He lifted one bowl with an effort and examined the chasing.
"Marvelous!" he whispered.
Alf, whose former shyness and apprehension had been dispelled like a cloud of smoke in a strong wind by his kindly reception, made his first remark.
"They're for you, sir," he said. "A present."
"Nonsense, my dear fellow, I couldn't possibly...."
But Alf was dismissing his two servitors. They understood his gestures, and went. Sir Edward determined to leave the question of the bowls until later. The collector's greed was in his heart, and perhaps if the fellow was as rich as he seemed he'd never miss them.... Ruminating, he followed Alf to the tea-table, where Isobel was already filling a cup.
Mr. Wentworth, now quite at his ease, showed a strong desire to sit by his hostess; but she was still too worn out in mind to cope with another visitor. She introduced him, therefore, to one or two of the officers about her and delivered him over to them.
Alf was already—owing to the mystery which enveloped him—a local celebrity; and now he found himself a popular hero. He was borne off round the grounds by a small crowd of half-admiring, half-amused young officers, who extracted a great deal of enjoyment from him while contriving not to hurt his feelings. He found himself on terms with them such as he could never have dreamed possible in the days when he had been a mere private with aconviction that the less he had to do with the commissioned ranks the better for all classes. He was encouraged to call captains by their simple surnames and to venture on familiarities with subalterns; and he played a game of extraordinarily bad billiards which (more to his own astonishment than his opponents') he won.
When at last he returned to retrieve his top-hat and to take his leave, he was jubilant. In the past he had been diffident; but gradually his confidence in himself and his new powers had grown, until now he was triumphantly sure of himself. Nothing, he felt, could stand in the way of such a man as he had shown himself to be. Immense riches, in themselves, need lead a man nowhere; but immense riches combined with social success—who could resist them? He had been accepted by these people as an equal and a friend; from that to being accepted by Isobel as a lover seemed to his excited brain only a step.
In the veranda stood Isobel herself, talking to her father and another man. With a slight throb of misgiving Alf recognized Lieutenant Allen. In his usual diffident frame of mind, he would have avoided an unnecessary meeting with his old platoon-commander; but now, intoxicated as he was by success, he greeted a spice of risk. He approached the group. Both Isobel and Allen looked excited—Alf had never seen his lady look so desirable, or felt her so approachable.
"'Ow do, Allen?" he said with such an air ofjaunty familiarity that the others stared at him in sheer surprise. "Pleased to see you again, I'm sure. Well, I ought to be toddlin' off. Never 'ad such a time since I don't know when. But you'll be sure an' bring Miss Is—Miss FitzPeter round an' 'ave a bit o' something to eat an' a look round the 'ouse, won't you, sir? 'Ow about to-morrow?"
Sir Edward, still overflowing with loving kindness towards his neighbor, and having decided that, come what might, he must keep the bowls, beamed on him.
"Don't go, Mr. Wentworth," he said.
His daughter looked up sharply and shook her head; Mr. Wentworth was all very well in his way, but she wanted him on her hands no longer, now that Denis had returned. But her father did not notice her little pantomime and blundered genially on.
"Those boys have monopolized you so that I've seen nothing of you. Stay to dinner, won't you, and afterward—if you'd be so kind—I'll get your expert opinion on a small article I'm writing on Eastern dress and architecture."
In his joy at the first part of this invitation, Alf hardly listened to the second; but his sense of propriety intervened for a moment.
"But I didn't ought ... these clothes...." he began.
"Oh, never mind. You'll do splendidly as you are, eh, Iso?"
Thus appealed to, Isobel had only one course open to her.
"Do stay, Mr. Wentworth," she said perfunctorily.
"Delighted, I'm sure," said Alf gallantly. His heart glowed. Here was a wonderful opportunity. If only he could get rid of Allen, and make some real impression on Isobel ... how could he get rid of Allen ...?
This question occupied him as he went with them to explore a tangled wilderness in a part of the garden he had not yet seen. If only he could tip the wink to Isobel, it ought to be easy for them to slip away from the intrusive Allen ... could he?
He suddenly found, with some perturbation, that he was alone. He had been busy with his thoughts and had not noticed which way the others had gone. He hunted for a time—and fell into the arms of a group of exuberant youths who insisted on bearing him off to learn clock-golf.
* * * * * * *
Meanwhile, Denis and Isobel, panting from their sudden and inexcusable dash through the tangled undergrowth, had reached a sequestered retreat known as the Dutch garden. Allen drew from his pocket a small parcel.
"I thought we'd never get rid of the fellow," he said. "I've got it, darling—a little beauty. Let's see if it fits."
As dinner-time approached, Alf found himself left alone while his companions slipped upstairs to change their flannels for uniform. He felt rather lonely and out of place. He wandered into the great hall and sat down in a large leather-covered armchair. But Barnby the butler was fussing about here, and his disapproving and contemptuous eye fixed on Alf's clothes was more than the sensitive Mr. Wentworth could bear. He therefore looked about for a more secluded spot, which he found in a little alcove behind some palms. Here he could see without being seen, so that he could give himself up undisturbed to his reflections. He hoped that Isobel would be the first to appear—then he could seize the opportunity and see her, for the first time, alone.
But the first person to appear was Denis Allen. He came downstairs quickly and looked about with an eager air. His face clouded with disappointment, and he picked up an evening paper and sat down in an armchair. He had hardly settled, however, when a Vision appeared at the top of the stair. He threw down his paper and sprang up.
Alf, in his alcove, stared with all his eyes. He had never seen Isobel in evening dress before, andshe quite literally took his breath away. She had put on her favorite frock for Denis' benefit, and was looking radiant.
"Lumme!" said Alf softly to himself.
A new feeling began to stir inside him. Up till now he had accepted his quest of Isobel as one of the strange things which his mad, uncomfortable new life had brought to him. He had wanted her because both Bill and Eustace had made him feel that his duty to his new position demanded it. Now, to his own surprise, he found himself wanting her for himself. Social differences had suddenly ceased to count. The triumphant self-confidence of the afternoon was still with him. He was, for the time, drunk with the heady wine of success, and all things seemed possible to him.
She paused only for an instant at the stairhead, then she came down into the hall. Alf gazed and gazed, drinking in the grace of her movements with eyes that seemed only now for the first time to have learnt to see.
Alf stood up, trembling, and was on the point of leaving his retreat; but as Isobel reached the hall Allen took a couple of steps forward and after a quick glance round to make sure that they were unobserved, he caught Isobel in his arms and began to kiss her passionately. Alf had some hazy idea of rescuing beauty in distress; but he caught sight of Isobel's transfigured face and hastily fell back again into his alcove. Beauty had no desire to be rescued. Alf, with his house of cards in fragments about him,saw Isobel slip free of Allen's enthusiastic embrace.
"You mustn't, darling," she said softly—yet not so softly that Alf could not hear. "Somebody will be coming. Let's go into the garden."
She picked up a wrap from a chair and led the way out. They passed within a yard or two of Alf's hiding-place, and he noticed the gleam of the engagement ring on her finger. What a fool he had been!
If the blow had fallen on the previous day, Alf would have borne it with stoicism, perhaps with a certain relief. He would have debited the Button with one more dismal if not unexpected failure, and there the matter would have ended. But that he should have his hopes dashed to the ground to-night, just when the prize seemed most worth winning and almost in his grasp, was a cruel blow.
He sat for some minutes completely dazed and helpless, but at last he was recalled to earth by the sound of his own name. Two of his new friends of the afternoon had met in the hall.
"Where's Wentworth?" asked the first. "He isn't anywhere about, is he? I say, have you seen Philips? He was in the village this afternoon and he says that some sportsman or other has got the wind up and reported that Wentworth & Co. are German spies. Scotland Yard is sending some men down. Isn't it priceless?"
The other man laughed.
"Good Lord! Wentworth, of all people! I say, hadn't we better find the little man and tellhim? He's somewhere about, I expect. Let's try the smoking-room."
They went off.
Alf sat petrified with horror. Scotland Yard! The very name sent cold shivers up and down his innocent spine. He must get away quickly and tell Bill. But what excuse could he give for his unceremonious departure?
But now Fate, having dealt poor Alf two stunning blows, relented and gave him the excuse he needed. Sir Edward and Barnby came into the hall, both looking very agitated.
"Mr. Wentworth was 'ere not long since, sir," said the butler. "I'll go and...."
"'Ere I am, Sir Edward," said Alf, coming out of his retirement. "Did you want me?"
"Mr. Wentworth," said Sir Edward gravely; "I am sorry to say that your presence is urgently needed at the Manor. The village policeman has called to report that there has been trouble between your men and the villagers. Perhaps you know that your establishment is for some reason regarded with deep suspicion in the village? Anyhow, it comes to this: that the two men who came here with you have disappeared into the Manor taking with them a youth called Myers as a kind of hostage. He was throwing stones and I have no doubt he deserved all he got. But the excitement in the village is intense, because your men—doubtless in self-defense—drew their scimitars and marched Master Bobby off under an armed guard. The village is convinced that he's cooked and eaten by now."
Alf got up; he was deeply grateful to Bobby Myers for giving him this chance of getting away.
"I'll go now," he said.
"I'msosorry!"
"Don't mention it."
Alf found his topper and joined P.C. Jobling outside. The two men set off through the darkness in silence—Alf because he was plunged in black gloom. Jobling because he was too terrified to speak.
They reached the Manor gates at last and the entire population of the village seemed to be gathered at the spot in a state of mind bordering on frenzy.
A raw-boned female fury, brandishing a meat-chopper, recognizable as Mrs. Myers, mother of the languishing captive, caught sight of Alf first.
"'Ere 'e is!" she shrieked. "'Ere's the villain as 'as murdered my Bobby."
"G-arh!" snarled the crowd.
"Spy!" said somebody.
"Kidnaper!" growled somebody else.
"'Ound!" quavered a trembling old voice belonging to a rheumatic and usually bedridden octogenarian on the outskirts of the crowd.
Alf paused irresolutely. He did not need to be told that he was in quite an ugly corner. Mrs. Myers came forward, brandishing the meat-ax. Alf gave back in alarm.
"Where's my Bobby?" she demanded.
"I dunno, mum," said Alf ingratiatingly. "But if you'll just let me pass I'll go an' get 'im for you."
"Ho, yes! A nice game! No, my man, you'll stay 'ere till I get my Bobby back, or I'll know the reason why."
P.C. Arthur Jobling came forward in his most official manner.
"Move along there, please," he said. "Make way there; let the gentleman pass."
There was a scornful laugh.
"You just get out o' the light, Artie Jobling," said the voice of Mrs. Rudd. "We don't want to 'urtyou, on'y this murderin' villain 'ere."
Alf felt a crawling sensation in his spine. He was far more frightened than he had ever been in the trenches. His knees shook and his teeth showed signs of chattering. On every side of him were menacing eyes and the crowd seemed to be all round him. Suddenly the whole group, as if impelled by a common will, took one step towards him. Alf lost the last small remnants of his nerve. He put down his head; selecting a part of the crowd as remote as possible from Mrs. Myers and the meat-ax, he charged blindly with whirling fists. There was a frantic moment's mêlée while the crowd, taken by surprise, rallied round the affected sector. But they were too late. Alf had burst through them and was fleeing up the drive. His cheek was bleeding from a scratch, his knuckles were torn by rude impact with somebody's teeth and his topper had finally and irrevocably disappeared. With shrieks of rage the crowd turned and pursued him, led by Mrs. Myers. Only the octogenarian remained. He found anoutlet for his indignation by reducing Alf's hat to tattered fragments with his stick. P.C. Jobling, having decided that this was a matter altogether beyond his power, was pacing majestically towards the village.
At the corner of the drive the pursuers stopped, daunted. Alf rushed on with labored breath and heaving chest to the shelter of the house. A few stones rattled on the drive far short of him—he was thankful that the assembly consisted mainly of women.
He dashed into the hall. The first thing that met his eye was that bone of contention, Master Bobby Myers, under the guard of six enormous negroes with drawn scimitars. Bobby was quite undisturbed. His chief emotions seemed to be pride at the amount of attention he was receiving and the wonderful adventure he was living through, and a complacent anticipation of the important position he would hold as soon as he escaped from his present predicament and returned to the village.
Alf flung himself on to a cushioned divan to get back his breath. He was conscious of the presence of Mustapha, who bowed low and appeared to wish to speak. But Alf also wished to speak.
"'Ere, Farr," he said sharply, "what the 'ell 'ave you been up to this time, eh? Nice sort o' fool you make of yerself as soon as I turn me back."
"Lord," returned Mustapha, "verily the people of the land did attack thy servants as they were returning in peace from the palace of the father ofthy maiden, setting upon them with missiles and imprecations. Then did thy servants seize upon this boy, for he was foremost in the throwing of the missiles. If it be thy will, command thy servants that he be forthwith slain."
"Slain? D'you meankill'im? Lumme! No wonder the old lady was a bit upset. That's what you done for me, Farr—get me chased with a chopper. Let the boy go at once."
"But, Lord...."
"Let 'im go at once; d'you 'ear me?"
"Lord, I hear and obey."
Mustapha spoke a few words to the negroes, who sheathed their weapons and stood away from the captive.
Alf jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
"'Op it!" he said, "and think yerself lucky to get off so easy."
Bobby rose to his feet as majestically as his size permitted and proceeded to the door. He managed to convey the impression that he attributed his release entirely to his own intimidatory demeanor; but not until he had made sure that his retreat was not cut off did he speak. At the door he stopped, placed his right thumb on the point of his nose and spread out his fingers, at the same time displaying a large expanse of insolent tongue.
"Yah!" he said—replacing his tongue for the purpose. "You just wait. You won't 'arf get it in the neck for this. I'll summons yer, see if I don't. Food-'og!"
He was gone. On the drive his parent received him, with incredulous joy, as one returned from the tomb, greeting him—to his great embarrassment—with an unaccustomed kiss. Then, having cuffed him on the head to restore her self-respect, she led him down to the village, where Master Bobby found himself occupying a position in the public eye calculated to swell his head beyond all hope of recovery.
But Bobby's threats and Bobby's taunts were alike immaterial to Alf. His mind was occupied with greater things. He went upstairs to Bill and found that sybarite placidly sleeping, while Lucy sat by his head rhythmically waving a fan. Mr. Montmorency's mouth was open and his snores reverberated through the room. Alf eyed him with disgust, and then woke him by the simple but efficacious method of kicking him in the ribs. He sat up and expostulated.
"What the 'ell ... oh, it's you, is it?... Well, what d'yer mean by it? An' what's wrong now?"
Alf glared at him morosely.
"A lot you care," he returned. "'Ow much 'elp 'ave you given me over this job, you blinkin' soaker?"
"If you wants a clip over the ear-'ole," began Bill, with heat, "you on'y got to go on askin' for it. As for 'elp, I'm waitin' till I'm needed. What's up now? 'Ave they slung you out o' the 'ouse, or what?Ican't 'elp yer table manners, you know."
"She's engaged."
"'Oo is?"
"'Er—Miss FitzPeter."
"'Oo to?"
"Mr. Allen."
Bill pursed up his lips into a silent whistle.
"Lumme," he said, "I never thought of that."
"No. You just lie 'ere swigging beer an' cuddlin' yer blinkin' Lucy. I'm fair ashamed to see yer. An' now the 'ole thing's over an' done with, an' you 'aven't lifted a finger."
"There 'asn't been any need yet," said Bill coolly. "Thisis where I come in."
"But it's too late now."
"That's allyouknow. Why don't you read the book properly? Aladdin, 'e got into a much worse mess than what you 'ave, because 'is girl got married to the wrong man, instead o' just engaged."
"What did 'e do then?"
"'E told Eustace to make it 'ot for the other man; an' Eustace made it so 'ot that the other man went an' got divorced from the girl, an' Aladdin married 'er. It's easier for you, much. Just tell Eustace to fly off with Lootentant Allen, an' there you are, all plain sailin' again. 'Ow did you get on with the old bird?"
"Splendid. 'E was all over me," said Alf listlessly.
"There y'are, then. What did I tell yer? Splash a bit more money about an' 'e's yours, an' so's the girl. Come to yer Uncle Bill when yer in trouble, me lad, an' 'e'll see you through."
"But what about the girl? 'Ow if she loves 'im? 'Sides, 'e's a nob."
"Let 'er," said Bill cynically. "She'll soon forget 'im when you begins 'andin' out the oof. Women is all alike. I don't believe in 'em meself. Lucy's the sort for me. I'm thinkin' of marryin' Lucy, I am. She's just what I want in a wife—she can't answer me back, an' the more beer I drinks the better she seems to like it. 'Ere, what are you doin'?"
Alf was unbuttoning his waistcoat and shirt. "Gettin' at the Button," he said. "Goin' to call up Eustace."
"Good lad," said Bill. "'Arf a tick, though—you know 'ow the Button upsets Lucy. 'Ere, Lucy—skedaddle—bunk!"
Lucy obediently bunked.
"Now," said Bill. "Let's call the ole blighter up and settle the 'ash of the feller as 'as engaged 'imself to yer girl, nob or no nob."
Alf rubbed the talisman.
"What wouldst thou have?" said the deep tones of Eustace.
Alf took a deep breath and began to speak rapidly and nervously.
"Eustace," he said, "I want to say that I'm sure you always done yer best for me, an' I'm grateful for it. If you'avemade some bloomers, why, we all make bloomers sometimes. An' it's me as 'ave made the biggest bloomer o' the lot."
"'Ere endeth the second lesson," said Billderisively. "Get on to business, you chump."
"But," resumed Alf doggedly, "I been a fool and I ain't goin' on with it. What I want you to do is to take away everything in this 'ouse as you've put in it, an' to put back everything as you found 'ere, just as it was when you took it over."
"I say ..." began Bill loudly.
"Master," said Eustace gravely, "I hear and obey."
He vanished.
Instantly the lights in the room went out. At the same moment the hum of life which had filled the building stopped dead, and an eerie stillness fell on the house. The curtains which had veiled the windows were suddenly no longer there, and the moon shining in filled the room with a half-light in which Alf could see Bill's figure silhouetted.
The dead silence was broken by a flood of picturesque and disreputable imprecations from Bill.
"What d'you think yer doin'?" he asked, when he could articulate once more. "What's the idea? Think you're funny, I s'pose. 'Ere, some one's pinched me clothes...."
He groped his way to the door and opened it. Alf, suddenly conscious that he, too, was wearing nothing but the string to which the Button was suspended, and beginning to fear that Eustace had been once more disconcertingly "'olesale," followed Bill outside. The moonbeams, shining through the glass of the roof into the great hall, faintly lighted up an utterly changed house. At one end of the hall theyrevealed the great tapestry whose disappearance had caused the vicar such acute pain. But there was no sign of life—the place seemed suddenly haunted and ghostly. The two men retreated hastily into the room they had just left and tripped over two piles of khaki clothing, which lay on the floor, neatly folded; by them lay two sets of kit and two rifles. Otherwise the room was utterly empty.
Alf, without a word, began to dress himself. Bill felt in his tunic pocket and produced a match. By its light he surveyed the strange room, trying to take in the meaning of this last act of Alf's.
"But look 'ere," he said stupidly at last; "Lucy's gone."
"Yes—an' a good riddance too. It's you an' your blinkin' Lucy what's done me in. Get yer clothes on now an' we'll go, too."
"Go? Us?"
Events were moving too quickly for Bill's obfuscated intellect.
"O' course. We still got a fortnight o' our leave left, thank 'Evings. I'm goin' 'ome."
"But...."
"Shut it, Bill Grant. We got to go, I tell yer. Why they'd 'ave 'arf killed me in the village just now if they'd 'a caught me. I've 'ad enough of it. Besides, they're puttin' Scotland Yard on to us."
"But it'll be allright, you fat-'ed. Eustace...."
"Don't you talk about Eustace to me."
Alf, dressing in feverish haste, tied his puttee-tapes and put on his tunic.
"I ain't goin' to 'ave nothing more to do with Eustace, nor no one else is neither. It ain't right. If you 'ave dealin's with the Devil you're sure to get it in the neck some'ow."
Bill, who had encountered before the streak of pig-headed obstinacy which underlay Alf's easy-going nature, realized that no useful purpose could be served by argument. For a moment the prospect of losing the life of ease that had been his for the past week tempted him to try to force Alf by physical violence to countermand his order. Then a subtler plan occurred to him. Alf had proved himself utterly unworthy to possess the Button; he, Bill, would wait his chance to get it from him by fair means or foul and then.... His brain reeled at the possibilities that opened before him. First, of course, he would send Eustace over to Germany, kidnap the Kaiser and possibly a selection of his higher command, and would thus bring the war to a speedy and triumphant conclusion; after that, he would start out upon a career of dazzling glory. Meanwhile he must humor Alf.
"Oh, well," he said, in a resigned tone. "P'raps you're right. What you goin' to do now?"
"First thing is to get clear o' this blinkin' place," said Alf. "If we get nabbed in this 'ere village, I tell yer straight we'll be damn well murdered."
Bill gave an uneasy laugh. "They'll never know us in these things," he said.
He remembered that P.C. Jobling at any rate knew him by sight, and he felt nervous. "Look'ere," he suggested, "why not use the Button—just once more—to get us 'ome?"
Alf's jaw set.
"Never no more," he answered. "You've seen the last of Eustace, you 'ave."
Bill said no more, but inwardly he registered a passionate denial of Alf's statement.
* * * * * * *
Half an hour later two khaki-clad figures climbed cautiously over a remote part of the wall which surrounded the Denmore estate, and made their way with some apprehension along the road towards the village. When they passed the front gates of the Manor, they were relieved to find them no longer an object of excitement. The crowd had dispersed. But in the village street were gesticulating groups discussing not only the events of the day but also, it seemed, plans of campaign for the morrow.
"We'll teach 'em—the murderin' villains."
"Seems they think they're in Roosher, butwe'llshow 'em."
It was plain that the incident of Bobby Myers was not by any means considered closed. The two figures in the familiar khaki passed through the groups almost unnoticed; one man, pausing in a lurid description of what he could do to the villain, Wentworth, on the morrow, nodded a friendly good-night to Alf, but otherwise the topic of the night was too absorbing to leave time for dallying with casual Tommies. By the time they reached the railway-station even Bill felt thankful that he was not goingto be at home to visitors at the Manor on the morrow. As for Alf, everything that he saw and heard crystallized his determination never on any account to have further recourse to the Button. Isobel was almost forgotten—she seemed as far away as a person seen in a dream. The dream had been vivid enough while it lasted, but already its edges were becoming blurred and its colors were fading.
By good fortune they were in easy time to catch the last train to London; but only as they reached the ticket-office did it strike either warrior that Eustace, when clearing away the rest of his gifts, had taken also their store of wealth.
"'Ave you any oof, Bill?" asked Alf anxiously.
"I dunno."
They sought in their pockets, each with a vision of a twenty-mile tramp to London before his eyes. Then they sighed with relief; each had still the money with which he had started out upon his leave. Alf pushed a note across the counter.
"This is no good to me," said the female and youthful booking-clerk, in superior tones, hastily retrieving the tickets she was just handing out.
"What's the matter?"
"French money, isn't it?"
"Lumme, so it is! I never thought o' that, Bill. 'Ave you any English?"
Bill looked hastily through his store and shook his head.
"Look 'ere, miss," he said ingratiatingly. "Can't you let us 'ave the tickets, as a special caselike? We're on leave from the front, an' we 'aven't 'ad no time to get our money changed yet. If you don't let us 'ave the tickets we'll 'ave to walk. An' it is good money, even if it is French."
The damsel was softened but doubtful.
"I'll ask father," she said.
"Father" turned out to be the station-master. He listened to their story with manifest incredulity, and fingered the French notes with skepticism, but finally agreed to accept them in payment of the fare. But he fixed a rate of exchange which assured that the railway company—or possibly himself—would gain by the transaction an enormous and unearned increment.
There was nothing for it but to pay up, and any personal comments they might have wished to make were cut short by the arrival of the train. They found an empty compartment and composed themselves joyfully though illegally with their boots on the seats.
Bill brooded darkly for a time on the affair of the station-master, till the bitterness of his thoughts forced utterance.
"If Eustace ..." he began.
But Alf, worn out by his varied emotions, was already asleep.
A week later Private Bill Grant—late Mr. William Montmorency of Denmore Manor—was approaching the parental roof of his friend, Alf Higgins—exWentworth. Bill neither looked nor felt happy. Life during the period since the evacuation of Denmore had been profitless and stale. True, he had plenty of money in his pocket for a man in his position; but his trouble was that his position no longer satisfied him. His home, after the glaring magnificence of Denmore, seemed cramped and tawdry. The public-houses of Hackney, once palaces of delight to be dreamed about from exile in a foreign land, were squalid and stuffy. The liquid they purveyed was—by contrast with the full-bodied brew supplied by Eustace—tasteless and flat. The barmaids compared most unfavorably with his lost Lucy in beauty, in their manner of dressing and in their attitude towards himself. Lucy, for instance, had never advised him to boil his head.
Bill was, in fact, thoroughly miserable; and he saw no prospect whatever of any alleviation of his trouble until his leave was over. He did not see the faintest possibility of obtaining the Button from Alf, until they were back in France—and he was living in anticipation of that glorious moment.
He had no very clear idea why he was going to seeAlf now. Just at present, he and his mate were in that state of acute mutual irritation known as "being on one another's nerves." Alf was still obstinately determined never again to make use of the Button, and disliked any reference to the subject; and Bill, impelled by some malignant demon, seemed unable to keep veiled allusions to it out of his conversation.
To Alf their return to Hackney brought nothing but relief. His brief spurt of passion for Isobel had been swallowed up in his joy at finding himself once more free to live his own life, no longer the helpless puppet of Fate in a station and a way of existence to which he had felt himself a shrinking stranger. Isobel herself was now more than ever the figure of a dream. In fact, all the events of that strange time seemed to him hazy and unreal, until their reality was brought home to him in an unexpected and startling manner.
Alf had imagined that the Denmore Manor chapter of his life was definitely and forever closed when he reached Waterloo on the night of his flight. He had at once started to grow his mustache again, and already a bristly growth was doing its best to eliminate the last traces of Alfred Wentworth, Esquire. But Alfred Wentworth had been too important a personage in his short career for the world to accept so lightly his disappearance. The papers had taken up the affair, and the fuss they made of it both surprised and alarmed Alf. To make matters worse, Mr. Higgins senior—who might be described politically as being a half-bakedsemi-socialist—had regarded the whole affair as being in some obscure way a device of Capital to defraud Labor, and had talked of nothing else for some days, until Alf's irritation came to a head in regrettable outbursts of temper.
Bill entered the house on this occasion to find Alf's father reading aloud from an evening paper and making fierce marginal comments thereon for the benefit of his wife and son. The former—a stout lady of placid appearance—was lulling herself peacefully to sleep in a rocking-chair, soothed by her husband's voice as much as by the motion. Alf was sitting hunched up in a rickety basket-chair, sucking at an empty pipe.
"'Ullo!" said Alf, not very graciously.
"'Ullo!" returned Bill, as sourly as he.
Mr. Higgins senior, however, was pleased at the prospect of obtaining an addition to his audience and welcomed his visitor more effusively.
"'Ullo, Grant," he said. "Come and sit down. Wodjer think o' this?" He smote the paper in his hand. "The country's goin' to ruin under this 'ere gover'mint. Fair makes yer blood boil."
"What does?" asked Bill politely but without interest. Old Higgins' blood had a habit of boiling on the smallest provocation.
"The 'ole bloomin' business. 'Ere you an Alf 'ere come back on leave to this country, an' what do you find?"
He paused dramatically. His audience gazed at the fireplace with complete apathy—except Mrs.Higgins, who emitted a slight snore and dropped her head upon her ample bosom.
"What do you find, I say?" reiterated her husband.
"Well, what?" Alf asked when the pause had grown too painful to be borne any longer.
"What? Why, 'eaps of things," returned his sire rather feebly. "It's all wrong. The country's full o' spies, for one thing. Full of 'em. 'Ow do we know 'oo's a spy an' 'oo isn't?—tell me that. Look 'ere, at this 'ere Denmore Manor business. We've 'ad the papers full o' that for a week past, an' not a single arrest made. It's my belief that Capital won't let 'em make any arrests, that's what I think. Disgustin', I call it!"
"'Ow d'you know therewasspies at Denmore Manor?" asked Alf, in whom the innocent accusation rankled deeply.
"Didn't it say there was niggers? An' didn't the paper 'ave a picture o' the little boy as they kidnaped—'esaid they was spies, an''eought to know, 'e ought. An' yet them blighters is allowed to escape, an' they must be all over the country now, an' yet nothing's done."
"What's the paper say?" asked Bill calmly.
Mr. Higgins, much pleased, puffed out his chest and read.
"'The mystery of the whereabouts of the late occupants of Denmore Manor continues to arouse a great deal of public interest. No light has yet been thrown either on the reason for its occupationor upon the method whereby these mysterious people have made good their escape. The police have now a strong clew as to the identity of the ringleaders, and they are following this up.' And I 'ope to 'Eaven," concluded the reader piously, "as 'ow it'll come to something. But I'll bet it's a blinkin' washout. The police is no good."
Alf and Bill stared blankly at one another.
"A strong clew ... they are following it up." The words sounded ominous. And yet—whatcouldthe clew be? Mr. Higgins, continuing his scathing denunciation of the police, found that he had lost the attention of his audience. Alf was raising enquiring eyebrows in Bill's direction, while Bill was shaking his head. He had no idea what the "clew"—if such existed—might be. The elder Higgins regarded this pantomime with growing indignation for a moment.
"It don't seem to matter to you muchwhat'appens," he said coldly at last. "IfIwas out at the front, an' came back an' found the country in this kind o' state, I'd ... I'd...." His vocabulary suddenly proved unequal to the strain placed upon it, and he tailed off into silence.
"Idon't believe they was spies at all," said Alf doggedly.
"Not spies?" His father's voice quivered with righteous indignation. "Well, what about this 'ere parson, then?—tell me that."
Alf, who had forgotten Mr. Davies' very existence, remembered suddenly, that in the hurry ofdeparture he had left that unfortunate clergyman and his wife still laboring under the disability so ruthlessly imposed upon them. His conscience smote him.
"Why," he asked uneasily, "what's wrong with 'im? 'As 'e being gettin' into trouble?"
"No, but 'e blinkin' well ought to!"
"What's 'e done?"
"It's what 'e 'asn't done as is the matter. 'E knows something about this 'ere business. 'E went up to the 'ouse. But 'e won't say a word. Won't tell the police nothing. Nobody can't get 'im to speak."
"But 'e ain't in no trouble, is 'e?" persisted Alf.
"Trouble? No. They can't touch'im. If it was you or me, now, it 'ud be a case o' the police."
Alf, much relieved, stifled his conscience. The orator continued his fierce harangue.
"Yer mean to tell me," he demanded, "as 'e couldn't say something if 'e wanted to? 'E's in league with 'em, that's what 'e is. Not spies? Not spies? Why, you're as bad as this 'ere Sassiety lady—FitzPeter they call 'er."
"What's she done?" asked Alf sharply.
"Done? Why, she goes about saying in the paper as she don't believe they was spies. All cammyflage, that is. What are they, if not spies?—tell me that. I believe she's mixed up in it 'erself, too. Why, this 'ere feller Wentworth, 'e went to 'er 'ouse to dinner the very same night 'e 'ad to clear out. That makes you think a bit, eh? An' I'ear she went an' 'ad a talk with 'im in 'is own 'ouse too. It's all Capital an' 'Idden 'And together. These 'ere Sassiety ladies is no good. Wrong 'uns, my boy, that's what they are. If I 'ad me way I'd...."
"If I 'ad my way," said Alf with heat, "I'd 'ave people like you muzzled, I would."
"You ... you ...!"
"'Ow dare you miscall a lady like Miss FitzPeter?"
"Steady, Alf—'old on," said Bill, in an agony lest passion should lead his friend to indiscretion.
"I tell yer," resumed Alf, still at the top of his voice, waking his mother from her comfortable nap, "I tell yer that Miss FitzPeter never 'ad nothing to do with no spies, never in 'er 'ole life she didn't, an' any one 'oo says so is a liar."
"Ho! I'm a liar, am I?" Mr. Higgins leapt to his feet. His wife, according to her invariable custom when her menfolk quarreled, began to weep quietly, but persistently. "Get out o' the 'ouse! I ain't goin' to be called names by no young 'ound like you. Get out of it! An' what d'you know about 'er, anyway?"
"What do I know?" Alf laughed with scorn. "I know a dam' sight more'n...."
"Comeon, Alf!" urged Bill earnestly in his ear, anxious only to get him away before he made some terrible revelation. Alf allowed himself to be led into the street, where Bill gave him a "dressing down."
"You blinkin' fool," he said. "What the 'ell d'you want to go an' do that for? You'll give the 'ole blinkin' show away if you ain't careful. Nice we should look if any one found out it was us at the Manor!"
"Well," returned Alf, still fermenting, "what's 'e want to go talking like that for? Spies, indeed! What's 'e know about it?"
"That ain't the question," replied Bill seriously. "WhatIwant to know is, what's the police know about it. You 'eard what the paper said about a clew."
"Don't they always say that?"
"Yes, but not so confident as that. If they don't know nothing about it, they say: 'The police 'as a clew,' an' everybody knows they 'aven't got nothing o' the sort. But this says: 'A strong clew, what the police is followin' up.' Did we leave anything be'ind us?"
Rack their brains as they would, they could not remember anything they had left as a clew. The question worried them considerably. Bill made once more his suggestion that Eustace could be employed to set things right, but dropped the idea hastily in face of Alf's reception thereof.
"I expect," he said at last, hopefully, but without real conviction, "as it's all cammyflage, arter all. There ain't no clew, an' they just pitched the tale extra strong so's people won't make remarks."
Each man kept an anxious eye on the papers for the next few days, but nothing more was publishedconcerning the clew; and when the time went on, and the day before they were due to return to the front arrived without any more light being thrown on the Manor mystery, they began to feel more easy.
But that day, as Bill and his mother (a lady as aggressive as Mrs. Higgins was the reverse) were finishing their dinner there came a heavy knocking on the door.
Mrs. Grant peeped out of the window to see who her unexpected visitors might be.
"Two policemen!" she exclaimed in angry alarm. "Is this some o' your doin's, Bill Grant? What you been up to?"
"Nothin'," said Bill as jauntily as he could for the cold chills that were chasing one another up and down his backbone. "Nothin' at all."
"I 'ope not," answered his mother grimly. She had seen his expression at hearing the word "policeman," and she suspected the worst. Whether or not the police succeeded in extracting anything from him, she was confident that he had been doing something wrong. She determined that once the police had been safely got away, Bill would have her to deal with.
"If you've been doin' anythin'," she went on, "it'll be worse for you. I'm a respectable woman, I am. Quick, go an' answer the door before the neighbors see we got the police 'ere."
As Bill went towards the door the knocking was renewed with redoubled violence. Mrs. Grant could see interested faces at the windows of the housesopposite, and her temper became worse than ever. She went into the passage, where Bill had just admitted two large constables.
"Come in 'ere," she said.
They entered.
Under his armpit the larger of the two—a sergeant—bore a book which Bill at once recognized. It was the old lady's copy of theArabian Nights—and the "strong clew" of the newspapers. Bill prepared to lie as he had never lied before.
The smaller policeman—he could not have weighed more than fourteen stone—produced an indelible pencil and an official notebook. He laid the latter on the table and moistened the former preparatory to beginning his clerical labors, receiving thereby a purple stain on the lip.
"Private William Grant?" asked the sergeant.
"That's me."
"5th Middlesex Fusiliers?"
"That's right," said Bill. He was relieved at being able to start by telling the truth. It laid a firm foundation for the lies he would have to construct later on.
"Regimental Number 2312?"
"Correct," said Bill. "What might you want o' me?"
"I just want to ask you a question or two." The scribe at the table gave his pencil another lick, increasing the stain on his lip.
"What about?"
The spokesman gave a doubtful glance at Mrs.Grant, who was still quivering in the background.
"If the lady wouldn't mind ..." he began politely.
"'Op it, mother!" said Bill. "You go an' get on with yer washin'."
"Oh, indeed! I'm not to know what goes on in me own 'ouse, ain't I? Very well then, you can ask yer questions in the street, or the back yard."
"P'raps it don't matter," said the sergeant uneasily. "I only want to ask a question or two about this book."
"Right-o," said Bill. "Carry on!"
Should he deny all knowledge of the book? If he did, could he outface the policemen and convince them? How much did the police know, and how had they managed to connect him with the book at all? He could not answer any of these questions, and his only course was to wait till his adversary should give him a lead. He did not have to wait long.
"This book," said the sergeant, "was sent out to you at the front by Miss So-fire Browne at a recent date."
"It was," admitted Bill. So that was how they had traced him, was it—by the name and address of Miss Browne's brother written on the fly-leaf? And seeing that they knew so much, it was well for him that he had not after all denied his connection with the book.
"Can you tell me under what circumstances you relinquished possession of the volume in question?"
This was the point where truth must begin to be tempered. Bill set his intuitive faculty busily to work.
"Is that Latin for when did I lose it?" he asked, more with the idea of gaining time than of procuring information or even of insulting the policeman.
"None o' that," said the Arm of the Law majestically. "Answer the question. When did you see the book last?"
The owner of the notebook, who had so far merely been ticking off the various items of Bill's description as the correctness of each was established, realized that the heavy part of his task was now just about to begin. He devoted himself to suction of his pencil-point with such assiduity that he began to look as though he had regaled himself heavily with black cherries.
Bill, his mind still working at lightning speed, gazed at the amanuensis in apparent fascination. His object was to invent a method of disposing of the book which while being credible should not admit of corroboration. Supposing he said he had lost it at Folkestone on his way home?... But that might raise the question of the date of his return to England, and he did not want his mother to know that he had been home for some time before coming to her. He might manage to put the police off, but once his mother had got hold of a suspicious fact, there was no balkingher.
"Come on," said the police sergeant impatiently. "What's the matter with you?"
"I was just waitin' till the Town Clerk 'ere was ready," he explained with his native impudence. "When did I last see the book? I don't know as I can remember the exact day."
"Never mind that. 'Ow did you come to lose it?"
The sergeant's patience was wearing thin. Bill, who had now had time to think out his story, took a deep breath.
"Last I seen of it," he said, "I lent it to a chap in the Scottish Rifles what come into our dug-out one night—name o' Conky. 'E come in about twenty-past eleven, 'avin' lost 'is way, an' 'e sez...."
"'Ere," said the constable at the table, speaking for the first time. "Steady!"
"'Ow far 'ave you got with it?" asked Bill kindly.
The scribe, with beads of sweat standing out on his brow, and a protruding tongue whose tip followed the motions of his pencil, was writing madly.
"'Dug-out,'" he quoted. "Name o' ... what did you say?"
"Conky."
"That ain't no good," interposed the sergeant with severity. "Don't waste yer time takin' down muck o' that kind, Collins. What was 'is other name?"
"Smith, I think," said Grant, his fertile brain casting about for further corroborative detail with which to give artistic verisimilitude to his otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative. "I can't be sure, though."
"Well," said the sergeant in a resigned tone, "what did 'e do, any'ow?"
"'E took the book," resumed the romancer. "An' 'e said 'e'd like to read it. So I lent it to 'im, an' 'e promised to let me 'ave it back next time 'e was back restin'—stop me if I go too fast, Mr. Collins—an' as it 'appened I never seed 'im again."
"What 'appened to 'im?"
"I dunno for certain. But I did 'ear a rumor as 'ow 'e got nabbed, poor chap."
"Captured?"
"Yes. The Boche come over when 'is battalion was in the line."
"An' 'ow about the book?"
Bill considered a moment. The general consensus of opinion throughout the country insisted on regarding the Denmore Manor affair as the work of German spies. In Bill's eyes this was an exceedingly satisfactory opinion for the country to hold. He decided to give the country a little assistance.
"The book?" he repeated innocently. "I s'pose the Boche captured that, too."
Both policemen fell into the trap. Their eyes met in a stare full of meaning.
"The Boche!" exclaimed the sergeant. "Then itwasa spy as...." He paused, remembering his orders not to divulge to his victim the object of his questions.
"Look 'ere," said Bill, who was beginning to enjoy himself. "What's this all about, any'ow? Where did you get the book from, an' what's it got to do with the police?"
"This chap Smith, now," resumed the sergeant blandly, ignoring Bill's questions. "What sort of a lookin' feller might 'e be, now?"
Bill pondered.
"Mind you," he said, with the air of an honest man who does not want to mislead his audience, "I can't be sure 'is namewasSmith. Might 'a been Brown—or Thompson. One o' them common names, any'ow. 'E was one o' them middlin' chaps, not exactly dark, you know—an' yet I don't know as I should call 'im fair. 'E 'ad blue eyes, an' 'e said 'e come from Lambeth. P'raps they'll know 'im there."
"We might ask the recruiting office," said the sergeant to the painstaking Collins, now laboriously engaged in taking down Bill's minute description of Mr. "Conky" Smith (or Brown or Thompson) of Lambeth.
"You might," agreed Bill. "But o' course," he went on helpfully, "'e might not 'ave been in Lambeth when 'e joined up. P'raps 'e 'listed in Scotland, seein' 'e was in a Jocks regiment."
The sergeant rose to his feet with a sigh. He had started out with high hopes, but now he felt that he was not very much further forward than before with the Manor Mystery.
"Well," he said. "If that's all you knows, I'll be getting along. Good afternoon, mum. Sorry to 'ave troubled you."
Mrs. Grant gave a grunt, and looked anything but pleasant. She followed her visitors to the doorwith the sourest of faces. But on the doorstep her demeanor changed with startling suddenness. She became positively effusive, making one or two little jokes at which the sergeant, puzzled, but relieved at her change of attitude, roared appreciatively. Finally she insisted on shaking hands with both officers, and as they tramped off down the street she stood at her door, waving her hand at their unconscious backs. Having thus appeased the curiosity and disappointed the hopes of all the dear friends and neighbors who had been waiting in ghoulish joy to find out the nature of the police visit to her house, she returned to her son, who, very pleased with himself, was smiling at his reflection in the mirror.
"An' now," she said briskly, "what's all this about, eh? What's all this talk about books, an' spies, an' Mr. Bloomin' Conky o' Lambeth, eh?"
"You 'eard what I told 'im," said Bill.
"Yes, an' I knows enough about you, Bill Grant, to tell when you're lyin'. I didn't meet yer this week for the first time. Now let's 'ave the truth. What d'you mean by bringin' the police into a respectable 'ouse, eh?"
Bill looked round him in hunted fashion. Then, obeying his lifelong instinct that in dealing with his mother, discretion was the better part of valor, he picked up his cap and backed to the door. He mumbled something about—"Step out an' 'ave a look round"—and was gone.
His mother glared furiously at the door. If only she had thought to lock it when the policemen went!But she wasted no time in useless regrets. When Bill came back to supper she'd get it all out of him. Meanwhile it might be as well to go out and explain to one or two neighbors how her two cousins in the police force had been to see her. She put on her bonnet and went.
Bill, skulking at the corner of the street, waited till she was out of sight. Then, slipping into the house, he collected his kit and his rifle, and went to a Y.M.C.A. at Victoria, and there he spent the night. Mrs. Grant did not see her son again before he departed for the front; she was thus free to invent her own reasons for his visit from the police. But she never connected Bill with the statement which appeared subsequently in the less dignified newspapers.
"The Denmore Manor Mystery still continues to baffle the most acute intellects of the police force. It is, however, certain, from evidence of the most unimpeachable nature, that the whole affair is a plot of German intrigue and the Hidden Hand. When will the Government ...? Etc., etc."
Bill, on the steamer crossing from England to France, read this passage aloud to Alf, to whom he had already recounted the story of "Conky."
"Youarea one, Bill," said Higgins, quite in his ancient vein of fervent admiration.
Bill merely looked self-conscious. He felt that the tribute was no more than his due.
Neither of the two friends could have said with truth that he was sorry to see France once more.
Alf had a feeling that now, at any rate, his disastrous venture into high life and the public eye was really behind him. He could slip back thankfully into his old routine as an unconsidered cog in an enormous machine, and be lost in the friendly obscurity. The Button still hung from its string round his neck. He determined that it should continue to hang there; he was afraid to dispose of it, in case it should fall into the hands of some other man and be used for unimaginable evil. He had an almost fanatical determination that he himself should never again test the Button's supernatural powers; but in addition, he felt that he had a sacred charge to prevent anybody else from doing so. When he had left the Base and was already in the leave train and bound for the line, he realized that his best course would have been to drop the Button into the sea on his way across. But the idea came to him—as ideas generally came to Alf—too late.
Bill's feeling towards France was different. He had no love for the place in itself; but considered as a mere means to his great end, it had its uses. Now that he and Alf were back in the grip of the military life, where no man can avoid his neighbor withoutthat neighbor's connivance—and sometimes not even then—he hoped and believed that he would find an early opportunity of obtaining the Button from its unappreciative owner; and then—good by forever to France and all that it stood for.
No reference to the Button was ever allowed to creep into his conversation now. The simple-minded Alf, if he noticed this at all, thought it meant that Bill had forgotten about it. But Bill had not forgotten. He was merely biding his time.
The battalion was in billets when the two men rejoined it. They reported themselves to C.S.M. French, who directed them to their own platoon.
"'Ullo," said Sergeant Lees, when they appeared before him. "So you're back, are yer? Well, just you be'ave yerselves, see? I got as much on me 'ands as I can blinkin' well stand without 'avin' any trouble from you."'
They found their own section installed in a small barn. Corporal Greenstock, like his superior, greeted them without enthusiasm. They settled down amid the straw.
"Well, and how is Blighty?" asked Private Denham.
"All right. I ain't sorry to be back," replied Bill. There were cries of incredulity from the section.
"Easy enough to talk," Walls remarked.
"Well, it's true."
"It won't stay true long, anyhow."
"Why not?"
"We're off up the line in a few days. Into a lively bit, too."
"Ah!" commented Bill. "I thought the sergeant seemed to 'ave something on 'is mind."
"But that's not all. We got a new officer."
"The devil we 'ave. What's 'e like?"
"Wait an' see. You will, fast enough."
Alf, who had so far had a listening part only, made a remark.
"Cap'en Richards back?" he asked.
"A week ago," said the corporal. "But they've took Donaldson away to be O.C. 'A' Company. 'E's a captain now."
Alf was much relieved at this information. He had a great admiration for Donaldson, but was afraid of that officer's exceedingly sharp eye and his habit of asking awkward questions. Bill also felt that this latest move of the Powers that were, augured well for his scheme.
"'Shun!" yelled Corporal Greenstock suddenly. The section rose to its feet in the straw as Sergeant Lees entered, followed by the platoon commander.
Second-Lieutenant Stockley was a man of about forty years of age, as his grizzled hair testified. He was a big man, with a splendid pair of well-drilled shoulders, and a broad chest which showed up to the best advantage an imposing row of medal-ribbons. Altogether he looked, to the casual glance, far more like a distinguished colonel than a junior subaltern. He was, in fact, an ex-sergeant-major, promoted for gallantry in the field.
His inspection of the section billet was carried out with a thoroughness hitherto unheard of. He directed Corporal Greenstock's attention to a hole in the roof with an air of faint reproof which suggested that a really efficient N.C.O. would have remedied such defects without being told; after which the usually imperturbable corporal, losing his nerve entirely, followed his platoon commander round the billet agitatedly explaining away defects before the officer had time to criticise. Sergeant Lees, who was accustomed with the ordinary subaltern to act as spokesman and master of the ceremonies, hung about anxiously in the offing. Even he was plainly feeling the strain of living up to this super-efficient new officer. Bill began to understand why he had seemed to have "something on his mind."
As Mr. Stockley concluded his examination and turned to go, his eye rested on Alf and Bill.
"Two men here I don't know, sergeant," he said. "Names, please."
"Higgins and Grant, sir."
"Where from?"
"Leave, sir."
"Umph! Corporal!!"
"Sir!"
Corporal Greenstock's attitude of attention might well have been photographed and used as a model for recruits.
"See those two get cleaned up before I see them again. May do for Blighty, won't do for me."
Bill looked after the officer's retreating form.
"Lumme!" he commented. "'Ot stuff, eh?"
"You bet," said the corporal. "An' arter what 'e said you'd better be 'ot stuff too, my lad, by to-morrow, or 'e'll be biting you in the neck—an' me, too."
"'As 'e been in the line yet?" asked Alf.
"Not with us, 'e 'asn't. But 'e was a fair terror with 'is old battalion, they say. 'E's killed nigh on fifty Fritzies 'imself, first an' last, an' on'y for a bit o' bad luck 'e'd 'ave 'ad the V.C. Some soldier!"
"I expect," put in a gloomy voice, "as 'ow 'e's one o' these 'ere interferin' fellers as can't let well alone. When 'e gets into the trenches 'e'll never be satisfied with a quiet life, you'll see."
Corporal Greenstock grinned.
"Quiet life?" he said. "Not much! This blinkin' platoon'll spend all its time crawlin' about No-Man's Land on its stummick, when it ain't doin' bombing raids into Fritz's trenches. You'll see."
Bill had an instinctive feeling that the corporal was right. Mr. Stockley had the air of a man who did not do things by halves; and the ribbons of the Military Medal, the D.C.M. and the Military Cross (a distinction only rarely conferred on sergeant-majors) testified to his fighting qualities. As to his thoroughness on parade, it was not long before both Higgins and Grant became painfully aware of that. Their long spell of leave had left them rather out of touch with military life, and they fell very far short of their new commander's minimum standard.
"This life ain't what it was, Alf," Bill confided one day, busy with oil-bottle and pull-through on the working parts of his rifle.
Alf said nothing. His temper was ruffled. He was engaged in polishing to a dazzling brightness a bayonet which he considered was already as clean as any reasonable man could desire; he had a constitutional objection to gilding refined gold and to painting lilies—an objection, however, which was not shared by his officer. He continued to polish in morose silence.
Bill fell into a brown study. The more he saw of Mr. Stockley the more he admired him and the more bitterly he cursed the fate that had thrown them together. Stories of Stockley's dare-devil deeds and hairbreadth escapes were circulating freely about the battalion, and the more Grant heard the less he liked the prospect of venturing into the line under the leadership of such a firebrand. Bill was by nature a peaceable person, who considered his duty to his country was done so long as he helped to man the front line from time to time, and also occasionally, in a decent, well-ordered manner, went over the top. He regarded the energetic dare-devilry by which Stockley interpreted the word "warfare" as he would have regarded big-game hunting—an amusement to be restricted entirely to such lunatics as liked it. The thought of spending his time crawling about No-Man's Land filled him with forebodings, and gave him a new and powerful reason for attempting to obtain the Button from Alf at the earliest possible moment.
He began to watch the unconscious Alf and to shadow him after the manner of the lynx-eyed detective of fiction; but somehow time slipped away without giving him the opportunity he sought. One thing was certain; he must make quite sure of the success of any scheme before he put it into execution. One false step—one bungled attempt would ruin all his hopes; Bill was confident that if once Alf's suspicions were roused, he would get rid of the talisman altogether—possibly, for instance, by burying it. The problem was in consequence not an easy one, and Bill was no nearer its solution when, on the third day following their return, the brigade received its marching order for the forward area.
Time was growing short; but fate played into Bill's hands, granting him at any rate a brief respite. The 5th Battalion was to be in Reserve to begin with.
"Huh!" said Alf. "Workin' parties for us. 'Ow very nice!"
Sergeant Lees, who happened to be present, caught this remark, and turned to the speaker in well-simulated surprise.