Two years passed, and never a syllable could I learn of
BRIGGS. Then I met TROTTER of Trinity at Piccadilly
Circus. "By the way," said he, "I suppose you have heard about poor
old BRIGGS?" "No!" I cried. "What of him?" "Oh, I thought you
would be sure to know, or I would have broken it to you more gently."
"Why?" I asked, with apprehension. "Has anything happened to him?"
"Well," he replied, with some hesitation, "I--er--I hardly like to tell
you. You were such a friend of his." "You don't mean to say that he
is----?" "Dead? No, poor fellow, not dead exactly, but worse than that,
I fear. He has become a New Man, you see." I looked at TROTTER
in bewilderment. "Why, you see, he is married--yes, he married the
O'GRESS, you know. Poor BRIGGS! I saw him yesterday,
and, upon my word, I should scarcely have known him. But go and see him
yourself; you will never believe my story."
TROTTER wrote me the address on a card, and the next day
I called. The maid looked somewhat surprised when I asked for Mr.
BRIGGS. He was at home, oh, yes, he was at home, but she
didn't know whether he could see me or not, as he was feeding the
baby. This announcement rather staggered me, but I pulled myself
together sufficiently to assure her that I was an old friend of Mr.
BRIGGS; and, on learning this, she asked me to walk upstairs.
"This is the nursery," she said, when we had reached the topmost
storey. "You will find Mr. BRIGGS inside."
I opened the door, and what a scene greeted me! There was
BRIGGS, my old friend BRIGGS, the gallant
BRIGGS of Balliol, rocking ceaselessly to and fro the while
he crooned in a low monotone to a bundle of pins and flannel that
lay cradled in his arms. I sprang forward to grip him by the hand.
He laid his finger on his lips, and in an agonised whisper murmured,
"Sh!--You'll wake the baby!" I controlled myself, and sank into a
chair, to which he motioned me. BRIGGS hushed the infant
anxiously for a minute or two until it was well asleep; then he turned
to me, and with a sickly smile whispered, "I'm glad to see you,
ROBINSON, but please talk very gently, for fear of waking the
Cutsababoo."
It grieved me to hear poor BRIGGS talk in this fashion, but
there were a thousand questions I was burning to ask him.
"Oh, BRIGGS, why did you leave Balliol so suddenly?" "Sh!"
he answered, looking nervously round him. "_She_ took me away." "And
why did you never write to anyone?" "Sh! _She_ forbade me." "Forbade
you?" "Yes, yes, indeed. Oh, ROBINSON, you do not know my
wife!" I was inwardly thanking my stars that I had not this honour when
BRIGGS, overcome with his emotion, suddenly flung up his arms
and covered his face with his hands. The action upset the equilibrium
of the baby, which rolled off his lap, fell on the floor, and awoke
with a scream. With a cry of dismay BRIGGS caught up the
bundle, and tossed it violently up and down, addressing it the while in
such intelligible terms as these--"And did it wake its darling ducky
Cutsababoo, it did! It was a naughty cruel Dada, it was!"
It would be hard to say which made the greater noise, BRIGGS
or the baby; but BRIGGS had the staying power, and after
a fight the baby gave it up. BRIGGS gazed at it as it lay
exhausted in his arms, then turning to me, he said, "I think the
Cutsababoo has done crying now, ROBINSON. Will you excuse me
if I sing him to by-byes?" In olden days BRIGGS had a glorious
baritone voice, and to hear him sing the Balliol Boating Song was a
musical treat. I therefore readily agreed to stay and listen. "The
Duckydoo is very particular," explained BRIGGS. "He will only
go to sleep to his own ickle tune, _The New Lullaby_."
"Mummy has gone to the city,
Cutsaba--Cutsababoo!
But Mummy will think of her Pretty,
And buy him a little toy too.
Daddy will dandle the Darling,
And show him his beautiful toy.
Hushaby, Pet! Baby, don't fret!
Sleepery, Peepery Boy!
"Mummy is making the money,
Cutsaba--Cutsababoo!
To buy a new bonnet for sonny,
A jacket for Daddykins too.
Daddy will dandle the Darling,
And show him his beautiful toy.
Hushaby, Pet! Baby, don't fret!
Sleepery, Peepery Boy!"
BRIGGS had just reached the end of the second verse when his
keenly sensitive ear caught the sound of a latchkey turning in the
door. A look of terror crossed his face. "It's _she!_ It's _she!_" he
cried. "Oh, ROBINSON, if she finds you here! Oh, if you love
me, fly!" I needed no second bidding. With a hasty grip of the hand I
bade my friend farewell, and this is the last that has been seen of
BRIGGS of Balliol.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE MODERN MAID OF ATHENS.
_John Bull_ (_hesitatingly_). "MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE
'PART'----"
_Maid of Athens_ (_interrupting_). "THINK WHAT YOU OWE TO ATTIC
ART?."
[ the invitation of H.R.H. the Prince of WALES, a large
meeting of these interested in the British School of Art at Athens was
held on July 9 in St. James's Palace. The Prince of WALES
said: "I sincerely hope we may soon hear that the School has been
placed in an assured position for ever."--_Times Report._]]
* * * * *