The Baron expressed no further wish for instruction, but, instead, he
began to show a desire for society.
“Doesn’t one fool suffice?” his friend asked.
“Ach, yes, my vise fool; ha, ha, ha! Bot sometimes I haf ze craving for
peoples, museec, dancing—in vun vord, society, Bonker!”
“But this is not the season, Baron. You wouldn’t mix with any but the best
society, would you?”
“Zere are some nobles in town. In my paper I see Lord zis, Duke of zat, in
London. Pairhaps my introdogtions might be here now.”
This suggestion seemed to strike Mr Bunker unfavourably.
“My company is beginning to pall, is it, Baron?”
“Ach, no, dear Bonker! I vould merely go out jost vunce or tvice. Haf you
no friends now in town?”
An idea seemed to seize Mr Bunker.
“Let me see the paper,” he said.
After perusing it carefully for a little, he at last exclaimed in a tone
of pleased discovery, “Hullo! I see that Lady Tulliwuddle is giving a
reception and dance to-night. Most of the smart people in town just now
are sure to be there. Would you care to go, Baron?”
“Ach, surely,” said the Baron, eagerly. “Bot haf you been invited,
Bonker?”
“Oh, I used to have a standing invitation to Lady Tulliwuddle’s dances,
and I’m certain she would be glad to see me again.”
“Can you take me?”
“Of course, my dear Baron, she will be honoured.”
“Goot!” cried the Baron. “Ve shall go.”
Mr Bunker explained that it was the proper thing to arrive very late, and
so it was not until after twelve o’clock that they left the Hôtel
Mayonaise for the regions of Belgravia. The Baron, primed with a bottle of
champagne, and arrayed in a costume which Mr Bunker had assured him was
the very latest extreme of fashion, and which included a scarlet watered
silk waistcoat, a pair of white silk socks, and a lavender tie, was in a
condition of cheerfulness verging closely on hilarity. Mr Bunker, that, as
he said, he might better serve as a foil to his friend’s splendour, went
more inconspicuously dressed, but was likewise well charged with
champagne. He too was in his happiest vein, and the vision of the Baron’s
finery appeared to afford him peculiar gratification.
Their hansom stopped in front of a large and gaily lit-up mansion, with an
awning leading to the door, and a cluster of carriages and footmen by the
kerbstone. They entered, and having divested themselves of their coats, Mr
Bunker proposed that they should immediately seek the supper-room.
“Bot should I not be first introduced to mine hostess?” asked the Baron.
“My dear Baron! a formal reception of the guests is entirely foreign to
English etiquette.”
“Zo? I did not know zat.”
The supper-room was crowded, and having secured a table with some
difficulty, Mr Bunker entered immediately into conversation with a
solitary young gentleman who was consuming a plate of oysters. Before they
had exchanged six sentences the young man had entirely succumbed to Mr
Bunker’s address, aided possibly by the young man’s supper.
“Permit me to introduce my friend the Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg, a
nobleman strange as yet to England, but renowned throughout his native
land alike for his talents and his lofty position,” said Mr Bunker.
“Ach, my good friend,” exclaimed the Baron, grasping the young man’s hand,
“das ist Bonker’s vat you call nonsense; bot I am delighted, zehr
delighted, to meet you, and if you gom to Bavaria you most shoot vid me!
Bravo! Ha!”
From which it may be gathered that the Baron was in a genial humour.
“Who is that girl?” asked Mr Bunker, pointing to an extremely pretty
damsel just leaving the room.
“Oh, that’s my cousin, Lady Muriel Hilton. She’s thought rather pretty, I
believe,” answered the young man.
“Do you mind introducing me?”
“Certainly,” said their new friend. “Come along.”
As they were passing through the room a little incident occurred that, if
the Baron’s perceptions had been keener, might have given him cause for
some speculation. Two men standing by the door looked hard at Mr Bunker,
and then at each other, and as the Baron passed them he heard one say, “It
looks devilish like him.”
“He has shaved, then,” said the other.
“Evidently,” replied the first speaker; “but I thought he was unlikely to
appear in any society for some time.”
They both laughed, and the Baron heard no more.
When they reached the ballroom the band was striking up a polka, and
presently Mr Bunker, with his accustomed grace, was tearing round the room
with Lady Muriel, while the Baron—the delight of all eyes in his red
waistcoat—led out her sister. In a very short time the other dancers found
the Baron and his friend’s onslaught so vigorous that prudence compelled
them to take shelter along the wall, and from a safe distance admire the
evolutions of these two mysterious guests.
Mr Bunker was enlivening the monotony of the polka by the judicious
introduction of hornpipe steps, while the Baron, his coat-tails high above
his head, shouted and stamped in his wild career.
“Do stop for a minute, Baron,” gasped his fair partner.
“Himmel, nein!” roared the Baron. “I haf gom here for to dance! Ha,
Bonker, ha!”
At last Lady Muriel had to stop through sheer exhaustion, but Mr Bunker,
merely letting her go, pursued his solitary way, double-shuffling and
kicking unimpeded.
The Baron stopped, breathless, to admire him. Round and round he went, the
only figure in the middle of the room, his arms akimbo, his feet
rat-tatting and kicking to the music, while high above the band resounded
his friend’s shouts of “Bravo, Bonker! Wunderschön! Gott in himmel,
higher, higher!” till at length, missing the wall in an attempt to find
support, the Baron dropped with a thud into a sitting posture and
continued his demonstrations from the floor.
Meanwhile their alarmed hostess was holding a hasty consultation with her
husband, and when the music at last stopped and Mr Bunker was advancing
with his most courteous air towards his late partner, Lord Tulliwuddle
stepped up to him and touched his arm.
“May I speak to you, sir?” he said.
“Certainly,” replied Mr Bunker. “I shall be honoured. Excuse me for one
moment, Lady Muriel.”
“At whose invitation have you come here to-night?” demanded his host,
sternly.
“I have the pleasure of addressing Lord Tulliwuddle, have I not?”
“You have, sir.”
Mr Bunker bent towards him and whispered something in his ear.
“From Scotland Yard?” exclaimed his lordship.
“Hush!” said Mr Bunker, glancing cautiously round the room, and then he
added, with an air of impressive gravity, “You have a bathroom on the
third floor, I believe?”
“I have,” replied his host in great surprise.
“Has it a bell?”
“No, I believe not.”
“Ah, I thought so. If you will favour me by coming up-stairs for a minute,
my Lord, you will avoid a serious private scandal. Say nothing about it at
present to any one.”
In blank astonishment and some alarm Lord Tulliwuddle went up with him to
the third floor, where the house was still and the sounds of revelry
reached faintly.
“What does this mean, sir?” he asked.
“If I am right in my conjectures you will need no explanation from me, my
Lord.”
His lordship opened a door, and turning on an electric light, revealed a
small and ordinary-looking bathroom.
“Ha, no bell—excellent!” said Mr Bunker.
“What are you doing with the key?” exclaimed his host.
“Good night, my Lord. I shall tell them to send up breakfast at nine,”
said Mr Bunker, and stepping quickly out, he shut and locked the door.
A minute later he was back in the ballroom looking anxiously for the
Baron, but that nobleman was nowhere to be seen.
“The devil!” he said to himself. “Can they have tackled him too?”
But as he ran downstairs a gust of cheerful laughter set his mind at ease.
“Ha, ha, ha! Vere is old Bonker? He also vill shoot vid me!”
“Here I am, my dear Baron,” he exclaimed gaily, as he tracked the voice
into the supper-room.
“Ach, mine dear Bonker!” cried the Baron, folding him in his muscular
embrace, “I haf here met friends, ve are merry! Ve drink to Bavaria, to
England, to everyzing!”
The “friends” consisted of two highly amused young men and two
half-scandalised, half-hysterical ladies, into the midst of whose
supper-table the Baron had projected himself with infectious hilarity.
They all looked up with great curiosity at Mr Bunker, but that gentleman
was not in the least put about. He bowed politely to the table generally,
and took his friend by the arm.
“It is time we were going, Baron, I’m afraid,” he said.
“Vat for? Ah, not yet, Bonker, not yet. I am enjoying myself down to ze
floor. I most dance again, Bonker, jost vunce more,” pleaded the Baron.
“My dear Baron, the noblemen of highest rank must always leave first, and
people are talking of going now. Come along, old man.”
“Ha, is zat so?” said the Baron. “Zen vill I go. Good night!” he cried,
waving his hand to the room generally. “Ven you gom to Bavaria you most
all shoot vid me. Bravo, my goot Bonker! Ha! ha!”
As they turned away from the table, one of the young men, who had been
looking very hard at Mr Bunker, rose and touched his sleeve.
“I say, aren’t you——?” he began.
“Possibly I am,” interrupted Mr Bunker, “only I haven’t the slightest
recollection of the fact.”
An astonished lady was indicated by Mr Bunker as the hostess, and to her
the Baron bade an affectionate adieu. He handed a sovereign to the
footman, embraced the butler, and as they sped eastwards in their hansom,
a rousing chorus from the two friends awoke the echoes of Piccadilly.
“Bravo, Bonker! Himmel, I haf enjoyed myself!” sighed the exhausted Baron.