CHAPTER XCIII

ANOTHER SURPRISE

Six months went by, and the murderer of Sir Joshua Tubbs, M.P. and Sir

Eustace Butt, M.P. still remained at large. Roger had sold his cottage

in the country and was now in London, performing his exercises with

regularity, concentrating daily upon the words "wardrobe," "dough-nut,"

and "wasp," and living entirely upon proteids.

One day he had the idea that he would start a restaurant in the East-End

for the sale of meatless foods. This would bring him in touch with the

lower classes, among whom he expected to find the assassin of his two

oldest friends.

In less than three or four years the shop was a tremendous success. In

spite of this, however, Roger did not neglect his exercises; taking

particular care to keep the toes well turned in when lunging ten times

backwards. (Exercise 17.) Once, to his joy, the girl whom he had first

met outside his country cottage came in and had her simple lunch of

Smilopat (ninepence the dab) at his shop. That evening he lunged twelve

times to the right instead of ten.

One day business had taken Roger to the West-End. As he was returning

home at midnight through Gordon Square, he suddenly stopped and

staggered back.

A body lay on the ground before him!

Hastily turning it over upon its face, Roger gave a cry of horror.

It was Detective-Inspector Frenchard! Stabbed in eleven places!

Roger hurried madly home, and devised an entirely new set of exercises

for his morning drill. A full description of these, however, must be

reserved for another chapter.

(_And so on for ever._)

MERELY PLAYERS

ON THE BAT'S BACK

With the idea of brightening cricket, my friend Twyford has given me a

new bat. I have always felt that, in my own case, it was the inadequacy

of the weapon rather than of the man behind it which accounted for a

certain monotony of low-scoring; with this new bat I hope to prove the

correctness of my theory.

My old bat has always been a trier, but of late it has been manifestly

past its work. Again and again its drive over long-off's head has failed

to carry the bunker at mid-off. More than once it has proved itself an

inch too narrow to ensure that cut-past-third-man-to-the-boundary which

is considered one of the most graceful strokes in my repertoire. Worst

of all, I have found it at moments of crisis (such as the beginning of

the first over) utterly inadequate to deal with the ball which keeps

low. When bowled by such a ball--and I may say that I am never bowled by

any other--I look reproachfully at the bottom of my bat as I walk back

to the pavilion. "Surely," I say to it, "you were much longer than this

when we started out?"

Perhaps it was not magnanimous always to put the blame on my partner for

our accidents together. It would have been more chivalrous to have

shielded him. "No, no," I should have said to my companions as they

received me with sympathetic murmurs of "Bad luck,"--"no, no, you

mustn't think that. It was my own fault. Don't reproach the bat." It

would have been well to have spoken thus; and indeed, when I had had

time to collect myself, I did so speak. But out on the field, in the

first shame of defeat, I had to let the truth come out. That one

reproachful glance at my bat I could not hide.

But there was one habit of my bat's--a weakness of old age, I admit, but

not the less annoying--about which it was my duty to let all the world

know. One's grandfather may have a passion for the gum on the back of

postage-stamps, and one hushes it up; but if he be deaf the visitor must

be warned. My bat had a certain looseness in the shoulder, so that, at

any quick movement of it, it clicked. If I struck the ball well and

truly in the direction of point this defect did not matter; but if the

ball went past me into the hands of the wicket-keeper, an unobservant

bowler would frequently say, "How's that?" And an ill-informed umpire

would reply, "Out." It was my duty before the game began to take the

visiting umpire on one side and give him a practical demonstration of

the click ...

But these are troubles of the past. I have my new bat now, and I can see

that cricket will become a different game for me. My practice of this

morning has convinced me of this. It was not one of your stupid

practices at the net, with two burly professionals bumping down balls at

your body and telling you to "Come out to them, Sir." It was a quiet

practice in my rooms after breakfast, with no moving object to distract

my attention and spoil my stroke. The bat comes up well. It is light,

and yet there is plenty of wood in it. Its drives along the carpet were

excellent; its cuts and leg glides all that could be wished. I was a

little disappointed with its half-arm hook, which dislodged a teacup and

gave what would have been an easy catch to mid-on standing close in by

the sofa; but I am convinced that a little oil will soon put that right.

And yet there seemed to be something lacking in it. After trying every

stroke with it; after tucking it under my arm and walking back to the

bathroom, touching my cap at the pianola on the way; after experiments

with it in all positions, I still felt that there was something wanting

to make it the perfect bat. So I put it in a cab and went round with it

to Henry. Henry has brightened first-class cricket for some years now.

"Tell me, Henry," I said, "what's wrong with this bat?"

"It seems all right," he said, after waving it about. "Rather a good

one."

I laid it down on the floor and looked at it. Then I turned it on its

face and looked at it. And then I knew.

"It wants a little silver shield on the back," I said. "That's it."

"Why, is it a presentation bat?" asked Henry.

"In a sense, yes. It was presented to me by Twyford."

"What for?"

"Really," I said modestly, "I hardly like---- Why do people give one

things? Affection, Henry; pity, generosity--er----"

"Are you going to put that on the shield? 'Presented out of sheer pity

to----'"

"Don't be silly; of course not. I shall put 'Presented in commemoration

of his masterly double century against the Authentics,' or something

like that. You've no idea how it impresses the wicket-keeper. He really

sees quite a lot of the back of one's bat."

"Your inscription," said Henry, as he filled his pipe slowly, "will be

either a lie or extremely unimpressive."

"It will be neither, Henry. If I put my own name on it, and talked about

_my_ double century, of course it would be a lie; but the inscription

will be to Stanley Bolland."

"Who's he?"

"I don't know. I've just made him up. But now, supposing my little

shield says, 'Stanley Bolland. H.P.C.C.--Season 1912. Batting average

116.34.'--how is that a lie?"

"What does H.P.C.C. stand for?"

"I don't know. It doesn't mean anything really. I'll leave out 'Batting

average' if it makes it more truthful. 'Stanley Bolland. H.P.C.C., 1912.

116.34.' It's really just a little note I make on the back of my bat to

remind me of something or other I've forgotten. 116.34 is probably

Bolland's telephone number or the size of something I want at his shop.

But by a pure accident the wicket-keeper thinks it means something else;

and he tells the bowler at the end of the over that it's that chap

Bolland who had an average of over a century for the Hampstead

Polytechnic last year. Of course that makes the bowler nervous and he

starts sending down long-hops."

"I see," said Henry; and he began to read his paper again.

So to-morrow I take my bat to the silversmith's and have a little

engraved shield fastened on. Of course, with a really trustworthy weapon

I am certain to collect pots of runs this season. But there is no harm

in making things as easy as possible for oneself.

And yet there is this to be thought of. Even the very best bat in the

world may fail to score, and it might so happen that I was dismissed

(owing to some defect in the pitch) before my silver shield had time to

impress the opposition. Or again, I might (through ill-health) perform

so badly that quite a wrong impression of the standard of the Hampstead

Polytechnic would be created, an impression which I should hate to be

the innocent means of circulating.

So on second thoughts I lean to a different inscription. On the back of

my bat a plain silver shield will say quite simply this:--

TO

STANLEY BOLLAND,

FOR SAVING LIFE AT SEA.

FROM A FEW ADMIRERS.

Thus I shall have two strings to my bow. And if, by any unhappy chance,

I fail as a cricketer, the wicket-keeper will say to his comrades as I

walk sadly to the pavilion, "A poor bat perhaps, but a brave--a very

brave fellow."

It becomes us all to make at least one effort to brighten cricket.

UNCLE EDWARD

Celia has more relations than would seem possible. I am gradually

getting to know some them by sight and a few more by name, but I still

make mistakes. The other day, for instance, she happened to say she was

going to a concert with Uncle Godfrey.

"Godfrey," I said, "Godfrey. No, don't tell me--I shall get it in a

moment. Godfrey ... Yes, that's it; he's the architect. He lives at

Liverpool, has five children, and sent us the asparagus-cooler as a

wedding present."

"No marks," said Celia.

"Then he's the unmarried one in Scotland who breeds terriers. I knew I

should get it."

"As a matter of fact he lives in London and breeds oratorios."

"It's the same idea. That was the one I meant. The great point is that I

placed him. Now give me another one." I leant forward eagerly.

"Well, I was just going to ask you--have you arranged anything about

Monday?"

"Monday," I said, "Monday. No, don't tell me--I shall get it in a

moment. Monday ... He's the one who---- Oh, you mean the day of the

week?"

"Who's a funny?" asked Celia of the teapot.

"Sorry; I really thought you meant another relation. What am I doing?

I'm playing golf if I can find somebody to play with."

"Well, ask Edward."

I could place Edward at once. Edward, I need hardly say, is Celia's

uncle; one of the ones I have not yet met. He married a very young aunt

of hers, not much older than Celia.

"But I don't know him," I said.

"It doesn't matter. Write and ask him to meet you at the golf club. I'm

sure he'd love to."

"Wouldn't he think it rather cool, this sudden attack from a perfectly

unknown nephew? I fancy the first step ought to come from uncle."

"But you're older than he is."

"True. It's rather a tricky point in etiquette. Well, I'll risk it."

This was the letter I sent to him:--

"MY DEAR UNCLE EDWARD,--Why haven't you written to me this term? I

have spent the five shillings you gave me when I came back; it was

awfully ripping of you to give it to me, but I have spent it now.

Are you coming down to see me this term? If you aren't you might

write to me; there is a post-office here where you can change postal

orders.

"What I really meant to say was, can you play golf with me on Monday

at Mudbury Hill? I am your new and favourite nephew, and it is quite

time we met. Be at the club-house at 2.30, if you can. I don't quite

know how we shall recognize each other, but the well-dressed man in

the nut-brown suit will probably be me. My features are plain but

good, except where I fell against the bath-taps yesterday. If you

have fallen against anything which would give me a clue to your face

you might let me know. Also you might let me know if you are a

professor at golf; if you are, I will read some more books on the

subject between now and Monday. Just at the moment my game is

putrid.

"Your niece and my wife sends her love. Good-bye. I was top of my

class in Latin last week. I must now stop, as it is my bath-night.

"I am,

"Your loving

"NEPHEW."

The next day I had a letter from my uncle:--

"MY DEAR NEPHEW,--I was so glad to get your nice little letter and

to hear that you were working hard. Let me know when it is your

bath-night again; these things always interest me. I shall be

delighted to play golf with you on Monday. You will have no

difficulty in recognizing me. I should describe myself roughly as

something like Apollo and something like Little Tich, if you know

what I mean. It depends how you come up to me. I am an excellent

golfer and never take more than two putts in a bunker.

"Till 2.30 then. I enclose a postal-order for sixpence, to see you

through the rest of the term.

"Your favourite uncle,

"EDWARD."

I showed it to Celia.

"Perhaps you could describe him more minutely," I said. "I hate

wandering about vaguely and asking everybody I see if he's my uncle. It

seems so odd."

"You're sure to meet all right," said Celia confidently. "He's--well,

he's nice-looking and--and clean-shaven--and, oh, _you'll_ recognize

him."

At 2.30 on Monday I arrived at the club-house and waited for my uncle.

Various people appeared, but none seemed in want of a nephew. When 2.45

came there was still no available uncle. True, there was one unattached

man reading in a corner of the smoke-room, but he had a moustache--the

sort of heavy moustache one associates with a major.

At three o'clock I became desperate. After all, Celia had not seen

Edward for some time. Perhaps he had grown a moustache lately; perhaps

he had grown one specially for to-day. At any rate there would be no

harm in asking this major man if he was my uncle. Even if he wasn't he

might give me a game of golf.

"Excuse me," I said politely, "but are you by any chance my Uncle

Edward?"

"Your _what_?"

"I was almost certain you weren't, but I thought I'd just ask. I'm

sorry."

"Not at all. Naturally one wants to find one's uncle. Have you--er--lost

him long?"

"Years," I said sadly. "Er--I wonder if you would care to adopt me--I

mean, give me a game this afternoon. My man hasn't turned up."

"By all means. I'm not very great."

"Neither am I. Shall we start now? Good."

I was sorry to miss Edward, but I wasn't going to miss a game of golf on

such a lovely day. My spirits rose. Not even the fact that there were no

caddies left and I had to carry my own clubs could depress me.

The Major drove. I am not going to describe the whole game; though my

cleek shot at the fifth hole, from a hanging lie to within two feet of

the---- However, I mustn't go into that now. But it surprised the Major

a good deal. And when at the next hole I laid my brassie absolutely

dead, he---- But I can tell you about that some other time. It is

sufficient to say now that, when we reached the seventeenth tee, I was

one up.

We both played the seventeenth well. He was a foot from the hole in

four. I played my third from the edge of the green, and was ridiculously

short, giving myself a twenty-foot putt for the hole. Leaving my clubs

I went forward with the putter, and by the absurdest luck pushed the

ball in.

"Good," said the Major. "Your game."

I went back for my clubs. When I turned round the Major was walking

carelessly off to the next tee, leaving the flag lying on the green and

my ball still in the tin.

"Slacker," I said to myself, and walked up to the hole.

And then I had a terrible shock. I saw in the tin, not my ball, but a

moustache!

"Am I going mad?" I said. "I could have sworn that I drove off with a

'Colonel,' and yet I seem to have holed out with a Major's moustache!" I

picked it up and hurried after him.

"Major," I said, "excuse me, you've dropped your moustache. It fell off

at the critical stage of the match; the shock of losing was too much for

you; the strain of----"

He turned his clean-shaven face round and grinned at me.

"On second thoughts," he said, "I _am_ your long-lost uncle."

THE RENASCENCE OF BRITAIN

Peter Riley was one of those lucky people who take naturally to games.

Actually he got his blue for cricket, rugger, and boxing, but his

perfect eye and wrist made him a beautiful player of any game with a

ball. Also he rode and shot well, and knew all about the inside of a

car. But, although he was always enthusiastic about anything he was

doing, he was not really keen on games. He preferred wandering about the

country looking for birds' nests or discovering the haunts of rare

butterflies; he liked managing a small boat single-handed in a stiff

breeze; he would have enjoyed being upset and having to swim a long way

to shore. Most of all, perhaps, he loved to lie on the top of the cliffs

and think of the wonderful things that he would do for England when he

was a Cabinet Minister. For politics was to be his profession, and he

had just taken a first in History by way of preparation for it.

There were a lot of silly people who envied Peter's mother. They

thought, poor dears, that she must be very, very proud of him, for they

regarded Peter as the ideal of the modern young Englishman. "If only my

boy grows up to be like Peter Riley!" they used to say to themselves;

and then add quickly, "But of course he'll be much nicer." In their

ignorance they didn't see that it was the Peters of England who were

making our country the laughing-stock of the world.

If you had been in Berlin in 1916, you would have seen Peter; for he had

been persuaded, much against his will, to uphold the honour of Great

Britain in the middle-weights at the Olympic Games. He got a position in

the papers as "P. Riley, disqualified"--the result, he could only

suppose, of his folly in allowing his opponent to butt him in the

stomach. He was both annoyed and amused about it; offered to fight his

vanquisher any time in England; and privately thanked Heaven that he

could now get back to London in time for his favourite sister's wedding.

But he didn't. The English trainer, who had been sent, at the public

expense, to America for a year, to study the proper methods, got hold of

him.

"I've been watching you, young man," he said. "You'll have to give

yourself up to me now. You're the coming champion."

"I'm sorry," said Peter politely, "but I shan't be fighting again."

"Fighting!" said the trainer scornfully. "Don't you worry; I'll take

good care that you don't fight any more. The event _you're_ going to win

is 'Pushing the Chisel.' I've been watching you, and you've got the most

perfect neck and calf-muscles for it I've ever seen. No more fighting

for you, my boy; nor cricket, nor anything else. I'm not going to let

you spoil those muscles."

"I don't think I've ever pushed the Chisel," said Peter. "Besides, it's

over, isn't it?"

"Over? Of course it's over, and that confounded American won. 'Poor old

England,' as all the papers said."

"Then it's too late to begin to practise," said Peter thankfully.

"Well, it's too late for the 1920 games. But we can do a lot in eight

years, and I think I can get you fit for the 1924 games at Pekin."

Peter stared at him in amazement.

"My good man," he said at last, "in 1924 I shall be in London; and I

hope in the House of Commons."

"And what about the honour of your country? Do you want to read the

jeers in the American papers when we lose 'Pushing the Chisel' in 1924?"

"I don't care a curse what the American papers say," said Peter angrily.

"Then you're very different from other Englishmen," said the trainer

sternly.

. . . . .

Of course, Peter was persuaded; he couldn't let England be the

laughing-stock of the world. So for eight years he lived under the eye

of the trainer, rising at five and retiring to bed at seven-thirty. This

prevented him from taking much part in the ordinary social activities of

the evening; and even his luncheon and garden-party invitations had to

be declined in some such words as "Mr. Peter Riley regrets that he is

unable to accept Lady Vavasour's kind invitation for Monday the 13th, as

he will be hopping round the garden on one leg then." His career, too,

had to be abandoned; for it was plain that, even if he had the leisure

to get into Parliament, the early hours he kept would not allow him to

take part in any important divisions.

But there were compensations. As he watched his calves swell; as he

looked in the glass and noticed each morning that his head was a little

more on one side--sure sign of the expert Chisel-pusher; as, still surer

sign, his hands became more knuckly and his mouth remained more

permanently open, he knew that his devotion to duty would not be without

its reward. He saw already his country triumphing, and heard the chorus

of congratulation in the newspapers that England was still a nation of

sportsmen....

In 1924 Pekin was crowded. There were, of course, the ordinary million

inhabitants; and, in addition, people had thronged from all parts to

see the great Chisel-pusher of whom so much had been heard. That they

did not come in vain, we in London knew one July morning as we opened

our papers.

"PUSHING THE CHISEL (_Free Style_).

"1. P. Riley (Great Britain), 5-3/4 in. (World's Record). 2. H.

Biffpoffer (America), 5-1/2 in. A. Wafer (America) was disqualified

for going outside the wood."

. . . . .

And so England was herself again. There was only one discordant note in

her triumph. Mr. P. A. Vaile pointed out in all the papers that Peter

Riley, in the usual pig-headed English way, had been employing entirely

the wrong grip. Mr. Vaile's book, _How to Push the Chisel_, illustrated

with 50 full plates of Mr. Vaile in knickerbockers pushing the Chisel,

explained the correct method.

THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT

"It's my birthday to-morrow," said Mrs. Jeremy as she turned the pages

of her engagement book.

"Bless us, so it is," said Jeremy. "You're thirty-nine or twenty-seven

or something. I must go and examine the wine-cellar. I believe there's

one bottle left in the Apollinaris bin. It's the only stuff in the house

that fizzes."

"Jeremy! I'm only twenty-six."

"You don't look it, darling; I mean you do look it, dear. What I

mean--well, never mind that. Let's talk about birthday presents. Think

of something absolutely tremendous for me to give you."

"A rope of pearls."

"I didn't mean that sort of tremendousness," said Jeremy quickly.

"Anyone could give you a rope of pearls; it's simply a question of

overdrawing enough from the bank. I meant something difficult that would

really prove my love for you--like Lloyd George's ear or the Kaiser's

cigar-holder. Something where I could kill somebody for you first. I am

in a very devoted mood this morning."

"Are you really?" smiled Mrs. Jeremy. "Because----"

"I am. So is Baby, unfortunately. She will probably want to give you

something horribly expensive. Between ourselves, dear, I shall be glad

when Baby is old enough to buy her own presents for her mamma. Last

Christmas her idea of a complete edition of Meredith and a pair of

silver-backed brushes nearly ruined me."

"You won't be ruined this time, Jeremy. I don't want you to give me

anything; I want you to show that devotion of yours by _doing_ something

for me."

"Anything," said Jeremy grandly. "Shall I swim the Channel? I was

practising my new trudgeon stroke in the bath this morning." He got up

from his chair and prepared to give an exhibition of it.

"No, nothing like that." Mrs. Jeremy hesitated, looked anxiously at him,

and then went boldly at it. "I want you to go in for that physical

culture that everyone's talking about."

"Who's everyone? Cook hasn't said a word to me on the subject; neither

has Baby; neither has----"

"Mrs. Hodgkin was talking to me about it yesterday. She was saying how

thin you were looking."

"The scandal that goes on in these villages," sighed Jeremy. "And the

Vicar's wife too. Dear, all this is weeks and weeks old; I suppose it

has only just reached the Vicarage. Do let us be up-to-date. Physical

culture has been quite _démodé_ since last Thursday."

"Well, _I_ never saw anything in the paper"----

"Knowing what wives are, I hid it from you. Let us now, my dear wife,

talk of something else."

"Jeremy! Not for my birthday present?" said his wife in a reproachful

voice. "The Vicar does them every morning," she added casually.

"Poor beggar! But it's what Vicars are for." Jeremy chuckled to himself.

"I should love to see him," he said. "I suppose it's private, though.

Perhaps if I said 'Press'----"

"You _are_ thin, you know."

"My dear, the proper way to get fat is not to take violent exercise, but

to lie in a hammock all day and drink milk. Besides, do you want a fat

husband? Does Baby want a fat father? You wouldn't like, at your next

garden party, to have everybody asking you in a whisper, 'Who is the

enormously stout gentleman?' If Nature made me thin--or, to be more

accurate, slender and of a pleasing litheness--let us believe that she

knew best."

"It isn't only thinness; these exercises keep you young and well and

active in mind."

"Like the Vicar?"

"He's only just begun," said his wife hastily.

"Let's wait a bit and watch him," suggested Jeremy. "If his sermons

really get better, then I'll think about it seriously. I make you a

present of his baldness; I shan't ask for any improvement there."

Mrs. Jeremy went over to her husband and patted the top of his head.

"'In a very devoted mood this morning,'" she quoted.

Jeremy looked unhappy.

"What pains me most about this," he said, "is the revelation of your

shortcomings as a wife. You ought to think me the picture of manly

beauty. Baby does. She thinks that, next to the postman, I am one of

the----"

"So you are, dear."

"Well, why not leave it? Really, I can't waste my time fattening refined

gold and stoutening the lily. I am a busy man. I walk up and down the

pergola, I keep a dog, I paint little water-colours, I am treasurer of

the cricket club; my life is full of activities."

"This only takes a quarter of an hour before your bath, Jeremy."

"I am shaving then; I should cut myself and get all the soap in my eyes.

It would be most dangerous. When you were a widow, and Baby and the pony

were orphans, you and Mrs. Hodgkin would be sorry. But it would be too

late. The Vicar, tearing himself away from Position 5 to conduct the

funeral service----"

"Jeremy, _don't_!"

"Ah, woman, now I move you. You are beginning to see what you were in

danger of doing. Death I laugh at; but a fat death--the death of a stout

man who has swallowed the shaving-brush through taking too deep a breath

before beginning Exercise 3, that is more than I can bear."

"Jeremy!"

"When I said I wanted to kill someone for you, I didn't think you would

suggest myself, least of all that you wanted me fattened up like a

Christmas turkey first. To go down to posterity as the large-bodied

gentleman who inhaled the badger's hair; to be billed in the London

press in the words, 'Curious Fatal Accident to Adipose Treasurer'--to do

this simply by way of celebrating your twenty-sixth birthday, when we

actually have a bottle of Apollinaris left in the Apollinaris

bin--darling, you cannot have been thinking----"

His wife patted his head again gently. "Oh, Jeremy, you hopeless

person," she sighed. "Give me a new sunshade. I want one badly."

"No," said Jeremy, "Baby shall give you that. For myself I am still

feeling that I should like to kill somebody for you. Lloyd George? No.

F. E. Smith? N-no...." He rubbed his head thoughtfully. "Who invented

those exercises?" he asked suddenly.

"A German, I think."

"Then," said Jeremy, buttoning up his coat, "I shall go and kill

_him_."

ONE OF OUR SUFFERERS

There is no question before the country of more importance than that of

National Health. In my own small way I have made something of a study of

it, and when a Royal Commission begins its enquiries, I shall put before

it the evidence which I have accumulated. I shall lay particular stress

upon the health of Thomson.

"You'll beat me to-day," he said, as he swung his club stiffly on the

first tee; "I shan't be able to hit a ball."

"You should have some lessons," I suggested.

Thomson gave a snort of indignation.

"It's not _that_," he said. "But I've been very seedy lately, and----"

"That's all right; I shan't mind. I haven't played a thoroughly well man

for a month, now."

"You know, I think my liver----"

I held up my hand.

"Not before my caddie, please," I said severely; "he is quite a child."

Thomson said no more for the moment, but hit his ball hard and straight

along the ground.

"It's perfectly absurd," he said with a shrug; "I shan't be able to give

you a game at all. Well, if you don't mind playing a sick man----"

"Not if you don't mind being one," I replied, and drove a ball which

also went along the ground, but not so far as my opponent's. "There! I'm

about the only man in England who can do that when he's quite well."

The ball was sitting up nicely for my second shot, and I managed to put

it on the green. Thomson's, fifty yards farther on, was reclining in the

worst part of a bunker which he had forgotten about.

"Well, really," he said, "there's an example of luck for you. _Your_

ball----"

"I didn't do it on purpose," I pleaded. "Don't be angry with me."

He made two attempts to get out, and then picked his ball up. We walked

in silence to the second tee.

"This time," I said, "I shall hit the sphere properly," and with a

terrific swing I stroked it gently into a gorse bush. I looked at the

thing in disgust and then felt my pulse. Apparently I was still quite

well. Thomson, forgetting about his liver, drove a beauty. We met on the

green.

"Five," I said.

"Only five?" asked Thomson suspiciously.

"Six," I said, holing a very long putt.

Thomson's health had a relapse. He took four short putts and was down in

seven.

"It's really rather absurd," he said, in a conversational way, as we

went to the next tee, "that putting should be so ridiculously important.

Take that hole, for instance. I get on the green in a perfect three; you

fluff your drive completely and get on in--what was it?"

"Five," I said again.

"Er--five. And yet you win the hole. It _is_ rather absurd, isn't it?"

"I've often thought so," I admitted readily. "That is to say, when I've

taken four putts. I'm two up."

On the third tee Thomson's health became positively alarming. He missed

the ball altogether.

"It's ridiculous to try to play," he said, with a forced laugh. "I can't

see the ball at all."

"It's still there," I assured him.

He struck at it again and it hurried off into a ditch.

"Look here," he said, "wouldn't you rather play the pro.? This is not

much of a match for you."

I considered. Of course, a game with the pro. would be much pleasanter

than a game with Thomson, but ought I to leave him in his present

serious condition of health? His illness was approaching its critical

stage, and it was my duty to pull him through if I could.

"No, no," I said. "Let's go on. The fresh air will do you good."

"Perhaps it will," he said hopefully. "I'm sorry I'm like this, but I've

had a cold hanging about for some days, and that on the top of my

liver----"

"Quite so," I said.

The climax was reached, at the next hole, when, with several strokes in

hand, he topped his approach shot into a bunker. For my sake he tried to

look as though he had _meant_ to run it up along the ground, having

forgotten about the intervening hazard. It was a brave effort to hide

from me the real state of his health, but he soon saw that it was

hopeless. He sighed and pressed his hand to his eyes. Then he held his

fingers a foot away from him, and looked at them as if he were trying to

count them correctly. His state was pitiable, and I felt that at any

cost I must save him.

I did. The corner was turned at the fifth, where I took four putts.

"You aren't going to win _all_ the holes," he said grudgingly, as he ran

down his putt.

Convalescence set in at the sixth, when I got into an impossible place

and picked up.

"Oh, well, I shall give you a game yet," he said. "Two down."

The need for further bulletins ceased at the seventh hole, which he

played really well and won easily.

"A-ha, you won't beat me by _much_," he said, "in spite of my liver."

"By the way, how _is_ the liver?" I asked.

"Your fresh-air cure is doing it good. Of course, it may come on again,

but----" He drove a screamer. "I think I shall be all right," he

announced.

"All square," he said cheerily at the ninth. "I fancy I'm going to beat

you now. Not bad, you know, considering you were four up. Practically

speaking, I gave you a start of four holes."

I decided that it was time to make an effort again, seeing that

Thomson's health was now thoroughly re-established. Of the next seven

holes I managed to win three and halve two. It is only fair to say,

though (as Thomson did several times), that I had an extraordinary

amount of good luck, and that he was dogged by ill-fortune throughout.

But this, after all, is as nothing so long as one's health is above

suspicion. The great thing was that Thomson's liver suffered no relapse;

even though, at the seventeenth tee, he was one down and two to play.

And it was on the seventeenth tee that I had to think seriously how I

wanted the match to end. Thomson at lunch when he has won is a very

different man from Thomson at lunch when he has lost. The more I thought

about it, the more I realized that I was in rather a happy position. If

I won, I won--which was jolly; if I lost, Thomson won--and we should

have a pleasant lunch.

However, as it happened, the match was halved.

"Yes, I was afraid so," said Thomson; "I let you get too long a start.

It's absurd to suppose that I can give you four holes up and beat you.

It practically amounts to giving you four bisques. Four bisques is about

six strokes--I'm not really six strokes better than you."

"What about lunch?" I suggested.

"Good; and you can have your revenge afterwards." He led the way into

the pavilion. "Now I wonder," he said, "what I can safely eat. I want

to be able to give you _some_ sort of a game this afternoon."

Well, if there is ever a Royal Commission upon the national physique I

shall insist on giving evidence. For it seems to me that golf, far from

improving the health of the country, is actually undermining it.

Thomson, at any rate, since he has taken to the game, has never been

quite fit.

IN THE SWIM

"Do you tango?" asked Miss Hopkins, as soon as we were comfortably

seated. I know her name was Hopkins, because I had her down on my

programme as Popkins, which seemed too good to be true; and, in order to

give her a chance of reconsidering it, I had asked her if she was one of

the Popkinses of Hampshire. It had then turned out that she was really

one of the Hopkinses of Maida Vale.

"No," I said, "I don't." She was only the fifth person who had asked me,

but then she was only my fifth partner.

"Oh, you ought to. You must be up-to-date, you know."

"I'm always a bit late with these things," I explained. "The waltz came

to England in 1812, but I didn't really master it till 1904."

"I'm afraid if you wait as long as that before you master the tango it

will be out."

"That's what I thought. By the time I learnt the tango, the bingo would

be in. My idea was to learn the bingo in advance, so as to be ready for

it. Think how you'll all envy me in 1917. Think how Society will flock

to my Bingo Quick Lunches. I shall be the only man in London who bingoes

properly. Of course, by 1918 you'll all be at it."

"Then we must have one together in 1918," smiled Miss Hopkins.

"In 1918," I pointed out coldly, "I shall be learning the pongo."

My next partner had no name that I could discover, but a fund of

conversation.

"Do you tango?" she asked me as soon as we were comfortably seated.

"No," I said, "I don't. But," I added, "I once learned the minuet."

"Oh, they're not very much alike, are they?"

"Not a bit. However, luckily that doesn't matter, because I've forgotten

all the steps now."

She seemed a little puzzled and decided to change the subject.

"Are you going to learn the tango?" she asked.

"I don't think so. It took me four months to learn the minuet."

"But they're quite different, aren't they?"

"Quite," I agreed.

As she seemed to have exhausted herself for the moment, it was obviously

my business to say something. There was only one thing to say.

"Do _you_ tango?" I asked.

"No," she said, "I don't."

"Are you going to learn?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Ah!" I said; and five minutes later we parted for ever.

The next dance really was a tango, and I saw to my horror that I had a

name down for it. With some difficulty I found the owner of it, and

prepared to explain to her that unfortunately I couldn't dance the

tango, but that for profound conversation about it I was undoubtedly the

man. Luckily she explained first.

"I'm afraid I can't do this," she apologised. "I'm so sorry."

"Not at all," I said magnanimously. "We'll sit it out."

We found a comfortable seat.

"Do you tango?" she asked.

I was tired of saying "No."

"Yes," I said.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to find somebody else to do it with?"

"Quite, thanks. The fact is I do it rather differently from the way

they're doing it here to-night. You see, I actually learnt it in the

Argentine."

She was very much interested to hear this.

"Really? Are you out there much? I've got an uncle living there now. I

wonder if----"

"When I say I learnt it in the Argentine," I explained, "I mean that I

was actually taught it in St. John's Wood, but that my dancing mistress

came from----"

"In St. John's Wood?" she said eagerly. "But how funny! My sister is

learning there. I wonder if----"

She was a very difficult person to talk to. Her relations seemed to

spread themselves all over the place.

"Perhaps that is hardly doing justice to the situation," I explained

again. "It would be more accurate to put it like this. When I

decided--by the way, does your family frequent Paris? No? Good. Well,

when I decided to learn the tango, the fact that my friends the

Hopkinses of St. John's Wood, or rather Maida Vale, had already learnt

it in Paris naturally led me to---- I say, what about an ice? It's

getting awfully hot in here."

"Oh, I don't think----"

"I'll go and get them," I said hastily; and I went and took a long time

getting them, and, as it turned out that she didn't want hers after all,

a longer time eating them. When I was ready for conversation again the

next dance was beginning. With a bow I relinquished her to another.

"Come along," said a bright voice behind me; "this is ours."

"Hallo, Norah, is that you? Come on."

We hurried in, danced in silence, and then found ourselves a comfortable

seat. For a moment neither of us spoke....

"Have you learnt the tango yet?" asked Norah.

"Fourteen," I said aloud.

"Help! Does that mean that I'm the fourteenth person who has asked you?"

"The night is yet young, Norah. You are only the eighth. But I was

betting that you'd ask me before I counted twenty. You lost, and you owe

me a pair of ivory-backed hair-brushes and a cigar-cutter."

"Bother! Anyhow, I'm not going to be stopped talking about the tango if

I want to. Did you know I was learning? I can do the scissors."

"Good. We'll do the new Fleet Street movement together, the

scissors-and-paste. You go into the ball-room and do the scissors, and

I'll--er--stick here and do the paste."

"Can't you really do any of it at all, and aren't you going to learn?"

"I can't do any of it at all, Norah. I am not going to learn, Norah."

"It isn't so very difficult, you know. I'd teach you myself for

tuppence."

"Will you stop talking about it for threepence?" I asked, and I took out

three coppers.

"No."

I sighed and put them back again.

. . . . .

It was the last dance of the evening. My hostess, finding me lonely, had

dragged me up to somebody, and I and whatever her name was were in the

supper-room drinking our farewell soup. So far we had said nothing to

each other. I waited anxiously for her to begin. Suddenly she began.

"Have you thought about Christmas presents yet?" she asked.

I nearly swooned. With difficulty I remained in an upright position. She

was the first person who had not begun by asking me if I danced the

tango!

"Excuse me," I said. "I'm afraid I didn't--would you tell me your name

again?"

I felt that it ought to be celebrated in some way. I had some notion of

writing a sonnet to her.

"Hopkins," she said; "I knew you'd forgotten me."

"Of course I haven't," I said, suddenly remembering her. The sonnet

would never be written now. "We had a dance together before."

"Yes," she said. "Let me see," she added, "I did ask you if you danced

the tango, didn't I?"

THE MEN WHO SUCCEED

THE HEIR

Mr. Trevor Pilkington, of the well-known firm of Trevor Pilkington,

fixed his horn spectacles carefully upon his nose, took a pinch of

snuff, sneezed twice, gave his papers a preliminary rustle, looked

slowly round the crowded room, and began to read the will. Through forty

years of will-reading his method of procedure had always been the same.

But Jack Summers, who was sharing an ottoman with two of the outdoor

servants, thought that Mr. Pilkington's mannerisms were designed

specially to annoy him, and he could scarcely control his impatience.

Yet no one ever had less to hope from the reading of a will than Jack.

For the first twenty years of his life his parents had brought him up to

believe that his cousin Cecil was heir to his Uncle Alfred's enormous

fortune, and for the subsequent ten years his cousin Cecil had brought

his Uncle Alfred up in the same belief. Indeed, Cecil had even roughed

out one or two wills for signature, and had offered to help his

uncle--who, however, preferred to do these things by himself--to hold

the pen. Jack could not help feeling glad that his cousin was not there

to parade his approaching triumph; a nasty cold, caught a week

previously in attending his uncle to the Lord Mayor's Show, having kept

Cecil in bed.

"To the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, ten shillings

and sixpence"--the words came to him in a meaningless drone--"to the

Fresh Air Fund, ten shillings and sixpence; to the King Edward Hospital

Fund, ten shillings and sixpence"--was _all_ the money going in

charities?--"to my nephew Cecil Linley, who has taken such care of

me"--Mr. Pilkington hesitated--"four shillings and ninepence; to my

nephew, John Summers, whom, thank Heaven, I have never seen, five

million pounds----"

A long whistle of astonishment came from the ottoman. The solicitor

looked up with a frown.

"It's the surprise," apologised Jack. "I hardly expected so much. I

thought that that brute--I mean I thought my cousin Cecil had

nobbled--that is to say, was getting it all."

"The late Mr. Alfred made three wills," said the lawyer in a moment of

expansion. "In the first he left his nephew Cecil a legacy of one

shilling and tenpence, in the second he bequeathed him a sum of three

shillings and twopence, and in the last he set aside the amount of four

shillings and ninepence. The evidence seems to show that your cousin was

rapidly rising in his uncle's estimation. You, on the other hand, have

always been a legatee to the amount of five million pounds; but in the

last will there is a trifling condition attached." He resumed his

papers. "To my nephew, John Summers, five million pounds, on condition

that, within one year from the date of my death, he marries Mary

Huggins, the daughter of my old friend, now deceased, William Huggins."

Jack Summers rose proudly from his end of the ottoman.

"Thanks," he said curtly. "That tears it. It's very kind of the old

gentleman, but I prefer to choose a wife for myself." He bowed to the

company and strode from the room.

. . . . .

It was a cloudless August day. In the shadow of the great elms that

fringed the Sussex lane a girl sat musing; on its side in the grass at

her feet a bicycle, its back wheel deflated. She sat on the grassy bank

with her hat in her lap, quite content to wait until the first passer-by

with a repairing outfit in his pocket should offer to help her.

"Can I be of any assistance?" said a manly voice, suddenly waking her

from her reverie.

She turned with a start. The owner of the voice was dressed in a stylish

knickerbocker suit; his eyes were blue, his face was tanned, his hair

was curly, and he was at least six foot tall. So much she noticed at a

glance.

"My bicycle," she said; "punctured."

In a minute he was on his knees beside the machine. A rapid examination

convinced him that she had not over-stated the truth, and he whipped

from his pocket the repairing outfit without which he never travelled.

"I can do it in a moment," he said. "At least, if you can just help me a

little."

As she knelt beside him he could not fail to be aware of her wonderful

beauty. The repairs, somehow, took longer than he thought. Their heads

were very close together all the time, and indeed on one occasion came

violently into contact.

"There," he said at last, getting up and barking his shin against the

pedal. "Conf---- That will be all right."

"Thank you," she said tenderly.

He looked at her without disguising his admiration; a tall, straight

figure in the sunlight, its right shin rubbing itself vigorously against

its left calf.

"It's absurd," he said at last; "I feel as if I've known you for years.

And, anyway, I'm certain I've seen you before somewhere."

"Did you ever go to _The Seaside Girl_?" she asked eagerly.

"Often."

"Do you remember the Spanish princess who came on at the beginning of

the Second Act and said, 'Wow-wow!' to the Mayor?"

"Why, of course! And you had your photograph in _The Sketch_, _The

Tatler_, _The Bystander_, and _The Sporting and Dramatic_ all in the

same week?"

The girl nodded happily. "Yes, I'm Marie Huguenot!" she said.

"And I'm Jack Summers; so now we know each other." He took her hand.

"Marie," he said, "ever since I have mended your bicycle--I mean, ever

since I have known you, I have loved you. Will you marry me?"

"Jack!" she cooed. "You did say 'Jack,' didn't you?"

"Bless you, Marie. We shall be very poor, dear. Will you mind?"

"Not with you, Jack. At least, not if you mean what _I_ mean by 'very

poor.'"

"Two thousand a year."

"Yes, that's about what I meant."

Jack took her in his arms.

"And Mary Huggins can go and marry the Pope," he said, with a smile.

With a look of alarm in her eyes she pushed him suddenly away from her.

There was a crash as his foot went through the front wheel of the

bicycle.

"Mary Huggins?" she cried.

"Yes, I was left a fortune on condition that I married a person called

Mary Huggins. Absurd! As though----"

"How much?"

"Oh, quite a lot if it wasn't for these confounded death duties. Five

million pounds. You see----"

"Jack, Jack!" cried the girl. "Don't you understand? _I_ am Mary

Huggins."

He looked at her in amazement.

"You said your name was Marie Huguenot," he said slowly.

"My stage name, dear. Naturally I couldn't--I mean, one must--you know

how particular managers are. When father died and I had to go on the

stage for a living----"

"Marie, my darling!"

Mary rose and picked up her bicycle. The air had gone out of the back

wheel again, and there were four spokes broken, but she did not heed it.

"You must write to your lawyer to-night," she said. "_Won't_ he be

surprised?"

But, being a great reader of the magazines, he wasn't.

THE STATESMAN

On a certain night in the middle of the season all London was gathered

in Lady Marchpane's drawing-room; all London, that is, which was worth

knowing--a qualification which accounted for the absence of several

million people who had never heard of Lady Marchpane. In one corner of

the room an Ambassador, with a few ribbons across his chest, could have

been seen chatting to the latest American Duchess; in another corner one

of our largest Advertisers was exchanging epigrams with a titled

Newspaper Proprietor. Famous Generals rubbed shoulders with

Post-Impressionist Artists; Financiers whispered sweet nothings to

Breeders of prize Poms; even an Actor-Manager might have been seen

accepting an apology from a Royalty who had jostled him.

"Hallo," said Algy Lascelles, catching sight of the dignified figure of

Rupert Meryton in the crowd; "how's William?"

A rare smile lit up Rupert's distinguished features. He was Under

Secretary for Invasion Affairs, and "William" was Algy's pleasant way of

referring to the Bill which he was now piloting through the House of

Commons. It was a measure for doing something or other by means of a

what-d'you-call-it--I cannot be more precise without precipitating a

European Conflict.

"I think we shall get it through," said Rupert calmly.

"Lady Marchpane was talking about it just now. She's rather interested,

you know."

Rupert's lips closed about his mouth in a firm line. He looked over

Algy's head into the crowd. "Oh!" he said coldly.

It was barely ten years ago that young Meryton, just down from Oxford,

had startled the political world by capturing the important seat of

Cricklewood (E.) for the Tariffadicals--as, to avoid plunging the

country into Civil War, I must call them. This was at a by-election, and

the Liberatives had immediately dissolved, only to come into power after

the General Election with an increased majority. Through the years that

followed, Rupert Meryton, by his pertinacity in asking the Invasion

Secretary questions which had been answered by him on the previous day,

and by his regard for the dignity of the House, as shown in his

invariable comment, "Come, come--not quite the gentleman," upon any

display of bad manners opposite, established a clear right to a post in

the subsequent Tariffadical Government. He had now been Under Secretary

for two years, and in this Bill his first real chance had come.

"Oh, there you are, Mr. Meryton," said a voice. "Come and talk to me a

moment." With a nod to a couple of Archbishops Lady Marchpane led the

way to a little gallery whither the crowd had not penetrated. Priceless

Correggios, Tintorettos, and G. K. Chestertons hung upon the walls, but

it was not to show him these that she had come. Dropping into a

wonderful old Chippendale chair, she motioned him to a Blundell-Maple

opposite her, and looked at him with a curious smile.

"Well," she said, "about the Bill?"

Rupert's lips closed about his mouth in a firm line. (He was rather good

at this.) Folding his arms, he gazed steadily into Lady Marchpane's

still beautiful eyes.

"It will go through," he said. "Through all its stages," he added

professionally.

"It must not go through," said Lady Marchpane gently.

Rupert could not repress a start, but he was master of himself again in

a moment.

"I cannot add anything to my previous statement," he said.

"If it goes through," began Lady Marchpane----

"I must refer you," said Rupert, "to my answer of yesterday."

"Come, come, Mr. Meryton, what is the good of fencing with me? You know

the position. Or shall I state it for you again?"

"I cannot believe you are serious."

"I am perfectly serious. There are reasons, financial reasons--and

others--why I do not want this Bill to pass. In return for my silence

upon a certain matter, you are going to prevent it passing. You know to

what I refer. On the 4th of May last----"

"Stop!" cried Rupert hoarsely.

"On the 4th of May last," Lady Marchpane went on relentlessly, "you and

I--in the absence of my husband abroad--had tea together at an A.B.C."

(Rupert covered his face with his hands.) "I am no fonder of scandal

than you are, but if you do not meet my wishes I shall certainly confess

the truth to Marchpane."

"You will be ruined too!" said Rupert.

"My husband will forgive me and take me back." She paused significantly.

"Will Marjorie Hale----" (Rupert covered his hands with his face)--"will

the good Miss Hale forgive you? She is very strict, is she not? And

rich? And rising young politicians want money more than scandal." She

raised her head suddenly at the sound of footsteps. "Ah, Archbishop, I

was just calling Mr. Meryton's attention to this wonderful

Botticell----" (she looked at it more closely)----"this wonderful Dana

Gibson. A beautiful piece of work, is it not?" The intruders passed on

to the supper-room, and they were alone again.

"What am I to do?" said Rupert sullenly.

"The fate of the Bill is settled to-day week, when you make your big

speech. You must speak against it. Confess frankly you were mistaken. It

will be a close thing, anyhow. Your influence will turn the scale."

"It will ruin me politically."

"You will marry Marjorie Hale and be rich. No rich man is ever ruined

politically. Or socially." She patted his hand gently. "You'll do it?"

He got up slowly. "You'll see next week," he said.

It is not meet that we should watch the unhappy Rupert through the

long-drawn hours of the night, as he wrestled with the terrible problem.

A moment's sudden madness on that May afternoon had brought him to the

cross-roads. On the one hand, reputation, wealth, the girl that he

loved; on the other, his own honour and--so, at least, he had said

several times on the platform--the safety of England. He rose in the

morning weary, but with his mind made up.

The Bill should go through!

Rupert Meryton was a speaker of a not unusual type. Although he provided

the opinions himself, he always depended upon his secretary for the

arguments with which to support them and the actual words in which to

give them being. But on this occasion he felt that a special effort was

required of him. He would show Lady Marchpane that the blackmail of

yesterday had only roused him to a still greater effort on behalf of his

country. _He would write his own speech._

On the fateful night the House was crowded. It seemed that all the

guests at Lady Marchpane's a week before were in the Distinguished

Strangers' Gallery or behind the Ladies' Grille. From the Press Gallery

"Our Special Word-painter" looked down upon the statesmen beneath him,

his eagle eye ready to detect on the moment the Angry Flush, the Wince,

or the Sudden Paling of enemy, the Grim Smile or the Lofty Calm of

friend.

The Rt. Hon. Rupert Meryton, Tariffadical Member for Cricklewood (E.)

rose to his feet amidst cheers.

"Mr. Speaker," he said, "I rise--er--to-night, sir--h'r'm, to--er----"

So much of his speech I may give, but urgent State reasons compel me to

withhold the rest. Were it ever known with which Bill the secret history

that I have disclosed concerns itself, the Great Powers in an instant

would be at each other's throats. But though I may not disclose the

speech I can tell of its effect on the House. And its effect was

curious. It was, in fact, the exact opposite of what Rupert Meryton,

that promising Under Secretary, had intended.

It was the first speech that he had ever prepared himself. Than Rupert

there was no more dignified figure in the House of Commons; his honour

was proof, as we have seen, against the most insidious temptations; yet,

since one man cannot have all the virtues, he was distinctly stupid. It

would have been a hopeless speech anyhow; but, to make matters worse, he

had, in the most important part of it, attempted irony. And at the

beginning of the ironical passage even the Tariffadical word-painters

had to confess that it was their own stalwarts who "suddenly paled."

As Lady Marchpane had said, it was bound to be a close thing. The

Liberatives and the Unialists, of course, were solid against the Bill,

but there was also something of a cave in the Tariffadical Party. It was

bound to be a close thing, and Rupert's speech just made the difference.

When he sat down the waverers and doubters had made up their minds.

The Bill was defeated.

. . . . .

That the Tariffadicals should resign was natural; perhaps it was equally

natural that Rupert's secretary should resign too. He said that his

reputation would be gone if Rupert made any more speeches on his own,

and that he wasn't going to risk it. Without his secretary Rupert was

lost at the General Election which followed. Fortunately he had a

grateful friend in Lady Marchpane. She exerted her influence with the

Liberatives, and got him an appointment as Governor of the Stickjaw

Islands. Here, with his beautiful and rich wife, Sir Rupert Meryton

maintains a regal state, and upon his name no breath of scandal rests.

Indeed, his only trouble so far has been with the Stickjaw language--a

difficult language, but one which, perhaps fortunately, does not lend

itself to irony.

THE MAGNATE

It was in October, 19-- that the word "Zinc" first began to be heard in

financial circles. City men, pushing their dominoes regretfully away,

and murmuring "Zinc" in apologetic tones, were back in their offices by

three o'clock, forgetting in their haste to leave the usual twopence

under the cup for the waitress. Clubmen, glancing at the tape on their

way to the smoking-room, said to their neighbours, "Zinc's moved a

point, I see," before covering themselves up with _The Times_. In the

trains, returning husbands asked each other loudly, "What's all this

about zinc?"--all save the very innocent ones, who whispered, "I say,

what _is_ zinc exactly?" The music-halls took it up. No sooner had the

word "Zinc" left the lips of an acknowledged comedian than the house was

in roars of laughter. The _furore_ at the Collodium when Octavius Octo,

in his world-famous part of the landlady of a boarding-house, remarked,

"I know why my ole man's so late. 'E's buying zinc," is still remembered

in the bars round Piccadilly.

. . . . .

To explain it properly it will be necessary (my readers will be alarmed

to hear) to go back some thirty years. This, as a simple calculation

shows, takes us to June, 18--. It was in June, 18-- that Felix Moses, a

stout young man of attractive appearance (if you care for that style),

took his courage in both hands, and told Phyllida Sloan that he was

worth ten thousand a year and was changing his name to Mountenay. Miss

Sloan, seeing that it was the beginning of a proposal, said hastily

that she was changing hers to Abraham.

"You're marrying Leo Abraham?" asked Felix in amazement. "Ah!" A gust of

jealousy swept over him. He licked his lips. There was a dangerous look

in his eyes--a look that was destined in after days to make Emperors and

rival financiers quail. "Ah!" he said softly. "Leo Abraham! I shall not

forget!"

. . . . .

And now it will be necessary (my readers will be relieved to learn) to

jump forward some thirty years. This obviously takes us to September

19--. Let us on this fine September morning take a peep into "No. --

Throgneedle Street, E.C.," and see how the business of the mother city

is carried on.

On the fourth floor we come to the sanctum of the great man himself.

"Mr. Felix Mountenay--No admittance," is painted upon the outer door. It

is a name which is known and feared all over Europe. Mr. Mountenay's

private detective stands on one side of the door; on the other side is

Mr. Mountenay's private wolf-hound. Murmuring the word "Press," however,

we pass hastily through, and find ourselves before Mr. Mountenay

himself. Mr. Mountenay is at work; let us watch him through a typical

five minutes.

For a moment he stands meditating in the middle of the room. Kings are

tottering on their thrones. Empires hang upon his nod. What will he

decide? Suddenly he blows a cloud of smoke from his cigar, and rushes to

the telephone.

"Hallo! Is that you, Jones?... What are Margarine Prefs. at?...

_What?..._ No, Margarine _Prefs._, idiot.... Ah! Then sell. Keep on

selling till I tell you to stop.... Yes."

He hangs up the receiver. For two minutes he paces the room, smoking

rapidly. He stops a moment ... but it is only to remove his cigar-band,

which is in danger of burning. Then he resumes his pacings. Another

minute goes rapidly by. He rushes to the telephone again.

"Hallo! Is that you, Jones?... What are Margarine Prefs. down to now?...

Ah! Then buy. Keep on buying.... Yes."

He hangs up the receiver. By this master-stroke he has made a quarter of

a million. It may seem to you or me an easy way of doing it. Ah, but

what, we must ask ourselves, of the great brain that conceived the idea,

the foresight which told the exact moment when to put it into action,

the cool courage which seized the moment--what of the grasp of affairs,

the knowledge of men? Ah! Can we grudge it him that he earns a quarter

of a million more quickly than we do?

Yet Mr. Felix Mountenay is not happy. When we have brought off a coup

for a hundred thousand even, we smile gaily. Mr. Mountenay did not

smile. Fiercely he bit another inch off his cigar, and muttered to

himself.

The words were "Leo Abraham! Wait!"

. . . . .

This is positively the last row of dots. Let us take advantage of them

to jump forward another month. It was October 1st, 19--. (If that was a

Sunday, then it was October 2nd. Anyhow, it was October.)

Mr. Felix Mountenay was sleeping in his office. For once that iron brain

relaxed. He had made a little over three million in the last month, and

the strain was too much for him. But a knock at the door restored him

instantly to his own cool self.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said his secretary, "but somebody is selling

zinc."

The word "zinc" touched a chord in Mr. Mountenay's brain which had lain

dormant for years. Zinc! Why did zinc remind him of Leo Abraham?

"Fetch the _Encyclopedia Britannica_, quick!" he cried.

The secretary, a man of herculean build, returned with some of it. With

the luck which proverbially attends rich men, Mr. Mountenay picked up

the "Z" volume at once. As he read the Zinc article it all came back to

him. Leo Abraham had owned an empty zinc-mine! Was his enemy in his

clutches at last?

"Buy!" he said briefly.

In a fortnight the secretary had returned.

"Well," said Mr. Mountenay, "have you bought all the zinc there is?"

"Yes, sir," said the secretary. "And a lot that there isn't," he added.

"Good!" He paused a moment. "When Mr. Leo Abraham calls," he added

grimly, "show him up at once."

It was a month later that a haggard man climbed the stairs of No. --

Throgneedle Street, and was shown into Mr. Mountenay's room.

"Well," said the financier softly, "what can I do for you?"

"I want some zinc," said Leo Abergavenny.

"Zinc," said Mr. Mountenay, with a smile, "is a million pounds a ton. Or

an acre, or a gallon, or however you prefer to buy it," he added

humorously.

Leo went white.

"You wish to ruin me?"

"I do. A promise I made to your wife some years ago."

"My wife?" cried Leo. "What do you mean? I'm not married."

It was Mr. Mountenay's turn to go white. He went it.

"Not married? But Miss Sloan----"

Mr. Leo Abergavenny sat down and mopped his face.

"I don't know what you mean," he said. "I asked Miss Sloan to marry me,

and told her I was changing my name to Abergavenny. And she said that

she was changing hers to Moses. Naturally, I thought----"

"Stop!" cried Mr. Mountenay. He sat down heavily. Something seemed to

have gone out of his life; in a moment the world was empty. He looked up

at his old rival, and forced a laugh.

"Well, well," he said; "she deceived us both. Let us drink to our lucky

escape." He rang the bell.

"And then," he said in a purring voice, "we can have a little talk about

zinc. After all, business is still business."

THE DOCTOR

His slippered feet stretched out luxuriously to the fire, Dr. Venables,

of Mudford, lay back in his arm-chair and gave himself up to the

delights of his Flor di Cabajo, No. 2, a box of which had been presented

to him by an apparently grateful patient. It had been a busy day. He had

prescribed more than half a dozen hot milk-puddings and a dozen changes

of air; he had promised a score of times to look in again to-morrow; and

the Widow Nixey had told him yet again, but at greater length than

before, her private opinion of doctors.

Sometimes Gordon Venables wondered whether it was only for this that he

had been the most notable student of his year at St. Bartholomew's. His

brilliance, indeed, had caused something of a sensation in medical

circles, and a remarkable career had been prophesied for him. It was

Venables who had broken up one Suffrage meeting after another by

throwing white mice at the women on the platform; who day after day had

paraded London dressed in the costume of a brown dog, until arrested for

biting an anti-vivisector in the leg. No wonder that all the prizes of

the profession were announced to be within his grasp, and that when he

buried himself in the little country town of Mudford he was thought to

have thrown away recklessly opportunities such as were granted to few.

He had been in Mudford for five years now. An occasional paper in _The

Lancet_ on "The Recurrence of Anthro-philomelitis in Earth-worms" kept

him in touch with modern medical thought, but he could not help feeling

that to some extent his powers were rusting in Mudford. As the years

went on his chance of Harley Street dwindled.

"Come in," he said in answer to a knock at the door.

The housekeeper's head appeared.

"There's been an accident, sir," she gasped. "Gentleman run over!"

He snatched up his stethoscope and, without even waiting to inquire

where the accident was, hurried into the night. Something whispered to

him that his chance had come.

After a quarter of an hour he stopped a small boy.

"Hallo, Johnny," he said breathlessly, "where's the accident?"

The boy looked at him with open mouth for some moments. Then he had an

idea.

"Why, it's Doctor!" he said.

Dr. Venables pushed him over and ran on....

It was in the High Street that the accident had happened. Lord Lair, an

eccentric old gentleman who sometimes walked when he might have driven,

had, while dodging a motor-car, been run into by a child's hoop. He lay

now on the pavement surrounded by a large and interested crowd.

"Look out," shouted somebody from the outskirts; "here comes Doctor."

Dr. Venables pushed his way through to his patient. His long search for

the scene of the accident had exhausted him bodily, but his mind was as

clear as ever.

"Stand back there," he said in an authoritative voice. Then, taking out

his stethoscope, he made a rapid examination of his patient.

"Incised wound in the tibia," he murmured to himself. "Slight abrasion

of the patella and contusion of the left ankle. The injuries are serious

but not necessarily mortal. Who is he?"

The butcher, who had been sitting on the head of the fallen man, got up

and disclosed the features of Lord Lair. Dr. Venables staggered back.

"His lordship!" he cried. "He is a patient of Dr. Scott's! I have

attended the client of another practitioner! Professionally I am

ruined!"

Lord Lair, who was now breathing more easily, opened his eyes.

"Take me home," he groaned.

Dr. Venables' situation was a terrible one. Medical etiquette demanded

his immediate retirement from the case, but the promptings of humanity

and the thought of his client's important position in the world were too

strong for him. Throwing his scruples to the winds, he assisted the aged

peer on to a hastily improvised stretcher and accompanied him to the

Hall.

His lordship once in bed, the doctor examined him again. It was obvious

immediately that there was only one hope of saving the patient's life.

An injection of anthro-philomelitis must be given without loss of time.

Dr. Venables took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. He never

travelled without a small bottle of this serum in his waistcoat

pocket--a serum which, as my readers know, is prepared from the

earth-worm, in whose body (fortunately) large deposits of

anthro-philomelitis are continually found. With help from a footman in

holding down the patient, the injection was made. In less than a year

Lord Lair was restored to health.

. . . . .

Dr. Gordon Venables' case came before the British Medical Council early

in October. The counts in the indictment were two.

The first was that, "on the 17th of June last, Dr. Gordon Venables did

feloniously and with malice aforethought commit the disgusting and

infamous crime of attending professionally the client of another

practitioner."

The second was that "in the course of rendering professional services to

the said client, Dr. Venables did knowingly and wittingly employ the

assistance of one who was not a properly registered medical man, to wit,

Thomas Boiling, footman, thereby showing himself to be a scurvy fellow

of infamous morals."

Dr. Venables decided to apologise. He also decided to send in an account

to Lord Lair for two hundred and fifty guineas. He justified this to

himself mainly on the ground that, according to a letter in that week's

_Lancet_, the supply of anthro-philomelitis in earth-worms was suddenly

giving out, and that it was necessary to recoup himself for the generous

quantity he had injected into Lord Lair. Naturally, also, he felt that

his lordship, as the author of the whole trouble, owed him something.

The Council, in consideration of his apology, dismissed the first count.

On the second count, however, they struck him off the register.

It was a terrible position for a young doctor to be in, but Gordon

Venables faced it like a man. With Lord Lair's fee in his pocket he came

to town and took a house in Harley Street. When he had paid the first

quarter's rent and the first instalment on the hired furniture, he had

fifty pounds left.

Ten pounds he spent on embossed stationery.

Forty pounds he spent on postage-stamps.

For the next three months no journal was complete without a letter from

999 Harley Street, signed "Gordon Venables," in which the iniquity of

his treatment by the British Medical Council was dwelt upon with the

fervour of a man who knew his subject thoroughly; no such letter was

complete without a side-reference to anthro-philomelitis (as found,

happily, in earth-worms) and the anthro-philomelitis treatment (as

recommended by peers). Six months previously the name of Venables had

been utterly unknown to the man in the street. In three months' time it

was better known even than ----'s, the well-known ----.

One-half of London said he was an infamous quack.

The other half of London said he was a martyred genius.

Both halves agreed that, after all, one might as well _try_ this new

what-you-may-call-it treatment, just to see if there was anything _in_

it, don't you know.

It was only last week that Mr. Venables made an excellent speech against

the super-tax.

THE NEWSPAPER PROPRIETOR

The great Hector Strong, lord of journalism and swayer of empires, paced

the floor of his luxurious apartment with bowed head, his corrugated

countenance furrowed with lines of anxiety. He had just returned from a

lunch with all his favourite advertisers ... but it was not this which

troubled him. He was thinking out a new policy for _The Daily Vane_.

Suddenly he remembered something. Coming up to town in his third motor,

he had glanced through the nineteen periodicals which his house had

published that morning, and in one case had noted matter for serious

criticism. This was obviously the first business he must deal with.

He seated himself at his desk and pushed the bell marked "38." Instantly

a footman presented himself with a tray of sandwiches.

"What do you want?" said Strong coldly.

"You rang for me, sir," replied the trembling menial.

"Go away," said Strong. Recognizing magnanimously, however, that the

mistake was his own, he pressed bell "28." In another moment the editor

of _Sloppy Chunks_ was before him.

"In to-day's number," said Strong, as he toyed with a blue pencil, "you

apologize for a mistake in last week's number." He waited sternly.

"It was a very bad mistake, sir, I'm afraid. We did a great injustice

to----"

"You know my rule," said Strong. "The mistake of last week I could have

overlooked. The apology of this week is a more serious matter. You will

ask for a month's salary on your way out." He pressed a button and the

editor disappeared through the trap-door.

Alone again, Hector Strong thought keenly for a moment. Then he pressed

bell "38." Instantly a footman presented himself with a tray of

sandwiches.

"What do you mean by this?" roared Strong, his iron self-control for a

moment giving way.

"I b-beg your pardon, sir," stammered the man. "I th-thought----"

"Get out!" As the footman retired, Strong passed his hand across his

forehead. "My memory is bad to-day," he murmured, and pushed bell "48."

A tall thin man entered.

"Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Brownlow," said the Proprietor. He toyed with

his blue pencil. "Let me see, which of our papers are under your charge

at the moment?"

Mr. Brownlow reflected.

"Just now," he said, "I am editing _Snippety Snips_, _The Whoop_, _The

Girls' Own Aunt_, _Parings_, _Slosh_, _The Sunday Sermon_, and _Back

Chat_."

"Ah! Well, I want you to take on _Sloppy Chunks_ too for a little while.

Mr. Symes has had to leave us."

"Yes, sir." Mr. Brownlow bowed and moved to the door.

"By the way," Strong said, "your last number of _Slosh_ was very good.

Very good indeed. I congratulate you. Good day."

Left alone, Hector Strong, lord of journalism and swayer of empires,

resumed his pacings. His two mistakes with the bell told him that he was

distinctly not himself this afternoon. Was it only the need of a new

policy for _The Vane_ which troubled him? Or was it----

Could it be Lady Dorothy?

Lady Dorothy Neal was something of an enigma to Hector Strong. He was

making more than a million pounds a year, and yet she did not want to

marry him. Sometimes he wondered if the woman were quite sane. Yet, mad

or sane, he loved her.

A secretary knocked and entered. He waited submissively for half an hour

until the Proprietor looked up.

"Well?"

"Lady Dorothy Neal would like to see you for a moment, sir."

"Show her in."

Lady Dorothy came in brightly.

"What nice-looking men you have here," she said. "Who is the one in the

blue waistcoat? He has curly hair."

"You didn't come to talk about _him_?" said Hector reproachfully.

"I didn't come to talk _to_ him really, but if you keep me waiting half

an hour---- Why, what are you doing?"

Strong looked up from the note he was writing. The tender lines had gone

from his face, and he had become the stern man of action again.

"I am giving instructions that the services of my commissionaire,

hall-boy, and fifth secretary will no longer be required."

"Don't do that," pleaded Dorothy.

Strong tore up the note and turned to her. "What do you want of me?" he

asked.

She blushed and looked down. "I--I have written a--a play," she

faltered.

He smiled indulgently. He did not write plays himself, but he knew that

other people did.

"When does it come off?" he asked.

"The manager says it will have to at the end of the week. It came _on_ a

week ago."

"Well," he smiled, "if people don't want to go, I can't make them."

"Yes, you can," she said boldly.

He gave a start. His brain working at lightning speed saw the

possibilities in an instant. At one stroke he could win Lady Dorothy's

gratitude, provide _The Daily Vane_ with a temporary policy, and give a

convincing exhibition of the power of his press.

"Oh, Mr. Strong----"

"Hector," he whispered. As he rose from his desk to go to her, he

accidentally pressed the button of the trap-door. The next moment he was

alone.

. . . . .

"That the British public is always ready to welcome the advent of a

clean and wholesome home-grown play is shown by the startling success of

_Christina's Mistake_, which is attracting such crowds to The King's

every night." So wrote _The Daily Vane_, and continued in the same

strain for a column.

"Clubland is keenly exercised," wrote _The Evening Vane_, "over a

problem of etiquette which arises in the Second Act of _Christina's

Mistake_, the great autumn success at The King's Theatre. The point is

shortly this. Should a woman ..." And so on.

"A pretty little story is going the rounds," said _Slosh_, "anent that

charming little lady, Estelle Rito, who plays the part of a governess in

_Christina's Mistake_, for which ('Manager' Barodo informs me) advance

booking up to Christmas has already been taken. It seems that Miss Rito,

when shopping in the purlieus of Bond Street ..."

_Sloppy Chunks_ had a joke which set all the world laughing. It was

called----

"BETWEEN THE ACTS

_Flossie._ 'Who's the lady in the box with Mr. Johnson?'

_Gussie._ 'Hush! It's his wife!'

And Flossie giggled so much that she could hardly listen to the last

Act of _Christina's Mistake_, which she had been looking forward to

for weeks!"

_The Sunday Sermon_ offered free tickets to a hundred unmarried suburban

girls, to which class _Christina's Mistake_ might be supposed to make a

special religious appeal. But they had to collect coupons first for _The

Sunday Sermon_.

And, finally, _The Times_, of two months later, said:

"A marriage has been arranged between Lady Dorothy Neal, daughter of the

Earl of Skye, and the Hon. Geoffrey Bollinger."

. . . . .

Than a successful revenge nothing is sweeter in life. Hector Strong was

not the man to spare anyone who had done him an injury. Yet I think his

method of revenging himself upon Lady Dorothy savoured of the

diabolical. He printed a photograph of her in _The Daily Picture

Gallery_. It was headed "The Beautiful Lady Dorothy Neal."

THE COLLECTOR

When Peter Plimsoll, the Glue King, died, his parting advice to his sons

to stick to the business was followed only by John, the elder. Adrian,

the younger, had a soul above adhesion. He disposed of his share in the

concern and settled down to follow the life of a gentleman of taste and

culture and (more particularly) patron of the arts. He began in a modest

way to collect ink-pots. His range at first was catholic, and it was not

until he had acquired a hundred and forty-seven ink-pots of various

designs that he decided to make a speciality of historic ones. This

decision was hastened by the discovery that one of Queen Elizabeth's

inkstands--supposed (by the owner) to be the identical one with whose

aid she wrote her last letter to Raleigh--was about to be put on the

market. At some expense Adrian obtained an introduction, through a third

party, to the owner; at more expense the owner obtained, through the

same gentleman, an introduction to Adrian; and in less than a month the

great Elizabeth Ink-pot was safely established in Adrian's house. It was

the beginning of the "Plimsoll Collection."

This was twenty years ago. Let us to-day take a walk through the

galleries of Mr. Adrian Plimsoll's charming residence, which, as the

world knows, overlooks the park. Any friend of mine is always welcome at

Number Fifteen. We will start with the North Gallery; I fear that I

shall only have time to point out a few of the choicest gems.

This is a Pontesiori sword of the thirteenth century--the only example

of the master's art without any notches.

On the left is a Capricci comfit-box. If you have never heard of

Capricci, you oughtn't to come to a house like this.

Here we have before us the historic de Montigny topaz. Ask your little

boy to tell you about it.

In the East Gallery, of course, the chief treasure is the Santo di Santo

amulet, described so minutely in his _Vindiciæ Veritatis_ by John of

Flanders. The original MS. of this book is in the South Gallery. You

must glance at it when we get there. It will save you the trouble of

ordering a copy from your library; they would be sure to keep you

waiting....

With some such words as these I lead my friends round Number Fifteen.

The many treasures in the private parts of the house I may not show, of

course; the bathroom, for instance, in which hangs the finest collection

of portraits of philatelists that Europe can boast. You must spend a

night with Adrian to be admitted to their company; and, as one of the

elect, I can assure you that nothing can be more stimulating on a

winter's morning than to catch the eye of Frisby Dranger, F.Ph.S.,

behind the taps as your head first emerges from the icy waters.

. . . . .

Adrian Plimsoll sat at breakfast, sipping his hot water and crumbling a

dry biscuit. A light was in his eye, a flush upon his pallid

countenance. He had just heard from a trusty agent that the Scutori

breast-plate had been seen in Devonshire. His car was ready to take him

to the station.

But alas! a disappointment awaited him. On close examination the

breast-plate turned out to be a common Risoldo of inferior working.

Adrian left the house in disgust and started on his seven-mile walk

back to the station. To complete his misery a sudden storm came on.

Cursing alternately his agent and Risoldo, he made his way to a cottage

and asked for shelter.

An old woman greeted him civilly and bade him come in.

"If I may just wait till the storm is over," said Adrian, and he sat

down in her parlour and looked appraisingly (as was his habit) round the

room. The grandfather clock in the corner was genuine, but he was beyond

grandfather clocks. There was nothing else of any value: three china

dogs and some odd trinkets on the chimney-piece; a print or two----

Stay! What was that behind the youngest dog?

"May I look at that old bracelet?" he asked, his voice trembling a

little; and without waiting for permission he walked over and took up

the circle of tarnished metal in his hands. As he examined it his colour

came and went, his heart seemed to stop beating. With a tremendous

effort he composed himself and returned to his chair.

_It was the Emperor's Bracelet!_

Of course you know the history of this most famous of all bracelets.

Made by Spurius Quintus of Rome in 47 B.C., it was given by Cæsar to

Cleopatra, who tried without success to dissolve it in vinegar.

Returning to Rome by way of Antony, it was worn at a minor conflagration

by Nero, after which it was lost sight of for many centuries. It was

eventually heard of during the reign of Canute (or Knut, as his admirers

called him); and John is known to have lost it in the Wash, whence it

was recovered a century afterwards. It must have travelled thence to

France, for it was seen once in the possession of Louis XI; and from

there to Spain, for Philip the Handsome presented it to Joanna on her

wedding day. Columbus took it to America, but fortunately brought it

back again; Peter the Great threw it at an indifferent musician; on one

of its later visits to England Pope wrote a couplet to it. And the most

astonishing thing in its whole history was that now for more than a

hundred years it had vanished completely. To turn up again in a little

Devonshire cottage! Verily, truth is stranger than fiction.

"That's rather a curious bracelet of yours," said Adrian casually.

"My--er--wife has one just like it, which she asked me to match. Is it

an old friend, or would you care to sell it?"

"My mother gave it me," said the old woman, "and she had it from hers. I

don't know no further than that. I didn't mean to sell it, but----"

"Quite right," said Adrian, "and, after all, I can easily get another."

"But I won't say a bit of money wouldn't be useful. What would you think

a fair price, sir? Five shillings?"

Adrian's heart jumped. To get the Emperor's bracelet for five shillings!

But the spirit of the collector rose up strong within him. He laughed

kindly.

"My good woman," he said, "they turn out bracelets like that in

Birmingham at two shillings apiece. And quite new. I'll give you

tenpence."

"Make it one-and-sixpence," she pleaded. "Times are hard."

Adrian reflected. He was not, strictly speaking, impoverished. He could

afford one-and-sixpence.

"One-and-tuppence," he said.

"No, no, one-and-sixpence," she repeated obstinately.

Adrian reflected again. After all, he could always sell it for ten

thousand pounds, if the worst came to the worst.

"Well, well," he sighed. "One-and-sixpence let it be."

He counted out the money carefully. Then, putting the precious bracelet

in his pocket, he rose to go.

. . . . .

Adrian has no relations living now. When he dies he proposes to leave

the Plimsoll Collection to the nation, having--as far as he can

foresee--no particular use for it in the next world. This is really very

generous of him, and no doubt, when the time comes, the papers will say

so. But it is a pity that he cannot be appreciated properly in his

lifetime. Personally I should like to see him knighted.

THE ADVENTURER

Lionel Norwood, from his earliest days, had been marked out for a life

of crime. When quite a child he was discovered by his nurse killing

flies on the window-pane. This was before the character of the house-fly

had become a matter of common talk among scientists, and Lionel (like

all great men, a little before his time) had pleaded hygiene in vain. He

was smacked hastily and bundled off to a preparatory school, where his

aptitude for smuggling sweets would have lost him many a half-holiday

had not his services been required at outside-left in the hockey eleven.

With some difficulty he managed to pass into Eton, and three years

later--with, one would imagine, still more difficulty--managed to get

superannuated. At Cambridge he went down-hill rapidly. He would think

nothing of smoking a cigar in academical costume, and on at least one

occasion he drove a dogcart on Sunday. No wonder that he was requested,

early in his second year, to give up his struggle with the Little-go and

betake himself back to London.

London is always glad to welcome such people as Lionel Norwood. In no

other city is it so simple for a man of easy conscience to earn a living

by his wits. If Lionel ever had any scruples (which, after a perusal of

the above account of his early days, it may be permitted one to doubt)

they were removed by an accident to his solicitor, who was run over in

the Argentine on the very day that he arrived there with what was left

of Lionel's money. Reduced suddenly to poverty, Norwood had no choice

but to enter upon a life of crime.

Except, perhaps, that he used slightly less hair-oil than most, he

seemed just the ordinary man about town as he sat in his dressing-gown

one fine summer morning and smoked a cigarette. His rooms were furnished

quietly and in the best of taste. No signs of his nefarious profession

showed themselves to the casual visitor. The appealing letters from the

Princess whom he was blackmailing, the wire apparatus which shot the two

of spades down his sleeve during the coon-can nights at the club, the

thimble and pea with which he had performed the three-card trick so

successfully at Epsom last week--all these were hidden away from the

common gaze. It was a young gentleman of fashion who lounged in his

chair and toyed with a priceless straight-cut.

There was a tap at the door, and Masters, his confidential valet, came

in.

"Well," said Lionel, "have you looked through the post?"

"Yes, sir," said the man. "There's the usual cheque from Her Highness, a

request for more time from the lady in Tite Street with twopence to pay

on the envelope, and banknotes from the Professor as expected. The young

gentleman of Hill Street has gone abroad suddenly, sir."

"Ah!" said Lionel, with a sudden frown. "I suppose you'd better cross

him off our list, Masters."

"Yes, sir. I had ventured to do so, sir. I think that's all, except that

Mr. Snooks is glad to accept your kind invitation to dinner and bridge

to-night. Will you wear the hair-spring coat, sir, or the metal clip?"

Lionel made no answer. He sat plunged in thought. When he spoke it was

about another matter.

"Masters," he said, "I have found out Lord Fairlie's secret at last. I

shall go to see him this afternoon."

"Yes, sir. Will you wear your revolver, sir, as it's a first call?"

"I think so. If this comes off, Masters, it will make our fortune."

"I hope so, I'm sure, sir." Masters placed the whisky within reach and

left the room silently.

Alone, Lionel picked up his paper and turned to the Agony Column.

As everybody knows, the Agony Column of a daily paper is not actually so

domestic as it seems. When "Mother" apparently says to "Floss," "Come

home at once. Father gone away for week. Bert and Sid longing to see

you," what is really happening is that Barney Hoker is telling Jud

Batson to meet him outside the Duke of Westminster's little place at 3

a.m. precisely on Tuesday morning, not forgetting to bring his jemmy and

a dark lantern with him. And Floss's announcement next day, "Coming home

with George," is Jud's way of saying that he will turn up all right, and

half thinks of bringing his automatic pistol with him too, in case of

accidents.

In this language--which, of course, takes some little learning--Lionel

Norwood had long been an expert. The advertisement which he was now

reading was unusually elaborate:

"Lost, in a taxi between Baker Street and Shepherd's Bush, a

gold-mounted umbrella with initials 'J. P.' on it. If Ellen will

return to her father immediately all will be forgiven. White spot on

foreleg. Mother very anxious and desires to return thanks for kind

enquiries. Answers to the name of Ponto. _Bis dat qui cito dat._"

What did it mean? For Lionel it had no secrets. He was reading the

revelation by one of his agents of the skeleton in Lord Fairlie's

cupboard!

Lord Fairlie was one of the most distinguished members of the Cabinet.

His vein of high seriousness, his lofty demeanour, the sincerity of his

manner endeared him not only to his own party, but even (astounding as

it may seem) to a few high-minded men upon the other side, who admitted,

in moments of expansion which they probably regretted afterwards, that

he might, after all, be as devoted to his country as they were. For

years now his life had been without blemish. It was impossible to

believe that even in his youth he could have sown any wild oats;

terrible to think that these wild oats might now be coming home to

roost.

"What do you require of me?" he said courteously to Lionel, as the

latter was shown into his study.

Lionel went to the point at once.

"I am here, my lord," he said, "on business. In the course of my

ordinary avocations"--the parliamentary atmosphere seemed to be

affecting his language--"I ascertained a certain secret in your past

life which, if it were revealed, might conceivably have a not undamaging

effect upon your career. For my silence in this matter I must demand a

sum of fifty thousand pounds."

Lord Fairlie had grown paler and paler as this speech proceeded.

"What have you discovered?" he whispered. Alas! he knew only too well

what the damning answer would be.

"_Twenty years ago_," said Lionel, "_you wrote a humorous book_."

Lord Fairlie gave a strangled cry. His keen mind recognized in a flash

what a hold this knowledge would give his enemies. _Shafts of Folly_,

his book had been called. Already he saw the leading articles of the

future:--

"We confess ourselves somewhat at a loss to know whether Lord

Fairlie's speech at Plymouth yesterday was intended as a supplement

to his earlier work, _Shafts of Folly_, or as a serious offering to

a nation impatient of levity in such a crisis...."

"The Cabinet's jester, in whom twenty years ago the country lost an

excellent clown without gaining a statesman, was in great form last

night...."

"Lord Fairlie has amused us in the past with his clever little

parodies; he may amuse us in the future; but as a statesman we can

only view him with disgust...."

"Well?" said Lionel at last. "I think your lordship is wise enough to

understand. The discovery of a sense of humour in a man of your

eminence----"

But Lord Fairlie was already writing out the cheque.

THE EXPLORER

As the evening wore on--and one young man after another asked Jocelyn

Montrevor if she were going to Ascot, what? or to Henley, what? or

what?--she wondered more and more if this were all that life would ever

hold for her. Would she never meet a man, a real man who had _done_

something? These boys around her were very pleasant, she admitted to

herself; very useful indeed, she added, as one approached her with some

refreshment; but they were only boys.

"Here you are," said Freddy, handing her an ice in three colours. "I've

had it made specially cold for you. They only had the green, pink, and

yellow jerseys left; I hope you don't mind. The green part is arsenic, I

believe. If you don't want the wafer I'll take it home and put it

between the sashes of my bedroom window. The rattling kept me awake all

last night. That's why I'm looking so ill, by the way."

Jocelyn smiled kindly and went on with her ice.

"That reminds me," Freddy went on, "we've got a nut here to-night. The

genuine thing. None of your society Barcelonas or suburban Filberts. One

of the real Cob family; the driving-from-the-sixth-tee,

inset-on-the-right, and New-Year's-message-to-the-country touch. In

short, a celebrity."

"Who?" asked Jocelyn eagerly. Perhaps here was a man.

"Worrall Brice, the explorer. Don't say you haven't heard of him or Aunt

Alice will cry."

Heard of him? Of course she had heard of him. Who hadn't?

Worrall Brice's adventures in distant parts of the empire would have

filled a book--had, in fact, already filled three. A glance at his flat

in St. James's Street gave you some idea of the adventures he had been

through. Here were the polished spurs of his companion in the famous

ride through Australia from south to north--all that had been left by

the cannibals of the Wogga-Wogga River after their banquet. Here was the

poisoned arrow which, by the merciful intervention of Providence, just

missed Worrall and pierced the heart of one of his black attendants, the

post-mortem happily revealing the presence of a new and interesting

poison. Here, again, was the rope with which he was hanged by mistake as

a spy in South America--a mistake which would certainly have had fatal

results if he had not had the presence of mind to hold his breath during

the performance. In yet another corner you might see his favourite

mascot--a tooth of the shark which bit him off the coast of China.

Spears, knives, and guns lined the walls; every inch of the floor was

covered by skins. His flat was typical of the man--a man who had _done_

things.

"Introduce him to me," commanded Jocelyn. "Where is he?"

She looked up suddenly and saw him entering the ball-room. He was of

commanding height and his face was the face of a man who has been

exposed to the forces of Nature. The wind, the waves, the sun, the

mosquito had set their mark upon him. Down one side of his cheek was a

newly healed scar, a scratch from a hippopotamus in its last

death-struggle. A legacy from a bison seared his brow.

He walked with the soft easy tread of the python, or the Pathan, or some

animal with a "pth" in it. Probably I mean the panther. He bore himself

confidently, and his mouth was a trap from which no superfluous word

escaped. He was the strong silent man of Jocelyn's dreams.

"Mr. Worrall Brice, Miss Montrevor," said Freddy, and left them.

Worrall Brice bowed and stood beside her with folded arms, his gaze

fixed above her head.

"I shall not expect you to dance," said Jocelyn, with a confidential

smile which implied that he and she were above such frivolities. As a

matter of fact, he could have taught her the Wogga-Wogga one-step, the

Bimbo, the Kiyi, the Ju-bu, the Head-hunter's Hug, and many other

cannibalistic steps which, later on, were to become the rage of London

and the basis of a _revue_.

"I have often imagined you, as you kept watch over your camp," she went

on, "and I have seemed myself to hear the savages and lions roaring

outside the circle of fire, what time in the swamps the crocodiles were

barking."

"Yes," he said.

"It must be a wonderful life."

"Yes."

"If I were a man I should want to lead such a life; to get away from all

this," and she waved her hand round the room, "back to Nature. To know

that I could not eat until I had first killed my dinner; that I could

not live unless I slew the enemy! That must be fine!"

"Yes," said Worrall.

"I cannot get Freddy to see it. He is quite content to have shot a few

grouse ... and once to have wounded a beater. There must be more in life

than that."

"Yes."

"I suppose I am elemental. Beneath the veneer of civilization I am a

savage. To wake up with the war-cry of the enemy in my ears, to sleep

with the--er--barking of the crocodile in my dreams, that is life!"

Worrall Brice tugged at his moustache and gazed into space over her

head. Then he spoke.

"Crocodiles don't bark," he said.

Jocelyn looked at him in astonishment. "But in your book, _Through

Trackless Paths_!" she cried. "I know it almost by heart. It was you who

taught me. What are the beautiful words? 'On the banks of the sleepy

river two great crocodiles were barking.'"

"Not 'barking,'" said Worrall. "'Basking.' It was a misprint."

"Oh!" said Jocelyn. She had a moment's awful memory of all the occasions

when she had insisted that crocodiles barked. There had been a

particularly fierce argument with Meta Richards, who had refused to

weigh even the printed word of Worrall Brice against the silence of the

Reptile House on her last visit to the Zoo.

"Well," smiled Jocelyn, "you must teach me about these things. Will you

come and see me?"

"Yes," said Worrall. He rather liked to stand and gaze into the distance

while pretty women talked to him. And Jocelyn was very pretty.

"We live in South Kensington. Come on Sunday, won't you? 99 Peele

Crescent."

"Yes," said Worrall.

. . . . .

On Sunday Jocelyn waited eagerly for him in the drawing-room of Peele

Crescent. Her father was asleep in the library, her mother was dead; so

she would have the great man to herself for an afternoon. Later she

would have him for always, for she meant to marry him. And when they

were married she was not so sure that they would live with the noise of

the crocodile barking or coughing, or whatever it did, in their ears.

She saw herself in that little house in Green Street with the noise of

motor-horns and taxi-whistles to soothe her to sleep.

Yet what a man he was! What had he said to her? She went over all his

words.... They were not many.

At six o'clock she was still waiting in the drawing-room at Peele

Crescent....

At six-thirty Worrall Brice had got as far as Peele Place....

At six-forty-five he found himself in Radcliffe Square again....

At seven o'clock, just as he was giving himself up for lost, he met a

taxi and returned to St. James's Street. He was a great traveller, but

South Kensington had been too much for him.

Next week he went back unmarried to the jungle. It was the narrowest

escape he had had.

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