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Title: The Holiday Round

Author: A. A. Milne

Release Date: May, 2004 [EBook #5675]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on August 7, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOLIDAY ROUND ***




Produced by Charles Aldarondo




THE HOLIDAY ROUND

BY

A. A. MILNE

AUTHOR OF "THE DAYS' PLAY"

LONDON

1912






CONTENTS





HOLIDAY TIME

THE HOUSE-WARMING

AT PLAY

TWO STORIES

AN ODD LOT

LITTLE PLAYS FOR AMATEURS

A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS

STORIES OF SUCCESSFUL LIVES

A FEW FRIENDS

EPILOGUE






HOLIDAY TIME

I.--THE ORDEAL BY WATER





"We will now bathe," said a voice at the back of my neck.

I gave a grunt and went on with my dream. It was a jolly dream, and
nobody got up early in it.

"We will now bathe," repeated Archie.

"Go away," I said distinctly.

Archie sat down on my knees and put his damp towel on my face.

"When my wife and I took this commodious residence for six weeks,"
he said, "and engaged the sea at great expense to come up to its
doors twice a day, it was on the distinct understanding that our
guests should plunge into it punctually at seven o'clock every
morning."

"Don't be silly, it's about three now. And I wish you'd get off my
knees."

"It's a quarter-past seven."

"Then there you are, we've missed it. Well, we must see what we can
do for you to-morrow. Good-night."

Archie pulled all the clothes off me and walked with them to the
window.

"Jove, what a day!" he said. "And can't you smell the sea?"

"I can. Let that suffice. I say, what's happened to my blanket? I
must have swallowed it in my sleep."

"Where's his sponge?" I heard him murmuring to himself as he came
away from the window.

"No, no, I'm up," I shouted, and I sprang out of bed and put on a
shirt and a pair of trousers with great speed. "Where do I take
these off again?" I asked. "I seem to be giving myself a lot of
trouble."

"There is a tent."

"Won't the ladies want it? Because, if so, I can easily have my
bathe later on."

"The ladies think it's rather too rough to-day."

"Perhaps they're right," I said hopefully. "A woman's instinct--No,
I'm NOT a coward."

It wasn't so bad outside--sun and wind and a blue-and-white sky and
plenty of movement on the sea.

"Just the day for a swim," said Archie cheerily, as he led the way
down to the beach.

"I've nothing against the day; it's the hour I object to. The Lancet
says you mustn't bathe within an hour of a heavy meal. Well, I'm
going to have a very heavy meal within about twenty minutes. That
isn't right, you know."

By the time I was ready the wind had got much colder. I looked out
of the tent and shivered.

"Isn't it jolly and fresh?" said Archie, determined to be helpful.
"There are points about the early morning, after all."

"There are plenty of points about this morning. Where do they get
all the sharp stones from? Look at that one there--he's simply
waiting for me."

"You ought to have bought some bathing shoes. I got this pair in the
village."

"Why didn't you tell me so last night?"

"It was too late last night."

"Well, it's much too early this morning. If you were a gentleman
you'd lend me one of yours, and we'd hop down together."

Archie being no gentleman, he walked and I hobbled to the edge, and
there we sat down while he took off his shoes.

"I should like to take this last opportunity," I said, "of telling
you that up till now I haven't enjoyed this early morning bathe one
little bit. I suppose there will be a notable moment when the
ecstasy actually begins, but at present I can't see it coming at
all. The only thing I look forward to with any pleasure is the
telling Dahlia and Myra at breakfast what I think of their
cowardice. That and the breakfast itself. Good-bye."

I got up and waded into the surf.

"One last word," I said as I looked back at him. "In my whole career
I shall never know a more absolutely beastly and miserable moment
than this." Then a wave knocked me down, and I saw that I had spoken
too hastily.

The world may be divided into two classes--those who drink when they
swim and those who don't. I am one of the drinkers. For this reason
I prefer river bathing to sea bathing.

"It's about time we came out," I shouted to Archie after the third
pint. "I'm exceeding my allowance."

"Aren't you glad now you came?" he cried from the top of a wave.

"Very," I said a moment later from inside it.

But I really did feel glad ten minutes afterwards as I sat on the
beach in the sun and smoked a cigarette, and threw pebbles lazily
into the sea.

"Holbein, how brave of you!" cried a voice behind me.

"Good-morning. I'm not at all sure that I ought to speak to you."

"Have you really been taking the sea so early," said Myra as she sat
down between us, "or did you rumple each other's hair so as to
deceive me?"

"I have been taking the sea," I confessed. "What you observe out
there now is what I left."

"Oh, but that's what _I_ do. That's why I didn't come
to-day--because I had so much yesterday."

"I'm a three-bottle man. I can go on and on and on. And after all
these years I have the most sensitive palate of any man living. For
instance, I can distinguish between Scarborough and Llandudno quite
easily with my eyes shut. Speaking as an expert, I may say that
there is nothing to beat a small Cromer and seltzer; though some
prefer a Ventnor and dash. Ilfracombe with a slice of lemon is
popular, but hardly appeals to the fastidious."

"Do you know," said Archie, "that you are talking drivel? Nobody
ought to drivel before breakfast. It isn't decent. What does Dahlia
want to do to-day, Myra?"

"Mr Simpson is coming by the one-thirty."

"Good; then we'll have a slack day. The strain of meeting Simpson
will be sufficient for us. I do hope he comes in a yachting
cap--we'll send him back if he doesn't."

"I told him to bring one," said Myra. "I put a P.S. in Dahlia's
letter--please bring your telescope and yachting cap. She thought we
could have a good day's sailing to-morrow, if you'd kindly arrange
about the wind."

"I'll talk to the crew about it and see what he can do. If we get
becalmed we can always throw somebody overboard, of course. Well, I
must go in and finish my toilet."

We got up and climbed slowly back to the house.

"And then," I said, "then for the heavy meal."






II.--BECALMED





"Well," said Dahlia, giving up the tiller with a sigh, "if this is
all that you and Joe can do in the way of a breeze, you needn't have
worried."

"Don't blame the crew," said Archie nobly, "he did his best. He sat
up all night whistling."

"ARE we moving?" asked Myra, from a horizontal position on the shady
side of the mainsail.

"We are not," I said, from a similar position on the sunny side.
"Let's get out."

Simpson took off his yachting cap and fanned himself with a nautical
almanac. "How far are we from anywhere?" he asked cheerfully.

"Miles," said Archie. "To be more accurate, we are five miles from a
public-house, six from a church, four from a post-office, and three
from the spacious walled-in kitchen-garden and tennis-court. On the
other hand, we are quite close to the sea."

"You will never see your friends again, Simpson. They will miss you
... at first ... perhaps; but they will soon forget. The circulation
of the papers that you wrote for will go up, the brindled bull-pup
will be fed by another and a smaller hand, but otherwise all will be
as it was before."

My voice choked, and at the same moment something whizzed past me
into the sea.

"Yachting cap overboard! Help!" cried Myra.

"You aren't in The Spectator office now, Simpson," said Archie
severely, as he fished with the boat-hook. "There is a time for
ballyragging. By the way, I suppose you do want it back again?"

"It's my fault," I confessed remorsefully; "I told him yesterday I
didn't like it."

"Myra and I do like it, Mr Simpson. Please save it, Archie."

Archie let it drip from the end of the boat-hook for a minute, and
then brought it in.

"Morning, Sir Thomas," I said, saluting it as it came on board.
"Lovely day for a sail. We've got the new topmast up, but Her Grace
had the last of the potted-meat for lunch yesterday."

Simpson took his cap and stroked it tenderly. "Thirteen and
ninepence in the Buckingham Palace Road," he murmured. "Thanks, old
chap."

Quiet settled down upon the good ship Armadillo again. There was no
cloud in the sky, no ripple on the water, no sound along the deck.
The land was hazy in the distance; hazy in the distance was
public-house, church, post-office, walled-in kitchen-garden and
tennis-court. But in the little cabin Joe was making a pleasant
noise with plates....

"Splendid," said Archie, putting down his glass and taking out his
pipe. "Now what shall we do? I feel full of energy."

"Then you and Simpson can get the dinghy out and tow," I suggested.
"I'll coach from the Armadillo."

"We might go for a long bicycle ride," said Myra; "or call on the
Vicarage girls."

"There isn't really very much to do, is there?" said Dahlia, gently.
"I'm sorry."

Simpson leapt excitedly into the breach.

"I'll tell you what I'll do--I'll teach you all the different knots
and things. I learnt them coming down in the train. Everybody ought
to know them. Archie, old man, can you let me have a piece of rope?"

"Certainly. Take any piece you like. Only spare the main-sheet."

Simpson went forward to consult Joe, and came back with enough to
hang himself with. He sat down opposite to us, wrapped the rope once
round his waist, and then beamed at us over his spectacles.

"Now supposing you had fallen down a well," he began, "and I let
this rope down to you, what would you do with YOUR end?"

We thought deeply for a moment.

"I should wait until you were looking over the edge, and then give
it a sharp jerk," said Archie.

"One MUST have company in a well," I agreed.

"They're being silly again," apologized Myra. "Tell ME, Mr Simpson!
I should love to know--I'm always falling down wells."

"Well, you tie it round you like this. Through there--and over
there--and then back under there. You see, it simply CAN'T slip.
Then I should pull you up."

"But how nice of you. Let me try. ... Oh, yes, that's easy."

"Well, then there's the hangman's knot."

Archie and I looked at each other.

"The predicaments in which Simpson finds himself are extraordinarily
varied," I said.

"One of these days he'll be in a well, and we shall let down a rope
to him, and he'll hang himself by mistake."

"That would look very determined. On the other hand there must be
annoying occasions when he starts out to strangle somebody and finds
that he's pulling him out of the cistern."

"Why, how delightful, Mr Simpson," said Myra. "Do show us some
more."

"Those are the most important ones. Then there are one or two fancy
ones. Do you know the Monkey's Claw?"

"Don't touch it," said Archie solemnly. "It's poison."

"Oh, I must show you that."

Joe showed me the Monkey's Claw afterwards, and it is a beautiful
thing, but it was not a bit like Simpson's. Simpson must have
started badly, and I think he used too much rope. After about twenty
minutes there was hardly any of him visible at all.

"Take your time, Houdini," said Archie, "take your time. Just let us
know when you're ready to be put into the safe, that's all."

"You would hardly think, to look at him now," I said a minute later,
"that one day he'll be a dear little butterfly."

"Where's the sealing-wax, Maria? You know, I'm certain he'll never
go for threepence."

"What I say is, it's simply hypnotic suggestion. There's no rope
there at all, really."

An anxious silence followed.

"No," said Simpson suddenly, "I'm doing it wrong."

"From to-night," said Archie, after tea, "you will be put on
rations. One cobnut and a thimbleful of sherry wine per diem. I hope
somebody's brought a thimble."

"There really isn't so very much left," said Dahlia.

"Then we shall have to draw lots who is to be eaten."

"Don't we eat our boots and things first?" asked Myra.

"The doctor says I mustn't have anything more solid than a
lightly-boiled shoe-lace the last thing at night."

"After all, there's always the dinghy," said Archie. "If we put in a
tin of corned beef and a compass and a keg of gunpowder, somebody
might easily row in and post the letters. Personally, as captain, I
must stick to my ship."

"There's another way I've just thought of," I said. "Let's sail in."

I pointed out to sea, and there, unmistakably, was the least little
breeze coming over the waters. A minute later and our pennant napped
once Simpson moistened a finger and held it up.

The sprint for home had begun.






III.--A DAY ASHORE





"Well, which is it to be?" asked Archie.

"Just whichever you like," said Dahlia, "only make up your minds."

"Well, I can do you a very good line in either. I've got a lot of
sea in the front of the house, and there's the Armadillo straining
at the leash; and I've had some land put down at the back of the
house, and there's the Silent-Knight eating her carburettor off in
the kennels."

"Oh, what can ail thee, Silent-Knight, alone and palely loitering?"
asked Simpson. "Keats," he added kindly.

"Ass (Shakespeare)," I said.

"Of course, if we sailed," Simpson went on eagerly, "and we got
becalmed again, I could teach you chaps signalling."

Archie looked from one to the other of us.

"I think that settles it," he said, and went off to see about the
motor.

"Little Chagford," said Archie, as he slowed down. "Where are we
going to, by the way?"

"I thought we'd just go on until we found a nice place for lunch."

"And then on again till we found a nice place for tea," added Myra.

"And so home to dinner," I concluded.

"Speaking for myself--" began Simpson.

"Oh, why not?"

"I should like to see a church where Katharine of Aragon or somebody
was buried."

"Samuel's morbid craving for sensation--"

"Wait till we get back to London, and I'll take you to Madame
Tussaud's, Mr Simpson."

"Well, I think he's quite right," said Dahlia. "There is an old
Norman church, I believe, and we ought to go and see it. The
Philistines needn't come in if they don't want to."

"Philistines!" I said indignantly. "Well, I'm--"

"Agagged," suggested Archie. "Oh no, he was an Amalekite."

"You've lived in the same country as this famous old Norman church
for years and years and years, and you care so little about it that
you've never been to see it and aren't sure whether it was Katharine
of Aragon or Alice-for-short who was buried here, and now that you
HAVE come across it by accident you want to drive up to it in a
brand-new 1910 motor-car, with Simpson in his 1910 gent.'s fancy
vest knocking out the ashes of his pipe against the lych-gate as he
goes in. ... And that's what it is to be one of the elect!"

"Little Chagford's noted back-chat comedians," commented Archie.
"Your turn, Dahlia."

"There was once a prince who was walking in a forest near his castle
one day--that's how all the nice stories begin--and he suddenly came
across a beautiful maiden, and he said to himself, 'I've lived here
for years and years and years, and I've never seen her before, and
I'm not sure whether her name is Katharine or Alice, or where her
uncle was buried, and I've got a new surcoat on which doesn't match
her wimple at all, so let's leave her and go home to lunch....' And
THAT'S what it is to be one of the elect!"

"Don't go on too long," said Archie. "There are the performing seals
to come after you."

I jumped out of the car and joined her in the road.

"Dahlia, I apologize," I said. "You are quite right. We will visit
this little church together, and see who was buried there."

Myra looked up from the book she had been studying, Jovial Jaunts
Round Jibmouth.

"There isn't a church at Little Chagford," she said. "At least there
wasn't two years ago, when this book was published. So that looks as
though it can't be VERY early Norman."

"Then let's go on," said Archie, after a deep silence.

We found a most delightful little spot (which wasn't famous for
anything) for lunch, and had the baskets out of the car in no time.

"Now, are you going to help get things ready," asked Myra, "or are
you going to take advantage of your sex and watch Dahlia and me do
all the work?"

"I thought women always liked to keep the food jobs for themselves,"
I said. "I know I'm never allowed in the kitchen at home. Besides,
I've got more important work to do--I'm going to make the fire."

"What fire?"

"You can't really lead the simple life and feel at home with Nature
until you have laid a fire of twigs and branches, rubbed two sticks
together to procure a flame, and placed in the ashes the pemmican or
whatever it is that falls to your rifle."

"Well, I did go out to look for pemmican this morning, but there
were none rising."

"Then I shall have my ham sandwich hot."

"Bread, butter, cheese, eggs, sandwiches, fruit," catalogued Dahlia,
as she took them out; "what else do you want?"

"I'm waiting here for cake," I said.

"Bother, I forgot the cake."

"Look here, this picnic isn't going with the swing that one had
looked for. No pemmican, no cake, no early Norman church. We might
almost as well be back in the Cromwell Road."

"Does your whole happiness depend on cake?" asked Myra scornfully.

"To a large extent it does. Archie," I called out, "there's no
cake."

Archie stopped patting the car and came over to us. "Good. Let's
begin," he said; "I'm hungry."

"You didn't hear. I said there WASN'T any cake--on the contrary,
there is an entire absence of it, a shortage, a vacuum, not to say a
lacuna. In the place where it should be there is an aching void or
mere hard-boiled eggs or something of that sort. I say, doesn't
ANYBODY mind, except me?"

Apparently nobody did, so that it was useless to think of sending
Archie back for it. Instead, I did a little wrist-work with the
corkscrew....

"Now," said Archie, after lunch, "before you all go off with your
butterfly nets, I'd better say that we shall be moving on at about
half-past three. That is, unless one of you has discovered the slot
of a Large Cabbage White just then, and is following up the trail
very keenly."

"I know what I'm going to do," I said, "if the flies will let me
alone."

"Tell me quickly before I guess," begged Myra.

"I'm going to lie on my back and think about--who do you think do
the hardest work in the world?"

"Stevedores."

"Then I shall think about stevedores."

"Are you sure," asked Simpson, "that you wouldn't like me to show
you that signalling now?"

I closed my eyes. You know, I wonder sometimes what it is that makes
a picnic so pleasant. Because all the important things, the eating
and the sleeping, one can do anywhere.






IV.--IN THE WET





Myra gazed out of the window upon the driving rain and shook her
head at the weather.

"Ugh!" she said. "Ugly!"

"Beast," I added, in order that there should be no doubt about what
we thought. "Utter and deliberate beast."

We had arranged for a particularly pleasant day. We were to have
sailed across to the mouth of the--I always forget its name, and
then up the river to the famous old castle of-of-no, it's gone
again; but anyhow, there was to have been a bathe in the river, and
lunch, and a little exploration in the dinghy, and a lesson in the
Morse code from Simpson, and tea in the woods with a real fire, and
in the cool of the evening a ripping run home before the wind. But
now the only thing that seemed certain was the cool of the evening.

"We'll light a fire and do something indoors," said Dahlia.

"This is an extraordinary house," said Archie. "There isn't a single
book in it, except a lot of Strand Magazines for 1907. That must
have been a very wet year."

"We can play games, dear."

"True, darling. Let's do a charade."

"The last time I played charades," I said, "I was Horatius, the
front part of Elizabeth's favourite palfrey, the arrow which shot
Rufus, Jonah, the two little Princes in the Tower, and Mrs
Pankhurst."

"Which was your favourite part?" asked Myra.

"The front part of the palfrey. But I was very good as the two
little Princes."

"It's no good doing charades, if there's nobody to do them to."

"Thomas is coming to-morrow," said Myra. "We could tell him all
about it."

"Clumps is a jolly good game," suggested Simpson.

"The last time I was a clump," I said, "I was the first coin paid on
account of the last pair of boots, sandals, or whatnot of the man
who laid the first stone of the house where lived the prettiest aunt
of the man who reared the goose which laid the egg from which came
the goose which provided the last quill pen used by the third man
Shakespeare met on the second Wednesday in June, 1595."

"He mightn't have had an aunt," said Myra, after a minute's profound
thought.

"He hadn't."

"Well, anyhow, one way and another you've had a very adventurous
career, my lad," said Archie. "What happened the last time you
played ludo?"

"When I played clumps," put in Simpson, "I was the favourite spoke
of Hall Caine's first bicycle. They guessed Hall Caine and the
bicycle and the spoke very quickly, but nobody thought of suggesting
the favourite spoke."

Myra went to the window again, and came back with the news that it
would probably be a fine evening.

"Thank you," we all said.

"But I wasn't just making conversation. I have an idea."

"Silence for Myra's idea."

"Well, it's this. If we can't do anything without an audience, and
if the audience won't come to us, let's go to them."

"Be a little more lucid, there's a dear. It isn't that we aren't
trying."

"Well then, let's serenade the other houses about here to-night."

There was a powerful silence while everybody considered this.

"Good," said Archie at last. "We will."

The rest of the morning and all the afternoon were spent in
preparations. Archie and Myra were all right; one plays the banjo
and the other the guitar. (It is a musical family, the Mannerings.)
Simpson keeps a cornet which he generally puts in his bag, but I
cannot remember anyone asking him to play it. If the question has
ever arisen, he has probably been asked not to play it. However, he
would bring it out to-night. In any case he has a tolerable voice;
while Dahlia has always sung like an angel. In short, I was the
chief difficulty.

"I suppose there wouldn't be time to learn the violin?" I asked.

"Why didn't they teach you something when you were a boy?" wondered
Myra.

"They did. But my man forgot to put it in my bag when he packed. He
put in two tooth-brushes and left out the triangle. Do you think
there's a triangle shop in the village? I generally play on an
isosceles one, any two sides of which are together greater than the
third. Likewise the angles which are opposite to the adjacent sides,
each to each."

"Well, you must take the cap round for the money."

"I will. I forgot to say that my own triangle at home, the Strad, is
in the chromatic scale of A, and has a splice. It generally gets the
chromatics very badly in the winter."

While the others practised their songs, I practised taking the cap
round, and by tea-time we all knew our parts perfectly. I had
received permission to join in the choruses, and I was also to be
allowed to do a little dance with Myra. When you think that I had
charge of the financial arrangements as well, you can understand
that I felt justified in considering myself the leader of the
troupe.

"In fact," I said, "you ought to black your faces so as to
distinguish yourselves from me."

"We won't black our faces," said Dahlia, "but we'll wear masks; and
we might each carry a little board explaining why we're doing this."

"Right," said Archie; and he sat down and wrote a notice for
himself--

"I AM AN ORPHAN. SO ARE THE OTHERS, BUT THEY ARE NOT SO ORPHAN AS I
AM. I AM EXTREMELY FREQUENT."

Dahlia said--

"WE ARE DOING THIS FOR AN ADVERTISEMENT. IF YOU LIKE US, SEND A
SHILLING FOR A FREE SAMPLE CONCERT, MENTIONING THIS PAPER. YOUR
MONEY BACK IF WE ARE NOT SATISFIED WITH IT."

Simpson announced--

"WORLD'S LONG DISTANCE CORNETIST. HOLDER OF THE OBOE RECORD ON
GRASS. RUNNER-UP IN THE OCARINA WELTER WEIGHTS (STRANGLE HOLD
BARRED). MIXED ZITHER CHAMPION (1907, COVERED COURTS)."

Myra said--

"KIND FRIENDS, HELP US. WE WERE WRECKED THIS AFTERNOON. THE CORNET
WAS SINKING FOR THE THIRD TIME WHEN IT WAS RESCUED, AND HAD TO BE
BROUGHT ROUND BY ARTIFICIAL RESPIRATION. CAN YOU SPARE US A DRINK OF
WATER?"

As for myself I had to hand the Simpson yachting cap round, and my
notice said--

"WE WANT YOUR MONEY. IF YOU CANNOT GIVE US ANY, FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE
KEEP THE CAP."

We had an early dinner, so as to be in time to serenade our victims
when they were finishing their own meal and feeling friendly to the
world. Then we went upstairs and dressed. Dahlia and Myra had
kimonos, Simpson put on his dressing-gown, in which he fancies
himself a good deal, and Archie and I wore brilliantly-coloured
pyjamas over our other clothes.

"Let's see," said Simpson, "I start off with 'The Minstrel Boy,'
don't I? And then what do we do?"

"Then we help you to escape," said Archie. "After that, Dahlia sings
'Santa Lucia,' and Myra and I give them a duet, and if you're back
by then with your false nose properly fixed it might be safe for you
to join in the chorus of a coon song. Now then, are we all ready?"

"What's that?" said Myra.

We all listened ... and then we opened the door.

It was pouring.






V.--MAROONED





"Stroke, you're late," said Thomas, butting me violently in the back
with his oar.

"My dear Thomas, when you have been in the Admiralty a little longer
you will know that 'bow' is not the gentleman who sets the time.
What do you suppose would happen at Queen's Hall if the second
bird-call said to the conductor, 'Henry, you're late'?"

"The whole gallery would go out and get its hair cut," said Archie.

"I'm not used to the Morse system of rowing, that's the trouble,"
explained Thomas. "Long-short, short-short-long, short-long. You're
spelling out the most awful things, if you only knew."

"Be careful how you insult me, Thomas. A little more and I shall
tell them what happened to you on the ornamental waters in Regent's
Park that rough day."

"Really?" asked Simpson with interest.

"Yes; I fancy he had been rather overdoing it at Swedish drill that
morning."

We gave her ten in silence, and then by mutual consent rested on our
oars.

"There's a long way yet," said Myra. "Dahlia and I will row if
you're tired."

"This is an insult, Thomas. Shall we sit down under it?"

"Yes," said Thomas, getting up; "only in another part of the boat."

We gave up our seats to the ladies (even in a boat one should be
polite) and from a position in the stern waited with turned-up
coat-collars for the water to come on board.

"We might have sailed up a little higher," remarked Simpson. "It's
all right, I'm not a bit wet, thanks."

"It's too shallow, except at high tide," said Myra. "The Armadillo
would have gone aground and lost all her--her shell. Do armadilloes
have shells, or what?"

"Feathers."

"Well, we're a pretty good bank-holiday crowd for the dinghy," said
Archie. "Simpson, if we upset, save the milk and the sandwiches; my
wife can swim."

The woods were now beginning to come down to the river on both
sides, but on the right a grassy slope broke them at the water's
edge for some fifty yards. Thither we rowed, and after a little
complicated manoeuvring landed suddenly, Simpson, who was standing in
the bows with the boat-hook, being easily the first to reach the
shore. He got up quickly, however, apologized, and helped the ladies
and the hampers out. Thereafter he was busy for some time, making
the dinghy fast with a knot peculiarly his own.

"The first thing to do is to build a palisade to keep the savages
off," said Archie, and he stuck the boat-hook into the ground.
"After which you are requested to light fires to frighten the wild
beasts. The woodbines are very wild at this time of the year."

"We shall have to light a fire anyhow for the tea, so that will be
very useful," said the thoughtful Dahlia.

"I myself," I said, "will swim out to the wreck for the musket and
the bag of nails."

"As you're going," said Myra, unpacking, "you might get the sugar as
well. We've forgotten it."

"Now you've spoilt my whole holiday. It was bad enough with the cake
last week, but this is far, far worse. I shall go into the wood and
eat berries."

"It's all right, here it is. Now you're happy again. I wish, if you
aren't too busy, you'd go into the wood and collect sticks for the
fire."

"I am unusually busy," I said, "and there is a long queue of clients
waiting for me in the ante-room. An extremely long queue--almost a
half-butt in fact."

I wandered into the wood alone. Archie and Dahlia had gone
arm-in-arm up the hill to look at a view, Simpson was helping Myra
with the hampers, and Thomas, the latest arrival from town, was
lying on his back, telling them what he alleged to be a good story
now going round London. Myra told it to me afterwards, and we agreed
that as a boy it had gone round the world several times first. Yet I
heard her laugh unaffectedly--what angels women are!

Ten minutes later I returned with my spoil, and laid it before them.

"A piece of brown bread from the bread-fruit tree, a piece of
indiarubber from the mango tree, a chutney from the banana grove,
and an omelet from the turtle run, I missed the chutney with my
first barrel, and brought it down rather luckily with the ricochet."

"But how funny; they all look just like sticks of wood."

"That is Nature's plan of protective colouring. In the same way
apricots have often escaped with their lives by sitting in the cream
and pretending to be poached eggs."

"The same instinct of self-preservation," added Archie, "has led
many a pill called Beauchamp to pronounce its name Cholmondeley."

Simpson begged to be allowed to show us how to light a fire, and we
hadn't the heart to refuse him. It was, he said, the way they lit
fires on the veldt (and other places where they wanted fires), and
it went out the first time because the wind must have changed round
after he had begun to lay the wood. He got the draught in the right
place the next time, and for a moment we thought we should have to
take to the boats; but the captain averted a panic, and the fire was
got under. Then the kettle was put on, and of all the boiled water I
have ever tasted this was the best.

"You know," said Archie, "in Simpson the nation has lost a wonderful
scoutmaster."

"Oh, Samuel," cried Myra, "tell us how you tracked the mules that
afternoon, and knew they were wounded because of the blood."

"Tell us about that time when you bribed the regimental anchovy of
Troop B to betray the secret password to you."

"I ignore you because you're jealous. May I have some more tea, Miss
Mannering?"

"Call me Myra, Scoutmaster Simpson of The Spectator troop, and you
shall."

"I blush for my unblushing sex," said Dahlia.

"I blush for my family," said Archie. "That a young girl of gentle
birth, nurtured in a peaceful English home, brought up in an
atmosphere of old-world courtesy, should so far forget herself as
to attempt to wheedle a promising young scoutmaster, who can light a
fire, practically speaking, backwards--this, I repeat, is too
much."

It was Thomas who changed the subject so abruptly.

"I suppose the tide comes as far as this?" he said.

"It does, captain."

"Then that would account for the boat having gone."

"That and Simpson's special knot," I said, keeping calm for the sake
of the women and children.

Archie jumped up with a shout. The boat was about twenty yards from
the shore, going very slowly upstream.

"It's very bad to bathe just after a heavy meal," I reminded him.

"I'm not sure that I'm going to, but I'm quite sure that one of us
will have to."

"Walk up the river with it," said Myra, "while Dahlia and I pack,
and the one who's first digested goes in."

We walked up. I felt that in my own case the process of assimilation
would be a lengthy one.






VI.--A LITTLE CRICKET FOR AN ENDING





We came back from a "Men Only" sail to find Myra bubbling over with
excitement.

"I've got some news for you," she said, "but I'm not going to tell
you till dinner. Be quick and change."

"Bother, she's going to get married," I murmured.

Myra gurgled and drove us off.

"Put on all your medals and orders, Thomas," she called up the
stairs; "and, Archie, it's a champagne night."

"I believe, old fellow," said Simpson, "she's married already."

Half an hour later we were all ready for the news.

"Just a moment, Myra," said Archie. "I'd better warn you that we're
expecting a good deal, and that if you don't live up to the
excitement you've created, you'll be stood in the corner for the
rest of dinner."

"She's quite safe," said Dahlia.

"Of course I am. Well, now I'm going to begin. This morning, about
eleven, I went and had a bathe, and I met another girl in the sea."

"Horribly crowded the sea is getting nowadays," commented Archie.

"And she began to talk about what a jolly day it was and so on, and
I gave her my card--I mean I said, 'I'm Myra Mannering.' And she
said, 'I'm sure you're keen on cricket.'"

"I like the way girls talk in the sea," said Archie. "So direct."

"What is there about our Myra," I asked, "that stamps her as a
cricketer, even when she's only got her head above water?"

"She'd seen me on land, silly. Well, we went on talking, and at last
she said, 'Will you play us at mixed cricket on Saturday?' And a big
wave came along and went inside me just as I was saying yes."

"Hooray! Myra, your health."

"We're only six, though," added Archie. "Didn't you swim up against
anybody else who looked like a cricketer and might play for us?"

"But we can easily pick up five people by Saturday," said Myra
confidently. "And oh, I do hope we're in form; we haven't played for
years."

. . . . . . .

We lost the toss, and Myra led her team out on to the field. The
last five places in the eleven had been filled with care: a
preparatory school-boy and his little sister (found by Dahlia on the
beach), Miss Debenham (found by Simpson on the road with a punctured
bicycle), Mrs Oakley (found by Archie at the station and
re-discovered by Myra in the Channel), and Sarah, a jolly girl of
sixteen (found by me and Thomas in the tobacconist's, where she was
buying The Sportsman).

"Where would you all like to field?" asked the captain.

"Let's stand round in groups, just at the start, and then see where
we're wanted. Who's going to bowl?"

"Me and Samuel. I wonder if I dare bowl over-hand."

"I'm going to," said Simpson.

"You can't, not with your left hand."

"Why not? Hirst does."

"Then I shan't field point," said Thomas with decision.

However, as it happened, it was short leg who received the first two
balls, beautiful swerving wides, while the next two were well caught
and returned by third man. Simpson's range being thus established,
he made a determined attack on the over proper with lobs, and
managed to wipe off half of it. Encouraged by this, he returned with
such success to overhand that the very next ball got into the
analysis, the batsman reaching out and hitting it over the hedge for
six. Two more range-finders followed before Simpson scored another
dot with a sneak; and then, at what should have been the last ball,
a tragedy occurred.

"Wide," said the umpire.

"But--but I was b-bowling UNDERHAND," stammered Simpson.

"Now you've nothing to fall back on," I pointed out.

Simpson considered the new situation. "Then you fellows can't mind
if I go on with overhand," he said joyfully, and he played his
twelfth.

It was the batsman's own fault. Like a true gentleman he went after
the ball, caught it up near point, and hit it hard in the direction
of cover. Sarah shot up a hand unconcernedly.

"One for six," said Simpson, and went over to Miss Debenham to
explain how he did it.

"He must come off," said Archie. "We have a reputation to keep up.
It's his left hand, of course, but we can't go round to all the
spectators and explain that he can really bowl quite decent long
hops with his right."

In the next over nothing much happened, except that Miss Debenham
missed a sitter. Subsequently Simpson caught her eye from another
part of the field, and explained telegraphically to her how she
should have drawn her hands in to receive the ball. The third over
was entrusted to Sarah.

"So far," said Dahlia, half an hour later, "the Rabbits have not
shone. Sarah is doing it all."

"Hang it, Dahlia, Thomas and I discovered the child. Give the credit
where it is due."

"Well, why don't you put my Bobby on, then? Boys are allowed to play
right-handed, you know."

So Bobby went on, and with Sarah's help finished off the innings.

"Jolly good rot," he said to Simpson, "you're having to bowl
left-handed."

"My dear Robert," I said, "Mr Simpson is a natural base-ball
pitcher, he has an acquired swerve at bandy, and he is a
lepidopterist of considerable charm. But he can't bowl with either
hand."

"Coo!" said Bobby.

The allies came out even more strongly when we went in to bat. I was
the only Rabbit who made ten, and my whole innings was played in an
atmosphere of suspicion very trying to a sensitive man. Mrs Oakley
was in when I took guard, and I played out the over with great care,
being morally bowled by every ball. At the end of it a horrible
thought occurred to me: I had been batting right-handed! Naturally I
changed round for my next ball. (Movements of surprise.)

"Hallo," said the wicket-keeper, "I thought you were left-handed;
why aren't you playing right?"

"No, I'm really right-handed," I said. "I played that way by mistake
just now. Sorry."

He grunted sceptically, and the bowler came up to have things
explained to her. The next ball I hit left-handed for six. (LOUD
MUTTERS.)

"Is he really right-handed?" the bowler asked Mrs Oakley.

"I don't know," she said, "I've never seen him before." (SENSATION.)

"I think, if you don't mind, we'd rather you played right-handed."

"Certainly." The next ball was a full pitch, and I took a
right-handed six. There was an awful hush. I looked round at the
field and prepared to run for it. I felt that they suspected me of
all the undiscovered crimes of the year.

"Look here," I said, nearly crying, "I'll play any way you
like--sideways, or upside down, or hanging on to the branch of a
tree, or--"

The atmosphere was too much for me. I trod on my wickets, burst into
tears, and bolted to the tent.

. . . . . . .

"Well," said Dahlia, "we won."

"Yes," we all agreed, "we won."

"Even if we didn't do much of it ourselves," Simpson pointed out,
"we had jolly good fun."

"We always have THAT," said Myra.






THE HOUSE-WARMING

I.--WORK FOR ALL





"Well," said Dahlia, "what do you think of it?"

I knocked the ashes out of my after-breakfast pipe, arranged the
cushions of my deck-chair, and let my eyes wander lazily over the
house and its surroundings. After a year of hotels and other
people's houses, Dahlia and Archie had come into their own.

"I've no complaints," I said happily.

A vision of white and gold appeared in the doorway and glided over
the lawn toward us--Myra with a jug.

"None at all," said Simpson, sitting up eagerly.

"But Thomas isn't quite satisfied with one of the bathrooms, I'm
afraid. I heard him saying something in the passage about it this
morning when I was inside."

"I asked if you'd gone to sleep in the bath," explained Thomas.

"I hadn't. It is practically impossible, Thomas, to go to sleep in a
cold bath."

"Except, perhaps, for a Civil Servant," said Blair.

"Exactly. Of the practice in the Admiralty Thomas can tell us later
on. For myself I was at the window looking at the beautiful view."

"Why can't you look at it from your own window instead of keeping
people out of the bathroom?" grunted Thomas.

"Because the view from my room is an entirely different one."

"There is no stint in this house," Dahlia pointed out.

"No," said Simpson, jumping up excitedly.

Myra put the jug of cider down in front of us.

"There!" she said. "Please count it, and see that I haven't drunk
any on the way."

"This is awfully nice of you, Myra. And a complete surprise to all
of us except Simpson. We shall probably be here again to-morrow
about the same time."

There was a long silence, broken only by the extremely jolly sound
of liquid falling from a height.

Just as it was coming to an end Archie appeared suddenly among us
and dropped on the grass by the side of Dahlia. Simpson looked
guiltily at the empty jug, and then leant down to his host.

"TO-MORROW!" he said in a stage whisper. "ABOUT THE SAME TIME."

"I doubt it," said Archie.

"I know it for a fact," protested Simpson.

"I'm afraid Myra and Samuel made an assignation for this morning,"
said Dahlia.

"There's nothing in it, really," said Myra. "He's only trifling with
me. He doesn't mean anything."

Simpson buried his confused head in his glass, and proceeded to
change the subject.

"We all like your house, Archie," he said.

"We do," I agreed, "and we think it's very nice of you to ask us
down to open it."

"It is rather," said Archie.

"We are determined, therefore, to do all we can to give the house a
homey appearance. I did what I could for the bathroom this morning.
I flatter myself that the taint of newness has now been dispelled."

"I was sure it was you," said Myra. "How do you get the water right
up the walls?"

"Easily. Further, Archie, if you want any suggestions as to how to
improve the place, our ideas are at your disposal."

"For instance," said Thomas, "where do we play cricket?"

"By the way, you fellows," announced Simpson, "I've given up playing
cricket."

We all looked at him in consternation.

"Do you mean you've given up BOWLING?" said Dahlia, with wide-open
eyes.

"Aren't you ever going to walk to the wickets again?" asked Blair.

"Aren't you ever going to walk back to the pavilion again?" asked
Archie.

"What will Montgomeryshire say?" wondered Myra in tones of awe.

"May I have your belt and your sand-shoes?" I begged.

"It's the cider," said Thomas. "I knew he was overdoing it."

Simpson fixed his glasses firmly on his nose and looked round at us
benignly.

"I've given it up for golf," he observed.

"Traitor," said everyone.

"And the Triangular Tournament arranged for, and everything," added
Myra.

"You could make a jolly little course round here," went on the
infatuated victim. "If you like, Archie, I'll--"

Archie stood up and made a speech.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "at 11.30 to-morrow precisely I
invite you to the paddock beyond the kitchen-garden."

"Myra and I have an appointment," put in Simpson hastily.

"A net will be erected," Archie went on, ignoring him, "and Mr
Simpson will take his stand therein, while we all bowl at him--or,
if any prefer it, at the wicket--for five minutes. He will then bowl
at us for an hour, after which he will have another hour's smart
fielding practice. If he is still alive and still talks about golf,
why then, I won't say but what he mightn't be allowed to plan out a
little course--or, at any rate, to do a little preliminary weeding."

"Good man," said Simpson.

"And if anybody else thinks he has given up cricket for ludo or
croquet or oranges and lemons, then he can devote himself to
planning out a little course for that too--or anyhow to removing a
few plantains in preparation for it. In fact, ladies and gentlemen,
all I want is for you to make yourselves as happy and as useful as
you can."

"It's what you're here for," said Dahlia.






II.--A GALA PERFORMANCE





THE sun came into my room early next morning and woke me up. It was
followed immediately by a large blue-bottle which settled down to
play with me. We adopted the usual formation, the blue-bottle
keeping mostly to the back of the court whilst I waited at the net
for a kill. After two sets I decided to change my tactics. I looked
up at the ceiling and pretended I wasn't playing. The blue-bottle
settled on my nose and walked up my forehead. "Heavens!" I cried,
clasping my hand suddenly to my brow, "I've forgotten my
toothbrush!" This took it completely by surprise, and I removed its
corpse into the candlestick.

Then Simpson came in with a golf club in his hand.

"Great Scott," he shouted, "you're not still in bed?"

"I am not. This is telepathic suggestion. You think I'm in bed; I
appear to be in bed; in reality there is no bed here. Do go away--I
haven't had a wink of sleep yet."

"But, man, look at the lovely morning!"

"Simpson," I said sternly, rolling up the sleeves of my pyjamas with
great deliberation, "I have had one visitor already to-day. His
corpse is now in the candlestick. It is an omen, Simpson."

"I thought you'd like to come outside with me, and I'd show you my
swing."

"Yes, yes, I shall like to see that, but AFTER breakfast, Simpson. I
suppose one of the gardeners put it up for you? You must show me
your box of soldiers and your tricycle horse, too. But run away now,
there's a good boy."

"My golf-swing, idiot."

I sat up in bed and stared at him in sheer amazement. For a long
time words wouldn't come to me. Simpson backed nervously to the
door.

"I saw the Coronation," I said at last, and I dropped back on my
pillow and went to sleep.

. . . . . .

"I feel very important," said Archie, coming on to the lawn where
Myra and I were playing a quiet game of bowls with the croquet
balls. "I've been paying the wages."

"Archie and I do hate it so," said Dahlia. "I'm luckier, because I
only pay mine once a month."

"It would be much nicer if they did it for love," said Archie, "and
just accepted a tie-pin occasionally. I never know what to say when
I hand a man eighteen-and-six."

"Here's eighteen-and-six," I suggested, "and don't bite the
half-sovereign, because it may be bad."

"You should shake his hand," said Myra, "and say, 'Thank you very
much for the azaleas.'"

"Or you might wrap the money up in paper and leave it for him in one
of the beds."

"And then you'd know whether he had made it properly."

"Well, you're all very helpful," said Archie. "Thank you extremely.
Where are the others? It's a pity that they should be left out of
this."

"Simpson disappeared after breakfast with his golf-clubs. He is in
high dudgeon--which is the surname of a small fish--because no one
wanted to see his swing."

"Oh, but I do," said Dahlia eagerly. "Where is he?"

"We will track him down," announced Archie. "I will go to the
stables, unchain the truffle-hounds, and show them one of his
reversible cuffs."

We found Simpson in the pig-sty. The third hole, as he was planning
it out for Archie, necessitated the carrying of the farm buildings,
which he described as a natural hazard. Unfortunately, his ball had
fallen into a casual pig-sty. It had not yet been decided whether
the ball could be picked out without penalty--the more immediate
need being to find the blessed thing. So Simpson was in the pig-sty,
searching.

"If you're looking for the old sow," I said, "there she is, just
behind you."

"What's the local rule about loose pigs blown on to the course?"
asked Archie.

"Oh, you fellows, there you are," said Simpson rapidly. "I'm getting
on first-rate. This is the third hole, Archie. It will be rather
good, I think; the green is just the other side of the pond. I can
make a very sporting little course."

"We've come to see your swing, Samuel," said Myra. "Can you do it in
there, or is it too crowded?"

"I'll come out. This ball's lost, I'm afraid."

"One of the little pigs will eat it," complained Archie, "and we
shall have indiarubber crackling."

Simpson came out and proceeded to give his display. Fortunately the
weather kept fine, the conditions indeed being all that could be
desired. The sun shone brightly, and there was a slight breeze from
the south which tempered the heat and in no way militated against
the general enjoyment. The performance was divided into two parts.
The first part consisted of Mr Simpson's swing WITHOUT the ball, the
second part being devoted to Mr Simpson's swing WITH the ball.

"This is my swing," said Simpson.

He settled himself ostentatiously into his stance and placed his
club-head stiffly on the ground three feet away from him.

"Middle," said Archie.

Simpson frowned and began to waggle his club. He waggled it
carefully a dozen times.

"It's a very nice swing," said Myra at the end of the ninth
movement, "but isn't it rather short?"

Simpson said nothing, but drew his club slowly and jerkily back,
twisting his body and keeping his eye fixed on an imaginary ball
until the back of his neck hid it from sight.

"You can see it better round this side now," suggested Archie.

"He'll split if he goes on," said Thomas anxiously.

"Watch this," I warned Myra. "He's going to pick a pin out of the
back of his calf with his teeth."

Then Simpson let himself go, finishing up in a very creditable knot
indeed.

"That's quite good," said Dahlia. "Does it do as well when there's a
ball?"

"Well, I miss it sometimes, of course."

"We all do that," said Thomas.

Thus encouraged, Simpson put down a ball and began to address it. It
was apparent at once that the last address had been only his
telegraphic one; this was the genuine affair. After what seemed to
be four or five minutes there was a general feeling that some
apology was necessary. Simpson recognized this himself.

"I'm a little nervous," he said.

"Not so nervous as the pigs are," said Archie.

Simpson finished his address and got on to his swing. He swung. He
hit the ball. The ball, which seemed to have too much left-hand side
on it, whizzed off and disappeared into the pond. It sank....

Luckily the weather had held up till the last.

"Well, well," said Archie, "it's time for lunch. We have had a
riotous morning. Let's all take it easy this afternoon."






III.--UNEXPECTED GUESTS





Sometimes I do a little work in the morning. Doctors are agreed now
that an occasional spell of work in the morning doesn't do me any
harm. My announcement at breakfast that this was one of the mornings
was greeted with a surprised enthusiasm which was most flattering.
Archie offered me his own room where he does his thinking; Simpson
offered me a nib; and Dahlia promised me a quiet time till lunch. I
thanked them all and settled down to work.

But Dahlia didn't keep her promise. My first hour was peaceful, but
after that I had inquiries by every post. Blair looked in to know
where Myra was; Archie asked if I'd seen Dahlia anywhere; and when
finally Thomas's head appeared in the doorway I decided that I had
had enough of it.

"Oh, I say," began Thomas, "will you come and--but I suppose you're
busy."

"Not too busy," I said, "to spare a word or two for an old friend,"
and I picked up the dictionary to throw at him. But he was gone
before I could take aim.

"This is the end," I said to myself, and after five minutes more
decided to give up work and seek refreshment and congenial
conversation. To my surprise I found neither. Every room seemed to
be empty, the tennis lawn was deserted, and Archie's cricket-bag and
Simpson's golf-clubs rested peacefully in the hall. Something was
going on. I went back to my work and decided to have the secret out
at lunch.

"Now then," I said, when that blessed hour arrived, "tell me about
it. You've deserted me all morning, but I'm not going to be left
out."

"It's your fault for shutting yourself up."

"Duty," I said, slapping my chest--"duty," and I knocked my glass
over with an elbow. "Oh, Dahlia, I'm horribly sorry. May I go and
stand in the corner?"

"Let's talk very fast and pretend we didn't notice it," said Myra,
helping me to mop. "Go on, Archie."

"Well, it's like this," said Archie. "A little while ago the Vicar
called here."

"I don't see that that's any reason for keeping me in the
background. I have met clergymen before and I know what to say to
them."

"When I say a little while ago I mean about three weeks. We'd have
asked you down for the night if we'd known you were so keen on
clergymen. Well, as the result of that unfortunate visit, the school
treat takes place here this afternoon, and lorblessme if I hadn't
forgotten all about it till this morning."

"You'll have to help, please," said Dahlia.

"Only don't spill anything," said Thomas.

They have a poor sense of humour in the Admiralty.

. . . . . . .

I took a baby in each hand and wandered off to look for bees. Their
idea, not mine.

"The best bees are round here," I said, and I led them along to the
front of the house. On the lawn was Myra, surrounded by about eight
babies.

"Two more for your collection," I announced. "Very fine specimens.
The word with them is bees."

"Aren't they darlings? Sit down, babies, and the pretty gentleman
will tell us all a story."

"Meaning me?" I asked in surprise. Myra looked beseechingly at me as
she arranged the children all round her. I sat down near them and
tried to think.

"Once upon a time," I said, "there was a--a--there was a--was a--a
bee."

Myra nodded approvingly. She seemed to like the story so far. I
didn't. The great dearth of adventures that could happen to a bee
was revealed to me in a flash. I saw that I had been hasty.

"At least," I went on, "he thought he was a bee, but as he grew up
his friends felt that he was not really a bee at all, but a dear
little rabbit. His fur was too long for a bee."

Myra shook her head at me and frowned. My story was getting
over-subtle for the infant mind. I determined to straighten it out
finally.

"However," I added, "the old name stuck to him, and they all called
him a bee. Now then I can get on. Where was I?"

But at this moment my story was interrupted.

"Come here," shouted Archie from the distance. "You're wanted."

"I'm sorry," I said, getting up quickly. "Will you finish the story
for me? You'd better leave out the part where he stings the Shah of
Persia. That's too exciting. Good-bye." And I hurried after Archie.

"Help Simpson with some of these races," said Archie. "He's getting
himself into the dickens of a mess."

Simpson had started two races simultaneously; hence the trouble. In
one of them the bigger boys had to race to a sack containing their
boots, rescue their own pair, put them on, and race back to the
starting-point. Good! In the other the smaller boys, each armed with
a paper containing a problem in arithmetic, had to run to their
sisters, wait for the problem to be solved, and then run back with
the answer. Excellent! Simpson at his most inventive. Unfortunately,
when the bootless boys arrived at the turning post, they found
nothing but a small problem in arithmetic awaiting them, while on
the adjoining stretch of grass young mathematicians were trying,
with the help of their sisters, to get into two pairs of boots at
once.

"Hallo, there you are," said Simpson. "Do help me; I shall be mobbed
in a moment. It's the mothers. They think the whole thing is a
scheme for stealing their children's boots. Can't you start a race
for them?"

"You never ought to go about without somebody. Where's Thomas?"

"He's playing rounders. He scored a rounder by himself just now from
an overthrow, but we shall hear about it at dinner. Look here,
there's a game called 'Twos and Threes.' Couldn't you start the
mothers at that? You stand in twos, and whenever anyone stands in
front of the two then the person behind the two runs away."

"Are you sure?"

"What do you mean?" said Simpson.

"It sounds too exciting to be true. I can't believe it."

"Go on, there's a good chap. They'll know how to play all right."

"Oh, very well. Do they take their boots off first or not?"

Twos and Threes was a great success.

I found that I had quite a FLAIR for the game. I seemed to take to
it naturally.

By the time our match was finished Simpson's little footwear trouble
was over and he was organizing a grand three-legged race.

"I think they are all enjoying it," said Dahlia.

"They love it," I said; "Thomas is perfectly happy making rounders."

"But I meant the children. Don't you think they love it too? The
babies seem so happy with Myra. I suppose she's telling them
stories."

"I think so. She's got rather a good one about a bee. Oh, yes,
they're happy enough with her."

"I hope they all had enough to eat at tea."

"Allowing for a little natural shyness I think they did well. And I
didn't spill anything. Altogether it has been rather a success."

Dahlia stood looking down at the children, young and old, playing in
the field beneath her, and gave a sigh of happiness.

"Now," she said, "I feel the house is REALLY warm."






IV.--A WORD IN SEASON





"Archie," said Blair, "what's that big empty room above the
billiard-room for?"

"That," said Archie, "is where we hide the corpses of our guests. I
sleep with the key under my pillow."

"This is rather sudden," I said. "I'm not at all sure that I should
have come if I had known that."

"Don't frighten them, dear; tell them the truth."

"Well, the truth is," said Archie, "that there was some idea of a
little play-acting there occasionally. Hence the curtain-rod, the
emergency exit and other devices."

"Then why haven't we done any? We came down here to open your house
for you, and then you go and lock up the most important room of all,
and sleep with the key under your pillow."

"It's too hot. But we'll do a little charade to-night if you
like--just to air the place."

"Hooray," said Myra, "I know a lovely word."

Myra's little word was in two syllables and required three
performers. Archie and I were kindly included in her company.
Simpson threatened to follow with something immense and archaic, and
Thomas also had something rather good up his sleeve, but I am not
going to bother you with these. One word will be enough for you.




FIRST SCENE



"Oh, good-morning," said Myra. She had added a hat and a sunshade to
her evening-frock, and was supported by me in a gentleman's
lounge-coat and boater for Henley wear.

"Good-morning, mum," said Archie, hitching up his apron and
spreading his hands on the table in front of him.

"I just want this ribbon matched, please."

"Certainly, mum. Won't your little boy--I beg pardon, the old
gentleman, take a seat too? What colour did you want the ribbon,
mum?"


"The same colour as this," I said. "Idiot."

"Your grandfather is in a bit of a draught, I'm afraid, mum. It
always stimulates the flow of language. My grandfather was just the
same. I'm afraid, mum, we haven't any ribbon as you might say the
SAME colour as this."

"If it's very near it will do."

"Now what colour would you call that?" wondered Archie, with his
head on one side. "Kind of puce-like, I should put it at.
Puce-magenta, as we say in the trade. No; we're right out of puce-
magenta."

"Show the lady what you have got," I said sternly.

"Well, mum, I'm right out of ribbon, altogether. The fact is I'm
more of an ironmonger really. The draper's is just the other side of
the road. You wouldn't like a garden-roller now? I can do you a nice
garden-roller for two pound five, and that's simply giving it away."

"Oh, shall we have a nice roller?" said Myra eagerly.

"I'm not going to carry it home," I said.

"That's all right, sir. My little lad will take it up on his
bicycle. Two pounds five, mum, and sixpence for the mouse-trap the
gentleman's been sitting on. Say three pounds."

Myra took out her purse.




SECOND SCENE



We were back in our ordinary clothes.

"I wonder if they guessed that," said Archie.

"It was very easy," said Myra. "I should have thought they'd have
seen it at once."

"But of course they're not a very clever lot," I explained. "That
fellow with the spectacles--"

"Simpson his name is," said Archie. "I know him well. He's a
professional golfer."

"Well, he LOOKS learned enough. I expect he knows all right. But the
others--"

"Do you think they knew that we were supposed to be in a shop?"

"Surely! Why, I should think even--What's that man's name over
there? No; that one next to the pretty lady--ah, yes, Thomas. Is
that Thomas, the wonderful cueist, by the way? Really! Well, I
should think even Thomas guessed that much."

"Why not do it over again to make sure?"

"Oh no, it was perfectly obvious. Let's get on to the final scene."

"I'm afraid that will give it away rather," said Myra.

"I'm afraid so," agreed Archie.

THIRD SCENE

We sat on camp-stools and looked up at the ceiling with our mouths
open.

"'E's late," said Archie.

"I don't believe 'e's coming, and I don't mind 'oo 'ears me sye so,"
said Myra. "So there!"

"'Ot work," I said, wiping my brow.

"Nar, not up there. Not 'ot. Nice and breezy like."

"But 'e's nearer the sun than wot we are, ain't 'e?"

"Ah, but 'e's not 'ot. Not up there."

"'Ere, there 'e is," cried Myra, jumping up excitedly. "Over there.
'Ow naow, it's a bird. I declare I quite thought it was 'im. Silly
of me."

There was silence for a little, and then Archie took a sandwich out
of his pocket.

"Wunner wot they'll invent next," he said, and munched stolidly.

. . . . . . .

"Well done," said Dahlia.

"Thomas and I have been trying to guess," said Simpson, "but the
strain is terrific. My first idea was 'codfish,' but I suppose
that's wrong. It's either 'silkworm' or 'wardrobe.' Thomas suggests
'mangel-wurzel.' He says he never saw anybody who had so much the
whole air of a wurzel as Archie. The indefinable elan of the wurzel
was there."

"Can't you really guess?" said Myra eagerly.

"I don't know whether I want you to or not. Oh no, I don't want you
to."

"Then I withdraw 'mangel-wurzel,'" said Simpson gallantly.

"I think I can guess," said Blair. "It's--"

"Whisper it," said Simpson. "I'm never going to know."

Blair whispered it.

"Yes," said Myra disappointedly, "that's it."






V.--UNINVITED GUESTS





"Nine," said Archie, separating his latest victim from the marmalade
spoon and dropping it into the hot water. "This is going to be a
sanguinary day. With a pretty late cut into the peach jelly Mr A.
Mannering reached double figures. Ten. Battles are being won while
Thomas still sleeps. Any advance on ten?"

"Does that include MY wasp?" asked Myra.

"There are only ten here," said Archie, looking into the basin, "and
they're all mine. I remember them perfectly. What was yours like?"

"Well, I didn't exactly kill him. I smacked him with a teaspoon and
asked him to go away. And he went on to your marmalade, so I expect
you thought he was yours. But it was really mine, and I don't think
it's very sporting of you to kill another person's wasp."

"Have one of mine," I said, pushing my plate across. "Have
Bernard--he's sitting on the green-gage."

"I don't really want to kill anything. I killed a rabbit once and I
wished I hadn't."

"I nearly killed a rabbit once, and I wished I had."

"Great sportsmen at a glance," said Archie. "Tell us about it before
it goes into your reminiscences."

"It was a fierce affair while it lasted. The rabbit was sitting down
and I was standing up, so that I rather had the advantage of him at
the start. I waited till he seemed to be asleep and then fired."

"And missed him?"

"Y-yes. He heard the report, though. I mean, you mustn't think he
ignored me altogether. I moved him. He got up and went away all
right."

"A very lucky escape for you," said Archie. "I once knew a man who
was gored to death by an angry rabbit." He slashed in the air with
his napkin. "Fifteen. Dahlia, let's have breakfast indoors
to-morrow. This is very jolly but it's just as hot, and it doesn't
get Thomas up any earlier, as we hoped."

All that day we grilled in the heat. Myra and I started a game of
croquet in the morning, but after one shot each we agreed to abandon
it as a draw--slightly in my favour, because I had given her the
chipped mallet. And in the afternoon, Thomas and Simpson made a
great effort to get up enthusiasm for lawn-tennis. Each of them
returned the other's service into the net until the score stood at
eight all, at which point they suddenly realized that nothing but
the violent death of one of the competitors would ever end the
match. They went on to ten all to make sure, and then retired to the
lemonade and wasp jug, Simpson missing a couple of dead bodies by
inches only. And after dinner it was hotter than ever.

"The heat in my room," announced Archie, "breaks all records. The
thermometer says a hundred and fifty, the barometer says very dry,
we've had twenty-five hours' sunshine, and there's not a drop of
rain recorded in the soap-dish. Are we going to take this lying
down?"

"No," said Thomas, "let's sleep out to-night."

"What do you say, Dahlia?"

"It's a good idea. You can all sleep on the croquet lawn, and Myra
and I will take the tennis lawn."

"Hadn't you better have the croquet lawn? Thomas walks in his sleep,
and we don't want to have him going through hoops all night."

"You'll have to bring down your own mattresses," went on Dahlia,
"and you've not got to walk about the garden in the early morning,
at least not until Myra and I are up, and if you're going to fall
over croquet hoops you mustn't make a noise. That's all the rules, I
think."

"I'm glad we've got the tennis lawn," said Myra; "it's much
smoother. Do you prefer the right-hand court, dear, or the
left-hand?"

"We shall be very close to Nature to-night," said Archie. "Now we
shall know whether it really is the nightjar, or Simpson gargling."

We were very close to Nature that night, but in the early morning
still closer. I was awakened by the noise of Simpson talking, as I
hoped, in his sleep. However, it appeared that he was awake and
quite conscious of the things he was saying.

"I can't help it," he explained to Archie, who had given expression
to the general opinion about it; "these bally wasps are all over
me."

"It's your own fault," said Archie. "Why do you egg them on? I don't
have wasps all over ME."

"Conf--There! I've been stung."

"You've been what?"

"Stung."

"Stung. Where?"

"In the neck."

"In the neck?" Archie turned over to me. "Simpson," he said, "has
been stung in the neck. Tell Thomas."

I woke up Thomas. "Simpson," I said, "has been stung in the neck."

"Good," said Thomas, and went to sleep again.

"We've told Thomas," said Archie. "Now, are you satisfied?"

"Get away, you brute," shouted Simpson, suddenly, and dived under
the sheet.

Archie and I lay back and shouted with laughter.

"It's really very silly of him," said Archie, "because--go
away--because everybody knows that--get away, you ass--that wasps
aren't dangerous unless--confound you--unless--I say, isn't it time
we got up?"

I came up from under my sheet and looked at my watch. "Four-thirty,"
I said, dodged a wasp, and went back again.

"We must wait till five-thirty," said Archie. "Simpson was quite
right; he WAS stung, after all. I'll tell him so."

He leant out of bed to tell him so, and then thought better of it
and retired beneath the sheets.

At five-thirty a gallant little party made its way to the house, its
mattresses over its shoulders.

"Gently," said Archie, as we came in sight of the tennis lawn.

We went very gently. There were only wasps on the tennis lawn, but
one does not want to disturb the little fellows.






VI.--A FINAL ARRANGEMENT





"Seeing that this is our last day together," began Archie--

"Oh, DON'T," said Myra. "I can't bear it."

"Seeing that this is our first day together, we might have a little
tournament of some kind, followed by a small distribution of prizes.
What do you think, Dahlia?"

"Well, I daresay I can find something."

"Any old thing that we don't want will do; nothing showy or
expensive. Victory is its own reward."

"Yes, but if there IS a pot of home-made marmalade going with it," I
said, "so much the better."

"Dahlia, earmark the marmalade for this gentleman. Now, what's it
going to be? Golf, Simpson?"

"Why, of course," said Myra. "Hasn't he been getting it ready for
days?"

"That will give him an unfair advantage," I pointed out. "He knows
every single brick on the greens."

"Oh, I say, there aren't any greens yet," protested Simpson.
"That'll take a year or two. But I've marked out white circles and
you have to get inside them."

"I saw him doing that," said Archie. "I was afraid he expected us to
play prisoners' base with him."

The game fixed upon, we proceeded to draw for partners.

"You'll have to play with me, Archie," said Dahlia, "because I'm no
good at all."

"I shall have to play with Myra," I said, "because I'm no good at
all."

"Oh, I'm very good," said Myra.

"That looks as though I should have to play with--" "Simpson,"
"Thomas," said Thomas and Simpson together.

"You're all giving me a lot of trouble," said Archie, putting his
pencil back in his pocket. "I've just written your names out neatly
on little bits of paper, and now they're all wasted. You'll have to
stick them on yourselves so that the spectators will know who you
are as you whizz past." He handed his bits of paper round and went
in for his clubs.

It was a stroke competition, and each couple went round by itself.
Myra and I started last.

"Now we've got to win this," she said, "because we shan't play
together again for a long time."

"That's a nice cheery thing to say to a person just when he's
driving. Now I shall have to address the ball all over again."

"Oh, NO!"

I addressed and despatched the ball. It struck a wall about eighty
yards away and dropped. When we got there we found to our disgust
that it was nestling at the very foot. Myra looked at it doubtfully.

"Can't you make it climb the wall?" I asked.

"We shall have to go back, I'm afraid. We can pretend we left our
pocket-handkerchiefs behind."

She chipped it back about twenty yards, and I sent it on again about
a hundred. Unfortunately it landed in a rut. However Myra got it out
with great resource, and I was lucky enough with my next to place it
inside the magic circle.

"Five," I said. "You know, I don't think you're helping me much. All
you did that hole was to go twenty-one yards in the wrong
direction."

Myra smiled cheerfully at me and did the next hole in one. "Well
played, partner," she said, as he put her club back in its bag.

"Oh, at the short holes I don't deny that you're useful. Where do we
go now?"

"Over the barn. This is the long hole."

I got in an excellent drive, but unfortunately it didn't aviate
quick enough. While the intrepid spectators were still holding their
breath, there was an ominous crash.

"Did you say IN the barn or OVER the barn?" I asked, as we hurried
on to find the damage.

"We do play an exciting game, don't we?" said Myra.

We got into the barn and found the ball and a little glass on the
floor.

"What a very small hole it made," said Myra, pointing to the broken
pane. "What shall I do?"

"You'll have to go back through the hole. It's an awkward little
shot."

"I don't think I could."

"No, it IS rather a difficult stroke. You want to stand well behind
the ball, and--however, there may be a local rule about it."

"I don't think there is or I should have heard it. Samuel's been
telling me EVERYTHING lately."

"Then there's only one thing for it." I pointed to the window at the
other end of the barn. "Go straight on."

Myra gave a little gurgle of delight.

"But we shall have to save up our pocket-money," she said.

Her ball hit the wood in between two panes and bounded back. My next
shot was just above the glass. Myra took a niblick and got the ball
back into the middle of the floor.

"It's simply sickening that we can't break a window when we're
really trying to. I should have thought that anyone could have
broken a window. Now then."

"Oh, good SHOT!" cried Myra above the crash. We hurried out and did
the hole in nine.

At lunch, having completed eighteen holes out of the thirty-six, we
were seven strokes behind the leaders, Simpson and Thomas. Simpson,
according to Thomas, had been playing like a book. Golf Faults
Analysed--that book, I should think.

"But I expect he'll go to pieces in the afternoon," said Thomas. He
turned to a servant and added, "Mr Simpson won't have anything
more."

We started our second round brilliantly; continued (after an unusual
incident on the fifth tee) brilliantly; and ended up brilliantly. At
the last tee we had played a hundred and thirty-seven. Myra got in a
beautiful drive to within fifty yards of the circle.

"How many?" said the others, coming up excitedly.

"This is terrible," said Myra, putting her hand to her heart. "A
hundred and--shall I tell them?--a--a--Oh,
dear--a--hundredandthirtyeight."

"Golly," said Thomas, "you've got one for it. We did a hundred and
forty."

"We did a hundred and forty-two," said Archie. "Close play at the
Oval."

"Oh," said Myra to me, "DO be careful. Oh, but no," she went on
quickly, "I don't mind a bit really if we lose. It's only a game.
Besides, we--"

"You forget the little pot of home-made marmalade," I said
reproachfully. "Dahlia, what ARE the prizes? Because it's just
possible that Myra might like the second one better than the first.
In that case I should miss this."

"Go on," whispered Myra.

I went on. There was a moment's silence--and then a deep sigh from
Myra.

"How about it?" I said calmly.

Loud applause.

"Well," said Dahlia, "you and Myra make a very good couple. I
suppose I must find a prize for you."

"It doesn't really matter," said Myra breathlessly, "because on the
fifth tee we--we arranged about the prizes."

"We arranged to give each other one," I said, smiling at Dahlia.

Dahlia looked very hard at us.

"You DON'T mean--?"

Myra laughed happily.

"Oh," she said, "but that's just what we do."






AT PLAY

TEN AND EIGHT





The only event of importance last week was my victory over Henry by
ten and eight. If you don't want to hear about that, then I shall
have to pass on to you a few facts about his motor bicycle. You'd
rather have the other? I thought so.

The difference between Henry and me is that he is what I should call
a good golfer, and I am what everybody else calls a bad golfer. In
consequence of this he insults me with offers of bisques.

"I'll have ten this time," I said, as we walked to the tee.

"Better have twelve. I beat you with eleven yesterday."

"Thank you," I said haughtily, "I will have ten." It is true that he
beat me last time, but then owing to bad management on my part I had
nine bisques left at the moment of defeat simply eating their heads
off.

Henry teed up and drove a "Pink Spot" out of sight. Henry swears by
the "Pink Spot" if there is anything of a wind. I use either a "Quo
Vadis," which is splendid for going out of bounds, or an "Ostrich,"
which has a wonderful way of burying itself in the sand. I followed
him to the green at my leisure.

"Five," said Henry.

"Seven," said I; "and if I take three bisques it's my hole."

"You must only take one at a time," protested Henry.

"Why? There's nothing in Wisden or Baedeker about it. Besides, I
will only take one at a time if it makes it easier for you. I take
one and that brings me down to six, and then another one and that
brings me down to five, and then another one and that brings me down
to four. There! And as you did the hole in five, I win."

"Well, of course, if you like to waste them all at the start--"

"I'm not wasting them, I'm creating a moral effect. Behold, I have
won the first hole; let us be photographed together."

Henry went to the next tee slightly ruffled and topped his ball into
the road. I had kept mine well this side of it and won in four to
five.

"I shan't take any bisques here," I said. "Two up."

At the third tee my "Quo Vadis" darted off suddenly to the left and
tried to climb the hill. I headed it off and gave it a nasty dent
from behind when it wasn't looking, and with my next shot started it
rolling down the mountains with ever-increasing velocity. Not until
it was within a foot of the pin did it condescend to stop. Henry,
who had reached the green with his drive and had taken one putt too
many, halved the hole in four. I took a bisque and was three up.

The fourth hole was prettily played by both of us, and with two
bisques I had it absolutely stiff. Unnerved by this Henry went all
out at the fifth and tried to carry the stream in two. Unfortunately
(I mean unfortunately for him) the stream was six inches too broad
in the particular place at which he tried to carry it. My own view
is that he should either have chosen another place or else have got
a narrower stream from somewhere. As it was I won in an uneventful
six, and took with a bisque the short hole which followed.

"Six up," I pointed out to Henry, "and three bisques left. They're
jolly little things, bisques, but you want to use them quickly.
Bisque dat qui cito dat. Doesn't the sea look ripping to-day?"

"Go on," growled Henry.

"I once did a two at this hole," I said as I teed my ball. "If I did
a two now and took a bisque, you'd have to do it in nothing in order
to win. A solemn thought."

At this hole you have to drive over a chasm in the cliffs. My ball
made a bee line for the beach, bounced on a rock, and disappeared
into a cave. Henry's "Pink Spot," which really seemed to have a
chance of winning a hole at last, found the wind too much for it and
followed me below.

"I'm in this cave," I said when we had found Henry's ball; and with
a lighted match in one hand and a niblick in the other I went in and
tried to persuade the "Ostrich" to come out. My eighth argument was
too much for it, and we re-appeared in the daylight together.

"How many?" I asked Henry.

"Six," he said, as he hit the top of the cliff once more, and shot
back on to the beach.

I left him and chivied my ball round to where the cliffs are lowest;
then I got it gradually on to a little mound of sand (very delicate
work this), took a terrific swing and fairly heaved it on to the
grass. Two more strokes put me on to the green in twenty. I lit a
pipe and waited for Henry to finish his game of rackets.

"I've played twenty-five," he shouted.

"Then you'll want some of my bisques," I said. "I can lend you three
till Monday."

Henry had one more rally and then picked his ball up. I had won
seven holes and I had three bisques with which to win the match. I
was a little doubtful if I could do this, but Henry settled the
question by misjudging yet again the breadth of the stream. What is
experience if it teaches us nothing? Henry must really try to
enlarge his mind about rivers.

"Dormy nine," I said at the tenth tee, "and no bisques left."

"Thank Heaven for that," sighed Henry.

"But I have only to halve one hole out of nine," I pointed out.
"Technically I am on what is known as velvet."

"Oh, shut up and drive."

I am a bad golfer, but even bad golfers do holes in bogey now and
then. In the ordinary way I was pretty certain to halve one of the
nine holes with Henry, and so win the match. Both the eleventh and
the seventeenth, for instance, are favourites of mine. Had I halved
one of those, he would have admitted cheerfully that I had played
good golf and beaten him fairly. But as things happened--

What happened, put quite briefly, was this. Bogey for the tenth is
four. I hooked my drive off the tee and down a little gully to the
left, put a good iron shot into a bunker on the right, and than ran
down a hundred-yard putt with a niblick for a three. One of those
difficult down-hill putts.

"Luck!" said Henry, as soon as he could speak.

"I've been missing those lately," I said.

"Your match," said Henry; "I can't play against luck like that."

It was true that he had given me ten bisques, but, on the other
hand, I could have given him a dozen at the seventh and still have
beaten him.

However, I was too magnanimous to point that out. All I said was,
"Ten and eight."

And then I added thoughtfully, "I don't think I've ever won by more
than that."






PAT BALL





"You'll play tennis?" said my hostess absently. "That's right. Let
me introduce you to Miss--er--urn."

"Oh, we've met before," smiled Miss--I've forgotten the name again
now.

"Thank you," I said gratefully. I thought it was extremely nice of
her to remember me. Probably I had spilt lemonade over her at a
dance, and in some way the incident had fixed itself in her mind. We
do these little things, you know, and think nothing of them at the
moment, but all the time--

"Smooth," said a voice.

I looked up and found that a pair of opponents had mysteriously
appeared, and that my partner was leading the way on to the court.

"I'll take the right-hand side, if you don't mind," she announced.
"Oh, and what about apologizing?" she went on. "Shall we do it after
every stroke, or at the end of each game, or when we say good-bye,
or never? I get so tired of saying 'sorry.'"

"Oh, but we shan't want to apologize; I'm sure we're going to get on
beautifully together."

"I suppose you've played a lot this summer?"

"No, not at all yet, but I'm feeling rather strong, and I've got a
new racket. One way and another, I expect to play a very powerful
game."

Our male opponent served. He had what I should call a nasty swift
service. The first ball rose very suddenly and took my partner on
the side of the head. ("Sorry," she apologized. "It's all right," I
said magnanimously.) I returned the next into the net; the third
clean bowled my partner; and off the last I was caught in the slips.
(ONE, LOVE.)

"Will you serve?" said Miss--I wish I could remember her surname.
Her Christian name was Hope or Charity or something like that; I
know, when I heard it, I thought it was just as well. If I might
call her Miss Hope for this once? Thank you.

"Will you serve?" said Miss Hope.

In the right-hand court I use the American service, which means that
I never know till the last moment which side of the racket is going
to hit the ball. On this occasion it was a dead heat--that is to
say, I got it in between with the wood; and the ball sailed away
over beds and beds of the most beautiful flowers.

"Oh, is THAT the American service?" said Miss Hope, much interested.

"South American," I explained. "Down in Peru they never use anything
else."

In the left-hand court I employ the ordinary Hampstead Smash into
the bottom of the net. After four Hampstead Smashes and four
Peruvian Teasers (LOVE, TWO) I felt that another explanation was
called for.

"I've got a new racket I've never used before," I said. "My old one
is being pressed; it went to the shop yesterday to have the creases
taken out. Don't you find that with a new racket you--er--exactly."

In the third game we not only got the ball over but kept it between
the white lines on several occasions--though not so often as our
opponents (THREE, LOVE); and in the fourth game Miss Hope served
gentle lobs, while I, at her request, stood close up to the net and
defended myself with my racket. I warded off the first two shots
amidst applause (THIRTY, LOVE), and dodged the next three (THIRTY,
FORTY), but the last one was too quick for me and won the coco-nut
with some ease. (GAME. LOVE, FOUR.)

"It's all right, thanks," I said to my partner; "it really doesn't
hurt a bit. Now then, let's buck up and play a simply dashing game."

Miss Hope excelled herself in that fifth game, but I was still
unable to find a length. To be more accurate, I was unable to find a
shortness--my long game was admirably strong and lofty.

"Are you musical?" said my partner at the end of it. (FIVE, LOVE.)
She had been very talkative all through.

"Come, come," I said impatiently, "you don't want a song at this
very moment. Surely you can wait till the end of the set?"

"Oh, I was only just wondering."

"I quite see your point. You feel that Nature always compensates us
in some way, and that as--"

"Oh, no!" said Miss Hope in great confusion. "I didn't mean that at
all."

She must have meant it. You don't talk to people about singing in
the middle of a game of tennis; certainly not to comparative
strangers who have only spilt lemonade over your frock once before.
No, no. It was an insult, and it nerved me to a great effort. I
discarded--for it was my serve--the Hampstead Smash; I discarded the
Peruvian Teaser. Instead, I served two Piccadilly Benders from the
right-hand court and two Westminster Welts from the left-hand. The
Piccadilly Bender is my own invention. It can only be served from
the one court, and it must have a wind against it. You deliver it
with your back to the net, which makes the striker think that you
have either forgotten all about the game, or else are apologizing to
the spectators for your previous exhibition. Then with a violent
contortion you slue your body round and serve, whereupon your
opponent perceives that you ARE playing, and that it is just one
more ordinary fault into the wrong court. So she calls "Fault!" in a
contemptuous tone and drops her racket... and then adds hurriedly,
"Oh, no, sorry, it wasn't a fault, after all." That being where the
wind comes in.

The Westminster Welt is in theory the same as the Hampstead Smash,
but goes over the net. One must be in very good form (or have been
recently insulted) to bring this off.

Well, we won that game, a breeze having just sprung up; and, carried
away by enthusiasm and mutual admiration, we collected another.
(FIVE, TWO.) Then it was Miss Hope's serve again.

"Good-bye," I said; "I suppose you want me in the fore-front again?"

"Please."

"I don't mind HER shots--the bottle of scent is absolutely safe; but
I'm afraid he'll win another packet of woodbines."

Miss Hope started off with a double, which was rather a pity, and
then gave our masculine adversary what is technically called "one to
kill." I saw instinctively that I was the one, and I held my racket
ready with both hands. Our opponent, who had been wanting his tea
for the last two games, was in no mood of dalliance; he fairly let
himself go over this shot. In a moment I was down on my knees behind
the net ... and the next moment I saw through the meshes a very
strange thing. The other man, with his racket on the ground, was
holding his eye with both hands!

"Don't you think," said Miss Hope (TWO, FIVE--ABANDONED), "that
your overhead volleying is just a little severe?"






THE OPENING SEASON





"My dear," said Jeremy, as he folded back his paper at the sporting
page, "I have some news for you. Cricket is upon us once again."

"There's a nasty cold upon Baby once again," said Mrs Jeremy. "I
hope it doesn't mean measles."

"No child of mine would ever have measles," said Jeremy confidently.
"It's beneath us." He cleared his throat and read, "'The coming
season will be rendered ever memorable by the fact that for the
first time in the history of the game--' You'll never guess what's
coming."

"Mr Jeremy Smith is expected to make double figures."

Jeremy sat up indignantly.

"Well of all the wifely things to say! Who was top of our averages
last year?"

"Plummer. Because you presented the bat to him yourself."

"That proves nothing. I gave myself a bat too, as it happens; and a
better one than Plummer's. After all, his average was only 25. Mine,
if the weather had allowed me to finish my solitary innings, would
probably have been 26."

"As it was, the weather only allowed you to give a chance to the
wicket-keeper off the one ball you had."

"I was getting the pace of the pitch," said Jeremy. "Besides, it
wasn't really a chance, because our umpire would never have given
the treasurer out first ball. There are certain little courtesies
which are bound to be observed."

"Then," said his wife, "it's a pity you don't play more often."

Jeremy got up and made a few strokes with the poker.

"One of us is rather stiff," he said. "Perhaps it's the poker. If I
play regularly this season will you promise to bring Baby to watch
me?"

"Of course we shall both come."

"And you won't let Baby jeer at me if I'm bowled by a shooter."

"She won't know what a shooter is."

"Then you can tell her that it's the only ball that ever bowls
father," said Jeremy. He put down the poker and took up a ball of
wool. "I shall probably field somewhere behind the wicket-keeper,
where the hottest drives don't come; but if I should miss a catch
you must point out to her that the sun was in father's eyes. I want
my child to understand the game as soon as possible."

"I'll tell her all that she ought to know," said his wife. "And when
you've finished playing with my wool I've got something to do with
it."

Jeremy gave himself another catch, threw the wool to his wife and
drifted out. He came back in ten minutes with his bat under his arm.

"Really, it has wintered rather well," he said, "considering that it
has been in the boot cupboard all the time. We ought to have put
some camphor in with it, or--I know there's SOMETHING you do to bats
in the winter. Anyhow, the splice is still there."

"It looks very old," said Mrs Jeremy. "Is that really your new one?"

"Yes, this is the one that played the historic innings. It has only
had one ball in its whole life, and that was on the edge. The part
of the bat that I propose to use this season will therefore come
entirely fresh to the business."

"You ought to have oiled it, Jeremy."

"Oil--that was what I meant. I'll do it now. We'll give it a good
rub down. I wonder if there's anything else it would like?"

"I think, most of all, it would like a little practice."

"My dear, that's true. It said in the paper that on the County
grounds practice was already in full swing." He made an imaginary
drive. "I don't think I shall take a FULL swing. It's so much harder
to time the ball. I say, do YOU bowl?"

"Very badly, Jeremy."

"The worse you bowl the more practice the bat will get. Or what
about Baby? Could she bowl to me this afternoon, do you think, or is
her cold too bad?"

"I think she'd better stay in to-day."

"What a pity. Nurse tells me she's left-handed, and I particularly
want a lot of that; because Little Buxted has a very hot left-hand
bowler called--"

"You don't want your daughter to be an athletic girl, do you?"

Jeremy looked at her in surprise and then sat down on the arm of her
chair.

"Surely, dear," he said gravely, "we decided that our child was
going to play for Kent?"

"Not a girl!"

"Why not? There's nothing in the rules about it. Rule 197 (B) says
that you needn't play if you don't like the Manager, but there's
nothing about sex in it. I'm sure Baby would love the Manager."

Mrs Jeremy smiled and ruffled his hair.

"Well," said Jeremy, "if nobody will bowl to me, I can at least take
my bat out and let it see the grass. After six months of boots it
will be a change for it."

He went out into the garden, and did not appear again until lunch.
During the meal he read extracts to his wife from "The Coming
Season's Prospects," and spoke cheerfully of the runs he intended to
make for the village. After lunch he took her on to the tennis lawn.

"There!" he said proudly, pointing to a cricket pitch beautifully
cut and marked with a crease of dazzling white. "Doesn't that look
jolly?"

"Heavenly," she said. "You must ask someone up to-morrow. You can
get quite good practice here with these deep banks all round."

"Yes, I shall make a lot of runs this season," said Jeremy airily.
"But, apart from practice, don't you FEEL how jolly and summery a
cricket pitch makes everything?"

Mrs Jeremy took a deep breath. "Yes, there's nothing like a bucket
of whitening to make you think of summer."

"I'm glad you think so too," said Jeremy with an air of relief,
"because I upset the bucket on the way back to the stables--just
underneath the pergola. It ought to bring the roses on like
anything."






AN INLAND VOYAGE





Thomas took a day off last Monday in order to play golf with me. For
that day the Admiralty had to get along without Thomas. I tremble to
think what would have happened if war had broken out on Monday.
Could a Thomasless Admiralty have coped with it? I trow not. Even as
it was, battleships grounded, crews mutinied, and several awkward
questions in the House of Commons had to be postponed till Tuesday.

Something--some premonition of this, no doubt--seemed to be
weighing on him all day.

"Rotten weather," he growled, as he came up the steps of the club.

"I'm very sorry," I said. "I keep on complaining to the secretary
about it. He does his best."

"What's that?"

"He taps the barometer every morning, and says it will clear up in
the afternoon. Shall we go out now, or shall we give it a chance to
stop?"

Thomas looked at the rain and decided to let it stop. I made him as
comfortable as I could. I gave him a drink, a cigarette, and
Mistakes with the Mashie. On the table at his elbow I had in reserve
Faulty Play with the Brassy and a West Middlesex Directory. For
myself I wandered about restlessly, pausing now and again to read
enviously a notice which said that C. D. Topping's handicap was
reduced from 24 to 22. Lucky man!

At about half-past eleven the rain stopped for a moment, and we
hurried out.

"The course is a little wet," I said apologetically, as we stood on
the first tee, "but with your naval experience you won't mind that.
By the way, I ought to warn you that this isn't all casual water.
Some of it is river."

"How do you know which is which?"

"You'll soon find out. The river is much deeper. Go on--your drive."

Thomas won the first hole very easily. We both took four to the
green, Thomas in addition having five splashes of mud on his face
while I only had three. Unfortunately the immediate neighbourhood of
the hole was under water. Thomas, the bounder, had a small heavy
ball, which he managed to sink in nine. My own, being lighter,
refused to go into the tin at all, and floated above the hole in the
most exasperating way.

"I expect there's a rule about it," I said, "if we only knew, which
gives me the match. However, until we find that out, I suppose you
must call yourself one up."

"I shall want some dry socks for lunch," he muttered, as he sploshed
off to the tee.

"Anything you want for lunch you can have, my dear Thomas. I promise
you that you shall not be stinted. The next green is below sea-level
altogether, I'm afraid. The first in the water wins."

Honours, it turned out, were divided. I lost the hole, and Thomas
lost his ball. The third tee having disappeared, we moved on to the
fourth.

"There's rather a nasty place along here," I said.

"The Secretary was sucked in the other day, and only rescued by the
hair."

Thomas drove a good one. I topped mine badly, and it settled down in
the mud fifty yards off. "Excuse me," I shouted as I ran quickly
after it, and I got my niblick on to it just as it was disappearing.
It was a very close thing.

"Well," said Thomas, as he reached his ball, "that's not what I call
a brassy lie."

"It's what we call a corkscrew lie down here," I explained. "If you
haven't got a corkscrew, you'd better dig round it with something,
and then when the position is thoroughly undermined--Oh, good
shot!"

Thomas had got out of the fairway in one, but he still seemed
unhappy.

"My eye," he said, bending down in agony; "I've got about half
Middlesex in it."

He walked round in circles saying strange nautical things, and my
suggestions that he should (1) rub the other eye, and (2) blow his
nose suddenly, were received ungenerously.

"Anything you'd like me to do with my ears?" he asked bitterly. "If
you'd come and take some mud out for me, instead of talking rot--"

I approached with my handkerchief and examined the eye carefully.

"See anything?" asked Thomas.

"My dear Thomas, it's FULL of turf. We mustn't forget to replace
this if we can get it out. What the Secretary would say--There!
How's that?"

"Worse than ever."

"Try not to think about it. Keep the OTHER eye on the ball as much
as possible. This is my hole by the way. Your ball is lost."

"How do you know?"

"I saw it losing itself. It went into the bad place I told you
about. It's gone to join the Secretary. Oh, no, we got him out, of
course; I keep forgetting. Anyhow, it's my hole."

"I think I shall turn my trousers up again," said Thomas, bending
down to do so. "Is there a local rule about it?"

"No; it is left entirely to the discretion and good taste of the
members. Naturally a little extra licence is allowed on a very muddy
day. Of course, if--Oh, I see. You meant a local rule about losing
your ball in the mud? No, I don't know of one--unless it comes under
the heading of casual land. Be a sportsman, Thomas, and don't
begrudge me the hole."

The game proceeded, and we reached the twelfth tee without any
further contretemps; save that I accidentally lost the sixth, ninth
and tenth holes, and that Thomas lost his iron at the eighth. He had
carelessly laid it down for a moment while he got out of a hole with
his niblick, and when he turned round for it the thing was gone.

At the twelfth tee it was raining harder than ever. We pounded along
with our coat-collars up and reached the green absolutely wet
through.

"How about it?" said Thomas.

"My hole, I think; and that makes us all square."

"I mean how about the rain? And it's just one o'clock."

"Just as you like. Well, I suppose it is rather wet. All right,
let's have lunch."

We had lunch. Thomas had it in the only dry things he had brought
with him--an ulster and a pair of Vardon cuffs, and sat as near the
fire as possible. It was still raining in torrents after lunch, and
Thomas, who is not what I call keen about golf, preferred to remain
before the fire. Perhaps he was right. I raked up an old copy of
Strumers with the Niblick for him, and read bits of the Telephone
Directory out aloud.

After tea his proper clothes were dry enough in places to put on,
and as it was still raining hard, and he seemed disinclined to come
out again, I ordered a cab for us both.

"It's really rotten luck," said Thomas, as we prepared to leave,
"that on the one day when I take a holiday, it should be so
beastly."

"Beastly, Thomas?" I said in amazement. "The ONE day? I'm afraid you
don't play inland golf much?"

"I hardly ever play round London."

"I thought not. Then let me tell you that to-day's was the best
day's golf I've had for three weeks."

"Golly!" said Thomas.

AN INFORMAL EVENING

DINNER was a very quiet affair. Not a soul drew my chair away from
under me as I sat down, and during the meal nobody threw bread
about. We talked gently of art and politics and things; and when the
ladies left there was no booby trap waiting for them at the door. In
a word, nothing to prepare me for what was to follow.

We strolled leisurely into the drawing-room. A glance told me the
worst. The ladies were in a cluster round Miss Power, and Miss Power
was on the floor. She got up quickly as we came in.

"We were trying to go underneath the poker," she explained. "Can you
do it?"

I waved the poker back.

"Let me see you do it again," I said. "I missed the first part."

"Oh, I can never do it. Bob, you show us."

Bob is an active young fellow. He took the poker, rested the end on
the floor, and then twisted himself underneath his right arm. I
expected to see him come up inside out, but he looked much the same
after it. However, no doubt his organs are all on the wrong side
now.

"Yes, that's how I should do it," I said hastily.

But Miss Power was firm. She gave me the poker. I pressed it hard on
the floor, said good-bye to them all, and dived. I got half-way
round, and was supporting myself upside down by one toe and the
slippery end of the poker, when it suddenly occurred to me that the
earth was revolving at an incredible speed on its own axis, and
that, in addition, we were hurtling at thousands of miles a minute
round the sun. It seemed impossible in these circumstances that I
should keep my balance any longer; and as soon as I realized this,
the poker began to slip. I was in no sort of position to do anything
about it, and we came down heavily together.

"Oh, what a pity!" said Miss Power. "I quite thought you'd done it."

"Being actually on the spot," I said, "I knew that I hadn't."

"Do try again."

"Not till the ground's a little softer."

"Let's do the jam-pot trick," said another girl.

"I'm not going under a jam-pot for anybody," I murmured.

However, it turned out that this trick was quite different. You
place a book (Macaulay's Essays or what not) on the jam-pot and sit
on the book, one heel only touching the ground. In the right hand
you have a box of matches, in the left a candle. The jam-pot, of
course, is on its side, so that it can roll beneath you. Then you
light the candle ... and hand it to anybody who wants to go to bed.

I was ready to give way to the ladies here, but even while I was
bowing and saying, "Not at all," I found myself on one of the
jam-pots with Bob next to me on another. To balance with the arms
outstretched was not so difficult; but as the matches were then
about six feet from the candle and there seemed no way of getting
them nearer together the solution of the problem was as remote as
ever. Three times I brought my hands together, and three times the
jam-pot left me.

"Well played, Bob," said somebody. The bounder had done it.

I looked at his jam-pot.

"There you are," I said, "'Raspberry--1909.' Mine's
'Gooseberry-1911,' a rotten vintage. And look at my book, Alone on
the Prairie; and you've got The Mormon's Wedding. No wonder I
couldn't do it."

I refused to try it again as I didn't think I was being treated
fairly; and after Bob and Miss Power had had a race at it, which Bob
won, we got on to something else.

"Of course you can pick a pin out of a chair with your teeth?" said
Miss Power.

"Not properly," I said. "I always swallow the pin."

"I suppose it doesn't count if you swallow the pin," said Miss Power
thoughtfully.

"I don't know. I've never really thought about that side of it much.
Anyhow, unless you've got a whole lot of pins you don't want, don't
ask me to do it to-night."

Accordingly we passed on to the water-trick. I refused at this, but
Miss Power went full length on the floor with a glass of water
balanced on her fore-head and came up again without spilling a
single drop. Personally, I shouldn't have minded spilling a single
drop; it was the thought of spilling the whole glass that kept me
back. Anyway, it is a useless trick, the need for which never arises
in an ordinary career. Picking up The Times with the teeth, while
clasping the left ankle with the right hand, is another matter. That
might come in useful on occasions; as, for instance, if having lost
your left arm on the field and having to staunch with the right hand
the flow of blood from a bullet wound in the opposite ankle, you
desired to glance through the Financial Supplement while waiting for
the ambulance.

"Here's a nice little trick," broke in Bob, as I was preparing
myself in this way for the German invasion.

He had put two chairs together, front to front, and was standing
over them--a foot on the floor on each side of them, if that conveys
it to you. Then he jumped up, turned round in the air, and came down
facing the other way.

"Can YOU do it?" I said to Miss Power.

"Come and try," said Bob to me. "It's not really difficult."

I went and stood over the chairs. Then I moved them apart and walked
over to my hostess.

"Good-bye," I said; "I'm afraid I must go now."

"Coward!" said somebody, who knew me rather better than the others.

"It's much easier than you think," said Bob.

"I don't think it's easy at all," I protested. "I think it's
impossible."

I went back and stood over the chairs again. For some time I waited
there in deep thought. Then I bent my knees preparatory to the
spring, straightened them up, and said:

"What happens if you just miss it?"

"I suppose you bark your shins a bit."

"Yes, that's what I thought."

I bent my knees again, worked my arms up and down, and then stopped
suddenly and said:

"What happens if you miss it pretty easily?"

"Oh, YOU can do it, if Bob can," said Miss Power kindly.

"He's practised. I expect he started with two hassocks and worked up
to this. I'm not afraid but I want to know the possibilities. If
it's only a broken leg or two, I don't mind. If it's permanent
disfigurement I think I ought to consult my family first."

I jumped up and came down again the same way for practice.

"Very well," I said. "Now I'm going to try. I haven't the faintest
hope of doing it, but you all seem to want to see an accident, and,
anyhow, I'm not going to be called a coward. One, two, three..."

"Well done," cried everybody.

"Did I do it?" I whispered, as I sat on the floor and pressed a
cushion against my shins.

"Rather!"

"Then," I said, massaging my ankles, "next time I shall try to
miss."

THE CONTINENTAL MANNER

OF course I should recognize Simpson anywhere, even at a masked
ball. Besides, who but Simpson would go to a fancy-dress dance as a
short-sighted executioner, and wear his spectacles outside his
mask? But it was a surprise to me to see him there at all.

"Samuel," I said gravely, tapping him on the shoulder, "I shall have
to write home about this."

He turned round with a start.

"Hallo!" he said eagerly. "How splendid! But, my dear old chap, why
aren't you in costume?"

"I am," I explained. "I've come as an architect. Luckily the evening
clothes of an architect are similar to my own. Excuse me, sir, but
do you want a house built?"

"How do you like my dress? I am an executioner. I left my axe in the
cloak-room."

"So I observe. You know, in real life, one hardly ever meets an
executioner who wears spectacles. And yet, of course, if one CAN'T
see the head properly without glasses--"

"By Jove," said Simpson, "there she is again."

Columbine in a mask hurried past us and mixed with the crowd. What
one could see of her face looked pretty; it seemed to have upset
Simpson altogether.

"Ask her for a dance," I suggested. "Be a gay dog, Simpson. Wake
London up. At a masked ball one is allowed a certain amount of
licence."

"Exactly," said Simpson in some excitement. "One naturally looks for
a little Continental ABANDON at these dances." (PORTRAIT OF SIMPSON
SHOWING CONTINENTAL abandon.) "And so I did ask her for a dance
just now."

"She was cold, Samuel, I fear?"

"She said, 'Sorry, I'm full up.'"

"A ruse, a mere subterfuge. Now, look here, ask her again, and be
more debonair and dashing this time. What you want is to endue her
with the spirit of revelry. Perhaps you'd better go to the bar first
and have a dry ginger-ale, and then you'll feel more in the
Continental mood."

"By Jove, I will," said Simpson, with great decision.

I wandered into the ball-room and looked round. Columbine was
standing in a corner alone; some outsider had cut her dance. As I
looked at her I thought of Simpson letting himself go, and smiled to
myself. She caught the edge of the smile and unconsciously smiled
back. Remembering the good advice which I had just given another, I
decided to risk it.

"Do you ever dance with architects?" I asked her.

"I do sometimes." she said. "Not in Lent," she added.

"In Lent," I agreed, "one has to give up the more furious pleasures.
Shall we just finish off this dance? And don't let's talk shop about
architecture."

We finished the dance and retired to the stairs.

"I want you to do something for me," I began cautiously.

"Anything except go into supper again. I've just done that for
somebody else."

"No, it's not that. The fact is, I have a great friend called
Simpson."

"It sounds a case for help," she murmured.

"He is here to-night disguised as an executioner in glasses. He is,
in fact, the only spectacled beheader present. You can't miss him."

"All the same, I managed to just now," she gurgled.

"I know. He asked you for a dance and you rebuffed him. Well, he is
now fortifying himself with a small dry ginger, and he will then ask
you again. Do be kind this time; he's really a delightful person
when you get to know him. For instance, both his whiskers are
false."

"No doubt I should grow to love him," she agreed; "but I didn't much
like his outward appearance. However, if both whiskers are false,
and if he's really a friend of yours--"

"He is naturally as harmless as a lamb," I said; "but at a dance
like this he considers it his duty to throw a little Continental
ABANDON into his manner."

Columbine looked at me thoughtfully, nodding her head, and slowly
began to smile.

"You see," I said, "the possibilities."

"He shall have his dance," she said decidedly.

"Thank you very much. I should like to ask for another dance for
myself later on, but I am afraid I should try to get out of you what
he said, and that wouldn't be fair."

"Of course I shouldn't tell you."

"Well, anyhow, you'll have had enough of us by then. But softly--he
approaches, and I must needs fly, lest he should pierce my disguise.
Good-bye, and thank you so much."

. . . . . . .

So I can't say with authority what happened between Simpson and
Columbine when they met. But Simpson and I had a cigarette together
afterwards and certain things came out; enough to make it plain that
she must have enjoyed herself.

"Oh, I say, old chap," he began jauntily, "do you know--match,
thanks--er--whereabouts is Finsbury Circus?"

"You're too old to go to a circus now, Simpson. Come and have a day
at the Polytechnic instead."

"Don't be an ass; it's a place like Oxford Circus. I suppose it's in
the City somewhere? I wonder," he murmured to himself, "what she
would be doing in the City at eleven o'clock in the morning."

"Perhaps her rich uncle is in a bank, and she wants to shoot him. I
wish you'd tell me what you're talking about."

Simpson took off his mask and spectacles and wiped his brow.

"Dear old chap," he said in a solemn voice, "in the case of a woman
one cannot tell even one's best friend. You know how it is."

"Well, if there's going to be a duel you should have chosen some
quieter spot than Finsbury Circus. The motor-buses distract one's
aim."

Simpson was silent for a minute or two. Then a foolish smile flitted
across his face, to be followed suddenly by a look of alarm.

"Don't do anything that your mother wouldn't like," I said
warningly.


He frowned and put on his mask again.

"Are chrysanthemums in season?" he asked casually. "Anyhow, I
suppose I could always get a yellow one?"

"You could, Simpson. And you could put it in your button-hole, so
that you can be recognized, and go to Finsbury Circus to meet
somebody at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning. Samuel, I'm ashamed of
you. Er--where do you lunch?"

"At the Carlton. Old chap, I got quite carried away. Things seemed
to be arranged before I knew where I was."

"And what's she going to wear so that you can recognize HER?"

"Yes," said Simpson, getting up, "that's the worst of it. I told her
it was quite out of date, and that only the suburbs wore fashions a
year old, but she insisted on it. I had no idea she was that sort of
girl. Well, I'm in for it now." He sighed heavily and went off for
another ginger-ale.

I think that I must be at Finsbury Circus to-morrow, for certainly
no Columbine in a harem skirt will be there. Simpson in his
loneliness will be delighted to see me, and then we can throw away
his button-hole and have a nice little lunch together.






TWO STORIES

THE MAKING OF A CHRISTMAS STORY

(AS CARRIED OUT IN THE BEST END OF FLEET STREET)

YULETIDE!





London at Yuletide!

A mantle of white lay upon the Embankment, where our story opens,
gleaming and glistening as it caught the rays of the cold December
sun; an embroidery of white fringed the trees; and under a canopy of
white the proud palaces of Savoy and Cecil reared their silent
heads. The mighty river in front was motionless, for the finger of
Death had laid its icy hand upon it. Above--the hard blue sky
stretching to eternity; below--the white purity of innocence. London
in the grip of winter!

[EDITOR. Come, I like this. This is going to be good. A cold day,
was it not?

AUTHOR. Very.]

All at once the quiet of the morning was disturbed. In the distance
a bell rang out, sending a joyous paean to the heavens. Another took
up the word, and then another, and another. Westminster caught the
message from Bartholomew the son of Thunder, and flung it to Giles
Without, who gave it gently to Andrew by the Wardrobe. Suddenly the
air was filled with bells, all chanting together of peace and
happiness, mirth and jollity--a frenzy of bells.

The Duke, father of four fine children, waking in his Highland
castle, heard and smiled as he thought of his little ones....

The Merchant Prince, turning over in his Streatham residence, heard,
and turned again to sleep, with love for all mankind in his
heart....

The Pauper in his workhouse, up betimes, heard, and chuckled at the
prospect of his Christmas dinner....

And, on the Embankment, Robert Hardrow, with a cynical smile on his
lips, listened to the splendid irony of it.

[EDITOR. We really are getting to the story now, are we not? AUTHOR.
That was all local colour. I want to make it quite clear that it was
Christmas. EDITOR. Yes, yes, quite so. This is certainly a Christmas
story. I think I shall like Robert, do you know?]

It was Christmas day, so much at least was clear to him. With that
same cynical smile on his lips, he pulled his shivering rags about
him, and half unconsciously felt at the growth of beard about his
chin. Nobody would recognize him now. His friends (as he had thought
them) would pass by without a glance for the poor outcast near them.
The women that he had known would draw their skirts away from him in
horror. Even Lady Alice--

Lady Alice! The cause of it all!

His thoughts flew back to that last scene, but twenty-four hours
ago, when they had parted for ever. As he had entered the hall he
had half wondered to himself if there could be anybody in the world
that day happier than himself. Tall, well-connected, a
vice-president of the Tariff Reform League, and engaged to the
sweetest girl in England, he had been the envy of all. Little did he
think that that very night he was to receive his conge! What
mattered it now how or why they had quarrelled? A few hasty words, a
bitter taunt, tears, and then the end.

A last cry from her--"Go, and let me never see your face again!"

A last sneer from him--"I will go, but first give me back the
presents I have promised you!"

Then a slammed door and--silence.

What use, without her guidance, to try to keep straight any more?
Bereft of her love, Robert had sunk steadily. Gambling, drink,
morphia, billiards and cigars--he had taken to them all; until now
in the wretched figure of the outcast on the Embankment you would
never have recognized the once spruce figure of Handsome Hardrow.

[EDITOR. It all seems to have happened rather rapidly, does it not?
Twenty-four hours ago he had been--AUTHOR. You forget that this is
SHORT story.]

Handsome Hardow! How absurd it sounded now! He had let his beard
grow, his clothes were in rags, a scar over one eye testified--

[EDITOR. Yes, yes. Of course, I quite admit that a man might go to
the bad in twenty-four hours, but would his beard grow as--AUTHOR.
Look here, you've heard of a man going grey with trouble in a single
night, haven't you?

EDITOR. Certainly.

AUTHOR. Well, it's the same idea as that.

EDITOR. Ah, quite so, quite so.

AUTHOR. Where was I?

EDITOR. A scar over one eye was just testifying--I suppose he had
two eyes in the ordinary way?]

---testified to a drunken frolic of an hour or two ago. Never
before, thought the policeman, as he passed upon his beat, had such
a pitiful figure cowered upon the Embankment, and prayed for the
night to cover him.

The--

He was--

Er--the--

[EDITOR. Yes?

AUTHOR. To tell the truth I am rather stuck for the moment.

EDITOR. What is the trouble?

AUTHOR. I don't quite know what to do with Robert for ten hours or
so.

EDITOR. Couldn't he go somewhere by a local line?

AUTHOR. This is not a humorous story. The point is that I want him
to be outside a certain house some twenty miles from town at eight
o'clock that evening.

EDITOR. If I were Robert I should certainly start at once.

AUTHOR. No, I have it.]

As he sat there, his thoughts flew over the bridge of years, and he
was wafted on the wings of memory to other and happier Yuletides.
That Christmas when he had received his first bicycle....

That Christmas abroad....

The merry house-party at the place of his Cambridge friend....

Yuletide at The Towers, where he had first met Alice!

Ah!

Ten hours passed rapidly thus...

. . . . . . .

[AUTHOR. I put dots to denote the flight of years. EDITOR. Besides,
it will give the reader time for a sandwich.]

Robert got up and shook himself.

[EDITOR. One moment. This is a Christmas story. When are you coming
to the robin?

AUTHOR. I really can't be bothered about robins just now. I assure
you all the best Christmas stories begin like this nowadays. We may
get to a robin later; I cannot say.

EDITOR. We must. My readers expect a robin, and they shall have it.
And a wassail-bowl, and a turkey, and a Christmas-tree, and a--

AUTHOR. Yes, yes; but wait. We shall come to little Elsie soon, and
then perhaps it will be all right.

EDITOR. Little Elsie. Good!]

Robert got up and shook himself. Then he shivered miserably, as the
cold wind cut through him like a knife. For a moment he stood
motionless, gazing over the stone parapet into the dark river
beyond, and as he gazed a thought came into his mind. Why not end it
all--here and now? He had nothing to live for. One swift plunge,
and--

[EDITOR. YOu forget. The river was frozen.

AUTHOR. Dash it, I was just going to say that.]

But no! Even in this Fate was against him. THE RIVER WAS FROZEN
OVER! He turned away with a curse....

What happened afterwards Robert never quite understood. Almost
unconsciously he must have crossed one of the numerous bridges which
span the river and join North London to South. Once on the other
side, he seems to have set his face steadily before him, and to have
dragged his weary limbs on and on, regardless of time and place. He
walked like one in a dream, his mind drugged by the dull narcotic of
physical pain. Suddenly he realized that he had left London behind
him, and was in the more open spaces of the country. The houses were
more scattered; the recurring villa of the clerk had given place to
the isolated mansion of the stock broker. Each residence stood in
its own splendid grounds, surrounded by fine old forest trees and
approached by a long carriage sweep. Electric--

[EDITOR Quite so. The whole forming a magnificent estate for a
retired gentleman. Never mind that.]

Robert stood at the entrance to one of these houses, and the iron
entered into his soul. How different was this man's position from
his own! What right had this man--a perfect stranger--to be happy
and contented in the heart of his family, while he, Robert, stood, a
homeless wanderer, alone in the cold?

Almost unconsciously he wandered down the drive, hardly realizing
what he was doing until he was brought up by the gay lights of the
windows. Still without thinking, he stooped down and peered into the
brilliantly lit room above him. Within all was jollity; beautiful
women moved to and fro, and the happy laughter of children came to
him. "Elsie," he heard someone call, and a childish treble re
sponded.

[EDITOR. Now for the robin.

AUTHOR. I am very sorry. I have just remembered something rather
sad. The fact is that, two days before, Elsie had forgotten to feed
the robin, and in consequence it had died before this story opens.

EDITOR. That is really very awkward. I have already arranged with an
artist to do some pictures, AND _I_ REMEMBER _I_ PARTICULARLY
ORDERED A ROBIN AND A WASSAIL. WHAT ABOUT THE WASSAIL?

AUTHOR. ELSIE ALWAYS HAD HER PORRIDGE upstairs.]

A terrible thought had come into Robert's head. It was nearly twelve
o'clock. The house-party was retiring to bed. He heard the
"Good-nights" wafted through the open window; the lights went out,
to reappear upstairs. Presently they too went out, and Robert was
alone with the darkened house.

The temptation was too much for a conscience already sodden with
billiards, drink and cigars. He flung a leg over the sill and drew
himself gently into the room. At least he would have one good meal,
he too would have his Christmas dinner before the end came. He
switched the light on and turned eagerly to the table. His eyes
ravenously scanned the contents. Turkey, mince-pies, plum-pudding--
all was there as in the days of his youth.

[EDITOR. THIS IS BETTER. I ORDERED A TURKEY, I REMEMBER. WHAT ABOUT
THE MISTLETOE AND HOLLY? I RATHER THINK I ASKED FOR SOME OF THEM.

AUTHOR. WE MUST LET THE READERS TAKE SOMETHING FOR GRANTED

EDITOR. I AM NOT SO SURE. COULDN'T YOU SAY SOMETHING LIKE THIS:
"HOLLY AND MISTLETOE HUNG IN FESTOONS UPON THE WALL?"]

Indeed, even holly and mistletoe hung in festoons upon the wall.

[EDITOR. THANK YOU.]

With a sigh of content Hardrow flung himself into a chair, and
seized a knife and fork. Soon a plate liberally heaped with good
things was before him. Greedily he set to work, with the appetite of
a man who had not tasted food for several hours....

"Dood-evening," said a voice. "Are you Father Kwistmas?"

Robert turned suddenly, and gazed in amazement at the white-robed
figure in the doorway.

"Elsie," he murmured huskily.

[EDITOR. HOW DID HE KNOW? AND WHY "HUSKILY"?

AUTHOR. HE DIDN'T KNOW, HE GUESSED. AND HIS MOUTH WAS FULL.]

"Are you Father Kwistmas?" repeated Elsie.

Robert felt at his chin, and thanked Heaven again that he had let
his beard grow. Almost mechanically he decided to wear the mask--in
short, to dissemble.

"Yes, my dear," he said. "I just looked in to know what you would
like me to bring you."

"You're late, aren't oo? Oughtn't oo to have come this morning?"

[EDITOR. THIS IS SPLENDID. THIS QUITE RECONCILES ME TO THE ABSENCE
OF THE ROBIN. BUT WHAT WAS ELSIE DOING DOWNSTAIRS?

AUTHOR. I AM MAKING ROBERT ASK HER THAT QUESTION DIRECTLY.

EDITOR. YES, BUT JUST TELL ME NOW--BETWEEN FRIENDS.

AUTHOR. SHE HAD LEFT HER GOLLIWOG IN THE ROOM, AND COULDN'T SLEEP
WITHOUT HER.

EDITOR. I KNEW THAT WAS IT.]

"If I'm late, dear," said Robert, with a smile, "why, so are you."

The good food and wine in his veins were doing their work, and a
pleasant warmth was stealing over Hardrow. He found to his surprise
that airy banter still came easy to him.

"To what," he continued lightly, "do I owe the honour of this
meeting?"

"I came downstairs for my dolly," said Elsie. "The one you sent me
this morning, do you remember?"

"Of course I do, my dear."

"And what have you bwought me now, Father Kwistmas?"

Robert started. If he was to play the role successfully he must find
something to give her now. The remains of the turkey, a pair of
finger-bowls, his old hat--all these came hastily into his mind, and
were dismissed. He had nothing of value on him. All had been pawned
long ago.

Stay! The gold locket studded with diamonds and rubies, which
contained Alice's photograph. The one memento of her that he had
kept, even when the pangs of starvation were upon him. He brought it
from its resting-place next his heart.

"A little something to wear round your neck, child," he said. "See!"

"Thank oo," said Elsie. "Why, it opens!"

"Yes, it opens," said Robert moodily.

"Why, it's Alith! Sister Alith!"

[EDITOR. HA!

AUTHOR. I THOUGHT YOU'D LIKE THAT.]

Robert leapt to his feet as if he had been shot.

"Who?" he cried.

"My sister Alith. Does oo know her too?"

Alice's sister! Heavens! He covered his face with his hands.

The door opened.

[EDITOR. HA AGAIN!]

"What are you doing here, Elsie?" said a voice. "Go to bed, child.
Why, who is this?"

"Father Kwithmath, thithter."

[EDITOR. HOW EXACTLY DO YOU WORK THE LISPING?

AUTHOR. WHAT DO YOU MEAN? DON'T CHILDREN OF ELSIE'S TENDER YEARS
LISP SOMETIMES?

EDITOR. YES; BUT JUST NOW SHE SAID "KWISTMAS" QUITE CORRECTLY--

AUTHOR. I AM GLAD YOU NOTICED THAT. THAT WAS AN EFFECT WHICH I
INTENDED TO PRODUCE. LISPING IS BROUGHT ABOUT BY PLACING THE TONGUE
UPON THE HARD SURFACE OF THE PALATE, AND IN CASES WHERE THE SUBJECT
IS UNDULY EXCITED OR INFLUENCED BY EMOTION THE LISP BECOMES MORE
PRONOUNCED. IN THIS CASE--

EDITOR. YETH, I THEE.]

"Send her away," cried Robert, without raising his head.

The door opened, and closed again.

"Well," said Alice calmly, "and who are you? You may have lied to
this poor child, but you cannot deceive me. You are NOT Father
Christmas."

The miserable man raised his shamefaced head and looked haggardly at
her.

"Alice!" he muttered, "don't you remember me?"

She gazed at him earnestly.

"Robert! But how changed!"

"Since we parted, Alice, much has happened."

"Yet it seems only yesterday that I saw you!"

[EDITOR. IT was ONLY YESTERDAY.

AUTHOR. YES, YES. DON'T INTERRUPT NOW, PLEASE.]

"To me it has seemed years."

"But what are you doing here?" said Alice.

"Rather, what are YOU doing here?" answered Robert.

[EDITOR. I THINK ALICE'S QUESTION WAS THE MORE REASONABLE ONE.]

"My uncle Joseph lives here."

Robert gave a sudden cry.

"Your uncle Joseph! Then I have broken into your uncle Joseph's
house! Alice, send me away! Put me in prison! Do what you will to
me! I can never hold up my head again."

Lady Alice looked gently at the wretched figure in front of her.

"I am glad to see you again," she said. "Because I wanted to say
that it was MY fault!"

"Alice!"

"Can you forgive me?"

"Forgive you? If you knew what my life has been since I left you! If
you knew into what paths of wickedness I have sunk! How only this
evening, unnerved by excess, I have deliberately broken into this
house--your uncle Joseph's house--in order to obtain food. Already I
have eaten more than half a turkey and the best part of a
plum-pudding. If you knew, I--"

With a gesture of infinite compassion she stopped him.

"Then let us forgive each other," she said with a smile. "A new year
is beginning, Robert!"

He took her in his arms.

"Listen," he said.

In the distance the bells began to ring in the New Year. A message
of hope to all