"Can't say I notice much family likeness, old man." Peckover had been
enjoying the novelty of a contemplative cigarette in the ancestral
picture gallery of the Quorns, and was there surprised by Gage who had
stood for a while silently comparing the portraits of dead and gone
Quorns, in all stages of costume and self-consciousness, with the
cheap, up-to-date cockney swell who sprawled in a great chair of state
before them. "I guess they didn't pick you out in Australia by the
family mug."
Peckover gave a short awkward laugh. "I should hope not," he replied,
recovering his mental balance. "If I thought I was anything like that
tuppence-coloured Johnnie I'd go and hang myself." He pointed to a
depressing portrait labelled, "Everard, fourth Baron Quorn." "Good old
Everard," he went on. "I've no use for a nose like that, nor for the
dial of that old juggins in the Dutch oven--what's his name?
Marmaduke. He'd only have to take the top off the pepper-castor to
give the enemy a shock. Useful face that to fall back on, and it looks
as though some one had been falling back on it." And he flicked the
ash off his cigarette scornfully at the doughty warrior.
"We don't run to beauty, do we?" Gage remarked. "At least we didn't
till quite recently," he corrected politely.
"Fact is," said Peckover, "the old crowd were an over-rated lot.
Making allowances for bad workmanship on the painters' side, we should
have no use for them except on the Fifth of November. They are fair
frauds. What do you think of a man who wears a steel lounge suit like
that?" He flung the end of his cigarette, having lighted a fresh one,
at the nearest suit of armour.
"Well, it covered up his deficiencies," observed Gage.
"Yes," said Peckover, "it's about as clever as wrapping a twopenny
smoke in silver-foil."
Gage gave a look round the gallery as though to see that they were
alone, and then sat down beside his friend. "Tell you what it is, old
man," he said seriously; "to change the subject, we must do something
to make things hum a bit more for me. I became my lord to get some fun
out of it, but as things are, it strikes me that I've got the empty
title, and you're having all the fun."
"What do you mean?"
"Why," Gage proceeded, "what's my position here? I'm Lord Quorn with a
million of money; but because Lord Q. is known to have next to nothing
a year, nobody looks at me. You're supposed to be the millionaire and
every one runs after you."
"Is that my fault?" Peckover asked pertinently.
"I don't say it is," Gage returned. "It suited our purpose to fix it
so. But it don't work. There must be a change. I don't pay five
thousand a year to stand out in the cold on the bleak eminence of an
impoverished peerage, looking on and seeing every girl in the place
tumbling into your arms."
"One can have too much of that sort of tumbling," Peckover remarked
sententiously. "And----"
"Well, I'd like a little of it," snapped Gage, "and I'm going to have
it."
"That's reasonable," Peckover agreed. "What do you propose?"
"Well," answered Gage, "I've thought it out, and it's simple enough.
I've got to find an excuse for spending my money, or, rather for having
money to spend. I've a plan. I'm going to save your life."
"What?" Peckover jumped a foot away and turned a suspicious and
alarmed face on his companion. "What--what do you mean?"
"Just what I say," the other replied quietly. "I've got to save your
life----"
"What from?" Peckover inquired apprehensively.
"Drowning, for choice," was the cool answer. "Then in common gratitude
you will make over to me a sum sufficient to give me a handsome income.
See?"
Peckover looked immeasurably relieved. "I see that much," he replied.
"But how are you going to save me from drowning?"
"Well, that presents no difficulty. We are going fishing on the lake,
and you are going to over-balance yourself in your excitement and slip
overboard."
"Oh, am I?" Peckover looked uneasily doubtful. "I don't see where the
excitement about fishing comes in."
"That's a detail."
"Then I can't swim," Peckover objected.
"All the more reason for my jumping in to save you."
"But supposing you don't save me?"
"I'm bound to save you. If I'm not going to rescue you, there is no
point in your getting wet."
"If you are not going to rescue me there's no point in my getting
drowned," Peckover returned, with misgiving.
"I shall work it all right," Gage assured him. "Never let go of you.
You're too precious."
"I don't know. It would be worth five thousand a year to you to let me
dive to the bottom and stay there."
"I'm neither a fool nor a murderer," Gage declared.
"Not much catch in taking a cold bath with your clothes on," Peckover
remarked, with an uneasy shiver. "However, I suppose I must do it."
"Yes," said Gage, "after all it's the most feasible form of
life-saving, combining as it does the minimum of risk with the maximum
of effectiveness."
So it was arranged, and the next afternoon the confederates, dressed
for the occasion in their oldest clothes, went fishing on the lake.
Peckover, whilst ostensibly instituting inquiries as to the best pools
for sport, had cunningly obtained information as to the depth of the
water at various spots, and it was at one of the shallowest that he
insisted on having the punt moored.
"What's the good of my pretending to save your precious life in four
foot six of water," Gage expostulated in a disgusted tone, as he
pointed to the watermark on the punt pole. "We shall be taken for
blithering idiots."
"That won't matter," returned Peckover stolidly. "It's better than
being blithering idiots, and dead ones at that."
"We shall give the show away."
"Better than giving a peerage and a million away," Peckover retorted.
"Life's too comfortable just now for us to run any risks. Besides
who's going to remember how shallow the water is; and it stands to
reason that if we could keep our breathing apparatus above water by
just standing up, we shouldn't be such fools as to want any swimming
and life-saving."
So Gage had to submit, which he did with a better grace when he
reflected that there might, after all, be some risk in saving a
panic-stricken lover of life in really deep water.
The two fishermen made a great fuss over their sport, angling as
probably no one in this world had ever angled before, and in a manner
calculated not to take in the most unsophisticated fish that ever swam.
What their proceedings, however, lacked in method, they made up in
exuberance; never before had two such showy fishermen sat in a punt.
Naturally their intention was to emphasize, generally, their existence,
more particularly their presence in the punt on the lake, and
incidentally their designs upon the fish. To their satisfaction they
saw that they were not without observers. The farmer, to whom the
grazing of the park was let, had luckily put in an appearance to
inspect his sheep, accompanied by a semi-sporting person who might,
however, have been, and indeed was, a butcher from Bunbury in quest of
raw material. Presently two women came in sight, crossing the park by
a right of way which skirted the lake.
The moment was propitious.
"Old man," said Gage, "this is grand. We're in luck for an audience.
Now, over you topple; only, do it artistically, or you will have your
dip for nothing."
Peckover threw a distasteful glance at the weed-grown water, and then
his eye roved from the haggling fanner and butcher to the chattering
pair of villagers. "Almost too much of an audience," he objected, with
a view to postponing his immersion as long as possible.
"Rats! Can't be too many for our purpose," Gage returned impatiently.
"We've got to make a business of it, if it's to do any good. Over you
go. The water won't be any damper for you than it will be for me."
"You can swim," observed Peckover with something suspiciously like a
chattering of the teeth.
"What odds does that make in four foot six of water?"
"Beastly weedy hole," remarked the unwilling adventurer.
"All the better. Makes it look more dangerous, and keeps people from
seeing how shallow it is."
"I believe," said Peckover, with an admirable air of conviction, "there
is an out-sized pike under those weeds. I just saw his scales glisten."
"Then you'll astonish him, that's all," was the unsympathetic reply.
"Any one would think it was a crocodile or a shark by the funk you're
in. Now, are you going over? Not knowing the treat that's in store
for them these people aren't likely to wait all day. They'll be past
directly. Stand up and swing your line out." Nerving himself to the
disagreeable task, Peckover stood up, and began swinging the rod round
his head.
"That'll do," said Gage, with a show of directing his attention
elsewhere. "Now, over! That'll do with the rod. They'll think you
mad. Over, you fool!"
Thus adjured, Peckover took the plunge, if plunge it can be called.
Dropping the whirling rod on the placid surface of the lake, he
suddenly stooped, nervously clutched the gunwale of the punt and,
assisted surreptitiously in the manoeuvre by Gage's left foot, tamely
rolled over the side. His despairing shout, which had been agreed
upon, was smothered by the shock of the cold water and the utterer's
general preoccupation. It therefore remained for Gage to do the
shouting, which duty he performed with a vigour out of proportion to
the apparent exigences of the case.