AUTHOR!

J. S. M. Babington, of Dacre's House, was on the horns of a dilemma.

Circumstances over which he had had no control had brought him, like

another Hercules, to the cross-roads, and had put before him the choice

between pleasure and duty, or, rather, between pleasure and what those

in authority called duty. Being human, he would have had little

difficulty in making his decision, had not the path of pleasure been so

hedged about by danger as to make him doubt whether after all the thing

could be carried through.

The facts in the case were these. It was the custom of the mathematical

set to which J. S. M. Babington belonged, 4B to wit, to relieve the

tedium of the daily lesson with a species of round game which was

played as follows. As soon as the master had taken his seat, one of the

players would execute a manoeuvre calculated to draw attention on

himself, such as dropping a book or upsetting the blackboard. Called up

to the desk to give explanation, he would embark on an eloquent speech

for the defence. This was the cue for the next player to begin. His

part consisted in making his way to the desk and testifying to the

moral excellence of his companion, and giving in full the reasons why

he should be discharged without a stain upon his character. As soon as

he had warmed to his work he would be followed by a third player, and

so on until the standing room around the desk was completely filled

with a great cloud of witnesses. The duration of the game varied, of

course, considerably. On some occasions it could be played through with

such success, that the master would enter into the spirit of the thing,

and do his best to book the names of all offenders at one and the same

time, a feat of no inconsiderable difficulty. At other times matters

would come to a head more rapidly. In any case, much innocent fun was

to be derived from it, and its popularity was great. On the day,

however, on which this story opens, a new master had been temporarily

loosed into the room in place of the Rev. Septimus Brown, who had been

there as long as the oldest inhabitant could remember. The Rev.

Septimus was a wrangler, but knew nothing of the ways of the human boy.

His successor, Mr Reginald Seymour, was a poor mathematician, but a

good master. He had been, moreover, a Cambridge Rugger Blue. This fact

alone should have ensured him against the customary pleasantries, for a

Blue is a man to be respected. It was not only injudicious, therefore,

but positively wrong of Babington to plunge against the blackboard on

his way to his place. If he had been a student of Tennyson, he might

have remembered that the old order is in the habit of changing and

yielding place to the new.

Mr Seymour looked thoughtfully for a moment

at the blackboard.

'That was rather a crude effort,' he said pleasantly to Babington, 'you

lack _finesse_. Pick it up again, please.'

Babington picked it up without protest. Under the rule of the Rev.

Septimus this would have been the signal for the rest of the class to

leave their places and assist him, but now they seemed to realize that

there was a time for everything, and that this was decidedly no time

for indoor games.

'Thank you,' said Mr Seymour, when the board was in its place again.

'What is your name? Eh, what? I didn't quite hear.'

'Babington, sir.'

'Ah. You had better come in tomorrow at two and work out examples three

hundred to three-twenty in "Hall and Knight". There is really plenty of

room to walk in between that desk and the blackboard. It only wants

practice.'

What was left of Babington then went to his seat. He felt that his

reputation as an artistic player of the game had received a shattering

blow. Then there was the imposition. This in itself would have troubled

him little. To be kept in on a half-holiday is annoying, but it is one

of those ills which the flesh is heir to, and your true philosopher can

always take his gruel like a man.

But it so happened that by the evening post he had received a letter

from a cousin of his, who was a student at Guy's, and from all accounts

was building up a great reputation in the medical world. From this

letter it appeared that by a complicated process of knowing people who

knew other people who had influence with the management, he had

contrived to obtain two tickets for a morning performance of the new

piece that had just been produced at one of the theatres. And if Mr J.

S. M. Babington wished to avail himself of the opportunity, would he

write by return, and be at Charing Cross Underground bookstall at

twenty past two.

Now Babington, though he objected strongly to the drama of ancient

Greece, was very fond of that of the present day, and he registered a

vow that if the matter could possibly be carried through, it should be.

His choice was obvious. He could cut his engagement with Mr Seymour, or

he could keep it. The difficulty lay rather in deciding upon one or

other of the alternatives. The whole thing turned upon the extent of

the penalty in the event of detection.

That was his dilemma. He sought advice.

'I should risk it,' said his bosom friend Peterson.

'I shouldn't advise you to,' remarked Jenkins.

Jenkins was equally a bosom friend, and in the matter of wisdom in no

way inferior to Peterson.

'What would happen, do you think?' asked Babington.

'Sack,' said one authority.

'Jaw, and double impot,' said another.

'The _Daily Telegraph_,' muttered the tempter in a stage aside,

'calls it the best comedy since Sheridan.'

'So it does,' thought Babington. 'I'll risk it.'

'You'll be a fool if you do,' croaked the gloomy Jenkins. 'You're bound

to be caught.' But the Ayes had it. Babington wrote off that night

accepting the invitation.

It was with feelings of distinct relief that he heard Mr Seymour

express to another master his intention of catching the twelve-fifteen

train up to town. It meant that he would not be on the scene to see him

start on the 'Hall and Knight'. Unless luck were very much against him,

Babington might reasonably hope that he would accept the imposition

without any questions. He had taken the precaution to get the examples

finished overnight, with the help of Peterson and Jenkins, aided by a

weird being who actually appeared to like algebra, and turned out ten

of the twenty problems in an incredibly short time in exchange for a

couple of works of fiction (down) and a tea (at a date). He himself

meant to catch the one-thirty, which would bring him to town in good

time. Peterson had promised to answer his name at roll-call, a delicate

operation, in which long practice had made him, like many others of the

junior members of the House, no mean proficient.

It would be pleasant for a conscientious historian to be able to say

that the one-thirty broke down just outside Victoria, and that

Babington arrived at the theatre at the precise moment when the curtain

fell and the gratified audience began to stream out. But truth, though

it crush me. The one-thirty was so punctual that one might have thought

that it belonged to a line other than the line to which it did belong.

From Victoria to Charing Cross is a journey that occupies no

considerable time, and Babington found himself at his destination with

five minutes to wait. At twenty past his cousin arrived, and they made

their way to the theatre. A brief skirmish with a liveried menial in

the lobby, and they were in their seats.

Some philosopher, of extraordinary powers of intuition, once informed

the world that the best of things come at last to an end. The statement

was tested, and is now universally accepted as correct. To apply the

general to the particular, the play came to an end amidst uproarious

applause, to which Babington contributed an unstinted quotum, about

three hours after it had begun.

'What do you say to going and grubbing somewhere?' asked Babington's

cousin, as they made their way out.

'Hullo, there's that man Richards,' he continued, before Babington

could reply that of all possible actions he considered that of going

and grubbing somewhere the most desirable. 'Fellow I know at Guy's, you

know,' he added, in explanation. 'I'll get him to join us. You'll like

him, I expect.'

Richards professed himself delighted, and shook hands with Babington

with a fervour which seemed to imply that until he had met him life had

been a dreary blank, but that now he could begin to enjoy himself

again. 'I should like to join you, if you don't mind including a friend

of mine in the party,' said Richards. 'He was to meet me here. By the

way, he's the author of that new piece--_The Way of the World.'_

'Why, we've just been there.'

'Oh, then you will probably like to meet him. Here he is.'

As he spoke a man came towards them, and, with a shock that sent all

the blood in his body to the very summit of his head, and then to the

very extremities of his boots, Babington recognized Mr Seymour. The

assurance of the programme that the play was by Walter Walsh was a

fraud. Nay worse, a downright and culpable lie. He started with the

vague idea of making a rush for safety, but before his paralysed limbs

could be induced to work, Mr Seymour had arrived, and he was being

introduced (oh, the tragic irony of it) to the man for whose benefit he

was at that very moment supposed to be working out examples three

hundred to three-twenty in 'Hall and Knight'.

Mr Seymour shook hands, without appearing to recognize him. Babington's

blood began to resume its normal position again, though he felt that

this seeming ignorance of his identity might be a mere veneer, a wile

of guile, as the bard puts it. He remembered, with a pang, a story in

some magazine where a prisoner was subjected to what the light-hearted

inquisitors called the torture of hope. He was allowed to escape from

prison, and pass guards and sentries apparently without their noticing

him. Then, just as he stepped into the open air, the chief inquisitor

tapped him gently on the shoulder, and, more in sorrow than in anger,

reminded him that it was customary for condemned men to remain

_inside_ their cells. Surely this was a similar case. But then the

thought came to him that Mr Seymour had only seen him once, and so

might possibly have failed to remember him, for there was nothing

special about Babington's features that arrested the eye, and stamped

them on the brain for all time. He was rather ordinary than otherwise

to look at. At tea, as bad luck would have it, the two sat opposite one

another, and Babington trembled. Then the worst happened. Mr Seymour,

who had been looking attentively at him for some time, leaned forward

and said in a tone evidently devoid of suspicion: 'Haven't we met

before somewhere? I seem to remember your face.'

'Er--no, no,' replied Babington. 'That is, I think not. We may have.'

'I feel sure we have. What school are you at?'

Babington's soul began to writhe convulsively.

'What, what school? Oh, what _school_? Why, er--I'm

at--er--Uppingham.'

Mr Seymour's face assumed a pleased expression.

'Uppingham? Really. Why, I know several Uppingham fellows. Do you know

Mr Morton? He's a master at Uppingham, and a great friend of mine.'

The room began to dance briskly before Babington's eyes, but he

clutched at a straw, or what he thought was a straw.

'Uppingham? Did I say Uppingham? Of course, I mean Rugby, you know,

Rugby. One's always mixing the two up, you know. Isn't one?'

Mr Seymour looked at him in amazement. Then he looked at the others as

if to ask which of the two was going mad, he or the youth opposite him.

Babington's cousin listened to the wild fictions which issued from his

lips in equal amazement. He thought he must be ill. Even Richards had a

fleeting impression that it was a little odd that a fellow should

forget what school he was at, and mistake the name Rugby for that of

Uppingham, or _vice versa_. Babington became an object of

interest.

'I say, Jack,' said the cousin, 'you're feeling all right, aren't you?

I mean, you don't seem to know what you're talking about. If you're

going to be ill, say so, and I'll prescribe for you.'

'Is he at Rugby?' asked Mr Seymour.

'No, of course he's not. How could he have got from Rugby to London in

time for a morning performance? Why, he's at St Austin's.'

Mr Seymour sat for a moment in silence, taking this in. Then he

chuckled. 'It's all right,' he said, 'he's not ill. We have met before,

but under such painful circumstances that Master Babington very

thoughtfully dissembled, in order not to remind me of them.'

He gave a brief synopsis of what had occurred. The audience, exclusive

of Babington, roared with laughter.

'I suppose,' said the cousin, 'you won't prosecute, will you? It's

really such shocking luck, you know, that you ought to forget you're a

master.'

Mr Seymour stirred his tea and added another lump of sugar very

carefully before replying. Babington watched him in silence, and wished

that he would settle the matter quickly, one way or the other.

'Fortunately for Babington,' said Mr Seymour, 'and unfortunately for

the cause of morality, I am not a master. I was only a stop-gap, and my

term of office ceased today at one o'clock. Thus the prisoner at the

bar gets off on a technical point of law, and I trust it will be a

lesson to him. I suppose you had the sense to do the imposition?'

'Yes, sir, I sat up last night.'

'Good. Now, if you'll take my advice, you'll reform, or another

day you'll come to a bad end. By the way, how did you manage about

roll-call today?'

'I thought that was an awfully good part just at the end of the first

act,' said Babington.

Mr Seymour smiled. Possibly from gratification.

'Well, how did it go off?' asked Peterson that night.

'Don't, old chap,' said Babington, faintly.

'I told you so,' said Jenkins at a venture.

But when he had heard the whole story he withdrew the remark, and

commented on the wholly undeserved good luck some people seemed to

enjoy.

[11]

'THE TABBY TERROR'

The struggle between Prater's cat and Prater's cat's conscience was

short, and ended in the hollowest of victories for the former. The

conscience really had no sort of chance from the beginning. It was weak

by nature and flabby from long want of exercise, while the cat was in

excellent training, and was, moreover, backed up by a strong

temptation. It pocketed the stakes, which consisted of most of the

contents of a tin of sardines, and left unostentatiously by the window.

When Smith came in after football, and found the remains, he was

surprised, and even pained. When Montgomery entered soon afterwards, he

questioned him on the subject.

'I say, have you been having a sort of preliminary canter with the

banquet?'

'No,' said Montgomery. 'Why?'

'Somebody has,' said Smith, exhibiting the empty tin. 'Doesn't seem to

have had such a bad appetite, either.'

'This reminds me of the story of the great bear, the medium bear, and

the little ditto,' observed Montgomery, who was apt at an analogy. 'You

may remember that when the great bear found his porridge tampered with,

he--'

At this point Shawyer entered. He had been bidden to the feast, and was

feeling ready for it.

'Hullo, tea ready?' he asked.

Smith displayed the sardine tin in much the same manner as the conjurer

shows a pack of cards when he entreats you to choose one, and remember

the number.

'You haven't finished already, surely? Why, it's only just five.'

'We haven't even begun,' said Smith. 'That's just the difficulty. The

question is, who has been on the raid in here?'

'No human being has done this horrid thing,' said Montgomery. He always

liked to introduce a Holmes-Watsonian touch into the conversation. 'In

the first place, the door was locked, wasn't it, Smith?'

'By Jove, so it was. Then how on earth--?'

'Through the window, of course. The cat, equally of course. I should

like a private word with that cat.'

'I suppose it must have been.'

'Of course it was. Apart from the merely circumstantial evidence, which

is strong enough to hang it off its own bat, we have absolute proof of

its guilt. Just cast your eye over that butter. You follow me, Watson?'

The butter was submitted to inspection. In the very centre of it there

was a footprint.

'_I_ traced his little footprints in the butter,' said Montgomery.

'Now, is that the mark of a human foot?'

The jury brought in a unanimous verdict of guilty against the missing

animal, and over a sorrowful cup of tea, eked out with bread and

jam--butter appeared to be unpopular--discussed the matter in all its

bearings. The cat had not been an inmate of Prater's House for a very

long time, and up till now what depredation it had committed had been

confined to the official larder. Now, however, it had evidently got its

hand in, and was about to commence operations upon a more extensive

scale. The Tabby Terror had begun. Where would it end? The general

opinion was that something would have to be done about it. No one

seemed to know exactly what to do. Montgomery spoke darkly of bricks,

bits of string, and horse-ponds. Smith rolled the word 'rat-poison'

luxuriously round his tongue. Shawyer, who was something of an expert

on the range, babbled of air-guns.

At tea on the following evening the first really serious engagement of

the campaign took place. The cat strolled into the tea-room in the

patronizing way characteristic of his kind, but was heavily shelled

with lump-sugar, and beat a rapid retreat. That was the signal for the

outbreak of serious hostilities. From that moment its paw was against

every man, and the tale of the things it stole is too terrible to

relate in detail. It scored all along the line. Like Death in the poem,

it knocked at the doors of the highest and the lowest alike. Or rather,

it did not exactly knock. It came in without knocking. The palace of

the prefect and the hovel of the fag suffered equally. Trentham, the

head of the House, lost sausages to an incredible amount one evening,

and the next day Ripton, of the Lower Third, was robbed of his one ewe

lamb in the shape of half a tin of anchovy paste. Panic reigned.

It was after this matter of the sausages that a luminous idea occurred

to Trentham. He had been laid up with a slight football accident, and

his family, reading between the lines of his written statement that he

'had got crocked at footer, nothing much, only (rather a nuisance)

might do him out of the House-matches', a notification of mortal

injuries, and seeming to hear a death-rattle through the words 'felt

rather chippy yesterday', had come down _en masse_ to investigate.

_En masse,_ that is to say, with the exception of his father, who

said he was too busy, but felt sure it was nothing serious. ('Why, when

I was a boy, my dear, I used to think nothing of an occasional tumble.

There's nothing the matter with Dick. Why, etc., etc.')

Trentham's sister was his first visitor.

'I say,' said he, when he had satisfied her on the subject of his

health, 'would you like to do me a good turn?'

She intimated that she would be delighted, and asked for details.

_'Buy the beak's cat,'_ hissed Trentham, in a hoarse whisper.

'Dick, it _was_ your leg that you hurt, wasn't it? Not--not your

head?' she replied. 'I mean--'

'No, I really mean it. Why can't you? It's a perfectly simple thing to

do.'

'But what _is_ a beak? And why should I buy its cat?'

'A beak's a master. Surely you know that. You see, Prater's got a cat

lately, and the beast strolls in and raids the studies. Got round over

half a pound of prime sausages in here the other night, and he's always

bagging things everywhere. You'd be doing everyone a kindness if you

would take him on. He'll get lynched some day if you don't. Besides,

you want a cat for your new house, surely. Keep down the mice, and that

sort of thing, you know. This animal's a demon for mice.' This was a

telling argument. Trentham's sister had lately been married, and she

certainly had had some idea of investing in a cat to adorn her home.

'As for beetles,' continued the invalid, pushing home his advantage,

'they simply daren't come out of their lairs for fear of him.'

'If he eats beetles,' objected his sister, 'he can't have a very good

coat.'

'He doesn't eat them. Just squashes them, you know, like a policeman.

He's a decent enough beast as far as looks go.'

'But if he steals things--'

'No, don't you see, he only does that here, because the Praters don't

interfere with him and don't let us do anything to him. He won't try

that sort of thing on with you. If he does, get somebody to hit him

over the head with a boot-jack or something. He'll soon drop it then.

You might as well, you know. The House'll simply black your boots if

you do.'

'But would Mr Prater let me have the cat?'

'Try him, anyhow. Pitch it fairly warm, you know. Only cat you ever

loved, and that sort of thing.'

'Very well. I'll try.'

'Thanks, awfully. And, I say, you might just look in here on your way

out and report.'

Mrs James Williamson, nee Miss Trentham, made her way dutifully to the

Merevale's part of the House. Mrs Prater had expressed a hope that she

would have some tea before catching her train. With tea it is usual to

have milk, and with milk it is usual, if there is a cat in the house,

to have feline society. Captain Kettle, which was the name thought

suitable to this cat by his godfathers and godmothers, was on hand

early. As he stood there pawing the mat impatiently, and mewing in a

minor key, Mrs Williamson felt that here was the cat for her. He

certainly was good to look upon. His black heart was hidden by a sleek

coat of tabby fur, which rendered stroking a luxury. His scheming brain

was out of sight in a shapely head.

'Oh, what a lovely cat!' said Mrs Williamson.

'Yes, isn't he,' agreed Mrs Prater. 'We are very proud of him.'

'Such a beautiful coat!'

'And such a sweet purr!'

'He looks so intelligent. Has he any tricks?'

Had he any tricks! Why, Mrs Williamson, he could do everything except

speak. Captain Kettle, you bad boy, come here and die for your country.

Puss, puss.

Captain Kettle came at last reluctantly, died for his country in record

time, and flashed back again to the saucer. He had an important

appointment. Sorry to appear rude and all that sort of thing, don't you

know, but he had to see a cat about a mouse.

'Well?' said Trentham, when his sister looked in upon him an hour

later.

'Oh, Dick, it's the nicest cat I ever saw. I shall never be happy if I

don't get it.'

'Have you bought it?' asked the practical Trentham.

'My dear Dick, I couldn't. We couldn't bargain about a cat during tea.

Why, I never met Mrs Prater before this afternoon.'

'No, I suppose not,' admitted Trentham, gloomily. 'Anyhow, look here,

if anything turns up to make the beak want to get rid of it, I'll tell

him you're dead nuts on it. See?'

For a fortnight after this episode matters went on as before. Mrs

Williamson departed, thinking regretfully of the cat she had left

behind her.

Captain Kettle died for his country with moderate regularity, and on

one occasion, when he attempted to extract some milk from the very

centre of a fag's tea-party, almost died for another reason. Then the

end came suddenly.

Trentham had been invited to supper one Sunday by Mr Prater. When he

arrived it became apparent to him that the atmosphere was one of

subdued gloom. At first he could not understand this, but soon the

reason was made clear. Captain Kettle had, in the expressive language

of the man in the street, been and gone and done it. He had been left

alone that evening in the drawing-room, while the House was at church,

and his eye, roaming restlessly about in search of evil to perform, had

lighted upon a cage. In that cage was a special sort of canary, in its

own line as accomplished an artiste as Captain Kettle himself. It sang

with taste and feeling, and made itself generally agreeable in a number

of little ways. But to Captain Kettle it was merely a bird. One of the

poets sings of an acquaintance of his who was so constituted that 'a

primrose by the river's brim a simple primrose was to him, and it was

nothing more'. Just so with Captain Kettle. He was not the cat to make

nice distinctions between birds. Like the cat in another poem, he only

knew they made him light and salutary meals. So, with the exercise of

considerable ingenuity, he extracted that canary from its cage and ate

it. He was now in disgrace.

'We shall have to get rid of him,' said Mr Prater.

'I'm afraid so,' said Mrs Prater.

'If you weren't thinking of giving him to anyone in particular, sir,'

said Trentham, 'my sister would be awfully glad to take him, I know.

She was very keen on him when she came to see me.'

'That's excellent,' said Prater. 'I was afraid we should have to send

him to a home somewhere.'

'I suppose we can't keep him after all?' suggested Mrs Prater.

Trentham waited in suspense.

'No,' said Prater, decidedly. 'I think _not_.' So Captain Kettle

went, and the House knew him no more, and the Tabby Terror was at an

end.

[12]