Chapter III: Preface: To the American Edition (3)

"Have we time for a quarter of a cigarette?" asked Gwendoline. "I feel the gambler's tremors coming on. Look at my hand. It's shaking like a leaf."

"A white rose petal," said Reggie gallantly, "would be a more accurate simile. Have one of mine. They're Russian, and not paid for."

Gwendoline helped herself delicately.

"Reggie," she said, "never pays for anything; he thinks it's vulgar."

"It certainly isn't common," observed Tony. "Reggie carries it to extremes, however. I remember his tailor once saying to him with tears in his voice, 'Ah, Mr. Seton, I shall either have to give you up or else take my lad away from Harrow. I can't afford the two.'"

"And which did he do?" asked Gwendoline puffing out a little cloud of smoke.

Tony waved his hand towards Reggie's perfect frock-coat.

"There," he said, "is the answer."

Gwendoline shook her head sadly.

"I have always thought," she said, "that there was some dark secret in Reggie's life. Hallo, there's a bell. Let's put away these things and go and see what's happening."

Between them, Tony and Musette quickly packed up the _débris_ of luncheon, and then, leaving the car in charge of a courteous, if somewhat heavily suborned, policeman, they all four made their way into the enclosure.

As is usually the case on Cambridgeshire day, the Heath was packed in a manner which must have been highly gratifying to the directors of the race-course. On the further side of the track the spectators stretched away down to the bushes in a long continuous line, while both the stands and the enclosure were as full of people as such superior and expensive places could rightly expect to be.

As soon as the first two races were over, there came a rush for the paddock, where the Cambridgeshire horses were being saddled.

"I vote we stop where we are," said Tony, turning to the others. "What does any one say?"

"Just as you please, as far as I'm concerned," said Reggie. "I like to have a look at the runners, but I'm always ready to be unselfish."

Tony laughed.

"Why, Reggie," he said, "if it wasn't for the tail you wouldn't know one end of a horse from the other."

"Of course not," admitted Reggie calmly; "but I like to walk round and say that so-and-so looks a bit fine-drawn, and thingumybob a bit tucked up. It's wonderful how people always agree with you."

"I shouldn't," said Gwendoline, with decision. "I never agree with you, Reggie, except when you tell me I'm beautiful."

Tony raised his hand.

"Don't quarrel, children," he said, "until after the race is over. I shall break down if you do."

"Here they come!" cried Reggie, as the small group of men clustered round the entrance to the paddock suddenly scattered to right and left. "Look out for Little Eva."

A handsome chestnut, his coat gleaming like new bronze in the mellow afternoon sunlight, was the first to appear. He came out sideways, prancing and shaking his head, and then, twisting round, galloped up past the stands, sending the earth flying beneath his heels.

"That's Colchester, number twelve on the menu," said Tony. "He's the only one I'm afraid of."

"Let's hope he'll break his neck," said Reggie piously. "Here are the others."

One after another the fifteen runners cantered down the course, being greeted with successive cheers that swelled or sunk according to their position in the betting. The loudest welcome of all was reserved for the last, a beautiful, shapely black, carrying the famous Rothschild colours.

Tony moistened his lips. "There she goes," he said quietly. "Pretty mare, isn't she?"

No one answered; only Musette was looking at him. The others were gazing down the course after the horses.

From the stands the start was plainly visible. One could see the tall posts of the gate, and the various runners fidgeting about like small black dots. For about five minutes the movement continued, while a silent tension gradually spread throughout the thousands of watching figures.

The sharp ting of a bell, a sudden gasping cry, "They're off!" and everyone was leaning forward, staring eagerly towards the broken line that rolled unsteadily up the course.

On they came, while louder and ever louder the vast volume of voices swelled into a frenzied roar of excitement.

"The Dryad wins!" "Colchester! Colchester!" "Little Eva for a hundred!" "The Dryad! The Dryad!"

Neck and neck in the centre of the course three horses were sweeping along, clear by a couple of lengths from the parti-coloured medley behind. A hundred yards from home and they were still level, the gap behind them widening at every stride. Suddenly one of them faltered. A sudden shout, "The Dryad's beat!" burst from a thousand throats, and the next moment, locked in an apparently inseparable stride, Colchester and Little Eva came thundering past the post.

The wild cheering died down into a brief spell of almost intolerable silence. Every eye was glued to the tall frame, waiting the fateful decision.

With a perfectly steady hand Tony lit a cigarette. "Colchester's won," he said quietly. "A short head, I should think."

The words had hardly left his lips when a hoarse roar proclaimed the hoisting of the numbers.

12
6
9

Tony laughed lightly. "I thought so," he said. "Reggie, you've lost your fiver. Let us hope it will teach you not to gamble."

But for once in a way Reggie had no answer. He was staring down the course, biting jerkingly at an unlit cigarette.

It was Gwendoline who broke the silence. "Poor Reggie," she said. "I can't let you starve. You must come and dine with us."

Tony thrust his hand into his pocket, and pulled out Reggie's five-pound note.

"Musette," he observed, "there is still corn in Egypt. What about the Savoy?"

Musette, who had been looking at him with rather troubled eyes, shook her head and smiled.

"No, Tony," she said; "I should be haunted by Mr. Seton's ghost. You must dine with me at Curzon Street."

"Perhaps it would be more decent," said Tony. "After all, Reggie was a friend of mine before he went under. I'll send the fiver to the Anti-Socialist fund."

Reggie, who seemed to have recovered himself, turned round with a laugh.

"Yours is a callous heart, Tony," he said. "Suppose we leave this scene of vice and get back to town. There's sure to be a poisonous crush after the last race."

"I'm ready," replied Musette.

"So am I," added Gwendoline, "unless Tony wants to stay."

Tony buttoned his coat.

"Mr. Delmar's interest in racing," he observed, "is temporarily suspended."

* * * * * * *

It was just six o'clock when the big dust-stained car pulled up outside Portman Mansions. Reggie opened the door, and Gwendoline, after collecting her various possessions, rustled daintily out.

"Eight o'clock, Reggie," she said, "and there's a woodcock for dinner. Don't be late. Good-bye, Miss Gilbert. Good-bye, Tony; I'm frightfully sorry Little Eva lost."

"Your griefs are mine, Gwendoline," observed Tony gravely. "Where do you want to get out, Reggie?"

"Oh, drop Miss Gilbert next," said Reggie. "I'll come along with you to Hyde Court."

A few minutes brought them to Curzon Street, where Musette alighted.

"Eight o'clock also, Tony," she said; "but I'm afraid there's no woodcock. It will be an impromptu feast."

"I'm not greedy," said Tony. "It is one of my few good points."

Reggie climbed into the vacant seat alongside of him, and, waving farewell to Musette, they slid off noiselessly round the corner. Neither of them spoke until the car drew up outside Tony's flat. Then Reggie laid his hand on his friend's arm.

"Don't be stupid, Tony," he said. "Marry Musette. You'll make her very happy."

Tony remained silent.

"Very well," said Reggie, with a sigh; "it's not my business. There is only one other thing I want to say. As far as it goes, Tony, you know that what's mine is yours. You'll let me do what I can?"

"My dear Reggie," said Tony, "there's only one luxury I can afford to carry away from this absurd city, and that's the thought that there was one person I never borrowed any money from. Still, it's quite charming of you, Reggie. Come and have breakfast with me in the morning."

Reggie nodded.

Leaving the car in charge of the porter on duty, Tony climbed a little wearily up the stairs that led to his flat. As he opened the door he was met in the hall by the impassive Ropes. Tony looked at him with a smile.

"I see from your expression, Ropes," he said, "that you have been reading the evening paper."

Ropes inclined his head.

"If you will pardon me, sir," he observed, "I was deeply distressed to see that Little Eva had lost, very deeply distressed."

Tony took off his coat and hat, and handed them over to his sorrowing retainer.

"Ah well, Ropes," he remarked, "we've had a pleasant time while it lasted. You must go to Lord North; he's been pestering me to give you up for years. You'll have a bigger scope there for your peculiar abilities."

Ropes shook his head.

"I shall be sorry to disappoint his lordship, sir, but it would be impossible for me to accept another place. If you can no longer retain my services, I shall retire."

"I suppose you are very rich, Ropes?" said Tony sadly.

Ropes bowed. "Quite comfortably off, thank you, sir. I trust, sir, that, if you will excuse my mentioning such a matter, the question of wages will not lead you to dismiss me before it is quite convenient. I should be deeply distressed if you allowed such a consideration to influence you, sir."

"You shall at least have the felicity of helping me dress for dinner, Ropes," said Tony gravely. "We will discuss these unpleasantly sordid topics to-morrow morning."

Half an hour later a taxi pulled up outside Musette's house in Curzon Street, and Tony, faultlessly accoutred, stepped out. He was shown into a room on the left of the hall, where Musette, gracefully slender in a dark blue evening frock, was sitting back in an easy chair, turning over the pages of a novel.

"It will be a duet," she said, holding out her hand, which Tony kissed; "poor Aunt Jemima is in bed with a headache."

"A day of disasters," observed Tony. "I felt it when I got up this morning."

The door opened, and a neatly dressed parlour-maid announced dinner.

Musette laid down her novel and, rising from her chair, accepted his arm.

"We'll hope, at all events," she said, "that the food will be an exception."

They crossed the hall to the dining-room, where a small round table, bright with silver and glasses, stood out attractively against the black oak panelling of the walls. The only light came from four red-shaded candles in the centre.

Musette's "impromptu feast" turned out to be a dainty little dinner which would have won the approval of Colonel Newnham Davis. Some excellent soup was followed by grilled sole, sweetbreads, and a partridge, the whole concluding with an alluring symphony on toast in which eggs and old Madeira supplied the leading motif. Assisted by a bottle of Lafitte, and a couple of glasses of "Bristol cream," Tony's immediate troubles faded luxuriously from his memory. He possessed to a supreme degree that enviable gift of living in the present, and as he chatted away cheerfully to Musette, the thought that on the morrow he would be facing an unsympathetic world without a penny in his pocket never once intruded its unpleasant image.

It was only in the small room afterwards, when he was sitting over the fire smoking a cigar and watching the light flickering softly on Musette's white arms, that the sudden realization of his position gripped him. With a horrible abruptness it occurred to him that this was probably the last time he would see her. Up till that moment he had never thought about his relations with Musette. Without making love to her he had drifted into a kind of charming intimacy, quite different from anything he had previously known in a fairly extensive experience. Now the thought that he was going to lose her appeared to him suddenly in all its naked simplicity. He stared into the fire, trying to grasp the unpleasant revelation.

Musette leaned forward, looking up at him.

"What's the matter, Tony?" she asked.

Her hand was on the arm of the chair, and Tony, almost unconsciously, laid his own on it. Her soft and cool clasp answered him with a little affectionate pressure.

"My poor Tony," she said, "you look as worried as Saul. What is it?"

The devil, or whoever is responsible for our temptations, suddenly brought up in Tony's mind the recollection of Reggie's parting words. He looked down longingly into Musette's upturned face. Here in this strange gracious girl lay a wonderful escape from the black morass into which he had stumbled. She met his gaze with steady, wide-opened eyes and a rather troubled smile.

"What is it, Tony dear?" she repeated. "Tell me."

He slowly moved his hand until it imprisoned her arm, and then bent down towards her.

"Musette," he whispered, "Musette."

Her breast rose and fell like some beautiful white flower, but she remained silent and motionless. Tony was so near now that he could feel the warm breath from her parted lips, and for a moment he forgot everything in the supreme hunger to kiss her. It was as he did so that his conscience suddenly broke through the habits of a lifetime.

He stood up quietly in front of her and put his hands behind his back.

"I was going to ask you to marry me, Musette," he said.

Musette nodded.

"But now," said Tony, after a short pause, "I am going to tell you the truth instead." He sat down and stared into the fire. "I'm ruined, Musette. I owe about ten thousand pounds, and I haven't a penny in the world. I've spent and gambled away every shilling my father left me. I had the last five thousand I can possibly raise on Little Eva."

Musette, who had been listening to him with the same half-grave, half-smiling expression on her face, got up from her chair and crossed the room to a small satin-wood writing-table in the corner. She opened the drawer and took out something.

"Is this your cheque, Tony?" she asked, handing him a small slip of pink paper.

Tony looked at it in bewilderment.

"I don't understand," he said.

Musette sat down and folded her hands.

"Murray brought it to me, instead of paying it into the bank. I thought if you asked me to marry you I'd give it you back as a good-bye present." She paused. "As you haven't done so, Tony," she added, "I think I shall have to cash it."

Tony dropped the cheque on the table.

"I don't understand," he repeated helplessly.

"My father's real name," said Musette, "was Morris."

Tony stared at her.

"Morris," he repeated mechanically.

Musette smiled.

"Well, he liked to think it was Morris," she added. "I believe, as a strict matter of fact, that it was originally Moses. At least, mother always said so. Anyhow, he was a very good father. He left me his business, Tony, and Murray to help me look after it."

Tony jumped up from his chair.

"Great Scot!" he cried.

Musette shook her head.

"No, Tony," she said. "He's a Jew, too, only, like father, he's ashamed of it. I'm the only one in the firm with any honest British blood. At least, I believe mother came from Dublin. She was never quite sure about it."

Tony said nothing; he only stared at her.

"It brings me in about nine thousand a year," added Musette, with reflective inconsequence; "so it would be a pity to drop it, wouldn't it?"

There was a silence, lasting for about a minute. Then Tony came over to Musette, and stood looking down into her eyes.

"Good-bye, Musette," he said simply. "I am several kinds of a blackguard, and I don't think it's very probable that we shall ever see each other again, but at all events I didn't ask you to marry me."

Musette smiled.

"I think, Tony," she said, "that you are the only man who has ever paid me a compliment that I care about."

Then, as Tony turned to go, she got up from her chair and stood in front of him, with her hands behind her back.

"And I am sure, Tony," she added calmly, "that you are the only man I know who would never bore me."

For a second Tony hesitated. Then, taking her by the shoulders, cool, fragrant, and smiling, he drew her into his arms.

And on this occasion Tony's conscience seemed quite satisfied.

"Squarky-woo"

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

REQUIESCAT
IN
PUSSIE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Squarky-woo! are you there?"

A faint answering squeak echoed up the stairs.

"Come up at once," she cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There's a mouse in the trap."

"Well, it won't eat yer."

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

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

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

"Dunno," said the scullery-maid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come here," she said.

He made no motion.

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

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

With the Conquering Turkey

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

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

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

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

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

He followed my instructions meekly.

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

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

I tossed my tobacco pouch across the table.

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

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

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

"Have you got any whisky?" he inquired.

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

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

"Have a cigar?" I suggested.

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

"What are we going for?" I inquired.

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

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

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

"And you want an expert opinion?"

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

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

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

"I will think it over," I said.

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

"I dislike being hurried," I said irritably.

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

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

Pitman got up slowly and walked towards the door.

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

"I was hoping it was an oversight."

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

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

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

I looked at him in stern disapproval.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What happened?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pitman was positively rude.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where?"

"Smithfield Market."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where was it brought up?" pursued Pitman.

The fat man preserved his composure.

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

"Is it an early riser?" I inquired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why not a taxi?" I inquired.

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

"Nonsense," I objected.

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

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

"Beautiful bird," he said thoughtfully.

"Magnificent," I agreed.

Then he lay back and went to sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The latter looked at him curiously.

"Shall I take that outside, sir?"

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

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

"Dinner for three, sir?" he inquired.

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

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

At this point the manager of the restaurant arrived.

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

This put Pitman on his dignity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A stall!" I echoed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ripping," he repeated.

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

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

* * * * * * *

Then the hideous truth dawned upon me.

We had left the turkey in the train.

The Later Edition

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

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

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