On arriving at his own residence, Swinton's servants scarcely recognised
him. It was as much as his own wife could do. There were several dark
weals traced diagonally across his cheeks, with a purple shading around
his left "peeper"; for in punishing the spy, Maynard had made use not
only of an implement of the hunting-field, but one more peculiar to the
"ring."
With a skin full of sore bones, and many ugly abrasions, Swinton
tottered indoors, to receive the sympathies of his beloved Fan.
She was not alone in bestowing them. Sir Robert Cottrell had dropped in
during his absence; and the friendly baronet appeared as much pained as
if the sufferer had been his brother.
He had less difficulty in counterfeiting sorrow. His chagrin at the
quick return supplied him with an inspiration.
"What is it, my dear Swinton? For heaven's sake tell us what has
happened to you?"
"You see, Sir Robert," answered the maltreated man.
"I see that you've suffered some damage. But who did it?"
"Footpads in the Park. I was driving around it to get to the east side.
You know that horrid place this side of the Zoo Gardens?"
"Oh, yes," answered Sir Robert.
"Well; I'd got round there, when all at once the cab was stopped by half
a score of scoundrels, and I was instantly pulled out into the road.
While half of them took hold of the driver, the other half proceeded to
search my pockets. Of course I resisted; and you see what's come of it.
They'd have killed me but for a policeman who chanced to come up, after
I'd done my best, and was about getting the worst of it. They then ran
off, leaving me in this precious condition--damn them!"
"Damn them!" said Sir Robert, repeating the anathema with pretended
indignation. "_Do_ you think there's no chance of your being able to
identify them?"
"Not the slightest. The fog was so thick you could have cut it with a
knife; and they ran off, before the policeman could get hold of any one
of them. In his long cumbersome coat it would have been simple nonsense
to follow. He said so; and of course I could only climb back into my
cab and drive home here. It's lucky I had a cab; for, damme, if I
believe I could have walked it?"
"By Jove! you do appear damaged!" said the sympathising baronet. "Don't
you think you had better go to bed?"
Sir Robert had a design in the suggestion.
"Oh, no," rejoined Swinton, who, despite the confusion of his ideas,
perfectly understood it. "I'm not so bad as that. I'll take a lie-down
on this sofa; and you, Fan, order me some brandy and water! You'll join
me, Sir Robert I'm still able to smoke a cigar with you."
"You'd better have an oyster to your eye?" said the baronet, drawing out
his glass and scrutinising the empurpled peeper. "It will keep down
that `mouse' that seems to be creeping out underneath it. 'Twill help
to take out the colour."
"A devilish good idea! Fan, send one of the servants for an oyster.
Stay; while they're about it they may as well bring a couple of dozen.
Could you eat some, Sir Robert?"
Sir Robert thought he could. He did not much care for them, but it
would be an excuse to procrastinate his stay. Perhaps something might
turn up to secure him a _tete-a-tete_ with Mrs Swinton. He had just
commenced one that was promising to be agreeable, when so unexpectedly
interrupted.
"We may as well make a supper of it?" suggested Swinton, who, having
already taken a gulp of the brandy and water, was feeling himself again.
"Let the servant order three dozen, my dear. That will be a dozen for
each of us."
"No, it won't," jokingly rejoined the baronet. "With three dozen, some
of us will have to be contented with eleven."
"How so, Sir Robert?"
"You forget the oyster that is to go to your eye. And now I look more
carefully at that adolescent mouse, I think it will require at least a
couple of the bivalves to give it a proper covering."
Swinton laughed at the baronet's ready wit. How could he help it?
"Well, let them be baker's dozen," he said. "That will cover
everything." Three baker's dozen were ordered and brought Fan saw to
them being stewed in the kitchen, and placed with appropriate
"trimmings" on the table; while the biggest of them, spread upon a white
rag, was laid against her husband's eye, and there snugly bandaged.
It blinded that one eye. Stingy as he was, Sir Robert would have given
a sovereign had it shut the sight out of both!
But it did not; and the three sate down to supper, his host keeping the
sound eye upon him.
And so carefully was it kept upon him, that the baronet felt bored with
the situation, and wished himself back at his club.
He thought of making some excuse to escape from it; and then of staying,
and trying to make the best of it. An idea occurred to him.
"This brute sometimes gets drunk," was his mental soliloquy, as he
looked across the table at his host with the Cyclopean eye. "If I can
make him so, there might be a chance of getting a word with her. I
wonder whether it can be done? It can't cost much to try. Half a dozen
of champagne ought to do it."
"I say, Swinton!" he said aloud, addressing his host in a friendly,
familiar manner. "I never eat stewed oysters without champagne. Have
you got any in the house? Excuse me for asking the question! It's a
positive impertinence."
"Nothing of the sort, Sir Robert. I'm only sorry to say there's not a
single bottle of champagne in my cellar. We've been here such a short
while, and I've not had time to stock it. But no matter for that I can
send out, and get--"
"No!" said the baronet, interrupting him. "I shan't permit that; unless
you allow me to pay for it."
"Sir Robert!"
"Don't be offended, my dear fellow. That isn't what I mean. The reason
why I've made the offer is because I know you can't get _real_ champagne
in this neighbourhood--not nearer than Winckworth's. Now, it so
happens, that they are my wine merchants. Let me send to them. It
isn't very far. Your servant, in a hansom cab, can fetch the stuff, and
be back in fifteen minutes. But to get the right stuff he must order it
for _me_."
Sir Robert's host was not the man to stand upon punctilios. Good
champagne was not so easily procured--especially in the neighbourhood of
Saint John's Wood. He knew it; and, surrendering his scruples, he rang
the bell for the servant, permitting Sir Robert to write out the order.
It was _carte blanche_, both for the cab and champagne.
In less than twenty minutes the messenger returned, bringing back with
him a basket of choice "_Cliquot_."
In five minutes more a bottle was uncorked; and the three sat quaffing
it, Swinton, his wife, and the stingy nobleman who stood treat--not
stingy now, over that which promised him a pleasure.