THE HARLEQUIN OPAL
A ROMANCE
BY
FERGUS HUME
_Author of "The Island of Fantasy," "Aladdin in London," etc._
VOLUME I
Once a realm of Indian glory,
Famed in Aztec song and story,
Fabled by Tradition hoary
As an earthly Paradise;
Now a land of love romances,
Serenades, bolero dances,
Looks of scorn, adoring glances,
Under burning tropic skies.
LONDON
W. H. ALLEN & CO., LIMITED
13, WATERLOO PLACE, S.W.
1893
WYMAN AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND REDHILL.
PROEM.
The stone had its birth in the nurturing earth.
Its home in the heart of the main,
From the coraline caves it was tossed by the waves
On the breast of an aureate plain;
And the spirits who dwell in the nethermost hell
Stored fire in its bosom of white;
The sylphs of the air made it gracious and fair
With the blue of the firmament's height.
The dull gnomes I ween, gave it glittering sheen.
Till yellow as gold it became:
The nymphs of the sea made the opal to be
A beacon of emerald flame.
The many tints glow, they come and they go
At bidding of spirits abhorr'd,
When one ray is bright, in the bosom of white,
Its hue tells the fate of its lord.
For yellow hints wealth, and blue meaneth health,
While green forbodes passing of gloom,
But beware of the red, 'tis an omen of dread,
Portending disaster and doom.
Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected
without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have
been retained as printed. Words printed in italics are noted with
underscores: _italics_. The cover of this ebook was created by the
transcriber and is hereby placed in the public domain.
INDEX.
CHAP. PAGE
I.--CHUMS 1
II.--THE DEVIL STONE 27
III.--"THE BOHEMIAN" 54
IV.--IN THE TRACK OF COLUMBUS 78
V.--DON MIGUEL IS COMMUNICATIVE 100
VI.--CHALCHUIH TLATONAC 125
VII.--DOLORES 152
VIII.--VIVA EL REPUBLICA 177
IX.--THE CALL TO ARMS 201
X.--PADRE IGNATIUS 221
XI.--THE DRAMA OF LITTLE THINGS 238
XII.--A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE 262
THE HARLEQUIN OPAL.
CHAPTER I.
CHUMS.
Long years have passed since last we met,
And left their marks of teen and fret;
No longer faces plump and smooth,
Proclaim the halcyon days of youth.
But haggard looks and tresses white
Betray the ardour of the fight;
The same old friends: we meet once more--
But not the merry boys of yore.
"It is a great mistake," said Sir Philip Cassim, looking doubtfully at
the piece of paper lying on his desk; "then we were foolish boys, now
we are--I trust sensible men. Certainly it is a great mistake."
The piece of paper was yellow with age, a trifle grimy, and so worn
with constant foldings, that it was wonderful the four quarters had not
long since parted company, as had the four friends, each of whom
carried a similar piece in his pocket-book. Often in his wanderings had
Sir Philip pondered over that untidy boyish scribble setting forth the
foolish promise, which he now, half regretfully, characterised as "a
great mistake."
"Bedford Grammar School,
"_24th July, 1874._
"If we live and are in good health, we promise faithfully to meet
at Philip's house, in Portman Square, London, on the twenty-fourth
day of July, one thousand eight hundred and eighty-nine, at seven
o'clock in the evening.
"(Signed)
"PHILIP WINTHORP CASSIM,
JOHN DUVAL,
PETER PAUL GRENCH,
TIMOTHY TERENCE PATRICK FLETCHER."
"That is quite fifteen years ago," said Cassim, smoothing the frail
paper with tender fingers; "now it is the twenty-fourth day of July in
the year eighty-nine. Six o'clock! I wonder if any of them will turn
up. Jack is an engineer, building railways and bridges in China. Peter,
as a respectable physician, doses invalids in Devonshire. Special
Correspondent Tim, the stormy petrel of war, wires lies to London
newspapers. I--I am a mere idler, given to wanderings among the tombs
of dead civilisations. Peter may come. It means only a short railway
journey to him; but Jack and Tim are probably thousands of miles away.
Still, as I came from the Guinea Coast to meet them, they certainly
ought not to miss the appointment. This is the day, the place, the
hour, and I have prepared the fatted calf, of which they will
partake--if they turn up. Pshaw! I am a fool to think they will come.
They have, no doubt, quite forgotten this boyish freak. Perhaps it is
best so. It is a great mistake to arrange a meeting fifteen years
ahead. Father Time is too fond of strange surprises."
Rising from his chair, he paced slowly to and fro with folded arms, and
bent head, the droop of this latter being somewhat dejected. The idea
that he was about to meet his old schoolfellows rendered him pensive,
and a trifle regretful. Many years had passed since those halcyon days
of youth, and, oh, the difference between now and then! He could hardly
avoid speculating on their certain mutation. Had the wand of Time
changed those merry lads into staid men? Would Jack still be ambitious
as of yore? Tim's jokes were famous in the old days; but now,
perchance, he found life too serious for jesting. Then Peter's
butterflies! How often they had laughed at his entomological craze.
Now, doubtless, he was more taken up with pills and patients. And
himself,--he had out-lived his youthful enthusiasms, more's the pity.
No wonder he felt pensive at the thought of such changes. Retrospection
is a saddening faculty.
Cassim grew weary of these pessimistic fancies, and pausing in front of
the fireplace, surveyed himself long and critically in the mirror. It
reflected a dark, handsome face, reddened by the saltness of wind and
wave, boldly cut features, and melancholy eyes. Those eyes of Philip's
were somewhat misleading, as they suggested a poetic nature, steeped in
sentimentalism, whereas he was a remarkably matter-of-fact young man,
inclined to scoff at the romantic tendencies of his fellow-creatures.
By no means expansive or apt to unbosom himself to his friends, this
reticence, in conjunction with his romantic appearance, entirely
deceived the world as to his true character. His Byronism lay in looks,
rather than in actions.
"Thirty is by no means old," mused Sir Philip, absently stroking his
moustache, "if anything, it errs on the side of youth, yet I look close
on a hundred. Dark people never do wear well. Tim is five years older
than I, Peter past thirty-three, but it's probable they look younger
than I do. As to Jack--well, Jack is an infant of twenty-eight summers,
and I suspect has altered but little. They would hardly recognise me.
Possibly I shall have considerable difficulty in recognising them."
He resumed his walk and his soliloquy, reverting therein to his first
idea.
"This meeting is a mistake. Beyond the fact that we were at school
together, we have nothing in common about which to converse. Different
lives, different ideas. We will simply bore one another. Perhaps they
are married. Peter was just the kind of boy who would grow into a
domesticated man. Jack was romantic, and has probably been captured by
a pretty face. Tim! I'm not so sure about Tim. I fancy he is still a
bachelor like myself!"
It was his own fault that such was the case, as many a maiden would
have gladly married Sir Philip and his Kentish acres. The baronet,
however, with but little predisposition to matrimony, fought shy of the
marriage ring, and preferred his yacht to all the beauties in
Christendom. On rare occasions, he showed himself in Belgravia
drawing-rooms, but in the main loved the masculine seclusion of his
club, and the lurching deck of _The Bohemian_. It may be that some
of his remote ancestors had intermarried with the Romany, and thus
introduced a strain of wandering blood into the family; but certain it
was that Sir Philip Cassim, in place of being a steady-going country
squire, was an irreclaimable Arab in the matter of vagrancy. Cases of
atavism occur in the most respectable families.
His nomadic instincts lured him into the dark places of the earth, and,
as a rule, he preferred these to the more civilised portions. Humanity
in the rough is more interesting than humanity veneered with culture,
and in seeking such primevalism, Sir Philip explored many of those
barbaric lands which gird our comfortable civilisation. Peru he knew
better than Piccadilly; St. James's Street was unknown territory to him
compared with his knowledge of Japan, and if his yacht was not skirting
the treacherous New Zealand coast, she was certainly battling with the
giant billows off the Horn.
Hating conventionalism, and the _leges non scriptæ_ of London society,
this vagabond by predilection rarely dwelt in the Portman Square family
mansion. When he did pay a visit to town, he usually camped out--so
to speak, in a club bedroom, and before his friends knew of his
whereabouts, would flit away without warning, and be next heard of at
Pernambuco, or somewhere about Madagascar. On this special occasion,
however, he occupied his town house for the purpose of keeping the
appointment made with his three friends fifteen years before on the
banks of the Ouse.
On this account, and to avoid the trouble of hiring servants for the
few days of his stay, he brought his stewards up from the yacht. These,
accustomed to such emergencies, owing to Sir Philip's whimsical mode of
life, speedily rendered a few rooms habitable, and prepared the dinner,
which was to celebrate the re-union of the quartette. It seemed strange
that Cassim should take all this trouble to fulfil a boyish promise,
but as he was a man who did not make friends easily, and moreover was
beginning to weary of solitary wanderings, he greatly inclined to a
renewal of these youthful friendships. Besides, he cherished a kindly
memory of his old school-fellows, and looked forward with genuine
pleasure to meeting them again. Yet, as his latter reason savoured of
sentimentalism, he would not admit of its existence even to himself--it
clashed with his convictions that life was not worth living.
Despite the fact that he was a cosmopolitan, Philip's nature,
impressionable in the extreme, was deeply tinged with the prevailing
pessimism of the day. He professed that facile disbelief in everything
and in everyone, which is so easy to acquire, so difficult to
relinquish. Human nature he mistrusted, friendship he scoffed at, and
was always on his guard against those with whom he came in contact.
Thus living entirely within, and for himself, the real geniality of
his disposition became encrusted with the barnacles of a selfish
philosophy. This _noli me tangere_ creed isolated him from his
fellow-creatures--with the result that while he possessed many
acquaintances he had no real friends. Thus he created his own misery,
he inflicted his own punishment.
Adopting as his motto the saying of the Oxford fine gentleman,
"Nothing's new! nothing's true, and no matter," Cassim schooled himself
to suppress all outward signs of feeling, and passed through life with
a pretended indifference to the things of this world. Pretended!
because he really felt deeply and suffered acutely, though pride
forbade his showing aught of such mental disturbances to those around
him. Perhaps, in seeing so much of the world, he had early exhausted
all emotion; but he certainly surveyed everything from Dan to Beersheba
with calm indifference. The real man was a genial, kind-hearted
creature; the false, a frigidly cold person who accepted all things
with ostentatious stoicism.
He was by no means popular with men, as they greatly resented his
reserve and haughty demeanour; but women professed to find him
charming. Probably they, with the subtle instinct of their sex, saw
below the mask of feigned cynicism, and judged him by what he was, not
by what he appeared to be. Certainly he never laid himself out to gain
their good opinion. He rarely troubled to make himself agreeable; he
was not a marrying man (than which there can be no worse crime in a
woman's eyes), and led a solitary, vagrant existence; yet, in spite of
such social disqualifications, women were his best friends, and
defended him loyally from the clumsy sneers of his own sex. Assuredly
he should have married, if only out of gratitude for such championship;
but he preferred a single life, and in the main eschewed female
society.
Withal he was not inclined to undervalue either his personal appearance
or his mental capacity. No mean classical scholar, he seldom passed a
day without dipping into the charming pages of Horace or Catullus. Of
the two he preferred the Veronese, who with Heine and Poe formed his
favourite trio of poets, from which names it can be seen that Sir
Philip had a taste for the fantastic in literature. He was conversant
with three or four modern languages, and was especially familiar with
the noble tongue of Castille. A man who can read "Don Quixote" in the
original is somewhat of a rarity in England. Those of Philip's
acquaintances who could induce him to talk literature and art formed an
excellent opinion of his abilities. Moreover, he was unique in one
respect. He had circumnavigated the globe, yet had refrained from
writing a book of travel.
As to his personal appearance, it was as smart and spruce as that of
his yacht. Only those who know how a crack yacht is cherished by her
owner can thoroughly understand this comparison. In spite of his
solitary existence, Philip was always careful of the outward man, and
this attention to his toilet was a notable trait of his character. Yet
he was by no means effeminate, foppish, or finical. To sum up, he was a
well-dressed, well-bred, cultured Englishman--who had all the
qualities--mental, personal, and physical--fitting him to shine with no
mean lustre in society, yet he preferred to live the life of a nautical
hermit--if such a thing be possible.
Walking constantly to and fro, he glanced every now and then at the
clock, the large hand of which was close on seven. Given that all three
guests were within a measurable distance of the rendezvous, he began to
calculate, from what he knew of their idiosyncrasies, which one of them
would be the first to arrive.
"I am certain it will be Peter," decided Cassim, after due reflection;
"neat, orderly, punctual Peter, who never missed a lesson, and never
came late to class. Tim is careless! Jack is whimsical! If anyone
arrives, it will be Dr. Peter Paul Grench. And," he added, as the bell
rang, "here he is."
His prognostication proved to be correct, for in a few minutes the door
of the study opened to admit a precise little gentleman, in whom Philip
had no difficulty in recognising his quondam schoolfellow. It was a
trifle larger Peter--it was Peter in evening dress, twirling a
pince-nez--Peter with mutton-chop whiskers and a bald head; but it was
undeniably Peter Paul Grench, of Bedford Grammar School.
"'The child,'" quoth Philip, advancing to meet his guest, "'is father
to the man.' It is just on seven, and you, Peter, keep your
fifteen-year-old appointment to the minute. I am delighted to see you."
"I am sure the feeling is reciprocal," responded Dr. Grench, primly, as
he grasped the baronet's hand; "it is indeed a pleasure to meet an old
schoolfellow after these many years."
Peter spoke in a Johnsonian manner, but his words were genuine enough
and under the influence of this natural emotion, for the moment he
forgot his primness. After a time, however, habit asserted its
influence over nature, and Grench resumed his buckram civilities, while
Philip, also recovering himself, relapsed into his usual nonchalant
manners.
"So you kept this appointment, after all," said Cassim, as they settled
themselves for a confidential conversation; "I thought it possible you
might have forgotten about it."
"By no means," answered Grench, producing a piece of paper similar to
that of Philip's. "I have often looked at this, and always intended,
unless prevented by disease or death, to meet my old schoolfellows as
agreed. Here we are, my dear friend; but Tim and Jack?"
"May be at the other end of the world, for all I know," responded the
baronet, carelessly. "Special correspondents and engineers are the
Wandering Jews of to-day. Still, as I came from the Guinea coast for
this appointment, they will surely not grudge a lengthy journey for a
similar purpose."
"Tim is in London," said Peter, unexpectedly.
"Ah!" remarked Philip, manifesting but little surprise, "you have seen
him, then?"
"No! Since we parted at Bedford I have seen none of you; but I have
heard of all three."
"Nothing good of me, I am afraid," said Cassim, with that amiable
belief in his fellow-creatures which made them love him so.
"Nothing bad, at all events," answered Peter, serenely. "You are
constantly travelling; you are still a bachelor; you open your heart to
no one, and judge the world as though you were not its denizen."
"Which last remark is stolen from La Rochefoucauld. Yes! Your
description is accurate if not original. However, let us not talk of
Philip Cassim. I am terribly tired of him. What about Jack and Tim?"
"Of Jack I know nothing, save that he was last heard of in India. Tim,
however, wrote to me the other day saying _he_ intended to keep this
appointment. Concerning his life, he volunteered no information."
"So like Tim! His private correspondence was always unsatisfactory. I
like his newspaper letters however; the descriptions are so bright and
vivid--plenty of gunpowder and adventure. Certainly Tim makes an
excellent war correspondent. I wonder if he still has that strong
brogue."
"Surely not. When he came to Bedford, he was fresh from Ireland; but
now that he has been travelling so much, he must have lost his
pronounced Irishisms."
"I'm not so sure of that," said Philip, with a smile, "Tim is Irish of
the Irish. I believe he loves his brogue. You can't educate the race
nature out of a man. Believe me, my dear Peter, Tim will be as noisy
and as warm-hearted as of yore. I am very fond of Tim."
"Yet I should think Tim, such as you describe him, would be the last
person to suit a fastidious individual such as yourself."
"Come now, Peter, I am not quite so hypercritical as all that. Besides,
Tim, with all his noise and brogue, is a thorough gentleman. It is your
veneered person I object to. However, Tim may have changed. Meanwhile
what about yourself?"
"Like Canning's knife-grinder, I have no story to tell. When I left
Bedford I went to Cambridge--afterwards came to London. Passed my
examinations, walked the hospitals, took my degree, and hearing that a
doctor was wanted down at Barnstaple, I went there. For some years I
practised with more or less success. Then I retired to give----"
"Retired!" interrupted Philip, in surprise. "Have you made your
fortune?"
"By no means. Country doctors never make fortunes. No! I inherit five
hundred a year from my father, and as there is no necessity for me to
physic people for a livelihood, I devote myself----"
"To sticking pins through unoffending butterflies!"
"Now, how did you guess that?" asked the little doctor, in mild
surprise.
"Easily enough. You had a butterfly and beetle mania at school. If I
remember rightly, we rolled you in nettles to cure you of entomology.
Boys don't relish scientific urchins. So you are still at it. But five
hundred a year and beetles. Peter, you are not ambitious."
"No," assented Grench, simply; "I am not at all ambitious. My
entomology gives me great pleasure, or why should I not enjoy myself in
my own way? Ah, Philip, you do not know what true enjoyment is."
"Certainly not--if it's butterflies."
"To see one of the Callidryas species for the first time is indeed a
pleasure," said Peter, beaming with scientific rapture. "Then the
Papilios, the Hesperidæ and the red Timitis----"
"Oh, oh!" yawned Philip, stretching himself, "how dry it sounds."
"Dry!" echoed Peter, indignantly; "the most fascinating pursuit in the
world."
Philip looked kindly at the little man who appeared to be so satisfied
with his simple pleasures.
"Decidedly, Peter, you are a happy person. Come with me on a cruise,
and I will introduce you to the paradise of butterflies. Tropical
America, Peter, where the insects are like flying flowers. Green
butterflies, purple beetles, gilded moths----"
"Oh!" cried Peter, opening his eyes with delight, "I should like to go
to South America. I would find a peculiar species there, the
Heliconidæ. Why, Philip, if only----"
"Hark! there's the bell," exclaimed Cassim, rising with alacrity,
rather thankful to escape Peter's lecture. "Is it Jack or Tim?"
"Tim," said Peter, promptly, "no one else would ring so violently."
"Where did ye say they were?" cried a hearty Irish voice half way up
the stairs.
"That settles it," remarked Philip, comically, as he opened the door;
"no two persons can possess such a strong brogue."
And Tim it was. Tim, large and burly, roaring like a Bull of Bashan,
who hurled himself into the room, and flung himself on Philip's neck.
"My dear friend! my dear boy!" he thundered, squeezing Cassim in his
athletic embrace, "it's glad I am to see you."
"Gently, Tim, gently," gasped Philip, helpless in the hug of this bear;
"don't crush me to a jelly."
"And Peter!" exclaimed Tim, releasing the baronet to pounce on the
doctor, "you fat little man, how splendid you look."
Warned by the fate of Philip, the doctor skilfully evaded the embrace
of the giant, and Tim was only able to demonstrate his affection by a
handgrip. He threw all his soul into this latter, and Peter's face
wrinkled up like a monkey's with pain. It was like a fly struggling
with an elephant, and Philip, thoroughly roused from his ordinary
placidity, laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.
"As soon as you've quite done murdering us, Tim," he said, placing a
chair between himself and his too demonstrative friend, "perhaps you'll
give your hat and coat to the servant."
Tim, who had rushed upstairs without pause, meekly delivered the
articles in question to the servant, who stood grinning at the door.
Looking on this respectful grin as a liberty, Philip frowned at the
poor man, who thereupon vanished, while Tim, overcome by his late
exertions, fell so heavily into a chair that the room rocked.
"Phew!" he said, wiping his heated brow, "it's hot. I am, anyhow."
"That's scarcely to be wondered at," returned Cassim dryly,
"considering the enthusiasm of your greeting."
"And why not?" retorted Tim, with the broadest of brogues; "am I not
glad to see you both?"
"Of course; and we are glad to see you," said Peter, examining his
crushed hand; "but you needn't maim us for life."
Tim roared with laughter in the most unfeeling manner, and Cassim, with
a smile, placed his hand on the giant's shoulder.
"The same noisy Tim as of old," he said kindly; "you were a large boy,
Tim, and now you are a large man. I wouldn't have recognised you,
though, save for the brogue. It's as strong as ever."
"That's true, anyhow," acknowledged Fletcher placing his huge paw on
Philip's slender hand as it rested on his shoulder. "Wasn't I but one
term at the school, and that didn't turn it into cockney speaking.
Besides, I've been to Cork since."
"To freshen up the accent, I suppose," said Grench, with the air of a
man who has made a cutting remark; "but a special correspondent should
know more than one language."
"Especially if the language is Irish," finished Cassim, mischievously.
"Get along with you," replied Tim, with a twinkle in his eye; "why,
it's a polyglot I am, French, Italian, Spanish, and a touch of Arabic.
I can tell lies in any one of them. So here you are, lads. Where's
Jack?"
"Lord knows!"
"He was in South America when I heard last; but I'll go bail he'll turn
up soon. What is the time?"
"Half-past seven," rejoined Peter, consulting an eminently respectable
watch of the family physician species.
Tim took out his piece of paper from a pocket-book commensurate to his
size, and smoothed it carefully with his huge hand.
"Seven's the hour, and Jack's late. I never knew him early yet."
"Well, you were not renowned for punctuality at school, Tim!"
"True for you, Philip, and many's the hearing I've had for that same.
But this is a special occasion, and Jack should be punctual. Confound
him."
"Oh, he'll be here shortly," said Cassim, shrugging his shoulders. "We
have plenty to talk about until he arrives. How are you, Tim? But I
needn't ask, you look like the giant Goribuster."
"Six foot five in my stockings," replied Tim, complacently; "and a good
thing it is for me that same. Special corresponding isn't knocking
about the world in a gentleman's yacht, sir."
"Or collecting butterflies," added Philip, with a sly smile at Peter.
"Are you at that rubbish still, Peter?"
"Of course I am," answered Peter, in mild surprise; "in fact, since my
father left me five hundred a year, I've devoted myself entirely to
entomology."
"And to eating!" said Tim, with a grin. "Why, Peter, you've a paunch
like a priest."
"Oh, really!" began Peter, scandalised; but his further protestations
were drowned in the laughter of Philip, on hearing which Tim nodded
approvingly.
"Come now, my dear friend, that's better. You are more like a Christian
than when I last saw you."
"At Bedford?" inquired Philip, still smiling.
"No! In London--no less. Didn't I see you at the theatre six months
ago, looking for all the world as if you were attending your own
funeral?"
"Why didn't you speak to me?"
"You looked so supercilious and stand-off-the-grass like that I
couldn't bring myself to it at all."
"You idiot!" said Philip, colouring with vexation. "You know I am
always glad to see you."
"Is that a Chinese invitation, Philip?"
"No; I assure you, Tim. Don't think me such a prig. Why, I came all the
way from the Guinea coast just to meet you."
"It's a fine boy you are," said Tim, stretching out his huge hand;
"it's only joking I am. If you didn't recognise an old friend, it's
thrashing you I'd be, as once I did at school."
"If I remember rightly, it was you who had the worst of that little
encounter," retorted Philip, gripping Tim's hand strongly.
"It was a draw," said Peter, suddenly; "I remember the fight quite
well. But we can talk of these things again. I want to know what Tim is
doing."
"And this is fame," grunted Tim, nodding his head. "Haven't you seen my
letters about the Soudan War to _The Morning Planet_, and my account of
the Transvaal ructions? Am I not a special correspondent, you ignorant
little person?"
"Oh yes, yes; I know all that," replied Peter, impatiently; "but tell
us about your life."
"Isn't that my life, sir? When I left school, I went to Ireland and
became a reporter. Then I was taken up by a paper in London, and went
to the Soudan--afterwards to Burmah, where I was nearly drowned in the
Irriwaddy. They know me in Algiers and Morocco. Now I've just returned
from Burmah, where I parted with my dear friend, Pho Sa. He's in glory
now--rest his soul! They hanged him for being a Dacoit, poor devil."
"You seem to have been all over the world, Tim," said Philip, when the
Irishman stopped for breath, "it's queer I never knocked up against
you."
"Why, you never stayed one day in one place. That boat of yours is a
kind of Flying Dutchman."
"Not a bit of it; she has doubled the Cape lots of times. I was just
trying to persuade Peter to take a cruise with me."
"I am seriously thinking of the advisability of doing so," observed
Peter, judiciously selecting his words.
"Are you, indeed, Mr. Lindley Murray. Well, if Philip asks me, I'll
come too."
"Will you really, Tim?" asked Philip, eagerly.
"Of course I will. There's no war on at present, and I'm not busy. If
those squabbling South American Republics don't come to blows again,
I'll be free for six months, more or less."
"Then come with me, by all means."
"I tell you what," observed Peter, who had been thinking; "Jack, if he
turns up at all, will have travelled home from South America. Let us
take him back in Philip's yacht."
"That's not a bad idea anyhow," from Tim, patting Peter's head, a
familiarity much resented by the family physician. "You've got brains
under this bald spot."
"I am quite agreeable, provided Jack turns up," said Sir Philip,
yawning; "but it is now eight o'clock, and I'm hungry. It's no use
waiting any longer for Jack, so I vote we have dinner."
"He'll arrive in the middle of it," said Grench, as Cassim touched the
bell. "Jack was never in time, or Tim either."
"Don't be taking away my character, you mosquito," cried Tim,
playfully, "or I'll put you on the top of the bookcase there. It's a
mighty little chap you are, Peter!"
"Well, we can't all be giants!" retorted Peter, resentfully. "I'm tall
enough for what I want to do."
"Collecting butterflies! You don't know the value of time, sir. Come
along with me to the dining-room." And, in spite of Peter's struggles,
he picked him up like a baby, and carried him as far as the study door.
Indeed, he would have carried him into the dining-room had not the
presence of the servant restrained him. Tim had no idea of the dignity
of the medical profession.
The servant intimated that dinner was ready, so the three friends sat
down to the meal rather regretting that Jack was not present to
complete the quartette. Just as they finished their soup the servant
announced--
"Mr. Duval!"
Simultaneously the three sprang up from the table, and on looking
towards the door beheld a tall young fellow, arrayed in tweeds,
standing on the threshold.
"Jack!" they cried, rushing towards him with unbounded delight. "Jack
Duval!"
"My dear boys," said Jack, his voice shaking with emotion; "my dear old
friends."