"My dear Uncle Edward,—Why haven't you written to me this term? I have spent the five shillings you gave me when I came back; it was awfully ripping of you to give it to me, but I have spent it now. Are you coming down to see me this term? If you aren't you might write to me; there is a post-office here where you can change postal orders."What I really meant to say was, can you play golf with me on Monday at Mudbury Hill? I am your new and favourite nephew, and it is quite time we met. Be at the club-house at 2.30, if you can. I don't quite know how we shall recognize each other, but the well-dressed man in the nut-brown suit will probably be me. My features are plain but good, except where I fell against the bath-taps yesterday. If you have fallen against anything which would give me a clue to your face you might let me know. Also you might let me know if you are a professor at golf; if you are, I will read some more books on the subject between now and Monday. Just at the moment my game is putrid."Your niece and my wife sends her love. Good-bye.I was top of my class in Latin last week. I must now stop, as it is my bath-night."I am,"Your loving"Nephew."
"My dear Uncle Edward,—Why haven't you written to me this term? I have spent the five shillings you gave me when I came back; it was awfully ripping of you to give it to me, but I have spent it now. Are you coming down to see me this term? If you aren't you might write to me; there is a post-office here where you can change postal orders.
"What I really meant to say was, can you play golf with me on Monday at Mudbury Hill? I am your new and favourite nephew, and it is quite time we met. Be at the club-house at 2.30, if you can. I don't quite know how we shall recognize each other, but the well-dressed man in the nut-brown suit will probably be me. My features are plain but good, except where I fell against the bath-taps yesterday. If you have fallen against anything which would give me a clue to your face you might let me know. Also you might let me know if you are a professor at golf; if you are, I will read some more books on the subject between now and Monday. Just at the moment my game is putrid.
"Your niece and my wife sends her love. Good-bye.I was top of my class in Latin last week. I must now stop, as it is my bath-night.
"I am,"Your loving"Nephew."
"I am,"Your loving
"Nephew."
The next day I had a letter from my uncle:—
"My dear Nephew,—I was so glad to get your nice little letter and to hear that you were working hard. Let me know when it is your bath-night again; these things always interest me. I shall be delighted to play golf with you on Monday. You will have no difficulty in recognizing me. I should describe myself roughly as something like Apollo and something like Little Tich, if you know what I mean. It depends how you come up to me. I am an excellent golfer and never take more than two putts in a bunker."Till 2.30 then. I enclose a postal-order for sixpence, to see you through the rest of the term."Your favourite uncle,"Edward."
"My dear Nephew,—I was so glad to get your nice little letter and to hear that you were working hard. Let me know when it is your bath-night again; these things always interest me. I shall be delighted to play golf with you on Monday. You will have no difficulty in recognizing me. I should describe myself roughly as something like Apollo and something like Little Tich, if you know what I mean. It depends how you come up to me. I am an excellent golfer and never take more than two putts in a bunker.
"Till 2.30 then. I enclose a postal-order for sixpence, to see you through the rest of the term.
"Your favourite uncle,"Edward."
"Your favourite uncle,
"Edward."
I showed it to Celia.
"Perhaps you could describe him more minutely," I said. "I hate wandering about vaguely and asking everybody I see if he's my uncle. It seems so odd."
"You're sure to meet all right," said Celia confidently. "He's—well, he's nice-looking and—and clean-shaven—and, oh,you'llrecognize him."
At 2.30 on Monday I arrived at the club-house and waited for my uncle. Various people appeared, but none seemed in want of a nephew. When 2.45 came there was still no available uncle. True, there was one unattached man reading in a corner of the smoke-room, but he had a moustache—the sort of heavy moustache one associates with a major.
At three o'clock I became desperate. After all, Celia had not seen Edward for some time. Perhaps he had grown a moustache lately; perhaps he had grown one specially for to-day. At any rate there would be no harm in asking this major man if he was my uncle. Even if he wasn't he might give me a game of golf.
"Excuse me," I said politely, "but are you by any chance my Uncle Edward?"
"Yourwhat?"
"I was almost certain you weren't, but I thought I'd just ask. I'm sorry."
"Not at all. Naturally one wants to find one's uncle. Have you—er—lost him long?"
"Years," I said sadly. "Er—I wonder if you would care to adopt me—I mean, give me a game this afternoon. My man hasn't turned up."
"By all means. I'm not very great."
"Neither am I. Shall we start now? Good."
I was sorry to miss Edward, but I wasn't going to miss a game of golf on such a lovely day. My spirits rose. Not even the fact that there were no caddies left and I had to carry my own clubs could depress me.
The Major drove. I am not going to describe the whole game; though my cleek shot at the fifth hole, from a hanging lie to within two feet of the—— However, I mustn't go into that now. But it surprised the Major a good deal. And when at the next hole I laid my brassie absolutely dead, he—— But I can tell you about that some other time. It is sufficient to say now that, when we reached the seventeenth tee, I was one up.
We both played the seventeenth well. He was a foot from the hole in four. I played my third from the edge of the green, and was ridiculously short, giving myself a twenty-foot putt for the hole. Leaving my clubs Iwent forward with the putter, and by the absurdest luck pushed the ball in.
"Good," said the Major. "Your game."
I went back for my clubs. When I turned round the Major was walking carelessly off to the next tee, leaving the flag lying on the green and my ball still in the tin.
"Slacker," I said to myself, and walked up to the hole.
And then I had a terrible shock. I saw in the tin, not my ball, but a moustache!
"Am I going mad?" I said. "I could have sworn that I drove off with a 'Colonel,' and yet I seem to have holed out with a Major's moustache!" I picked it up and hurried after him.
"Major," I said, "excuse me, you've dropped your moustache. It fell off at the critical stage of the match; the shock of losing was too much for you; the strain of——"
He turned his clean-shaven face round and grinned at me.
"On second thoughts," he said, "Iamyour long-lost uncle."
Peter Rileywas one of those lucky people who take naturally to games. Actually he got his blue for cricket, rugger, and boxing, but his perfect eye and wrist made him a beautiful player of any game with a ball. Also he rode and shot well, and knew all about the inside of a car. But, although he was always enthusiastic about anything he was doing, he was not really keen on games. He preferred wandering about the country looking for birds' nests or discovering the haunts of rare butterflies; he liked managing a small boat single-handed in a stiff breeze; he would have enjoyed being upset and having to swim a long way to shore. Most of all, perhaps, he loved to lie on the top of the cliffs and think of the wonderful things that he would do for England when he was a Cabinet Minister. For politics was to be his profession, and he had just taken a first in History by way of preparation for it.
There were a lot of silly people who envied Peter's mother. They thought, poor dears, that she must be very, very proud of him, for they regarded Peter as the ideal of the modern young Englishman. "If only my boy grows up to be like Peter Riley!" they used to say to themselves; and then add quickly, "But of course he'll be much nicer." In their ignorance they didn't see that it was the Peters of England who were making our country the laughing-stock of the world.
If you had been in Berlin in 1916, you would have seen Peter; for he had been persuaded, much againsthis will, to uphold the honour of Great Britain in the middle-weights at the Olympic Games. He got a position in the papers as "P. Riley, disqualified"—the result, he could only suppose, of his folly in allowing his opponent to butt him in the stomach. He was both annoyed and amused about it; offered to fight his vanquisher any time in England; and privately thanked Heaven that he could now get back to London in time for his favourite sister's wedding.
But he didn't. The English trainer, who had been sent, at the public expense, to America for a year, to study the proper methods, got hold of him.
"I've been watching you, young man," he said. "You'll have to give yourself up to me now. You're the coming champion."
"I'm sorry," said Peter politely, "but I shan't be fighting again."
"Fighting!" said the trainer scornfully. "Don't you worry; I'll take good care that you don't fight any more. The eventyou'regoing to win is 'Pushing the Chisel.' I've been watching you, and you've got the most perfect neck and calf-muscles for it I've ever seen. No more fighting for you, my boy; nor cricket, nor anything else. I'm not going to let you spoil those muscles."
"I don't think I've ever pushed the Chisel," said Peter. "Besides, it's over, isn't it?"
"Over? Of course it's over, and that confounded American won. 'Poor old England,' as all the papers said."
"Then it's too late to begin to practise," said Peter thankfully.
"Well, it's too late for the 1920 games. But we can do a lot in eight years, and I think I can get you fit for the 1924 games at Pekin."
Peter stared at him in amazement.
"My good man," he said at last, "in 1924 Ishall be in London; and I hope in the House of Commons."
"And what about the honour of your country? Do you want to read the jeers in the American papers when we lose 'Pushing the Chisel' in 1924?"
"I don't care a curse what the American papers say," said Peter angrily.
"Then you're very different from other Englishmen," said the trainer sternly.
Of course, Peter was persuaded; he couldn't let England be the laughing-stock of the world. So for eight years he lived under the eye of the trainer, rising at five and retiring to bed at seven-thirty. This prevented him from taking much part in the ordinary social activities of the evening; and even his luncheon and garden-party invitations had to be declined in some such words as "Mr. Peter Riley regrets that he is unable to accept Lady Vavasour's kind invitation for Monday the 13th, as he will be hopping round the garden on one leg then." His career, too, had to be abandoned; for it was plain that, even if he had the leisure to get into Parliament, the early hours he kept would not allow him to take part in any important divisions.
But there were compensations. As he watched his calves swell; as he looked in the glass and noticed each morning that his head was a little more on one side—sure sign of the expert Chisel-pusher; as, still surer sign, his hands became more knuckly and his mouth remained more permanently open, he knew that his devotion to duty would not be without its reward. He saw already his country triumphing, and heard the chorus of congratulation in the newspapers that England was still a nation of sportsmen....
In 1924 Pekin was crowded. There were, of course, the ordinary million inhabitants; and, in addition,people had thronged from all parts to see the great Chisel-pusher of whom so much had been heard. That they did not come in vain, we in London knew one July morning as we opened our papers.
"Pushing the Chisel(Free Style)."1. P. Riley (Great Britain), 5-3/4 in. (World's Record). 2. H. Biffpoffer (America), 5-1/2 in. A. Wafer (America) was disqualified for going outside the wood."
"Pushing the Chisel(Free Style).
"1. P. Riley (Great Britain), 5-3/4 in. (World's Record). 2. H. Biffpoffer (America), 5-1/2 in. A. Wafer (America) was disqualified for going outside the wood."
And so England was herself again. There was only one discordant note in her triumph. Mr. P. A. Vaile pointed out in all the papers that Peter Riley, in the usual pig-headed English way, had been employing entirely the wrong grip. Mr. Vaile's book,How to Push the Chisel, illustrated with 50 full plates of Mr. Vaile in knickerbockers pushing the Chisel, explained the correct method.
"It'smy birthday to-morrow," said Mrs. Jeremy as she turned the pages of her engagement book.
"Bless us, so it is," said Jeremy. "You're thirty-nine or twenty-seven or something. I must go and examine the wine-cellar. I believe there's one bottle left in the Apollinaris bin. It's the only stuff in the house that fizzes."
"Jeremy! I'm only twenty-six."
"You don't look it, darling; I mean you do look it, dear. What I mean—well, never mind that. Let's talk about birthday presents. Think of something absolutely tremendous for me to give you."
"A rope of pearls."
"I didn't mean that sort of tremendousness," said Jeremy quickly. "Anyone could give you a rope of pearls; it's simply a question of overdrawing enough from the bank. I meant something difficult that would really prove my love for you—like Lloyd George's ear or the Kaiser's cigar-holder. Something where I could kill somebody for you first. I am in a very devoted mood this morning."
"Are you really?" smiled Mrs. Jeremy. "Because——"
"I am. So is Baby, unfortunately. She will probably want to give you something horribly expensive. Between ourselves, dear, I shall be glad when Baby is old enough to buy her own presents for her mamma. Last Christmas her idea of a complete edition of Meredith and a pair of silver-backed brushes nearly ruined me."
"You won't be ruined this time, Jeremy. I don't want you to give me anything; I want you to show that devotion of yours bydoingsomething for me."
"Anything," said Jeremy grandly. "Shall I swim the Channel? I was practising my new trudgeon stroke in the bath this morning." He got up from his chair and prepared to give an exhibition of it.
"No, nothing like that." Mrs. Jeremy hesitated, looked anxiously at him, and then went boldly at it. "I want you to go in for that physical culture that everyone's talking about."
"Who's everyone? Cook hasn't said a word to me on the subject; neither has Baby; neither has——"
"Mrs. Hodgkin was talking to me about it yesterday. She was saying how thin you were looking."
"The scandal that goes on in these villages," sighed Jeremy. "And the Vicar's wife too. Dear, all this is weeks and weeks old; I suppose it has only just reached the Vicarage. Do let us be up-to-date. Physical culture has been quitedémodésince last Thursday."
"Well,Inever saw anything in the paper"——
"Knowing what wives are, I hid it from you. Let us now, my dear wife, talk of something else."
"Jeremy! Not for my birthday present?" said his wife in a reproachful voice. "The Vicar does them every morning," she added casually.
"Poor beggar! But it's what Vicars are for." Jeremy chuckled to himself. "I should love to see him," he said. "I suppose it's private, though. Perhaps if I said 'Press'——"
"Youarethin, you know."
"My dear, the proper way to get fat is not to take violent exercise, but to lie in a hammock all day and drink milk. Besides, do you want a fat husband? Does Baby want a fat father? You wouldn't like, at your next garden party, to have everybody asking you in a whisper, 'Who is the enormously stoutgentleman?' If Nature made me thin—or, to be more accurate, slender and of a pleasing litheness—let us believe that she knew best."
"It isn't only thinness; these exercises keep you young and well and active in mind."
"Like the Vicar?"
"He's only just begun," said his wife hastily.
"Let's wait a bit and watch him," suggested Jeremy. "If his sermons really get better, then I'll think about it seriously. I make you a present of his baldness; I shan't ask for any improvement there."
Mrs. Jeremy went over to her husband and patted the top of his head.
"'In a very devoted mood this morning,'" she quoted.
Jeremy looked unhappy.
"What pains me most about this," he said, "is the revelation of your shortcomings as a wife. You ought to think me the picture of manly beauty. Baby does. She thinks that, next to the postman, I am one of the——"
"So you are, dear."
"Well, why not leave it? Really, I can't waste my time fattening refined gold and stoutening the lily. I am a busy man. I walk up and down the pergola, I keep a dog, I paint little water-colours, I am treasurer of the cricket club; my life is full of activities."
"This only takes a quarter of an hour before your bath, Jeremy."
"I am shaving then; I should cut myself and get all the soap in my eyes. It would be most dangerous. When you were a widow, and Baby and the pony were orphans, you and Mrs. Hodgkin would be sorry. But it would be too late. The Vicar, tearing himself away from Position 5 to conduct the funeral service——"
"Jeremy,don't!"
"Ah, woman, now I move you. You are beginningto see what you were in danger of doing. Death I laugh at; but a fat death—the death of a stout man who has swallowed the shaving-brush through taking too deep a breath before beginning Exercise 3, that is more than I can bear."
"Jeremy!"
"When I said I wanted to kill someone for you, I didn't think you would suggest myself, least of all that you wanted me fattened up like a Christmas turkey first. To go down to posterity as the large-bodied gentleman who inhaled the badger's hair; to be billed in the London press in the words, 'Curious Fatal Accident to Adipose Treasurer'—to do this simply by way of celebrating your twenty-sixth birthday, when we actually have a bottle of Apollinaris left in the Apollinaris bin—darling, you cannot have been thinking——"
His wife patted his head again gently. "Oh, Jeremy, you hopeless person," she sighed. "Give me a new sunshade. I want one badly."
"No," said Jeremy, "Baby shall give you that. For myself I am still feeling that I should like to kill somebody for you. Lloyd George? No. F. E. Smith? N-no...." He rubbed his head thoughtfully. "Who invented those exercises?" he asked suddenly.
"A German, I think."
"Then," said Jeremy, buttoning up his coat, "I shall go and killhim."
Thereis no question before the country of more importance than that of National Health. In my own small way I have made something of a study of it, and when a Royal Commission begins its enquiries, I shall put before it the evidence which I have accumulated. I shall lay particular stress upon the health of Thomson.
"You'll beat me to-day," he said, as he swung his club stiffly on the first tee; "I shan't be able to hit a ball."
"You should have some lessons," I suggested.
Thomson gave a snort of indignation.
"It's notthat," he said. "But I've been very seedy lately, and——"
"That's all right; I shan't mind. I haven't played a thoroughly well man for a month, now."
"You know, I think my liver——"
I held up my hand.
"Not before my caddie, please," I said severely; "he is quite a child."
Thomson said no more for the moment, but hit his ball hard and straight along the ground.
"It's perfectly absurd," he said with a shrug; "I shan't be able to give you a game at all. Well, if you don't mind playing a sick man——"
"Not if you don't mind being one," I replied, and drove a ball which also went along the ground, but not so far as my opponent's. "There! I'm about the only man in England who can do that when he's quite well."
The ball was sitting up nicely for my second shot, and I managed to put it on the green. Thomson's, fifty yards farther on, was reclining in the worst part of a bunker which he had forgotten about.
"Well, really," he said, "there's an example of luck for you.Yourball——"
"I didn't do it on purpose," I pleaded. "Don't be angry with me."
He made two attempts to get out, and then picked his ball up. We walked in silence to the second tee.
"This time," I said, "I shall hit the sphere properly," and with a terrific swing I stroked it gently into a gorse bush. I looked at the thing in disgust and then felt my pulse. Apparently I was still quite well. Thomson, forgetting about his liver, drove a beauty. We met on the green.
"Five," I said.
"Only five?" asked Thomson suspiciously.
"Six," I said, holing a very long putt.
Thomson's health had a relapse. He took four short putts and was down in seven.
"It's really rather absurd," he said, in a conversational way, as we went to the next tee, "that putting should be so ridiculously important. Take that hole, for instance. I get on the green in a perfect three; you fluff your drive completely and get on in—what was it?"
"Five," I said again.
"Er—five. And yet you win the hole. Itisrather absurd, isn't it?"
"I've often thought so," I admitted readily. "That is to say, when I've taken four putts. I'm two up."
On the third tee Thomson's health became positively alarming. He missed the ball altogether.
"It's ridiculous to try to play," he said, with a forced laugh. "I can't see the ball at all."
"It's still there," I assured him.
He struck at it again and it hurried off into a ditch.
"Look here," he said, "wouldn't you rather play the pro.? This is not much of a match for you."
I considered. Of course, a game with the pro. would be much pleasanter than a game with Thomson, but ought I to leave him in his present serious condition of health? His illness was approaching its critical stage, and it was my duty to pull him through if I could.
"No, no," I said. "Let's go on. The fresh air will do you good."
"Perhaps it will," he said hopefully. "I'm sorry I'm like this, but I've had a cold hanging about for some days, and that on the top of my liver——"
"Quite so," I said.
The climax was reached, at the next hole, when, with several strokes in hand, he topped his approach shot into a bunker. For my sake he tried to look as though he hadmeantto run it up along the ground, having forgotten about the intervening hazard. It was a brave effort to hide from me the real state of his health, but he soon saw that it was hopeless. He sighed and pressed his hand to his eyes. Then he held his fingers a foot away from him, and looked at them as if he were trying to count them correctly. His state was pitiable, and I felt that at any cost I must save him.
I did. The corner was turned at the fifth, where I took four putts.
"You aren't going to winallthe holes," he said grudgingly, as he ran down his putt.
Convalescence set in at the sixth, when I got into an impossible place and picked up.
"Oh, well, I shall give you a game yet," he said. "Two down."
The need for further bulletins ceased at the seventh hole, which he played really well and won easily.
"A-ha, you won't beat me bymuch," he said, "in spite of my liver."
"By the way, howisthe liver?" I asked.
"Your fresh-air cure is doing it good. Of course, it may come on again, but——" He drove a screamer. "I think I shall be all right," he announced.
"All square," he said cheerily at the ninth. "I fancy I'm going to beat you now. Not bad, you know, considering you were four up. Practically speaking, I gave you a start of four holes."
I decided that it was time to make an effort again, seeing that Thomson's health was now thoroughly re-established. Of the next seven holes I managed to win three and halve two. It is only fair to say, though (as Thomson did several times), that I had an extraordinary amount of good luck, and that he was dogged by ill-fortune throughout. But this, after all, is as nothing so long as one's health is above suspicion. The great thing was that Thomson's liver suffered no relapse; even though, at the seventeenth tee, he was one down and two to play.
And it was on the seventeenth tee that I had to think seriously how I wanted the match to end. Thomson at lunch when he has won is a very different man from Thomson at lunch when he has lost. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I was in rather a happy position. If I won, I won—which was jolly; if I lost, Thomson won—and we should have a pleasant lunch.
However, as it happened, the match was halved.
"Yes, I was afraid so," said Thomson; "I let you get too long a start. It's absurd to suppose that I can give you four holes up and beat you. It practically amounts to giving you four bisques. Four bisques is about six strokes—I'm not really six strokes better than you."
"What about lunch?" I suggested.
"Good; and you can have your revenge afterwards." He led the way into the pavilion. "Now Iwonder," he said, "what I can safely eat. I want to be able to give yousomesort of a game this afternoon."
Well, if there is ever a Royal Commission upon the national physique I shall insist on giving evidence. For it seems to me that golf, far from improving the health of the country, is actually undermining it. Thomson, at any rate, since he has taken to the game, has never been quite fit.
"Doyou tango?" asked Miss Hopkins, as soon as we were comfortably seated. I know her name was Hopkins, because I had her down on my programme as Popkins, which seemed too good to be true; and, in order to give her a chance of reconsidering it, I had asked her if she was one of the Popkinses of Hampshire. It had then turned out that she was really one of the Hopkinses of Maida Vale.
"No," I said, "I don't." She was only the fifth person who had asked me, but then she was only my fifth partner.
"Oh, you ought to. You must be up-to-date, you know."
"I'm always a bit late with these things," I explained. "The waltz came to England in 1812, but I didn't really master it till 1904."
"I'm afraid if you wait as long as that before you master the tango it will be out."
"That's what I thought. By the time I learnt the tango, the bingo would be in. My idea was to learn the bingo in advance, so as to be ready for it. Think how you'll all envy me in 1917. Think how Society will flock to my Bingo Quick Lunches. I shall be the only man in London who bingoes properly. Of course, by 1918 you'll all be at it."
"Then we must have one together in 1918," smiled Miss Hopkins.
"In 1918," I pointed out coldly, "I shall be learning the pongo."
My next partner had no name that I could discover, but a fund of conversation.
"Do you tango?" she asked me as soon as we were comfortably seated.
"No," I said, "I don't. But," I added, "I once learned the minuet."
"Oh, they're not very much alike, are they?"
"Not a bit. However, luckily that doesn't matter, because I've forgotten all the steps now."
She seemed a little puzzled and decided to change the subject.
"Are you going to learn the tango?" she asked.
"I don't think so. It took me four months to learn the minuet."
"But they're quite different, aren't they?"
"Quite," I agreed.
As she seemed to have exhausted herself for the moment, it was obviously my business to say something. There was only one thing to say.
"Doyoutango?" I asked.
"No," she said, "I don't."
"Are you going to learn?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Ah!" I said; and five minutes later we parted for ever.
The next dance really was a tango, and I saw to my horror that I had a name down for it. With some difficulty I found the owner of it, and prepared to explain to her that unfortunately I couldn't dance the tango, but that for profound conversation about it I was undoubtedly the man. Luckily she explained first.
"I'm afraid I can't do this," she apologised. "I'm so sorry."
"Not at all," I said magnanimously. "We'll sit it out."
We found a comfortable seat.
"Do you tango?" she asked.
I was tired of saying "No."
"Yes," I said.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like to find somebody else to do it with?"
"Quite, thanks. The fact is I do it rather differently from the way they're doing it here to-night. You see, I actually learnt it in the Argentine."
She was very much interested to hear this.
"Really? Are you out there much? I've got an uncle living there now. I wonder if——"
"When I say I learnt it in the Argentine," I explained, "I mean that I was actually taught it in St. John's Wood, but that my dancing mistress came from——"
"In St. John's Wood?" she said eagerly. "But how funny! My sister is learning there. I wonder if——"
She was a very difficult person to talk to. Her relations seemed to spread themselves all over the place.
"Perhaps that is hardly doing justice to the situation," I explained again. "It would be more accurate to put it like this. When I decided—by the way, does your family frequent Paris? No? Good. Well, when I decided to learn the tango, the fact that my friends the Hopkinses of St. John's Wood, or rather Maida Vale, had already learnt it in Paris naturally led me to—— I say, what about an ice? It's getting awfully hot in here."
"Oh, I don't think——"
"I'll go and get them," I said hastily; and I went and took a long time getting them, and, as it turned out that she didn't want hers after all, a longer time eating them. When I was ready for conversation again the next dance was beginning. With a bow I relinquished her to another.
"Come along," said a bright voice behind me; "this is ours."
"Hallo, Norah, is that you? Come on."
We hurried in, danced in silence, and then found ourselves a comfortable seat. For a moment neither of us spoke....
"Have you learnt the tango yet?" asked Norah.
"Fourteen," I said aloud.
"Help! Does that mean that I'm the fourteenth person who has asked you?"
"The night is yet young, Norah. You are only the eighth. But I was betting that you'd ask me before I counted twenty. You lost, and you owe me a pair of ivory-backed hair-brushes and a cigar-cutter."
"Bother! Anyhow, I'm not going to be stopped talking about the tango if I want to. Did you know I was learning? I can do the scissors."
"Good. We'll do the new Fleet Street movement together, the scissors-and-paste. You go into the ball-room and do the scissors, and I'll—er—stick here and do the paste."
"Can't you really do any of it at all, and aren't you going to learn?"
"I can't do any of it at all, Norah. I am not going to learn, Norah."
"It isn't so very difficult, you know. I'd teach you myself for tuppence."
"Will you stop talking about it for threepence?" I asked, and I took out three coppers.
"No."
I sighed and put them back again.
It was the last dance of the evening. My hostess, finding me lonely, had dragged me up to somebody, and I and whatever her name was were in the supper-room drinking our farewell soup. So far we had said nothingto each other. I waited anxiously for her to begin. Suddenly she began.
"Have you thought about Christmas presents yet?" she asked.
I nearly swooned. With difficulty I remained in an upright position. She was the first person who had not begun by asking me if I danced the tango!
"Excuse me," I said. "I'm afraid I didn't—would you tell me your name again?"
I felt that it ought to be celebrated in some way. I had some notion of writing a sonnet to her.
"Hopkins," she said; "I knew you'd forgotten me."
"Of course I haven't," I said, suddenly remembering her. The sonnet would never be written now. "We had a dance together before."
"Yes," she said. "Let me see," she added, "I did ask you if you danced the tango, didn't I?"
Mr. Trevor Pilkington, of the well-known firm of Trevor Pilkington, fixed his horn spectacles carefully upon his nose, took a pinch of snuff, sneezed twice, gave his papers a preliminary rustle, looked slowly round the crowded room, and began to read the will. Through forty years of will-reading his method of procedure had always been the same. But Jack Summers, who was sharing an ottoman with two of the outdoor servants, thought that Mr. Pilkington's mannerisms were designed specially to annoy him, and he could scarcely control his impatience.
Yet no one ever had less to hope from the reading of a will than Jack. For the first twenty years of his life his parents had brought him up to believe that his cousin Cecil was heir to his Uncle Alfred's enormous fortune, and for the subsequent ten years his cousin Cecil had brought his Uncle Alfred up in the same belief. Indeed, Cecil had even roughed out one or two wills for signature, and had offered to help his uncle—who, however, preferred to do these things by himself—to hold the pen. Jack could not help feeling glad that his cousin was not there to parade his approaching triumph; a nasty cold, caught a week previously in attending his uncle to the Lord Mayor's Show, having kept Cecil in bed.
"To the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, ten shillings and sixpence"—the words came to him in a meaningless drone—"to the Fresh Air Fund, ten shillings and sixpence; to the King EdwardHospital Fund, ten shillings and sixpence"—wasallthe money going in charities?—"to my nephew Cecil Linley, who has taken such care of me"—Mr. Pilkington hesitated—"four shillings and ninepence; to my nephew, John Summers, whom, thank Heaven, I have never seen, five million pounds——"
A long whistle of astonishment came from the ottoman. The solicitor looked up with a frown.
"It's the surprise," apologised Jack. "I hardly expected so much. I thought that that brute—I mean I thought my cousin Cecil had nobbled—that is to say, was getting it all."
"The late Mr. Alfred made three wills," said the lawyer in a moment of expansion. "In the first he left his nephew Cecil a legacy of one shilling and tenpence, in the second he bequeathed him a sum of three shillings and twopence, and in the last he set aside the amount of four shillings and ninepence. The evidence seems to show that your cousin was rapidly rising in his uncle's estimation. You, on the other hand, have always been a legatee to the amount of five million pounds; but in the last will there is a trifling condition attached." He resumed his papers. "To my nephew, John Summers, five million pounds, on condition that, within one year from the date of my death, he marries Mary Huggins, the daughter of my old friend, now deceased, William Huggins."
Jack Summers rose proudly from his end of the ottoman.
"Thanks," he said curtly. "That tears it. It's very kind of the old gentleman, but I prefer to choose a wife for myself." He bowed to the company and strode from the room.
It was a cloudless August day. In the shadow of the great elms that fringed the Sussex lane a girl satmusing; on its side in the grass at her feet a bicycle, its back wheel deflated. She sat on the grassy bank with her hat in her lap, quite content to wait until the first passer-by with a repairing outfit in his pocket should offer to help her.
"Can I be of any assistance?" said a manly voice, suddenly waking her from her reverie.
She turned with a start. The owner of the voice was dressed in a stylish knickerbocker suit; his eyes were blue, his face was tanned, his hair was curly, and he was at least six foot tall. So much she noticed at a glance.
"My bicycle," she said; "punctured."
In a minute he was on his knees beside the machine. A rapid examination convinced him that she had not over-stated the truth, and he whipped from his pocket the repairing outfit without which he never travelled.
"I can do it in a moment," he said. "At least, if you can just help me a little."
As she knelt beside him he could not fail to be aware of her wonderful beauty. The repairs, somehow, took longer than he thought. Their heads were very close together all the time, and indeed on one occasion came violently into contact.
"There," he said at last, getting up and barking his shin against the pedal. "Conf—— That will be all right."
"Thank you," she said tenderly.
He looked at her without disguising his admiration; a tall, straight figure in the sunlight, its right shin rubbing itself vigorously against its left calf.
"It's absurd," he said at last; "I feel as if I've known you for years. And, anyway, I'm certain I've seen you before somewhere."
"Did you ever go toThe Seaside Girl?" she asked eagerly.
"Often."
"Do you remember the Spanish princess who came on at the beginning of the Second Act and said, 'Wow-wow!' to the Mayor?"
"Why, of course! And you had your photograph inThe Sketch,The Tatler,The Bystander, andThe Sporting and Dramaticall in the same week?"
The girl nodded happily. "Yes, I'm Marie Huguenot!" she said.
"And I'm Jack Summers; so now we know each other." He took her hand. "Marie," he said, "ever since I have mended your bicycle—I mean, ever since I have known you, I have loved you. Will you marry me?"
"Jack!" she cooed. "You did say 'Jack,' didn't you?"
"Bless you, Marie. We shall be very poor, dear. Will you mind?"
"Not with you, Jack. At least, not if you mean whatImean by 'very poor.'"
"Two thousand a year."
"Yes, that's about what I meant."
Jack took her in his arms.
"And Mary Huggins can go and marry the Pope," he said, with a smile.
With a look of alarm in her eyes she pushed him suddenly away from her. There was a crash as his foot went through the front wheel of the bicycle.
"Mary Huggins?" she cried.
"Yes, I was left a fortune on condition that I married a person called Mary Huggins. Absurd! As though——"
"How much?"
"Oh, quite a lot if it wasn't for these confounded death duties. Five million pounds. You see——"
"Jack, Jack!" cried the girl. "Don't you understand?Iam Mary Huggins."
He looked at her in amazement.
"You said your name was Marie Huguenot," he said slowly.
"My stage name, dear. Naturally I couldn't—I mean, one must—you know how particular managers are. When father died and I had to go on the stage for a living——"
"Marie, my darling!"
Mary rose and picked up her bicycle. The air had gone out of the back wheel again, and there were four spokes broken, but she did not heed it.
"You must write to your lawyer to-night," she said. "Won'the be surprised?"
But, being a great reader of the magazines, he wasn't.
Ona certain night in the middle of the season all London was gathered in Lady Marchpane's drawing-room; all London, that is, which was worth knowing—a qualification which accounted for the absence of several million people who had never heard of Lady Marchpane. In one corner of the room an Ambassador, with a few ribbons across his chest, could have been seen chatting to the latest American Duchess; in another corner one of our largest Advertisers was exchanging epigrams with a titled Newspaper Proprietor. Famous Generals rubbed shoulders with Post-Impressionist Artists; Financiers whispered sweet nothings to Breeders of prize Poms; even an Actor-Manager might have been seen accepting an apology from a Royalty who had jostled him.
"Hallo," said Algy Lascelles, catching sight of the dignified figure of Rupert Meryton in the crowd; "how's William?"
A rare smile lit up Rupert's distinguished features. He was Under Secretary for Invasion Affairs, and "William" was Algy's pleasant way of referring to the Bill which he was now piloting through the House of Commons. It was a measure for doing something or other by means of a what-d'you-call-it—I cannot be more precise without precipitating a European Conflict.
"I think we shall get it through," said Rupert calmly.
"Lady Marchpane was talking about it just now. She's rather interested, you know."
Rupert's lips closed about his mouth in a firm line.He looked over Algy's head into the crowd. "Oh!" he said coldly.
It was barely ten years ago that young Meryton, just down from Oxford, had startled the political world by capturing the important seat of Cricklewood (E.) for the Tariffadicals—as, to avoid plunging the country into Civil War, I must call them. This was at a by-election, and the Liberatives had immediately dissolved, only to come into power after the General Election with an increased majority. Through the years that followed, Rupert Meryton, by his pertinacity in asking the Invasion Secretary questions which had been answered by him on the previous day, and by his regard for the dignity of the House, as shown in his invariable comment, "Come, come—not quite the gentleman," upon any display of bad manners opposite, established a clear right to a post in the subsequent Tariffadical Government. He had now been Under Secretary for two years, and in this Bill his first real chance had come.
"Oh, there you are, Mr. Meryton," said a voice. "Come and talk to me a moment." With a nod to a couple of Archbishops Lady Marchpane led the way to a little gallery whither the crowd had not penetrated. Priceless Correggios, Tintorettos, and G. K. Chestertons hung upon the walls, but it was not to show him these that she had come. Dropping into a wonderful old Chippendale chair, she motioned him to a Blundell-Maple opposite her, and looked at him with a curious smile.
"Well," she said, "about the Bill?"
Rupert's lips closed about his mouth in a firm line. (He was rather good at this.) Folding his arms, he gazed steadily into Lady Marchpane's still beautiful eyes.
"It will go through," he said. "Through all its stages," he added professionally.
"It must not go through," said Lady Marchpane gently.
Rupert could not repress a start, but he was master of himself again in a moment.
"I cannot add anything to my previous statement," he said.
"If it goes through," began Lady Marchpane——
"I must refer you," said Rupert, "to my answer of yesterday."
"Come, come, Mr. Meryton, what is the good of fencing with me? You know the position. Or shall I state it for you again?"
"I cannot believe you are serious."
"I am perfectly serious. There are reasons, financial reasons—and others—why I do not want this Bill to pass. In return for my silence upon a certain matter, you are going to prevent it passing. You know to what I refer. On the 4th of May last——"
"Stop!" cried Rupert hoarsely.
"On the 4th of May last," Lady Marchpane went on relentlessly, "you and I—in the absence of my husband abroad—had tea together at an A.B.C." (Rupert covered his face with his hands.) "I am no fonder of scandal than you are, but if you do not meet my wishes I shall certainly confess the truth to Marchpane."
"You will be ruined too!" said Rupert.
"My husband will forgive me and take me back." She paused significantly. "Will Marjorie Hale——" (Rupert covered his hands with his face)—"will the good Miss Hale forgive you? She is very strict, is she not? And rich? And rising young politicians want money more than scandal." She raised her head suddenly at the sound of footsteps. "Ah, Archbishop, I was just calling Mr. Meryton's attention to this wonderful Botticell——" (she looked at it more closely)——"this wonderful Dana Gibson. A beautifulpiece of work, is it not?" The intruders passed on to the supper-room, and they were alone again.
"What am I to do?" said Rupert sullenly.
"The fate of the Bill is settled to-day week, when you make your big speech. You must speak against it. Confess frankly you were mistaken. It will be a close thing, anyhow. Your influence will turn the scale."
"It will ruin me politically."
"You will marry Marjorie Hale and be rich. No rich man is ever ruined politically. Or socially." She patted his hand gently. "You'll do it?"
He got up slowly. "You'll see next week," he said.
It is not meet that we should watch the unhappy Rupert through the long-drawn hours of the night, as he wrestled with the terrible problem. A moment's sudden madness on that May afternoon had brought him to the cross-roads. On the one hand, reputation, wealth, the girl that he loved; on the other, his own honour and—so, at least, he had said several times on the platform—the safety of England. He rose in the morning weary, but with his mind made up.
The Bill should go through!
Rupert Meryton was a speaker of a not unusual type. Although he provided the opinions himself, he always depended upon his secretary for the arguments with which to support them and the actual words in which to give them being. But on this occasion he felt that a special effort was required of him. He would show Lady Marchpane that the blackmail of yesterday had only roused him to a still greater effort on behalf of his country.He would write his own speech.
On the fateful night the House was crowded. It seemed that all the guests at Lady Marchpane's a week before were in the Distinguished Strangers' Gallery or behind the Ladies' Grille. From the Press Gallery "Our Special Word-painter" looked downupon the statesmen beneath him, his eagle eye ready to detect on the moment the Angry Flush, the Wince, or the Sudden Paling of enemy, the Grim Smile or the Lofty Calm of friend.
The Rt. Hon. Rupert Meryton, Tariffadical Member for Cricklewood (E.) rose to his feet amidst cheers.
"Mr. Speaker," he said, "I rise—er—to-night, sir—h'r'm, to—er——" So much of his speech I may give, but urgent State reasons compel me to withhold the rest. Were it ever known with which Bill the secret history that I have disclosed concerns itself, the Great Powers in an instant would be at each other's throats. But though I may not disclose the speech I can tell of its effect on the House. And its effect was curious. It was, in fact, the exact opposite of what Rupert Meryton, that promising Under Secretary, had intended.
It was the first speech that he had ever prepared himself. Than Rupert there was no more dignified figure in the House of Commons; his honour was proof, as we have seen, against the most insidious temptations; yet, since one man cannot have all the virtues, he was distinctly stupid. It would have been a hopeless speech anyhow; but, to make matters worse, he had, in the most important part of it, attempted irony. And at the beginning of the ironical passage even the Tariffadical word-painters had to confess that it was their own stalwarts who "suddenly paled."
As Lady Marchpane had said, it was bound to be a close thing. The Liberatives and the Unialists, of course, were solid against the Bill, but there was also something of a cave in the Tariffadical Party. It was bound to be a close thing, and Rupert's speech just made the difference. When he sat down the waverers and doubters had made up their minds.
The Bill was defeated.
That the Tariffadicals should resign was natural; perhaps it was equally natural that Rupert's secretary should resign too. He said that his reputation would be gone if Rupert made any more speeches on his own, and that he wasn't going to risk it. Without his secretary Rupert was lost at the General Election which followed. Fortunately he had a grateful friend in Lady Marchpane. She exerted her influence with the Liberatives, and got him an appointment as Governor of the Stickjaw Islands. Here, with his beautiful and rich wife, Sir Rupert Meryton maintains a regal state, and upon his name no breath of scandal rests. Indeed, his only trouble so far has been with the Stickjaw language—a difficult language, but one which, perhaps fortunately, does not lend itself to irony.
Itwas in October, 19— that the word "Zinc" first began to be heard in financial circles. City men, pushing their dominoes regretfully away, and murmuring "Zinc" in apologetic tones, were back in their offices by three o'clock, forgetting in their haste to leave the usual twopence under the cup for the waitress. Clubmen, glancing at the tape on their way to the smoking-room, said to their neighbours, "Zinc's moved a point, I see," before covering themselves up withThe Times. In the trains, returning husbands asked each other loudly, "What's all this about zinc?"—all save the very innocent ones, who whispered, "I say, whatiszinc exactly?" The music-halls took it up. No sooner had the word "Zinc" left the lips of an acknowledged comedian than the house was in roars of laughter. Thefuroreat the Collodium when Octavius Octo, in his world-famous part of the landlady of a boarding-house, remarked, "I know why my ole man's so late. 'E's buying zinc," is still remembered in the bars round Piccadilly.
To explain it properly it will be necessary (my readers will be alarmed to hear) to go back some thirty years. This, as a simple calculation shows, takes us to June, 18—. It was in June, 18— that Felix Moses, a stout young man of attractive appearance (if you care for that style), took his courage in both hands, and told Phyllida Sloan that he was worth ten thousand a year and was changing his name to Mountenay. Miss Sloan,seeing that it was the beginning of a proposal, said hastily that she was changing hers to Abraham.
"You're marrying Leo Abraham?" asked Felix in amazement. "Ah!" A gust of jealousy swept over him. He licked his lips. There was a dangerous look in his eyes—a look that was destined in after days to make Emperors and rival financiers quail. "Ah!" he said softly. "Leo Abraham! I shall not forget!"
And now it will be necessary (my readers will be relieved to learn) to jump forward some thirty years. This obviously takes us to September 19—. Let us on this fine September morning take a peep into "No. — Throgneedle Street, E.C.," and see how the business of the mother city is carried on.
On the fourth floor we come to the sanctum of the great man himself. "Mr. Felix Mountenay—No admittance," is painted upon the outer door. It is a name which is known and feared all over Europe. Mr. Mountenay's private detective stands on one side of the door; on the other side is Mr. Mountenay's private wolf-hound. Murmuring the word "Press," however, we pass hastily through, and find ourselves before Mr. Mountenay himself. Mr. Mountenay is at work; let us watch him through a typical five minutes.
For a moment he stands meditating in the middle of the room. Kings are tottering on their thrones. Empires hang upon his nod. What will he decide? Suddenly he blows a cloud of smoke from his cigar, and rushes to the telephone.
"Hallo! Is that you, Jones?... What are Margarine Prefs. at?...What?...No, MargarinePrefs., idiot.... Ah! Then sell. Keep on selling till I tell you to stop.... Yes."
He hangs up the receiver. For two minutes he pacesthe room, smoking rapidly. He stops a moment ... but it is only to remove his cigar-band, which is in danger of burning. Then he resumes his pacings. Another minute goes rapidly by. He rushes to the telephone again.
"Hallo! Is that you, Jones?... What are Margarine Prefs. down to now?... Ah! Then buy. Keep on buying.... Yes."
He hangs up the receiver. By this master-stroke he has made a quarter of a million. It may seem to you or me an easy way of doing it. Ah, but what, we must ask ourselves, of the great brain that conceived the idea, the foresight which told the exact moment when to put it into action, the cool courage which seized the moment—what of the grasp of affairs, the knowledge of men? Ah! Can we grudge it him that he earns a quarter of a million more quickly than we do?
Yet Mr. Felix Mountenay is not happy. When we have brought off a coup for a hundred thousand even, we smile gaily. Mr. Mountenay did not smile. Fiercely he bit another inch off his cigar, and muttered to himself.
The words were "Leo Abraham! Wait!"
This is positively the last row of dots. Let us take advantage of them to jump forward another month. It was October 1st, 19—. (If that was a Sunday, then it was October 2nd. Anyhow, it was October.)
Mr. Felix Mountenay was sleeping in his office. For once that iron brain relaxed. He had made a little over three million in the last month, and the strain was too much for him. But a knock at the door restored him instantly to his own cool self.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said his secretary, "but somebody is selling zinc."
The word "zinc" touched a chord in Mr. Mountenay'sbrain which had lain dormant for years. Zinc! Why did zinc remind him of Leo Abraham?
"Fetch theEncyclopedia Britannica, quick!" he cried.
The secretary, a man of herculean build, returned with some of it. With the luck which proverbially attends rich men, Mr. Mountenay picked up the "Z" volume at once. As he read the Zinc article it all came back to him. Leo Abraham had owned an empty zinc-mine! Was his enemy in his clutches at last?
"Buy!" he said briefly.
In a fortnight the secretary had returned.
"Well," said Mr. Mountenay, "have you bought all the zinc there is?"
"Yes, sir," said the secretary. "And a lot that there isn't," he added.
"Good!" He paused a moment. "When Mr. Leo Abraham calls," he added grimly, "show him up at once."
It was a month later that a haggard man climbed the stairs of No. — Throgneedle Street, and was shown into Mr. Mountenay's room.
"Well," said the financier softly, "what can I do for you?"
"I want some zinc," said Leo Abergavenny.
"Zinc," said Mr. Mountenay, with a smile, "is a million pounds a ton. Or an acre, or a gallon, or however you prefer to buy it," he added humorously.
Leo went white.
"You wish to ruin me?"
"I do. A promise I made to your wife some years ago."
"My wife?" cried Leo. "What do you mean? I'm not married."
It was Mr. Mountenay's turn to go white. He went it.
"Not married? But Miss Sloan——"
Mr. Leo Abergavenny sat down and mopped his face.
"I don't know what you mean," he said. "I asked Miss Sloan to marry me, and told her I was changing my name to Abergavenny. And she said that she was changing hers to Moses. Naturally, I thought——"
"Stop!" cried Mr. Mountenay. He sat down heavily. Something seemed to have gone out of his life; in a moment the world was empty. He looked up at his old rival, and forced a laugh.
"Well, well," he said; "she deceived us both. Let us drink to our lucky escape." He rang the bell.
"And then," he said in a purring voice, "we can have a little talk about zinc. After all, business is still business."
Hisslippered feet stretched out luxuriously to the fire, Dr. Venables, of Mudford, lay back in his arm-chair and gave himself up to the delights of his Flor di Cabajo, No. 2, a box of which had been presented to him by an apparently grateful patient. It had been a busy day. He had prescribed more than half a dozen hot milk-puddings and a dozen changes of air; he had promised a score of times to look in again to-morrow; and the Widow Nixey had told him yet again, but at greater length than before, her private opinion of doctors.
Sometimes Gordon Venables wondered whether it was only for this that he had been the most notable student of his year at St. Bartholomew's. His brilliance, indeed, had caused something of a sensation in medical circles, and a remarkable career had been prophesied for him. It was Venables who had broken up one Suffrage meeting after another by throwing white mice at the women on the platform; who day after day had paraded London dressed in the costume of a brown dog, until arrested for biting an anti-vivisector in the leg. No wonder that all the prizes of the profession were announced to be within his grasp, and that when he buried himself in the little country town of Mudford he was thought to have thrown away recklessly opportunities such as were granted to few.
He had been in Mudford for five years now. An occasional paper inThe Lanceton "The Recurrence of Anthro-philomelitis in Earth-worms" kept him in touch with modern medical thought, but he could nothelp feeling that to some extent his powers were rusting in Mudford. As the years went on his chance of Harley Street dwindled.
"Come in," he said in answer to a knock at the door.
The housekeeper's head appeared.
"There's been an accident, sir," she gasped. "Gentleman run over!"
He snatched up his stethoscope and, without even waiting to inquire where the accident was, hurried into the night. Something whispered to him that his chance had come.
After a quarter of an hour he stopped a small boy.
"Hallo, Johnny," he said breathlessly, "where's the accident?"
The boy looked at him with open mouth for some moments. Then he had an idea.
"Why, it's Doctor!" he said.
Dr. Venables pushed him over and ran on....
It was in the High Street that the accident had happened. Lord Lair, an eccentric old gentleman who sometimes walked when he might have driven, had, while dodging a motor-car, been run into by a child's hoop. He lay now on the pavement surrounded by a large and interested crowd.
"Look out," shouted somebody from the outskirts; "here comes Doctor."
Dr. Venables pushed his way through to his patient. His long search for the scene of the accident had exhausted him bodily, but his mind was as clear as ever.
"Stand back there," he said in an authoritative voice. Then, taking out his stethoscope, he made a rapid examination of his patient.
"Incised wound in the tibia," he murmured to himself. "Slight abrasion of the patella and contusion of the left ankle. The injuries are serious but not necessarily mortal. Who is he?"
The butcher, who had been sitting on the head of thefallen man, got up and disclosed the features of Lord Lair. Dr. Venables staggered back.
"His lordship!" he cried. "He is a patient of Dr. Scott's! I have attended the client of another practitioner! Professionally I am ruined!"
Lord Lair, who was now breathing more easily, opened his eyes.
"Take me home," he groaned.
Dr. Venables' situation was a terrible one. Medical etiquette demanded his immediate retirement from the case, but the promptings of humanity and the thought of his client's important position in the world were too strong for him. Throwing his scruples to the winds, he assisted the aged peer on to a hastily improvised stretcher and accompanied him to the Hall.
His lordship once in bed, the doctor examined him again. It was obvious immediately that there was only one hope of saving the patient's life. An injection of anthro-philomelitis must be given without loss of time.
Dr. Venables took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. He never travelled without a small bottle of this serum in his waistcoat pocket—a serum which, as my readers know, is prepared from the earth-worm, in whose body (fortunately) large deposits of anthro-philomelitis are continually found. With help from a footman in holding down the patient, the injection was made. In less than a year Lord Lair was restored to health.
Dr. Gordon Venables' case came before the British Medical Council early in October. The counts in the indictment were two.
The first was that, "on the 17th of June last, Dr. Gordon Venables did feloniously and with malice aforethought commit the disgusting and infamouscrime of attending professionally the client of another practitioner."
The second was that "in the course of rendering professional services to the said client, Dr. Venables did knowingly and wittingly employ the assistance of one who was not a properly registered medical man, to wit, Thomas Boiling, footman, thereby showing himself to be a scurvy fellow of infamous morals."
Dr. Venables decided to apologise. He also decided to send in an account to Lord Lair for two hundred and fifty guineas. He justified this to himself mainly on the ground that, according to a letter in that week'sLancet, the supply of anthro-philomelitis in earth-worms was suddenly giving out, and that it was necessary to recoup himself for the generous quantity he had injected into Lord Lair. Naturally, also, he felt that his lordship, as the author of the whole trouble, owed him something.
The Council, in consideration of his apology, dismissed the first count. On the second count, however, they struck him off the register.
It was a terrible position for a young doctor to be in, but Gordon Venables faced it like a man. With Lord Lair's fee in his pocket he came to town and took a house in Harley Street. When he had paid the first quarter's rent and the first instalment on the hired furniture, he had fifty pounds left.
Ten pounds he spent on embossed stationery.
Forty pounds he spent on postage-stamps.
For the next three months no journal was complete without a letter from 999 Harley Street, signed "Gordon Venables," in which the iniquity of his treatment by the British Medical Council was dwelt upon with the fervour of a man who knew his subject thoroughly; no such letter was complete without a side-reference to anthro-philomelitis (as found, happily, in earth-worms) and the anthro-philomelitis treatment(as recommended by peers). Six months previously the name of Venables had been utterly unknown to the man in the street. In three months' time it was better known even than ——'s, the well-known ——.