the even numbers and I took the odd, that might do."
Might it? That would mean he would write Chapter One. I wanted to
write Chapter One. On the other hand, it would mean I should have
Chapter twelve, with the execution in it, which would suit me very well.
I mentioned the fact, and could see that Harry had forgotten it, for he
tried hard to back out of his arrangement.
"I think you'd do the first chapter best," said he. "There's some
scenery in it, you know, and you're more of a dab at that than I am."
But my modesty preferred the even numbers, and our novel looked very
like being water-logged before she had even been launched.
A compromise was, however, arrived at. As the question of style was
very important, it was decided we should _both_ write Chapter One, and
then, after comparing the two attempts, arrange our further procedure
accordingly.
So I with a J pen, and Harry with a D retired to opposite corners of the
room and plunged headlong into the "Theft of Alicia." It was a hard
morning's work, and by the time the breakfast-bell rang we were both
getting the steam up. The sight of Aunt Sarah brooding over the tea-
tray had but one meaning for us, and Sister Alice's pretty face and soft
voice spoke to me only of that baby I had left in my chapter lying on
the seat in the square.
"Now, little boys, are you going to play on the beach to-day?" said the
villain, as the meal concluded.
"No, aunt," said Harry. "Syd and I have got some work we are doing."
"What work?" demanded Aunt Sarah.
"English composition," said Harry boldly.
And under cover of this truthful announcement we escaped.
It was midday before I laid down my pen and gathered my scattered sheets
together. Harry had been done before me, but he had only written eleven
sheets, so our pace was about equal.
"Done?" said he, as I sat back in my chair.
"Yes; lock the door," said I.
I must beg the reader's pardon if I do not lay before them the whole of
the two lucubrations. They must be content with a few impartially
chosen selections.
My chapter began with a poetical description of London in early morning.
"London in the morning! What a scene! The whistle of the workmen's
trains sounds, and the noise of vegetable carts going to Covent Garden
Market, give the place an animated appearance. Very few people are
awake, and those that are look sleepy.
"In such a scene as this a hideous-looking woman, about fifty years old,
with a long nose and a shabby barrel-organ, wended her way from some of
the slums near Farringdon Street Station in the direction of Euston
Square.
"It was not a very pretty walk. There were no birds twittering in the
trees, or cuckoos. You could not hear the gentle roar of the ocean, and
what flowers there were, were in pots on the window-sills.
"The ugly woman chose the road where there were most public-houses, and
I am sorry to say that any one who had walked close beside her would
have heard her talking to herself in very bad language."
Here followed the description of a few of the public-houses and their
natural beauties, and my narrative proceeded--
"In this way the wicked woman reached Euston Square. She was greatly
intoxicated, and not able to play the tunes on her organ correctly.
Nobody gave her anything, which was not surprising, and the police moved
her on all round the square.
"At last it was plain she would have to do something to get some money.
"After thinking over all the different things, she thought she would
steal a baby and get money that way. So, seeing a baby lying on a seat
close by, whose nurse had gone off to see a militia band marching
towards Gower Street, she stole it and went off as fast as she could.
"There was a cradle hanging on to the organ, and when people saw the
baby in it the wicked woman got as much money as she liked.
"My reader will have guessed by this time that the baby, which was of
the feminine gender, is the heroine.
"She was really high-born.
"Her father was a retired coal merchant. He was a very little man and
dropped his h's.
"Her mother was what the vulgar would call a `whopper.' Let not the
reader think she whopped her baby or her husband. On the contrary, she
was kind, but big.
"They lived at Highbury, and the nurse always took the baby out for
walks before breakfast."
It was at this point that it had suddenly flashed across me that I had
left out the joke allotted to Chapter One, and as the narrative was well
advanced, I ought to work up for it without delay. So I proceeded.
"We left Alicia, for that was the name of our heroine, being wheeled
back on the organ to Hatton Garden. It was an unpleasant journey. The
bad woman called at a lot more public-houses, and left Alicia and the
organ outside in the rain.
"It was a wonder Alicia was not stolen again. She began to cry. People
who came by couldn't make out what it was, for she was hidden under the
quilt, and some thought instead of an organ it must have been some
strange animal.
"An organ that cried like a child would be a very queer animal, nearly
as queer as an author whose tale comes out of his head; and some of the
people said so."
I was hot and tired by the time I had worked off this piece of humour,
and began to wish I saw my way to the end of my twelve sheets. Two more
I occupied with a picture of the organ-grinder's quarters in Hatton
Garden, and concluded with the following poetical passage:--
"Little thought the wicked Vixen as she huddled her stolen infant into a
damp corner of the filthy room, how much would happen before Alicia and
her poor parents next met.
"We know very little of what is going to happen, and perhaps it is a
good job. At any rate it was a good job for Alicia as she lay fast
asleep.
"The world is all before the little baby--It doesn't know what's all in
store for it--If it did know, it seems to me that maybe it wouldn't like
the prospect--not a bit.
"End of Chapter One."
Harry looked a little uncomfortable as I finished reading my chapter
aloud. I concluded he felt rather out of it, and I was not surprised.
For on the whole it read well, and in some respects I flattered myself
it had rather a pull on _Nicholas Nickleby_.
Harry wisely reserved his criticisms until he had read his own chapter,
which I awaited with a smile of brotherly resignation.
"You know," explained he, before he began, "I tried to get more incident
than you, that's why I left out the scenery."
Aha! my scenery had fetched him, then! I wondered what his incident
would be like.
"Fire away!" said I.
"Her name was Sarah Vixen--[I'm beginning now]--Her name was Sarah
Vixen. She was a horrid old maid. One morning she went and played her
organ in Euston Square. She played `Wait till the clouds roll by,' and
`Sweethearts' waltz', and the `Marseillaise,' one after the other, after
which she paused and watched a tennis match which was going on in the
square.
"It was a four-handed match between two rather good-looking boys who
wore red and green ribbons on their straws--[those were the Denhamby
colours]--and two big London fellows. The schoolboys won the toss, and
the fair one served first. He put in a very hot service just over the
net, which broke sharp as it fell, and bothered the Londoners
completely. The dark hand-in played close up to the net, and was very
neat in the way he picked up balls and smashed them over."
Harry paused and looked doubtfully at me for a moment, and then went on.
"The schoolboys pulled off the first three games, and then the Londoners
scored a game, owing to the wind. A large crowd collected to see the
match, and shouts of `Well put over!' greeted the schoolboys on every
hand. The Londoners didn't score another game in the first set, and
scored nothing in the second.
"The crowd became thicker and thicker every moment. In the last game
the fair schoolboy spun a ball into the far left-hand corner, which the
Londoner could not reach, and the match ended in a glorious victory for
the two schoolboys, who, apparently unaware of the cheers of the crowd,
walked home arm-in-arm as if nothing had happened.
"On their way they met a runaway horse, and loud cries of `Take care!'
`Get out of the way!' met them on all sides. A nursemaid was wheeling a
child across the road at that moment, and quick as thought the fair boy
sprang at the horse and brought him to a standstill just in time. The
crowd seeing it, rushed with a great cheer to the young hero, but he
seeing it, took his friend's arm and walked on as if nothing had
happened.
"`What are you so pale for?' asked his friend.
"`Oh, nothing very much. I have broken my arm; but it really doesn't
matter much.'
"While he spoke he fainted, and if it had not been for his friend, might
have fallen.
"Meanwhile the baby, left to herself in the perambulator in the middle
of the road, began to cry, which attracted the notice of Vixen, who,
seeing she was a nice child, went and lifted her out of her
perambulator, and put her in her cradle on her organ while nobody was
looking, and took her to her home."
"`Whose home?' I asked.
Harry did not condescend to notice this interruption. He may have
guessed I was jealous. All that about the heroic fair boy had been
taking an unfair advantage of me, and I think he knew it. For I was of
a dark complexion! His narrative went on to describe a fight in the
organ-grinder's lodgings, and a burglary, followed by a fire at the
residence of the parents of the lost child. As a matter of course, the
fair boy with his broken arm turned up on the fire-engine, and brought
most of the family down the escape with his sound arm. Then by a sudden
transition the scene changed back to the organ-grinder's "cottage," on
the ground floor of which in another cradle slept another infant, a boy,
fair, of course, and beautifully made, showing great promise of physical
force and heroism of disposition.
"He was older than Alicia, and could speak a little. There was no one
in the room, and as he sat up in his cradle he felt very sad. Presently
two young organ-grinders came into the room. One was dark and vicious,
the other was fair [of course] and had a pleasant expression. They took
no notice of the baby, but sat and smoked and asked riddles of one
another. The fair one [of course!] was far the cleverer of the two, and
caused much laughter by his wit.
"`Can you tell me,' said he, in a pleasant silvery voice very unlike an
organ-grinder, `why an author is a queer animal?'
"`Give it hup,' said the vulgar one, who always put his `h's' wrong.
"`Because his tale comes out of his head!'
"It was long before the vulgar one saw it, and then he laughed so much
that the baby began to cry, and they had to go into the next room for
fear of disturbing it. Having left the door open, the fair baby got out
of its cradle, and, being old enough to walk, went quietly upstairs, and
there what should he see in a cradle in the room above but Alicia! This
was the first time the two met. They did not say much, but Cupid's
arrow went through them both from that minute. That's all," said Harry.
There was a silence, which at last I broke.
"And which chapter do you think we'd better put in?"
"That's just what I was going to ask you," said Harry.
"You see," said I cautiously, "you've got rather a lot about that fair
chap in yours, and he's not in the plot."
"Oh, he turns out somebody," said Harry.
"Who?"
"I don't know yet."
"He's not the hero, of course?" said I decisively; "he's to be a mixture
of both."
"Oh, of course," said Harry. "But, I say, don't you think there's
rather too much about scenery in yours? There's very little of that in
_Nicholas Nickleby_, or poetry either."
"No; that struck me as one of the weak points of _Nicholas Nickleby_,"
said I.
"I thought it was settled the hero was to be in it from the first?" said
Harry, falling back on another line of defence.
"So he is. I shall say in the next chapter that he was in the room
underneath all the time," said I, rather testily.
"Oh, well," said Harry, "of course if you think yours is the best, you'd
better stick it in. I'm out of it, if you're going in for poetry."
"You're not obliged to do any poetry," said I. "Thanks. I shouldn't
try unless I was sure of writing something that wasn't doggerel," said
Harry. This was hitting me on a tender point. "Look here," said I,
starting up, "do you mean to tell me I write doggerel?"
"I didn't say so."
"You meant it. I'd sooner write doggerel than stuff I'd be ashamed to
read in a `penny dreadful.' Call yourself a fair boy!"
Alas for our novel! We spent half an hour that evening in anything but
a literary competition.
Aunt Sarah remarked on Harry's black eye and my one-sided countenance at
breakfast next morning, and inquired artlessly if _English composition_
had caused them. We truly answered, "Yes."
Our friendship was quickly restored; but our poor novel, after that one
evening, has never lifted up its head again. We have sometimes vaguely
talked of finishing it, but we have been careful to avoid all discussion
of details, still less all reference to Chapter One. In fact, we have
come to the conclusion that it is better not to startle the world at too
early an age. If you do, you are expected to keep it up, and that
interferes with your enjoyment of life.
When our Novel does come out, well, we think Conan Doyle, Wells, and
those other fellows will sit up.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
Preface.
OUR OWN PENNY-DREADFUL.
I am always coming across old manuscripts. I am not sure of the date of
the following, but I fancy it must have been written for a prize, which,
strange to say, it failed to secure. The only conditions were that the
story should have lots of "go" in it, that the incidents should be
natural, the tone elevating, and the characters carefully studied.
I ask any of my readers if this does not fulfil all these conditions? I
know when it was returned to me as "not quite the style we care about,"
I was extremely angry, and replied that I should very much like to see
what style they did care about, if not this. They had not the common
politeness to reply!
Another publisher to whom I submitted it actually wrote back that he was
not in the habit of publishing "penny dreadfuls." I was never so
insulted in all my life!
However, as a specimen of the kind of story some boys read, and some
editors do _not_ publish, the reader shall have my "penny dreadful," and
decide for himself whether it has not lots of "go," is not strictly true
to nature, elevating in tone, and carefully studied. If it is not, then
he had better not read it!
The Plaster Cast; Or Septimus Minor's Million.
A Thrilling Story in Fifteen Chapters, by the Author of "Blugram
Blunderbuss, or the Dog-Man."
Sub-Chapter I.
THE MURDER!
The golden sun was plunging his magnificent head angrily into the sheen
of the bronze Atlantic when Septimus Minor scaled the craggy path which
leads from Crocusville to the towering cliff above.
The wind came and went in fitful gusts, which now and again carried
Septimus off his feet, and sometimes lifted him a foot or two over the
edge of the rugged cliff in time for another eddy to carry him back.
Nature this evening suited the gusty humour of Septimus Minor's breast.
"The crisis of my life approaches!" he said to himself, as a magnificent
wave from below leapt eight hundred feet in the air, and fell, drenching
him from head to foot. "I am fifteen years old next week, and something
here,"--here he laid his right hand on his left side--"tells me I am a
man."
As he spoke, another wave leapt skyward, and out of it emerged the form
of a man.
"Yes!" cried Septimus. "Her father!"
Septimus was the youngest of seven children, most of whom were orphans.
But we digress.
"Belay there--haul in your mainslacks, and splice your marline-spike.
Where are you coming to?" cried Peeler, the coastguardsman--for such, we
need hardly say, was the rank of the new arrival.
"How are you?" said Sep, in an off-hand way.
"Blooming," said the not altogether refined Peeler.
A gust of wind lifted them both up the twenty remaining yards of the
cliff, and left them standing on a sheltered crag at the extreme brink.
"Spin us a yarn," said Sep.
The setting sun cast a lurid flash over the figures of that strangely
assorted pair. The next moment it had set, and nothing was visible but
the reflection of the end of Sep's cigar in the glass eye of his
interlocutor.
Septimus Minor had lived in Crocusville ever since he could remember,
and the coastguardsman some years longer. Hence Sep's request.
Mr Peeler was a fine specimen of his class. He wore a sou'wester and
boots to match, and round his shoulders--
But why all this minute detail concerning one who is to disappear--if he
had but known it!--before that howling night--
"Twas in '52 she grounded," said he, transferring something from his
right cheek to his left. "Hang me on the Union Jack," (that was a
nautical expression by which Peeler added solemnity to his statement)
"if there was not exactly one million Spanish doubloons on board."
Sep whistled, but immediately checked himself, and sat down on the wind
to hear the rest.
"Bust my buttons if mortal man knows where she lies!" continued Peeler,
"save and except yours 'umbly. Stand by, my shaver, and cast your cock-
eye on this bit of rag."
And he produced from his pocket a greasy piece of parchment with a map
upon it.
"There," said he, laying his broad thumb on a red cross somewhere in the
West Pacific, "there she lies--full of gold, my boy. Shiver my jury-
masts if she don't."
The wind on which Sep was sitting lifted him to his feet, as he grasped
the map and gazed with quivering excitement on the mysterious red mark.
He laughed sardonically, and the perspiration stood in beads on his
brow. Then, pushing Peeler over the cliff, he put the map in his
pocket, and walked on whistling in the night air to the cottage.
Sub-Chapter II.
THE SMILE.
"My own Velvetina!"
"Sep, my pet!"
"Can it really be?"
"Even so."
A silence, during which a pair of tangled eyelashes are dim with humid
dew. Then--
"Did you meet daddy on the cliff, pet?"
He turned ashy white, even in the darkness, and recoiled several yards
at the unexpected inquiry.
"Where?" at last he gasped, prevaricatingly.
"Then you saw him not!" cried she, "and he is out alone on this wild
night; and only his thin socks on."
"Really?" replies Sep, "let me go and look for him."
He crushed her lily hand lovingly in his own and went. But he turned to
the left at the end of the lane, and with scarcely half a dozen bounds
reached the railway station, grasping the map and murmuring to himself,
"My Velvy!" all the way.
Any one who could have seen that happy boy's face at the window of the
second-class carriage, as the train steamed majestically out of the
station, would scarcely have dreamed of the deep meaning concealed
beneath that ingenuous smile.
Smile on, Septimus, yet beware! The sleuth-hound is already on the
track!
Sub-Chapter III.
THE SLEUTH-HOUND.
Solomon Smellie, of Scotland Yard, had yet his way to make in the world.
He was not exactly young, for time had already thinned the luxuriant
growth of his hair, nor was he without encumbrance, for he had fifteen
children. Yet he was an active and intelligent officer, and had once
detected something--he forgot what. But that is not to the point.
What brought him, walking on this particular evening, to the foot of the
beetling cliffs?
Ask the howling wind, which ever and anon flattened him against the
chalk or drove him miles inland up some cavernous cave. Be that as it
may, he walked.
"I wish I could detect something in all this," said he, pulling himself
together, and glancing scornfully into the darkness.
As he did so, Captain Peeler's corpse alighted gracefully on the sand at
his feet.
"Ah, ha!" said he, "this looks like business. Now let me think. How
comes this here?"
There were no footsteps in the sand beside his own, therefore the
miscreant or miscreants must have escaped in some other direction.
"Aha!" said he, presently looking up. "They may be up there."
And he leapt actively to the beetling summit.
"Better and better," said he, looking round him and observing a hoof
mark in the yielding clay, of which he promptly took a plaster cast.
"Another link, ha, ha! the murderer was a horseman!"
And he sat down and wrote a lucid report on the whole case for his
sergeant.
Solomon Smellie was in luck assuredly! Scarcely had he concluded his
literary labour, when, at a distance, he perceived a twinkling light.
"Ha, ha!" said he, "now see how the real artist in crime works. Yonder
is a light. The murderer cannot have gone that way. Therefore he has
gone this."
And he stepped into the railway station just as Sep's train steamed out.
"Too late, this time," muttered he, between his teeth. "But time will
show--time will show!" Never did man speak a truer word!
Sub-Chapter IV.
THE STOWAWAYS.
The "Harnessed Mule" was a splendid vessel of a hundred and fifty tons;
and as she sailed past the Nore like a floating queen flapping her white
wings in the breeze, she reminded the beholders that England still rules
the waves.
Her crew consisted of a skipper, four men, and a boy.
Was that all?
Who is this lurking figure in the forward hold, who, with a complacent
smile on his lips, gazes on a crumpled map, and ever and anon sharpens a
gimlet?
There is a stowaway on board the "Harnessed Mule."
One? There are two.
For in the stern hold lurks another figure, also smiling, as the wind
plays through the thin hair on the top of his head, and mutters to
himself--
"Ha! ha! Time will show."
Sail on, O "Harnessed Mule." You carry a weighty freight inside you.
Who will reach the goal first?
Sub-Chapter V.
THE WRECK OF THE "HARNESSED MULE."
Latitude 80 degrees 25 minutes, longitude 4 degrees 6 minutes--a hot,
breathless day. The "Harnessed Mule" glides swiftly over the unruffled
blue. The crew loll about, listening to the babbling of the boiling
ocean, and now and then lazily extinguishing the flames which break up
from the tropically heated planks. It is a typical Pacific day.
The stowaway in the forward hold lies prone, conning his map, and
marking the gradual approach of the "Harnessed Mule" to the red cross
marked there. Frequently he is compelled to raise himself into a
sitting position to give vent to the merriment which possesses him.
"This is better than Latin prose," says he to himself. "How jolly I
feel!"
Could he but have guessed that through an adjoining crack another figure
was drinking in every word he uttered, and taking it down in official
shorthand, he would have spoken in less audible tones!
Yes. The second stowaway is Solomon Smellie, of Scotland Yard, and he
has the plaster cast in his pocket.
"This must be about the spot," says Sep, comparing his chart with the
figures on the mariner's compass. "Here goes."
Two vigorous turns of the gimlet, and the "Harnessed Mule" rears on her
beam ends, and, with one stupendous lurch, goes to the bottom.
"That's all right," says Sep, as he hauls himself to the summit of a
mountain of naked rock, which rises sheer out of the sea on all sides to
a height of a thousand feet.
The words are scarcely out of his mouth when his face turns livid, and
he trembles violently from head to foot, as he perceives standing before
him Solomon Smellie, the detective of Scotland Yard.
Sub-Chapter VI.
THE RENCONTRE.
"This is an unexpected pleasure," says Solomon.
"Delighted, I'm sure," says Septimus, craftily.
Then they talk of the weather, eyeing one another like practised fencers
in a death struggle.
"Ha! ha!" thinks Sep; "he has heard of the sunken doubloons."
"Ha! ha!" thinks Solomon. "If he only knew I had that plaster cast in
my pocket!"
"Are you making a long stay here?" says the former naively.
"Depends," is the dark, laconic reply.
"Sorry I must leave you for a little," says Sep. "An appointment."
And he takes a magnificent header from the cliff into the very spot
where the wrecked gold-ship lies buried.
When, after a couple of hours, he rose to the surface for breath, Sep
was relieved to find himself alone.
"Peeler was right," said he to himself, flinging back the matted hair
from his noble brow. "My fortune is made."
And he dived again.
In the damp cabin of the sunk ship stood the gaunt form of many a brave
mariner, faithful to his post even in death. Seth gave them a passing
glance, and shuddered a little as he met their glassy eyes. He was
about to rise to the surface with the remainder of his booty, when the
figure nearest the door fell against him.
Turning on him, a cold perspiration suffused our hero from head to foot,
and his hair rose like porcupine quills on his head.
It was not a corpse, but Solomon Smellie, the detective of Scotland
Yard.
Sep had barely time to close to the cabin door, and strike out with his
precious bags for the surface. He felt he had had a narrow escape of
detection, and that the sooner he sought a change of climate the better.
As for Solomon, it would have needed a strong door to keep him from his
prey.
"Ha, ha!" said he, "the chain grows link by link. Two and two make
four. Patience, Solomon, and you will be famous yet."
Sub-Chapter VII.
THE FETE AND THE FRACAS.
It was the most brilliant ball which had ever been given in the English
capital.
The very waiters sparkled with diamonds!
The gorgeous suite of apartments, several miles in length, were ablaze
with all that wealth and beauty in electric light could effect.
Coote and Tinney's band was in attendance.
Down the sparkling avenues of lustres whirled the revellers in all the
ecstasy of the hilarious dance.
Peals of laughter and the rustling of fans combined to make the scene
the most gorgeous ever witnessed in this or any other metropolis.
The host of the princely revel was a mysterious young foreign nobleman,
known by the name of the Duc de Septimominorelli, and reputed to be the
richest man in Europe.
What makes this evening's entertainment particularly brilliant is the
fact that it is to be graced by the dazzling presence of the peerless
Donna Velvetina Peeleretta, who, as every one knows, is shortly to wear
the diamond tiara of the house of Septimominorelli.
In other words, she and the Duc are betrothed.
The festivities are at their height, and the Duc for the fifth time is
leading his charming _fiancee_ to the supper-room, when the venerable
butler announces, in a voice that attracts universal attention, a new
arrival.
"Monsieur le Marquis de Smellismelli!"
If possible the Marquis was more magnificently attired even than the
Duc, and went through the salutation with the easy grace of a man who
had often appeared in Court.
"Who is he?" asked every one.
"An old college friend," explained the Duc.
But his face was the colour of his handkerchief, and the place shook
with the trembling of his limbs.
The marquis quickly made himself at home, and vied with his host in his
eagerness to take the Donna Velvetina down to supper.
The Duc's face darkened visibly in proportion as that of his guest
beamed; and to those who looked on, it was evident that a scene was
imminent.
At length, when for the nineteenth time the lady accepted the arm of the
gallant marquis, the Duc ground his teeth, and stepping up to his rival,
pulled his nose.
The marquis in return flung the Duc the entire length of the apartments,
and with folded arms calmly awaited the result.
"We fight, Monsieur le Marquis," ground out the smarting Duc.
"Rather!" replied the marquis, with a proud smile.
Sub-Chapter VIII.
THE DUEL.
It was a tragic end in that night's gay scene.
Guests whose carriages were not ordered till 4 a.m. stood shivering in
the hall at 11 p.m.
Five hours to wait!
Meanwhile, on two special steamers the Duc de Septimominorelli and the
Marquis de Smellismelli sought the shore of France.
On the lonely sands between Calais and Ushant the rivals stood face to
face, at a hundred paces distance.
They had no seconds, so each loaded the other's weapon.
It could not have been the wind that made their knees tremble and their
teeth chatter, for there was none. Neither could it have been the
weight of the pistols which made their hands wave to and fro, for these
were Boxer's eight-ounce Maxim Repeaters.
No; these two men were the subjects of deep physical emotion. The
moment had come, and the Duc was about to drop his handkerchief, when
the Marquis abruptly folded his arms and said, "Excuse me, we have met
before, have we not? Ha, ha, Sep, my boy!"
At the sound of his voice, the so-called Duc flung his weapon two
hundred yards in the air, and with the bound of a hunted tiger buried
himself in the turmoil of the French capital.
There was no duel on those yellow sands after all.
Sub-Chapter IX.
AFTERWARDS.
The mysterious disappearance of the dazzling Duc de Septimominorelli
created a profound impression throughout civilised Europe. The Donna
Velvetina Peeleretta was inconsolable.
After a while she, too, went abroad.
Sub-Chapter X.
THE SLEUTH-HOUND AGAIN.
Many, many years flew past.
Solomon Smellie's youngest son had been twice Lord Mayor of London, and
all London had forgotten the Duc de Septimominorelli and the peerless
Donna Velvetina Peeleretta.
All? No, there was one exception.
An aged man in a back room of the Mansion House sometimes produced a
plaster cast from the recesses of his pocket, and muttered to himself--
"A time will come--aha!"
Sub-Chapter XI.
THE DESERT JOURNEY.
A lonely traveller traversed the sandy desert wastes of Central Africa.
He was ill-accoutred for so trying a journey, having only a cane to
protect himself from the wild beasts, and patent-leather shoes on his
feet. No one knew his name; and what made him more mysterious was that,
although he spoke English, he paid for everything in Spanish doubloons
half a century old!
What could his errand be, amid the typhoons and siroccos of that
desolate continent?
For six weeks he had not moistened his parched lips with so much as a
drop of water! And his only food had been dried elephant!
Yet he kept his eyes fixed on the mountain range twelve hundred leagues
ahead of him; and as each day brought him fifty miles nearer (for he was
evidently a practised walker), he murmured to himself, "I come,
Velvetina!" and thought nothing of the fatigue.
The man's shoes were unequal to his spirit, and within a hundred miles
of his goal he sunk crippled to the ground. The blinding sand swept
over him in mountains, and the tropical sun made the end of the cane he
carried red-hot.
Any other man in such a condition would have succumbed. Not so our
mysterious traveller.
If he could not walk, he could roll. And he rolled.
Sub-Chapter XII.
THREE CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON.
On the summit of the topmost of those gigantic mountains, the peak of
which is lost high in the depths of the cloudless sky, a female stands,
and gazes southward.
Her fair form is mysteriously draped in white, and the parasol with
which she shuts out the scorching sun from her face effectually conceals
her features.
"He cometh--he cometh not," says she, weeping.
At length, in the remote horizon of the limitless desert, there arises a
little cloud of dust.
Is it a panther seeking its prey? or a newspaper buffeted by the wind?
or the mirage of the desert?
It is the revolving form of a rolling body; and as she discovers it she
trembles like an aspen leaf.
"He comes," mutters she.
Another cloud of dust; not in the south, but in the east.
Can it be an optical delusion, or another revolving figure? Ever and
anon the sun gleams on something bright, which looks like the end of a
cane.
A sickening sensation comes over the watcher.
"They both come!" says she; and turns her eyes northward.
What! Is it another optical delusion, or is this yet one more cloud in
the north, which, as it approaches, also takes the semblance of a
revolving figure? Hot as the weather is, she shivers sensibly, and,
closing her parasol, mutters, her lips as white as driven snow--
"They all come!"
Sub-Chapter XIII.
THE WATCHER ON THE CAIRN.
Twenty-four hours of agonising suspense, and then the revolving figures
reach the base of the mountain, and commence simultaneously to roll up
the side.
The female figure on the top gives a despairing glance around her, and
drops senseless on the cairn.
At length, as the sun is setting in the only unoccupied horizon, she
starts, rigid and stiff, and listens.
On either side of her approaches a dull grinding noise, mingled with
heavy snorting, and the low muttering of voices.
She dares not look: it is terrible enough to hear!
So evenly do they approach, that at the same instant they reached the
summit.
Then she rises majestically to her full height, spreads her arms, and
utters a cry which is heard simultaneously at Cairo, at Zanzibar, and at
Cape Town.
A terrible silence follows, broken only by the trembling of the mountain
and the breathless panting of the three figures as each rears himself
slowly to his feet.
The scene that followed may be more easily imagined than described.
Sub-Chapter XIV.
ALL COMES OUT.
It is time we went back to the scene on the cliff at Crocusville
narrated in the opening chapter.
Peeler, the coastguardsman, after descending the cliff, resumed his
ordinary avocations, and sent his daughter to a superior high school.
Hence her presence at the Duc's ball and on the desert mountain.
The Duc de Septimominorelli (for such was the mysterious traveller)
recoiled several hundred yards on finding himself confronted not only by
the aged father of his now middle-aged Velvetina, but by the form of his
old opponent the Marquis de Smellismelli.
"Aha!" said the latter, producing his plaster cast. "How do you find
yourself, Sep, my boy?"
"Hot," said Septimus, with characteristic coolness.
"Introduce me to the old gentleman," said the detective.
"Peeler," was the laconic reply.
It was Solomon's turn to turn inquiringly to the lady.
She only bowed.
"I wish very much I had known this before. I have wasted fifty years
over you," said Solomon, in injured tones. "I must lose no more time if
I am to detect anything. Good morning. Aha!
"Stay!" shouts Sep, in a voice of thunder. "It is I who have wasted
fifty years running away from you. You owe me an apology, sirrah!"
The caitiff's face underwent a kaleidoscopic change as these terrible
words rant? in his ears. With the bound of of a wounded antelope he
sprang to the summit of the nearest mountain, and stood there with arms
erect against the sky, like a statue of Ajax.
"He don't seem blooming, shiver my timbers if he do," said old Peeler.
"We shall not meet again," said Sep, grinding his teeth in his
direction.
"Why should we be standing here in the sun?" said Velvetina. "Let us
return to England."
They returned the same evening.
Sub-Chapter XV.
OMNIA VINCIT AMOR.
Septimus Minor and Velvetina Peeler were married quietly at the
Crocusville Cathedral.
The bride was given away by her father, Captain Peeler, R.N.
The company was select and the presents were costly.
Amongst the latter none attracted more attention or curiosity than an
excellent plaster cast of a horse's hoof, presented to the happy couple
by the Marquis de Smellismelli and his grandson the Lord Mayor of
London.
There were few knew its history; but it was eloquent in meaning for Mr
and Mrs Septimus Minor, who have given it an honoured place on the
mantelpiece of the second spare bedroom of their bijou residence in Pink
Street.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
A QUEER PICNIC.
Sub-Chapter I.
A MYSTERIOUS MOUNTAIN.
Magnus minor and my brother Joe were about as chummy as two fellows who
had not a single taste in common could well be. Magnus, you know, was
an athlete. At least, he was in the fourth eleven, and ran regularly in
the quarter-mile open handicap. He got fifty yards the first year, and
came in tenth; in the second year they gave him a hundred, and he came
in eighteenth; in the third year they generously gave him a hundred and
twenty yards, and he never came in at all, for some unexplained reason.
After that he passed as an athlete, and considered himself an authority,
especially at home, on all matters relating to sport. Joe, on the other
hand, was a dreamy boy; he wrote poems, when he should have been
construing Caesar, and gave several other indications that he was
destined to a great career. He cared as little about sport as Magnus
did about poetry. This probably was the reason the two were such chums.
They never trod on one another's toes.
When they went for a walk, Joe usually dawdled along trying to think of
rhymes for "nightingale," and "poppy," and "windmill," and the other
beauties of Nature which met his eye or ear; while Magnus stopped behind
to vault gates (which always caught his foot as he went over), and do
"sprints" with wayside animals, in which the wayside animals usually
managed to pull off the event. I'm not sure that they ever talked to
one another, which again may have been a reason for their great
friendship. If they did, nobody ever heard them; indeed, they never
seemed to look at one another, or to be aware of one another's
existence, which no doubt fully explains their mutual devotion.
The only real bond of sympathy that I can think of was that they were
always going in for examinations together, and always getting plucked.
Had the name of either ever appeared on a prize list, I am convinced
there would have been a panic in the school. Even when they entered for
the Wheeler Exhibition for boys under 15, Joe being on the day of
examination 14 years 364 days, and Magnus being a week younger, no one
supposed for a moment they had a chance against the fellows of eleven
and twelve who went up against them; and no one was disappointed.
I asked Magnus afterwards how it was he came to grief.
"It was those beasts, the Greek gods. I'd like to kick them," said he.
By an odd coincidence I put the same question on the following day to my
young brother.
"Eh?" said he, "what do you call them, you know, the thingamybobs that
lived in Mount what's its name? I'm sick of 'em."
"Mount Olympus, you mean?"
"That's it--"
"Mount Olympus, Pack of Shrimpers."
This was a good specimen of my brother's poetic style!
I gathered from this that a new bond of sympathy had arisen between the
two friends. They had both been ploughed in an unexpected paper on
Greek Mythology, and were in consequence death on the divinities. I
genuinely pitied the divinities!
Well--mind, as I wasn't in the affair, I can only relate it as I heard
it--a very curious adventure happened to Magnus Minor and my young
brother, shortly after this.
It was in the holidays, and we went, as usual, to Llandudno; and oddly
enough, Magnus's people went there too. The two chums consequently had
an opportunity of feeding the fires that consumed them, and of carrying
on their feud with the Greek gods in boats and bathing machines, on the
Great Orme's Head, and in the pier refreshment-room. Whenever I came
across them they were still implacable; and once or twice I believe they
actually spoke to one another on the subject, which shows how deeply
they felt.
One day they made up their minds to do Snowdon, and with a respectable
basket of provender, and an alpenstock apiece (on which the name of the
mountain--in fact, several mountains, had already been cut), they
started off by the train to Llanberis.
Magnus minor, being an athlete, occupied most of the journey in training
himself on cold boiled eggs and damsons; while Joe, being a poet, read
somebody's "Half Holiday" in a corner.
At the place where the train stopped they got out, and wondered whether
they had not already had enough of it. It was a grilling hot day. They
hadn't an idea which was the way to Snowdon, and nobody seemed to know.
A railway porter said "Second to the right"; but they could see he was
humbugging. As if a mountain _could_ be up a turning!
"Let's jack it up," said Magnus, who was feeling a little depressed
after the damsons.
"Eh?" said Joe, "there's no train back to what's-his-name for two hours.
What would it cost to cab it up?"
"Oh, pots," said Magnus. "I tell you what--we might have a go of
ginger-beer somewhere, and see how we feel after that."
Whereupon in silence they found out the leading hotel or the place, and
expended sixpence apiece on ginger-beer, at threepence a bottle.
Naturally they felt much refreshed after this, and, without
condescending to further parley, decided to stroll on; only, as the
porter had mentioned a turning to the right, they selected a turning to
the left as decidedly more probable.
It may have been Snowdon, or it may not--in any case it was a hill, and
a stiff one.
Magnus, the athlete, taking out his watch, said he meant to do it under
twenty minutes, and begged Joe to time him.
Joe, the poet, agreed, and sat down on the shady side of a rock with the
watch in one hand, the "Half Holiday" in the other, and his share of the
damsons in his mouth.
"How long have I been?" shouted the athlete, after stumbling up the
slippery grass slope for about five minutes.
"Time's up!" shouted the poet.
Whereat Magnus, surprised at the rapid flight of the enemy, checked his
upward career, and not only did that, but, assaying to take a seat on
the grass, began to slide at a considerable pace, and in a sitting
posture, downwards, until, in fact, he was providentially brought up
short by the very rock under which his friend rested.
"_Facilis descensus Averni_," observed Joe, making a brilliant sally in
a foreign tongue.
The remark was followed by instant gloom. It was too painfully
suggestive of the heathen deities. Besides, Magnus had nearly smashed
himself against the rock, and had to be brought round with more cold
boiled eggs and damsons.
After this the ascent was resumed in a more rational way. They
accomplished a quarter of a mile in the phenomenal time of two hours,
during which period they sat down fourteen times, drank at twenty-one
streams, fell on their noses about eighty times, and wished a hundred
times they had never heard the name of Snowdon.
"I thought you said there was a `thingamy' all the way up?" said Joe.
"So there is--we're on it," said Magnus minor.
"Oh," said Joe. He had previously had some misgivings that he was
growing shortsighted, but he was convinced of it now.
At the rate at which they were going there was every prospect of getting
to the top of the first ridge about three o'clock on the following
afternoon. But Magnus minor and my brother Joe were fellows who
preferred doing a thing thoroughly--even though speed had to be
sacrificed to the thoroughness.
So they pegged on, detesting this mountain as if it had been Olympus
itself, and making a material difference in the level of the lakes below
by the number of tributary streams they tried to drink up by the way.
At last they actually began to get up a bit.
"How far now?" said Joe, lying on his back with his coat off, his shirt-
sleeves turned up, his collar off, and his braces slack.
"Just about there," said Magnus minor.
He spoke figuratively, of course. They were a quarter of the way up,
perhaps.
"I don't believe this beast is what-you-may-call-him at all. It strikes
me we ought to have turned to the--you know."
"It looks like him," said Magnus. "Anyhow, it'll do for him."
"I'd like to do for him," growled Joe.
They went on presently, in shocking tempers, both of them. They loathed
that mountain, and yet neither liked to propose to go back. That is the
way in which a good many mountains are climbed.
Magnus got riled with Joe for not giving in--he was the elder, and it
was his business to begin. Joe, on the other hand, never thought so ill
of Magnus as when he saw him pegging up twenty yards ahead, never giving
him (Joe) time to catch up. He made faces at him behind his back, and
tried to think of all the caddish things he had done since he came to
the school. But it was no good. As sure as ever Joe tried artfully to
cut a corner or "put it on" for a yard or two, Magnus, on ahead, cut a
corner and put it on too.
When Magnus presently, having improved his lead, sat down to rest, Joe
made sure he had caught his man at last. But--would you believe it?--
just as he approached the place, with every show of friendship,
announcing that he had something particular to say, Magnus got up and
went on again, leaving poor Joe not only still in the rear, but without
time even for a rest.
All this astonishing activity, as I said, was the result, not of energy,
but of bad temper. The worse their tempers became the greater the pace,
and the greater the pace the nearer the top of that interminable ridge.
Towards the end it was uncommonly like running. Magnus would have given
worlds to venture to look behind and see how the idiot below was
fagging; and Joe would have given a lot to see the lout above come a
cropper and smash his leg. It wants a pretty hot friendship to stand
the test of a mountain-side.
At last (without a suspicion of what o'clock it was, or how far they had
come), Magnus actually stopped and lay down.
"Serves him right," said Joe, triumphantly, running with all his might
to take advantage of his chance. Alas! when he got up to his friend, he
discovered that after all he was not dead-beat, or wounded, or ill.
The reason he had stopped was that he had got to the top.
As was natural, as soon as this agreeable and amazing discovery was
made, Magnus minor and my brother Joe forgot their rancour and loved one
another again with a mighty affection. Their own brothers weren't in
it.
"Good old Joey!" cried Magnus, as my brother lay on the turf beside him;
"crowd in, old hoss--lots of room!"
"Good old Magny!" responded Joe; "what a day we're having!"
Presently they condescended to look about them. They were on a sharp
ridge, one side of which sloped down into the valley from which they had
ascended, the other looked out on an uninterrupted prospect of cloud and
mist.
"This isn't what's-his-name at all," said Joe. "There's a tuck shop on
the top of it--there's none here."
"That chap was right," said Magnus. "That must be Snowdon over there--
we've missed him."
"Horrid bore," said Joe, who, however, regretted the mountain less than
the tuck shop.
The afternoon was changing. The clouds were beginning to sweep up from
the other side and begriming the sky which had been so ruthlessly clear
all the morning.
All of a sudden the mist below them parted, and disclosed through a
frame of cloud a great cauldron of rock yawning at their feet, at the
bottom of which--as it seemed, miles below--lay a black lake. It was a
scene Dante could have described better than I.
"If we could get down there we could have a tub," said Magnus.
"It's snug enough up here," replied the poet; "don't you think so?"
Magnus admitted it was snug, and did not press his motion. For, though
he scorned to say so, he was fagged, and felt he could do with a half-
hour's lounge before undertaking a new venture.
So the reconciled friends took their siesta on the top of the mysterious
mountain, and, in doing so, oddly enough fell asleep.
Sub-Chapter II.
THE IMMORTALS.
When they woke, the sun was still shining; but it had got round to the
side of them which, when they dropped off, had been wrapped in cloud,
while the mist had taken possession of the valley and hillside by which
they had ascended.
The transformation scene was so complete that had they not seen Joe's
paper on the ground beside them, and recognised the bank of heather
against which they reclined, they would have found it difficult to say
exactly where they were.
To all appearances they were at the end of the world. The great
cauldron gaped below them, apparently perpendicular on every side,
enclosing in its depths the black lake, on whose still surface the rays
of the sun gleamed weirdly and gloomily.
Not a sound was to be heard except a distant sullen rumble, which might
have been thunder, or earthquake, or the six-o'clock train going back to
Llandudno. Above them, as the clouds drifted past, they could see, as
they lay on their backs, occasional glimpses of blue, and sometimes in
the far distance a shining peak bathed in crimson light.
All this was natural enough; and, were it not that they had their return
tickets in their pockets, Magnus minor and Joe would probably have been
content to enjoy the show for an hour or so.
What did concern them, when they got to their feet, was to observe that,
so far from being as they supposed, and could have testified on solemn
affidavit, on the top of the mountain, the ground now appeared to rise
on every side except that occupied by the cauldron.
Whichever way they tried to walk they found themselves going uphill.
"Rum start," said Magnus minor, after ramping round in a semicircle and
finding no trace of their homeward path. "It strikes me we shall have
to hang out here till the clouds roll by, Joey."
"All very well. How about grub?" said the poet. "We shall be just
about what-do-you-call-it by then."
"Hullo," said Magnus, looking at his watch, "do you know it's 11 p.m.
and broad daylight."
Joe consulted his watch, and wound it up as he did so.
"So it is--must be a thingamybob--a roaring boreali, or whatever you
call it, going on. Wouldn't be so bad if it was good to eat."
Magnus assented, and the two outcasts stood and watched with somewhat
mingled feelings the battalion of clouds as they swirled past and soared
up at the heights above.
"May as well go upstairs too," said the poet, dismally. So they began
the ascent. This time Magnus showed no inclination to forge ahead, and
Joe took every precaution not to lag behind. In fact, they proceeded
arm in arm, trying to enjoy it, but inwardly wondering who would have
the benefit of their supper at Llandudno.
It was easy enough going; the turf was crisp and soft, and as they got
up a little, flowers began to peep out. Though they could not see
through the mists, they fancied they could catch the sound of birds and
the splash of water. The clouds, sweeping up on every side, seemed to
help them along, so that sometimes they could hardly be quite sure
whether they were walking on earth or air. Altogether, had they but
dined, they would have voted the walk one of the jolliest they ever had
in their lives.
Presently a strange sound above brought them suddenly to a halt. It was
music of some sort, but mingling with it the even sweeter music of
plates and knives and forks; and when for a moment the music ceased,
they seemed to detect voices and laughter.
"Some fellows having a picnic," said Magnus, joyfully; "keep it up,
chappie, and we shall get some of the pickings--you see."
"Give them a--what-do-you-call-it?" said Joe. Whereupon Magnus startled
the air with a loud "coo-oo-ey!"
The sounds above ceased all of a sudden, and the weather seemed to
change to thundery.
Then a faint echo of the shout came back, and almost immediately
afterwards a gentleman appeared through the mist.
He was a young-looking man, who had apparently been bathing, and had not
had time to dress after it. He wore a curious sort of cap, with a wing
sticking out at either side, and carried in his hand a very elaborately
carved walking-stick.
"Please, can you tell us the way down to Llanberis?" asked Magnus,
thinking it better not to appear to notice the gentleman's _deshabille_.
The gentleman stared at the two boys in a startled sort of way, and
shrugged his shoulders.
"A foreigner," said Joe. "Try him in--what's-its--name--French."
"_S'il vous plait, pouvez vous dire nous le chemin a bas a Llanberis_?"
said Magnus, who was a capital French scholar.
It was not at all certain that the gentleman understood even this. He
pointed with his thumb over his shoulder up at the clouds, which was
certainly not the shortest way down to Llanberis. But as it was the
direction from which the sound of the knives and forks had proceeded, it
seemed as if nothing would be lost by following.
The gentleman, who in his excitement had clean forgotten about his
garments, hurried the boys up the hill at a terrific pace, until all of
a sudden they got out of the clouds and saw clear ahead.
The scene was a remarkable one--Magnus's idea of a picnic had been a
correct, one. But such a picnic!
A party of some fifteen persons, not by any means all gentlemen, was
sitting round a medium-sized table, spread with cups and dishes. The
entire company, if they had not been bathing, were apparently preparing
to do so, except one gentleman, who was so encased in armour that it
would have been a very tedious job to take it off, and one lady, who was
also got up in a military fashion, and carried a very ugly shield on her
arm. The person at the head of the table was an imposing-looking
gentleman, who held a sort of stuffed football in his hand, and had a
tame eagle perched on his shoulder. Near him was a very good-looking,
self-satisfied fellow with long curls, who had evidently been
entertaining the company with a performance on a Jew's harp. Then there
was a lame old gentleman, who looked as if he would be all the better
for his bath when the time came, who carried a big sledge-hammer in his
hand; and another fishy sort of person, who flourished about with a
three-pronged pitchfork. A very cross-looking lady sat next to the
gentleman at the head of the table. By the way she kept her eye upon
him, contradicting every word he said, and snubbing him at every
opportunity, she was evidently his wife. Another good-looking lady was
playing with a very pert-looking boy, who wore a pair of toy wings on
his shoulders, and appeared to be a general favourite with every one
except the other ladies, who seemed generally a disagreeable lot, and
not at all good form in their manners at table.
The refreshments were being served by a nice-looking housemaid and a
page-boy, who had their work cut out for them in keeping every one
supplied. For these ladies and gentlemen, whatever else may be said of
them, had uncommonly good appetites.
Magnus minor and Joe were too busy at first taking stock of the
provender to devote much attention to the picnic party itself; but when
at last they did take a look round, each uttered a cry of consternation,
and crowded up to his chum for protection.
"Joey," said Magnus, "don't you know them?"
"Rather," said Joe. "I could tell them at once from the likenesses in--
what do you call him's--Smith's classical thingamybob. It's Olympus,
after all!"
"So it is," groaned Magnus. "Oh, Jupiter!"
At the mention of his name, the gentleman at the head of the table
looked up.
"I beg your pardon," said he, in fairly good English.
His manner rather overawed the two boys, who thought it wise to be civil
to begin with, at any rate.
So they touched their caps, and Magnus said--
"Do you happen to know the shortest cut down to Llanberis, sir?"
"We've lost our way, don't you know," said Joe; "and we've got to catch
the last train back to--you know--what's-his-name--Llandudno."
Jove looked a little scared, and, by way of intimating that he did not
understand a word, shook his head.
"I wish you wouldn't shake your head," said Juno, the lady next to him;
"it upsets everything, and makes the glasses spill. Why can't you say,
like a man, you don't understand German? Who are your friends, pray?
We've quite enough boys about the place without any more. What is it,
you boys? We've nothing for you!"
"Poor boys," said the good-looking lady before mentioned; "they look
quite hungry."
"So we are," said Magnus. "_Ainsi nous sommes_."
"_Tout droit_" said Venus (that was her name), with a smile across the
table at the gentleman with the Jew's harp; "_vous aurez quelque chose a
manger dans une seconde_. Make room for the boys, Vulcan. We'll excuse
you."
Here the lame gentleman with the murky face slowly hobbled up,
apparently greatly relieved to be allowed to go. And Magnus minor and
Joe, without further invitation, crowded in at the table between Venus
and the lady with the shield.
"Beasts, all of them," whispered Magnus to his friend, "and it don't
look much of a spread; but it's better than nothing. Here, Tommy," said
he, addressing the page-boy, "_quelque de cela_--do you hear?"
Tommy (whose real name was Ganymede), obeyed with alacrity, and put
before each a plate of what looked like very flowery mashed potato, and
a small glass of a frothy beverage.
"I suppose this is what they call nectar and ambrosia," said Magnus.
"I'd like to catch them giving us such stuff at school."
"Plenty of it, that's one thing," said Joe. "I fancy we can keep young
what's-his-name going for half an hour or so comfortably."
"Well, my dear, and how do you like Olympus?" said the lady with the
shield.
"Oh, I dare say _you're_ all right," said Joe, diplomatically; "but I
don't think much of the rest."
"What did he say?" inquired Juno from the end of the table.
"Never mind," said Minerva, "we're having a little friendly chat; you
need not interfere."
"You're talking about me, I know you are," said Juno.
"_Non, nous ne sommes pas_," said Joe.
"Never mind her," said Minerva; "she doesn't count for much here. Of
course, you know the gentleman opposite with the lyre--my brother,
Apollo, the poet."
"Is he? I say," cried Joe, across the table, "Mr Apollo, do you know
anything that rhymes with `catsup'?"
Apollo smiled rather foolishly, and said he fancied it was not in the
rhyming dictionary; at least, he never had to use the word in his day.
Joe's opinion of a poet who could not rhyme any word in the language
fell considerably.
"He means well, does Polly," said Minerva, apologetically; "but he never
had a public-school education, you know."
Magnus meanwhile was making himself agreeable to his fair neighbour.
"I say," said he, in the midst of his fourth helping of ambrosia, "which
is the fellow who once kicked the other fellow downstairs?"
Venus laughed immoderately.
"The other fellow is my husband, the poor dear who made room for you
just now. The fellow that kicked him down is Jupiter--there!"
"Good old Jupiter!" said Magnus. "I'd like to see you do it again. Did
you do it with a place-kick, or a drop, or a punt?"
"It's no use speaking to my husband," said Juno, "he can't hear; and if
he could, he's too ignorant to understand. He's getting old."
"You must be getting on yourself," said Magnus. "I remember hearing my
grandfather say he knew you very well when he was a boy."
Juno bridled up angrily at this, which was the signal for a round of
laughter from every one else, and a scene might have ensued had not
Apollo at the moment struck up his lyre and drowned everybody's voice.
He wasn't a particularly good player, and his instrument was of a cheap
make. But the noise served to keep the peace, which was all that was
ever wanted.
Presently the meal ended, and the two boys were very glad to get up and
stretch their legs. After the heavy supper they had had, they felt
bound to be moderately civil; and some of the ladies and gentlemen--
especially the former--made themselves agreeable enough. But they could
not get on at all with some of the men. Mars, the fellow in armour, was
one of these. He was a horribly conceited snob, they agreed, and only
wore his armour because it was a new suit, and he thought he looked well
in it.
"Well, my little men," said he, grandly, as they came up, "so you have
come to see the great god of war? I will not hurt you. Try to lift my
spear. It weighs two hundredweight and some odd pounds. You have
heard, no doubt, of some of my achievements?"
"Oh yes," said Magnus minor; "you were the chap that got a hiding
outside Troy from Diomed, and yelled enough to bring the roof down."
"Ha, ha! Good old Diomed!" said Joe.
Mars turned red and white with anger, and said that if it were not too
much trouble he would like to knock their two impudent heads together,
at which they and every one else laughed all the more.
"You boys," said Venus, coming up opportunely at this point, "here is a
friend I know you will like to meet. He's just the sort of person boys
admire. He's not one of our regular party, you know; but we ask him in
to dessert now and then--don't we, Hercules?"
"How do you do?" said Magnus, holding out his hand to a great stout
gentleman, who wore a rug over his shoulders and carried a club in his
hand. "Done all your jobs--swabbed out those stables yet?"
The stout gentleman flushed up a little at this allusion, and said
something in Greek which fortunately the boys did not understand.
"Been having any more lessons on the sewing machine lately--eh, old
chap?" inquired Joe. "We know all about you, Magnus minor and I.
There's fellows at our school could lick you into a cocked hat. You
come to our sports one day and see."
Hercules, a good deal ruffled, used a considerable amount of idiomatic
Greek, and made for the boys with his club.
Fortunately for them, Minerva's shield happened to be lying on the
ground close by, and Joe, with great presence of mind, recalling his
classics for the occasion, took it up and presented it at the giant.
Naturally, he turned to stone on the spot; and as at that particular
moment he had one foot off the ground, his club above his head, and his
mouth wide open, the effect was striking.
They amused themselves for a short time playing Aunt Sally at him; and
then, getting rather tired of the whole affair, looked about them for
some way of escaping.
They met Cupid, the boy that belonged to Venus, prowling about with his
bow and arrow.
"Hullo, kid!" said Magnus. "Here you are--three shots a penny, and
twopence if you hit me at twenty yards!"
Cupid aimed and missed, and then very foolishly began to cry.
"What are you blubbering at?" asked Joe. "You young soft!"
Cupid said he was miserable. Everybody up there bullied him, and he
couldn't hit anything nowadays with his bow and arrows.
"Jack it up then, and come to our school," said Magnus, slapping him on
the back. "Lots of larks there. You can wear Etons and a topper, and
chum in our study--can't he, Joe?"
"Yes, if he likes to do his share of the fagging," said Joe.
"I don't much mind what I do, as long as I get away from this lot."
"All serene; come down with us. We're hanging out at Llandudno for the
holidays. My mater will take you in, I'm certain."
"Ah, yes, and by the way," said Joe, once more making a brilliant dive
into his classics, "there's a friend of yours, you know, called what's-
her-name, only a few doors off. Isn't there, Magnus?"
"Rather!" said Magnus, who had not a notion what was being referred to.
"You don't mean to say Psyche--"
"That's her--the very article; rather a wonner, too. Magnus is spoons
on her, you know," added Joe, with a wink at his friend; "but he'll back
out for you."
"Oh," said Magnus, blushing, "it don't matter to me. Besides, she's
going to-morrow."
This settled matters.
"Let's cut," said Cupid, impatiently, "or we shall be too late."
A great row was going on among the gods. Goodness knows what it was
about--nobody ever did know that! Venus and Juno were scratching one
another's faces; Jupiter was shaking his fist and thundering all round;
the other men were arguing in high Greek, and the other ladies were
screaming at the top of their voices.
"They're at it again," said Cupid, making a wry face. "That sort of
thing goes on here from morning to night. We shan't be missed. Come
on, you fellows!"
Down they went at a great pace, Cupid (who was much less encumbered with
clothes than the other two) showing a lead. Presently they lost sight
of the top, and through the clouds below caught a distant glimpse of the
black lake.
"Can't we take a short cut down there?" asked Joe.
"Not good enough," said Cupid. "That's where Charon hangs out; and he
and I don't hit it off. No, we'd better go down to where you went
asleep, and then trot down by the track to Llanberis. I know the way--
come on."
They followed, wondering at the pace at which they went. In scarce five
minutes from the top they stood on the spot where they had first halted
hours and hours ago.
There a remarkable thing happened.
Cupid, who had all along seemed the most eager of the three to escape
into the valley, suddenly halted, spread his little wings, and with a
merry laugh began to fly upwards.
"Hold on," said Magnus; "that's not the way down, you young cad!"
"Ha, ha!" said Cupid, rising higher. In vain they besought him to stay.
He only laughed, and soared higher and higher and--
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The next thing they were aware of was that they were lying on their
backs, waking up from their sleep, and watching a white gull skimming
the air overhead, and crying out seaward.
Whether they had been to Olympus at all, or had only dreamt it, they
could never say. The one thing they did know was that they just managed
to catch the last train that night back to Llandudno, where they found
supper waiting them.
THE END.