'Is there any necessity for that reporter-chap to come too?' said Mr.
Wontner in an unguarded whisper. 'He isn't dressed for one thing.'
Bobby and Eames wriggled round to look at the reporter, began a joyous
bellow, and suddenly stopped.
'What's the matter?' said Wontner with suspicion.
'Nothing,' said Bobby. 'I die happy, Clausewitz. Take me up tenderly.'
We packed into the car, bearing our sheaves with us, and for half an
hour, as the cool night-air fanned his thoughtful brow, Mr. Wontner was
quite abreast of himself. Though he said nothing unworthy, he triumphed
and trumpeted a little loudly over the sacks. I sat between them on the
back seat, and applauded him servilely till he reminded me that what I
had seen and what he had said was not for publication. I hinted, while
the boys plunged with joy inside their trappings, that this might be a
matter for arrangement. 'Then a sovereign shan't part us,' said Mr.
Wontner cheerily, and both boys fell into lively hysterics. 'I don't see
where the joke comes in for you,' said Mr. Wontner. 'I thought it was my
little jokelet to-night.'
'No, Clausewitz,' gasped Bobby. 'Some is, but not all. I'll be good now.
I'll give you my parole till we get to Mess. I wouldn't be out of this
for a fiver.'
'Nor me,' said Eames, and he gave his parole to attempt no escape or
evasion.
'Now, I suppose,' said Mr. Wontner largely to Stalky, as we neared the
suburbs of Ash, 'you have a good deal of practical joking on the Stock
Exchange, haven't you?'
'And when were you on the Stock Exchange, Uncle Leonard?' piped Bobby,
while Eames laid his sobbing head on my shoulder.
'I'm sorry,' said Stalky, 'but the fact is, I command a regiment myself
when I'm at home. Your Colonel knows me, I think.' He gave his name. Mr.
Wontner seemed to have heard of it. We had to pick Eames off the floor,
where he had cast himself from excess of delight.
'Oh, Heavens!' said Mr. Wontner after a long pause. 'What have I done?
What haven't I done?' We felt the temperature in the car rise as
he blushed.
'You didn't talk tactics, Clausewitz?' said Bobby. 'Oh, say it wasn't
tactics, darling!'
'It was,' said Wontner.
Eames was all among our feet again, crying, 'If you don't let me get my
arms up, I'll be sick. Let's hear what you said. Tell us.'
But Mr. Wontner turned to Stalky. 'It's no good my begging your pardon,
sir, I suppose,' he said.
'Don't you notice 'em,' said Stalky. 'It was a fair rag all round, and
anyhow, you two youngsters haven't any right to talk tactics. You've
been rolled up, horse, foot, and guns.'
'I'll make a treaty. If you'll let us go and change presently,' said
Bobby, 'I'll promise we won't tell about you, Clausewitz. _You_ talked
tactics to Uncle Len? Old Dhurrah-bags will like that. He don't love
you, Claus.'
'If I've made one ass of myself, I shall take extra care to make asses
of you!' said Wontner. 'I want to stop, please, at the next milliner's
shop on the right. It ought to be close here.'
He evidently knew the country even in the dark, for the car stopped at a
brilliantly-lighted millinery establishment, where--it was Saturday
evening--a young lady was clearing up the counter. I followed him, as a
good reporter should.
'Have you got--' he began. 'Ah, those'll do!' He pointed to two hairy
plush beehive bonnets, one magenta, the other a conscientious electric
blue. 'How much, please? I'll take them both, and that bunch of peacock
feathers, and that red feather thing.' It was a brilliant crimson-dyed
pigeon's wing.
'Now I want some yards of muslin with a nice, fierce pattern, please.'
He got it--yellow with black tulips--and returned heavily laden.
'Sorry to have kept you,' said he. 'Now we'll go to my quarters to
change and beautify.'
We came to them--opposite a dun waste of parade-ground that might have
been Mian Mir--and bugles as they blew and drums as they rolled set
heart-strings echoing.
We hoisted the boys out and arranged them on chairs, while Wontner
changed into uniform, but stopped when he saw me taking off my jacket.
'What on earth's that for?' said he.
'Because you've been wearing my evening things,' I said. 'I want to get
into 'em again, if you don't mind.'
'Then you aren't a reporter?' he said.
'No,' I said, 'but that shan't part us.'
'Oh, hurry!' cried Eames in desperate convulsions. 'We can't stand this
much longer. 'Tisn't fair on the young.'
'I'll attend to you in good time,' said Wontner; and when he had made
careful toilet, he unwrapped the bonnets, put the peacock's feather into
the magenta one, pinned the crimson wing on the blue one, set them
daintily on the boys' heads, and bade them admire the effect in his
shaving-glass while he ripped the muslin into lengths, bound it first,
and draped it artistically afterwards a little below their knees. He
finished off with a gigantic sash-bow, obi fashion. 'Hobble skirts,' he
explained to Stalky, who nodded approval.
Next he split open the bottom of each sack so that they could walk, but
with very short steps. 'I ought to have got you white satin slippers,'
he murmured, 'and I'm sorry there's no rouge.'
'Don't worry on our account, old man--you're doing us proud,' said Bobby
from under his hat. 'This beats milk-punch and mayonnaise.'
'Oh, why didn't we think of these things when we had him at our mercy?'
Eames wailed. 'Never mind--we'll try it on the next chap. You've a
mind, Claus.'
'Now we'll call on 'em at Mess,' said Wontner, as they minced towards
the door.
'I think I'll call on your Colonel,' said Stalky. 'He oughtn't to miss
this. Your first attempt? I assure you I couldn't have done it better
myself. Thank you!' He held out his hand.
'Thank _you_, sir!' said Wontner, shaking it. 'I'm more grateful to you
than I can say, and--and I'd like you to believe some time that I'm not
quite as big a--'
'Not in the least,' Stalky interrupted. 'If I were writing a
confidential report on you, I should put you down as rather adequate.
Look after your geishas, or they'll fall!'
We watched the three cross the road and disappear into the shadow of the
Mess verandah. There was a noise. Then telephone bells rang, a sergeant
and a Mess waiter charged out, and the noise grew, till at last the Mess
was a little noisy.
We came back, ten minutes later, with Colonel Dalziell, who had been
taking his sorrows to bed with him. The ante-room was quite full and
visitors were still arriving, but it was possible to hear oneself speak
occasionally. Trivett and Eames, in sack and sash, sat side by side on a
table, their hats at a ravishing angle, coquettishly twiddling their
tied feet. In the intervals of singing 'Put Me Among the Girls,' they
sipped whisky-and-soda held to their lips by, I regret to say, a Major.
Public opinion seemed to be against allowing them to change their
costume till they should have danced in it. Wontner, lying more or less
gracefully at the level of the chandelier in the arms of six subalterns,
was lecturing on tactics and imploring to be let down, which he was with
a run when they realised that the Colonel was there. Then he picked
himself up from the sofa and said: 'I want to apologise, sir, to you and
the Mess for having been such an ass ever since I joined!'
This was when the noise began.
Seeing the night promised to be wet, Stalky and I went home again in The
Infant's car. It was some time since we had tasted the hot air that lies
between the cornice and the ceiling of crowded rooms.
After half an hour's silence, Stalky said to me: 'I don't know what
you've been doing, but I believe I've been weepin'. Would you put that
down to Burgundy or senile decay?'