III

A little over a week later, Angell Herald had left the office to get his

usual simple lunch of everything the food restrictions permitted, and as

much in the way of extras as he could squeeze in, when his eye was

arrested by a placard of _The Evening Mail_. He had already received a

cheque for fifty guineas from Mrs. Biltox-Jones, and had dismissed the

circumstance from his memory. This placard, however, brought back the

whole story vividly to his recollection. It read

ATTEMPTED ABDUCTION

AN AMAZON FEAT

Something seemed to link up that newspaper placard with the fifty guinea

cheque, and he purchased _The Evening Mail_.

On the front page of the paper, most of which seemed to be covered with

clever headlines, he read the following with something akin to

amazement:

ATTEMPTED ABDUCTION OP A MILLIONAIRE'S DAUGHTER

A MODERN AMAZON

SOCIETY YOUNG LADY OUTWITS TWO

DESPERATE RUFFIANS

THE ABDUCTORS CAPTURED

AN AMAZING FEAT

"Last evening, about 9.15, Miss Biltox-Jones, the daughter of Mr. and

Mrs. Jeremiah Biltox-Jones, of 376 Park Lane, W., was motoring back from

Epsom, where she had been lunching with friends, when her car was

stopped by someone waving a red light on the middle of the road. The

chauffeur, seeing the danger-signal, immediately pulled up, and a moment

afterwards, to his astonishment, found a pistol presented to his head,

and he was told that if he moved a muscle he would be shot.

"It was afterwards discovered that two masked men were responsible for

this outrage. The second man approached the car, and invited Miss

Biltox-Jones to alight, which she accordingly did. He then informed her

that she was his prisoner, and would be taken away to await the payment

of a ransom. But they had reckoned without their host, or shall we say

hostess. It appears that Miss Biltox-Jones is an adept at physical

culture, ju jitsu and such like things. With a swift movement she had

her attacker on his back upon the road; hitting him smartly on the

temple with the butt-end of his own pistol, she rendered him

unconscious, and before the other ruffian was aware of what had

happened, she had floored him likewise.

"With the aid of the chauffeur, the two men were bound, placed in the

car, and taken to the nearest police-station. They are to appear this

morning before the magistrate, the outrage having taken place on the

outskirts of London, when further particulars of this strange affair

will probably be divulged.

"In the meantime we congratulate Miss Biltox-Jones on what must be

regarded as a remarkable achievement."

There followed an interview with the chauffeur; another interview with

Miss Biltox-Jones, together with her portrait. She proved to be a not

uncomely girl of muscular proportions and determined expression.

For a moment Angell Herald was dazed at the turn events had taken. He

inwardly cursed Pearl and his ridiculous advice. He saw himself

involved in a most unsavoury business. He even wondered why he had not

been sent for to attend the police-court proceedings. What was he to do?

There was nothing for it but to wait for subsequent editions of the

paper.

Engagements prevented him from returning to the office until nearly six.

As he entered he saw that Pearl was in a state of suppressed excitement.

He too had read the wretched story.

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

"What?" Angell Herald almost shouted.

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

waiting."

Never had Angell Herald felt such a coward. Why had he not foreseen that

she would descend upon him. Could he turn and fly? No: a man must

appear a hero before his own clerk. He would lose for ever Pearl's

respect if he were to flee at that moment.

Assuming an air of nonchalance, he said he would see Mrs. Biltox-Jones

immediately, and, with shaking hand, opened the door of his room,

prepared for a blast of reproach such as it had never been his fate to

experience.

To his utter bewilderment, Mrs. Biltox-Jones was sitting smiling, and,

more wonderful still, holding in her hand a cheque, which she extended

to him, as she made certain bouncing movements, which he rightly

interpreted as preliminaries to her assuming an upright position.

Utterly bewildered, he took the cheque, What could be the meaning of

this new development? Instinctively he looked at the cheque; it was for

a hundred guineas. Clearly Mrs. Biltox-Jones was mad.

"Mr. Herald," she began, in her wheezy voice, having got to her feet,

"you've done me a real service, you've got me what I wanted. You're a

wonderful man."

"But--but--" he stammered.

"No, no," she continued. "No modesty. The idea was entirely yours. Of

course I didn't anticipate Gertie upsetting things like that; but then

you never know what Gertie will do, and the poor child so enjoyed it."

Angell Herald pictured the Gertie whose photograph he had seen,

"enjoying it." Then his thoughts turned to the nefarious abductors.

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

"Oh! Martin arranged that. One was his brother, and the other was

John's second cousin. John is my first footman. But, of course, a

great general has to be prepared for everything, as you said the other

day." (Angell Herald had no recollection of saying anything of the

sort.) "So when I heard these two men had been caught by Gertie, I

decided to turn the whole thing into a joke. Gertie was delighted, and

said that she hadn't enjoyed anything so for a long time. The

magistrate, of course, was most rude about it."

"But the butler's brother and the--"

"They've been released. The magistrate pitched into them; but still,

it's all right, although Martin's brother has a big bump on his head,

which will cost a good deal, and John's cousin can be squared. The

teeth he lost were not really his own, although he said they were until

I threatened to ring up my dentist and have his mouth examined."

"Yes," she continued, after a pause, "it was really a brilliant idea of

yours, Mr. Herald, and I thank you for it. I shall recommend you to my

friends. My husband has great influence in the city, and he shall know

what a remarkable man you are."

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

"Oh! I've had heaps of callers. Sir Jacob and Lady Wanderlust, Mrs.

Hermann Schmidt, Mr. Gottinhimmel, Mr. Lueftstoessel, Miss Strafestein,

and a lot of the best people in The Lane. And they're so patriotic.

They do _so_ hate the Kaiser, and they simply _love_ England. We have

become great friends."

Angell Herald congratulated her. "And now I must be going," she said,

"I've got to arrange about compensating those two poor men. If you knew

Gertie as I know her, you'd know they didn't come off without severe

er--er--contoosions, was what the doctor called 'em."

Mrs. Biltox-Jones sailed out of the office wheezing and smiling. Angell

Herald saw Pearl looking at him in a bewildered fashion, and he almost

fainted when handed the cheque and told to pay it into the bank.

The late evening papers were full of this extraordinary "joke." By a

lucky chance, there was no news from anywhere. The German Emperor had

not been patronizing the Almighty, and no one had shown on any of the

fronts the least inclination to push. The result was that the

photographs of the Biltox-Joneses, of their butler, the butler's

brother, of John, and John's second cousin, filled every newspaper. The

scene of the "outrage" was pictured, with a cross marking the spot on

the road where Martin's brother's head had been tapped.

In Angell Herald's heart there was a great gladness and a deep gratitude

to Mr. Llewellyn John! He had the greatest difficulty to restrain

himself from giving Pearl a rise.--Instead he gave him the cigar he had

received from Trumpet a few days previously. There are no half tones

about either Trumpet or his cigars.

At the conclusion of the story Angell Herald, sat back with the air of a

man prepared to receive the congratulations that he knows are his due.

He was obviously disappointed when the only remark made was Sallie's.

"Poor old thing."

"I should like to meet that clerk of 'is," "whispered" Bindle to

Windover. "'E ought to be able to tell us some things, wot?"

"Ha, yes," muttered Windover abstractedly, "but it's casting Pearls

before swine though."

*CHAPTER X*

*THE NIGHT CLUB VISITS BINDLE*

One Sunday evening on arriving at Dick Little's flat I was greeted with

the announcement "J.B.'s ill." I looked round at the gloomy faces. It

was then that I appreciated how the Night Club revolved round Bindle's

personality.

From a note Dick Little had received it appeared that Bindle had hurt

his ankle and been forced to lie up for a week. His letter was

characteristic. It ran:--

"DEAR SIR,

I been kicking what I didn't ought to have kicked, and I got to lay up

for a week. Cheero! I shall think of the Night Club.

Yours respectfully,

JOE BINDLE."

We wondered what it was that Bindle had kicked that he ought not to have

kicked. There was, we felt sure, a story behind the letter.

We looked at each other rather helplessly.

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

that evening.

"We must wait for Miss Carruthers," said Jim Owen, a cousin of mine and

rather an ass about women.

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

direful news.

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

speech.

"What shall we do?" asked Jack Carruthers.

We all looked at each other as if expectant of a solution anywhere but

in our own brains.

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

with excitement.

"Out with it, Sallie," said Jack, putting his arm round her shoulders.

Many of us envied him that habit of his.

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

Dick Little nearly got notice to quit through that idea of Sallie's.

The yell that went up to the ceiling above was as nothing to the things

that fell from the ceiling below. Tom Little was in a mad mood, and he

insisted that we should all form a ring round Sallie, and hand in hand

we flung ourselves round her; "flung" was the only word that describes

our motions. There were sixteen of us, and Dick Little's rooms are not

over large. It was a mad rout.

We were interrupted in our acclamation of Sallie's inspiration by a

tremendous hammering at the door of the flat. Dick Little opened it and

let in a flood of the most exotic language to which we had ever

listened. It was talk that would have made a drill-sergeant envious.

It had about it the tang of the barrack-square. It silenced us and

stilled our movements as nothing else would have done. It poured in

through the door like a flood. It gave an intensely personal view of

ourselves, our forebears and our posterity, if any. It described our

education, our up-bringing and the inadequacy of the penal code of

England. We stood in hushed admiration, especially the men from Tim's.

Sallie listened for about half a minute, quite unperturbed. It is a

strange thing; but "language" has no effect on Sallie. I have seen her

listening quite gravely to the inspired utterances of a Thames

lighterman. This evening, at the end of half a minute, she walked to

the door, we crowding behind her to see the fun, for we had all

recognised the voice of General Burdett-Coombe, who lived immediately

beneath Dick Little. Suddenly the General's eloquence stopped. He had

seen Sallie.

"Won't you come in," she said looking at him gravely, with eyes a little

larger and a little grayer than usual.

"I--I--" stammered the General, then seeing us all gazing at him he

burst out.

"God bless my soul, what on earth have I done? I had no idea there was

a lady here. I--I--"

"Please come in," said Sallie, "I want you to tell these men how

horribly badly behaved they are. You were doing it quite nicely; but I

am afraid they didn't hear it all."

The General looked from Sallie to the men, who had now streamed out and

were filling Dick Little's small hall. Then seeing Sallie smile he

suddenly burst out laughing, showing a set of dazzlingly white teeth

beneath his grizzled grey moustache.

"Routed, by heaven! routed and by a woman. My dear young lady," he said,

turning to Sallie, "I owe you a thousand apologies. I--I'm afraid I

rather let myself go. These young hooligans have knocked down my

electrolier. I thought the whole blessed place was coming on my head,"

and he laughed again out of sheer boyish enjoyment.

From that day Sallie and General Burdett-Coombe became great friends,

and that was how it happened that the General came to join the Night

Club.

As he went down to his flat he once more apologised; but Sallie said

that he was quite justified in what he had said and done.

"Well, well," he cried after a swift glance to see if she were pulling

his leg, "Boys will be boys I suppose; but I wish they would leave my

electrolier alone. Good-night all," and the chorus of "good-nights" was

almost as great in volume as the shouts that had greeted Sallie's

inspiration.

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

Three men dashed downstairs to commandeer all the taxis in the

neighbourhood. Tom Little and Bill Simmonds disappeared; but the rest

of us managed the crowd into the four taxis that were available. As we

sped along to Fenton Street, Fulham, where Bindle lives, each empty taxi

that approached was hailed and some of the party got out and entered.

Eventually when we arrived at Fenton Street the procession numbered

eight vehicles.

The sensation we caused will go down to posterity as the greatest day in

the annals of the district. Neighbours flocked to their doors.

Gramophones, which were tinnily striving to reproduce masterpieces they

had mis-heard, were allowed to run down, and soon what portion of the

street that was not occupied by taxis was filled with open-mouthed

residents.

The general impression was that it was a police raid, although how they

reconciled Sallie with the police was difficult to understand.

Just as we were knocking at Bindle's door, Tom Little and Bill Simmonds

arrived in a ninth vehicle, out of which they hauled two large

suit-cases.

The door of Bindle's house was opened by Ginger, who looked his

astonishment at seeing Sallie with some sixteen men behind her.

"Is Mr. Bindle in?" enquired Sallie.

Without attempting to reply Ginger called over his shoulder, "Someone to

see yer, Joe."

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

"It ain't 'im, it's a lady."

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

Sallie passed by the open-mouthed Ginger, and we trooped in behind her.

Bindle was lying on a horse-hair couch with one ankle heavily bandaged.

His back was towards the door; but he called out over his shoulders,

"Come in, Martha, come in. 'Ow's yer breath and 'ow's 'Earty?"

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

Bindle looked round as if someone had shot him from behind, saw Sallie

and the rest of us behind her.

"Gawd Almighty," he exclaimed in utter astonishment. "I'm blowed if it

ain't the Night Club. Cheero! the lot," and "the lot" cheero-d Bindle.

Tom Little and Bill Simmonds then came forward with their suit-cases.

From these they produced what appeared to be an endless stream of

refreshments: bottles of beer, two bottles of whisky, a dozen syphons of

soda and a miscellaneous assortment of sandwiches such as are to be

found on public-house counters. For once in his life Bindle's speech

failed him, as he watched the kitchen table being turned into a sort of

public-house bar. Then slowly a happy grin spread over his face and

looking up at Sallie, who had come and stood beside him, said,

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

I looked at Bindle closely, the voice was so unlike his. Before leaving

Dick Little's flat, Sallie had collected all the flowers that she could

find, which she carried in a big bouquet. Dick Little is fond of

flowers.

"Is them flowers for the coffin, miss," enquired Bindle, with a strange

twist of a smile.

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

"Well, I'm-- Hi, stop 'im, don't let 'im go." Bindle's eyes had caught

sight of Ginger, who was slipping out of the door.

Jack Carruthers made a grab and caught the delinquent by the sleeve.

Ginger seemed inclined to show fight; but three or four of Tim's men

soon persuaded his that God is always on the side of the big battalions,

and Ginger was led back into the room.

"Ginger," said Bindle, reprovingly, "I'm surprised at you. When Miss

Sallie comes to see us, you go sneaking off as if you'd picked 'er

pocket, or owed 'er money. Wot jer mean by it?"

"I don't 'old wiv----" began Ginger.

"Never mind what you 'old with, Ging, you've got to stand by and see

your old pal ain't choked with all these good things."

A fugitive shaft of light came into Ginger's eyes as he saw the array of

bottles on the kitchen table. Tom Little and Bill Simmonds were busy

commandeering all the glasses, cups, mugs, etc., they could find on the

dresser, and unscrewing the tops of the beer bottles.

"Ow jer come?" enquired Bindle while these preparations were in

progress.

"Taxis," I replied mechanically, "There are nine of them waiting

outside."

"Nine?" exclaimed Bindle, his eyes open to their full extent. "Nine

taxis in Fenton Street? 'Old be 'Orace!" and he laughed till the tears

poured down his cheeks. Bindle was in a mood to laugh at anything.

"An' wot's all the neighbours doin', sir."

"Oh! they're busy counting them," said Carruthers, "they think it's a

police raid." This was one of the few occasions on which I have seen

Bindle laugh, as a rule he grins. Presently, wiping his eyes with the

corner of a newspaper he had been reading, he cried "'Ere, a glass of

milk for the invalid."

Tom Little dashed for the largest jug and filled it up with such haste

that the froth foamed down the sides. Bindle clutched the jug with both

hands.

"Excuse my getting up, miss, but 'eres to the Night Club."

We all joined in the toast.

"I wonder wot Mrs. B.'ll think of it all when she comes back," remarked

Bindle. "Nine taxis an' a police raid. They're sure to tell 'er."

The seating accommodation in Bindle's kitchen was limited. A chair was

found for Sallie, and several more were brought out of the adjoining

parlour; but most of us sat on the floor. Windover occupied one end of

the fender and Angell Herald the other. The comparison between the two

was interesting. Windover sat as if all his life had been spent on the

end of a fender, Angell Herald, on the other hand, as if he meant

everybody to understand that never before had he found himself so

situated. Windover was enjoying himself, Angell Herald was acutely

uncomfortable. He knew it must be all right by the fact of Windover

being there; but his whole appearance seemed to convey the fact that he

was unaccustomed to sitting on a fender with a china mug of whisky and

soda in one hand, and a ham sandwich of public-house proportions in the

other.

Windover seemed to find a quiet enjoyment in the situation.

"How did you hurt your foot, Mr. Bindle?" enquired Sallie.

"Oh! I jest kicked up against somethink wot I didn't ought to 'ave

kicked, miss," was Bindle's response.

To further questioning he was evasive. It was clear that he did not

wish to tell us what had happened. It was equally clear that Sallie was

determined to know.

"Why don't you tell 'em, Joe, what you did?" It was Ginger who broke

in. A different Ginger from him who had endeavoured to slip out of the

room, a Ginger mellowed by three bottles of beer. Finding the whole

attention of the room centred upon Bindle, Ginger buried his head in a

large milk jug from which he was drinking.

"Look 'ere, Ging, you keep that muzzle on. You ain't no talker."

Sallie-turned to Ginger, who had already fallen a victim to her eyes.

"Please Mr.--Mr.--"

And then it was I remembered that no one had ever heard Ginger's name.

"We call 'im Ginger, miss; but you mustn't let 'im talk. 'E's some'ow

out of the way of it."

"Please Mr. Ginger, tell us what happened?"

Bindle made a motion as if to stop Ginger, who replaced the jug on the

table and wiped his lips with the back of his disengaged hand.

"It was down at the yard, miss. Ruddy Bill tied a tin on to Polly's

kitten's tail."

"But--but--" said Sallie, "I don't understand." She looked from Ginger

to Bindle.

"You are an ole 'uggins," said Bindle to Ginger. "Yer couldn't keep

that face of yours shut, could yer? It's like this, miss. There's a

little kid down at the yard wot's got a kitten, all fluffy fur, and

Ruddy Bill tied a tin on to the poor thing's tail, an' it went almost

mad with fright, so--so my foot sort o' came up against Ruddy Bill. 'E

wouldn't fight, you see."

"Ruddy Bill's in the 'firmary," rumbled Ginger.

"Yes, an' I'm on the couch."

Never had the Bindles' kitchen witnessed a scene such as that on which

the Night Club descended upon it. Even Ginger's gloom was mitigated

under the influence of the talk and good fellowship, assisted by

unlimited beer. The kitchen floor was covered with men and mugs, glasses

and bottles of whisky and syphons of soda. The atmosphere was grey with

tobacco smoke, and the air full of the sound of half a dozen separate

conversations.

Bindle had never looked happier. Every now and then he cast his eyes

round in the direction of the door. His dramatic instinct told him that

the culmination of the evening's festivities would synchronise with Mrs.

Bindle's advent.

"You'll stay an' see Mrs. B., miss, won't yer," said Bindle to Sallie.

"She's been a bit poorly of late. I think 'er soul is 'urtin' 'er

more'n usual."

"Mr. Bindle," said Sallie severely, "you must not tease her. You must

smooth things, not make them rougher."

"I don't understand women, miss," he replied, then after a pause he

continued, "There's one thing yer can always be sure about, an' that is

no matter wot yer think a woman's goin' to do, she's bound to give yer a

bit of a surprise."

"As how?" enquired the Boy.

"Well, it won't do yer no 'arm to learn, you wi' that smile o' yours."

The Boy grew scarlet. "You're in for trouble, Mr. 'Indenburg, sure as

sure."

"What is in your mind," enquired Carruthers. We all like to hear Bindle

on women.

"I was thinkin' o' that air-raid, last Saturday," he replied. "Now Mrs.

Bindle, although she knows that death will be 'a release from the

fetters of the flesh,' as she puts it, yet when she 'eard the guns she

bolted into the coal-cellar as if 'er soul was as shaky as mine. When I

gets 'ome there she was a settin' on a chair in the kitchen a-'oldin' of

'er 'eart, 'er face all white where it wasn't black from the coal."

"And what did you do, Mr. Bindle?" enquired Sallie, leaning forward with

eager interest. Sallie has a theory that in reality Bindle is very

considerate and thoughtful in regard to Mrs. Bindle.

"Well, miss," said Bindle after a momentary hesitation, "I give 'er

three goes o' whisky an' water."

"But I thought she was temperance," broke in Dare.

"She _was_, sir," was the reply. "When she'd lapped up the last o' the

third go, which finished up the 'alf quartern, she turns on me an' she

jest gives me pickles."

"But why?" enquired Sallie.

"She said I done it a-purpose, makin' 'er break the pledge, an' that

Gawd didn't ought to blame 'er, 'cause she was married to an 'eathen.

Funny 'er not thinkin' of it before she'd 'ad the lot, that's wot does

me.

"Talkin' of air raids," he continued after a pause, "it's funny 'ow they

seem to affect them as are surest of gettin' an 'arp an' trimmin's,

while they leaves the 'eathen merry and bright. Now me an' Ginger was on

the tail o' the van when the 'Uns' little 'ummin' birds started a-layin'

eggs. People yelled to 'im to get under cover: but the 'orses was

scared, an' 'e goes to 'old their 'eads an' talk to 'em in that

miserable way of 'is. Them 'orses was never so glad in all their lives

to 'ear ole Ginger's voice."

"And what did you do, J.B.?" enquired the Boy with interest.

Bindle turned and looked him full in the face. "I ain't in this story,

Mr. Clever 'Indenburg. You can think o' me as under the van. Ginger was

jest as cool as wot you was when you got that bit o' ribbon for your

tunic."

The expression in the Boy's face was evidence that Bindle had scored.

"Now take 'Earty," Bindle continued, "'E's one o' them wot's got a front

row ticket for 'eaven; yet when the guns begins to go off, and the bombs

was droppin', 'e nips down into the potato-cellar 'to take stock',

although 'e 'adn't 'ad a potato there for months. Took 'im quite a long

time it did too, takin' stock o' nothink. There was poor ole Martha

left to look after the shop. Rummy card 'Earty. 'E's afraid o' too much

joy, thinks it might sort o' get to 'is 'ead. 'E's nuts on 'eaven an'

angels; but it's business as usual as long as 'e can.

"No," Bindle continued after a pause in which to take a pull at his

tankard and recharge and light his pipe, "the longer I lives the less I

seems to know about people. There's Mrs. B. 'oo's always sayin' that

'the way o' the transgressor is 'ard', yet look at me! I'm always

cheerio, but she's mostly like a camel wot's jest found another 'ump

a-growin'.

"No one don't never seem able to understand another cove's way o'

lookin' at things. I 'ad a sister once, pretty gal she was, too, got it

from me I expect. I used to get quite a lot o' free beer from my mates

wot wanted me to put in a good word with Annie. Seemed funny like to me

that they should want to 'ang round 'er when there was other gals about.

"Yes," continued Bindle after a pause, "there's a lot o' things I don't

understand. Look at them young women a-gaddin' about the West-End when

it's war an' 'ell for our boys out there. Sometimes I'd like to ask 'em

wot they mean."

"They're cultivating the present so that the future shall not find them

without a past," murmured Windover.

"Nietzsche says that woman is engaged in a never-ending pursuit of the

male," said Dare. "Perhaps that explains it."

"Sort o' chase me Charlie," said Bindle, "well I ain't nothink to say

agin' it, so long as Mrs. B. don't get to know.

"This place looks like a pub," Bindle remarked a few minutes later.

"Wonder wot Mrs. B.'ll say."

"That's what you ought to have, J.B.," said Jim Colman.

"'Ave wot?" enquired Bindle.

"A pub.," was the response.

"I'd like to 'ave a little pub. o' me own," Bindle murmured, "an' I got

a name for it too."

In response to loud cries of "Name, name" from the "Tims" men Bindle

replied.

"I didn't ought to tell yer, I'm afraid as it's jest like salt, it makes

yer drink like a camel."

"Come on out with it," we cried.

"Well, 'ere goes. I'd call it 'The Thirsty Soul.'" After a pause, he

added, "If I was in the bung line I'd 'ave the tastiest things in yaller

'eaded gals be'ind the bar as could be found for a 'undred miles round.

Of course I should 'ave to get rid o' Mrs. B. first. She's as jealous

as an 'en over a china egg wot it ain't laid.

"It's no use bein' in the public line when you're married. Poor ole

Artie Ball found that out, 'im wot used to keep 'The Feathers.' One day

'e took 'is barmaid out, an' next mornin' 'is missus took it out o' the

barmaid--in 'andfulls, she did. The poor gall looked like an 'alf

plucked goose when Artie's missus remembered it was nearly dinner time.

Funny thing 'ow women fight over us," this with an air.

A hot argument had sprung up between some of the men from "Tim's" as to

the possibility of balancing the human body in the same way that the

ancients balanced the figure of Mercury, viz. on one foot, the body

thrown forward. This had resulted in a determination of the ayes to

prove it by demonstrating the possibility of standing upon a beer bottle

with one foot. Soon the infection spread throughout the room, and

everybody, with the exception of Sallie, Angell Herald and Bindle, was

endeavouring to emulate the classical figure of Eros on the fountain at

Piccadilly Circus.

Everybody seemed to be calling upon everybody else to look, and just as

they looked, down came the demonstrator. It was this moment that an

unkind fate chose for the appearance of Mrs. Bindle. To some extent she

had been prepared for the unusual by the line of taxi-cabs in Fenton

Street, and also by the tales of the neighbours, who had gathered in

ever increasing force. Two local special constables, who had

endeavoured to "regulate the traffic" and control the crowds, had given

up the task in despair, discovering that no special is a prophet in his

own district. One was a butcher, who found it utterly impossible to

preserve his official dignity in the face of cries of "Meat! Meat!" and

"Buy! Buy!"

By the time Mrs. Bindle arrived, the police-raid theory was in danger of

suffering eclipse in favour of a German spy, the nine taxis, it was

alleged, having brought soldiers and officials from the War Office.

Mrs. Bindle entered her own home in a state of bewilderment. For a

moment or two she stood at the door unseen, endeavouring to penetrate

the grey smoke, which was rapidly choking Sallie. Windover was the

first to catch sight of her, and he descended hurriedly from his bottle.

Then Sallie saw her and next Bindle. Soon the whole room had its eyes

fixed upon Mrs. Bindle's attenuated figure, which stood there like an

accusing conscience. Bindle grinned, the rest of us looked extremely

sheepish, as if caught at something of which we were ashamed. Once more

it was Sallie who saved the situation.

"Oh, Mrs. Bindle," she said, going across the room, "I hope you'll

forgive us. We heard that Mr. Bindle was ill and came over to see him.

I wish you would keep these boys in order." She looked at the "Tim's"

men with a smile. "They are always playing tricks of some sort or

other."

Mrs. Bindle looked round the room as if uncertain what to do or say.

Then her gaze returned to Sallie. We looked at her anxiously to see

which way the wind was likely to blow. We almost cheered when we saw a

frosty smile flit across her features.

"I'm sure it's very kind of you, miss. Won't you come into the

parlour?"

With Mrs. Bindle, "Won't you come into the parlour?" was an announcement

of friendship, and Bindle heaved a sigh of relief. Sallie beckoned to

Jack Carruthers.

"Jack," she said, "Get those boys to clear up."

Without waiting for Jack to deliver her instructions, everyone set to

work to clear up the chaos, and in three minutes the place was as

orderly as it had been before our arrival, save for a pile of glasses

and mugs in the sink. The bottles had been stowed away in the

suit-cases, and the kitchen looked as it did before the descent upon it

of the Night Club. Mrs. Bindle had fixed her eyes on the bunch of

roses, looted from Dick Little's flat.

"Oh, I brought those for you, Mrs. Bindle," said Sallie.

That broke down Mrs. Bindle's last defences. At Windover's invitation,

and in spite of Mrs. Bindle's protests, several of the Tims men set to

work to wash up at the sink. Windover did the washing, whilst the

others wiped, amidst a perfect babel.

Mrs. Bindle looked from one to the other. Presently turning to Sallie

she asked in a whisper, "Is the lord here, miss?"

"The lord?" questioned Sallie in surprise.

"Bindle says a lord belongs to your club. Is he here, miss?"

"Oh! Lord Windover," cried Sallie laughing, "Yes, he's here."

"Is that him, miss?" enquired Mrs. Bindle gazing at Angell Herald, who

stood apart from the others with an awkward air of detachment. Sallie

shuddered as she followed Mrs. Bindle's gaze and saw the white satin tie

threaded through a diamond ring.

"No, that's Mr. Herald. Lord Windover's washing up. Winnie," she

called out, "I want to introduce you to Mrs. Bindle."

Windover approached, eyeglass in eye, with a jug in one hand, a towel he

had snatched up in the other, and a red bordered cloth round his waist.

Sallie introduced him and he bowed with his usual exquisite grace,

chatted for a few moments, and then returned to his duties at the sink.

In Mrs. Bindle's eyes there was a great wonder, and as they returned to

Angell Herald, a little disappointment and regret.

Finally we all trooped off the best of friends. Bindle declared that he

was cured, and Mrs. Bindle said she was very pleased that she had come

in before we had taken our departure. We stowed ourselves away in the

taxis and, as the procession started, Fenton Street raised its voice in

a valedictory cheer.

"Winnie," said Sallie to Windover as we bowled eastward at a penny a

furlong, "To-night you have wrecked Mrs. Bindle's cherished ideal of the

aristocracy. I shall never forget her face when I told her that the man

who was washing up was the lord! She had fixed upon Mr. Herald."

Windover screwed his glass into his eye and gazed at Sallie in silence.

Thus ended one of the most notable nights in the history of the Night

Club.

*CHAPTER XI*

*THE GENERAL BECOMES A MEMBER*

On the Monday morning following our visit to Bindle, Dick Little had

descended to General Burdett-Coombe's flat to make a formal apology.

The old boy had laughed off the incident as of no importance, refused to

allow Dick Little to pay for the damage, and vowed that he liked young

fellows with a spice of the devil in them, had been young himself once.

He gave his guest a glass of Trafalgar brandy, and had readily accepted

an invitation to be present at next Sunday's gathering.

"Damme, sir, I think it will be safer up there than down here," he said

as he gazed ruefully up at the ceiling from which hung the wreck of his

electrolier.

From that time the General became one of our most regular members, and

was well in the first flight as regards popularity. He proved a

splendid old fellow, full of good stories of his campaigning

experiences, modest and kindly, for all his gust of anger on the night

of our first meeting.

From the first he was Sallie's slave. One night he was raving to

half-a-dozen of us about Sallie's eyes. "Such eyes," he cried, looking

from one to the other as if challenging contradiction, "I never could

resist grey eyes. Why damme, sir, if I'd married a girl with grey eyes

(the General is a bachelor) I should have been as harmless as--as----"

"A taube, sir," suggested the Boy slyly.

The General turned on him like a cyclone.

"When I was your age, sir, I should have been shot for interrupting

a----" Then the Boy smiled that radiant, disarming smile of his and the

General made a grab at him and missed.

"Wot's a 'towber,' sir?" Bindle enquired of Windover in a whisper.

Bindle's whispers are as clearly heard as those of the villain in a

melodrama.

"Before the war, J.B.," replied Windover, "'taube' was the German for

'dove'; since then it has become the vehicle of frightfulness."

Bindle looked from Windover to Dare with wrinkled forehead.

"Stripped of its corrosive verbiage, Windover means that 'taube' is the

name of a German aeroplane."

"Oh! a tawb," said Bindle, his face clearing. "'E do love to wrap things

up, don't 'e?" he added, indicating Windover with an ever-ready thumb.

"Anyone could see 'e ain't married."

Later in the evening I heard the Boy say to the General in what he meant

to be a whisper--

"I hope I didn't offend you, sir. I ought not to have said----"

"Tut, tut," said the General. "It's all right, Boy. Damme; but times

have changed since I was a youngster," and he pinched the Boy's arm

affectionately.

Upon the subject of the new armies the General was particularly

interesting. It was easy to see that, coming from army stock, he found

the civilian soldier difficult to reconcile with military tradition; but

he was a sportsman above all things.

"My Gad! sir," he had exclaimed to a few of us one evening some days

after his return from France, where he had been in an official capacity,

"they're wonderful. I was prejudiced, I confess it. Imagine an army of

stockbrokers, lawyers, fiddlers, clerks and chauffeurs. What could they

know of soldiering? But when I saw them, talked with them, why damme,

sir, they made me feel a child at the game."

"Keen!" he exclaimed in answer to a question. Then he laughed, "Why

there was one young lieutenant-colonel who started as a private two

years ago, a splendid officer, and he actually told me that he hated

soldiering, hated it, sir, yet was carrying-on as if he cared for

nothing else. It's amazing!

"In my time," and the old boy straightened himself to his full five feet

nine inches, "the prospect of war sent us half wild with excitement; but

these fellows don't like it, have no enthusiasm, want to get back to

their pens and tennis-rackets; yet they're born soldiers.

"They talk about funk and feeling afraid in a way that would have got a

man ragged out of his regiment in my day;----Damme, I don't understand

it!"

"So you don't altogether disapprove of the new army, General?" It was

Sallie who enquired. She had just entered unobserved.

"Disapprove!" cried the General spinning round and shaking hands.

"Disapprove! It's a privilege for an old fogey like me to be allowed to

talk to such fellows."

"General," said Sallie quietly, "I think the chivalry of the old army is

equal to the spirit of the new," and the General actually blushed, at

least the red-brown of his cheeks took on a bluish tinge.

When the time came for the General's story I was embarrassed by the

choice he offered. There were yarns about every quarter of the globe,

and half the races of the earth. Wherever there had been a chance of a

brush, the old boy had managed to get sent somewhere close at hand, and

when the smoke had burst into flame, he invariably discovered that a

month or two's leave was due to him. All his leave seemed to be spent

in getting attached to someone else's expeditionary force. Reading

between the lines it was easy to see that he was a good officer, and he

never seemed to find much difficulty in getting a staff appointment.

*I*

It was one of those Indian Frontier affairs of which the world hears

little. In high quarters there is a vague consciousness that something

has happened, a paragraph or two in the newspapers, with a list of

casualties, announces the return of the heroes, a few families are

plunged into mourning and there the matter ends.

An expeditionary force was trailing its sinuous, sensitive body wearily

along upon the homeward march. The officers were gloomy and short of

speech, the men sullen and dispirited. In the hearts of all there was a

glow of dull resentment. They had not suffered defeat it is true; still

no crushing blow had been struck, and to-day as they toiled silently

along in a cloud of dust there was dissatisfaction, a smouldering

passion of discontent.

Brigadier-General Charles Stanley de Winton Mossop, C.B., was a man of

theories, and the soldier understands theories in direct ratio to their

successful application. He is a cog in the great machine of war, and is

content if the whole mechanism work smoothly. If he be conscious of any

friction of the parts, he unhesitatingly condemns the engineer.

Two months previously, some five thousand men of all arms, had set out

elated at the prospect of active service. Even the old campaigners were

cynically jovial as they told the "recruities" what to expect. "You

wait, sonnies," Sergeant Tonks, a weather-beaten old veteran of twenty

years' service, had said good-humouredly, "You just wait, you'll see!"

They had seen! They had seen two months of soldiering under service

conditions with nothing to show for it, and their ideas of applied war

had undergone considerable revision.

They had seen two months of arduous campaigning against a foe that had

never learned the meaning of defeat; had never retired or broken but to

come again. A foe that sniped all night, and hung about the flanks all

day; now showing itself ahead; not threatening the rear, with a special

eye for a rush at awkward moments. Striking camp had become a positive

torture, and the hour before dawn a period of imaginative suspense; for

the men's confidence had been shaken.

At first the subalterns had talked sagely about "protection on the line

of march," scouting and the value of "cover." They had views, and a

healthy competition had sprung up amongst those in charge of

scouting-parties and "flank guards." They had worked with an almost

incredible zeal. Every likely bit of "cover" was not only carefully

examined, but examined with enthusiasm, even if it were no larger than a

man's head. There had been innumerable false alarms, which demonstrated

clearly their watchfulness. But that was now a memory. The natural

eagerness to excel had been damped, and there had insidiously crept into

the minds of all the suspicion that they were badly led.

Brigadier-General Mossop had evolved what was then an entirely new and

original conception of the art of war. The present command gave him an

opportunity of putting into practice his pet scheme of communicating

orders, in the event of night attack, by coloured fires and rockets. He

had lectured his officers upon the impossibility of conveying commands

accurately by word of mouth in the darkness and confusion of a night

attack. Incidentally he had pointed out the advantages of his own

method. They had listened respectfully, received his written "Orders of

Night Attack" in grim silence, and among themselves had dubbed their

commander "Old Brock"; and "Old Brock" he remained to the end.

There was one young subaltern, inclined to regard soldiering as a

subject for serious study, who regarded Old Brock's craze for novelty as

a grave danger. In a perimeter camp of 5,000 men, rocket communication

was, to his view, ridiculous. It might, he argued, at any moment

involve the force in disaster. He cast many speculative glances at the

chest in which the fireworks were carefully arranged in compartments,

each numbered with embossed figures, enabling them to be felt in the

dark.

For days the young subaltern went his way wrapped in his own gloom. At

length the clouds seemed to disappear as if by magic, and it was noted

that he was very frequently seen with the sergeant who had charge of Old

Brock's chest.

After a week's march, the force was well into the enemy's country. One

dark night a nervous sentry had fired his rifle and explained the

circumstance by an account of shadowy forms. Voices barked out

peremptory commands, men clutched their rifles and formed up, maxims

were cleared and everything made ready. Presently a rocket rose with a

majestic whirr and broke into a hundred green stars.

"Old Brock's at it," murmured Major O'Malley.

"That's _Prepare to Receive Enemy_," murmured a subaltern, who had given

much time to the study of his Chief's "Orders."

"Rather late in the day to prepare," growled a captain of gunners.

"Might as well say 'Prepare to cut your teeth.'"

The men stood silent, some with a grin of expectation as they gazed in

the direction of the Brigadier's tent; others with a queer shivery

feeling at the base of the spine, which communicated itself to the knees

and teeth. The butt-end of a rifle struck the ground with a dry, hard

snap. "Silence!" barked a voice. There was a murmur of deep

expostulation, passionate but repressed.

Then a curious thing happened. First a Roman candle vomited its

coloured balls into the inky night, casting a ghostly green light upon

the upturned faces.

"_Enemy breaking through to the East_. My God!" gasped the subaltern.

There was a movement among the men, and a splutter of rifle-fire which

soon died away.

"As you were," shouted a voice. A moment's silence. Next there rose

three red and blue rockets, then a swarm of whirring, hissing,

serpent-like streams of fire, lighting up the whole encampment as they

broke into a thousand points of fire.

It had been the Brigadier's theory to fire the rockets at an angle so as

to light up the surrounding country whilst leaving the encampment in

darkness. There was a laugh from the ranks, a short, sharp, snapping

sound that died almost with its own utterance. More rockets followed,

then a red fire gradually sprang into being, dull at first; but growing

in volume until eventually it embraced in its ruddy glow the whole

country for half a mile round.

"There ain't much fun in watchin' fireworks when yer can't say wot yer

think o' them," grumbled one man in a whisper to his neighbour.

The subaltern was busily engaged in trying to read the "Orders of Night

Attack." He muttered brokenly from time to time. "_Enemy repulsed

North.---Withdraw to inner defences.--Square broken to West--Fix

bayonets._"--He ceased, and only the crackle of bursting rockets broke

the stillness. The red fire began to wane, the rockets ceased, and the

darkness became more pronounced. Later, no enemy being discovered, the

guards were re-posted and the camp reassumed its normal appearance.

How it happened that the new code of signalling went wrong was never

satisfactorily explained. The Brigadier was furious, and next day

subjected Sergeant "Rockets," as he was ever afterwards called among the

men, to a searching examination. The sergeant could never be persuaded

to give an explanation of how it occurred, or what took place afterwards

in the Brigadier's tent. There was a story current to the effect that

"Rockets" had deliberately brought about the fiasco as a protest against

innovation; but the currency of camp-stories is no index to their

accuracy.

Three days later an attack upon the camp at dawn had been repulsed with

loss; but it had not been followed up. The men chafed and murmured

among themselves; the officers saw a golden opportunity for a decisive

blow pass unnoticed. "Old Brock," who alone seemed tranquil, penned

lengthy dispatches descriptive of the enemy's defeat and discouragement.

So matters went on. Nothing more was accomplished beyond a few

successful skirmishes, which to the Brigadier appeared in the light of

important victories. The correspondents, there were three, chafed and

fretted.

"It's a damned shame," remarked Chisholme hotly, "that the men's hearts

should be shrivelled up by such an example of official incapacity.

There'll be more heard of this when I get near the telegraph," he added

significantly. "You chaps shall get your own back, or* The Morning

Independent* is a pulseless, chicken-hearted rag."

Chisholme's directness and picturesque phraseology were proverbial. On

this occasion his remarks were directed at Major Blaisby and another

officer lounging about the correspondent's tent.

Chisholme had an influential family behind him and this, coupled with

the high value he placed upon his own opinions, assured his two friends

that, sooner or later, there would be the devil to pay, and the

knowledge comforted them. In spite of his insufferable habit of

bragging, Chisholme was popular. Strictly speaking he was a

non-combatant; yet he had already had several opportunities of showing

his mettle. On one occasion at least he had performed an action which,

had he been in the Service, would have assured him of the V.C.

Between Correspondent and General a coolness had sprung up. Once the

Brigadier had taken occasion to rebuke him for his recklessness, urging

as a reason for the remonstrance the possibility of some portion of the

force being involved in a disaster, owing to his precipitancy and lack

of judgment.

Now that the ---- Punitive Expedition was upon the homeward march. The

casualties among mules had been extremely heavy, even for a frontier

force, and the Brigadier was faced with a grave problem. At a spot

about four days' march from the frontier, he announced his intention of

establishing a temporary post to guard the sick, the guns and the

surplus ammunition. It was a risky proceeding; but the force was

running short of food, and must make forced marches to the frontier.

A day was spent in throwing up hasty defenses ("Ruddy scratches,"

Sergeant Tonks called them), a day spent in active speculation as to who

would be selected for the command.

When Major Blaisby of the --th Gurkhas was informed that the Brigadier's

choice had fallen upon him, he flushed with pleasure: but when he heard

that only fifty men were to be left with him he almost gasped with

astonishment. The news spread with the rapidity peculiar to camps, and

Blaisby was the centre of a group of brother officers eager in their

congratulations, and fervid in their denunciations of the insufficiency

of the force.

Blaisby and Chisholme had been on intimate terms, in fact a warm

friendship had sprung up between the two men. Immediately on hearing

the news, Chisholme had marched straight to the Brigadier's tent and

requested to be allowed to remain behind as a volunteer. He met with a

curt refusal.

That night, those who were collected in the correspondent's tent, were

treated to a remarkable display of eloquence. Chisholme, with his back

to the tent-pole, poured forth a burning stream of protest at not being

allowed to stay.

Blaisby stood by moody and silent. At length he was persuaded by his

impulsive friend to seek out the Brigadier and ask for a larger force.

He left with unwilling steps.

In the midst of a particularly eloquent passage on the part of

Chisholme, Blaisby returned. He was white to the lips, and there was an

ominous quiver about the corners of his mouth. A dead silence greeted

him. Then it was that Chisholme showed himself to be something more

than an orator. Walking up to Blaisby he linked his arm in his, and led

him out of the tent. When he returned alone the Correspondent's tent

was empty. There is a fine sense of chivalry among English gentlemen.

Two hours later Chisholme made his way through the darkness to Blaisby's

tent. The two men paced up and down conversing earnestly in undertones.

The soft light of the false dawn was touching the Eastern horizon before

they parted. Chisholme returned to his tent and threw himself down to

snatch an hour's sleep. Blaisby continued to pace up and down until the

light grew stronger, when he fetched a small portmanteau from his tent,

and at this improvised table he sat writing letters until reveille

sounded.

As soon as the Brigadier was stirring his orderly informed him that

Lieutenant Blaisby wished to know when it would be convenient to see

him. The Brigadier, suppressing an exclamation of impatience, bade the

orderly shew him in. For half-an-hour the two remained together.

Finally Blaisby left the tent with a grim, set face and went to seek

Chisholme.

The sun was well up when the march was resumed. As the main body got

into motion the men broke out into "Auld Lang Syne." The Brigadier sent

an A.D.C. to "stop that damned folly." There was a wringing of hands as

his comrades bade farewell to Blaisby. Three hearty cheers split the

air, bringing a frown to the Brigadier's face. He said nothing, feeling

that the men were none too well in hand. As he rode along by the side

of his Brigade-Major he surprised that officer by remarking "Blaisby is

a very able officer,--we shall hear more of him."

Chisholme remained behind until the rearguard was almost out of sight,

then with a hasty handshake and a "God bless you, old chap" he galloped

off.

Blaisby now found himself with thirty-five native and fifteen white

troops, two subalterns and a young surgeon, in all fifty-three. He

walked round the hastily formed entrenchment and viewed the whole with a

calm impassive face. Turning to the senior sub. he bade him call the

men together. In a few words he told them that they were upon a very

dangerous service. The work would be arduous and the fighting hard, but

they must remember that their own safety and the honour of the corps

from which they were drawn depended upon their exertions. The men

cheered, and the eyes of the little Gurkhas flashed at the thought of

handgrips with the enemy.

Directly the mid-day meal was over, the force was divided into three

parties: one was sent out scouting, another ordered to sleep, whilst the

third, under Blaisby himself, set to work with pick and spade.

For two days and nights they worked without cessation: entrenching,

scouting, sleeping; sleeping, entrenching, scouting. "Blaisby'll be a

corpse or a colonel before the year's out," remarked the junior sub. At

first the men worked doggedly, as well-trained soldiers will. They were

taking the measure of their commander, watching him furtively whilst on

duty, discussing him eagerly over their pipes when relieved. Soon they

began to fall under the spell of his personality, and a wave of

enthusiasm took possession of them. The private is ever ready to

acknowledge a master mind, and next to knowing that his officer is a

gentleman, he likes best to feel that he is a being of superior

attainments.

At the end of two days, a formidable array of defences had been

completed. In the centre a pit, some six feet deep and thirty feet

square, had been dug. This was roofed over with canvas. A cutting

three feet wide gave entrance to "the oven," as it came to be called,

which was to act as arsenal and hospital for the worst cases. The guns

and much of the surplus ammunition were built into the camp-defences.

Everything now being ready, the men were ordered to rest. Never did men

sleep so in the history of war. They were sick of sleep; yet Blaisby's

personality had taken such a grip of their minds, that eyes would close

mechanically at his approach. He wished them to sleep; they would sleep

if it killed them.

One night Blaisby happened to overhear a remark of the surgeon. "It's

all very well to say sleep," he grumbled, "But how the devil is a man to

sleep unless he's tired?" The next day orders were given to keep the

men occupied with sports. Running, jumping, wrestling, skipping,

sparring and every conceivable form of exercise was indulged in.

Blaisby gave prizes in money, until his small store was exhausted, then

he turned to his kit and distributed all he could actually spare as

prizes. The men were thus kept interested and occupied.

On the third day after the departure of the main body the enemy was

sighted; why they had not attacked at once was never explained. The next

day a movement was observed upon some rising ground, to the eastward.

Forms were observed flitting about, tiny dots of white relieved here and

there by a splash of brilliant green, as a banner caught the rays of the

setting sun. That night a keener watch than ever was kept.

An hour before dawn, a rifle shot snapped out sharply upon the crisp

night air. Absolute silence reigned. Presently a sharp challenge rang

out, followed by a shot and a yell, then a trailing splutter of reports,

then silence again. The enemy drew off on finding everything ready for

his reception.

After this the little garrison knew no repose. Attack followed attack,

and seldom a night passed without an alarm. It was evidently the object

of the enemy to wear out the defenders with constant watching. On one

occasion they almost rushed the defences, and were repulsed only at the

point of the bayonet. Blaisby grew grave as he saw the casualties

increase. The suspense and frequent alarms began to tell their tale.

The men were worn out, and although they slept whenever opportunity

offered during the day, it was always with the possibility of being

awakened to repel an attack.

Each night Blaisby spent upon the look-out platform, and was frequently

to be seen at dawn scanning the horizon to the south through his

field-glasses.

One evening, after a more than usually spirited attack by the enemy,

Blaisby sat silent at the table, whilst the senior sub. and the surgeon

talked over the day's work. They had been puzzled at the action of

their commander after the repulse. He had selected ten of the Gurkhas

and taken them into the "Oven," posting a sentry at the entrance and had

remained there with the junior sub. until dinner-time. The senior sub.

and the surgeon were piqued at not being confided in.

The surgeon had just finished a lengthy harangue upon the methods it was

desirable to adopt in savage warfare, ridiculing the textbooks as

academic. As he concluded he raised his eyes from their gloomy

contemplation of the end of his cigar. They became fixed, his jaw

dropped. The senior sub. half-turned to see the cause. He uttered an

exclamation! At the entrance of the tent stood a grim and ghastly

figure, with rolling eyes and grinning lips. The two men stared as if

bewitched at what appeared to be a reincarnation of Beelzebub. The

apparition remained motionless save for the movement of its eyes,

hideous, unearthly eyes, encircled with rings of red and surmounted by

white brows. Then there was the great red mouth and the diabolical

black horns which sprang suddenly from snowy hair.

Every bone in the dusky body was outlined in white. The two men turned

almost appealingly to Blaisby, who sat impassively watching them.

"Sorry to startle you; it's an experiment," he said as he made a motion

with his hand at which the figure disappeared, "upon men whose minds are

trained against superstition."

That was all. He rose and went out, leaving the surgeon and senior sub.

speechless and indignant. At midnight eleven ghostly figures emerged

from the "Oven" and slid away into the darkness. Shortly afterwards

Blaisby mounted to the look-out platform where he stood silent and

immovable, his gaze directed eastward.

*II*

Whilst Blaisby and his men were busily occupied with the defense of "Old

Brock's Folly," the main body of the Expeditionary Force had reached the

frontier. The Brigadier appeared uncertain how to act. The officers

were moody, and the men silent, almost sullen. Orders were obeyed

without alacrity, without zeal, without cheerfulness.

Two days passed without any preparations for the relief of the "Post."

At length with a rather over-done careless air the Brigadier remarked to

his Senior Colonel upon the spiritlessness of the troops after a

"victorious campaign." The Senior Colonel made an equally casual

rejoinder. The men were tired, he had frequently noticed a similar

state of affairs at the end of an expedition. There the matter had

ended for the moment. Later a further remark from the Brigadier had met

with a like evasion on the part of his subordinate.

That Brigadier-General Mossop's nerves were disordered was plainly shown

by his lack of decision. Orders were given and countermanded; elaborate

dispatches were penned, only to be destroyed an hour later. At last the

Senior Colonel was startled by a point blank request for his opinion as

to the advisability of despatching a force to relieve the post without

waiting for further supplies.

A decisive, "I consider it highly expedient, sir, if not too late," was

not reassuring.

For two days the Brigadier pondered over the significant words. "If not

too late." He saw the possibility of the dreaded official reprimand.

At length the order was given: a third of the force was to retrace its

steps and relieve the little garrison, "If not too late," the words

obtruded themselves upon the Brigadier's mind and irritated him.

Thus it happened that, after days of inactivity and indecision, the

Relief Force set out under the command of the Senior Colonel. As it

swung off to the brisk notes of the bugle, spirits rose as if by magic,

jokes were cracked amongst the rank and file, the old jokes that

yesterday would have fallen flat now drew a hearty laugh. All were

elated at the prospect of a brush with the enemy. This was to be a

fight to the finish. The Senior Colonel was a soldier of a different

type from the Brigadier. He had no theories, as theories are generally

understood. His dictum was to fight--and win. If there were heavy

casualties, he deplored it as a necessary feature of his profession.

The men knew this--there would be hard knocks and they thanked God for

it.

Shortly before sunset on the third day, the force halted behind some

rising ground about four miles south-east of the "Post." The enemy had

been located and the Senior Colonel was not the man to wait. He had

resolved to push on and risk a night attack. Half the column was to

make a detour and approach from the north-east, whilst the other half

attacked from the eastward. After a hasty meal and a short rest, the

first party moved off guided by the stars and a compass. Silently it

disappeared into the darkness. An hour later the other half set out.

Chisholme, who had managed to be included, was well ahead with the

advance guard of the first column. After an hour's steady marching to

the eastward they bore round to the north and later swung round to the

south-west. Half an hour passed and the scouts brought in word that the

enemy's camp lay about a mile ahead, a little to the westward of the

line of march. Presently the advance guard halted to allow the main body

to come up. The order came to continue the advance "with great

caution."

Scarcely were they in motion again before a point of red fire caught

Chisholme's eye, followed by several similar lights. Wild yells broke

the stillness, more lights followed until the whole encampment was

bathed in a blood-red glow. Through his night-glasses, Chisholme saw a

veritable pandemonium. Dancing forms--eerie, horrible, devilish--moved

rhythmically to and fro, each the centre of a sphere of hellish light.

Was it some nightmare of the Infernal Regions? Could he be dreaming? He

looked round. Officers and men were gazing wonder-struck.

The noise was fiendish: hoarse shouts, shrill cries, terror-stricken

yells split the air. Gradually the glow increased in volume. Wild forms

were seen silhouetted sharply against the light, rushing hither and

thither in a frenzy of terror. Slowly the strange figures approached

the camp: dancing and swaying, without hurry, without excitement.

Chisholme rubbed his eyes, then looking again beheld a wild mob of

fleeing tribesmen coming straight towards him, bent only on escaping

from the furies.

A few short, sharp orders rang out. A moment later the crackle of

rifles drowned the cries. A machine-gun began to stutter and spit. The

terrified tribesmen paused stunned and dropped in dozens. Firing was

heard to the southward--the others were at it also.

At this moment the advance was sounded. The main force had come up,

deployed and with a yell rushed forward to the charge. A portion of the

enemy broke away to the north; but the majority stood transfixed with

terror. Some threw themselves upon the bayonets, others stood

impassively awaiting death. A few who had weapons showed fight; but

were soon cut down.

A couple of rockets rose to the westward.

"Thank God," muttered the Senior Colonel, "we're in time." The work of

slaughter continued grimly, silently: short sobbing coughs were heard as

the cold steel found its mark.

Presently the recall was sounded. The men were becoming scattered and

the Senior Colonel was troubled about those queer figures still to be

seen gathered round the fire. Collecting a few men together, he

advanced. As he approached, the forms started whirling and dancing, the

coloured fires burst out again and the astonished officer saw eleven

careering forms, skeletons apparently, with white hair and black horns.

"Well, I'm damned!" he gasped.

"And Hell within jumping distance," muttered a voice.

"Who goes there?" rang out the challenge apparently from the tallest

devil.

"Friend," was the reply.

"Advance and give the countersign."

"Who the devil are you?" burst out the Senior Colonel.

"Servants of Her Britannic Majesty, Queen Victoria."

With shouts and laughter officers and men alike rushed forward, and

there was a babel of congratulatory voices.

*III*

Dawn was breaking when Major Blaisby finished his account of what had

happened during those four eventful weeks. "It was Chisholme's idea,"

he concluded, "that I should ask the Brigadier for the fireworks in

order to give his system an extended trial." He did not add that the

object of the request was to placate his superior, in order to obtain

the maxim.

When the light became stronger, the Senior Colonel examined the

defences, and complimented Blaisby in his short, gruff manner. "You've

made a fine show, Blaisby," he said in conclusion, "A damned sight finer

show than I should have made."

Chisholme had his opportunity later, when _The Morning Independent_

printed a series of brilliantly written articles upon the campaign and

its ending, and although more moderate in tone than many expected,

Brigadier General Mossop saw in those articles the explanation of his

receiving no official mark of approval for the way in which he had

conducted the ---- Punitive Expedition.

"An' where did you come in, sir?" enquired Bindle of the General, when

he had finished "leading the applause" with his mallet.

"I?" said the General, "What do you mean?"

"Well, sir, I wondered if by any chance it was you wot mixed the

fireworks so as they all went off wrong."

The General laughed. Sallie said the General was at his best when a

laugh caused his teeth to flash white against the surrounding tan.

"A shrewd guess, by jove," he exclaimed, "Yes, it was I who mixed the

fireworks."

"And what would you do sir now if a sub., under your command, were to do

the same," enquired the Boy languidly.

"Confound you sir, if it were you I'd have you shot," he shouted.

Somehow the General seemed always to shout at the Boy.

"No, you wouldn't, General," said Sallie, giving the poor old boy a

sidelong glance that temporarily threw him off his balance.

"And why, may I ask?"

"Because I should ask you to let him off."

"Then," said the General with decision, "_I_ should deserve to be shot.

"An' is that Major alive now, sir?" queried Bindle.

"Who, Blaisby? Yes," replied the General; "but that's not his name. If

I were to tell you who he is and what he is doing to-day, you'd

understand the awful risk the country ran through the Commander-in-Chief

of India giving commands to rabbits instead of soldiers."

"I'm glad he got through," said Sallie meditatively.

"You can never keep a good man back," remarked the General in that

modified tone of voice he always adopted when speaking to Sallie.

"Wot's 'e goin' to do if 'e's got various veins in 'is legs, I wonder?"

I heard Bindle mutter as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe.

*CHAPTER XII*

*THE MATER*

Except when "roasting" Angell Herald, the Boy is not much given to

speech. Humped up in the easiest chair available, he will sit

apparently absorbed in the contemplation of his well-polished

finger-nails, or preoccupied with the shapeliness of his shoes and the

silkiness of his socks; yet his mind is keenly alert, as some of us

occasionally discover to our cost. A sudden laugh from those about him

will demonstrate that the Boy is awake and has scored a point, more

often than not at Angell Herald's expense.

There is something restful and refreshing in the fugitive smile that

seems to flicker across the Boy's face when, by accident, you catch his

eye. He is one of those intensely lovable and sympathetic beings who

seem constitutionally incapable of making enemies. As mischievous as a

puppy, he would regard it as an "awful rag" to hide a man's trousers

when he is late for parade. Then he would be "most frightfully sorry"

afterwards--and really mean it.

We all became much attached to him, and looked forward with concern to

the time when he would be drafted out to the front again. After the Loos

battle he had been attached to the depot of the Westshires at Wimbledon.

From Windover we learned a great deal about the Boy, who seemed

possessed of one unassailable conviction and one dominating weakness.

The conviction was that he was "a most awful ass" and "rather a rotter":

the weakness was "the Mater." He seldom spoke of her, but when he did a

softness would creep into his voice, and his eyes would lose their

customary look of amused indolence.

Mrs. Summers was something of an invalid, and whenever he could the Boy

would spend hours in wheeling her bath-chair about Kensington Gardens

and Hyde Park, or sitting with her at home playing "Patience." This he

would do, not from a sense of duty; but because of the pleasure it gave

him.

He seemed to go through life looking for things that would interest or

amuse "the Mater." From France he sent a stream of things, from

aluminium rings to a German machine-gun. There had been some trouble

with the Authorities over the machine-gun, which had been put on board a

French train and the carriage heavily prepaid. The thing had been held

up and enquiries instituted, which had resulted in the Boy paying a

visit to the orderly-room to explain to his C.O. what he meant by trying

to send Government property to S. Kensington.

"But, sir, we took it, and the men didn't want it," the Boy explained

ingenuously.

"Boy," said the Colonel, "In war there is only one thing personal to the

soldier, and that is his identity disc."

"I'm most awfully sorry, sir," said the Boy with heightened colour.

"Now look here Boy," said the Colonel, "If by chance you happen to

capture a battery of howitzers, I must beg of you for the honour of the

regiment not to send them home. Look at that!" He indicated a sheaf of

official-looking papers lying on the table before him. Between

Whitehall and G.H.Q. an almost hysterical exchange of official memoranda

had taken place.

"These are the results of your trying to send a German machine-gun to

your mother," and in spite of himself the Colonel's eyes smiled, and the

Boy saluted and withdrew. There the incident had ended, that is

officially; but out of it, however, grew a tradition. Whenever the 8th

Westshires captured anything particularly unwieldy, the standing joke

among the men was, "Better post it to the Kid's mother."

One day an enormously fat German prisoner was marched up to the Field

Post Office labelled for the Boy's mother. The Bosche, a good-humoured

fellow, appeared to enter heartily into the joke, not so the post-office

orderly, who threatened to report the post-corporal who had tendered the

"packet."

The morning following the taking of the B----n Farm after a desperate

fight, the Senior Major, then in command, was surprised to see an

enormous piece of cardboard fashioned in the shape of a label, attached

to the wall. addressed

+-------------------------------+

| MRS. SOMERS, |

| 860, Prince's Gate, |

| S. Kensington, |

| London, S.W. |

| With love |

| from the Kid. |

+-------------------------------+

Between men of the Westshires and their officers there was complete

understanding, and the Senior Major had smiled back at the grinning

faces that seemed to spring up all round him. Unfortunately the

Divisional Commander, a martinet of the old school who could not

assimilate the spirit of the new armies, had tactlessly chosen that

afternoon on which to inspect the captured position. He had gazed

fiercely at the label, demanding what the devil it meant, and without

waiting for a reply, had expressed himself in unequivocal terms upon

"damned buffoonery" and "keeping the men in hand." Finally he had

strutted off, his cheeks puffed out with indignation. That occurred

after the Boy's return to London.

Dick Little possessed an enormous bible with Gustave Dore's

illustrations, a strangely incongruous thing for him to own. One

evening the Boy dug it out from the chaos of volumes that Dick Little

calls his "library." For some time he turned over the leaves

industriously. I was puzzled to account for his interest in Dore's

impossible heights and unthinkable depths.

That night he staggered off with the Dore's anticipations of eternity

under his arm, which he had borrowed from Dick Little. Bindle watched

him in obvious surprise.

"'Andy little thing to read when yer strap-'angin' in a toobe," he

remarked drily.

"It's a bible," I explained.

"An' wot's Young 'Indenburg want with a bible?" enquired Bindle in

surprise.

"You've probably awakened in his young mind a thirst for theology,"

remarked Dare, who had joined us. But Bindle did not smile. He was

clearly puzzled.

On the following Sunday, Bindle tackled the Boy on the subject.

"Why jer go orf wi' that little pocket bible, sir?" he enquired.

The Boy flushed.

"I thought the Mater would like to see it," was the response, and Bindle

began to talk about pigeons as if he had not heard.

We had often asked Windover to describe the Boy's mother; but he had

always put us off, saying that he could never describe anybody, except

the Kaiser, and King Edward had done that before him.*

* Windover was evidently referring to King Edward's remark, "The fellow

is not a gentleman."

Sallie was greatly interested in the Boy's devotion to his mother, and

she lost no opportunity of drawing him out. At first he was shy and

uncommunicative; but when Sallie is set upon extracting anything from a

man, S. Anthony himself would have to capitulate.

From the scraps of conversation I overheard, I came to picture a son

full of tender solicitude and awkward devotion for a little white-haired

lady with a beautiful expression, a gentle voice and a smile that she

would leave behind as a legacy to her son.

I could see the old lady's pride at the sight of the red and blue ribbon

on the Boy's tunic, at the letter his C.O. had written to the "Old Dad,"

her thankfulness at his safe return.

We found ourselves wanting to meet this little white-haired old lady

with the smile of sunshine, and hear her welcome us in a gentle, but

rather tired voice.

She would be interested in the Night Club, concerned if we did not eat

of her dainty scones, or would it be shortbread, anxious that we make a

long call. There would be glances of meaning and affection exchanged

between her and the Boy, which we would strive not to intercept, and

feel self-conscious should we by chance do so. Then she would ask us to

come again, saying how glad she always was to see her boy's friends.

During the long talks that Sallie had with the Boy, Bindle used to

fidget aimlessly about, the picture of discontent. He always became a

little restive if Sallie showed too great an interest in the

conversation of any man but himself. It was Bindle in a new guise.

One evening the Boy, who arrived late, was greeted by Bindle with,

"'Ullo! sir, you doin' the Romeo stunt? as Mr. Angell 'Erald would say."

"The what, J.B.?" enquired the Boy innocently.

"I see you last Thursday at South Ken. with a bowkay as if you was goin'

to a weddin'. 'Ooo's yer lady friend, Mr. 'Indenburg?"

The Boy flushed scarlet.

"Mr. Bindle," said Sallie severely, who has intuitions, "I'm cross with

you."

"Wi' me, miss?" Bindle enquired in concerned surprise. "Wot 'ave I

done?"

"It's all right," broke in the Boy. "The flowers were for the Mater."

Bindle became strangely silent, for some time afterwards. Later he said

to me--

"'E seems fond of 'is mother."

"Who?" I enquired.

"Young 'Indenburg. I'm sorry for wot I said." Then he added

meditatively. "If I 'ad a kid I'd like 'im to grow up like 'im," and

Bindle jerked his thumb in the direction of where the Boy stood

listening to the General's views upon army discipline.

"Mr. Bindle," said Sallie who came up at that moment, having detached

herself from Angell Herald's saloon-bar civilities, "I'm going to see

Mrs. Somers on Wednesday and I shall tell her about your remark. _I_

think he's a dear."

"I'm sorry, miss," said Bindle with genuine contrition.

"She must be a very wonderful and beautiful old lady to inspire such

devotion."

"Oo, miss?"

"The Boy's mother," I murmured.

"I'd like to see 'er," said Bindle seriously, and we knew he meant it.

The Sunday following I asked Sallie about her visit to the Boy's mother,

and I was struck at the strangeness of her manner. It was obvious that

she did not wish to talk about it. I made several attempts, Bindle also

tried; but with equal unsuccess.

If Sallie is determined not to talk about a thing, nothing will drag it

out of her, and seeing that she had made up her mind I accordingly

desisted. Bindle saw for himself that it would be better to let the

matter drop.

"Funny thing 'er not wantin' to say anythink about it," he muttered.

We were both greatly puzzled to account for Sallie's strange behaviour.

I noticed that her eyes were often on the Boy, and in them was an

expression that I found baffling. Sometimes I thought it was pity, at

others tenderness.

It was two weeks later that the mystery was solved. I had invited

Bindle to tea in Kensington Gardens, and we had sat rather late

bestowing the caterer's cake and biscuits upon birds and gamins. In

this Bindle took great delight. The game was to convey a piece of cake,

or a biscuit, to a young urchin without being caught in the act by a

keen-eyed waitress.

"When she catches yer it's like bein' pinched wi' yer 'and in a bishop's

pocket," explained Bindle, which was rather a good description.

After tea we walked slowly through the Gardens. Suddenly Bindle

clutched my arm.

"Look, sir! Look!" he cried excitably, pointing to a path that led off

at right angles from the walk we were following. "It's Young

'Indenburg."

I saw approaching us the Boy, pushing a bath-chair, the occupant of

which was hidden by a black lace sunshade. Instinctively Bindle and I

turned down the path, for we knew that in that bath-chair was the

beautiful old lady who had given to us the Boy.

Suddenly the Boy looked up and saw us. He stooped down and said

something to the occupant of the bath-chair. A second later the

position of the black sunshade was altered and--several things seemed to

happen all at once. The Boy stopped, came round to the front of the

bath-chair and presented us, a strange tenderness alike in his voice and

expression as he did so, Bindle dropped his stick and I received a

shock.

Where was the beautiful, white-haired old lady, her smiling eyes, the

gentle lovable mouth----? I shuddered involuntarily, and after a few

minutes' exchange of pleasantries, during which I behaved like a

schoolboy and Bindle was absolutely dumb, I pleaded a pressing

engagement and we made our adieux.

For some minutes we walked on in silence. I seemed to see nothing but

that pinched and peevish face, to hear nothing but the querulous,

complaining voice.

So that was the Boy's mother. I turned to Bindle, curious to see the

effect upon him. I had never before seen him look so serious.

"I'm glad I can't remember my mother," he said, and that seemed to end

the matter. We never referred to it again. Somehow it would have

seemed disloyal to the Boy. Later in the evening, when the Night Club

was in session, the Boy said to me,

"I'm awfully glad you saw us to-day. I wanted you and J.B. to meet the

Mater."

There was on his face the same expression and in his voice the same

softness I had noticed in the afternoon. I caught Sallie's eye, and I

remembered her reticence.

"Then he must get it from the Old Dad after all," I murmured, and Sallie

nodded and passed on to a group at the other end of the room.

*CHAPTER XIII*

*THE ROMANCE OF A HORSEWHIPPING*

The more I saw of Jocelyn Dare the more I got to like him. Beneath the

superficialities of the poseur there was a nature that seemed oddly out

of keeping with the twentieth century. He was intended for the days of

chivalry and the clashing of spear against breast-plate. To his love of

children I have already referred, and with animals he was equally

gentle. I once saw him in Piccadilly, immaculately dressed as usual,

with his arms round the neck of a bus-horse that had fallen and was in

danger of being strangled by the collar.

Dare, Sallie, and Bindle became great friends, and would talk "animals"

by the hour together. Bindle would go further than the others, and

would discourse with affectionate regret of the "special sort o'

performin' fleas" he had once kept. At first Sallie would shrink from

these references; but when she saw that Bindle had been genuinely

attached to the little creatures, she braced herself up to their

occasional entry into the conversation.

"Have you noticed," Angell Herald once whispered to me, "how Bindle's

fleas seem to annoy Miss Carruthers?"

The whisper was loud and came during one of those unaccountable hushes

in the general talk. In consequence everybody heard. It was an awkward

moment, and Angell Herald became the colour of a beetroot.

It was Bindle who saved the situation by saying with regret in his

voice: "I lost 'em more'n a year ago, so that can't be."

Dare would often drop in upon me for half an hour's chat. If I were too

busy to talk, he would curl himself up in my arm-chair and become as

silent as a bird.

One night he was sitting thus when I aroused him from his reverie by

banging a stamp on an envelope with an air of finality that told him

work was over for that night.

"Finished?" he queried with a smile.

I nodded and lit a cigarette. I was feeling brain-weary and Dare, with

that ready sympathy of his which is almost feminine, seemed

instinctively to understand that I required my thoughts diverting from

the day's work.

"Ever horsewhip a man?" he enquired languidly as he reached for another

cigarette.

"No," I replied, scenting a story.

"Well, don't," was the reply.

Dare then proceeded to tell me the story of the one and only

horsewhipping in which he had participated. The story came as a

godsend, for I had nothing for the next meeting of the Night Club.

*I*

"If you intended to horsewhip a man, Walters, how would you begin?"

enquired Jocelyn Dare of his man one morning at breakfast.

Without so much as the fraction of a second's hesitation Walters placed

the omelette before his master, lifted the cover, gave a comprehensive

glance at the table to see that nothing was lacking, then in the most

natural manner in the world replied, "I should buy a whip, sir."

That was Walters all over. He is as incapable of surprise as water of

compression. He is practical to his finger-tips, that is what makes him

the most excellent of servants. I have met Walters and I use him when

Peake, my own man, evinces the least tendency to slackness. If Dare

were to take home an emu or an octopus as a household pet, Walters

would, as a matter of course, ring up the Zoological Gardens and enquire

as to the most desirable aliment for sustaining life in their respective

bodies. To Dare Walters is something between an inspiration and a

habit.

"Stop!" cried Dare, as Walters was about to leave the room. "This is a

matter of some importance and cannot be so lightly dismissed."

Walters returned to the table, readjusted the toast-rack at its proper

angle, and replaced the cover on what remained of the omelette. One of

Walters' most remarkable qualities is that, no matter how suddenly he

may be approached upon a subject, or how bizarre the subject itself, his

reply is always that of a man who has just been occupied in a careful

and deliberate analysis of the matter in question from its every

conceivable aspect.

"Well, having bought the whip," Dare queried as he took another piece of

toast, "how would you then proceed if you wanted to horsewhip a man?"

"I should never want to horsewhip anyone, sir. No one ever does," was

the unexpected reply.

Dare looked up at Walters' expressionless face.

"But," said Dare, "I have just told you that I want to horsewhip

someone. Will you have it that I am the only man who has ever wanted to

horsewhip another?"

"Begging your pardon, sir," said Walters. "But you do not really want to

horsewhip anyone."

Dare put down his fork and stared at Walters in interested surprise.

After a careful examination of his servant's features he remarked, "I

have never disguised from you, Walters, my admiration for your capacity

of transmuting eggs into omelettes, your unerring taste in neckwear,

your inspiration in trouserings, your knowledge of Burke and your

attainments as a compendium of knowledge upon the subtleties of

etiquette; but I think you might permit me to know my own feelings in

the matter of horsewhipping."

"I beg your pardon, sir," Walters' tone was deferential but firm. "I

was with Lord Beaulover when her Ladyship eloped with Mr. Jameson. His

Lordship was quite upset about it."

"But what has this got to do with horsewhipping?" questioned Dare.

"I was coming to that, sir," replied Walters evenly. "His Lordship was

so kind as to ask my opinion as to what he should do. His Lordship was

always very kind in consulting me upon his private affairs."

"And what did you advise?" queried Dare.

"I told him that the correct thing would be to horsewhip Mr. Jameson.

His Lordship protested that he was not angry with Mr. Jameson, but as a

matter of fact deeply indebted to him. We were speaking in strict

confidence, I should mention, sir."

"Of course," said Dare. "Go on, Walters."

"Well, sir, his Lordship eventually agreed that his duty to Society

demanded physical violence. He was always most punctilious in----"

"But I thought it was young Jameson who whipped Lord Beaulover," broke

in Dare.

"That is so, sir," replied Walters, "But his Lordship did not on this

occasion see the force of my arguments that he should practise

beforehand. He was confined to his bed for a week and suffered

considerable pain. I remember him saying to me:

"'Walters, never again.'

"'No, my Lord,' I replied.

"'I mean,' continued his Lordship, 'I'll never go against your advice

again, Walters, never!'

"And he never did, sir."

"Is that all you have to say upon the ethics of horsewhipping, Walters?"

Dare enquired as he proceeded to enjoy the omelette au jambon, in the

making of which Walters is an adept.

"It would be advisable to make careful preparation, sir," was Walters'

matter-of-fact reply. "There was the mishap of his Lordship."

"Yes," Dare mused as he poured out another cup of coffee; "there's

always that danger. Life is crammed with anti-climax."

"Yes, sir!"

"How would you go to work, Walters?" Dare questioned.

Without a moment's hesitation Walters replied, "I do not know, sir,

whether you have noticed that even battles now-a-days have to be

rehearsed."

"Ah!" broke in Dare, "you advise a repetition generale."

"The chief difficulty, sir," continued Walters, "is to get a good grip

of your man. May I ask, sir, who it is you intend to horsewhip?"

Dare looked quickly up at Walters. There was no curiosity in his face,

he evidently required the information for the purpose of reaching his

conclusions.

"Mr. Standish," Dare replied, watching Walters narrowly to see if he

showed surprise. Standish and his wife were at that time Dare's most

intimate friends, and they were constantly at his flat and Dare at

theirs.

Walters did not move a muscle.

"Mr. Standish has a very thick neck, sir," he remarked, "that makes it

more difficult."

Dare put down the coffee cup he was just raising to his lips and stared

at Walters.

"What on earth has that to do with it?" he exclaimed.

"It is more difficult to get a good grip of a man with a thick neck,

sir, than of one with a thin neck. Fortunately I have a thick neck," he

added imperturbably.

Walters has always been a great joy to Dare; but there are times when he

is also something of a trial. Dare suggested that he should explain

himself, which he proceeded to do.

According to Walters, rehearsal is the great educator. If he were asked

his advice as to how to run away with another man's wife, he would

insinuate that there must be a sort of dress-rehearsal. His creed is

that to a man of the world nothing must appear as a novelty. Breeding,

he would define as the faculty of doing anything and everything as if to

the action accustomed.

On the matter of horsewhipping, Dare learned much during the next ten

minutes, and by the time he had finished his breakfast he found himself

in full possession of all the necessary information as to how to

horsewhip a man. The thickness of his own neck, Walters appeared to

regard as the special provision of providence that his master might

practise upon him. Dare protested that it would hurt, and Walters

countered with a reference to the pile of old copies of _The Times_

awaiting a call from the Boy Scouts. With these he would pad himself

and instruct Dare in how, when and where to horsewhip a fellow being.

But for Walters, Dare confesses, he would have made a sorry mess of that

whipping. The whip seemed to get entangled in everything. It brought

down pictures, lifted chairs, demolished an electric light bracket, and

uprooted a fern. In short it seemed bewitched. Dare could get it

anywhere but upon Walters' person. When somewhat more practised, Dare

brought off a glorious cut upon Walters' right leg, which set him

hopping about the room in silent agony. Greatly concerned Dare

apologised profusely.

"It was my own fault, sir," was Walters' reply as he proceeded to bind a

small mat round each leg. "I omitted all protection below the knee."

After a week's incessant practice upon Walters' long-suffering body and

patient spirit, Dare was given to understand that he might regard

himself as having successfully passed out of his noviciate.

When Dare confided to Jack Carruthers what he intended to do, Carruthers

burst out with--

"Good heavens! Why, Standish is your best pal and his wife----"

"Had better be left out of the picture as far as you're concerned, old

man," had been the reply. "The modern habit of linking thought to

speech irritates me intensely: it shows a deplorable lack of half

tones."

Carruthers apologised.

"But why do you want to whip Millie Standish's husband?" Carruthers

demanded, pulling vigorously at his pipe, a trick of his when excited.

According to Dare, Carruthers is sometimes hopelessly English, not in

his ideas; but in his method of expressing them--his ideas themselves

are Continental. Dare told him that by saying Millie Standish's

husband, instead of Standish, he implied that he, Dare, was in love with

another man's wife.

Carruthers had blurted out that of course he was, everybody knew it.

Dare pointed out that he had got mixed in his tenses. To _be_ in love

with a married woman is apt to compromise her: to _have been_ in love

with her, merely adds to her interest and importance in the eyes of her

contemporaries.

That is Dare all over. He would stop his own funeral service to point a

moral, or launch an epigram.

Standish and Dare had been close friends until Standish fell insanely in

love with the young woman who dispensed "tonics" in the saloon-bar of

"The Belted Earl." Standish was a bizarre creature at times, and, to

use Dare's own words, "what must the braying jackass do but endeavour to

cultivate Fay's (that was his inamorata's classic name) mind, which

existed nowhere outside the radius of his own mystical imagination."

On her nights out he took her to ballad concerts, when her soul yearned

for the Pictures; and to University extension lectures, when her whole

being craved for the Oxford.

When she complained of the long hours and the "sinking" she felt between

meals, he advised her to eat raisins, and descanted sagely upon the

sustaining properties of sugar. No one will ever know how he got

acquainted with her, for drink made him either sick or silly. However,

every evening between six and seven Standish ran into "The Belted Earl"

on his way home, consumed a small lemonade, and handed Fay her morrow's

ration of raisins.

He confided the whole story to Dare, he was bursting with it. Dare gave

him sage counsel built up upon the foundation of secrecy, but

instinctively he knew that it was impossible with a man like Standish.

One night Standish insisted upon Dare accompanying him into the

saloon-bar of "The Belted Earl" where he was formally introduced to what

Dare described as "a big-busted creature, with a head like a blonde

horse and teeth suggestive of a dentist's show-case."

Fay's conversation seemed to consist mainly of three phrases, which are

given in the order of the frequency with which they escaped her

(1) Oh! go on, do!

(2) I'm surprised at you!

(3) Aren't you sarcastic!

Standish strove to be light in his talk, possibly with the object of

matching his beloved's hair; but, like that peroxide-exotic, his

thoughts were rooted in darker foundations.