Chapter IX

It would seem that up to this moment the feud that existed between the ducal establishment and the knight bachelors entourage was of a private character. That Brockley pursued an even and a passionless way unconscious of the titanic storm that was brewing in its midst. Outwardly there was no sign of the struggle. The milkmen came at dawn, the grocer called for orders, and the laundrymen brought home other people's collars, and shirts that looked like other people's shirts, but which proved on close examination to be the shirts that were sent, but slightly deckled about the edges. Brockley may have been mildly interested in the announcement that a new paper was to make its appearance, at least so much of Brockley as read the announcement.

Not to make any mystery of Brockley's attitude, I must say that Brockley really wasn't particularly interested in Itself. For one thing, It only slept at Brockley and spent week-ends there. The greater part of Its life was spent in the City and upon the admirable rolling stock of the South Eastern Railway. Except when It went down to the Broadway to change the library books, It seldom saw Itself.

In a word It had no _esprit de corps_, no local patriotism. It was neither proud of Itself, nor ashamed of Itself. Its politics were very high indeed: Imperialism was freely discussed at the local debating societies; there was a golf club and a constitutional club, and (very properly in Deptford) a Liberal club.

It had a church parade on the Hilly Fields, which ranked high as a fashionable function, for Sunday found a strolling procession of top hats, and dainty creations. And there were immaculate young men in creased trousers and purple socks; and hatless young men belonging to the no-hat brigade who strolled about in trios blissfully unconscious of the notice they attracted. Yes.

A careful, and I hope an impartial observer, I noted no extraordinary disposition on the part of Brockley either to participate in, or comment upon the Duke's quarrel until after the _Aristocrat_ had made its first appearance.

A summary of the contents of that remarkable new-comer to the ranks of journalism might be instructive. I produce haphazard from the table of contents on page 4.

1. News of the Day.

2. Leading Article: "Change for a Tanner."

3. Dukes I have met: by Roderick B. Nape.

4. "Driven from Home" (a short story).

5. Landlordism and crime.

There were other articles, bearing unmistakable evidence of their authorship. Mr. Nape's translation from the sinister realms of crime to the more healthy atmosphere of journalism had not entirely divorced him from his first love. It changed his aspect certainly. From being a participant he became a spectator. Thus, "Cigarette Ash as a Clue," an article displaying considerable powers of observation and deduction, rivalled in style and interest the famous monograph on "Cigar Ash," by another criminal scientist. "Bloodhounds I have trained," by a famous detective, although published anonymously, may, in all probability, be traced to the same source.

"Jacko is riotin' across these fair pages," commented Hank, with the first number of the _Aristocrat_ in his hands, "like a colony of Phylloxera across a vineyard."

The Duke nodded.

"We've got to have something to fill the space," said the Duke philosophically, "if we can't get advertisements."

Hank blew a cloud of smoke to the ceiling and pondered.

"I anticipate trouble," he said.

"From the stainless knight?"

"From the stainless knight," said Hank. "Say, Duke, these effete European institutions do surely impress me."

He paused.

"Here's a duke," mused Hank, "a real duke. Not a hand-me-down duke with a saggin' collar, not a made-to-measure-in-ten-minutes duke, but a proper bespoke duke, cut from patterns. Here's a knight with golden spurs, rather stout but otherwise knightly, especially about the coat of arms: here's a lord--Baron This and That of This-Shire, walked straight from his baronial castle in Regent Street to harry the marshes of Brockley----"

The Duke sat up.

"Now," he said with deliberate politeness, "now that you have thoroughly mystified the audience, are you offering a prize for the solution or are you holding it over till the next number? The Duke with his admirable qualities, I instantly recognize; the knight is apparent, in spite of his spurs. Who is the baron? Is he allegorical or illustrative or a figure of speech?"

"He's 62," said Hank.

The Duke's face bore a look of patient resignation.

"There _must_ be a prize offered," he reflected aloud.

"In fact," elucidated Hank, "62's a real baron--a lord--His Nibs."

"The deuce he is!" the Duke was alert. "Quit fooling, Hank. Our new neighbour----"

"Is Baron Tupping of Tupping," said Hank solemnly, "a perfect English gentleman--I heard him cussin' in the back garden."

"Tuppy!"

The Duke whooped his delight.

He grabbed Hank's arm and the pair raced through the conservatory into the garden.

Somebody next door was annoyed, and his voice rose plaintively.

"Bring the Sacred Ladder," ordered the Duke.

In the middle of the garden stood Tuppy, monocle in eye, hat tilted to the back of his head, and a cigarette drooping feebly, his face expressive of despair.

The Duke hailed him.

"Tuppy, you beggar."

Tuppy looked up; his face lit joyfully.

"Monty, by the High Heavens!" he exclaimed. Then he smacked his forehead, "Monty--Montvillier--you ain't my Duke are you?"

"I'm your Duke--your liege Duke of life and limb and earthly regard----"

"Half a mo," said the vulgarly practical Tuppy, "I'm comin' over."

He came over the wall, silk hat awry, joyously dusty.

He all but fell upon the Duke's neck.

"My dear old bird," he cried ecstatically, "of all the wonderful coincidences that ever made a novelist's fortune, this is the wonderfullest--this is the exalted top-notcher. If the dowager knew, she'd go ravin' mad. I've a jolly good mind to write an' tell her."

Arm in arm they passed into the house.

That night:

Tuppy wrote to Tummy Clare--his one confidant.

"Tummy, old friend," the letter ran, "the unfailing mystery of solar phenomena, the unswerving accuracy of the comet's flight, the ordered perambulations of the whole damn planetary system, all these pale to insignificance beside the phenomena of human movement. In other words, the trick some chaps have of turning up in unexpected places ... Monty! You remember the beggar, in your house at Eton ... didn't know he was a duke ... riotous and profitable night ... piquet ... I rubiconed him twice, piqued, re-piqued, capotted and ... I held fourteen aces six times in succession ... won about ten pounds...."

That night:

"I think," said Sir Harry rubbing his hands cheerfully, "that we have said, 'Check to the Duke person.'"

"Tuppy's arrived?" asked Hal.

"Yes; Smith put him into the house, and Rake is putting him into the paper. I rather fancy that if Tuppy plays his cards well, he will score heavily."

As we have seen, Tuppy played his cards very well, and indeed _did_ score heavily.