Selected Short Stories by P. G. Wodehouse — Free Audiobook

1 01 - The Man Upstairs 32:01

The Man Upstairs and Other Stories by P. G. Woodhouse. Chapter One. The Man Upstairs. There were three distinct stages in the evolution of Annette Brougham's attitude towards the knocking in the room above. In the beginning it had been merely a vague discomfort. Absorbed in the composition of her waltz, she had heard it almost subconsciously. The second stage set in when it became a physical pain like red-hot pincers wrenching her mind from her music. Finally, with a thrill in indignation, she knew it for what it was an insult. The unseen brute disliked her playing and was intimating his views with a boot-heel. Defiantly, with her foot on the loud pedal, she struck, almost slapped, the keys once more.

Bang! from the room above. Bang! Bang! Annette rose. Her face was pink, her chin tilted, her eyes sparkled with the light of battle. She left the room and started to mount the stairs. No spectator, however just, could have helped feeling a pang of pity for the wretched man who stood unconscious of imminent doom, possibly even triumphant, behind the door at which she was on the point of tapping. "'Come in,' cried the voice, rather a pleasant voice. But what is a pleasant voice if the soul be vile?' Annette went in. The room was a typical Chelsea studio, scantily furnished and lacking a carpet. In the centre was an easel, behind which were visible a pair of trousered legs. A cloud of grey smoke was curling up over the top of the easel.

"'I beg your pardon,' began Annette. "'I don't want any models at present,' said the brute. "'Leave your card on the table.' "'I am not a model,' said Annette coldly. "'I merely came.' At this the brute emerged from his fortifications, and, removing his pipe from his mouth, jerked his chair out into the open. I beg your pardon, he said. Won't you sit down? How reckless is nature in the distribution of her gifts! Not only had this black-hearted knocker on floors a pleasant voice, but in addition a pleasant exterior. He was slightly dishevelled at the moment, and his hair stood up in a disordered mop, but in spite of these drawbacks he was quite passively good-looking. Annette admitted this. Though wrathful, she was fair.

I thought it was another model, he exclaimed. They have been coming in at the rate of ten an hour ever since I settled here. I did not object at first, but after about the eightieth child of sunny Italy had shown up, it began to get on my nerves. Annette waited coldly till he had finished. I am sorry, she said in a this is where you get yours voice. If my playing disturbed you... One would have thought nobody but an Eskimo wearing his furs in winter underclothing could have withstood the iciness of her manner, but the brute did not freeze. "'I am sorry,' repeated Annette well below zero, "'if my playing disturb you. I live in the room below, and I heard you knocking.' "'No, no,' protested the young man affably.

"'I like it. I really do.' "'Then why knock on the floor?' said Annette, turning to go. It is so bad for my ceiling, she said overshoulder. I thought you would not mind my mentioning it. Good afternoon. No, but one moment. Don't go. She stopped. He was surveying her with a friendly smile. She noticed most reluctantly that he had a nice smile. His composure began to enrage her more and more. Long ere this he should have been writhing at her feet in the dust, crushed and abject. You see, he said, I'm awfully sorry, but it's like this. I love music, but what I mean is you weren't playing a tune. It was just the same bit over and over again.

I was trying to get a phrase, said Annette, with dignity, but less coldly. In spite of herself, she was beginning to thaw. There was something singularly attractive about the shock-haired youth. A phrase? Of music, for my waltz. I am composing a waltz. A look of such unqualified admiration overspread the young man's face that the last remnants of the ice-pack melted. For the first time since they had met, Annette found herself positively liking this blackguardly floor smiter. "'Can you compose music?' he said, impressed. "'Yes, I've written one or two songs. It must be great to be able to do artistic things, like composing.' Well, you do, don't you? You paint. The young man shook his head with a cheerful grin.

I fancy, he said, I should make a pretty good house painter. I want scope. Canvas seems to cramp me. It seemed to cause him no discomfort. He appeared rather amused than otherwise. Let me look, she crossed over to the easel. I shouldn't, he warned her. You really want to? Is this not mere recklessness? Very well, then.

To the eye of the experienced critic, the picture would certainly have seemed crude. It was a study of a dark-eyed child holding a large black cat. Statisticians estimate that there is no moment during the day when one or more young artists somewhere on the face of the globe are not painting pictures of children holding cats. "'I call it Child and Cat,' said the young man. "'Rather a neat title, don't you think?' Gives you the main idea of the thing right away. That, he explained, pointing obligingly with the stem of his pipe, is the cat. Annette belonged to that large section of the public which likes or dislikes a picture, according to whether its subject happens to please or displease them.

Probably there was not one of the million or so child and cat eyesores at present in existence which she would not have liked. Besides, he had been very nice about her music. "'I think it's splendid,' she announced. The young man's face displayed almost more surprise than joy. "'Do you really?' he said. "'Then I can die happy. That is, if you will let me come down and listen to those songs of yours first.' "'You would only knock on the floor,' objected Annette. "'I'll never knock on another floor as long as I live,' said the ex-brute reassuringly. "'I hate knocking on floors. I don't see what people want to knock on floors for anyway. Friendships ripen quickly in Chelsea.' Within the space of an hour and a quarter, Annette had learned that the young man's name was Alan Beverley, for which family heraldic affliction she pitied rather than despised him, that he did not depend entirely on his work for a living, having a little money of his own, and that he considered this a fortunate thing.

From the very beginning of that talk, he pleased her. She found him an absolutely new and original variety of the unsuccessful painter. Unlike Reginald Sellers, who had a studio in the same building, and sometimes dropped in to drink her coffee and pour out his troubles. He did not attribute his non-success to any malice or stupidity on the part of the public. She was so used to hearing Sellers lash the Philistine and hold forth on unappreciated merit that she could hardly believe the miracle when, in answer to a sympathetic bromide on the popular lack of taste in art, Beverly replied that, as far as he was concerned, the public showed strong good sense. If he had been striving with every nerve to win her esteem, he could not have done it more surely than with that one remark.

Though she invariably listened with a sweet patience which encouraged them to continue long after the point at which she had begun, in spirit, to throw things at them, Annette had no sympathy with men who whined. She herself was a fighter. She hated as much as anyone the sickening blows which fate hands out to the struggling and ambitious, but she never made them the basis of a monologue act. Often after a dreary trip round the offices of music publishers she would howl bitterly in secret and even gnaw her pillow in the watches of the night, but in public her pride kept her unvaryingly bright and cheerful. Today, for the first time, she revealed something of her woes. There was that about the mop-headed young man which invited confidences.

She told him of the stony-heartedness of music publishers, of the difficulty of getting songs printed unless you paid for them, of their wretched sales. "'But those songs you have been playing,' said Beverly, "'they have been published.' "'Yes, those three, but they are the only ones.' "'And didn't they sell?' "'Hardly at all. You see, a song doesn't sell unless somebody well known sings it, and people promise to sing them and then don't keep their word. You can't depend on what they say.' "'Give me their names,' said Beverly, "'and I'll go round to-morrow and shoot the whole lot.' But can't you do anything? Only keep on keeping on. I wish, she said, that any time you're feeling blue about things you would come up and pour out the poison on me.

It's no good bottling it up. Come up and tell me about it, and you'll feel ever so much better. Or let me come down. Any time things aren't going right, just knock on the ceiling, she laughed. Don't rub it in, pleading Beverly. It isn't fair. There's nobody so sensitive as a reformed floor-knocker. You'll come up or let me come down, won't you? Whenever I have that sad, depressed feeling, I go out and kill a policeman. But you wouldn't care for that. So the only thing for you to do is to knock on the ceiling. Then I'll come charging down and see if there's anything I can do to help. You'll be sorry you ever said this. I won't, he said stoutly. If you really mean it, it would be a relief, she admitted.

Sometimes I'd give all the money I'm ever likely to make for someone to shriek my grievances at. I always think it must have been so nice for the people in the old novels when they used to say, "'Sit down, and I will tell you the story of my life.' Mustn't it have been heavenly?" "'Well,' said Beverly, rising, "'you know where I am if I am wanted, right up there where the knocking came from.'" "'Knocking, knocking,' said Annette. "'I remember no knocking.'" "'Would you mind shaking hands?' said Beverly. A particularly maddening hour with one of her pupils drove her up the very next day. Her pupils were at once her salvation and her despair. They gave her the means of supporting life, but they made life hardly worth supporting.

Some of them were learning the piano, others thought they sang. All had solid ivory skulls. There was about a teaspoonful of gray matter distributed among the entire squad, and the pupil Annette had been teaching that afternoon had come in at the tail end of the division. In the studio, with Beverly, she found Reginald Sellers, standing in a critical attitude before the easel. She was not very fond of Sellers. He was a long, offensive, patronizing person, with a mustache that looked like a smear of charcoal, and a habit of addressing her as, "'Ah, little one!' Beverly looked up. "'Have you brought your hatchet, Miss Broughan? If you have, you are just in time to join in the massacre of the innocent.

Sellers has been smiting my child and cat, hip and thigh. Look at his eye. There! Did you see it flashed, then? He's on the warpath again. "'My dear, Beverly,' said Sellers rather stiffly, "'I am merely endeavouring to give you my idea of the picture's defect. I am sorry if my criticism has to be a little harsh. Go right on, Beverly cordially said. Don't mind me. It's all for my good. Well, in a word, then, it's lifeless. Neither the child nor the cat lives.' He sat back a pace and made a frame of his hands. "'The cat, now,' he said, "'it is—how shall I put it—it has no—no—' that kind of cat wouldn't,' said Beverly. "'It isn't that breed.'" "'I think it's a dear cat,' said Annette. She felt her temper always quick getting the better of her.

She knew just how incompetent Sellers was, and it irritated her beyond endurance to see Beverly's good-humoured acceptance of his patronage. At any rate, said Beverly, with a grin, you both seem to recognize that it is a cat. You're solid on that point, and that's something, seeing I'm only a beginner. "'I know, my dear fellow, I know,' said Sellers graciously. "'You mustn't let my criticism discourage you. Don't think that your work lacks promise. Far from it. I'm sure that in time you'll do very well, indeed, quite well.' A cold glitter might have been observed in Annette's eyes. "'Mr. Sellers,' she said smoothly, Had to work very hard himself before he reached his present position. You know his work, of course.

For the first time Beverly seemed somewhat confused. I, er, why, he began. But of course you do. It's in all the magazines. Beverly looked at the great man with admiration and saw that he had flushed uncomfortably. He put this down to the modesty of genius. In the advertising pages, said Annette, Mr. Sellers drew that picture of the Wauquishy shoe and the rest of the wild settee. And the tin of sardines in the Little Jem sardine advertisement. He's very good at still life. There was a tense silence. Beverly could almost hear the voice of the referee uttering the count. Miss Broughn, said Sellers at last, spitting out the words, has confined herself to the purely commercial side of my work. There is another.

Why, of course there is. You sold a landscape for five pounds only eight months ago, didn't you? And another three months before that. It was enough. Sellers bowed stiffly and stalked from the room. Beverly picked up a duster and began slowly to sweep the floor with it. "'What are you doing?' demanded Annette in a choking voice. "'The fragments of the wretched man,' whispered Beverly. "'They must be swept up and decently interred. "'You certainly have got the punch, Miss Brougham.' He dropped the duster with a startled exclamation, for Annette had suddenly burst into a flood of tears. With her face buried in her hands, she sat in her chair and sobbed desperately. "'Good Lord!' said Beverly. "'I'm a cat.

I'm a beast. I hate myself.' "'Good Lord!' said Beverly. "'I'm a pig. I'm a fiend.' "'Good Lord!' said Beverly. "'We're all struggling and trying to get on and having hard luck, and instead of doing what I can to help, I go and taunt taunt him with that big heaven to sell his pictures. I'm not fit to live.' "'Good Lord!' said Beverly blankly. A series of gulping sobs followed, diminishing by degrees into silence. Presently she looked up and smiled, a moist and pathetic smile. "'I'm sorry,' she said, for being so stupid, "'but he is so horrid and patronising to you. I couldn't help scratching. I believe I'm the worst cat in London.' "'No, this is,' said Beverly, pointing to the canvas, "'at least according to the late sellers.' But I say, tell me, isn't the deceased a great artist, then?

He came coveting in here with his chest out and started to slate my masterpiece, so I naturally said, "'What ho! Tis a genius! Isn't he?' He can't sell his pictures anywhere. He lives on the little he can get from illustrating advertisements, and I tart to tart—please," said Beverly apprehensively. She recovered herself with a gulp. "'I can't help it,' she said miserably. "'I rubbed it in.' It was hateful of me, but I was all on edge from teaching one of my awful pupils, and when he started to patronise you," she blinked. "'Poor devil,' said Beverly. "'I never guessed. Good Lord!' I must go and tell him. I am sorry," she said. "'He'll stub me horribly, but I must.' She went out. Beverly lit a pipe and stood at the window, looking thoughtfully down into the street.

"'It's a good rule in life never to apologise. The right sort of people do not want apologies. and the wrong sort take a mean advantage of them. Sellers belonged to the latter class. When Annette, meek penitent, with all her claws sheathed, came to him and groveled, he forgave her with a repulsive magnanimity, which in a less subdued mood would have stung her to renewed pugnacity. As it was, she allowed herself to be forgiven, and retired with a dismal conviction that from now on he would be more insufferable than ever. And her surmise proved absolutely correct. His visits to the newcomer's studio began again, and Beverly's picture, now nearing completion, came in for criticism enough to have filled a volume.

The good-humour with which he received it amazed Annette, she had no proprietary interest in the painting beyond what she acquired from a growing regard for its parent, which disturbed her a good deal when she had time to think of it. But there were moments when only the recollection of her remorse for her previous outbreak kept her from rending the critic. Beverly, however, appeared to have no artistic sensitiveness whatsoever. When Sellers savaged the cat in a manner which should have brought the S.P.C.A. down upon him, Beverly merely beamed. His long-sufferingness was beyond Annette's comprehension. She began to admire him for it. To make his position as critic still more impregnable, Sellers was now able to speak as one having authority.

After years of floundering, his luck seemed at last to have turned. His pictures, which for months had lain at an agent's, careened like crippled battleships, had at length begun to find a market. Within the last two weeks, three landscapes and an allegorical painting had sold for good prices, and under the influence of success he expanded like an opening floweret. When Epstein, the agent, wrote to say that the allegory had been purchased by a Glasgow plutocrat of the name of Bates for one hundred and sixty guineas, Sellers' views on Philistines and their crass materialism and lack of taste underwent a marked modification. He spoke with some friendliness of the man Bates. "'To me,' said Beverly, when informed of the event by Annette, "'the matter has a deeper significance.

It proves that Glasgow has at last produced a sober man. No drinker would have dared face that allegory. The whole business is very gratifying.' Beverly himself was progressing slowly in the field of art. He had finished the Child and Cat, and had taken it to Epstein together with a letter of introduction from Sellers. Sellers's habitual attitude now was that of the kindly celebrity who has arrived and wishes to give the youngsters a chance. Since its departure, Beverly had not done much in the way of actual execution. Whenever Annette came to his studio, he was either sitting in a chair with his feet on the window-sill smoking, or in the same attitude listening to Sellers's views on art. Sellers, being on the upgrade a man with many pounds to his credit in the bank, had more leisure now.

He had given up his advertisement work and was planning a great canvas, another allegorical work. This left him free to devote a good deal of time to Beverly, and he did so. Beverly sat and smoked through his harangues. He may have been listening, or he may not. Annette listened once or twice, and the experience had the effect of sending her to Beverly quivering with indignation. "'Why do you let him?' Patronize you like that, she demanded. If anybody came and talked to me like that about my music, I don't know what I'd do. Yes, even if you were really a great musician. Don't you consider Sellers a great artist, then, even now? He seems to be able to sell his pictures, so I suppose they must be good, but nothing could give him the right to patronize you as he does.

My learned friend's manner would be intolerable in an emperor to a black beetle, quoted Beverly. What are we going to do about it?" If only you could sell a picture too. I have done my part of the contract. I have delivered the goods. There the thing is at Epstein's. The public can't blame me if it doesn't sell. All they have got to do is waltz in in their thousands and fight for it. And, by the way, talking of waltzes—oh, it's finished, said Annette dispiritedly. Published, too, for that matter. Published? What is the matter, then? Why this drooping sadness? Why aren't you running around the square singing like a bird? Because, said Annette, unfortunately I had to pay the expenses of publication.

It was only five pounds, but the sales haven't caught up with that yet. If they ever do. Perhaps there will be a new edition. And will you have to pay for that? No, the publishers would. And who are the publishers? Gruzinski and Bukterkirk. Heavens, then what are you worrying about? Things are cert. A man with a name like Gruzinski could sell a dozen editions by himself, helped and inspired by Bukterkirk, who will make the waltz the talk of the country. Infants will croon it in their cots. He didn't seem to think so when I saw him last. Of course not. He doesn't know his own power. Krasinski's shrinking diffidence is a byword in musical circles. He is the genuine human Violet. You must give him time.

I'll give him anything if he'll only sell an edition or two, said Annette. The outstanding thing was that he did. There seemed no particular reason why the sale of that waltz should not have been as small and as slow as that of any other waltz by an unknown composer, but almost without warning it expanded from a trickle into a flood. Kruzinski, beaming paternally whenever Annette entered the shop, which was often, announced two new additions in a week. Beverly, his artistic growth still under a watchful eye of Sellers, said he had never had any doubts as to the success of the thing from the moment when a single phrase of it had so carried him away that he had been compelled to stamp his applause enthusiastically on the floor.

Even Sellers forgot his own triumphs long enough to allow him to offer affable congratulations, and money came rolling in smoothing the path of life. Yes, indeed, those were the great days. There was a hat. Life, in short, was very full and splendid. There was indeed but one thing which kept it from being perfect. The usual drawback to success is that it annoys one's friends so. But in Annette's case, this drawback was absent. Sellers' demeanour towards her was that of an old, established inmate welcoming a novice into the Hall of Fame. Her pupils, worthy souls, though boneheaded, fawned upon her. Beverly seemed more pleased than anyone. Yet it was Beverly who prevented her paradise from being complete.

Successful herself, she wanted all her friends to be successful. But Beverly, to her discomfort, remained a cheery failure, and worse, absolutely refused to snub Sellers. It was not as if Sellers' advice and comments were disinterested. Beverly was simply the instrument on which he played his songs of triumph. It distressed Annette to such an extent that now, if she went upstairs and heard Sellers' voice in the studio, she came down again without knocking. One afternoon, sitting in her room, she heard the telephone-bell ring. The telephone was on the stairs just outside her door. She went out and took up the receiver. "'Hullo!' said a querulous voice. "'Is Mr. Beverley there?' Annette remembered having heard him go out.

She could always tell his footstep. "'He is out,' she said. "'Is there any message?' "'Yes,' said the voice emphatically. "'Tell him that Rupert Morrison rang up to ask what he was to do with all this great stack of music that's arrived. Does he want it forwarded on to him, or what?' The voice was growing high and excited. Evidently, Mr. Morrison was in a state of nervous tension when a man does not care particularly who hears his troubles so long as he unburdens himself of them to someone. Music, said Annette. Music, shrilled Mr. Morrison. Stacks and stacks and stacks of it. Is he playing a practical joke on me, or what? He demanded hysterically. Plainly, he had now come to regard Annette as a legitimate confidante.

She was listening. That was the main point. He wanted someone, he did not care whom, who would listen. "'He lends me his rooms,' wailed Mr. Morrison, "'so that I can be perfectly quiet and undisturbed while I write my novel. And first thing I know this music starts to arrive. How can I be quiet and undisturbed when the floor is littered two yards high with great parcels of music and more coming every day?' Then it clung weakly to the telephone-box. Her mind was in a whirl, but she was beginning to see many things. "'Are you there?' called Mr. Morris. "'Yes, yes, yes. What firm does the music come from?' "'What's that?' "'Who are the publishers who send the music?' "'I can't remember. Some long—' "'I've got it.

Kruzinski and someone.' "'I'll tell Mr. Beverley,' said Annette, quietly. A great weight seemed to have settled on her head. "'Hello, hello. Are you there?' came Mr. Morrison's voice. "'Yes. And tell him there are some pictures, too—' "'Pictures? Four great beastly pictures, the size of elephant. I tell you, there isn't room to move, and—' Annette hung up the receiver. Mr. Beverley returned from his walk, was racing up the stairs three at a time in his energetic way, when, as he arrived at Annette's door, it opened. "'Have you a minute to spare?' said Annette. "'Of course. What's the trouble? Have you sold another edition of the waltz?' "'I have not heard, Mr. Bates.' For once she looked to see the cheerful composure of the man upstairs become ruffled, but he received a blow without agitation.

"'You know my name,' he said. "'I know a good deal more than your name. You are a Glasgow millionaire.' Yes, it's true, he admitted, but it's heredity. My father was one before me. "'And you use your money,' said Annette bitterly, "'creating fools' paradises for your friends, which last, I suppose, until you grow tired of the amusement and destroy them. Doesn't it ever strike you, Mr. Bates, that it's a little cruel? Do you think Mr. Sellers was settled down again cheerfully to hack work when you stopped buying his pictures, and he finds out that—'I shan't stop,' said the young man. If a Glasgow millionaire mayn't buy Sellers allegorical pictures, whose allegorical pictures may he buy? Sellers will never find out.

He'll go on painting, and I'll go on buying, and all will be joy and peace. Indeed. And what future have you arranged for me? You, he said reflectively. You. I want to marry you. Annette stiffened from head to foot. He met her blazing eyes with a look of quiet devotion. Marry me? "'I know what you are thinking,' he said. "'Your mind is dwelling on the prospect of living in a house decorated throughout with Sellers' allegorical pictures. But it won't be. We'll store them in the attic.' She began to speak, but he interrupted her. "'Listen,' he said. "'Sit down, and I will tell you the story of my life. Well, we'll skip the first twenty-eight years and three months, merely mentioning that for the greater part of that time I was looking for somebody just like you.' "'A month and nine days ago I found you.' You were crossing the embankment.

I was also on the embankment, in a taxi. I stopped the taxi, got out, and observed you just stepping into the Charing Cross underground. I sprang. This does not interest me, said Annette. But the plot thickens, he assured her. We left our hero springing, I think, just so. Well, you took the West End train and got off at Sloane Square. So did I. You crossed Sloane Square, turned up King's Road, and finally arrived here. I followed. I saw a notice up, Studio to Lett. I reflected that having done a little painting in an amateur way, I could pose as an artist all right, so I took the studio. Also, the name of Alan Beverley. My own as Bill Bates, I had often wondered what it would feel like to be called by some name like Alan Beverley or Cyril Trevelyan.

It was simply the spin of the coin which decided me in favor of the former. Once in, the problem was how to get to know you. When I heard you playing, I knew it was all right. I had only to keep knocking on the floor long enough. "'Do you mean to tell me?' Annette's voice trembled. "'Do you mean to tell me that you knocked that time simply to make me come up?' That was it. Rather a scheme, don't you think? And now, would you mind telling me how you found out that I had been buying your waltz? Those remarks of yours about fools' paradises were not inspired solely by the affairs of sellers. But it beats me how you did it. I swore Roszinski, or whatever his name is, to secrecy. A Mr. Morrison, said Annette indifferently, rang up on the telephone and asked me to tell you that he was greatly worried by the piles of music which were littering the rooms you lent him.

The young man burst into a roar of laughter. Poor old Morrison. I forgot all about him. I lent him my rooms at the Albany. He's writing a novel, and he can't work if the slightest thing goes wrong. It just goes to show— Mr. Bates. Yes. Perhaps you didn't intend to hurt me. I dare say you meant only to be kind, but—can't you see how you have humiliated me? You have treated me like a child, giving me a make-believe success just to—just to keep me quiet, I suppose. He was fumbling in his pocket. May I read you a letter? He said. A letter? Quite a short one. It is from Epstein, the picture-dealer. This is what he says. Sir— Meaning me, not dear Bill, mind you, just sir. I am glad to be able to inform you that I have this morning received an offer of ten guineas for your picture, Child and Cat.

Kindly let me know if I am to dispose of it at this price. "'Well,' said Annette in a small voice, "'I have just been to Epstein's. It seems that the purchaser is Miss Brown. She gave an address in Bayswater. I called it the address. No Miss Brown lives there, but one of your pupils does.' I asked her if she was expecting a parcel from Miss Brown, and she said that she had had your letter and quite understood, and would take it in when it arrived. Annette was hiding her face in her hands. "'Go away,' she said faintly. Mr. Bates moved a step nearer. "'Do you remember that story of the people on the island who eked out a precarious livelihood by taking in one another's washing?' he asked casually.

"'Go away!' cried Annette. I've always thought, he said, that it must have drawn them very close together, made them feel rather attached to each other, don't you? Go away! I don't want to go away. I want to stay and hear you say you'll marry me. Please, go away. I want to think. She heard him moving towards the door. He stopped, then went on again. The door closed quietly. Presently from the room above came the sound of footsteps. footsteps pacing monotonously to and fro like those of an animal in a cage. Annette sat listening. There was no break in the footsteps. Suddenly she got up. In one corner of the room was a long pole used for raising and lowering the window-sash. She took it and for a moment stood irresolute.

Then, with a quick moment, she lifted it and stabbed—three times—at the ceiling.

2 02 - Something To Worry About 32:34

The Man Upstairs by P. G. Woodhouse. Story number two, something to worry about.

A girl stood on the shingle that fringes Millbourne Bay, gazing at the red roofs of the little village across the water. She was a pretty girl, small and trim. Just now some secret sorrow seemed to be troubling her, for on her forehead were wrinkles, and in her eyes a look of wistfulness. She had, in fact, all the distinguishing marks of one who was thinking of her sailor lover. But she was not. She had no sailor lover. What she was thinking of was that at about this time they would be lighting up the shop windows in London, and that of all the deadly, depressing spots she had ever visited, this village of Millbourne was the deadliest. The evening shadows deepened, the incoming tide glistened oilily as it rolled over the mud-flats.

She rose and shivered. "'Gh! What a hole!' she said, eyeing the unconscious village morosely. "'What a hole!' This was Sallie Preston's first evening in Millbourne. She had arrived by the afternoon train from London, not of her own free will. Left to herself, she would not have come within sixty miles of the place. London supplied all that she demanded from life. She had been born in London. She had lived there ever since. She hoped to die there. She liked fogs, motor-buses, noise, policemen, paper-boys, shops, taxicabs, artificial lights, stone pavements. houses in long grey rows, mud, banana skins, and moving-picture exhibitions, especially moving-picture exhibitions. It was indeed her taste for these that had caused her banishment to Millbourne.

The great public is not yet unanimous on the subject of moving-picture exhibitions. Sallie, as I have said, approved of them. Her father, on the other hand, did not. An austere ex-butler who let lodgings in Eubrey Street, and preached on Sundays in Hyde Park. He looked askance at the movies. It was his boast that he had never been inside a theatre in his life, and he classed cinema palaces with theatres as wiles of the devil. Sallie, suddenly unmasked as an habitual frequenter of these abandoned places, sprang with one bound into prominence as the bad girl of the family. Instant removal from the range of temptation being the only possible plan, It seemed to Mr. Preston that a trip to the country was indicated.

He selected Millbourne because he had been butler at the hall there, and because his sister, Jane, who had been a parlourmaid at the rectory, was now married and living in the village. Certainly he could not have chosen a more promising reformatory for Sallie. Here, if anywhere, might she forget the heady joys of the cinema. Tucked away in the corner of its little bay, which an accommodating island converts into a still lagoon, Millbourne lies dozing. In all sleepy Hampshire there is no sleepier spot. It is a place of calm-eyed men and drowsy dogs. Things crumble away and are not replaced. Tradesmen book orders and then lose interest and forget to deliver the goods. Only centurions die and nobody worries about anything.

Or did not until Sally came and gave them something to worry about. Next door to Sally's Aunt Jane, in a cozy little cottage with a wonderful little garden, lived Thomas Kitchener, a large, grave, self-sufficing young man, who by sheer application to work had become already, though only twenty-five, second gardener at the hall. Gardening absorbed him. When he was not working at the hall, he was working at home. On the morning following Sallie's arrival, it being a Thursday and his day off, he was crouching in a constrained attitude in his garden. Every fibre of his being concentrated on the interment of a plump young bulb. Consequently, when a chunk of mud came sailing over the fence, he did not notice it.

A second, however, compelled attention by bursting like a shell on the back of his neck. He looked up, startled. Nobody was in sight. He was puzzled. It could hardly be raining mud. Yet the alternative theory that someone in the next garden was throwing it was hardly less bizarre. The nature of his friendship with Sally's Aunt Jane and old Mr. Williams, her husband, was comfortable rather than rollicking. It was inconceivable that they should be flinging clods at him. As he stood wondering whether he should go to the fence and look over, or simply accept the phenomenon as one of those things which no fellow can understand, there popped up before him the head and shoulders of a girl. Poised in her right hand was a third clod, which, seeing that there was now no need for his services, she allowed to fall to the ground.

"'Hullo,' she said. "'Good morning!' She was a pretty girl, small and trim. Tom was by way of being the strong, silent man with a career to think of, and no time for bothering about girls, but he did see that. There was, moreover, a certain alertness in her expression, rarely found in the feminine population of Milburn, who were apt to be slightly bovine. "'What do you think you're messing about at?' she said affably. Tom was a slow-minded young man who liked to have his thoughts well under control before he spoke. He was not one of your gay rattlers. Besides, there was something about this girl which confused him to an extraordinary extent. He was conscious of new and strange emotions. He stood staring silently.

"'What's your name, anyway?' He could answer that. He did so. "'Oh, mine's Sally Preston. Mrs. Williams is my aunt. I've come from London.' Tom had no remarks to make about London. "'Have you lived here all your life?' "'Yes,' said Tom. "'My goodness, don't you ever feel fed up? Don't you want a change?' Tom considered the point. "'No,' he said. "'Well, I do. I want one now.' "'It's a nice place,' answered Tom. "'It's nothing of the sort. It's the beastliest hole in existence. It's absolutely chronic. Perhaps you wonder why I am here. Don't think I wanted to come here, not me. I was sent. It was like this.' She gave him a rapid summary of her troubles. "'There, don't you call it a bit thick,' she concluded.

Tom considered this point too. "'You must make the best of it,' he said at length. "'I won't. I'll make father take me back.' Tom considered this point also. Rarely, if ever, had he been given so many things to think about in one morning. "'How?' he inquired at length. "'I don't know. I'll find some way. You see, if I don't.' I'll get away from here, jolly quick. I give you my word. Tom bent low over a rose-bush. His face was hidden, but the brown of his neck seemed to take on a richer hue, and his ears were undeniably crimson. His feet moved restlessly, and from his unseen mouth there proceeded the first gallant speech his lips had ever framed. Merely considered as a speech, it was perhaps nothing wonderful, but from Tom it was a miracle of chivalry and polish.

What he said was, I hope not, and instinct telling him that he had made his supreme effort, and that anything further must be bathos, he turned abruptly and stalked into his cottage, where he drank tea and ate bacon and thought chaotic thoughts. And when his appetite declined to carry him more than halfway through the third rasher he understood. He was in love. These strong, silent men, who mean to be head gardeners before they are thirty, and eliminate women from their lives as a dangerous obstacle to the successful career, pay a heavy penalty when they do fall in love. The average, irresponsible young man who has hung about North Street on Saturday nights, walked through the meadows and round by the mill, and back home passed the creek on Sunday afternoons, taken his seat in the break for the annual outing, shuffled his way through the polka at the tradesman's ball, and generally seized all legitimate opportunities for sporting with Amaryllis in the shade, has a hundred advantages, which your successful careerer lacks.

There was hardly a moment during the days which followed when Tom did not regret his neglected education.

For he was not Sally's only victim in Milburn. There was the trouble. Her beauty was not of that elusive type which steals imperceptibly into the vision of the rare connoisseur. It was sudden and compelling. It hit you! Bright brown eyes beneath a mass of fair hair. A determined little chin, a slim figure. These are disturbing things, and the youths of peaceful Milbourne sat up and took notice as one youth. Throw your mind back to the last musical comedy you saw. Recall the leading ladies' song with chorus of young men, all proffering devotion simultaneously in a neat row. That was how the lads of the village comported themselves towards Sally. Mr. and Mrs. Williams, till then a highly esteemed but little frequented couple, were astonished at the sudden influx of visitors.

The cottage became practically a salon. There was not an evening when the little sitting-room looking out on the garden was not packed. It is true that the conversation lacked some of the sparkle generally found in the better class of salon. To be absolutely accurate, there was hardly any conversation at all. The youths of Melbourne were sturdy and honest. They were the backbone of England. England, in her hour of need, could have called upon them with the comfortable certainty that, unless they happened to be otherwise engaged, they would leap to her aid. But they did not shine at small talk. Conversationally, they were a spent force after they had asked Mr. Williams how his rheumatism was. Thereafter they contented themselves with sitting massively about in corners, glowering at each other.

Still, it was all very jolly and sociable, and helped to pass the long evenings. And as Mrs. Williams pointed out in reply to some rather strong remarks from Mr. Williams on the subject of packs of young fools who made it impossible for a man to get a quiet smoke in his own home, it kept them out of the public-houses.

Tom Kitchener, meanwhile, observed the invasion with growing dismay. Shyness barred him from the evening gatherings, and what was going on in that house with young bloods like Ted Pringle, Albert Parsons, Arthur Brown, and Joe Blossom to name just four of the most assiduous. Exercising their fascinations at close range, he did not like to think. Again and again he strove to brace himself up to join the feasts of reason and flows of soul, which he knew were taking place nightly around the object of his devotions, but every time he failed. Habit is a terrible thing. It shackles the strongest, and Tom had fallen into the habit of inquiring after Mr. Williams's rheumatism over the garden fence first thing in the morning.

It was a civil, neighbourly thing to do, but it annihilated the only excuse he could think of for looking in at night. He could not help himself. It was like some frightful scourge, the morphine habit, or something of that sort. Every morning he swore to himself that nothing would induce him to mention the subject of rheumatism, but no sooner had the stricken old gentleman's head appeared above the fence than out it came. "'Mornin', Mr. Williams.' "'Mornin', Tom.' Pause." Indicative of a strong man struggling with himself then. "'How's the rheumatism, Mr. Williams?' "'Better, thank'ee, Tom.' And there he was, with his gun spiked. However, he did not give up. He brought to his wooing the same determination which had made him second gardener at the hall at twenty-five.

He was a novice at the game, but instinct told him that a good line of action was to shower gifts. He did so. All he had to shower was vegetables, and he showered them in a way that would have caused the goddess Ceres to be talked about. His garden became a perfect crater, erupting vegetables. Why vegetables? I think I heard some heckler cry. Why not flowers, fresh, fair, fragrant flowers? You can do a lot with flowers. Girls love them, there is poetry in them, and what's more there is a recognized language of flowers. Shoot in a rose or a calciolaria, or an herbaceous border, or something, I gather, and you made a formal proposal of marriage without any of the trouble of rehearsing a long speech and practising appropriate gestures in front of your bedroom looking-glass.

Why, then, did not Thomas Kitchener give Sally Preston flowers? Well, you see, unfortunately it was now late autumn, and there were no flowers. Nature had temporarily exhausted her floral blessings, and was jogging along with potatoes and artichokes and things. Love is like that. It invariably comes just at the wrong time. A few months before, there had been enough roses in Tom Kitchener's garden to win the hearts of a dozen girls. Now there were only vegetables. "'Twas ever thus." It was not to be expected that a devotion so practically displayed should escape notice, nor should it escape comment. This was supplied by that shrewd observer, old Mr. Williams. He spoke seriously to Tom across the fence on the subject of his passion.

"'Young Tom,' he said. "'Drop it!' Tom muttered unintelligibly. "'Mr. Williams adjusted the top-hat, without which he never stirred abroad, even into his garden. He blinked benevolently at Tom. "'You're makin' up to that young girl at Jane's,' he proceeded. "'You can't deceive me, all these teteys and what-what. I seen your game fast enough. Just you drop it, young Tom.' "'Why?' muttered Tom rebelliously. A sudden distaste for old Mr. Williams blazed within him. "'Why? "'Cause you'll only burn your fingers if you don't, that's why. "'I've been watching this young gal of janes, "'and I've seen what sort of a young gal she be. "'She's a flippity piece, that's what she be. "'You marry that young gal, Tom, "'and you'll never have no more quieter happiness.

"'She just take and turn the place upsy-down on you. "'The man as marries that young gal "'has got to be master in his own home.' He's got to show her what's what now. You ain't got the devil in you to do that, Tom. You're what I might call a sort of a sheep. I admires it in you, Tom. I like to see a young man steady and quiet, same as what you be. So that's how it is, you see. Just you drop this foolishness, young Tom, and leave that young gal be, or else you'll burn your fingers, same as what I say.

And giving his top hat a rakish tilt? The old gentleman ambled indoors, satisfied that he had dropped a guarded hint in a pleasant and tactful manner. It is to be supposed that this interview stung Tom to swift action. Otherwise one cannot explain why he should not have been just as reticent on the subject nearest his heart when bestowing on Sally the twenty-seventh cabbage as he had been when he administered the hundred and sixtieth potato. At any rate, the fact remains that as that fateful vegetable changed hands across the fence, Something resembling a proposal of marriage did actually proceed from him. As a sustained piece of emotional prose, it fell short of the highest standard. Most of it was lost at the back of his throat, and what did emerge was mainly inaudible.

However, as she distinctly caught the word love twice, and as Tom was shuffling his feet and streaming with perspiration, and looking everywhere at once except at her, Sally grasped the situation. Whereupon, without any visible emotion, She accepted him. Tom had to ask her to repeat her remark. He could not believe his luck. It was singular how diffident a normally self-confident man can become once he is in love. When Colonel Milvery of the Hall had informed him of his promotion to the post of second gardener, Tom had demanded no encore. He knew his worth. He was perfectly aware that he was a good gardener, and official recognition of the fact left him gratified but unperturbed. But this affair of Sallie was quite another matter.

It had revolutionized his standards of value, forced him to consider himself a man entirely apart from his skill as a gardener, and until this moment he had had grave doubt as to whether apart from his skill as a gardener he amounted to much.

He was overwhelmed. He kissed Sallie across the fence humbly. Sallie, for her part, seemed very unconcerned about it all. A more critical man than Thomas Kitchener might have said that to all appearances the thing rather bored, Sally. "'Don't tell anybody just yet,' she stipulated. Tom would have given much to be allowed to announce his triumph defiantly to old Mr. Williams, to say nothing of making a considerable noise about it in the village, but her wish was law, and he reluctantly agreed.

There are moments in a man's life when, however enthusiastic a gardener he may be, His soul soars above vegetables. Tom's shot with a jerk into the animal kingdom. The first present he gave Sallie in his capacity of fiance was a dog. It was a half-grown puppy with long legs and a long tail, belonging to no one species, but generously distributing itself among about six. Sallie loved it and took it with her wherever she went. Then on one of those rambles down swooped Constable Cobb. The village policeman, pointing out that contrary to regulations, the puppy had no collar. It is possible that a judicious meekness on Sally's part might have averted disaster. Mr. Cobb was human, and Sally was looking particularly attractive that morning.

Meekness, however, did not come easy to Sally. In a speech which began his argument and ended, Mr. Cobb proving solid and unyielding, as pure cheek, she utterly routed the constable. But her victory was only a moral one, for as she turned to go, Mr. Cobb, dull red and puffing slightly, was already entering particulars of the affair in his notebook, and Sallie knew that the last word was with him. On her way back she met Tom Kitchener. He was looking very tough and strong, and at the sight of him a half-formed idea, which she had regretfully dismissed as impracticable, of assaulting Constable Cobb, returned to her in an amended form. Tom did not know it, but the reason why she smiled so radiantly upon him at that moment was that she had just elected him to the post of hired assassin.

While she did not want Constable Cobb actually assassinated, she earnestly desired him to have his helmet smashed down over his eyes, and it seemed to her that Tom was the man to do it. She poured out her grievance to him and suggested her scheme. She even elaborated it. "'Why shouldn't you wait for him one night and throw him into the creek? It isn't deep, and it's jolly muddy.' Um, said Tom doubtfully. It would just teach him, she pointed out. But the prospect of undertaking the higher education of the police did not seem to appeal to Tom. In his heart, he rather sympathized with Constable Cobb. He saw the policeman's point of view. It is all very well to talk, but when you are stationed in a sleepy village where no one ever murders or robs or commits arson, or even gets drunk and disorderly in the street, a puppy without a collar is simply a godsend.

The man must look out for himself. He tried to make this side of the question clear to Sallie, but failed signally. She took a deplorable view of his attitude. "'I might have known that you would have been afraid,' she said with a contemptuous jerk of her chin. "'Good morning!' Tom flushed. He knew he had never been afraid of anything in his life except her. But nevertheless the accusation stung. and as he was still afraid of her he stammered as he began to deny the charge. "'Oh, leave off!' said Sallie irritably. "'Suck a lozenge!' "'I'm not afraid,' said Tom, condensing his remarks to their minimum, as his only chance of being intelligible. "'You are—' "'I am not. It's just that I—' "'A nasty gleam came into Sallie's eyes.

Her manner was haughty. "'It doesn't matter,' she paused. "'I've no doubt Ted Pringle will do what I want.' For all her contempt, she could not keep a touch of uneasiness from her eyes as she prepared to make her next remark. There was a look about Tom's set jaw which made her hesitate, but her temper had run away with her, and she went on. "'I'm sure he will,' she said. "'When we became engaged, he said that he'd do anything for me.' There are some speeches that are such conversational knock-out blows that one can hardly believe that life will ever pick itself up and go on again after them. Yet it does. The dramatist brings down the curtain on such speeches. The novelist blocks his reader's path with a zareba of stars.

But in life there are no curtains, no stars, nothing final and definite, only ragged pauses and discomfort. There was such a pause now. "'What do you mean?' said Tom at last. "'You promised to marry me.' "'I know I did, and I promised to marry Ted Pringle.' That touch of panic which she could not wholly repress, the panic that comes to everyone when the situation has run away with them like a strange, unmanageable machine, infused a shade too much of the defiant into Sallie's manner. She had wished to be cool, even casual, but she was beginning to be afraid. Why, she could not have said. Certainly she did not anticipate violence on Tom's part. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps it was just because he was so quiet that she was afraid.

She had always looked on him contemptuously as an amiable, transparent lout, and now he was puzzling her. She got an impression of something formidable behind his stolidity, something that made her feel mean and insignificant. She fought against the feeling, but it gripped her, and in spite of herself she found her voice growing shrill and out of control. "'I promised to marry Ted Pringle, and I promised to marry Joe Blossom, and I promised to marry Albert Parsons.' and I was going to promise to marry Arthur Brown and anybody else you ask me. So now you know. I told you I'd make father take me back to London. Well, when he hears that I promised to marry four different men, I bet he'd have me home by the first train.

She stopped. She had more to say, but she could not say it. She stood looking at him, and he looked at her. His face was grey and his mouth oddly twisted. Silence seemed to fall on the whole universe. Sallie was really afraid now, and she knew it. She was feeling very small and defenseless in her extremely alarming world. She could not have said what it was that had happened to her. She only knew that life had become of a sudden very vivid, and that her ideas as to what was amusing had undergone a striking change. A man's development is a slow and steady process of the years. A woman's a thing of an instant. In the silence which followed her words, Sallie had grown up. Tom broke the silence. Is this true?

He said. His voice made her start. He had spoken quietly, but there was a new note in it, strange to her. Just as she could not have said what it was that had happened to her, so now she could not have said what had happened to Tom. He too had changed. But how she did not know. Yet the explanation was simple. He also had, in a sense, grown up. He was no longer afraid of her. He stood thinking. Hours seemed to pass. Come along, he said at last, and he began to move off down the road. Sallie followed. The possibility of refusing did not enter her mind. Where are you going? she asked. It was unbearable, this silence. He did not answer. In this fashion, he leading, she following, they went down the road into a lane, and through a gate into a field.

They passed into a second field, and as they did so, Sallie's heart gave a leap. Ted Pringle was there. Ted Pringle was a big young man, bigger even than Tom Kitchener, and like Tom he was of silent habit. He eyed the little procession inquiringly, but spoke no word. There was a pause. Ted, said Tom, there's been a mistake. He stepped quickly to Sally's side, and the next moment he had swung her off her feet and kissed her. To the type of mind that Millbourne breeds, the actions speak louder than words, and Ted Pringle, who had gaped, gaped no more. He sprang forward, and Tom, pushing Sallie aside, turned to meet him. I cannot help feeling a little sorry for Ted Pringle. In the light of what happened, I could wish that it were possible to portray him as a hulking brute of evil appearance and worse morals, the sort of person concerning whom one could reflect comfortably that he deserved all he got.

I should like to make him an unsympathetic character over whose downfall the reader would gloat, but honesty compels me to own that Ted was a thoroughly decent young man in every way. He was a good citizen, a dutiful son, and would certainly have made an excellent husband. Furthermore, in the dispute on hand, he had right on his side fully as much as Tom. The whole affair was one of those elemental clashings of man and man, where the historian cannot sympathize with either side at the expense of the other, but must confine himself to a mere statement of what occurred. And briefly, what occurred was that Tom, Bringing to the fray a pent-up fury which his adversary had had no time to generate, fought Ted to a complete standstill in the space of two minutes and a half.

Sally had watched the proceedings, sick and horrified. She had never seen men fight before, and the terror of it overwhelmed her. Her vanity received no pleasant stimulation from the thought that it was for her sake that this storm had been let loose. For the moment her vanity was dead, stunned by collision with the realities. She found herself watching in a dream. She saw Ted fall, rise, fall again, and lie where he had fallen, and then she was aware that Tom was speaking. Come along. She hung back. Ted was lying very still. Gruesome ideas presented themselves. She had just accepted them as truth when Ted wriggled. He wriggled again. Then he sat up suddenly, looked at her with unseeing eyes, and said something in a thick voice.

She gave a little sob of relief. It was ghastly, but not so ghastly as what she had been imagining. Somebody touched her arm. Tom was by her side, grim and formidable. He was wiping blood from his face. Come along. She followed him without a word, and presently, behold, in another field, whistling meditatively, and regardless of impending ill-will, Albert Parsons. In everything that he did, Tom was a man of method. He did not depart from his chosen formula. Albert, he said, there has been a mistake. and Albert gaped as Ted had gaped. Tom kissed Sallie with the gravity of one performing a ritual. The uglinesses of life, as we grow accustomed to them, lose their power to shock, and there is no doubt that Sallie looked with a different eye upon this second struggle.

She was conscious of a thrill of excitement, very different from the shrinking horror which had seized her before. Her stunned vanity began to tingle into life again. The fight was raging furiously over the trampled turf, Quite suddenly, as she watched, she was aware that her heart was with Tom. It was no longer two strange brutes fighting in the field. It was her man battling for her sake. She desired overwhelmingly that he should win, that he should not be hurt, and that he should sweep triumphantly over Albert Parsons as he had swept over Ted Pringle. Unfortunately, it was evident even to her that he was being hurt, and that he was very far from sweeping triumphantly over Albert Parsons. He had not allowed himself time to recover from his first battle, and his blows were slow and weary.

Albert Moorber was made of sterner stuff than Ted. Though now a peaceful tender of cows, there had been a time in his hot youth when, traveling with a circus, he had fought week in, week out, relays of just such rustic warriors as Tom. He knew their methods, their headlong rushes, their swinging blows. They were the merest commonplaces of life to him. He slipped Tom, he sidestepped Tom, he jabbed Tom. He did everything to Tom that a trained boxer can do to a reckless novice, except knock the fight out of him, until presently, through the sheer labor of hitting, he too grew weary.

In the days when Albert Parsons had fought whole families of Toms in an evening, he had fought in rounds with the boss holding the watch, and half-minute rests, and water to refresh him, and all orderly and proper. Today there were no rounds, no rests, no water, and the peaceful tending of cows. had caused flesh to grow where there had been only muscle. Tom's headlong rushes became less easy to sidestep, his swinging blows more difficult than the scientific counter that shot out to check them. As he tired, Tom seemed to regain strength. The tide of the battle began to ebb. He clinched, and Tom threw him off. He fainted, and while he was fainting, Tom was on him. It was the climax of the battle, the last rally.

Down went Albert, and stayed down. Physically he was not finished, but in his mind... A question had framed itself. The question, was it worth it? And he was answering, no. There were other girls in the world. No girl was worth all this trouble. He did not rise.

Come along, said Tom. He spoke thickly. His breath was coming in gasps. He was a terrible spectacle, but Sallie was past the weaker emotions. She was back in the Stone Age, and her only feeling was one of passionate pride. She tried to speak. She struggled to put all she felt into words, but something kept her dumb, and she followed him in silence. In the lane outside his cottage, down by the creek, Joe Blossom was clipping a hedge. The sound of footsteps made him turn. He did not recognize Tom till he spoke. "'Joe, there's been a mistake,' said Tom. "'Been a gunpowder explosion more like,' said Joe, a simple, practical man. "'What you been doing to your face?' "'She's going to marry me, Joe.' Joe eyed Sallie inquiringly.

"'Eh? You promised to marry me.' "'She promised to marry all of us—you, me, Ted Pringle, Albert Parsons.' "'Promise to marry all of us?' "'That's where the mistake was. She's only going to marry me. I've arranged it with Ted and Albert, and now I've come to explain to you, Joe.' "'You promised to marry—' The colossal nature of Sallie's deceit was plainly troubling, Joe Blossom. He expelled his breath in a long note of amazement, and he summed up, "'Why, you're nothing more nor less than a Joshua.'" The years that had passed since Joe had attended the village Sunday School had weakened his once easy familiarity with the characters of the Old Testament. It's possible that he had somebody else in mind.

Tom stuck droggedly to his point. "'You can't marry her, Joe.'" Joe Blossom raised his shears and clipped a protruding branch. The point under discussion seemed to have ceased to interest him. "'Who wants to?' he said. "'Good riddance!' They went down the lane. Silence still brooded over them. The words she wanted continued to evade her. They came to a grassy bank. Tom sat down. He was feeling unutterably tired. "'Tom!' he looked up. His mind was working dizzily. "'You're going to marry me,' he muttered. She sat down beside him. "'I know,' she said. Tom, dear, lay your head on my lap and go to sleep. If this story proves anything beyond the advantage of being in good training when you fight, it proves that you cannot get away from the moving pictures, even in a place like Milburn.

For as Sally sat there nursing Tom, it suddenly struck her that this was the very situation with which the romance of the Middle Ages film ended. You know the one I mean, Sir Percival, yea, something, which has slipped my memory for the moment. goes out after the holy grail, meets damsel in distress, overcomes her persecutors, rescues her, gets wounded, and is nursed back to life in her arms. Sallie had seen it a dozen times, and every time she had reflected that the days of romance are dead, and that that sort of thing can't happen nowadays.

3 03 - Deep Waters 35:17

The Man Upstairs by P. G. Woodhouse. Deep waters.

Historians of the social life of the late Roman Empire speak of a certain young man of Ariminum who would jump into rivers and swim in them. When his friends said, "'You fish,' he would answer, "'Oh, pish, fish can't swim like me. They've no viminum,' just such another was George Barnert Callender. On land in his land clothes, George was a young man who excited a little remark. He looked very much like other young men. He was much about the ordinary height. His carriage suggested the possession of an ordinary amount of physical strength. Such was George on shore. But, of course, remove his clothes, drape him in a bathing suit, and insert him in the water, and instantly, like the gentleman in the tempest, he suffered a sea-change into something rich and strange.

Other men puffed, snorted, and splashed. George passed through the ocean with the silent dignity of a torpedo. Other men swallowed water, here a mouthful, there a pint, anon maybe a quarter or so, and returned to the shore like floundering derelicts. George's mouth had all the exclusiveness of a fashionable club. His breaststroke was a thing to see and wonder at when he did the crawl. Strong men gasped. When he swam on his back you felt it. That was the only possible method of progression. George came to Marvis Bay at about five o'clock one evening in July. Marvis Bay has a well-established reputation as a summer resort, and while not perhaps in every respect the paradise which the excitable writer of the local guidebook asserts it to be, on the whole it earns its reputation.

Its sands are smooth and firm, sloping almost imperceptibly into the ocean. There is surf for those who like it, and smoother water beyond for those whose ideals in bathing are not confined to jumping up and down on a given jellyfish. At the northern end of the beach there is a long pier. It was to this that George made his way on his arrival. It was pleasant on the pier once you had passed the initial zariba of fruit stands, souvenir stands, ice-cream stands, and the lair of the enthusiast. whose aim in life it was to sell you picture postcards, and had won through to the long walk where the seats were, you were practically alone with nature. At this hour of the day the place was deserted. George had it to himself.

He strolled slowly along. The water glittered under the sun rays, breaking into a flurry of white foam as it reached the beach. A cool breeze blew. The whole scenic arrangements were a great improvement on the stuffy city he had left. Not that George had come to Mavis Bay with the single aim of finding an antidote to metropolitan stuffiness. There was a more important reason. In three days, Marvis Bay was to be the scene of the production of Fates Football, a comedy in four acts, by G. Barnett Callender. For George, though he would not have suspected it from his exterior, was one of those in whose cerebra the grey matter splashes restlessly about, Producing strong curtains and crisp dialogue.

The company was due at Marvess Bay on the following evening for the last spasm of rehearsals. George's mind as he paced the pier was divided between the beauties of nature and the forthcoming crisis in his affairs, in the ratio of one-eighth to the former and seven-eighths to the latter. At the moment when he had left London, thoroughly disgusted with the entire theatrical world in general, and the company which was rehearsing Fates footballs in particular. Rehearsals had just reached that stage of brisk delirium when the author toys with his bottle of poison, and the stage manner becomes icily polite. The foot pills, as Arthur Mifflin, the leading juvenile in the great play, insisted upon calling it, much to George's disapproval, was his first piece.

Never before had he been in one of those kitchens where many cooks prepare and sometimes spoil the theatrical broth. Consequently, the chaos seemed to him unique. Had he been a more experienced dramatist, he would have said to himself, "'Twas ever thus." As it was, what he said to himself and others was more forcible. He was trying to dismiss the whole thing from his mind, a feat which had hitherto proved beyond his powers, when fate, in an unusually kindly mood, enabled him to do so in a flash, by presenting to his jaundiced gaze what, on consideration he decided, was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. When a man's afraid, shrewdly sings the bard, a beautiful maid is a cheering sight to see.

In the present instance, the sight acted on George like a tonic. He forgot that the lady to whom an injudicious management had assigned the role of heroine in fate's footballs, invariably, no doubt from the best motives, Omitted to give the cynical roue his cue for the big speech in act three. His mind no longer dwelt on the fact that Arthur Mifflin, an estimable person in private life and one who had been a friend of his at Cambridge, preferred to deliver the impassioned lines of the great renunciation scene in a manner suggesting a small boy, and a sufferer from nasal Qatar at that, speaking a piece at a Sunday-school treat. The recollection of the hideous depression and gloom which the leading comedian had radiated in great clouds fled from him like some grisly nightmare before the goddess of day.

Every cell in his brain was occupied, to the exclusion of all other thoughts, by the girl swimming in the water below. She swam well. His practiced eye saw that. Her strong easy strokes carried her swiftly over the swell of the waves. He stared transfixed. He was a well-brought-up young man, and he knew how ill-bred it was to stare, but this was a special occasion. Ordinary rules of conventional etiquette could not apply to a case like this. He stared. More, he gaped. As the girl passed on into the shadow of the pier, he leaned further over the rail, his neck extended in joints, much like a telescope. At this point the girl turned to swim on her back. Her eyes met his. Hers were deep and clear, his bulging.

For what seemed an eternity to George, she continued to look at him. Then, turning over again, she shot past under the pier. George's neck was now at its full stretch. No power of will or muscle could add another yard to it. Realizing this, he leaned farther over the rail and farther still. His hat slid from his hand. He grabbed at it, and over-balancing fell with a splash into the water. Now, in ordinary circumstances, to fall twelve feet into the ocean with all his clothes on would have incommoded George Little. He would hardly have noticed it. He would have swum to shore with merely a feeling of amused self-reproach, akin to that of the man who absentmindedly walks into a lamp-post in the street.

When, therefore, he came to the surface, he prepared without agitation to strike out in his usual bold fashion. At this moment, however, two hands grasping him beneath the arms lifted his head still farther from the waves, and a voice in his ear said, "'Keep still. Don't struggle. There's no danger.' George did not struggle. His brain, working with the cooled rapidity of a buzz-saw in an ice-box, had planned a line of action. Few things are more difficult in this world for a young man than the securing of an introduction to the right girl under just the right conditions, When he is looking his best, he is presented to her in the midst of a crowd, and is swept away after a rapid handshake. When there is no crowd, he has toothache, or the sun has just begun to make his nose peal.

Thousands of young lives have been saddened in this manner. How different was George's case? By this simple accident, he reflected as, helping the good work along with an occasional surreptitious leg-stroke, he was towed shorewards. There had been formed an acquaintanceship, if nothing more, which could not lightly be broken. A girl who has saved a man from drowning cannot pass him by next day with a formal bow. And what a girl, too! There had been a time in extreme youth when his feminine ideal was the sort of girl who has fuzzy golden hair and drops things. Indeed, in his first year at the university he had said, and written as much to one of the type, the episode concluding with a strong little drama, in which a wrathful, check-signing father had starred, supported by a subdued, misogynistic son.

Which things, aided by the march of time, had turned George's tastes toward the healthy, open-air girl, who did things, instead of dropping them? The pleasantest functions must come to an end sooner or later, though, and in due season George felt his heels great on the sand. His preserver loosed her hold. They stood up and faced each other. George began to express his gratitude as best he could. It was not easy to find neat, convincing sentences on the spur of the moment, but she cut him short. "'Of course. It was nothing—nothing at all,' she said, brushing the sea-water from her eyes. "'It was just lucky I happened to be there.' "'Oh, it was splendid,' said the infatuated dramatist. "'It was magnificent.

It—' He saw that she was smiling. "'You're very wet,' she said. George glanced down at his soaked clothes. It had been a nice suit once. Hadn't you better hurry back and change into something dry? Looking around about him, George perceived that Sundry of the inquisitive were swooping down with speculation in their eyes. It was time to depart. "'Have you far to go?' "'Not far. I am staying at the Beachview Hotel.' "'Why, so am I. I hope we shall meet again.' "'We shall,' said George confidently. "'How did you happen to fall in?' I was looking at something in the water. "'Oh, I thought you were,' said the girl quietly. George blushed. "'I know,' he said. "'It was abominably rude of me to stare like that, but—' "'You should learn to swim,' interrupted the girl.

"'I can't understand why every boy in the country isn't made to learn to swim before he is ten years old. And it isn't a bit difficult, really. I could teach you in a week.' The struggle between George and George's conscience was brief. The conscience, weak by nature and flabby from long want of exercise, had no sort of chance from the start. "'I wish you would,' said George. And with those words he realized that he had definitely committed himself to his hypocritical role. Till that moment explanation would have been difficult but possible. Now it was impossible. "'I will,' said the girl. "'I'll start tomorrow, if you like.' She waded into the water. "'We'll talk it over at the hotel,' she said hastily.

Here comes a crowd of horrid people. I am going to swim out again. She hurried into deep water, while George, turning, made his way through a growing throng of goggling spectators. Of the fifteen who got within speaking distance, of him, six told him that he was wet. The other nine asked him if he had fallen. Her name was Vaughan, and she was visiting Marvis Bay in company with an aunt. So much George ascertained from the management of the hotel. Later, after dinner, meeting both ladies on the esplanade, he gleaned further information, to wit that her first name was Mary, that her aunt was glad to make his acquaintance, liked Marvis Bay, but preferred Thruville, and thought it was getting a little chilly and would go indoors.

The elimination of the third factor had a restorative effect upon George's conversation, which had begun to languish. In feminine society, as a rule, he was apt to be constrained, but with Mary Vaughan it was different. Within a couple of minutes he was pouring out his troubles. The cue, withholding, leading lady, the stick-like Mifflin, the funereal comedian—up they all came, and she, gently sympathetic, was endeavoring not without success to prove to him that things were not as bad as they seemed. It's sure to be all right on the night, she said. How rare is the combination of beauty and intelligence! George thought he had never heard such a clear-headed, well-expressed remark. I suppose it will, he said, but they were very bad when I left.

Mifflin, for instance, he seemed to think nature intended him for a Napoleon of advertising. He has a bee in his bonnet about booming the piece, sits up at nights, when he ought to be sleeping or studying the part, thinking out new schemes for advertising the show, and the comedian. His specialty is drawing me aside and asking me to write in new scenes for him. I couldn't stand it any longer. I just came away and left them to fight it out among themselves. "'I am sure you have no need to worry,' she said. "'A play with such a good story is certain to succeed.'" George had previously obliged with a brief description of the plot of The Foot Pills. "'Did you like the story?' he said tenderly. "'I thought it was fine.'" "'How sympathetic you are,' cooed George glutinously.

Edging a little closer, "'Do you know—' "'Shall we be going back to the hotel?' said the girl." Those noisome creatures, the hired murderers of fate's footpills, descended upon Marvus Bay early next afternoon, and George, meeting them at the station, in reluctant pursuance of a promise given to Arthur Mifflin, felt moodily that if only they could make their acting one half as full of color as their clothes, the play would be one of the most pronounced successes of modern times. In the forefront gleamed like the white plumes of Navarre, the light flannel suit of Arthur Mifflin, the woodenest juvenile in captivity. His woodenness was, however, confined to stage rehearsals. It may be mentioned that once the run of a piece had begun, he was sufficiently volatile, and in private life he was almost excessively so, a fact which had been noted at an early date by the keen-eyed authorities of his university, the discovery leading to his tearing himself away from alma mater by request with some suddenness.

He was a long, slender youth with green eyes, jet-black hair, and a passionate fondness for the sound of his own voice. "'Well, here we are,' he said, kicking breezily at George's leg with his cane. "'Yes, I saw you,' said George, coldly, sidestepping. "'The whole team,' continued Mr. Mifflin, "'all bright body and train to the minute.' "'What happened after I left?' George asked. "'Has anybody begun to act yet, or are they waiting till the dress rehearsal?' "'The rehearsals,' admitted Mr. Mifflin handsomely, "'weren't perfect, but you wait. It'll be all right on the night.' George thought he had never heard such a futile, vapid remark. "'Besides,' said Mr. Mifflin, "'I have an idea which will make the show.

Lend me your ears, both ears. Who shall have them back? Tell me, what pulls people into a theatre? A good play? Sometimes. But failing that, as in the present case, what?' Fine acting by the leading juvenile. We have that. But it's not enough. No, my boy, advertising is the thing. Look at all these men on the beach. Are they going to roll in of their own free wills to see a play like The Foot Pills? Not on your life. About the time the curtain rises, every man of them will be sitting in his own private corner of the beach. How many corners do you think the beach has? Gazing into a girl's eyes, singing, Shine on, thou harvest moon, and telling her how his boss is practically dependent on his advice.

You know." "'I don't,' said George coldly. "'Unless,' proceeded Mr. Mifflin, "'we advertise, and by advertise I mean advertise in no right way. We have a press agent, but for all the good he does he might be back on the old farm gathering in the hay. Lucky for us, I am among those present. I have brains, I have reese—what's that?' I said nothing. I thought you did. Well, I have an idea which will drag these people like a magnet. I thought it out coming down in the train. Ah! What is it? I'll tell you later. There are a few details to be worked upon first. Meanwhile, let us trickle to the sea-front and take a sail in one of those boats. I am at my best in a boat. I rather fancy nature intended me for a Viking.

Matters having been arranged with the financier to whom the boat belonged, they set forth. Mr. Mifflin, having remarked, "'Yoo-ho!' in a meditative voice, seated himself at the helm, somewhat saddened by his failure to borrow a quid of tobacco from the ocean beauty's proprietor. For, as he justly observed, without properties and make-up, where were you? George, being skilled in the way of boats, was in charge of the sheet. The summer day had lost its oppressive heat, the sun no longer beat down on the face of the waters. A fresh breeze had sprung up. George, manipulating the sheet automatically, fell into a reverie. A moment comes in the life of every man when an inward voice whispers to him, "'This is the One.' In George's case, the voice had not whispered.

It had shouted. From now onward, there could be but one woman in the world for him. From now onward—' The ocean beauty gave a sudden plunge. George woke up. "'What the deuce are you doing with that tiller?' he inquired. "'My gentle somnambulist,' said Mr. Mifflin, aggrieved. "'I was doing nothing with this tiller. We will now form a commission to inquire into what you were doing with that sheet. Were you asleep?' "'My fault,' said George. "'I was thinking.' "'Well, if you must break the habit of a lifetime,' said Mr. Mifflin, complainingly, "'I wish you would wait till we get ashore. You nearly upset us.' "'It shan't happen again. They're tricky, these sailing-boats. Turn over in a second. Whatever you do, don't get a broadside on.' There's more breeze out here than I thought there was.

Mr. Mifflin uttered a startled exclamation. "'What's the matter?' asked George. "'Just like a flash,' said Mr. Mifflin complacently. "'It's always the way with me. Give me time, and the artistic idea's bound to come. Just some little thought, some little apparently obvious idea which stamps the man of genius. It beats me why I didn't think of it before. Why, of course, a costume piece with a male star is a hundred times more effective.' "'What are you talking about?' "'I see now,' continued Mr. Mifflin, "'that there was a flaw in my original plan. Why, there was this. We were talking in the train about the bathing down here, and Jane happened to say she could swim some, and it suddenly came to me.' Jane was the leading woman, she who omitted to give cues.

"'I said to myself, "'George is a sportsman. He'll be delighted to do a little thing like that.' "'Like to do what?' "'Why, rescue Jane!' What? She and you, said Mr. Mifflin, were to go in swimming together while I waited on the sands, holding our boneheaded press agent on a leash. About a hundred yards from the shore, up go her arms, piercing scream, agitated crowds on the beach. What is the matter? What was happening? A touch of cramp. Will she be drowned? No! G. Barnett Callender, author of Fate's Footballs, which opens at the Beach Theatre on Monday evening next at Eight Fifteen Sharp, We'll save her. See, he has her. He is bringing her in. She is safe. How pleased her mother will be, and the public.

What a bit of luck for them. They'll be able to see her act at eight-fifteen sharp on Monday after all. Back you come to the shore, cheering crowds, weeping women's strong situation. I unleash the press agent, and off he shoots in time to get the story into the evening paper. It was a great idea, but I see now there were one or two floors in it. "'You do, do you?' said George. "'It occurs to me on reflection that, after all, you wouldn't have agreed to it. A something—I don't know what—which is lacking in your nature—would have made you reject the scheme.' "'I am certainly glad that occurred to you.' "'And a far greater flaw was that it was too altruistic. It boomed you and it boomed Jane, but I didn't get a thing out of it.

My revised scheme is a thousand times better in every way.' "'Don't say you have another.' "'Oh, I have,' and added Mr. Mifflin, with modest pride, "'it is a winner. This time I unhesitatingly assert that I have the goods, and about one minute from now you will hear me exclaim in a clear musical voice the single word, jump. That is your cue to leap over the side as quick as you can move, for at that precise moment the spanking craft is going to capsize." George spun round in his sheet. Mr. Mifflin's face was shining with kindly enthusiasm. The shore was at least two hundred yards away, and that morning he had had his first swimming lesson. Why, a movement of the tiller will do it. These accidents are common objects of the seashore.

I may mention that I can swim just enough to keep myself afloat. So it's up to you, dear boy. I wouldn't do this for everyone, but seeing that we were boys together, are you ready? Stop! said George. Don't do it. Listen. "'Are you ready?' the ocean beauty gave a plunge. "'You lunatic! Listen to me!' "'Jump!' said Mr. Mifflin. George came to the surface some yards from the overturned boat, and, looking round for Mr. Mifflin, discovered that great thinker treading water a few feet away. "'Get to work, George,' he remarked. It's not easy to shake one's fist at a man when in deep water, but George managed it. "'For twopence,' he cried, "'I'd leave you to look after yourself.' "'You can do better than that,' said Mr.

Mifflin. "'I'll give you thruppence to tow me in. Hurry up. It's cold.' In gloomy silence George gripped him by the elbows. Mr. Mifflin looked over his shoulder. "'We shall have a good house,' he said. "'The stalls are full already. And the dress circle's filling. Work away, George. You're doing fine.' "'This act is going to be a scream from start to finish.' With pleasant conversation he endeavoured to while away the monotony of the journey. But George made no reply. He was doing some rapid thinking. With ordinary luck he felt bitterly all would have been well. He could have gone on splashing vigorously under his teacher's care for a week, gradually improving till he emerged into a reasonably proficient swimmer.

But now—in an age of miracles he might have explained away his present performance, but how was he to—and then there came to him an idea, simple as all great ideas are, but magnificent. He stopped. and trod water. "'Tired?' said Mr. Mifflin. "'Well, take a rest,' he added kindly. "'Take a rest. No need to hurry.' "'Look here,' said George. "'This piece is going to be recast. "'We are going to exchange parts. "'You are rescuing me. "'See, never mind why. "'I haven't time to explain it to you now. "'Do you understand?' "'No,' said Mr. Mifflin. "'I'll get behind you and push you, "'but don't forget, when we get to the shore, "'that you have done the rescuing.' Mr. Mifflin pondered. "'Is this wise?' he said.

"'It is a strong part, the rescuer, but I am not sure the other wouldn't suit my style better. The silent hand-grip, the catch and the voice—you want a practiced actor for that. I don't think you'd be up to it, George.' "'Never mind about me. That's how it's going to be.' Mr. Mifflin pondered once more. "'No,' he said at length, "'it wouldn't do. You mean well, George, but it would kill the show. We'll go on as before.' "'Will we?' said George unpleasantly. "'Would you like to know what I am going to do to you then? I am going to hit you very hard under the jaw, and I am going to take hold of your neck and squeeze it till you lose consciousness, and then I am going to drag you to the beach and tell people I had to hit you because you lost your head and struggled.' Mr.

Mifflin pondered for the third time. "'You are?' he said. "'I am.' Then,' said Mr. Mifflin cordially, "'say no more.' I take your point. My objections are removed. But, but, he concluded, this is the last time I come bathing with you, George. Mr. Mifflin's artistic misgivings as to his colleague's ability to handle so subtle a part as that of a rescuee were more than justified on their arrival. A large and interested audience had collected by the time they reached the shore, an audience to which any artist should have been glad to play, but George, forcing his way through, hurried to the hotel without attempting to satisfy them. Not a single silent handshake did he bestow on his rescuer. There was no catch in his voice as he made the one remark which he did make, to a man with whiskers who asked him if the boat had upset.

As an exhibition of rapid footwork his performance was good. In other respects, it was poor. He had just changed his wet clothes. It seemed to him that he had been doing nothing but changing his wet clothes since he had come to Marvis Bay, when Mr. Mifflin entered in a bathrobe. "'They lent me this downstairs,' he explained, "'while they dried my clothes. "'They would do anything for me. "'I am the popular hero. "'My boy, you made the mistake of your life "'when you threw up the rescuer part. "'It has all the fat. "'I see that now. "'The rescuer plays the other man off the stage every time. "'I have just been interviewed "'by the fellow on the local newspaper, "'his correspondent to a couple of London papers.

"'The country will ring with this thing.' I have told him all the parts I have ever played in my favourite breakfast food. There is a man coming up to take my photograph tomorrow. Foot-pills stock has gone up with a run. Wait till Monday and see what sort of house we shall draw. By the way, the reporter fellow said one funny thing. He asked if you weren't the same man who was rescued yesterday by a girl. I said, of course not, that you had only come down yesterday. But he stuck to it that you were. He was quite right. What? I was. Mr. Mifflin sat down on the bed. "'This fellow fell off the pier, and a girl brought him in,' George nodded. "'And that was you?' George nodded. Mr. Mifflin's eyes opened wide.

"'It's the heat,' he declared finally. "'That and the worry of rehearsals. I expect a doctor could give the technical name for it. It's—what do you call it—an obsession.' You often hear of cases. "'Fellows who are absolutely sane, really, but cracked on one particular subject.' Some of them think they're teapots. He thinks you've got a craving for being rescued from drowning. What happens, old man? Do you suddenly get the delusion that you can't swim? It can't be that, because you were doing all the swimming for the two of us just now. I don't know, though. Maybe you didn't realize that you were swimming. George finished lacing his shoe and looked up. Listen, he said. I'll talk slow so that you can understand.

Suppose you fell off a pier and a girl took a great deal of trouble to get you to the shore. Would you say, "'Much obliged, but you needn't have been so officious. I can swim perfectly well.' Mr. Mifflin considered this point. Intelligence began to dawn in his face. "'There is more in this than meets the eye,' he said. "'Tell me all.' This morning,' George's voice grew dreamy, "'she gave me a swimming lesson. She thought it was my first—'Don't cackle like that. There's nothing to laugh at.' Mr. Mifflin contradicted this assertion. "'There is you,' he said simply. "'This should be a lesson to you, George. Avoid deceit. In future, be simple and straightforward. Take me as your model. You have managed to scrape through this time.

Don't risk it again. You are young. There is still time to make a fresh start. It only needs will-power. Meanwhile, lend me something to wear. They are going to take a week drying my clothes.' There was a rehearsal at the Beach Theatre that evening. George attended it in a spirit of resignation, and left it in one of elation. Three days had passed since his last sight of the company at work, and in those three days apparently the impossible had been achieved. There was a snap and go about the piece now. The leading lady had at length mastered that cue, and gave it out with bell-like clearness. Arthur Mifflin, as if refreshed and braced by his salt-water bath, was infusing a welcome vigour into his part, and even the comedian, George could not help admitting, showed signs of being on the eve of becoming funny.

It was with a light heart and a light step that he made his way back to the hotel. In the veranda were a number of basket-chairs. Only one was occupied, and he recognised the occupant. "'I've just come back from a rehearsal,' he said, seating himself beside her. "'Really? The whole thing is different,' he went on buoyantly. They know their lines, they act as if they meant it. Arthur Mifflin's fine. The comedian's improved till you wouldn't know him. I'm awfully pleased about it." "'Really?' George felt damned. "'I thought you might be pleased, too,' he said lamely. "'Of course I'm glad that things are doing well. Your accident this afternoon was lucky, too, in a way, was it not? It will interest people in the play.' "'You heard about it?' "'I've been hearing about nothing else.' Curious it happened so soon after.

and so soon before the production of your play. Most curious. There was a silence. George began to feel uneasy. You could never tell with women, of course. It might be nothing, but it looked uncommonly as if—he changed the subject. "'And how is your aunt this evening, Miss Vaughan?' "'Quite well, thank you.' She went in. She found it a little chilly." George heartily commended her good sense. A little chilly did not begin to express it. If the girl had been like this all the evening, he wondered her aunt had not caught pneumonia. He tried again. "'Will you have time to give me another lesson tomorrow?' he said. She turned on him. "'Mr. Callender, don't you think this farce has gone on long enough?' Once in the dear dead days beyond recall, when but a happy child, George had been smitten unexpectedly by a sportive playmate a bare half-inch below his third waistcoat-button.

The resulting emotions were still green in his memory. As he had felt then, so did he feel now. "'Miss Vaughan, I don't understand.' "'Really?' "'What have I done?' "'You have forgotten how to swim.' A warm and prickly sensation began to manifest itself in the region of George's forehead. "'Forgotten? Forgotten! And in a few months—'I thought I had seen you before, and today I remembered.' It was just about this time last year that I saw you at Haling Island swimming perfectly wonderfully, and today you are taking lessons. Can you explain it? A frog-like croak was the best George could do in that line. She went on. Business is business, I suppose, and a play has to be advertised somehow, but—you don't think, croaked George.

I should have thought it rather beneath the dignity of an author, but of course you know your own business best. Only I object to being a conspirator. I am sorry for your sake that yesterday's episode attracted so little attention. Today it was much more satisfactory, wasn't it? I am so glad. There was a massive silence for about a hundred years. I think I will go for a short stroll, George said. Scarcely had he disappeared when the long form of Mr. Mifflin emerged from the shadow beyond the veranda. "'Could you spare me a moment?' the girl looked up. The man was a stranger. She inclined her head coldly. "'My name is Mifflin,' said the other, dropping comfortably into the chair which had held the remains of George.

The girl inclined her head again more coldly, but it took more than that to embarrass Mr. Mifflin. "'Dynamite might have done it, but not coldness.' "'The,' Mifflin,' he explained, crossing his legs, "'I overheard your conversation just now.' "'You were listening,' said the girl, swornfully. For all I was worth, said Mr. Mifflin, these things are very much a matter of habit. For years I have been playing in pieces where I have had to stand concealed upstage, drinking in the private conversation of other people, and the thing has become a second nature to me. However, leaving that point for a moment, what I wish to say is that I heard you, unknowingly, of course, doing a good man a grave injustice.

Mr. Callender could have defended himself, if he had wished. I was not referring to George. The injustice was to myself. To you? I was the sole author of this afternoon's little drama. I like George, but I cannot permit him to pose in any way as my collaborator. George has old-fashioned ideas. He does not keep abreast of the times. He can write plays, but he needs a man with a big brain to boom them for him. So far from being entitled to any credit for this afternoon's work, he was actually opposed to it.

Then why did he pretend you had saved him? She demanded. George's, said Mr. Mifflin, is essentially a chivalrous nature. At any crisis demanding a display of the finer feelings, he is there with the goods before you can turn around. His friends frequently wrangle warmly as to whether he is most like Bayard, Lancelot, or a happy hooligan. Some say one, some the other. It seemed that yesterday you saved him from a watery grave without giving him time to explain that he could save himself. What could he do? He said to himself, "'She must never know,' and acted accordingly. "'Ah, but let us leave George and return.' "'Thank you, Mr. Mifflin.' There was a break in her laugh. "'I don't think there is any necessity.

I think I understand now. It was very clever of you.' It was more than cleverness, said Mr. Mifflin, rising. It was genius. A white form came to meet George as he re-entered the veranda. Mr. Callender, he stopped. I am very sorry I said such horrid things to you just now. I have been talking to Mr. Mifflin, and I want to say I think it was ever so nice and thoughtful of you. I understand everything. George did not, by a good deal, but he understood sufficient for his needs. He shot forward as if some A strong hand was behind him with a needle. Miss Vaughan, Mary, I think I hear aunt calling, said she. But a benevolent providence has ordained that aunts cannot call for ever, and it is on record that when George entered his box on the two-hundredth night of that great London success, Fates footballs, he did not enter it alone.

4 04 - When Doctors Disagree 33:45

The Man Upstairs, by P. G. Woodhouse. When Doctors Disagree, is the story title. It is possible that at about the time at which this story opens you may have gone into the Hotel Belvoir for a haircut. Many people did, for the young man behind the scissors, though of a singularly gloomy countenance, was undoubtedly an artist in his line. He clipped judiciously. He left no ridges. He never talked about the weather, and he allowed you to go away unburdened by any bottle of hair food. It is possible, too, that being there you decided that you might as well go the whole hog and be manicured at the same time. It is not unlikely, moreover, that when you had got over the first shock of finding your hand so unexpectedly large and red, you felt disposed to chat with the young lady who looked after that branch of the business.

In your genial way you may have permitted a note of gay, but gentlemanly badindage to creep into your end of the dialogue, in which case, if you had raised your eyes to the mirror, you would certainly have observed a Mark an increase of gloom in the demeanour of the young man attending to your apex. He took no official notice of the matter. A quick frown, a tightening of the lips, nothing more. Jealous, as Arthur Welch was, of all who inflicted gay bandage, however gentlemanly on Maude Peters, he never forgot that he was an artist. Never, even in his blackest moments, had he yielded to the temptation to dig the point of the scissors the merest fraction of an inch into a client's skull. But Maude, who saw, would understand, and if the customer was an observant man, he would notice that her replies at that juncture became somewhat absent, her smile a little mechanical.

Jealousy, according to an eminent authority, is the hydra of calamities, the sevenfold death. Arthur Welch's was all that and a bit over. It was a constant shadow on Maude's happiness. No fair-minded girl objects to a certain tinge of jealousy. Kept within proper bounds, it is a compliment. It makes for piquancy. It is the gin and the ginger-beer of devotion. But it should be a condiment, not a fluid. It was the unfairness, the thing which hurt Maud. Her conscience was clear. She knew several girls who gave the young men with whom they walked out ample excuse for being perfect Othellos. If she had ever flirted on the open beach with the baritone of the troupe of Pierrot's, like Jane Ottie, She could have excused Arthur's attitude.

If, like Pauline Dicey, she had roller-skated for a solid hour with a black-moustached stranger while her fianc floundered in Mugg's Alley, she could have understood his frowning disapprovingly. But she was not like Pauline. She scorned the coqueteries of Jane. Arthur was the center of her world, and he knew it. Ever since the rainy evening, when he had sheltered her under his umbrella to her tube station, He had known perfectly well how things were with her, and yet just because in a strictly businesslike way she was civil to her customers, he must scowl and bite his lip and behave generally as if it had been brought to his notice that he had been nurturing a serpent in his bosom. It was worse than wicked.

It was unprofessional. She remonstrated with him. It isn't fair, she said one morning when the rush of customers had ceased and they had the shop to themselves. Matters had been worse than usual that morning. After the days of rain and grayness, the weather had turned over a new leaf, the sun glinted among the bottles of unfailing lotion in the window, and everything in the world seemed to have relaxed and become cheerful. Unfortunately, everything had included the customers. During the last few days they had taken their seats in moist gloom, and brooding over the prospect of coming colds in the head, it had little that was pleasant to say to the divinity who was shaping their ends. But today it had been different.

Warm and happy, they had bubbled over with gay small talk. "'It isn't fair,' she repeated. Arthur, who was stropping a razor and whistling tunelessly, raised his eyebrows. His manner was frosty. "'I fail to understand your meaning,' he said. "'You know what I mean. Do you think I don't see you frowning when I was doing that gentleman's nails?' The allusion was to the client who had just left, a jovial individual with a red face, who certainly had made Maude giggle a good deal. And why not? If a gentleman tells really funny stories, what harm is there in giggling? You have to be pleasant to people. If you snubbed customers, what happened? Sooner or later it got round to the boss. And then where were you?

Besides, it was not as if the red-faced customer had been rude. Write down on paper what he had said to her, and nobody could object to it. Write down on paper what she had said to him, and you couldn't object to that either. It was just Arthur's silliness. She tossed her head. "'I am gratified,' said Arthur, ponderously. In happier moments Maud had admired his gift of language. He read a great deal, encyclopedias and papers and things. "'I am gratified to find that you had time to bestow a glance on me. You appeared absorbed.' Maud sniffed unhappily. She had meant to be cold and dignified throughout the conversation, but the sense of her wrongs was beginning to be too much for her. A large tear splashed onto her tray of orange sticks.

She wiped it away with the chamois leather. "'It isn't fair,' she sobbed. "'It isn't. You know I can't help it if gentlemen talk and joke with me. You know it's all in the day's work. I'm expected to be civil to gentlemen who come in to have their hands done.' Silly, I should look sitting as if I had swallowed a poke. I do think you might understand, Arthur. You being in the profession yourself, he coughed. It isn't so much that you talk to them as that you seem to like—he stopped. Maude's dignity had melted completely. Her face was buried in her arms. She did not care if a million customers came in, all at the same time. Maude! She heard him moving towards her, but she did not look up. The next moment his arms were rounder and he was babbling, and a customer pushing open the door unnoticed two minutes later retired hurriedly to get shaved elsewhere, doubting whether Arthur's mind was on his job.

For a time this little thunderstorm undoubtedly cleared the air. For a day or two, Maude was happier than she ever remembered to have been. Arthur's behaviour was unexceptionable. He bought her a wrist-watch, light brown leather, very smart, He gave her some chocolates to eat in the tube. He entertained her with amazing statistics culled from the weekly paper which he bought on Tuesdays. He was, in short, the perfect lover. On the second day, the red-faced man came in again. Arthur joined in the laughter at his stories. Everything seemed ideal. It could not last. Gradually things slipped back into the old routine. Maude, looking up from her work, would see the frown and the bitten lip. She began again to feel uncomfortable and self-conscious as she worked.

Sometimes their conversation on the way to the tube was almost formal. It was useless to say anything. She had a wholesome horror of being one of those women who nagged, and she felt that to complain again would amount to nagging. She tried to put the thing out of her mind, but it insisted on staying there. In a way she understood his feelings. He loved her so much, she supposed, Then he hated the idea of her exchanging a single word with another man. This, in the abstract, was gratifying, but in practice it distressed her. She wished she were some sort of foreigner so that nobody could talk to her, but then they would look at her, and that probably would produce much the same results. It was a hard world for a girl.

Then the strange thing happened. Arthur reformed. One might almost say he reformed with a jerk. It was a parallel case to those sudden conversions at Welsh revival meetings. On Monday evening he had been at his worst. On the following morning he was a changed man. Not even after the original thunderstorm had he been more docile. Maude could not believe that at first. The lip, once bitten, was stretched in a smile. She looked for the frown. It was not there. Next day it was the same, and the day after that, when a week had gone by and still the improvement was maintained, Maud felt that she might now look upon it as permanent. A great load seemed to have been taken off her mind. She revised her views on the world.

It was a very good world, quite one of the best, with Arthur beaming upon it like a sun. A number of eminent poets and essayists in the course of the last few centuries have recorded in their several ways their opinion that one can have too much of a good thing. The truth applies even to such a good thing as absence of jealousy. Little by little, Maud began to grow uneasy. It began to come home to her that she preferred the old Arthur of the scowl and the gnawed lip. Of him she had at least been sure. Whatever discomfort she may have suffered from his spirited imitations of Othello, at any rate they had proved that he loved her. She would have accepted gladly an equal amount of discomfort now, in exchange for the same certainty.

She could not read this new Arthur. His thoughts were a closed book. Superficially, he was all that she could have wished. He still continued to escort her to the tube, to buy her occasional present, to tap when conversing the pleasantly sentimental vein. But now these things were not enough. Her heart was troubled. Her thoughts frightened her. The little black imp at the back of her mind kept whispering and whispering, till at last she was forced to listen. "'He's tired of you. He doesn't love you any more. He's tired of you!' It is not everybody who, in times of mental stress, can find ready to hand among his or her personal acquaintances an expert counselor, prepared at a moment's notice to listen with sympathy and advise with tact and skill.

Everyone's world is full of friends, relatives, and others who will give advice on any subject that may be presented to them, but there are crises in life which cannot be left to the amateur. It is the aim of a certain widely-read class of paper to fill this void. Of this class, Fireside Chat is one of the best-known representatives. In exchange for one penny, its five hundred thousand readers received every week a serial story about life in highest circles, a short story packed with heart interest, articles on the removal of stains and the best method of coping with the cold mutton, anecdotes of royalty, photographs of peeresses, hints on dress, chats about baby, Brief, but pointed dialogues between Blogson and Snogson.

Poems, great thoughts from the dead and brainy, half-hours in the editor's cozy sanctum, a slab of brown paper, and the journal's leading feature, Advice on Matters of the Heart. The weekly contribution of the advice specialist of Fireside Chat, entitled, In the Consulting Room, by Dr. Cupid. was made up mainly of answers to correspondence. He affected the bedside manner of the kind, breezy old physician, and probably gave a good deal of comfort. At any rate, he always seemed to have plenty of cases on his hands. It was to this expert that Maud took her trouble. She had been a regular reader of the paper for several years, and had indeed consulted the great man once before, when he had replied favorably to her query as to whether it would be right for her to accept caramels from Arthur, then almost a stranger.

It was only natural that she should go to him now in an even greater dilemma. The letter was not easy to write, but she finished it at last, and after an anxious interval judgment was delivered as follows. "'Well, well, well, bless my soul. What is all this?' M. B. writes me. "'I am a young lady until recently who was very, very happy, except that my fianc, though truly loving me, was of a very jealous disposition, though I am sure I gave him no cause. He would scowl when I spoke to any other man.' and this used to make me unhappy, but for some time now he has quite changed and does not seem to mind at all, and though at first this made me feel happy, to think that he had got over his jealousy, I now feel unhappy because I am beginning to be afraid that he no longer cares for me.

Do you think this is so, and what ought I to do?

My dear young lady, I should like to be able to reassure you, but it is kindest sometimes, you know, to be candid However it may hurt. It has been my experience that when jealousy flies out of the window, indifference comes in at the door. In the old days a knight would joust for the love of a lady, risking physical injury rather than permit others to rival him in her affections. I think, M. P., that you should endeavor to discover the true state of your fianc's feelings. I do not, of course, advocate anything in the shape of unwomanly behavior, of which I am sure, my dear young lady, you are incapable. But I think that you should certainly try to pique your fiancée to test him. At your next ball, for instance, refuse him a certain number of dances, on the plea that your program is full, at garden parties, at homes, etc., exhibit pleasure in the society and conversation of other gentlemen, and mark his demeanor as you do so.

These little tests should serve either to relieve your apprehensions, provided they are groundless, or to show you the truth, and after all, if it is truth, it must be faced. Must it not, M. P.? Before the end of the day, Maude knew the whole passage by heart. The more her mind had dwelt on it, the more clearly did it seem to express what she had felt, but could not put into words. The point about jousting struck her as particularly well taken. She had looked up joust in the dictionary, and it seemed to her that in those few words was contained the kernel of her trouble. In the old days, if any man had attempted to rival him in her affections, outside business hours, Arthur would undoubtedly have jousted, and jousted with the vigour of one who means to make his presence felt.

Now in similar circumstances he would probably step aside politely as one who should say, After you, my dear Alphonse, there was no time to lose. An hour after her first perusal of Dr. Cupid's advice, Maud had begun to act upon it. By the time the first lull in the morning's work had come, there was a chance for private conversation, and she had invented an imaginary young man A shadowy lothario, who, being introduced into her home on the previous Sunday by her brother Horace, had carried on in a way you wouldn't believe, paying all manner of compliments. "'He said I had such white hands,' said Maud. Arthur nodded, stropping a razor the while. He appeared to be bearing the revelations with complete fortitude.

Yet only a few weeks before, a customer's comment on this same whiteness had stirred him to his depths. "'And this morning, what do you think? Why—' "'He meets me as bold as you please, and gives me a cake of toilet soap.' "'Like his impudence,' she paused, hopefully. "'Always useful, soap,' said Arthur, politely sententious. "'Lovely it was,' went on, more duly conscious of failure, but stippling in like an artist the little touches which give atmosphere and verisimilitude to a story. "'All scented. Orris'll tease me about it, I can tell you,' she paused. "'Surely he must—' Why, a sea-anemone would be torn with jealousy at such a tale. Arthur did not even wince. He was charming about it, thought it very kind, the young fellow, didn't blame him for being struck by the whiteness of her hands, touched on the history of soap which he had happened to have been reading up in the encyclopaedia at the free library, and behaved altogether in such a thoroughly gentlemanly fashion that Maud stayed awake half the night crying.

If Maud had waited another twenty-four hours, there would have been no need for her to have taxed her powers of invention. From the following day there entered the shop and her life a young man who was not imaginary, a lothario of flesh and blood. He made his entry with that air of having bought most of the neighboring property, which belongs exclusively to minor actors, men of weight on the stock exchange, and American professional pugilists. Mr. Skipper Shute belonged to the last name of the three classes. He had arrived in England two months previously for the purpose of holding a conference at eight stone four with one Joseph Edwards, to settle a question of superiority at that weight which had been vexing the sporting public of two countries for over a year.

Having successfully out-argued Mr. Edwards, mainly by means of strenuous work in the clinches, He was now on the eve of starting on a lucrative music-hall tour with his celebrated inaudible monologue. As a result of these things he was feeling very, very pleased with the world in general, and with Mr. Schuette in particular, and when Mr. Schuette was pleased with himself his manner was apt to be of the breeziest. He breezed into the shop, took a seat, and having cast an experienced eye at Maud, and found her pleasing, extended both hands, and observed, Go to the limit, kid. At any other time Maude might have resented being addressed as kid by a customer, but now she welcomed it. With the exception of a slight thickening of the lobe of one ear, Mr.

Shute bore no outward signs of his profession, and being, to use his own phrase, a swell-dresser, he was really a most presentable young man. Just, in fact, what Maude needed. She saw in him her last hope. If any faint spark of his ancient fire still lingered in Arthur, it was through Mr. Shute that it must be fanned. She smiled upon Mr. Shute. She worked on his robust fingers as if it were an artistic treat to be permitted to handle them. So carefully did she toil that she was still busy, when Arthur, taking off his apron and putting on his hat, went out for his twenty minutes' lunch, leaving them alone together. The door had scarcely shut when Mr. Shute bent forward. "'Say,' he sank his voice to a winning whisper, "'you look good to me,' he said gallantly.

"'The idea,' said Maud, tossing her head. "'On the level,' Mr. Chute assured her. Maud laid down her orange sticks. "'Don't be silly,' she said. "'There, I've finished.' "'I've not,' said Mr. Chute, "'not by a mile.' "'Say.' "'Well, what do you do with your evenings?' "'I go home.' "'Sure, but when you don't.' It is a poor heart that never rejoices. Don't you ever whoop it up?" Whoop it up? The mad whirl, explained Mr. Chute. Ice cream soda and buckwheat cakes and a happy evening at lovely Luna Park. I don't know where Luna Park is. What did they teach you at school? It is out in that direction, said Mr. Chute, pointing over his shoulder. You go straight on about three thousand miles till you hit little old New York.

Then you turn to the right and say, "'Don't you ever get a little treat? Why not come along to the White City some old evening this evening?' "'Mr. Welch is taking me to the White City to-night.' "'And who is Mr. Welch?' "'The gentleman who has just gone out.' "'Is that so? Well, he doesn't look a live one, but maybe it's just because he's had bad news to-day. You never can tell.' He rose. "'Farewell, Evelina, fairest of your sex. We shall meet again, so keep a stout heart.' And taking up his cane, straw hat, and yellow gloves, Mr. Chute departed, leaving Maude to her thoughts. She was disappointed. She had expected better results. Mr. Chute had lowered with ease the record for Gabe Batendish, hitherto held by the red-faced customer, yet to all appearances there had been no change in Arthur's manner.

But perhaps he had scowled or bitten his lip, and she had not noticed it. Apparently he had struck Mr. Chute, an unbiased spectator, as gloomy. Perhaps at some point when her eyes had been on her work she hoped for the best. Whatever his feelings may have been during the afternoon, Arthur was undeniably cheerful that evening. He was in excellent spirits. His light-hearted abandon on the wiggle-woggle had been noted and commented upon by several lookers-on. Confronted with the hairy anus, he had touched a high level of facetiousness, and now as he sat with her listening to the band, he was crooning joyously to himself in accompaniment to the music. Without it would appear a care in the world. Maude was hurt and anxious.

In a mere acquaintance this blithe attitude would have been welcome. It would have helped her to enjoy her evening. But from Arthur at that particular moment she looked for something else. Why was he cheerful? Only a few hours ago she had been—yes—flirting with another man before his very eyes. What right had he to be cheerful? He ought to be heated, full of passionate demands for an explanation. A flushed, throaty thing to be coaxed back into a good temper, and then forgiven. All this at great length, for having been in a bad one. Yes, she told herself. She had wanted certainty one way or another, and here it was. Now she knew. He no longer cared for her. She trembled. Cold, said Arthur. Let's walk.

Evening is beginning to draw in now. Lumda diddly-ah. That's what I call a good tune. Give me something lively and bright. Dumpty umpty iddly-ah. Dumpty. Funny thing," said Maud deliberately. What's a funny thing? The gentleman in the brown suit whose hands I did this afternoon. He was, agreed Arthur brightly, a very funny thing. Maud frowned. Wit at the expense of hairy anus was one thing, at her own another. I was about to say, she went on precisely, that it was a funny thing, a coincidence, seeing that I was already engaged, that the gentleman in the brown suit whose hands I did this afternoon should have asked me to come here, to White City, with him tonight. For a moment they walked on in silence.

To Maud it seemed a hopeful silence. Surely it must be the prelude to an outburst. Oh, he said, and stopped. Maud's heart gave a leap. Surely that was the old tone. A couple of paces and he spoke again. "'I didn't hear him ask you.' His voice was disappointingly level. "'He asked me after you had gone out to lunch.' "'It's a nuisance,' said Arthur cheerfully, "'when things clash like that. But perhaps he'll ask you again. Nothing to prevent you coming here twice.' "'Well, repay's a second visit, I always say.' "'I think you shouldn't,' said a voice behind him. "'It hurts the head.' Well, kid, being shown a good time? The possibility of meeting Mr. Chute had not occurred to Maude. She had assumed that, being aware that she would be there with another, he would have stayed away.

It may, however, be remarked that she did not know Mr. Chute. He was not one of your sensitive plants. He smiled pleasantly upon her, looking very dapper in evening dress, and a silk hat, though a size too small for him, shone like a mirror. Maude hardly knew whether she was glad or sorry to see him. It did not seem to matter much now, either way. Nothing seemed to matter much, in fact. Arthur's cheery acceptance of the news she had received invitations from others had been like a blow, leaving her numb and listless. She made the introductions. The two men eyed each other. Pleased to meet you, said Mr. Chute. Weather keeps up, said Arthur, and from that point onward Mr. Chute took command. It is to be assumed that this was not the first time Mr.

Chute had made one of a trio in these circumstances, for the swift dexterity with which he lost Arthur was certainly not that of a novice. So smoothly was it done that it was not until she emerged from the witching waves, guided by the pugilist's slim but formidable right arm, that Maude realized that Arthur had gone. She gave a little cry of dismay. Secretly she was beginning to be somewhat afraid of Mr. Chute. He was showing signs of being about to step out of the role she had assigned to him and attempt something on a larger scale. His manner had that extra touch of warmth which makes all the difference. "'Oh, he's gone!' she cried. "'Sure,' said Mr. Shute. "'He's got a hurry-up call from the U.G.

Village. The chief's cousin wants a haircut.' "'We must find him. We must.' "'Surest thing you know,' said Mr. Shute. "'Plenty of time.' We must find him," Mr. Shute regarded her with some displeasure. "'Seems to be ace high with you, that dub,' he said. "'I don't understand you.' "'My observation was,' explained Mr. Shute coldly, "'that, judging from appearances, that doe-face lemon was a willy boy, the first and only love.' Maude turned on him with flaming cheeks. "'Mr. Welch is nothing to me, nothing, nothing,' she cried. She walked quickly on. "'Well, then, if there is a vacancy, Star-Eye,' said the pugilist at her side, holding on a hat which showed a tendency to wobble, "'Count me in!' "'Directly I saw you.

See here, what's the idea of this road-work? We aren't racing.' Maude slowed down. "'That's better. As I was saying, directly I saw you,' I said to myself, "'That's the one you need, the original Candy Kid.' His hat lurched drunkenly as he answered the girl's increase of speed. He cursed it, and a brief aside, "'That's what I said. The original Candy Kid.' So he shot out a restraining hand. "'Arthur!' cried Maude. "'Arthur!' "'That's not my name,' breathed Mr. Chute tenderly. "'Call me Clarence.' Considered as an embrace, it was imperfect. At these moments a silk hat a size too small handicaps a man. The necessity of having to be careful about the nap prevented Mr. Chute from doing himself complete justice.

But he did enough to induce Arthur Welsh, who, having sighted the missing ones from afar, had been approaching them at a walking pace, to substitute a run for the walk and arrive just as Maud wrenched herself straight. Mr. Shute took off his hat, smoothed it, replaced it with extreme care, and turned his attention to the newcomer. "'Arthur,' said Maud. Her heart gave a great leap. There was no mistaking the meaning in the eye that met hers. "'He cared, he cared!' Arthur! He took no notice. His face was pale and working. He strode up to Mr. Chute. "'Well,' he said between his teeth. "'At eight stone, four champion of the world has many unusual experiences in his life, but he rarely encounters men who say, "'Well,' to him between their teeth.

Mr. Chute eyed this freak with profound wonder. "'I'll teach you to kiss young ladies.' Mr. Shute removed his hat again and gave it another brush. This gave him the necessary time for reflection. "'I don't need it,' he said. "'I have graduated.' "'Put them up,' hissed Arthur. Almost a shocked look spread itself over the pugilist's face. So might Raphael have looked if requested to draw a pavement picture. "'You aren't speaking to me,' he said incredulously. "'Put them up.' Maude, trembling from head to foot, was conscious of one overwhelming emotion. She was terrified, yes, but stronger than the terror was the great wave of elation which swept over her. All her doubts had vanished. At last, after weary weeks of uncertainty, Arthur was about to give the supreme proof.

He was going to joust for her. A couple of passers-by had paused, interested to watch developments. You could never tell, of course. Many an apparently promising row never got any farther than words. But glancing at Arthur's face, they certainly felt justified in pausing. Mr. Shute spoke. If it wasn't, he said carefully, that I don't want trouble with the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, I—he broke off, for to the accompaniment of a shout of approval from the two spectators, Arthur had swung his right fist, and it had taken him smartly on the side of the head. Compared with the blows Mr. Chute was wont to receive in the exercise of his profession, Arthur's was a gentle tap, but there was one circumstance which gave it a deadliness all its own.

Achilles had his heel. Mr. Chute's vulnerable point was at the other extremity. Instead of countering, he uttered a cry of agony and clutched wildly with both hands at his hat. He was too late. It fell to the ground and bounded away with its proprietor in passionate chase. Arthur snorted and gently chafed his knuckles. There was a calm about Mr. Chute's demeanour, as having given his treasure a final polish and laid it carefully down, he began to advance on his adversary, which was more than ominous. His lips were a thin line of steel. The muscles stood out over his jawbones. Crouching in his professional manner, he moved forward softly, like a cat. And it was at this precise moment, just as the two spectators Reinforced now by eleven other men of sporting tastes were congratulating themselves on their acumen in having stopped to watch that police-constable Robert Bryce, intruding fourteen stones of bone and muscle between the combatants, addressed to Mr.

Shute these memorable words, "'Hullo, hullo, hullo, hullo, hullo!' Mr. Shute appealed to his sense of justice. "'The mutt knocked my hat off!' "'I'll do it again,' said Arthur truculently. "'Not while I'm here you wouldn't, young fellow,' said Mr. Bryce, with decision. "'I'm surprised at you,' he went on pained. "'And you look a respectable young chap, too. You pop off.' A shrill voice from the crowd at this point offered the constable all cinematograph rights if he would allow the contest to proceed. "'And you pop off, too, all of you,' continued Mr. Bryce. "'Bless if I know what kids are coming to nowadays.' "'And as for you,' he said, addressing Mr. Shute, "'all you've got to do is to keep that face of yours closed.

That's what you've got to do. I've got my eye on you, mind, and if I catch you a-follerin of him,' he jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Arthur's departing figure, "'I'll pinch you. Sure as you're alive,' he paused. "'I'd have done it already, he added, pensively, if it wasn't my birthday.' Arthur Welch turned sharply. For some time he had been dimly aware that somebody was calling his name. "'Oh, Arthur!' she was breathing quickly. He could see the tears in her eyes. "'I've been running. You walked so fast.' He stared down at her gloomily. "'Go away,' he said. "'I've done with you.' She clutched at his coat. "'Arthur, listen, listen. It's all a mistake. I thought you didn't care for me any more.

I was miserable. I wrote to the paper and asked what should I do, and they said I ought to test you and try and make you jealous, and that—' That would relieve my apprehensions, and I hated it, but I did it. And you didn't seem to care till now. And you know that there's nobody but you." "'You? The paper? What?' he stammered. "'Yes, yes, yes. I wrote to Fireside Chatton, and Dr. Cupid said that when jealousy flew out the window, indifference came in at the door, and that I must exhibit pleasure in the society of other gentlemen, and mark your demeanour. Oh, so I—' Arthur, luckier than Mr. Shute, was not hampered by a too small silk hat. It was a few moments later, as they moved slowly towards the flip-flap, which had seemed to both of them a fitting climax for the evening's emotions, that Arthur, fumbling in his waistcoat pocket, produced a small slip of paper.

"'What's that?' Maud asked. "'Read it,' said Arthur. "'It's from home moments,' in answer to a letter I sent them, and he added with heat. I'd like to have five minutes alone with the chap who wrote it.' And under the electric light, Maud read, Answers to Correspondence by the Heart Specialist. Arthur W. Jealousy, Arthur, is not only the most wicked, but the most foolish of passions. Shakspeare said, It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on. You admit that you have frequently caused great distress to the young lady of your affections by your exhibition of this weakness. Exactly. There is nothing a girl dislikes or despises more than jealousy. Be a man, Arthur W., fight against it.

You may find it hard at first, but persevere. Keep a smiling face. If she seems to enjoy talking to other men, show no resentment. Be merry and bright. Believe me, it is the only way.

5 05 - By Advice of Counsel 22:11

The Man Upstairs by P. G. Woodhouse. Chapter Five by Advice of Counsel. The traveler champed meditatively at his stake. He paid no attention to the altercation which was in progress between the waiter and the man at the other end of the dingy room. The sounds of strife ceased. The waiter came over to the traveller's table and stood behind his chair. The waiter was ruffled. If he meant lamb, he said querulously, why didn't he say lamb? So's a fellow could hear him. I thought he said am. So I brought him ham. Now Lord Percy gets all peevish. He laughed bitterly. The traveler made no reply. "'The people spoke distinct,' said the waiter. "'There wouldn't be half the trouble there is in the world, and half the trouble there wouldn't be.

"'I shouldn't be here for one thing, in this restaurant, I mean.' A sigh escaped him. "'I shouldn't,' he said, and that's the truth. "'I should be getting up when I pleased, eating and drinking all I wanted, and carrying it on some as in the good old days.' You wouldn't think to look at me, would you, now, that I was once like the lily of the field? The waiter was a tall, stringy man, who gave the impression of having no spine, in that he drooped. He might have been said to resemble a flower, but in no other respect. He had sandy hair, weak eyes set close together, and a day's growth of red stubble on his chin. One could not see him in the lily clasp. "'What I mean to say is I didn't toil, neither did I spin.

"'Them was the happy days, lying on my back plenty of tobacco, something cool in a jug.' He sighed once more. "'Did you ever know a man of the name of Moore? Jerry Moore?' The traveller applied himself to his stake in silence. "'Nice feller, simple sort of feller, big, quiet, bit deaf in one ear, straw-coloured hair, blue eyes, handsome, rather.' and as just outside of Rygate has it still. Money of his own. Left him by his pop. Simple sort of a fellow. Not much to say for himself. I used to know him well in them days. Used to live with him. Nice fellow. He was big. Bit hard to hear him. Got a sleepy kind of grin, like this or something. The traveller sipped his beer in thoughtful silence. "'I reckon you never met him,' said the waiter.

"'Maybe you never knew gentleman Bailey either. We always called him, Nat. He was one of those... Broken down eating or at our fellows, folks said. We struck up a partnership kind of casual, both being on the tramp together, and after a while we happened to be round about Reigate, and the first house we come to was this Jerry Moore's. He come up just as we were sliding to the back door and grinned that sleepy grin like this or something. Hello, he said. Gentleman kind of gives a whoop and hollers, if it ain't my old pal Jerry Moore. Jack, he says to me. This is my old pal, Mr. Jerry Moore, what I met in Appy to-days down at Ramsgate one summer. They shake hands, and Jerry Moore says, "'Is this a friend of yours, Bailey?' Looking at me, the gentleman introduces me.

"'We are partners,' he says, "'partners in misfortune. This is my friend, Mr. Roach.' "'Come along in,' says Jerry. So we went on in, and he makes us at home. He's a bachelor, and lives all by himself in this desirable house.' I've seen pretty quick that Jerry thinks the world a gentleman. All that evening, his acting is as pleased as punch to have him there. Couldn't do enough for him. It was a bit of all right, I said to myself. It was, too. Next day, we gets up late, has a good breakfast, sits on the lawn, smokes. The sun was shining, the little birds were singing, and there wasn't a thing, east, west, north or south, that looked like work. If I'd been asked my address at that moment on oath, I couldn't have hesitated a second I should have answered.

Number One Easy Street. You see, Jerry Moore was one of these slow, simple fellows, and you could tell in a moment what a lot he thought of gentlemen. Gentlemen, you see, had a way with him. Not aughty. He wasn't. More affable, I should call it. He sort of made you feel that all men are born equal, but that it was awful good of him to be talking to you, and that he wouldn't do it for everybody. It went down proper with Jerry Moore. Jerry would sit and listen to him giving his views on things by the hour. By the end of the first day I was having visions of sitting in that garden, a white-baked old man, and being laid out when my time should come, in Jerry's front room. He paused his mind evidently in the past among the cigars and big breakfasts.

Presently he took up his tale. You see, Jerry Moore was a simple sort of fellow. Deffy's alike there. Ever noticed? Not that Jerry was a real deafie. His hearing was a bit off, but he could follow you if you spoke to him nice and clear. Well, I was saying he was kind of simple, like to put in his days pottering about the little garden he made for himself, looking after his flowers and his fowls, and sitting of an evening listening to gentlemen old and forth on life. He was a philosopher, gentlemen, was, and Jerry took everything he said as gospel. Didn't want no proofs. He and the King of Denmark would have been great pals. He just sat by with his big blue eyes, getting round her every minute, and lapped it up.

Now, you'd think a man like that could be counted on, wouldn't you? Would he want anything more? Not he, you'd say. Well, you'd be wrong. Believe me, there isn't a man on earth that's fixed and contented but once a woman can't knock his old paradise into ash with one punch. It wasn't long before I began to notice a change in Jerry. Never had been what you'd call a champion catcher's catch can talker. But now he was silenter than ever, and he got a habit of switching gentlemen off from his theories of life in general to women in particular. This suited gentlemen just right. What he didn't know about women wasn't knowledge. Gentlemen was too busy talking to have time to get suspicious, but I wasn't, and one day I draws gentlemen aside and puts it to him straight.

Gentlemen, I says, Jerry Moore is in love. Well, this was a nasty knock, of course, for gentlemen. He knew as well as I did what it would mean if Jerry was to lead home a blushing bride through that front door. It would be outside into the cold hard work for the bachelor friends. The gentleman sees that quick, and his jaw drops. I goes on, "'All the time,' I says, "'that you're talking away of an evening. Jerry's seeing visions of a little woman sitting in your chair, and you can bet you don't enter into them visions. He may dream a little feat pattern about the house, I says, but they ain't ours.' "'And you can have something on that both ways. Look alive, gentlemen,' I says, "'and think out some plan, and we might as well be padding the hoof right now.' Well, gentleman did what he could.

In his evening discourses he started to give it to woman all he knew, and began to talk about delilas and jezebels and fools there was and the rest of it, and what a mug a fellow was to let a female into his cozy house that would only make him spend his days hooking her up. and his nights wondering how to get back to blankets without waking her. My, he was crisp, enough to have given Romeo the jumps, he'd thought, but Lord, it's no good talking to them when they've had it bad. A few days later we caught him with the goods, talking in the road to a girl in a pink dress. I couldn't but admit that Jerry had picked one right from the top of the basket. This wasn't one of them languishing sort of what sits about in cozy corners and read story-books.

and don't care what's happening in the home, so long as they find out what became of the hero in his duel with the grand duke. She was a brown, slim, wary-looking little thing. You know, you held her chin up, and looked you up and down with eyes the colour of Scotch whisky, as much as to say, well, what about it? You could tell without looking at her, just by the feel of the atmosphere when she was near, that she had as much snap and going as Jerry Moore hadn't. She was a good bit. I knew, just as sure as I was standing there on one leg, that this was the sort of girl who would have me and gentlemen out of that house about three seconds after the clergyman had tied the knot. Jerry says, "'These are my friends, Miss Tuxton.

Mr. Bailey and Mr. Roach are staying with me for a visit. This is Miss Jane Tuxton,' he says to me.

"'I was just going to see Miss Tuxton home,' he says, sort of wistful. "'Excellent,' says Gentleman. "'We'll come, too.' Then we all goes along. There wasn't much done in the way of conversation. Jerry never was one for pushing out the words, nor was I when in the presence of the sext. And Miss Jane had her chin in the air, as if she thought me and Gentleman was not needed in any way whatsoever. The only talk before we turned her in at the garden gate was done by Gentleman, who told a pretty long story about a friend of his in Upper Sydenham. Had been silly enough to marry, and had trouble ever since. That night, after we went to bed, I said to the gentleman, "'Gentlemen,' I said, "'what's going to be done about this?

We've got about as much chance if Jerry marries that girl,' I says, "'as a couple of helpless chocolate creams at a schoolgirl's picnic.' "'If,' says gentleman, he ain't married her yet.' "'That's a girl of character, Jack, trust me.' Didn't she strike you as a girl who'd like a man with a bit of a devil in him, a man with some go in him, a you-be-darned kind of man? Does Jerry fill that bill? He's more like a doormat with welcome written on it than anything else. We've seen a good deal of Miss Jane in the next week or so. We kept Jerry under what's it the heroine says in the melodrama? Oh, cruel, cruel, espie something. Oh, espionage. That's it. So he keeps Jerry under espionage, and whenever he goes trickling round after the girl, we goes trickling round after him.

Things is running our way, says the gentleman to me after one of these meetings. That girl is getting cross with Jerry. She wants reckless Rudolph, not a man who stands and grins when other men butt in on him and his girl. Mark my words, Jack, she'll get tired of Jerry and go off and marry a soldier, and we'll live happy ever after. Think so, eh, sir? Sure of it, says the gentleman. It was the Sunday after this that Jerry Moore announces to us, wriggling, that he had an engagement to take supper with Jane and her folks. He would have liked to have slipped away secret, but we was keeping him under espionage too crisp for that. He has to tell us, "'My excellency, gentlemen, it will be a great treat to Jack and myself to meet the family.

We'll go along with you.' So off we all goes and pushes our boots in sociable fashion under the Tuxton table. I looked at Miss Jane out of the corner of my eye, and honest that chin of hers was sticking out of foot, and Jerry didn't dare look at her. Love's young dream, I'm used to myself. How swift it fades when a man has the nature and disposition of a lop-eared rabbit. The Tuxtons was four in number, not counting the parrot, and all male. There was Pa Tuxton, an old fellow with a beard and glasses, A fat uncle, a big brother who worked in a bank and was dressed like Moses in all his glory, and a little brother with a snub nose, that cheeky you'd have been surprised. Oh, and the parrot in its cage, and a fat yellow dog, and they're all making themselves pleasant to Jerry, the wealthy future son-in-law.

Something awful. It's how are the fowls, Mr. Moore, and a little bit of this pie, Mr. Moore. Jane made it, and Jerry sitting there with a feeble grin saying yes and no and nothing much more. While Miss Jane's eyes are snapping like fifth of November fireworks. I could feel Jerry's chances going back a mile a minute. I felt as happy as a little child that evening. I sang going back home. Gentlemen's pleased, too. Jack, he says to me when we're in bed, this is too easy. In my most sanguinary dreams, I hardly hoped for this. No girl of spirit is going to love a man who behaves that way to her parents. The way to win the heart of a certain type of girl, he said, beginning on his theories, The type to which Jane Tuxton belongs is to be rude to her family.

I've got Jane Tuxton sized up and labelled. Her kind wants her folks to dislike her young man. She wants to feel that she's the only one in the family who's got the sense to see the hidden good in Willie. She doesn't want to be one of a crowd hollering out what a nice young man he is. It takes some plucking a man to stand up to a girl's family, and that's what Jane Tuxton is looking for in Jerry. Take it from one who has studied the sect, says gentlemen. From John O'Groats to Lanzand and back again. Next day, Jerry Moore was looking as if he had only sixpence in the world, and had swallowed it. "'What's the matter, Jerry?' says the gentleman. Jerry heaves a sigh. "'Bailey,' he says, "'and you, Mr.

Roach, I expect you both seen how it is with me. I love Miss Jane Tuxton, and you seen for yourself what transpires. She don't value me, not twopence.' "'Say not so,' says the gentleman, sympathetic. "'You're doing fine.' If you knew the sect as I do, you wouldn't go by mere superficial silences and chin tiltings. I can read a girl's heart, Jerry, he says, patting him on the shoulder. And I'll tell you, you're doing fine. All you want now is a little rapid work in you in easy to make the thing a cert, he says, getting up. All you have to do is make a dead set at her folks. He winks at me. Don't just set there like you did last night. Show them you've got something in you. You know what folks are.

They think themselves the most important things on the map. Go to work. Consult them all you know, every opportunity you get. There's nothing like consulting a girl's folks to put you in a good with her. He pats Jerry on the shoulder again and goes indoors to find his pipe. Jerry turns to me. That's really so, he says. I say, I do. He knows all about girls, I reckon, says Jerry. You can go by him every time, I says. Well, well, well, says Jerry, sort of thoughtful. The waiter paused. His eyes were sad and dreamy. Then he took up the burden of his tail. The first thing that happens is that the gentleman has a sore tooth on the next Sunday, so don't feel like coming along with us. He sits at home, dosing it with whiskey, and Jerry and me goes off alone.

So Jerry and me pikes off, and once more we prepares to settle down round the board. I hadn't noticed Jerry particular, but just now I catch a sight of his face in the light of the lamp. Ever see one of those fighters when he's sitting in his corner before a fight? Waiting for the gong to go, well, Jerry looks just like that, and it surprises me. I told you about the fat yellow dog that permeated the Tuxton's house, didn't I? The family thought a lot of that dog, thought of all the ugly brutes I ever met he was the worst. Sniffing around and growling all the time, well, this evening he comes up to Jerry just as he's going to sit down and starts to growl. Old Pa Tuxton looks over his glasses and licks his tongue.

Rover, Rover, he says, kind of mild, naughty Rover. He don't like strangers, I'm afraid. Jerry looks at Pa Tuxton, and he looks at the dog, and I'm just expecting to say no or yes. Same as the other night, when he lets out a nasty laugh, one of them bitter laughs. "'Ha!' he says. "'Oh, don't he? And perhaps he'd better get farther away from them.' Then he ups with his boot, and—well, the dog hit the far wall. Jerry sits down and pulls up his chair. "'I don't approve,' he said, fierce. of folks keeping great big ugly bad-tempered yellow dogs that are a nuisance to all. I don't like it. There was a silence. You could have scooped out with a spoon. Have you ever had a rabbit turn round on you and growl?

That's how we all felt when Jerry outs with them crisp words. They took our breath away. While we were getting it back again, the parrot, which was in its cage, let out a squawk. Honest! I jumped a foot in my chair. Jerry gets up very deliberate and walks over to the parrot. "'Is this a menagerie?' he says. "'Can't a man have supper in peace without an image like you starting to holler?' "'Go to sleep!' We was all staring at him, surprised, especially Uncle Dick Tuxton, whose particular pet the parrot was. He had brought him home all the way from some foreign parts. "'Hello, Billy,' said the birds, shrugging his shoulders and puffing himself up. "'A-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r Jerry gives its cage a bang.

Don't talk back to me, he says, or I'll knock your head off. You think because you've got green tail you're someone? And he stalks back to his chair and sits glaring at Uncle Dick. Well, this wasn't what you might call promoting an easy flow of conversation. Everyone's looking at Jerry, especially me, wondering what next, and trying to get their breath, and Jerry's frowning at the cold beef, and there's a sort of awkward pause. Miss Jane is the first to get busy. She bustles about and gets the food served out, and we begins to eat. But still, there's not so much conversation that you notice it. This goes on till we reaches the concluding stages, and then Uncle Dick comes up to the scratch. "'How's the fowls, Mr.

Moore?' he says. "'Gimme some more pies,' says Jerry. "'What?' Uncle Dick repeats his remark. "'Fowls,' says Jerry. "'What do you know about fowls?' Your notion of a fowl is an ugly bird with a green tail, a wellington nose, and give me a bit of cheese.

Uncle Dick's fond of the parrot, so he speaks up for him. Polly's always been reckoned a handsome bird, he said. He wants stuffing, says Jerry, and Uncle Dick drops out of the talk. Up comes Big Brother Ralph. His name was. He's the bank clerk and a dude. He gives his cuffs a flick and starts in to make things jolly all round by telling a story about a man he knows named Wotherspoon. Jerry fixes him with his eye, and halfway through he interrupts. "'That waistcoat of yours is fierce,' he says. "'Bardons,' says Ralph. "'That waistcoat of yours,' says Jerry, "'it hurts my eyes. It's like an electric sign.' "'Why, Jerry,' I said, but he just scowls at me and I stop. "'Ralph is proud of his clothes, and he isn't going to stand this.' He glares at Jerry, and Jerry glares at him.

"'Who do you think you are?' said Ralph, breathing hard. "'Button up your coat,' says Jerry. "'Look here,' says Ralph. "'Cover it up, I tell you,' says Jerry. "'Do you want to blind me?' Pa Tuxton interrupts. "'Why, Mr. Moore,' he begins sort of soothing. When the small brother who has been staring at Jerry chips in, "'I told you he was cheeky,' he says, "'Pa, what a funny nose Mr. Moore's got!' And that did it. Jerry rises very slow, and leans across the table, and clips the kid brother one side of the ear-hole. Then there is a general imbroglio. Everyone is standing up, and the kid hollering and the dog barking. "'If you had brought him up better,' said Jerry, severe to Parr Tuxton, "'this would never have happened.' Parr Tuxton gives a sort of howl.

"'Mr. Moore,' he yells, "'what is the meaning of this extraordinary behaviour? You come here and strike me, child?' Jerry bangs on the table. "'Yes,' he says. and I'd strike him again. Listen to me. You think just because I'm quiet I ain't got no spirit. You think all I can do is sit and smile. You think—bah! You aren't on to the hidden depths of me character. I'm one of them still waters that runs deep. I'm—here, you get out of it. Yes, all of you except Jane. Jane and me wants this room to have a private talk in. I've got a lot of things to say to Jane. Are you going? I turns to the crowd. I was awful disturbed. "'You mustn't take any notice,' I says. "'He ain't well. He ain't himself.' When just then the parrot cuts with another of them squawks, Jerry jumps at it.

"'You first,' he says, and flings the cage out of the window. "'Now you,' he says to the yellow dog, putting him out through the door. "'And then he folds his arms and scowls at us, and we all notice suddenly that he's very big. "'We look at one another, and we begin to edge towards the door, all except Jane, who's staring at Jerry as if he's a ghost. Mr. Moore, said Pa Tuxton, dignified. We'll leave you. You're drunk. I'm not drunk, says Jerry. I'm in love. Jane, says Pa Tuxton, come with me and leave this ruffian to himself. Jane, says Jerry, stop here and come and lay your head on my shoulder. Jane, says Pa Tuxton, do you hear me? Jane, says Jerry, I'm waiting. She looks from one to the other for a spell, and she moves to where Jerry is standing.

"'I'll stop,' she says, sort of quiet, and we drifts out." The waiter snorted. "'I got back home as quick as I could, and relates the proceedings to gentlemen. Gentlemen's rattled. "'I don't believe it,' he says. "'Don't stand there and tell me Jerry Moore did them things. Why, it ain't in the man!' Especially after what I said to him about the way he ought to behave. "'How could he have done so?' Just then in comes Jerry, beaming all over. "'Boys,' he shouts, congratulates me. "'It's all right. We've fixed it up. "'She says she hadn't known me properly before. "'She says she'd always reckoned me as sheep, "'well, all the time I was one of them strong, silent men.' "'He turns to Gentleman.' "'The man at the other end of the room was calling for his bill.

"'All right, all right,' said the waiter. "'Comin,' he turns to Gentleman. "'He went on rapidly, and he says, "'Bailey, I owe it all to you, "'because if you hadn't told me to insult her folks—' He leaned on the traveller's table and fixed him with an eye that pleaded for simply. "'How about that?' he said. "'Isn't that crisp? Insult her folks!' Them was his very words, "'Insult her folks!' The traveller looked at him inquiringly. "'Can you beat it?' said the waiter. "'I don't know what you are saying,' said the traveller. "'If it is important, write it on a slip of paper.

6 06 - Rough-Hew Them How We Will 27:21

The Man Upstairs by P. G. Woodhouse. Chapter Number Six Rough You Them How We Will Paul Boyle was a waiter. The word waiter suggests a soft-voiced, deft-handed being, moving swiftly and without noise in an atmosphere of luxury and shaded lamps. At Breden's Parisian Café and Restaurant in Soho, London, where Paul worked, there were none of these things. And Paul himself, though he certainly moved swiftly, was by no means noiseless. His progress through the room resembled in almost equal proportions The finish of a marathon race, the star act of a professional juggler, and a monologue by an earl's court side-showman. Constant acquaintance rendered regular habitués callous to the wonder, but to a stranger, the sight of Paul tearing over the difficult between-tables course, his hands loaded with two vast pyramids of dishes, shouting as he went, the mystic, a single word, "'Coming, ah, coming in a moment, Sarah Stakes, ah, yes, ah, coming, ah!' was impressive to a degree.

For doing far less exacting feats on the stage, musical performers were being paid fifty pounds a week. Paul got eighteen shillings. But what a blessing is poverty properly considered. If Paul had received more than eighteen shillings a week, he would not have lived in an attic. He would have luxuriated in a bed-sitting room on the second floor, and would consequently have missed what was practically a genuine north light. The skylight which went with the attic was so arranged that the room was a studio in miniature, and as Paul was engaged in his spare moments in painting a great picture, nothing could have been more fortunate. For Paul, like so many of our public men, lived two lives. Off duty, the sprinting, barking juggler of Bredon's Parisian cafe became the quiet follower of art.

Ever since his childhood he had had a passion for drawing and painting. He regretted that fate had allowed him so little time for such work, but after all he reflected, all great artists had had their struggles, so why not he? Moreover, they were now nearly at an end, an hour here, an hour there, and every Thursday a whole afternoon, and the great picture was within measurable distance of completion. He had won through, without models, without leisure, hungry, tired, he had nevertheless triumphed. A few more touches, and the masterpiece would be ready for purchase. and after that all would be plain sailing. Paul could forecast the scene so exactly. The picture would be at the dealer's, possibly.

One must not be too sanguine. Thrust away in some odd corner, the wealthy connoisseur would come in. At first he would not see the masterpiece. Other more prominently displayed works would catch his eye. He would turn from them in weary scorn. And then Paul wondered how big the check would be. There were definitely reasons Why, he wanted the money. Looking at him as he cantered over the linoleum at Breden's, he would have said that his mind was on his work, but it was not so. He took and executed orders as automatically as the penny in the slot music-box in the corner took pennies and produced tunes. His thoughts were of Jean Le Broc, his co-worker at Breden, and a little cigar-shop down Brixton Way, which he knew was in the market at a reasonable rate.

To marry the former and own the latter was Paul's idea of the earthly paradise, and it was the wealthy connoisseur, and he alone, who could open the gates.

Jeanne was a large, slow-moving Norman girl, stolidly handsome. One could picture her in a de Maupassant farmyard. In the clatter and bustle of Bredon's Parisian cafe, she appeared out of place, rather like a cow in a boiler factory. To Paul, who worshipped her with all the fervour of a little man for a large woman, her deliberate methods seemed all that was beautiful and dignified. To his mind she lent a tone to the vulgar whirlpool of gorging humanity, as if she had been some goddess mixing in a homeric battle. The whirlpool had other views, and expressed them. One coarse-fibred brute, indeed, once went so far as to address to her the frightful words, "'Hurry up there, tontie. Look, shlippy!' It was wrong, of course, for Paul to slip and spill an order of scrambled eggs down the brute's coat sleeve, but who, after all, can blame him?

Among those who did not see eye to eye with Paul in his views on deportment in waitresses was M. Bredon himself, the owner of the Parisian cafe, and it was this circumstance which first gave Paul the opportunity of declaring the passion which was gnawing him with the fierce fury of a Bredon customer. gnawing a tough stake against time during the rush hour. He had long worshipped her from afar, but nothing more intimate than a good-morning, Miss Jeanne had escaped him, till one day, during a slack spell, he came upon her in the little passage leading to the kitchen, her face hidden in her apron, her back jerking with sobs. Business is business. Paul had a message to deliver to the cook, respecting.

Two fried coffee and one stale. He delivered it and returned. Jeanne was still sobbing. "'Ah, Miss Jeanne!' cried Paul, stricken. "'What is the matter? What is it? Why do you weep?' "'The patron,' sobbed Jane, "'he—he—my angel,' said Paul, "'he is a pig.'" This was perfectly true. No conscientious judge of character could have denied that Paul had hit the bull's-eye. Breddon was a pig. He looked like a pig. He ate like a pig. He grunted like a pig. He had the lavish and bon point of a pig. Also a poor kind soul. If you had tied a bit of blue ribbon round his neck, you could certainly have won prizes with him at a show. Paul's eyes flashed with fury. "'I will slap him in the eye,' he roared. "'He called me a tortoise.' "'And kick him in the stomach,' added Paul.

Chan's sobs were running on second speed now. The anguish was diminishing. Paul took advantage of the improved conditions to slide an arm part of the way round her waist. In two minutes he had said as much as the ordinary man could have worked off in ten. All good stuff, too. No padding. Jeanne's face rose from her apron like a full moon. She was too astounded to be angry. Paul continued to babble. Jeanne looked at him with growing wrath. That she, who received daily the affectionate badindage of gentlemen in bowler hats and check suits, who had once been invited to the White City by a solicitor's clerk, should be addressed in this way by a waiter. It was too much. She threw off his hand. "'Wretched little man!' she cried, stamping angrily.

"'My angel!' protested, Paul. Jean uttered a scornful laugh. "'You!' she said. "'There are few more withering marks than you spoken in a certain way. Jean spoke it just that way.' Paul wilted. "'On eighteen shillings a week,' went on Jean satirically. "'You would support a wife, yes?' Paul recovered himself. He had an opening now, and proceeded to use it. Listen, he said. At present, yes, it is true, I earn but eighteen shillings a week. But it will not always be so, no. I am not only a waiter. I am also an artist. I have painted a great picture. For a whole year I have worked, and now it is ready. I will sell it. And then, my angel... Zand's face had lost some of its scorn. Jeanne was listening with some respect.

A picture, she said thoughtfully. There is money in pictures. For the first time Paul was glad that his arm was no longer round her waist. To do justice to the great work, he needed both hands for purposes of gesticulation. There is money in this picture, he said. Oh, it is beautiful. I call it the awakening. It is a woodland scene. I come back from my work where, hot and tired, a mere glance at that wood refreshes me. It is so cool, so green. The sun filters in golden splashes through the foliage. On a mossy bank between two trees lies a beautiful girl asleep. Above her, bending fondly over her just about to kiss that flower-like face, is a young man in the dress of a shepherd. At the last moment he is looked over his shoulder to make sure that there is nobody near to see.

He is wearing an expression so happy, so proud, that one's heart goes out to him. "'Yes, there might be money in that, Clyde John.' "'There is,' cried Paul. "'I shall sell it for many francs to a wealthy connoisseur. And then, my angel.' "'You are a good little man,' said the angel patronizingly. "'Perhaps. "'Pertre. We will see.' Paul caught her hand and kissed it. She smiled indulgently. "'Yes,' she said. "'There might be money. These English pay much money for pictures.' It is pretty generally admitted that Geoffrey Chaucer, the eminent poet of the fourteenth century, Though obsessed with an almost Rooseveltian passion for the new spelling, was there with the goods when it came to profundity of thought.

It was Chaucer who wrote the lines, "'The life so short, the craft so long do learn, the essay so hard, so sharp are the conquering.' Which means broadly that it is difficult to paint a picture, but a great deal more difficult to sell it. Across the centuries, Paul Boll shook hands with Geoffrey Chaucer. So sharp are the conquering for his case in a nutshell. The full story of his wanderings with the masterpiece would read like an odyssey, and be about as long. It shall definitely be condensed. There was an artist who dined at intervals at Bredon's Parisian cafe, and as the artistic temperament was too impatient to be suited by Jean's leisurely methods, it had failed to Paul to wait upon him.

It was to this expert that Paul, emboldened by the geniality of the artist's manner, went for information. "'How did monsieur sell his pictures? Monsieur said he didn't, except once in a blue moon. But when he did—oh, he took the thing to the dealer's,' Paul thanked him. "'A friend of him,' he explained, had painted a picture and wished to sell it. "'Poor devil,' was the artist's comment. Next day—it happened to be a Thursday—Paul started on his travels. He started buoyantly, but by evening he was as a punctured balloon. Every dealer had the same remark to make, to wit, no room. "'Have you sold the picture?' inquired Zon. "'When they met?' "'Not yet,' said Paul. "'But there are delicate matters, these negotiations.

"'I use finesse. I proceed with caution.' He approached the artist again. "'With the dealers,' he said, "'my friend has been a little unfortunate. They say they have no room.' "'Aye, no,' said the artist, nodding. "'Is there perhaps another way?' "'What sort of picture is it?' inquired the artist. Paul became enthusiastic. "'Ah, monsieur, it is beautiful. It is a woodland scene, a beautiful girl. Oh, oh, oh.' "'Then he had better try the magazines. They might use it for a cover.' Paul thanked him effusively. On the following Thursday he visited divers art editors. The art editors seemed to be in the same unhappy condition as the dealers. Overstocked was their cry. "'The picture,' said Zon, on the Friday morning, "'is it sold?' "'Not yet,' said Paul.

"'But, always but,' my angel. "'Bah,' said Zon, with a toss of her large, but shapely head. "'By the end of the month Paul was fighting in the last ditch. Wandering disconstantly among those who dwell in outer darkness and have grimy thumbs. Seven of these in all he visited on that black Thursday, and each of the seven rubbed the surface of the painting with a grimy thumb, snorted, and dismissed him. Sick and beaten, Paul took the masterpiece back to his skylight room. All that night he lay awake thinking. It was a weary bundle of nerves that came to the Parisian cafe next morning. He was late in arriving, which was good, in that it delayed the inevitable question as to the fate of the picture, but bad in every other respect.

M. Bredin, squatting behind the cash-desk, grunted fiercely at him, and worse, Zonne, who, owing to his absence, had had to be busier than suited her disposition, was distant and haughty. A murky gloom settled upon Paul. Now, it so happened that M. Bredden, when things went well with him, was wont to be filled with a ponderous amiability. It was not often that this took a practical form, though it is on record that in an exuberant moment he once gave a small boy a halfpenny. More frequently it merely led him to soften the pork-eye and austerity of his demeanour. Today, business having been uncommonly good, he felt pleased with the world. He had left his cash-desk and was assailing a bowl of soup at one of the side-tables.

Except for a belated luncher at the end of the room, the place was empty. It was one of the hours when there was a lull in the proceedings at the Parisian cafe. Paul was leaning, wrapped in the gloom, against the wall. Zonne was waiting on the proprietor. M. Breden finished his meal and rose. He felt content. All was well with the world. As he lumbered to his desk, he passed Zonne. He stopped. He wheezed a compliment. Then another. Paul, from his place by the wall, watched with jealous fury. Monsieur Bredin chucked zon under the chin. As he did so, the belated luncher called, Waiter, but Paul was otherwise engaged. His entire nervous system seemed to have been stirred up with a pole. With a hoarse cry, he dashed forward.

He would destroy this pig, who chucked his zon under the chin. The first intimation M. Breden had of the declaration of war was the impact of a French roll on his ear. It was one of those knobbly chunky rolls with sharp corners, almost as deadly as a piece of shrapnel. M. Breden was incapable of jumping, but he uttered a howl, and his vast body quivered like a stricken jelly. A second roll whizzing by slapped against the wall. A moment later, a cream bun burst in sticky ruin on the proprietor's left eye. The belated luncher had been anxious to pay his bill and go, but he came swiftly to the conclusion that this was worth stopping on for. He leaned back in his chair and watched. Monsieur Breden had entrenched himself behind the cash desk, peering nervously at Paul through the cream, and Paul, pouring forth abuse in his native tongue, was brandishing a chocolate eclair.

The situation looked good to the spectator. It was spoiled by Zohne, who seized Paul by the arm and shook him, adding her own voice to the babble. It was enough. The eclair fell to the floor, Paul's voice died away. His face took on again its crushed, haunted expression. The voice of M. Breden, freed from competition, rose shrill and wrathful. "'The marksman is getting sacked,' mused the onlooker, diagnosing the situation. He was right.' The next moment Paul, limp and depressed, had retired to the kitchen passage discharged. It was here, after a few minutes, that Jean found him. "'Fool, idiot, imbecile,' said Jean. Paul stared at her without speaking. "'To throw rolls at the patron, imbecile.

He, he, bah, and what if he did?' "'Must you then attack him like a mad dog? What is it to you?' Paul was conscious of a dull longing for sympathy, a monstrous sense of oppression. Everything was going wrong. Surely Zohne must be touched by his heroism, but no. She was scolding furiously. Suppose Andromeda had turned and scolded Persis after he had slain the sea-monster. Paul mopped his forehead with his napkin. The bottom had dropped out of his word.

Zohne! Bah! Do not talk to me idiot of a little man! Almost you lost me by place also. The Petron was in two minds, but I coaxed him. A fine thing that would have been to lose my good place through your foolishness, to throw rolls. My goodness!

She swept back into the room again, leaving Paul still standing by the kitchen door. Something seemed to have snapped inside him. How long he stood there he did not know, but presently from the diagram came calls of waiter. and automatically he felt once more into his work, as an actor takes up his part. A stranger would have noticed nothing remarkable in him. He bustled to and pro with undiminished energy. At the end of the day, M. Breden paid him his eighteen shillings with a grunt, and Paul walked out of the restaurant a masterless man. He went to his attic and sat down on the bed. Propped up against the wall was the picture. He looked at it with unseeing eyes. He stared dully before him. Then thoughts came to him with a rush, leaping and dancing in his mind like imps in Hades.

He had a curious sense of detachment. He seemed to be watching himself from a great distance. This was the end. The little imps danced and leaped, and then one separated itself from the crowd, to grow bigger than the rest, to pirouette more energetically. He rose. His mind was made up. He would kill himself. He went downstairs and out into the street. He thought hard as he walked. He would kill himself, but how? His preoccupation was so great that an automobile rounding a corner missed him by inches as he crossed the road. The chauffeur shouted angrily at him as he leaped back. Paul shook his fist at the retreating lights. Big! he shouted. Assassin! Scoundrel! villain! Would you kill me? I will take your number, rascal.

I will inform the police. Villain! A policeman had strolled up and was eyeing him curiously. Paul turned to him, full of his wrongs. "'Officer,' he cried, "'I have a complaint. These pigs of chauffeurs, they are reckless. They drive so recklessly, hence the great number of accidents.' "'Awful,' said the policeman. "'Pass along, sonny.' Paul walked on, fuming. It was abominable that these chauffeurs—and then an idea came to him. He had found a way. It was quiet in the park. He had chosen the park because it was dark, and there would be none to see and interfere. He waited long in the shadow by the roadside. Presently from the darkness there came the distant drone of powerful engines. Lights appeared like the blazing eyes of a dragon swooping down to devour its prey.

He ran out into the road with a shout. It was an error, that shout. He had intended it for an inarticulate farewell to his picture, to Jean, to life. It was excusable to the driver of the motor that he misinterpreted it. It seemed to him a cry of warning. There was a great jarring of brakes, a scuttering of locked wheels on the dry road, and the car came to a standstill a full yard from where he stood. "'What the deuce?' said a cool voice from behind the lights. Paul struck his chest and folded his arms. "'I am here!' Paul cried. "'Destroy me!' "'Let George do it,' said the voice in a marked American accent. I never murdered on a Friday. It's unlucky. If it's not a rude question, which asylum are you from?

Hello? The exclamation was one of surprise, for Paul's nerves had finally given way, and he was now in a heap on the road, sobbing. The man climbed down and came into the light. He was a tall young man with a pleasant, clean-cut face. He stopped and shook Paul. Quit that, he said. Maybe it's not true. And if it is, there's always hope. Cut it out! What's the matter? All in? Paul sat up, gulping convulsively. He was thoroughly unstrung. The cold, desperate mood had passed. In its place came the old feeling of desolation. He was a child, aching for sympathy. He wanted to tell his troubles. Punctuating his narrative with many gestures and an occasional gulp, he proceeded to do so, and the American listened attentively.

So you can't sell your picture, and you've lost your job, and your girl is shaking you? He said, "'You know that's pretty bad. But still, you've no call to go mingling with automobile wheels. You come along with me to my hotel, and tomorrow we'll see if we can't fix something up.' There was breakfast at the hotel the next morning, a breakfast to put heart into a man. During the meal, a messenger dispatched in a cab to Paul's lodgings returned with the canvas. A deferential waiter informed the American that it had been taken with every possible care to his suite. "'Good,' said the young man. "'If you're through, we'll go and have a look at it.' They went upstairs. There was the picture resting against a chair.

"'Why, I call that fine,' said the young man. "'It's a crackerjack.' Paul's heart gave a sudden leap. Could it be that here was the wealthy connoisseur? He was wealthy, for he drove an automobile and lived in an expensive hotel. He was a connoisseur, for he had said that the picture was crackerjack. "'Monsieur is kind,' murmured Paul. "'It's a bearcat,' said the young man, admiringly. "'Monsieur is flattering,' said Paul, dimly perceiving a compliment. "'I've been looking for a picture like that,' said the young man, "'for months.' Paul's eyes rolled heavenwards. "'If you'll make a few alterations, I'll buy it and ask for more.' "'Alterations, monsieur?' Ah, one or two small ones. He pointed to the stooping figure of the shepherd.

Now, you see, this prominent citizen, what's he doing? Why, he is stooping, said Paul fervently, to bestow upon his loved one a kiss, and she is sleeping all unconscious, dreaming of him. Never mind about her. Fix your mind on him. Willie is the star in this show. You've summed him up accurately. He is stooping. Stooping good. Now, if that fellow was wearing braces... and stooped like that. You'd say, "'He'd burst those braces, wouldn't you?' With a somewhat dazed air, Paul said that he thought he would. Till now he had not looked at the figure from just that viewpoint. "'You'd say he'd bust them?' "'Well, assuredly, monsieur.' "'No,' said the young man, solemnly tapping him earnestly on the chest.

"'That's where you're wrong. Not if they were galloways tried and proven. Galloways tried and proven will stand any old strain you care to put on them.' See small bills. Where galloway is tried and proven, and fate cannot touch you. You can take it from me. I am the company's general manager. Indeed, monsieur. And I'll make a proposition to you. Cut out that mossy bank and make the girl lying in a hammock. Put Willie in shirt sleeves instead of a bathrobe, and fix him up with a pair of the tried and proven, and I'll give you three thousand dollars for that picture and a retaining fee for four thousand a year to work for us and nobody else for any number of years you care to mention. You've got the goods.

You've got just the touch. That happy look on Willie's face, for instance, you can see in a minute why he's so happy. It's because he's wearing the tried and proven, and he knows that however far he stoops they won't break. Is that a deal? Paul's reply left no room for doubt. Seizing the young man firmly round the waist, he kissed him with extreme fervor on both cheeks. "'Here, here, break away!' cried the astonished general manager. "'That's no way to sign a business contract.' It was about five minutes after one that afternoon that Constable Thomas Parsons, patrolling his beat, was aware of a man motioning to him from the doorway of Breden's Parisian Café and Restaurant. The man looked like a pig.

He grunted like a pig. He had the lavish embonpoint of a pig. Constable Parsons suspected that he had a poor kind soul. Indeed, the thought flitted across Constable Parsons' mind that, if he were to tie a bit of blue ribbon round his neck, he could win prizes with him at a show. "'Eh? What's all this?' he inquired, halting. The stout man talked volubly in French. Constable Parsons shook his head. "'Talk sense,' he advised. "'In dere,' cried the stout man, pointing behind him into the restaurant. "'A man, eh, eh, how you say—yes, sack.' An employee whom I yesterday sacked. Today he returns. I say to him, Cochin, va. What's that? I say, Pig, go. How you say? Yes, Pop off. I say, Pig, Pop off. But he—no, no, he sits and will not go.

Come in, officer, and expel him.

With a massive dignity, the policeman entered the restaurant. At one of the tables sat Paul, calm and distrait. From across the room, Jean stared freezingly. "'All right. What's all this?' inquired Constable Parsons. Paul looked up. "'I, too,' Paul admitted, "'I cannot understand. Figure to yourself, monsieur. I enter this cafe to lunch, and this man here would expel me.' "'He is an employee whom I myself have but yesterday dismissed,' presiferated Mr. Breden. "'He has no money to lunch at my restaurant.' The policeman eyed Paul sternly. "'Eh? Eh? That so? You'd better come along.' Paul's eyebrows rose. Before the round eyes of M. Breden, he began to produce from his pockets and to lay upon the table bank-notes and sovereigns.

The cloth was covered with them. Paul picked up a half-sovereign. "'If, monsieur,' he said to the policeman, would accept this as a slight consolation for the inconvenience which this foolish person here has caused you. "'Not half,' said Mr. Parsons affably. "'Look here,' he turned to the gaping proprietor. "'If you go on like this, you'll be getting yourself into trouble, see. You'll take care another time.' Paul called for the bill of fare. It was the inferior person who had succeeded to his place as waiter who attended to his needs during the meal, but when he had lunched it was Jean. who brought his coffee. She bent over the table. "'You sold your picture, Paul.' "'Yes,' she whispered, "'for much money.' "'How glad I am, dear Paul.' "'Now we will—' Paul met her glance coolly.

"'Will you be so kind,' he said, "'as to bring me also a cigarette, my good girl?' End of story number six. Ruff, cue them how we will.

7 07 - The Man Who Disliked Cats 32:01

The Man Upstairs Chapter Seven The Man Who Disliked Cats It was Harold who first made us acquainted when I was dining one night at the cafe Bretannique in Soho. It is a peculiarity of the cafe Britannique that you always find flies there, even in the winter. Snow was falling that night as I turned in at the door, but glancing about me I noticed several of the old faces. My old acquaintance, Percy the Bluebottle, looking wonderfully fit despite his years, was doing deep-reading exercises on a mutton cutlet, and was too busy to do more than pause for a moment to nod at me. But his cousin Harold always acted, sighted me and bustled up to do the honors. He had finished his game of touch last with my right ear, and was circling slowly in the air while he thought out other ways of entertaining me, when there was a rush of air, a swish of napkin, and no more Harold.

I turned to thank my preserver, whose table adjoined mine. He was a Frenchman, a melancholy-looking man. He had the appearance of one who was searching for the leak in life's gas-pipe with a lighted candle. of one whom the clenched fist of fate had smitten beneath the temperamental third waistcoat button. He waved my thanks aside. It was a bagatelle, he said. He became friendly. He moved to my table, and we fraternized over our coffee. Suddenly he became agitated. He kicked at something on the floor. His eyes gleamed angrily. Psst! he hissed. V'at'en! I looked around the corner of the table and perceived the restaurant cat. and dignified retreat. "'You do not like cats?' I said. "'I hate all animals, monsieur.

Cats especially.' He frowned. He seemed to hesitate. "'I will tell you my story,' he said. "'You will sympathize. You have a sympathetic face. It is the story of a man's tragedy. It is the story of a blighted life. It is the story of a woman who would not forgive. It is the story—' Excuse me, I have got an appointment at eleven, I said. He nodded absently, drew at his cigarette, and began.

"'I have conceived my entret of animals, monsieur, many years ago in Paris. Animals are to me a symbol for the lost dreams of youth, for ambitions foiled for artistic impulses cruelly stifled. You are astonished. You ask why I say these things. I shall tell you.' I am in Paris, young, ardent, artistic. I wish to paint pictures. I have the genius, the enthusiasm. I wish to be disciple of the great Bouguereau. But no, I am dependent for support upon an uncle. He is rich. He is proprietor of the great Hotel Jules Priot. My name is also Priot. He is not sympathetic. I say, Uncle, I have the genius, the enthusiasm. Permit me to paint. He shakes his head. He says, "'I will give you position in my hotel, and you shall earn your living.' "'What choice?' "'I weep, but I kill my dreams, and I become cashier at my uncle's hotel at a salary of thirty-five francs a week.

I, the artist, become a machine for the changing of money at a damn bad salary.' "'What would you? What choice? I am dependent. I go to the hotel, and there I learn to eat all animals, cats especially.' I will tell you the reason. My uncle's hotel is a fashionable hotel. Rich Americans, rich maharajahs, rich people of every nation come to my uncle's hotel. They come, and with them they have brought their pets. Monsieur, it was the existence of a nightmare. Wherever I have looked, there are animals. Listen, there is an Indian prince. He has with him two dromedaries. There is also one other Indian prince. With him is a giraffe. The giraffe drink every day one dozen best champagne to keep his coat good.

I, the artist, have my bark, and my coat is not good. There is a guest with a young lion. There is a guest with an alligator. But especially there is a cat. He is fat. His name is Alexander. He belongs to an American woman. She is fat. She exhibits him to me. He is wrapped in a silk and fur creation like an opera cloak. Every day she exhibits him. It is Alexander this and Alexander that, till I hate Alexander very much. I hate all the animals, but especially Alexander. And so, Monsieur, it goes on, day by day. In this hotel it is a zoological garden. Every day I hate the animals the more, but especially Alexander. We artists, Monsieur, we are martyrs to our nerves. It became insupportable, this thing.

Each day it became more insupportable. At night I dream of all the animals, one by one, the giraffe, the two dromedaries, the young lion, the alligator, and Alexander, especially Alexander. You have heard of men who cannot endure the society of a cat. Are they cry out and jump in the air if a cat is among those present time? Your Lord Roberts? Precisely, monsieur. I have read so much. Listen, then. I am become by degrees almost like him. I do not cry often jump in the air when I see the cat, Alexander, but I grind my teeth and I hate him. Yes, I am the sleeping volcano, and one morning, monsieur, I have suffered the eruption. It is like this, I shall tell you. Not only at that time am I the martyr to my nerves, but also to toothache.

That morning I have had the toothache very bad. I have been in pain the most terrible. I groan as I edit the figures in my book. As I groan, I hear a voice. "'Say good morning to Monsieur Pryot, Alexander.' "'Conceive my emotions, Monsieur, when this fat, beastly cat is placed before me upon my desk.' "'It puts a cover upon it. No, that is not the phrase. The lid. It put the lid upon it. All my smothered hatred of the animal burst forth. I could no longer conceal my hatred.' "'I rose. I was terrible.' I seized him by the trail. I flung him. I did not know where. I did not care. Not then. Afterwards, yes, but not then. Your long fellow has a poem. I shot an arrow into the air. It fell to earth.

I knew not where. And then he has found it, the arrow in the heart of a friend. Am I right? Also was that the tragedy with me? I flung the cat, Alexander, my uncle, on whom I am dependent, is passing at the moment. He has received the cat in the middle of his face.

My companion, with the artist's instinct for the curtain, paused. He looked round the brightly lit restaurant. From every side rose the clatter of knife and fork, and the clear, sharp note of those who drank soup. In a distant corner, a small waiter with a large voice was calling the cook names through the speaking-tube. It was a cheerful scene, but it brought no cheer to my companion. He sighed heavily, and resumed. I hurry over that painful scene. There is a blooming row. My uncle is a hot-tempered man. The cat is heavy cat. I have thrown him very hard. For my nerves and my toothache and my hatred have given me the giant strength. Alone is this Enough to enrage my hot-tempered uncle. I am there in his hotel, you will understand, as cashier, not as cat-thrower.

And now, beside all this, I have insulted the valuable patron. She have left the hotel that day. There are no doubts in my mind as to the outcome. With certainty I await my conge. And after a painful scene I get it, I am to go at once. He has called me into his private office. Jeanne, he has said to me. At the end of other things, you are a fool, dolt, and no good imbecile. I give you good place in my hotel, and you spend your time flinging cats. I will have no more of you. Even now I cannot forget that you are my dear brother's child, though. I will now give you one thousand francs, and never see you again. I have thanked him, for to me it is wealth. Not before have I ever had one thousand francs of my own.

I go out of the hotel. I go to a cafe and order a bock. I smoke a cigarette. It is necessary that I think out plans. Shall I, with my one thousand francs, rent a studio in the quarter and commence my life as artist? No. I have still the genius, the enthusiasm, but I have not the training. To train myself to paint pictures, I must study long, and even one thousand francs will not last forever. Then what shall I do? I do not know. I order one other bock, smoke more cigarettes, but still I do not know. Then I say to myself, I will go back to my uncle and plead with him. I will seize favourable opportunity. I will approach him after dinner when he is in good temper, but for that I must be close at hand.

I must be—what is your expression?—the—Johnny on the spot. My mind is made up. I have my plan. I have gone back to my uncle's hotel and have engaged not too expensive bedroom. My uncle does not know. He still is in his private office. I secure my room. I dine cheaply that night, but I go to the theatre and also to supper after the theatre, for have I not my thousand francs? It is late when I reach my bedroom. I go to bed. I go to sleep. But I do not sleep long. I am awakened by a voice. It is a voice that says, Move, and I shoot. Move, and I shoot. I lie still. I do not move. I am courageous, but I am unarmed. And the voice says again, Move, and I shoot. Is it robbers? Is it some marauder who has made his way to my room to plunder me?

I do not know. Perhaps I think yes. Who are you? I have asked. There is no answer. I take my courage in my hands. I leap from my bed. I dash for the door. No pistol has been fired. I have reached the passage and have shouted for assistance. Hotel officials run up, doors open. What is it? Voices cry. There is in my room an armed robber, I assure them. And then I have found—no, I have mistaken. My door, you will understand, is open. And as I have said these words, a large green parrot comes opping out. My assassin is nothing but a green parrot. Move and I shoot, it has said to those gathered in the corridor. It then has bitten me in the hand and passed on. I am chagrined, monsieur, but only for a moment.

Then I forget my chagrin for a voice from a door that has opened as with joy. It is my polly which I have this evening lost. I turn, and I gasp for admiration. It is a beautiful lady in a pink dressing-gown which has spoke these words. She has looked at me, I have looked at her. I forget everything but that she is adorable. I forget those who stand by. I forget that the parrot has bitten me in the hand. I forget even that I am standing there in my pyjamas with on my feet nothing. I can only gaze at her and worship. Ah! I have found words. Mademoiselle, I have said, I am rejoiced that I have been the means of restoring to you your bird. She has thanked me with her eyes, and then with words also.

I am bewitched. She is divine. I care not that my feet are cold. I could wish to stand there talking all night. She has given a cry of dismay. Your hand, it is wounded. I look at my hand, yes. It is bleeding where the bird have bitten it. Tch, mademoiselle, I have said it is a bagatelle. But no, she is distressed. She is what your poet, Scott, have said. A ministering angel thou. She has torn her anchorchief and is binding up my wound. I am enchanted. Such beauty, such kindness. Hardly can I resist to fall on my knees before her and declare my passion. We are twin souls. She has thanked me again. She has scolded the parrot. She has smiled upon me as she retires to her room. It is enough. Nothing is said, but I am a man of sensibility and discernment, and I understand that she will not be offended if I seek to renew our friendship on a more suitable occasion.

The door is shut, the guests have returned to bed, the hotel servants to their duties, and I go back to my room. Ah, but not to sleep. It is very late, but I do not sleep. I lie awake, and I think of her.

You will conceive, monsieur, with what mixed feelings I descend next morning. On the one hand, I must keep the sharp lookout for my uncle, for him I must avoid till I shall have—what do you say, Neuridium?—oh, yes, I have it—simmered down and tucked in his shirt. On the other hand, I must watch for my lady of the parrot. I count the minutes till we shall meet again. I avoid my uncle with success, and I see her about the hour of dejeuner. She is talking to old gentlemen. I have bowed. She has smiled and motioned me to approach. Father, she has said, this is the gentleman who caught Polly. We have shaken hands. He is indulgent, Papa. He has smiled and thanked me also. We have confided to each other our names.

He is English. He owns much land in England. He has been staying in Paris. He is rich. His name is Anderson. He addresses his daughter and calls her Marion. In my heart, I also call her Marion. You will perceive that I am, as you say, pretty far gone. The hour of the journey has arrived. I entreat them to be my guests. I can run to it, you understand, for there are still in my pockets plenty of my uncle's francs. They consent. I am in Ewen. All is well. Our friendship has progressed with marvellous speed. The old gentleman and I are swiftly the dear old pals. I have confided to him my dreams of artistic fame, and he has told me how much he dislikes your Lloyd George. He has mentioned that he and Miss Marion depart for London that day.

I am desolate. My face tumbles. He has observed my despair. He has invited me to visit them in London. Imagine my chagrin. To visit them in London is the one thing I desire to do. But how? I accept gratefully, but I ask myself how it is to be done. I am poor blighter, with no profession and nine hundred francs. He has taken it for granted that I am wealthy. What shall I do? I spend the afternoon trying to form a plan. And then I am resolved. I will go to my uncle and say, "'Uncle, I have the magnificent chance to marry the daughter of a wealthy English landowner. Already I have her gratitude soon, for I am young Ansem Debonair. I shall have her love. Give me one more chance, uncle. Be decent, old buck, and put up the money for this affair.' These words I have resolved to say to my uncle.

I go back to the hotel. I enter his private office. I reveal no secret when I say that he is not cordial. "'Ten thousand devils!' he cried. "'What do you have here?' I hasten to tell him all, and plead with him to be decent, old buck. He does not believe. "'Who is he?' he asks, this English landowner. "'How did I meet him, and where?' I tell him. He is amazed. "'You have the infernal impudence to take room in my hotel,' he has cried. "'I am crafty, I am diplomat. Where else, my dear uncle?' I say, in all Paris there is no such homme from homme. The cuisine, marveilleuse, the beds of rose-leaves, the attendance, superb. If only for one night I have said to myself I must stay in this of all hotels.

I have, what do you say, touched the spot. "'And what you say,' said Mourke Connery, there is certainly something. It is a good hotel, this of mine. The only hotel, I have assured them, the Meurice. Shit!' I snap my fingers. "'The Ritz.' Once again I snap my fingers. In all Paris there is no hotel like this. He has simmered down, his shirt is tucked in. Tell me again this plan of yours, jean. When I leave him we have come to an understanding. It is agreed between us that I am to have one last chance. He will not spoil this promising ship for the ap worth of tar. He will give me money for my purpose. But he has said as we part, if I fail, His hands shall be washed of me. He cannot now forget that I am his dear brother's child, but if I fail to accomplish the conquest of the divine Miss Marion, he thinks he will be able to.

It is well. A week later I follow the Endersons to London. For the next few days, Monsieur, I am in Paradise. My host has much nice house in Eaton Square. He is rich, popular, there is much society, and I have the I am young Anselm de Bonnerre. I cannot speak English very well, not so well as I now speak him, but I manage, I get along. I am intelligent, amiable, everyone loves me. Ah, no, not everyone. Captain Bassett, he does not love me. And why? Because he loves the charming Miss Marion, and observes that already I am succeeding with her like a house on fire. He is a me de famille. He is captain of your Gare de And my host told me he has distinguished himself as soldier pretty much. It may be so as soldier, perhaps, but at conversation he is not so good.

He is quite a nice fellow, you understand, Anselm? Yes, distinguished. Oh, yes. But he does not sparkle. He is not my verve, my elan. I, how do you say, I make the rings around him. But shoot! At that moment I would have made the rings around the old British army. Yes, and also the corps diplomatique. For I am inspired. Love has inspired me. I am conqueror. But I will not weary you, monsieur, with the details of my wooing. You are sympathetic, but I must not weary you. Let us say that I have, in four days or five, made progress the most remarkable, and proceed to the tragic end. Almost I could tell it in four words, in them one would say, that it is set forth. There was in London at that time popular song, a comic, vulgar song of the Arlesley, The cat came back.

You have heard it? Yes, I heard it myself and without emotion. It had no sinister warning for me. It did not strike me as an omen yet. In those four words, monsieur, is my tragedy. How? I shall tell you. Every word is a sword twisted in my heart, but I shall tell you. One morning, there we were, at T. All is well. I am vivacious, gay, Miss Mary and Charming, gracious, there is present also an aunt, Mr. Anderson's sister, but her I do not much notice. It is to Mary and I speak, both with my lips and also with my eyes. As we sit, Captain Bassett is announced. He has entered. We have greeted each other politely but coldly, for we are rivals. There is in his manner also a something which I do not much like, a species of suppressed triumph, of elation.

I am uneasy, but only yet vaguely you will understand. I have not the foreboding that he is about to speak my death sentence. He addresses Miss Marion. There is joy in his voice. Miss Enderson, he has said, I have for you the bally good news. You will remember, isn't it, the cat belonging to the American woman in the hotel at Paris, of which you have spoken to me last night at dinner. I have been seated beside her. At first I am not certain, is it she, then, I say, that there cannot be two Mrs. Balderstone rock-metallers in Europe, so I mention to her the cat. And, to cut the long story short, I venture to purchase for you as a little present the cat, Alexander. I have uttered a cry of horror, but it is not heard because of Miss Marion's cry of joy.

Oh, Captain Bassett, she has said. How very splendid have you ever since I first saw him have I loved Alexander. I cannot tell you how grateful I am, but it amazes me that you should have been able to induce her to part with him. Embarrassed, she has refused all my offers. He has paused, embarrassed. The fact is, he has said, there is between her and Alexander a certain coolness. He has deceived her, and she loves him no more. Immediately upon arrival in London he had the misfortune to have six fine kittens. However, out of evil cometh good, and I have thus been able to secure him for you. He is downstairs in a basket.

Miss Marion has rung the bell and commanded for him to be brought up instantly. I will not describe the meeting, monsieur. You are sympathetic. You will understand my feelings. Let us hurry on. Figure yourself, monsieur, to what extent I was now harassed. I am artist. I am a man of nerves. I cannot be gay. Brilliant debonair in the presence of a cat. Yet always the cat is there. It is terrible. I feel that I am falling behind in the race. Her gratitude has made her the more gracious to Captain Bassett. She smiles upon him, and like Chanticleer at the sight of the sun. He flaps his wings and crows. He is no longer the silent listener. It is I who have become the silent listener. I have said to myself that something must be done.

Chance has shown me the way. One afternoon I am by fortune alone in the hall. In his cage, the parrot polly is op'ing. I address him through the bars. Move, and I shoot! he has cried. The tears have filled my eyes. Oh, it has brought the old scene back to me. As I weep, I perceive the cat, Alexander, approaching. I have formed a plan. I have opened the cage door and released the parrot. The cat, I think, will attack the parrot of which Miss Anderson is so fond. She will love him no more. He will be expelled. He paused. I suppose my face must have lost some of its alleged sympathy as he set forth this fiendish plot. Even Percy the bluebottle seemed shocked. He had settled on the sugar bowl, but at these words he rose in a marked manner and left the table.

"'You do not approve,' he said. I shrugged my shoulders. "'No business of mine,' I said. "'But don't you think yourself it was playing it a bit low down? Didn't the thought present itself to you in a shadowy way that it was rather rough on the bird?' It did, monsieur, but what would you? It is necessary to break eggs in order to make an omelette. Ah! All is fair, you say, in love and war, and this was both. Moreover, you must understand I do not dictate his movements to the parrot. He is a free agent. I do but open the cage-door. Should he hop out and proceed to the floor, where is the cat? That is his affair. I shall continue. Eh? Alors? I open the cage-door and disappear discreetly. It is not politic that I remain to witness what shall transpire.

It is for me to establish an alibi. I go to the drawing-room where I remain. At dinner that night, Mr. Anderson has laughed.

In all this afternoon, he has said, I have seen by chance the dickens of a funny occurrence. That parrot of yours, Marion, had escaped once again from his cage and was having an argument with that cat which Captain Bassett has given to you. "'Oh, I hope that Alexander has not hurt perpollie, of whom I am very fond,' she has said. "'The affair did not come to blows,' said Mr. Anderson. "'You may trust that bird to take care of himself, my dear.' When I came upon the scene, the cat was crouching in a corner with his fur bristling and his back up, while Polly standing before him was telling him not to move or he would shoot. Nor did he move, till I had seized the parrot and replaced him in the cage, when he shot upstairs like a streak of lightning.

By sheer force of character, that excellent bird had won the bloodless victory. I drink to him. You can conceive my emotion as I listen to this tale. I am like the poets, mice and men, whose best kid schemes have gone away. I am baffled. I am discouraged. I do not know what I shall do. I must find another plan, but I do not know what. How shall I remove the cat? Shall I kill him? No, for I might be suspect. I have someone to steal him. No, for my accomplice might betray me. Shall I myself steal him? Ah, that is better. That is a very good plan. Soon I have it perfected, this plan. Listen, monsieur. It is as follows. It is simple, but it is good. I will await my opportunity. I will remove the cat secretly from the house.

I will take him to an office of the district messenger-boys. I will order a messenger to carry him at once to the cat's house, and to request monsieur le directeur immediately to destroy him. It is a simple plan, but it is good. I carry it through without itch. It is not so difficult to secure the cat. He is asleep in the drawing-room. There is nobody at hand. I have in my bedroom a box, which I have brought from Paris. I have brought it with me to the drawing-room. I have placed in it the cat. I have escaped from the house. The cat has uttered a cry, but none has heard. I have reached the office of the district messenger, boys. I have handed over the cat in its box. The manager is courteous, sympathetic.

A messenger has started in a cab for the cat's house. I have breathed a sigh of relief. I am saved. That is what I say to myself as I return. My troubles are over, and once more I can be gay, debonair, vivacious with Miss Marion, for no longer will there be present with a cat, Alexander, to arras me. When I have returned, there is commotion in the house. I pass on the stairs to Mestick's calling, Puss, Puss, Puss. The butler is chirruping loudly and poking beneath the furniture with an umbrella. All is confusion and agitation. In the drawing-room is Miss Marion. She is distressed. "'Nowhere,' she said, "'can there be found the cat, Alexander, of whom I am so fond? Nowhere in the house is he. Where can he be?

He is lost.' "'I am gentle, sympathetic. I endeavour to console her. I into her that I am not sufficient substitute for a beastly cat.' She is, however, inconsolable. I must be patient. I must wait my time. Captain Bassett is announced. He is informed of what has happened. He is distressed. He is the air, as if he, too, would endeavour to be gentle, sympathetic. But I am Johnny on the spot. I stay till he has gone. Next day again it is PUSS PUSS PUSS. Again the butler has explored under the furniture with the umbrella. Again Miss Marion is distressed. Again have I endeavoured to console. Time, I think I am not so unsuccessful. I am, you understand, young, handsome, sympathetic. In another two ticks I am about to seize her and declare my passion.

But before I can do so, Captain Bassett is announced. I gaze at him as at unsuccessful arrival. I am confident. I am conqueror. Ah, I little know. It is in the moments of our highest hope, monsieur, that we are destroyed. Captain Bassett, he too, as the heir of the conqueror, has begun to speak. Miss Enderson, he has said, I have once more the Ballygood news. I rather fancy that I have tracked down the missing Alexander. Do you not know him? Miss Marion has cried out with joy, but I am calm, for is not Alexander already yesterday destroyed? It is like this, he has resumed. I have thought to myself, where is Lost Cat most likely to be? And I have answered, in the Cat's house. So I go this morning to the cat's house, and there I see a cat which is either lost Alexander or his living image.

Exactly is he the same in all appearances as the lost Alexander. But there is, when I try to purchase him, some curious itch which they do not explain. They must have time, they say, to consider. They cannot at once decide. Why, what nonsense! Miss Marion abscried. If the cat is my cat, surely, then must they return him to me? Come, he has said. Let us all three at once. In a taxicab, go to the cat's house. If all three of us identify the lost Alexander, then must they return him? Monsieur, I am uneasy. I am foreboding. But I go. What choice? We go in a taxicab to the cat's house. The directeur is courteous and sympathetic. He has introduced us to the cat, and my art has turned to water, for it is Alexander.

Why has he not been destroyed? The directeur is speaking. I hear him in a dream. "'If you identify him as your cat, miss,' he has said, "'the matter is ended. My hesitation when you, sir, approached me this morning on the matter was due to the fact that a messenger was sent with instructions that he be destroyed at once.' "'Rather rough, wasn't it, that on the messenger?' "'Yes,' Captain Bassett said. "'He is facetious, you understand, for he is conqueror. I am silent. I am not facetious, for already I feel—how do you say—my fowl is cooked.' "'Not the messenger, sir,' the director has said. "'You have misunderstood me. It was the cat which was to be destroyed as per instructions of the anonymous sender.' "'Who could have played such a wicked trick?' Miss Marion has asked indignant.

"'The director has stooped, and from behind the table he has brought a hat-box. In this year,' said the above animal was conveyed, but with it was no accompanying letter. The sender was anonymous. "'Perhaps Captain Bassett has said,' And still morn in a dream I hear him. Perhaps on the app-box there's some bally name or other. Do you not know? What? I clutched to the table. The room is spinning round and round. I have no stomach, only emptiness. Why, bless me, the director, said you. Quite right. Yes, sir. So there is. Funny of me not to have afore observed it. There is a name, and also an address. It is the name of Jean-Priot, and the address is the Hotel Jules-Priot, in Paris. My companion stopped abruptly.

He passed a handkerchief over his forehead. With a quick movement he reached for his glass of liqueur brandy and drained it at a gulp. "'Monsieur,' he said, "'you will not wish me to describe the scene. There is no need for me. I am to be Zolaesque. You can imagine.' She chucked you. In a moment of emotion, it is the simplest language that comes to the lips. He nodded. "'And married Captain Bassett?' He nodded again. "'And your uncle?' I said. "'How did he take it?' He sighed. "'There was, once more, a blooming row, monsieur.' "'He washed his hands of you?' "'Well, not altogether. He was angry, but he gave me one more chance. I am still his dear brother's child, and he cannot forget it. An acquaintance of his, a man of letters, and M.

Paul Sartin, was in need of a secretary of the post, was not well paid, but it was permanent. My uncle insisted I take it. What choice? I took it. It is the post which I still hold. He ordered another liqueur brandy and gulped it down. The name is familiar to you? You have heard of Monsieur Sartines? No, I don't think I have. Who is he? He is a man of letters, a savant. For five years he has been occupied upon a great work. It is with that that I assist him by collecting facts for his use. I have spent this afternoon in the British Museum collecting facts. Tomorrow I go again, and the next day, and again after that. The book will occupy yet another ten years before it is completed. It is as great work.

It sounds as if it was. I said, what is it about? He signaled to the waiter. Garcon. One other liqueur brandy. The book, monsieur, is a history of the cat in ancient Egypt.

8 08 - Ruth in Exile 32:43

Story Number Eight. Ruth in Exile. The clock struck five, briskly, as if time were money. Ruth Warden got up from her desk, and having put on her hat, emerged into the outer office, where M. Gendinot received visitors. M. Gendinot, the ugliest man in Roville-sur-Mer, presided over the local Mont de Pieter, and Ruth served him from ten to five as a sort of secretary-clark. Her duties, if monotonous, were simple. They consisted of sitting, detached and invisible, behind a ground-glass screen, and entering details of loans in a fat book. She was kept busy as a rule, for Rouville possesses two casinos, each offering the attraction of Petit-Chevaux, and just around the corner is Monte Carlo. Very brisk was the business done by M.

Gendinot, the pawnbroker, and very frequent were the pitying shakes of the head and clicks of the tongue of M. Gendinot, the man, for in his unofficial capacity, a loose employer had a gentle soul, and winced at the evidences of tragedy which presented themselves before his official eyes. He blinked up at Ruth as she appeared, and Ruth, as she looked at him, was conscious as usual of a lightning of the depression, which nowadays seemed to have settled permanently upon her. The peculiar quality of M. Gendinot's extraordinary countenance was that it induced mirth, not mocking laughter, but a kind of smiling happiness. It possessed that indefinable quality which characterizes the billiken, due perhaps to the unquenchable optimism which shone through the irregular features.

For M. Gandonneau, despite his calling, believed in his fellow-man. "'You are going, mademoiselle?' As Ruth was wearing her hat and making for the door, and as she always left at this hour, a purist might have considered the question superfluous. M. Gendinot was a man who seized every opportunity of practising his English. "'You will not wait for the good papa who calls so regularly for you?' "'I think I won't to-day, M. Gendinot. I want to get out into the air. I have rather a headache. Will you tell my father that I have gone to the promenade?' M. Gendinot sighed as the door closed behind her. Ruth's depression had not escaped his notice. He was sorry for her, and not without cause. For fate had not dealt too kindly with Ruth.

It would have amazed Mr. Eugene Warden, that genial old gentleman, if on one of those occasions of manly emotion when he was in the habit of observing that he had been nobody's enemy but his own, somebody had hinted that he had spoiled his daughter's life. Such a thought had never entered his head. He was one of those delightful, irresponsible, erratic persons, into whose heads thoughts of this kind do not enter, and who are about as deadly to those whose lives are bound up with theirs as an opus tree. In the memory of his oldest acquaintance, Ruth's father had never done anything but drift amiably through life. There had been a time when he had done his drifting in London, feeding cheerfully from the hand of a long-suffering brother-in-law, but though blood, as he was wont to remark while negotiating his periodical loans, is thicker than water, a brother-in-law's affection has its limits.

A day came when Mr. Warden observed with pain that his relative responded less nimbly to the touch, and a little while later the other delivered his ultimatum. Mr. Warden was to leave England, and to stay away from England, to behave as if England no longer existed on the map, and a small but sufficient allowance would be made to him. If he declined to do this, not another penny of the speaker's money would he receive. He could choose, and he chose. He left England, Ruth, with him. They settled in Roville, that haven of the exile who lives upon remittances. Ruth's connection with the Mont-Pietre had come about almost automatically. Very soon after their arrival, it became evident that to a man of Mr.

Warden's nature, resident a stone's throw distant from two casinos, the small allowance was not likely to go very far. Even if Ruth had not wished to work, circumstances would have compelled her. As it was, she longed for something to occupy her, and the vacancy at the Mont-de-Pietre occurring, she had snatched at it. There was a certain fitness in her working there. Business transactions with that useful institution had always been conducted by her, it being Mr. Warden's theory that woman can extract in these crises just that extra franc or two which is denied to the mere male. Through constantly going round, running across, stepping over, and popping down to the Mont de Pieter, she had established almost a legal claim on any post that might be vacant there, and under M.

Gardineau's banner she had served ever since. Five minutes' walk took her to the Promenade des Anglais, that apparently endless thoroughfare which is Roville's pride. The evening was fine and warm, the sun shone gaily on the white-walled houses, the bright gardens, and the two gleaming casinos. But Ruth walked listlessly, blind to the glitter of it all. Visitors who go to Roville for a few weeks in the winter are apt to speak of the place on their return in a manner that conveys the impression that it is a paradise on earth, with gambling facilities thrown in. But then they are visitors. Their sojourn comes to an end. Ruth's did not. A voice spoke to her name. She turned, and saw her father, dapper as ever, standing beside her.

"'What an evening, my dear,' said Mr. Warden. "'What an evening's smell of the sea!' Mr. Warden appeared to be in high spirits. He hummed a tune and twirled his cane. He chirruped frequently to Bill, the companion of his walks abroad, a wiry fox-terrier of a demeanour, like his master's, both jaunty and slightly disreputable. An air of gaiety pervaded his bearing. I called in at the Mont de Pieter, but you had gone. Gandineau told me you had come here. What an ugly fellow that Gandineau is, but a good sort. I like him. I had a chat with him. The high spirits were explained. Ruth knew her father. She guessed correctly that M. Gandineau, kindest of pawnbrokers, had obliged in his unofficial capacity with a trifling loan.

Gendinor ought to go on the stage, went on Mr. Warden, pursuing his theme. With that face he'd make his fortune. You can't help laughing when you see it. One of these days—but he broke off. Stirring things had begun to occur in the neighborhood of his ankles, where Bill the Fox Terrier had encountered an acquaintance, and, to the accompaniment of a loud gargling noise, was endeavoring to bite his head off. This acquaintance, a gentleman of uncertain breed, equally willing, was chewing Bill's paw with the gusto of a gourmet. An Irish terrier, with no personal bias towards either side, was dancing round and attacking each in turn as he came uppermost. And two poodles leaped madly in and out of the melee, barking encouragement.

It takes a better man than Mr. Warden to break up a gathering of this kind. The old gentleman was bewildered. He added his voice to the babble, and twice smote Bill grievously with his cane, with blows intended for the acquaintance. But beyond that he affected nothing. It seemed probable that the engagement would last till the combatants had consumed each other after the fashion of the Kilkenny cats, when there suddenly appeared from nowhere a young man in gray. The world is divided into those who can stop dogfights and those who cannot. The young man in gray belonged to the former class. Within a minute from his entrance on the scene, the Poodles and the Irish Terrier had vanished, The dog of doubtful breed was moving off up the hill, yelping, with the dispatch of one who remembers an important appointment, and Bill, miraculously calmed, was seated in the center of the promenade, licking honorable wounds.

Mr. Warden was disposed to ever vest with gratitude. The scene had shaken him, and there had been moments when he had given his ankles up for lost. "'Don't mention it,' said the young man. "'I enjoy arbitrating in these little disputes.' Dogs seem to like me, and trust my judgment, I consider myself a sort of honorary dog. Well, I am bound to say, Mr. Vince, George Vince. My name is Warden, my daughter. Ruth inclined her head, and was conscious of a pair of very penetrating brown eyes looking eagerly into hers, in a manner which she thoroughly resented. She was not used to the other sex meeting her gaze and holding it as if confident of a friendly welcome. She made up her mind in that instant that this was a young man who required suppression.

"'I have seen you several times out here since I arrived, Miss Warden,' said Mr. Vince. "'Four in all,' he added precisely. "'Really?' said Ruth. She looked away. Her attitude seemed to suggest that she had finished with him, and would be obliged if somebody would come and sweep him up. As they approached the casino, restlessness crept into Mr. Warden's manner. At the door he stopped and looked at Ruth up. "'I think, my dear,' he said. "'Going to have a dash at the Petit Cheveau?' inquired Mr. Vince. "'I was there just now. I have an infallible system.' Mr. Warden started like a war-horse at the sound of the trumpet. "'Only it's infallible in the wrong way,' went on the young man. "'Well, I wish you luck.

I'll see Miss Warden home.' Please don't trouble, said Ruth, in the haughty manner which had frequently withered unfortunate fellow-exiles in their tracks. It had no such effect on Mr. Vince. "'I shall like it,' he said. Ruth set her teeth. She would see whether he would like it. They left Mr. Warden, who shot in at the casino door like a homing rabbit, and walked on in silence, which lasted till Ruth, suddenly becoming aware that her companion's eye was fixed on her face, turned her head to meet a gaze of complete, not to say loving, admiration. She flushed. She was accustomed to being looked at admiringly, but about this particular look there was a subtle quality that distinguished it from the ordinary, something proprietorial.

Mr. Vince appeared to be a young man who wasted no time on conventional conversation openings. "'Do you believe in affinities, Miss Warden?' he said. "'No,' said Ruth. "'You will before we are done,' said Mr. Vince confidently. "'Why did you try to snub me just now?' "'Did I?' "'You mustn't again. It hurts me. I am a sensitive man, diffident, shy. Miss Warden, will you marry me?' Ruth had determined that nothing should shake her from her icy detachment, but this did. She stopped with a gasp and stared at him. Mr. Vince reassured her. "'I don't expect you to say yes. That was just a beginning sort of—' The shot fired across the bow by way of warning. In you, Miss Warden, I have found my affinity.

Have you ever considered this matter of affinities? Affinities are the—the—the—wait a moment. He paused, reflecting. I, began Ruth. Sh-sh-sh-sh, said the young man, holding up his hand. Ruth's eyes flashed. She was not used to having—sh-sh-sh, said to her by a young man, and she resented it. I've got it, he declared with relief. I knew I should, but these good things take time. Affinities are the zero on the roulette-board of life. Just as we select a number on which to stake our money, so do we select a type of girl whom we think we should like to marry. And just as zero pops up instead of the number, so does our affinity come along and upset all our preconceived notions of the type of girl we should like to marry.

"'I,' began Ruth again, the analogy is in the rough at present, I haven't had time to condense and polish it, but you see the idea—take my case, for instance. When I saw you a couple of days ago, I knew in an instant that you were my affinity. But for years I had been looking for a woman almost your exact opposite. You are dark. Three days ago I couldn't have imagined myself marrying anyone who was not fair. Your eyes are grey. Three days ago my preference for blue eyes was a byword. You have a shocking temper. Three days ago—Mr. Vince! There," said that philosopher complacently, you stamped. The gentle blue-eyed blonde whom I was looking for three days ago would have drooped timidly. Three days ago my passion for timid droopers amounted to an obsession.

Ruth did not reply. It was useless to bandy words with one who gave such clear evidence of being something out of the common run of word bandiers. No verbal attack could crush this extraordinary young man. She walked on, all silence and stony profile, uncomfortably conscious that her companion was in no way abashed by the former, and was regarding the latter with that frank admiration which made itself so obnoxious to her before, until they reached their destination. Mr. Vince, meanwhile, chatted cheerfully and pointed out objects of interest by the wayside. At the door, Ruth permitted herself a word of farewell. "'Good-bye,' she said. "'Till tomorrow evening,' said Mr. Vince, "'I shall be coming to dinner.'" Mr.

Warden ambled home, very happy and contented, two hours later, with half a franc in his pocket, this comparative wealth being due to the fact that the minimum stake permitted by the rueville casino is just double that sum. He was sorry not to have won, but his mind was too full of rosy dreams to permit a remorse. It was the estimable old gentleman's dearest wish that his daughter should marry some rich, open-handed man who would keep him in affluence for the remainder of his days, and to that end he was in the habit of introducing to her and notice any such that came his way. There was no question of coercing Ruth. He was too tender-hearted for that. Besides, he couldn't. Ruth was not the sort of girl who is readily coerced.

He contented himself with giving her the opportunity to inspect his exhibits. Roville is a sociable place, and it was not unusual for him to make friends at the casino and to bring them home. when made, for a cigar. Up to the present he was bound to admit his efforts had not been particularly successful. Ruth, he reflected sadly, was a curious girl. She did not show her best side to these visitors. There was no encouragement in her manner. She was apt to frighten the unfortunate exhibits. But of this young man Vince had brighter hopes. He was rich. That was proved by the very handsome way in which he had behaved in the manner of a small loan when Looking in at the casino, after parting from Ruth, he had found Mr.

Warden in sore straits for want of a little capital to back a brand new system which he had conceived through closely observing the run of the play. He was also obviously attracted by Ruth, and as he was remarkably presentable, indeed quite an unusually good-looking young man, there seemed no reason why Ruth should not be equally attracted by him. The word looked good to Mr. Warden as he fell asleep that night. Ruth, on the other hand, did not fall asleep so easily. The episode had disturbed her. A new element had entered her life, and one that gave promise of producing strange by-products. When on the following evening Ruth returned from the stroll on the promenade, which she always took after leaving the Mont de Pieter, with a feeling of irritation towards things in general, this feeling was not diminished by the sight of Mr.

Vince, very much at his ease, standing against the mantelpiece of the tiny parlour. "'How do you do?' he said. "'By an extraordinary coincidence. I happened to be hanging about outside this house just now, when your father came along and invited me in to dinner. Have you ever thought much about coincidences, Miss Warden?' "'To my mind, they may be described as the zero on the roulette-board of life.' He regarded her fondly. "'For a shy man, conscious that the girl he loves is inspecting him closely and making up her mind about him,' he proceeded, These unexpected meetings are very trying ordeals. You must not form your judgment of me too hastily. You see me now, nervous, embarrassed, tongue-tied.

But I am not always like this. Beneath this crust of diffidence there is sterling stuff, Miss Warden. People who know me have spoken of me as a little ray of sun. Ah! But here is your father. Mr. Warden was more than usually disappointed with Ruth during dinner. It was the same old story. So far from making herself pleasant to this attractive stranger, She seemed positively to dislike him. She was barely civil to him. With a sigh, Mr. Warden told himself that he did not understand Ruth, and the rosy dreams he had formed began to fade. Ruth's ideas on the subject of Mr. Vince, as the days went by, were chaotic. Though she told herself that she thoroughly objected to him, he had nevertheless begun to have an undeniable attraction for her.

In what this attraction consisted of, she could not say. When she tried to analyze it, she came to the conclusion that it was due to the fact that he was the only element in her life that made for excitement. Since his advent, the days had certainly passed more swiftly for her. The dead level of monotony had been broken. There was a certain fascination in exerting herself to suppress him, which increased daily as each attempt failed. Mr. Vince put his feelings into words for her. He had a maddening habit of discussing the progress of his courtship in the manner of an impartial lecturer. "'I am making headway,' he observed. "'The fact that we cannot meet without your endeavouring to plant a temperamental left jab on my spiritual solar plexus encourages me to think that you are beginning at last to understand that we are affinities.

To persons of spirit like ourselves, the only happy marriage is that which is based on a firm foundation of almost incessant quarrelling.' The most beautiful line in English poetry to my mind is, "'We fell out, my wife and I.' You would be wretched without a husband who didn't like you to quarrel with him. The position of affairs now is that I have become necessary to you. If I went out of your life now, I should leave an aching void. You would still have that beautiful punch of yours, and there would be nobody to exercise it on. You would pine away. From now on, matters should, I think, move rapidly. During the course of the next week I shall endeavor to propitiate you with gifts. Here is the first of them.

He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. It was a pencil sketch, rough and unfinished, but wonderfully clever. Even Ruth could appreciate that, and she was a prejudiced observer, for the sketch was a caricature of herself. It represented her drawn up to her full height with enormous scornful eyes and curling lips, and the artist had managed to combine an excellent likeness. while accentuating everything that was marked in what she knew had come to be her normal expression of scorn and disconnect. "'I didn't know you were an artist, Mr. Vince,' she said, handing it back. "'A poor amateur. Nothing more. You may keep it.' "'I have not the slightest wish to keep it.' "'You haven't?' "'It's not in the least clever, and it is very impertinent of you to show it to me.

The drawing is not funny. It is simply rude.' A little more, said Mr. Vince, and I shall begin to think you don't like it. Are you fond of chocolates? Ruth did not answer. I am sending you some tomorrow. I shall return them. Then I shall send some more and some fruit. Gifts, soliloquized Mr. Vince, gifts! That is the secret. Keep sending gifts. If men would only stick to gifts and quarrelling, there would be fewer bachelors. On the morrow, as promised, the chocolates arrived, many pounds of them, in a lordly box. The bludgeoning of fate had not wholly scotched in Ruth a human weakness for sweets, and it was with a distinct effort that she wrapped the box up again and returned it to the sender.

She went off to her work at the Mont de Pieter with a glow of satisfaction, which comes to those who exhibit an iron will in trying circumstances, and at the Mont de Pieter there occurred a surprising incident. Surprising incidents, as Mr. Vince would have said, are the zero on the roulette-board of life. They pop up disturbingly when least expected, confusing the mind and altering preconceived opinions. And this was a very surprising incident indeed. Ruth, as has been stated, sat during her hours of work behind a ground-glass screen unseen and unseeing. To her the patrons of the establishment were mere disembodied voices, wheedling voices, pathetic voices, voices that protested, voices that hectored, Voices that whined, moaned, broke, appealed to the saints, and in various other ways endeavored to instill into M.

Grandinot more spacious and princely views on the subject. Advancing money on property pledged. She was sitting behind her screen this morning, scribbling idly on the blotting-pad, for there had been a lull in the business, when the door opened and the polite, Bonjour, Monsieur, of M. Grandinot announced the arrival of another unfortunate. Then shaking her like an electric shock came a voice that she knew, the pleasant voice of Mr. Vince. The dialogues that took place on the other side of the screen were often protracted and always sordid, but none had seemed to Ruth so interminable, so hideously sordid, as this one. Round and round its miserable center, a silver cigarette-case, the dreary argument circled.

The young man pleaded. M. Grandinot, adamant in his official role, was immovable. Ruth could bear it no longer. She pressed her hands over her burning ears, and the voices ceased to trouble her. And with the silence came thought, and a blaze of understanding that flashed upon her and made all things clear. She understood now why she had closed her ears. Poverty is an acid which reacts differently on differing natures. It had reduced Mr. Eugene Warden's self-respect to a minimum. Ruth's, it had reared up to an abnormal growth. Her pride had become a weed that ran riot in her soul, darkening it and choking finer emotions. Perhaps it was her father's naive stratagems for the enmeshing of a wealthy husband that had produced in her, at last, a morbid antipathy to the idea of playing beggar-maid to any man's king, Coffithua.

The state of mind is intelligible. The Coffithua legend never has been told from the beggar-maid's point of view. and there must have been moments when, if a woman of spirit, she resented that monarch's somewhat condescending attitude, and felt that, secure in his wealth and magnificence, he had taken her grateful acquiescence very much for granted. This she saw now was what had prejudiced her against George Vince. She had assumed that he was rich, he had conveyed the impression of being rich, and she had been on the defensive against him accordingly. Now, for the first time, she seemed to know him. A barrier had been broken down. The royal robes had proved tinsel, and no longer disguised the man she loved.

A touch on her arm aroused her. M. Grandinot was standing by her side. Terms, apparently, had been agreed upon, and the interview concluded, for in his hand was a silver cigarette-case. "'Dreaming, mademoiselle? I could not make you hear. The more I called you, the more you did not answer.' It is necessary to enter this loan. He recited the details, and Ruth entered them in her ledger. This done, M. Grandinot, doffing his official self, sighed. "'It is a place of much sorrow, mademoiselle, this office.' Harry would not take no for an answer that young man recently departed. "'A fellow-countryman of yours, mademoiselle, you would say. What is this young man, so well dressed and a monde pieté?' "'But I know better.' "'Ay, Gendeneau, you have an expression, you English.

I heard it in Paris in a cafe, and inquired of its meaning. When you say of a man that he swanks, how many young men have I seen here, admirably dressed? Rich, you would say. No, no, no. The Montpiette permits no secrets.' "'To swank, mademoiselle, what is it?' "'To deceive the world, yes, but not the Montpiette. Yesterday, also, when you had departed, was he here, that young man?' Yet here he is once more to-day. He spends his money quickly, alas, that poor young swanker. When Ruth returned home that evening, she found her father in the sitting-room, smoking a cigarette. He greeted her with effusion, but with some uneasiness. For the old gentleman had nerved himself to a delicate task. He had made up his mind to-night to speak seriously to Ruth on the subject of her unsatisfactory behavior to Mr.

Vince. The more he saw of that young man, the more positive was he. that this was the human gold mine for which he had been searching all these weary years. Accordingly, he threw away his cigarette, kissed Ruth on the forehead, and began to speak. It had long been Mr. Warden's opinion that if his daughter had a fault, it was a tendency toward a quite unnecessary and highly inconvenient frankness. She would not evade, ignore, agree not to see. She was at times painfully blunt. This happened now. He was warming to his subject when she interrupted him with a question. "'What makes you think Mr. Vince is rich, father?' Mr. Warden was embarrassed. The subject of Mr. Vince's opulence had not entered into his discourse.

He had carefully avoided it. The fact that he was thinking of it, and that Ruth knew that he was thinking of it, and that he knew that Ruth knew, had nothing to do with the case. The question was not in order, and it embarrassed him. I—I—why? I never said he was rich, my dear. I have no doubt that he has ample—he is quite poor. Mr. Warden's jaw fell slightly. Poor? But, my dear, that's absurd! He cried. Why, only this evening—he broke off abruptly, but it was too late. Father, you have been borrowing money from him. Mr. Warden drew in his breath, preparatory to an indignant denial, but he altered his mind and remained silent. As a borrower of money he had every quality but one. He had come to look on her perspicacity in this matter as a sort of second sight.

It had frequently gone far to spoiling for him the triumph of success. "'And he has to pawn things to live!' her voice was trembling. "'He was at the Montepietre to-day, and yesterday, too. I heard him. He was arguing with Monsieur Gandonaut, haggling.' Her voice broke. She was sobbing helplessly. The memory of it was too raw and vivid. Mr. Warden stood motionless. Many emotions raced through his mind, but chief among them the thought that this revelation had come at a very fortunate time. An exceedingly lucky escape, he felt. He was aware also of a certain measure of indignation against this deceitful young man, who had fraudulently imitated a gold mine with what might have been disastrous results.

The door opened, and Jean, the maid of all work, announced Mr. Vince. He entered the room briskly. "'Good evening,' he said. "'I have brought you some more chocolates, Miss Warden, and some fruit. Great Scott, what's the matter?' He stopped, but only for an instant. The next he had darted across the room, and before the horrified eyes of Mr. Warden was holding Ruth in his arms, she clung to him. Bill, the fox-terrier over whom Mr. Vince had happened to stumble, was the first to speak. Almost simultaneously, Mr. Warden joined in, and there was a striking similarity between the two voices, for Mr. Warden's searching for words emitted as a preliminary to them a sort of passionate yelp. Mr. Vince removed the hand that was patting Ruth's shoulder, and waved it reassuringly at him.

"'It's all right,' he said. "'All right, all right!' Affinities, explained Mr. Vince over his shoulder. Two hearts that beat as one were going to be married. "'What's the matter, dear? Don't you worry. You're all right.' "'I refuse,' shouted Mr. Warden. "'I absolutely refuse!' Mr. Vince lowered Ruth gently into a chair, and holding her hand inspected the fermenting old gentleman gravely. "'You refuse,' he said. "'Why, I thought you liked me!' Mr. Warden's frenzy had cooled. It had been something foreign to his nature. He regretted it. These things had to be managed with restraint. "'My personal likes and dislikes,' he said, "'have nothing to do with the matter, Mr. Vince. They are beside the point.

I have my daughter to consider. I cannot allow her to marry a man without a penny.' "'Quite right,' said Mr. Vince approvingly. "'Don't have anything to do with the fellow. If he tries to put in, send to the police.' Mr. Warden hesitated. He had always been a little ashamed of Ruth's occupation, but necessity compelled. "'Mr. Vince, my daughter is employed at the Mont-de-Pietre.' and was a witness to all that took place this afternoon. Mr. Vince was genuinely agitated. He looked at Ruth, his face full of concern. "'You don't mean to say that you have been slaving away in that stuffy great Scot! I'll have you out of that quick.' "'You mustn't go there again.' He stooped and kissed her. "'Perhaps you had better let me explain,' he said.

"'Explanations, I always think, are the zero on the roulette-board of life. They are always somewhere about waiting to pop up.' Have you ever heard of Vince's stores, Mr. Warden? Perhaps they are since your time. My father is the proprietor. One of our specialties is children's toys, but we haven't picked a real winner for years, and my father, when I last saw him, seemed so distressed about it that I said I'd see if I couldn't whack out an idea or something. Something on the lines of the Billikin, only better, was what he felt he needed. I'm not used to brainwork, and after a spell of it I felt I wanted a rest. I came here to recuperate, and the very first morning I got an inspiration. You may have noticed that the manager of the Mont de Pieter here isn't strong on conventional good looks.

I saw him at the casino, and the thing flashed on me. He thinks his name's Gandineau, but it isn't. It's Uncle Zip, the hump curer, the man who makes you smile. He pressed Ruth's hand affectionately. I lost track of him. And it was only the day before yesterday that I discovered who he was and where he was to be found. Well, you can't go up to a man and ask him to pose as a model for Uncle Zip, the hump curer. The only way to get sittings was to approach him in the way of business. So I collected what property I had and waded in. Now, that's the whole story. Do I pass?

Mr. Warden's frosty demeanour had gradually thawed during this recital, and now the sun of his smile shone out warmly. He gripped Mr. Vince's hand with every evidence of esteem, and after that he did what was certainly the best thing by passing gently from the room. On his face, as he went, was a look such as Moses might have worn on the summit of Mount Piscot. It was some twenty minutes later that Ruth made a remark. "'I want you to promise me something,' she said. "'Promise that you won't go on with that Uncle Zip drawing. I know it means ever so much money, It might hurt poor Mr. Gandineau's feelings, and he has been very kind to me. "'That settles it,' said Mr. Vince. "'It's hard on the children of Great Britain, but say no more.

No Uncle Zip for them.' Ruth looked at him almost with awe. "'You really won't go on with it, in spite of all the money you'd make? Are you always going to do just what I ask you, no matter what it costs you?' He nodded sadly. You have sketched out in a few words the whole policy of my married life. I feel an awful fraud, and I had encouraged you to look forward to years of incessant quarrelling. Do you think you can manage without it? I am afraid it is going to be shockingly dull for you," said Mr. Vince, regretfully.

9 09 - Archibald's Benefit 34:26

The Man Upstairs by P. G. Woodhouse. Chapter Nine Archibald's Benefit Archibald Meeling was one of those golfers in whom desire outruns performance. Nobody could have been more willing than Archibald. He tried, and he tried very hard. Every morning before he took his bath, he would stand in front of his mirror and practice swings. Every night before he went to bed, he would read the golden words of some master on the subject of putting, driving, or approaching. Yet on the links, most of his time was spent in retrieving lost balls, or replacing pieces of America.

Whether it was that Archibald pressed too much or pressed too little, whether it was that his club deviated from the dotted line which joined the two points A and B in the illustrated plate of the man making the brassy shot in the Hints on Golf book, or whether it was that he was pursued by some malignant fate, I do not know. Archibald rather favored the last theory. The important point is that in his thirty-first year, After six seasons of untiring effort, Archibald went in for a championship and won it. Archibald, Mark Hugh, whose golf was a kind of blend of hockey, Swedish drill, and buck-and-wing dancing, I know the ordeal I must face when I make such a statement. I see clearly before me the solid phalanx of men from Missouri, some urging me to tell it to the king of Denmark, others insisting that I produce my Eskimos.

Nevertheless, I do not shrink. I state once more that in his thirty-first year Archibald Meeling went in for a golf championship and won it.

Archibald belonged to a select little golf club, the members of which lived and worked in New York, but played in New Jersey. Men of substance, financially as well as physically, they had combined their superfluous cash and with it purchased a strip of land close to the sea. This land had been drained, to the huge discomfort of a colony of mosquitoes who had come to look on the place as their own private property, and converted it into links, which had become a sort of refuge for incompetent golfers. The members of the Cape Pleasant Club were easy-going refugees from other and more exacting clubs, men who pottered rather than raced round at the links, men, in short, who had grown tired of having to stop their game and stand aside, in order to allow perspiring experts to whiz past them.

The Cape Pleasant golfers did not make themselves slaves to the game. Their language, when they foozled, was gently regretful rather than selfless. The moment in the day's play which they enjoyed most was when they were saying, "'Well, here's luck in the clubhouse.'" It will therefore be readily understood that Archibald's inability to do a hole in single figures did not handicap him at Cape Pleasant as it might have done at St. Andrew's. His kindly clubmates took him to their bosoms to a man and looked on him as a brother. Archibald's was one of those admirable natures which prompted the possessor frequently to remark, "'These are on me!' and his fellow-golfers were not slow to appreciate the fact that they all loved Archibald.

Archibald was on the floor of his bedroom one afternoon picking up the fragments of his mirror. A friend had advised him to practice the Walter J. Travis lofting shot. When the telephone bell rang, he took up the receiver and was hailed by the comfortable voice of McKay, the club secretary. Is that Meeling? asked McKay. Say, Archie, I'm putting your name down for our championship competition. That's right, isn't it? Sure, said Archibald. When does it start? Next Saturday. That's me. Good for you—oh, Archie, hello. A man I met today told me you were engaged. Is that a fact? Sure, murmured Archibald, blushfully. The wire hummed with McKay's congratulations. Thanks, says Archibald. Thanks, old man.

Oh, yes, Milsom's her name. By the way, her family have taken a cottage at Cape Pleasant for the summer, some distance from the links. Very convenient, isn't it? Goodbye. Archibald hung up the receiver and resumed his task of gathering up the fragments. Now, Mackay happened to be of a romantic and sentimental nature. He was by profession a chartered accountant and inclined to be stout, and all rather stout chartered accountants are sentimental. Mackay was a sort of man who keeps old ball programs in bundles of letters tied round with a lilac ribbon. At country houses where they lingered in the porch after dinner to watch the moonlight flooding the quiet garden, It was Mackay and his colleague who lingered longest.

Mackay knew Ella Wheeler-Wilcox by heart, and could take Browning without anaesthetics. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that Archibald's remark about his fianc coming to live at Cape Pleasant should give him food for thought. It appealed to him.

He reflected on it a good deal during the day, and running across Sigby, a fellow Cape Pleasanter, After dinner that night at the Sibwrights Club, he spoke of the matter to him. It so happened that both had dined excellently and were looking on the world with a sort of cosy benevolence. They were in the mood when men pat small boys on the head and ask them if they mean to be president when they grow up. Said Mackay, I called up Archie Mealing today. Do you know he was engaged? I did hear something about it. Girl of the name of Wilson or Milsom. She's going to spend the summer at Cape Pleasant, Archie tells me. Then she'll have a chance of seeing him play in the championship competition. Mackay sucked his cigar in silence for a while, watching with dreamy eyes the blue smoke as it curled ceiling-wit.

Then, when he spoke, his voice was singularly soft.

"'Do you know, Sigsbee,' he said, sipping his maraschino with a gentle melancholy, "'do you know there's something wonderfully pathetic to me in this business?' I see the whole thing so clearly. There was a kind of quiver in the poor old chap's voice when he said, "'She is coming to Cape Pleasant,' which told me more than any words could have done. "'It's a tragedy in its way, Sigby. We may smile at it, think it trivial, but it is nonetheless a tragedy. That warm-hearted, enthusiastic girl, all eagerness to see the man she loves do well. Archie, poor old Archie, all on fire to prove to her that her trust in him is not misplaced, and the end—' Disillusionment, disappointment, unhappiness. He ought to keep his eye on the ball, said the more practical Sigsbee.

Quite possibly, continued Mackay. He has told her that he will win this championship. If Archie's mutt enough to have told her that, says Sigsbee decidedly, he deserves all he gets. Walter? Two scotch highballs. Mackay was in no mood to subscribe to this stony-hearted view. I tell you," he said, I'm sorry for Archie. I'm sorry for the poor old chap, and I'm more than sorry for the girl.

"'I don't see what we can do,' said Sigby. "'We can hardly be expected to foozle on purpose just to let Archie show off before his girl.' Mackay paused in the act of lighting his cigar as once smitten with a great thought. "'Why not?' he said. "'Why not, Sigby? Sigby, you've hit it!' "'You have. I tell you, Sigsbee, you've solved the whole thing. Archie's such a bully good fellow. Why not give him a benefit? Why not let him win this championship? You aren't going to tell me that you care whether you win a tin medal or not?' Sigsbee's benevolence was expanding under the influence of the Scotch highball and his cigar. Little acts of kindness on Archie's part here a cigar, there a lunch, at another time seats for the theatre, began to rise to the surface of his memory like rainbow-coloured bubbles.

He wavered. Yes, but what about the rest of the men? Sigby said. There will be dozens or more in for the medal. We can square them, said Mackay confidently. We will broach the matter to them at a series of dinners at which we will be joint hosts. There are white men who will be charmed to do a little thing like that for a sport like Archie. How about Gossett? said Sigby. Mackay's voice clouded. Gossett was an unpopular subject with members of the Cape Pleasant Golf Club. He was the serpent in their Eden. Nobody seemed quite to know how he got in, but there, unfortunately, he was. Gossett had introduced into Cape Pleasant Golf a cheerless atmosphere of the rigor of the game. It was to enable them to avoid just such golfers as Gossett, that the Cape Pleasanters had founded their club.

Genial courtesy rather than strict attention to the rules had been the leading characteristics of their play till his arrival. Up to that time it had been looked on as a rather bad form to exact a penalty. A cheery give-and-take system had prevailed. Then Gossett had come, full of strange rules, and created about the same stir in the community which a hawk would create in a gathering of middle-aged doves.

"'You can't square Gossett,' said Sigby. "'Mackay looked unhappy. "'I forgot him,' he said. "'Of course. Nothing will stop him trying to win. "'I wish we could think of something. "'I would almost as soon see him lose as Archie win, "'but after all, he does have off day sometimes. "'You need to have a very off day to be as bad as Archie.' "'They sat and smoked in silence. "'I've got it,' said Sigby suddenly. "'Gossett is a fine golfer, but nervous.' If we upset his nerves enough, he'll go right off his stroke. Couldn't we think of some way? Mackay reached out for his glass. Yours is a noble nature, Sigby, he said. No, said the paragon modestly. Have another cigar. In order that the reader may get the mental half-nelson on the plot of this narrative, which is so essential if a short story is to charm, elevate, and instruct, It is necessary now for the nonce, but only for the nonce, to inspect Archie's past life.

Archibald, as he had stated to Mackay, was engaged to a Miss Milsom, Miss Margaret Milsom. How few men, dear reader, are engaged to girls with svelte figures, brown hair and large blue eyes, now sparkling and vivacious, now dreamy and soulful, but always large and blue. How few, I say! You are, dear reader, and so am I, but who else? Archibald was one of the few who happened to be. He was happy. It is true that Margaret's mother was not, as it were, wrapped up in him. She exhibited none of that effervescent joy at his appearance which we like to see in our mothers-in-law elect. On the contrary, she generally cried bitterly whenever she saw him, and at the end of ten minutes was apt to retire sobbing to her room, where she remained in a state of semi-coma, Till an advanced hour she was by way of being a confirmed invalid, and something about Archibald seemed to get right in among her nerve-centres, reducing them for the time being to a complicated hash.

She did not like Archibald. She said she liked big, manly men. Behind his back she not infrequently referred to him as a Gabby, sometimes even as that Guffin. She did not do this to Margaret. For Margaret, besides being blue-eyed, was also a shade quick-tempered. Whenever Mrs. Milsom discussed Archibald, it was with her son Stuyvesant. Stuyvesant Milsom, who thought Archibald a bit of an ass, was always ready to sit and listen to his mother on the subject, it being, however, an understood thing that at the conclusion of the sance she yielded one or two saffron-coloured builds towards his racing debts. But Stuyvesant, having developed a habit of backing horses which either did not start at all, or else sat down and thought in the middle of the race, could always do with ten dollars or so.

His prices for these interviews worked out as a rule at about three cents a word. In these circumstances, it was perhaps natural that Archibald and Margaret should prefer to meet, when they did meet, at some other spot than the Milsom home. It suited them both better that they should arrange a secret tryst on these occasions. Archibald preferred it, because being in the same room with Mrs. Milsom, always made him feel like a murderer with particularly large feet, and Margaret preferred it because, as she told Archibald, these secret meetings lent a touch of poetry to what might otherwise have been a commonplace engagement.

Archibald thought this charming, but at the same time he could not conceal from himself the fact that Margaret's passion for the poetic cut, so to speak, both ways. He admired and loved the loftiness of her soul, but on the other hand it was a tough job having to live up to it. For Archibald was a very ordinary young man. They had tried to inoculate him with a love of poetry at school, but it had not taken. Until he was thirty he had been satisfied to class all poetry, except that of Mr. George Cohan, under the general heading of Punk. Then he met Margaret, and the trouble began. On the day he first met her at a picnic, She had looked so soulful, so aloof from this world, that he had felt instinctively that here was a girl who expected more from a man than a mere statement that the weather was great.

It so chanced that he knew just one quotation from the classics, to wit, Tennyson's critique of the island valley of Avelonne. He knew this because he had had the passage to write out one hundred and fifty times at school, On the occasion of his being caught smoking by one of the faculty, who happened to be a passionate admirer of the idols of the king, a remark of Margaret's that it was a splendid day for a picnic, and that the country looked nice, gave him his opportunity. "'It reminds me,' he said, "'it reminds me strongly of the island valley of Avelon, where falls not hail or rain or any snow or ever wind blows loudly, but it lies deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns. He broke off here to squash a hornet, but Margaret had heard enough.

"'Are you fond of the poets, Mr. Mealing?' she said with a far-off look. "'Me?' said Archibald fervently. "'Me? Why, I eat him alive!' And that was how all the trouble had started. It had meant unremitting toil for Archibald. He felt that he had set himself a standard from which he must not fall. He bought every new volume of poetry which was praised in the press, and learned the reviews by heart. Every evening he read painfully a portion of the classics. He plodded through the poetry sections of Bartlett's familiar quotations. Margaret's devotion to the various bards was so enthusiastic, and her reading so wide, that there were times when Archibald wondered if he could endure the strain. But he persevered heroically, and so far had not been found wanting.

Ah, but the strain was fearful.

The early stages of the Cape Pleasant golf tournament need no detailed description. The rules of match play governed the contests, and Archibald disposed of his first three opponents before the twelfth hole. He had been diffident when he teed off with Mackay in the first round, but finding that he defeated the secretary with ease, he met one Butler in the second round with more confidence. Butler, too, he routed. With the result that by the time he faced Sigsbee in round three, He was practically the conquering hero. Fortune seemed to be beaming upon him with almost insipid sweetness. When he was trapped in the bunker at the seventh hole, Sigsbee became trapped as well. When he sliced at the sixth tee, Sigsbee pulled, and Archibald, striking a brilliant vein, did the next three holes in eleven, nine, and twelve, and, romping home, qualified for the final.

Gosset, that serpent! Meanwhile, had beaten each of his three opponents without much difficulty. The final was fixed for the following Thursday morning. Gossett, who was a broker, had made some frivolous objection about the difficulty of absenting himself from Wall Street, but had been overruled. When Sigsbee pointed out that he could easily defeat Archibald and get to the city by lunch-time if he wished, and that in any case his partner would be looking after things, he allowed himself to be persuaded, though reluctantly. It was a well-known fact that Gossett was in the midst of some rather sizeable deals at that time. Thursday morning suited Archibald admirably. It had occurred to him that he could bring off a double event.

Margaret had arrived at Cape Pleasant on the previous evening, and he had arranged by telephone to meet her at the end of the boardwalk, which was about a mile from the links, at one o'clock. Supply her with lunch, and spend the afternoon with her on the water.

If he started his match with Gossett at Eleven-thirty, He would have plenty of time to have his game and be at the end of the boardwalk at the appointed hour. He had no delusions about the respective merits of Gossett and himself as golfers. He knew that Gossett would win the necessary ten holes off the reel. It was saddening, but it was a scientific fact. There was no avoiding it. One simply had to face it. Having laid these plans, he caught the train on the Thursday morning with the consoling feeling that, however sadly the morning might begin, it was bound to end well. The day was fine, the sun warm, but tempered with a light breeze. One or two of the club had come to watch the match, among them Sigsbee.

Sigsbee drew Gossett aside. "'You must let me carry for you, old man,' he said. "'I know your temperament so exactly. I know how little it takes to put you off your stroke. In an ordinary game you might take one of these boys, I know, but on an important occasion like this you must not risk it.' A grubby boy, probably with a squint, would almost certainly get on your nerves. He might even make comments on the game, or—whistle! But I understand you. You must let me carry your clubs. "'It's very good of yours,' said Gossett. "'Not at all,' said Zigbee. Archibald was now preparing to drive off from the first tee. He did this with great care. Everyone who has seen Archibald Meeling play golf knows that his teeing off is one of the most impressive sights ever witnessed on the links.

He tilted his cap over his eyes, waggled his club a little, shifted his feet, waggled his club some more, gazed keenly toward the horizon for a moment, waggled his club again, and finally, with the air of a strong man lifting a bar of iron, raised it slowly above his head. Then, bringing it down with a sweep, he drove the ball with a lofty slice, some fifty yards. It was rarely that he failed either to slice or pull his ball. His progress from hole to hole was generally a majestic zigzag. Gossett's drive took him well on the way to the green. He hulled out in five. Archibald, mournful but not surprised, made his way to the second tee. The second hole was shorter. Gossett won it in three. The third he took in six, the fourth in four.

Archibald began to feel he might just as well not be there. He was practically a spectator. At this point he reached in his pocket for his tobacco-pouch to console himself with smoke. To his dismay he found it was not there. He had had it on the train, but now it had vanished. This added to his gloom, for the pouch had been given to him by Margaret, and he had always thought it one more proof of the way her nature towered over the natures of other girls, that she had not woven a monogram on it in forget-me-nots. This record-pouch was missing, and Archibald mourned for the loss. His sorrows were not alleviated by the fact that Gossett won the fifth and sixth holes. It was now a quarter past twelve, and Archibald reflected with moody satisfaction that the massacre must soon be over, and that he would then be able to forget it in the society of Margaret.

As Gossett was about to drive off from the seventh tee, a telegraph boy approached the little group. Mr. Gossett, he said. Gossett lowered his driver and wheeled round, but Sigsbee had snatched the envelope from the boy's hand. "'It's all right, old man,' he said. "'Go right ahead. I'll keep it safe for you.' "'Give it to me,' said Gossett anxiously. "'It may be from the office. Something may have happened to the market. I may be needed.' "'No, no, no, no,' said Sigsbee soothingly. "'Don't you worry about it. Better not open it. It might have something in it that would put you off your stroke. Wait till the end of the game. Give it to me. I want to see it.' Sigsbee was firm. "'No, no, no,' he said.

"'I'm here to see you win this championship, and I won't have you taking any risks. Besides, even if it was important, a few minutes won't make any difference.' "'At any rate, open it and read it.' "'It's probably in cipher,' said Sigsbee. "'I wouldn't understand it. Play on, old man. You've only a few more holes to win.' Gossett turned and addressed his ball again, and then he swung. The club tipped the ball, and it rolled sluggishly for a couple of feet. Archibald approached the tee. Now there were moments when Archibald could drive quite decently. He always applied a considerable amount of muscular force to his efforts. It was in that direction as a rule he erred. On this occasion, whether inspired by his rival's failure or merely favored by chance, he connected with his ball at precisely the right moment.

It flew from the tee, straight, Hard and low, struck the ground near the green, bounded on, and finally rocked to within a foot of the hole. No such long ball had been driven on the Cape Pleasant links since their foundation.

That it should have taken him three strokes to hole out from this promising position was unfortunate, but not fatal, for Gossett, who seemed suddenly to have fallen off his game, only reached the green in seven. A moment later a murmur of approval signified the fact that Archibald had won his first hole. "'Mr. Gossett,' said a voice. Those murmuring approval observed that the telegraph boy was once more in their midst. This time he bore two missives. Sigismay dexterously impounded both. "'No, no,' he said with decision. "'I absolutely refuse to let you look at them till the game is over. I know your temperament.' Gossett gesticulated. "'But they must be important. They must come from my office.' Where else would I get a stream of telegrams?

Something has gone wrong. I am urgently needed. Sigsbee nodded gravely. That is what I fear, he said. That is why I cannot risk having you upset. Time enough, Gossett, for bad news. After the game, play on, man, and dismiss it from your mind. Besides, you couldn't get back to New York just yet. In any case, there are no trains. Dismiss the whole thing from your mind, and just play your usual, and you are sure to win.

Archibald had driven off during this conversation, but without his previous success. This time he had pulled his ball into some long grass. Gossett's drive was, however, worse, and the subsequent movement of the pair to the hole resembled more than anything else the manoeuvres of two men rolling peanuts with toothpicks as the result of some election bet. Archibald finally took the hole in twelve, after Gossett had played his fourteenth. When Archibald won the next in eleven and the tenth in nine, Hope began to flicker feebly in his bosom, but when he won two more holes, bringing the score to Like As We Lie, it flamed up within him like a beacon. The ordinary golfer, whose scores per hole seldom exceed those of Colonel Bogie, does not understand the whirl of mixed sensations which the really incompetent performer experiences on the rare occasions when he does strike a winning vein.

As stroke follows stroke, and he continues to hold his opponent, a wild exhilaration surges within him, followed by a sort of awe, as if he were doing something wrong, even irreligious. Then all these yeasty emotions subside, and are blended into one glorious sensation of grandeur and majesty, as of a giant among pigmies. By the time that Archibald, parting with the care of one brushing flies off a sleeping Venus, had holed out and won the thirteenth. He was in the full grip of this feeling, and as he walked to the fifteenth tee, after winning the fourteenth, he felt that this was life, that till now he had been a mere mollusk. But just at that moment he happened to look at his watch, and the sight was like a douche of cold water.

The hands stood at five minutes to one.

Let us pause and ponder on this point for a while. Let us not dismiss it, as if it were some mere trivial every-day difficulty. You, dear reader, play an accurate scientific game, and beat your opponent with ease every time you go to the links, of course, and of course so do I. But Archibald was not like us. This was the first occasion on which he had ever felt that he was playing well enough to give him a chance of defeating a really good man. True, he had beaten Mackay, Sigsbee, and Butler in the earlier rounds, They were ignoble rivals compared with Gossett. To defeat Gossett, however, meant the championship. On the other hand, he was passionately devoted to Margaret Milsom, whom he was due to meet at the end of the boardwalk at one sharp.

It was now five minutes to one, and the end of the boardwalk still a mile away. The mental struggle was brief, but keen. A sharp pang in his mind was made up. Cost what it might he must stay on the links. If Margaret broke off the engagement, well, it might be that time would heal the wound, and that after many years he would find some other girl for whom he might come to care in a wrecked, broken sort of way. But a chance like this could never come again. What is love compared with holing out before your opponent? The excitement now had become so intense that a small boy following with the crowd swallowed his chewing gum. For a slight improvement had become noticeable in Gossett's play, and a slight improvement in the play of almost anyone meant that it became vastly superior to Archibald's.

At the next hole, the improvement was not marked enough to have its full effect, and Archibald contrived to have. This made him two up and three to play. What the average golfer would consider a commanding lead, but Archibald was no average golfer. A commanding lead for Archibald would have been two up and one to play. To give the public of his best, your golfer should have his mind cool and intent upon the game. Inasmuch as Gossett was worrying about telegrams, while Archibald, strive as he might to dismiss it, was haunted by a vision of Margaret standing alone and deserted on the boardwalk, play became, as it were, ragged. Fine putting enabled Gossett to do the sixteenth hole in twelve, and when winning the seventeenth in nine he brought his score level with Archibald's, the match seemed over.

But just then, Mr. Gossett, said a familiar voice. Once more was the much-enduring telegraph boy among those present. Try this time, he observed. Gossett sprang, but again the watchful Sigsbee was too swift. Be brave, Gossett. Be brave, he said. This is a crisis in the game. Keep your nerve. Play just as if nothing existed outside the links. To look at these telegrams now would be fatal.

Eye-witnesses of that great encounter will tell the story of the last hole to their dying day. It was one of those titanic struggles which time cannot efface from the memory. Archibald was fortunate in getting a good start. He only missed twice before he struck his ball on the tee. Gossett had four strokes ere he achieved the feat. Nor did Archibald's luck desert him in the journey to the green. He was out of the bunker in eleven. Gossett emerged only after sixteen. Finally, when Archibald's twenty-first stroke sent the ball trickling into the hole, Gossett had played his thirtieth. The ball had hardly rested on the bottom of the hole before Gossett had begun to tear the telegrams from their envelopes.

As he read, his eyes bulged in their sockets. "'Not bad news, I hope,' said a sympathetic bystander. Sigsbee took the sheaf of telegrams. The first ran, "'Good luck! Hope you win!' McKay. The second also ran, "'Good luck! Hope you win!' McKay." So singularly enough did the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh. Great Scott, said Sigby. He seems to have been pretty anxious not to run any risk of missing you, Gossett. As he spoke, Archibald, close beside him, was looking at his watch. The hands stood at a quarter to two.

Margaret and her mother were seated in the parlour when Archibald arrived. Mrs. Milsom, who had elicited the fact that Archibald had not kept his appointment, had been saying, I told you so, for some time, and this had not improved Margaret's temper. When therefore Archibald, damp and dishevelled, was shown in, the chill in the air nearly gave him frostbite. Mrs. Milsem did her celebrated imitation of the gorgon, while Margaret, lightly humming an air, picked up a weekly paper and became absorbed in it. "'Margaret, let me explain,' panted Archibald. Mrs. Milsem was understood to remark that she dared say. Margaret's attention was riveted by a fashion plate. Driving in a taxi-meter to the ferry this morning resumed Archibald.

I had an accident. This was the result of some rather feverish brainwork on the way from the links to the cottage. The periodical flopped to the floor. "'Oh, Archie, are you hurt?' "'A few scratches, nothing more. But it made me miss my train.' "'What train did you catch?' asked Mrs. Milsom sepulchrally. "'The one o'clock. I came straight on here from the station. Why—' said Margaret. Stuyvesant was coming home on the one-o'clock train. Did you see him?

Archibald's jaw dropped slightly. No. How curious, said Margaret. Very curious, said Archibald. Most curious, said Mrs. Milsom. They were still reflecting on the singularity of this fact when the door opened and the son of the house entered in person. "'Thought I should find you here, Meeley,' he said. "'They gave me this at the station to give to you. You dropped it this morning when you got out of the train.' He handed Archibald a missing pouch. "'Thanks,' said the letter huskily. "'When you say this morning, of course you mean this afternoon, but thanks all the same. Thanks—thanks very much.' "'No, Archibald Meeling, he does not mean this afternoon,' said Mrs. Milsem. "'Stuyvesant, speak. From what train did that guff—what train did Mr.

Meeling alight when he dropped the tobacco-pouch?' The ten o'clock, the fellow told me, said he had given it back to him then only, but he sprinted off in the deuce of a hurry. Six eyes focused themselves upon Archibald. "'Margaret,' he said, "'I will not try to deceive you. You may try,' observed Mrs. Milsom, "'but you will not succeed.' "'Well, Archibald?' Archibald fingered his collar. "'There was no taximeter accident.' "'Ah!' said Mrs. Milsom. The fact is I have been playing in a golf tournament. Margaret uttered an exclamation of surprise. "'Playing golf?' Archie bowed his head with manly resignation. "'Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you arrange for us to meet on the links? I should have loved it!' Archimald was amazed.

"'You take an interest in golf, Margaret. You? I thought you scorned it, considering it an unintellectual game. I thought you considered all games unintellectual. Why—' I play golf myself. Not very well. "'Margaret, why didn't you tell me?' "'I thought you might not like it. You were so spiritual, so poetic. I feared you would despise me.' Archibald took a step forward. His voice was tense and trembling. "'Margaret,' he said, "'this is no time for misunderstandings. We must be open with one another. Our happiness is at stake. Tell me honestly, do you like poetry, really?' Margaret hesitated, then answered bravely. "'No, Archibald,' she said. "'It is as you suspect. I am not worthy of you. I do not like poetry.' "'Ah, you shudder, you turn away, your face grows hard and scornful.' "'I don't!' yelled Archibald.

"'It doesn't. It doesn't do anything of the sort. You've made me another man!' She stared, wild-eyed, astonished. "'What do you mean that—do you mean that you too?' I should just say I do. I tell you, I hate the beastly stuff. I only pretended to like it because I thought you did. The hours I've spent learning it up, I wonder I've not got brain fever. Archie, used you to read it up too? Oh, if I'd only known... And you forgive me this morning, I mean? Of course. You couldn't leave a golf tournament. By the way, how did you get on? Archibald coughed. Well, rather well, he said modestly. Pretty decently. In fact, not badly. As a matter of fact, I won the championship. The championship, whispered Margaret, of America.

Well, not absolutely of America, said Archibald, but all the same, a championship. My hero! You won't be wanting me for a while, I guess, said Stuyvesant nonchalantly. Think I'll smoke a cigarette on the porch, and sobs from the stairs, told that Mrs. Milsom was already on her way to her room.

10 10 - The Man, The Maid, And The Miasma 26:53

The Man Upstairs by P. G. Woodhouse. Chapter 10, Story Number 10, The Man, The Maid, and The Miasma. Although this story is concerned principally with the man and the maid, the miasma pervades it to such an extent that I feel justified in putting his name on the bills. Webster's Dictionary gives the meaning of the word miasma as an infection floating in the air, a deadly exhalation, and in the opinion of Mr. Robert Ferguson, his late employer, that description, though perhaps a little too flattering, on the whole summed up Master Rowland Bean pretty satisfactorily. Until the previous day he had served Mr. Ferguson in the capacity of office-boy, but there was that about Master Bean which made it practically impossible for anyone to employ him for long.

A syndicate of Galahad, Parsifal, and Marcus Aurelius might have done it, but to an ordinary erring man, conscious of things done which should not have been done, and other things equally numerous left undone, he was just too oppressive.

One conscience is enough for any man. The employer of Master Bean had to cringe before two. Nobody can last long against an office-boy whose eyes shine with quiet, respectful reproof through gold-rimmed spectacles, whose manner is that of a middle-aged saint, and who obviously knows all the plod and punctuality books by heart, and orders his life by their precepts. Master Bean was a walking edition of Stepping-stones to success, millionaires who have never smoked, and, Young Man, Get Up Early. Galahad, Parsifal, and Marcus Aurelius, as I say, might have remained tranquil in his presence, but Robert Ferguson found the contract too large. After one month he had braced himself up and sacked the punctual plotter.

Yet now he was sitting in his office long after the last clock had left, long after the hour at which he himself was wont to leave, His mind full of his late employee. Was this remorse? Was he longing for the touch of the vanished hand, the gleam of the departed spectacles? He was not. His mind was full of Master Bean, because Master Bean was waiting for him in the outer office, and he lingered on at his desk after the day's work was done for the same reason. Word had brought to him earlier in the evening that Master Roland Bean would like to see him. The answer to that was easy. Tell him I'm busy. Master Bean's admirably dignified reply was that he understood how great was the pressure of Mr.

Ferguson's work, and that he would wait till he was at liberty. "'Liberty? Talk of the liberty of the treed possum, but do not use the word in connection with a man bottled up in his office with Roland Bean guarding the only exit.' Mr. Ferguson kicked the waste-paper basket savagely. The unfairness of the thing hurt him. A sacked office boy ought to stay sacked. He had no business to come popping up again like Banquo's ghost. It was not playing the game. The reader may wonder what was the trouble, why Mr. Ferguson could not stalk out and brusquely dispose of his foe, but then the reader has not employed Master Bean for a month. Mr. Ferguson had, and his nerve had broken. A slight cough penetrated the door between the two officers.

Mr. Ferguson rose and grabbed his hat. Perhaps a sudden rush, He shot out with the tense concentration of one moving towards the refreshment room at his station, where the train stops for three minutes. "'Good evening, sir,' was the watcher's view hallo. "'Ah, Bean,' said Mr. Ferguson, flitting rapidly, "'you still here? I thought you'd gone. I'm afraid I cannot stop now. Some other time he was almost through.' "'I fear, sir, that you will be unable to get out,' said Master Bean sympathetically. "'The building is locked up.' Men who have been hit by bullets say the first sensation is merely a sort of dull shock. So it was with Mr. Ferguson. He stopped in his tracks and stared. "'The porter closed the door at seven o'clock punctually, sir.

It is now nearly twenty minutes after the hour.' Mr. Ferguson's brain was still in the numbed stage. "'Closes the door,' he said. "'Yes, sir.' "'Then how are we to get out?' "'I fear we cannot get out, sir.' Mr. Ferguson digested this. "'I am no longer in your employment, sir,' said Master Bean respectfully, "'but I hope that in the circumstances you will permit me to remain here during the night.' "'During the night! It would enable me to sleep more comfortably than on the stairs.' "'But we can't stop here all night,' said Mr. Ferguson feebly. He had anticipated an unpleasant five minutes in Master Bean's company. Imagination boggled at the thought of an unpleasant thirteen hours. He collapsed into a chair.

"'I called,' said Master Bean, shelving the trivial subject of the prospective vigil, "'in the hope that I might persuade you, sir, to reconsider your decision in regard to my dismissal. I can assure you, sir, that I am extremely anxious to give satisfaction. If you would take me back and inform me how I have fallen short, I would endeavor to improve. "'We can't stop here all night,' interrupted Mr. Ferguson, bounding from his chair and beginning to pace the floor. "'Without presumption, sir, I feel that if you were to give me another chance I should work to your satisfaction. I should endeavour to—' Mr. Ferguson stared at him in dumb horror. He had a momentary vision of a sleepless night spent in listening to a nicely polished speech for the defence.

He was seized with a mad desire for flight. He could not leave the building, but he must get away somewhere and think.' He dashed from the room and raced up the dark stairs, and as he arrived to the next floor, his eye was caught by a thin pencil of light which proceeded from a door on the left.

No shipwrecked mariner on a desert island could have welcomed the appearance of a sail with greater enthusiasm. He bounded at the door. He knew to whom the room belonged. It was the office of one Blathwaite, and Blathwaite was not only an acquaintance but a sportsman. Quite possibly there might be a pack of cards on Blaithwaite's person to help pass the long hours, and, if not, at least he would be company in his office of refuge. He flung open the door without going through the formality of knocking etiquette. Is not for the marooned? I say, Blaithwaite, he began, and stopped abruptly. The only occupant of the room was a girl. I beg your pardon, he said. I thought that they were... He stopped again.

His eyes, dazzled with the light, had not seen clearly. They did so now. "'You!' he cried. The girl looked at him, first with surprise, then with a cool hostility. There was a long pause. Eighteen months had passed since they had parted, and conversation does not flow easily after eighteen months of silence, especially if the nature of the parting has been bitter and stormy. Ferguson was the first to speak. "'What are you doing here?' he said.

I thought my doings had ceased to interest you, she said. I am Mr. Blathwaite's secretary. I have been here a fortnight. I have wondered if we should meet. I used to see you sometimes in the street. I never saw you. No, she said indifferently. He ran his hand through his hair in a dazed way. Do you know that we are locked in? He said. He had expected wild surprise and dismay. She merely clicked her tongue in an annoyed manner. Again, she said. What a nuisance! I was locked in only a week ago. He looked at her with unwilling respect, the respect of the novice for the veteran. She was nothing to him now, of course. She had passed out of his life, but he could not help remembering that long ago, eighteen months ago, what he admired most in her had been this same spirit, this game refusal to be disturbed by fate's blows.

It braced him up. He sat down and looked curiously at her. "'So you left the stage?' she said. "'I thought we agreed when we parted not to speak to one another,' said she coldly. "'Did we? I thought it was only to meet as strangers.' "'It's the same thing.' "'Is it? I often talk to strangers.' "'What a bore they must think you,' she said, hiding one eighth of a yawn with the tips of two fingers. "'I suppose,' she went on, with faint interest, "'you talk to them in trains when they are trying to read their paper.' I don't force my conversation on anyone. "'Don't you,' she said, raising her eyebrows in sweet surprise, "'only your company, is that it?' "'Are you alluding to the present occasion?' "'Well, you have an office of your own in this building, I believe.' "'I have.' "'Then why—' "'I am at perfect liberty,' he said with dignity.

"'To sit in my friend Blathwaite's office, if I choose. I wish to see Mr. Blathwaite.' "'On business?' He proved that she had established no corner in raised eyebrows. "'I fear,' he said, "'that I cannot discuss my affairs. With Mr. Blathwaite's employees I must see him personally.' "'Mr. Blathwaite is not here.' "'I will wait.' "'He will not be here for thirteen hours.' "'I will wait.' "'Very well,' she burst out. "'You have brought it on yourself. You have only yourself to blame. If you had been good and had gone back to your office, I would have brought you down some cake and cocoa.' Cake and cocoa, said he superciliously. Yes, cake and cocoa, she snapped. It's all very well for you to turn up your nose at them now, but wait.

You've thirteen hours of this in front of you. I know what it is. Last time I had to spend the night here I couldn't get to sleep for hours. When I did, I dreamed that I was chasing chocolate eclairs round and round Trafalgar Square, and I never caught them either. Long before the night was finished, I would have given anything for even a dry biscuit. I made up my mind I'd always keep something here in case I ever got locked in again. Yes, smile. You'd better while you can. He was smiling, but wanly. Nobody but a professional fasting man could have looked unmoved into the inferno she had pictured. But then he rallied. Cake, he said scornfully. She nodded grimly. Coco, again that nod, ineffably sinister.

I'm afraid I don't care for either, he said. If you will excuse me, she said indifferently, I have a little work that I must finish. She turned to her desk, leaving him to his thoughts. They were not exhilarating. He had maintained a brave front, but inwardly he quailed. Reared in the country, he had developed at an early age a fine, healthy appetite. Once, soon after his arrival in London, he had allowed a dangerous fanatic to persuade him that the secret of health was to go without breakfast. His lunch that day had cost him eight shillings, and only decent shame had kept the figure as low as that. He knew perfectly well that long ere the dawn of day his whole soul would be crying out for cake, squealing frantically for Coco.

Would it not be better to—no, a thousand times no—death, but not surrender? His self-respect was at stake. Looking back he saw that his entire relations with this girl had been a series of battles of will. So far, though he had certainly not won, he had not been defeated. He must not be defeated now. He crossed his legs, and sang a gay air under his breath. "'If you wouldn't mind,' said the girl, looking up, "'I beg your pardon.' "'Your groaning interrupts my work.' "'I was not groaning. I was singing. "'Tarribly sorry.' "'Not at all.' "'Eight bars rest.' Mr. Ferguson, deprived of the solace of song, filled in the time by gazing at the toiler's back hair. It set in motion a train of thought, an express train bound for the land of yesterday.

It recalled days in the woods, evenings on the lawn. It recalled sunshine, storm, plenty of storm, minor tempests that burst from a clear sky, apparently without cause, and the great final tornado. There had been cause enough for that. Why was it, mused Mr. Ferguson, that every girl in every country town and every county in England who had ever recited, "'Curfew shall not ring to-night,' well enough to escape lynching at the hands of a rustic audience, was seized with the desire to come to London and go on the stage. He sighed. "'Please don't snort,' said a cold voice from behind the back hair. There was a train wreck in the land of yesterday. Mr. Ferguson, the only survivor, limped back into the present.

The present had little charm, but at least it was better than the cakeless future. He fixed his thoughts on it. He wondered how Master Bean was passing the time, probably doing deep-breathing exercises, or reading a pocket Aristotle. The girl pushed back her chair and rose. She went to a small cupboard in a corner of the room, and from it produced in installments, All that goes to make cake and cocoa. She did not speak. Presently, filling space, there sprang into being an odor, and as it reached him, Mr. Ferguson stiffened in his chair, bracing himself as for a fight to the death. It was more than an odor. It was the soul of the cocoa singing to him. His fingers gripped the arms of the chair.

This was the test. The girl separated a section of cake from the parent body. She caught his eye. You had better go, she said. If you go now, it's just possible that I may—but I forgot. You don't like cocoa. No, said he resolutely. I don't. She seemed now in the mood for conversation. I wonder why you came up here at all, she said. There's no reason why you shouldn't know. I came up here because my late office boy is downstairs. Why should that send you up? You've never met him, or you wouldn't ask. Have you ever had to face someone who was simply incarnate saintliness and disapproval who—are you forgetting that I was engaged to you for several weeks? He was too startled to be hurt. The idea of himself as a Ronald Bean was too new to be assimilated immediately.

It called for mediation. Was I like that? He said at last, almost humbly. You know you were. I am not thinking only about your views on the stage. It was everything. Whatever I did, you were there to disapprove like an aunt, she concluded triumphantly. You were too good for everything. If only you would just once have done something wrong. I think I would have—but you couldn't. You are simply perfect.

A man will remain cool and composed under many charges, hint that his tastes are criminal, and he will shrug his shoulders, but accuse him of goodness, and you rouse the lion. Mr. Ferguson's brow darkened. As a matter of fact, he said haughtily, I was to have had supper with a chorus girl this very night. How very appalling, she said languidly. She sipped her cocoa. I suppose you consider that very terrible, she said. For a beginner. She crumbled her cake. Suddenly she looked up. Who is she? she demanded fiercely. I beg your pardon, he said, coming out of a pleasant reverie. Who is this girl? Her name is Marie, Marie Templeton. She seemed to think for a moment. That dear old lady, she said, I know her quite well.

What? Mother, we used to call her. Have you met her son? Her son? A rather nice-looking man. He plays heavy parts on tour. He is married and has two of the sweetest children. Their grandmother is devoted to them. Hasn't she ever mentioned them to you? She poured herself out another cup of cocoa. Conversation again languished. "'I suppose you are very fond of her,' she said at length. "'I am devoted to her,' he paused. "'Dear little thing,' he added. She rose and moved to the door. There was a nasty gleam in her eyes. "'You aren't going,' he said. "'I shall be back in a moment. I am just going to bring your poor little office-boy up here. He must be missing you.' He sprang up, but she had gone.

Leaning over the banisters, he heard a door open below in a short conversation, and finally footsteps climbing the stairs. It was pitch dark on the landing. He stepped aside, and they passed without seeing him. Master Bean was discoursing easily on cocoa, the processes whereby it was manufactured, and the remarkable distances which natives of Mexico had covered with it as their only food. The door opened, flooding the landing with light, and Mr. Ferguson, stepping from ambush, began to descend the chairs. The girl came to the banisters. "'Mr. Ferguson,' he stopped, "'did you want me?' he asked. "'Are you going back to your office?' "'I am. I hope you will enjoy Bean's society. He has a fund of useful information on all subjects.' He went on.

After a while she returned to the room and closed the door. Mr. Ferguson went into his office and sat down. There was once a person of the name of Simeon Stylites, who took up a position on top of a pillar, and stayed there, having no other engagements, for thirty years. Mr. Ferguson, who had read Tennyson's poem on the subject, had until tonight looked upon this as a pretty good thing. Reading the lines, Thrice ten years, Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs, In hunger and in thirsts, Fevers and colds, In coughs, aches, stitches, Ulcerous throes and cramps, Patient on this tall pillar I have borne. Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and snow. He had gathered roughly, as it were, that Simeon had not been comfortable.

Mr. Ferguson had pitied him, but now, sitting in his office chair, he began to wonder what the man had made such a fuss about. He suspected him of having had a touch of a white feather in him. It was not as if he had not had food. He talked about hungers and thirsts, but he must have had something to eat, or he could not have stayed the course. Very likely, if the truth were known, there was somebody below who passed him up regularly supplies of cake and cocoa. He began to look on Simeon as an overrated amateur.

Sleep refused to come to him. It got as far as his feet, but no farther. He rose and stamped to restore the circulation. It was at this point that he definitely condemned Simeon Stylites as a sybaritic fraud. If this were one of those realistic Zolaesque stories, I would describe the crick in the back that... But let us hurry on. It was some six hours later—he had no watch but the numbers of aches, stitches, not to mention cramps that he had experienced could not possibly have been condensed into a shorter period—that this manly spirit snapped. Let us not judge him too harshly. The girl upstairs had broken his heart, ruined his life, and practically compared him to Roland Bean, and his pride should have built up an impassable wall between them.

But—she had cake and cocoa. In similar circumstances, King Arthur would have grovelled before Guinevere. He rushed to the door and tore it open. There was a startled exclamation from the darkness outside. "'I hope I didn't disturb you,' said a meek voice. Mr. Ferguson did not answer. His twitching nostrils were drinking in a familiar aroma. "'Were you asleep? May I come in? I have brought you some cake and cocoa.' He took the rich gifts from her in silence. There are moments in a man's life too sacred for words—the wonder of the thing that struck him dumb. An instant before, and he had had but a desperate hope of winning these priceless things from her at the cost of all his dignity and self-respect, He had been prepared to secure them through a shower of biting taunts, a blizzard of razor-like I told you so's.

Yet here he was, draining the cup and still able to hold his head up. Look the world in the face and call himself a man. His keen eye detected a crumb on his coat sleeve. This retrieved and consumed, he turned to her seeking explanation. She was changed. The battle gleam had faded from her eyes. She seemed scared and subdued. Her manner was of one craving comfort and protection. "'That awful boy!' she breathed. "'Bean,' said Mr. Ferguson, picking a crumb off the carpet. "'He's frightful.' "'I thought you might get a little tired of him. What has he been doing?' "'Talking. I feel battered. He's like one of those awful encyclopedias that give you a sort of dull, leaden feeling in your head. Directly you open them.

Quiet. Do you know how many tons of water go over Niagara Falls every year?' No. He does. I told you he had a fund of useful information. The purpose and tenacity books insist on it. That's how you catch your employer's eye. One morning the boss suddenly wants to know how many horsehair sofas there are in Brixton, the number of pins that would reach from London Bridge to Waterloo. You tell him and it takes you into the partnership. Later you become a millionaire. Ah, but I haven't thanked you for the cocoa. It was fine. He waited for the retort. But it did not come. A pleased wonderment filled him. Could these things really be thus? And it isn't only what he says, she went on. I know what you mean about him now.

It's his accusing manner. I've tried to analyze that manner. I believe it's the spectacles. It's frightful when he looks at you. You think of all the wrong things you've ever done or ever wanted to do. Does he have that effect on you? He said excitedly. Why, that's exactly Describing what I feel."

The affinities looked at one another. She was the first to speak. "'We always did think alike on most things, didn't we?' she said. "'Of course we did.' He shifted his chair forward. "'It was all my fault,' he said. "'I mean, what happened?' "'It wasn't. It wasn't. Yes, it was. I want to tell you something. I don't know if it will make any difference now, but I should like you to know it. It's this.' I have altered a good deal since I came to London. For the better, I think. I am a pretty poor sort of specimen still, but at least I don't imagine I can measure life with a foot-rule. I don't judge the world any longer by the standards of a country town. London has knocked some of the corners off me.

I don't think you would find me the bean type any longer. I don't disapprove of other people much now, not as a habit. I find I have enough to do, keeping myself up to the mark. "'I want to tell you something, too,' she said. "'I expect it's too late, but never mind. I want you to hear it. I've altered, too, since I came to London. I used to think the universe had been invented just to look on and wave its hat while I did great things. London has put a large piece of cold ice against my head, and the swelling has gone down. I'm not the girl with ambitions any longer. I just want to keep employed, and not have too bad a time when the day's work is over.' He came across to where she sat. We said we would meet as strangers, and we do.

We never have known each other. Don't you think we'd get better acquainted?" He said. There was a respectful tap at the door. "'Come in,' snapped Mr. Ferguson. "'Well?' Behind the gold-rimmed spectacles of Master Bean there shone a softer look than usual, a look rather complacent than disapproving. "'I must apologize, sir, for intruding upon you. I am no longer in your employment. But I do hope that in the circumstances you will forgive my entering your private office. Thinking over our situation just now, an idea came to me by means of which I fancy we might be enabled to leave the building. "'What?' "'It occurred to me, sir, that by telephoning to the nearest police station—' "'Good heavens!' cried Mr.

Ferguson. Two minutes later he replaced the receiver. "'It's all right,' he said. "'I've made them understand the trouble. They're bringing a ladder.' I wonder what the time is. It must be about four in the morning. Master Bean produced a Waterbury watch. The time, sir, is almost exactly half-past ten. Half-past ten? We must have been here longer than three hours. Your watch is wrong. No, sir. I am very careful to keep it exactly right. I do not wish to run any risk of being unpunctual. Half-past ten, cried Mr. Ferguson. Why, we are in heaps of time to look in at the Savoy for supper. This is great. I'll phone them to keep a table. Supper? I thought—she stopped. What's that? Thought what? Hadn't you an engagement for supper?

He stared at her. Whatever gave you that idea? Of course not. I thought you said you were taking Miss Templeton—Miss Templeton. His face cleared. There isn't such a person. I invented her. I had to when you accused me of being like our friend the miasma. Legitimate self-defense. "'I do not wish to interrupt you, sir, when you are busy,' said Master Bean, but—' "'Come and see me tomorrow morning,' said Mr. Ferguson. "'Bob,' said the girl, as the first threatening mutters from the orchestra herald an imminent store of melody, "'when that boy comes tomorrow, what are you going to do?' "'Call up the police.' "'No, but you must do something. We shouldn't have been here if it hadn't been for him.' "'You know that's true.' He pondered.

"'I've got it. I'll get him a job with Rakes and Courtenay.' "'Why Rakes and Courtenay? "'Because I have a pull with them, but principally,' said Mr. Ferguson, with a devilish grin, "'because they live in Edinburgh, which, as you are doubtless aware, is a long, long way from London.' He bent across the table. "'Isn't this like old times?' he said. "'Do you remember the first time I ever—just then the orchestra—broke out?' End of story number 10, The Man, The Maid, and The Miasma.

11 11 - The Good Angel 29:31

XI.

THE GOOD ANGEL.

Any man under thirty years of age who tells you he is not afraid of an English butler lies. He may not show his fear. Outwardly he may be brave, aggressive even, perhaps, to the extent of calling the great man, "'Here,' or "'Hi,' but in his heart, when he meets that cold, blue, introspective eye, he quakes. The effect that Keggs, the butler at the Keiths, had on Martin Rossiter was to make him feel as if he had been caught laughing in a cathedral. He fought against the feeling. He asked himself who Keggs was anyway. and replied defiantly that Keggs was a menial, and an overfed menial. But all the while he knew that logic was useless. When the Keeths had invited him to their country home, he had been delighted.

They were among his oldest friends. He liked Mr. Keith. He liked Mrs. Keith. He loved Elsa, Keith, and had done so from boyhood. But things had gone wrong. As he leaned out of his bedroom window at the end of the first week, preparatory to dressing for dinner, He was more than half inclined to make some excuse and get right out of the place next day. The bland dignity of Keggs had taken all the heart out of him.

Nor was it Keggs alone who had driven his thoughts toward flight. Keggs was merely a passive evil-like toothache for a rainy day. What had begun actively to make the place impossible was a perfectly pestilential young man of the name of Barstow. The house-party of the Keiths had originally been, from Martin's viewpoint, almost ideal. The rest of the men were of the speechless, mustache-tugging breed. They had come to shoot, and they shot. When they were not shooting, they congregated in the billiard-room and devoted their powerful intellects exclusively to Snooker Poole, leaving Martin free to talk undisturbed to Elsa. He had been doing this for five days with great contentment, when Aubrey Barstow arrived.

Mr. S., Keith had developed of late leanings toward culture. In her town house, a charge of small shot fired in any direction on a Thursday afternoon would not have failed to bring down a poet, a novelist, or even a painter. Aubrey Barstow, author of The Soul's Eclipse and other poems, was a constant member of the crowd. A youth of insinuating manners, he had appealed to Mrs. Keith from the start. and unfortunately the virus had extended to Elsa. Many a pleasant, sunshiny Thursday afternoon had been poisoned for Martin by the sight of Aubrey and Elsa together on a distant settee. Matching temperaments. The rest is too painful. It was a rout. The poet did not shoot, so that when Martin returned of an evening his arrival was about five hours of soul-to-soul talk up, and only two to play.

And those, too, the after-dinner hours, which had once been the hours for which Martin had lived, were pure torture.

So engrossed was he with his thoughts that the first intimation he had that he was not alone in the room was a genteel cough. Behind him, holding a small can, was Keggs. "'You're aught water, Sam,' said the butler austerely, but not unkindly. Keggs was a man—one must use that word, though it seems grossly inadequate—a Of medium height, pigeon-toed at the base, bulgy, halfway up, and bald at the apex. His manner was restrained and dignified his voice soft and grave. But it was his eye that quelled Martin, that cold blue dukes have treated me as an elder brother, aye. He fixed it upon him now, as he added placing the can on the floor. It is Frederick's duty, but tonight I hunder took it. Martin had no answer.

He was dazed. Keggs had spoken with the proud humility of an emperor compelled by misfortune to shine shoes. "'Bois, I have a word with you, sir.' "'Yes, of course,' stammered Martin. "'Won't you take it—I mean, yes, certainly?' "'It is perhaps a liberty,' began Keggs. He paused and raked Martin with the eye that had rested on Dining Dukes. "'Not at all,' said Martin hurriedly. "'I should like,' went on Keggs, bowing, "'to speak to you on a somewhat intimate sumptrick. Miss Elsa.' Martin's eyes and mouth opened slowly. "'You are going the wrong way to work, if you'll allow me to say so, sir.' Martin's jaw dropped another inch. "'What? What?' "'Women, sir,' proceeded Keggs. "'Young ladies are peculiar.' I have had, if I may say so, certain opportunities of observing their ways.

Miss Elsa reminds me in some respects of Lady Angelica Frindell, of whom I had the honour of knowing when I was butler to a father, Lord Stockley. Her ladyship was inclined to be romantic. She was fond of poetry, like Miss Elsa. She would sit by the hour, sir, listening to young Mr. Knox reading Tennyson, which was no part of his duties. He being employed by his lordship to teach Lord Bertie Latin and Greek and what not. You may have noticed so that a young lady is often took by Tennyson, especially in the summer time. Mr. Barstow was reading Tennyson to Miss Elsa in the all when I passed through just now. The princess, if I am not mistaken.

I don't know what the thing was, ground Martin. She seemed to be enjoying it. Lady Angelica was greatly addicted to the princess. Young Mr. Fox was reading portions of that poem to her when his lordship came upon them. Miss Rashley, his lordship, made a public expose and packed Mr. Knox off next day. It was not my place to volunteer advice, but I could have told him what would happen. Two days later, her ladyship slips away to London early in the morning, and they married at a registry office. That's why I say that you're going the wrong way to work with Miss Elsasa. With certain types of high-spirited young lady, her position is useless. Now, when Mr. Pasto is reading to Miss Elsa on the occasion to which I have alluded, you were sitting by trying to engage her attention.

It's not that way, sir. You should leave them alone together. Let her see so much of him, nobody else but him, that she will grow tired of him. Fondness for poetry, sir. It's very much like the whiskey, Abbey. You can't cure a man who has got that by her position. "'If you'll permit me to offer a word of advice, sir, I say, let Miss Elsa have all the poetry she wants.' Martin was conscious of one coherent feeling at the conclusion of this address, and that was one of amazed gratitude. A lesser man who had entered his room and begun to discuss his private affairs would have had reason to retire with some speed, but that Keggs should descend from his pedestal and interest himself in such lowly matters was a different thing altogether.

"'I am very much obliged,' he was stammering when the butler raised her deprecatory hand. "'My interest in the matter,' he said smoothly, "'is not entirely altruistic. For some years back, in fact, since Miss Elsa came out, we have had a matrimonial sweepstakes in the servants' hall at each house-party. The names of the gentlemen in the party are placed in a hat and drawn in due course. Should Miss Elsa become engaged to any member of the party, the pool goes to the drawer of his name.' Should no engagement occur, the money remains in my charge, at least until the following year, when it is added to the new pool. Hitherto I have had the misfortune to draw nothing but married, gentlemen. On this occasion I have secured you, sir.

And may I tell you, sir, he added with stately courtesy, that, in the opinion of the servants all, your chances are highly fancied, very highly. The pool has now reached considerable proportions, and Having had certain losses on the turf very recent, I am extremely anxious to win it. So I thought if I might take the liberty, sir, I would place my knowledge of the sex at your disposal. You will find it sound in every respect. That is all? Thank you, sir. Don't thank me, sir, said the butler indulgently. I ask no thanks. We are working together for a common object, and any little help I can provide is given freely. "'You old scoundrel!' shouted Martin, his wrath prevailing even against that blue eye.

"'You have the insolence to come to me and—' He stopped. The thought of these hounds, these demons, coolly gossiping and speculating below stairs about Elsa, making her the subject of little sporting flutters to relieve the monotony of country life, choked him. "'I shall tell Mr. Keith,' he said. The butler shook his bald head gravely. "'I shouldn't, sir. It's a highly fantastic story, and I don't think he'd believe it. Then I'll—oh, get out!' Keggs bowed deferentially. "'If—if you wish it, sir,' he said, I shall withdraw. "'If I may make the suggestion, sir, I think you should commence to dress. Dinner will be served in a few minutes. Thank you, sir.' Keggs passed softly out of the room. It was more as a demonstration of defiance against keggs than because he really hoped that anything would come of it, that Martin approached Elsa next morning after breakfast.

Elsa was strolling on the terrace in front of the house with the bard, but Martin broke in on the conference with the dogged determination of a steam drill. "'Coming out with the guns today, Elsa,' he said. She raised her eyes. There was an absent look in them. "'The guns,' she said. "'Oh, no, no. I hate watching men shoot.' "'You used to like it.' "'I used to like dolls,' she said impatiently. "'Mr. Barstow gave tongue. He was a slim, tall, sickeningly beautiful young man with large, dark eyes full of expression. "'We develop,' he said. "'The years go by, and we develop. Our souls expand timidly at first, like little half-fledged birds stealing out from them. "'I don't know that I'm set on shooting today myself,' Martin said.

"'Will you come round the links?' "'I am going out in the motor with Mr. Barstow,' said Elsa. "'The motor?' cried Mr. Barstow. "'Oh, Rossiter, that is the very poetry of motion. "'I never ride in a motor-car without those words of Shakespeare's ringing in my mind. "'I'll put a girdle round about the earth in forty minutes.' "'Well, I shouldn't give way to that sort of thing, if I were you,' said Martin. "'The police have put it down on road-hogging in these parts.' Mr. Barstow was speaking figuratively, said Elsa, with disdain. "'Was he?' grunted Martin, whose sorrows were tending to make him every day more like a sulky schoolboy. "'I'm afraid I haven't got a poetic soul.' "'Yes, I'm afraid you haven't,' said Elsa.

There was a brief silence. A bird made itself heard in a neighbouring tree. "'The moan of doves in immemorial elms,' quoted Mr. Barstow softly. Only it happens to be a crow and a beech, said Martin as the bird flew out. Elsa's chin tilted itself in scorn. Martin turned on his heel and walked away. "'It's the wrong way, sir. It's the wrong way,' said a voice. "'I was observing you from a window, sir. It's Lady Angelica all over again. Her position is useless, believe me, sir.' Martin, faced round, flushed and wrathful, the butler went on and moved. Miss Elsa is going for a ride in the car to-day, sir. I know that. Uncommonly tricky things, these motor-cars. I was saying so to Roberts, the chauffeur, just as soon as I heard Miss Elsa was going out with Mr.

Barstow. I said, Roberts, these cars is tricky. Break down when you're twenty miles from anywhere as soon as you'll look at you. Roberts, I said, slipping him a sovereign. How awful it would be if that car should break down twenty miles from anywhere to-day? Martin stared. "'You bribed Roberts, sir?' "'I gave Roberts the sovereign, "'cause I'm sorry for him. "'He's a poor man, "'and has a wife and a family to support them.' "'Very well,' said Martin sternly. "'I shall go and warn Miss Keith.' "'Warn her, sir?' "'I shall tell her that you have bribed Roberts "'to make the car break down, so that,' "'Keggs shook his head. "'I fear she would hardly credit the statement, sir. "'She might even think that you were trying to keep her "'from going for your own personal ends.' "'I believe you are the devil,' said Martin.

"'I hope you'll come to look on me, sir,' said Keirks unctuously, "'as your good angel.' Martin shot abominably that day, and, coming home in the evening, Gloomy and Savage went straight to his room and did not reappear till dinner-time. Elsa had been taken in by one of the moustache-tuggers. Martin found himself seated on her other side, It was so pleasant to be near her and to feel that the bard was away at the other end of the table that for the moment his spirits revived. "'Well, how did you like the ride?' he asked with a smile. "'Did you put that girdle round the world?' She looked at him. "'Once.' The next moment he had an uninterrupted view of her shoulder and heard the sound of her voice as she prattled gaily to the man on her other side.

His heart gave a sudden bound. He understood now. The demon butler had had his wicked way. Good heavens! She had thought he was taunting her. He must explain at once. He said, "'Hock or Sherry, sir?' He looked up into Keg's expressionless eyes. The butler was wearing his unduty mask. There was no sign of triumph in his face. "'Oh, oh, Sherry, I mean, Hock, no, Sherry, neither.' This was awful. He must put this right. Elsa, he said. She was engrossed in a conversation with her neighbour. From down the table in a sudden lull, in the talk, came the voice of Mr. Barstow. He seemed to be in the middle of a narrative. Fortunately, he was saying, I had with me a volume of Shelley, and of my own little efforts I had read Miss Keith the whole of the latter, and much of the former before the chauffeur announced that it was once more possible.

Elsa, said the wretched man, I had no idea. You don't think she turned to him? I beg your pardon? I swear I didn't. I mean, I forgot. I mean, she wrinkled her forehead. I'm really afraid I don't understand. I mean, about the car breaking down. The car? Oh, yes, yes, it broke down. We were delayed quite a little while. Mr. Barstow read me some of his poems. It was perfectly lovely. I was quite sorry when Roberts told us we could go on again. But do you really mean to tell me, Mr. Lambert, that you and once more the world became all shoulder? When the men trailed into the presence of the ladies for their brief sance on which Etiquette insisted before committing the stampede to the billiard-room, Elsa was not to be seen.

Elsa, said Mrs. Keith, in answer to Martin's question, she has gone to bed. The poor child has a headache. I am afraid she had a tiring day. There was an early morning start for the guns, and as Elsa did not appear at breakfast, Martin had to leave without seeing her. His shooting was even worse than it had been on the previous day. It was not until late in the evening that the party returned to the house. Martin, on the way to his room, met Mrs. Keith on the stairs. She appeared somewhat agitated. "'Oh, Martin,' Mrs. Keith said, "'I am so glad you are back. Have you seen anything of Elsa?' "'Elsa?' "'Wasn't she with the guns?' "'With the guns?' said Martin, puzzled. "'No. I have seen nothing of her all day.

I am getting worried. I can't think what could have happened to her.' "'Are you sure she wasn't with the guns?' "'Absolutely certain. Didn't she come in for lunch?' "'No, Tom,' she said as Mr. Keith came up. "'I'm so worried about Elsa. I haven't seen her all day. I thought she must have been out with the guns.' Mr. Keith was a man who had built up a large fortune, mainly by consistently refusing to allow anything to agitate him. He carried this policy into private life. "'Wasn't she in at lunch?' he asked placidly. "'I tell you, I haven't seen her all day. She breakfasted in her room.' "'Late?' "'Yes, she was tired, poor girl.' "'If she breakfasted late,' said Mr. Keith, "'she wouldn't need any lunch.

She's gone for a stroll somewhere.' "'Would you put back dinner, do you think?' inquired Mrs. Keith anxiously. "'I am not good at riddles,' said Mr. Keith, comfortably, "'but I can answer that one. I would not put back dinner. I would not put back dinner for the king.' Elsa did not come back for dinner. Oh, was hers the only vacant place? Mr. Barstow had also vanished. Even Mr. Keith's calm was momentarily ruffled by this discovery. The poet was not a favorite of his. It was only reluctantly that he had consented to his being invited at all, and the presumption being that when two members of a house-party disappear simultaneously, they are likely to be spending the time in each other's society, he was annoyed.

Elsa was not the girl to make a fool of herself, of course, but he was unwontedly silent at dinner. Mrs. Keith's anxiety displayed itself differently. She was frankly worried, and mentioned it. By the time the fish had been reached, conversation at the table had fixed itself definitely on the one topic. "'It isn't the car this time, at any rate,' said Mr. Keith. "'It hasn't been out today.' "'I can't understand it,' said Mrs. Keith, for the twentieth time. And that was the farthest point reached in the investigation of the mystery. By the time dinner was over, a spirit of unrest was abroad. The company sat about in uneasy groups, Snookerpool was, if not forgotten, at any rate shelved. Somebody suggested search parties, and one or two of the moustache-tuggers wandered rather aimlessly out into the darkness.

Martin was standing in the porch with Mr. Keith when Keggs approached. As his eyes lit upon him, Martin was conscious of a sudden solidifying of the vague suspicion which had been forming in his mind, and yet that suspicion seemed so wild. How could Keggs, with the worst intentions, have had anything to do with this? He could not forcibly have abducted the missing pair and kept them under lock and key. He could not have stunned them and left them in a ditch. Nevertheless, looking at Keggs, standing there in his attitude of deferential dignity, With the light from the open door shining on his bald head, Martin felt perfectly certain that he had had in some mysterious fashion engineered the whole thing.

Might I have a word, sir, if you are at leisure? Well, Keggs? Miss Elsa, sir? Yes. Keggs's voice took on a sympathetic softness. It is not my place, sir, to make any remark while in the dining-room, but I could not help but overhear the conversation I gathered from the remarks. that it was passed, that you were somewhat at a loss to account for Miss Elsa's non-appearance, sir. Mr. Keith laughed shortly. You gathered that, eh? Keggs bowed. I think, sir, that possibly I may be able to throw light on the matter. What? cried Mr. Keith. Great scot man! Then why didn't you say so at the time? Where is she? It was not my place, sir, to enter into the conversation of the dinner-table, said the butler, with a touch of reproof.

If I might speak now, sir. Mr. Keith clutched at his forehead. "'Heavens above! Do you want a signed permit to tell me where my daughter is? Get on, man, get on with it.' "'I think it highly possible, sir, that Mrs. Elsa and Mr. Barstow may be on the island and the lake, sir.' About half a mile from the house was a picturesque strip of water, some fifteen hundred yards in width and a little less in length, in the centre of which stood a small and densely wooded island. It was a favourite haunt of visitors at the house when there was nothing else to engage their attention, but during the past week, with shooting developed the days, it had been neglected. "'On the island,' said Mr. Keith. "'What put that idea into your head?' "'I happen to be revving on the lake this morning, sir.

I frequently row over morning so, and there are no duties to detain me in the house. I find the exercise admirable for the health. I walk briskly to the boathouse, and—' Yes, yes, I don't want a schedule of your daily exercises. Cut out the athletic reminiscences and come to the point. As I was rowing on the lake this morning, sir, I happened to see a boat itched up to a tree on the highland. I think that possibly Miss Elsa and Mr. Barstow might have taken a row out there. Mr. Barstow would wish to see the highland, sir, being romantic. But you say you saw the boat there this morning? Yes, sir. Well, it doesn't take all day to explore a small island. What's kept them all this time? It is possible, sir, that the rope might not have held.

Mr. Barstow, if I may say so, sir, is one of those impetuous literary possums, and possibly he omitted to see that the knot was adequately tied, or—his eye grave and inscrutable rested for a moment on Martin's—or some party might have come along and untied it. A purpose.

Untied it on purpose, said Mr. Keith. What on earth for? Keggs shook his head deprecatingly as one who, realizing his limitations, declines to attempt to probe the hidden sources of human actions. "'I thought it right, sir, to let you know,' he said. "'Right? I should say so. If Elsa's been kept starving all day on that island by that long hip—here, come along, Martin.' He dashed off excitedly into the night. Martin remained for a moment, gazing fixedly at the butler. "'I hope, sir,' said Giggs cordially, "'that my information will provide of genuine assistance.' "'Do you know what I should like to do to you?' Martin said slowly. "'I think I hear Mr. Keith calling you, sir. I should like to take you by the scruff of your neck.

There, sir, don't you hear him then? Quite distinctly it was.' Martin gave up the struggle with a sense of blank futility. What could you do with a man like this? It was like quarrelling with Westminster Abbey. "'I should hurry, sir,' suggested Keggs respectfully. "'I think Mr. Keith must have met with some accident.' His surmise proved correct. When Martin came up, he found his host seated on the ground in evident pain. "'Twisted my ankle in a hole,' he explained briefly. "'Give me an arm back to the house. There's a good fellow. Then run on down to the lake and see if what Keggs said is true.' Martin did as he was requested so far, that is to say, as the first half the commission was concerned.

As regarded the second, he took it upon himself to make certain changes. Having seen Mr. Keith to his room, he put the fitting out of the relief ship into the good hands of a group of his fellow guests, whom he discovered in the porch. Elsa's feelings toward her rescuer might be one of unmixed gratitude, but it might, on the other hand, be one of resentment. He did not wish her to connect him in her mind with the episode in any way whatsoever. Martin had once released a dog from a trap, and the dog had bitten him. He had been on an errand of mercy, but the dog had connected him with his sufferings and acted accordingly. It occurred to Martin that Elsa's frame of mind would be uncommonly like that of the dog's.

The rescue party set off. Martin lit a cigarette and waited on the porch. It seemed a very long time before anything happened, but at last, as he was lighting his fifth cigarette, There came from the darkness the sound of voices. They drew nearer. Someone shouted, "'It's all right. We've found them.' Martin threw away his cigarette and went indoors.

Elsa Keith sat up as her mother came into the room. Two nights and a day had passed since she had taken to her bed. "'How are you feeling today, dear?' "'Has he gone, mother?' "'Who?' "'Mr. Barstow?' "'Yes, dear. He left this morning. He said he had business with his publisher in London.' "'Then I can get up,' said Elsa, thankfully. "'I think you're a little hard on poor Mr. Pasto, Elsa. "'It was just an accident. "'You know it was not his fault that the boat slipped away.' "'It was, it was, it was!' cried Elsa, thumping the pillow malignantly. "'I believe he did it on purpose, "'so that he could read me his horrid poetry "'without my having a chance to escape. "'I believe that's the only way "'he can get people to listen to it.

"'But you used to like it, darling. "'You said he had such a musical voice.' "'Musical voice!' The pillow became a shapeless heap. Mother, it was like a nightmare. If I had seen him again, I should have had hysterics. It was awful. If he had been even the least bit upset himself, I think I could have borne up. But he enjoyed it. He reveled in it. He said it was like Omar Khayyam in the wilderness, and Shelley's Episcadian, whatever that is. And he prattled on and on and read and read till my head began to split. Mother! I hit him. Elsa? I did, she went on defiantly. I hit him as hard as I could, and she broke off into a little gurgle of laughter. He tripped over a bush and fell right down, and I wasn't a bit ashamed.

I didn't think it unladylike or anything. I was just as proud as I could be, and it stopped him talking. But Elsa, dear, why? The sun had just gone down, and it was a lovely sunset. The sky looked like a great beautiful slice of underdone beef. I said so to him, and he said sniffily, that he was afraid he didn't see the resemblance. I asked him if he wasn't starving, and he said no, because as a rule all that he needed was a little ripe fruit. That was when I hit him. Elsa? I know it was awfully wrong, but I just had to. Now I'll get up. It looks lovely out. Martin had not gone out with the guns that day. Mrs. Keith had assured him that there was nothing wrong with Elsa, that she was only tired, but he was anxious and had remained at home where bulletins could reach him.

As he was returning from a stroll in the grounds, he heard his name called and saw Elsa lying in the hammock under the trees near the terrace. "'Why, Martin, why aren't you out with the guns?' she said. "'I wanted to be on the spot so that I could hear how you were. Oh, how nice of you. Why don't you sit down? May I?' Elsa fluttered the pages of her magazine. "'You know, you are a very restful person, Martin. You are so big and out-dory. How would you like to read to me for a while? I feel so lazy.' Martin took the magazine. "'What shall I read? Here's a poem.' Elsa shut it. "'Please, please, no. I couldn't bear it. I'll tell you what I should love. The advertisements. There's one about sardines.

I started it, and it seems splendid. It's at the back somewhere.' "'Is this it, Langley and Fields sardines? That's it,' Martin began to read. "'Langley and Fields sardines. When you want the daintiest, most delicious sardines, go to your grocer and say, Langley and Fields, please. You will then be sure of having the finest Norwegian-smoked sardines packed in the purest olive oil.' Elsa was sitting with her eyes closed and a soft smile of pleasure curving her mouth. "'Go on,' she said dreamily. "'Nothing nicer,' resumed Martin with an added touch of eloquence as the theme began to develop. "'For breakfast, lunch, or supper, probably your grocer stocks them. Ask him. If he does not, write to us.

Price fivepence per tin, the best sardines and the best oil.'" Isn't it lovely? She murmured, her hand as it swung, touched his. He held it. She opened her eyes. "'Don't stop reading,' she said. "'I never heard anything so soothing.'" Elsa? He bent toward her. She smiled at him. Her eyes were dancing. Elsa, I—Mr. Keith, said a quiet voice, desired me to say—Martin started away. He glazed up furiously. Gazing down upon them stood kegs. The butler's face was shining with a gentle benevolence. Mr. Keith desired me to say that he would be glad if Miss Elsa would come and sit with him for a while. "'I'll come at once,' said Elsa, stepping from the hammock. The butler bowed respectfully and turned away.

They stood watching him as he moved across the terrace. "'What a saintly old man Keggs looks,' said Elsa. "'Don't you think so?' "'He looks as if he had never ever thought of doing anything he shouldn't. I wonder if he ever has.' "'Yes,' said Martin. "'I wonder.' "'He looks like a stout angel.' "'What were you saying, Martin, when he came up?' End of story 11. The Good Angel.

queue_music Chapters 11