The Cruise of the "Scandal", and other stories

"Squarky-woo"

Once upon a time there was a little mouse called Squarky-woo, who lived behind the wainscoting in a house in Berkeley Square. His mother, who lived with him, was very old, and very grey, and very wise. He called her Mammy-ana, partly from affection and partly because it was her name. She was a widow, Squarky-woo's father having met with a tabby catastrophe in the kitchen, which had abruptly terminated his stainless career in the very flower of mousehood. It had been a cruel blow to Mammy-ana, who had loved him dearly, and would not have lost him for all the cheese in Cheddar. She had dragged his remains from the dust-heap on to which they had been thrown, and lovingly interred them beneath the dining-room floor, erecting over his grave the simple and touching memorial:

REQUIESCAT
IN
PUSSIE

From that day onward she had lavished the whole affection of her broken heart upon little Squarky-woo. He was indeed a mouse of which any mother might have been proud. His coat was as brown as the Thames water at London Bridge, his eyes were as black as Maria, and his teeth were as sharp as needles and as white as ivory. Deep down in her heart Mammy-ana thought him perfect, but it must not be supposed from this that she in any way neglected her duties as a mother. She insisted on his getting up at twelve o'clock every night, and going into his hole at six o'clock every morning. He was never allowed to play with the other young mice, or to use any vulgar expressions, such as "Go to Felis!" or "You be trapped!" Above all, he was strictly forbidden, on any excuse whatever, to go near the kitchen in which his beloved father had met so dreadful a fate.

With the foolishness of youth, Squarky-woo chafed under this admirable discipline. Not that he ever complained to his mother—oh, dear, no! He loved her too much, and, besides, she would probably have beaten him. Of course, if she had done so, it would only have been for his own good; but Squarky-woo, being modest by nature, felt that he was quite good enough. So he kept his thoughts to himself, and did what he was told, and Mammy-ana frequently informed him that he was the best behaved and the most satisfactory little mouse in the whole of Berkeley Square. "This," she would add, "is rather due to your excellent upbringing than to any innate virtue that you yourself possess." And Squarky-woo, who had quite made up his mind to pay a visit to the kitchen on the first possible occasion, used to bow his head gracefully, as though recognising the truth of her remark, and then wink at himself in the looking-glass under the dining-room sideboard.

Though nothing can excuse such duplicity, especially in early life, Squarky-woo's conduct was not really quite so reprehensible as it appears at first sight. He suffered from temptations of which Mammy-ana was ignorant, for the other young mice had the most offensive habit of jeering at him whenever she was not present. "Yah!" they would cry, "Who's afraid of the cat? Look at little Stay-in-hole!" Then they would tell him wonderful stories about the kitchen, how the floor was strewn with crumbs, and how exciting it was to creep in quietly and pick them up, while the great, ugly brute of a cat nodded away sleepily in front of the fire. And Squarky-woo would grind his teeth with impotent fury, and swear to himself that, come what might, nothing should stop him from sharing in their adventures.

And so, one evening, when Mammy-ana had gone across the square to pay a visit of congratulation (the cat at No. 4 having been rather severely bitten by a stray dog), Squarky-woo seized the opportunity of putting his long-cherished scheme into operation. He waited until twelve o'clock, when all the half-dressed people upstairs seemed to have gone to bed, and then, creeping softly out of his hole, made his way to the head of the kitchen stairs. His heart was beating furiously with excitement, and that strange, delicious ecstasy which, alas! so frequently accompanies a first departure from the paths of right flowed fiercely through his veins. He listened for a moment or two, scarcely daring to breathe, but the quivering of his own tail alone broke the silence.

Very cautiously he crept downstairs, until he reached the basement, where a small, blue jet of gas was flickering feebly in the draught. Squarky-woo knew from this that the servants had all retired into their holes. He paused for a moment outside the pantry door, until he heard the butler growling through his nose, which, according to Mammy-ana, was a sure sign that he had gone to sleep. Then, setting his teeth, he scuttled off down the passage in the direction of the kitchen.

To his intense surprise, the door was partly open; some careless scullery-maid had evidently forgotten her duty. For one instant he hesitated as the memory of his father's fate suddenly rushed into his mind. But the thought of what the other young mice would say swept away all caution, and, trembling with excitement, he crawled forward, and peeped round the corner into the forbidden chamber. In his wildest moments he had never imagined anything so exquisite. His heart almost stopped beating, and, in a hoarse whisper, he ejaculated to himself the single exclamation, "Crumbs!" The floor was literally strewn with them. Bread, toast, flour, bacon, potato—minute portions of all that made life sweet and radiant lay scattered there in boundless plenty. The dying firelight shone upon the silver covers on the walls, and threw a faint, harmonious glow over the entire banquet.

Tears of happiness gathered in Squarky-woo's eyes, and rolled gently down his nose. No wonder his father had risked everything in such a cause. Instead of a rash, indefinite shadow, Squarky-woo suddenly saw him in the guise of an heroic martyr, and a great thrill of family pride shot through his fluttering heart. He raised his head, and glanced savagely round the kitchen. Where was that infernal cat? She should pay bitterly for her deed of blood.

Fortunately, however, for Squarky-woo, the cat was otherwise engaged, and with the exception of a few black beetles, who eyed him with apathetic interest, he was in sole possession of the kitchen. Well! vengeance would keep, and the crumbs would not. There they lay in all their toothsome beauty. He crushed back his more noble sentiments, and flung himself upon the feast.

It was one of those rare occasions when the realization of a long-cherished scheme is even more enjoyable than imagination has already painted it, and so eagerly did Squarky-woo enter upon his task that for some moments he was totally oblivious of all other considerations. At length, however, when the first glow of gratified appetite was gradually cooling down, he began to realise that the whole apartment was permeated by a delicate perfume for which none of the fragments on the floor were directly responsible. He stopped eating and began to sniff the air with the rich satisfaction of a true connoisseur. "If that isn't Cheddar cheese," he murmured to himself, "I'm a Dutch-mouse!"

As far as he could judge, the source of this delicious odour lay somewhere in the direction of the fireplace. In eager expectancy he darted across the floor; and there, just in front of the grate lay the most perfect slice of Cheddar cheese, surrounded by a curious arrangement of wire and wood.

Now Squarky-woo had been brought up by Mammy-ana on an excellent principle, carefully copied from the manner in which she had observed human beings educated their children. That such things as traps and cats existed it was, of course, impossible to deny, but what they were like in appearance, and where they were likely to be found, were things that no decent-minded young mouse had any right to know. The great object of education was to launch one's children upon the world in absolute ignorance of the darker side of life.

"My own little Squarky-woo," she would say to other approving mothers, "is just as pure-minded as the day that he was born."

This being so, Squarky-woo had naturally no idea that the curious thing in front of him was a trap. He had often heard other young mice speak of such things with bated breath, but had never dared to ask what they were actually like, for fear that he should be laughed at for not knowing. So he walked round it, and sniffed at it, and puzzled his head trying to make out what it was. It could scarcely be intended to keep the cheese clean; it was obviously not intended to prevent anybody stealing it. Well, it was no good trying to account for human idiocy. People who kept cats for pleasure were obviously a little wanting in ordinary intelligence. If they chose to put their cheese into a sort of birdcage and leave it on the kitchen floor, that was their own look-out. He knew what to do with it if they hadn't.

Hesitating no longer, he ran into the trap, and, catching hold of the corner of the cheese with his sharp little teeth, gave it a quick jerk in order to detach it from the hook. Snap! He leaped round like a flash, but it was too late—the door of the trap had closed behind him. For an instant he scarcely realised what had happened; and then the hideous truth suddenly broke upon him in all its terrible reality. He hurled himself recklessly against the wires, but the cunning artificers of Birmingham had wrought them of the stoutest copper, and he only bruised his tender little body, and made no impression upon his prison. In pitiful distress he turned round and round, seeking in vain for some outlet. There was none; and Squarky-woo realized that nothing was now left to him except to face a cruel and painful death without disgracing his lineage.

Meanwhile Mammy-ana had returned from her visit in excellent spirits, the cat at No. 4 having been even more badly bitten than rumour had related. So it had been in a very genial frame of mind she had run upstairs, laughing gaily to herself as she pictured the amusing incident. Her only regret was that she had not been present to listen to the cat's squeak. That would have been music indeed.

Before going out, she had told Squarky-woo that he had better not leave the hole until her return, so she was very surprised, and not a little annoyed, to find that he had disobeyed her. "However," she thought, "he is probably only in the dining-room or the drawing-room, and I can't really be angry on such an auspicious occasion."

She trotted off to look for him, still chuckling to herself, and no suspicion of the terrible truth entered into her mind. Indeed, it was not until she had thoroughly searched both apartments that she began to get a little uneasy. "Surely Squarky-woo could not have been so madly disobedient as to go down into the kitchen!" She inquired of one or two mice she happened to meet, but none of them had seen anything of her son; and one of them went so far as to remark that he thought she always carried him in her pocket. But Mammy-ana was in no mood for joking. A horrible fear was slowly tightening round her heart. She darted away to the head of the kitchen stairs, and peering down into the dimly-lit passage, called out nervously:

"Squarky-woo! are you there?"

A faint answering squeak echoed up the stairs.

"Come up at once," she cried.

There was a long pause, and then a feeble broken little sob: "Caught in a trap."

The world seemed suddenly to reel round before Mammy-ana's eyes, and it was only with a super-verminous effort that she stopped herself from fainting. Sick with dread, she hurried downstairs, and, guided by the sound of Squarky-woo's voice, made her way straight to the kitchen. At the sight of her darling caught fast in the hideous engine of destruction, the last remnant of hope fled despairingly from her heart.

"Oh, Squarky-woo," she cried, "oh, you little fool!" and great tears of misery almost blinded her.

Squarky-woo crushed back his sobs when he saw his mother weeping.

"Don't cry, Mammy-ana," he said, "I am not worth it. I am only a wicked, ungrateful little beast, and I don't mind dying."

Then Mammy-ana broke down helplessly and sobbed out that he was all she had in the world, and that it was all her own fault for not having told him what a trap was like, and that Heaven knew she had done it all for the best. A sad, twisted little smile flickered across Squarky-woo's face, but he only shook his head and repeated bravely:

"No, mother, it was all my fault."

"Oh," she cried, "I might have known what would happen. Your father's blood was bound to come out."

Squarky-woo's eyes lit up with a great pride. "Yes," he said, "it has taught me how to make a fool of myself, but it will also teach me how to die."

"Listen," cried Mammy-ana suddenly. "There is one faint chance. If the cat is not present when you are discovered, they will try to drown you. Just as they are going to open the trap I will attract their attention, and if by any chance they open it a second too soon—jump, darling, jump, for your life and mine."

A glimmer of hope stole into Squarky-woo's eyes, and he set his little teeth with a grim determination that was good to witness. Mammy-ana wiped away her tears, and kissed him through the wires. And when the cold, grey light of morning crept through the chinks in the shuttered windows, she was still beside him, softly encouraging him with words of hope, and firmly resolved that if she failed to save him it should be at the price of her own existence.

At last a heavy step outside warned them of approaching danger, and Mammy-ana scuttled away and took up her position under the dresser. The terrible and immediate necessity for caution kept her cool and alert, though every nerve was tingling with savage determination. Then the door opened, and a great, sleepy scullery-maid blundered into the room. Directly she saw Squarky-woo in the trap she gave a scream of terror, and darted to the door.

"Cook, cook," she called. "Come 'ere."

Mammy-ana heard the door of the cook's room open, and the angry answer that came across the passage:

"Well, what are yer screechin' about, silly?"

"There's a mouse in the trap."

"Well, it won't eat yer."

There was a sound of flopping footsteps, and the cook waddled in, looking anything but pleasant.

"Never 'eard such a noise," she remarked angrily. "Ain't yer ever seen a mouse before, fat'ead?"

She advanced towards the fireplace, and glanced down at Squarky-woo. "Where's that blessed cat?" she inquired.

"Dunno," said the scullery-maid.

"What's the good of you?" demanded the cook scornfully.

Being apparently unable to find any satisfactory solution to this problem, the scullery-maid only glanced nervously at Squarky-woo and murmured, "Pore little thing."

"Pore little thing!" shouted the cook indignantly; "p'r'aps ye'd like to make a pet of it. 'Ere, there's Jaimes. Jaimes! Jaimes!"

The footman—a tall, pale-faced young man—sauntered in in a state of some incompleteness with regard to costume.

"What are you 'ollerin' about?" he inquired.

"You might tike and drown this 'ere mouse like a good feller," said the cook.

"Mouse," he echoed sarcastically. "Lor' bless us! it might 'a bin a tiger from the row you was makin'."

He picked up the trap with a brutal indifference and strolled towards the door. Trembling with excitement, Mammy-ana slipped along the wall after him. He strode down the passage whistling to himself, and, turning the corner, came to a standstill just alongside of a large tin bucket full of water. "Let's see yer swim," he remarked to Squarky-woo, and, lifting the trap, placed his thumb upon the spring. With a prayer in her heart, Mammy-ana leapt forward and struck in with her sharp little teeth upon the calf of his leg, which was only protected by a thin white stocking. With an exclamation of pain he started back, and unconsciously pressed the spring. Up went the flap, and out went Squarky-woo, just missing the bucket by the eighth of an inch. He came down with a terrible bang upon the stone floor, but was up again in an instant, and, before the astonished footman had recovered his composure, both he and Mammy-ana had disappeared down a neighbouring hole.

"'Ave you drowned it?" called out the cook.

And James, who knew women, pulled himself together and said, "Yes."

Upstairs, in Mammy-ana's quiet little retreat, the final and distressing dénouement took place. Squarky-woo crouched in a corner awaiting his destiny. For some time Mammy-ana eyed him in stern silence. Then she flicked her tail and Squarky-woo shivered.

"Come here," she said.

He made no motion.

"Come here," she squeaked, "you—you—wee, slickit, cowering, timorous beastie!"

Horrified at her language, Squarky-woo turned to escape, but it was too late. With one bound Mammy-ana was upon him, and catching hold of his ear with her teeth, she lifted up his tail, and beat him with her own.

With the Conquering Turkey

I had just finished breakfast, and was slowly enjoying an especially fragrant pipe, when my front-door bell rang with some violence.

"This is undoubtedly Pitman," I said to myself.

It was. He came in stamping the snow off his boots on to my new carpet.

"Sit down," I said harshly. He seated himself obediently, and tearing off the front page of the News and Leader, which had been left at my house by mistake, I handed it across to him.

"Put your feet on that," I said, "if they'll go on, and don't move until they are properly thawed, and whatever you do, don't remark it's seasonable weather."

He followed my instructions meekly.

Pitman is a great friend of mine. We live in the same village, and he is a local architect. At least, that is what he calls himself. Some of his clients call him other things. He is also married.

I am rather frightened of Mrs. Pitman, for she is under the impression that I exercise an evil influence over her husband. She told another lady in confidence, who repeated it to me, that "no man would live in a country village by himself unless he had something to hide."

I tossed my tobacco pouch across the table.

"Light a pipe and explain yourself," I said.

"I thought you would be in bed and asleep," he began. "You're getting into vicious habits living alone. When an unmarried man takes to breakfasting at nine o'clock it's a bad sign—shows he can't sleep."

"Pitman," I said pathetically, "you have not come out half a mile on a snowy morning to try and be funny. Out with it."

"Have you got any whisky?" he inquired.

"I thought there was some good reason. There it is behind you. Aren't you allowed to have it at home?"

"Not before lunch, and quite right, too; but that isn't the real reason why I came."

"Have a cigar?" I suggested.

"No," he replied. "I came to give you some information. You are coming up to town with me by the four o'clock train."

"What are we going for?" I inquired.

"We are going to buy a turkey," he said quietly.

I looked at him in amazement. "Going to buy a turkey! Why, you can get a much better one here."

He smiled. "Much better, but my wife thinks otherwise. You see, she was brought up in London, and she is still under the impression that you can get nothing fit to eat outside. She made up her mind long ago to buy the Christmas turkey in town, and she was going up to-day to choose one. However, this morning the infant suddenly developed a pain in its tummy, and she decided she couldn't leave it. So I volunteered, and was accepted."

"And you want an expert opinion?"

"Not at all. I know a turkey when I see one all right. I want your society. We'll dine somewhere and do a music-hall and come back by the last train."

"But I never heard such nonsense," I objected. "Trotting all round London to buy a turkey! It's ridiculous."

"Naturally," said Pitman calmly, "or my wife wouldn't have suggested it."

"I will think it over," I said.

Pitman took out his watch. "I shall call for you at three-thirty. That will give you six hours to get ready."

"I dislike being hurried," I said irritably.

"We shall dine at the Piccadilly," he went on, "and I shall pay for dinner."

"That settles it. If you had said so sooner we should have been saved all this superfluous conversation."

Pitman got up slowly and walked towards the door.

"You will take particular notice," he observed, "that I said dinner. There was no mention of drinks."

"I was hoping it was an oversight."

He shook his head. "I am fond of you, Victor, but I have a sense of duty towards my family."

Then, as Mr. Hall Caine would say, he went out into the snow.

He turned up again at a quarter to four in a fur coat, with a large basket in his hand.

I looked at him in stern disapproval.

"I shall not come with you," I said, "unless you dress yourself decently and leave the basket behind. I hate walking about with people who carry baskets."

"I don't," he said, "so you shall carry it."

"May I ask if you wish to lug the turkey about London?" I inquired.

"I don't wish to," he replied, "but the wife——"

I cut him short. "In that case you have no choice. Did she also insist on the fur coat?"

"That was my own idea," he replied proudly. "I have had it for two years, and only worn it once."

"What happened?"

"Nothing. It was in my room in front of the looking-glass."

"People will think I am your dresser," I objected.

"They will respect you as an artist," he replied.

"We won't argue the point," I said. "Wait till dinner-time; then you will be sorry you insulted me."

We arrived at Waterloo at a quarter to five, by which time Pitman had reached a state of intense irritation. The carriage had been full the whole way, and its other occupants had done little but cast furtive glances of admiration and envy at his coat.

"Thank Heaven we're out of that," he muttered, as he stepped on to the platform. "Gaping set of idiots!"

"It's nothing to what you're going through," I replied encouragingly. "I warned you before we started. What's the programme now?"

"Short's first," he said, "and then the turkey. I can't do it in cold blood."

We found a cab and drove across Waterloo Bridge, pulling up at Mr. Short's eminent tavern. Pitman said his nerves were out of order, and suggested champagne. I hate arguing.

"That's something rather hot in the way of coats," said the barmaid pleasantly, as she snipped the wire.

Pitman was positively rude.

"You must excuse my friend," I put in, trying to smooth matters down. "We are just going to pawn it, and he is rather sensitive on the subject."

She smiled complacently. "I wish you meant it," she said, and with this cryptic remark she left us to attend to another gentleman. Pitman turned to me.

"Look here," he began warmly, "I'm not going to be made a target for your silly wit."

"It was the best I could think of," I protested.

He drank up the champagne, and became a little more cheerful.

"Those people in the train upset me," he explained. "Come along; we'll go and buy the turkey now."

"Where?"

"Smithfield Market."

"You ought to make a hit there," I said hopefully.

He glanced down at the coat with a nervous hunted sort of expression. "I wish I hadn't brought the thing," he muttered.

"Wait till we get to Smithfield," I returned, "you'll wish it much more then. They're a nice, genial, outspoken set of people at Smithfield."

As a matter of fact, our reception was distinctly disappointing. But for a few encouraging cries such as: "Yar! Look at the bloomin' millionaire!" "When did yer git it aht, guv'nor?" "Chuck us a quid, Rothschild!" our entrance into the market passed off without any special demonstration.

Pitman was distinctly hard to please. We wandered about from stall to stall, and at last drew up opposite one where a large gentleman with a face like a blood orange was vociferously presiding.

"'Ere y'are, sir," he called out. "The finest birds in London." Then, glancing at my friend's coat, "Nothing but the best for you, sir. 'Ere's the werry thing." And he held out the most magnificent turkey I have ever seen in my life.

Pitman, who is a bit of an artist, was at once taken with its beautiful plumage.

"That's a lovely bird," he exclaimed, turning to me.

"Better ask a few questions," I suggested in a whisper, "or he'll take you for a mug and overcharge you."

Pitman turned to the salesman. "How old is it?" he demanded suspiciously.

"I ain't got 'is birf stifficut," replied the latter affably; "but 'e ain't come of age yet."

"Where was it brought up?" pursued Pitman.

The fat man preserved his composure.

"Hoxford College," he replied, winking at me.

"Is it an early riser?" I inquired.

"Shut up, Victor," said Pitman. "How much?" he asked, addressing the salesman.

"Let yer 'ave it for thirty bob, sir. Twenty pahnd turkey for thirty bob!"

"Right you are," said Pitman, handing across the basket. "Put it in here."

"Now we'll go and have another bottle of fizz," I remarked, as we turned away from the stall.

Pitman nodded his head. "The cold weather makes one frightfully thirsty, doesn't it?"

"Nearly as bad as the hot," I agreed.

"We must be careful not to have too much," said Pitman.

"Drinking," I observed, as I led the way into a cheerful-looking tavern, "is no longer a mere physical indulgence. By legislation we have turned it into an art."

"And the policemen are the critics," added Pitman.

I looked at him approvingly, and ordered another bottle of "Mumm."

All the better side of Pitman's nature steals out under the influence of champagne. As a rule, he is inclined to be taciturn and a trifle selfish. Touched by the garment of Bacchus, rare and unexpected qualities develop with amazing rapidity. In the present instance he became almost morbidly tender-hearted.

"We'll take a four-wheeler to the Piccadilly," he said, finishing his glass.

"Why not a taxi?" I inquired.

He shook his head mournfully. "Don't want to jog the turkey."

"Nonsense," I objected.

"It's not nonsense," he retorted. "How would you like to be shut up in a bag?"

It was obviously no use arguing, so I gave in. Going outside, we summoned a seedy-looking growler and plodded off towards the restaurant. Pitman took the turkey out of the bag and placed it on the seat opposite us.

"Beautiful bird," he said thoughtfully.

"Magnificent," I agreed.

Then he lay back and went to sleep.

I woke him up when the cab stopped. "Come along," I said; "here we are. You sling on to the turkey. I'll pay the man."

I followed him into the hall, and found him standing there with the basket under one arm and the turkey under the other.

"Put those things in the cloak-room," I whispered hurriedly. "Everyone is laughing at you."

"Let 'em laugh," he replied, looking round defiantly. "You 'member what Sol-Solomon says about thorns under a pot. The turkey's coming in to dinner with me."

"Pitman," I said, "I'm ashamed of you."

He walked up to the cloak-room, and deposited his coat, hat, and stick. Then he put the turkey into the basket.

"Shall I take that, sir?" inquired the attendant.

"No," said Pitman haughtily; "leave him alone."

"That will be all right," I interposed, giving the man a shilling. I was curious to see what would happen.

Pitman marched downstairs to the grill-room, carrying the basket. The place was crowded.

"I want a table for three," he said to the waiter.

The latter looked at him curiously.

"Shall I take that outside, sir?"

Pitman drew himself up. "Don't you dare to touch him."

We were beginning to attract attention, so I settled the matter by leading the way across the room to the further corner, where there was an empty table. We sat down, and, taking the turkey out of the basket, Pitman proceeded to prop it up in the vacant chair, to the intense interest and joy of the people at the surrounding tables. The waiter whose duty it was to attend to us entered into the spirit of the joke, his sense of humour being probably quickened by a prophetic instinct with regard to our financial value.

"Dinner for three, sir?" he inquired.

Pitman examined the menu with some deliberation, and settled upon a satisfactory little programme. He is acquainted with my weaknesses.

"My other friend," he said, pointing to the turkey, "will begin with a little thick soup."

At this point the manager of the restaurant arrived.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but I'm afraid I must request you to remove that bird," he began in a firm but apologetic tone. "The other ladies and gentlemen, you know, sir——"

This put Pitman on his dignity.

"If they object to my friends I will leave the restaurant," he replied.

A genial-looking man at the next table here joined in the conversation.

"I for one," he said, "am delighted to be in such interesting society."

"You hear that!" cried Pitman triumphantly. "Go away, manager. No, stop a minute; have a drink?"

The manager shook his head. "Thank you very much, sir; but I'm afraid it would be against my rules. Of course, if the other guests don't object to the bird I have nothing further to say." He shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

I shall never forget that dinner. Under the influence of a third bottle of champagne Pitman became magnificent. His brilliant conversation was distributed impartially between me and the turkey and the people at the neighbouring tables, all of whom were intensely sympathetic. It would be useless to attempt to describe it, and to tell the truth, I myself have a very imperfect idea as to what actually occurred. I distinctly remember, however, that about nine o'clock I suggested the Hippodrome.

At first Pitman was obstinate. He declared that it was not a nice place to take the turkey to, but after a good deal of persuasion I managed to overcome his scruples, and amidst a chorus of good wishes we left the restaurant.

By the aid of a taxi we arrived at the Hippodrome without difficulty. I took the turkey, and sent Pitman to buy the tickets. He returned just as I was trying to smuggle the bird into the cloak-room.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded indignantly. "I've got a stall for him."

"A stall!" I echoed.

"Yes, a stall. Don't be selfish."

I gave it up, and followed him meekly into the hall.

I have a curiously indistinct recollection of what occurred subsequently. I remember being remonstrated with by a large gentleman in uniform to whom Pitman explained the situation with some emotion.

"Constable," he said; "it's all right, constable. Promised my wife not to let the bird out of my sight. Got a stall for him—he won't make any noise. Well-behaved bird, sergeant; brought up at Oxford. That's all right, off'cer."

Whether it was this lucid explanation, or the half-crown with which he substantiated it, that brought the attendant to reason I do not know, but without any more opposition we took our seats triumphantly in the centre of the front row.

It was a cheerful, Christmassy sort of audience, and the turkey made an instantaneous hit. Indeed, it attracted far more attention than the performance. Pitman insisted on buying it a whisky-and-soda, and got quite angry when it refused to drink. It sat up rakishly with a cigar in its claw, while he talked to it seriously about the sin of ingratitude. At last one of the performers refused to go on unless we were removed.

With an injured air, Pitman tucked the turkey under his arm, and we left the house amidst ringing cheers from the gallery.

By this time it was nearly ten o'clock, and as our last train left London at ten-thirty, we drove off to Waterloo without any further delay. When we arrived at the station Pitman insisted on buying three tickets. He declared, with tears in his eyes, that nothing would induce him to cheat the railway company; I suggested that he might put the turkey back into the basket, but he shook his head.

"Promisht the wife not to squash it," he said thickly. "Wouldn't have me break my promish?"

"No," I replied sadly. "Get in."

We entered the carriage, and Pitman sat the turkey up in the further corner. Then we both went to sleep.

I woke with a start just as the train was beginning to throb its way out of the station. Glancing carelessly through the window, I saw, to my amazement, that we had arrived at our destination. I flung open the door and dug Pitman in the ribs.

"Come along," I yelled. "Here we are!"

He scrambled out after me on to the platform, and the train glided away into the darkness.

We were both of us rather upset, and Pitman decided that he would come to my house and have a brandy-and-soda before going home.

"Nothing like brandy-and-soda for a nervous shock," he said gravely.

I felt a little doubtful about the brandy, but he seemed so certain that I gave way, and we trudged up together to the cottage. I lighted the lamp in my little dining-room, and poured out a couple of drinks.

"Pitman," I said, "we've had a ripping day."

"Ripping," he repeated.

I raised my glass. "Here's luck," I said, "and long life to the turkey."

With a cry of horror Pitman dropped his tumbler and collapsed into a chair.

* * * * * * *

Then the hideous truth dawned upon me.

We had left the turkey in the train.

The Later Edition

George Barton pushed open the swinging doors, and came into the bank. Several people were standing at the counter—a couple of tradesmen, an old lady, an errand boy—while the cashier, an elderly, harassed-looking man, was counting over a large heap of silver, which one of the former had just paid in. He looked up as Barton entered, and nodded in the direction of the other customers. Barton lifted the slab that led through into the office, and walking up to a side door with a frosted-glass panel, opened it, and hung up his hat upon a peg inside. Then he came to the counter, and began to attend to the people who were waiting. His work was characterized by a mechanical swiftness noticeably absent in the movements of his elderly confrère; so by the time that the latter had satisfied himself that the pile of silver in front of him corresponded with the amount on the slip, Barton had settled the requirements of the remaining customers. The cashier made an entry in his "scroll," filled the credit slip, and then, after carefully wiping his pen and laying it on the desk, turned to Barton.

"I am going to lunch now," he said. "If you have time, you might put a few of these entries through"—he pointed to a twisted-up heap of cheques and credit slips under a paper-weight. "We have been rather busy while you were out," he added.

"All right," answered Barton, without looking up from the book in which he was writing.

For the next quarter of an hour the bank was practically deserted; the silence only being broken by the scratching of pens, or an occasional sigh from one of the two junior clerks, who were working at a desk behind. Outside, the world was bathed in the golden sunshine of a perfect June day; but within, it was merely another hot afternoon dragging on its ordinary monotonous round. Barton soon entered up the pile of arrears bequeathed him by his companion, and added up the latter's scroll for him. One of the senior clerks came in from the manager's room with a pile of papers, threw them down on the desk, and sauntered up to where he was working.

"How goes it?" asked the new-comer, taking out a pen-knife and beginning to clean his nails.

"All through, up to date," said Barton. "Do you want to get out early?"

"Well, I do rather, if you can manage it." He glanced over the scrolls. "I see you have been giving Weary Willy a hand."

Barton smiled. "You would be here till six if I didn't. It is quite time the poor old chap got his pension."

"They ought to make you cashier," said the other. "Furze wants to go at the end of the year, if they will let him. Why don't you apply for it?"

Barton glanced round to see if they were overheard, and, speaking in a lower voice, answered, "That is just what I did last week. The manager—he is a little brick, Blackmore—sent up a very strong letter urging my fitness, and all that sort of thing; but the directors wrote back and said I was too young. Rather sickening, wasn't it?"

"Why don't you go in for something else?" asked his companion. "With your brains you are wasted in a bank. Any fool can do this sort of thing."

Barton flushed slightly. He was twenty-one, and the compliment was obviously genuine. "It is all very well, Steele," he said; "but what can I do? I haven't got a halfpenny in the world, and I have had to keep myself ever since I entered this confounded hole. I shan't stay in it a minute longer than I can help, but at present—" he shrugged his shoulders.

"It is a bit off, isn't it?" agreed Steele sympathetically. "I should leave myself, if I could do anything else. By the way, do you want a tip for the Manchester Cup?"

"Well, that's curious!" said Barton. "You are the second to-day."

"Second what?"

"Why, I have just had a letter from a man offering to give me a tip. What's yours?"

"'Kildonen.' It's a dead cert. What's yours?"

"I don't know till this evening. The whole thing is rather quaint. The other night I was coming down Shaftesbury Avenue very late, when I saw a fellow being set on by two or three rough-looking brutes, so I ran across to lend him a hand. He was very grateful, and turned out to be McFadden, the tipster—you know, the chap who is always advertising in the sporting papers. Well, he insisted on taking my name and address, and this morning I got a letter from him asking me to dine at the Troc. He said he could put me on to a good thing for the Manchester Cup."

"You back 'Kildonen,'" said Steele sceptically. "I got it straight from my brother, who is a pal of the trainer. Ten to one McFadden will put you on to some rotter."

"We shall see," answered Barton, getting up to attend to a customer who had just come in. "At all events, I will let you know what he says."

* * * * * * *

Barton lit his cigar and, leaning back in his comfortable seat, looked round the big restaurant with a quiet satisfaction born of an excellent dinner, a bottle of good champagne, and a really first-class Larranaga. Barton's companion, a big, sun-burnt man, with a large moustache, twinkling black eyes, and a face heavily pitted with the remnants of smallpox, waited until the men serving liqueurs and coffee had moved on to the next table, and then resumed the conversation.

"I didn't want those chaps to get hold of what I was saying," he explained; "they know me, and it would be all over London to-morrow."

Barton leaned slightly across the table towards him, and lowering his voice, McFadden continued: "It's the chance of a lifetime. Not a soul witnessed the trial except Rainsford and Burch, and you can trust them to keep it dark. They want the money; besides, Rainsford is the sort of man who would cut his throat rather than give away a tip; and I know Burch has told no one but myself. Even Relf, the jockey, thinks that he was carrying about ten pounds less than he was; so you can take it from me that, with the exception of us four, there isn't a living soul who has an idea of what 'Mountain Lady' can do. She will start at twenty to one, and unless she is left at the post or drops dead on the course, nothing will get near her. Why, just think, man, according to the trial, that would put 'Night-jar' in at about eight stone four; while, as a matter of fact, he would be carrying nine stone, and then be a hot favourite. You must have something on—something worth winning. If you can beg or borrow 'a monkey' for a couple of days you are made for life. I could get it on for you with Cook at twenty to one, but he would want to see the cash first, and I have none to spare at present, or I would do it for you. It means simply picking up ten thousand. I am sticking on every penny I can spare myself. We shall have to back to win, for there won't be more than six runners but it's as safe as the Bank of England." His face was flushed with excitement as he finished. Picking up his glass of liqueur, he drained it at a gulp.

Barton had listened intently; his eyes had never left McFadden's face, and he felt sure that the man had been telling him what he at all events believed to be the truth. "It is very kind of you to have given me the tip," he said, "and such an excellent dinner into the bargain."

"Bosh!" returned the other shortly. "Waiter! two more liqueur brandies. Look here, youngster, you acted like a gentleman the other night—got me out of a damned tight place—and I never forget a pal."

Barton was silent for a moment. "What about 'Kildonen'?" he asked.

McFadden laughed. "Oh, I know the stable are sweet on him, but he hasn't a dog's chance against 'Mountain Lady' at the weights. Besides, he is a clumsy, bad-tempered brute at the best of times. What I have told you is gospel truth, sonny; and if you like to send me anything to Morley's Hotel, I'll shove it on for you. Of course do the business yourself if you prefer it; but, in case you wanted a big deal, I thought you might have some trouble in getting it on—see?"

Barton's face was, perhaps, a little paler than usual, but, beyond that, there was no trace of any particular emotion in his appearance or manner to betray the sudden thought that had flashed across his mind while McFadden was speaking. He sipped the second liqueur which the waiter had just put down in front of him, knocked the ash off his cigar, and then, leaning across the table again towards his companion, answered quietly: "I believe what you tell me, and I am very grateful to you for letting me know. It is just possible I might be able to borrow a few hundreds; but I should have to spin some other yarn about it. Now, if I were to send you something in notes first post Friday morning, could you let me have them back, if all goes well, on Friday night?"

"Why, of course! Cook will pay up Saturday. As long as he knows the cash is there, he wouldn't want it till after the race, even if we were to go down. There is nothing dead certain, but this is just as near to it as you can get. It's worth risking something, or I wouldn't put you on to it. I have been messing about with the turf for twenty years, and it's the best thing I ever struck." He took out his watch, and looked at the time. "I must be off," he added; "I have to meet a man at half-past. You think it over, and do just what you like; only don't talk about it."

He paid the bill, tipping the waiter generously, and they walked upstairs. At the door he turned to Barton. "I have dealt with you straight," he said; "you did me a good turn, and I always pay my debts when I can."

Barton nodded, and held out his hand. "If I can raise the money, I will ask you to put it on for me. In any case—thank you."

Through the warm starlit night Barton walked home to his rooms in Bloomsbury. His face was pale and drawn, and he walked fast, staring straight in front of him. A fierce excitement was tingling in his blood; his brain and conscience seemed to be dancing together in a mad riot of contradictions. Through it all McFadden's words leaped out in letters of fire: "It means simply picking up ten thousand." He kept on repeating the sentence to himself. Ten thousand pounds! Was there anything impossible in the world with such a sum? A hundred paths, leading up the hills of power and fame, opened out suddenly before his chained ambition. He walked on quickly, unsteadily, his hands clenched, his eyes shining.

He turned into Burton Crescent, and stopped before a dark, untidy-looking house that stared forlornly on the ill-kept square in front. He had lived here for the last two years, a small bedroom on the third floor being the exact amount of luxury permitted him by his salary. The hall was in total blackness—no reckless jet of blue wasted on the hall burners in Burton Crescent—but experience had taught Barton to dispense with such facilities. He made his way upstairs, stumbling over a sleeping cat, that fled away into the darkness with a horrible scream. His room was poorly furnished, but saved from the usual deadly barrenness of such apartments by two large shelves crowded with books, a fine engraving of Burne-Jones's "King Cophetua," and one or two cheaper reproductions of well-known pictures. He locked the door behind him, and turned up the gas.

He began to feel a little more collected. This excitement was contemptible—the wine must have gone to his head. He poured himself out a glass of water, and drank it off. The thing had to be faced here and now, in all its radiant possibilities, in all its cold reality. He sat down in the frayed arm-chair and filled his pipe with trembling fingers. McFadden had spoken the truth, of that he felt certain. The man might have been deceived, but Barton doubted it. He was no callow novice at the game to suck in an ordinary turf lie with such conviction. Besides, he had hinted that Burch had reasons for not deceiving him. Then there was the chance that the trainer himself had been mistaken; such a thing might happen, and, as McFadden himself had said, nothing was certain, the mare might be left at the post. He lit his pipe and began to smoke quickly, trying to see the thing in its right proportions. On the one hand, years of drudgery at the bank, mean sordid poverty, surroundings such as these—he looked round and shuddered—to lead to what? Who could tell? He knew that he had ability, but life was such a ghastly lottery. Handicapped as he was, without money or friends, what more likely than that he should share the fate of others, fully as able and ambitious as himself—men who had eaten out their hearts in the labour and disappointment of existence, while life floated past on golden wings mocking and out of reach? And on the other hand, a deliberate crime, a temporary theft; and then, either life itself, full-blooded, working, joyous life, with success and fame to light the road, or—he paused a moment—death. There was no other alternative.

He got up and crossed the room to the battered deal dressing-table. Pulling open the drawer, he took out a small revolver, almost the sole legacy of his father, a cashiered major in the Army. Well, why not? His life was his own, there was no one dependent on him, no one who would ever regret his death, except, perhaps, the fellows at the office. If he chose to cast it into the scale against destiny, who had the right to question him?

He put back the revolver and paced slowly up and down the room. It would be so easy in his position at the bank. He had a perfectly free access to the cash, and was himself responsible for what he used at the counter. It was checked sometimes by the manager, but never on Friday or Saturday; on those days Blackmore went away early to play golf. He could take five hundred pounds on Thursday night, and, if he won, replace the same notes on Saturday morning. If he lost—well, there would be a headline for the papers, and another vacancy for a head clerk in the bank. It was stealing, of course; sophistry had no place in his mental equipment. Up till now he had never done a dishonourable action. The terrible example of his father, and an instinctive dislike to anything underhand, had kept him straight. For a moment he hesitated—then suddenly some words he had read in a book a few evenings before flashed into his mind. He repeated them with a sort of desperate mockery:

He either fears his fate too much,
    Or his deserts are small,
Who dare not put it to the touch,
    To win or lose it all.

Yes—Yes. That was best. "To win or lose it all." He whispered the last line over again; and knew that he had decided.

* * * * * * *

"You have made a mistake," said Steele, "and you will know it in another twenty minutes. Did you put much on?"

Barton smiled. "Not enough to get excited about."

"I stuck a quid on 'Kildonen,' so I shall be a bit sick if he goes down."

"Yes, that's a good deal to lose," said Barton calmly.

"I have to go around now to see Johnstone and Driver for Blackmore. I shall be back in about half an hour, and I will bring a paper in with me. You will be sorry you did not take my tip when you see the result—'Kildonen' first, 'Mountain Lady' nowhere. Lucky for you you didn't plunge."

"It would have been rather foolish, wouldn't it?"

"You look a bit off colour to-day, somehow," said Steele, tying up some deeds which he was taking to the lawyers.

"I didn't sleep much last night. I expect I want my holiday."

"Like the rest of us. Two weeks in the year are no good to any one. Well, so long! Prepare for a disappointment when you see the paper."

"I am quite ready," answered Barton.

His fellow clerk laughed, and picking up his parcel of deeds, passed out of the office. As the swing-door closed behind him, Barton suddenly realized that they might never meet again. Steele had been one of his few friends—a pleasant good-natured fellow, who had always treated him with a faint touch of deference; an unconscious tribute that some young men are always ready to pay to a stronger or keener intelligence than their own. Steele would be sorry if things went wrong. He was, perhaps, the only one who would think of him in future with anything but contempt.

Three o'clock! Another twenty minutes. They were in the paddock now. Relf would be examining his saddle. He could picture the scene; the crush round the favourite. No doubt "Mountain Lady"——

Some customers came in, and he got up to attend to them mechanically, adding up the amounts, or paying out what was required, without the least hesitation or inaccuracy. He was scarcely conscious of what he was doing; it was like a strange dream. He felt as if he was looking on at the tragedy of his own life. How long had it been? Twenty-two hours! He laughed to himself. What fool invented the clock? Last night alone had been a lifetime. There had been no time to-day. It had drifted past in a dull trance. After hours of torture he had waked to a state of mental exhaustion, in which thought at last was numbed and powerless.

Five minutes more! A tradesman was talking to him about the weather, as he examined the endorsements on the cheques, and counted silver and gold into little separate piles. "Yes, it was beautiful: a regular summer day. It made one want to be outside, instead of being stuffed up in an office. However, business was business, of course." A quarter past. God—how the moments dragged! They were lining up, perhaps. They might even have started. In a quarter of an hour he might be dead. How those chattering fools would start if they knew!

There was a sudden lull in the work. Four or five customers went out almost together, and for a little while the office was empty. A strange apathy settled down like a mist over Barton's mind. It was all over now. The paper would be out in a few minutes.

He went on writing, slowly, correctly. He felt as though he were being stifled. Suddenly, in the distance, he heard the shrill cry of a paper boy: "Winner, paiper; Cup winner!" Something seemed to snap in his brain. A deadly calm succeeded the formless emotions that had been racking him. He laid down his pen, and getting up from his seat, walked to the cashier's desk.

"I'm going out for a moment, Mr. Furze," he said.

The cashier nodded. "Don't be longer than you can help. We shall be busy again in a minute."

"I shall be back almost immediately," answered Barton.

By the time he reached the street, the boy was quite close, a ragged little urchin, darting from one side of the road to the other in pursuit of customers. Barton held up his hand, and the boy rushed across to him.

"Paiper, sir; winner, sir!" He held one out and Barton took it, giving him a shilling.

"You can keep the change," he said.

With a quick "Thankee, sir," the lad ran on. Barton stepped back to the wall and opened the paper. In the blank space reserved for stop-press news was the single word "Kildonen." It was in blue ink, stamped in by a local agent. Barton stared at it for a moment, and then laughed. So he had lost. He felt no particular emotion—just a vague disappointment. Remorse and fear left him untouched. He had played with fate and been beaten; all that now remained was to pay the price.

He crossed the road to a public-house opposite, and, going into the saloon bar, ordered a glass of brandy. A man who was sitting in the corner saw the newspaper in his hand.

"What's won the Cup, guv'nor?" he asked.

"'Kildonen,'" answered Barton. "You can have the paper if you like. I have done with it." He found himself speaking in a perfectly level, disinterested voice.

Mixing a little water with the brandy, he drank it off, and walked back to the office. As he again crossed the road, a man raced past him on a motor-bicycle with a huge pile of newspapers strapped behind him. The Fleet Street edition was evidently down now; he could hear the boy's shouting higher and higher up the road. He hesitated a moment; it would be rather interesting to see if "Mountain Lady" had been in the first three. Then he shrugged his shoulders, and walked on. After all, what did it matter?

There were no customers in the office. He passed through the side door into the small anteroom where the staff kept their coats and hats. From here a staircase led down into the strong-room. He knew that, if he shut the iron door below, the sound of the shot could scarcely reach the bank. It was more pleasant to die without being interrupted.

He walked downstairs quickly, and turned on the electric light that illuminated the big safe. Taking out his revolver, he tested the trigger before putting in a couple of cartridges.

Now everything was ready. There was no time to lose, for Furze would probably be sending down for him in a minute. He felt sorry for the clerk who would come to fetch him. He caught hold of the big, brass handle, and was just swinging the heavy metal slab into its place, when he heard the door open and someone running down the stairs. For an instant he faltered, and then, slipping the revolver into his pocket, pushed back the door.

"Barton! Barton!" It was Steele's voice. He rushed into the safe with a paper in his hand. "Isn't it too rotten?" he exclaimed, flinging it down on the slab.

"I should have thought you would have been pleased," answered Barton wearily.

"Oh, I am glad for your sake, of course; but, under the circumstances, it's a bit rough on me, damn it all."

"What do you mean?" Barton cried hoarsely.

"Haven't you heard?" shouted Steele. "Kildonen's' disqualified—look!" He thrust the paper into Barton's hands.

With a savage effort the latter choked back a deadly faintness that almost overpowered him, and through the dim mist that swam before his eyes, read the lines that Steele pointed out:

      MANCHESTER CUP

      KILDONEN 4.1            1
      Mountain Lady 20.1      2
      Rose Crown 7.4             3
      Sir Charles 11.2             0
          Also ran, Barcup and Flagstaff.

"Kildonen" was disqualified for bumping, and the race awarded to "Mountain Lady."

The paper slipped from Barton's fingers. If Steele had not caught him he would have fallen himself.

"What's the matter, old chap? Are you ill? I never thought you would take it like this. You hadn't much on, had you? Let me get you a glass of water." The astonished clerk helped Barton to a stone slab, where he sat for a minute with his eyes shut.

Then he opened them and smiled. "I am all right now, Steele. I—I have been feeling a bit ill this afternoon."

The Ordeal by Water

When I pushed open the door of the restaurant, the first person I saw was Tommy. He was lunching with another man, and, as usual, conversing with such vigorous cheerfulness that he failed to notice my arrival. I walked up to him, and laid my hand on his shoulder.

"Hallo, Tommy," I said. "I thought you were in Timbuctoo."

He spun round.

"Well, I'm jiggered!" he cried. Then, with that artless directness that so endears him to strangers, he added impetuously, "What the dickens are you doing in this God-forsaken place?"

An eminent Bristolian at the next table snorted audibly.

"I was just going to ask you the same question," I replied, "only in rather more tactful language. I'm here on business."

"Sit down," said Tommy, clutching me by the wrist and dragging me into a vacant chair. "This is Mortimer—Jimmy Mortimer, of the Gold Coast. We're motoring, and you've got to join us."

"May I have some lunch first?" I asked, bowing politely to Mr. Mortimer.

"Why, of course," said Tommy cheerfully. "You're feeding with us. Here, waiter, waiter, get this gentleman some lunch."

"Look here," he added, as the waiter slid off to fulfil the order, "do you know anything about salmon fishing?"

"In theory," I said, "I know everything. Why?"

"Because as soon as you've finished we're going to take you up to Hereford, for a couple of days on the best salmon river in England."

I turned to Mortimer.

"Much laager," I said, "has made him mad."

Tommy chuckled.

"I'm not joking. I've got two miles of the finest private fishing on the Wye from Saturday to Monday, and a bungalow chucked in."

Mortimer nodded his head.

"That's right," he added.

I gazed at Tommy in mingled amazement and admiration.

"My dear Tommy," I said, "no one appreciates your powers of acquisition more than I do, but how the devil did you manage it?"

Tommy lit a cigar with some contentment.

"It was a reward for a kind action," he explained. "The place belongs to an old boy called Quinn—Sir Cuthbert Quinn. I ran across him last week in a country lane near Bedford, trying to find out what was the matter with his car. He'd been trying for some time. Well, I hopped out and put things straight—it was only a choked jet, but he was so grateful that he insisted on my coming back to lunch with him. While we were lunching, we got on the subject of salmon fishing. I happened to say how keen I was, and then he trotted out the fact that he owned an island with a bungalow on it and two miles of the best fishing above Symonds Yat. 'Would you like a week-end there?' he said. 'I should,' said I, 'very much.' Well, to cut a long yarn short, he handed me over the key, and told me I could come up for a couple of days and bring another rod with me. I couldn't think of any one else at the time, so I wired for Mortimer."

"Thanks," said Mortimer drily.

"Well, as you've got Mortimer," I observed, "you can't take me."

"Oh, that's all right," put in Mortimer; "I don't fish. I've only come for the charm of Tommy's conversation."

"I haven't got a rod," I objected.

"That doesn't matter," said Tommy, "neither have I. But there are two up there which old Quinn said we could use."

"How are we going to manage about grub?" I asked.

Mortimer laughed.

"The car's stuffed with it," he said, "especially drink."

That decided me.

"I'll come," I said, "but you'll have to call for my traps. I'm staying up in Clifton, so it's all on the way."

"Good!" cried Tommy. "You buck up and finish your lunch, while we go round to the garage and get the car."

The car, when it arrived, proved to be a 12-14 De Dion which had apparently been a stranger to the sunny land of France for many strenuous years. In colour it had once been green.

"Not much to look at," said Tommy apologetically; "but she goes—eh, Mortimer?"

"She would if I had her," admitted Mortimer, "for what she'd fetch."

Knowing, however, of Tommy's amazing genius for coaxing motion out of discarded scrap-iron, I got in behind without a qualm. With a fanfare on the horn, we slid out of the garage, and then, clanking like an ironmonger's shop in an earthquake, pounded bravely up Park Street at a surprising velocity.

It only took me about five minutes to cast my week-end trappings into a Gladstone bag and square accounts with the worthy lady at whose house I had been staying. Then off we thundered again through the peaceful respectabilities of Clifton and Redland, out on to the far-flung road that wanders northwards up the Severn Valley.

If the Zeitgeist had any particular purpose when it tossed Tommy's atoms together, it must have been the production of a super-chauffeur. Amazingly erratic as he is in other things, his driving and handling of a car more nearly approaches perfection than any human effort I know. In other hands the hired wreckage that bore our fortunes would, I feel sure, have collapsed hopelessly long before we reached Gloucester. But Tommy, who, according to Mortimer, had pored lovingly over it with a spanner for several hours that morning, lifted it triumphantly, if complainingly, through all demands. At half-past six, dusty and incredibly vociferous, it clattered into Ross, and, practically speaking, our journey was accomplished.

We had a cup of tea at the hotel there, and then in the cool of the evening clanked on cheerfully through the thickly wooded lanes that led to Sir Cuthbert Quinn's bungalow. The distance must have been about six miles, and it was while we were covering this that we got on to the question of how great a strain a salmon rod would stand. Tommy had been telling us some yarn about how a man he knew had jerked a fifteen-pound salmon clean out of the water, and I had ventured to cast a little mild doubt on the accuracy of the tale. Tommy had been quite indignant.

"Why, of course it's possible," he had declared. "A salmon rod will stand almost any strain. The best swimmer in the world would be quite helpless if you hooked him by a belt round his middle."

"Get out, Tommy," I said derisively; "he'd break you every time."

"I bet you he wouldn't," said Tommy. "Look here, you get a good swimmer—any one you like, I don't care who he is—and I'll bet you five pounds I'll land him in under half an hour."

"Done with you," I replied. "And what's more, I'll bet you another fiver he breaks your line inside of five minutes."

Mortimer chuckled.

"There's money in this," he observed. "We'd better advertise it in the Sportsman and charge for seats. We might make quite a decent thing out of it."

As he spoke we rattled round the corner of a deeply embedded lane, and, of a sudden, the Wye lay before us, gleaming like silver in its cool green valley.

"That's the bungalow," said Tommy, pointing to a low, red-tiled building which one could just catch a glimpse of through the trees. "The boathouse must be just below us."

We trundled delicately down the hill, for the road rather resembled the traditional highway to Zion, and pulled up outside a solid-looking building on the banks of the river.

Tommy stopped the engine, and we all clambered out. The island lay exactly opposite, its neatly painted landing-stage facing us across the water.

"Why, there's the boat!" exclaimed Mortimer suddenly. "Over there by the steps—look!"

He pointed towards the island, and following his gesture, we all saw a small dinghy apparently tied up to one of the willows that fringed the bank.

We stared at it in amazement.

"Well, that's funny," I said. "How did it get there? There must be someone on the island."

"Oh, no," said Tommy. "Why, I had a card from old stick-in-the-mud only yesterday saying that it was all clear. There's probably another boat of some kind in the shed."

He took the key out of his pocket, and thrusting it into the lock, flung open the door. The place was as empty as a barn.