THE CRUISE OF THE "SCANDAL" (continued 3)

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

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

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

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

We stared at it in amazement.

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

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

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

Mortimer laughed.

"Your aged friend seems to be a bit of a humorist, Tommy."

"There must be someone there," I said. "Most likely it's the gardener. Let's go outside and give him a hail."

We stepped out on to the bank, where Tommy let off a vigorous yell, while I played an impressive voluntary on the horn.

"That ought to bring him out of his shell," observed Mortimer with approval.

As a matter of fact, it did nothing of the kind. The island remained as blissfully untroubled as the garden of Proserpine.

"Try again," suggested Mortimer encouragingly and we repeated our efforts with the same result.

"I'm getting fed up with this," broke out Tommy. "There's only one thing to do, and that's to swim across and fetch the boat."

"What a pity we haven't got a salmon rod," I remarked. "We might kill two birds with one stone."

"Don't you worry," retorted Tommy. "We'll try that later."

He stripped off his clothes, and going to the edge of the bank, inspected the water.

"Seems clear enough," he observed; "here goes."

There was a mighty splash, and he disappeared from view, emerging a few moments later well out in the river. Mortimer and I gave him an encouraging cheer, and then watched him with some anxiety as he ploughed his way across the strongly running current. It seemed at first as though he would be swept past the island, but, with a big effort, he just managed to get clear of the stream in time and clutch an overhanging bough some way below the landing-stage. Then he drew himself out, and answering our hail with a triumphant wave of the hand, picked his way gingerly along the bank to where the boat was tethered.

Unhitching the rope, he climbed in, and with a few strong pulls, sculled back across the river.

"Bravo, Leander!" sung out Mortimer, as the boat bumped up against the bank. "How are you feeling after your great effort?"

"Deuced sore," returned Tommy, shipping his oars and stepping out on to the grass. "That seat's as hard as a millstone."

"Never mind," I said consolingly. "You'll be too busy cooking the dinner to want to sit down. What shall we do with the car?"

"Oh, run her into the boat-house," said Tommy. "There's plenty of room there. And then you might shove the grub into the boat."

Mortimer and I carried out his instructions. With the expenditure of considerable energy and language, we trundled that decayed scrap-iron into the shed, and then began to transfer its contents to the bottom of the dinghy.

By this Tommy had resumed his clothes and come to our assistance.

"I can't make it out, all the same," said Mortimer reflectively. "If there's no one on the island, how the devil did the boat get there? Old Quinn must have got off somehow last time he left."

"Perhaps he's a Christian Scientist, and just wished himself ashore," suggested Tommy. "Anyhow, it's no good worrying about miracles. Catch on to this, and that's the lot."

He pushed over a bulky case of soda-water, which Mortimer, still frowning thoughtfully to himself, tucked under one arm, and carrying the remaining stores between us, we made our way down to the dinghy.

"I'll take the oars," I said; "it's just my distance."

"Don't overtire yourself," put in Tommy kindly. "Remember there's a stiff stream running."

"If you find it too much for you," added Mortimer, "we can always get out and walk."

Disregarding such ragged efforts at humour, I pushed off from the bank; and then, setting a course well up against the current, slowly tugged my precious freight over to the island. With the true instinct of a waterman, I hit the landing-stage exactly, in fact, I hit it so hard that Tommy, who was injudiciously standing up, was as nearly as possible precipitated into the water.

"He thinks it's a bumping race," said Mortimer. "That's the worst of these 'Varsity men. Here, catch hold."

He flung the rope to Tommy, who had jumped out on to the step, and in half a minute the boat was hitched up tight to a convenient post.

Mortimer and I handed out the goods, which Tommy received and piled up on the shore. When we were finally unloaded we also disembarked, and picking up as much as we could carry, mounted the wooden steps that led to the front door of the bungalow. Tommy inserted the key, and flung it open.

"Here we are," he said. "Not such a dusty sort of shanty, is it?"

The eulogy was by no means excessive. Whatever else Mr. Quinn may have lacked, he certainly had a nice eye for his surroundings. The large, low-ceilinged apartment, with its white walls, old-fashioned furniture, and big, green-tiled hearth, combined in the happiest degree the claims of comfort and good taste. From the main room a door on the left led into the kitchen, while at the back an arched space gave access to a passage from which the three bedrooms opened off.

"What's the programme now?" asked Mortimer.

"I don't know what you chaps feel like," said Tommy, "but I'm uncommon hungry. I vote we start by having some grub right away."

Mortimer held up his hand.

"Carried unanimously," I said.

"Right-ho!" responded Tommy. "There's a cold chicken somewhere in the baggage. You chaps might unpack while I forage about the kitchen and get things ready."

He disappeared through the door, taking off his coat, and Mortimer and I set to work upon the various packages which we had brought with us. We unearthed an appetising-looking fowl, a ham, two or three nice crusty loaves, a jar of butter, and numerous other aids to successful salmon fishing, including enough beer and whisky to stock a modest hotel.

We were contemplating the latter in a kind of pleased reverie, when Tommy came back with a tablecloth under his arm, and a trayload of accessories.

"I say," he began, "it's deuced funny, but I can't find any forks and spoons. Plenty of glasses and plates and knives, but not another bally thing in the place."

Mortimer burst out laughing.

"I expect your aged friend eats with his fingers," he said.

"Or else someone's been in and cleared the lot," I suggested.

"Oh, they can't have done that," said Tommy; "or else the boat wouldn't be here."

"Well, we shall have to do what we can without," remarked Mortimer. "You fellows can tear off a leg each, and I'll have the pickings."

We pulled out a table into the centre of the room, and while I helped Mortimer arrange the feast, Tommy went into the kitchen to have another look for the missing silver.

His efforts proved as barren as before, and finally abandoning the attempt, we settled ourselves down to do as well as we could with knives and fingers.

"Here's to our week-end," said Tommy, holding up a glass of Bass. "And death to the salmon."

"Death to the salmon," I repeated hopefully, raising my glass in turn.

We were just drinking the toast, when Mortimer suddenly sat bolt upright in his chair and glanced quickly round behind him.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"'Sh!" he whispered. "Go on talking loudly. Don't stop whatever you do."

We followed his instructions, watching him with amazement as he jumped up noiselessly from his chair, and crept like a cat across the room as far as the archway. Here he stopped, bending down and listening intently, with his hand to his ear.

When he turned, his face was alight with excitement. He came swiftly back, signalling to us to keep up the conversation.

"There's someone getting out of one of the bedroom windows," he whispered across the table. "Don't stop talking, but get to the door, and make a sudden rush for it. We're bound to catch him."

A smile of holy joy irradiated Tommy's countenance. Next to wrestling with a motor-car, a physical difference of opinion with a fellow-creature appeals to him more than anything else in the world. He leapt up, and instantly assumed command.

"You and Mortimer take the left; I'll go the other way. Buck up, or the blighter will have scooted."

Before he had finished speaking he had reached the door, clearing the steps with a single jump and bursting his way through the shrubs like a rather reckless rhinoceros.

Further strategy being apparently out of place, Mortimer and I followed as rapidly as we could. Darting up the path that ran round the other side of the house, we emerged into the clearing behind, just in time to see an unknown gentleman hurl himself frantically into the fringe of undergrowth that lined the opposite bank.

In a moment Tommy, who was hard on his heels, had plunged in after him. There was a shout, and then the dull thud of two heavily falling bodies.

"Come on," roared Tommy. "I've got him."

As he spoke, Mortimer tripped over the root of a tree and went sprawling full length on the grass. I did not wait, but leaping over a tangle of blackberry bush that barred the path, pressed on gallantly to Tommy's assistance.

I found him tied up in an amazing network of agitated arms and legs. As far as I could see, the stranger was underneath, and from the somewhat unpleasant sounds which were rising into the air, I gathered that he was finding some difficulty in breathing.

"Sit on his head," hissed Tommy's voice. "Take care he doesn't bite you. He's as strong as a horse."

I was attempting to carry out his instructions when, with a mighty effort, our visitor jerked himself clear enough to speak.

"All right, guv'nor," he gasped. "I gives in."

He ceased to struggle, and, panting but triumphant, we released our respective grips.

At that moment Mortimer arrived on the scene. He looked down on us with a smile.

"Well, you seem to have got him all right," he said. "Who is it?"

Tommy mopped his forehead with the back of his hand.

"I think it's Sandow," he replied. "Get up, my friend, and let's have a squint at you."

The stranger rose rather stiffly into a sitting posture. "You've 'alf choked me, guv'nor," he said reproachfully, putting his hand to his neck. "You 'adn't no call to 'andle me like that."

We all three burst our laughing.

"I'm sorry," said Tommy gravely. "I was under the impression that you were trying to kick me in the stomach."

The stranger grinned, and somewhat painfully clambered to his feet.

He was a massively built man of about forty, swarthy and black-bearded, and clothed in the conventional rags of a case-hardened tramp.

"Suppose we adjourn to the bungalow," I suggested. "I'm sure we all want a drink after this little romp."

Tommy took the stranger's arm and tucked it affectionately under his in that unbreakable clasp invented by the Japanese. Then dishevelled and slightly out of breath, we retraced our steps to the house.

"Where will Mr. Sandow sit?" I inquired, as soon as we were all assembled in the front room.

"I would suggest somewhere not too near the door," said Mortimer. "I'm getting too old for these sudden bursts of speed."

"This will do," said Tommy, pulling up a rush-seated wooden chair with his foot. "Take a pew, my friend."

He dumped the stranger down into the seat, and as he did so there came from the latter's pocket the muffled but quite distinct chink of silver.

"There is music in the air," observed Mortimer thoughtfully.

"By gad," cried Tommy, "those must be our spoons. Trot 'em out, my son; the game's up, you know."

Somewhat reluctantly, the stranger inserted his hand into the gaping orifice which served him as a pocket, and drew out a large number of spoons wrapped up in a duster. He laid them on the table.

"Thank you," said Tommy; "and now if we may trouble you for the forks—ah, much obliged."

The forks followed, similarly protected, the stranger all the time throwing little furtive glances round the room, first at one of us and then at the other.

While this interesting operation was in progress I had been occupying myself mixing drinks. I offered one to Tommy, but he waved it aside.

"A guest," he said, "especially an uninvited one, should always be served first."

I handed the tumbler to the stranger, who accepted it with a grin and a nod.

"And now," said Tommy, when we were all three similarly equipped, "I think it would be more friendly if we knew something about each other." He turned to the stranger. "Wouldn't you like to tell us your name, old sport?"

Our visitor looked at him cunningly.

"Me, guv'nor?" he said. "I'm the Dock o' Wellington."

"Ah!" replied Tommy politely. "I was sure I'd seen your face somewhere. If you won't think me inquisitive, may I ask what brought you to the island?"

The duke took a long drink. Then he jerked his thumb towards the steps.

"That there ruddy boat, guv'nor," he replied casually.

"I said so," cried Mortimer. "Now perhaps you'll apologize, Tommy."

"What I want to know," I interrupted, "is why you didn't clear out when you heard us on the bank."

The duke eyed me contemptuously.

"And 'ave you raisin' the 'ole bloomin' country on me. I don't think!"

"No, no," broke in Mortimer; "his grace is a sound tactician. If he could have cut off with the boat and left us here, he'd have been in clover."

"As it is," I observed, "he's in the soup."

"Still, it wasn't much good your making for the other side of the island," went on Mortimer, addressing our guest. "You couldn't get off that way."

"Ho, couldn't I?" remarked the duke, with some scorn. "If I'd 'a' got to the bank fust you'd 'ave know'd all about that. It'd take six o' your sort to ketch me in the water."

Tommy brought his hand down on the table with a sudden bang that made us all jump.

"By Jove," he cried, "here's the very man we want! Listen here, Whiskers. Suppose we find a way of settling this little business without handing you over to the police, eh?"

The duke blinked at him without any visible sign of emotion.

"Wotjer gettin' at?" he inquired imperturbably.

"Well, the fact is," explained Tommy, "I've got a little wager with the distinguished-looking gentleman in the arm-chair. I've bet him that I could land the best swimmer in the world with a salmon rod inside of half an hour."

"'Ave yer, guv'nor?" observed the duke. "Then ye can take it from me yer on a loser."

I gave a gentle laugh, which obviously nettled Tommy.

"Perhaps you think you could get away?" he said.

The duke finished his whisky with some deliberation, and set down the empty glass on the floor.

"Think!" he repeated. "I'm blinking well sure as no blinking salmon rod would 'old me 'arf a blinking minit." ("Blinking" was not the precise word that he used, but it will serve.)

Tommy turned to me with a grin.

"D'you feel like taking it on?" he asked.

I looked the duke over with a critical eye.

"Yes," I said; "I'll risk it."

"Well, let's put it to him," said Tommy. "Look here, my friend, if you're so cocksure I can't land you, what d'you say to my having a shot at it?"

The duke glanced suspiciously round the circle.

"Wot do I get out of it?" he demanded.

"You get out of going to quod," replied Tommy. "Whatever happens, we'll land you on the bank afterwards and let you clear off. That's a bargain."

"And what's more," I put in, "I'll lay you a pound to nothing that you don't break the line.

"Ye might make it a couple o' quid, guv'nor," observed his grace pathetically. "It's worth that to 'ave a damn great salmon 'ook shoved in yer."

There was a roar of laughter from all three of us.

"Well, he's a sportsman," I said, "whatever else he is." Then, turning to the duke, I explained that the performance would not be of quite such a realistic nature as he imagined. "We'll lend you a belt," I said, "and fasten the line to that. Then all you'll have to do will be to dive in and see if you can get clear."

He rose with some alacrity.

"Ho, if that's all, I'm bloomin' well on! It's a walk over, guv'nor—that's wot it is, a ruddy walk over."

"He can have my belt," said Tommy, unstrapping the article in question and tossing it across. "I'll go and get a salmon rod. They're hanging up in the passage."

He stepped through the archway, and took down a rod from the row of pegs, carrying it out through the side door into the garden, where we all three joined him.

Both Mortimer and I felt hugely excited, but neither the duke nor Tommy betrayed any special emotion.

"You'd better take your Sunday suit off," said the latter. "It'll give you a better chance."

The duke shook his head.

"I'll just shift me boots," he announced. "The water won't 'urt these 'ere duds."

"On the contrary," said Mortimer unkindly, "it ought to do 'em a bit of good. But you'll find it devilish wet walking afterwards."

"They'll dry quick enough," replied the duke, "with this 'ere sun."

He sat down on the bank, and removed the decayed shreds of leather that decorated his feet. Then with some care he fastened Tommy's belt round his waist.

"How are you going to fix the line?" I inquired.

"That's simple enough," said Tommy. "There's a ring at the back, you see. I'll take off the hook and fasten the gut to that."

He suited the action to the word, and in about five minutes the operation was completed. Tommy tested his handiwork with two or three stiff jerks, which the duke resisted by sitting peacefully on the ground.

"Can he have the benefit of the stream?" I asked. "If so, this side of the island is the best."

"Oh, yes," said Tommy. "I'll give you every chance. All I bargain is that Mortimer stands by with a walking-stick. If I get him close in enough to be touched, I've won the bet."

"Right you are," I agreed. "That's fair."

The duke got up and inspected the stream.

"You can choose your own place," said Tommy. "Only let's know when you're going to dive."

"Hold on," I said suddenly. "I'd better bring the boat round. We don't want the chap to drown, and if he gets loose in this stream, he'll never fetch the island again."

I ran back to the steps, and getting into the dinghy, tugged her round to where the others were standing. There I caught hold of a branch and steadied myself against the bank.

"When you're ready," I called out.

With delightful coolness the duke sauntered to the edge, where the river was deepest.

"All right, guv'nor?" he inquired, looking back over his shoulder at Tommy.

The latter nodded, planting himself firmly on the grass, with his legs well apart.

There was a short pause, and then suddenly the tattered figure on the bank shot outwards and downwards, taking the water with a splash that sent the spray flying in all directions. Tommy took a step forward, and the line went screaming out like an angry wasp.

Tense with excitement, Mortimer and I stared at the spot where the duke had disappeared. He came up some ten yards further on. The line was still fastened to his back, but without a moment's hesitation he set off down stream, swimming with a vigorous overhand stroke that carried him along rapidly in the swift-running water.

He must have covered about twenty-five yards before Tommy made his first attempt to check him. We saw the line tighten suddenly, and the point of the rod bend double beneath the strain. The effect on the duke was instantaneous. Ceasing to swim, he spun round in the water, and lay on his back apparently as helpless as a floating log.

Very carefully Tommy began to wind him in. Nearer and nearer he came, jerking along through the broken water, and making no attempt to resist. For a moment I thought it was all over, and then, just as Mortimer was creeping down the bank with the stick in his hand, there came another sharp "whirr" from the reel, and away went the quarry down the stream as vigorously as a freshrun salmon.

"Look out!" yelled Mortimer. "He's making for the rock!"

Away to the left a crest of grey stone reared itself above swirling waters. Towards this the duke was swimming rapidly with the evident intention of fouling the line.

Tommy saw the danger, and just at the right moment put on the check. The duke halted abruptly, paused for a moment just where he was, then suddenly rising high in the water, dived beneath the surface like a dog-otter. There was a sharp snick, the rod jerked back with a swirl of flying line, and Tommy sat down abruptly on the bank.

With a shout of triumph I grabbed my oars, and, shoving off the boat from the bank, sped hastily to the rescue.

I was just in time. Exhausted apparently by his great effort, the duke was drifting feebly down the current, devoting his remaining energies to keeping his head above water. I grabbed him by the collar, and, with a mighty haul, succeeded in lifting him up like some enervated porpoise over the side of the dinghy. With a grunt he collapsed on the seat, and putting all my strength into it, I tugged our craft back to the island.

Tommy, who is a sportsman to the backbone, was standing on the bank with a stiff whisky-and-soda, which he had secured from the bungalow.

"Here you are, Captain Webb," he said. "Get this down your neck, and you'll feel better."

The duke took the glass and shifted its contents without a tremor.

"I'm all right, guv'nor," he said; "but you nearly 'ad me."

Tommy laughed and shook his head.

"Let's see where it broke," he said, turning his late quarry round so as to examine the belt. "By Jove! Just about the ring, and as clean as a whistle! Well, we'd better fix you up with a dry shirt before you go. I've got one I can spare you."

"Thank ye, guv'nor," said the duke. "I could do with a shirt."

Tommy disappeared into the house, returning a moment later with the garment and a bottle of whisky.

"Take this too," he said; "it'll keep the cold out."

I groped in my pocket and produced a sovereign.

"Here you are," I added, handing it to our guest. "I'll row you ashore."

We got back into the boat, the duke hugging his whisky and his shirt; and steering a course a little upstream, I pulled him over to the opposite bank. Tommy and Mortimer stood on the island waving us farewell.

When we reached our destination, I stood up and offered him my hand.

"Good-bye, old friend," I said. "Thank you for winning my bet."

Very slowly he withdrew a hand from his pocket, and with a sideways glance at the island opened it so that I could see its contents.

"I'd never 'ave done it, guv'nor," he said hoarsely, "if it 'adn't 'a' bin for these 'ere wire-nippers."

The Strange Adventure of Mr. Bates

I

Through the uncurtained window the yellow light of the bar parlour streamed out into the darkness of the November night. Standing in the road, his hand fingering the two odd coppers in his trousers pocket, Mr. William Bates gazed irresolutely at the inviting gleam. He was weighing the relative merits of a fire and a glass of beer at the present moment against those of a crude but satisfying breakfast of bread and cheese on the following morning. A clink of glasses, followed by a sudden burst of laughter, seemed to decide the matter, for, casting forethought aside, he advanced up the cobbled pathway and pushed open the door of the little country inn.

He found himself in a small, low-ceilinged room, lit by a hanging lamp. A wood fire was smouldering away on the open hearth, and round its fragrant glow two or three men were seated in various attitudes of convivial comfort. They all looked up as he entered.

Mr. Bates, being an unobtrusive person by nature, seated himself quietly on an oak settle against the wall. An enormously stout man, who had discarded his coat and was smoking a much-coloured churchwarden, rose slowly from his chair.

"Even," he remarked in a genial rumble. "Nasty night, ain't it?"

Mr. Bates nodded and shivered.

"Come a bit closer to the fire, mate," went on the landlord, for such was evidently the stout gentleman's calling. "You look fair perished."

Two of the men moved back their chairs, and Mr. Bates, accepting the invitation, shifted into a vacant seat at the corner of the hearth.

"Glass of beer, please," he said, as the landlord, with an interrogative glance, threw up a small wooden partition that communicated with the bar.

The refreshment having arrived, and Mr. Bates having parted with three of his four last half-pennies, the general conversation interrupted by his entrance was resumed.

"Seems to be something funny about it," observed the landlord, looking across at the thin man with gaiters who was sitting on the edge of the table.

"Blooming funny!" emphasized the local postman.

"Well, that were his message, any'ow. 'E says: 'Tell 'Orniman that I'll be along with my box by 'alf-past nine, and that I'll be wanting to sleep the night,' 'E's 'ad a proper row with the old man and chucked 'is job—that's what 'e's done."

"Got the sack, more like," observed the postman, spitting ironically into the fire.

"That's as it may be; anyway, I've gived the message."

"What's the Professor going to do?" inquired the landlord.

"Ah," said the man with gaiters. "Advertise for summon else, I suppose. 'E won't 'ave no women about the place, that's certain."

"Job worth 'aving," put in a red-whiskered man who had not previously spoken—"at least, judgin' by the amount o' drink Andrew got through."

"No one can say as Andrew weren't free with 'is money," observed the gaitered man.

"If it were 'is money," put in the postman unkindly.

There was a sound of steps outside, and the sudden thud of a heavy weight on the ground.

"Here 'i is," said the landlord.

The door swung open, and Mr. Bates, looking up, saw a man enter. He was a pale-faced, sandy-haired individual, with a sharp nose, watery eyes, and a general air of somewhat dissipated insolence.

"Good 'evenin', gentlemen all," he remarked. "Hallo, Potter! Give me message to Horniman?"

"That's all right, Mr. Andrew," answered the landlord. "There's a room upstairs if you want one. I'll send George along to get your box in."

"Wot's the meanin' of all this 'ere bust up?" inquired the red-whiskered man, as the new-comer settled himself down with a large glass of Hollands in front of him.

Mr. Andrew laughed with a fine assumption of independence. "Jest got sick of the old swine, and told 'im so," he replied. "Nearly 'ad a fit when I gave 'im notice."

"Must 'a' bin a blow to 'im," said the postman. "Did you get your last week's wages?"

Mr. Andrew looked across coldly. "He offered me a cheque," he said, "but I told 'im to keep it and get 'is 'air cut."

"And then you woke up, I s'pose," added the postman.

"What'll the Professor do without you, Mr. Andrew?" inquired the landlord, anxious to relieve the somewhat strained situation.

"Have to look after 'imself for a day or two, I 'ope, and I've left some work for 'im, I'll warrant you. There's all yesterday's things unwashed, 'is rotten old boots dirty, the stores mixed up, and every window and door in the place unfastened. I only 'ope," he added viciously, "as some tramp'll come along and clean out the whole place before 'e finds out! I'd 'alf a mind to chalk up a notice on the gate opposite, sayin' that the kitchen windows at The Firs was unlatched, and that there was plenty of grub and drink for any one who chose to walk in and 'elp themselves."

In the laughter that followed this spirited harangue, Mr. Bates turned to his next-door neighbour, a quiet man who had not spoken yet, and inquired in a subdued voice:

"The Firs? Ain't that the house I passed coming along—a little white place standing back on the left?"

"That's it, mate," answered the other. "Professor Stenson's. Andrew 'ere was 'is servant."

"Seems to me," observed the gentleman with gaiters, addressing the hero of the evening, "as you've got your own back out of him."

Mr. Andrew grinned complacently. "I don't believe in bein' put on," he admitted. "One man's as good as another, I say, and I like to be treated with proper respect."

"And not kicked out of the 'ouse, like a thief, at a minute's notice," added the postman.

There was a moment of unpleasant silence.

"If you're trying to insinooate—" began Mr. Andrew hotly.

"I ain't trying to insinooate nothing," said the postman. "It's my opinion as the Professor's a gentleman—a proper gentleman 'e is, and 'e always treated you a sight too well. If I'd been in 's shoes, you'd 'ave been out of it long ago. That's my opinion, Mister Andrew, and if you don't like it, you can shove it in your pipe and dam well smoke it."

So saying, the postman emptied his pot of beer, and, buttoning his uniform, rose defiantly to his feet. Before the heated atmosphere had a chance to burst, however, the landlord again intervened, this time with the full majesty of law behind him.

"One minute past ten!" he cried, snapping a huge watch which he had extracted from the depths of his waistcoat. "I'll be losin' my licence, standin' 'ere listenin' to your jokin'. Come along, George—get up the shutters."

George, an aged, lop-sided gentleman, shuffled out from the bar, and the whole company, with the exception of the indignant and heavily breathing Mr. Andrew, rose reluctantly to their feet. There was a general feeling of disappointment that such a promising situation should have come to so tame a conclusion.

Mr. Bates passed through the door with the rest into the darkness outside.

Though it was not actually raining, only a shameless optimist could have described it as a fine night. A raw November mist brooded unpleasantly over everything, offering a dismal contrast to the warmth and brightness of the little bar-parlour. Under the circumstances, nobody stayed to gossip on the doorstep, even the thrilling topic of Mr. Andrew's resignation being mutually abandoned. There was a general turning up of coat-collars, the flare of a match, a "Good-night, Tom!"—"Comin' my way, Potter?" and all the late revellers clumped away to their respective homes—all of them, that is to say, except Mr. Bates. He, unfortunately, had no home to go to.

He stood still, listening to the retreating footsteps. Then, with a faint sigh, he thrust his hands into his pockets and began to walk slowly back along the road in the direction from which he had arrived at the inn.

He had covered nearly a quarter of a mile in this fashion when a few yards ahead the dull yellow blue of an oil lamp suddenly appeared through the mist. Mr. Bates stopped and began to peer anxiously through the gloom on his left.

"Ought to be jest about here," he muttered, "if I ain't made a mistake." The shadowy outline of a white gate rewarded his efforts. He climbed carefully over it, and feeling his way by means of a wall that ran at right angles to the road, arrived at a low stone building, which, as far as could be seen in the darkness, bore the appearance of a discarded cowshed.

Through an aperture that in more spacious days had probably been the site of a doorway, Mr. Bates passed in to his hotel. It was black inside, with that peculiar quality of blackness which seems to affect the breathing power, and there was a faint odour of immemorial cows. Mr. Bates struck a match, and by its spluttering light glanced nervously about him. Against the opposite wall he detected a rough manger, which seemed to be free of some of the less pleasing features of the floor. A year ago Mr. Bates might have sniffed at its possibilities as a bedstead, but recent experience had rendered him less critical. Igniting a second match, he made a further inspection, which resulted in the discovery of a couple of indescribably filthy sacks. One of these he rolled up into a pillow and placed in the manger, and then, scrambling in himself and lying down, he drew the other luxuriously over his tired limbs. Some twenty minutes later the sound of deep, steady breathing showed that he was temporarily oblivious of the discomforts of the ill-arranged planet.

II

One—two—three—four—five.

The last stroke of the village church clock died slowly away, and only the dreary, persistent patter of the rain upon the dead leaves disturbed the uncanny stillness of a sleeping world.

Mr. Bates stood irresolutely in the wet darkness, his hand upon the gate which led into the domains of Professor Stenson. At last, very cautiously, he pushed it open and stepped inside.

Before him lay the drive, lined by laurels and overhung by several gaunt, leafless elms. It was even blacker than the roadway. Step by step he felt his way along, till all of a sudden the shrubbery came to an end, and he found himself at the edge of a small gravelled space facing the front door.

At the side of the house he could just discern a path, which appeared to run round to the back. Crouching down and moving his feet as noiselessly as possible, he advanced along it, keeping one hand against the ivy-clad wall to guide his steps.

After about twelve yards of this uncomfortable progress, he came round the corner into a small square yard. There was a back door with two windows on either side of it, while above these again were, apparently three rooms. All were in complete darkness.

With his heart in his mouth, Mr. Bates crept up to the first window and peered through. He could see nothing. It was like staring into a sheet of black paper. For a second he hesitated, and then, placing his hand against the sash of the bottom pane, gave it a gentle tentative push. It yielded instantly to his pressure, sliding up a matter of two or three inches with a wheezy rattle that made him start back in a fresh access of alarm. Surely someone must have heard it! He half turned to run, and then paused irresolutely, his ears strained for the first sound of any movement within the house.

Nothing happened, however, and, after waiting several minutes, Mr. Bates regained his courage. Very gingerly he again raised the sash, and with extreme caution inserted his head through the empty window-frame. It was the kitchen; of that there could be no doubt, an unpleasing odour of boiled cabbage and damp clothes and dirty plates attesting to the professional deficiencies of the owner's late servant.

Raising himself upon his hands, Mr. Bates lifted his leg and scrambled in noiselessly over the sill. Then he felt in his pocket for a match. By the aid of a dry portion of his trousers he struck it without any superfluous noise, and, shading it with his hand, gazed nervously about him.

It was evident that Mr. Andrew's vaunt had not been an entirely idle one. The room was in a state of shocking disorder. Heaped up anyhow on the table were the dirty appliances of at least three meals. A mountainous pile of ashes beneath the grate bore eloquent testimony to daily tasks neglected, and at least three pairs of uncleaned boots scattered about the floor did nothing to remove the impression. Mr. Bates looked round with a disapproving and disgusted eye. A tidy man by nature and training, his fingers itched to set about this confusion.

The flame of the match reaching his thumb, however, reminded him sharply that he was there upon other and more pressing business. Dropping the charred stump with a mild and whispered oath, he ignited a second, and by its light perceived, on the further side of the apartment, an open door leading into a larder. On a shelf against the wall he could just detect the outline of a cold chicken, apparently still intact.

Mr. Bates did not wait for an invitation. In a moment he had crossed the floor and entered this attractive storehouse. Seizing the chicken, he held up the match and gazed round for further contributions. Half a loaf of bread was the first object to meet his eye, and this, together with a small piece of German sausage, which he found on a plate behind it, satisfied his requirements. Thrusting his booty under his arm, and throwing down his second match, which by this time had burnt itself away, he stepped out into the darkness of the kitchen. As he did so, a slight sound made him pause. An instant later there was a sharp click, and then a blinding flare of electric light suddenly flooded the room.

Mr. Bates staggered back against the wall, his plunder and his jaw dropping at the same moment. An elderly gentleman in a Jaeger dressing-gown with a revolver in his hand, was leaning comfortably against the kitchen door. He was clean-shaven, with longish white hair. A pleasant, if somewhat ironical, smile lurked about his face.

"Flagrante delicto, Mr. Burglar," he remarked, "or, to use a language with which you are possibly better acquainted, caught in the act, eh?"

Mr. Bates licked his lips, which felt very dry. "Yes, sir," he whispered.

"You will oblige me by keeping your hands above your head. Thank you. Now permit me to introduce myself. My name is Professor Stenson."

"Yes, sir," repeated Mr. Bates hoarsely.

"And yours, my friend?"

"William Bates, sir."

"And if you won't think me inquisitive, Mr. Bates, may I ask what you are doing in my house at this time in the morning?"

Mr. Bates wriggled, his eyes glued on the muzzle of the revolver.

"The fact is, sir," he jerked out, "I was hungry, sir."

"Ah," said the Professor, "and I suppose you mistook The Firs for an hotel. That is the worst of modern architecture—it has no distinctive note."

With this statement Mr. Bates apparently agreed. At all events, he offered no comment on it. When he spoke again, which he did after a brief pause, his topic was of an altogether different nature.

"If you please, sir," he stammered nervously, "would you mind not pointing that thing at me, sir? It might go off."

"I have no particular wish to point it at you," replied the Professor. "The posture is both fatiguing and ridiculous. If you will take your coat off and place it on the floor, so that I can see that you are not armed, I shall be delighted to assume a less martial attitude. Be good enough to keep your hands from your pockets while you are doing it, or I shall shoot you without hesitation."

With shaking fingers Mr. Bates proceeded to disrobe, being very careful to hold his tattered garment by the extreme edge. Having shed it, he stood in his shirt-sleeves, looking about as dishevelled and miserable a housebreaker as ever cracked a crib.

His captor gazed at him thoughtfully for a moment, and then lowered his weapon. Mr. Bates breathed an audible sigh of relief.

"And now we are at our ease," said the Professor, "I should be interested to hear a little more about you. If you won't think me insulting, your methods, from the technical point of view, appear to be deplorably amateurish. Why didn't you lock the kitchen door?"

There was something in the Professor's tone which made Mr. Bates feel a shade less like a trapped rat. He even drew himself up with a pathetic effort at courage.

"I assure you, sir," he said earnestly, "I am no burglar."

The Professor looked at him quizzically.

"I am inclined to agree with you, Mr. Bates," he said.

"It was very wrong of me to come in here, sir, I admit, but I was hungry, sir—desperately hungry—and I knew I should find some food inside. I assure you, sir, I had no intention of taking away anything else."

"And may I inquire why you were so certain about the contents of my kitchen? Indeed, how did you even know it was the kitchen?"

"If you please, sir, it was hearing what Mr. Andrew said at the inn last night."

A sudden look of illumination flashed across the Professor's face.

"Oh," he said, "so that is how the land lies, is it? I am indebted to the gentle Andrew for the pleasure of your acquaintance, eh? Well, come, come, don't be reticent, my friend; let us have the whole story."

Bit by bit, with his eye still on the revolver, Mr. Bates proceeded to relate the incidents of the previous night, from the time of his entry into the inn. The Professor listened to him without interrupting, the same curious, half-ironical, half-good-natured smile playing all the time about his mouth. Once, when he heard of the postman's final remark, he laughed out loud.

"So Mercury is evidently a gentleman of penetration," he observed. "What did you think of Andrew yourself, Mr. Bates?"

"I didn't like him at all, sir. He seemed to me a shifty, incompetent fellow, and insolent, sir—very insolent."

"I dare say you are right," said the Professor. "He was only insolent to me once, but that may have been for lack of a second opportunity. Shifty he certainly was, and as for incompetence—well, look at the state of this kitchen, Mr. Bates."

Mr. Bates looked. "Yes, sir," he said warmly, "it's disgraceful. It was the first thing I noticed as I came in. When I was—" He stopped abruptly.

"Well, well, well, when you were what? Let us have it, my friend."

"I was going to say, sir, that, when I was in service, I should have died of shame if any one had seen my kitchen in such a state."

The Professor raised his eyebrows. "When you were in service, eh? So you have risen in the world, Mr. Bates! And how long is it since you have exchanged the livery for the crape and jack-boots?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"When was your last professional engagement?"

"I have been out of a place, sir, since I left Mr. Houghton, eighteen months ago."

"And what were you doing for Mr. Houghton?"

"Everything, sir. He was a bachelor gentleman, and didn't care to have women servants about the house, so I looked after him entirely."

"Dear me! How extremely fortunate!" exclaimed the Professor. "Your visit is what the vicar would call almost providential, Mr. Bates. Before I discharge my duty as a citizen, by handing you over to the local policeman, you will be able to straighten out all this distressing confusion for me. If you do it efficiently, it will doubtless be taken into consideration by the magistrate."

"Yes, sir," murmured Mr. Bates dejectedly.

"Well, suppose we start upon the boots, then. It will be pleasant to have a pair of boots properly cleaned again. You will find the brushes and some blacking in that cupboard."

Mr. Bates opened the door and took out the articles in question. He then collected the three pairs of boots which were scattered about the floor, and silently set to work. The Professor, sitting on a corner of the kitchen table, with the revolver dangling in his hand, watched him with amused interest.

When the last boot was finished and laid aside, he got up.

"Your work reflects great credit on you, Mr. Bates," he remarked approvingly. "I shall be proud to wear them. Do you think you are equally skilful at washing up plates and dishes?"

"I think so, sir," said Mr. Bates meekly.

"Well, we may as well make certain, eh? Suppose you collect some of these and bring them into the scullery."

He pushed open a third door, and turned on a switch.

"There is a gas-stove in here, so we can have plenty of hot water in a few minutes."

Scraping the various remnants from the plates and dishes, Mr. Bates heaped the latter up into two piles and carried them into the scullery. The Professor meanwhile had filled a large washing-up pan with water and placed it on the stove.

"While we are waiting for it to boil," he said, "you might tell me a little more about your past history. In view of your accomplishments, how did Mr. Houghton ever bring himself to part with you?"

"Please, sir, he died."

"A pity," said the Professor. "But surely you should have found little difficulty in obtaining another place?"

Mr. Bates hung his head.

The Professor looked at him. "Ah," he said, after a short pause. "I thought there must be some reason. Come, Mr. Bates, what's the trouble? Never be afraid to speak the truth."

"I was out of a place for about three months, sir, and—and my wife got very ill, sir, and I had spent all my savings. The doctor said that the only chance of saving her was to send her out of London. I went to call on a gentleman about a place, and while I was waiting, sir, I—I—I saw a couple of sovereigns on the mantelpiece, and I took them, sir."

"That was very wrong of you, Mr. Bates," said the Professor.

"Yes, sir."

"What happened?"

"The money was missed, and I was arrested, sir. The magistrate was very good to me. He might have sent me to prison, but he only bound me over. I am very grateful to him, sir. Still, that finished me as far as work was concerned, sir."

"And your wife?"

Mr. Bates suddenly began to cry. "My wife is dead, sir."

"Dear me," said the Professor, turning his head away, "dear me!"

There was a short pause, during which Mr. Bates began mechanically to wash up. The Professor sat in silence while plate after plate was cleaned and put aside. When both piles were finished, he looked up at the small clock which was ticking away on the mantelpiece. The time was about five-and-twenty minutes to seven.

"It is a little early for breakfast," he remarked, "but I think that, as you are here, Mr. Bates, I will take advantage of the fact by getting you to cook me some eggs and bacon. There ought to be plenty, unless Andrew has excelled himself."

"Yes, sir," said Mr. Bates.

The Professor went out into the larder, returning almost immediately with the required provisions.

"If you will cook these," he said, "I will go on with laying the table."

"Oh, don't you trouble, sir—I can do it, sir," protested Mr. Bates.

"Please do what you are asked, Mr. Bates. And you might make some tea at the same time; the canister is on the shelf above you."

"Yes, sir."

"And bring it all into the kitchen as soon as it is ready."

"Yes, sir."

The fragrant smell of the hissing eggs and bacon was the most exquisite torture to Mr. Bates. An agonised longing to seize some of the food and stuff it into his mouth almost dazed him with its intensity. Nevertheless, he firmly proceeded with his task, turning out a succulent steaming dish, just cooked to precisely the right point. Then he made the tea, and taking down a plate which he had put to warm, placed the whole lot upon a tray, and carried it into the kitchen. The Professor was sitting at the table, which was laid for two.

"Excellent," he said, taking off the cover and looking at the contents. "But how is this—you have only brought one hot plate?"

"I thought that was all you would require, sir."

"But there is yourself, Mr. Bates. I laid a place for you under the impression that you were hungry."

"Oh, sir," said Mr. Bates, with a little gasp, "if I may have something outside, sir! I—I should hardly like to sit down with you, sir."

The Professor raised his eyebrows again. "Really, Mr. Bates, a little more self-respect, if you please. You must remember that you are a burglar now, not a valet."

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Bates seated himself in the second chair, and the Professor, whose appetite seemed suddenly to have vanished, helped him to about seven-eighths of the eggs and bacon. Mr. Bates fell upon them with as much ferocity as his professional refinement would permit.

The Professor handed him a cup of tea, and after watching him for a minute, got up and walked to where a telephone was fastened to the wall. He took off the receiver.

"Are you there?" he said. "Please put me on to the London Exchange. Yes, thank you. Don't you bother, Mr. Bates, go on with your breakfast. Is that the Exchange? I want 400 City. Yes. Help yourself to some more tea when you want it, Mr. Bates. Are you there? Is that Scotland Yard? Professor Stenson. Would you ask Inspector Green to come to the telephone? All right. You will find some marmalade in the white pot, Mr. Bates. Is that you, Green? Yes. I want you to do something for me. It's just to look up the record of a man named William Bates, who was bound over at—where was it, Mr. Bates?—ah—Marylebone, on—what date?—May 7th. I should like to have any information you possess."

He turned and contemplated Mr. Bates, who was staring at him with his mouth open.

"Wonderful invention, the telephone, isn't it, Mr. Bates?" he remarked. "It keeps us so in touch with the actual facts of existence. But don't let my private business interfere with your breakfast. You must be hungry after your somewhat uncomfortable night."

Mr. Bates said nothing. He seemed content to stare and eat.

Another minute or two elapsed. "Yes, I'm here," said the Professor suddenly, turning again to the instrument. "Thanks." A pause. "What—what's that?" Another and longer pause. "Oh, thanks very much. Yes, that's all. I shall probably see you Wednesday. I hope to look in about that Stevenson case. Yes. Good-bye."

He hung up the receiver.

"Well, Mr. Bates," said he, approaching the table, "it appears that you have spoken the truth."

Mr. Bates gulped down his last mouthful.

"Yes, sir," he said.

The Professor eyed him for a moment severely.

"It is, of course, my duty," he said, "to hand you over to the law."

"Yes, sir."

"But, being opposed to carrying duty to too logical an extreme, I am prepared to make you an alternative offer. If you would care to take the place of the professionally defunct Mr. Andrew, I am willing to give you a trial. Your work would be to devote the same care and skill to my comfort that you doubtless bestowed upon the late Mr. Houghton. Your wages will be fifty pounds a year, and I shall give you a fortnight's holiday."

For a naturally reserved and properly trained servant, Mr. Bates's response was unpardonable. Rising to his feet, he staggered round the table, and falling on his knees in front of the Professor, began feebly groping for the latter's hand. He was sobbing so loudly that it was difficult to hear what he said. It sounded like:

"Thank you—oh, thank you, sir! God bless you, sir!"

For the third time the Professor raised his eyebrows.

"Really, Bates," he said, "a little more self-control, if you please. You must remember that you are a valet now, not a burglar."

A Bit of Old Chelsea

We were strolling through the restful streets of Chelsea when we came suddenly upon a picturesque little tavern close to the Thames. It was half covered with ivy, and from the wooden balcony above, long trailing geraniums hung down and mingled with the dark green leaves. There was a weather-beaten signboard with a picture of a cunning-looking man in a cocked hat. It was called the "Lord Nelson."

"That's a quaint old place," said George carelessly.

"Very," I replied; "so picturesque."

"I wonder what it's like inside. Shall we have a look?"

"Certainly," I said.

I always try to fall in with my friend's wishes, even when I don't approve of them. I may be wrong, but that is my idea of friendship.

George is a journalist with a strange craving for the interiors of taverns. He says they are such excellent places in which to study character. From the outsider's point of view studying character seems to be the chief part of journalism, and I should think few men worked harder at it than George does.

We pushed open a door marked "Saloon," and found ourselves in a narrow compartment just large enough to contain four people without inconvenience. One of the seats was already occupied by an amiable-looking wreck, who was fast asleep with his head on the counter. The public bar exactly opposite contained five or six navvies in various stages of intoxication, and the barman, a smart-looking man of about thirty-five, was attending to their wants.

"Seems a bit tired," remarked George, looking critically at our companion.

"Been studying too much character," I suggested.

George was just beginning a sarcastic reply when the barman came across to take our orders. We decided on two glasses of what I once heard a temperance lecturer describe as "hell-filling alcohol," and while the barman was getting them ready George entered into conversation with him.

"Who's our friend?" he inquired, indicating the recumbent reveller in the corner.

"Dunno 'is name," said the barman, snipping the wire off the Perrier. "Calls 'im Billy Borndrunk round 'ere, and 'e seems satisfied."

"Got a pretty tough lot opposite, haven't you?" I asked.

The barman's face assumed an expression of intense disgust.

"Trash," he remarked. "They're mendin' the Embankment, and come along 'ere after work. They fair mop it, I can tell yer, and then they gits narsty. I'll 'ave to learn 'em something afore I'm done with 'em."

He was only five-foot-six, but he spoke with confidence, and I felt that it was no vain boasting.

"You know something about it, eh?"

He closed an eye and smiled scornfully. "Quite enough for any o' them to go on with."

Then he left us, for the gentlemen opposite were becoming clamorous for more liquor.

During the next few minutes we sat there in silence. George was evidently making a mental sketch of Billy Borndrunk, and with the sympathy of the true artist I refrained from interrupting him. I amused myself by idly scanning the various bottles which were piled up on shelves at the bade, together with a few packets of cheap cigarettes and some weary-looking ferns. This is a favourite pastime of mine when George insists on taking me into taverns. I like to speculate dreamily upon the various flavours. If one is not really fond of drink one can do this without feeling ashamed. It becomes a purely intellectual pursuit.

Suddenly I was aware of a disturbance in the opposite bar. A dialogue was in progress between my friend the barman and a gigantic navvy, proportionately inebriated.

"Pot o' 'arf-an'-'arf, an' not ser much jaw," demanded the latter.

"Yer won't get no more 'ere," replied the barman coldly. "Yer drunk as it is. Go 'ome to bed."

"Oo-oose drunk?" inquired the navvy indignantly.

"You are," said the barman, "beastly."

Then civilization slipped off the navvy like a discarded cloak.

"I'm drunk, am I!" he roared. "Tike that!" His fist shot out, and, landing somewhere in the neighbourhood of the barman's right eye, drove that gentleman across the bar with such velocity that he struck the counter close to us with considerable force.

"That's for yer cheek," observed the navvy in the voice of one whose honour has been satisfied.

The remaining customers, with the honourable exception of Billy Borndrunk, rose hastily to their feet, and a chorus of criticism filled the tavern. "Serve 'im right!" "Shut yer 'ead!" "Don't be a fool, Bill!" "Hit him back!" This last from George.

I remembered the barman's boast, and was silent in pleasant expectation.

To my intense disappointment, however, the blow seemed to have cowed him. He pulled himself together and slowly retraced his steps, holding his hand up to his face.

"You 'adn't no call to 'it me like that," he began reproachfully. "What's your order?"

"Pot o' 'arf-an'-'arf; and when I comes in 'ere again, per'aps ye'll be a bit more perlite—see?"

The navvy leaned across the counter and grinned derisively.

He never grinned again—at least, not under similar circumstances. With amazing swiftness the barman whipped out a large pewter pot from under the counter and struck him a swinging blow across the face, sending him to the floor with a thud that shook the building.

"That's for your cheek," he remarked.

Then he coolly picked up the cloth and began to polish the tankard. "That's the worst o' them dirty faces," he observed. "Spoils the silver."

An awe-struck silence fell upon us all, while the navvy rose up slowly with the brand of can upon his cheek. I do not know how to spell the words, or I would tell you what he said. When he had done the barman eyed him critically.

"I ain't got much time to spare for pleasure," he replied, "but if yer likes to step round to the yard be'ind, we'll give that there mark a bit o' company."

The navvy's eyes glistened, and the whole tavern, with the exception of Billy Borndrunk, rose joyously to the suggestion.

The barman walked to the side door and called his wife.

"Annie," he said, "just look after the bar while I show these gen'lemen our backyard."

We all trooped out, leaving Billy Borndrunk in sole possession. It seemed a shame that he should miss the fight, but it would have taken some hours to wake him up, and by that time everything would have been over.

Outside we were joined by two or three stray inhabitants of Chelsea, who had been busily engaged in their usual strenuous work of leaning over the railings and spitting in the Thames. Scenting a welcome diversion, they lounged up and listened with philosophic calm to the navvy's lurid descriptions of how he was about to operate upon his opponent.

Then there was a sound of bolts being withdrawn, and the barman opened the gate that led into the yard. It was quite small, paved with cobbles, and surrounded by high brick walls: scarcely the place that I should have selected for a fight unless I felt very certain that I was going to win. The barman closed the gate, and we all ranged ourselves round the walls, while he and the navvy removed their superfluous clothing and took up their positions in opposite corners. George, who is a bit of a sportsman, volunteered to act as timekeeper.

There was a moment of almost breathless silence and then he gave the word:

"Time!"

The barman took three quick steps forward, and planted himself firmly in the centre of the ring. In another second the navvy was upon him—head down and hitting like a flail. There was a gorgeous whirl of arms, a couple of sharp smacking blows, and the navvy suddenly sat down with his hand to his eye, while the little man danced away apparently uninjured.

Two or three of the fallen warrior's companions advanced and set him upon his feet. "Go fur 'is wind, Bill," suggested one. "Stand orf an' fight 'im clever," added another. "Close wiv 'im," said a third.

The navvy drew the back of his hand across his face and shoved them roughly aside. "I'll kill 'im afore I done with 'im," he muttered.

His friends retreated to the wall, and the two men faced each other again. This time it was the barman's turn to attack. Without a moment's hesitation he waltzed in, and, ducking a terrific swing, landed a straight left on his opponent's nose that brought a roar of mingled anguish and fury from its owner's lips. Whether it was the pain, or whether the blood of some forgotten French ancestor was stirring in his veins, I cannot say, but the navvy now threw aside all pretensions to following the rules of the ring, and, rushing forward kicked at his enemy with all the force of which he was capable. My heart seemed to jump into my mouth for I felt certain that the barman's hour had come. The navvy's boot looked as if it were capable of opening the door for any soul in England.

With a brilliant effort, however, the barman leaped on one side, and, using his right hand for the first time in the fight, smote the navvy a deadly blow across his disfigured countenance that stretched him upon the yard and abruptly terminated the struggle.

George counted him out with all the dignity of a professional timekeeper, but he made no effort to rise, for the barman stood over him, waiting to rebuke him for his attempted treachery. Then he began to roll about as though in great pain.

"Brandy!" he moaned feebly. "Gimme some brandy!"

The barman walked across the yard and picked up a huge bucket of clean water. He had evidently guessed the navvy's weak point, for the latter rose quickly, if somewhat unsteadily, to his feet, with the expression of a man who has narrowly escaped some strange and horrible danger. He staggered slowly to the gate, and then, turning round, addressed his late opponent in a voice of dignified rebuke.

"Thash 'ow you lose cushtom. I shan't come 'ere no more."

The Microbe

"Wot's a microbe, Sam?" inquired Bill Gerridge, putting down his pipe, and looking up from the paper which he had been laboriously reading for the last quarter of an hour.

"A microbe!" repeated Sam doubtfully. "Why a sort o' hinsect—ain't it, Mr. Parbury?"

"Well, it ain't exactly a insect," answered Mr. Parbury with some deliberation. "More like a reptile, as yer might say. Somethin' arter the nature of a rat with wings."

"Kind o' bat?" put in Bill.

"You've got it," agreed Mr. Parbury. "Any'ow, they're dangerous beasts."

"'Ow's that?" asked Sam.

Mr. Parbury took a long pull at his pewter tankard, and then replaced it on the table. "Yer know wot a mad dog's like, don't yer?" he said impressively. "Well, yer can take it from me that a mad dog ain't in it with a microbe. Once a microbe gets a fair 'old on yer, ye're a goner an' no error."

"Why?" demanded Bill sceptically. "Wot do they do to yer?"

"Do to yer?" echoed Mr. Parbury. "Poisons yer! That's wot they do to yer. Each microbe's got some special disease of 'is own like, and 'e only 'as to get in one nip an' 'e can pass it on—see?"

"Why don't they muzzle 'em or stamp 'em out?" suggested Sam, who had a practical mind.

Mr. Parbury laughed scornfully. "Ah!" he said, "that would take a bit o' doin', that would. The only chaps wot understands the way to deal with microbes is doctors. They get so used to 'em they can 'andle 'em like terriers. Didn't I never tell yer that yarn o' Spikey Joe's, 'bout the doctor wot were in the Scrubs same time as 'e were?"

Sam shook his head, while Bill's naturally expressionless face betrayed no sign of recognition.

"Fancy my not 'avin' told yer that," said Mr. Parbury musingly. "Wonnerful interestin' story too. If I weren't so uncommon dry, I'd tell it yer now."

Sam waited a moment or two to see if Bill were going to speak, and then remarked with a faint touch of resentment in his voice:

"Give it a name, Mr. Parbury."

Comfortably installed, with a fresh "bitter and Burton" at his elbow, Mr. Parbury repeated, nodding his head and smiling gently to himself, "It's a wonnerful interestin' story, that is. Spikey Joe told it to me 'isself one night at the Star and Anchor. Ye mind 'ow 'e got into trouble 'bout four years back, on account o' knockin' a copper over the 'ead?"

"It wasn't the 'ead," said Sam. "It was the stummick."

Mr. Parbury waved aside the objection as unimportant. "Well, any'ow 'e got two o' the best for it, and it were while 'e were doin' 'is bit in the Scrubs as 'e come across the doctor. 'E were a clever sort o' chap were this 'ere doctor, but some'ow 'e'd gone the pace a bit too 'ot, an' got 'isself in for forgery, see?

"They shoved 'im in the cell next to Spikey Joe, the bloke wot 'ad been there previous 'avin' been took bad with the cholera, and sent off to the 'orspital. The fact were as 'e'd been bit by a microbe in 'is sleep, but o' course the warders didn't know nothin' about that, 'cause, 'aving been asleep at the time, 'e didn't know it 'isself. So, without meanin' no 'arm, they goes and shoves the doctor in there in 'is place.

"Well, one night this doctor were a-settin' quiet on 'is plank bed, thinkin' 'ow nice it would be when 'is time were up, when all of a sudden out pops the microbe. 'E'd found out as there were someone fresh in the cell, an' it seemed to 'im that 'e might as well 'ave a bite at this cove same as t'other one. Course, 'e 'adn't no idea as 'ow it were a doctor, or 'e'd 'a' laid low. D'rectly 'e come out 'e sees 'is mistake, an' stops as if 'e were paralyzed.

"'Stead o' jumpin' up an' gettin' flustered, same as you or me might do if we run across a microbe unexpected like, the doctor 'e just sits there an' smiles to 'isself. Ye see, 'e'd 'andled 'undreds of 'em in 'is time, an' knew wot to do.

"'Come 'ere,' 'e says, fixin' 'im stern like with 'is eye, an' as soon as ever 'e spoke the microbe come to 'im as quiet as a lamb an' tremblin' all over. 'E saw as 'ow 'e'd met 'is master.

"Now the doctor were a soft-'earted sort o' chap, and 'e kind o' took to that microbe from the first. In about a week 'e'd made a reg'lar pet of it. When the warder wot brought 'im 'is dinner 'ad gone away an' shut the door cell, 'e'd give a gentle whistle, an' the microbe'd come 'oppin' out of its 'ole as friendly as yer please. It used to climb up 'is leg an' sit on 'is knee while 'e 'ad 'is dinner, an' 'e'd always leave a little drop o' skilly for it at the bottom o' the bowl. When it 'ad lapped that up, 'e'd sit there an' scratch 'is 'ead, same as if it were a cat or a dog."

"Didn't it never 'ave a snap at 'im?" inquired Sam.

"Not it," retorted Mr. Parbury. "Why, it were that contented an' 'appy that Joe used to 'ear it purrin' through the wall. If it 'adn't been for one o' the warders, there wouldn't never 'ave been no trouble at all. This 'ere warder—Jackson 'is name was—were wot they calls a Socialist. 'E 'ated the very sight of a nob, consekence o' which 'e were always 'avin' 'is knife into the doctor. One evenin' 'e was a-goin' on 'is rounds when 'e 'eard the microbe purrin' inside the doctor's cell. So 'e kneels down, an' 'as a squint through the peep'ole. There 'e sees the doctor with the microbe on 'is knee, tryin' to teach it to sit up and beg.

"'Wotcher got there,' 'e says, openin' the door sudden, 'a rat?'

"'No,' says the doctor, without so much as lookin' up. ''E's a microbe—a cholera microbe.'

"Bein' a hunedjicated sort o' bloke, the warder thought as 'ow 'e were bein' got at.

"'Ho! a cholera microbe, is 'e?' 'e says, very sarcastic. 'Well per'aps when you've quite done with 'im, you'll be kind enough to 'and 'im over to me. We don't allow no pets in this 'ere prison. You'll be reported for this—that's wot you'll be.'

"'Don't get excited about it,' says the doctor, quite cool, 'or you'll bust your 'eart—that's wot you'll do.'

"'I'll teach yer to give me any o' your lip,' says the warder, steppin' forward an' liftin' up 'is 'and threatenin' like.

"Afore 'e could so much as wink, the microbe gives one 'orrid sort o' snarl, and springs straight at 'is throat like a blood'ound. 'E sees it comin', and flings up the other 'and to guard 'isself. 'E were on'y just in time, too, for the microbe's teeth come together with a snap wot took the top clean off 'is little finger."

"Wot! clean orf?" interrupted Bill incredulously.

"As clean as if it 'ad been cut with a knife," repeated Mr. Parbury firmly. "The warder 'e turns round with a yell o' terror an' makes a bolt for the door. As 'e slams it be'ind 'im 'e 'ears the doctor a-laughin' fit to die, an' tellin' the microbe to drop the bit of finger wot 'e 'ad in 's mouth. 'E goes straight orf to the 'ead warder as 'ard as ever 'e can lick. 'Look 'ere!' 'e says, 'oldin' up 'is finger, or rather wot were left of it.

"'Been cuttin' bread an' butter, Jackson?' says the 'ead warder, wot fancied 'isself as a wit.

"'No I ain't,' says Jackson, a bit unpleasant like. (Bein' a Socialist, ye see, 'e 'adn't got much sense of humour.) 'It's that there microbe o' B24's,' 'e adds, 'and afore I go near 'im again I'll see myself and the 'ole bloomin' prison busted, I will.'

"'Wot are yer talkin' about?' says the 'ead warder.

"Then Jackson tells 'im all about 'ow it 'appened jest slippin' in a little bit 'ere and there to make it more impressive-like. 'Talk about tigers,' 'e finishes, 'why 'e come at me like a ragin' cyclone. If I 'adn't kep' cool an' landed 'im one on the snout I b'lieve 'e'd 'a' tore my windpipe out.'

"'An' wot were B24 a-doin' while the melly were in progress?' said the 'ead warder, takin' out 'is notebook."

"While the wot were in progress?" interrupted Bill and Sam at the same moment.

Mr. Parbury looked at them pityingly. "That's Eytalion for a scrap," he explained. "'Doin' of?' repeated Jackson, 'why, 'e were a-cheerin' of 'im on. I tells you they're 'and in glove together—that's wot they are—'and in glove. If ye don't believe me come an' 'ave a look at 'em yourself.'

"'Not me,' says the 'ead warder. 'I don't want no tops bitten orf my fingers. This 'ere's a case for the guv'nor, this is.'

"So as soon as ever Jackson 'ad 'ad 'is 'and tied up proper, 'e and the 'ead warder goes along to the gov'nor's room. 'E were a retired colonel, were this 'ere guv'nor, an' Spikey Joe says as 'ow 'is language were that 'ot at times as even the convicts useter shiver to 'ear it.

"'Well,' 'e says, when 'e sees the 'ead warder and Jackson, 'wot the blazes is up now? Can't I never 'ave no peace?'

"The 'ead warder 'e salutes. 'Beg pardon, sir,' 'e says, 'but Jackson 'ere's just lost the top of 'is little finger.'

"'Well, I 'aven't got the damned thing,' shouts the guv'nor. 'Wot's the good 'o comin' to me?'

"'It's a matter o' Gov'rnment property,' says the 'ead warder, 'an' accordin' to the regulations I 'as to account for its loss.'

"'Account for it then,' says the guv'nor, 'an' don't stand there like a couple o' blistered idjuts.'

"Then Jackson 'e ups an' tells 'is story again, makin' out this time as 'ow 'e'd fought that microbe for a matter o' ten minutes until the doctor 'ad begun clubbin' 'im over the 'ead from be'ind with a boot.

"'I'll soon put a stop to this sort o' thing,' says the guv'nor hotly, as soon as 'e'd finished. 'I ain't goin' to 'ave none of 'is Majesty's prisons bossed by no bloomin' microbe. You run along an' fetch 'em both 'ere, an' look sharp about it.'

"The 'ead warder 'e turns to the second warder. 'Jackson,' 'e says, 'go and fetch B24, and see that 'e brings the microbe along with 'im.'

"The second warder shifts uneasy-like from one foot to the other.

"'Well, wot are ye waitin' for?' says the 'ead warder very fierce. 'Are yer afraid?'

"'I ain't afraid o' no convict,' says the second warder sulkily, 'but I don't fancy tacklin' this 'ere microbe again, an' that's straight.'

"'You hear that, sir?' says the 'ead warder, turnin' to the guv'nor. ''E's a coward!'

"'Oh, well,' says the guv'nor, 'it's very nachural in a hunedjicated man. You fetch 'im yourself, Simpson.'

"The 'ead warder turns a bit pale. ''Ave you thought, sir,' he says, 'as 'ow it may be dangerous bringin' of 'em in 'ere? 'E's a desperate character, this B24, an' 'e might set the microbe at you, sir.'

"The guv'nor draws 'isself up proudly. 'A English orficer ain't afraid o' no darn microbe,' 'e says. 'You go along an' fetch 'im.'

"The second warder smiles.

"'An' you go with 'im,' says the guv'nor, 'an' 'urry up, the pair of yer.'

"The 'ead warder an' Jackson salutes, an' goes out o' the room lookin' about as 'appy as a pair o' blokes a-marchin' orf to the gallows.

"Jest afore they gets to the door o' the cell, the 'ead warder lays 'is 'and on Jackson's shoulder. 'Jackson,' says 'e, 'one of us 'as got to open this 'ere door.'

"Jackson nods 'is 'ead, and puts 'is uninjured 'and into 'is pocket. 'That's so,' says 'e.

"'Jackson,' says the 'ead warder again, an' 'is voice shook like a haspen tree, 'Jackson, I'm a married man.'

"'I knows that,' says Jackson softly. 'An' 'avin' seen your missus, I can understand 'ow it is you don't mind takin' a few risks.'

"'You ain't doin' yourself no good by bein' insolent,' says the 'ead warder 'otly. 'You go and open that there door, or you'll be losin' your job afore ye're many minutes older.'

"''Tain't my business to open the door,' says Jackson in an obstinate voice. 'You're the 'ead warder, an' you 'as a right to the post of danger. Besides, maybe the microbe won't bite you. 'E looks a bit partikler.'

"The 'ead warder gets very red in the face an' breathes 'ard through 'is nose. 'If I 'ad you outside the prison, my lad,' 'e begins, an' then rememberin' 'is position 'e pulls 'isself together, an' walks orf towards the door o' the cell.

"'E were that there riled that 'e as near as possible turned the key 'an went in without realizin' wot 'e were playin' at. Jest as 'e 'ad 'is 'and on the door, 'owever, 'e suddenly comes to 'is senses, an' I tells yer it give 'im a fair shiver all over to think 'ow near 'e'd been to doin' it. 'E bends down 'is 'ead an' listens, an' 'e 'ears the microbe a-grindin' of 'is teeth an' the doctor tryin' to quiet 'im down.

"'B24,' says 'e, rappin' at the door, an' tryin' to keep 'is voice steady.

"'I b'lieve I 'ave that honour,' says the doctor.

"'The guv'nor wishes to see yer immedjut.'

"'How! does 'e?' says the doctor, 'that shows 'is good taste.'

"The 'ead warder 'esitates a moment. 'If I opens this door,' says 'e, 'will yer promise to keep that there microbe o' yourn from flyin' at me?'

"The doctor laughs 'earty. ''E won't touch yer if yer don't worry 'im,' 'e says. 'Jest keep that lop-eared Jackson out o' the light, an' turn yer own face away, an' 'e'll be as quiet as a lamb, won't yer, old boy?'

"The microbe gives a kind o' snarl, much as to say 'e weren't so sure about it.

"Seein' as 'ow the guv'nor were waitin', 'owever, and there weren't no 'elp for it, the 'ead warder turns the key an' pushes open the door o' the cell. Jackson e' takes a couple o' 'asty steps down a side passage, an' out comes the doctor with the microbe a-sittin' on 'is shoulder. When 'e sees the 'ead warder 'e fair chatters with rage."

"Who does," asks Sam, "the doctor?"

"No, the microbe, o' course," answered Mr. Parbury; "an' wot's more, if yer goes on interruptin' yer can finish the bloomin' story yerself."

"Don't mind old Sam, Mr. Parbury," put in Bill consolingly. "'E don't never get no chanst to open 'is mouth at 'ome, so 'e 'as to let a bit of steam off when 'e's out."

Sam was just thinking hard of something unpleasant to say in return, when Mr. Parbury again took up the thread of his narrative.

"The doctor follows the 'ead warder along the passages to the guv'nor's room, Jackson comin' along slowly some ten yards be'ind. All the time the microbe kep' on grindin' of 'is teeth and lickin' of 'is lips in a way that made the 'ead warder's 'eart jump up an' down like a piston-rod. At last they reaches the guv'nor's room, an' the 'ead warder felt as if 'e'd got to 'Eaven. 'E gives a couple of quiet knocks an' then steps 'astily aside.

"'Come in,' sings out the guv'nor.

"The doctor pushes open the door an' walks into the room. The 'ead warder an' Jackson follows behind, tryin' to look as if they'd just let go of 'im. 'B24, sir,' says the 'ead warder, salutin'; 'an' the microbe,' 'e adds as a kinder afterthought.

"The guv'nor was standing by the window with one 'and under 'is coat.

"'Ho!' says 'e, 'so you're the fellow wot's upsettin' o' my prison and bitin' orf my warder's fingers, eh?'

"'Not guilty, colonel,' says the doctor, laughin' as cool an' friendly as if 'e'd just dropped into 'ave a drink. 'It's our little friend 'ere,' an' 'e pats the microbe's head. 'I only 'ope 'e 'asn't poisoned 'isself,' 'e finishes, lookin' at Jackson.

"'Well, I can't 'ave it,' says the guv'nor. 'Warders are Gov'rnment property, an' as such I'm responsible for 'em to the 'Ome Secret'ry. Besides it's against the prison reg'lations for prisoners to 'ave pets. Take it away from 'im, Simpson.'

"The 'ead warder goes very white, but 'e shuts 'is eyes for a second an' thinks of 'is pension, an' some'ow or other 'is courage come back to 'im. 'E takes one step forward, but as 'e does so, the microbe gives a angry kinder squeal an' leaps orf the doctor's shoulder straight at the guv'nor. The old man sees it comin', an' quick as a flash, 'e whips out a squisher from under 'is coat."

"Wot's a squisher?" asked Bill.

"Why, one o' them bottles with a toobe an' a hinjarubber bulb. Y' see, bein' a hedjicated man, the guv'nor knew as 'ow there was only one way o' dealin' with a microbe an' that were kerbolic acid. One drop of kerbolic acid will lay out the 'ealthiest microbe—stops 'is 'eart at once. So while the 'ead warder an' Jackson 'ad been out o' the room, 'e'd gone an' got a squisher an' filled it up with kerbolic acid in case of accidents. D'rectly 'e sees the microbe comin' for 'im, 'e whips it out an' lets drive. But the microbe were that cunning that when 'e sniffs the kerbolic acid 'e shuts 'is wings an' drops on the floor like a stone. The kerbolic acid goes over 'is 'ead an' as near as possible 'its Jackson in the eye. Then, afore the guv'nor could get in a second squish, the microbe nips in an' 'as 'im by the calf o' the leg.

"It 'ad all 'appened so sudden-like that the 'ead warder an' Jackson were fair took by surprise. D'rectly they sees the microbe catch 'old of the guv'nor, 'owever, they both dashes forward an' seizes the doctor. The guv'nor were 'oppin' round the room tryin' to get in a second shot with the squisher, an' cussin' an' swearin' something awful. Spikey Joe says from the samples of 'is language as reached the cells it's a marvel the microbe didn't drop 'is jaw and let go.

"'Call 'im orf—call 'im orf,' 'e shouts to the doctor.

"'Well, call your microbes orf,' says the doctor, alludin' rude-like to Jackson and the 'ead warder.

"'Let go of 'im, you idjuts!' roars the guv'nor, 'oldin' on to the table an' tryin' to kick the microbe with 'is other foot.

"They drops the doctor's arms, an' 'e starts rearrangin' the collar of 'is coat.

"''Urry up! 'Urry up, man!' yells the guv'nor.

"'All right,' says the doctor coolly. ''Ere, Cholera! Cholera!'

"As soon as 'e calls, the microbe, wot all the time 'ad been 'angin' on like grim death, lets go 'is grip, an' comes 'oppin' back to 'im, waggin' of 'is tail an' purrin' like anything."

"But why did 'e let go when the doctor says 'Collar 'er'?" objected Sam; "that would 'ave made 'im 'ang on all the 'arder."

"Not collar 'er, stupid," retorted Mr. Parbury impatiently; "cholera—see? Cholera microbe!"

"'Ow! I see—'is name like."

"Jest so," assented Mr. Parbury. "Well, when Jackson an' the 'ead warder sees the microbe comin' back, they lets go the doctor an' runs to 'elp the guv'nor.

"'Don't come messin' about me,' yells the guv'nor. 'One of yer ketch 'old o' that ruffian, an' the other fetch the prison doctor.'

"'E's away for the day, sir,' says the 'ead warder. 'Shall I go outside and find another for yer? Jackson'll 'old on to B24.'

"''Tain't no use,' says the doctor, breakin' in with a 'orrid sorter laugh. ''E'll be too late. Ye'll both 'ave the cholera in 'alf an hour unless I gives yer the hantydote.'"

"Wot's that?" demanded Sam.

"Kinder secret medicine," explained Mr. Parbury. "Jest like each microbe's got 'is special poison, so each poison's got 'is special hantydote. Bein', as I said afore, a hedjicated man, the guv'nor sees the force of wot the doctor says.

"'Ye wouldn't murder us, man?' he says.

"'I ain't got no grudge against you,' answers the doctor. 'If ye promises me on yer word as a English orficer yell let me keep the microbe an' won't take no further notice o' this hincident, I'll save yer life.'

"'An' wot about me?' cried Jackson, as was already beginnin' to feel a bit un'appy like inside.

"'Oh, you'll 'ave to go through it.'

"Jackson busts out a-sobbin', and the guv'nor draws 'isself up proud.

"'A English orficer don't desert 'is subordinates,' 'e says. 'You must attend to 'im, too—after you done me.'

"'Right y'are,' says the doctor; 'in that case you'll 'ave to put in a application to 'ave my sentence rejooced.'

"'I'll see you 'ung first,' shouts the guv'nor.

"The doctor shakes 'is 'ead. 'I may be 'ung,' 'e says, 'but you won't see it. You'll be in the morchury.'

"The guv'nor starts explaining as a English orficer weren't afeared o' death but the doctor cuts 'im short by pointin' out that every minute 'e were talkin, the cholera were gettin' a better grip on 'im.

"That settles it, and they all goes orf to the prison surgery—the 'ead warder 'elpin' Jackson, an' askin' 'im kind like whether there weren't no messages 'e could give for 'im after 'e was dead."

"Time, gentlemen, please—time!" The gruff voice of the landlord broke in rudely.

"That's always the way," remarked Bill bitterly, "jest as ye're gettin' interested in the conversation."

"But wot 'appened?" demanded Sam eagerly. "Did 'e cure 'em?"

"'E cured 'em right enough," replied Mr. Parbury. "Leastways 'e cured the guv'nor. Jackson 'ad a go o' cholera, but 'e managed to pull through."

"And did the guv'nor get 'is sentence rejooced?"

Mr. Parbury carefully finished the contents of his tankard and replaced it on the bar.

"Yes," he said, "'e were a orficer an' a gentleman, an' e' kep' 'is word. 'E told the 'Ome Secret'ry as 'ow 'e thought it weren't right on the grounds of 'ealth to keep the doctor in the prison. 'E didn't say 'oose 'ealth, so the 'Ome Secret'ry nachrily thought 'e meant the doctor's, an' let 'im go."

"Now come along, gentlemen, please," repeated the landlord impatiently.

"Well," said Sam, as he rose slowly from his seat; "it's a wunderful interestin' tale, as you say, Mr. Parbury, an' it jest shows as 'ow it pays to be kind to dumb animals."

Full-back for England

Very quietly the long reeds that hedged the Okestock football field were parted aside, and a face peered cautiously through, taking a long and careful survey of the immediate neighbourhood. The face belonged to Mr. William Yard, known to his more intimate friends in London as "Pills," and to the police as one of the most daring and successful burglars of the day.

A reason for Mr. Yard's prudence was not hard to find: the briefest glance at his khaki-coloured clothes, plentifully dotted with broad-arrows, made it quite evident that for the time, at all events, any form of publicity would be painful to him.

The fact was that on the previous afternoon Mr. Yard had accomplished the remarkable feat of escaping from Dartmoor. An unexpected mist sweeping down over the granite-studded hillside when he was at work had suddenly inspired him with the idea of making a dash for liberty. Without further thought he had flung down his spade and bolted into its shelter, before either of the nearest warders had been able to stop him. It is true that a couple of charges of buckshot had whistled by, unpleasantly close to his legs, but they had only served to add to his already useful turn of speed. By the time the other convicts had been collected, and the mist had lifted sufficiently for the warders to see what they were doing, Mr. Yard was some two miles away in the opposite direction from which he had started, safely hidden in a small plantation that fringed the main road to Okestock.

Here he had stayed until nightfall, expecting any minute to be routed out by a party of pursuing warders. No one had turned up, however, his ingenious idea of throwing a circle while the mist still concealed him having apparently put them temporarily off the scent.

Under cover of darkness he had stolen from his hiding-place, and, following the main road at a judicious distance, tramped doggedly on mile after mile, until the lights of Okestock some hundred feet below him had shown him that he had reached the boundaries of the moor.

Utterly dead beat, he had felt tempted to throw himself down on the open heather and snatch a few hours' rest. But the dread of discovery had urged him on, and, clambering cautiously down the hillside, he had made his way along the deserted road until he had reached the wire fence which bounded the Okestock football ground. Here a stray gleam of moonlight coming out between the clouds had shown him the patch of long, reedy grass behind the goal-posts. With a last effort he had crept into its shelter, and dropped almost instantly into a profound sleep.

It was the sun which had woke him up eventually, a bright yellow winter sun shining down out of a sky of cloudless blue. For a moment Mr. Yard had rubbed his eyes and stared at it with amazement; then with a sudden shock he had remembered he was no longer a guest of the Government. He had tried to scramble up, but his numbed limbs had refused to support him, and with a groan he had fallen back again, feeling rather like a trapped rabbit waiting the arrival of the keeper.

A few minutes' energetic rubbing, however, had been sufficient to restore both his circulation and his confidence, and it was then that he had pulled aside the reeds and peered out in the discreet manner already described.

The first thing that met his eyes was the football pavilion, a small wooden building on the left of the ground. Instantly the possibilities of a change of clothes jumped into his mind.

"There's bound to be some clobber kicking about in there," he muttered to himself. "Wonder if I can get in without bein' nabbed?"

That, as Hamlet would have said, was the question. The public road, as he remembered from last night, ran right alongside the ground, and, to judge by the sun, the time was already past ten o'clock. Still, it was no good lying like a hunted rat among the reeds. It was a case of neck or nothing, and Mr. Yard was not the man to fail at a crisis.

Licking his blue lips, he raised himself to a crouching position, and then, with a care which would have done credit to a boy scout, elevated his head above the top of the reeds.

So far as he could see in each direction, the road was empty. Hesitating no longer, he crept out from his hiding-place, and, bending almost double, covered the distance between the goal and the pavilion in almost the same time that it takes to read these words.

The door was in front, facing the yard; but Mr. Yard did not trouble about this recognized means of entrance. He hurried round to the back, where he found a small window just large enough to admit a man's body. It was shut, of course; but this was a trifling obstacle to a gentleman of his experience. In about half a minute he had forced it open, and, pulling himself up by the sill, scrambled through and dropped on to the floor.

He found himself in a small matchboard apartment, set round with wooden lockers. There were also various pegs from which were suspended one or two mud-stained jerseys and sweaters, an old greatcoat, and a couple of pairs of blue football shorts, distinctly the worse for wear.

To Mr. Yard's eyes, however, they were more welcome and attractive than the flowers in May. Stripping himself of his broad-arrowed costume with feverish rapidity, he hastily arrayed himself in the somewhat less conspicuous costume of a British footballer, minus the stockings and boots. A hurried search through the lockers revealed both these luxuries, with the aid of which he promptly proceeded to complete his outfit.

"Lor!" he chuckled, surveying himself with satisfaction in the broken bit of looking-glass that hung from the wall. "I never thought I should be wearin' footer kit again. It's like old days!"

There was no time for sentiment, however, and Mr. Yard was not slow in realizing the fact. Grabbing the greatcoat from its peg, he was just about to make for the window, when a sudden shout outside brought him to an abrupt halt.

"Hallo, Tubby!" sang out a cheery voice.

Like a cat Mr. Yard stole to the window. Some thirty yards away a young man with a bag in his hand was advancing towards the pavilion across the next field.

Swiftly and noiselessly the convict crossed the floor to the other side of the apartment, and peeped through a crack in the boards. Another young man with another bag in his hand was approaching from the roadway.

Mr. Yard swore, softly but fervently.

"Pipped!" he said; "pipped on the post!"

For a second he hesitated, and then returning to the spot where he had dressed, picked up his late garments and stuffed them into one of the lockers and shut the lid.

Having done this he sat down and waited events.

"I've got the key, Tubby!" called out the same aggressively jovial voice.

"Right-oh!" responded the other. "D'you know this bally window's open?"

There was a grating in the lock.

"That's that old ass Smith again!" said the cheerful voice. "I told him to shut it."

Mr. Yard rose to his feet. If he had to be captured he would at least enjoy the memory of one really magnificent scrap. There was a sharp click, a bump, and then the door swung open.

"Hallo!" exclaimed the young man with the bag.

"Hallo!" returned Mr. Yard coolly.

The newcomer stared at him for a moment in amazement, and then, with a sudden smile, put down his bag and advanced towards him.

"Mr. Logan, I suppose," he said. "This is awfully good of you. I'd just made up my mind we should have to play one short."

He put out his hand, which Mr. Yard grasped and shook heartily.

At that moment the other young man entered.

"This is Logan, Tubby!" exclaimed the first. "He's turned up, after all."

"Good man!" exclaimed Tubby. "But how the dickens did you get in?"

"Through the window," explained Mr. Yard truthfully.

"That's the style," laughed the other. "Jack, why weren't you here to receive your guests? I suppose you came over in Sam's cart?"

Mr. Yard, who was trying desperately hard to get his bearings, contented himself with a nod.

"Well, I'm most awfly obliged to you for turning up," said Jack. "Old Morton had heard you were at Rundlestone, and suggested my sending you a wire first thing this morning, when Collins cried off. I never thought you'd be able to come."

"It was just chance," admitted Mr. Yard frankly. "I got away unexpected."

"We're jolly glad to see you, anyhow," broke in Tubby. "The Battery are sending over a beastly hot team, and we should have been absolutely snookered without a back."

Mr. Yard suppressed a start. In more innocent days, before the stern career of burglary had claimed him for its own, he had figured as a fullback of some local renown for a famous Yorkshire club. And now apparently it was in the same capacity that he was being so hospitably received by these two unsuspicious young men. Who the missing Logan might be he could only guess. Evidently some well-known player who was staying in the district, and had been invited over to assist Okestock at the eleventh hour. "If he turns up," thought Mr. Yard, "things'll be a bit hot."