II

It is a fault of some authors, that they persistently refuse to

introduce characters into their stories, unless those characters in the

course of the narrative, perform an act or acts, of such transcendent

importance as to make the story impossible without their presence.

Accordingly we are familiar with the faithful servant who meanders

through 300 pages with little to say for himself save "Dinner is served,

your Grace," and "His lordship has not yet returned from 'unting,

m'lady;" who is deliciously obscure until the end of the book, when he

gives his life for the children, or produces the missing will. We know

of governesses, pretty and otherwise, who are the merest shadows for

twenty chapters, but enter into their kingdom in the twenty-first, when

they accuse the Earl of unblemished character of being the father of the

beggar boy.

I could have wished that Olejoe might have passed from these pages

naturally, and without fuss, just as people pass from the real pages of

life, without ostentation, noiselessly ignoring the rules of the

theatre, which demand that no character shall leave the stage without an

effective "line" to take them "off," such as "We meet to-morrow!" or

"Look to it, Sir George--look to it!" or in the cases of more important

figures, a long and heroic peroration.

The rules of the theatre do not insist upon heroics for a part like

Olejoe's. I think something like this would have fulfilled all

requirements--

Olejoe (_one foot on doorstep, bundle slung over shoulder_):

Farewell, my lord.

Farewell, my noble Duke: the elms shall bud

To greeny leafness, and the summer sun

Shall gild the cupula of this great house.

I pass to winter, to an endless night,

Bereft of your bright presence: for this gold,

This token of your grace, my charged heart

Puts lock upon my tongue (_business with handkerchief_).

Farewell!

There were, as it happened, certain lines to be said by Olejoe in the

natural course of events, for the broker's man shares with the waiter,

the boots, the chambermaid, and the hotel porter the same characteristic

and absolute repugnance to effacement.

The bailiff's receipt lay on the table, and Olejoe in a ducal coat, a

lordly pair of trousers and a cowboy hat, the united contributions of

the household, took the handsome tip the Duke had delicately slipped

into his hand, and with tearful eyes expressed his gratitude.

"Gents all," said Olejoe, who had little knowledge of and regard for the

stateliness of blank verse, "as man to man I'm obliged to you. If I've

done anything that I oughtn't have done I ask your pardon. I've had me

dooty to do an' I've done the same to the best of my ability. I've

always found you to be gentlemen, an' if any one sez contrary, it'll be

like water on a duck's back--in at one ear an' out at the other. If I

can ever do you a turn as far as lays in me power, I'm ready an'

willin', an' with these few remarks I thank you one an' all," which was

a highly creditable speech.

So passed Olejoe, and I would that no further necessity existed for

introducing him again, so that I might emphasize my protest against

convention in art.

"The House will now go into committee," said the Duke, "on a purely

personal matter--Hank, I'm feeling most horribly worried."

"If it's the eternal feminine woman," said Hank rising quickly, "as I've

got a hunch it is, you'll find me in the back lot plantin' snowdrops."

"You're beastly unsympathetic," complained the indignant Duke, "here are

two loving hearts----"

"Anatomy," said Hank at the doorway, "is a science I've no love for

since the day the Dago doctor of Opothocas Mex. amputated my little toe

under the mistaken impression that ptomaine poisonin' was somethin' to

do with the feet."

"What we've got to do now," said Tuppy, when the unromantic Hank had

disappeared, "is to get somethin' particularly touchin', I'm afraid I've

spoilt the other letters, by unintelligently anticipatin' the contents."

"What an ass you were, Tuppy," said the Duke testily, and Tuppy

cheerfully agreed.

For two hours they sat composing the wonder working epistle.

"To whom it may concern," it was addressed, and began "What is life?

says Emerson."

"That's a fool start," said Tuppy. "Why drag in old man Emerson

anyway?"

"Can you suggest a better?" asked the Duke tartly.

"What's the matter with this," asked Tuppy, "you know the Tennyson

stuff." He knit his forehead in the effort of remembrance. Then he

recited, filling in the blanks as well as he could--

It's jolly true tum-tum befall,

I feel it tum-tum tum-tum most;

It's better to have loved a gal

Than never to have loved at all!

"Rotten," said the Duke.

"I don't think I have quite got the lines right," Tuppy owned, "but any

feller can see the drift of the thing."

"If ever I write poetry, Tuppy," said the Duke solemnly, "I should be

very grateful if you would refrain from quoting it."

The Emerson opening was allowed to stand. Tuppy made another determined

effort to introduce a flower of poetry into the letter when it was

nearing completion.

"Look here, Monty. Why not work in that bit about

Love to a girl is a thing apart,

'Tis a feller's whole existence?"

"Partly," said the Duke, "out of respect for the dead, whom you are

misquoting. It runs 'Love to a _man_ is a thing impart!'"

"She wouldn't know the difference," said the sanguine lord.

"That's beside the question: this is supposed to be an open letter

addressed to Sir Harry; I can't chuck words of poetry at his unfortunate

head--after all he's been punished enough."

They broke off their composition to join Hank in the garden whilst the

sedate servant laid the table for lunch.

So far from planting snowdrops Hank had established himself in the

little green-house at the end of the garden--a warm cosy little

greenhouse on a wintry day--and ensconced in a deck chair had fallen

asleep. They woke him by the simple expedient of opening the door wide

and letting in a rush of icy cold air.

"Notice anything strange about next door?" yawned Hank, and the Duke

started.

"No," he replied with a shade of anxiety in his voice. "What is it?"

"Blinds down, shutters up--general air of desolation," enumerated Hank.

The Duke looked quickly and raced into the house. The sedate servant

(his name was Cole) was folding a serviette.

"Cole," said the Duke sternly, "where are the people next door?"

"Gone, m'lord," said Cole.

"Gone! when did they go! Where have they gone, and why on earth was I

not told."

"They went last night, m'lord," said Cole, "they have gone to

Bournemouth if I am accurately informed--my source of information is the

butcher----"

"The postman would have been better," said the Duke reprovingly.

"The postman is an extremely reticent person and moreover is a radical

who does not approve of Us," said Cole. "The butcher, on the contrary,

stands for landed interest and the established church."

"Excellent," said the Duke, "proceed."

"They left last night," Cole went on dealing with the questions in

order, "which accounts for the fact that I did not inform your grace,

information having arrived with chops--ten minutes ago."

Cole paused deferentially, then continued, "If your grace will remember,

I suggested a joint for to-day's lunch, a suggestion which was not

acceptable. Had it been a leg of mutton, your grace would have been

informed two hours ago--the joint requiring that extra time to cook, and

the butcher in consequence calling earlier."

"You are vindicated, Cole," said the Duke sadly--

As they disposed of the dilatory chop at lunch the Duke was

exceptionally quiet. "I don't know why they've gone away," he said at

last, "but I'm not so sure that their departure isn't providential."

"My mind was runnin' on the same set of rails," said Hank. He pushed

back his plate and produced a cigar. "Duke, it's about time we settled

Big Bill for good an' all."

"Don't tell me," said Tuppy hastily, "that your shootin' friend is in

the neighbourhood?"

Hank nodded slowly.

"Here last night, wasn't he, Dukey?"

"He was," said the Duke absently.

"We traced his little footsteps in the garden bed," said Hank.

"But, my dear foolish Transatlantic cousin," protested Tuppy, "the

police, old friend! The dashed custodians of public peace an' order!

What the dooce do you pay rates an' taxes an' water rates an' gas bills

for!"

"The police?" Hank smiled. "Oh, the police are all right: but there's

nothing doin' with the police. This is a feud for private circulation

only."

"But!" cried Tuppy violently and unpleasantly excited, "it's distinctly

unfair to our splendid constabulary; you oughtn't to be selfish, old

feller--suppose this horrid person with his unsportin' revolver killed

_me_! Oh, you can laugh, dear bird, but it'd be doosid unpleasant for

me!"

"I'm not laughing, Tuppy," said the Duke seriously, "I can quite

understand your funk----"

"My dear good misguided an' altogether uncharitable friend," said Tuppy,

greatly pained, "it isn't funk--I'm notoriously rash as a matter of

fact: why my discharge was suspended for bein' rash an' hazardous--they

were the Official Receiver's own words. No, it isn't funk, it's an

inherited respect for the law."

He was considerably ruffled.

"Well, let me say I can appreciate your law-abiding spirit," said the

Duke, "but as Hank said, this isn't a case for the police: it's a purely

personal matter between Mr. Slewer and myself. But because the beggar

is getting over bold, it is necessary to clip his wings--this is our

opportunity."

It was at this point that Olejoe made his reappearance. Cole announced

him and the Duke, somewhat astonished, ordered him to be brought in.

He entered smiling somewhat vacantly, and stood unsteadily by the door

holding his hat in his hand.

"A friend's a friend," he said thickly, "an' a friend in need is a

friend in--deed." He smiled benevolently. "There's them," he said with

a sneer, "that don't believe all they hear an' only half what they see.

There's them that wouldn't believe people could be crowned an' sat on a

throne an' all." His smile became indulgent. "Me an' a friend of

mine," he went off at an angle, "not exactly a friend but a chap I know,

went up to the West end. His name was Harry."

"Olejoe," said the Duke sternly, "go home."

"'Arf a moment," said Olejoe, "I'm coming to the part that will knock

you out. D'ye know the _White Drover_ outside Victoria Station? It's a

house I seldom use. But Harry does, so we went in."

"I gathered that much," said the Duke.

"'What's yours,' sez Harry. 'No,' I sez, 'it's my turn, what's yours?'

'No,' sez Harry, 'I'll pay, what's yours?' 'No,' I sez--"

"Cut it out," pleaded Hank, "forget it----"

"... when I heard a chap speakin' in the next bar: a private bar with

red velvet seats. An American chap he was, like Hank."

It is a proof of Olejoe's exhilaration that he said "Hank" calmly and

coolly and without a blush.

"He sez--the American chap--'I'm layin' for Dukey,' an' the other feller

(I'll tell you his name in a minute, it'll come as a terrible surprise

to you) sez 'Do nothin' yet,' just like that 'do nothin' yet!'

"'I've got an idea,' sez this chap--not the American chap--'that when

this Duke person finds my niece has gone with us to Merroccer----'"

"To Morocco?" queried the Duke eagerly.

"To Merroccer," repeated Olejoe, "the same place as the leather--'when

he finds I've persuaded my niece (I'll tell you who she is in a minute:

I'm keepin' that back to the last), when he finds I've took my niece for

a holiday to Merroccer the chances are,' sez the old boy, 'he'll come

after her. Now if the Duke goes to Merroccer,' sez the chap--you'll

never guess his name, not if you guess for a million years--'if the Duke

goes to Merroccer. I don't care a damn what you do--in Merroccer.'"

"Tuppy," said the Duke quickly, "you can stay out of this business if

you like: if you come in there'll be no risk and a lot of amusement.

Will you come?"

"Like a shot," said Tuppy.

"No, you'd never guess..." Olejoe was saying.

"We've time to pack and catch the two-twenty from Cannon Street. Just

take a few things--we can buy what we want in Paris."

They made a rush from the room.

"You'd never guess," Olejoe rambled on with closed eyes and swaying

slightly, "who the old feller was, and who the young lady was ... now,"

with a heavy jocularity, "I'll give you three guesses...."

He was still talking when the door slammed behind the adventurers.