard had been under the immediate charge of a
warder of the same name, whose striking resemblance to the tall
three-quarter proclaimed their relationship beyond doubt.

Mr. Yard spat on his hands.

"I only hope they're twins," he said to himself.

Another sharp whistle, a general movement forward amongst the line of
stalwart soldiers, and the ball came soaring through the air straight
into Tubby's hands.  The game had started.

For the first ten minutes the play remained more or less confined to
the centre of the ground.  The Okestock forwards, settling down
quicker than their adversaries, were more than holding their own in
the scrum, and only the very keen tackling of the soldier
three-quarters prevented Tubby and his companions from coming away
with the ball.

At last the former got his chance.  Taking a swift pass from the
half, he cut right through the opposition line, and dashed off down
the field, with only the back between himself and the goal.  As the
latter leaped at him, he transferred the ball neatly to Jack, who was
racing along a yard and a half to his left.  Catching it in his
stride, that genial young man swerved round the disgruntled soldier,
and, galloping over the line, placed it fair and square between the
goal-posts.

Picking it up again, he leisurely retraced his steps.  Some twenty
yards out he halted, and beckoned to Mr. Yard.

"Will you take the kick, Logan?" he shouted.

Mr. Yard modestly shook his head.

"Oh, but you must!" protested three or four of the others.  "We've
all heard about your goal-kicking."

The whole field was waiting, and, seeing that there was no help for
it, Mr. Yard strode reluctantly forward.

"Where would you like it?" inquired Jack.

"Oh, any old place!" answered the unhappy convict.  "This'll do."

He viciously dug out a hole with his heel.  Jack, carefully poising
the ball in his hands, stretched himself out full length, and a
painful moment of silence prevailed over the field.

Mr. Yard retired two or three steps.

"Down!" he cried hoarsely; and then, running forward, hacked at the
ball with amazing ferocity.  Up it flew high over the crossbar, and,
describing a graceful curve in the air, settled down in the next
field.

There was a wild outburst of applause from the delighted Okestock
team; and Mr. Yard, mopping his forehead with his sleeve, retired to
his former position.

"If I hadn't have said to myself it was a warder's head," he
muttered, "I'd never have done it."

The game was resumed even more vigorously than before.  Determined to
draw level, the soldiers hurled themselves into their task with
unsparing energy and their extra weight and strength in the scrum
began to tell its tale.

On one occasion four stalwart privates broke right through the
Okestock pack, and came thundering down the field with the ball at
their feet.  A score seemed certain, but Mr. Yard, whose arduous
training as a burglar had taught him the value of strategy, saved the
situation.  Just as the quartette were drawing up to him, he suddenly
rasped out in excellent imitation of a drill-sergeant the one magic
word: "Halt!"

His opponents instinctively checked themselves, and, before they
could recover, Mr. Yard had flung himself at the ball and with a
flying kick sent it hurtling into touch.

He was surprised, and for a moment alarmed, at the indignation which
his ingenious idea provoked among its immediate victims.  All four of
them were appealing angrily to the referee, who, speechless with
laughter, could only shake his head and sign to them to proceed.

It was not until Mr. Yard realized that even the other members of the
regimental team were hugely enjoying their companions' discomfiture
that his fear lest he should have given himself away completely
vanished.

"Git on with the game, ye fat'eads," roared the bully corporal who
was skippering the team.  Then, turning to Jack, he added admiringly:
"'Ot stuff!  That's what 'e is--'ot stuff!"

Jack, who was struggling between mirth and amazement, thought it
wiser to say nothing.  A moment later, however, finding himself
alongside of Tubby, he whispered hurriedly:

"I say, that was a bit thick, wasn't it?"

Tubby grinned.

The soldiers' revenge was not long in coming.  From the line-out one
of them caught the ball, and flung it back to the tall, fair-haired
three-quarter, who was standing unmarked.  In a moment the latter had
cut through and was galloping along the touch-line towards the
Okestock goal.

With a grunt of joy, Mr. Yard came hurrying across, and leaped at his
quarry like a tiger at a stag.  In the splendour of his emotions,
however, he committed the unpardonable error of going a shade too
high.

The soldier's muscular hand shot out, and, catching his assailant
fair and square under the chin, sent him spinning backwards on the
grass.  Then, amidst roars of delight from his companions, he ran
round and deposited the ball half-way between the goal-posts.

Mr. Yard sat up and looked after him.

"You swine!" he said softly.  "You wait!"

Jack and Tubby came hurrying up.

"Not hurt, Logan, are you?" inquired the former anxiously.

"Only in me feelings!" answered Mr. Yard.

Tubby laughed.

"Well, it's a new sensation for you to miss any one!" he said, as
they walked back towards the goal.  "I always thought Buckle was a
pretty stiff proposition; now I'm sure."

Mr. Yard made no audible answer.  To himself, however, he remarked
bitterly: "He'll be stiffer still before I've done with him."

A successful place-kick put the two sides level, and immediately
afterwards the whistle went for half-time.

When they resumed Mr. Yard had quite recovered from the effects of
his tumble.  He was standing in his place, luxuriously pondering over
his next meeting with Private Buckle, when he suddenly observed a
telegraph-boy opening the gate which led into the field.

Great minds work quickly.  In a flash, Mr. Yard realized his danger.
It was a hundred to one that the missing Logan had wired to explain
his absence.

Casting a hasty glance at the game, which gave no sign of requiring
his immediate services, he hurried down to the touch-line and held
out his hand.

"For Mr. Mortimer, sir," said the lad.

"All right, my son," answered Mr. Yard pleasantly.  "I'll give it
him."

The boy handed over the yellow envelope, and then slowly began to
retrace his steps, walking backwards and keeping a longing eye on the
game.  His own inclinations, fortunately for Mr. Yard, were at
variance with the Government's views as to how long a telegraph-boy
might take over a message, and, seeing that the full-back had had no
opportunity as yet of passing on the wire, he at length vanished
round the corner, unsuspicious as to its ultimate delivery.

It was not until he had completely disappeared that Mr. Yard opened
the envelope.

"Sorry can't play to-day.  Away last night; only just received
letter.--LOGAN."

The convict barely had time to master the message when a sudden shout
of "Look out, there!" recalled him abruptly to his environment.

The soldiers' three-quarters were in full movement; the ball
travelling neatly up the line toward the right wing.

It finally came to rest in the hands of Private Buckle, who, avoiding
the well-meant but somewhat belated attentions of Jack, came racing
away down the touch-line.

Mr. Yard almost sobbed with pleasure.

He darted across the ground, timing his arrival to perfection.  The
three-quarter saw him coming, and, shifting the ball to his right
arm, prepared to repeat his successful hand-off.  But, like many
other good intentions, his purpose was destined never to bear fruit.

Dropping his bullet head, Mr. Yard propelled himself through the air
on the lines of a Whitehead torpedo, and with an appalling crash the
two men hurtled to the ground and rolled over, locked in each other's
arms.

"Gad, what a collar!" roared Jack, as the ball, after leaping high
into the air, dropped safely into touch.

Mr. Yard was the first to rise.  In that exquisite moment he seemed
to have worked off all the bottled resentment of eighteen
soul-searing months.

"Hope you're not hurt?" he grinned, extending a hand to the
unfortunate Buckle, who lay on the ground gasping like a recently
landed salmon.

The latter accepted it, and scrambled painfully to his feet.

"'Urt!" he stammered ironically.  "Ho n-n-no, I ain't 'urt!  I
shouldn't a' known you'd c-c-collared me if you 'adn't mentioned it."

There was a general laugh, which the corporal capped by inquiring
gravely:

"You don't 'appen to be wanting a job as a six-inch shell, I s'pose,
Mr. Logan?  We could do with a few more."

Mr. Yard shook his head.

"I've had enough o' working for the Government!" he remarked drily.

Only ten minutes more remained for play, and the fun became fast and
furious.  Both sides laid themselves out to score, magnificently
indifferent to anything approaching defensive tactics.  On one
occasion Jack was hurled into touch when only a couple of feet from
the soldiers' line, while, on another, nothing but an untimely
stumble on the part of the big corporal prevented that gentleman from
dribbling over and touching down.

It was left to Mr. Yard to put the crowning touch on the day's work.
One minute from time the Battery's full-back picked up the ball in
front of his own goal, and took a huge punt straight up the field.
It dropped right into the hands of the convict, who was standing in a
line with the centre flag.

The rushing forwards paused to give him five yards' law, and Mr. Yard
gripped the occasion with commendable promptness.

Instead of kicking, he suddenly launched himself forward right into
the thick of his waiting adversaries.  In a moment he had bullocked
his way through, his sudden run taking the opposition utterly by
surprise.

There was a roar of "Collar him!" and from both sides the halves and
three-quarters came thundering in to cut off his advance.  Mr. Yard
took in the situation at a glance.  In a flash he had measured the
distance between himself and the goal, and then, dropping the ball,
sent it soaring away with a terrific kick straight for the bar.

There was a moment of painful silence.  The ball pitched fair and
square bang on the centre-piece, bounded up into the air, and then
trickled gently over on the further side.

A howl of joy from the Okestock team, the referee whistled, and the
game was over.

Mr. Yard found himself surrounded by a throng of his fellow-players,
each endeavouring to outvie the other in compliments and gratitude.
With a sudden inspiration, he thrust his way through, and made a dash
for the pavilion.  It could not have been more than forty-five
seconds before the foremost of his laughing pursuers ran in after
him, but that priceless interval had not been wasted.  In Mr. Yard's
breeches-pocket reposed practically the entire stock of loose cash
which had previously enriched the hanging line of waistcoats and
trousers.

"I must be off!" he said hastily, picking up his adopted coat and cap.

"Oh, hang it all!" cried Jack.  "I was going to suggest that you
should come back and have some lunch with us."

Mr. Yard shook his head.  The thought of food was a very fragrant
one, but the money in his pocket clamoured for instant retreat.

"Can't," he said regretfully.  "It's uncommon good of you, but I've
got to get into Plymouth as quickly as possible."

"Plymouth!" exclaimed the Colonel, who had just come up.  "If you
want to go to Plymouth you'd better pack in with us.  We can drop you
at the Halfpenny Gate, and you can pick up a tram from there."

"Thanks!" said Mr. Yard gratefully.  "That'll do me fine."

"Come along, then," said the Colonel; "we're off right away."

"Will you be on the moor next Saturday?" cried Jack, pressing forward
with the others to shake the hand of their parting guest.

"It's quite possible," admitted Mr. Yard.

"Well, you'll come and play for us again, won't you?"

"I'd like to," said Mr. Yard, "if I can get away."

He clambered into the brake with the soldiers, and waved a parting
farewell to his late colleagues, who set up a ringing cheer as the
big vehicle slowly rumbled off.

"Good set of lads," said the Colonel.

Mr. Yard, thoughtfully fingering the money in his pocket, nodded his
head.

The eight-mile drive into Plymouth was not without its anxieties.  At
every turn in the road Mr. Yard half expected to find a mounted
warder holding up his hand to stop the horses.  No such untimely
incident, however, marred the harmony of the day, and just as the
clocks were striking half-past one the brake was clattering through
the ill-paved, straggling streets of Devonport.

At the junction of Dockyard Road and Broadway, Mr. Yard's eyes
detected a second-hand clothes shop of particularly disreputable
aspect.  He waited until they reached the next corner, and then,
turning to the Colonel, remarked casually: "This'll do all right for
me; I want to get some 'baccy."

"Right you are," said the Colonel, giving the order to stop.  "You
know where the bridge is--first to the left, then straight on."

Mr. Yard nodded, and climbed out.  "Thank ye for the lift," he said.

"Not at all," answered the Colonel.  "Delighted!  The Battery will
always be proud to think that they had the honour of playing against
you and scoring a try--eh, men?"

There was a general chorus of "Yes, sir," and a hearty salute which
Mr. Yard gracefully returned.

Then the driver cracked his whip, and the brake rolled away, leaving
Mr. Yard standing in the roadway.


It was three days later, when Jack, folding up the _Western Morning
News_, tossed it across to Tubby.

"There you are," he said, "pictures and everything.  We shall never
hear the last of this as long as we live."

Tubby caught the paper, and, unfolding it, read out the heavily
leaded headlines:

  ASTOUNDING AUDACITY OF ESCAPED CONVICT.
  THE NOTORIOUS BILL YARD PLAYS
  FOOTBALL FOR OKESTOCK
  FULL STORY AND INTERVIEWS


He skimmed quickly through the three columns of description, and
then, with a grin, dropped the paper on the floor.

"We _do_ look a pretty tidy lot of idiots," he admitted.  "I wonder
where he is?"

Jack shrugged his shoulders.  "So do the police.  They've no idea
what happened to him after he got the clothes.  He's simply
vanished--disappeared, and my ten shillings with him."  Then he
paused.  "I only wish it had been a quid," he added.

"Mine was," said Tubby softly.




Elsie and the Rooks


It was really a lovely afternoon; there was no doubt about that.
Elsie felt very comfortable, and just a little bit sleepy.  She was
lying back in the big chair under the cedar tree, which was the most
shady place in the whole garden.  On the lawn the thrushes and
sparrows were hopping about enjoying the sunshine; while up at the
top of the tall elm trees the rooks were cawing away as if they were
all trying who could make the most noise.

"I wish I knew what they were talking about," Elsie said to herself.
"It would be such fun to shout up something in rook language, and see
them all jump.  I wonder what 'Caw!  Caw!  Caw!' means!"

She had asked her big brother that very question only the day before.
He had laughed, and declared that the rooks didn't say "Caw!  Caw!
Caw!"  It only sounded like it.  What they really said was "Cad!
Cad!  Cad!" because they knew that he was going to shoot them next
week.

Elsie didn't really believe this, because the rooks kept on saying it
the whole time, whether her brother was in the garden or not.  Of
course, they might be only practising, but it seemed much more
probable to Elsie that they had a language of their own.

She lay back in the chair and watched them as they fluttered about
the tree-tops, or rose in the air in great sweeping circles.  In a
few more days the baby rooks would begin to fly about.  Several of
them were out of the nests already, and sat on the twigs looking very
miserable and unsafe, while their fathers and mothers hovered round,
and jeered at them for being frightened.  Elsie thought that it was
very unkind of the old rooks; for she was quite sure that it must be
a horrible feeling to be perched up at that height on a swaying twig,
and not certain whether one could fly if one let go.

"I shouldn't like it a bit myself," thought Elsie dreamily.

With a big yawn she snuggled down amongst the cushions, which were
very soft and comfortable.  Her eyes would keep on shutting in the
funniest way, just as if it were bed-time.

"I--do--believe--I'm--going--to sleep," she murmured.

"Hullo!" said a harsh voice suddenly.

Elsie opened her eyes with a start, and looked round to see who had
spoken.  There was no one in sight.

"I must have been dreaming," she thought.

"Hullo!" said the voice again--this time just beside her chair.

She glanced down, and there on the lawn stood a large rook, looking
up at her out of his black, beady eyes.

"Did you speak?" asked Elsie in astonishment.

"Yes," said the rook.  "Do you think I whistled, or what?"

"There is no need to be rude," said Elsie with dignity.  "It's only
natural I should have been surprised."

"Why?" asked the rook.

"Well, birds aren't supposed to talk."

"Ever seen a parrot?"

"You're not a parrot," objected Elsie.

"Never said I was," replied the rook.  "But you seem interested in
us," he observed, "judging from the way you were staring just now."

"I beg your pardon," said Elsie, blushing, for she had been properly
brought up, and knew that it was rude to stare.

"Don't mention it," said the rook.  "I assure you we don't mind in
the least.  Wouldn't you like to come up and have a look at the
nests?"

"Very much," answered Elsie; "but how can I?  I can't climb the
trees."

"If it comes to that," replied the rook, "neither can I."

"But you can fly," objected Elsie.

"So can you, I suppose," said the rook.

"No, I can't," said Elsie.

"How do you know?" persisted the rook.  "Have you ever tried?"

Elsie shook her head.

"Don't be silly," she said.  "I know very well I can't fly, so what's
the good of trying?"

"That's exactly what our children always say," replied the rook
scornfully.  "And yet they fly right enough when we push them out of
the nest."

He laughed a sort of hoarse, croaking chuckle.

"Of course, if you're afraid"--he added.

Elsie jumped up out of her chair indignantly.

"Afraid?  Who's afraid?" she cried.  "You're just saying that to
annoy me!"

"No, I'm not," answered the rook.  "Don't get your feathers ruffled.
All you have to do is to copy me, and you'll fly like a bird."

"But I haven't got any wings," said Elsie.

"You've got arms, haven't you?  They'll do just as well for a short
distance, and if you get tired I'll lend you a claw.  Now, come
along.  Just shut your eyes and jump, and you'll find you're as right
as rain."

Elsie thought that there could be no great harm in trying, so she
closed her eyes, and jumped up in the air as high as ever she could.
Of course, she expected to come down again bang, but to her great
surprise she did nothing of the kind.  She found herself floating
gently upwards, and, opening her eyes, discovered that she was
already on a level with the roof of the house.  The rook was
fluttering lazily alongside.

"Don't look down," he said, "or you'll get giddy.  Keep your eyes on
the nests, and we'll be there in no time.  How do you like it?"

"It's very nice," said Elsie.  "I had no idea it was so----"

She had just made a most startling discovery.

"I seem to be getting smaller and smaller!" she exclaimed in a
frightened voice.

"Naturally," answered the rook.  "Everything does when it goes up in
the air.  Haven't you ever watched a balloon?"

"But you're just the same size," protested Elsie, for by this time
the rook was almost as big as herself.

"Oh, I'm used to it!" he answered carelessly.  "You see, after a bit,
when one's always flying about, it ceases to have any effect."

By this time they were getting quite near the nests, and Elsie was
beginning to feel rather tired.

"We're nearly there now!" said the rook.  "Stick to it!"

As she spoke, a whole crowd of other rooks suddenly rose from the
trees, and came circling down to meet them.  They made such a
tremendous noise that for a few moments Elsie couldn't hear what they
were saying.  At last, however, she began to make out a sort of song;
but, as they were all singing it at once, and each to a different
tune, it was rather difficult to follow the words.  It sounded
something like this:

  Welcome to our brother Jim!
    Caw!  Caw!  Caw!
  He's brought the little girl with him,
    Caw!  Caw!  Caw!
  So clap your wings and loudly squeak;
  There'll be no bang! bang! bang! next week!


"What do they mean?" asked Elsie.

"Oh, nothing!" said the rook hurriedly.  "It's only their idea of a
lark."

"I--don't--think--it's--very--like one," panted Elsie.

"Here--take my claw," said the rook.  "You're getting tired."

Elsie stretched out her hand and caught hold of the rook's claw,
which he held out to her, and then, before she had quite realized
what was happening, she found herself sitting on a twig at the very
top of the tallest elm tree.  The branches all round were simply
covered with rooks, who sat and stared at her solemnly.  Even the
young ones were peering over the edges of the nests, and making rude
remarks to each other about her personal appearance.

She looked down at the garden, and it gave her quite a jump to see
what a terrible distance it was.  It seemed simply miles and miles
away.  The house looked just like one of those tiny little toy dolls'
houses.

"Well," said the rook.  "How do you feel?"

Elsie clung to the twig, for it had suddenly begun to sway about in
the most alarming manner.

"I feel very small," she answered nervously.

"Naturally," said the rook.  "So do most people when they're up a
tree."

And all the other rooks went "Ha!  Ha!  Ha!"

"Does it always sway about like this?" asked Elsie.

"Whenever it blows," answered the rook calmly.  "Where there's a wind
there's a sway.  But come along and see the nests."

"How can I get there?" demanded Elsie.

"Why, jump, of course!  It's quite easy."

"But I might fall," objected Elsie.

"Are you proud?" asked the rook.

Elsie shook her head.

"I don't see what that's got to do with it," she remarked.

"Well, you can't fall if you aren't proud.  Pride goes before a fall,
you know.  Now, don't be nervous.  Jump when I say three; and we'll
catch you if you slip."

He counted out: "One, two, three," and, as he said the last word,
Elsie let go the twig and jumped for the nearest nest.  It was a
close shave, but she just caught hold of the edge as she was falling,
and managed to draw herself up.

"Well done!" called out the rook.  "You ought to have been a
grasshopper."

"I think you're very rude," said Elsie.

"All our family are," replied the rook, fluttering into the nest.
"We think it's clever.  But come inside and see the children."

"What's that for?" asked Elsie, pointing up above the nest.

She had suddenly caught sight of a kind of round, wickerwork cover,
which was fastened to the nest by a hinge, and could apparently be
shut down like the lid of a box.

"That?" said the rook.  "Oh, that's the roof.  We have to have a roof
because of the hawk.  Otherwise he would eat up the children."

"How horrid of him!" cried Elsie.

There were four little rooks in the nest, and when they saw Elsie
they all began to laugh in the rudest possible way.

"What is it?" asked one of them.

"Where did you pick it up, father?" inquired a second.

"She's moulting!" exclaimed a third.

"Smart, aren't they?" said the rook admiringly, turning to Elsie.

"One can see they're your children," retorted Elsie, "because they've
got such bad manners; and now, if you don't mind, I think I ought to
be getting back.  It must be nearly tea-time."

"Getting back where?" asked the rook.

"Why, home, of course," answered Elsie.

The rook shook his head.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," he said, "but I'm afraid you won't be
able to go home for another week at least."

"What do you mean?" cried Elsie.

"It may be mean," said the rook, "but I can't help it.  Your brother
is going to shoot at us next week, and if we've got you up here he
won't be able to--see?"

"Oh!" cried Elsie.  "Then that was why you invited me up?"

"Of course it was," replied the rook.  "You don't suppose it was for
the pleasure of your society, do you?"

You can imagine Elsie's feelings when she realized how she had been
trapped.  She knew she would never have the courage to try to fly
down by herself; and as for climbing--well, the very thought made her
giddy!  In despair she stood up, and looked over the side of the
nest.  Far, far down below she saw her brother coming out into the
garden with his gun on his shoulder.  If only she could make him hear!

"Jack!" she cried.  "Jack!"

She watched her voice going down, down, down; but it only got about
half the distance, and then faded away.

"Try again," said the rook, with a chuckle.

But Elsie saw that it was no good; so she just sat down on the side
of the nest and began to cry.

"Whatever shall I do?" she said helplessly.

"You'll have to grin and bear it," said the rook.

"It's no good blubbering," added one of the young ones.

"Coward!" said a third scornfully.

And all the rooks who were sitting round went "Yah!  Yah!  Yah!"

A moment later, however, one of them gave a sudden scream of terror.

"Look out!" he cried.  "The hawk!  The hawk!"

They all rose into the air in a great, flapping crowd, and flew away
to their nests to shut down the covers before the hawk could reach
them.  The rook who had enticed Elsie up at once hopped across to
close his own lid, but with one jump she reached the hinge before he
could touch it.

"No, you don't!" she cried.  "I'm not going to be shut in your
horrid, stuffy nest."

"Let go!" he shrieked, pecking at her furiously.

But although he hurt her very much, Elsie held on.  She could hear
the sound of the hawk's wings as he came nearer and nearer, and at
last, with one hoarse cry of rage, the rook abandoned his efforts and
scuttled off as fast as ever he could go.

Elsie felt so tired that she could scarcely move.  She just sat down
on the side of the nest, and waited to see what would happen.  There
was a loud "whirr!" of wings, and then suddenly the hawk dropped down
from above like a stone, and perched on a twig exactly opposite.

"Hullo!" he said.  "What's the meaning of this?"

Elsie looked up, and found him staring at her with his bright brown
eyes.

"Oh, Mister Hawk," she said.  "They asked me to come up, and now they
won't let me go.  They tried to shut down the lid when they heard you
coming, but I wouldn't let them."

"I am much obliged to you," said the hawk, eyeing the trembling young
rooks with a pleasant smile.  "I was feeling a bit peckish.  Can I do
anything for you in return?"

"If you could take me down to the garden," said Elsie timidly, "I
should be so grateful."

"Why, of course," cried the hawk.  "That's nothing."

He fluttered across, and took hold of her sash with his claws.

"I'll be back in a moment," he said to the young rooks, with a kind
of hungry laugh.

Elsie shut her eyes.  She felt herself skimming through the air at a
terrific pace--there was a sudden bang--and she woke up with a start
to find herself sitting in the garden chair.

Her brother was standing in the middle of the lawn.  His gun was at
his shoulder, and he was just going to take a second shot at a large
hawk, which he had missed with his first barrel.

Elsie jumped up with a wild scream.

"Stop, Jack!" she cried.  "Stop!"

He was so surprised that he lowered his gun, and in another moment
the hawk was out of sight.

"Why, Elsie," he said.  "What's the matter?  Did I frighten you."

"Oh, Jack!" she cried.  "You were just going to shoot the hawk!"

"Yes, I know I was," he said, laughing.  "It's after the young rooks.
It had one in its claws just now."

"Jack!" said Elsie very solemnly.  "That wasn't a young rook, that
was me."

"What on earth do you mean, Elsie?" cried her brother.  "You've been
dreaming."

Elsie shook her head.

"No, I haven't, Jack," she said, and then she sat down in the chair
and told him the whole story.

He listened with a grave face right to the very end, and then bent
over and kissed her.

"I'm glad I didn't shoot the hawk," he said.  "Still, you know, Elsie
dear, it was only a dream."

But Elsie knew better.




The Bronze-Haired Girl


"If you will pass me my guitar," said George, "I will sing to you."

"I would rather you washed up," I replied.  "It would be more of a
novelty."

"For one who professes to be an artist," returned George, with
unruffled serenity, "you are painfully lacking in sensibility.  A man
who can speak of washing up ten minutes after tea on a golden June
evening----"

"If you are going to get poetical, George," I said, "I would sooner
you sang.  Here you are."

I reached out an arm into the tent, and tossed him across the
somewhat battered banjo which was lying on his bed.  He caught it
neatly with his left hand.

"I believe you would play cricket with a Stradivarius," he said
reproachfully.  "What shall I sing?"

"Anything short."

"I shall sing something sad," he went on, disregarding my
interruption.  "I always feel very wistful after tea.  Besides, I am
in love with the bronze-haired girl at Otter's Holt, and perhaps she
will hear me and think that I am unhappy."

"She is much more likely to think that I am," said I.  "Fire ahead."

He twanged two or three experimental chords, tightened a couple of
pegs, and then settling down again in his basket-chair, launched out
pathetically into the time-honoured ballad of "London Bridge":

  Hurry along, sorrow and song,
    All is vanity 'neath the sun;
  Velvet and rags, so the world wags,
    Until the river no more shall run.


"I shall not applaud you," I said, when he had finished.  "You might
mistake courtesy for an encore."

"I wonder if the bronze-haired girl heard me?" murmured George,
laying down the banjo.

"Unless she is deaf," I pointed out, "she could scarcely have avoided
it.  She probably thinks we are a couple of music-hall comedians."

"Perhaps I had better call to-morrow and apologize," said George
thoughtfully.

I looked him in the eyes.

"George," I observed, "if I find you thrusting your society on that
defenceless young woman, I shall communicate with the local
policeman."

"She is not defenceless," objected George.  "She has a dog and an old
woman with her; and as for youth--well, I am but a lad myself."

I laughed unkindly.

"In the matter of hair," I said, glancing at the top of George's head.

"Hair," said George hastily, "has nothing to do with it.  Hair is an
excrescence, a hideous and perpetual reminder of our arboreal
ancestry."

"You had better tell her that," I replied.  "She would appreciate it."

"I was not speaking of bronze hair.  You never saw a bronze-haired
monkey."

"It may be dyed," I suggested.

George picked up his banjo.

"Such blasphemy," he said, "deserves a heavy punishment.  I shall
sing you 'Beauty's Eyes.'"

"Is there no option?" I pleaded.

With his thumb on the strings, George paused.

"Yes," he said, "you can wash up."

I did.

Next morning at breakfast George announced his intention of walking
over to Chertsey.

"They are taking entries for the regatta," he explained.  "And I want
to put our names down for the double punting."

"How about getting a couple of insurance policies at the same time?"
I suggested.  (I have punted with George before.)

"What's your programme?" he inquired, disregarding my excellent
proposal.

"I shall go up the Bourne," I said.  "I want to finish my picture,
and the light is just right this morning."

"Well, don't collar the sardines," he replied selfishly.  "I should
like 'em for supper."

He sauntered off about half-past ten, stopping in the garden to pick
our only carnation for his buttonhole.

After some research, I unearthed a tinned tongue, some bread and
butter, a cake, and last, but not least, a bottle of claret.  These I
transplanted tenderly to the punt, and then, putting in my painting
materials, pushed off in leisurely fashion up the backwater.

As I passed Otter's Holt, the long, low, creeper-covered bungalow
that adjoined our own camping-ground, I caught a glimpse of the girl
who had inflamed George's susceptible heart.  She was lying in a
deck-chair in the verandah, reading a book.  By her side crouched a
large brindled bulldog, who looked up and emitted a sharp "woof!" as
the splash of my punt-pole reached his ears.

His mistress put out a small reproving hand.  "Lie down, sir!" she
said, in a voice that no decent bulldog could possibly have resisted.

"There are excuses for George," I said to myself as an intervening
dump of willow shut out any further observations.

The Bourne, as is usual on weekdays, was delightfully deserted.  I
pushed my way slowly up its narrow course, thrusting aside the
overhanging bushes, and startling an occasional kingfisher into a
streak of living blue.

My destination was just round the fourth bend, a place where the
sunshine played a bewitching game of hide-and-seek through the
branches of an elm.  It was this tracery of light and shadow that I
was attempting to transfer to my canvas.

Tying the punt up to the bank, I pulled out my paints and set to
work.  It was one of those mornings which make one doubt whether any
conceivable heaven could really be as attractive as earth.  An
infinitely faint breeze just stirred the leaves overhead, and only
the occasional splash of a fish or the shrill twitter of a bird
disturbed the fragrant silence around.

For about an hour I laboured at my picture with commendable industry.
But somehow or other I did not make as rapid progress as such
diligence deserved.  A vision of a girl with bronze hair kept
flitting before my eyes in the most elusive and disconcerting
fashion.  Once I actually found myself murmuring, "Lie down, sir!"
apparently in an attempt to analyze the peculiar charm with which
these three words seemed to be associated.

For a person of well-regulated mind this was distinctly humiliating.
I began to take myself to task.  "Because a young woman happens to
address a bulldog in your hearing," I inquired, "is that any reason
why you should waste an entire morning?"

Getting no reply, I continued with increasing sternness: "You are as
bad as George.  You are making an idiot of yourself over a red-haired
slip of a girl whom you have only seen about three times in your
life.  Why, if it comes to that, you don't even know her name!  Sir,
I am disgusted with you."

Relieved by this Johnsonian rebuke, I again turned to my picture, and
for twenty minutes or so worked on with unruffled concentration.
Then it suddenly occurred to me that I was hungry.

I moved aside my paints, carefully laid down the canvas in the end of
the punt, and, pulling out the luncheon-basket from under the seat,
began to prepare my frugal but well-earned meal.  The tongue, my
_chef-d'œuvre_, was encased in one of those ingenious tins which
you open by twisting a key.  I was deep in this fascinating process
when my ears were assailed by the sudden splash of an approaching
craft.

I looked up with a frown.  Such an intrusion on my privacy seemed to
me to savour of gross impertinence.  I had come to regard the Bourne
as my private property, which I was magnanimous enough to open to the
public cm Saturdays and Sundays.  And here was some coarse-grained
stranger thrusting his way in at one o'clock on Tuesday afternoon.

"In future," I said to myself, "I shall mine the channel."

Nearer and nearer came that offensive splash, varied by the
occasional swish of a parted bush, and the creaking of an
indifferently handled punt-pole.  Assuming an expression of cold
displeasure, I sat up and waited on Fate.  At last the nose of a punt
thrust itself round the bend, and a moment later the intruder emerged
into full view.

In my agitation I dropped the tongue in the butter.  It was the
bronze-haired girl from Otter's Holt!

Then a series of incidents occurred with the bewildering rapidity of
a cinematograph.  Disturbed, apparently, by my unfortunate _lapsus
linguæ_, the bulldog, which was crouching in the stern of the punt,
leaped forward, barking his defiance.  In his ardour he cannoned
heavily against a basket reposing on the seat.  There was a splash, a
cry of despair from the bronze-haired maiden, and the aforesaid
basket settled down peacefully at the bottom of the Bourne.

Let it be stated to my credit that I rose to the situation with some
promptness.  Unhitching the painter by a dexterous twitch, I snatched
up my pole, and, with a couple of sharp shoves, sped gracefully to
the rescue.

"I am so sorry," I said.  "I am afraid I frightened your dog.  May I
make amends by getting out the basket?"

"It's very kind of you," she said simply.  "Of course, it wasn't your
fault at all.  Come here sir!"  This last to the dog.

I turned my sleeves up to the shoulders, and, leaning over the side
of the punt, groped down through the shallow water until I got hold
of the handle.  Then, dripping but triumphant, I extracted my burden.

"I hope there is nothing to spoil in it," I said.

She smiled and shook her head.

"It's only a matter of a few sandwiches.  I am very much obliged to
you, and extremely sorry to have been the cause of so much trouble."

"On the contrary," I replied, "it is I and the dog who ought to
apologize to you."

"I can't imagine why he was so silly," she said, administering a
reproving pat to the animal, who still eyed me with some disfavour.
"As a rule, he is as good as gold in a boat."

"What do you call him?" I inquired, in a shameless attempt to prolong
the conversation.

"Winston Churchill," she said, with another smile.  "He was
christened before I got him."

"His jaw is certainly well developed," I observed.

She laughed, and a short pause followed.

"Well," she said, "I must be getting back."

"But really," I protested, "you have only just arrived."  Then a
sudden fit of recklessness seized me.  "Don't go because your lunch
is spoiled," I pleaded.  "I have a whole tongue, to say nothing of
some excellent bread, and some good, if rather dilapidated, butter.
As the destroyer of your sandwiches I can surely without impertinence
offer you a fair compensation."

She shook her head, still smiling.

"Oh, I don't think you are impertinent," she said, "but I believe
that no really nice girl ever accepts an invitation from a perfect
stranger.  It would distress me to think that I was outside the pale."

Her brown eyes twinkled so deliriously that I cast subterfuge to the
winds.

"Do stay," I begged.  "I have been alone all the morning wrestling
with an obstinate picture, and I am desperately in need of a little
cheering society.  Besides, there is nothing so very unconventional
in the idea.  Winston Churchill will make a most efficient chaperon."

She wavered.

"And you can cut me afterwards," I added.

The corners of her mouth twitched.

"Your arguments," she said, "are most persuasive."

We pulled the two punts alongside each other and fastened them to the
bank.  By this time Winston Churchill seemed to have accepted me as a
harmless and necessary evil.  He sat up in the stern and watched me
with intelligent interest, while I completed my preparations for
lunch.

"You are in his good books now," said the bronze-haired girl,
stroking him gently down the back with her fingers.  "He thinks that
people who provide food cannot be altogether bad."

I handed her the plate.

"To give tongue," I said, "is the recognized method of expressing
friendship in canine circles."

"And, I suppose, giving the only plate implies the same idea amongst
human beings?"

"George and I generally eat off paper," I replied.  "We prefer it.
We are leading the simple life."

"Yes," she said; "I heard you yesterday.  If I remember rightly, you
had arrived at the conclusion that all was vanity."

I held out a cunningly carved slice of bread-and-butter.

"George," I said, "was responsible for the song, and Solomon for the
sentiments.  I am innocent."

She accepted both the bread-and-butter and the apology.

"You are an artist," she said, "to say nothing of being a
knight-errant.  One cannot have all the talents."

"When I was a small boy," I remarked, "I remember I had a nurse who
used to check my incipient tendency to sarcasm by saying warningly:
'Hush, Master Jack!  No one will love you if you talk like that.'"

"No, no!" she cried, with a protesting little laugh.  "I really meant
it for a compliment.  I paint very badly myself, but I know good work
when I see it.  Yours is delightful."

"I only hope the excellent Mr. Rosenthal will share your opinion," I
said.

She puckered her forehead in a charming expression of mock
bewilderment.

"And who is Mr. Rosenthal?  He sounds very rich."

"He is a patron of the arts," I explained.  "His father provided the
British army with shoe-leather for some years, and the son dispenses
the proceeds from a castle at Cookham.  This trifle has been
commissioned for the banquet-hall."

"You must feel very proud," she observed gravely.  "May I look at it
more closely?"

I handed her the canvas, and, propping it up in her punt, she
proceeded to criticize it with an intelligence and knowledge that
considerably surprised me.

"I have my doubts as to your painting so badly," I said, with some
suspicion.

She shook her head.

"My father is an artist," she answered.  "I have inherited his taste
without his abilities."

"Has he a taste for cheap claret?" I inquired, holding up the bottle.

"For about half a glass, I think."

I poured it out, and filled my own.

"To Mr. Rosenthal," she said gaily.

"For my own part," I said, "I shall drink to Winston Churchill.  I
find his habit of upsetting baskets a most commendable one."

We passed on unhurriedly to the cheese and cake courses.  As our
acquaintance mellowed, the almost nervous flippancy with which we had
bridged over its earlier stages gradually died away.  Quite
unaffected, and gifted with a most refreshing sense of humour, the
bronze-haired girl proved a delightful companion.  She had evidently
been brought up in an unusual sort of atmosphere, for she chatted
away easily about art and books and people, without a trace of that
embarrassing shyness of opinion which seems to be the hallmark of a
conventionally educated girl.

On the ground that she was chiefly responsible for their present
condition, she insisted on helping me wash up our scanty luncheon
outfit.

"A plate is such a nice, clean thing by nature," she said, swishing
it about in the water, "that I always think one ought to attend to it
immediately after lunch.  It must suffer horribly if you leave it
lying about all covered with grease or jam.  I think I shall start a
Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Plates."

When we had packed away everything into the basket, she accepted one
of those excellent Russian cigarettes which my friend M. Demidoff
makes for me, and, arranging our cushions, we lay back luxuriously in
our respective punts and talked aimlessly, volubly, and cheerfully
about everything on God's earth.  From where I was lying I could just
see the tip of her nose, and I directed my conversation to that.

By three o'clock I had decided firmly that arrangements must be made
which would involve the possibility of our meeting freely in the
future; and when at four she sat up suddenly and said she must go
home, I had arrived at a state in which I was quite unable to
contemplate existence without her.

"We shall expect you to tea to-morrow, then," she said, "provided it
is not too violent a break in the simple life.  Of course, if Mr.
George likes to bring his banjo--"  Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

"No--no," I interrupted; "don't let us be morbid on a day like this."

She gave me her dear, cool, slender hand for a moment, and then, with
the blessed Winston Churchill sitting up amiably in the stern of the
punt, she pushed off down the stream.

It was not until she had vanished round the bend that I remembered I
had never asked her name.

George was still away when I got back.  As it was after five,
however, I decided not to wait for him.  I put the kettle on the
"Primus," and walked about the bungalow, singing "Who is Sylvia?" and
other similar ballads until it boiled over.  Then I made tea, and sat
down in a delightfully contented frame of mind.  I was so happy that
I ate all the sardines before I noticed what I was doing.

George came in a moment afterwards.

"Hallo!" he said.  "Still at breakfast?"

"I breakfasted, George," I answered, "exactly two centuries ago."

"Well, that must account for the horrible energy with which you're
eating now."  He looked round the table.  "Here, hang it," he added,
in a sudden tone of horror, "you've finished the sardines!"

"I am sorry, George," I said penitently.  "I have been in a very
exalted, spiritual meditation, and I did not notice what I was
eating."

He sat down with a disbelieving grunt.

"Well, next time an attack comes on, get out some of those mouldy
biscuits.  This is a nice way to treat one who has been slaving for
your benefit.  I was looking forward to those sardines all the way
home."

"What have you been doing?" I inquired, in a timely effort to turn
the conversation into a less poignant channel.

George opened a bottle of Bass, and helped himself to an impressive
slice of cake.

"Well," he said, "I shoved our names down for the double punting all
right.  As far as I can see, we've got a jolly good chance, if you'll
only take it seriously."

"I take it very seriously," I interrupted.

"Barton was there," went on George; "he is entering with his brother.
It would be rather fun if we were to run up against them in the
finals."

"We are certain to do that," I observed, "if we get so far."

"I went back to Barton's place to lunch," said George.  "And, oh, by
the way, I found out all about the bronze-haired girl at Otter's
Holt.  Barton knows her well."

I struck a match to light my cigarette.

"Indeed!" I remarked carelessly.

"Yes; she's married."

I suppose I must have opened my mouth, for the cigarette dropped on
the table.

"She's what?" I exclaimed, after a moment's pause.

"Married," said George, with a laugh.  "Her husband's in the wool
market.  His name's Congreve; Barton says he's a very decent fellow.
They've taken Otter's Holt for the summer."

If you can imagine the end of the world coming just as you had
inherited a large fortune, you will get a very fair idea of my
emotions at that moment.  I stared at George in a kind of ghastly
amazement; then, with an effort, I moistened my lips.

"I don't believe it," I said.

"It's true, though," said George.  "Barton is coming over to stay
with them next month.  Just my atrocious luck!  I always fall in love
with women who either hate me or have already got husbands."

I suppose something in my face must have attracted his attention, for
he stopped and looked at me curiously.

"What's the matter, old man?" he asked.  "Feeling bad?"

With a big effort I pulled myself together, and picked up the
cigarette which I had dropped.

"Nothing much, George," I said.  "I've got a bit of a headache.  Too
many sardines, I expect."

"You have been sitting about in the sun without a hat again," said
George severely.  "I told you what would happen.  Now, if you had a
little less hair, like me, you might have a little more sense."  He
got up and put his hand on my shoulder.  "You tumble in and lie
down," he added.  "I'll wash up."

And George did.

I spent what I believe is generally called "a wretched night."  It
must have been about two in the morning when I finally consigned
Barton and the bronze-haired girl, and my own ridiculous emotions, to
the bottom of the Thames, and, turning savagely over on my side,
dropped into a troubled, useless sort of sleep.

I was awake again at six, roused by the vigorous carolling of a
thrush, whose own love affairs were apparently in excellent order.
George was still sleeping.  I crawled out carefully so as not to
disturb him, and, taking a towel, made my way down to the river.

There was the promise of another lovely day in the air, and the warm
early-morning sunshine seemed to bathe one in a kind of comforting
caress.  By the time I had had my usual swim and dried myself on the
bank, my turbulent feelings of the previous night had given place to
what I believed to be a more or less philosophic resignation.

After all, I said to myself, there was nothing to be gained by
weeping and gnashing one's teeth.  It was distinctly distressing that
my only attempt at falling in love should have met with so disastrous
a check; still, other people had had equally unpleasant experiences,
and had managed to survive them.  Was it not brave old George Wither
who had summed up the situation in that delightfully reasonable
couplet:

  For if she be not for me,
  What care I for whom she be?


I repeated the words aloud several times as I strolled back.  It
comforted me to persuade myself that I agreed with them.

I found George outside the tent, shaving.

"Hallo!" he said.  "Feeling fitter?"

"I am quite well this morning, thank you, George," I answered.

"In that case," said he kindly, "you may cook breakfast."

I unearthed some bacon, and, while engaged in chasing two rather
elusive slices round the frying-pan, I debated with myself as to
whether I should mention the invitation to tea.  I had no intention
of going myself--that would be altogether too great a strain upon my
philosophy--but as my adventure of the previous day was bound to come
out sooner or later, it seemed rather unfair to rob George of an
afternoon's entertainment.  Still, in my present state of mind, I
shied violently at the thought of the explanations which would be
involved by my telling him.  I felt that anything in the nature of
chaff, even from George, would be quite unbearable.  So, like Mrs.
Grimmage, "I just went on cookin', and said nuffin'."

It was the boy from Dunton's Boathouse who eventually supplied the
solution to the problem, in the shape of the morning post.  There was
a letter for George, and as soon as he opened it he gave an
exclamation of disgust.

"What's the matter?" I inquired.

"My futile partner," said George, "is sick of a cold, and desires me
to come up to town for the day.  Fancy catching cold this weather!"

"It suggests considerable skill," I admitted.  "Are you going?"

"Must," answered George sadly.  "He says that a man is coming to see
us about designing some pigsties.  In the present state of
architecture we cannot afford to miss such an opportunity."

"From your ideas of keeping the tent tidy," I observed, "you ought to
be an authority on the subject."

"I shall be down by the six-thirty," said George.  "What will you do
with yourself?"

"I shall spend the day," I replied, "in trying to forget certain
incidents which ought never to have happened."

"If you forget them all," said George cynically, "you will have a
busy time."

My self-imposed programme, though excellent in theory, did not prove
very successful in practice.  George went off, grumbling, at about
half-past eight, and, having washed up the breakfast-things, and
tidied up the tent, I made an attempt to settle down to some
black-and-white work, which an impatient editor had just reminded me
was several days overdue.

At the end of an hour all I had completed was a very passable
likeness of Mrs. Congreve punting.  I sat and stared at it in a kind
of stupid trance.  It seemed impossible to believe that my beautiful
romance of yesterday was dead and buried in some obscure vestry.  My
whole nature rose up in passionate revolt against such an incredible
idea.  All the pseudo-resignation on which I had prided myself in the
early morning deserted me in the hour of need.  I began to recall the
way she spoke, the charming manner in which the corners of her mouth
turned up before she laughed, and the gracious atmosphere of
tenderness and humour in which she seemed to live.

At last, with a groan, I threw down the pencil, and got up from my
chair.

"Hang it," I said, "I can't stand this any longer!"

I walked to the door of the tent, and looked out.  Except for a
couple of barges, emerging from the lock, the river was deserted.  On
the further bank, however, alongside of Dunton's Boathouse, a
motor-car was just discharging a giggling cargo of flimsily dressed
damsels and beflannelled youths.

I glanced at them inhospitably, and then a sudden idea struck me.
Why not walk over to Brooklands and watch the motor-racing?  A savage
four-mile-an-hour tramp across country was exactly the medicine I
needed; and then there was always the chance of seeing somebody
killed.  I felt that a real, good sanguinary smash-up would appeal to
me immensely in my present state of mind.

Without wasting any further time I picked up my hat and stick, and
then, after looking in at Williamson's bungalow, and asking him to
keep an eye on our tent, I set off across the fields in the direction
of Weybridge.

It was not until I had reached and was walking up the main street
that I remembered I had sent no message to Otter's Holt.  After all,
I had accepted the invitation to tea, and some sort of an excuse,
however futile, was obviously needed.  I turned in at the post
office, and, after a moment's hesitation, wrote out the following
telegram:

"Am very sorry we shall not be able to come to tea this afternoon.
Called away on urgent business."

Then, having put my name to this lie, I addressed it to Mrs.
Congreve, Otter's Holt, Shepperton, and handed it in.

If Brooklands failed to provide me with a catastrophe, it at least
helped me to take my mind off my own affairs.  Amongst the
competitors was a man called Carfax, whom I knew fairly well as a
fellow-member of the Barbarians.  He was driving a monstrous 90 h.p.
abortion; and, after the racing was over, he took me for a spin round
the track, at the bracing speed of about eighty miles an hour.
Subsequently we dropped in for tea with some friend of his, who had
built himself a turreted atrocity in red brick, looking out over
Brooklands grounds.  Here I met three or four other motor
enthusiasts, and listened in dazed humility while they discussed with
some warmth the relative merits of various magnetos and carburettors.

It must have been well after six when I started to walk back to
Shepperton.  The evening was delightfully warm and still, and,
soothed by a mild Cabana, which my host had insisted on my accepting
before I left, I strolled leisurely on, wrapped once more in a kind
of melancholy submission to destiny.  I was even able to let my
thoughts wander over the events of the previous afternoon without
awakening any other emotion but a vague, luxurious sadness.  For the
moment I seemed to have escaped from my own personality, and to be
looking down like one of the gods with infinite pity upon the tragedy
of human desire.

Turning off half-way along the canal, I struck into a short cut which
led across the fields to the spot where our tent was pitched.  About
half a mile from the river this path ran through the yard of the farm
from which we purchased our eggs and milk.  At this point it was
really a private thoroughfare, but the farmer, in view of George's
profitable appetite, made no objection to our  using it as often as
we pleased.

I was just opening the gate which led into the yard, when a sharp
"woof" brought me to an abrupt halt.  The wild suspicion that held me
momentarily paralyzed was confirmed a moment later.  There was a
pattering of feet, and Winston Churchill sidled out from the porch of
the house.  The moment he saw who it was, he sat down in the mud, and
threw up his accursed head in a howl of welcome.  With a supreme
effort I turned to flee, but it was too late.  The door of the farm
opened, and--and----

God in heaven!  How good it was to see her again!

She was carrying a jug of milk in her dear hands, and she stood still
and looked at me with a grave smile.

I took off my hat.

"I hope," she said, "that the urgent business has come to a
successful conclusion."

I felt quite incapable of saying anything except "Yes."

"I am glad of that," she went on, "because you missed a very good
tea."

Then a sudden insanity gripped me by the throat, and I committed that
most unpardonable of all blunders--I told the truth.

"There was no urgent business!" I blurted out.  "The telegram was a
lie!"

She wrinkled up her forehead again, in that altogether adorable way
of her own.

"Indeed?" she said.  "And why should you send me a lie?"

I dropped the cigar which I was holding, and ground it into the mud
with my boot.

"I heard you were married," I said hoarsely.

There was a moment's silence, and then, as I live, she began to laugh.

"Oh!" she said, "that accounts for the telegram!  But it seems a poor
reason for wasting a cigar."

I stared at her dully.  "I suppose I must appear a particularly
ludicrous sort of idiot," I said.  "My only excuse is that I can't
help it.  Good-bye!"

She put out one hand, as though to stop me.

"Before you go," she said gently, "you might tell me when I was
married.  After all, it's only natural that I should be a little
interested in the matter."

I clutched hold of the gate.  Everything except her face had suddenly
become dim and distant.

"Do you mean--do you mean to say that it's a mistake?" I gasped.

"There are some people," she answered mischievously, "who say that
marriage is always a mistake."

"But George--Barton--Congreve," I stammered.

"You have not got his Christian names quite right," she interrupted.
"They are Walter Vernon.  I know, you see, because he happens to be
my brother-in-law."

"Then you're not married?" I shouted wildly.

"No," she said.  "But isn't it a little unnecessary to inform the
entire neighbourhood of the fact?"

I laid my head down on the gate, and relieved my feelings in an
insane outburst of laughter.  When I felt better, I straightened
myself and wiped my eyes.

"George is responsible," I said.  "He came home yesterday and told me
that you were."

"Untruthfulness," she answered, smiling, "seems to play an important
part in the simple life."

"He had described you to a man called Barton," I explained, "and the
scoundrel had pronounced you to be Mrs. Congreve."

"Ah," she said, "my sister also has red hair.  She and Walter came
down this afternoon.  But for the urgent business, you would have met
them at tea."

I looked at her for a moment, and then suddenly all the ridiculous
little trimmings of life whisked away into the infinite.  I opened
the gate, and took the milk-jug out of her hands.

"I love you!" I said simply.

"That is very nice of you," she answered; "but do be careful with the
milk."

"I love you," I repeated, with firmness, "and I want you to marry me."

The corners of her mouth twitched divinely.

"This," she said, "is no place for a proposal.  If you really want to
marry me, you must come up to Otter's Holt, and woo me properly."

But her eyes had given me my answer.




His Reverence


A little company of men, three convicts and two warders, swung out
under the great granite arch that leads into Dartmoor Prison.
Turning to the left, they strode past the Governor's garden with its
gay beds of tulips and hyacinths, and still keeping up a brisk pace,
emerged a few minutes later into the main street of Princetown.  Here
they came to a halt in front of a depressing-looking stone building
which bore an inscription announcing it to be the "Recreation Rooms."

Two villagers were standing chatting on the further side of the road,
but beyond the briefest of brief glances they betrayed no interest in
the arrival of the party.  For the inhabitants of Princetown the
spectacle of convicts and warders has lost that attraction which it
still possesses for the citizens of less happily situated towns.  It
is only the visitors to the hotel who stare, and on the present
occasion there were no visitors about.  They were all out on the
moor, getting the best of a fine spring morning, and as many trout as
it might please Fate to deceive.

One of the warders unlocked the door, and the small party mounted the
steps and entered the building.  The interior certainly showed some
traces of the recreation referred to outside.  At the further end of
the room was a stage set for an out-of-door scene, while a number of
chairs piled up in the body of the hall suggested that an
entertainment of some kind was under early contemplation.

"All them chairs have got to be set out in rows," remarked the warder
who had opened the door.  "Don't take the front lot too near the
stage, and leave a space up the middle, so as folks can pass in and
out.  Bascombe, you come along with me!"

The convict addressed, a burly man of about sixty, with twinkling
black eyes, followed the warder up a small flight of steps at the
side of the stage into a room beyond.

It was a nondescript sort of apartment, serving apparently the triple
purpose of a green-room, a dressing-room, and a scene-painter's
studio.  A large theatrical basket with Clarkson's label on it stood
in the centre of the floor, and propped against the walls were
several pieces of blank stage canvas awaiting the artist's hand.

"That's them, Bascombe," said the warder, jerking his thumb at the
latter articles.  "We want you to paint a room on 'em.  It's supposed
to be a scholar's room at Oxford College.  D'ye think you can do it?"

The convict nodded his head.

"It's for 'Dick's Uncle,' ain't it, sir?" he drawled.  "I remember
the set.  Saw it from the gallery at the old Strand."

"That's right," said the warder.  "Well, you shove along with it.
There are your paints and brushes."

He pointed to a small wooden table where a supply of scene-painter's
accessories were neatly laid out.

The convict wandered slowly round the room, inspecting the various
pieces of canvas with a critical eye.  Then, selecting the largest,
he pulled up the table alongside, and taking the palette in his hand
began to prepare his colours.

It was soon evident that he was no novice at his business.  The few
bold strokes in charcoal with which he outlined his sketch had all
that firmness and accuracy that only come from long practice.

With fascinated eyes the warder gazed upon the process.  The gradual
emergence of an interior at Oxford College, in reply to the
apparently irresponsible dabs and daubs of a convict, seemed to him
to savour of the miraculous.  Only the iron sense of discipline which
permeated their relations prevented him from openly expressing his
admiration to the artist.

After watching the work for about a quarter of an hour, he at length
rose reluctantly to his feet, picking up the rifle which he had
balanced against a chair.

"I'm goin' on the stage to see about the gas brackets, Bascombe," he
said.  "I'll be back in a minute.  You push on with that there
paintin'.  We want it ready for the re'earsal Friday, if you can
manage it."

He crossed the room to a door, which apparently opened into the
street, and, turning the handle, satisfied himself that it was
properly locked.  Then, after a final look round and a last approving
glance at the canvas, he clumped off through the narrow exit that led
to the stage.

For a minute or so after his departure the convict continued to
paint.  He was sketching in the rough outline of a fire-place, and
the operation evidently engrossed his entire attention.  As he worked
he whistled softly and tunefully, stepping back every now and then to
contemplate his labours.  At last he laid down his brush, and,
stretching himself with a prolonged yawn, gazed listlessly about him.
His eye fell on the big basket in the centre of the room.  He stared
at it for a moment in a sort of idle curiosity, then with a swift
glance at the door through which the warder had gone out he stepped
noiselessly across and lifted the lid.

Inside were several suits of clothes neatly folded and tied into
separate bundles.  There were also two or three cardboard boxes, each
one labelled with a different name.  For a moment the convict
contemplated them thoughtfully; then with a sudden grin he bent down
and lifted up one of the boxes.  A second glance at the door assured
him that he was still unobserved.  Opening his find he took out its
contents--a carefully dressed wig of silver-grey hair.  A moment
later he was standing in front of a small looking-glass upon the
wall, complacently regarding its effect upon his own cropped head.

The transformation was certainly a successful one.  Coming right down
on his forehead, without a scalp-piece to destroy the illusion, the
wig altered his appearance to an extraordinary extent.  But for the
hideous broad-arrowed jacket below he might easily have passed for a
rugged, good-natured-looking barrister or country parson.

Something of this incongruity of costume seemed to strike Mr.
Bascombe.  With a broadening grin, he retraced his steps to the
basket and silently continued his researches.

The first bundle of clothes which he examined consisted of an
old-fashioned suit of large checks, evidently intended for a comic
gentleman of mature years.  Placing them on one side, he next pulled
out a blue and buff livery, gaily ornamented with brass buttons.  It
was a handsome costume, but with the sensibility of a true artist Mr.
Bascombe realized at once that it was unsuited to the remainder of
his appearance.  Laying it carefully on top of the other, he again
rummaged in the basket, his efforts on this occasion being rewarded
by a roll of sombre garments tied round with a piece of red tape.  He
slipped off the latter, and, depositing a pair of trousers and
waistcoat on the ground, held up a long black coat of clerical cut.

Now, Mr. Bascombe was the possessor of a richly-developed sense of
humour, which for five years had been suffering from a deplorable
lack of exercise.  Even with the certainty of punishment ahead, he
was quite unable to resist the temptation offered by this outfit.
The sight of the warder's face when that gentleman returned would, he
felt, be more than sufficient compensation for the reduced diet and
loss of marks that would inevitably follow.

Five minutes' swift and silent work, and the metamorphosis was
complete.  He stood before the glass smiling hugely at his
reflection--a perfect specimen of a weather-beaten parson of the Jack
Russell school.

Up till then no idea but that of startling the warder had entered his
head.  He had drifted into the jest quite undeliberately, dressing
himself up solely out of a sense of mischievous amusement.  It was
the unexpected perfection of his disguise that suddenly suggested to
him the possibilities of the situation.

He turned a rapid glance on the locked door, and another on the pile
of convict clothes that lay huddled together beside the basket.  For
an instant he stood undecided, then stealthily as a cat he again
stepped across the room and picked up his discarded garments.  Tying
them round with the piece of red tape, he thrust them down into the
bottom of the basket, covering them over with the two suits and the
box that he had previously taken out.  This done, he shut the lid,
and once more stood motionless, listening intently to the sounds that
reached him from the hall.  He could hear nothing but the dull tramp
of his fellow-convicts' feet passing up and down, and the clatter of
the chairs as they were set in their places.

With the grin still embedded on his countenance he slipped
noiselessly across to the outer door.  Bending down, he examined the
lock.  It was a simple affair--almost insultingly simple for a
gentleman of Mr. Bascombe's capabilities.

He straightened himself and cast a quick look round the room.  On the
wall hung a large coloured portrait of King Edward VII, poorly
disguised as a British Admiral.  Mr. Bascombe lifted it down with a
delicate care that may have been due to loyalty, and swiftly
unfastened the thick wire by which it had been suspended.  From this
he twisted off a piece about ten inches in length, and, picking up
the palette knife from the table, resumed his crouching position in
front of the door.

For about a minute and a half he remained in this attitude, a faint
scratching noise and his own heavy breathing being the only audible
indications of his labour.  Then suddenly came a grating sound,
followed a moment later by a sharp click.

Mr. Bascombe did not wait to see if he had been overheard.  Rising
quickly and silently to his feet, he opened the door just wide enough
to enable him to reconnoitre his position.  Except for a black cat
luxuriously scratching herself in the sunshine, the roadway opposite
was empty.  A swift glance up and down showed him there was no one
nearer than the post office.  Without a trace of hurry or nervousness
he stepped out and closed the door behind him.  A moment later with
magnificent unconcern he was sauntering slowly down the street.

The few people that he passed paid no particular attention to him.  A
sunburned, holiday-making clergyman, with smiling countenance and
leisurely gait, is almost as common a sight in Princetown as a
convict.  Stopping now and then to look into the shop windows, he
pursued his unhurried way until he reached the corner of the street
opposite the Moorlands Hotel.

Till that moment the problem of what to do with his liberty had not
crossed Mr. Bascombe's mind.  His faculties had been wholly absorbed
in the delicious and unwonted sense of freedom to which he had been
so long a stranger.  But the sight of that large gold-lettered
inscription upon the white building on the other side of the street
brought him back to more practical considerations.  It suggested to
him that liberty, especially liberty of such a precarious nature as
his was likely to prove, should be put to prompt and satisfactory
service.

Being a gentleman of action, he did not wait upon his thoughts.
Moistening his lips, he crossed the road, and still with the same
deliberate dignity mounted the two or three stone steps that led into
the hotel.

A large, fat-faced waiter who was standing just inside saw him coming
and pulled open the door of the comfortably furnished lounge, bowing
obsequiously as he did so.  Mr. Bascombe entered, and looked round
with the air of a man well pleased with his environment.

"I want to see the landlord," he remarked.

Again the waiter bowed.

"Yes, sir, I will fetch him, sir.  Will you take a seat for a moment?"

He indicated a large, comfortable-looking ottoman upholstered in
green leather.

With a little grunt of satisfaction Mr. Bascombe settled himself down
upon the article in question.  His enjoyment of its comfortable
cushions was heightened by the remembrance of the hard wooden stool
which for five years had constituted his only form of sitting
accommodation.  Half closing his eyes, he leaned back in an attitude
of luxurious abandonment.  There was no one in the lounge beside
himself, the only sound that reached him being a faint murmur of
voices from the bar beyond varied once by the sharp popping of a
cork.  At the latter noise a slow smile crept over the convict's
face, and once more he thoughtfully passed his tongue across his lips.

His solitude was broken by the entrance of the landlord, a
cheery-looking little man with grey side-whiskers and a slight
stammer.

"G-good morning, sir," he began; "sorry to have k-kept you waiting."

"That's all right," replied Mr. Bascombe graciously.  "I want to know
if you can let me have a room."

"Oh, yes, sir--n-no difficulty about that.  Just for the night, or
will you be staying for a f-f-few days?"

"I'm in no hurry," returned Mr. Bascombe, stretching himself
contentedly; then, thinking that perhaps he ought to be more
explicit, he added with a touch of native humour, "It's pleasant to
to be in a comfortable hotel again after what I've had to put up with
lately."

"Indeed, sir!" said the landlord.  "Perhaps you're on a w-w-walking
tour?"

He looked round as though expecting to see the inevitable knapsack.

Mr. Bascombe interpreted the glance correctly.

"Yes," he said, "that's it.  I've got my baggage coming on by train."

The landlord nodded his head.

"Nothing like walking light," he commented.

"You're right," said Mr. Bascombe, rising to his feet.  "By the way,
can I have something to eat?  It's a bit early, I know, but the fact
is I didn't have much of a breakfast this morning."

"Why, c-certainly, sir, of course.  Lunch won't be ready till one
o'clock, but you can have anything c-c-cold, or a chop, or s-s-steak,
if you pre-prefer it."

"Ah! a steak will do me proud," said Mr. Bascombe with enthusiasm.
"A big 'un for choice, with plenty of potatoes."

"Anything to drink, sir?"

Mr. Bascombe paused a moment so as to let the full beauty of the
question sink into his understanding.  Then he replied playfully:

"Well, I think a drop of Burgundy might help it down."

The landlord, whose previous experience of touring clergymen had led
him to regard them as a joyless and unprofitable brood, was delighted
at the mingled geniality and broad-mindedness of his guest.  With a
"Certainly, sir; I'll fetch it you myself," he led the way across the
lounge and threw open the door of the coffee-room.

"Perhaps you'd like to g-go to your room first, sir?" he suggested.

Mr. Bascombe cast a contemplative look at his hands.

"I could do with a wash, couldn't I?" he admitted cheerfully.  "Dirty
work climbing these hills."

"Oh, we'll soon remedy that, sir!" laughed the landlord.  He rang the
bell, and an undersized youth with a shock of red hair appeared from
somewhere in the back regions.

"T-t-take this gentleman up to Number Six, Albert, and g-get him some
hot water.  I'll order your lunch, sir," he added.  "It will be ready
almost as soon as you are."

Ten minutes later, with comparatively clean hands and a superlatively
acute appetite, Mr. Bascombe re-entered the coffee-room.

The fat waiter, who was just putting the finishing touches to a small
table by the window, looked up as he came in.

"I've laid your lunch 'ere, sir," he remarked.  "It's more cheerful
like."

Mr. Bascombe regarded the preparations with an approving eye.

"Good lad," he said, seating himself in the comfortable arm-chair set
out for him.  "This'll just about suit my complaint.  Now you bung
along and hurry up the cook."

A momentary flicker of surprise illumined the fat waiter's face, but
with the true philosophy of his order he recovered himself
immediately.

"Yes, sir," he remarked with an ingratiating smile.  "Shan't keep you
waiting a minute, sir."

He shuffled out into the kitchen, where he repeated the phrase to the
cook.

"Told me to bung along and 'urry up 'is dinner.  Fancy a parson
speaking like that!"

"P'r'aps 'e's a Roman Catholic," suggested the cook.

Left to himself, Mr. Bascombe extracted a toothpick from the
wine-glass on the table, and, leaning back in his chair, directed his
gaze out of the window.  He perceived at once that for some reason or
other the usually placid main thoroughfare of Princetown was in a
state of no little animation.  Outside the grocer's shop opposite the
hotel a group of six or seven men and women stood in the roadway
talking eagerly and staring up the street.  Their agitation seemed to
be in some way connected with the prison, for as a warder came
running hastily past they all turned and followed him with their
eyes.  Mr. Bascombe instinctively pushed back his chair.

At that moment the door of the coffee-room swung open and the
landlord hurried in, carrying a bottle of Burgundy in his hand.  His
face was flushed and excited.

"I'm sorry to have been so long, sir," he began, "but the fact is
we've had a b-b-bit of a shock.  A warder has just been round to tell
us that there's a c-c-convict loose in Princetown."

"Gawd bless my soul!" cried Mr. Bascombe, "you don't say so!"
Picking up the bottle of Burgundy, he poured himself out a glass, and
drained it at a gulp.  "Give me quite a turn," he explained, filling
it up again.

The landlord regarded him sympathetically.

"Yes, sir, I d-don't wonder.  The whole of P-P-Princetown's in a rare
state about it."

Mr. Bascombe, who still seemed to be suffering from the shock, raised
his glass a second time and took two or three long, deliberate sips.

"How did the beggar get away?" he inquired, setting it down again
with a deep breath.

"Well, sir, it seems as how, b-being a scene-painter by trade, the
warders had taken him down to the Recreation Rooms to p-paint a bit
o' stuff for the p-p-play they're doing next week.  They left him for
a minute in the room behind the stage, and when they came back they
found he'd f-forced the door and slipped out."

"Careless! careless!" interpolated Mr. Bascombe, filling up his glass.

"Yes, sir, but the amazing thing is, what's happened to him?  Being
in c-c-convict clothes, one would think he must have been spotted
directly he showed his nose outside."

A slow smile stole across Mr. Bascombe's face.

"It's a fair puzzler," he admitted.  "If he'd got some sort of a
disguise like, now, one could understand it; but----"

There was a clatter of hoofs, and several uniformed men on horseback
galloped past the hotel.  The landlord ran to the window.

"There g-goes the civil g-g-guard," he stammered.

Mr. Bascombe again raised his glass.

"Here's luck to 'em!" he remarked generously.

As he drank the toast the fat waiter re-entered bearing a well-laden
tray, which he put down on the neighbouring table.

"Ah!  Here's your lunch, sir," said the landlord.  "I told them to
send you up the c-c-cold tart and a bit of cheese as well.  I thought
you'd be able to manage a square meal after your walk."

"You thought correct," said Mr. Bascombe gratefully.

The waiter deposited a dish in front of him, and removed the cover.
From a large steak, crowned with little brown curls of onion, a most
exquisite flavour mounted into the air.  Mr. Bascombe reverently
transferred the entire pile to his own plate, and then helped himself
to a majestic hoard of chipped potatoes.

"You're sure you've got everything you want, sir?" inquired the
landlord with unintentional sarcasm.

His guest gazed meditatively round the table,

"Well, I think we might say a cigar, and a glass of port wine to top
up with," he observed.  "No hurry about 'em."

"I'll bring them in, sir, if you'll just tell the waiter when you're
ready."

"Right-o," murmured Mr. Bascombe, lifting a huge forkful to his mouth.

"Shall I fill your glass, sir?" inquired the waiter, as the landlord
departed.

Mr. Bascombe nodded.

"You needn't stop here, Percy," he remarked when the operation was
completed.  "I can get through this little lot on my own."

"Very well, sir," said the waiter.  "There's a bell on the
mantelpiece, sir, if you want me."

He withdrew to the kitchen, pondering darkly on the unconventional
habits of the Roman Catholic clergy.

Unembarrassed by company, Mr. Bascombe gave himself up without
reserve to the enjoyment of his meal.  Having finished the steak and
mopped up the gravy with a bit of bread, he reluctantly pushed back
his plate and turned his attention to the tart.  Two generous
helpings of this luxury sufficed him, his repast concluding with a
slab of bread-and-cheese that must effectually have filled up any
spare corners remaining.

While he ate he kept an amused eye on the window, noting the various
symptoms of unrest which were still apparent in the street.  It
seemed as though most of the able-bodied men in Princetown were
joining in the search.  Armed with sticks or pitchforks, they came
hurrying past one after another to offer their services.  In every
case Mr. Bascombe gravely drank the health of the new arrival.

Finally, when the Burgundy was finished, he got up a little
unsteadily from the table and rang the bell.  It was answered by the
waiter.

Mr. Bascombe looked at him affectionately.

"'Ullo, Percy!" he remarked; "back again, eh?"

"Yes, sir; you rang, sir."

"So I did.  You're quite right, Percy.  What was it I wanted?"  His
face brightened.  "Oh, yes, the port wine and a cigar--the best
quality cigar, mark you.  None of your penny stinkers.  You tell old
whiskers; he'll see to it."

"Yes, sir," murmured the waiter with a gasp.

He retired from the room, to be succeeded a minute later by the
landlord, bearing an aged-looking black bottle in one hand and a
large cigar-box in the other.

"I hope you enjoyed your lunch, sir," he said, placing these
treasures on the table.

"First-rate," replied Mr. Bascombe, smacking his lips.

"You found the wine all right, sir?"

Mr. Bascombe nodded humorously.

"Yes, he was hiding in the bottle, but I got him out."

This witticism was much to the taste of the landlord, who laughed
uproariously.

"That's g-good, sir!  G-g-got him out!  Well, I've got something here
that I think you'll find the right sort.  A drop of real g-g-genuine
'58--c-c-comet year, you know, sir.  I don't offer it to many
gentlemen."

He carefully poured out a glassful and held it up to the light.

Mr. Bascombe sniffed it, took a long sip, and then set down the
wineglass with a wink.

"A little bit of orlright," was his verdict.  "Have a glass yourself,
landlord?"

"Thank you, sir; I don't mind if I do."

While he was translating his words into action Mr. Bascombe opened
the cigar-box, which was full of long, light brown Havanas.

"I d-don't know if these are too large, sir?" observed the landlord.
"I can g-g-get you a smaller brand if you pre-prefer it."

"Don't you trouble yourself," replied his obliging guest.

He selected one, bit off the end, and, lighting it with a match from
a stand on the mantelpiece, blew out a thick cloud of fragrant smoke.
It was the supreme moment of his adventure.  He felt that Fate had
nothing more to offer him.

"N-no news of the convict yet, sir," remarked the landlord.  "The
whole of P-Princetown's out hunting for him."

"Yes," said Mr. Bascombe with a chuckle.  "I've been watching 'em go
by.  Very handy lot o' chaps they looked."  He was silent for a
moment, then suddenly an idea--a terrific; dazzling idea--flooded his
imagination.  "Can you let me have a carriage?" he inquired.

"Why, c-certainly, sir.  How far are you thinking of going?"

Mr. Bascombe puffed thoughtfully at his cigar.

"I want to go and see the Governor of Princetown.  He's a pal o'
mine, old Marshall is.  He'd be cut up something horrid if he heard
I'd gone away without looking him up."

At the mention of Colonel Marshall's name the landlord's respect for
his unconventional visitor visibly increased.

"I'll s-s-send out and order the victoria at once, sir," he said.
"It's only about half a mile to the Governor's house, but I expect
you've had enough walking for to-day."

"You're right," said Mr. Bascombe.  "Driving's more my mark this
afternoon."

"And w-what train shall we meet your luggage by, sir?  The
six-thirty?"

This seemed as good a train as any other to the owner of this
imaginary encumbrance, so he nodded his head.

"Tell 'em to be careful with it, won't you?" he added.

"Oh, yes, sir!  That will be all right.  You'll be wanting
d-d-dinner, I suppose, sir?"

A sad, prophetic smile flitted across Mr. Bascombe's face.

"I expect I shall," he said simply.

An interval of about seven minutes ensued between the landlord's
departure and the clatter of the victoria as it drew up at the front
door.  That this time was not wholly wasted by Mr. Bascombe might
have been gathered either from the reduced weight of the port bottle
or the increased unsteadiness of his own gait as he crossed the hall.
He managed to reach the vehicle without disaster, however, and
climbing in smiled a dignified farewell at the landlord, who had come
out to see him off.

The latter watched his guest drive away with a slightly puzzled
expression.

"Blessed if I don't b-believe his Reverence had a d-drop too much,"
he muttered.

His Reverence certainly had.  He lay back in the victoria as it
rolled up the main street feeling immeasurably at peace with mankind.
A gracious haze blurred the animated little groups of women that
still clustered in front of the doorways and mellowed their excited
chatter into a drowsy and not unpleasing murmur.  Had the drive been
a few hundred yards longer he would probably have arrived in a state
of slumber, but the jerk of the carriage as it drew up in front of
the Governor's gate just saved him from this social solecism.  He
blinked doubtfully for a moment, and then, recognizing his
surroundings, clambered cautiously out.

"Am I to wait, sir?" inquired the driver.

The question seemed to afford Mr. Bascombe some amusement.

"Yes, you wait, old sport," he replied; "shan't be longer than I can
help."

Then, before the astonished driver had recovered from the shock of
this unexpected address, he pushed open the wooden gate that led into
the Governor's garden and advanced in graceful spirals up the
well-kept drive.  A vigorous pull at the front-door bell resulted in
the appearance of a neat, dark-eyed housemaid.  Mr. Bascombe gazed at
her with approval.

"Good morning, my dear," he remarked affably, holding on to the
doorpost to steady himself.  "Is the Colonel at home?"

"Yes, sir," said the maid.

"Well, tell him that an old college friend of his would like to see
him."

For an instant the girl looked at him doubtfully; then, reassured by
the clerical costume, invited him to step inside.  Abandoning his
support with extreme care, Mr. Bascombe followed her into a
comfortably-furnished study on the left-hand side of the hall.

"Will you take a seat, sir?" she said.

The invitation was a shade superfluous, for his legs having suddenly
failed him, the visitor had already sat down abruptly in a large easy
chair against the wall.

The uncertainty in the girl's face deepened into dismay.

"I will tell Colonel Marshall you are here," she said shortly, and
with that she hastened from the room, shutting the door behind her.

Mr. Bascombe just had time to pull himself together before the
Governor entered.  Colonel Marshall was a tall, soldierly-looking man
with upturned grey moustache and humorous eyes of a keen blue.  The
maid had evidently apprised him of her experience, for he looked over
his caller with mingled curiosity, amusement, and suspicion.

"Well, sir," he said, "and what can I do for you?"

Mr. Bascombe, feeling that it would be tempting Providence, made no
attempt to rise.  He just sat still and smiled.

"You don't know me?" he observed affably.

"I am afraid not," said the Governor.

"Ah," replied Mr. Bascombe with a chuckle, "that's the disguise, sir!"

Lifting up his hand he removed the wig.

The Governor stared at him for a moment in amazement.

"Good heavens!" he cried, "it's Bascombe!"

The convict bowed.

"You'll excuse my not getting up, sir.  No intention of being
disrespectful--been lunching at the Moorlands Hotel."

The Governor sat down in a chair and burst into a roar of laughter.

"You scoundrel!" he chuckled.  "You've given us a nice chase.  Half
the warders are out after you now.  What on earth induced you to
bolt, and where did you get those clothes?"

He broke down again and shook with suppressed merriment.

Thus adjured, Mr. Bascombe unfolded his story.  He told it quite
simply, making no attempt to apologize for his escape, or to seek
avoidance in any way of the punishment that awaited him.  The
Governor listened with vast interest and amusement, his sense of
humour temporarily overcoming the amazing irregularity of the whole
proceedings.  When Mr. Bascombe described his lunch, and the
production of the '58 port, he lay back in his chair and laughed till
the tears ran down his cheeks.

Finally, when the narrative was finished, he got up.

"Well, Bascombe," he said, with a smile, "you've had your fun, and
now you've got to pay for it."

The convict, who was beginning to feel better, rose instantly to his
feet and saluted.

The Governor not unkindly laid his hand upon the old sinner's
shoulder.

"You're a disgrace to the prison, Bascombe," he said, "but I'll do my
best for you."

And Colonel Marshall kept his word.




The Nadir Bandar


I had known Bruce for about fifteen years before this amazing thing
happened.

He was a nephew of Mervyn Bruce, the famous traveller, and we had
turned up the same day at Haileybury--two forlorn new boys.  I can
see him now with his shock of red hair, his friendly grin, and that
funny little habit of scratching the back of his right ear which has
never left him.

He came up and spoke to me in the quad.  Some big fellow had just
asked me my name, and when in all innocence I had said,
"Bridges--what's yours?"  I had been answered with a clip over the
head that had sent me sprawling on the asphalt.

"Why did he hit you?" asked Bruce.

I explained, trying not to blubber.

"You'll know him again, won't you?" said Bruce.

I nodded.

"That's all right," he said cheerfully.  "Then you can poison his
food."

I remember this struck me as being a very comforting reflection, and
from that moment Bruce and I have always been the best of friends.

Later on we shared a study together, the corner study next "the big
school," and one summer holiday I went and stayed with his people in
that big, ivy-covered house near Goring that you can see from the
railway line.

When we left school our paths separated for a time.  I started at
journalism in London, while Bruce was sent to France "to learn the
language."  I think his father had some idea that he would make a
good Prime Minister.

When the old man died, Bruce came home and settled in London.  He had
come into about £800 a year, and had no intention at all of going
into politics.

Since then we have always seen a good deal of each other.  He is just
the same cheery, irresponsible, adventurous, good-natured chap that
he was at school.  I don't think we ever had anything approaching a
quarrel in our lives.

I have told you all this so that you can see exactly what sort of
people we are.  It's really quite unnecessary, because you won't
believe my story in any case.  Still, unless Bruce and I are insane,
the thing really happened; and as there is absolutely no reason to
suppose we are, I intend to tell it and get it off my chest.

I will begin right at the beginning.  It was on the 9th of February
that I first learned of Mervyn Bruce's death.  I saw it in the _Daily
Mail_ while I was having breakfast.  There was a portrait of him in
rough shooting clothes and a cork helmet--it must have been taken
many years before--and a full column about his life and adventures.
He had died at Etretat, where the paper said he had been living for
some time.

I didn't bother myself about it, because I knew that he and Bruce had
not been on speaking terms for years.  There had been some silly
family squabble somewhere back in the dark ages, and the old explorer
was one of those fatuous people who think it a point of honour to
keep a thing like that up for ever.  So, after making an ineffectual
attempt at a reconciliation when he was in France, Bruce had simply
let matters slide.

I was therefore a little surprised to get a line from him on the
11th, saying that he was just off to Etretat, to see about his
uncle's funeral.  "The fact is," he wrote, "the old chap had
quarrelled with everyone by the time he died, and as I'm his nearest
relation I suppose I ought to see him through.  I shall be back by
the end of the week."

It was six days before I heard anything more.  Then, late on Tuesday
evening, I received a wire from him at the office:

"Please come Hampstead to-morrow--lunch.  Important."

Bruce lives in one of those old-fashioned three-storey houses away to
the right off the top of Haverstock Hill.  I expect you know them if
you have ever been up in that direction.  Standing back from the
road, with balconies, long windows, and creeper-covered fronts, they
seem to shrink in a kind of desolate dismay from the new red-brick
splendour which has gradually hemmed them in.

Heath View, the end one, is where Bruce hangs out.  It belongs to an
ex-police sergeant and his wife, called Jones, and Bruce has the
whole of the two top floors.  They make him very comfortable, but I
have often wondered why he doesn't take a flat.  He says it is
because Mrs. Jones is the only woman in London who can cook a
mushroom omelette.

When I rang the bell the possessor of this unique talent opened the
door herself.  She is a tall, good-looking woman of about forty, with
that sort of grave, respectful manner you don't often meet nowadays.

Yes, Mr. Bruce was in, she said, and expecting me.  Would I go
straight up?

Bruce heard me coming, and flung open the door.  He had just jumped
up from his desk, which was littered with papers and bundles of deeds
tied up by red tape.  He looked flushed and a little excited.

"Come along in," he said.  "I was just beginning to be afraid you
couldn't turn up."

I discarded my coat, and followed him into the room.

"I couldn't neglect such a poignant wire," I said.  "What's the
matter?  Have you come into a fortune?"

He laughed in a curious jerky sort of way, and just then Mrs. Jones
came in and began to lay the table for lunch.

As soon as she had gone down again, Bruce walked across to the
fire-place, and threw down his cigarette in the grate.

"I didn't get any money," he said abruptly.  "The old chap left every
cent he had to Reardon, the man who published his book of travels."

"I should dispute the will," I said.  "An author who leaves money to
a publisher is obviously mad."

Bruce scratched his ear for a moment in silence.

"I've got something else, though," he said at last.  Then he stepped
to his desk, pulled open the drawer, and took out a small, dark green
object.

"What do you make of it?" he said, handing it to me.

I took it, and crossed to the window so as to get it in a better
light.

I am not a particularly impressionable person, but when I saw it at
close quarters I as nearly as possible dropped it.

"Good heavens," I said, "what a loathsome thing!  What is it?  A
monkey or a devil?"

Bruce laughed uneasily.  "It's the Nadir Bandar," he said.

At that moment the door opened, and Mrs. Jones came in again with a
mushroom omelette.  I stuffed the infernal piece of jade away in my
pocket, and we sat down at the table.  It was not until she had shut
the door behind her that I took it out.

"And what the devil is the Nadir Bandar when it's at home?" I asked,
setting the horrible thing up on the tablecloth in front of me.

Bruce laid down his fork, and, putting his hand in his pocket, pulled
out a couple of sheets of dirty folded foolscap.

"You'd better read that," he said'.

I took them with no little curiosity.  They were written in a very
fine sloping hand, and were headed: "An Account of the Finding of the
Nadir Bandar.  Not to be published until after my death.--MERVYN
BRUCE."

Here is the whole thing as it was written:


"I first heard of the Nadir Bandar when I was at Nikh in '73.  I was
told of it by the Sheikh Al-Abbas, who claimed himself to be
descended from Nadir Shah.

"Al-Abbas had been wounded in the rebellion against Nasr-ed-Din, and
had fled to Nikh, where I found him dying and in disguise.  I took
him into my house and looked after him as well as I could, for the
man was a great man of noble blood, and not an accursed Turkish dog
like Nasr-ed-Din.

"On the night before he died he spoke to me of the Nadir Bandar.

"'If I had it,' he said, 'I would wish to be well, and I would also
wish that Nasr-ed-Din should be eaten of worms.'

"Myself: 'What is the Nadir Bandar, Sheikh Al-Abbas?  I have not
heard of it.'

"The Sheikh: 'There is but one who has heard of it, and he will die
with the coming of the sun.'

"Myself: 'It is a great power if it can grant such wishes as you
name.'

"The Sheikh: 'There is no wish that it cannot grant.  Four times may
a man call upon it and four times will it answer.  With its aid my
ancestor, Nadir Shah, conquered the entire world.'

"Myself: 'If he possessed such a power, Sheikh Al-Abbas, why did he
allow himself to be slain?'

"The Sheikh: 'Four times had he called on it and four times had it
answered.'

"Myself: 'You mean that its power had passed away?'

"The Sheikh: 'He had buried it at the meeting of the waters.  His
last wish had been that he might win the world and gain the mountain
of light.  When this was granted he buried it beneath the great sun
stone at the meeting of the waters.  After that he was slain.'

"Myself: 'And where is the meeting of the waters, Sheikh Al-Abbas?'

"The Sheikh: 'I cannot say.  All that I know I was told by my father,
who had had it from his father before him.'

"When I rose next morning the Sheikh Al-Abbas was dead.  I buried
him, pondering greatly over his story.  Some would have dismissed it
from their minds as the babbling of a dying man, but I have seen many
strange things in this world, and I knew well that the Sheikh
Al-Abbas had spoken what he believed to be true.

"So soon as I could get away from Nikh in safety I travelled through
to Quetta, and, there procuring a map, I traced out the marches of
Nadir Shah, as he came back from the ravishing of Delhi.  So far as I
could see there was but one place to which the phrase used by the
Sheikh Al-Abbas could be applied.  That was a few miles to the east
of Jelalabad, where the Chitral and Kabul rivers mingle together and
flow down to the great lakes.

"I made my way up to Peshawar, and in the disguise of an Afghan
hillman crossed the border.  At Lalpura I fell in with a travelling
merchant, who was in much fear of being waylaid by robbers.  'Two,'
said he, 'are better company than one.'  And together we set out on
the road to Jelalabad.

"We passed through Kila Akhund before the sun was high in the sky,
and halted for our midday rest on the bank of the Kabul river.  It
was there that I learned of the Temple of the Sun Stone.

"It stood before us at the meeting of the waters, a low stone
building set on an island in mid-stream.

"When my companion spoke of it by its name my heart leaped suddenly
within me, for I recalled the words of the Sheikh Al-Abbas.

"'It is very sacred,' said my companion.  'No one but the priests of
the Sun are allowed to enter or even to land on the island.'

"I made no reply to him, and later on we continued our journey to
Jelalabad, where we parted.

"That night I rode out from the city, and tied up my horse in a
thicket on the bank of the river opposite to the temple.  Then,
stripping myself of my clothes, I entered the water and swam to the
island, having some matches and a loaded pistol in my turban.  These
I took out on landing, and advanced very carefully towards the gate
of the temple.

"It was shut, and I could find no means of opening it save by
breaking it in with a stone.  This I did, waiting in some anxiety to
see what might happen.  There was no sound or movement, and I
entered.  The temple was quite dark inside; so, halting and striking
a match, I held it up above my head and looked about me.

"The floor was of beaten earth, and at the further end I beheld a
large red stone, as red as blood, and guarded by golden rails.  There
were two candles, one each side, set in brass candlesticks.

"These I lighted, and then without more ado set to work, digging out
the earth under the stone with the aid of my knife.  I must have
laboured for the best part of an hour before the steel struck upon
something hard, and the blade snapped in my hand.  In another minute
I had dragged to light an ancient iron box, which had rusted fully as
red as the stone above.  The cover fell off as I lifted it, and
inside I beheld the Nadir Bandar.

"Scarcely had I taken it in my hand, when the door of the temple
opened.  I looked up quickly.  In the gloom I could see three
figures, tall men robed in white, and carrying swords.

"I raised my pistol, but as I did so the words of the Sheikh Al-Abbas
came flooding into my mind.  'I wish,' said I clearly and without
hesitation, 'that I was in Peshawar.'

"For a moment my eyes closed.  When I opened them I was standing
outside the house in Peshawar where I had lately lodged."


At this point I laid down the manuscript and burst into a shout of
laughter.

Bruce leaned across and picked it up.  "You think it's all nonsense?"
he said.

"I think," said I, "that as an explorer your uncle can give points to
Louis de Rougemont and Dr. Cook.  The picture of him suddenly
appearing naked in the main street of Peshawar, with a pistol in one
hand and the Nadir Bandar in the other, is about the richest touch of
imagination I've ever struck."

"You think it's all a lie?" persisted Bruce.

I stared at him.

"My dear chap," I said, "it's either a lie or else the old boy was as
mad as a March hare.  Considering he left his money to a publisher, I
personally incline to the latter theory."

Bruce sat silent for a minute, scratching his ear.  Then he laughed
in a rather apologetic sort of fashion.

"You'll think I'm dotty, too," he said, "but do you know, upon my
soul, I believe there's something in it."

"Oh, get out!" I said; "and pass me the whisky."

Bruce handed over the bottle.

"I'm not joking," he went on obstinately.  "I've got a funny sort of
feeling that the old chap was speaking the truth."

"You ought to take something for it," I said.  "Mother Seigel or Dr.
William's Pink Pills for Neurotic Nephews."

Bruce got up, and, crossing to the mantelpiece, began to fill a pipe.
For some moments we both remained silent.

"Well, look here," he broke out at last rather awkwardly, "I'm going
to have a wish and see what happens."

I shook my head with a kind of mock disapproval.

"You're sure to be sorry," I said.  "These things always turn out
badly.  Think of 'Uncle Peter's Fairy Story.'"

"What's that?" asked Bruce.

"It's a book," I replied, "a book that delighted my early childhood.
As far as I can recollect, everyone in it was allowed to have one
wish, and the results were--well, not quite what they expected.  I
remember one kind-hearted lady wishing that the blacksmith's baby,
who was dying of consumption, should be as well and strong as its
father.  In about three minutes the baby was decimating the village
with a sledge-hammer."

"I shall be very careful," remarked Bruce, a little uncomfortably.
"I----"

"By the way," I interrupted, "what happened to your uncle?  You took
away his manuscript before I'd finished it."

"He never had any more wishes," said Bruce.  "That first shot seems
to have frightened him off it."

I laughed.

"I don't wonder," I said.  "One experience like that would be enough
to make me sign the pledge for ever."

Bruce came to the table and picked up the Nadir Bandar.

"What are you going to wish?" I asked mischievously.  "For goodness'
sake be careful."

"It's all right," he answered.  "I've got four wishes, so I can
always unwish one if it goes wrong."

Then he paused.

"I wish," he said, very slowly and distinctly, "that I may be
irresistible to all women."

I burst out laughing.

"Good heavens," I said, "you've done it now!  Think what will happen
if you run up against a girls' school!  What on earth made you wish
that?"

An obstinate look came into Bruce's face.

"It's Cynthia," he said.  "Cynthia West, you know.  I want to marry
her, and she won't give up the stage."

"Well, you needn't have indulged in quite such a sweeping demand," I
protested.

Bruce looked a little ashamed.

"I thought I'd be on the safe side," he explained.  "You see, I might
get tired of Cynthia one day, and then it would save wasting a second
wish."

"Well, I'm blessed!" I said.  "For a lover I think you're about the
most cold-blooded cynic I ever struck.  What are you going to wish
next?"

"I must have some money," Bruce said thoughtfully.

"You must," I agreed, "plenty!  Eight hundred a year won't go far
with Cynthia, to say nothing of the others."

"What about a billion in Consols?" suggested Bruce.

I shook my head.

"Too much," I said.  "Think what _The Clarion_ and _Reynolds's_ would
say about it!  You'd have no peace."

"I know," exclaimed Bruce suddenly.  "I'll wish that I had as much
money as John P. Fox, the American Rubber King."

"That ought to see you through all right," I remarked approvingly.
"The papers say he is worth six millions."

Bruce again held up the Nadir Bandar.

"I wish," said he, "that I had as much money as John P. Fox, the
American Rubber King."

"Two up and one to play," I said, laughing.  "You may as well have a
third while you're about it; that will still leave you one to hedge
with."

Bruce thought a moment.

"I wish that I may live for ever," he said.

"Good!" I cried.  "You'll be able to read Hall Caine's next novel
right through."

With this hopeful reflection I got up from my chair and walked to the
window.

"Now this tomfoolery's over," I observed, with a yawn, "what are we
going to do?"

Bruce scratched his ear.

"I shall go and call on Cynthia, I think," he said in a rather
apologetic voice.  "After all, you know," he added lamely, "there
might be something in it."

"Superstition," I began, "when coupled with--"  Then I stopped
abruptly.  The excellent aphorism that I was about to utter was never
completed.

"What's up?" asked Bruce, turning to me in surprise.

I pointed to the door of the room.

"Look at that," I said.

It was opening, slowly and stealthily, without a sound.

We stared at it in amazement.

"Who's there?" called out Bruce sharply.

There was a moment's pause, and then, very quietly, Mrs. Jones
slipped into the room and shut the door behind her.  She was
breathing quickly, and her face was curiously flushed.

For several seconds we all three stood facing each other.  Then Bruce
spoke.

"What's the matter, Mrs. Jones?  Are you ill?" he asked.

The woman made no reply.  With her eyes half closed, she rocked
slowly from side to side as if about to fall.

"Look out!" I cried.  "She's going to faint!"

We both sprang forward together, but Bruce got there first and caught
her by the shoulders.  In a flash she had clutched him, winding her
arms round his waist, and burying her face in his coat with a little
cry, half-way between a laugh and a sob.

For a moment Bruce was too dumbfounded to resist.  Then, with frantic
energy, he made a vain attempt to disentangle himself from her
embrace.

"Here, let me go!" he stammered.  "What are you doing?  What's the
matter?  Pull her off, Bridges--pull her off!"

I hastened to his assistance, feeling as if I was taking part in some
exceptionally spirited nightmare.

To and fro we swayed, pulling, struggling, and banging against the
table.  At last, with a mighty heave, I managed to unfasten one of
her hands, and, ducking down, Bruce tore himself free.

"She's mad!" he gasped.  "Shove her outside, and lock the door,
quick!"

"Well, give us a hand, then!" I panted, for the woman was twisting
and writhing in a manner that made it almost impossible to hold her.

Watching his opportunity, Bruce leaped in and seized her disengaged
wrist.  She fought furiously but together we half pushed, half
carried her into the passage, and then, wrenching ourselves loose,
leaped back into the room and slammed and locked the door.

I sank down on the sofa and gazed at Bruce, who leaned against a
table, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief.

Presently he found his voice.

"Lord!" he muttered in an awestruck whisper.  "I never thought the
darn thing would work like this!"

That revived me.

"Don't be an idiot!" I cried sharply.  "You don't suppose it's got
anything to do with your beastly green monkey?  The wretched woman's
gone clean off her head.  Something must be done at once."

At that moment there came a savage hammering on the panels of the
door.

"I know what I'm going to do!" exclaimed Bruce hastily, "and that's
get out of the window.  She'll have Jones up in a moment if she goes
on like that, and the man's as jealous as Satan.  He'd kill me for a
certainty before I had time to explain."

"Well, I'm not going to be left here with a couple of gibbering
lunatics!" I protested, jumping up from the sofa.

He caught me by the sleeve.

"Come on then; we can get out on the balcony and climb down by the
ivy.  Anything's better than waiting for Jones."

By this time I was so bewildered that I think I should have fallen in
with any suggestion, however ludicrous.  I remember some vague wonder
passing through my mind as to what the next-door people would think
if they saw us swarming down the front of the house; but with the
door threatening to yield every instant before Mrs. Jones's frantic
assault, there was no opportunity for detached reflection.  Grabbing
my hat from the table, I followed Bruce out on to the balcony,
shutting the window behind me.  One glance up and down showed us that
the road was empty.

"You go first," I said unselfishly; "you're in most danger."

He climbed the rail, and, clutching the stems of the ivy with both
hands, slid off into space.  Leaning over, I watched him swaying
downwards in short, spasmodic jerks.

Suddenly from within the room came the crash of a splintering panel.

"Look out!" I yelled hurriedly.  "I'm coming!"  And, scrambling over
the rail, I, too, committed myself to that inadequate creeper.

I know that in books of adventure people swarm up and down an
ivy-clad house without the faintest inconvenience, but as one who has
tried it, I can only say that it's about the most poisonously
impossible feat ever attempted.

Bruce was luckier than I.  He was within four feet of the ground when
the stuff gave way; I must have fallen at least twelve.  And I landed
in a rose bush.

Bruce, who had scrambled to his feet, rushed up and pulled me out of
the wreckage.

"Hurt?" he inquired eagerly.

"Oh, no," I replied with some bitterness, "not in the least!  I love
to come down sitting on a rose bush.  It's a kind of hobby of mine."

We had no time to squabble, however.  Before Bruce could answer, we
heard the window above flung violently open, and the furious panting
of Mrs. Jones, as she climbed out on to the balcony.

That was enough.  With incredible celerity we dashed for the garden
gate, and nearly killed ourselves trying to get out at the same
moment.  Then, turning to the right, we raced down the road towards
Haverstock Hill.

We must have covered at least half the distance before I regained
sufficient sanity to realize what we were doing.  Then I clutched
Bruce by the arm.

"Steady on!" I gasped.  "If there's any one looking they'll think
we're mad!"

Even as I spoke there came a sharp "teuf teuf!" and instinctively we
pulled up.  Round the corner of Fitz-John Villas bowled a solitary
taxi, the driver leaning back comfortably in his seat and smoking a
big cigar.

"Hi!" we yelled in unison.

Some note of unusual urgency in our summons must have attracted him,
for he at once applied his brakes.  Having done this, however, he
recollected himself, and, removing his cigar, spat pleasantly in the
roadway.

"Nothin' doin', guv'nor!" he said, with a kind of gloomy
satisfaction.  "Just orf to the garrige."

"You must!" I said desperately.  "We're in a hurry, we can't wait!
I'll give you a sovereign!"

"A suvrin!" he repeated dully.  "Where d'yer want to go to?"

"Piccadilly Circus," I blurted out.  It was the first place that came
into my head.

He stared at me, and then something like a look of sympathy crept
into his face.

"Ar!" he said.  "Git in."

For about three minutes after the taxi started neither of us spoke.
Then Bruce broke the silence.

"Well," he said, "d'you believe it now?"

I turned on him angrily.

"Look here," I cried, "don't talk blithering rot!  The thing's
impossible!  You know it as well as I do!"

He shook his head.

"Well, what about Mrs. Jones?" he said obstinately.

"Mrs. Jones," I repeated, "is the victim of the same disease that
you're suffering from--common or garden hysteria.  No doubt she was
listening at the door, and overheard your tomfool nonsense with that
ridiculous monkey.  Being a highly strung, passionate sort of
woman----"

Bruce cut me short.

"Jones," he said, "is always complaining that she's too cold."

"Cold!" I groaned.  "Oh, Lord!"

"So it couldn't be that," he added.

"Well, if it isn't that," I said, "what the blazes is it?  You don't
seriously expect me to believe in black magic and Mumbo Jumbo and all
that sort of bunkum, do you?"

Bruce scratched his ear.

"I don't know," he said unhappily.

We sat in silence as the cab ran on, each of us staring out of the
window on our respective sides.  It was not until we were halfway up
Tottenham Court Road that I suddenly noticed the time.  There was a
big clock outside one of the furniture shops, and the hands were
pointing to half-past two.  I called Bruce's attention to the fact.

"Cynthia won't have finished her lunch yet," I said.  "We had better
get out at Piccadilly Circus and walk up.  Or perhaps you'd rather go
alone?"

"No," he answered eagerly; "I want you to come.  You needn't stay,
you know, but I'd like you just to come and see what happens."

"All right," I said, with a laugh.  "I may as well see you through
now I've begun.  If Cynthia starts embracing you, I'll leave the
room."

"Oh, don't joke about it!" said Bruce nervously.

The cab swerved its way through the traffic in Piccadilly Circus, and
drew up with a jerk opposite Swan and Edgar's.  We got out, and I
handed the man a sovereign which I had ready.

He took it with a friendly smile.

"Thank ye, sir," he said, "an' good luck."

"It's my cab," said Bruce, as we turned into Regent Street.

"Very well," I answered, "we won't fight about it.  You can pay me as
soon as your green monkey pushes along those six millions."

By this time we were just opposite the entrance to the Piccadilly
Hotel.  As we passed, the door swung open, and a handsome woman,
dressed in a long sable cloak, stepped out on to the pavement.  In
the roadway opposite, a liveried manservant was holding open the door
of a smart electric brougham.

At the sight of us she paused, and her lips parted in one of the
sweetest smiles I have ever seen.  We both took off our hats, but as
Bruce made no attempt to stop I walked on with him.

"Who is she?" I whispered.

He stared at me.

"I don't know," he said.  "I thought she was a friend of yours."

"Never seen her in my life," I answered.  "I wonder who she took us
for?"

I looked round, and then touched his arm.

"Bruce," I said, "she's following us."

He glanced bade over his shoulder, and I saw him start as though
something had stung him.

"Come on!" he muttered, suddenly quickening his pace.

"Why, what does it matter?" I protested.

"Others, too," he whispered, "just behind her!  Three or four of 'em!
It's that infernal charm!"

"Bosh!" I said incredulously, and then turned round to take another
look.  For a moment I felt as if someone had suddenly placed a large
piece of ice inside my waistcoat.  At least five women were following
us along the pavement, headed by the lady in sables.  There could be
no possible doubt about it.  Even as I looked two girls who had been
walking in the other direction suddenly pulled up, and then, turning
round, came hurriedly in pursuit of the rest.  We seemed to be
clearing Regent Street.

"This is awful!" I gasped.  "What are we to do?"

"We must t-take a taxi!" stammered Bruce, looking wildly about him.

Of course, as luck would have it, there was not a cab of any kind
passing.  We couldn't wait, for every moment things were growing
worse.  Women were appearing suddenly out of shops, and hurrying over
from the other side of the street in twos and threes, recklessly
indifferent to the traffic.  In less than a minute a jostling crowd
of about fifty or sixty were sweeping after us up the pavement.

"Run!" gasped Bruce.  "Run!"

It was, of course, about as mad a thing as we could have done; but
panic, stark, blind panic, had gripped hold of us, and our only
feeling was a frantic desire to escape.  Without another word we took
to our heels.

Of what followed I have a somewhat confused recollection.  I remember
a terrific uproar all round us, yells of "Suffragettes!" "Stop 'em!"
"Police!"  And then two helmeted figures in dark blue suddenly leaped
across our path.  I suppose they must have taken us for Cabinet
Ministers, for they opened out to let us go through, and without
hesitation hurled themselves into the wild avalanche of pursuing
women.

The check was only a momentary, one, but it saved us.  Before the
shattered column could reform we had reached the corner of Vigo
Street, where a taxi--a thrice-blessed taxi with an excited,
beckoning driver at the wheel--was standing in readiness.

"Jump in!" he roared, as we hurled ourselves panting at the door.

Willing hands banged it behind us, someone raised a cheer as we sank
back on the seat, and there we were spinning past the Bodley Head,
with the tumult and shouting dying away behind us.

There are some emotions which words are quite inadequate to express.
At that moment Bruce and I were suffering from about six of them.

It was the taxi-driver who first broke the silence.  At the bottom of
Bond Street he pulled up, and, projecting his head round the side of
the cab, signified his desire to speak with us.  Mechanically I
pulled down the window.

"The 'Ouse of Commons, guv'nor?" he inquired.

"No," I said dully; "Cynthia's flat."

He stared at me, and I recollected myself.

"Manor Court, Marylebone Road," I observed harshly.

He spun round and we retraced our way up Bond Street.

Just as we were emerging from the bottom of Harley Street, Bruce
leaned across and laid his hand on my arm.

"After I've seen Cynthia," he said brokenly, "I shall unwish that
first wish."

I nodded.

The taxi drew up at the gate of Manor Court and we got out.

The driver looked at us with interest.

"Just in time, I was," he observed; "they'd 'ave 'ad you in another
minit."

Bruce handed him half a sovereign.

"Thank ye, sir," he said, "thank ye."  Then he paused.  "I knows wot
them suffrinjettes wants," he added, "and if I 'ad my way I'd give it
'em."

With this dark saying he slipped in his clutch and left us.

Side by side we walked up the gravelled drive and stepped in through
the main entrance.

Cynthia's flat is on the ground floor on the right-hand side, the one
with the green door and the copper knocker.  Bruce laid his hand on
the latter, and then hesitated.

"Go on," I said bitterly.  "Think what we've been through."

His face hardened and he gave two sharp rattats.

A minute's pause, a sound of footsteps, and then the door swung open.
A pretty, dark girl in the dress of a parlourmaid was standing before
us.

Bruce cleared his throat.

"Is Miss West at home?" he asked huskily.

She looked at him curiously for a moment without replying, then
suddenly she said: "Yes, sir," and stepped back from the door.

We followed her into the hall, laying our hats and sticks on the
table inside.  Bruce's hands were shaking like leaves.

Without looking at us the girl led the way down the passage and
opened a door on the left-hand side.

"Will you please come in here, sir?" she said gently.

Bruce, who was about two paces ahead of me, stepped in first.  In a
flash the girl had followed him, slamming the door in my face with a
bang that echoed through the flat.

I pulled up short, and as I did so there came a stifled cry from
Bruce:

"Help, help, Bridges, help!"

Flinging open the door again, I rushed in.  As far as I could see,
Bruce and the housemaid were engaged in a rather strenuous waltz.
They were swaying down the room wreathed in each other's arms,
splendidly regardless of the furniture.  Even as I entered, they
fetched up against the end of the sofa, and collapsed into a tangled
heap.

At that instant something heavy struck me violently in the back and
sent me reeling against the wall.  A big woman in a print dress, her
arms covered with flour, and a rolling-pin in her hand, brushed
violently past me.  In two strides she reached the sofa, and, seizing
hold of the dark girl, began to drag her away from Bruce.  If the
latter's collar had not given way he would certainly have been
choked.  As it was, the stud broke just in the nick of time.

The two women reached the floor together with a loud thud, the
rolling-pin clattering away across the room.  Next moment, collarless
and dishevelled, Bruce was leaping for the door.

I followed him, grabbing the handle, and slamming it behind me.  As
luck would have it, there was a lock outside; and while Bruce
snatched up his hat and fumbled with the front door, I turned the key
with a savage force that broke it off short in my hand.  Then, like
two drunken men, we fell rather than staggered out into the main hall.

Fortunately, there was no one about.  Panting and exhausted, we
leaned against the foot of the lift, while Bruce, by turning up his
collar and brushing his coat with one hand, made a feeble attempt to
regain some semblance of respectability.

We were interrupted by the crunch of footsteps on the drive outside.

"Look out," I whispered hastily; "here's someone coming."

Bruce straightened himself just as a burly porter in uniform swung in
through the doorway.  He evidently recognized us as friends of
Cynthia, for he saluted with a friendly but respectful smile.

"Good-day, gen'lemen," he remarked.  "I'm afraid Miss West ain't in
town.  Gone to Reigate, so I understand.  P'rhaps you've seen the
parlourmaid?"

I nodded my head.

"Yes," I said; "we've seen the parlourmaid.  Could you get us a cab?"

"Certainly, sir; taxi, sir?"

"It doesn't matter," interrupted Bruce in a dazed voice, "as long as
there are no women in it."

I nudged him warningly, but the porter, evidently taking him for a
humourist, laughed heartily.

"Very well, sir," he said briskly; "I'll see to that, sir."  Then,
pulling a whistle from under his uniform, he stepped outside and blew
a shrill blast.  Almost immediately a taxi rolled up the drive.

The porter opened the door; and as we came down the steps to get in,
a small boy with a bundle of newspapers under his arm dashed up and
thrust one out before me.

"'Ere y'are, sir; two-thirty winner.  Death of a well-known
millionaire, sir."

"Push off, me lad," said the porter grandly.

I had pulled a penny out of my pocket, however, before he spoke, and
with an _Evening News_ in my hand I followed Bruce into the taxi.

"Where to, sir?" inquired the porter.

For a moment I was floored.

"The Bachelors' Club," said Bruce, handing him a shilling.

The porter saluted and passed on the instructions.

"Bruce," I said dully, "do you realize what we're spending in cabs?"

Bruce shook his head with an air of utter weariness.

"It doesn't matter," he said.  "I've got six million somewhere."

Half an hour earlier I should have laughed.  As it was I only stared
at him stupidly.

"Yes," I said.  "I suppose you have."

Then, in a sort of mechanical way, I opened the paper.

For a moment I gazed at it like a man in a trance.

"What's the matter?" asked Bruce.

I was past speaking.  I could only point with a trembling finger to
the three huge headlines which seemed to dance mockingly across the
page:

  "SUICIDE OF JOHN P. FOX.
  RUINED RUBBER KING BLOWS OUT HIS BRAINS.
  PAUPER FOR THE PAST SIX WEEKS."


Bruce read them aloud in a strange, dry voice.  Then he burst out
into a horrid, cackling, mad sort of laugh.

"That's done it!" he cried.  "No money, and this nightmare of a day
for ever!"  His voice rose to a scream.  "I'm damned if I do!" he
yelled.

Thrusting his hand into his pocket, he pulled out the Nadir Bandar.

"I wish," he sobbed, "that I'd never had a wish at all!"