listening to his own voice. What caused him to interrupt his tale was
the fact that at this moment the tea-table suddenly began to rise
slowly in the air, tilting as it did so a considerable quantity of hot
tea on to the knees of his trousers.
'Ouch!' cried James, leaping.
The table continued to rise, and then fell sideways, revealing the
homely countenance of William, who, concealed by the cloth, had been
taking a nap beneath it. He moved slowly forward, his eyes on Toto. For
many a long day William had been desirous of putting to the test, once
and for all, the problem of whether Toto was edible or not. Sometimes
he thought yes, at other times no. Now seemed an admirable opportunity
for a definite decision. He advanced on the object of his experiment,
making a low whistling noise through his nostrils, not unlike a boiling
kettle. And Toto, after one long look of incredulous horror, tucked
his shapely tail between his legs and, turning, raced for safety. He
had laid a course in a bee-line for the open garden gate, and William,
shaking a dish of marmalade off his head a little petulantly, galloped
ponderously after him. Rose Maynard staggered to her feet.
'Oh, save him!' she cried.
Without a word James added himself to the procession. His interest in
Toto was but tepid. What he wanted was to get near enough to William to
discuss with him that matter of the tea on his trousers. He reached the
road and found that the order of the runners had not changed. For so
small a dog, Toto was moving magnificently. A cloud of dust rose as he
skidded round the corner. William followed. James followed William.
And so they passed Farmer Birkett's barn, Farmer Giles's cow shed,
the place where Farmer Willetts's pigsty used to be before the big
fire, and the Bunch of Grapes public-house, Jno. Biggs propr., licensed
to sell tobacco, wines, and spirits. And it was as they were turning
down the lane that leads past Farmer Robinson's chicken run that Toto,
thinking swiftly, bolted abruptly into a small drain pipe.
'William!' roared James, coming up at a canter. He stopped to pluck a
branch from the hedge and swooped darkly on.
William had been crouching before the pipe, making a noise like a
bassoon into its interior; but now he rose and came beamingly to James.
His eyes were aglow with chumminess and affection; and placing his
forefeet on James's chest, he licked him three times on the face in
rapid succession. And as he did so, something seemed to snap in James.
The scales seemed to fall from James's eyes. For the first time he saw
William as he really was, the authentic type of dog that saves his
master from a frightful peril. A wave of emotion swept over him.
'William!' he muttered. 'William!'
William was making an early supper off a half brick he had found in the
road. James stooped and patted him fondly.
'William,' he whispered, 'you knew when the time had come to change
the conversation, didn't you, old boy!' He straightened himself.
'Come, William,' he said. 'Another four miles and we reach Meadowsweet
Junction. Make it snappy and we shall just catch the up express, first
stop London.'
William looked up into his face and it seemed to James that he gave
a brief nod of comprehension and approval. James turned. Through the
trees to the east he could see the red roof of Honeysuckle Cottage,
lurking like some evil dragon in ambush.
Then, together, man and dog passed silently into the sunset.
That (concluded Mr Mulliner) is the story of my distant cousin James
Rodman. As to whether it is true, that, of course, is an open question.
I, personally, am of opinion that it is. There is no doubt that James
did go to live at Honeysuckle Cottage and, while there, underwent some
experience which has left an ineradicable mark upon him. His eyes today
have that unmistakable look which is to be seen only in the eyes of
confirmed bachelors whose feet have been dragged to the very brink
of the pit and who have gazed at close range into the naked face of
matrimony.
And, if further proof be needed, there is William. He is now James's
inseparable companion. Would any man be habitually seen in public with
a dog like William unless he had some solid cause to be grateful to
him--unless they were linked together by some deep and imperishable
memory? I think not. Myself, when I observe William coming along
the street, I cross the road and look into a shop window till he has
passed. I am not a snob, but I dare not risk my position in Society by
being seen talking to that curious compound.
Nor is the precaution an unnecessary one. There is about William a
shameless absence of appreciation of class distinctions which recalls
the worst excesses of the French Revolution. I have seen him with these
eyes chivvy a pomeranian belonging to a Baroness in her own right from
near the Achilles Statue to within a few yards of the Marble Arch.
And yet James walks daily with him in Piccadilly. It is surely
significant.