The Cruise of the "Scandal", and other stories
Date: 2021-12-19T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Short stories; English; English fiction -- 20th century

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Cruise of the "Scandal", and other stories

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Cruise of the "Scandal", and other stories

Author: Victor Bridges

Release date: December 19, 2021 [eBook #66968]
Most recently updated: January 26, 2022

Language: English

Original publication: United States: G. P. Putnam's Sons

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CRUISE OF THE "SCANDAL", AND OTHER STORIES ***

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, patÃ© 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 Ã©clair.

"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 Ã¦sthetic 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 dÃ©bris 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 dÃ©nouement 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 confrÃ¨re; 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 linguÃ¦, 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 Â£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!"

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CRUISE OF THE "SCANDAL", AND OTHER STORIES ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

- THE CRUISE OF THE "SCANDAL"
- 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 FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE