Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
ANTONY GRAY,--GARDENER
BY
LESLIE MOORE
AUTHOR OF "THE PEACOCK FEATHER," "THE JESTER,"
"THE WISER FOLLY," ETC.
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1917
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Copyright, 1917
by
LESLIE MOORE
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
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To
MRS. BARTON
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
Prologue 1
I. The Letter 17
II. Memories 24
III. Quod Scriptum est 31
IV. The Lady of the Blue Book 38
V. A Friendship 44
VI. At Teneriffe 52
VII. England 64
VIII. The Amazing Conditions 70
IX. The Decision 79
X. An English Cottage 86
XI. Doubts 98
XII. Concerning Michael Field 102
XIII. A Discovery 109
XIV. Honor Vincit 117
XV. In the Garden 123
XVI. A Meeting 132
XVII. At the Manor House 139
XVIII. A Dream and Other Things 149
XIX. Trix on the Scene 161
XX. Moonlight and Theories 168
XXI. On the Moorland 183
XXII. An Old Man in a Library 192
XXIII. Antony Finds a Glove 201
XXIV. An Interest in Life 206
XXV. Prickles 212
XXVI. An Offer and a Refusal 227
XXVII. Letters and Mrs. Arbuthnot 237
XXVIII. For the Day Alone 256
XXIX. In the Church Porch 260
XXX. A Question of Importance 277
XXXI. Midnight Reflections 284
XXXII. Sunlight and Happiness 290
XXXIII. Trix Seeks Advice 294
XXXIV. An Amazing Suggestion 302
XXXV. Trix Triumphant 312
XXXVI. An Old Man Tells his Story 319
XXXVII. The Importance of Trifles 330
XXXVIII. A Footstep on the Path 334
XXXIX. On the Old Foundation 341
Epilogue 347
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ANTONY GRAY,--GARDENER
PROLOGUE
March had come in like a lion, raging, turbulent. Throughout the day the
wind had torn spitefully at the yet bare branches of the great elms in
the park; it had rushed in insensate fury round the walls of the big grey
house; it had driven the rain lashing against the windows. It had sent
the few remaining leaves of the old year scudding up the drive; it had
littered the lawns with fragments of broken twigs; it had beaten yellow
and purple crocuses prostrate to the brown earth.
Against the distant rocky coast the sea had boomed like the muffled
thunder of guns; it had flung itself upon the beach, dragging the stones
back with it in each receding wave, their grinding adding to the crash of
the waters. Nature had been in her wildest mood, a thing of mad fury.
With sundown a calm had fallen. The wind, tired of its onslaught, had
sunk suddenly to rest. Only the sea beat and moaned sullenly against the
cliffs, as if unwilling to subdue its anger. Yet, for all that, a note of
fatigue had entered its voice.
* * * * *
An old man was sitting in the library of the big grey house. A shaded
reading lamp stood on a small table near his elbow. The light was thrown
upon an open book lying near it, and on the carved arms of the oak chair
in which the man was sitting. It shone clearly on his bloodless old
hands, on his parchment-like face, and white hair. A log fire was burning
in a great open hearth on his right. For the rest, the room was a place
of shadows, deepening to gloom in the distant corners, a gloom emphasized
by the one small circle of brilliant light, and the red glow of the fire.
Book-cases reached from floor to ceiling the whole length of two walls,
and between the three thickly curtained windows of the third. In the
fourth wall were the fireplace and the door.
There was no sound to break the silence. The figure in the oak chair sat
motionless. He might have been carved out of stone, for any sign of life
he gave. He looked like stone,--white and black marble very finely
sculptured,--white marble in head and hands, black marble in the piercing
eyes, the long satin dressing-gown, the oak of the big chair. Even his
eyes seemed stone-like, motionless, and fixed thoughtfully on space.
To those perceptive of "atmosphere" there is a subtle difference in
silence. There is the silence of woods, the silence of plains, the
silence of death, the silence of sleep, and the silence of wakefulness.
This silence was the last named. It was a silence alert, alive, yet very
still.
A slight movement in the room, so slight as to be almost imperceptible,
roused him to the present. Life sprang to his eyes, puzzled, questioning;
his body motionless, they turned towards the middle window of the three,
from whence the movement appeared to have come. It was not repeated. The
old utter silence lay upon the place; yet Nicholas Danver kept his eyes
upon the curtain.
The minutes passed. Then once more came that almost imperceptible
movement.
Nicholas Danver's well-bred old voice broke the silence.
"Why not come into the room?" it suggested quietly. There was a gleam of
ironical humour in his eyes.
The curtains swung apart, and a man came from between them. He stood
blinking towards the light.
"How did you know I was there, sir?" came the gruff inquiry.
"I didn't know," said Nicholas, accurately truthful. "I merely guessed."
There was a pause.
"Well?" said Nicholas watching the man keenly. "By the way, I suppose you
know I am entirely at your mercy. I could ring this bell," he indicated
an electric button attached to the arm of his chair, "but I suppose it
would be at least three minutes before any one came. Yes," he continued
thoughtfully, "allowing for the distance from the servants' quarters, I
should say it would be at least three minutes. You could get through a
fair amount of business in three minutes. Was it the candlesticks you
wanted?" He looked towards a pair of solid silver candlesticks on the
mantelpiece. "They are cumbersome, you know. Or the miniatures? There are
three Cosways and four Engleharts. I should recommend the miniatures."
"I wanted to see you," said the man bluntly.
"Indeed!" Nicholas's white eyebrows rose the fraction of an inch above
his keen old eyes. "An unusual hour for a visit, and--an unusual
entrance, if I might make the suggestion."
"There'd never have been a chance of seeing you if I had come any other
way." There was a hint of bitterness in the words.
Nicholas looked straight at him.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Job Grantley," was the reply. "I live down by the Lower Acre."
"Ah! One of my tenants."
"Yes, sir, one of your tenants."
"And--?" suggested Nicholas urbanely.
"I'm to turn out of my cottage to-morrow," said the man briefly.
"Indeed!" The pupils of Nicholas's eyes contracted. "May I ask why that
information should be of interest to me?"
"It's of no interest to you, sir, and we know it. You never hear a word
of what happens outside this house."
"Mr. Spencer Curtis conducts my business," said Nicholas politely.
"We know that too, sir, and we know the way it is conducted. It's an iron
hand, and a heart like flint. It's pay or go, and not an hour's grace."
"You can hardly expect him to give you my cottages rent free," suggested
Nicholas suavely.
The man winced.
"No, sir. But where a few weeks would make all the difference to a man,
where it's a matter of a few shillings standing between home and the
roadside--" he broke off.
Nicholas was silent.
"I thought perhaps a word to you, sir," went on the man half wistfully.
"We're to go to-morrow if I can't pay, and I can't. A couple of weeks
might have made all the difference. It was for the wife I came, sneaking
up here like a thief. She's lost two little ones; they never but opened
their eyes on the world to shut them again. I'm glad on it now. But women
aren't made that way. There's another coming. She's not strong. I doubt
but the shock'll not take her and the little one too. Better for them
both if it does. A man can face odds, and remake his life if he is a
man--" he stopped.
Still there was silence.
"I was a fool to come," said the man drearily. "'Twas the weather did it
in the end. I'd gone mad-like listening to the wind and rain, and
thinking of her and the child that was to be--" again he stopped.
Nicholas was watching him from under the penthouse of his eyebrows.
Suddenly he spoke.
"How soon could you pay your rent?" he demanded.
"In a fortnight most like, sir. Three weeks for certain."
"Have you told Mr. Curtis that?"
"I have, sir. But it's the tick of time, or out you go."
"Have you ever been behindhand before?"
"No, sir."
"How has it happened now?" The questions came short, incisive.
The man flushed.
"How has it happened now?" repeated Nicholas distinctly.
"I lent a bit, sir."
"To whom?"
"Widow Thisby. She's an old woman, sir."
"Tell me the whole story," said Nicholas curtly.
Again the flush rose to the man's face.
"Her son got into a bit of trouble, sir. It was a matter of a sovereign
or going to gaol. He's only a youngster, and the prison smell sticks.
Trust folk for nosing it out. He's got a chance now, and will be sending
his mother a trifle presently."
"Then I suppose she'll repay you?"
Job fidgeted with his cap.
"Well, sir, I don't suppose it'll be more'n a trifle he'll send; and
she's got her work cut out to make both ends meet."
"Then I suppose you _gave_ her the money?"
Job shifted his feet uneasily.
"How did you intend to raise the money due for your rent, then?" demanded
Nicholas less curtly.
Job left off fidgeting. He felt on safer ground here.
"It just meant a bit extra saved from each week," he said eagerly. "You
can do it if you've time. Boiling water poured into the morning teapot
for evenings, and knock off your bit of bacon, and--well, there's lots of
ways, sir, and women is wonderful folk for managing, the best ones. Where
it's thought and trouble they'll do it, and they'd be using strength too
if they'd got it, but some of them hasn't."
"Hmm," said Nicholas. He put up his hand to his mouth. "So you _gave_
money you knew would never be repaid, knowing, too, that it meant
possible homelessness."
"You'd have done it yourself if you'd been in my place," said the man
bluntly.
"Should I?" said Nicholas half ironically. "I very much doubt it. Also
what right had you to gamble with your wife's happiness? You knew the
risk you ran. You knew the--er, the rule regarding the rents. Job
Grantley, you were a fool."
Again the colour rushed to the man's face.
"May be, sir. I'll allow it sounds foolishness, but--oh Lord, sir,
where's the use o' back-thinking now. I reckon you'd never do a hand's
turn for nobody if you spent your time looking backward and forrard at
your jobs." He stopped, his chin quivering.
"Job Grantley, you were a fool." Nicholas repeated the words with even
deliberation.
The man moved silently towards the window. There was a clumsy dignity
about his figure.
"Stop," said Nicholas. "Job Grantley, you _are_ a fool."
The man turned round.
"Go to that drawer," ordered Nicholas, "and bring me a pocket-book you
will find there."
Mechanically the man did as he was bidden. Nicholas took the book.
"Now then," he said opening it, "how much will put you right?"
The man stared.
"I--oh, sir."
"How much will put you right?" demanded Nicholas.
"A pound, sir. The month's rent is due to-morrow."
Nicholas raised his eyebrows.
"Humph. Not much to stand between you and--hell. I've no doubt you did
consider it hell. We each have our own interpretation of that cheerful
abode."
He turned the papers carefully.
"Now look here," he said suddenly, "there's five pounds. It's for
yourselves, mind. No more indiscriminate bestowal of charity, you
understand. You begin your charity at home. Do you follow me?"
The man took the money in a dazed fashion. He was more than half
bewildered at the sudden turn in events.
"I'll repay you faithfully, sir. I'll----"
"Damn you," broke in Nicholas softly, "who talked about repayment? Can't
I make a present as well as you, if I like? Besides I owe you something
for this ten minutes. They have been interesting. I don't get too many
excitements. That'll do. I don't want any thanks. Be off with you. Better
go by the window. There might be a need of explanations if you tried a
more conventional mode of exit now. That'll do, that'll do. Go, man."
Two minutes later Nicholas was looking again towards the curtains behind
which Job Grantley had vanished.
"Now, was I the greater fool?" he said aloud. There was an odd, mocking
expression in his eyes.
* * * * *
Ten minutes later he pressed the electric button attached to the arm of
his chair. His eyes were on his watch which he held in his hand. As the
library door opened, he replaced it in his pocket.
"Right to the second," he laughed. "Ah, Jessop."
The man who entered was about fifty years of age, or thereabouts,
grey-haired, clean-shaven. His face was cast in the rigid lines peculiar
to his calling. Possibly they relaxed when with his own kind, but one
could not feel certain of the fact.
"Ah, Jessop, do you know Job Grantley by sight?"
For one brief second Jessop stared, amazement fallen upon him. Then the
mask of impenetrability was on again.
"Job Grantley, yes, sir."
"What is he like?"
"Tallish man, sir; wears corduroys. Dark hair and eyes; looks straight at
you, sir."
"Hmm. Very good. Perhaps I wasn't a fool," he was thinking.
"Do you know Mr. Curtis?" he demanded.
"Yes, sir." This came very shortly.
"Should you call him--er, a hard man?" asked Nicholas smoothly.
Again amazement fell on Jessop's soul, revealing itself momentarily in
his features. And again the amazement was concealed.
"He's a good business man, sir," came the cautious reply.
"You mean--?" suggested Nicholas.
"A good business man isn't ordinarily what you'd call tender-like," said
Jessop grimly.
Nicholas flashed a glance of amusement at him.
"I suppose not," he replied dryly.
There was a pause.
"Do the tenants ever ask to see me?" demanded Nicholas.
"They used to, sir. Now they save their shoe-leather coming up the
drive."
"Ah, you told them--?"
"Your orders, sir. You saw no one."
"I see." Nicholas's fingers were beating a light tattoo on the arm of his
chair. "Well, those are my orders. That will do. You needn't come again
till I ring."
Jessop turned towards the door.
"Oh, by the way," Nicholas's voice arrested him on the threshold, "I
fancy the middle window is unlatched."
Jessop returned and went behind the curtains.
"It was, wasn't it?" asked Nicholas as he emerged.
"Yes, sir."
Jessop left the room.
"Now how on earth did he know that?" he queried as he walked across the
hall.
The curtains had been drawn when Nicholas had been carried into the room.
The knowledge, for a man unable to move from his chair, seemed little
short of uncanny.
"_A man can face odds if he is a man, and remake his life._"
The words repeated themselves in Nicholas's brain. Each syllable was like
the incisive tap of a hammer. They fell on a wound lately dealt.
A little scene, barely ten days old, reconstructed itself in his memory.
The stage was the one he now occupied; the position the same. But another
actor was present, a big rugged man, clad in a shabby overcoat,--a man
with keen eyes, a grim mouth, and flexible sensitive hands.
"I regret to tell you that, humanly speaking, you have no more than a
year to live."
The man had looked past him as he spoke the words. He had had his back to
the light, but Nicholas had seen something almost inscrutable in his
expression.
Nicholas's voice had followed close upon the words, politely ironical.
"Personally I should have considered it a matter for congratulation
rather than regret," he had suggested.
There had been the fraction of a pause. Then the man's voice had broken
the silence.
"Do you?"
"I do. What has my life been for fifteen years?" Nicholas had demanded.
"What you have made of it," had been the answer.
"What God or the devil has made of it, aided by Baccarat--poor beast,"
Nicholas had retorted savagely.
"The devil, possibly," the man had replied, "but aided and abetted by
yourself."
"Confound you, what are you talking about?" Nicholas had cried.
The man had still looked towards the book-cases.
"Listen," he had said. "For fifteen years you have lived the life of a
recluse--a useless recluse, mind you. And why? Because of pride,--sheer
pride. Those who had known you in the strength of your manhood, those who
had known you as Nick the dare-devil, should never see the broken
cripple. Pride forbade it. You preferred to run to cover, to lie hidden
there like a wounded beast, rather than face, like a man, the odds that
were against you,--heavy odds, I'll allow."
Nicholas's eyes had blazed.
"How dare you!" he had shouted.
"You've a year left," went on the man calmly. "I should advise you to see
what use you can make of it."
"The first use I'll make of it is to order you from the house. You can go
at once." Nicholas had pointed towards the door.
The man had got up.
"All right," he had said, looking at him for the first time in the last
ten minutes. "But don't forget. You've got the year, you know."
"To hell with the year," said Nicholas curtly.
"Damn the fellow," he had said as the door had closed behind him. But the
very truth of the words had left a wound,--a clean-cut wound however.
There was never any bungling where Doctor Hilary was concerned.
And now incisive, sharp, came the taps of the hammer on it, taps dealt by
Job Grantley's chance words.
"Confound both the men," he muttered. "But the fellow deserved the five
pounds. It was the first interest I've had for fifteen years. The kind of
entrance I'd have made myself, too; or perhaps mine would have been even
a bit more unusual, eh, Nick the dare-devil!"
It was the old name again. He had never earned it through the least
malice, however. Fool-hardiness perhaps, added to indomitable high
spirits and good health, but malice, never.
How Father O'Brady had chuckled over the prank that had first earned him
the title,--the holding up of the coach that ran between Byestry and
Kingsleigh, Nick at the head of a band of half a dozen young scapegraces
clad in black masks and huge hats, and armed with old pistols purloined
from the historic gun-room of the old Hall! It had been a leaf from the
book of Claude Duval with a slight difference.
Nick had re-acted the scene for him. He was an inimitable mimic. He had
taken off old Lady Fanshawe's cackling fright to the life. As the
stoutest and oldest dowager of the lot he had obliged her to dance a
minuet with him, the terrified coachman, postilion, and solitary male
passenger covered by his companions' pistols the while. The fluttered
younger occupants of the coach had frankly envied the terrified dowager,
yet Nick had bestowed but the most perfunctory of glances upon them, and
that for a reason best known to himself.
Later the truth of the affair had leaked out, and Lady Fanshawe could
never chaperon one of her numerous nieces to a ball, without being
besieged by young men imploring the favour of a dance. Being a sporting
old lady--when not out of her wits with terror--she had taken it all in
good part. Once, even, she had danced the very same minuet with Nick, the
whole ballroom looking on and applauding.
It had been the first of a series of pranks each madder than the last,
but each equally light-hearted and gay.
That is till Cecilia Lester married Basil Percy.
The world, namely the small circle in which Cecilia and Nick moved, had
heard of the marriage with amazement. If Nick was amazed he did not show
it, but his pranks held less of gaiety, more of a grim foolhardiness.
Father O'Brady no longer chuckled over their recitation. Maybe because
they mainly reached his ears from outside sources. Nick, who was not of
his fold, seldom sought his society in these days. Later he heard them
not at all, being removed to another mission.
And then, at last, came the day when Nick played his final prank in the
hunting field,--his maddest prank, in which Baccarat failed him. The
horse was shot where he lay. His rider was carried home half dead; and
half dead, literally, he had been for fifteen years.
And there was yet one more year left to him.
* * * * *
Nicholas sat gazing at the fire.
His brain was extraordinarily alert. There was a dawning humour waking in
his eyes, a hint of the bygone years' devil-may-careness. The old Nick
was stirring within him, roused by the little blows of that sentence.
Suddenly a flash of laughter illuminated his whole face. He brought his
hand down on the arm of his chair.
"By gad, I've got it, and Hilary's the man to help me."
It was characteristic of Nicholas to forget his own share in that little
ten-day-old scene. Also it may be safely averred that Doctor Hilary would
be equally forgetful.
Nicholas still sat gazing into the fire, chuckling every now and then to
himself. It was midnight before he rang for Jessop. The ringing had been
preceded by one short sentence.
"By gad, Nick the dare-devil, the scheme's worthy of the old days."
CHAPTER I
THE LETTER
Antony was sitting on the stoep of his bungalow. The African sun was
bathing the landscape in a golden glory. Before him lay his garden, a
medley of brilliant colour. Just beyond it was a field of green Indian
corn, scintillating to silver as a little breeze swept its surface.
Beyond it again lay the vineyard, and the thatched roof of an old Dutch
farmhouse half hidden among trees. Farther off still rose the mountains,
golden in the sunlight.
It was the middle of the afternoon. Silence reigned around, broken only
by the occasional chirp of a grasshopper, the muffled note of a frog, the
twitter of the canaries among the cosmos, or the rustle of the reed
curtain which veiled the end of the stoep.
The reed curtain veiled the bathroom, a primitive affair, the bath
consisting of half an old wine vat, filled with velvety mountain water,
conducted thither by means of a piece of hose-piping attached to the
solitary water tap the estate possessed. It was emptied by means of a
bung fixed in the lower part of the vat, the water affording irrigation
for the garden.
Antony sat very still. His coat lay beside him on the stoep. A small
wire-haired puppy named Josephus mounted guard upon it. Woe betide the
person other than Antony's self who ventured to lay finger on the
garment. There would be a bristling of short wiry white hair, a showing
of baby white teeth, and a series of almost incredibly vicious growls.
Josephus permitted no man to take liberties with his master's property,
nor indeed with his ridiculously dignified small self. Antony was the
sole exception to his rule. But then was not he a king among men, a
person whose word was law, whose caress a benediction, whose blow a thing
for which to demand mute pardon? You knew it was deserved, though the
knowledge might possibly at times be vague, since your wisdom was as yet
but puppy wisdom.
Now and again Josephus hung out a pink tongue, a tongue which demanded
milk in a saucer. He knew tea-time to the second,--ordinarily speaking
that is to say. He could not accustom himself to that extra half-hour's
delay which occurred on mail days, a delay caused by Riffle, the coloured
boy, having to walk to the village to fetch the post. The walk was seldom
entirely fruitless. Generally there was a newspaper of sorts;
occasionally--very occasionally--a letter. Josephus knew that the click
of the garden gate heralded the swift arrival of tea, but it was not
always easy to realize on which days that click was to be expected.
Antony gazed at the scintillating field of corn. The sight pleased him.
There is always a glory in creation, even if it be creation by proxy, so
to speak. At all events he had been the human agent in the matter. He had
ploughed the brown earth; he had cast the yellow seed, trudging the
furrows with swinging arm; he had dug the little trenches through which
the limpid mountain water should flow to the parched earth; he had
watched the first hint of green spreading like a light veil; he had seen
it thicken, carpeting the field; and now he saw the full fruit of his
labours. Strong and healthy it stood before him, the soft wind rippling
across its surface, silvering the green.
The click of the garden gate roused him from his contemplation. Josephus
cocked one ear, his small body pleasurably alert.
Antony turned his head. Mail day always held possibilities, however
improbable, an expectation unknown to those to whom the sound of the
postman's knock comes in the ordinary course of events. Riffle appeared
round the corner of the stoep. Had you seen him anywhere but in Africa,
you would have vowed he was a good-looking Italian. A Cape coloured boy
he was truly, and that, mark you, is a very different thing from Kaffir.
"The paper, master, and a letter," he announced with some importance.
Then he disappeared to prepare the tea for which Josephus's doggy soul
was longing.
Antony turned the letter in his hands. It must be confessed it was a
disappointment. It was obviously a business communication. Both envelope
and clerkly writing made that fact apparent. It was a drop to earth after
the first leap of joy that had heralded Riffle's announcement. It was
like putting out your hand to greet a friend, and meeting--a commercial
traveller.
Antony smiled ruefully. Yet, after all, it was an English commercial
traveller. That fact stood for something. It was, at all events, a faint
breath of the Old Country. In England the letter had been penned, in
England it had been posted, from England it had come to him. Yet who on
earth had business affairs to communicate to him!
He broke the seal.
Amazement fell upon him with the first words he read. By the end of the
perusal his brain was whirling. It was incredible, astounding. He stared
out into the sunshine. Surely he was dreaming. It must be a joke of
sorts, a laughable hoax. Yet there was no hint of joking in the concise
communication, in the small clerkly handwriting, in the business-like
letter-paper, a letter-paper headed by the name of a most respectable
firm of solicitors.
"Well, I'm jiggered," declared Antony to the sunshine. And he fell to a
second perusal of the letter. Here is what he read:
"Dear Sir,
"We beg to inform you that under the terms of the will of the late Mr.
Nicholas Danver of Chorley Old Hall, Byestry, in the County of Devon, you
are left sole legatee of his estate and personal effects estimated at an
income of some twelve thousand pounds per annum, subject, however, to
certain conditions, which are to be communicated verbally to you by us.
"In order that you may be enabled to hear the conditions without undue
inconvenience to yourself, we have been authorized to defray any expenses
you may incur either directly or indirectly through your journey to
England, and--should you so desire--your return journey. We enclose
herewith cheque for one hundred pounds on account.
"As the property is yours only upon conditions, we must beg that you will
make no mention of this communication to any person whatsoever until such
time as you have been made acquainted with the said conditions. We should
be obliged if you would cable to us your decision whether or no you
intend to hear them, and--should the answer be in the affirmative--the
approximate date we may expect you in England.
"Yours obediently,
"Henry Parsons."
And the paper was headed, Parsons & Glieve, Solicitors.
Nicholas Danver. Where had he heard that name before? What faint cord of
memory did it strike? He sought in vain for the answer. Yet somehow, at
sometime, surely he had heard it! Again and again he seemed on the verge
of discovering the clue, and again and again it escaped him, slipping
elusive from him. It was tantalizing, annoying. With a slight mental
effort he abandoned the search. Unpursued, the clue might presently
return to him.
Riffle reappeared on the stoep bearing a tea-tray. Josephus sat erect.
For full ten minutes his brown eyes gazed ardently towards the table.
What had happened? What untoward event had occurred? Antony was oblivious
of his very existence. Munching bread and butter, drinking hot tea
himself, he appeared entirely to have forgotten that a thirsty and
bewilderedly disappointed puppy was gazing at him from the harbourage of
his old coat. At length the neglect became a thing not to be borne.
Waving a deprecating paw, Josephus gave vent to a pitiful whine.
Antony turned. Then realization dawned on him. He grasped the milk jug.
"You poor little beggar," he laughed. "It's not often you get neglected.
But it's not often that bombshells in the shape of ordinary, simple,
harmless-looking letters fall from the skies, scattering extraordinary
contents and my wits along with them. Here you are, you morsel of injured
patience."
Josephus lapped, greedily, thirstily, till the empty saucer circled on
the stoep under the onslaughts of his small pink tongue.
Antony had again sunk into a reverie, a reverie which lasted for another
fifteen minutes or so. At last he roused himself.
"Josephus, my son," he announced solemnly, "there are jobs to be done,
and in spite of bombshells we'd better do them, and leave Arabian Night
wonders for further contemplation this evening."