GUARDIAN ANGELS
At seven o’clock Captain Baster took his leave to dine at his inn. Of
his own accord he promised faithfully to return at nine sharp. He left
the house a proud and happy man, for he knew that he had been shining
before Mrs. Dangerfield with uncommon brilliance.
He was not by any means blind to her charm and beauty, for though she
was four years older than he, she contrived never to look less than two
years younger, and that without any aid from the cosmetic arts. But he
chiefly saw in her an admirable ladder to those social heights to which
his ardent soul aspired to climb. She had but to return to the polite
world from which the loss of her husband and her straightened
circumstances had removed her, to find herself a popular woman with a
host of friends in the exalted circles Captain Baster burned to adorn.
Yet it must not for a moment be supposed that he was proposing a
mercenary marriage for her; he was sure that she loved him, for he felt
rather than knew that with women he was irresistible.
It was not love, however, that knitted Mrs. Dangerfield’s brow in a
troubled frown as she dressed; nor was it love that caused her to
select to wear that evening one of her oldest and dowdiest gowns, a
gown with which she had never been truly pleased. The troubled air did
not leave her face during dinner; and it seemed to affect the Twins,
for they, too, were gloomy. They were pleased, indeed, with the
beginning of the campaign, but still very doubtful of success in the
end. Where their interests were concerned their mother was of a
firmness indeed hard to move.
Moreover, she kept looking at them in an odd considering fashion that
disturbed them, especially at the Terror. Erebus in a pretty light
frock of her mother’s days of prosperity, which had been cut down and
fitted to her, was a sight to brighten any one’s eyes; but the sleeves
of the dark coat which the Terror wore on Sundays and on gala evenings,
bared a length of wrist distressing to a mother’s eye.
The fine high spirits of Captain Baster were somewhat dashed by his
failure to find his keys and open his portmanteau, since he would be
unable to ravish Mrs. Dangerfield’s eye that evening by his
distinguished appearance in the unstained evening dress of an English
gentleman. After a long hunt for the mislaid keys, in which the harried
staff of The Plough took part, he made up his mind that he must appear
before her, with all apologies, in the tweed suit he was wearing. It
was a bitter thought, for in a tweed suit he could not really feel a
conquering hero after eight o’clock at night.
Then he put his foot into a dress-boot full of cold water. It was a
good water-tight boot; and it had faithfully retained all of the water
its lining had not soaked up. The gallant officer said a good deal
about its retentive properties to the mute boot.
At dinner be learned from Mrs. Pittaway that the obliging Terror had
himself fetched the cigarette-case from his bedroom. A flash of
intuition connected the Terror with the watered boot; and he begged
her, with loud acerbity, never again to let any one—any one!!—enter his
bedroom. Mrs. Pittaway objected that slops could not be emptied, or
beds made without human intervention. He begged her, not perhaps
unreasonably, not to talk like a fool; and she liked him none the
better for his directness.
Food always soothed him; and he rose from his dinner in better spirits.
As he rose from it, the Terror, standing among the overarching trees
which made the muddy patch in the lane so dark, was drawing a
clothes-line tight. It ran through the hedge that hid him to the hedge
on the other side of the lane. There it was fastened to a stout stake;
and he was fastening it to the lowest rail of a post and rails. At its
tightest it rose a foot above the roadway just at the beginning of the
mud-patch. It was at its tightest.
Heartened by his dinner and two extra whiskies and sodas, Captain
Baster set out for Colet House at a brisk pace. As he moved through the
bracing autumn air, his spirits rose yet higher; that night—that very
night he would crown Mrs. Dangerfield’s devotion with his avowal of an
answering passion. He pressed forward swiftly like a conqueror; and
like a conqueror he whistled. Then he found the clothes-line, suddenly,
pitched forward and fell, not heavily, for the mud was thick, but
sprawling. He rose, oozy and dripping, took a long breath, and the
welkin shuddered as it rang.
The Terror did not shudder; he was going home like the wind.
Having sent Erebus to bed at a few minutes to nine Mrs. Dangerfield
waited restlessly for her tardy guest, her charming face still set in a
troubled frown. Her woman’s instinct assured her that Captain Baster
would propose that night; and she dreaded it. Two or three times she
rose and walked up and down the room; and when she saw her deep, dark,
troubled eyes in the two old, almost giltless round mirrors, they did
not please her as they usually did. Those eyes were one of the sources
from which had sprung Captain Baster’s attraction to her.
But there were the Twins; she longed to do so many useful, needful
things for them; and marriage with Captain Baster was the way of doing
them. She told herself that he would make an excellent stepfather and
husband; that under his unfortunate manner were a good heart and
sterling qualities. She assured herself that she had the power to draw
them out; once he was her husband, she would change him. But still she
was ill at ease. Perhaps, in her heart of hearts, she was doubtful of
her power to make a silk purse out of rhinoceros hide.
When at last a note came from The Plough to say that he was
unfortunately prevented from coming that evening, but would come next
morning to take her for a walk, she was filled with so extravagant a
relief that it frightened her. She sat down and wrote out a telegram to
her brother, rang for old Sarah, their trusty hard-working maid, and
bade her tell the Terror, who had slipped quietly upstairs to bed at
one minute to nine, to send it off in the morning. She did not wish to
take the chance of not waking and despatching it as early as possible.
She must have advice; and Sir Maurice Falconer was not only a shrewd
man of the world, but he would also advise her with the keenest regard
for her interests. She tried not to hope that he would find marriage
with Captain Baster incompatible with them.
Captain Baster awoke in less than his usual cheerfulness. He thought
for a while of the Terror and boots and mud with a gloomy unamiability.
Then he rose and betook himself to his toilet. In the middle of it he
missed his shaving-brush. He hunted for it furiously; he could have
sworn that he had taken it out of his portmanteau. He did swear, but
not to any definite fact. There was nothing for it: he must expose his
tender chin to the cruel razor of a village barber.
Then he disliked the look of his tweed suit; all traces of mud had not
vanished from it. In one short night it had lost its pristine
freshness. This and the ordeal before his chin made his breakfast
gloomy; and soon after it he entered the barber’s shop with the air of
one who has abandoned hope. Later he came out of it with his roving
black eye full of tears of genuine feeling; his scraped chin was
smarting cruelly and unattractive in patches—red patches. At the door
the breathless, excited and triumphant maid of the inn accosted him
with the news that she had just found his keys and his shaving-brush
under the mattress of his bed. He looked round the village of Little
Deeping blankly; it suddenly seemed to him a squalid place.
None the less it was a comforting thought that he would not be put to
the expense of having his portmanteau broken open and fitted with a new
lock, for his great wealth had never weakened the essential thriftiness
of his soul. Half an hour later, in changed tweeds but with unchanged
chin, he took his way to Colet House, thinking with great unkindness of
his future stepson. As he drew near it he saw that that stepson was
awaiting him at the garden gate; nearer still he saw that he was
awaiting him with an air of ineffable serenity.
The Terror politely opened the gate for him, and with a kind smile
asked him if he had slept well.
The red blood of the Basters boiled in the captain’s veins, and he said
somewhat thickly: “Look here, my lad, I don’t want any more of your
tricks! You play another on me, and I’ll give you the soundest licking
you ever had in your life!”
The serenity on the Terror’s face broke up into an expression of the
deepest pain: “Whatever’s the matter?” he said in a tone of amazement.
“I thought you loved a joke. You said you did—yesterday—at tea.”
“You try it on again!” said Captain Baster.
“Now, whatever has put your back up?” said the Terror in a tone of even
greater amazement. “Was it the apple-pie bed, or the lost keys, or the
water in the boot, or the clothes-line across the road?”
It was well that the Terror could spring with a cat’s swiftness:
Captain Baster’s boot missed him by a hair’s breadth.
The Terror ran round the house, in at the back door and up to the
bedroom of Erebus.
“Waxy?” he cried joyously. “He’s black in the face! I told him he said
he loved a joke.”
Erebus only growled deep down in her throat. She was bitterly aggrieved
that she had not had a hand in Captain Baster’s downfall the night
before. The Terror had awakened her to tell her joyfully of his
glorious exploit and of the shuddering welkin.
He paid no heed to the rumbling of her discontent; he said: “Now, you
quite understand. You’ll stick to them like a leech. You won’t give him
any chance of talking to Mum alone. It’s most important.”
“I understand. But what’s that? Anybody could do it,” she said in a
tone of extreme bitterness. “It’s you that’s getting all the real fun.”
“But you’ll be able to make yourself beastly disagreeable, if you’re
careful,” said the Terror.
“Of course, I shall. But what’s that? I tell you what it is: I’m going
to have my proper share of the real fun. The first chance I get, I’m
going to stone him—so there!” said Erebus fiercely.
“All right. But it doesn’t seem quite the thing for a girl to do,” said
the Terror in a judicial tone.
“Rats!” said Erebus.
It was well that Mrs. Dangerfield kept Captain Baster waiting; it gave
the purple tinge, which was heightening his floridness somewhat
painfully, time to fade. When she did come to him, he was further
annoyed by the fact that Erebus came too, and with a truculent air
announced her intention of accompanying them. Mrs. Dangerfield was
surprised; Erebus seldom showed any taste for such a gentle occupation.
Also she was relieved; she did not want Captain Baster to propose
before she had taken counsel with her brother.
Captain Baster started in a gloomy frame of mind; he did not try to
hide from himself the fact that Mrs. Dangerfield had lost some of her
charm: she was the mother of the Terror. He found, too, that his
instinctive distaste for the company of Erebus was not ungrounded. She
was a nuisance; she would talk about wet boots; the subject seemed to
fascinate her. Then, when at last he recovered his spirits, grew once
more humorous, and even rose to the proposing point, there was no
getting rid of her. She was impervious to hints; she refused, somewhat
pertly, to pause and gather the luscious blackberries. How could a man
be his humorous self in these circumstances? He felt that his humor was
growing strained, losing its delightful lightness.
Then the accident: it was entirely Erebus’ own fault (he could swear
it) that he tripped over her foot and pitched among those infernal
brambles. Her howls of anguish were all humbug: he had not hurt her
ankle (he could swear it); there was not a tear. The moment he offered,
furiously, to carry her, she walked without a vestige of a limp.
Mrs. Dangerfield had no right to look vexed with him; if one brought up
one’s children like that—well. Certainly she was losing her charm; she
was the mother of Erebus also.
His doubt, whether the mother of such children was the right kind of
wife for him, had grown very serious indeed, when, as they drew near
Colet House, a slim, tall young man of an extreme elegance and
distinction came through the garden gate to meet them.
With a cry of “Uncle Maurice!” the crippled Erebus dashed to meet him
with the light bounds of an antelope. Captain Baster could hardly
believe his eyes; he knew the young man by sight, by name and by
repute. It was Sir Maurice Falconer, a man he longed to boast his
friend. With his aid a man might climb to the highest social peaks.
When Mrs. Dangerfield introduced him as her brother (he had never
dreamed it) he could not believe his good fortune. But why had he not
learned this splendid fact before? Why had he been kept in the dark? He
did not reflect that he had been so continuously busy making
confidences about himself, his possessions and his exploits to her that
he had given her the smallest opportunities of telling him anything
about herself.
But he was not one to lose a golden opportunity; he set about making up
for lost time with a will; and never had he so thoroughly demonstrated
his right to the name of Pallybaster. His friendliness was
overwhelming. Before the end of lunch he had invited Sir Maurice to
dine with him at his mess, to dine with him at two of his clubs, to
shoot with him, to ride a horse of his in the forthcoming regimental
steeplechases, to go with him on a yachting cruise in the
Mediterranean.
All through the afternoon his friendliness grew and grew. He could not
bear that any one else should have a word with Sir Maurice. The Twins
were intolerable with their interruptions, their claims on their
uncle’s attention. They disgusted Captain Baster: when he became their
stepfather, it would be his first task to see that they learned a
respectful silence in the presence of their elders.
He never gave a thought to his proposal; he sought no occasion to make
it. Captain Baster’s love was of his life a thing apart, but his social
aspirations were the chief fact of his existence. Besides, there was no
haste; he knew that Mrs. Dangerfield was awaiting his avowal with a
passionate eagerness; any time would do for that. But he must seize the
fleeting hour and bind Sir Maurice to himself by the bond of the
warmest friendship.
Again and again he wondered how Sir Maurice could give his attention to
the interrupting exacting Twins, when he had a man of the world,
humorous, knowing, wealthy, to talk to. He tried to make opportunities
for him to escape from them; Sir Maurice missed those opportunities; he
did not seem to see them. In truth Captain Baster was a little
disappointed in Sir Maurice: he did not find him frankly responsive:
polite—yes; indeed, politeness could go no further. But he lacked
warmth. After all he had not pinned him down to the definite acceptance
of a single invitation.
When, at seven o’clock, he tore himself away with the hearty assurance
that he would be back at nine sharp, he was not sure that he had made a
bosom friend. He felt that the friendship might need clenching.
As the front door shut behind him, Sir Maurice wiped his brow with the
air of one who has paused from exhausting toil: “I feel
sticky—positively sticky,” he said. “Oh, Erebus, you do have gummy
friends! I thought we should never get rid of him. I thought he’d stuck
himself to us for the rest of our natural lives.”
Mrs. Dangerfield smiled; and the Terror said in a tone of deep meaning:
“That’s what he’s up to.”
“He’s not a friend of mine!” cried Erebus hotly.
“We call him the Cruncher—because of his teeth,” said the Terror.
“Then beware, Erebus—beware! You are young and possibly savory,” said
Sir Maurice.
“You children had better go and get ready for dinner,” said Mrs.
Dangerfield.
The Twins went to the door. On the threshold Erebus turned and said:
“It’s Mum he wants to crunch up—not me.”
The bolt shot, she fled through the door.
Sir Maurice looked at his sister and said softly:
“Oho! I see—heroism. That was what you wanted to consult me about.”
Then he laid his hand on her shoulder affectionately and added: “It
won’t do, Anne—it won’t do at all. I am convinced of it.”
“Do you think so?” said Mrs. Dangerfield in a tone in which
disappointment and relief were very nicely blended.
“Think? I’m sure of it,” said Sir Maurice in a tone of complete
conviction.
“But the children; he could do so much for the children,” pleaded Mrs.
Dangerfield.
“He could, but he wouldn’t. That kind of bounder never does any one any
good but himself. No, no; the children are right in calling him the
Cruncher. He would just crunch you up; and it is a thousand times
better for them to have an uncrunched mother than all the money that
ever came out of pickles.”
“Well, you know best. You do understand these things,” said Mrs.
Dangerfield; and she sighed.
“I do understand Basters,” said Sir Maurice in a confident tone.
Mrs. Dangerfield ran up-stairs to dress, on the light feet of a girl; a
weight oppressive, indeed, had been lifted from her spirit.
Dinner was a very bright and lively meal, though now and again a grave
thoughtfulness clouded the spirits of Erebus. Once Sir Maurice asked
her the cause of it. She only shook her head.
Captain Baster ate his dinner in a sizzling excitement: he knew that he
had made a splendid first impression; he was burning to deepen it. But
on his eager way back to Colet House, he walked warily, feeling before
him with his stick for clotheslines. He came out of the dark lane into
the broad turf road, which runs across the common to the house, with a
strong sense of relief and became once more his hearty care-free self.
There was not enough light to display the jaunty air with which he
walked in all its perfection; but there seemed to be light enough for
more serious matters, for a stone struck him on the thigh with
considerable force. He had barely finished the jump of pained surprise
with which he greeted it, when another stone whizzed viciously past his
head; then a third struck him on the shoulder.
With the appalling roar of a bull of Bashan the gallant officer dashed
in the direction whence, he judged, the stones came. He was just in
time to stop a singularly hard stone with his marble brow. Then he
found a gorse-bush (by tripping over a root) a gorse-bush which seemed
unwilling to release him from its stimulating, not to say prickly,
embrace. As he wallowed in it another stone found him, his ankle-bone.
He wrenched himself from the embrace of the gorse-bush, found his feet
and realized that there was only one thing to do. He tore along the
turf road to Colet House as hard as he could pelt. A stone struck the
garden gate as he opened it. He did not pause to ring; he opened the
front door, plunged heavily across the hall into the drawing-room. The
Terror formed the center of a domestic scene; he was playing draughts
with his Uncle Maurice.
Captain Baster glared at him with unbelieving eyes and gasped: “I—I
made sure it was that young whelp!”
This sudden violent entry of a bold but disheveled hussar produced a
natural confusion; Mrs. Dangerfield, Sir Maurice and the Terror sprang
to their feet, asking with one voice what had befallen him.
Captain Baster sank heavily on to a chair and instantly sprang up from
it with a howl as he chanced on several tokens of the gorse-bush’s
clinging affection.
“I’ve been stoned—stoned by some hulking scoundrels on the common!” he
cried; and he displayed the considerable bump rising on his marble
brow.
Mrs. Dangerfield was full of concern and sympathy; Sir Maurice was
cool, interested but cool; he did not blaze up into the passionate
indignation of a bosom friend.
“How many of them were there?” said the Terror.
“From the number of stones they threw I should think there were a
dozen,” said Captain Baster; and he panted still.
The Terror looked puzzled.
“I know—I know what it is!” cried Mrs. Dangerfield with an illuminating
flash of womanly intuition. “You’ve been humorous with some of the
villagers!”
“No, no! I haven’t joked with a single one of them!” cried Captain
Baster. “But I’ll teach the scoundrels a lesson! I’ll put the police on
them tomorrow morning. I’ll send for a detective from London. I’ll
prosecute them.”
Then Erebus entered, her piquant face all aglow: “I couldn’t find your
handkerchief anywhere, Mum. It took me ever such a time,” she said,
giving it to her.
The puzzled air faded from the Terror’s face; and he said in a tone of
deep meaning: “Have you been running to find it? You’re quite out of
breath.”
For a moment a horrid suspicion filled the mind of Captain Baster.… But
no: it was impossible—a child in whose veins flowed some of the bluest
blood in England. Besides, her slender arms could never have thrown the
stones as straight and hard as that.
On the other hand Sir Maurice appeared to have lost for once his superb
self-possession; he was staring at his beautiful niece with his mouth
slightly open. He muttered; something about finding his handkerchief,
and stumbled out of the room. They heard a door bang up-stairs; then,
through the ceiling, they heard a curious drumming sound. It occurred
to the Terror that it might be the heels of Sir Maurice on the floor.
Mrs. Dangerfield rang for old Sarah and instructed her to pull the
gorse prickles out of Captain Baster’s clothes. She had nearly finished
when Sir Maurice returned. He carried a handkerchief in his hand, and
he had recovered his superb self-possession; but he seemed somewhat
exhausted.
Captain Baster was somewhat excessive in the part of the wounded hero;
and for a while he continued to talk ferociously of the vengeance he
would wreak on the scoundrelly villagers. But after a while he forgot
his pricks and bruises to bask in the presence of Sir Maurice; and he
plied him with unflagging friendliness for the rest of the evening.
The Twins were allowed to sit up till ten o’clock since their Uncle
Maurice was staying with them; and since the Terror was full of
admiration and approval of Erebus’ strenuous endeavor to instil into
Captain Baster the perils and drawbacks of stepfatherhood, he brushed
out her abundant hair for her, an office he sometimes performed when
she was in high favor with him. As he did it she related gleefully the
stoning of their enemy.
When she had done, he said warmly: “It was ripping. But the nuisance
is: he doesn’t know it was you who did it, and so it’s rather wasted.”
“Don’t you worry: I’ll let him know sometime to-morrow,” said Erebus
firmly.
“Yes; but he’s awfully waxy: suppose he prosecutes you?” said the
Terror doubtfully.
Erebus considered the point; then she said: “I don’t think he’d do
that; he’d look so silly being stoned by a girl. Anyhow, I’ll chance
it.”
“All right,” said the Terror. “It’s worth chancing it to put him off
marrying mother. And of course Uncle Maurice is here. He’ll see nothing
serious happens.”
“Of course he will,” said Erebus.
It must have been that the unflagging friendliness of Captain Baster
had weighed on their uncle’s mind, for Erebus, coming softly on him
from behind as he leaned over the garden gate after breakfast, heard
him singing to himself, and paused to listen to his song.
It went:
“_Where did his colonel dig him up,
So young, so fair, so sweet,
With his shining nose, and his square, square toes?
Was it Wapping or Basinghall Street?_”
He was so pleased with the effort that he sang it over to himself,
softly, twice with an air of deep satisfaction; and twice the moving
but silent lips of Erebus repeated it.
He was silent; and she said: “Oh, uncle! It’s splendid!”
Sir Maurice started and turned sharply: “You tell any one, little
pitcher, and I’ll pull your long ears,” he said amiably.
Erebus made no rash promises; she gazed at him with inscrutable eyes;
then nodding toward a figure striding swiftly over the common, she
said: “Here he comes.”
Sir Maurice gained the threshold of the front door in two bounds,
paused and cried: “I’m going back to bed! Tell him I’m in bed!”
He vanished, slamming the door behind him.
Captain Baster asked for Sir Maurice cheerfully; and his face fell when
Erebus told him that he had gone back to bed. Mrs. Dangerfield,
informed of her brother’s shrinking, had to be very firm with his new
friend to induce him to go for a walk with her and Erebus. He showed an
inclination to linger about the house till his sun should rise.
Then he tried to shorten the walk; but in this matter too Mrs.
Dangerfield was firm. She did not bring him back till half past twelve,
only to learn that Sir Maurice was very busy writing letters in his
bedroom. Captain Baster hoped for an invitation to lunch (he hinted as
much) but he was disappointed. In the end he returned to The Plough,
chafing furiously; he felt that his morning had been barren.
He was soon back at Colet House, but too late; Sir Maurice had started
on a walk with the Terror. Captain Baster said cheerily that he would
overtake them, and set out briskly to do so. He walked hard enough to
compass that end; and it is probable that he would have had a much
better chance of succeeding, had not Erebus sent him eastward whereas
Sir Maurice and the Terror had gone westward.
Captain Baster returned to Colet House in time for tea; and his heart
swelled big within him to learn that Mrs. Dangerfield had invited some
friends to meet him and her brother. Here was his chance to shine, to
show Sir Maurice his social mettle.
He could have wished that the party had been larger. They were only a
dozen all told: Mr. Carruthers, the squire of Little Deeping, the vicar
and his wife, the higher mathematician, father of Wiggins, Mrs.
Blenkinsop and Mrs. Morton, and Wiggins himself, who had spent most of
the afternoon with Erebus. Captain Baster would have preferred thirty
or forty, but none the less he fell to work with a will.
Mrs. Dangerfield had taken advantage of the Indian summer afternoon to
have tea in the garden; and it gave him room to expand. He was soon the
life and soul of the gathering. He was humorous with the vicar about
the church, and with the squire about the dulling effect of the country
on the intelligence. He tried to be humorous with Mr. Carrington, the
higher mathematician, whom he took to have retired from some profession
or business. This was so signal a failure that he dropped humor and
became important, telling them of his flat in town and his
country-house, their size and their expensive furniture; he told them
about his motor-cars, his exploits at regimental cricket, at polo and
at golf.
He patronized every one with a splendid affability, every one except
Sir Maurice; and him he addressed, with a flattering air of perfect
equality, as “Maurice, old boy,” or “Maurice, old chap,” or plain
“Maurice.” He did shine; his agreeable exertions threw him into a warm
perspiration; his nose shone especially; and they all hated him.
The Twins were busy handing round tea-cups and cakes, but they were
aware that their mother’s tea-party was a failure. As a rule her little
parties were so pleasant with their atmosphere of friendliness; and her
guests went away pleased with themselves, her and one another. The
Terror was keenly alive to the effect of Captain Baster; and a faint
persistent frown troubled his serenity. Erebus was more dimly aware
that her enemy was spoiling the party. Only Sir Maurice and Mr.
Carrington really enjoyed the humorist; and Sir Maurice’s enjoyment was
mingled with vexation.
Every one had finished their tea; and they were listening to Captain
Baster in a dull aggravation and blank silence, when he came to the end
of his panegyric on his possessions and accomplishments, and remembered
his grievance. Forthwith he related at length the affair of the night
before: how he had been stoned by a dozen hulking scoundrels on the
common. When he came to the end of it, he looked round for sympathy.
His audience wore a strained rather than sympathetic air, all of them
except the higher mathematician who had turned away and was coughing
violently.
The vicar broke the silence; he said: “Er—er—yes; most extraordinary.
But I don’t think it could have been the villagers. They’re—er—very
peaceful people.”
“It must have been some rowdies from Rowington,” said the squire in the
loud tone of a man trying to persuade his hearers that he believed what
he said.
Erebus rose and walked to the gravel path; their eyes fixed in an
incredulous unwinking stare.
She picked up three pebbles from the path, choosing them with some
care. The first pebble hit the weathercock, which rose above the right
gable of the house, plumb in the middle; the second missed its tail by
a couple of inches; the third hit its tail, and the weathercock spun
round as if a vigorous gale were devoting itself to its tail only.
“That’s where I meant to hit it the first time,” said Erebus with a
little explanatory wave of her hand; and she returned to her seat.
The silence that fell was oppressive. Captain Baster gazed earnestly at
Erebus, his roving black eyes fixed in an incredulous unwinking stare.
“That shows you the danger of jumping to hasty conclusions,” said the
higher mathematician in his clear agreeable voice. “I made sure it was
the Terror.”
“So did I,” said the vicar.
“I’d have bet on it,” said the squire.
The silence fell again. Mechanically Captain Baster rubbed the blue
bump on his marble brow.
Erebus broke the silence; she said: “Has any one heard Wiggins’ new
song?”
The squire, hastily and thoughtlessly, cried: “No! Let’s hear it!”
“Come on, Wiggins!” cried the vicar heartily.
They felt that the situation was saved.
Sir Maurice did not share their relief; he knew what was coming, knew
it in the depths of his horror-stricken heart. He ground his teeth
softly and glared at the piquant and glowing face of his niece as if he
could have borne the earth’s suddenly opening and swallowing her up.
The blushing Wiggins held back a little, and kicked his left foot with
his right. Then pushed forward by the eager Terror, to whom Erebus had
chanted the song before lunch, he stepped forward and in his dear
shrill treble, sang, slightly out of tune:
“_Where did his colonel dig him up,
So young, so fair, so sweet,
With his shining nose, and his square, square toes?
Was it Wapping or Basinghall Street?_”
As he sang Wiggins looked artlessly at Captain Baster; as he finished
everybody was looking at Captain Baster’s boots; his feet required them
square-toed.
Captain Baster’s face was a rich rose-pink; he, glared round the frozen
circle now trying hard not to look at his boots; he saw the faces melt
into irrepressible smiles; he looked to Sir Maurice, the man he had
made his bosom friend, for an indignant outburst; Sir Maurice was
smiling, too.
Captain Baster snorted fiercely; then he swelled with splendid dignity,
and said loudly, but thickly, “I refuse! Yes, I refuse to mix in a
society where children are brought up as hooligans yes: as hooligans!”
He turned on his heel, strode to the gate, and turned and bellowed,
“Hooligans!”
He flung himself through the gate and strode violently across the
common.
“Oh, Wiggins! How could you?” cried Mrs. Dangerfield in a tone of
horror.
“It wasn’t Wiggins! It was me! I taught him. He didn’t understand,”
said Erebus loyally.
“I did understand—quite. But why did he call me Freckles?” said Wiggins
in a vengeful tone. “Nobody can help having freckles.”