Kn-tfv # 
 
 U cC -
 
 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 CAUF.
 
 STORIES 
 WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 BY 
 
 BARRY PAIN 
 
 
 
 AUTHOR OF " ONE KIND AND ANOTHER," 
 "STORIES IN GREY," ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 November,
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. GREAT POSSESSIONS ..... i 
 
 II. A MODEL MAN 23 
 
 III. THE MARRIAGE OF MIRANDA ... 38 
 
 IV. THE FAILURE OF PROFESSOR PALBECK . 49 
 V. THE 'EIGHTY-SEVEN .... 65 
 
 VI. CLUBS AND HEARTS 73 
 
 VII. ONE STONE 81 
 
 VIII. GENERAL OBSERVATIONS .... 87 
 
 IX. THE BOY AND THE PESSIMIST . . 96 
 
 X. CHRISIMISSIMA 115 
 
 XI. A Vicious CIRCLE 129 
 
 XII. SUNNIBROW ....'.. 133 
 
 XIII. AUNT MARTHA 144 
 
 XIV. A DEVIL, A BOY, AND A TRADE DESIGNER 149 
 XV. THE KEY OF THE HEN-HOUSE . '. . 165 
 
 XVI. ONE HOUR OF FAME .... 181 
 
 XVII. SARA .189 
 
 XVIII. THE BLANKING BUSINESS . . . 193 
 
 XIX. THE CHEAT 201 
 
 XX. THE DIFFICULT CASE .... 207 
 
 XXI. SOME IMITATIONS 219 
 
 XXII. THE CELESTIAL'S EDITORSHIP . . . 227 
 
 21320G6
 
 VI 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 THE TENWOOD WITCH . 
 
 XXIV. LOVERS ON AN ISLAND . 
 
 XXV. THE HERO AND THE BURGLAR . 
 
 MORAL STORIES 
 
 I. APPRECIATION 
 
 II. THE PHILOSOPHER .... 
 
 III. THE LIFE OF A BUBBLE . 
 
 IV. FOR VALUE RECEIVED 
 
 V. OMNIA VANITAS .... 
 
 VI. THE LOVE PHILTER .... 
 
 VII. DOING GOOD 
 
 VIII. KIND WORDS 
 
 IX. THE WORTHLESS STONES . 
 
 X. GOLD 
 
 XI. THE PIG AND THE JACOBY 
 
 XII. THE WRONG ELIXIR .... 
 
 XIII. EVOLUTION 
 
 XIV. BLUE ROSES 
 
 XV. THE STREET OF PERIL 
 
 XVI. THE CURATE, THE BOY, AND THE BEE 
 
 XVII. GEORGE 
 
 XVIII. PULL THE RIGHT STRING 
 
 XIX. Too MUCH SELF-HELP . 
 
 XX. NOT IMPERVIOUS TO DAMP 
 
 PAGE 
 241 
 
 255 
 269 
 
 278 
 283 
 286 
 29O 
 
 293 
 297 
 3 OI 
 305 
 309 
 313 
 317 
 321 
 
 324 
 328 
 
 331 
 
 335 
 338 
 339 
 340
 
 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS
 
 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 i 
 
 GREAT POSSESSIONS 
 
 MR. WILFRED SANDYS, assistant master at 
 "Sunniholme," had a small sitting-room as- 
 signed to him at the top of the house. It was 
 rather a dark and sullen little room, furnished princi- 
 pally with what had been left over. Against one of 
 the walls stood a cottage piano in light oak, bearing 
 the name of an unknown German maker; its inward 
 parts were so full of wickedness that it had long be- 
 fore retired from active service. Piano was a cour- 
 tesy title the thing was a sideboard really. Over 
 the mantelpiece was a gas-bracket. The gas had 
 been cut off from it in order (as Mr. Worthy pointed 
 out) to avoid accidents. The room was illuminated in 
 the evening by a small lamp when Emma remembered 
 it. When Emma forgot it, it was idle to have recourse 
 to the bell-pull, though it was a tasteful bell-pull. The 
 bell itself had been removed because (as Mr. Worthy 
 explained) you cannot have the maid-servants kept 
 for ever running up and down stairs; this, I think, 
 cannot be gainsaid. In fact, there was very little in 
 the room that really worked except Mr. Wilfred 
 Sandys. 
 
 The supper-tray of Mr. Wilfred Sandys stood on 
 the piano. Emma had said when she brought it up
 
 2 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 that it was a funny thing she had forgotten that old 
 lamp again. The room was illuminated at present by 
 one candle, the property of a gentleman, the said can- 
 dle being affixed by and of itself to the lid of a 
 tobacco-tin. The repast which that gentleman had just 
 concluded had consisted of a warped slice of cold mut- 
 ton with blood-vessels, and, apparently, string in it; 
 of a portion of American cheddar, of bread, and of 
 two-thirds of a pint of the school beer. The tray 
 being removed, writing-materials and exercise-books 
 were now placed on the table a kitchen table veiled 
 by a stained cloth, with the remains of chenille blobs 
 round the edge of it. 
 
 Mr. Sandys opened an exercise-book and observed 
 that Smithson's first sentence was "dicit ut veniret." 
 To a pedant this hardly seemed a satisfactory render- 
 ing of "he says that he will come." But in times of 
 mental perplexity, which were frequent with him, 
 Smithson always gave up hope and went into the sub- 
 junctive. Wilfred Sandys decided suddenly that, after 
 all, he would not correct those exercise-books that 
 night; he had done enough for one day. 
 
 He took methodical steps for his own comfort. He 
 put the coal (what there was of it) on the fire. He 
 placed in position the easy chair, with three exercise- 
 books to take the place of a missing castor. He 
 fetched from his bedroom a glass and water-bottle. 
 Then he removed the lower front of the ex-piano and 
 took out from the interior a bottle of Scotch whisky 
 good whisky, but, of course, a thing prohibited. 
 
 A high standard of virtue, such as that which was 
 suitably maintained by Mr. Worthy in his seminary, 
 has many advantages too obvious for comment. 
 Amongst others, it enables the sinner to get a great
 
 GREAT POSSESSIONS 3 
 
 deal of excitement out of very little sin. Wilfred 
 Sandys never bought his whisky in the town. There 
 were occasional Saturdays when he had the afternoon 
 and evening entirely at his disposal; then it was that 
 he visited a distant hostelry and returned sin-laden in 
 the dark. So far he had been undetected, but it was 
 constantly occurring to him that one night on his re- 
 turn he might stumble on the stone stairs, and the 
 bottle would break, and its contents would be spilled; 
 Mr. Worthy would arrive upon the scene at once, and 
 it would be difficult to convince him that this was 
 really furniture polish which Sandys had purchased 
 for the improvement of the German ex-piano. It is 
 probable that the murderer feels much the same when 
 disposing of the corpse of his victim as Sandys felt 
 when he was getting rid of an empty bottle. Once 
 Mr. Worthy had stopped him on his way down to the 
 river with the incriminating bottle concealed about his 
 person, as the police say. For a moment Sandys had 
 thought that all was lost, including honor. But Mr. 
 Worthy had merely observed in his fat, sad voice that 
 he wished Mr. Sandys would abstain from wearing 
 colored neckties on Sundays, and passed on unsus- 
 pecting. 
 
 I do not wish to suggest any dark picture of a secret 
 drunkard. Sandys was secret enough, because he did 
 not wish to lose the forty-five pounds, with board and 
 lodging, which he received annually from Mr. Worthy ; 
 but he was not given to excess. He had little fear that 
 he would be caught in the act of drinking that nightly 
 glass of whisky and water, for there was a long flight 
 of stone stairs between the proprietor's study and the 
 assistant master's garret ; and Mr. Worthy was a man
 
 4 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 of plethoric habit. When he wanted his hireling he 
 rang and sent somebody to fetch him. 
 
 To-night Sandys lapsed into reverie. Had it, then, 
 been worth while the sacrifice made by that poor 
 country parson in order that his son might obtain in 
 the Classical Tripos the degree of Bachelor of Arts in 
 the University of Cambridge? The end had been 
 achieved. Wilfred Sandys had just, as it had been 
 by the skin of his teeth, managed to secure that degree, 
 and he had had incidentally three good years years 
 when he made many friends, spent his father's money, 
 neglected his work, and was strenuous in athletic ex- 
 ercises. But what was left after the achievement? His 
 father's death had made him the possessor of some 
 thirty pounds a year from gilt-edged investments. He 
 had no relations on his father's side to help him, and 
 he had nothing to expect from the Beltons, who had 
 resented the marriage of their daughter with a poor 
 curate, as the father of Wilfred was at that time. 
 He had suddenly felt the knife across the golden thread 
 of his life. Playtime was over, and work was to be 
 done. He was away from the pleasant sward, and 
 over the edge of the precipice. There was no estab- 
 lished business, no waiting partnership, to receive him 
 on a bed of down. There was good advice from peo- 
 ple who told him solemnly what every man of his age 
 and intelligence knew already. There were vague 
 promises and assurances from young college friends 
 who had slightly over-estimated their influence in the 
 world. The cold fact was that he had to look out for 
 himself. Suddenly awakened out of sleep, he saw that 
 there was more than one profession in which he might 
 succeed if he could wait. He saw also that he could 
 not possibly afford to wait. He must put himself into
 
 GREAT POSSESSIONS 5 
 
 the market as he was. A clean character, a moderate 
 skill in tennis and cricket, and a third in Classical Hon- 
 ors that was what he had to offer. The demand for 
 such things is not feverish. It became clear to him 
 that he must be a schoolmaster. 
 
 Wilfred Sandys had haunted the agents' office in 
 Sackville Street. He had had splendid testimonials 
 printed, and had gradually come to realize that most 
 people of ordinary decency have absolutely magnifi- 
 cent testimonials. He had taken one post which he 
 had found impossible. He had afterwards waited for 
 a time, waited almost to the verge of fear for his daily 
 bread. He had closed eagerly with the offer of Mr. 
 Worthy, with whom he had been for three years. Mr. 
 Worthy printed a very dubious M.A. after his name 
 in his prospectus, but (with or without academic dis- 
 tinction) he had a fairly good connection, and his 
 heart was in his business. It was merely a business to 
 this soup-merchant, but he was no fool at it. The mid- 
 day dinner was not luxurious, but Mr. Worthy had 
 quite realized the line beneath which it was not safe to 
 go. He had a sufficient staff of servants, treated them 
 well, and paid them well, since it is often difficult to 
 get a housemaid. It is always easy to get an assistant 
 master, but even here he was moderately generous and 
 conscious of generosity. "Many head masters," he 
 had said to Sandys, "forbid smoking to the under 
 masters. I do not. Smoke as much as you like ex- 
 cept, of course, in the presence of the boys." 
 
 That is a common point of view; the boy sees every 
 day in the holidays that his father, his uncle, and his 
 elder brothers smoke, but he must not believe that his 
 holy schoolmaster could possibly smoke. In this, as 
 possibly in some other respects, the intelligence of the
 
 6 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 ordinary boy is frequently underrated or misunder- 
 stood by the gentlemen who profess to train that 
 intelligence. For the rest, Sandys was a safe, con- 
 scientious, able master, with the prestige of a real 
 degree. Mr. Worthy fully recognized this, and did not 
 wish to part with him. He could have supplied his 
 place in twenty- four hours, but the new-comer might 
 easily have been less satisfactory. He did not give him 
 the same consideration that he would have given to 
 the cook, but still he gave him some consideration; he 
 managed to keep him just above resignation. 
 
 Mr. Sandys, as he sipped his diluted and forbidden 
 whisky, could not call himself conscientious; but he 
 maintained that no grown man of common sense 
 should obey an absurd rule. He did not even call 
 himself an able master. It seemed to him that some- 
 how or other he ought to have made Smithson under- 
 stand more about the Oratio Obliqua. And it further 
 seemed to him that, summing up the situation, he had 
 nothing to hope for in the way of advancement, and 
 that he had everything to fear in the way of actual 
 loss. There is no chance for the under master in a 
 private school to advance in his profession ; the places 
 at the miserable top of it are taken by those who, 
 thanks to capital or connection, have started at the top. 
 As time went on, Sandys knew that he would become 
 less and less valuable in a principal's eyes, until finally 
 there would be no work for him at all. He would be 
 told on all sides that a younger and more active man 
 was required. For that evil day he ought, of course, 
 to make provision, but with his present salary he saw 
 no decent possibility of saving money at all. He 
 would be compelled to break into his capital the eight 
 hundred he had inherited from his father. Possibly,
 
 GREAT POSSESSIONS 7 
 
 he might buy an annuity with it. It was a wretched 
 business. 
 
 He was roused from his reverie by the sound of a 
 footstep on the stairs. It was not the well-known step 
 of Mr. Worthy, nor was it the light, quick step of 
 a boy. Sandys supposed that Mr. Worthy wanted to 
 see him about some school matter, and had sent Emma 
 to say so. That being so, it was not worth while to 
 conceal the whisky-bottle. 
 
 The door opened, and a blaze of light entered. Be- 
 hind the blaze of light was a tall female figure. 
 
 "Thanks, Emma," said Sandys. "Just put it on the 
 table, will you?" 
 
 The lamp was put down on the table, and revealed 
 that this was not Emma. He might have known, of 
 course, that it was not Emma ; for though Emma fre- 
 quently forgot the perilous task of bringing the lamp 
 with the supper-tray, she would never have made a 
 second journey up the stairs to bring it afterwards. 
 She was by no means the kind of girl to overdo things. 
 
 This, it appeared, was a new housemaid. She had 
 arrived that afternoon, and, in reply to Sandys' ques- 
 tion, she said that her name was Rose. She was to 
 have the care of his rooms in future, because she did 
 not mind the stairs, and Emma did. She spoke easily, 
 without forwardness or embarrassment. Her voice 
 was pleasant, and her pronunciation correct. In ap- 
 pearance she was young, fresh and strong, graceful in 
 movement. Her face was well enough kind eyes, 
 too large a mouth, and much dark hair with a smooth 
 severity. Her figure was really beautiful. As she 
 spoke, she did things. She drew the shabby curtain 
 over the window. She brushed the hearth. She 
 picked up the repellent supper-tray from the piano.
 
 8 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "Good night, sir," she said, as she closed the door be- 
 hind her. 
 
 Sandys had in his time said severe things about the 
 man who regards a maid-servant in any other than 
 the cold and official light, but our circumstances play 
 havoc with our opinions. His life had become lonely, 
 a life with no women in it. He taught boys in his 
 working hours, and sometimes chatted with the other, 
 non-resident, masters in his leisure. There were even 
 times when that dubious Master of Arts, Mr. Worthy, 
 unbent and spoke with Sandys of the political situation 
 over a glass of dubious port. Sandys did not grumble 
 at such things, but they left him lonely and unfulfilled. 
 Warm-blooded youth and a natural love of beauty 
 demanded more. So now it was useless for the trained 
 and conventional side of Sandys to make the chilly 
 observation that here was a new housemaid. The nat- 
 ural man insisted on saying, "Here is an unusual and 
 delightful woman and I hope I shall see more of 
 her." 
 
 A contrast with Emma suggested itself. Emma 
 never did her work properly, considered it as a griev- 
 ance that she had to do any work at all, and used a 
 manner of speech which was distressing. Sandys had 
 never known Emma to draw the curtain or to sw r eep 
 the hearth. Emma frequently forgot the lamp, and 
 always left the used, soiled, sickening supper-tray to 
 sit on the ex-piano until she "did" the room in the 
 morning. The contrast was accentuated on the follow- 
 ing evening. The supper-tray did not wear its cus- 
 tomary air of a brutal attempt to make Wilfred San- 
 dys give up feeding for the future. And when Rose 
 removed the tray she placed on the table a jug of 
 fresh water and a clean glass; her quick eye had de-
 
 GREAT POSSESSIONS 9 
 
 tected the conversion of the bedroom water-bottle to 
 a sitting-room use on the previous evening. It seemed 
 to him that the lamp gave more light, and the nause- 
 ous smell of paraffin had gone from it. Rose had 
 trimmed the wick, and cleaned the lamp and the lamp- 
 glass. Emma had limited herself to giving the thing 
 "more ile" when she happened to remember it. When 
 in the morning Sandys lifted a book from the ex-piano 
 he was surprised not to see its imprint in the dust; 
 examination showed that there was no dust. In his 
 early period he had prayed Emma to remove dust, 
 but she had shaken her head. She had explained that 
 she was always so hurried of a morning. Briefly, Rose 
 was a real woman, and Emma was a red-headed slut. 
 
 A further portent presented itself next day. Sandys 
 picked up the exercise-books to place, as usual, under 
 the leg of the easy chair, and, behold, the missing cas- 
 tor had been replaced and the exercise-books were no 
 longer needed. 
 
 "Rose," said Sandys, "I see this chair has been mend- 
 ed at last. How did you manage to get that done?" 
 
 Rose smiled, showing white teeth. "I did that my- 
 self, sir." 
 
 "Yourself?" 
 
 "Yes; there's a box of rubbish downstairs old 
 curtain-rings and picture-hooks and such things, and I 
 found the castor there. Then I borrowed the screw- 
 driver that belongs to cook's sewing-machine, and I 
 persuaded the boot-boy to give me a few screws." 
 
 "That castor's been off for the last two years. 
 Thank you very much, Rose. You're a wonderful 
 woman." 
 
 "No; but I don't like to see things wrong that can
 
 10 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 be put right. It's the way I feel about it. Good 
 night, sir." 
 
 The good night had come rather abruptly. She was 
 gone. She never hurried, but she was always doing a 
 piece of work or going on to the next piece. She was 
 willing to talk a little, but she did not seem to want to 
 jabber, as Emma always did. Sandys wished she had 
 stayed a few moments longer. He had noticed a slight 
 and rather fascinating play of color in her face, some- 
 thing different from the solid purple blush that Emma 
 wore in her moments of embarrassment. There had 
 been a quick flush when he called her a wonderful 
 woman, and again before that when yes, when she 
 said that she had persuaded the boot-boy to give her 
 some screws. How, then, had she persuaded the boot- 
 boy? That was a dark thought. 
 
 Her splendid efficiency moved Sandys to see for the 
 first time that there was no such thing as contemptible 
 work, but that there were many contemptible workers. 
 Emma and many others of her kind were contemptible 
 workers they worked reluctantly, without intelligent 
 interest in the work, and were a menial class. But the 
 work itself domestic work was as fine as any other, 
 and a woman who was capable and had a good will in 
 such work, was far beyond the ridicule that hits the 
 inefficient sisterhood of the craft. 
 
 He took an early opportunity of trying to lend Rose 
 books. He had quite determined that she must be 
 fond of reading, and was disappointed with her reply : 
 
 "No, thank you, sir. Unless perhaps you've got 
 a book on poultry." 
 
 He misunderstood her. "Yes," he said; "I think I 
 have a book about poetry."
 
 GREAT POSSESSIONS 11 
 
 She laughed a little. "It was poultry I said, sir 
 fowls and chickens." 
 
 Mr. Wilfred Sandys, curiously enough, had no book 
 on poultry. He had imagined that she would like 
 reading : she had seemed well educated, unlike Emma. 
 
 "But I never read just for the sake of it. If there's 
 a book to tell me something I want to learn, that's 
 different. I like doing things better than reading." 
 
 He tried a further question as to her education, but 
 she admitted no more than a Board School had pro- 
 vided. He urged that she spoke like a well-educated 
 woman. 
 
 "Well, if there's anything to do, I want to do it 
 properly it's all the same whether it's making a bed 
 or just talking." 
 
 Again she gave him no opportunity to converse at 
 length with her; her work called her away. On sec- 
 ond thoughts he decided that he was not disappointed 
 at all in her refusal of books. It was splendidly hon- 
 est and unaffected. A liking for stories of love and 
 adventure is not by any means an invariable sign of a 
 mind of the highest type. Emma read the feuilleton 
 with regularity, and had no mind at all. 
 
 As he handed her a copy of "Poultry for Profit" on 
 the following evening, he observed that he found he 
 had got such a book, after all. He had got it, as a 
 matter of fact, from the station bookstall that after- 
 noon. 
 
 "It is very kind of you, sir," she said; "but I did 
 not mean you to buy the book for me. I don't like 
 that." 
 
 But he persuaded her to take it and to keep it. 
 She had made him so much more comfortable than he 
 had been under the reign of Emma. The book was the
 
 12 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 merest trifle a mark of grateful recognition of her 
 services. And, by the way, how did she come to be 
 interested in that subject? 
 
 "We kept fowls at home, and so I got to know 
 something about them but not enough. I shall 
 learn more from the book in odd minutes. It will be 
 useful to me one day. I'm not always going on with 
 my present work." 
 
 She came back to his room an hour later with a 
 message: "Mr. Worthy told me to say, sir, that he 
 wished to see you in his study at once." 
 
 "Very well, Rose. Thanks." 
 
 He laid down his pipe. Mr. Worthy had possibly 
 invented a new schedule of work a thing to which he 
 was very liable. Whatever else may be urged against 
 Mr. Worthy's attainments, it must be said in fairness 
 that he could rule lines in red ink as well as any man 
 in the kingdom. The new schedule of work as drawn 
 out by Mr. Worthy was nearly as pretty as a map. 
 But there was not any schedule which required dis- 
 cussion at the present time it was a more serious 
 matter. Sandys recognized that as soon as he entered 
 the study. 
 
 "Sit down, if you please, Mr. Sandys," said Mr. 
 Worthy, in his sad, slow voice, and continued the 
 letter which he was writing. 
 
 He was rather a bloated and small-eyed gentleman, 
 dressed, as was his invariable custom, in a dark gray 
 suit, with a black bow necktie. Silence was one of the 
 weapons in his armory when it was necessary to 
 quell the refractory. The small boy who had been 
 guilty of any great crime was brought into Mr. 
 Worthy's study, and Mr. Worthy would then proceed 
 as now, to the letter-writing trick. Occasionally he
 
 GREAT POSSESSIONS 13 
 
 would look up and glare steadily at the boy, and then 
 resume his letter in silence. With every moment the 
 stare and the silence grew more awful; sometimes the 
 small boy would be so affected by it that he would 
 begin to weep even before the principal of "Sunni- 
 holme" had opened his mouth a result of which the 
 heroic Mr. Worthy was proud. 
 
 But as Mr. Wilfred Sandys was not a little boy, the 
 impressive silence did not impress him in that way; 
 it merely seemed to him disgustingly uncivil on the 
 part of that boor-pig, his employer. He noticed that 
 Mr. Worthy's black bow was not quite straight, and 
 wished he would put it straight. His eye strayed to the 
 lavish apparatus of the writing-table (four kinds of 
 ink and rubber stamps in great variety), and upwards 
 to the engravings, framed in oak, of English cathe- 
 drals. What could be more reassuring to a hesitat- 
 ing parent than an engraving of a cathedral? 
 
 "And now, Mr. Sandys," said his employer, "I am 
 sorry to say that I have some unpleasant matters to 
 speak of to you. The other day I picked up Penning- 
 ton's exercise-book, and wrote in it a correction of one 
 of his sentences; I find to-day that you have crossed 
 out my correction and substituted a rendering of your 
 own." 
 
 "Yes," said Sandys genially, "it was a bit awkward. 
 You see, you'd er made a slip, and I had to give 
 the boy the correct Latin, but I put it all right for you, 
 I think. I told Pennington that he must have given 
 you the wrong English." 
 
 "The boy did not believe you. Quite by accident, I 
 overheard him say that he did not believe you." Mr. 
 Worthy went about in rubber-soled shoes, and often 
 overheard things by accident "He told the elder
 
 14 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 Robinson that he was sure he had given me the right 
 English, that the blunder was mine, and that I knew 
 no more Latin than er his foot." 
 
 "Sorry," said Sandys. "Nuisance, isn't it?" 
 
 "It is something more than that. It is either a 
 gross act of insubordination or a stupid want of judg- 
 ment, and in either case I do not see how we are to go 
 on together. I do not profess to be a classical scholar, 
 but that is not the point. Right or wrong, I will not 
 be corrected by any man that I employ. Least of all 
 will I be corrected to one of my own pupils. You have 
 behaved badly. And that is not the worst !" 
 
 Sandys perceived that he was meant to ask what 
 the worst was. So he carefully refrained from ask- 
 ing it. 
 
 "The worst," said Mr. Worthy impressively, "is that 
 you, Mr. Sandys, are a secret drunkard." 
 
 "That's a lie!" said Sandys, with unpardonable 
 abruptness. 
 
 "And you would not dare to address me in that 
 way if you were not under the influence of liquor at 
 this very moment. I er had occasion to see if the 
 piano in your sitting-room could be adapted for prac- 
 tice-work by the junior pupils " 
 
 "Yes, I see," said Sandys. "But I'm not going to 
 be spoken to in this way, all the same." He rose 
 to go. 
 
 "You understand that you leave at the end of this 
 term. I am giving you notice, sir." Mr. Worthy was 
 approaching apoplexy. 
 
 Mr. Sandys was rude enough to snap his fingers. 
 He opened the door. 
 
 "No character, Mr. Sandys. No testimonials," 
 gasped Mr. Worthy. His fist struck the table.
 
 GREAT POSSESSIONS 15 
 
 Sandys paused with his hand on the door. "If your 
 ignorance of Latin has been discovered here by the lit- 
 tle boys, it must naturally annoy you, Mr. Worthy. I 
 did my best to screen you, anyhow. But if you let 
 your annoyance lead you into repeating to others your 
 silly lie that I am a secret drunkard, you'll have some 
 pretty serious consequences to take. I leave at the end 
 of the term, and it will be time enough for you to 
 jabber about testimonials when I come and ask you 
 for one." 
 
 Mr. Worthy was still engaged in a breathless search 
 for words to express himself when the door closed. 
 By the time the torrential eloquence was ready there 
 was no Sandys there to receive it. 
 
 Sandys sat upstairs in his room, well satisfied with 
 what he had done and with the fate that had befallen 
 him. Had Mr. Worthy mildly reminded him that he 
 had broken a regulation, Sandys would have had to 
 admit as much. In his temper, Mr. Worthy had gone 
 far beyond that, had brought preposterous charges, 
 and had put himself in the wrong. Just for one glori- 
 ous time Sandys had treated his employer precisely as 
 he deserved that alone was worth much. 
 
 His mind was at ease that it was all over. No longer 
 would there exist his ignominious conspiracy with Mr. 
 Worthy to hide the principal's ignorance of subjects 
 that he professed to teach. No longer would his free- 
 dom be limited by a stupid set of rules degrading to 
 a man of his age. No longer would he have sordid 
 anxieties about surreptitious bottles. No longer would 
 he deceive small boys by upholding to them a system 
 of morality which he himself neither approved nor 
 practised. No longer would be have to treat as his
 
 16 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 superior a man whom, frankly, he knew to be his 
 inferior. 
 
 The disaster which he had feared the loss of his 
 post and of his salary had happened at last, and it no 
 longer seemed to him a disaster. He would never be a 
 schoolmaster again. His ideas about work had 
 changed. He was ready now to use his hands and his 
 bodily strength as well as his education and intelli- 
 gence. He was ready to run a shop, keep a public- 
 house, work at poultry-farming, or at gardening. 
 Eight hundred pounds of capital he had; energy and 
 good will he had ; he could find a partner with the nec- 
 essary knowledge and experience of whatever business 
 he decided to take up. His friends would probably 
 talk, but he no longer cared about that ; they had done 
 nothing for him, and no regard for their conventions 
 should keep him from a free and honest life. 
 
 That night there came suddenly into his mind an 
 idea which recurred during the next few days he 
 might possibly marry Rose. 
 
 She might have undesirable relations, and she cer- 
 tainly had not the artistic temperament; his friends 
 who heard that he had married the housemaid would 
 consider that he had definitely gone down the abyss. 
 On the other hand, he was not proposing to marry her 
 relations, did not overvalue the artistic temperament, 
 and no longer proposed for himself a slavery to pub- 
 lic opinion. On the other hand, too, there were her 
 kindly soul, her keen intelligence, her healthy and beau- 
 tiful body. To put aside ambition, to put aside all ac- 
 cepted ideas, and to work happily in her company at 
 any open-air employment, seemed peaceful and desir- 
 able. 
 
 Sandys had put aside his first impulse, which was
 
 GREAT POSSESSIONS 17 
 
 to leave "Sunniholme" at once, partly because he 
 thought this departure might be what Mr. Worthy 
 would like best and partly because of Rose. As the 
 weeks went on he got to know her much better. He 
 had always treated her with respect, and he had won 
 her confidence. He got glimpses of her home life. 
 Her father, who was dead, had not made farming pay. 
 "But then that was the wrong sort of farming," said 
 the sagacious Rose. She meant to go back to the 
 country, and loved it "because there's always so much 
 to do there," an opinion not usually endorsed by the 
 ruralizing Cockney. She had saved forty-five pounds 
 already. 
 
 It was noticeable, too, as the weeks went on, that 
 Mr. Worthy's mental attitude towards secret drunk- 
 ards must have undergone a considerable change. He 
 became wondrous civil to Mr. Sandys. There was 
 even a suggestion of a glass of port and a cigar in Mr. 
 Worthy's study after a Sunday midday meal; it is to 
 the credit of Sandys that there was nothing sardonic 
 in his refusal. He was really indifferent to the civility 
 or rudeness of his employer. He did his work and 
 did it well, because that was in accordance with his 
 new view of all work. But he did not mean to be a 
 schoolmaster any more, and he did definitely mean to 
 marry Rose. 
 
 He did not know what Rose's own feelings about it 
 might be. She was not perhaps the woman for a grand 
 and poetical passion you cannot find all beauties and 
 all utilities in one woman. Her easy, respectful, sex- 
 less friendliness towards him seemed permanent, but of 
 course she could never have imagined that he would 
 marry her. She would be taken utterly by surprise 
 when he told her. He had eight hundred pounds cap-
 
 i8 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 ital, and Rose was practical. It ought to work out all 
 right. 
 
 He read Thoreau and Emerson, and utterly failed 
 to lend either book to Rose. His imagination was al- 
 ready painting his new life, in sympathy with nature, 
 in scorn of outworn tradition and teaching. He would 
 make no fortune he would work in freedom for a 
 sufficient and healthy livelihood, and be content. 
 
 And then the fortune that he had refused to seek 
 came with all the petulance and perversity of fortune 
 to look for him. On a Sunday morning he received a 
 solicitor's letter, acquainting him with the death of his 
 uncle, his mother's brother, Richard Belton. Belton 
 had perhaps been desirous to undo the injustice that 
 had been done in the previous generation. At any 
 rate, after a few legacies of comparatively little im- 
 portance, he left the remainder to his sister's son, 
 Wilfred Sandys. The solicitor gave approximate fig- 
 ures. The annual income of Mr. Sandys in the future 
 would be close upon three thousand pounds. 
 
 It was clear to him in a flash that part of his scheme 
 had already gone. With the money came the respon- 
 sibilities of money. He would work still but he 
 would not fatten chickens for the London market, nor 
 arise early to hoe potatoes. Nor, of course, could he 
 now marry conscience stopped him. 
 
 Why could he not now marry Rose ? He had been 
 glad to marry her, when he had thought that her strong 
 practical sense and knowledge of country life would 
 help him. If he did not need those now, was she not 
 still as she had always been, when prejudices were 
 stripped away an able, beautiful woman, with noth- 
 ing in speech or manner to offend him, fitted to be his
 
 GREAT POSSESSIONS 19 
 
 wife? To desert her, merely because he had become 
 unexpectedly rich, seemed mean and treacherous. 
 
 Once more as he thought on these things he re- 
 ceived a message that Mr. Worthy wished to speak to 
 him. Mr. Worthy plunged into the heart of the mat- 
 ter at once. 
 
 "Some few weeks ago, Mr. Sandys, I gave you no- 
 tice. I wish to withdraw that. There was a little 
 heat on both sides, I think. I was much worried at 
 the time, and perhaps I was hardly justified in er in 
 my deductions. Shall we let bygones be bygones ?" 
 
 Here was an opportunity for triumph, yet Sandys 
 could not bring himself to take k. He did not see how 
 he could take it without vulgarity and bad feeling. So 
 he was cordial in agreement that the past should be 
 past, and he was almost apologetic in mentioning the 
 change in his fortunes of which he had heard that 
 morning. 
 
 Mr. Worthy congratulated heartily, and said nor 
 could it have been denied that this was a change, 
 indeed. He supposed Mr. Sandys had already formed 
 his plans. 
 
 Mr. Sandys was vague on the subject. He wanted 
 to work not to live a life of ease and idleness and 
 to make a good use of his money. 
 
 Mr. Worthy heartily approved. "There is Parlia- 
 ment, for instance," he said again quite undeniable. 
 There were several things which he enumerated. As 
 an after-thought he mentioned that there was "Sunni- 
 holme" now, it appeared, at a crisis in its upward 
 fortunes. "Sunniholme" was a semi-detached house, 
 and with its sister, "St. Catherine's," made one perfect 
 block. "St. Catherine's" was now in the market. Mr. 
 Worthy had a fortnight's option to purchase it It
 
 20 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 would double the accommodation, and Mr. Worthy 
 had of late been turning pupils away to an extent that 
 was like to break his heart. 
 
 Sandys saw whither this was drifting, and said he 
 should think of it. 
 
 "Do," said Mr. Worthy. "There's the church-bell. 
 There's no necessity for yo'u to attend service this 
 morning, Mr. Sandys. You probably have letters to 
 write and much to consider. In fact, you need take no 
 duty to-day. Just think the thing over, you know. 
 And you might drop in to dinner with me to-night at 
 seven, and then well, then we can see, we can talk it 
 over comfortably." 
 
 Mr. Sandys availed himself to the full of the per- 
 mission given. He wrote a letter to the solicitors, and 
 then he started off for the day. He did not mean to 
 make a long walk, but just to get out of that atmos- 
 phere which towards the end of the term weighs 
 heavily on most schoolmasters. It was a six-mile walk 
 to that little hostelry where the surreptitious bottles 
 had been procured. He might have gone by train, but 
 the sun was bright, and there was a touch of spring in 
 the air. His thoughts as he walked were pleasant 
 enough. He saw himself in a masterly position. In 
 imagination he lent money to his oppressor. What 
 more exquisite revenge could he have? In imagina- 
 tion he married Rose. It would be quite obvious that 
 he could have done much better, and that his choice 
 was deliberate. He would still be taking his own line, 
 away from the common rut that has been worn by the 
 feet of the slaves. Sordid worries had passed from 
 him; nor could he think that his freedom had come 
 from a mere fluke. He had come into that which, in 
 common justice, he was entitled to have.
 
 GREAT POSSESSIONS 21 
 
 At the inn he ordered luncheon with some care, 
 consulting the landlord, Mr. Bowes. Mr. Bowes was 
 a precise little man. He had been a jockey, and at 
 present, unless you were pretty good, it was expensive 
 to take him on in his own billiard-room. He was by 
 nature a lifelong teetotaler, and by conviction, coupled 
 with trade interest, an ardent enemy of all teetotalers. 
 If he recognized in Mr. Sandys a somewhat different 
 Mr. Sandys from the one he had met previously, he 
 had too much tact to indicate his notice of change. 
 Sandys lunched well, and it is possible that none of his 
 subsequent years of freedom gave him quite so much 
 joy as this first breath of release. 
 
 He was standing in the window chatting with Mr. 
 Bowes when he saw a couple pass down the pictur- 
 esque cobbled street. The man was a big fellow, in 
 blue serge, with a very hard felt hat and a very shrewd 
 face. The woman, plainly dressed in black, was Rose, 
 and the expression of affectionate admiration on her 
 face was one which Sandys had never seen before. 
 
 "You noticed that little lot," said Mr. Bowes. "He's 
 going to be a rival of mine." The tone of Mr. Bowes 
 did not indicate any bitterness. 
 
 "Indeed?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. Man of the name of Tomson. They're 
 starting one of these new trust public-houses at Moles- 
 ley Green, a mile away from here, and he's to be the 
 manager. He's a nice sensible chap, I'm told, and his 
 girl's got no nonsense about her, either. I'll lay a 
 sovereign she stops in service right up to the time they 
 move in." 
 
 "And when will that be ?" asked Sandys. 
 
 "Well, they'll eat their next Christmas dinner there. 
 Bless you, I don't mind. That won't interfere with
 
 22 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 me. There's room here for all of us. Their line of 
 business isn't exactly my line. It'll be a nice little 
 place. I dare say she'll do something with vegetables 
 and chickens, and so on. That sort of thing mayn't 
 be a livelihood, but it's often a useful help." 
 
 "Quite so," said Sandys judiciously. 
 
 He took the train back, and dined pleasantly with 
 Mr. Worthy and his very much older sister, Miss 
 Worthy. For the first time he saw Miss Worthy in 
 her attitude of graciousness, and thought it putrid. 
 None the less, he took a whisky and soda in Mr. 
 Worthy's study subsequently, went into the figures, 
 realized that there was very little risk, and agreed to 
 lend him a few hundreds on very easy terms. 
 
 On the following evening, when Rose brought in the 
 supper-tray, many degrees above the average, he told 
 her what he had heard, and congratulated her. She 
 seemed much confused, but accepted his suggestion 
 that, if she would tell him when the happy event took 
 place, he would like to give her a little wedding present. 
 
 The cart and the smart little pony which he gave 
 Rose and her husband proved very useful. 
 
 Mr. Bowes was correct in his prophecy. Rose and 
 her husband did eat their next Christmas dinner in the 
 new, clean, and well-appointed public-house. Mr. 
 Wilfred Sandys, B.A., tried to picture to himself their 
 happiness. He was travelling in Egypt at the time, 
 and he was alone.
 
 II 
 
 A MODEL MAN 
 
 SUMMER visitors to Bunham on the East Coast 
 generally bought a copy of "Bunham and All 
 About It" from Mr. Parkinson in the High Street. 
 The price of that excellent guide-book is only two- 
 pence, and it contains a frontispiece representing, in 
 rather a thin and jaded way, the Hall of Stalactites. 
 A line of letterpress under the illustration informs the 
 reader that this is one of the wonders of the world, 
 and requests him to "see p. 28." 
 
 The visitor who does "see p. 28" will find on that 
 page a description of the Hall of Stalactites. Therein 
 is enthusiasm tempered with information. The author 
 (chastely veiled by the pseudonym of "Mermaid," but 
 generally believed to be Miss Parkinson) contrasts the 
 Hall of Stalactites with the Blue Grotto of Capri and 
 also with Westminster Abbey; and I regret to say 
 that neither the Abbey nor the Grotto comes out of the 
 comparison at all well. Then follows a scientific par- 
 agraph. He that masters it will ever hereafter be able 
 to distinguish between a stalactite and a stalagmite in 
 the dark with one hand tied behind him, and to babble 
 of calcium carbonate in terms of the closest intimacy. 
 Finally, Miss Parkinson descends to common things 
 and tells us that "the well-appointed brakes of Messrs. 
 
 23
 
 24 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 Bodger & Son run twice daily during the season," and 
 recommends us to provide ourselves with "a warm 
 wrap to counteract the chill inseparable from these vast 
 retreats of subterranean mystery." 
 
 There can be no doubt about it, the Hall of Stalac- 
 tites is Bunham's trump-card, and Bunham plays it 
 with energy. Anything in Bunham which can possibly 
 exhibit a view of the Hall of Stalactites does exhibit 
 it. It fills the picture post-cards, it crawls round china 
 mugs, it gets under paper-weights. Jobson, the jewel- 
 ler, sells at a derisory price small charms "guaranteed 
 to be made from fallen portions of genuine stalactite." 
 One way or another that Hall gets into the local paper 
 every week; and if it is only a sonnet, signed "Mer- 
 maid," it is better than nothing. 
 
 No visitor can escape the Hall of Stalactites the 
 force of suggestion is too strong. It is doubtful if any 
 visitor wishes to escape. There is not very much to do 
 at Bunham. You can sit on the beach, or you can sit 
 on the pier, or you can sit in one of the well-appointed 
 brakes of Messrs. Bodger & Son. A young man who 
 arrived one Monday to spend a bright holiday at sunny 
 Bunham went to the Hall of Stalactites the very first 
 day. On Wednesday and Thursday he went again. 
 On Friday he went twice. On Saturday his body was 
 taken out of the sea, and a waiter at the Bunham Rail- 
 way Hotel said at the inquest that the deceased had 
 seemed depressed. 
 
 Brakes to the Hall of Stalactites always pulled up at 
 the Bull Inn for purposes of reference. The Bull Inn 
 is described by Miss Parkinson as "a charming old- 
 world hostelry." In front of the inn is the road; on 
 the other side of the road is a patch of green, and on 
 that patch every day during the season you might find
 
 A MODEL MAN 25 
 
 Samuel Pell with his working model of a coal mine. 
 Visitors descended from the brake, went to see if the 
 interior of the old-world hostelry was still there, wiped 
 their mouths, and crossed the road to interview 
 Samuel Pell and his working model. If the visitors 
 had any money left, Pell found means to annex it. 
 
 Samuel was an old man of dignified appearance. 
 He had abundance of white hair and a long white 
 beard. His speech was refined, and the sentiments that 
 he expressed were often truly admirable. He wore a 
 soft black felt hat, but his remaining clothes were 
 scarcely equal to it. The conjunction of a fisherman's 
 blue jersey and a frock-coat in the last stage of putre- 
 faction is not happy. His aged and capacious lace 
 boots had no laces in them, and were retained in situ 
 partly by the adoption of a shuffling gait and partly by 
 personal magnetism. 
 
 Above his exhibit was a card on which Samuel had 
 written in capitals : 
 
 NOT A TOY 
 
 NOT A PENNY-IN-THE-SLOT MACHIN 
 
 A GENUINE SCIENTIFIC MODDLE 
 
 MY OWN WORK 
 
 The motive power of the model was supplied by 
 Samuel himself. He turned a handle at the back. It 
 was not hard work, but he often said he was not fitted 
 for hard work. When he turned, various things hap- 
 pened in the model, which gave a sectional view of a 
 coal mine. Up above wheels went round. A basket 
 was drawn up the shaft. At a lower level a cardboard 
 pony performed the incredible feat of dragging a card-
 
 26 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 board truck without moving its legs. A group of card- 
 board miners became smitten with various forms of 
 locomotive disorder. One of them delivered blows 
 with his pick at the rate of two a second. The blows 
 made no sound, and no coal fell. 
 
 Sometimes a thoughtless humorist would point out 
 to the exhibitor some of these lapses from realism. 
 Samuel admitted them politely. 
 
 "You're right enough, sir, and I only wish I had the 
 means to alter it. But the materials alone would cost 
 me sixpence, and that is beyond my powers. By the 
 time I've paid for the rent of my pitch here, there's 
 barely enough left to buy me bread." 
 
 Such patience and politeness often met with their 
 reward. 
 
 For an audience of women he had a touching story 
 of how he had worked in the mines himself and had 
 been dismissed by the company's manager because, 
 while saving another man's life at the risk of his own, 
 he had inadvertently infringed the rule which forbids 
 miners to speak during work hours. "So there I was, 
 ladies, with my arm and leg broken, thrown out of my 
 employment, and with no hope for the future. But I'd 
 my wife and family to support, and I had to do some- 
 thing, and then it was that I first thought of this model. 
 Yes, ladies, I designed that and I made it, just as you 
 see it now, while lying flat on my back in bed in agony 
 and having only my left hand that I could use. And 
 ever since, with the blessing of the Almighty, that 
 model has been our means of livelihood. There are 
 kind hearts in the world yet, and thank you, miss ; 
 thank you, mum (don't trouble I'll pick it up) and 
 Gord bless you!" 
 
 If a group of boys came up, he drew down the blind
 
 A MODEL MAN 27 
 
 before the model. Asked what it was, he changed the 
 subject. Pressed further, he admitted that behind that 
 blind was a representation of the life underground. 
 "It's not for young boys to see. Might keep you awake 
 all night. I should get into trouble if I showed you it. 
 If a policeman were to see me exhibiting these horrors 
 to the young, I should be in prison before nightfall." 
 It was not till the sum of fourpence had been reached 
 that he would draw up the blind and turn the handle. 
 The spectacle generally saddened the boys. If this 
 was really devilry, then they felt that plain chocolate 
 gave better value for the money. And sometimes they 
 were quite rude to poor old Samuel Pell. But Samuel 
 remained, as ever, patient and polite. 
 
 The curate of St. Mark's said that the character of 
 old Sammy Pell left much to be desired. This was, 
 for the curate of St. Mark's, horribly strong language ; 
 but it was justified. 
 
 The landlord of the "charming old-world hostelry" 
 went into further detail about Samuel. "Yes, every 
 morning about twelve Samuel comes in from Bunham 
 with his rotten old show on a barrow. There he sticks 
 on that bit o' green opposite, and no more right to the 
 pitch than the man in the moon has. No doubt, if I 
 was to open my mouth, I could get him turned off of 
 it, and I take jolly good care not to do it. As long as 
 he's there he ain't in my orchard or my fowl-run. As 
 long as I don't interfere with him, and don't forget to 
 stand him a pint about once every three weeks, he 
 won't interfere with me. He never touches anything 
 of mine, but he ain't so particular with others. The 
 other day when he was putting up his show I saw 
 about a dozen hens' eggs in his barrow. 'How did you 
 get 'em, Sammy?' I says. 'Bought 'em,' says Sammy.
 
 28 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 Likely! Might as well have said he'd laid 'em. 
 Sneaked 'em from somebody's hen-house, of course, 
 but that was no business of mine. He don't do so 
 badly, don't old Sammy. Some days I'll bet he takes 
 more money than I do." 
 
 But the severest critic of Samuel Pell was Herbert 
 Chalk, the official curator and guide of the Hall of 
 Stalactites. The words, "Hall of Stalactites," were 
 emblazoned in gold on his cap. Otherwise Mr. Chalk 
 was dressed as a decent gardener. When a visitor to 
 the mammoth stalactite chanced, as he talked to its 
 curator, to mention that he had seen on his way there 
 a fine old man with an ingenious model of a coal mine, 
 fury blazed in the curator's eyes. And when he found 
 that the kindly visitor had given Samuel half a crown, 
 Mr. Chalk spake with his tongue. 
 
 "Then you'll excuse me, sir, but you've made a 
 mistake. If there is a man in Bunham that ought to 
 be put in prison and kept there till further orders, it's 
 old Sammy Pell. I know his story. Made that model 
 himself, did he? He did nothing of the kind. He 
 bought it for one and nine out of a railway sale of un- 
 claimed property twelve years ago. What's more, if 
 its works happen to go wrong he can't even put 'em 
 right himself, but has to go to Mr. Jobson, which is 
 the watchmaker in the High Street, and get it done for 
 him. And he calls himself an old coal miner, does 
 Sammy. Why doesn't he take and call himself the 
 Prince o' Wales at once? The nearest he's ever done 
 to any mining has been sneaking lumps of coal out 
 of the station-yard. That he has really done, and done 
 regular, and this winter I'm told they mean to set a 
 trap for him. Hope he'll be caught, too. The way he
 
 A MODEL MAN 29 
 
 swindles visitors here is enough to turn 'em against 
 Bunham altogether." 
 
 Samuel knew that the curate disapproved of him, 
 but did not mind. "I suppose," he observed, "that's 
 what he's paid for." He knew that the landlord of 
 the Bull Inn had no illusions about him, but he set 
 against that the privileges that the landlord permitted 
 him. But when, as inevitably happened, Samuel 
 learned that the curator of the Hall of Stalactites had 
 been saying things, he was aggrieved. 
 
 "Suppose I haven't got a wife and family," said 
 Samuel to the landlord of the Bull Inn, "and suppose I 
 didn't make the old model myself, and suppose I was 
 never in a mine., and suppose I do pick up a lump of 
 coal if I find it lying about which is what any man of 
 sense would do what has all that got to do with Her- 
 bert Chalk? Live and let live is my motto. I'm not 
 angry about it, but I'm going to stop it. There's going 
 to be trouble between him and me, and he's going to 
 get stalactites in the neck, is Mr. Herbert Chalk." 
 
 ii 
 
 "HULLO, Chalk," said the last of the group of visitors, 
 as he paid his sixpence and passed through the turn- 
 stile. "You here still?" 
 
 "And why not, sir?" said Chalk, as he picked up 
 his wand of office and exchanged the post of cash- 
 taker for that of lecturer and guide. 
 
 "Oh, nothing," said the rather dressy young man. 
 "It was just something I heard in at one ear and 
 out of another." 
 
 Chalk scowled slightly. He put less enthusiasm than
 
 30 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 usual into his observations on the mammoth stalactite. 
 He also said that the cave was first discovered in 
 eighteen thousand and seven, and was corrected se- 
 verely. 
 
 When the visitors left, Chalk fastened on to the 
 dressy young man. "I'd like just two words with you, 
 sir," he said. 
 
 "Certainly," the young man said uneasily. 
 
 "May I ask, sir, why you thought I'd got the sack, 
 and who it was that told you ?" 
 
 "Oh, you don't want to think about that." 
 
 "No, sir not in the ordinary way. But hints of 
 this kind have been coming up to me lately at the rate 
 of two or three a day, and I'm putting the matter into 
 the hands of my solicitor. My conscience is clear 
 enough, and I give my employers every satisfaction, 
 and I'm not going to be slandered. Those that take 
 away a man's character should be made to pay for it. 
 Of course, if you'd sooner not tell me in confidence, 
 then we shall have to subpoena you as a witness and 
 get it that way ; but this is your second season at Bun- 
 ham, sir, and I should be sorry to cause you any un- 
 pleasantness." 
 
 "Look here," said the young man, "I don't want 
 to give evidence. If I tell you in confidence will you 
 keep me out of it?" 
 
 "I will, sir," said Chalk. "You may depend upon 
 it." 
 
 "Well, it was an old chap who shows a model of a 
 coal mine outside the Bull Inn. His father owned the 
 very mine of which that is a model, and the property 
 would have come to him, only he married beneath him, 
 and so was disinherited."
 
 A MODEL MAN 31 
 
 "Oh, this is beyond words! Beg pardon, sir, and 
 what did he say?" 
 
 "He seemed well enough disposed towards you; 
 said it was a thousand pities, and he did hope your 
 employers would overlook it once more; said he'd 
 implored you to give it up with tears in his eyes. A 
 far better friend to you than you imagine, I should 
 say." 
 
 "What! He dared to tell you that I drank?" said 
 Chalk, with his eyes popping out of his head. 
 
 "Never used the word. He said certain things, and 
 I put my interpretation on them. I may be wrong; 
 but I think myself you'd better listen to his advice." 
 
 "And what do you mean by that, sir ?" 
 
 "Well, you get very excited." 
 
 "And who wouldn't, with his character at stake?" 
 
 "And you were all muddled up with that bit you 
 had to speak just now, though you must have said it 
 hundreds of times. You said thousands when you 
 meant hundreds, and inches when you meant feet. 
 Sign off it, Chalk sign off it !" 
 
 "I know I made mistakes, sir," said Chalk, "but 
 that was simply because I was upset in my feelings. 
 Is a vagabond like that to take away the character of a 
 man in the same employ for ten years, and respected 
 by all that know him ? I can tell you all about Sammy 
 Pell. He's the disgrace and sorrow of Bunham, he is. 
 He ain't no son of no colliery proprietor, and there 
 never was no property neither. He ain't been dis- 
 herited, and that's all brag. He couldn't have married 
 beneath him, because there's nothing lower than him- 
 self. He's not any class at all. He's a thief! He's- a 
 liar! He's a " 
 
 "One moment," said the dressy young man. "For
 
 32 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 a chap who don't like slander you seem to me to be 
 going it. Now, I'm not going to mix myself up in 
 your squabbles. They don't matter to me, and I'm 
 here on a holiday; but if you can take a hint, you'll 
 sign off that's all. Good morning." 
 
 Chalk was left with murder in his soul. He was 
 given a few days in which to simmer down. But in 
 the following week, almost the last week of the season, 
 Samuel got to work again. 
 
 As Herbert Chalk stood at the receipt of custom at 
 the Hall of Stalactites, an old lady of severe counten- 
 ance put down half a crown to pay her entrance, and 
 waited for change. 
 
 "Half a crown, mind!" she said warningly. "Not 
 two shillings. Don't make any mistake !" 
 
 The thing had not yet dawned on Herbert Chalk. 
 "That's all right, mum," he said cheerfully. "I don't 
 often make any mistake." 
 
 The old lady glared at him. "Are you the man 
 Chalk?" she asked. 
 
 "That's my name," said Herbert, still genial. 
 
 "Then I have a message for you." She showed tact. 
 She waited until she could get Chalk away from the 
 crowd before she delivered her message. "Mind you," 
 she said, "I don't want to express any opinion one 
 way or the other. The vicar may be right or he may 
 be wrong. There is such a thing as misplaced gener- 
 osity, and I can generally tell by the type of a man's 
 face " 
 
 Herbert Chalk was rude enough to interrupt. "I 
 don't know what you're talking about," he said. "If 
 you've got a message for me, let's have it." 
 
 But the old lady was composed of whalebone and
 
 A MODEL MAN 33 
 
 pure rubber, quite indestructible, and specially built 
 for endurance over the conversational course. 
 
 "Oh, yes, you do know what I'm talking about, and 
 I hope it may be a warning to you. It was an old man 
 with a long white beard asked me to deliver the mes- 
 sage. Was coming with it himself but his feet were 
 painful, and, being active still, I was glad to oblige. 
 'Tell him,' he says, 'that if he can get his employers to 
 give him another chance, the vicar will make up the 
 missing money, believing that he yielded to sudden 
 temptation and will be more honest in the future.' 
 And, as I said before, if " 
 
 Chalk had whipped out his note-book. His air was 
 that of deadly and terrific composure. "That's 
 enough," he said ; "I'll take your name and address, if 
 you please, madam. And if somebody don't get seven 
 years' penal for this, I'm a Dutchman. I go straight 
 to my lawyer's from here." He touched the point of 
 his pencil with his tongue. "Now, please, madam ?" 
 
 "What?" said the old lady. "My name and ad- 
 dress? The idea of such a thing! Why, I'd as soon 
 trust you with my money. I do a kindness, and then 
 you talk to me like that. You ought to be ashamed' of 
 yourself." 
 
 She left him speechless, defeated, despairing. 
 
 And while that fairly good man, the custodian of 
 the Hall of Stalactites, suffered acutely from unde- 
 served imputations, Samuel Pell on the bit of green 
 opposite the Bull Inn was enjoying himself immensely. 
 He was exhibiting his scientific model to a group of 
 romantically minded ladies. Pointing to one of the 
 moth-eaten figures, at present in a state of extreme but 
 ataxic activity, he declared, "And that, ladies, is an 
 exact representation of the miner whose life I saved!"
 
 34 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 in 
 
 BUT Samuel Pell had not yet finished with his enemy. 
 Next week Chalk's domestic peace was threatened. 
 
 Mrs. Chalk, usually a smiling and cheerful woman, 
 became morose. She asked her husband if he was 
 particularly partial to the name of Bella. She won- 
 dered why, if he was so fond of yellow hair, he 
 married a woman with brown. She said that when a 
 married man of fifty went about with a girl, it was 
 ridiculous as well as wicked. She added that a silly 
 young hussy who came up to the Hall of Stalactites 
 every day, and sometimes two or three times a day, 
 would be likely to get a broomstick across her face to 
 give her something else to think about. 
 
 It took Herbert Chalk two days of hard and patient 
 talking to convince his wife that the girl Bella, with 
 the yellow hair and' the unfortunate devotion to him- 
 self, was entirely mythical, had no real existence, and 
 was invented by that bad man, Sammy Pell. 
 
 "He'll be the ruin of me, that chap will," said Chalk 
 dejectedly. 
 
 "Ah!" said Mrs. Chalk. "I dare say if you'd let 
 Sammy alone, he'd have let you alone." 
 
 On the following Sunday Herbert Chalk, taking his 
 nasty-tempered terrier for a run on the cliffs, espied 
 Samuel taking his ease on one of the public seats. 
 The dog also espied him, and at a distance of fifty 
 yards made a rush for him, barking furiously. Chalk 
 might have called his dog off, but did not. 
 
 Samuel appeared to move slowly, but he was quick 
 enough for his purpose. His boot, being unimpeded 
 by laces, came off very easily. When the dog was at a
 
 A MODEL MAN 35 
 
 distance of ten yards that boot flew through the air, 
 smote the dog violently amidships, and knocked him 
 over. The dog gave it up, and returned to his master, 
 complaining bitterly. 
 
 "I've got another boot if you care to apply for it," 
 called Samuel. 
 
 But Herbert Chalk pretended to be unconscious of 
 the incident, and walked with dignity in the opposite 
 direction. 
 
 At the close of the season Samuel Pell left Bunham 
 for his holiday. Nobody knew where he spent his 
 holiday. "South of France, likely," said the 
 landlord of the Bull Inn. "He's made enough money 
 for it this season. Wicked, I call it." 
 
 He returned to Bunham in December, and appar- 
 ently still had money left to live upon. He never at- 
 tempt;ed to do any work. He spent a great part of the 
 day in the public reading-room. But if he stayed at 
 home one room over a small news-agent's shop he 
 always had a bright and cheerful fire there. The sta- 
 tion-master said, when he met Samuel in the street, 
 that he'd nab him at it yet. "I don't know to what 
 you refer," said Samuel politely. 
 
 One day, as Samuel sat in the reading-room, Her- 
 bert Chalk touched him on the shoulder. 
 
 "I should like a word with you," said Chalk, in a 
 hoarse whisper, for the rule of the reading-room pre- 
 scribed silence. 
 
 "Would you?" said Samuel doubtfully. 
 
 "Over at 'The Railway Arms,' " Chalk added. 
 
 "With pleasure, Mr. Chalk," said Samuel, and fol- 
 lowed him out. 
 
 At "The Railway Arms," the question being put to
 
 36 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 him, Samuel said a glass of Scotch ale was what the 
 weather seemed to indicate. 
 
 "The fact is, Sammy," said Chalk, "that you and 
 me didn't quite hit it together last season. I dare say 
 I was in the wrong." 
 
 "Very likely," said Samuel. 
 
 "Well, here's Christmas upon us, and I'm ready to 
 bury the hatchet." 
 
 "I should bury it in that dog of yours, if I were 
 you." 
 
 "I got rid of him. He took to running and snap- 
 ping at everybody, and I couldn't stick it. He might 
 have got me into trouble." 
 
 "He pretty nearly did," said Samuel. "But so far 
 as my old memory serves me, you were there already." 
 
 "Let's forget it," said Chalk. "Christmas is com- 
 ing. Peace and good will. Next season I hope to be 
 paying you a bob a week regular, besides putting extra 
 custom in your way." 
 
 "Peace and good will," said Samuel reflectively. 
 "Beautiful words! And that bob a week? How do 
 you mean?" 
 
 Herbert Chalk explained. In the following season a 
 new line of brakes was to run, bringing up visitors 
 from Cowslade to the Hall of Stalactites. This being 
 so, the custodian and his wife were going to enter upon 
 the provision and sale of teas and mineral waters. 
 
 "And," said Chalk, "if you told visitors where they 
 could get a good cup of tea, with nice fresh fruit, and 
 everything clean and pleasant, then I'd tell the Cow- 
 slade lot that they oughtn't to go back without stepping 
 down to the Bull Inn green, to see the wonderful 
 model and the man that saved forty lives. And I'd 
 pay you a bob a week for advertising us."
 
 A MODEL MAN 37 
 
 "A child could do anything with me at Christmas- 
 time," said Samuel. "I ought to haggle, but I can't 
 bring myself to it. I'd sooner be too open-handed even 
 if I lost money by it. We'll call it a bargain." 
 
 They shook hands on it. 
 
 "And I think we ought to celebrate it," said Samuel. 
 "We'll have just one more. Let's see, did I pay the 
 last?" 
 
 "Oh, it's my turn, Sammy," said Chalk. And he 
 was allowed to take it.
 
 Ill 
 
 THE MARRIAGE OF MIRANDA 
 
 IF we may trust dark and oriental stories, the bar- 
 baric king had strange ways of disposing of the 
 hand of the lovely Princess. He would set the three 
 suitors there were always three a difficult problem, 
 and the Princess went to the man who solved it. Or 
 he would offer her to the suitor who in the space of 
 certain moons produced the highest achievement. And 
 he never consulted the lovely Princess. Horrible! 
 
 In this Christian, civilized, western country, things 
 are far different. The lovely daughter no longer goes 
 to the highest achievement, but to the highest bid. 
 Mamma has seen that romance is here to-day and gone 
 to-morrow, but that really steady incomes are steady. 
 And the daughter is always consulted. At any rate, 
 mamma explains to her more intimate friends that she 
 has at last been able to make the dear child see the 
 thing in the right light. Yes, nowadays the race is to 
 the swift, unless the betting interferes. 
 
 The case, therefore, of Eugene Parslow and his 
 daughter Miranda is a little extraordinary, for Mr. 
 Parslow showed himself a reactionary to barbaric 
 methods. He simply put his foot down and said but 
 we shall come to that in time. 
 
 38
 
 THE MARRIAGE OF MIRANDA 39 
 
 Parslow you fancy somehow that you know that 
 name. You must have seen it somewhere. And you 
 are quite right you have seen it on the big posters. 
 A maiden with a red kerchief and a happy smile plucks 
 large apricots in a glorious garden ; and underneath is 
 the legend Parslow's Pure Preserves. The picture 
 should be taken freely and symbolically; in reality, the 
 people who work for Parslow do not smile much ; Par- 
 slow does not leave them much to smile about. Ex- 
 ceptions must be made in the case of the manager at 
 the factory, and of Davidson, who had nothing to do 
 with the business and was Parslow's confidential secre- 
 tary. So good a manager would have been difficult to 
 replace. So specially useful a secretary as Davidson 
 was too valuable to lose. Why, Parslow paid David- 
 son two hundred pounds a year, with board and lodg- 
 ing, and gave him a fortnight's holiday in the summer 
 and a week at Christmas. As he sometimes told Da- 
 vidson, he could have got a man for half that sum. 
 
 Davidson was specially useful, because he was some- 
 thing more than a secretary. Parslow had not always 
 been a man of great wealth. He was a self-made man, 
 and he knew all about preserves long before he could 
 spell the word parallel. He had made enough money 
 to entertain society before he had learned enough to 
 avoid being ridiculous. Davidson took him in hand 
 tenderly and tactfully. He taught him to speak Eng- 
 lish. He taught him even a little hotel French, and 
 there came one proud day when Parslow, in the heart 
 of Paris, commanded hot water in the native tongue, 
 and was at once understood. Davidson it was who 
 taught Parslow how to dress himself, and how to be- 
 have to the butler. Davidson, in fact, taught Parslow 
 how to live, and Parslow was very grateful, and did
 
 40 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 not wish it to be mentioned ; but Davidson understood 
 the uses of silence. 
 
 Davidson was a clean-shaven, good-looking man of 
 thirty, and had seen more of the world at thirty than 
 Parslow had at forty-five. But Parslow's knowledge 
 of jam had brought him much money, and Davidson's 
 knowledge of the world, with a great university de- 
 gree as well, had brought him no more than his re- 
 muneration, as already stated, as Parslow's private sec- 
 retary. The thing that annoyed Parslow most was 
 that he could not help feeling a certain amount of re- 
 spect for Davidson, and that this respect was liable on 
 certain special occasions to become fear and admira- 
 tion. It was when he was under the influence of this 
 annoyance that he would tell Davidson that splendid 
 men could be got for a hundred a year, which was un- 
 kind, or would find fault with Davidson's work, which 
 was unwise. Apart from that, he trusted Davidson 
 more than any other man in the world, including the 
 factory manager. 
 
 One morning Parslow came into the study, where 
 his secretary was already seated, with letters in his 
 hand, and an expression of great solemnity. 
 
 "Davidson," he said, as he dropped into his chair, "a 
 most extraordinary thing has happened." 
 
 "Indeed, Mr. Parslow?" 
 
 "It's about Miranda. Now, she's young." 
 
 "Very young." 
 
 "Bless my soul, it seems only the other day she went 
 to her first dance. And here" he tapped the letters 
 with a fat finger "I have by one post received no less 
 than three proposals for her hand." 
 
 "Addressed to Miss Parslow?" 
 
 "No, sir. No, Mr. Davidson. They have shown a
 
 THE MARRIAGE OF MIRANDA 41 
 
 little more decency than that. They have written in 
 the first instance to me as is, I believe, the correct 
 thing. I wish my poor dear wife could have been alive 
 now, to have talked it over with me. As it is, I sup- 
 pose I must decide for myself. In the first instance, 
 decision is easy. It's a proposal from Halliday." 
 
 "A decent chap, and a good sportsman." 
 
 "But, Mr. Davidson, that's all beside the point. 
 The man's a schoolmaster with a beggarly two hun- 
 dred and fifty a year, and hopes to be able to make 
 more. Why, the thing's perfectly frantic. I couldn't 
 hear of it for a moment. Now I want you to type a 
 letter to him, telling him not to be silly, and saying in 
 a civil way that I forbid him the house; and I'll sign 
 it." 
 
 "I will write a letter, Mr. Parslow, but you must 
 copy the whole of it in your own hand." 
 
 "Why the devil should I ? What are you there for 
 if it's not to " 
 
 "Certainly," said Davidson. "If you wish to wound 
 the man's feelings, and to make yourself ridiculous, 
 that's for you to decide." 
 
 "What ? You mean it's not etiquette ? Well, have it 
 your own way, then. You may know more about that 
 than I do my time's been given to more important 
 matters. As for the other proposals, I should answer 
 them in my own handwriting in any case, for" and 
 here Mr. Parslow's voice became very impressive 
 "they are both of them baronets." 
 
 "Really? Funny coincidence." 
 
 "And the coincidence doesn't end there. They are 
 both of the same age, and both have about the same 
 means no great amount, but, with what I shall settle 
 on Miranda, ample. One is Sir George Firbrook, and
 
 42 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 the other Sir Andrew Tangamere. Do you by any 
 chance know anything of them?" 
 
 "Yes, the coincidence goes further; I know both 
 men knew one of them at Oxford, and have met the 
 other at the club frequently. They are both good- 
 looking young fellows, and they're gentlemen." 
 
 "Gentlemen? Why, they're more than that. 
 They're baronets. Haven't I been telling you ? Well, 
 now, Davidson, I'm no snob, but I confess to a real 
 admiration for old families. I should like Miranda 
 to marry into an old family. The older baronetcy 
 must have the first chance, and I want you to dig 
 around and find out which is the older." 
 
 Davidson smiled. "I think I can tell you all about 
 that right away. Neither is what would be called an 
 old family. The first Firbrook baronet was a surgeon, 
 and the first Tangamere baronet was an engineer. 
 Both were Victorian creations, and in each case it is 
 the second baronet who addressed you." 
 
 "Ah!" Mr. Parslow seemed slightly disappointed. 
 "Then it's not quite so good as I thought. However, 
 in either case, Miranda will be her ladyship. There is 
 still that. I suppose it would be correct of me to 
 speak of her as her ladyship." 
 
 "Yes if you were speaking to servants." 
 
 "I see. Thank you, Davidson. Well, now, what 
 is to be done? There seems to be no reason why I 
 should pick one of them more than the other. Mi- 
 randa's too young to make an unguided choice. I 
 don't mean to say that she'd take up with a beggarly 
 schoolmaster, like Halliday. She's too sensible for 
 that. But she'll do better under my direction in this 
 matter, as she has always been in others. Only 
 how am I to direct?"
 
 THE MARRIAGE OF MIRANDA 43 
 
 "Let me think now," said Davidson. He paced 
 slowly to the window and back, sat down again, and 
 lit a cigarette. "There is an idea which has probably 
 occurred to you. I might draft a letter to your two 
 baronets, telling them of the coincidence, and frankly 
 facing the situation. You can plead that Miss Parslow 
 is still very young, and that a year is not long to wait. 
 It would be more dignified on your part than too 
 ready an acceptance. In a year you would be able to 
 see which was the worthier and better man. Let 
 them see what they can accomplish in a year, and 
 write to you at the end of it." 
 
 Parslow brought his hand down on the table. "Ex- 
 cellent! I will. I had thought of something of this 
 kind. It's the best idea I've had for years. And in 
 the meantime I shall put it to their honor that they 
 make no attempt to see Miranda at all. One must 
 have no advantage over the other. All I shall say to 
 Miranda will be that in a year's time I shall be rinding 
 a husband for her. If you wouldn't mind, Davidson, 
 you might begin on these letters at once. Capital idea 
 of mine! Capital!" 
 
 Parslow walked over to the window, looked out, 
 and backed away again. "Well, I'm shot!" he ex- 
 claimed. "There's that idiot, Halliday, walking up 
 and down outside, waiting for a chance to see Miranda. 
 Davidson, you must let him understand that I won't 
 have any nonsense of that kind and, I say, I shouldn't 
 be too civil, you know. Two hundred and fifty? 
 Oh, tut, tut, tut!" 
 
 Parslow then put his thumbs in the arm-holes of his 
 waistcoat and posed as his own statue.
 
 44 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 ii 
 
 THE two most tactful and neatly phrased letters that 
 our celebrated post office ever carried in one day 
 were the letters to the two baronets, in the handwriting 
 of Mr. Parslow and the composition of his secretary. 
 Their replies were speedy, satisfactory, and modest. 
 
 "Very good style indeed," said Mr. Parslow as he 
 spread the letters out before him. "Both express a 
 sense that they have been lazy so far, and are diffident 
 about their abilities, but they feel that they ought to 
 do something in the world, and will try their utmost 
 during the ensuing year; and, above all, they address 
 me in a way that I like to be addressed. That's all 
 very promising. Now we can simply put the subject 
 aside for a year, when I shall hear from them again." 
 
 "And about Halliday?" 
 
 "Don't speak to me of him. He's simply a cad 
 that is, a man who can't take no for an answer. Here's 
 his letter about six pages of high-falutin rubbish. I 
 haven't read half of it, and shan't either. My servants 
 have got their instructions, and if I catch him hanging 
 about in the street here, the police will get their 
 instructions as well if I don't take the law and a 
 thick stick into my own hands." He puffed con- 
 siderably; he was getting heated. 
 
 "But possibly Halliday may meet Miss Parslow at 
 other houses." 
 
 "I shall be there too or my sister, Mrs. Mawby 
 and we shall know what to do. It won't be for long 
 anyhow, because he'll have to go back to his beastly 
 school. Now then, for a year this subject is entirely
 
 THE MARRIAGE OF MIRANDA 45 
 
 closed. We'd like you to dine with us to-night. Can 
 you?" 
 
 Notwithstanding the closure, Davidson thought it 
 worth while to mention a few weeks later, that he 
 heard at the club that Sir Andrew had left England, 
 and would be away for some time. 
 
 "Know where he's gone?" 
 
 "Cairo, I'm told, in the first instance." 
 
 "Ah, that's Egypt," said Mr. Parslow. Davidson 
 resisted with success a temptation to observe that he 
 had guessed it right first time. Parslow added that 
 the work of an explorer or traveller had always com- 
 manded his respect. 
 
 On the same day Miranda received a long letter 
 from Halliday. The amorous and wary schoolmaster 
 had typewritten the address on the envelope, knowing 
 that his handwriting might betray the letter to her 
 implacable father. Miranda wrote the reply in the 
 secrecy of her own room, and posted it herself, and 
 I regret to add never told papa anything about it. 
 
 Then the newspapers brought information about Sir 
 George Firbrook. Parslow read with approbation 
 that Sir George would contest West Buncombe. 
 Later came the still more splendid news of his election, 
 and how he had said that he regarded it as a triumph 
 not for himself, but for the principles of I forget for 
 the moment what his principles were. Later still Sir 
 George was unseated on a bribery petition, and Mr. 
 Parslow observed that one could not be too careful. 
 He had a vague idea that Davidson was in some way 
 to blame. 
 
 After that for a long time no word was heard of Sir 
 George or Sir Andrew, until the appointed year was 
 within a fortnight of its conclusion. It was a sunny
 
 46 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 morning, and Mr. Parslow was in a sunny humor; 
 business was very good, and the public appetite for the 
 Pure Preserves was steadily increasing. Likewise he 
 had been elected to a club where he might very easily 
 have been rejected, and in this matter Davidson had 
 been of some use. Parslow was chatting genially with 
 his secretary when the blow fell. The blow came in 
 two envelopes, one from New York and the other 
 from London. 
 
 Parslow read through the first letter and let it drop 
 from his hands. 
 
 "Davidson, that man Sir Andrew Tangamere has 
 married an American." 
 
 "Dear me," said Davidson. "These American wom- 
 en ought to be prohibited. They're too dangerous." 
 
 "It is no subject for jesting," said Parslow, as he 
 tore open the second envelope and ran his eye down 
 it. "I hardly know how to characterize his behavior, 
 and good heavens, Davidson, this is from Sir George 
 Firbrook, and he's engaged to the cook at Lord Hazel- 
 well's place, and says that she is a woman much above 
 her station." 
 
 "So she is," said Davidson. 
 
 "How do you know ? I don't know what to say. I 
 really don't. What are men coming to ? Where is the 
 spirit of chivalry? They can't even wait for one year. 
 How long was it that Rachel waited for Leah ?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "You ought to it's in the Bible. And perhaps 
 you'll fell me where we are now; you had your rotten 
 scheme and badgered me into it, though I knew it 
 was all wrong. What have we got for it? I might 
 have had either of these men. And now, I suppose, 
 you'll tell me that I can marry Miranda to Halliday,
 
 47 
 
 that schoolmaster that you were always backing up." 
 
 Davidson rose from his place, and slightly empha- 
 sized the fact that he was rather taller than Mr. Pars- 
 low. He was very erect, and by this time very serious. 
 
 "If you had married her, sir, you would have, at 
 any rate, married her to a man who really loved her, 
 and was not fickle." 
 
 "So you're still at it? Like me to write him a letter 
 of invitation?" 
 
 "It would be of no use. He sent some time ago a 
 letter of proposal to Miranda, and she refused him as 
 kindly as possible. She did not tell you, because she 
 was afraid you would write a letter which would in- 
 sult him, and do no credit to your own kindly heart. 
 For it is kindly enough at bottom, and Halliday's one 
 crime was poverty." 
 
 "I don't ask you to lecture me, Mr. Davidson. You 
 seem to know everything including people's cooks. 
 How do you know this ? How do you dare to speak of 
 my daughter in that familiar way?" 
 
 "I know it because Miranda told me. I speak of her 
 thus because she is my wife. I married her a week 
 ago." 
 
 "You utter scoundrel!" He dropped into a chair; 
 his ringers played nervously on his chin. "Oh, you 
 utter scoundrel!" 
 
 Davidson smiled charmingly. "But not bad enough 
 to resent the language of my father-in-law." 
 
 "You have taken advantage of your position." 
 
 "Undoubtedly. That is the way one gets on. Have 
 you not found it so, sir?" 
 
 "You have the position no longer. I renounce you 
 altogether. Neither Miranda nor you shall have a 
 penny."
 
 48 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "That is immaterial, but your daughter would like 
 to keep your affection, and I to keep my high opinion 
 of you. I can, of course, no longer be your secretary; 
 in any case, I have other work to do. My uncle has 
 made me a decidedly advantageous offer to assist him 
 in the management of his estates. I married on it." 
 
 "And who's your uncle?" 
 
 "Lord Hazelwell." 
 
 "Then why the dickens didn't you say so before?" 
 
 "Well, sir, it didn't happen to occur." 
 
 "So Sir George Firbrook, Baronet, is going to marry 
 my secretary's uncle's cook?" 
 
 "It would appear so." 
 
 "It's a strange world. My boy, I am going to speak 
 very seriously to Miranda. You have neither of you 
 treated me well. At the same time, when you're face 
 to face with the inevitable when, I say, you're 
 face to face with the inevitable then it is so." 
 
 But months have since elapsed, and at present Mr. 
 Parslow speaks of "my old friend Hazelwell," and 
 calls his son-in-law Bill. Halliday, on hearing of the 
 marriage, sent a charming letter to Miranda, together 
 with a copy of Byron's works in a binding of intense 
 preciousness. Certain passages in the poems were 
 marked by him in pencil; but as neither Bill nor 
 Miranda has ever opened the book, nor in all prob- 
 ability ever will, that does not greatly matter.
 
 IV 
 
 THE FAILURE OF PROFESSOR PALBECK 
 
 AS a specialist in the cure of imaginative, conver- 
 sational lying, I have incurred the dislike and 
 distrust of the English medical profession. Because 
 I have no English diploma, and no faith in drugs, I 
 am called a quack. Only the other day a medical 
 paper challenged my right to style myself Professor 
 Palbeck. Well, my name is Palbeck, and I profess to 
 cure conversational lying, and I suppose that a man 
 who professes is a professor. I do not know what 
 more the medical journals want. I do know and I 
 take this opportunity to remind the medical journals 
 of it that there is a law of libel and also a limit to my 
 patience. 
 
 There are compensations, however, for the persecu- 
 tions which I have to endure. The handsome silver 
 salver on my sideboard is a testimonial from a well- 
 known golf club. It is inscribed: 
 
 TO PROFESSOR PALBECK, 
 IN GRATEFUL RECOGNITION OF HIS SKILL 
 
 IN INDUCING 
 
 ALGERNON MUIR McARTHUR McANDERSON 
 
 TO DRAW THE LINE 
 
 SOMEWHERE, 
 
 Mr. McAnderson's was, I remember, a very obsti- 
 nate case, though it yielded to treatment. There was 
 
 49
 
 50 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 a bad history : his uncle on the mother's side had been 
 a journalist, and his paternal grandfather had been en- 
 gaged in the manufacture of gas-meters. Naturally, 
 as soon as Algernon Me Anderson took to golf, the 
 taint showed itself. 
 
 In addition to the testimonial the golf club paid 
 my fees, which in this instance were considerable. 
 There are many conversational liars in the world, and 
 they make other people sick and weary, and then the 
 other people are glad to pay me to intervene. The 
 material prosperity that has rewarded me is some com- 
 pensation, and to the gratitude of my fellow-men I 
 attach an even greater value. This gratitude comes 
 more often from the friends of patients than from the 
 patients themselves. But there are exceptions, of 
 course. The wife of a country vicar writes that she 
 will never forget how I taught her to keep a spaniel 
 without writing letters about its instinct to the papers 
 in a manner unbecoming to one who had the temper- 
 ance cause at heart. I still use the pretty beaded pen- 
 wiper that accompanied her note. Then, in addition 
 to the material prosperity and the gratitude, I have 
 my scientific interest in my work and my happy con- 
 sciousness that it is a good work. Compared with 
 that, the mere money is nothing. 
 
 In one of the cures for dipsomania every article of 
 food and drink supplied to the patient is flavored 
 slightly with brandy; his clothes, his bed, the air he 
 breathes, are made to smell of brandy. One of my 
 cures for lying is on the same principle; the patient 
 is sent to a little country inn, chiefly frequented by 
 anglers and golfers, the local talent being secretly re- 
 inforced by my own assistants, professional liars, act- 
 ing under my direction. In both cures the aim is the
 
 FAILURE OF PROFESSOR PALBECK 51 
 
 same by monotony to produce disgust. It was in 
 this way that I cured Mr. McAnderson; gradually, 
 but surely, he became utterly sick of imaginative con- 
 versation. For very hardened cases I have a more 
 severe method, also involving the use of assistants. 
 Here also strict secrecy is observed. The patient does 
 not even know that he is being treated, and regards 
 the assistants as the natural product of the society in 
 which he happens to be moving. 
 
 Do I always succeed? 
 
 I will be perfectly frank in answering that question. 
 If you know any man of sanguine habitual imaginative- 
 ness you may (if your means permit it) send him to 
 me and I will guarantee a cure. The most heroic, 
 illimitable, ebullient liar comes out of my hands as 
 accurate as Bradshaw's time-tables. But I did once 
 fail though that failure has been the cause of much 
 subsequent success. 
 
 I was sitting in my consulting-room one morning 
 engaged in mapping out the work of my assistants 
 for I had several cases in hand when my man brought 
 me the card of Mrs. Hubert Spotter. As she had 
 no appointment I kept her in the waiting-room for 
 twenty minutes before I ordered the man to show 
 her in. 
 
 Mrs. Hubert Spotter was, as I could see by her dress, 
 a widow. She looked troubled, and wealthy enough 
 to pay my fees. She had a pleasant voice and was 
 rather garrulous. 
 
 "Was it about yourself that you wished to see me, 
 Mrs. Spotter?" I asked as she sat down in the chair 
 opposite me. 
 
 "Oh, no," she began. "I never well, the usual 
 nothing more than anybody else does. You can't
 
 52 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 always say just what you mean, or you wouldn't have 
 a friend left. And " 
 
 "Quite so," I said. "You needn't trouble yourself, 
 Mrs. Spotter (and certainly I shouldn't trouble myself 
 professionally), about trivial and occasional inaccura- 
 cies. That would be hypochondriacal. No moral con- 
 stitution is perfect, and if it were it wouldn't be. An 
 entire absence of abnormalities is in itself abnormal. 
 Now who is the friend that " 
 
 "I am sorry to say it is my son my only son." 
 
 "His name?" I inquired, with pencil and note-book 
 in my hand. 
 
 "Harold Bitterwood Spotter, age twenty-one." 
 
 "Is there er a congenital mendacious diathesis?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon ?" 
 
 "I mean, has he always been imaginative?" 
 
 "No, not at all. Even now he speaks the truth 
 about most things. It's only come on since he took to 
 bicycling." 
 
 "I must tell you," I said, "that I have found in 
 my professional experience that the bicycling beginner 
 frequently suffers from a profuse extravasation of 
 mendacity. He says that he learned to ride in five min- 
 utes, could mount from the step in ten, and so on. Is 
 that not so?" 
 
 "What my son says is that he never learned at all ; 
 that he thought out the whole theory of the thing 
 before he touched a machine, and rode right away at 
 once without any lesson or any assistance of any kind." 
 
 I gave a low whistle. "Yes," I said, "I am afraid 
 that is serious. And may I ask, do you find in his case 
 that the imaginative habit is general or localized ?" 
 
 "He talks chiefly about bicycling; in fact, I have 
 noticed nothing apart from that."
 
 53 
 
 "Localized," I replied ; "which is just what I should 
 have expected; a special irritation of the imaginative 
 glands. Well, that is generally quite amenable to 
 treatment." 
 
 "His conversation is simply one string of the most 
 tremendous of statements that are very much so 
 indeed. He is losing friends by it. A most satisfac- 
 tory marriage had been arranged for him, and the lady 
 will now break it off. He is spoiling all his chances in 
 life. It is a terrible case." 
 
 "Serious, as I have admitted, but amenable. I pre- 
 fer I positively prefer to have the eruption pro- 
 nounced and well defined. The liar who lies by impli- 
 cation frequently gives me far more trouble. There 
 is more chance for the wild golfing liar, for instance, 
 than for the careful snob liar. In the latter case the 
 disease tends to become chronic. The man who by 
 some accident to his social apex has met a duke once 
 and only once, and ever afterwards speaks of that 
 duke as only the duke's intimate friends have a right 
 to speak, that man is far more ill than he probably 
 supposes. It may take an acute form, and end in 
 company-promoting; but it may go on for years with 
 little change, rendering the unhappy sufferer an object 
 of contempt to all who meet him. Of your son now, 
 from what you tell me, I have hopes. But of course 
 I must see him, and he must have no idea of my 
 purpose. Shall I be, for instance, the husband of an 
 old school friend of yours and dine with you to-night?" 
 
 "That would be delightful. Strictly speaking, I am 
 dining out to-night, but I will write and say that I am 
 ill and in bed I would do far more than that to make 
 poor Harold truthful. The time is very short, but I 
 could find two or three other guests "
 
 54 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "Not necessary, thanks. I should prefer to meet 
 you and your son alone." 
 
 Mrs. Hubert Spotter had rather a pretty house in 
 South Kensington. As far as I could calculate, she 
 would be able to pay for a course of treatment for her 
 son if it were not expensive or prolonged. The son, 
 Harold Bitterwood Spotter, had more natural dignity 
 than one often finds in so young a man. He was tall 
 and handsome, with tired melancholy eyes. There 
 was none of the vulgar liar's attempt to collar the 
 conversation, and no trace of a noisy and boastful 
 manner. He just waited until the occasion arose and 
 then took it. Quietly and unostentatiously he told 
 lie after lie, without hesitation and without hurry, 
 smooth, massive, effortless lies. But his complaint 
 was confined to bicycling; I do not think he would 
 have told lies on any other subject, not though that 
 subject had been his income and he had been filling 
 up the income-tax return. Only one of his lies and 
 by no means his best was about himself. I asked 
 him if he had ever had any bad bicycling accident. 
 
 "I had rather a curious escape once." 
 
 "Do tell me about it." 
 
 "Well, I don't want to bore you, and it was nothing 
 very much only rather curious. Last autumn I was 
 bicycling in Morayshire. I was riding a machine with- 
 out a brake along a precipitous, desolate road very 
 foolish of me. For three miles I had been bounding 
 downhill with the machine completely beyond my 
 power to stop. Coming suddenly round a corner, I 
 saw, a quarter of a mile away, a herd of black cattle 
 on the road below me. There must have been at 
 least fifty of them, and they were drinking at a shal- 
 low stream which here ran right across the road. In a
 
 FAILURE OF PROFESSOR PALBECK 55 
 
 fraction of a second I had realized that, what with 
 the cattle and then the stream, I was a dead man, had 
 determined in spite of that to live to the last second, 
 and had rung my bell violently. The brutes started up, 
 but at the pace I was going I was in among them before 
 they could get away. They were mad with fright and 
 dashing in all directions. To this day I can hardly tell 
 how I steered through them. I have a vivid recollec- 
 tion of seeing a great black thing floundering in front 
 of me, and then suddenly finding myself on the other 
 side of the stream one of the cattle had stumbled and 
 fallen in the bed of the stream and his body had served 
 me for a bridge. I had no sooner got through than 
 the whole herd dashed after me. But, of course, at 
 the pace I was going I soon left them far behind, and 
 in another mile a sharp rise in the road enabled me to 
 check my machine. I saw that I was safe, and im- 
 mediately fell prostrate in the road. Nervous strain, 
 I suppose. I was trembling so much that I was quite 
 unable to ride back and had to walk my machine." 
 
 It was a fair lie of the robust type, hardly a specimen 
 lie, as it wanted finesse. But even at this period I was 
 struck by the manner of his lying. It was beautiful, 
 quiet, and a little mournful. It was not common. 
 I could see that he had a gift. And here I should like 
 to give a word of warning to anyone who may be 
 called upon to judge of the merits and demerits of a 
 lie. Size is not everything. Suppose a man asserts, 
 for instance, that he has swallowed the Albert Hall. 
 There you have size without quality. It is a mere ab- 
 surdity, with no claim to be called a lie at all. The 
 best lie that is to say, the worst lie is that which 
 combines the greatest amount of plausibility and the 
 nearest approach to impossibility without being actu-
 
 56 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 ally impossible. Briefly, it must satisfy both the 
 aesthetic and the utilitarian critic. 
 
 But I must proceed to describe the methods by 
 which I treated Harold Bitterwood Spotter. I am 
 not in the least afraid of giving my secrets away. Any 
 man may know my methods. But to carry those 
 methods into practice requires a large staff of assistants 
 of tact, secrecy, marked ability, and any social position 
 required; it requires in their controller an audacity, 
 a talent for organization, and knowledge of the world 
 and of human nature, that are not possessed together 
 and in the same degree by any man except myself. 
 No, I do not fear competition. 
 
 I owned that I undervalued Spotter. I thought 
 that he might be cured by a simple exhibition of public 
 disproof in conjunction with ridicule. It was easy 
 enough for me to put up an assistant of my own to 
 meet Spotter at the club and take him out on the 
 subject of times and distances. In the presence of 
 my assistant and several other men, Spotter let him- 
 self go and gave rambling details of a circular tour 
 ridden by his cousin, who, Spotter said, was rather 
 over the average. My assistant carefully collected the 
 statistics that Spotter from time to time let fall, stewed 
 them down, so to speak, and extracted the result. The 
 result was that supposing the statistics were accurate 
 the distance from London to Maidenhead could not 
 be less than two hundred and sixty-three miles, and 
 Spotter's cousin had ridden this distance in fifteen 
 minutes and an unimportant decimal. Where a poorer 
 liar would have succumbed, Spotter triumphed. 
 Firstly, he joined in the laugh against himself. Then 
 he said, "But of course you've got your figures all 
 wrong. Let me go over them again." In the manipu-
 
 FAILURE OF PROFESSOR PALBECK 57 
 
 lation of bicycling statistics he seems to have been 
 unparalleled. He managed to preserve all the salient, 
 picturesque features of his lie, making only such adroit 
 alterations in detail as rendered the ridiculous deduc- 
 tion impossible. 
 
 The next day I received an urgent letter from Mrs. 
 Hubert Spotter. Harold was much worse. In the 
 presence of his uncle, the archdeacon, he had described 
 bicycle polo. The archdeacon had looked much pained 
 and surprised. When was I going to begin the cure? 
 The archdeacon was Harold's godfather, and was 
 quite expected to do something for him; and, Mrs. 
 Spotter added, she could not bear to see her boy sacri- 
 ficing all his chances in life for the sake of a little 
 imagination. 
 
 I decided to get him into a home that is, to get 
 him to stop for a few days at that country inn. A 
 little tact and suggestion were needed. A man at the 
 club one of my assistants, of course mentioned that 
 he had a first-class railway pass to the village in ques- 
 tion, could not use it, and would gladly give it away. 
 On the following night Harold Bitterwood Spotter 
 was safe in the smoking-room of that inn hearing two 
 of my experts discuss trick bicycling. He little knew 
 that he was undergoing a course of treatment, but he 
 was. He remained there for a week, and when he 
 returned to London he appeared to be perfectly cured. 
 Mrs. Hubert Spotter wrote me a most grateful letter, 
 from which I quote the following passage : 
 
 "And if it is any comfort to you to know it, dear 
 Professor Palbeck, the blessing of a grateful mother is 
 on your head. Harold is a changed man. He rarely 
 mentions the bicycle, though he often rides it; and 
 never does he allow himself to say anything on the
 
 58 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 subject that is not strictly and prosaically accurate. 
 A reconciliation has taken place between him and the 
 younger Miss Black-Brunswick (the lady to whom he 
 was engaged), and he is trying to cure her of a habit 
 of slight exaggeration. The archdeacon was lunching 
 here the other day and turned the conversation (inten- 
 tionally, I thought) on bicycling. For a moment I was 
 afraid that Harold would be brilliant and imagina- 
 tive again. But no. I know absolutely nothing about 
 bicycles, but Harold was so dull and was so plainly 
 trying to be interesting that I could see that he was 
 speaking the truth. The archdeacon saw it too, and 
 was obviously much pleased." 
 
 For the whole of one week during his stay at the 
 inn Harold had never once heard the truth spoken 
 about anything. A distaste for mendacity had by this 
 means been created. He could not, his mother told 
 me, even endure the usual formula, "Not at home." 
 I was sorry to hear it ; the strongest revulsion is rarely 
 the most enduring. To speak accurately, I was not 
 sorry to hear it, for the longer the cure the larger the 
 cheque provided that in a sufficient number of cases 
 you can cure promptly enough to make and keep your 
 reputation. But I was not surprised when a few weeks 
 afterwards I received the following telegram from 
 Mrs. Hubert Spotter: 
 
 "Harold had terrible relapse. Come at once." 
 
 I went at once. "Professor Palbeck?" said the but- 
 ler. "Mrs. Spotter is at home to you." There was 
 a flattering accent on the "you." 
 
 I found her alone and almost hysterical. Harold 
 Bitterwood Spotter had broken out again. The arch- 
 deacon had written to say that there was nothing to 
 be done for a young man whose conversation consisted
 
 FAILURE OF PROFESSOR PALBECK 59 
 
 of one long string of cowardly and offensive lies on the 
 subject of the bicycle. Miss Black-Brunswick (with 
 twelve thousand of her own) had definitely broken 
 off the engagement. The committee of his club had 
 written to him to say that representations had been 
 made to them with reference to his recent remarks on 
 the bicycling mile record; that they wished to cast 
 no imputations on his honesty, but they wished him 
 either to resign or to guarantee all hats, coats, and 
 umbrellas that might be in the hall during any period 
 when he was using the house. 
 
 "And he is not dishonest," gasped Mrs. Spotter. 
 "It is only that his imagination runs away with him." 
 
 "Quite so," I said. "Very well; the imagination 
 that runs away must be treated precisely as a 
 horse that runs away. When it has finished running 
 away on its own account it must be made to go on 
 running on account of the driver." 
 
 "I don't understand you; and Harold is not a 
 horse," said Mrs. Spotter. In her distress some of her 
 normal suavity of manner had vanished. 
 
 "I will explain," I said. "I intend to hand over 
 your son to what I call the Outlying Department. I 
 had reason to suppose, some time ago, that your son 
 was quite an exceptional liar that he lied for the 
 pure joy of lying and from no base and selfish motive. 
 The braggart liar (one of the commonest varieties) 
 would have been confounded and cured by public ex- 
 posure. But your son is not a braggart liar. The 
 liar by habit, again, would have been cured by a brief 
 stay in a house where everybody lied, and would have 
 found the habit nauseous. Your son is not merely 
 the habitual liar, for though he was affected tempo- 
 rarily by this manner of treatment he was not cured.
 
 60 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 It only needed a strong suggestion to cause the re- 
 lapse. At a guess I should say that your son had been 
 in some thoroughfare where bicycle shops were fre- 
 quent." 
 
 "True. He was in Holborn in the morning. In 
 the evening we were dining out together, and there 
 was nothing to show that there was anything wrong 
 with him until I hate to repeat it but I heard him 
 tell the girl that he had taken down, that that after- 
 noon he had seen a man ride a bicycle backwards 
 through the traffic at Piccadilly Circus. I got him 
 away as soon as I could, and I hope it wasn't noticed 
 much. But, oh, you can imagine my distress! What 
 are we to do ?" 
 
 "Without the least delay he must meet a finer liar 
 than himself. His spirit must be broken; his pride 
 in his lies humbled; his joy in his best stories turned 
 to bitterness. As I have said, I feared a relapse. I 
 also prepared for it. Within the last two months your 
 son has made the acquaintance of a Mr. Watchet. To 
 your son Mr. Watchet is a barrister and a very good 
 fellow, with no practice, and with private means. As 
 a matter of fact, Mr. Watchet is in receipt of an annual 
 salary of seven hundred pounds from myself. He is 
 in my employ. He is quite the best man in my Out- 
 lying Department, and if any man in the world can 
 outlie your son, it is Mr. Watchet. He has great talent 
 was at one time an interviewer for an American 
 paper, and afterwards took charge of a financial col- 
 umn. I will put Watchet on, and if he fails, then the 
 case is hopeless." 
 
 "You couldn't do it yourself ?" suggested Mrs. Spot- 
 ter. 
 
 "I cannot lie," I replied.
 
 FAILURE OF PROFESSOR PALBECK 61 
 
 "Nor I, nor I. Let it be Mr. Watchet, then. Warn 
 him that Harold is exceptional. Tell him to be well 
 prepared beforehand. Don't let him fail." 
 
 But he did fail. He met Spotter in the street and 
 took him off to dine at the club Watchet's club. 
 Spotter had few engagements, and already his friends 
 were dropping off. In the ordinary course Watchet 
 should have called at my office on the following morn- 
 ing at ten o'clock to present his report. At twelve he 
 had not come, and I felt so uneasy that I drove round 
 to the flat where he lived. 
 
 "Mr. Watchet is not well this morning," said the 
 servant. "The doctor has been. I don't know " 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Watchet will see me," I replied, and en- 
 tered his study. The first thing that met my eyes was 
 a large panel portrait of Harold Bitterwood Spotter in 
 the place of honor in the center of the mantelpiece; 
 the next was Watchet, prostrate on the sofa. He was 
 a man of small physique, with pale yellow hair and 
 childish, truthful blue eyes. He groaned to himself. 
 
 "Hallo, Watchet! What's the matter?" I asked. 
 
 He raised himself slowly. "Professor Palbeck," he 
 said, "it's all over. We left the club at two o'clock 
 this morning; and I have failed. Look!" He pointed 
 to the portrait. "Look, and take off your hat, for 
 that is a master. I persuaded him to send it me. I 
 reverence it. And accept my resignation." 
 
 "Nonsense! You'll do better next time." 
 
 "No, my spirit is broken. I shall never do any 
 really fine lying again. I can make a living homehow 
 write a column of racing chatter or something of 
 that kind but I am not fit for the Outlying Depart- 
 ment." And then he tried to tell me what had hap- 
 pened
 
 62 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 It appeared that Spotter began immediately after 
 dinner with what he called "a curious thunderstorm 
 experience that happened to my friend James John- 
 son." James Johnson was riding in Devonshire. It 
 was a hot, close, thirsty day, and Johnson (who was 
 a teetotaler) had taken a stone bottle of ginger-beer 
 with him to refresh himself. The roads were lonely, 
 and you might ride for miles without coming across 
 a house or a human being. When Johnson essayed 
 his ginger-beer the cork broke off about half-way 
 down. He found himself unable to force the lower 
 half of the cork into the bottle, and he had no cork- 
 screw with which to draw it out. Johnson was dis- 
 appointed, but he rode on in search of humanity and 
 the chance to borrow a corkscrew. Just then the storm, 
 which had for a long time been gathering, broke with 
 awful violence. The rain swirled, the thunder roared, 
 the skies were split with lightning. Johnson, who like 
 most teetotalers was a singularly calm man, rode stead- 
 ily on through the storm. At last there came a blinding 
 flash and Johnson fell to the ground. The lightning 
 had struck, not the man, but the bicycle. Johnson 
 himself was absolutely uninjured. At first sight the 
 bicycle also appeared to be uninjured, but on closer 
 examination Johnson found that the lightning had 
 torn out one spoke and twisted it into a spiral. "This 
 is really very convenient," said Johnson to himself, 
 and without the least hesitation used that spoke as a 
 corkscrew, drank his ginger-beer, and rode on. 
 
 On hearing this little story Watchet pulled himself 
 together and remarked that a calm man like Johnson 
 ought to have been able to pass the pin-test for straight 
 riding. 
 
 "What is that?" Spotter asked.
 
 FAILURE OF PROFESSOR PALBECK 63 
 
 "It's in use at some of the best cycling schools. 
 They break an ordinary pin in half and fix the two 
 halves lightly in a plank along which the competitor 
 has to ride. The distance between the two halves is 
 exactly the circumference of the front wheel. The 
 first half is fixed with the point uppermost, and the 
 second with the head uppermost. Therefore, if you 
 ride quite straight, the first half punctures the tire 
 with the point, and the second half plugs the hole up 
 again with the head, and you go on as if nothing had 
 happened. A really first-rate man will do the trick 
 twenty times running without missing." 
 
 At this juncture Watchet confidently expected that 
 Spotter would give up. On the contrary, Spotter 
 smiled and then said 
 
 "You remind me of what once happened to my 
 cousin. On a downward slope of a hard road, with 
 the wind helping him, he once did a mile in a minute 
 with a hole in his front tire the size of a threepenny 
 bit. At the pace he was going the pressure of the 
 atmosphere prevented the air from escaping and kept 
 the tire fully expanded, on the same principle as the 
 ordinary railway brake." 
 
 "Yes," said Watchet, "that would be so, when the 
 hole faced in the direction in which he was going; 
 but when as the wheel revolved it faced the other way, 
 what then ?" 
 
 "Well, then the force of the wind did the same 
 thing. I told you the wind was in my cousin's favor. 
 You can't do a mile in a minute without a wind to 
 help you, you know." 
 
 I consider it greatly to Watchet's credit that he 
 struggled on after this, lying as best he could, until 
 two o'clock in the morning. But I accepted his resig-
 
 64 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 nation. I cannot afford to pay seven hundred a year 
 to a man who fails. 
 
 I drove on to Mrs. Spotter's house. I changed my 
 tone to her. I said that I had been unable to alter 
 her son, and I was glad of it. He had a great gift, 
 and it would be a pity to spoil it. I would make no 
 charge for my services, and I would gladly employ 
 her son in the Outlying Department at an annual sal- 
 ary of eight hundred pounds. The offer was ac- 
 cepted. 
 
 Spotter is invaluable to me. I have mentioned the 
 case of McAnderson. Nothing did him any good until 
 I handed him over to Harold Bitterwood Spotter. 
 McAnderson 'was a fine golf liar, but he could not 
 stand against Spotter. He came out cured after half 
 an hour's interview. "I went in there," he told me 
 afterwards, "with the idea that I knew what lying 
 was, and I saw that the highest pinnacle to which I 
 could attain was fathomless depth below his feet He 
 is a master. He does not lie, he soars. I need hardly 
 say that I at once abandon any paltry attempts that 
 I have made in that direction. I am but the smallest 
 star; he is the sun." 
 
 Yes, I failed to cure Spotter. But thanks to that 
 failure, I shall never fail again.
 
 V 
 
 THE 'EIGHTY-SEVEN 
 
 IN the dining-room at 17 Wilber force Square, S.W., 
 the Sunday had received its midday consecration. 
 Luncheon had been made dinner, for the same reason 
 that later in the day dinner would be made supper. 
 "We must think of the servants," said Mrs. Trope. 
 She thought of many other things of the winter sales, 
 for instance, or of the present trouble about Patricia 
 and, Edward but she never quite forgot the servants. 
 
 The roast sirloin had passed away, the tart and the 
 Cheddar had followed in their solemn Sabbatical order. 
 Mrs. Trope and her two daughters had retired. There 
 remained now the fruits of the earth in their season 
 walnuts, to be precise and the decanters, and Mr. 
 Trope. It was one of Mr. Trope's many good habits 
 to take a glass of port after the luncheon-dinner of 
 Sunday. A silvery-haired gentleman of rather presi- 
 dential appearance, he paused with the nut-crackers in 
 his fleshy hand paused and reflected. 
 
 There had been an unwonted gloom over the dinner- 
 table, and it had not escaped Mr. Trope's parental eye 
 that Patricia, his elder daughter, had been unable to 
 eat. There was to be an interview with Edward at 
 four, and Mr. Trope foresaw that it would be painful. 
 
 But what could be done? Edward was a pleasant 
 young fellow, and old Purdon, his father, had been 
 the intimate friend of Mr. Trope. Edward Purdon 
 
 65
 
 66 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 under ordinary circumstances would have been always 
 a welcome guest at Mr. Trope's house. But Edward 
 had been insane enough to fall in love with Patricia 
 Trope. He wished to marry her and he had three 
 hundred a year. Was Patricia to be taken from the 
 easeful and dignified life of 17 Wilberforce Square, 
 S.W., to be plunged into a penurious struggle and a 
 suburban insignificance? Clearly not. "I'm only do- 
 ing what I know to be best for you," Mr. Trope had 
 said to his daughter. 
 
 "I know," said Patricia, who was heart-broken, but 
 much too proud to weep. "But I wish you wouldn't." 
 
 So as he cracked his last walnut, Mr. Trope, being 
 kindly of heart, tried to think of one or two compli- 
 mentary phrases by which he might soften the blow to 
 Edward. Patricia might go away for a holiday for 
 a while, and he'd buy her a present; she had said 
 some weeks before that she would like a string of 
 pearls, and she should have them. It is not only the 
 cruel who give stones to those who are crying for 
 bread. 
 
 The door opened softly, but Mr. Trope did not look 
 round. Parlormaids are sometimes anxious to begin 
 their Sunday afternoons as early as possible; Mr. 
 Trope had observed it on previous occasions. "It's 
 all right, Willis," he said, "you can clear. Just take 
 my port through into the library, and " 
 
 But it was not Willis ; it was Mrs. Trope. 
 
 "John dear," she said, "the thought has occurred 
 to me that if we continued her dress allowance " 
 
 "Four hundred instead of three. No, Agnes, no 
 use. She simply couldn't live on it. It's no kindness 
 to let her try. When I married you, 1 had a thousand 
 a year and prospects which have been more than
 
 THE 'EIGHTY-SEVEN 67 
 
 fulfilled. There's a right way and a wrong way. 
 Here's a girl; one day she wants, naturally enough, a 
 string of pearls, which you may call two hundred and 
 fifty sovereigns, and the next day she wants to go off 
 on three hundred a year. Ab-so-lutely preposterous!" 
 
 "Of course," said Mrs. Trope, "I don't understand 
 these money matters, and never did. I've been wise 
 enough to leave that to you, John. I'm sure I don't 
 even know how much money we've got. But it is so 
 difficult to know what to do for the best. Poor 
 Patricia ! She's gone off to her room, and I'm afraid 
 she really is crying this time, and Martia you know 
 how devoted she is to her sister is quite depressed 
 too; she just sits at the piano, without playing any- 
 thing, and saying that money is nothing but a curse." 
 
 "Then she's a very silly child," said Mr. Trope 
 presidentially, "and you can tell her so from me. Why, 
 bless my soul, anybody would think I was going to 
 kill the young man. I'm not even going to forbid 
 him the house not even that. Patricia will see him 
 every now and then, say once every three months. 
 I'm not obstinate about it. If he sticks to business 
 properly, in another eight or ten years if they're 
 still of the same mind he may be in a position to 
 marry Patricia, and nobody will be better pleased than 
 myself. Why, I like the young fellow, and I liked his 
 father before him an able man, old Purdon, if he'd 
 only have kept clear of speculation. You go and see 
 Patricia, and tell her things are not so bad as she 
 thinks. No engagement of any kind at present, that's 
 all I say. And I'll take my port into the library; 
 W r illis will be waiting to clear." 
 
 The old gentleman grasped the decanter and his 
 glass with great care, and passed through the door
 
 68 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 at the further end of the dining-room. In the library 
 a bright wood fire was burning, and a chair of seduc- 
 tive ease had been drawn up to it. Beside the chair 
 on a low table were the Sunday papers, and there was 
 still room on the table for a decanter and a glass. 
 Mr. Trope lowered himself with dignity into the easy 
 chair. 
 
 If Mr. Trope had continued his usual Sabbath pro- 
 cedure, he would have taken two glasses of port, 
 neither more nor less, glanced through one newspaper, 
 and subsided for the space of one hour into a contented 
 and refreshing slumber. 
 
 To-day he had too much on his mind to be able 
 to interest himself in newspapers. They remained 
 folded on the table; but he poured out a glass of port, 
 sipped it, and said, "Ah-h !" 
 
 What a wine it was ! 
 
 It was not the oldest port in his cellar, for he still 
 had a comfortable provision of the '78 which he him- 
 self had laid down. He had known that grand and 
 historic port, the '47, but that had come to him from 
 his father's cellars. The last bottle had gone now. 
 The wine that he tasted now was the '87, surely, he 
 thought, own sister to the '47. 
 
 Mr. Trope had laid down the '87 also, thirty dozens 
 of it. But this bottle did not belong to that original 
 lot. It came from a parcel which he had bought at a 
 sale in '96, and although of the same year, it was of 
 a different shipper. That wise man, Mr. Trope, had 
 decanted it himself. 
 
 The real port-drinkers, he reflected with a pious 
 melancholy, were dying out. Men that he knew were 
 proud that they never touched it, thereby showing 
 gross ignorance and a poor, ramshackle physique.
 
 THE 'EIGHTY-SEVEN 69 
 
 Others contented themselves with that insignificant 
 and emasculated thing, a wood-port; we are a de- 
 cadent race, and the doctor is abroad in the land. 
 
 Mr. Trope sipped again and again. Yes, it was 
 a queer thing that he should be drinking that bottle 
 of '87; for he had bought it with the intention of 
 giving it back to the original owner. Poor old Pur- 
 don ! He had watched his books, his pictures, his sil- 
 ver, his cellar dispersed among the people who had 
 the money to buy them. Very good prices had been 
 made, and old Purdon was pleased. All debt would 
 be cleared, and there would still be enough to give 
 Edward a start in life. "Glad you had the '87," he 
 whispered to Mr. Trope, who had only bought it to 
 give it back to his friend again. Before he had the 
 chance that very night Purdon was stricken down, 
 and two days later was dead. 
 
 So Mr. Trope, in his habitual health, was drinking 
 his dead friend's port preparatory to spoiling the life 
 of his dead friend's son. But that was an absurd way 
 to put it. It was wine he'd bought and paid for (he 
 filled his glass again). And back it would have gone 
 into his old friend's cellar if death had not intervened. 
 He had acted generously, certainly he had. He pre- 
 ferred to act generously. 
 
 Still . . . well, a man's first duty was surely to 
 protect his own daughter's interests to protect her 
 against herself, if need were. 
 
 The glass of port winked a ruby eye at the fire. 
 The fire winked a golden eye back at the port again. 
 It was almost as if these inanimate things conversed 
 together. 
 
 "Of course, I don't know how much money he 
 has," spluttered the fire. "I only came to-day."
 
 70 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "I know him well," the port winked back. "A very 
 warm man, Mr. Trope. Could afford to do a lot of 
 things that he won't do." 
 
 Mr. Trope extinguished that ruby eye by the nat- 
 ural process of imbibition, but still that feeling of 
 Sabbath-afternoon contentment, due to arrive with the 
 second glass, remained out of sight. His wife and 
 daughters had been gloomy, and gloom is infectious. 
 Gloom of the very deepest pervaded the innocent and 
 business-like mind of Mr. Trope. 
 
 What did it matter ? We gathered things together, 
 an investment here and an investment there, a few 
 dozens of a vintage of this year or that, but they would 
 all be dispersed in the end by a sale resultant on 
 failure, or by death, against which even success is 
 powerless. We may buy things and pay for them, but 
 they are never our own absolutely; at the most, we 
 are only tenants for life. Thirty dozens of the '87 
 originally, and eleven that had been old Purdon's 
 he'd never live to drink it all, never. And he'd no 
 son to inherit it, and girls didn't understand it. Oh 
 dear, oh dear! 
 
 It was at this point that Mr. Trope asked himself 
 if he had had his second glass of port. He may, or 
 may not, have known the correct answer to this riddle. 
 But he filled his glass again. 
 
 Possibly the breaking of one habit caused another 
 to snap, for Mr. Trope found himself wondering if it 
 was worth while to cling to the last halfpenny till the 
 last moment. Could he buy anything that he would 
 enjoy more than the happiness of those he loved best? 
 The train of thought thus started took upon itself a 
 rosy glow; it warmed and pleased him. He'd do it. 
 Yes, by Jove! he would. And now he would close
 
 THE 'EIGHTY-SEVEN 71 
 
 his eyes and get those few moments of slumber so 
 valuable on Sunday afternoons to strenuous generous 
 natures who have 
 
 The door opened, and Mary (it being Willis's Sun- 
 day out) announced Mr. Edward Purdon. 
 
 "Bring another glass, Mary. How'do, Edward, 
 my boy?" 
 
 Edward Purdon was rather good-looking, quite 
 manly, very shy, and desperately respectful. When 
 the point was reached, he put his case with most 
 lamentable modesty and diffidence. 
 
 "So they've raised you twenty-five, have they?" 
 said papa. "That's satisfactory, as far as it goes. 
 But if I permit this, you'll have to be very careful. 
 You see, your income and Patricia's four hundred to- 
 gether only come to seven hundred and twenty-five. 
 Not much margin there." 
 
 "Patricia's four hundred! I didn't know she had 
 any money, sir." 
 
 "I know you didn't. No more did she. For that 
 matter, no more did I until until quite recently. 
 But it makes all the difference, otherwise I couldn't 
 have listened to you not for a moment much though 
 we all like you, Edward. As it is, living very simply, 
 you might be able to manage, and I'm willing that you 
 should try. (The glass, Mary? Oh, yes. Fill it.) 
 And I think there is a toast we might drink." 
 
 And with that toast Mr. Trope finished his shameless 
 and irregular third glass of port. And then while 
 Edward was doing his best to say a few of the right 
 things that the occasion demanded, Mr. Trope rose 
 from his place. 
 
 "I'll send Patsey to you," he said. 
 
 When Mr. Trope entered the drawing-room, Patricia
 
 72 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 had a book, her mother had some embroidery, and 
 Martia was seated at the piano; but nobody was get- 
 ting on with anything, and they all raised hopeless 
 eyes towards the master of the house. 
 
 "Patsey," said her father, "there's a young man 
 in the library wants to talk to you." 
 
 Patricia gave one gulp. "You don't mean you 
 haven't sent him away ?" 
 
 "If you want him sent away, you'll have to do it 
 yourself. I think it's highly probable he'll stop to 
 supper, if you ask him prettily; and if you'd like a 
 string of pearls for a wedding present, I'll think 
 about it." 
 
 The next moment Patricia was kissing her father 
 frantically and exclaiming: "Oh, mummy!" and "It 
 can't be true!" and "Martia, Martia!" and the mo- 
 ment after she was in the library. 
 
 "Then, dear," said Mrs. Trope, still agape with 
 astonishment, "after all, you're " 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Mr. Trope, "I've made some sort 
 of an arrangement which removes the principal diffi- 
 culty. Give us a tune, Martia." 
 
 "If I could only play, sing, dance, and yell for joy 
 all at once, you darling!" 
 
 "Dear me," said Mr. Trope, "everybody seems to 
 be very excited." 
 
 
 
 It all happened more than a year ago. 
 
 Mr. Trope's habits have resumed their regularity. 
 The port which is now being taken into 17 Wilberforce 
 Square well, that is some which Mr. Trope is laying 
 down for his grandson.
 
 VI 
 CLUBS AND HEARTS 
 
 THE quarterly dinner of the Proposal Club was 
 drawing to its close. The club consisted of 
 thirty members, and to-night all were present. 
 
 Lord Northberry, the President, at the head of the 
 table, was almost the only man who appeared per- 
 fectly calm and genial. On most of the other faces 
 there was a look of anxiety, and even of fear. The 
 critical moment of the meeting, the transaction of the 
 club's extremely curious business, was just about to 
 arrive. Dr. Bagshot, the Secretary, was already fum- 
 bling with his papers. The look of anxiety was par- 
 ticularly noticeable on Colonel Seventree, a handsome 
 man of fifty, who was chatting over his coffee with his 
 young friend, Richard Tower. The Colonel's fingers 
 played petulantly with a menu-card, on the cover of 
 which was emblazoned the club symbol, a representa- 
 tion of Curtius leaping into the gulf. 
 
 "It's not right, you know," said the Colonel. "It's 
 playing with fire." 
 
 "Then why did you join the club?" said Tower. 
 
 "Northberry was so confoundedly convincing. You 
 know what he is yourself. Why, it seemed to be al- 
 most dishonorable not to join the club." 
 
 The Proposal Club is not to be found in Whitaker, 
 and the Secretary, with whom I am personally ac- 
 
 73
 
 74 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 quainted, has asked me not to give its address. Its 
 members are all bachelors, and by the rules of the club 
 must be unmarried, sound in health, able to support 
 a wife, and not quite intolerably ugly. At each meet- 
 ing three names were selected by chance, and those 
 three men were required to make a proposal of mar- 
 riage before the next meeting. To each member 
 selected was assigned the woman to whom he was to 
 propose, and this woman was always chosen for the 
 improbability that under any other circumstances she 
 would ever receive a proposal at all. 
 
 Lord Northberry urged the beauty of it all with 
 great enthusiasm. There was no chivalry, he would 
 say, in loving and protecting a woman whom one 
 wished to love and protect. There was no merit in 
 giving one's heart where it was quite impossible to 
 keep it. But there was merit and there was chivalry 
 in the man who was prepared cheerfully to sacrifice 
 himself for some woman to whom Nature or the Fates 
 had not been kind. 
 
 "Besides," the Colonel went on, "I am a gambler. 
 It was a brilliant idea of Northberry's to copy the 
 notion of Stevenson's Suicide Club, but to make the 
 stakes rather bigger." 
 
 "Bigger?" echoed Tower. 
 
 "Certainly. I have never believed that death is 
 the most important thing that happens to one in one's 
 life. Northberry knows it. The Punishment Com- 
 mittee never kill a man who has broken the laws of the 
 club; they may dishonor him, but they are too clever 
 to kill him. I suppose I've got twenty years or so of 
 life before me. In the course of the next ten minutes 
 it is easily possible that those twenty years will be 
 arranged for me. I shall be told to propose to a certain
 
 CLUBS AND HEARTS 75 
 
 woman, and, as you know, the Investigation Com- 
 mittee see that in making the proposal you do your 
 very best to get it accepted. I may be accepted." He 
 leant forward impressively. "Mark my words, Tower, 
 if I'm let off to-night I'll resign. I can't face this 
 again." 
 
 "Got your card ready ?" said Tower. "I see they're 
 coming round for them." Two servants came down 
 the two sides of the table with salvers in their hands, 
 and each member placed his visiting-card on one of 
 the salvers. The cards were then placed in a covered 
 basket behind the President's chair. The Colonel's 
 hand shook as he dropped his card on the salver. 
 
 "Thank Heaven," he began, "it can't be long now. 
 It's the waiting that " 
 
 The sound of a gong rang through the room. Lord 
 Northberry had risen. The servants passed quickly 
 and noiselessly from the room. The Secretary fol- 
 lowed them to the door, closed it, locked it, and drew 
 over it a heavy double curtain. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said Lord Northberry, "it is time 
 that we proceeded to business. Following my custom, 
 I must point out to you that the business is serious." 
 He lifted a sheet of paper lying on the table and con- 
 sulted it. "I see here," he said, "the name of Major 
 Delmay, who was last year a member of the club. It 
 was decided that he should propose to Lady Alicia 
 Stoke. The Committee of Investigation had reason 
 to believe that the proposal either had not been made 
 or had not been made in good faith. Major Delmay 's 
 expulsion from all his clubs for cheating at cards and 
 the ruin which followed upon him are fresh within the 
 memory of you all. Mr. Archibald Sterne maintained 
 that he had a right to resign after he had been selected
 
 76 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 to marry Miss Dorothy Grace Euphemia Smiles. It 
 is a rule of the club that selected members have not 
 the right of resignation until they have executed their 
 trust. Mr. Sterne was subsequently elected for South 
 Loamshire, and it will be remarked that he was un- 
 seated on a bribery petition, and was by no means 
 held to be personally guiltless. Mr. Ramsey offended 
 us in a more striking manner by deliberately marrying 
 a young and beautiful lady instead of the woman to 
 whom the club had allotted him. The subsequent 
 elopement of Mrs. Ramsey with a handsome but far 
 from cultured veterinary surgeon made some sensa- 
 tion at the time. It is not safe, if I may use the phrase, 
 to monkey with the Punishment Committee. I will 
 ask the Secretary now to read out to us the minutes of 
 the last meeting." 
 
 The Secretary, in a dry, formal voice, read the 
 names of the three members whom chance had selected 
 at the last meeting and of the three women to whom 
 they had been ordered to propose marriage. Two of 
 the men had been accepted and had ipso facto ceased to 
 be members of the club. The other man had been 
 refused. 
 
 The covered basket in which the visiting-cards had 
 been placed was now brought forward and the cards 
 shaken up. The President raised the cover sufficiently 
 to admit his hand and drew out three cards. Two of 
 the members then investigated the remaining cards to 
 see that no member had omitted to put in his own card 
 or had substituted that of another member. 
 
 "If I'm let off this time," said the Colonel, "I'll 
 resign to-night; I swear I will. After all, the chances 
 are ten to one in my favor." Again the President's 
 bell interrupted him.
 
 CLUBS AND HEARTS 77 
 
 "I will read," said the President, "the names of the 
 three members selected. The first is Mr. Reginald 
 Holt." 
 
 Mr. Holt rose rapidly to his feet. He was a wealthy 
 stockbroker, middle-aged, with a tendency to corpu- 
 lence. He shook all over, but he managed to stammer 
 out, "I shall do my duty." 
 
 "The second name," the President continued, "is 
 the Rev. Marcus Leffingwell." 
 
 Mr. Leffingwell answered smilingly and readily. He 
 might possibly be going to be a martyr, but he was 
 a sanguine young man, with a love for lost causes. 
 
 "The third name," said the President he paused 
 and looked in the direction of the Colonel. The Col- 
 onel set his teeth and pulled himself together. He sat 
 bolt upright listening intently. "The third name," the 
 President repeated, "is Mr. Richard Tower." 
 
 Tower rose and murmured the formula of accept- 
 ance in a low voice. The Colonel wiped the perspira- 
 tion from his forehead and spoke to Tower. Tower 
 did not hear him. He was thinking about a girl in a 
 red tam-o'-shanter. The Colonel touched him on the 
 arm. "You may be all right," he said excitedly; "the 
 woman may refuse you. One man was refused last 
 time." 
 
 "Yes," said Tower, smiling in rather a vacant way, 
 and did his best to talk about some other subject. In 
 the meantime the President had consulted the register 
 kept by the Committee of Investigation of those wom- 
 en to whom it was thought desirable and kind that 
 proposals of marriage should be made. If a member 
 was not acquainted with the woman who had been 
 chosen to be his future wife, the Committee of In- 
 vestigation were always able to arrange a meeting.
 
 78 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 The lady who had been chosen for Richard Tower was 
 Miss Agatha Vyse Lamley. 
 
 Richard Tower knew her well, and knew that there 
 was very little chance of a refusal. Miss Lamley was 
 a large and energetic lady, who belonged to numerous 
 societies. She wore a pince-nez and was only passably 
 ill-looking, but she had the most disagreeable voice in 
 London. 
 
 "Good night, Colonel," said Tower. "I'm going to 
 slip off now. I congratulate you on your escape. I 
 suppose you'll be sending in your resignation?" 
 
 "I think," said the Colonel, "I must risk one more 
 meeting. It's the feeling of relief afterwards there's 
 nothing like it. But after next meeting " 
 
 Richard Tower laughed and turned away. Holt 
 was mixing a great deal of brandy with a very little 
 soda-water. 
 
 ii 
 
 ON the following night, at another house in the same 
 square, Richard Tower and a remarkably pretty girl 
 crept stealthily upstairs. Below them the music and 
 dance went on. Richard Tower knew the house, and 
 knew that the children's schoolroom upstairs made 
 a very good place in which to sit out a dance. As he 
 switched on the light you could see that the girl was 
 angry. 
 
 "I hate mysteries," she said. "First our engage- 
 ment was to be secret and I was given no reason ; now 
 you tell me that as a consequence of something that 
 happened last night you may be compelled to break 
 off that engagement and marry another woman, whom 
 you say you do not love at all. Again you give no 
 reason."
 
 CLUBS AND HEARTS 79 
 
 "It's awfully hard to explain anything when you 
 can't," said Richard dejectedly. 
 
 "Very well," said the girl. "I'm not generally sup- 
 posed to be an idiot. The engagement is broken off 
 now, and we may as well go downstairs again. I hate 
 you pretty badly." 
 
 "You wouldn't if you knew," said Richard. "Do 
 you think I do this because I like it? Do you think 
 I love you a shade less than I did when we were away 
 in the country together? If there was the faintest 
 possible chance that I should ever cease to love you 
 I should be a happier man. The engagement must be 
 broken, as you say. But if I escape if this other 
 woman refuses me, then I shall come back to you." 
 
 "Do, if it amuses you," said the girl. "I shall refuse 
 to see you, of course. Stop where you are, please 
 I'm going down alone. I'll get somebody to take me 
 home." 
 
 Richard Tower was well aware that he was under 
 the close observation of the Investigation Committee. 
 It was necessary to satisfy them of one's good faith, 
 or one came in contact with the Punishment Com- 
 mittee, and they had a diabolical cleverness and were 
 not scrupulous in their work. If you broke faith with 
 the club you were punished by being dishonored. 
 Major Delmay was, in fact, the most honorable of 
 men, but everybody believed that he had cheated at 
 cards. The Punishment Committee had arranged it. 
 
 So Richard Tower renewed his acquaintance with 
 Miss Agatha Vyse Lamley, and after a fortnight wrote 
 to her a letter expressing in the most fervent terms his 
 admiration of her and proposing marriage. He had 
 no hope at all. Years before she had, in the most deli- 
 cate manner possible, indicated a preference for him.
 
 8o STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 He remembered it with horror. She would accept. 
 And then ? 
 
 Then he had decided on some painless form of 
 suicide. Things had changed since Lord Northberry 
 had first persuaded him to join the club. He had, for 
 instance, played golf with a remarkably pretty girl 
 who wore a red tam-o'-shanter, and she had quarrelled 
 with him now. He had his last letter to her ready to 
 send, explaining all and trusting that now and then 
 she might have a kind thought for the man who loved 
 her and died for her. 
 
 Miss Lamley's reply was brought to him in company 
 with other letters, as he lay in bed. He told his servant 
 to go, and then deliberately opened all the other letters 
 first. This, he felt, was the strong thing to do. 
 
 Miss Lamley's letter ran as follows : "There was 
 a time, though I know you never guessed it, when 
 I should have accepted gladly your declaration of 
 love and your appeal that we should share our lives. 
 But now, touched though I am, I know it can never 
 be. I belong to a society of women in fact, I am 
 the president of it who have been struck by the nu- 
 merical preponderance of our sex over yours, and 
 have agreed to sacrifice themselves for their sisters. 
 In a word, we are pledged to remain unmarried, and 
 the penalties for breaking this pledge are of a kind 
 that I dare not face. My sympathy and my help, if 
 you will have it, will always be yours, but I cannot 
 and I dare not " 
 
 Richard Tower stopped reading abruptly. He went 
 round to see a remarkably pretty girl who had said 
 that she would refuse to see him. She might possibly 
 change her mind. One never knows.
 
 VII 
 ONE STONE 
 
 SHE believed, as all good women do, that tobacco 
 which has been seized by the' Customs is de- 
 stroyed in a furnace known as the Queen's Pipe, and 
 that auctioneers are in the habit of saying "Going, 
 going, gone !" She firmly held that the liqueur known 
 as Benedictine was made by the monks of that name, 
 and that a good woman has a legal right to keep any 
 property that she may find in the street. She will not, 
 when the time comes, doubt for one moment the 
 genuineness of the long letter signed "Mater Quce Scit 
 Aliquid" vide the autumnal correspondence, entitled 
 "Are Babies Beastly?" in the "Telegraph" for the 
 year after next. She was convinced at all times, on 
 demand and without previous evidence, of the im- 
 morality of any artist and the respectability of any 
 member of Parliament. 
 
 Her husband, after the manner of bad wise men, 
 never corrected these or any other of her cherished 
 beliefs. In the partnership of marriage a trusting 
 spirit in the feminine partner is a valuable asset, and 
 should be preserved. Why wake up a hunger for facts, 
 scientific but frequently inconvenient? Besides, he 
 may have found from experience that the only thing 
 that made absolutely no mental effect on his wife was 
 undeniable and unimpeachable evidence. It was never 
 
 i
 
 82 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 sufficiently picturesque, and it did not seem to her to 
 be quite sportsmanlike. 
 
 But the withered relic of an overworked conscience 
 did occasionally disturb him in the matter of Agnes's 
 medicine-chest. Perhaps it was as much selfishness as 
 conscience; he did not like the idea of having to give 
 evidence at the inquest. Perhaps it was also coward- 
 ice ; he would as soon have ventured to speak rudely to 
 Bimbi, in his wife's presence, as to interfere with the 
 medicine-chest. Bimbi was an overfed Persian cat, 
 of irregular life, uncertain temper, and great beauty, 
 and yet the man did not love her. I am not trying to 
 defend the man; considering what I have to tell con- 
 cerning him, that would be impossible. 
 
 If he considered, as he said he did, that the medicine- 
 chest was a source of danger to Agnes, to her children, 
 to her friends, and to her servants, why did he not 
 check it in its early stages before the passion for keep- 
 ing a go-as-you-please free dispensary had finally mas- 
 tered her? It had begun years before, on a peaceful 
 and bright afternoon in June, when Agnes almost 
 thought that she had a headache. Her friend, Mrs. 
 Marston Wells a charming and sympathetic lady 
 still had half a bottle left of the only thing that ever 
 did her hay-fever any good. She gave this to Agnes, 
 and one dose cured her completely in three minutes, 
 and she said that she had never seen anything like it. 
 She gave a little to the parlormaid for her chapped 
 hands, and subsequently the parlormaid gave notice. 
 That was the beginning. That was the time when the 
 man ought to have interfered, if he ought ever to have 
 interfered at all. He simply grinned bitterly and let it 
 go, which was unmanly. 
 
 Then Agnes began to read advertisements of what
 
 ONE STONE 83 
 
 a prejudiced medical profession is wont to call quack 
 medicines. She took those advertisements en bloc, 
 net, without reduction. She read how Lance-Corporal 
 Name Suppressed, writing from South Africa a 
 vague but patriotic address said that many a time 
 and oft Timson's Tablets for the Turn had stood be- 
 tween him and death. Timson's Turn Tablets were on 
 her washstand or ever the sun had set. They found a 
 fitting partner in Lane's Lotion for the Languid on 
 the following day. From these advertisements she 
 acquired much physiological and therapeutical knowl- 
 edge. She learned the functions of the pancreas, pro- 
 nounced it as a dissyllable, and recognized the gravity 
 of life. 
 
 Chemists' shops began to have the fascination for 
 her that the public-house has for the drunkard. Even 
 on her way to buy a hat, when every moment is of 
 value since it may happen that another woman has 
 snapped up the only hat you really want one second 
 before your arrival she would pause to look at a 
 tempting array of tabloids in phials. She would go 
 on hesitate turn back purchase. It is useful to 
 have these things in the house. Also, as she often 
 observed, one never knows. Likewise, the world is 
 full of symptoms, and if you go to look for them you 
 will find them. Mrs. Marston Wells caught the infec- 
 tion and bought medicines furiously; Agnes at once 
 increased her armament to meet competition. Her 
 collection now occupied a cupboard, always referred 
 to as the medicine-chest. Their method of treatment 
 was very similar. The last purchase was almost al- 
 ways the remedy indicated. Their rivalry was a 
 friendly one; they often met and talked pills together 
 pleasantly. Sometimes an exchange would be effected
 
 84 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 so many chlorate of potash lozenges for a menthol 
 cone. And the trusting spirit grew more grandly bril- 
 liant than ever; Agnes was ready to diagnose and 
 treat anything from a chilblain to Landry's paralysis. 
 It was the knowledge of this that made the man 
 anxious. 
 
 One morning his mind was so much occupied with 
 a picture of what his wife would look like in the dock 
 that he forgot to put his cigarette-case in his pocket. 
 He discovered the omission with something of a shock 
 in the hall just as he was going out. He put down his 
 hat on the hall-table and went back for the cigarettes. 
 When he returned he found that Bimbi had swept his 
 hat off the table on to the floor, and was now engaged 
 in a patient but fruitless endeavor to get into ambush 
 in the hat's interior. She only succeeded in scratching 
 him once while he was removing her. According to the 
 man's own statement, the cat then fell down the base- 
 ment stairs. That or something more or less re- 
 sembling it is not unlikely. 
 
 At tea that afternoon, just as Agnes was pouring 
 the rest of the cream into a saucer for Bimbi, the man 
 observed with a touch of gentle melancholy that he 
 was afraid that the cat was not well. He was asked 
 to explain himself further. 
 
 "Well," he said, "she was going on in a very queer 
 way in the hall this morning. Seemed awfully ex- 
 cited." 
 
 "Yes," said his wife, "these Persians have such 
 delicate nervous constitutions. That is why I tell you 
 that you must never speak sharply to her. You must 
 try to remember that Bimbi is not a dog." 
 
 The man said that he would try not to forget. "I
 
 ONE STONE 85 
 
 suppose," he added, "you haven't got anything in 
 your medicine-chest you could give her." 
 
 "But certainly I have. I can see from the way 
 her ear's twitching that she's nervously upset. What 
 she requires is a little bromide. She'll take it in the 
 cream and never know anything about it. I'll be back 
 in a moment." 
 
 No sooner had she left the room than the brute to 
 whom she was married took a very small bottle from 
 his pocket and poured a few drops of it into the 
 cream. Then he said, "Good-bye, Bimbi." 
 
 His wife had changed the lines of her treatment 
 on the stairs. She returned with a ten-grain antipyrine 
 powder and a digestive globule. She put these into 
 the cream and invited Bimbi to drink. Bimbi with 
 an affected air of bored conciliation began upon the 
 cream, and doubtless would have finished it but for 
 the fact that she had to stop in the middle in order 
 to die. She died with great rapidity and precision. 
 
 "Bimbi!" cried Agnes. "I've killed Bimbi." 
 
 "Looks like it," said the liar and murderer whom 
 Agnes called her husband. "You ought really to be 
 more careful how you play about with those drugs. 
 Suppose you had given that dose to one of the chil- 
 dren." 
 
 She was a little late for dinner that night; she had 
 been busy destroying the contents of the medicine- 
 chest, and had not noticed the time. 
 
 "I suppose," said this poltroon next morning at 
 breakfast, "I had better look in at the cat-shop some- 
 time to-day, and get you some sort of an animal to take 
 the place of "
 
 86 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "No, no!" she interrupted. "No cat can ever be 
 quite what Bimbi was." 
 
 Let me do plain justice to the blackguard whose 
 actions it is my painful task to relate. In reply he 
 refrained from saying what he thought. Also he gave 
 Agnes her head in Regent Street that afternoon, and 
 she bought a bronze Buddha, a long turquoise chain, 
 and some India-red matting wherewith to culture the 
 servants' bedrooms which things are a comfort and 
 consolation in time of bereavement. 
 
 And he dropped that little bottle into the canal, and 
 told the man who accused him of looking pleased with 
 himself that he had just killed two birds with one 
 stone. Pressed to explain himself further, he said that 
 he spoke in parables, and that these things were an 
 alligator. What can you say for a man like that? 
 Nothing, of course. Let's say it.
 
 VIII 
 GENERAL OBSERVATIONS 
 
 GENERAL, age twenty-four, can cook, Christian, 
 clean, honest, obliging, good character, 
 eighteen months in last place and that's me. 
 
 Ah, and a very nice place it was, too. The money 
 were no more than seventeen, and if that's not too little 
 I can swear as it's not too much. But then he were a 
 gentleman, and so were she, and that's a thing worth 
 twice thinking of. Riches is not everything. Why, 
 there's my own sister, kitchen-maid in a house where 
 they're rolling in money, but I wouldn't change with 
 her. The other day, the cook being short of parsley, 
 my sister pops into the kitchen-garden to get some, and 
 there's the master smoking his cigar. "O, damn your 
 eyes," he says, "what are you doing here?" And she, 
 being frightened, says, "It's the parsley, sir." "Well," 
 says he, "you're a pretty little devil, and so you can 
 have some." Pretty she is, too, but I couldn't stomach 
 such treatment if I were her. But there it is she 
 stops because the cook's took a fancy to her, and 
 teaches her to cook them French dishes. "Coatlets de 
 mowtun ally refarm" there's a name for you, and 
 from what she tells me, nothing in the world but veal 
 chops with a sweet sauce ! 
 
 No, I preferred my place, and told her so. As I say, 
 he were a gentleman whichever way you took him. 
 He did paint pictures in colors, but then I don't 
 
 87
 
 88 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 think he ever tried to sell them. At any rate, nobody 
 ever bought them. Very pretty they was though, and 
 showed he'd got a knack. She was a perfect lady, too, 
 and yet she had a kind heart. And in her evening 
 gown for it was late dinner every night, though 
 small she looked more like a photograph than like 
 anything earthly. The house was just a cottage with 
 a piece of garden to it, and handy for boating on the 
 river, to which they were very partial almost living 
 on that river in the summer-time. Many a time, when 
 he and she were out in the punt, I've stepped into that 
 little bit of garden and seen the sun shining and the 
 spring onions coming through, and it all looked so 
 pretty, and the feeling of pleasantness was such, I 
 wouldn't have called the Queen my uncle, as they say. 
 It were a comfortable place too all the washing put 
 out, no interfering, no nagging, no scraping, and every 
 now and again the charwoman to help you. Why did 
 I ever leave it? 
 
 Well, that was along of William. I means William 
 the canary, and not William the carpenter, who is my 
 young man, and never gave me a moment's sorrow yet, 
 and it would be worse for him if he did. 
 
 I hadn't been there more nor my month when 
 she came into the kitchen, and she said about the 
 dinner, which I remember as if it was yesterday, and 
 was lambs' sweetbreads. And then she said 
 
 "Are you happy here, Emma ?" 
 
 Now, there were a question as I had never had put 
 to me before your happiness not being a thing as 
 you can expect anybody to care about except yourself. 
 So I were rather taken aback. 
 
 "Well, ma'am," I says, "it's a nice place, and very
 
 GENERAL OBSERVATIONS 89 
 
 kind of you to ask, but take it how you will, it's not 
 as if you kept two of us." 
 
 "No," says she, with one of them little sighs of 
 hers, "it's not. Do you find it lonely?" 
 
 "Well," I says, "being engaged to William, there 
 ain't so much talk going on at the back-door as there 
 might have been otherwise, which is only right. And 
 yet, when you're single-handed, what you don't say 
 to them at the back-door you don't say to nobody, 
 which is what stifles you." 
 
 "Ah!" she says, "would you like to have a pet of 
 your own to keep in the kitchen a cat or a dog?" 
 
 "Thank you, ma'am," says I, "but cats is faithless, 
 and dogs runs to fat when not exercised; but if I 
 might mention it, a canary has always been my am- 
 bition. And if that kitchen-window don't seem to ask 
 for a cage to hang on it !" 
 
 She smiled and said I should have a canary, and 
 next day she went up to London and brought back the 
 whole thing complete. The cage were handsome, and 
 the bird were pale yellow. 
 
 Yes, I was pleased to get it, and I was thankful 
 for it, and I called it William after the other William, 
 and I saw that it took its seed and water, and was 
 nicely kept. But it's a bitter thing to think of now 
 I didn't value that blessed bird at the first as he should 
 have been valued. We was friendly, but nothing more. 
 
 You see, just at first he wouldn't sing, and he may 
 have been a bit shy. But it was more cleverness than 
 shyness. He knew, as well as I knew, that I wanted 
 him to sing; and what he said to himself was, "I'll 
 just see first if the place suits me. If they make it 
 worth my while to sing I'll sing. If not, I'll sulk, and 
 then they'll sell me." It was only natural. Birds
 
 90 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 have to do the best they can for themselves, just the 
 same as human beings. 
 
 Then all of a sudden one day, as I were cleaning the 
 silver, he give two or three little twiddly chirps, then 
 come hopping along to the side of the cage and looked 
 down at me out of his little sharp eyes, to see how I 
 was taking it. 
 
 "Very well, William," says I. "If you can sing 
 you shall sing, else no sugar." 
 
 He thought for a minute, and shook his head, as 
 much as to say, "No, I can't see any reason why I 
 shouldn't oblige." Then he hopped down, took a sip 
 of water, hopped up again, wiped his mouth on the 
 wooden perch, cleared his throat, and began. I took 
 his time by the kitchen clock, and he went for seven 
 minutes, and you could see by the way he stopped 
 suddenly, shook his head, and stamped his claw on the 
 perch, that there was a lot more to come only he 
 couldn't remember it. He'd let himself get out of 
 practice. However, not to discourage him, I gave 
 him a little bit of sugar. 
 
 After that there was no more trouble about the 
 singing. He'd found as he could make himself com- 
 fortable in the place, and so he meant to stop. And 
 when he once settled that, there was no more hanging 
 backward. And he never had any of that silly vanity 
 that you'll see in some people, though he was but a 
 bird, while they may have Christian homes and ad- 
 vantages showered on them like water on a duck's 
 back. There's many a woman won't sing at all if 
 there's much talking going on, though speech is free 
 to all, and we might all speak at once but for the in- 
 convenience. That's what I call silly, foolish vanity, 
 and setting of one's self up like a idol. There was
 
 GENERAL OBSERVATIONS 91 
 
 nothing of that about William. He'd sing when there 
 was coffee-grinding going on, and sing the louder for 
 it. Bless his heart! 
 
 You may be sure it wasn't long before he and me 
 was as good friends as there was in the world. In a 
 week he'd learned to take hemp-seed out of my fingers. 
 And clever! Well, once I put a bit of sugar in the 
 bottom of his glass, when he wasn't looking, and cov- 
 ered it up with seed. When he'd eaten up the seed 
 on the top, and come across that sugar, he were so 
 startled that he regular jumped. However, I saw him 
 wink one eye, as much as to say, "I must remember 
 this little trick." Next time his seed-glass wanted 
 filling, I did the same thing again. But this time the 
 glass were no sooner in his cage than he went right up 
 to it, dug down through the seed, and fetched that bit 
 of sugar out. But there, if I get talking about his 
 cleverness there'd be no end. As I said to Mrs. Am- 
 royd, which is the charwoman, I said, "It's a comfort 
 to think that if I'm took, and brief life is here our 
 portion, William's clever enough to provide for him- 
 self." "Oh, yes!" she says, "carpenters can always 
 make their money," confusing him with the other 
 William, as she was always doing, and in a way as 
 would sometimes bring the blush to my cheek, allusion 
 having been made to the canary's bath which she mis- 
 took different. 
 
 With the affection I had for that canary, the wonder 
 is how ever I came to leave the door of his cage un- 
 hitched. But the front and the back bell going simul- 
 taneous, and taking off my attention, I must have left 
 it undone in my flurry. Anyhow, just as me and Mrs. 
 Amroyd was sitting to our teas that bird got out. 
 At first I thought he'd get frightened and beat his
 
 92 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 blessed heart out against the window. But not he 
 he knew too much for that. He came straight down 
 on to the table, and began pecking up crumbs. "Well, 
 Mister Impertinence," I says, "you know how to look 
 after yourself." And I held out my finger to him, 
 and he'd have hopped on to it, if Mrs. Amroyd hadn't 
 happened to give a sneeze, which scared him, though 
 not done malicious. However, he didn't go far, and he 
 was soon back and at work on those crumbs again. 
 Yes, he had got a cheek and no doubt about it, and I 
 don't blame him for it neither. For cheek is what gets 
 you on in the world nowadays. Why, if I had the 
 cheek of that bird, I might be the Queen of Sheba. 
 And yet he knew where to draw the line, did William. 
 When I got the cage down, and stood it on the table 
 with the door open, he understood that he'd got to go 
 back, and let me catch him and put him back without 
 so much as a murmur. 
 
 After that I used to let him out frequent, seeing 
 as he could be trusted, and the way he'd follow me 
 about that kitchen was one of the seven wonders of the 
 earth, and got to be talked of, too, through the trades- 
 men's carts having seen it with their own eyes when 
 calling at the back-door. He was a regular proverb 
 in the place, William was, and if he'd been my own 
 son I couldn't have been more proud of him. The 
 only anxiety I ever had about him was along of Mrs. 
 Chalk's sandy cat, which would sneak round my 
 kitchen-windows by the hour ; and that were soon 
 over. 
 
 Keep those windows shut always you couldn't. For 
 it takes a fire to roast a joint in the summer just as 
 much as in the winter, and living in a Turkish bath 
 is what no Christian could be asked to do. Still, it
 
 GENERAL OBSERVATIONS 93 
 
 gives me a feeling of nervousness, knowing as cats are 
 artful. And that sandy cat were a bit too artful for 
 his own safety. One morning I had just come down 
 from the upstairs room, and with my hand on the 
 kitchen door I heard a crash. I rushed in and saw 
 what it was. The cat had got in at the window, and 
 made a jump for the cage. In half a second I had 
 shut window and door, so that Mister Sandy couldn't 
 get out. Then I had a look at William and saw that 
 he wasn't hurt, only frightened. And then I picked 
 up the poker, and the next ten minutes kept me busy. 
 
 I had to report a vegetable-dish and two wine- 
 glasses broke, but I didn't grudge them. The cat I 
 buried that night, unbeknown, back of the rhubarb. 
 Questions was asked, and ans\vered in a way as you 
 might call putting off. That is, Mrs. Chalk says to me, 
 "Have you seen our sandy cat?" I says, "Yes, I 
 saw him in the garden last night." So I did. That 
 was when I was burying him. She said, "You didn't 
 throw stones at him, nor do anything to scare him 
 away, for he's lost?" "No," I says, "I wouldn't 
 do such a thing." And no more I would, for where's 
 the sense in throwing stones at a dead cat? "Why," 
 I says, "he may stop in the garden for ever, for all I 
 care," which were the solemn truth, though artful. 
 
 As I said, William wasn't hurt, but he'd had a nasty 
 shock. For weeks he was that shaken you couldn't 
 get him to stir out of his cage. And when he did 
 venture out at last, the least little noise seemed to 
 put him all of a flutter. However, time and patience, 
 and good feeding, brought him round. He were such 
 a companion to me as you wouldn't believe. Every 
 morning as soon as I were down, he'd start chattering 
 to me. Often and often I've told that bird things as I
 
 94 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 wanted to say, but wouldn't have told to no living 
 human being; for I knowed he wouldn't pass them 
 on, or even let slip hint of them accidental, which is 
 what the best of us is liable to. And he looked at you 
 that intelligent, when you was talking, you could see 
 as he understood every word. If you stopped, he'd 
 give a sort of chirrup, as much as to say, "Well, go 
 on. What next?" 
 
 For two years he were a joy and a comfort to me, 
 and then he were took. He got a bit of a cold some- 
 how, and I give a shilling to a woman I knew with 
 experience in fowls to come and have a look at him. 
 As soon as she saw him, she says, "We'll do all we can 
 do, but it's more serious than you think. For what 
 he's got is congestion of the chest, to which all them 
 foreign birds is partial." Well, we gave him medicine, 
 and he took it, for to the last he'd eat or drink almost 
 anything, such was his desire to please. And he were 
 well nursed, too, and I'd bank up the kitchen fire to 
 last through the night, and never grudge the coals. 
 A comfort to me, too, it is to think as everything was 
 done, for one night I could see as the end were near 
 and sat up with him, and at half-past eleven he were 
 stone dead, if ever a bird was, and me broken-hearted. 
 I wore black for him, too, which was the same I had 
 when my aunt was took, and that started Mrs. Am- 
 royd. "Why," she said, "to put it on for a bird, it do 
 seem to me downright irreligious." 
 
 "Yes," I says, "he were only a bird, nor born to 
 any high estate, as the hymn says, but he were a better 
 friend to me nor ever my aunt was, which was wrang- 
 ling from morning till night. And so the less you says, 
 Mrs. Amroyd, the better for all parties, or you may
 
 95 
 
 live to lose a friend yourself, which would be only a 
 judgment." 
 
 And of course I give notice. I couldn't keep coming 
 into that kitchen where he'd always been, and never 
 would be any more, not though it had been a king's 
 palace. So I said as I'd leave at the end of my month, 
 and no entreaties, nor the offer of another canary, 
 though well meant, could move me. I was sorry to 
 part with them, and sorry to leave the place, but it 
 had to be. 
 
 Ah! I shall never find another place like it. As 
 a rule, a gentleman has money, and then he don't 
 do on one general. All I has to look forward to is 
 over-work, under-feeding, and nagging, and miseries. 
 But all the same, I couldn't stop after William had 
 gone. 
 
 What the other William says is, don't take a place 
 at all. For the way he looks at it, if you makes your 
 Christmas holiday your honeymoon, that's all a saving, 
 and to be thought of when a couple ain't Rothschilds 
 and the Bank of England, which I don't deny is sense. 
 
 However, that's a thing as needs thinking over. 
 Still, he had the canary stuffed at his own expense, and 
 give me in a glass case, and that's a sign of a feeling 
 heart. I dare say as I might do worse.
 
 IX 
 
 THE BOY AND THE PESSIMIST 
 
 "TT TELL," said Mr. Archibald Bunby, M.A., prin- 
 V V cipal of that excellent preparatory school, 
 Redhurst, "there the matter stands. You can take it 
 or you can leave it, and if you leave it I've very little 
 doubt 'in my own mind that Gibbing will take it 
 snap at it, in fact. If you take it you aren't obliging 
 me in any way you remain at Redhurst during the 
 holidays, and in return you receive your board and 
 lodging free and a five-pound note at the end of it. 
 Why, man, you aren't even asked to do any teaching; 
 all you have to do is to keep an eye on the boy gener- 
 ally. And, so long as you don't smoke actually in the 
 presence of the boy, I will relax the smoking rule. I'd 
 sooner you took it than Gibbing, because I consider 
 you to be the more trustworthy man, but there's no 
 obligation about it. On the contrary, I am offering 
 you an uncommonly good thing for yourself. There's 
 scores of men like you who'd be only too glad to get a 
 holiday engagement on any terms." 
 
 Yes, that was true, and Elton knew it. And it was 
 of some detestable importance to him that he should 
 not have to keep himself for seven weeks on his term's 
 salary, but, on the contrary, should find that salary 
 augmented by five pounds. 
 
 "Very well," he said, rather despondently he gen- 
 
 96
 
 THE BOY AND THE PESSIMIST 97 
 
 erally seemed rathed despondent "I accept. Rough 
 on the boy, rather, isn't it ?" 
 
 "Well, what else is to happen to him? He can't 
 go to his people in India. He can't go to his uncle's 
 house, because they've got the whooping-cough there. 
 If Maynham caught it that would mean losing a term's 
 work and it's most important that he should not lose 
 even a day's work just now. As I said, I don't ask 
 you to teach him anything during the holidays, but 
 still a little grounding in Latin grammar Latin gram- 
 mar especially wouldn't do the boy any harm, and 
 might help to pass the time for you." 
 
 "Very well," Elton repeated. 
 
 Bunby was not quite satisfied. He wanted grati- 
 tude. He would always do anything to get gratitude, 
 except deserve it. He paced up and down his study, 
 stroking his red beard. "You'll be very comfortable, 
 you know," he reminded Elton. "You'll have the as- 
 sistant-masters' sitting-room all to yourself, and 
 Maynham, of course, will play about in the day-room. 
 Every now and then you'll just see that he's going on 
 all right, of course. As for meals, you'll have them 
 together, and though there'll only just be you two 
 they'll be on exactly the same scale as during term- 
 time. Ah! I wonder if you know how the under- 
 masters are fed at some private schools?" 
 
 Elton bit his lip. It galled him rather to be made 
 to feel like a canary. 
 
 "I could give you cases," Bunby went on, "but, 
 however, I'll say no more. It's understood that you 
 stop, and it seems to me that it's a very nice little 
 windfall for you." 
 
 Elton gave him the thanks he wanted, feeling that 
 he wouldn't be happy until he got them. He had got
 
 98 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 into the habit of doing anything he could to please 
 Bunby. He was paid to please Bunby. 
 
 Then Elton went back to the assistant-masters' sit- 
 ting-room. Gibbing, the English master, was there 
 making cocoa over the gas. To him Elton related how 
 Bunby had made the offer, and he had accepted it. 
 
 "Poor devil !" said Gibbing. 
 
 "Poor devil yourself!" retorted Elton, irritably. 
 "When I want your pity, I'll ask for it." 
 
 "Kettle's boiling," said Gibbing, unmoved. "Have 
 a cup?" 
 
 "No," said Elton, turning his back on him. He was 
 not paid to please Gibbing. 
 
 Gibbing explored the bottom of the cocoa-tin with 
 a spoon. It returned barely full. 
 
 "It's just as well you won't," he remarked. "I 
 believe these beastly servants sneak our cocoa when 
 they do the room in the morning." 
 
 "They never do 'do the room' as you call it," replied 
 Elton. There were moments when he realized just as 
 acutely as if it had been perfectly new to him, the 
 hopeless sordidness of the life. He had come upon one 
 of those moments now; he felt crushed, and yet re- 
 bellious; angry, and yet humiliated. For the sake of 
 five pounds he was going to surrender seven weeks of 
 his independence, and become a kind of male nurse- 
 maid. And it was for this that one took a degree at 
 Cambridge! He did not at the moment feel well dis- 
 posed towards Maynham. He relieved his feelings by 
 being distinctly offensive to Gibbing, who drank his 
 cocoa and paid very little attention to the offensiveness. 
 
 The morning of the general departure came. Before 
 it was light the heavy luggage carts were crunching
 
 99 
 
 the gravel drive; the trunks had all been piled in the 
 hall the night before, surveyed with satisfaction by 
 many small boys as evidence that the holidays had 
 really come at last. There was an exceptionally early 
 breakfast for two or three boys that were to catch an 
 exceptionally early train. Then, an hour later, the 
 majority followed with their coat-collars turned up 
 and joy in their hearts, and calculations of the amounts 
 that they would save out of their travelling money in 
 their heads. Later still, Gibbing also went, having 
 himself conveyed to the station in a two-shilling fly, 
 because the boys walked, and he thought it well to 
 mark distinctions. Last of all, after many and minute 
 instructions to Elton, Mr. Archibald Bunby drove 
 off to his favorite holiday occupation of being a bore 
 in a boarding-house there were half a dozen of these 
 establishments, in as many seaside resorts, that shared 
 in and dreaded his patronage. He liked to collate 
 them ; his favorite study was comparative price lists. 
 
 Elton sat up in the assistant-masters' sitting-room. 
 He was smoking the first pipe of the holidays, which 
 was something; Gibbing was gone, which was also 
 something; Bunby was gone, which was even more. 
 But, on the other hand, he himself was remaining, 
 and the many orders that Bunby had given him 
 rankled in his mind. He pulled out one of his own 
 visiting-cards. On it was engraved "Mr. Eustace El- 
 ton." He added the letters B.A., in pencil, and under- 
 neath the name wrote "Caretaker and nursemaid in 
 the service of Archibald Bunby, Esq." He surveyed 
 this with a sort of grim satisfaction in insulting him- 
 self, and then dropped it on the fire and swore under 
 his breath. The clock on the mantelpiece struck five, 
 and reminded him that it was tea-time. In the big
 
 ioo STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 dining-hall there were three long tables. In term-time 
 they were rilled ; now Elton and Tommy Maynham had 
 the place to themselves. Their voices rang strangely 
 in the empty room. A small white tablecloth, spread 
 across one end of one table, was an unusually unattrac- 
 tive oasis in a desert. Tommy was not a particularly 
 beautiful boy. His countenance was cheerful, healthy, 
 and freckled. He was popular, simple-minded, and 
 knew more about birds' eggs than he did about books. 
 Elton supposed that he ought to say a word or two to 
 the boy, although he did not want to encourage him 
 to chatter all through meals. 
 
 "Well, Maynham," he said, "they've left us behind, 
 haven't they?" Tommy beamed. "You don't look 
 much put out about it, anyway." 
 
 "No, sir," said Tommy; "I've had rather a good 
 time. I got three rides on the luggage carts, and as 
 Mr. Gibbing's cab was coming back from the station 
 the man gave me a lift, too. That makes four rides 
 and nothing to pay. One would sooner have gone, of 
 course. Wouldn't you?" 
 
 This was unfortunate, because it reminded Elton 
 of his servitude. 
 
 "But still," Tommy added, "there's lots of things 
 one can do when one's alone. I dare say it won't 
 be so bad." 
 
 Elton had brought an English translation of a vol- 
 ume of Schopenhauer down to tea with him. He 
 opened it and began to read. Once or twice Tommy 
 ventured on a remark, and Elton answered in a slightly 
 absent-minded kind of way. At the end of tea he said 
 to Tommy: 
 
 "Look here, Maynham, during the holidays you can 
 always bring a book in at tea or dinner if you like."
 
 THE BOY AND THE PESSIMIST 101 
 
 Tommy thanked him. Reading on these sacred 
 occasions was strictly forbidden during term-time, and 
 the removal of any prohibition was to be taken as 
 a treat. This idea was so firmly rooted in Tommy's 
 mind that he almost forgot that he much preferred 
 talking to reading. 
 
 Mr. Archibald Bunby had, before he left, told Elton 
 that breakfast would have to be an hour later during 
 the holidays. 
 
 "The servants have suggested it, and if I don't 
 make things as easy for them as I can while I'm away 
 they'll leave, or want more wages, or something. So 
 you'll breakfast at nine. And I say, Elton, don't ring 
 for anything if you can help it. It's only a few steps 
 from the dining-hall to the kitchen, and you can very 
 well go yourself if they've forgotten anything." 
 
 Elton now passed this information on to Tommy, 
 with such modifications as self-respect demanded. 
 
 "I've told the servants, Maynham, that we won't 
 breakfast before nine. I never do in the holidays, 
 myself, and I dare say you won't object to an extra 
 hour in bed." 
 
 Here was a further relaxation, and another good 
 reason why Tommy should have felt pleased with the 
 way things were going. His uncle had written to him 
 to cheer him up, and console him for his stay at Red- 
 hurst during the holidays. The letter had contained 
 a remark that "When things seem bad, there's all 
 the more reason for making the best of them," which 
 was perhaps sensible; it also contained postal orders 
 for two pounds, which was certainly lavish. Tommy 
 had naturally a contented disposition. He had also 
 an inventive mind, and for days past he had been 
 devising occupations for his solitude in the holidays.
 
 102 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 After tea Tommy went off to the day-room. It was 
 a large room, furnished with two long tables, four long 
 benches, a set of lockers, and one chair all in pine 
 wood. It also contained a piano, in walnut, but out of 
 tune, for the benefit of those boys who took music. 
 The room was warmed by hot-water pipes. It looked 
 out on the back wall of Mr. Bunby's stable, and it was 
 not particularly cheerful. 
 
 It was lit by gas jets without globes, two as a gen- 
 eral rule. The servants had by Mr. Bunby's direc- 
 tions only lit one of them that night. It had been 
 clear to Mr. Bunby's economical mind that where there 
 was only one boy, luxury itself could not demand more 
 than one gas jet. Tommy, not having an economical 
 mind, struck a match, got on a chair, and increased the 
 quarterly gas bill. Then he took from his locker a 
 copy of "Hymns Ancient and Modern," with tunes, 
 and three sticks of plain chocolate. He opened the 
 piano, drew the chair up to it, and put the three sticks 
 of chocolate on the lowest octave, because it would be 
 handy there, and that octave would not be required for 
 the purpose for which its bad German maker had 
 originally intended it. Then he sat down, found the 
 tune that he was anxious to learn before Christmas 
 Day arrived, and set to work. It was only recently 
 that Tommy had "taken music," but he had already 
 found out some important facts in connection with it. 
 He knew, for instance, that it was really the right 
 hand which did most of the work; the right hand did 
 the actual tune, and if that went wrong it was of very 
 little use for the left hand to be perfectly correct. 
 Whereas, if the right hand knew its work and made 
 enough noise with it, the left hand might come in 
 gently where it would and as it could. So he began
 
 THE BOY AND THE PESSIMIST 103 
 
 now to learn the right-hand part first. He put the soft 
 pedal down, and struck the notes as gently as possible, 
 because he did not want Mr. Elton in the masters' 
 room overhead to hear the tune ; it was to be a surprise 
 on Christmas Eve supposing that it could be got into 
 good going order by that time. As a matter of fact 
 the precaution was needless; the tune, in its embryo 
 stage, might safely have been audible as it would cer- 
 tainly not have been recognizable. 
 
 At nine o'clock there was supper, and, as Mr. Bunby 
 frequently pointed out, all the best doctors are agreed 
 that this meal, if taken at all, should be as light as 
 possible. After supper Elton read prayers, omitting 
 two somewhat lengthy petitions, for "a steady and 
 conscientious application to our studies," and for 
 "such pleasant and friendly intercourse with our com- 
 rades as may best tend to promote," etc., etc. These 
 were, he considered, only applicable in term-time. 
 Mr. Bunby had composed these prayers himself, and 
 it is greatly to be feared that Tommy regarded their 
 abbreviation as one more of the relaxations that the 
 holidays had brought with them. 
 
 Then Tommy went off to his bedroom, read "Trea- 
 sure Island" for half an hour by the light of one 
 surreptitious candle, and finally dropped off to sleep. 
 Elton, in the masters' room, sat before the fire, pon- 
 dered, and pitied himself. 
 
 It was going to be terribly lonely for him. In con- 
 sideration of his board and lodging, and a fraction 
 under one shilling and threepence per diem, he had 
 sentenced himself to absolute solitude. There was 
 Tommy, of course, but Tommy did not count; or 
 rather, Tommy made things worse. All through the 
 term there were many Tommies; the chief point of the
 
 104 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 holiday was that they brought with them a complete 
 absence of boys. That point was lost, for he would 
 certainly have to suffer Tommy's presence at meal- 
 times, and he would also be expected to exercise some 
 sort of slight supervision of his movements during the 
 day. That was what a man of intelligence and edu- 
 cation and taste was compelled to endure in order to 
 secure for himself the paltry privilege of being allowed 
 to live. Was it worth while? Emphatically not; he 
 would have preferred to die, but being a victim to the 
 primary instinct, he went to sleep instead. He also 
 read in bed, but his book was the English translation 
 of Schopenhauer, and it was on the floor in ten min- 
 utes. 
 
 "What are you going to do with yourself?" he 
 asked Tommy on the following morning. 
 
 "My old stamp-book's come to bits," replied 
 Tommy, "and I've got a better one that was a present. 
 So I'm going to float off all the stamps out of the old 
 one, and put them " 
 
 "Yes, yes, I see." 
 
 "The chaps being away, I can get all the lavatory 
 basins at once for floating the pages in, and that keeps 
 the stamps from getting mixed. I can have all the 
 basins, can't I?" 
 
 "Yes. Don't make any mess, though; and don't 
 go out until I return." 
 
 Then Elton sauntered down into the town, smoking 
 openly the cigarette that in term-time was prohibited. 
 He examined the shops, with their Christmas cards, 
 Christmas toys, Christmas turkeys. And, as he did so, 
 a very great idea came to him. He would occupy his 
 leisure during the holidays by the composition of a 
 long, satirical poem, to be called "Christmas Re-
 
 THE BOY AND THE PESSIMIST 105 
 
 viewed." By the audacity of its manner of dealing 
 with a sacred subject, by its fierce and concentrated 
 bitterness, by its marvellous melancholy, and by its 
 exquisite finish, it should attract attention and ap- 
 preciation. Such things would be worthless to a man 
 without illusions, but he was prepared to work hard to 
 secure them. He went into the best stationer's shop 
 at once. 
 
 "Have you," he inquired, "any hand-made writing- 
 paper, with the rough edge, you know? Letter size? 
 It might be scribbling or letter but not folded as 
 letter." 
 
 The stationer reflected, touched his forehead, beamed 
 with sudden recollection, and was off up a ladder like 
 an adventurous monkey in a black coat. Down he 
 came with his dusty prize, blowing it, smacking it, 
 active and business-like. A touch and a jerk, and the 
 knot that only business could tie was loosened as 
 only business could loosen it. The soiled covers fell 
 apart; there, in creamy whiteness, with rough edge, 
 was "an article that I've had no inquiry for, sir, for 
 years." 
 
 After this, as the days went on towards Christmas, 
 Elton saw less and less of Tommy Maynham. The 
 boy was well-behaved, apparently, and did not require 
 supervision. Absorbed in his composition, Elton 
 hardly noticed him ; sometimes at meals the boy would 
 speak to Elton, and Elton's answer would come after 
 a lapse of minutes, or not at all. It was not, as Tommy 
 supposed, that the master wished to snub the boy, but 
 only that Elton had in the carrying out of his very 
 good idea become somewhat absent-minded. If he 
 had noticed the boy at all, he would have noticed that 
 his cheerfulness and activity were fast vanishing. The
 
 106 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 stamps were all correctly arranged in the stamp-book 
 now, "Treasure Island" was finished, and Tommy's 
 order for another of the same brand was still the sub- 
 ject of apologies from the bookseller. 
 
 "Here, have you got my book yet ?" asked Tommy ; 
 "and if you haven't, why the dickens haven't you?" 
 
 The bookseller referred to "the delays in trans- 
 mission inevitable during the pressure of business 
 prevalent at this season of the year." 
 
 Tommy remarked "Skittles!" and walked out of 
 the shop. 
 
 He would not so much have minded having next to 
 nothing to do if he had only had somebody with whom 
 to do it. Not being analytical, he grew dull and de- 
 jected without being conscious of the reason for it. 
 The day before Christmas Day cheered him up a little. 
 A hamper arrived for him, containing much that was 
 edible, and a Jules Verne that was readable. There 
 were letters from India, with Christmas cards and 
 postal orders in them. There were letters from his 
 cousins; there were sundry small packages containing 
 presents. He himself was busy with the sending of 
 letters and cards, and with a final rehearsal of that tune 
 he had been so anxious to learn. The treble of it had 
 by this time been brought to a satisfactory condition, 
 and a great deal of the bass was only a very little 
 wrong. On the whole, the prospects of making it a 
 proper Christmas seemed to him much better than they 
 had done the day before. 
 
 That night, when Tommy went up to his bedroom, 
 he did not go to sleep; on the contrary, he adopted 
 precautions to keep himself awake. He drank cold 
 coffee of exceptional strength made to his order by a 
 local confectioner, and brought up from the shop in a
 
 THE BOY AND THE PESSIMIST 107 
 
 medicine bottle. This, in conjunction with the excite- 
 ment of the Jules Verne, kept him from sleep until 
 eleven o'clock. It was at that hour, he remembered, 
 that the waits generally began at home. He went 
 downstairs to the day-room, lit (as though there were 
 no such things as gas bills) both the gas jets, opened 
 the piano, arranged the music, clapped down the loud 
 pedal, and commenced. He played hard and he sang 
 hard. Tommy's rendering of "Hark! the Herald 
 Angels Sing" could be heard distinctly as he intended 
 it to be heard all over the building. 
 
 "Now this," Tommy thought to himself, "will be a 
 surprise for Mr. Elton." 
 
 It was. Upstairs in his own room Mr. Elton could 
 hardly believe his ears. Here was, apparently, an open 
 defiance of rules and discipline. He put down the 
 manuscript of "Christmas Reviewed," now approach- 
 ing its maturity, and dashed downstairs to the day- 
 room. 
 
 "What is the meaning of this?" he asked angrily. 
 
 Tommy smiled, turned round on the music stool, and 
 explained. 
 
 "I was going to have asked permission," he said, 
 "only I couldn't, because it was meant to be a surprise 
 for you, sir, and I thought you wouldn't mind." 
 
 "Not mind a row like this past eleven o'clock at 
 night ! What are you talking about?" 
 
 "Well, sir, the boy that does the boots told me that 
 the regular waits never came up here, because Mr. 
 Bunby never gives anybody anything." 
 
 "You've no business to be chattering to the boot- 
 boy at all." 
 
 Tommy's real excuse that during the greater part 
 of the day there was absolutely no one else to whom
 
 io8 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 he could talk at all seemed to him too silly to put 
 forward. 
 
 "I don't often do it," he pleaded. "We always 
 have the waits at Christmas, and that gave me the idea. 
 I didn't mean to do any harm." 
 
 "Very likely, but you must please remember that 
 rules are rules. You've given me no trouble so far, 
 and I believe that you didn't intend to give any now. 
 For that reason I shan't punish you. Now shut the 
 piano, and run back to your bedroom. And another 
 time try to think before you do anything." 
 
 Tommy thanked him, said good night, and went off 
 to his room. It was all a failure, and he wished that he 
 had never thought of it. Christmas was not beginning 
 very well. 
 
 When Elton came down to breakfast on the follow- 
 ing morning, he found a white envelope on his plate. 
 Tommy, looking rather self-conscious, watched that 
 envelope out of a corner of his eye as Elton opened 
 it. It contained a Christmas card. On one side was 
 a picture of a small church and a hard frost; on the 
 other was written, in a boyish hand, "With love and 
 best wishes from T. Maynham." Elton glanced at it 
 and put it down. He never sent cards himself, and did 
 not like receiving them. 
 
 "Very pretty," he said. "Thank you, Maynham. 
 The compliments of the season to you." Then he re- 
 lapsed into silence and Schopenhauer. When he got 
 up from breakfast he forgot to take the card. Tommy 
 brought it to him just as he was leaving the dining-hall. 
 "Ah, thanks!" said Elton. "I'm always forgetting 
 my letters, you know." But this did not reassure 
 Tommy; he knew that the card was, like the hymn- 
 tune, a failure. Elton sauntered upstairs to his own
 
 THE BOY AND THE PESSIMIST 109 
 
 room, and dropped the card into the waste-paper bas- 
 ket. Tommy went to church alone that morning. 
 Elton explained that he had an incipient cold, and 
 thought it would be better for him to keep to the house 
 that morning. As a matter of fact, he wished to finish 
 copying out that bitter satire, "Christmas Reviewed." 
 It would be an additional point if it were finished on 
 Christmas Day. As he began work, an uneasy idea 
 flashed across him that he might just as well look after 
 Tommy a little bit more, and make things pleasanter 
 for him. Tommy apparently took Christmas very 
 seriously, and would like a little more sociability. He 
 made up his mind to encourage Tommy to talk at 
 dinner, and, perhaps, spend a few minutes in the day- 
 room with him afterwards. Elton was not an unkind 
 man, only rather vain, rather selfish, and frequently 
 forgetful. By the time that the dinner-bell rang, he 
 had forgotten all about Tommy, and had worked up 
 his dejection and detestation of life (by close applica- 
 tion to "Christmas Reviewed") to such a pitch that he 
 neither wanted to talk to anybody nor see anybody. 
 
 It is to be feared that that dinner must place Tommy 
 in no heroic light. Christmas dinner was, in all of 
 Tommy's previous experience, a banquet. Tradition 
 demanded that there should be turkey in it; the boot- 
 boy had told Tommy (though a superficial knowledge 
 of Mr. Bunby should have taught him better), that 
 he was pretty certain it would be turkey ; Tommy had 
 expected turkey. He had pictured it carved liberally 
 by a smiling master (now at last awake to the joviality 
 of the season), and handed to a rejoicing boy. He 
 had decided to ask Mr. Elton that excellent riddle 
 about Turkey and China, which Tommy's uncle never 
 failed to propound on due occasion. Why, the mere
 
 no STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 eating of the turkey would be a mystic bond of union 
 between himself in exile and his people at home. Five 
 minutes before dinner his imagination plainly detected 
 the very smell of turkey. 
 
 And it was a leg of mutton! Elton carved it, with- 
 out seeming at all conscious that it was wrong, or even 
 conscious that Tommy was present. It is an authenti- 
 cated fact that thousands of starving families would 
 have welcomed that leg of mutton, and that some 
 religious orders habitually take their meals in silence. 
 Tommy, being neither a starving family nor a religious 
 order, but merely a wretched boy, for the first time in 
 his life refused a second help. And then came a rice- 
 pudding and more silence. It is an authenticated fact 
 that some whole nations live almost entirely on rice. 
 It is singularly nutritious. 
 
 Then Tommy rose and said with fair steadiness : 
 "May I go, sir? I'm not well." 
 
 "Certainly," said Elton. Of course, Tommy's peo- 
 ple had sent him a hamper, and the boy had eaten too 
 much. Pig ! Well, it was all a suggestion for "Christ- 
 mas Reviewed." 
 
 Elton finished his dinner leisurely and then supposed 
 that he would have to go and look after the dis- 
 gusting little beast. He found him in the day-room. 
 The disgusting little beast was sitting with a book in 
 front of him at the further end of the table. His head 
 rested on his hands, and when Elton entered he turned 
 away as much as possible. 
 
 "Well, Maynham, what's the matter?" 
 
 "I'm all right now, sir," said Tommy. 
 
 It did not sound like the boy's natural voice. Elton 
 came further into the room, and then saw that Tommy
 
 THE BOY AND THE PESSIMIST in 
 
 was crying. He went up to him and took him by the 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Why, Maynham," he said, "this doesn't look as if 
 everything was all right." 
 
 "I wish it wasn't Christmas," said Tommy, and 
 continued crying. "But I'm all right," he added. 
 
 Slowly and incoherently, in reply to Elton's ques- 
 tions, he told what was the matter. He spoke of what 
 he had been used to do at Christmas. It was loneliness 
 that was the matter loneliness, and neglect, and un- 
 friendliness, amounting to contempt and even cruelty. 
 Tommy did not accuse Elton of any of these things; 
 he did not seem to think Elton had behaved badly to 
 him; yet Elton was sufficiently intelligent to make 
 deductions. To feel that he was an unhappy man 
 had brought him a kind of melancholy pleasure; to 
 feel that he had been a brute brought him no pleasure 
 at all. And, though Tommy's only specific accusation 
 was against the leg of mutton, it was Elton who stood 
 condemned felt it knew it. 
 
 "Well," said Elton, "I'm glad you're not really ill, 
 because I wanted you this afternoon." 
 
 "Wanted me?" 
 
 "Yes, I've had a lot of work on hand these last few 
 days. But I shan't woik on Christmas Day, and, 
 besides, I'm sick of being alone always. If you're not 
 too keen on your book, what I should really like would 
 be a game of draughts. Only, I haven't got a board." 
 
 "I have," said Tommy. "Shall I get it?" 
 
 "Do." 
 
 "It's in my room. I'll be down with it in a minute." 
 
 "Oh, we won't play here," said Elton. "This room 
 isn't very comfortable. Come to my sitting-room." 
 
 The masters' sitting-room was not luxurious, but it
 
 112 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 was a paradise compared to the day-room. It was a 
 paradise which no boy at Redhurst had ever yet been 
 allowed to enter. Here was an invitation that was 
 honor, indeed. Tommy was effusive in his thanks. 
 
 It took Tommy two minutes to find that draught- 
 board. During these two minutes Elton had time to 
 get to his room, fish Tommy's card out of the waste- 
 paper basket, discover that it would just fit the frame 
 that now held a photograph of Gibbing's sister, re- 
 move the photograph and substitute the card and place 
 it in the center of the mantelpiece. Tommy's eyes 
 lighted on it as he came into the room. 
 
 "Why, that's the one " he exclaimed. 
 
 "Yes, we've given you the place of honor. Won- 
 derful, that frost effect is !" 
 
 "And it's just done with glue and powdered glass," 
 said Tommy. "I could do it myself." 
 
 "But you can't beat me at draughts. Come along 
 with you now." 
 
 Elton intended to let Tommy win the first game. 
 Tommy saved him the trouble by taking it. Then 
 Elton decided to win the second game himself, played 
 carefully and lost it. Elton had not played since he 
 was a child. He had scored one game to Tommy's five, 
 and they were in the middle of the seventh when the 
 tea-bell rang. 
 
 "Why shouldn't we have tea up here?" suggested 
 Elton. "Run downstairs and fetch the things up, and 
 we'll make a picnic." 
 
 This was the sort of thing that Tommy liked; any 
 boy prefers an irregular to a regular meal. Tommy, 
 rather shyly and apologetically, added a cake, "Which 
 they sent me, and it isn't half bad really, sir, if you'd 
 try it." Elton tried it, and was enthusiastic.
 
 THE BOY AND THE PESSIMIST 113 
 
 "Are we going to have any waits to-night?" asked 
 Elton, smiling, just before supper. "Come, Tommy, 
 let's have the performance now, at a reasonable time." 
 
 So the tune came in seasonably after all, and if the 
 left hand did omit the more difficult chords and play 
 the easier ones wrong, neither Tommy nor Mr. Elton 
 seemed to consider that this at all detracted from the 
 general effect. Tommy went to bed radiantly happy. 
 It had not taken much to make him happy. 
 
 When Tommy had gone to bed, Elton so far dis- 
 regarded Mr. Bunby's direction as to ring the bell and 
 ask for the cook. She came, astonished, somewhat 
 flustered. 
 
 "Cook," said Elton, "we must have a turkey for 
 dinner to-morrow." 
 
 Cook was sure that they ought to have it, too, only 
 Mr. Bunby wouldn't hear of it, and if he saw turkey 
 in the dinner-book well, there! Let alone Orley, the 
 poulterer, being shut on Bank Holiday. She was sorry, 
 too, she was. But Mr. Elton knew what Mr. Bunby 
 was oh ; most careful ! and well, there ! 
 
 "Look here, cook," said Elton, "this is a sovereign. 
 Mr. Bunby need not pay for the turkey, and Orley will 
 not risk losing your custom for twenty Bank Holidays. 
 Get the turkey, keep the change for a Christmas box, 
 and the compliments of the season to you." Next day 
 the turkey arrived all right. In the dinner-book the 
 cook made the entry "Muton chopes," and hoped that 
 it was no acting of a lie which, however, it was. 
 
 Elton found that he had enjoyed the latter part of 
 that day more than he had enjoyed anything for some 
 time. His nature had not changed, but his point of 
 view had. He saw himself less as a master and more 
 as a man. And during the rest of the holidays he did
 
 114 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 his best to wipe out from his memory (and Tommy's) 
 his recollection of himself as a brute. 
 
 One night at the end of the holidays he came across 
 a poem on hand-made paper, entitled "Christmas Re- 
 viewed." Some of it was very clever and very bitter. 
 Elton was ashamed of it and burnt it. 
 
 But he still keeps one document of which he is even 
 more ashamed a letter from Tommy's mother in In- 
 dia, wishing to thank him personally and most warmly 
 for his great goodness and kindness to her dear little 
 son during the Christmas holidays.
 
 X 
 
 CHRISIMISSIMA 
 
 CHRISTINA ARGENT was, officially and other- 
 wise, the leader of the school at Helmstone. 
 Her age and position in the school gave her the official 
 leadership and made her monitor. But official leaders 
 often have but little influence and dominance: Chris- 
 tina had much. If she had been younger and lower on 
 the list, it is probable she would still have led. 
 
 There must be a reason for this, and Olive Pastowe 
 would have said that the reason was that Christina 
 was by far the nicest girl in the school and also the 
 prettiest. But as Olive and Christina were great 
 friends, Olive's evidence is open to objection on the 
 score of bias. In some respects the girls were alike; 
 they were both fifteen, both dark-haired. If Christina, 
 who could look very proud, was really the prettiest 
 girl in the school, certainly Olive came second. They 
 had the same tastes; their handwriting was ludicrous 
 in its similarity. But Christina had authority and 
 Olive had none. Minna Nathan would have explained 
 this on the ground that Christina was the wealthiest 
 girl in the school and the daughter of titled parents. 
 But Minna, to be frank, was a mean-souled snob ; and 
 one regrets to add that Minna's papa was another. 
 Ellen Holmes would have pointed out that Christina 
 was the best hockey-player and could throw a cricket- 
 
 "5
 
 ii6 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 ball just like a boy. This is true as far as it goes. But 
 Christina was no Admirable Crichton in work or in 
 sport. Her arithmetic was marked "Deplorable" in 
 her report. Her friend Olive could give her half fif- 
 teen at tennis, nor could she swim twice the length of 
 the bath under water, a feat which Ellen Holmes her- 
 self could accomplish. We must perforce consider 
 that Ellen was wanting in psychological analysis. 
 
 It is more satisfactory and also quite easy to say 
 that Christina Argent was a leader because she pos- 
 sessed the gift of leadership. It is a mysterious gift. 
 It is a gift which has been possessed by people who in 
 other respects bore little resemblance to each other 
 by Chatham, for example, and by General Booth; by 
 Gladstone and by Beaconsfield. In such men lies the 
 note of dominant personality, and the greatest amount 
 of the highest attainments can never make up for the 
 want of it or take the place of it. Look, for example,, 
 
 at such illustrious failures as But you may fill 
 
 in the names for yourself; you will have no difficulty. 
 
 The natural consequence of Christina's pre-eminence 
 was that Olive's principal claim to consideration was 
 that she was the one intimate friend of Christina. 
 She had her own merits. If you had asked specially 
 about her tennis, you would have been told that she 
 was simply splendid, and had won a tournament in 
 which several adults were engaged. In work she had 
 shown an aptitude that was almost uncanny for Eng- 
 lish history. But if you had merely said: "Who's 
 Olive?" the answer would have been "Olive? Why, 
 she's Christina's greatest friend." The principal 
 claim to distinction would have been first stated. 
 Mabel Leroy would have said that Olive was Chris- 
 tina's best pal, but Mabel was always a little slangy.
 
 CHRISIMISSIMA 117 
 
 It was commonly pleaded in her defense that she had 
 many brothers. 
 
 It would appear from the pages of history that the 
 favorites of the great all fall from their high estate. 
 The kindly historian assigns the fall to the capricious- 
 ness and fickleness of the monarch, but it must be 
 confessed that the favorite has frequently brought 
 it on himself. Because he has held his position for a 
 long time he regards it as an assured position ; he has 
 presumed. When we come to consider the celebrated 
 break between Olive and Christina, which created so 
 much talk in the Helmstone school, we find that the 
 first step came from Olive herself. As she admitted 
 afterwards, she began it. She may have been right in 
 what she did, or she may have been wrong; the bare 
 facts shall be recorded. 
 
 The school possessed its own playing-fields, and the 
 pupils spent most of their leisure there; but at certain 
 times they were required to take a formal and proces- 
 sional walk through the streets of Helmstone a thing 
 abhorrent. It is true that the walk gave them a passing 
 glimpse into fascinating shop-windows, and enabled 
 them to make notes of the prevalent feminine fashions; 
 but these delights were miserably tempered. It was 
 only a passing glimpse, and while you looked at one 
 side of the street you missed things on the other. 
 That delicious and prolonged flattening of the nose 
 against the plate-glass, while you are wondering which 
 you would buy if you could afford it, was not the 
 thing that Miss Ferdinand or any of her agents would 
 have permitted. If a horse had fallen or a motor-car 
 broken down, the school might not stand around with 
 wondering eyes and dropped jaws, and ask the police- 
 man how it happened; the procession could give but
 
 u8 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 one longing look and continue to proceed. Then, too, 
 there was the consciousness that this procession of 
 girls, each with the school colors on a severe straw 
 hat, was greeted with humorous and impolite comment 
 by the vulgar. Men said things and you could see the 
 smile. For this reason Christina at the head of the 
 profession always wore an expression of remote, re- 
 frigerated haughtiness; and even her friend Olive by 
 her side did her best to appear less interested in things 
 in general than she really was. 
 
 Subject to the approval of the authorities, the girls 
 settled among themselves how they would be paired 
 for the walk. Thus Elsa would say to Marjorie : 
 "May I walk with you to-day?" And Marjorie would 
 reply: "Yes, do let's," or "I've promised Dora," ac- 
 cording to her inclinations or arrangements. But 
 Christina and Olive always walked together as a mat- 
 ter of course, and had done so for a very long time 
 more than a fortnight, as Christina afterwards calcu- 
 lated. This makes the case look rather black against 
 Olive; yet it is possible that in what she did she was 
 actuated by kindness degenerating into weakness, if 
 you like, but still kindness. Hear and judge for your- 
 self. 
 
 Olive came up to Christina in the cloak-room five 
 minutes before the walk started, and said: "Chrisi- 
 missima" this was her fond abbreviation of her 
 leader's name "I hope you don't mind, but I'm walk- 
 ing with Nellie Holmes to-day. She's asked me so 
 often that I was simply ashamed to keep on saying that 
 I was engaged." 
 
 Christina treated the matter with a suspicious light- 
 ness. "Of course you're not engaged," she said. 
 "Hope you'll have a nice time. I'd promised to walk
 
 CHRISIMISSIMA 119 
 
 with Gwen, anyhow." This last statement was quite 
 untrue, and it is unfortunately not the only untruth 
 with which we shall have to discredit Christina. She 
 went off at once to make the arrangement with Gwen 
 a pusillanimous wretch who broke a distinct promise 
 to Mabel Leroy in order that she might accept the 
 flattering boon of Christina's society. 
 
 Olive did not enjoy the walk in the least. She was 
 troubled and depressed. She asked herself if she had 
 done right. She loved Christina, but she did not want 
 to hurt anybody's feelings not even those of Nellie 
 Holmes. Still, if Christina was going to be offended, 
 was Nellie Holmes worth it? 
 
 Nellie, as has already been pointed out, could swim 
 twice the length of the bath under water. But she 
 stopped there. 
 
 Yes, the above paragraph is unfortunately expressed. 
 What is really meant, is that Ellen Holmes had no 
 accomplishments other than natatory. Also, she was 
 as plain as a motor-omnibus. 
 
 Christina was very angry. That "I hope you don't 
 mind" of Olive's was tactless and rankled. Why on 
 earth should she mind ? Any girl in the school would 
 be only too glad and proud to be her companion on the 
 walk. All the same, she did hate people who did not 
 know their own minds, or pretended to be very fond of 
 you when they really did not care. And if that was 
 the way Olive was going on, she would soon show 
 her Elliptical but threatening. 
 
 She spoke of Olive to Gwen quite dispassionately, 
 with scrupulous fairness, not shutting her eyes to the 
 fact that Olive had her slightly ridiculous side. The 
 slave Gwendolen endeavored to echo the note, and 
 got badly snubbed for her pains. Gwendolen had not
 
 120 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 realized that in her place by Christina's side she was 
 merely a caretaker, and that caretakers should not 
 behave like owners. 
 
 Christina and Olive met after the walk. "I'd much 
 sooner have been with you," said Olive at once. 
 
 Christina wore that air of not having heard, which 
 is not uncommon with those who have the gift of 
 leadership. Olive had to repeat her remark, with some 
 of the enthusiasm chilled out of her. 
 
 "Really!" said Christina, giving her attention to 
 the arrangement of her hair. "I should have thought 
 Minnie Nathan would just have suited you." 
 
 "It wasn't Minnie Nathan," said Olive indignantly, 
 "and you know it wasn't. I simply can't stand her. It 
 was only poor little Nellie, because nobody seems 
 
 Christina swept away from the looking-glass with 
 a fair-to-middling assumption of boredom. "Oh, 
 well," she said, "you can't expect me to know who all 
 your friends are; besides, it doesn't interest me." 
 
 The rapidity with which news of importance is 
 obtained and circulated in girls' schools is a problem 
 that still baffles the inquirer. That very afternoon it 
 was whispered in the classroom that the old, almost 
 monumental, friendship between Christina and Olive 
 was quite broken up. The report was brought for 
 confirmation to Christina herself by Minna Nathan, 
 who was generally active in any pretty work of the 
 kind. "You can't break up what wasn't," said Chris- 
 tina with cold disdain. 
 
 Later in the day it was announced, officially, that 
 Miss Ferdinand would give a special prize for history 
 at the end of the term; and, unofficially, that Olive 
 Pastowe meant to go in for it. "Funny," said Chris- 
 tina, when she heard. "I'm going in for it myself.
 
 CHRISIMISSIMA 121 
 
 However," she added, with a humility which would 
 have been more touching if it had been convincing, 
 "she's bound to beat me." 
 
 It must be admitted that, as a rule, the disposition 
 of extra prizes in this school was a matter of arrange- 
 ment among the girls themselves. Naturally, the com- 
 plete duffer was not allowed to annex them; that 
 would have been unjust and would have awakened 
 the suspicions of the authorities. But when four girls 
 all had a chance of the same prize, they settled among 
 themselves which of the four was to get it. The 
 selection depended on various considerations. The girl 
 who got the prize last time would, of course, be ruled 
 out. The girl who was certain of other prizes would 
 also be told not to be greedy. On the other hand, a 
 girl who was in for a bad-conduct report would have 
 some claim on that prize as a counter-weight. The 
 girl who first demanded it "Bags I the history prize" 
 would be the correct formula and had been promised 
 a sovereign by papa if she brought a prize home, 
 would have a very strong case, more especially if she 
 agreed to divide a moiety of that sovereign among the 
 other competitors. 
 
 The system had its advantages. It prevented 
 rivalry and bitterness of feeling. Under a strictly 
 competitive system four girls would have worked 
 cruelly hard, and three would have been disappointed ; 
 by this method one girl worked moderately, three were 
 as slack as they pleased, and there were no disappoint- 
 ments at all. The captious moralist may say that it 
 suggests that the auction knock-out is a feminine in- 
 vention, but we have no concern with him. 
 
 It will be seen, then, that Christina had disregarded 
 the etiquette of the school. Olive, by using the "Bags
 
 122 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 I" formula, had put in a claim for the history prize. 
 That claim would have been subjected to discussion, 
 and might, or might not, have been established. But 
 it was contrary to all settled principles for another girl 
 to introduce a crude rivalry into the business, and, 
 without any discussion of Olive's claim, to oppose it 
 by sheer work. It meant bad feeling. It meant a 
 lowering of the standard to that of mere competition. 
 It meant that the girl who knew the most history would 
 get the history prize. It was subversive. It was all 
 wrong. 
 
 Yet there was no general condemnation of Chris- 
 tina's .action ; such was the strength of her position. It 
 was regarded with sorrow rather than with anger. 
 With gentle resignation all other possible competitors 
 for that extra prize withdrew. In this life-or-death 
 struggle between Olive and Christina there was no 
 place for the ordinary weakling. Six to four in small 
 square caramels was offered on Christina and taken. 
 
 It was terrific. The ease and exactitude with which 
 both Christina and Olive answered all questions in 
 each day's history lesson astounded, even while it 
 pleased, Miss Ferdinand. Guilelessly she held up these 
 two girls as examples to the class. Little did she know 
 that Olive had borrowed money (which was against 
 the rules) to buy candles (which were not allowed) 
 for the purpose of nocturnal work in her bedroom 
 a thing absolutely illegal. Little did she know the still 
 more horrid fact that the pages of Christina's Prayer 
 Book were literally pencilled with mundane and un- 
 godly dates, and that Christina committed them to 
 memory when she should indubitably have been think- 
 ing of other things. 
 
 "I wouldn't work like those two for a good deal,"
 
 CHRISIMISSIMA 123 
 
 said Flossie Bayle, and she spoke the truth and voiced 
 the general sentiment. Any reasonable girl would 
 have been reluctant to work like that, but people do 
 silly things when their blood is up. 
 
 The break between the two friends increased and 
 became more definite with their rivalry. They spoke 
 to one another as little as possible now, and always 
 with icy civility. Olive looked sometimes at Christina 
 with wistful eyes, but Christina was careful never to 
 look at Olive at all, and when Christina changed her 
 place in the dining-hall so as not to sit next to Olive, 
 Olive bit her lip and took the only course possible to a 
 girl of spirit; she complained of a draught, and thus 
 got herself removed from the seat beside Christina in 
 the classroom. 
 
 On the day before the examination Christina had 
 gone back to even betting. Minna Nathan, who had 
 accepted six to four from the friends of Christina, now 
 backed Christina herself for five caramels, and openly 
 proclaimed that she was on velvet either way. It is 
 needless to add that Minna took the arithmetic prize. 
 
 Breakfast-time came on the great day of the history 
 examination, and no books might be read at breakfast. 
 Christina, however, circumvented the regulation. She 
 received a letter from home addressed in the hand- 
 writing of her eldest sister. The letter itself dealt with 
 the Rockingham Administration, the career of Wilkes, 
 the character of Thurlow, and other pleasant trifles of 
 the period. In this way Christina was enabled to gorge 
 knowledge up to the very last moment. 
 
 Olive also had a letter from home, but her letter was 
 quite genuine, and Olive turned as white as the cloth 
 when she read it. 
 
 The examination began at nine; when a girl had
 
 124 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 finished her paper she handed it up to Miss Packman 
 and was then free to go and play. Mabel Leroy looked 
 through the questions, said "By gum!" under her 
 breath, wrote two lines of fantastic imbecility about 
 the surrender of Lord Cornwallis, and showed up her 
 paper at 9.7 precisely. But this was not tolerated. 
 She was commanded to think and to try again. At 
 9.30 she was allowed to go. Nellie Holmes had writ- 
 ten all she knew, and some things that she did not 
 know, a few minutes later. It was a stiff paper, and 
 few there were that could wrestle long with it. When 
 Minna Nathan showed up her paper at 11.15, after 
 surreptitiously tossing a coin to settle the date of 
 Chatham's death, she left only Christina and Olive still 
 writing. The paper suited Christina perfectly. It 
 would have suited Olive equally well, but Olive had 
 received bad news that morning, and could not keep 
 her mind on her work. Seated with her face to the 
 wall, she had wept quietly and unobserved. But she 
 was still struggling on when twelve struck; and the 
 two girls met at the desk to give in their papers. Chris- 
 tina noticed Olive's face, seemed on the verge of speak- 
 ing, and then turned away. 
 
 Christina knew that she had done well. She had 
 answered every question. She had been a little in 
 doubt as to the date of Austerlitz, and had made a 
 shot. The shot, she found on referring to her history, 
 had been singularly blessed. But, even as she turned 
 the pages of the history, she was haunted by that look 
 of Olive's. What could have happened to her ? Chris- 
 tina felt that she must find out, and for that purpose 
 she sought Minna Nathan. Minna was not popular, 
 and knew far too much arithmetic; but Minna had
 
 CHRISLMISSIMA 125 
 
 also a gift for knowing the private affairs of other 
 girls. 
 
 "Come here, Minna," said Christina, with dignity. 
 "Now, then, what has Olive been crying about?" 
 
 "Don't you know? Her mother's ill, and there's 
 to be an operation to-morrow morning. I believe 
 she'll die ; they generally do when there's an operation. 
 I'll have a bet with you on it, if you like." 
 
 "No. Go on." 
 
 "That's all. Oh, yes, she's to get a telegram to- 
 morrow morning. She didn't seem to want to talk 
 about it much, and she's gone off to the end of the 
 garden by herself. It's ruined her chance of the his- 
 tory prize she says that half the time she didn't know 
 what she was writing about." 
 
 "I see," said Christina. 
 
 Christina had set her heart on that history prize. 
 There could be no doubt that she would get it, and 
 quite suddenly she found that she did not want it at 
 all ; the only thing she did want was that Olive should 
 have it. She made her plan on the instant. 
 
 "Is there anything else you want to know?" asked 
 the obsequious Minna. "I can find out some more if 
 you like. Mother calls me her little detective." 
 
 "Does she? Sweet child! No, I don't want any 
 more. By the way, you're all wrong about the history 
 prize. The paper didn't suit me a bit. I made a lot of 
 howlers, and some of the questions I never even tried." 
 
 Minna went off, eager to disseminate the news of 
 Christina's failure. Christina could generally calculate 
 on what Minna would do. 
 
 Olive sat alone on a bench at the further end of the 
 garden. It was very cold, but she did not notice it; the
 
 126 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 evergreens shut out from her view the terrible world. 
 In one red hand she held a wet handkerchief, and in 
 the other the letter from her father. 
 
 After all, it contained crumbs of comfort. "I hope 
 to send you a reassuring telegram to-morrow morn- 
 ing," it said. "Don't be frightened." She read the 
 sentences over and over again. Oh, if she only had 
 somebody to whom she could really talk about it ! In 
 the old days 
 
 She looked up at the sound of a footstep, and there 
 was Christina Christina, with both hands stretched 
 out Chrisimissima, with no dignity at all, and visible 
 tears in her eyes. 
 
 "Oh, Olive dear! don't tell me to go away, or be 
 polite or anything. I've only just heard, and I'm 
 most awfully sorry for you. And I wish I hadn't be- 
 haved like a pig and a beast to you. O-oh, o-oh, 
 o-oh!" Christina was sobbing. 
 
 "Oh, Chrisimissima!" They became inarticulate, 
 with their arms round one another. 
 
 A little later they read the letter together. And it 
 appeared that Christina's mother had undergone an 
 operation, and had got well again ever so soon; and 
 that, on the whole, operations were rather a good 
 thing, because doctors were most frightfully clever 
 nowadays. 
 
 Olive was much comforted, and the delicate question 
 of the history prize was touched upon. "Of course 
 I've lost it," said Olive. "Really, I hardly knew what 
 I was writing, and I couldn't think. But I'm glad 
 you'll have it. The only thing is that my people will 
 be disappointed mummy particularly; and I hope it 
 won't be bad for her. You see, history's about the 
 only thing I was ever any good at."
 
 CHRISIMISSIMA 127 
 
 "That's all right," said Christina. "It's absolutely 
 certain you've got the prize. I can promise you that. 
 The paper didn't suit me in the least, and none of the 
 things that I had worked up were asked. I was per- 
 fectly putrid. I didn't even try half the questions." 
 
 "I did more than that," said Olive doubtfully. 
 "But, still " 
 
 They compared notes. Christina repeated her as- 
 surance. Olive would get the prize, and Chrisimis- 
 sima would be delighted. 
 
 It happened even as Christina had said. The his- 
 tory prize was awarded to Olive, who wondered how 
 it had come to pass, but telegraphed the glad news 
 home to a convalescent mother. Christina was told 
 that her answers had been scanty and inaccurate. 
 "You have disappointed me," said Miss Ferdinand. 
 Christina smiled sweetly. 
 
 Now, Christina had done well in the examination, 
 Olive had done badly, Miss Ferdinand marked the 
 papers fairly, and yet Olive got the prize. The ex- 
 planation is simple enough. 
 
 The position of monitor carried with it the very 
 high privilege of acting as occasional errand-girl to 
 Miss Ferdinand. It was always Christina who was 
 deputed to bring the pile of examination papers from 
 the class-room to Miss Ferdinand's study. 
 
 "Here is the key to the desk in which the papers 
 are," said Miss Ferdinand solemnly. "And remember, 
 Christina, that I am trusting to your honor." 
 
 Christina had only to transpose her own papers and 
 Olive's, changing the outer sheets which alone bore 
 the competitor's name. The close similarity of their 
 handwritings prevented any detection of the fraud. 
 Often in the old days had Olive written half of Chris-
 
 128 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 tina's imposition for her, or Christina rendered a simi- 
 lar service to Olive. 
 
 Chrisimissima had been insanely jealous. She had 
 told fibs. She had, in the matter of the examination 
 papers, been guilty of a dishonorable breach of trust. 
 Can anything be said for her?
 
 XI 
 A VICIOUS CIRCLE 
 
 ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE INSTINCT OF THE CAT AND 
 OF THE DOG 
 
 LADY VERMOISE did not ask Mrs. Palton for 
 the 1 4th, when many desirable people would 
 have been met. Now, Lady Vermoise had professed 
 affection for Angela Palton, and was distantly related 
 to her. 
 
 It may have been carelessness on the part of Lady 
 Vermoise. It may have been a reflection that Mrs. 
 Palton was "not quite well, just a little rather, eh? 
 You know what I mean." And it may have been a 
 touch of conscience that made Lady Vermoise ask Mrs. 
 Palton for the iQth, when, however, on her own show- 
 ing there would be nobody but George (George is a 
 perfect idiot). 
 
 Mrs. Palton's refusal for the iQth was perfectly 
 charming and polite. "I don't dream of letting her 
 think that I've taken offense," she said to her husband. 
 "All the same " 
 
 ii 
 
 MRS. PALTON'S cook, Emma Blades, was a woman of 
 character, three years in her last place, an early riser, 
 
 129
 
 130 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 fond of children, and had other qualities which deserve 
 and should receive our admiration and respect. 
 
 Mrs. Palton gave one of her dinner-parties bien- 
 nial, allowing time for recovery before the next. 
 Emma Blades did her very best. She did not spare 
 herself. Everything was beautiful. 
 
 Mrs. Palton may have been tired next morning 
 could you wonder? It may have simply never oc- 
 curred to her. Certainly she omitted any word of 
 compliment to Emma Blades next morning, and Emma 
 noticed it. 
 
 Mrs. Palton showed more thought fulness later in 
 the day, when she reflected that there would only be 
 the cutlets to warm up, to be followed by the remainder 
 macedoine, and told Emma that she could go out that 
 evening. 
 
 "Thank you very muchum," said Emma Blades. 
 "I'd prefer not to." It was said with a refrigerated 
 respectfulness. 
 
 "Ho, yes," said Emma Blades to the house-parlorer 
 after, "I wasn't going to show I'd troubled my 'ead 
 about it. But, however, when it comes to favors " 
 
 in 
 
 EMMA BLADES was not only aunt, but also godmother 
 to her married sister's youngest, Doris, aged ten, who 
 needs to control her temper her mother has admitted 
 it. And Emma Blades practically never forgot that 
 Doris had a birthday on May 3, and signified the same 
 in the usual manner. 
 
 But, of course, a biennial dinner-party may put 
 everything out of anybody's head. Besides, Emma
 
 A VICIOUS CIRCLE 131 
 
 had a bad memory for dates. It was June 7 before 
 she discovered that she had forgotten our Doris's 
 birthday. She hastened at once to an act of repara- 
 tion. 
 
 She sent Doris macaroons and it is none of your 
 business where Emma Blades got them from. They 
 were packed in the card box which had contained the 
 house-parlorer's collars, and enclosed with them was 
 an old birthday-card which Emma had bread-crumbed 
 from a love of cleanliness, and very nearly fried from 
 the force of natural sequence. 
 
 And Doris wrote on a post card: "Dear Arnty, 
 Meny thanks for your kind biskwits." 
 
 "For she shan't think I care," said Doris. Not- 
 withstanding, not one of those biscuits would she eat. 
 She gave them to a strange dog in the park. 
 
 IV 
 
 Now, that dog was the property of Lady Vermoise. 
 It had been sent out for exercise with the second 
 footman. But the second footman was heavy with 
 Benedictine; for, as he had observed to the first 
 footman, if he did not take it, somebody else would, 
 so he had slept in Battersea Park and left the physical 
 development to the dog. 
 
 It was a small black dog, reputed to be of Japanese 
 extraction. It was all fluff and bark. Lady Vermoise 
 called the black dog "Snowball." In fact, all her 
 ladyship's friends admitted that she was full of hu- 
 mor; and, after all, it is what our friends say about 
 us which really matters. 
 
 At tea-time the second footman, by command,
 
 132 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 brought in Snowball. No dog is really the better for 
 four large macaroons, and in any case there was some- 
 thing Japanese and bizarre about Snowball's disposi- 
 tion. He lay under a chair and snarled. 
 
 "Know what that means?" Lady Vermoise asked 
 her guests brightly. "Snowball and I are not quite 
 just a teeny-weeny well, he had to have a little lesson 
 from me. Dogs that snatch at things which are offered 
 them have them taken away again, don't they, Snow- 
 ball? It happened at breakfast-time. You should 
 witness an interesting rapprochement. Here, Snow- 
 ball, is the shortbread to which you are addicted. 
 Gently now. De la douceur, Boule-de-neige, calme-toi 
 tes transports!" 
 
 Upon which Snowball, with rapidity and decision, 
 bit Lady Vermoise in the fleshy part of her hand.
 
 XII 
 SUNNIBROW 
 
 OR, WHAT THE PRACTICAL BUILDER SAID TO THE YOUNG 
 
 MAN 
 
 WISH you was me, young man, do you? You 
 young chaps who make a mess at one trade 
 always think you could have succeeded at any other. 
 If you think that building houses, and letting them, 
 and keeping them let, is as easy as falling downstairs, 
 you're mistaken. It needs knowledge, and it needs 
 hard work. I've worked hard, and I've got the knowl- 
 edge. There's nobody can tell me anything about 
 mortar I don't know. Didn't know I ever used any? 
 Thank you; I don't want any jokes of that kind. 
 I'm a respectable tradesman, with a reputation which 
 I study. 
 
 Yes; and when you've done the work and got the 
 knowledge, you may make losses through not having 
 forecast the unforeseeable. That's what happened to 
 me with that blackguard Pirbright and my row of 
 little houses at Dyrtisea. I'll just tell you about that, 
 and then you'll see it ain't all velvet in my trade. 
 
 Dyrtisea will be a fine place one of these days. It 
 only wants a little enterprise on the part of the local 
 inhabitants. You can't make a first-class seaside re- 
 sort out of nothing. I got my bit of ground there on 
 favorable terms. There was a big land sale, and free
 
 134 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 lunch in the marquee on the estate, as per advertise- 
 ment. I .sat and ate my lunch, and then I sat and 
 looked on at the auction, and said nothing. There is 
 mostly a mug at these sales, and I was watching for 
 one. I found him. He was a mug that had bitten off 
 more than he could chew. , Just after lunch some 
 people feel richer than they are. 
 
 So I had a little chat with him afterwards, and made 
 myself as pleasant as I could. I told him he'd given 
 too much for his land, and that he'd never see his 
 money back, nor half of it. Land at Dyrtisea was 
 no more use than a sick-headache to most people. 
 However, when a gentleman was buying for himself, 
 that was different from a commercial speculation. 
 
 He said he was afraid he'd bought more than he 
 intended, and he had meant to put up houses there. 
 He had bought speculatively, in fact. So I gave him 
 my card, with a few appropriate remarks. There were 
 other builders there, chaps that were just simply on 
 the make, and I gave him a friendly warning of what 
 he might expect if he fell into their hands. 
 
 "And," I said, "as a proof that I'm straight with 
 you, I advise you to take what you can get for your 
 land, and cut the loss, even though it loses me the job 
 of building for you. I could see they were running you 
 up at the auction, and I only wish I could have got 
 near enough to you to have given you a hint then." 
 
 He thanked me. Two months later I'd bought most 
 of his land, at what I should call a reasonable reduc- 
 tion; and that wasn't all. I got the job of putting up 
 a house for him on the bit he kept ; and even after I'd 
 compromised the auction it left a profit, so that was all 
 right. 
 
 Then I ran up my row of six houses, and called
 
 SUNNIBROW 135 
 
 them Carlton Terrace. Did you ever hear a song 
 "Once, in the dear, dead days beyond recall"? Carl- 
 ton Terrace at Dyrtisea always reminds me of that. 
 
 Yes; my boy, those were the times. Nowadays 
 over-inspection is simply cutting into the heart of the 
 trade. But at Dyrtisea then there was absolutely 
 nothing that a practical builder couldn't get round 
 somehow, and I did get round. I wasn't forced to 
 throw a lot of money away over silly regulations. My 
 idea was to let those houses for three years, and then 
 paint them up a bit and fill in where necessary, and 
 sell the lot. After three years, knowing the houses, I 
 knew they'd be about ripe for getting rid of. 
 
 I wrote my own advertisement, and I didn't leave 
 anything out. It said : "Builder's sacrifice. On the 
 outskirts of the lovely old-world village of Dyrtisea, 
 and commanding magnificent views of the English 
 Channel. Compact seven-roomed residence, tiled 
 forecourt, electric bells, and every modern luxury. 
 Only needs to be seen." And so forth and so on. 
 
 I let my first tenant in pretty easy to give the thing 
 a start; and, seeing the bargain he got, I wasn't best 
 pleased when he died of double pneumonia, and his 
 widow came complaining to me. 
 
 "What do you mean?" I said. "I let your husband 
 a house, and let him have it cheap. I never told him 
 to move in before the plaster was dry. You be thank- 
 ful I'm not bringing an action for moral deterioration 
 of my property." 
 
 So that settled her. 
 
 Then another tenant got typhoid, and complained 
 about the plumber's work. Things had been a little 
 cut down on that side. But, as I said to him, you 
 chaps nowadays expect a marble bath and silver
 
 136 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 fittings in a twenty-eight-pound house, and it can't be 
 done. Well, I sent a man to do a little to some of the 
 leaky joints, and that kept him quiet. 
 
 However, by giving the thing my personal attention, 
 I soon got five out of my six houses let to good tenants 
 on yearly agreements ; and the agreements were drawn 
 to my own model, and had got more catches in them 
 than any fly-paper. There was only Sunnibrow left, 
 and one unlucky day I let that to this man Pirbright. 
 He said he was a traveller for a firm of cycle manu- 
 facturers, and he paid a quarter in advance. He was a 
 hard-faced man, and I was a little surprised that he 
 took my special kind of yearly agreement as easily as 
 he did. 
 
 And he'd hardly moved his sticks in before the row 
 began. I got St. Mildred's and The Chase both com- 
 ing in and complaining about the man at Sunnibrow. 
 St. Mildred's and The Chase were the two houses ad- 
 joining Sunnibrow, and they were let to my prize 
 tenants. They made their garden look nice, and they 
 had window-boxes, and planted creepers. (Didn't 
 know I cared so much about flowers, didn't you ? Why, 
 I could let a dog-kennel with the roof off and the 
 bottom out if it only had a Virginian creeper growing 
 up the front.) 
 
 They never gave any trouble; and when the walls 
 cracked they just filled up the cracks and re-papered at 
 their own expense. And The Chase had put up a 
 little greenhouse, that he wouldn't be able to take 
 away with him when he went. They complained that 
 on Tuesday night there had been a most awful noise 
 at Sunnibrow violent banging against the walls, loud 
 screaming, and what The Chase called "demoniac 
 laughter." It was so bad that St. Mildred's went
 
 SUNNIBROW 137 
 
 round to Sunnibrow to see what was the matter; but 
 though he knocked and rang several times, he could 
 get no answer, and the whole house seemed to be in 
 darkness. Yet the noises went on worse than ever. 
 
 "We put up with the cracks in the walls," said 
 The Chase, "you having told us that every new house 
 was bound to settle if properly built; but this is a 
 case where we must really ask you to do something." 
 
 "So I will," I said. "I'll do pretty well anything 
 in reason for good tenants, like you and St. Mildred's. 
 I'll go round to Sunnibrow this morning ill though 
 I can spare the time and just remind him of the 
 terms of his agreement. If he causes you the slightest 
 trouble or inconvenience, then out he goes." 
 
 And I meant it, too. Under-pinning costs a deal, 
 but it wouldn't cost me anything to frighten Pirbright. 
 Both St. Mildred's and The Chase paid punctually, 
 and were a much softer thing than one generally comes 
 across in business. Then, again, I didn't like that talk 
 of "violent banging against the walls." You see, I 
 knew those walls. They were all right for the ordinary 
 wear and tear of a Christian home, but they'd never 
 been constructed to stand horseplay. I slipped on my 
 coat and hat, and went round to Sunnibrow at once. 
 Pirbright answered the door himself. 
 
 "Come in," he said. "This is lucky. I was just 
 going to see you about that waste-pipe from the sink. 
 What's wrong is " 
 
 "Yes," I said ; "but I've got to talk about some- 
 thing much worse than that. I mean, what was going 
 on in this house on the night of Tuesday last? I've 
 had complaints about the noise from St. Mildred's and 
 also from The Chase."
 
 138 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "Tuesday night?" he said. "Why, I wasn't here 
 then. I'm often away on my business." 
 
 "So you say," I said. "Very naturally. But 
 
 "Well," he said savagely, "look at this letter, and 
 the postmarks on the envelope." 
 
 I looked at it very carefully. It was a letter to him 
 from his firm, dated on the Monday. It was addressed 
 to an hotel in Liverpool, and the envelope bore Tues- 
 day's postmark, and had not been re-addressed. And 
 the letter referred to business in Liverpool which was 
 to occupy him on the Wednesday; and I remembered 
 that St. Mildred's had been unable to get any answer 
 to a ring, and had seen no light in the house. 
 
 Still, I knew for a certainty that St. Mildred's and 
 The Chase would not have complained without a 
 reason; and his explanation might be satisfactory, 
 so far as he personally was concerned, but, even if he 
 had not made the row himself, he was the tenant, and 
 responsible for the people who had made it. 
 
 And so I told him. 
 
 "I don't care," I said, "whether it was you that 
 made the row, or whether it was your servant or your 
 friends, or your servant's friends. If I get any more 
 of it, I'll turn you out; and if you think I can't do 
 that, just glance over the clause at the bottom of page 
 three of your agreement." 
 
 "I don't keep a servant," said Pirbright. "I man- 
 age for myself. And I've never had any friends here. 
 I was just getting the home ready to bring my wife 
 to I'm to be married in a month's time. Looks to 
 me like a bit of a mystery." 
 
 "Well, I don't care what it looks like to you. You're 
 responsible; and if it happens again, you know now 
 what to expect. That's all I've got to say about it."
 
 SUNNIBROW 139 
 
 "Ah," said Pirbright, "then we can go on to the 
 subject of that pipe. The waste-pipe, as fixed at 
 present, discharges direct into " 
 
 "I've no time to talk about that now. Before you 
 ask a landlord to provide you, at his own expense, with 
 extra luxuries and improvements, you'd better show 
 yourself a more desirable tenant. Good morning!" 
 
 And I thought that was the end of it. 
 
 Next day I saw Pirbright helping St. Mildred's to 
 nail up a creeper, and chatting away as friendly as 
 possible ; and, later in the week, I found he was having 
 tea at The Chase, and St. Mildred's and his wife were 
 there, too. So it looked as if everything was forgiven 
 and forgotten, and all was peace and happiness again. 
 
 Next Sunday I met St. Mildred's and The Chase out 
 for a walk together, and they came up to say that they 
 had been mistaken, and that Pirbright was not re- 
 sponsible for the row on Tuesday night. 
 
 "As a matter of fact," said St. Mildred's, "we've 
 got to know him, and a very pleasant fellow he seems. 
 We are satisfied that neither he nor anybody else was 
 in Sunnibrow that night." 
 
 "Well, well," I said, "we needn't go into that. So 
 long as the row doesn't happen again, we can let 
 bygones be bygones." 
 
 "But the row does go on," said The Chase. "It's 
 worse than ever. The banging at the walls is louder, 
 and there is more of the screaming and demoniac 
 laughter. But it never happens when Pirbright's in the 
 house never once. In fact, we've begun to look on 
 him as a kind of safeguard. We should feel very 
 uneasy if he went altogether." 
 
 "It looks to me," said St. Mildred's, "like a case 
 for the Psychical Society."
 
 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "I suppose," said the Chase, "you didn't find any- 
 thing curious when you were digging out the founda- 
 tions or levelling the garden ?" 
 
 "I found a patch of sand, which I hadn't expected; 
 and if I'd found it a bit earlier it would have saved me 
 money over building the other houses." 
 
 "Yes," said The Chase; "what I meant was did 
 you find human remains, or anything of that kind?" 
 
 "No," I said, "I did not. And I hope both you 
 gentlemen will put any idea of that kind out of your 
 heads. That sort of thing doesn't do house property 
 any good, and there can't be any foundation for it. A 
 house that was built the day before yesterday, like 
 Sunnibrow, can't be a haunted house. It's against 
 the rules. Ask any man who's studied these things, 
 and he'll tell you that." 
 
 "Still," said St. Mildred's, "there are the facts. 
 We've investigated those noises, and we can't find 
 anything to explain them. Then there's the figure of 
 a woman in white. That's been seen twice in the 
 terrace late at night once by Mr. Proud foot of 
 Stanley Court, and once by Mrs. Johnson of Herne 
 Nest. Then there's the loud cracking noise at The 
 Pleasaunce : Mr. Smith has always put it down to 
 the house settling so far, but now he says he's not so 
 sure about it." 
 
 Now, that made me pretty angry. Here was every 
 blessed tenant bitten with this ghostly nonsense, and 
 I knew it was that blackguard Pirbright who'd done it. 
 A pretty business it would be for me if they all cleared 
 out. With the talk it would make in the neighbor- 
 hood, it would be a long time before I could let a house 
 in Carlton Terrace again. 
 
 "Look here, gentlemen," I said: "this is simply
 
 SUNNIBROW 141 
 
 and solely a trick of that Pirbright's. Now, I'm going 
 to do just two things : first, I'm going to find out how 
 he worked the trick, and then I'm going to give him 
 the sack; and if there's any ghostly manifestation 
 after he's gone, I'll eat my hat." 
 
 They told me I was mistaken in my estimate of 
 Pirbright. 
 
 "We'll see," I said. 
 
 So next morning I hung about the terrace until I 
 saw Pirbright leave his house. I had my own private 
 key to the front door of Sunnibrow; and as soon as 
 Pirbright was out of sight, I let myself in. I examined 
 the whole house from top to bottom, and only one 
 little thing did I find that looked at all suspicious. 
 And when I got outside the house again, there was 
 Pirbright standing in the garden. 
 
 "Hallo !" he said. "What are you doing there?" 
 
 "Landlord has reasonable access," I said. 
 
 "That be damned! Letting yourself in by your 
 own key without notice ain't reasonable access. It's 
 more like burglary." 
 
 "You'll find what I mean by reasonable access in 
 clause forty-three of your agreement. I thought, Mr. 
 Pirbright, you told me you were living alone." 
 
 "So I am." 
 
 "Well, I found this hairpin in the passage." 
 
 "Very likely. I'd the whole family in from next 
 door yesterday afternoon, investigating these rum- 
 funny noises." 
 
 "Yes," I said; "and I told you that if that dis- 
 turbance was repeated, you'd go. It has been repeated. 
 To-day's Monday. You can clear yourself and your 
 furniture out of this by next Saturday morning at the 
 latest."
 
 142 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "Thank you," he said. "I should like to have that 
 in writing, if you wouldn't mind stepping inside once 
 more." 
 
 So I gave him it in writing, and he took it quite 
 cheerfully. 
 
 "Right," he said. "I shall be out by Saturday. 
 And you'll hear from my solicitors in the course of the 
 week." 
 
 Next day I got notice from St. Mildred's and The 
 Chase. And the day following I got similar notice 
 from Herne Nest, Stanley Court, and The Pleasaunce. 
 
 And that's the kind of thing that a man in my 
 business may be called upon to face ! 
 
 Well, I know when I'm beaten. I went round to 
 Sunnibrow in the afternoon, and this time I rang the 
 bell. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Mr. Pirbright," I said. "I called 
 to tell you not to take any notice of what I said and 
 wrote on Monday. Perhaps we both lost our tempers 
 a little. We'll just tear that paper up." 
 
 "Well," said Pirbright, "I don't know that I care 
 about stopping. It'll be lonely with every other house 
 in the row empty." 
 
 "I fancy," I said, "that if you and I had a friendly 
 chat, none of these houses would be empty, and you'd 
 all be spared the trouble and expense of moving." 
 
 "It's possible," he said. "Come in." 
 
 "Now, then," I said, "if I could prove all I know, 
 I fancy the Court would award me heavy damages." 
 
 "Very likely. Being awarded heavy damages is 
 one thing; getting pudding out of empty saucepans 
 is another." 
 
 "That thought had occurred to me. Well, it has 
 also occurred to me that a man who starts a thing can
 
 SUNNIBROW 143 
 
 sometimes stop it whether it's a ghost-story or any- 
 thing else." 
 
 "That is so, if it's worth the man's while." 
 
 And so we came to terms. But that man Pirbright 
 was absolutely unconscionable. He got a twenty-eight- 
 pound house for twenty pounds, and an agreement 
 that was against the landlord's interests, and a whole 
 lot of plumbing work done for nothing. But it was 
 better than having six houses standing empty ; and my 
 tenants didn't leave after all. 
 
 Must have had a confederate? Well, I knew that, 
 of course. As soon as it was all settled, he said : 
 
 "And my missus will move in to-morrow. She's 
 been living in lodgings in Dyrtisea till I got the place 
 straight for her. She's been up here sometimes at 
 nights; and it's just occurred to me that she's about 
 the figure of that mysterious woman in white that 
 they've been talking about. She's as handy with a 
 hammer as any man opening crates and putting up 
 pictures. I couldn't stand the noise, so she only did 
 it when I was out she'd always got her gramophone 
 to keep her company." 
 
 "Yes," I said; "I see that. But you told me you 
 were a bachelor, going to be married in a month's 
 time." 
 
 "Did I?" he said. "Well, I never mind owning 
 when I'm wrong. I must have been thinking of some 
 other man."
 
 XIII 
 AUNT MARTHA 
 
 GEORGE, who knew his duty and did it, was 
 particularly careful to ask Aunt Martha if she 
 was not coming too. She said she was not. She said 
 that George's ideas of amusement were not hers. She 
 referred to her time of life. George's wife, Jane, then 
 tackled Aunt Martha herself, and said that it was 
 the fresh air she ought to think about. 'Aunt Martha 
 said that, not being in the habit of sucking sweets all 
 day herself, she was not in want of any change of air 
 or doctor's prescriptions. George went a step further. 
 He took his daughter Gladys aside and told her that 
 she really ought to ask Aunt Martha to come up to 
 the Heath with them. 
 
 "What?" said Gladys, a child of sound sense. "Me 
 ask her? Come off it!" 
 
 This ended the matter as far as Gladys was con- 
 cerned. Privately George and Jane congratulated 
 themselves. "She is a good woman," said George, 
 "but she's not one to enjoy herself." 
 
 "No," said Jane, "nor let others, neither." 
 
 Therefore it was a bit of a shock when Aunt Martha 
 appeared on the Monday morning with her loins girt, 
 so to speak, and ready for the expedition. 
 
 "I have given in to you this once," she said, "and 
 hope I shan't be sorry for it. It looks to me like rain. 
 
 144
 
 AUNT MARTHA 145 
 
 Anyhow, I shall be there to stop any waste of money 
 and lolloping about in public-houses." 
 
 Aunt Martha preferred the inside of the tram. The 
 rest of the party preferred the outside. 
 
 "Then you go in, aunt, and we'll go out," said 
 Jane. 
 
 "Then how am I to know where I am to get out ? I 
 wonder you can be so selfish." 
 
 George, a noble-hearted fellow, went inside with 
 Aunt Martha. He had a very fair twopenny smoke 
 in one pocket, and his pipe and pouch in another. He 
 was also well provided with matches. As the tram 
 rumbled along he had leisure to think about these 
 things. 
 
 "You needn't have told me," said Aunt Martha at 
 the journey's end, "that the trams went right up to 
 the Heath, because they don't." 
 
 "Well, it's only a step," said George apologetically. 
 
 "It's long enough for Gladys to get lost, such a 
 crowd as there is. You give me your hand, Gladys. 
 Now, then, George, don't stop about trying to light 
 that cigar of yours." 
 
 Gladys suggested the purchase of a tin rattle, of a 
 blue turquoise bracelet more or less turquoise, that is 
 of some peacocks' feathers, of a bag of lavender, and 
 of a paper hat made on a concertina principle. These 
 propositions were successively negatived by Aunt 
 Martha, who observed that little girls were made to 
 be seen and not heard, and if she asked for anything 
 else, she would be sent home immediately. By a clever 
 piece of strategy Gladys managed to transfer herself 
 from her aunt to her father. She tied the coppers up 
 in a corner of her handkerchief and quite understood 
 that she need not say anything to Aunt Martha about
 
 146 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 them. The question of when and where they should 
 feed arose for discussion. 
 
 "It's all one to me," said Aunt Martha. "Settle it 
 for yourselves. Apparently anything I like is what 
 everybody else dislikes. It was so in the tram coming 
 here, and it'll go on being so till the end of the day. 
 The very moment we got out, George started on his 
 cigar, which was just the same as if he'd told me to my 
 face that I'd been keeping him from it. Perhaps it 
 would be a better thing for his health if I could keep 
 him from it." 
 
 The family decided that half-past one would be an 
 excellent hour for lunch, and that a shady spot should 
 be found in some remote part of the Heath. 
 
 "Well," said Aunt Martha, "I had little or no 
 breakfast, and I feel faint now. What I shall be like 
 at half-past one I can't say. I shan't be able to eat 
 anything, because I shall have gone past it. I thought 
 we'd come here to see things, too, so what's the sense 
 of sitting down where you can't see anything? As 
 for the shade, where there's shade there's damp. 
 That's a well-known fact. Perhaps you'd better just 
 give me a sandwich and let me go off by myself. I 
 dare say you'll all be glad to get rid of me." 
 
 George and Jane told the requisite lie. Gladys 
 maintained a contemptuous silence. So they sat down 
 in the sun in a spot from which a fine view of the 
 cocoanut-shies and swings was to be obtained. They 
 ate sandwiches and cake, and Gladys and Aunt Martha 
 drank milk. George and Jane were not thirsty. At 
 any rate, they were not thirsty until a little later, when 
 they arrived at Jack Straw's Castle. George said it 
 was a historic old place, and Jane ought to see it.
 
 AUNT MARTHA 147 
 
 Perhaps Aunt Martha would catch hold of Gladys for 
 a moment. 
 
 George and Jane went to see the historic old place, 
 and came out wiping their mouths. George looked as 
 if he felt better. 
 
 "Booze, booze, booze, from morning till night," said 
 Aunt Martha. "I knew how it would be when we 
 started." 
 
 Jane observed that she thought a man wanted his 
 pint in the middle of the day, and that he ought to 
 have it. 
 
 Aunt Martha said that if she was to be contradicted 
 every time she opened her mouth, perhaps it would 
 be just as well if she said nothing at all for the rest 
 of the afternoon. In fact, she would start off home at 
 once if only she knew the way. 
 
 Then they went round the different shows boxing- 
 shows and cinematograph-shows, peep-shows, and 
 waxworks. Aunt Martha gave moral and conclusive 
 reasons why she would not go into any one of them. 
 George shied at the cocoanuts, and Aunt Martha said 
 she should be sorry to see any man make such an 
 exhibition of himself in a public place. George tried 
 one of the cocoanuts that he had won as a peace- 
 offering. Aunt Martha rejected it. She added more 
 information about her digestion and her internal or- 
 gans than any woman ought to give any man except 
 her doctor. A great friend of Aunt Martha's had died 
 from eating cocoanut, as George might have remem- 
 bered. 
 
 So George gave the cocoanut to Gladys. She made 
 the man with the Try-your-Strength machine break it 
 open for her. By this time she possessed a tin rattle, 
 a bracelet of a turquoise appearance, and a paper hat.
 
 148 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 Aunt Martha noticed these things. If George and 
 Jane thought it a good thing to bring up children to 
 disobey their elders and betters, she supposed she 
 couldn't help it. It looked as if she had only been 
 brought out to be insulted. A cup of tea was what she 
 wanted, and had been wanting for the last hour; but 
 she supposed that that didn't matter. 
 
 She was given tea, and shortly afterwards the party 
 left for home. 
 
 "And I suppose you call that a day's enjoyment," 
 said Aunt Martha bitterly. 
 
 * 
 
 On the following Bank Holiday, George and Jane 
 found that they had promised to take Gladys to the 
 Zoo. This was most unfortunate, because the very 
 sight of a wild beast caused Aunt Martha to come over 
 faint and gave her internal cramp. So she could not 
 accompany them. Perhaps they took the wrong tram. 
 They turned up to Hampstead Heath, anyhow.
 
 XIV 
 A DEVIL, A BOY, AND A TRADE DESIGNER 
 
 MR. PAXTON ELAND'S clerks were in the 
 habit of saying that he was a devil. They 
 respected him, but thought that he had too much 
 energy. Business men who had dealings with him got 
 to realize the extreme folly of monkeying with Pax- 
 ton Bland, and sometimes alluded to the fact with 
 bitterness. When he thought a man was trying to get 
 ahead of him, Paxton Bland never protested or showed 
 indignation ; he knew that this world is far from per- 
 fect. He never threatened. He was one of those 
 dogs that do not bark, but the man who attempted 
 sharp practice with Paxton Bland generally came to 
 the conclusion that he bit considerably. 
 
 His wife thought him the sweetest-tempered man 
 in the world. She found him so gentle and easy to 
 manage, that she wondered at first that in the rough 
 competition of business he did not get thrown down 
 and stepped on. Yet, as far as she could judge by 
 results and her husband did not show her processes 
 he was not subjected to this humiliating catastrophe. 
 The results took the form of money heaps of money, 
 every year more money money enough to buy 
 Sandiloes as soon as he found she wanted it. She 
 conjectured that possibly his way with men was dif- 
 ferent from his way with women. That, in fact, was 
 the case. 
 
 149
 
 150 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 Sandiloes consisted of a house, out-buildings, and 
 twelve acres of land, eight miles from a railway sta- 
 tion in Oxfordshire. The house was old, picturesque, 
 and had a semi-ecclesiastical appearance; it photo- 
 gfaphed very nicely, and the photographs were ad- 
 mirably reproduced in the catalogue of the London 
 house-agents. It was in their catalogue that Mrs. 
 Bland first saw and fell in love with the place. Then 
 she went down and inspected it personally, and fell in 
 love with it still more. Then she talked to Paxton 
 about it, and Paxton talked to an architect, and fol- 
 lowing his creed that you should give a woman what 
 she wants when you can, he bought Sandiloes. 
 
 Mrs. Paxton Bland was not the only person who had 
 been struck by the photographs in the catalogue. A 
 white-haired old gentleman in Hornsey was much 
 interested in them. He lived in a small detached house, 
 and a brass plate on the door said that he was Mr. 
 Albert Watt, trade designer, but did not tell you what 
 a trade designer was. It apparently involved a pro- 
 found study of house property. Mr. Watt read many 
 catalogues, giving the preference to those that had 
 illustrations and plans. Against certain items he put 
 a little mark. Occasionally he travelled about the 
 country and asked questions relating to house prop- 
 erty; but he never made any attempt to purchase 
 any. He seemed quite content with the little house in 
 Hornsey. There an old housekeeper, who did not look 
 very pleasant, attended to his wants; his few visitors 
 did not look very pleasant either; they seemed to be 
 of a lower class than Mr. Watt. He was neatly and 
 quietly dressed, as befits an old gentleman, paid his 
 bills with the utmost regularity, and was ready with 
 a modest subscription to any good and local cause.
 
 A DEVIL, A BOY, A DESIGNER 151 
 
 The more he thought about Sandiloes the more he 
 wanted to see it. It was sold, as he was aware, to Mr. 
 Paxton Bland, but that did not matter. One morning 
 he set out with a black bag and left the trade designing 
 to take care of itself for one day. 
 
 But I fear that he was inaccurate when, on calling at 
 Sandiloes that afternoon, before Mr. Paxton Bland 
 returned from the City, he gave a card which stated 
 that his name was Champneys, and that he represented 
 the great publishing house of Orwell and Smith. 
 
 That night Mrs. Bland asked her husband at dinner 
 if he wanted to be in "Our English Homes," published 
 by Messrs. Orwell and Smith. He answered that it 
 had been the dream of his life, but that so far he had 
 hidden it from her; he did not speak with any exces- 
 sive seriousness. 
 
 "Well," she said, smiling and she had a very pretty 
 smile "it's going to be. Their man, or traveller, or 
 whatever it's called, came here to-day to get permis- 
 sion to send an artist down to make sketches of the 
 place. Richards showed him round, so that he could 
 choose the best points for the pictures." 
 
 "Did he collect a subscription for a copy of the 
 book when it is finished ?" 
 
 "No, but I sent a message to him through Richards, 
 and he said that particulars would be sent us." 
 
 "And did he borrow money or merely take an 
 umbrella out of the hall?" 
 
 "Nothing of the kind! Oh, you're quite wrong 
 there you are, indeed, Paxton! I saw him through 
 the window, and he looked a most respectable old 
 gentleman, with a most respectable black bag." 
 
 "I've a mean mind; but I'm glad it's all right." 
 
 In reality, he was far from thinking it all right.
 
 152 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 He would have been much better satisfied if the old 
 gentleman had collected a subscription or purloined an 
 overcoat. That would have been a sufficient explana- 
 tion of his exceedingly improbable story. Messrs. 
 Orwell and Smith were not in the habit of publishing 
 that class of book at all. If they had been publishing 
 it they would have written for permission there was 
 no need to send a man down. Their man, if he had 
 been sent, would have had a prospectus of the book 
 that he could have shown. Also, their traveller would 
 not select the subjects for the artist. Finally, Mr. 
 Bland did not believe that Sandiloes was of sufficient 
 importance to be included in any such collection. One 
 does not tell an elaborate story having no foundation 
 in fact without some purpose. If the old gentleman 
 had merely borrowed half a crown, there would have 
 been the purpose; as it was, Mr. Bland feared the 
 purpose was more serious, perhaps. 
 
 On the following night, Mr. Watt had a visitor at 
 his little house in Hornsey. The visitor was not a 
 young man of attractive appearance. He looked both 
 flashy and furtive; his hair was very short and had 
 been still shorter; his clothes were somewhat aggres- 
 sive. He smoked a cigarette in a meerschaum holder 
 and wore an elaborate buttonhole. His painfully dirty 
 shirt was decorated by a stud with a colored stone in 
 it. When he reached Mr. Watt's house he rapped very 
 gently. His assurance returned when the old house- 
 keeper opened the door to him. She seemed to know 
 him, and asked him what he was doing out so late at 
 night without his mother. To this the young man re- 
 plied that he thought he was old enough to blow his 
 nose for himself, that she grew younger every day, 
 and that if he hadn't come on business he would have
 
 A DEVIL, A BOY, A DESIGNER 153 
 
 taken her to the Savoy Hotel and stood her a penny- 
 worth of whelks. With such graceful and refined 
 badinage did the visitors to Mr. Watt replace the 
 tiresome formality of more ordinary establishments. 
 The housekeeper jerked her thumb towards a door, and 
 said, "He's in there." Then she retired, and the vis- 
 itor, after tapping at the door Mr. Watt was partic- 
 ular about this entered. 
 
 Mr. Watt had requested this visitor to call, and yet 
 he did not look pleased or obliged when he saw him. 
 
 "Now, what am I to say to you?" Mr. Watt asked 
 reflectively. 
 
 "Well, grandfawther," said the young man, "you 
 ought to know. You sent for me. I was 'oping that 
 you'd come on something that" he hunted his mind 
 for an euphemism "had taken your fancy." 
 
 "I make mistakes," said Mr. Watt sadly. "I put 
 lovely business in the way of people, and then I'm not 
 remembered as I should be. Do you suppose Cock- 
 eye's straight with me? Do you suppose he brings me 
 all the stuff?" 
 
 "Tells me 'e do." 
 
 "That I can believe," said the old gentleman se- 
 verely; "Cockeye is not likely to tell you anything he 
 doesn't want passed on to me. He says he does ; well, 
 I tell you he doesn't. Got anything to say to that?" 
 
 "It seems queer." 
 
 "It'll seem queerer to Cockeye before I've finished 
 with him. Cockeye ? Why, I made Cockeye actually 
 made him! He was sneaking milk-cans when I took 
 him up. That's all right; now we'll see how he gets 
 on without me. I've a little thing now that he might 
 have had. I've been working it up for some time. It's 
 quite a little thing, but it's no sort of trouble or risk.
 
 154 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 I could do it myself if it didn't suit me better to do 
 the putting up. It's hardly more than going and 
 fetching; I could almost get a retriever to do it. But 
 if Cockeye had gone and had fetched, and handed all 
 over to me fair and square, it would have been two 
 hundred and fifty golden sovereigns in his pocket that 
 very night. Think of that two hundred and fifty 
 golden sovereigns. Now he can whistle for them." 
 
 "Looks as if it might fit me, grandfawther," said 
 the youth. 
 
 "Ah !" the old man said reflectively, "you're so par- 
 ticular about anything you're asked to take up, James." 
 
 "Don't put it that way," said James. "I were bit in 
 three places, I were shot in the leg, I damn near broke 
 my neck, and pore Snitcher what were with me is 
 doin' of his tray for it now. All I told you was that 
 it were a bit rough and tumble; and that were in the 
 'eat of the momint as yer might say. I wasn't grum- 
 blin' exactly." 
 
 "You're young to be put on a thing like this all 
 alone. It's not like having Snitcher by you to show 
 you the ropes. I never put you on alone before." 
 
 "Ev'rythink must 'ave a beginnin'," said James 
 modestly. "You said it was a light job. And o' 
 course I shouldn't egspec' whort Cockeye would." 
 
 "That's a comfort," said Mr. Watt, a trifle sarcasti- 
 cally. "You wouldn't get it if you did, but I'm glad, 
 James, to hear that you don't expect it." 
 
 "Yer think I'd go throwin' it abart under the nose 
 of the splits, grandfawther, but you're wrong. I 
 ain't thet sort. I'm keerful." 
 
 "I know what you boys are, when you get a little 
 money in your pocket. A new suit, yellow boots, off 
 with your girl to some swell place where you both look
 
 A DEVIL, A BOY, A DESIGNER 155 
 
 like a couple of fools. Doing everything you know to 
 make people believe you've got money, and then sur- 
 prised if Scotland Yard wants to know how you got 
 it! That's you, isn't it?" 
 
 "Not me. Some's like that, but not me ; I'm keerf ul ; 
 awst Snitcher if I ain't." 
 
 "I will when he comes out. If you want this job, 
 you can have it. Bring me the stuff it will all go in 
 one pocket and you shall have a hundred and twenty- 
 five, but it'll be spread over six months, and longer if 
 I find you playing the fool. If you want to spend 
 money, go away to do it. See? Now then take it or 
 leave it." 
 
 "O bet your life, I'm on!" 
 
 "Very well, then; listen." And the old gentleman 
 began to give a remarkably accurate description of 
 Sandiloes, and the habits of the residents there. 
 
 James listened with the greatest attention. He noted 
 every point and made Mr. Watt repeat anything that 
 he failed to grasp the first time. But Mr. Watt was 
 very lucid, and had several little diagrams ready to 
 make things clearer. 
 
 "Sounds good," said James. "Soft thing, too. But 
 why didn't yer pizun the dog, grandf awther ?" 
 
 "For the same reason that I have not put an adver- 
 tisement in the morning papers to say that you are 
 coming. Besides, you never go near the dog, if you 
 stick to your directions." 
 
 "True," said James humbly. "I worn't tryin' ter 
 teach yer anything, grandf awther, but I were bit in 
 three places lawst time, and I never keered about 
 dogs." 
 
 "And remember it's a clockwork house. If you're 
 not dead on time, you'll be wrong. Got a watch ?"
 
 156 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 James produced a silver watch from his pocket. 
 "Very nice watch, and keeps good time. Gent as had 
 it afore me was reg'lar sorry to part with it. Thet 
 were at Epsom, and a friend of mine told me the gent 
 were inquirin' fur thet watch under the gran' stan' in 
 a most agitited wye. Wished 'e 'adn't give it me, 
 arter all, I surpose." 
 
 Mr. Watt was lighting the best cigar that was 
 smoked in Hornsey that night. Business over, he un- 
 bent a little. He produced whisky and glasses from 
 the sideboard. James rolled a cigarette with quick 
 dirty hands, and as he sipped his liquor made an at- 
 tempt to get a little more information out of Mr. Watt. 
 Nodding his head in what he presumed to be the di- 
 rection of the kitchen, he asked: 
 
 "Is she right in it or ain't she?" 
 
 "She knows," said Mr. Watt, "all that there is any 
 occasion for her to know. Don't talk business to her 
 nor to anyone else, as long as it's my business." 
 
 "As if I would ! Why, grandfawther, I believe yer 
 tike me fur a byeby. I wouldn't do it nort for all the 
 money yer've gort; and thet's more than I shall ever 
 get a sight of in this world." He spoke as if with a 
 pious hope that this little inequality would be redressed 
 in the hereafter. If he had any idea of persuading the 
 old gentleman to make either a statement or disclaimer 
 as to what his possessions really were, he was disap- 
 pointed. Mr. Watt began to talk about the Grand 
 National, and produced cogent arguments against 
 gambling. 
 
 Just before he left, James went fishing once more. 
 "I've knowed you, grandfawther," he said, with an air 
 of reflective reminiscence, "more nor a year now. It's 
 full thirteen months since Snitcher brought me along.
 
 A DEVIL, A BOY, A DESIGNER 157 
 
 And I don't know no more abart yer nar nor whort I 
 did then. I know your word mye be took; I knows 
 yer puts up jobs, and passes along the stuff. But yer 
 don't speak like the rest of us, and I've knowed many 
 flashier thet 'adn't got 'arf as much of the toff abart 
 'em as yer 'ave yer self. Sometimes of a night, when 
 I'm lyin' awike, I wunners whort yer was afore yer 
 took up with this game." 
 
 "I was a Master of Arts and a priest in Holy 
 Orders." 
 
 James left in a roar of laughter. "Close as wax, 
 thet's whort you is," he cried. "Clerk in 'Oly Orders ! 
 Thet's a good 'un, grand fawther. Good night to yer. 
 I'll be rarn'd dye arter ter-morrer, early." But, as it 
 happened, though the circumstances which brought it 
 about have nothing to do with this story, Mr. Watt 
 (whose real name was something else) had been pre- 
 cisely what he had told James, and had thence passed 
 through more than one stage before he became a fence 
 and a putter-up of burglaries. 
 
 It has already been mentioned that Mr. Paxton 
 Eland's clerks thought him a man of excessive energy; 
 he certainly had enough energy to make an inquiry 
 from Richards as to the representative of Messrs. 
 Orwell and Smith. 
 
 Richards was a good-natured and slightly pompous 
 simpleton. He said that, in his opinion, the man from 
 Orwell's was about as ignorant a man as you could 
 find. 
 
 Mr. Bland was interested, and asked in what way 
 the ignorance was displayed. It appeared that this 
 wretched Champneys had an idea that he knew how the 
 landed gentry lived. His ideas on this subject had 
 been grotesque, and Richards had been much amused.
 
 158 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "Why, sir, he thought it was usual to dine at six, and 
 for the lady of the house to wear all her diamonds, 
 even when the family was dining alone." Richards 
 gave other examples of the abysmal ignorance dis- 
 played by Champneys as to the life of the upper 
 classes. It turned out that the good-natured Richards 
 had provided him with enlightenment. All this Bland 
 heard with a pleased smile. He had so much energy 
 still left that he rose at five next morning, and went to 
 a little workshop where he was wont to amuse himself, 
 and did several things. The result of what he did was 
 that if anyone moved the short ladder on the brackets 
 outside the wall of the kitchen yard, the hand of a dial 
 in Mr. Eland's dressing-room informed him of the 
 fact. He took other precautions as well, for although 
 he had guessed what was to happen, he did not know 
 the precise way in which it would happen ; but he was 
 inclined to think that the attempt to get Mrs. Eland's 
 diamonds would be made during the dinner-hour, and 
 that the thief would find the ladder useful. 
 
 On the following night James carried out with the 
 greatest precision the directions that he had received 
 from Mr. Watt. He kept clear of the stables where 
 the dog was, and he avoided with equal care the lodge 
 at the entrance to the drive. For the last three miles 
 he had come across country, a lonely country and well- 
 wooded, just the kind of country that James liked. 
 There was no moon, but the stars were rather brighter 
 than James thought necessary; but like a philosopher 
 he tolerated what he was unable to alter. He had 
 committed the plans provided by Mr. Watt to memory, 
 and had no difficulty about finding his way. 
 
 His procedure was to be according to ordinary form. 
 That is to say, he was to secure the three doors of the
 
 A DEVIL, A BOY, A DESIGNER 159 
 
 house so that they could not be opened from inside, or, 
 at any rate, not without difficulty and delay; he was 
 to wire the paths so that a pursuer would trip and fall ; 
 at eight precisely he was to enter the window of Mrs. 
 Eland's room by the help of a ladder that he would find 
 on brackets fixed to the wall of the kitchen yard; he 
 was then to lock the door of the room, open the jewel 
 box with a wire, slip the diamonds in his pocket with- 
 out their cases, descend by the ladder again, and take 
 his departure. 
 
 By a quarter to eight he had fixed his wires, and only 
 had to put the finishing touch to the fastening of the 
 doors; he did not intend actually to fasten them until 
 he was quite ready to begin. Then he fetched the 
 ladder and brought it round to the side of the house 
 where it would be required. 
 
 Mr. Paxton Bland saw the hand on the dial move, as 
 he was dressing for dinner. Within a minute he had 
 slipped on an ulster that he had ready, dashed down- 
 stairs, and let himself out of the front door. He took 
 two skips into the shrubbery near, and there hid him- 
 self and waited. In another minute he could just dis- 
 tinguish the under-sized James as he came softly up to 
 the front door, and put in that finishing touch. Then 
 James went round to the other side of the house, to 
 the lawn under Mrs. Eland's windows. 
 
 Paxton Bland listened. He could hear the piano in 
 the drawing-room ; his wife was playing as she waited 
 for him to come down to dinner. Eight o'clock struck 
 from the stables, and immediately the music ceased. 
 Then he was just able to hear a faint sound on the 
 gravel on the other side of the house; the ladder was 
 just being put into position. He drew a cap from his 
 ulster pocket and put it on, changed the revolver from
 
 160 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 the left pocket to the right, and slipped the life-pre- 
 server up his sleeve. Then Mr. Paxton Bland thought 
 he would like to get round to the other side of the 
 house also. He went circuitously, availing himself of 
 a belt of shrubs. From his second position he could 
 hear the window being pushed up a little, and recog- 
 nized the cleverness that opened it so nearly without a 
 sound. Then he saw a light moving about inside the 
 room. What struck him most was the stupendous im- 
 pudence of the thing impudence that ninety-nine 
 times out of a hundred might be perfectly successful. 
 
 There was now a clear course before an ordinary 
 commonplace, law-abiding citizen. Unquestionably 
 Mr. Paxton Bland should have removed the ladder, 
 whistled the dog, sent a gardener for the police, and 
 caught the burglar in a trap. But I doubt if Mr. 
 Paxton Bland was all these estimable things. It will be 
 remembered that his clerks said he was a devil. I 
 must myself admit he had his own way of doing 
 things. 
 
 For the present he stood still and waited. In less 
 than five minutes James descended the ladder again. 
 What happened next may be given from James's point 
 of view. 
 
 Everything had gone without a hitch so far ; James 
 said to himself that if there was another man in Eng- 
 land who could put up a job like grandfather, he 
 should like to meet that man. James had two dia- 
 mond rings, a diamond necklace, a pearl necklace, a 
 diamond pendant, and a diamond tiara in his pocket, 
 and though he was only going to get a hundred and 
 twenty-five pounds for the lot he felt pleased. He 
 continued to feel pleased until he mounted the boun- 
 dary fence, and then he no longer felt pleased ; on the
 
 A DEVIL, A BOY, A DESIGNER 161 
 
 contrary, he felt a violent blow on the side of the head, 
 and as he was on the top of the fence at the time he 
 fell heavily and promiscuously. Before he could rise 
 he felt something else unpleasant, and this was a cir- 
 cular rim of cold steel pressed against his temple. 
 
 "Lie just as you are," said a deep voice. "Move a 
 finger or speak a word, and you are dead." 
 
 James had a revolver himself in his pocket, but con- 
 sidering that that steel rim was where it was, he 
 thought that it was not worth while to move, and he 
 had no desire for conversation. He felt a hand in the 
 pocket where he had put his swag; likewise in the 
 pocket where he kept his revolver. "Stand up," said 
 the same deep voice. 
 
 James saw no reason why he should not stand up ; he 
 stood, and saw that his assailant was a man too big 
 to fight, even if he had not been armed, a tall man in 
 an ulster and cap. 
 
 "Six articles in all," said the man. "Is that all you 
 got?" 
 
 "Yuss," said James. "That was all I wanted." 
 
 "I have your revolver, and now I want your watch." 
 
 "It's a ole silver watch; it ain't wuth nutthink; yer 
 don't " 
 
 Here James was knocked down again, and once 
 more told to stand up. He began to whimper and 
 handed over the watch. 
 
 "Any money?" 
 
 James produced thirteen-and-threepence. 
 
 "That all?" 
 
 "Yuss, and goodness knows how I'm goin' ter git 
 'ome." 
 
 "You'll walk, I suppose. Take that stud out of your 
 shirt and give it here."
 
 162 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "The stone ain't real," said James, but he handed it 
 over. 
 
 "Anything else?" 
 
 "Knife and a bit o' wire," said James, producing 
 them. 
 
 Further inquiry brought forth a little tobacco in a 
 paper, a medicine bottle with gin in it, some matches 
 and a candle-end, and a piece of string. After that 
 James maintained that bar his clothes he was skinned. 
 "Very well," said the man in the ulster. "Now I'll 
 go over you myself, and if you've spoken the truth, I'll 
 give you back threepence to help you on your way 
 home. If you haven't, you're going to die." 
 
 The search, as might have been guessed from the 
 readiness with which James submitted to it, yielded no 
 more treasures. The man handed him three pennies, 
 told him to be off, and watched him out of sight. 
 
 James did not call on Mr. Watt next morning early ; 
 he arrived late in the evening, limping and exhausted. 
 The unattractive housekeeper who admitted him said 
 that he looked like as if he had been left over from a 
 beanfeast. But James had no heart for badinage. To 
 Mr. Watt he told the whole of his story. 
 
 "And it does seem a bit 'awd," he said, in conclu- 
 sion; "when yer done yer best an' took pines, an' got 
 it all in yer pocket, ter 'ave it stole from yer. Stole 
 thet's whort it was ; theer's no other nime fur it. The 
 dirty dog, I 'ope 'e'll swing one o' these days !" 
 
 "It's no use talking like that," said Mr. Watt. 
 "You've not got the stuff, and therefore you won't 
 have the money. He marked your face slightly, I 
 see." 
 
 "There's nutthing 'e didn't do. Watch gone. Cash
 
 A DEVIL, A BOY, A DESIGNER 163 
 
 gone. Ev'rything gone. If I'd bin anywheer near 'is 
 size I'd 'ave made a fight of it, an' chanced 'is iron." 
 "You want a drink, don't you?" 
 "Thank yer, and that's a pore word fur it." 
 
 But no amount of whisky and he took a good deal 
 could reconcile James to the hardness of his lot. He 
 renewed his complaints. 
 
 "Look here, James," said the old gentleman. "You 
 seem to forget that I'm losing a week's work, and a lot 
 of diamonds just when I can place all I can get, and all 
 through your carelessness. You don't seem to be able 
 to take care of yourself. Now I suppose you'll come 
 bleating to me wanting to be put on to something 
 else." 
 
 "It worn't my fault, grandfawther. 'Ow was I ter 
 know thet thievin' swine was waitin' theer an' watchin' 
 of me ? Der yer know 'ow I feel abart this ?" 
 
 "Go on." 
 
 "I feel thet if anyone wud give me a thick 'un ter 
 mike a stawt with, I'd swear never ter tike another 
 penny that didn't belong ter me. I've 'ad a sickener." 
 
 "Don't say things you don't mean, James." ' 
 
 "Bible oath, I mean it, and 'ud stick ter it, too! I 
 knows more nor one way ter pick up a living honist." 
 
 Mr. Watt walked up and down the room twice, paus- 
 ing to take a sip from his glass each time. Then he sat 
 down, pulled a leather bag from his pocket, extracted 
 a sovereign, and tossed it across to James. 
 
 "A sovereign, I think you said. Take it and go. 
 And keep your word. Don't come here again. Good 
 night." 
 
 "Hi sye, grandfawther!" James began. But Mr. 
 Watt broke in again :
 
 164 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "Damn you! Go before I change my mind. It's 
 your chance ; take it and stick to it. Go !" 
 
 And James, feeling sure now that this life is full of 
 surprises, went. And which is much more extraordi- 
 nary he did keep his word. He is at present doing 
 very well in the grocery line, has his own shop, and if 
 you suggested to him that there was a time when he 
 preferred stealing, I think he would be much hurt. 
 
 And Mr. Paxton Bland wears a silver watch and a 
 complacent expression.
 
 XV 
 
 THE KEY OF THE HEN-HOUSE 
 
 IT was like this. I mostly took Jimmy Stalside with 
 me when I went egging. He's only a small kid, 
 two forms lower than I am ; but he's handy, and does 
 what he's told. We'd gone a partnership in eggs. 
 But this time I hadn't taken him with me, because 
 I hadn't meant egging. I didn't mean to do anything 
 when I went out. However, I was in the small planta- 
 tion on Linthwaite Fell, and I saw a corby go off a nest 
 top of a young tree. There was a bit of a wind on, and 
 the tree was blowing about. I felt rather mad. I'd 
 got four corby's eggs already, but I really wanted 
 more; corbies aren't so common, and a few extra are 
 useful for swaps. Yet it was such a thin, young tree 
 that I knew it would snap if I went up, especially with 
 that wind blowing. I stared at it a long time. Then 
 I told myself that, being a young tree, it was prob- 
 ably tough, and would bend down slowly with my 
 weight but not break. If I had only had Jimmy Stal- 
 side with me, it would have been all right; the tree 
 would have carried a little chap like him well enough. 
 However, I knew if I left that nest some dirty sneak 
 would prig it while I was away. I thought I might as 
 well chance it. I was about three-quarters of the way 
 up when the thing broke. The ground was soft, and I 
 got a good mouthful of it and made my nose bleed. 
 
 165
 
 166 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 I got up slowly and felt myself over. I wasn't much 
 hurt anywhere, but my ankle had a bit of a twist. I 
 put my handkerchief to my nose to stop it bleeding, 
 and limped a step or two to get at the nest which had 
 come down with the tree. There was nothing in it. 
 If there had been it would only have been smashed; 
 but it helped to make me madder than ever. I said 
 out loud : 
 
 "All right, Jimmy Stalside, I'll make you sit up for 
 this." You see, if Jimmy had been there I should 
 have sent him up the tree; so naturally I felt savage 
 with him. 
 
 I had hardly said these words before I heard a laugh. 
 I turned round and saw a lanky kind of a girl standing 
 close by, in the dark of the trees. She seemed to be 
 a girl about my own age, and she wasn't ugly. She'd 
 got a basket with her, but she put it down on the 
 ground. I daresay she'd been watching me ever since I 
 started climbing. She looked a bit ashamed of herself 
 when she saw I'd caught her. 
 
 "Well," I said, "and what are you grinning at?" 
 
 She put one finger in her mouth and sucked it a 
 moment. I expect she was thinking if she wouldn't 
 pick up her basket and run off without answering. But 
 she didn't. She said : 
 
 "Because of your talking to yourself like that. You 
 are queer." 
 
 "No, I'm not," I said. "You were grinning because 
 I came such a smeller just now, and if you were any- 
 thing except a girl I'd settle with you for that." 
 
 "Oh, but I wasn't! I was frightened. I nearly 
 screamed. Did you hurt yourself much?" 
 
 "Twisted my ankle a bit, made my nose bleed, and 
 swallowed a peck of dust and beetles and stuff."
 
 THE KEY OF THE HEN-HOUSE 167 
 
 "Why did you go up that tree?" 
 
 "Partly because there was a corby's nest at the top, 
 and partly because I was ass enough to think the tree 
 would carry me. I knew all the time it wouldn't 
 really." 
 
 "You'll get punished if you smash up the young 
 trees here." 
 
 "Got to cop me first." She came a step forward 
 now and stood in the sun. She'd got good long hair. 
 I'd just as soon have that as not, in a girl. 
 
 "I've got three corby's eggs," she said. 
 
 "Get them yourself ?" 
 
 "No ; my cousin got them for me." 
 
 "What's his name?" 
 
 "Bill Bill Helcomb. I'm Marion Helcomb." 
 
 "Did you blow the eggs yourself?" 
 
 "Yes, I did." She seemed regularly triumphant 
 about that. 
 
 "Hole at each end threaded 'em on a bit of cot- 
 ton?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Thought so. Look here, next time you get any 
 eggs, make one hole, and make it in the middle. Then 
 blow out the insides with a blow-pipe. You can ask 
 your cousin what a blow-pipe is and how to do it not 
 that I expect he knows." She seemed interested in 
 what I was saying. 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "Then mount it with the hole downwards, so that 
 ho hole shows at all. And mount it with both names 
 to it. You want eggs to look like eggs. You don't 
 want to make them into a blooming necklace. And 
 you don't want them stuck all over holes like a bit of 
 stamp-paper."
 
 168 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "I see," she said. She looked rather sorrowful. 
 "If mine had been done right I would have given them 
 to you, instead of those you missed just now." 
 
 It's awkward when you think anyone's going to be 
 nasty to you and you get a bit nasty to him, and then 
 you find out that he really meant to be rather decent 
 than not. This was what it was with that girl. The 
 hair on her eyelids was longish, too, though I don't 
 know that that matters. I hardly knew what to say. 
 I thanked her very much. I told her that, anyhow, she 
 was a long way ahead of most girls, because most 
 girls haven't the pluck to collect eggs at all. 
 
 She looked at me seriously, and said that I ought to 
 do something to stop my nose bleeding. 
 
 "I'll have to let it rip," I said. "If I had something 
 cold to put down my back, that does it." 
 
 "I've got it," she said, looking as pleased as if she'd 
 found a halfpenny book. "I've just been up to the hen- 
 house to get the eggs, and I've the big key here." She 
 stooped down to her basket and picked it up. 
 
 "Do" you carry that key on the top of the eggs?" I 
 said. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "It's a wonder it hasn't smashed some of them." 
 
 "Well, it hasn't." 
 
 "It will, if you aren't careful. Another time put 
 that heavy key at the bottom of the basket and the 
 eggs on the top." 
 
 "I will," she said. Anyone would have thought that 
 I was a master, and she was bound to obey me. I was 
 surprised that she didn't argue more. 
 
 I slid that key down my back. It was as cold as a 
 penny ice. After a few minutes it did stop the bleed- 
 ing, and while we were waiting for it to do that I
 
 THE KEY OF THE HEN-HOUSE 169 
 
 talked to the girl. I asked her questions and gave her 
 some advice, because she seemed to be a kind of girl 
 that one might make something of. 
 
 She told me that she was just on a visit to her uncle, 
 and would only be there another fortnight. I had 
 seen her uncle. He was a rough, common sort of a 
 man to have been related to her. The way I saw her 
 uncle was this: Reggie Winter and I always cele- 
 brated the end of term by smoking cigarettes. Once 
 we took our cigarettes and smoked them on a stack 
 belonging to old Helcomb, and he came and caught us. 
 He was properly savage, too, and said he'd report us. 
 But he didn't. That was all I knew about him. I 
 asked her what church she went to, and she told me 
 she generally went to Linthwaite Church. I advised 
 her to come to Manners Church next Sunday; it was 
 no farther to walk than Linthwaite Church was, and 
 the school went to Manners Church. She said she 
 would come, and I told her where she'd better sit. She 
 said that she went to the hen-house on the fell side 
 every afternoon. One of the eggs in the basket came 
 from her own particular hen, and she had marked it 
 with a cross in pencil, so as to know it from the rest. 
 She gave me that egg. If I had had anything about 
 me that I could have given her as a return, I don't 
 know that I shouldn't have done it. But I hadn't any- 
 thing. By this time my nose had stopped bleeding, and 
 I wanted to give her the key back. But I didn't see 
 how to do it ; no more did she. 
 
 I tried stooping down so that it might come out 
 where it went in, but it wouldn't stir. Then I tried 
 jumping up and down to get it out the other way, 
 but that wouldn't move it either. It was a big, old 
 key, and somehow or other it had stuck fast. I thought
 
 170 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 that the only thing to do would be to strip and get 
 the key out that way. I was just going to tell the girl 
 to go up to the other end of the plantation and wait 
 for me there, when my watch jerked out of my pocket. 
 
 "Twelve minutes to four. Call-over's at four, and if 
 I stop another minute I miss it. And if I miss it I'm 
 done." 
 
 "Then run, at once," said the girl. "Only you've 
 got my key in your in your back, you know." 
 
 "Look here," I said, "to-morro.w isn't a half, and 
 so I can't be here then. But I'll come up between 
 twelve and one, and put the key under the top stone of 
 the wall on the left of the top gate of the plantation. 
 You'll find it there when you want it." 
 
 "That will do splendidly. Under the top stone left 
 of the top gate. I won't forget. You're sure it won't 
 slip out while you're running? No? That's all right. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 I only just got in time for call-over, and I fancy I 
 made my ankle much worse by the hurry. I didn't 
 quite see, at first, what to do with that egg. If I had 
 been in the sixth I should have had a study to myself, 
 and then I could have boiled it over the gas. But I 
 wasn't in the sixth, and so I hadn't a chance. How- 
 ever, I had a good idea. It was my bath night. The 
 bath seemed very near boiling hot; it was too hot to 
 get into at first, anyhow. So I put the egg in, and sat 
 on the edge and waited till the water was cooler. 
 After about twenty minutes I tried the egg. It wasn't 
 exactly cooked, and it wasn't exactly raw. I've eaten 
 many worse things. Next morning my ankle was just 
 about as bad as it could be. I could hardly bear to put 
 my foot on the ground. However, my notion was that 
 I would go to morning school, hop up to the plantation,
 
 THE KEY OF THE HEN-HOUSE 171 
 
 somehow or other, between twelve and one, and put the 
 key in its place, and then go up to the sick-room. As 
 it happened I didn't do that. A house-master caught 
 me limping about after breakfast and sent me up to 
 the sick-room there and then. They bandaged my 
 ankle, put me upon a couch, and wouldn't let me stir. 
 
 Then I thought I really was done. I didn't see how 
 I was to get that key back to the place we'd agreed on 
 before the afternoon. And I knew that if I did not 
 get it back that girl would be in for no end of a row. 
 Lying there on my back, I thought of a plan. I knew 
 Reggie Winter would be likely to come up after school 
 to see what was the matter with me, and so he did. 
 He asked me how I'd damaged my foot. 
 
 "Doing a champion performance," I said. "I ran 
 from here to the gate in that small plantation in Linth- 
 waite Fell and back again in thirty minutes." Of 
 course, I knew that I could do it in twenty-four, but I 
 said thirty because I wanted to make Reggie Winter 
 say he could do better. And so he did. 
 
 "That's a fat champion performance," he said. 
 "Thirty minutes ! I'd do it in twenty any day." 
 
 "You always did think a lot of your running. Go 
 and do it then. Do it now if you're so sure of your- 
 self, and I'll lay you a bob you don't do it in twenty." 
 
 "Done with you," he said. I gave him the hen-house 
 key and told him to put it under the top stone on the 
 left-hand side of the gate, so that I should know he'd 
 really been there. I said it was just an old key that I'd 
 picked up. Then I timed him by my watch, and off 
 he went as hard as he could go. 
 
 When he'd gone I lay back and chuckled. I thought 
 to myself that I'd made Reggie Winter do my business 
 for me, without even knowing that he was doing it,
 
 172 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 and that I should make a bob out of it as well. Then I 
 stopped chuckling, because I remembered that I hadn't 
 told him the top gate, so he'd be certain to go to the 
 gate at the other end of the plantation, which was one 
 minute nearer. 
 
 It was as bad as having a tooth out to lie there 
 without being able to move, and think about it. It's 
 bad enough to find out that you've been an idiot at 
 any time, but it's worse to find out that you've been an 
 idiot just when you considered that you were being 
 particularly smart. Then there was the girl; she'd 
 been very friendly, giving me an egg from her own 
 particular hen, and so on; besides, she couldn't have 
 been called bad-looking. It wasn't so pleasant to think 
 what a row she would get into with her uncle, or what 
 she would think of me for not keeping my word, and 
 for losing the key of the hen-house for her. I won- 
 dered whether she would tell her uncle about having 
 lent the key to me to put down my back; at least, I 
 didn't wonder much, for I thought it about as sure as 
 death that she wouldn't. 
 
 Presently back came Reggie Winter, blbwing and 
 panting so that he could hardly speak. He'd taken 
 two minutes thirty-five seconds more than the time 
 he'd betted he'd do it in. He chucked me the shilling, 
 and said that he could have done it in twenty if he had 
 been in running things. 
 
 "No, you couldn't, my son," I said. "I doubt if 
 you've been there and back now, in twenty-two thirty- 
 five." 
 
 "Well, I'll take my oath I have. Besides, I've put 
 the key where you told me, against the gate; so you 
 can see for yourself, as soon as you stop shamming it 
 here."
 
 THE KEY OF THE HEN-HOUSE 173 
 
 "Plucky lot of shamming there is about me, with an 
 ankle swollen up the size of a house! Which gate did 
 you go to?" 
 
 "Nearest, of course. There'd have been no sense in 
 going on, sweating up to the top gate." 
 
 Wouldn't there just ! 
 
 I almost wished I'd told Reggie Winter all about the 
 whole thing. I believe he'd have taken the key up to 
 the top gate for me. But then I should have had to 
 give the girl away; and I should have had to give 
 myself away into the bargain. A nice sort of story 
 Reggie Winter would have put all over the place. It's 
 just as well I didn't let him into the secret. In des- 
 peration I now thought of Jimmy Stalside. I'd a 
 sort of authority over Jimmy. I could make him do a 
 thing without telling him the reason for it, and that 
 wasn't possible with Reggie \Vinter. So I said: 
 
 "Look here, Reggie, if you're going down you might 
 send Jimmy Stalside up to me." 
 
 Presently up came Jimmy. "Hullo," said Jimmy, 
 "you've cooked your ankle jolly well. How did you 
 do that? And what do you want?" 
 
 "Look here, Jimmy," I said, "would you chance 
 cutting dinner to-day ?" 
 
 "Well, I'd sooner cut evening prep, or something of 
 that kind. One gets a bit pecky about this time of day. 
 As far as chancing it goes, I don't mind that; tell the 
 two chaps who generally sit each side of you to close 
 up a bit so as not to leave a vacant place, and warn the 
 girl who waits your side of the table not to sneak, and 
 then there you are ; it's ten to one no master spots that 
 you're not there." 
 
 "I wanted you to go somewhere and do a thing for 
 me, if you'd cut dinner. You'll be back half an hour
 
 174 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 before school, and then you can get a blow-out at 
 Andrew's. Here's a bob to do it on." That was the 
 bob I got from Reggie; so I didn't lose anything on 
 that. 
 
 "Is it anything to do with eggs ?" 
 
 "Yes, it is," I said. If the key of a hen-house hasn't 
 got anything to do with eggs, what has ? "You won't 
 see the point of it at first, and if you speak about it to 
 anyone you'll ruin the whole thing. You must just 
 do it on trust, and it will work out very well. I sup- 
 pose you can keep a secret." 
 
 "Well, I should think so. What have I got to do?" 
 
 "Go to the plantation on Linthwaite Fell ; under the 
 top stone of the wall, left of the lower gate, you'll find 
 a key; take that key and put it again under the top 
 stone of the wall, but this time left of the upper gate." 
 
 "All right. But I don't see what that's got to do 
 with eggs." 
 
 "I told you that you wouldn't understand it at first, 
 and I can't explain it yet. All you've got to do is to 
 go off and change the position of that key, as I said." 
 
 So off he went. I'd hardly hoped to be able to make 
 Jimmy go and do that without telling him any lies; 
 but, you see, I hadn't told him a single lie. I had said 
 that he wouldn't understand it now, but I hadn't told 
 him that he would ever understand it any better. It 
 was a comfort to me to think that the girl would get 
 the key all right now ; it made me easier in my mind, 
 and I ate a very good dinner. 
 
 I had hardly finished before Jimmy came back and 
 swore that the key was not there at all. He'd been 
 there, and looked both sides of both gates, so as not to 
 make any mistake about it. He seemed to think that I 
 had been playing off some sell upon him.
 
 THE KEY OF THE HEN-HOUSE 175 
 
 "No, I haven't," I said. "As it happens, this is a 
 particularly serious business, and I wish to goodness I 
 could make it out." 
 
 But I couldn't make it out. There was no doubt that 
 Reggie had put the key there ; the fact that he paid up 
 his bet proved that. And there was no doubt that 
 Jimmy had not found the key there when he went ; he 
 wouldn't have risked disobeying me and telling me a 
 fib on the top of it; it wouldn't have been worth his 
 while. And I couldn't help thinking about the trouble 
 that girl would get into for losing the key, and all 
 through my fault. You can believe me or not and 
 most likely you won't but I hardly slept a wink that 
 night in consequence. 
 
 I was not allowed to do any walking until Sunday, 
 and then I went to Manners Church with the rest of 
 the school. I had expected that the girl, being angry 
 with me, wouldn't be there; so, of course, she was 
 there, and in the seat that I had told her to take. This 
 seat happened to be exactly opposite mine, so that I 
 could hardly help seeing her. But all during the first 
 part of the service she wouldn't look at me in the least, 
 but kept her eyes down upon her book. Just in the 
 last hymn she looked up for a second, nodded and 
 smiled ; it was all done in a flash, and the next moment 
 she had got the usual sort of hymn expression on her 
 face. No one would have seen that nod who had not 
 been watching her pretty closely. I saw that every- 
 thing must be all right, but I couldn't make out how 
 it had come about. I wanted to give her some sign to 
 tell her to write a note explaining what had happened, 
 to put it in her glove, and drop the glove as she passed 
 me in the churchyard afterwards ; so that I could pick 
 it up, get the note out unseen, and return the glove to
 
 176 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 her, just as if I were doing an ordinary act of polite- 
 ness to a girl I had never seen before in my life. I 
 couldn't think of any sign, though, that would express 
 as much as that. Well, it was no good. She didn't 
 look at me again, and she left directly the service was 
 over. The school always stopped, you know, till every- 
 body else had gone out ; so there I had to sit and watch 
 her sailing down the aisle. 
 
 Next day an extraordinary thing happened. I got 
 three letters from three distinct aunts, none of whom 
 knew that either of the other two were writing, and 
 each letter had a tip in it. The total was two pounds 
 five. Well, I thought to myself that I'd make some 
 provision for the latter end of the term. What I made 
 up my mind to do was to blue one quid in miscellane- 
 ous things, and put the rest in the Post Office Savings 
 Bank and draw it out again when I was very hard up. 
 I was going down the village to the post office, when I 
 happened to stop before a jeweller's window. You 
 see, in the village there are lots of trades go to one 
 shop, and the jeweller was also an ironmonger. I 
 didn't want to look at his plated toast-racks and things 
 of that kind. I wanted to see an entirely new rat-trap 
 that he had in his window. As I was looking at it, I 
 noticed a bundle of charms, things that people wear on 
 their watch-chains. There were several of them alto- 
 gether on one ring; there were a heart, an anchor, a 
 cross, a thing like a diagram out of Euclid, and a silver 
 key. They were marked seven-and-sixpence, but I got 
 them for seven shillings, after a lot of argument. I 
 didn't put any money in the savings bank after all. 
 
 Then I waited for Wednesday, and counted the 
 hours. It wasn't so much that I wanted to see the girl 
 and give her the present I had bought for her, as that I
 
 THE KEY OF THE HEN-HOUSE 177 
 
 wanted to get the whole thing cleared up. I wanted to 
 know what had happened to the key of the hen-house. 
 
 I was in the plantation early on Wednesday after- 
 noon. As I waited there a boy came through the trees 
 with a basket and a key in it. I recognized that basket 
 and that key. I suppose I stared at him; it's not 
 unlikely. At any rate, just after he had gone past me, 
 he turned round and said: "What are you doing, 
 sneaking about here ?" 
 
 So I said : "Sneak yourself. If you haven't bought 
 this place, you'd better go on and bring the washing 
 home." 
 
 Well, he was angry at that, and used very bad lan- 
 guage. He walked on a step or two, and then picked 
 up a stone and shied it at me. It went hard, but wide. 
 So I shied back. It was the best shot I ever took in 
 my life. It hit the basket, which he was holding loose- 
 ly, and sent it spinning. He picked it up, and shouted 
 that he'd come and knock the head off my shoulders. 
 So I told him to come along, and he didn't. 
 
 Of course, I saw then that this boy had been sent to 
 get the eggs instead of the girl. He was a common 
 kind of boy, and I shouldn't have much minded if I'd 
 had a bit of a row with him. However, I saw now that 
 the girl wasn't coming. Somehow or other I felt al- 
 most as sorry as if I had really cared about it, which, 
 of course, I didn't. What I wanted was to find out 
 about the key. I just gave it all up, and started home. 
 
 And when I got to the gate of the plantation there 
 was that girl sitting on it. She was always giving me 
 surprises. She was dressed rather prettily not that I 
 take much notice how girls are dressed. She smiled at 
 me. I do not mind owning, although I am prejudiced 
 against girls, that I like the way she smiled. It made
 
 178 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 you feel as if there were an extra "half," and you'd 
 got let off an "impost" that you'd expected. 
 
 Then we began to explain things, both of us talking 
 at once. If she hadn't interrupted me, and had just 
 answered my questions, I should have understood what 
 had happened much sooner. However, I got at it at 
 last. Winter had taken the key and put it against the 
 wrong gate, just as I supposed. Her cousin was up a 
 tree in the plantation at the time, getting a magpie's 
 nest. He saw Winter come busting up as hard as he 
 could run, slip the key under the stone, and then bolt 
 off again. Her cousin thought that a very queer thing 
 for any chap to do, so he came down from his tree and 
 went to have a look. He lifted up the stone and found 
 that it was the key of the hen-house. That fairly 
 puzzled him. He did not see how any boy from the 
 school could have got the key, or why if he had got it 
 he should have been in such a mighty hurry to hide 
 it just there. So her cousin picked up the key, went 
 home with it, and told her uncle all about it. Then it 
 seemed that her uncle rather went for her, and told 
 her that she must have been up to some joke with one 
 of the school-lads. 
 
 "And what did you say?" I asked. 
 
 "I told him I hadn't." 
 
 "That was a buster." 
 
 "No, it wasn't. There hadn't been any joke. It 
 was a very serious accident. You know it was. You 
 were laid up for days with it. I don't tell fibs. Then 
 uncle said I must have given the key to one of the boys, 
 and I told him again that I hadn't." 
 
 "Well, anyhow, that was a fib." 
 
 "Of course it wasn't. I hadn't given the key to 
 anybody. I'd lent it. He didn't ask me if I'd lent it,
 
 THE KEY OF THE HEN-HOUSE 179 
 
 or I should have told him. So he said I must have 
 dropped it, and that, as I was so careless, Bill would 
 go to fetch the eggs in future." 
 
 "I'm sorry you got into a row about it." 
 
 "Oh, it wasn't much ; and it wasn't your fault, any- 
 how. I don't mind I'm leaving to-morrow." 
 
 "I wish you weren't. I might come up here again 
 in the afternoon and " 
 
 She shook her head and smiled. She'd got teeth 
 like the inside of a cocoa-nut. "No," she said. "It 
 wouldn't do." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because it wouldn't." 
 
 "That's no reason." 
 
 "Besides, they'd suspect. I believe my cousin does 
 suspect now. I don't like him much. Of course, he's 
 awfully kind in the ways of getting me things, and so 
 on." 
 
 "Why don't you like him?" 
 
 She looked down and waggled her foot. "Oh, well, 
 I don't know, some way. Can't you guess?" 
 
 "I saw him in the plantation just now," I said. "I 
 wonder if he knew what I was there for." 
 
 She laughed. "Of course he couldn't! You see, 
 you weren't the boy that he saw with the key." 
 
 "No. I say talking about that key I got this that 
 I wanted to give you." I pulled out the bundle of 
 charms that I had bought. 
 
 Now this was a queer thing. I had fully intended 
 to imply somehow that the thing was real silver and 
 I'd given a good deal of money for it. It's not much 
 use being generous unless people know that you really 
 are generous. Yet somehow or other I said the exact 
 opposite. I said :
 
 i8o STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "It's a sort of memento. You could wear it on a 
 watch-chain ; it isn't anything much." 
 
 She was very pleased with it. She kept on thanking 
 me over and over again. And she said she didn't think 
 she really ought to take it. 
 
 "Yes, you ought and you must," I told her. 
 
 "Anyhow, I think I must," she said. "You're a very 
 nice boy. I wish I had got a memento to give you." 
 
 Now you may think that what happened next was 
 all a planned thing, and that I had intended it from 
 the first. If so, you're wrong. As a rule, I rather 
 despise girls than not. I suppose that the reason why 
 I said what I did was because this was really, speaking 
 fairly, rather an exceptional kind of girl. It seemed 
 to come over me suddenly. What I said was : 
 
 "Give me a kiss, then." 
 
 She looked away and shook her head, but didn't 
 say anything. 
 
 "Yes, do." 
 
 "Couldn't." 
 
 I almost asked her if, as she wouldn't kiss me, I 
 might kiss her, but I thought that wouldn't be a good 
 thing to do, because she might refuse again. So I 
 just kissed her without saying anything. She turned 
 white and then crimson. Quite suddenly she did what 
 she had just said she couldn't do. Before I entirely 
 recovered myself she had gone. She ran away through 
 the plantation and I never saw her again. 
 
 I shouldn't like this to be generally known. I don't 
 want to spend the rest of my school-days in licking 
 chaps or getting licked by them, and that is what 
 would happen if Reggie Winter or any of them got to 
 hear of it.
 
 XVI 
 ONE HOUR OF FAME 
 
 MR. BATSON was a picture- frame maker; but 
 this is not to say that he actually made picture- 
 frames. He procured the mouldings in lengths to his 
 esteemed order from the wholesale place in the City; 
 it was Billunt in the workshop down the yard who cut 
 them up and fitted them together. 
 
 It was Mr. Batson, however, who conducted all the 
 diplomacy of the business. He took the orders, and 
 by the charm of his manner generally managed to force 
 upon a customer one of the four mouldings which he 
 had in stock. The same charm had occasionally in- 
 duced artists to deal with him on a cash basis. The 
 charm was reserved strictly for business; in private 
 life he took an interest that was almost virulent in 
 local politics, and not infrequently called his wife a 
 fathead. 
 
 Herbert Wymondel was a very great man and a fine 
 novelist. Reviewers had compared him with Guy de 
 Maupassant. He was pessimistic and harrowing. Yet 
 his appearance did not suggest that he could harrow. 
 He was small and delicate, and rather obviously vain. 
 
 Now a friend of Wymondel's, who was an artist, 
 had presented him with a small landscape. It was 
 entitled, "The Haunt of the Heron," but in spite of 
 this the hanging committee at the Royal Academy had 
 been reckless enough to reject it. 
 
 181
 
 182 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 Wymondel wrote one of the three most graceful 
 letters of thanks that were written that year, and 
 wondered what he should do with that rotten picture. 
 He did not propose to sacrifice any of his valuable 
 wall-space to it. His taste was quite perfect, and his 
 rooms advertised it. With the necessity came the op- 
 portunity. 
 
 Wymondel's best friend's eldest daughter announced 
 to the world, through the medium of the "Morning 
 Post," her intention of perpetrating almost immedi- 
 ate matrimony. Wymondel decided to bestow upon 
 her "The Haunt of the Heron," and to procure a new, 
 but not necessarily expensive, frame for it. He walked 
 into Mr. Batson's shop. 
 
 Mr. Batson's diplomacy was beaten. Wymondel 
 absolutely declined to accept any of the mouldings 
 forced upon him. He was self-assertive and dicta- 
 torial, and insisted on seeing the pattern-book. And 
 when he had made his selection, he said the thing 
 would be no good unless he could have it finished and 
 delivered at his rooms by the following morning. 
 
 Batson became impressive. "It shall be done, sir. 
 A special messenger will be sent off to our factories, 
 and bring back that moulding at once. Then I shall 
 put two of my best men on to it, and make them work 
 overtime if need be. You shall have it complete by 
 to-morrow morning. You can depend upon me abso- 
 lutely. And the name and address, sir?" 
 
 Wymondel presented Mr. Batson with his visiting- 
 card, and paused for a moment to see the delighted 
 smile of recognition spread over Mr. Batson's face. 
 The smile not arriving, he went out. Mr. Batson did 
 not waste much time in reading novels, had never 
 heard of Herbert Wymondel in his life before, and,
 
 ONE HOUR OF FAME 183 
 
 except as a customer, had not the slightest desire to 
 hear of him again. 
 
 He opened a door at the back of the shop and called 
 down the yard : "Billunt !" 
 
 Billunt nobody ever called him William Hunt 
 appeared from the stable, which had been converted 
 into a workshop. He was, on this occasion, to be not 
 only the special messenger, but also two of Mr. Bat- 
 son's best workmen, as indicated, he being the only 
 man that Mr. Batson employed. He was a clever 
 carpenter, when his mind was not preoccupied by am- 
 bition, or his body by intemperance. 
 
 "What are you doin' ?" asked Mr. Batson. 
 
 "Tidyin' up generally," said Billunt. 
 
 "Well, you take this here drorin' and measure it up. 
 It's got to be done in 4076, and you must go and fetch 
 the stuff from Cannon Street. Don't try anything on, 
 because I know what the fare is. Take the gent's card, 
 and enter it up in the book, and hurry." 
 
 Billunt was not sorry to get out of the workshop 
 for a bit on a fine morning, but hurry was distasteful 
 to him. He took off his apron and put on his coat. 
 He then visited an establishment where he could pro- 
 cure a wash, a shave, ten cigarettes, and a decided 
 opinion upon Mr. Lloyd George for threepence hall- 
 penny. 
 
 His appearance being now 33^/3 per cent above nor- 
 mal, he entered his train on the Underground. As he 
 had not a first-class ticket, it can hardly be necessary 
 to say that he entered a first-class carriage. At any 
 rate, no one who knew Billunt would have expected 
 anything else. 
 
 It happened that opposite to Billunt there was seated 
 a young gentleman of refined appearance, absorbed in
 
 184 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 the reading of a six-shilling novel. Billunt, who had 
 the overlooking sense strongly developed, observed 
 that the title of the novel was "The Nethermost Pit." 
 This merely interested him as being the place to which 
 on Saturday nights he sometimes directed Mrs. Hunt 
 to go ; but he also noted the name of the author, Her- 
 bert Wymondel. 
 
 Now where on earth had he seen that name before ? 
 
 Suddenly it dawned on him. That was the name of 
 the gent on the card, and he had that card in his pocket. 
 Billunt felt that something ought to be done about it. 
 It might be worth a drink, or it might not. In any 
 case, it would form the basis of pleasing conversation, 
 and accentuate his sense of his importance. He crossed 
 over and sat next the young gentleman. 
 
 " 'Ope you're enjoyin' that little thing of mine," 
 said Billunt 
 
 Billunt was washed and shaved, and was smoking a 
 "Pride of the Harem" cigarette. It was one of the 
 few occasions of his life on which the end of a two- 
 foot rule was not protruding from one of his pockets. 
 Still, he looked like a carpenter. Further, he looked 
 like a carpenter of low morals and irregular manner of 
 life. The young gentleman, begging his pardon, said 
 he did not understand. 
 
 Billunt drew the visiting-card from his pocket and 
 presented it. "That's me," he said impressively. "I 
 did it." 
 
 Young Mr. Smith was astonished and delighted. 
 Herbert Wymondel had no more enthusiastic admirer, 
 and Mr. Smith was perusing "The Nethermost Pit" 
 for the second time. The author did not look in the 
 least like what he would have expected, but this seemed 
 to be evidence of his genuineness. People never do fit
 
 ONE HOUR OF FAME 185 
 
 in with your preconceived notion of them. Mr. Smith 
 had just time to express his extreme pleasure when the 
 ticket-inspector came along a ticket-inspector who 
 had seen Billunt once or twice before. 
 
 "Season," said Billunt, in an off-hand and business- 
 like way. 
 
 "I don't think," said the inspector sardonically; 
 "come on now." 
 
 Billunt produced his ticket. "And that's the fault 
 of your bloke at the booking-office," he said. "I arst 
 him for a first, and I paid for a first, and this is what 
 he gives me. Nobody but yourselves to blame for it 
 this time, anyhow." 
 
 "Pay the difference," said the inspector wearily. 
 
 Billunt fumbled in his pocket. "Sorry not to be able 
 to oblige," he said, "but I left my sovereign-case in my 
 evening clothes, coming back from the Opera last 
 night." 
 
 Smith had not heard all that was said, but he real- 
 ized the nature of the difficulty. These authors were 
 so absent-minded and careless about money matters. 
 "Permit me, Mr. Wymondel," said Smith. "You can 
 send it back to me any time." 
 
 Billunt permitted Mr. Smith to appease the ticket- 
 inspector, and said that with these young boys they 
 employed in the booking-office nowadays mistakes were 
 bound to happen. He then passed one hand over his 
 forehead. This he felt would suggest intellect. 
 
 "I wonder," said Smith, "if you would mind my 
 speaking about this book. Of course, I know some 
 authors are so sensitive." 
 
 "A bit that way myself," said Billunt complacently. 
 "Still, seeing how you got me out of this little diffi- 
 culty, I dunno that I ought to be stand-offish."
 
 186 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "I am sure, Mr. Wymondel, that if you knew the 
 tremendous impression that 'The Nethermost Pit' has 
 made upon me I am now reading it for the second 
 time." 
 
 "Yes, it is pretty hot stuff, ain't it," said Billunt. 
 
 "Ah, you who made it can speak of it jokingly, 
 but I know men to whom this book is a positive reli- 
 gion, men who would envy me the privilege of meeting 
 you in this way. I have often wondered what the 
 genesis of the book was." 
 
 "Genesis," Billunt repeated reflectively. "Well, 
 that's hardly the kind of thing I should care to talk 
 about in a railway carriage. Besides, it's a longish 
 story. Gettin' out here? So am I. It's just possible 
 there might be a place near by where we could discuss 
 it. I don't know if the station has a refreshment- 
 room." 
 
 The station had a refreshment-room. At the en- 
 trance to it Billunt hesitated. "Coming out without 
 money, like this," he said, "I don't hardly feel as if I 
 ought to." 
 
 "But, of course," said Mr. Smith, "that's all right." 
 
 "In that case," said Billunt, "mine will be a drop 
 of Scotch." 
 
 At the second drink Mr. Smith ventured to suggest 
 that he would like to hear something about the genesis 
 of "The Nethermost Pit." 
 
 Billunt said that Genesis reminded him of the name 
 of a horse that he ought to have backed for the Grand 
 National. It was the only time he had ever left the 
 race alone, and it was the only time he had ever been 
 tipped a winner. It was funny how these things 
 happened. 
 
 Mr. Smith was young and innocent, but he was
 
 ONE HOUR OF FAME 187 
 
 beginning to have grave suspicions. Surely a man 
 who wrote like that could not possibly speak like this. 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Wymondel," said Smith. "What I 
 wanted to know was how you came to write that book. 
 What put the idea of it into your mind?" 
 
 "Then, why couldn't you have said so before?" 
 asked Billunt, "instead of wasting your time and my 
 own with this talk about genesis. Well, I'll tell you 
 the truth. The thing came over me all of a sudden 
 like." 
 
 Billunt's articulation had ceased to be perfect. Mr. 
 Smith looked at him sternly. "This is fraud," he 
 said. "You are not Mr. Wymondel at all." 
 
 "See here, my ole pal," said Billunt, "I'll act fairly 
 by you. You stand me one more drink, and I'll tell 
 you whether I am or not." 
 
 Mr. Smith was a weak man. He stood him one 
 more. 
 
 "All ri'," said Billunt, as he put down his glass. 
 "You've acted like a gennelman to me, and I'm goin' to 
 act like a gennelman to you. As a marrer o' fac', I 
 really am Mr. Blymondiwog, but I don't look like it, 
 and that's been my misfortune all my life. Shake 
 hands on it, ole pal." 
 
 Billunt had left for the City at eleven in the morn- 
 ing, with directions to hurry. At twelve he had not re- 
 turned, and Mr. Batson was beginning to be angry. 
 At four in the afternoon, when Billunt staggered into 
 the shop with a quite inordinate amount of the wrong 
 pattern moulding, Mr. Batson was almost speechless 
 with fury. 
 
 Billunt maintained his dignity. He denied abso- 
 lutely that he was drunk, but made the generous con-
 
 i88 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 cession that he was not strictly sober. He said what 
 had happened was, that he had simply missed one train 
 after another, which might occur to anybody. He 
 made a generous offer to Mr. Batson to tell him some- 
 thing that would make him laugh, something about a 
 Mr. Mywondigom, who wrote a book called "Hell," 
 but he was not permitted to remain long enough on the 
 premises to execute his purpose.
 
 XVII 
 SARA 
 
 THE defendant was Miss Sara Frederica Con- 
 stantia Hallowes, hereinafter called Sara for 
 short, aged seven, resident at present at 114 Marine 
 Parade, Salton-on-Sea. 
 
 The judge was Mrs. Amy Hallowes, aged thirty- 
 two, of the same address, mother of the above. 
 
 Jane Shotover, nurse, aged twenty-four, gave evi- 
 dence as follows : 
 
 "It 'appened like thissum. I was setting under the 
 breakwaterum, and I give Misserrer her wooden spide, 
 and I said, 'Now, if you was to build a nice, pretty 
 castle out of sand, then I'd come and look at it, and 
 that would be a s'prise.' She'd give some trouble over 
 me not letting of 'er ride 'er donkey into the sea, 
 and what I wanted was to keep 'er mind off." 
 
 Sara : I want the red ink. 
 
 The Judge : Hush. Go on, nurse. 
 
 "Wellum, she took 'er spide and started off, wan- 
 derin' about among the people, which was not what 
 she'd been told. She'd got 'er shoes and stockin's off, 
 and 'er skirts tucked into them mackintosh drors; so 
 I didn't see 'ow she could come to no 'arm. But I 
 kept my hi on 'er, and every now and again I'd sing 
 out to 'er to get on with that castle. There was a old 
 gennelman settin' on the beach, readin' of a piper. 
 Looked to me like something in the insurance line." 
 
 189
 
 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 The Judge : What made you think that, nurse ? 
 
 "Wellum, 'e'd got a pile gray felt 'at and was sixty 
 if 'e was a dye, but that may have been just my idea. 
 Any'ow, Misserrer started walkin' round an' round 
 'im, like a teetotum, and people on the beach larfin' at 
 'er as might have known better, and I could see he was 
 gettin' annoyed." 
 
 The Judge : You ought to have stopped her, nurse. 
 
 "So I diddum. At least, so I was goin' to do. But 
 just as I got up with 'er " 
 
 Sara : Can I have the red ink now, mummie ? , 
 
 The Judge: Hush! I want to hear what you've 
 been doing. Well, nurse? 
 
 "As I was saying, just as I got up with 'er, she 
 worked round to the back of the insurance gennelman, 
 upped with 'er spide, and brought it down with all 'er 
 force on 'is 'at. Of course, I erpolergized, but I could 
 see he was put out about it, though that was no reason 
 for using the word he did." 
 
 Sara : I want to do a pickshur of a insurance wiv 
 his head bleeding. So, can I have the red 
 
 The Judge: Hush, and don't interrupt again. 
 
 "Wellum. Them as was larfin' before larfed worse 
 than ever, and I'm shaw the wye some of them lyedies 
 offer 'er chocklits and ler 'er plye with their dogs, 
 which mye be sife or mye not, is nothin' short of a 
 well, you 'ardly know what to sye to 'em. So I just 
 took and brought 'er strite 'ome." 
 
 Sara : And now can I have the red ink ? 
 
 The Judge : Leave her to me, nurse. I'll send her 
 up to you directly. 
 
 "Very goodum." 
 
 The judge, left alone with Sara, pointed out that 
 she was not to go chattering to strangers, who did not
 
 SARA 191 
 
 really want her ; and much less was she to walk round 
 and round them ; and much, much less was she to beat 
 the pale gray hat of a gentleman with her wooden 
 spade. She had been a naughty child, and was to go 
 up to the nursery for the rest of the morning. 
 
 Sara : And can I take the red ink up, too ? 
 
 That reminded the judge. She did not want Sara 
 to think or talk about terrible or ugly things. A nice- 
 minded little girl would not even wish to make a 
 picture of a poor gentleman with a nasty wound in his 
 head. She would rather think about beautiful things. 
 There were plenty of beautiful things all around us. 
 ("The Young Mother's Handbook." By Charles 
 Baldley Rushington, B.A.) 
 
 "What's beautiful?" asked Sara. 
 
 The judge sternly repressed an absolutely senseless 
 impulse to say that Sara herself was the most perfectly 
 beautiful thing on earth. She pointed out of the win- 
 dow and asked what could be more beautiful than that 
 field of corn with the poppies dotted all about it? 
 
 "Can't do poppies wivout red ink," said Sara. 
 
 After Sara had gone to bed that evening, her nurse 
 obtained permission to go out for a breath of fresh 
 air. She met the breath of fresh air on the beach by 
 appointment, and its name was George. He was an 
 honest man, but looked as if his clothes were too much 
 for him. 
 
 Jane began to narrate her sorrows to George, and 
 was a little annoyed to find him in no sympathetic 
 depression. 
 
 "Ah !" said George, "kids will be kids. Nice little 
 thing she always looks, too." 
 
 "And that's what always 'appens/' said Jane, with
 
 192 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 bitter conviction. "She goes a-dancin' about that 
 beach like some wild Injun, and then lyedies says, 
 'Isn't she sweetly quaint?' and words like them. I've 
 no patience with it. Well, as I was syin', 'er mother 
 give 'er a talkin' to over what she'd done to the insur- 
 ance gennelman's 'at, and then she come up to the 
 nursery lookin' as meek as Moses, and both 'er little 
 'ands under 'er pinafore. 'You come 'ere, Misserrer, 
 and 'ave yer 'air done,' I says, and caught 'old of 'er. 
 I wasn't rough, because that ain't my way, and no gel 
 that was rough could keep my plice for ten minutes. 
 But there all of a sudden there was that pore child's 
 life-blood gushing out of 'er and streamin' across the 
 floor. Lor', it did give me a turn. I come over quite 
 faint, went as white as a sheet, and might 'ave fallen 
 if it 'adn't bin for the sewing-machine. And there she 
 stood in a reg'lar pool of it, larfin' like anythink." 
 
 George seemed mildly puzzled. "Look 'ere," he 
 said, "what are you tellin' us?" 
 
 "Well, to make a long story short, it wasn't 'er life- 
 blood. She'd bin botherin' 'er mother to let 'er 'ave 
 the red ink, and 'er mother didn't say 'Yes' and didn't 
 say v No.' So afore she come up to the nursery, that 
 child slipped into the library and 'id the red ink under 
 'er pinafore so as I shouldn't tike it awye. And so, 
 as a matter of course " 
 
 Jane broke off her narration in dignified disgust at 
 George's behavior. "Oh, well, George, if it amuses 
 you, perhaps the less I say the better. What you don't 
 seem to see is if that 'adn't bin red ink I should have 
 been a murderer."
 
 I DO not think there are very many men who feel 
 pleased when they are summoned to serve on a 
 special jury. You have to neglect your business or 
 profession possibly for days at a time and you get 
 one guinea, of which you return one shilling to the 
 usher. Yet, if you have received the mystical, yellow 
 paper, cannot persuade your doctor to give you a 
 certificate, and have no other legal excuse, it is just as 
 well to obey the summons. By doing so you show that 
 you realize the duties and responsibilities of citizen- 
 ship, and that is important. By not doing so you may, 
 I am told, get it made unpleasantly warm for you ; that 
 also is rather important. 
 
 So one dark and foggy morning I found my way 
 with considerable difficulty to Queen's Bench No. 3^2. 
 There were other special jurors already there, and we 
 gathered at the back of the court, and discussed prob- 
 abilities, and grumbled together, while we waited for 
 proceedings to proceed. One man happened to remark, 
 with despairing optimism, that at any rate we got a 
 guinea for doing it. 
 
 "I would cheerfully give two to get off it," I said. 
 
 At that moment someone touched me on the shoul- 
 der, and a pleasant voice said : "Might I have the 
 favor of a word with you, sir?"
 
 194 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 I turned round and saw a well-dressed, nice-looking 
 man of about thirty. I did not remember that I had 
 ever seen him before, and I could not think what his 
 business with me could be, but I said, "Certainly. 
 What is it?" 
 
 "I must ask you" he said, dropping his voice, "to 
 pardon me for having inadvertently overheard what 
 you said just now. But I understood you to say that 
 you would give two guineas to get off serving on this 
 jury." 
 
 "So I would gladly." 
 
 He gave a charming smile. "Quite natural. It is 
 really a great pleasure to me to be able to accommodate 
 you. When your name is called I will answer for you. 
 The officials here know neither you nor me by sight. 
 Briefly, I shall impersonate you with absolute safety. 
 You can pay the two guineas now, immediately after I 
 have answered to your name; or, if you prefer greater 
 security, you can give me an address at which I may 
 call for a similar honorarium after the jury is dis- 
 charged." 
 
 "My good man," I said, "I am always found out. 
 That is my luck. I am frequently found out even 
 when I have done nothing, and if I have done anything 
 then my ultimate exposure is a certainty. I am sorry, 
 but we cannot do business." 
 
 He still retained his delightful manner. "Ah!" he 
 said, "then I have troubled you to no purpose. Accept 
 my sincere regret. If you have by any chance a friend 
 here who might possibly require a substitute, a friend 
 who has not your peculiarly unfortunate habit of being 
 found out " 
 
 "Quite so," I said. "Man over there in a fur coat, 
 Gatterley by name, he is required urgently by his busi-
 
 THE BLANKING BUSINESS 195 
 
 ness this morning. Ask for five. He is wealthy, and 
 if he does it at all he would give that." 
 
 This was immoral of me, and I am ashamed of it. 
 The young man smiled, bowed, thanked me, and re- 
 tired. A minute afterwards I saw him in earnest con- 
 versation with Gatterley. 
 
 Ultimately my name was called, and I answered. 
 Gatterley's name was also called, and there was an 
 answer. There were twelve of us in the jury-box. 
 But Gatterley was not there, and the young man with 
 the pleasant manners was. 
 
 I met Gatterley shortly afterwards. "Hullo," I said. 
 "We were both called the other day, but I didn't see 
 you in the box." 
 
 "Ssh !" said Gatterley. "I wasn't there. Bought a 
 substitute for ten pounds a most gentlemanly young 
 fellow. It was worth twenty times that to me to be at 
 the office that morning. Perfectly safe, you know." 
 
 "I'm disgusted with you," I said. "You have no 
 right to shirk your duties as a citizen. Who was your 
 substitute ?" 
 
 "A man I'd never seen before called himself Mr. 
 Blank." 
 
 "Any address ?" 
 
 "None." 
 
 I was sorry for that, because Mr. Blank was begin- 
 ning to have some interest for me, and it would have 
 amused me to see him again. 
 
 Chance threw him in my way about a year after- 
 wards. I saw him enter a first-class smoking compart- 
 ment at Waterloo. He was wearing a moustache 
 previously he had been clean-shaven but otherwise he 
 was unchanged. He thanked the porter who handed in 
 his rugs and hat-box most cordially, but did not give
 
 196 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 him the customary coppers. I felt sure it was Mr. 
 Blank, and took particular care to enter the same com- 
 partment. 
 
 He recognized me at once, and remembered fully 
 the circumstances under which we had previously met 
 that he had offered to impersonate me on a special 
 jury for the sum of two guineas, and that I had been 
 afraid to risk it. "You see," he said, with the air of 
 uprightness and candor, "I make no pretense of not 
 knowing you, or of denying what occurred." The 
 train moved off. "We are alone in the compartment," 
 he said, "and I detest secrecy unless it is essential. To 
 you I should especially wish to be open, for I owe you 
 a debt of gratitude. You introduced me to your 
 friend, Mr. Gatterley, who seemed particularly anxious 
 to get to his business that morning. In consequence 
 I represented him (unworthily, but to the best of my 
 ability) on the jury, receiving an honorarium of fif- 
 teen pounds the highest that I ever received for simi- 
 lar services." 
 
 I believe that fifteen was the real figure. Gatterley 
 told me ten, but he always says that he had paid less 
 than he really did pay in order to get himself a char- 
 acter for sharpness. 
 
 "The highest that you ever received ? Do you mean 
 that you make it a business of impersonating jurors?" 
 
 "It is merely a branch of my business. It brings 
 me in an income at the rate of two hundred and fifty 
 pounds a year while I am at it. But I do not practise 
 it for more than a few months in the year. The mo- 
 notony would make it tiresome; and the risk of detec- 
 tion would be too great. Yes, I use disguises slight 
 disguises a change of facial expression, the addition
 
 THE BLANKING BUSINESS 197 
 
 of a pair of spectacles, a different overcoat, and, of 
 course, I change my courts, and occasionally absent 
 myself altogether. I left the Law Courts this morning, 
 by the way." 
 
 "And now?" 
 
 "Now," he said, "I am going to have rather a bad 
 accident. When I get over that I shall go into the 
 country and get bitten by a lot of dogs. I am not mad 
 these are different branches of my business." 
 
 "I confess that I don't understand it." 
 
 "I should describe it as a blanking business. In the 
 law courts I am a blank, and can be filled up with the 
 name of any special juror who requires my services. 
 As for the accident, you will observe that the door of 
 this carriage is not properly fastened. No ; it is not, as 
 a matter of fact, the neglect of the company's servants, 
 for I arranged it like that myself. When we are com- 
 ing into Vauxhall Station I shall stand up to get 
 something off the rack; the jolting of the train will 
 throw me against the door ; the door being improperly 
 fastened will fly open, and I shall fall out on the plat- 
 form. As I shall not hurt myself in the least having 
 done this kind of thing before and as it will not be 
 accidental, I may call it a blank accident. I fill up the 
 blanks with neglect on the part of the company's serv- 
 ants and severe nervous shock to myself. I fancy the 
 company will sooner pay me ten pounds for compen- 
 sation than let me bring an action." 
 
 "Suppose they won't?" 
 
 "Then I shall go to a good solicitor, bring my action, 
 and most certainly win it. If you had served on as 
 many juries as I have you would know that a jury will 
 always, where possible (and sometimes where impos-
 
 198 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 sible), give a verdict for an individual against a com- 
 pany." 
 
 "And about the dog-bites?" 
 
 "They are also blanks. I mark down houses where 
 noisy, snappy little beasts are kept as watch-dogs; 
 then I dress myself to look as nearly as possible as if 
 I were making twenty-four shillings a week. I take 
 a stick and wait until one of those dogs runs out. Then 
 I irritate it it barks and growls. I keep it off me with 
 the stick, go up to the front door and ring ; then I say 
 that I have been bitten by the dog. I do not ask for 
 compensation I say that I am going to prosecute, 
 and want to know the name of the people who live 
 there. The lady of the house (I never call when the 
 man's at home) generally begs me to accept compensa- 
 tion. I grumble, but consent. The compensation runs 
 from ten to thirty shillings, and I can get six dog-bites 
 in a morning. It is not a bad branch of the blanking 
 business." 
 
 "What do you do, if the lady wants to see the bite?" 
 
 "She very rarely does. If she does, I always paint 
 a dog-bite on my left calf before I start out to work, 
 and I can show her that. I can paint a very decent 
 dog-bite. But we are getting into Vauxhall, and I 
 must say good-bye. Charmed to have met you once 
 more. Now for the accident." 
 
 In a moment he was gone. With his hat-box in one 
 hand and his bundle of rugs in the other, he had fallen 
 out through the door. I saw a crowd gather round 
 him. I saw them carrying his apparently senseless 
 form into a waiting-room, and then the train 
 moved off.
 
 THE BLANKING BUSINESS 199 
 
 I saw him a third and last time. It was some little 
 time afterwards, and again it was in a railway car- 
 riage. He entered my compartment and greeted me in 
 his usual pleasant, courteous manner. But I thought 
 he looked less cheerful than before. I asked him why 
 he remained standing, instead of sitting down! "Is it 
 part of the blanking business?" 
 
 "It is connected with it," he said. 
 
 "How about that accident of yours at Vauxhall? 
 Was it a success?" 
 
 "Complete. You see, I know how to fall; and, be- 
 sides, that bundle of rugs comes in very usefully. You 
 must really let me show you the' trick of it one of 
 these days, as you are good enough to be interested 
 in it." 
 
 "And the railway company?" 
 
 "They were most reasonable treated me in a lib- 
 eral spirit that I appreciated fully." 
 
 "How about the dog-bites in the country ?" 
 
 "Not quite so successful. I made between six and 
 seven pounds the first day with blank dog-bites. But 
 on the next, as I was keeping a nasty little terrier off 
 in front, a St. Bernard came up behind and well, 
 that particular dog-bite wasn't a blank." 
 
 "And are you going back to sit on juries?" 
 
 "No," he said, rather sadly, "I shouldn't care for 
 any sedentary work just now." 
 
 I do not think I shall take to the blanking business 
 myself. It seems to have drawbacks. I must content 
 myself with a career of modest and unsensational hon- 
 esty. But I could not persuade the pleasant-looking 
 young man to give the thing up. On the contrary, he 
 told me that he was about to take up with a little blank
 
 200 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 sanitary inspecting. It is simple. You get admission 
 to a house as a sanitary inspector, and you leave it 
 with anything you can pick up. He has a plausible 
 manner, and I recommend householders to be on their 
 guard.
 
 XIX 
 
 THE CHEAT 
 
 MRS. INGELBY and her niece lived at The 
 White House in the middle of the village High 
 Street; but the house stood far back from the street, 
 with a walled garden shaded by many shrubberies in 
 front of it. Mrs. Ingelby loved shade and privacy. 
 For this reason she would have built herself a house 
 further away from the village, were it not that 
 she liked one thing better still, and this was the thing 
 to which she had always been used. She had been 
 born in The White House, and she would die in it. 
 In the course of nature this would happen in a few 
 years, for she was of a great age. 
 
 This night, in the drawing-room, a rather elderly 
 maid she had been with Mrs. Ingelby for the last 
 twenty years lit the wax candles on the card-table, 
 and put the new packs in their appointed order with 
 the whist-markers. This was in the days before the 
 world knew bridge, and Mrs. Ingelby would have 
 scorned to learn it in any case. She had always played 
 whist, and therefore she would continue to play it. 
 Her game had no modern innovations in it, was fairly 
 sound, but far from being perfect. She preferred a 
 "dummy" game, and always took dummy herself. 
 "Then," she said, "there can be no discussions." She 
 knew her own weakness. In the course of her whist 
 
 201
 
 202 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 experience there had been some very emphatic discus- 
 sions, and she herself had done most of the discussing. 
 
 Her husband, a man of mild and forbearing temper, 
 would stick with a plaintive obstinacy to his side of 
 the question. His last words before he died were: 
 "Admitting that I did not see the call, my dear, I 
 must still maintain that it was highly injudicious in 
 you to call at all." Her last words to him were : "Stuff 
 and nonsense !" 
 
 She mourned his death in solitude for many months, 
 and then her niece Marjory came to live with her. 
 Marjory said that she wished to play whist. Mrs. In- 
 gelby hesitated. Was it decent? As she was doing it 
 merely to oblige the child, she decided that it was de- 
 cent. She sent for the doctor to dine with her that 
 night, and played whist afterwards until nearly eleven 
 o'clock. She won ninepence, and went to bed tri- 
 umphant. After that, the question of propriety was 
 not raised again, and there was a whist party every 
 week. There was always someone in the village who 
 could be asked to make a third at the table. As a mat- 
 ter of fact, she would far sooner have played with her 
 own butler than not have played at all. In the game of 
 cards her youth was renewed. The struggle for life 
 was all over with her now, and she was in a quiet back- 
 water of old age without temptations or ambitions, 
 with no risks to take, and with nothing to scheme over. 
 At the card-table the delightful struggle began again 
 she was once more in the full current, triumphing or 
 vanquished. 
 
 Mrs. Ingelby walked with some slight difficulty, but 
 without further support than her stick, into the draw- 
 ing-room, followed by Marjory and the vicar. Mrs. 
 Ingelby wore black silk and no jewels. She might
 
 THE CHEAT 203 
 
 have exchanged the lace on her dress for diamonds, 
 and got some very fair diamonds for it, but she loved 
 lace, and accused precious stones of vulgarity. Mar- 
 jory, a girl of eighteen, wore gray and looked demure, 
 but with humorous possibilities about her. She was 
 quite the prettiest girl in the village, and fully aware 
 of it. The vicar, who came last, was a pleasant and 
 scholarly man. He preached good sermons and he 
 liked good port. As an angler, his fame was great: 
 the trout they had been eating at dinner had been the 
 victims of his skill. 
 
 "How would it be," said Mrs. Ingelby, as if she 
 were making an entirely new proposition, "if I were to 
 take dummy?" 
 
 The idea was well received, as usual. "Then," said 
 Mrs. Ingelby, as the maid placed the cushions in her 
 chair for her, "shall we say threepenny points?" 
 
 It was, and had always been, threepenny points ; but 
 it was just as well to mention it in case of accidents. 
 
 "Jane, have you placed the ash-tray and match-box 
 for Mr. Vaughan ?" Jane had, and having for the mo- 
 ment done all that she could do, Jane retired, not to 
 reappear until ten o'clock, when she brought in a tray, 
 and Mrs. Ingelby took one glass of very weak whisky 
 and soda, always under protest. These little things 
 were arranged and fixed. The vicar and Marjory and 
 Jane all knew their parts. 
 
 And now a silence reigned, and the battle raged on 
 the green cloth. But to-night it could hardly be called 
 a battle. The vicar and Marjory held all the cards. 
 Mrs. Ingelby struggled hard but ineffectually; no 
 amount of skill could have saved her from defeat. 
 
 There was a pause at the end of the first rubber. 
 
 "The cards have been remarkable," said Mrs. In-
 
 204 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 gelby, "very remarkable. Very remarkable, indeed. 
 This kind of thing cannot possibly continue, and so 
 decided an inequality of fortune deprives the game of 
 much of its interest, to my mind." 
 
 "Well, now, your revenge?" said Mr. Vaughan. 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Ingelby, "I think there will be time 
 for it ; and, as I said, luck like yours cannot last. Two 
 trebles and the rub. I think that's right. Marjory, it 
 is your deal." 
 
 Then the terrible thing happened. Halfway through 
 Marjory's deal Mrs. Ingelby stood up. "We will not 
 continue this game," she said. "I am afraid I must 
 believe the evidence of my own eyes. You are not 
 dealing fairly. You are cheating!" 
 
 "Impossible!" said the vicar. 
 
 Marjory only said that she was sorry, and blushed 
 slightly. 
 
 "I think," said Mrs. Ingelby to Marjory, "you had 
 better leave us. Go to your own room." 
 
 Without a word Marjory went out. It was ex- 
 tremely embarrassing for the vicar. He also had risen 
 to go. 
 
 "Pray sit down again," said Mrs. Ingelby. "This is 
 a serious matter. I hardly know what I should do." 
 
 "Can't understand it," said the vicar. "The girl 
 wasn't playing for points; and even if she had been, it 
 was only the other day that you complained that she 
 gave away her money as fast as she got it. Surely 
 you must have made some mistake !" 
 
 "I made none. Apart from the fact that she did not 
 deny it, I felt pretty sure that she had neutralized the 
 cut. I know something of conjuring tricks myself. 
 At each round my card fell from the bottom of the 
 pack, and not from the top. It was done fairly well,
 
 THE CHEAT 205 
 
 and quickly; but not quickly enough to deceive my 
 eyes, old though they are." 
 
 "Then I'll tell you what," said the vicar. "It must 
 have been done for a joke. I should say no more 
 about it." 
 
 "On the contrary," said Mrs. Ingelby, "I shall say a 
 great deal more about it. I trust that it was only a 
 joke; but Marjory must be made to understand that 
 there are some subjects that do not admit of jokes, and 
 that whist is one of them." 
 
 And then a tray was brought in, and Mrs. Ingelby 
 said that she would not have any, thank you ; and Mr. 
 Vaughan mixed it for her. 
 
 One afternoon in the following week Marjory called 
 at the Vicarage. Could the vicar come over and dine 
 that night and play whist afterwards ? 
 
 "Certainly!" said the vicar. "Delighted. Many 
 thanks. And are you going to be allowed to be one of 
 the whist party, my dear?" 
 
 "Oh, yes!" she said. "I am entirely forgiven." 
 
 "Look here!" said the vicar. "I am not a curious 
 man, as a rule, but I wish you'd tell me what on earth 
 you did it for. By the way, I must return to your 
 aunt the points that I received over that first rubber. 
 I had forgotten that." 
 
 "Oh, no, you mustn't!" said Marjory. "I never 
 cheated at all in the first rubber." 
 
 "Well," said the vicar, "this beats me. The luck 
 was all with us, and you were doing splendidly. Why 
 on earth should you ?" 
 
 "Don't you see?" Marjory broke in. "It was be- 
 cause the luck was all on our side. She manages her- 
 self beautifully, and doesn't complain much; but if she
 
 206 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 hasn't won a game all the evening, she is perfectly mis- 
 erable, and doesn't sleep all night. I was giving her 
 the loveliest hand when she found me out. Spades 
 would have been the trumps, and she had the four hon- 
 ors and a little one, and a long suit in diamonds. I 
 have done it before often, and have never been found 
 out." 
 
 "Well, you must have made your partner lose three- 
 pences." 
 
 "Yes," said Marjory cheerfully. "That doesn't mat- 
 ter a bit, does it? Whereas, if old ladies get upset and 
 can't sleep, that is very bad for their health." 
 
 "And, naturally, when you told her this, she forgave 
 you?" 
 
 Marjory's eyes opened wide. "Told her it? Told 
 her that she'd been treated as a child and allowed to 
 win? How could I, or anyone else, be so cruel? You 
 must never breathe a \vord of it to her. I found she 
 had decided to take it merely as a stupid joke, and to 
 imagine that when the game was over I had intended 
 to own up, anyhow. So that was how I left it." 
 
 "So you ask a man in my position to assist you in 
 this fraud?" 
 
 "It's a pious fraud," said Marjory. 
 
 "Well, possibly I may. But what about to-night?" 
 
 "To-night," said Marjory, "will be just like the other 
 nights. I shall play fairly for the first rubber. If my 
 aunt loses that, I think her luck's very likely to improve 
 afterwards. There are lots of ways of doing it, and 
 I have been taught them all." 
 
 "Then," said the vicar, "you're a card-sharper, my 
 dear; but I believe you're not such a bad sort of girl, 
 in spite of it."
 
 XX 
 
 THE DIFFICULT CASE 
 
 A DUOLOGUE FOR ONE PERSON 
 
 CT'HE two persons of the Dialogue are the PATIENT 
 -* and the DOCTOR. The part of the PATIENT is 
 played in the usual way. The DOCTOR has no actual 
 representative on the stage: he is supposed to be pres- 
 ent, and is supposed to speak: the vividness with which 
 he is realised will depend on the skill of the Actor who 
 plays the PATIENT. In the programmes the part is as- 
 signed to the imagination of the audience. 
 
 The scene is the Library of a Country House. The 
 Time is the Morning. 
 
 The PATIENT is seated at the writing-table in the 
 Library. He is a young man, tanned, of healthy ap- 
 pearance, but a little worried and distraught in man- 
 ner. He is writing as the Curtain rises. 
 
 THE PATIENT. 
 "Whene'er I gaze on Celia's golden locks " 
 
 Now that's not at all a bad line, and runs you 
 straight on into the next : 
 
 "Whene'er I gaze on Celia's golden locks, 
 
 I simply feel I " 
 
 207
 
 208 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 M'yes. I thought the pace was a bit too good to 
 last. Golden locks. Let's see. Locks, crocks, fox, 
 socks. No go. "Whene'er I gaze on " Oh, d ! 
 
 (He flings down his pen and rises from the table.) 
 
 Yes, and what am I doing it for ? Same thing came 
 over me yesterday and the day before. (Draws papers 
 from his pocket.) "My Heart's Idol" six verses. 
 "To Celia's Eyes" seventeen verses. And I'm sup- 
 posed to be an officer and a gentleman. If my man 
 found these when he was brushing my clothes, or if 
 anyone in the regiment got to hear of it well, I 
 should simply have to leave the country. A mere girl 
 could never have that effect on me : not if I were well. 
 (Glances at his watch.) I only hope that when he 
 does come he won't be afraid to speak out, as some 
 doctors are. Even if it's anything mental, I'd sooner 
 know it. But it seems a bit rough. All these years 
 I've done my duty. (A pause.) Well, more or less. 
 At any rate, I've never written a line of anything that 
 could be called poetry, and now it's just as if I couldn't 
 
 keep off it. Let's see. "Whene'er I gaze on " 
 
 Ah! that's got it. 
 
 The PATIENT on his way to the writing-table is ar- 
 rested by opening of door C at imaginary entry of the 
 DOCTOR, and goes quickly up to it. The PATIENT 
 closes the door, goes through business of shaking 
 hands, comes down, places two chairs and takes one, 
 talking as he does so. 
 
 (The points at which the DOCTOR is supposed to 
 speak are indicated by asterisk lines.) 
 
 Good morning, Doctor. This is very good of you. 
 So you got my message all right I hate these beastly 
 telephones myself. Well, won't you sit down?
 
 THE DIFFICULT CASE 209 
 
 It is, indeed. Mind, it looked a bit like rain this 
 morning early. Still, you couldn't want a finer day 
 than it is now. 
 
 Yes, I know I ought to be out with the others. But 
 my shooting's gone right off. Yesterday I was per- 
 fectly ashamed of myself. But then that's only one 
 symptom out of many. In fact, that's why I asked 
 you to come round. I want you to tell me exactly 
 what the trouble is. 
 
 No, I dare say I don't look ill, but you doctors know 
 that one can't go much by looks. 
 
 The other symptoms? Well, there are lots of 'em. 
 The worst is a kind of unsettled feeling. What I 
 mean is this: when I ought to be thinking about 
 other things, I'm not. See ? 
 
 Well, I don't know how else to put it. The kind of 
 thing that makes you forget which suit your partner 
 discarded. Then, my sleep's not as good as it was. 
 My appetite's falling off, too.
 
 210 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 Now, that's a funny question. How am I to re- 
 member what I had for breakfast this morning? Let's 
 see. Grilled sole. Couple of eggs. Curry not much 
 curry. 
 
 No, nothing else. Well, yes, a bit of cold grouse. 
 Not the whole bird, mind. Of course, you don't count 
 toast, and marmalade, and things like that? 
 
 I don't see that at all. I didn't say that my appetite 
 had gone altogether. I said it was falling off. So it 
 is. At the present moment, for instance, I've no in- 
 clination for food. 
 
 Certainly. Show you it with pleasure. (Puts out 
 his tongue.) I should tell you, perhaps, that I've no 
 actual pain. Still, I suppose there could be some in- 
 sidious form of indigestion, when a chap might not 
 know 
 
 What? Tongue's all right, is it ? That seems queer. 
 You'd like to feel my pulse. (Holds out his wrist.) 
 I dare say you'll find it racing a bit. The feeling I've 
 got is rather on the feverish side. Ah! the pulse 
 soon tells, don't it? I know a man who
 
 THE DIFFICULT CASE 211 
 
 What? You surprise me. Absolutely normal? Is 
 it, indeed? 
 
 * ***** 
 
 Oh, no. Of course, if you say so, I believe ft. 
 
 *T 5p * *T* *t* * 
 
 No. 
 ****** 
 
 Not at all. 
 
 ^K *K *K *T* 1^ *(* 
 
 Never in my life. 
 
 Oh, come, Doctor, it's rather early to say that, isn't 
 it ? I guessed that my case was a pretty difficult one. 
 I realized that there might be complications. I never 
 supposed that you'd be able to er give it a name all 
 in a minute. But to turn round and tell me I'm per- 
 fectly well that's simply running away from it. Why 
 don't you ask me more questions ? You've got a steth- 
 oscope why don't you examine my heart? 
 
 Very likely. Still, it would relieve my anxiety if 
 you did. (Takes off his coat and waistcoat.) And I'll 
 tell you why I've thought all along that this might be 
 some subtle, masked form of brain-mischief.
 
 212 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 Yes, I know perfectly well that my brain's not in 
 my chest why, that's one of the things you learn at 
 school. All the same, everything's connected with 
 everything else, ain't it ? 
 
 Very well, I promise you. If you find my heart's 
 all right, I won't bother you any more, and I'll take 
 your word for it there's nothing the matter. Now 
 then, how do I stand? Like this? Right. (Business 
 of stethoscoping.) 
 
 What? Well, you haven't taken long about it. 
 (Putting on coat and waistcoat, as if rejecting offer of 
 assistance. ) Thanks, I can manage. 
 
 Well, I must keep my word. It's a bit disappoint- 
 ing. I did think that with a stethoscope you would 
 have found something, if you'd been really trying. 
 However, I won't bother you any more. Of course, if 
 for your own satisfaction you said you'd like to take 
 my temperature, I shouldn't 
 
 Remind you of what? 
 
 Lady Caroline and the thermometer no, I never 
 heard that one. Come on. Let's have it.
 
 THE DIFFICULT CASE 213 
 
 Oh, stuff and nonsense! I shan't tell anybody, and 
 you needn't give the real names. Besides, I haven't 
 heard a really good yarn for weeks. You positively 
 must. Ah, that's right. 
 
 (He draws his chair closer. Listening attitude.) 
 
 All right. Call him anything call him Smith. 
 I see. 
 
 Yes, yes. 
 ****** 
 
 But what had she done with the other one? 
 
 (Roars of laughter.) 
 
 Oh, that's good. That's one of the best. That's 
 absolutely perfect. (With sudden seriousness.) But, 
 Doctor, you know, this sort of depression of mine is 
 no laughing matter. 
 
 Yes, that's true. I hadn't meant to allude to it again. 
 But I don't like to leave it like this. You see, you 
 haven't even suggested anything.
 
 214 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 Come, now, that's better. I shouldn't wonder if a 
 tonic did me a lot of good. You'd like to write the 
 prescription; you'll find ink and everything here. 
 
 (Business of establishing the DOCTOR at the writing- 
 table. PATIENT leaves him: then turns sharply.) 
 
 What ? "Whene'er I gaze on Celia's " Good 
 
 Lord ! I'd forgotten I left it there. All right, Doctor. 
 I admit it. I did it. It's my poetry. No one is to 
 blame but myself. 
 
 Depends what you mean by "going on for long." 
 It's been going on ever since I met her. (Draws paper 
 from his pocket.) This is one I did yesterday. It's 
 called "To Celia's Eyes." I'll read you some of it: 
 "Whene'er I gaze on Celia's " 
 
 ****** 
 
 No, it's not at all the same as the one you've got 
 there. It's only that there's a bit of a coincidence 
 about the first lines. This one is much more finished : 
 
 "Whene'er I gaze on Celia's lovely eyes, 
 They always seem to take me by surprise. 
 They are as blue as is the sky above, 
 And enough to make any man feel the power of "
 
 THE DIFFICULT CASE 215 
 
 All right ; if you don't want to hear it, you needn't. 
 
 Yes; I admit I ought to have told you about it be- 
 fore. It's a mistake to have any secrets from one's 
 doctor. But I have no wish to be regarded as a poet. 
 It would ruin me in my career. I depend upon your 
 professional discretion. 
 
 I've no doubt it would make a very good story. So 
 did Lady Caroline and the thermometer. A little mu- 
 tual forbearance, eh? 
 
 Then, that's settled. 
 ****** 
 
 You surprise me. I'd no idea you would regard 
 these poems as symptomatic. Then you know what 
 my disease is. Tell me quickly, Doctor. Whatever it 
 is, I can bear it. 
 
 ****** 
 
 I'm in love, am I? Yes, I'd been half afraid of it. 
 Doctor, what is to be done ? Is there any certain cure 
 for love? 
 
 ******
 
 216 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 There is? What is it? 
 ****** 
 
 It's all very well to say Matrimony, but how's a 
 man like myself to get there? I'm nothing to look 
 at. Intellect, I should say, very little above the aver- 
 age. No particular position. 
 
 Yes ; but there are three good lives between me and 
 that. Besides, there is the girl herself to be considered. 
 I suppose you don't know who the girl is ? 
 
 How on earth did you know? 
 
 Of course. The names on the poems. What a 
 Sherlock Holmes you are! 
 
 Everybody knows it! Somehow, I always seem to 
 be the last person to hear of anything. But, as I was 
 saying, even if I were the Emperor of Timbuctoo, it 
 wouldn't be much good if the girl had taken a dislike 
 to me. Now, I'll give you an instance. I told her 
 that I should stop in this morning, and rather hinted 
 that she might do the same. Not a bit of it. Wouldn't 
 hear of it. She was going with the rest.
 
 THE DIFFICULT CASE 217 
 
 What's that? 
 
 Just as you came in ? Why on earth can't girls say 
 what they really mean? Whereabout in the garden 
 was she? 
 
 Why, that's just by this window. What a lot of 
 time I have been wasting ! 
 
 (He goes to the window'). 
 
 Yes, there she is, reading some rotten book. If 
 she'd only look up ah! 
 
 (He smiles and waves his hand, and returns hur- 
 riedly to the DOCTOR. ) 
 
 Doctor, I can't thank you enough. You've done me 
 a lot of good. Now I positively must not waste one 
 more moment of your time. I know how valuable it is. 
 Sure you won't have a cigar to smoke on your way 
 back? 
 
 ****** 
 
 No, don't bother about the prescription. That will 
 be all right. And, I say, you'll excuse me if I don't 
 see you further than this door ? You know your way, 
 of course. The fact is, that this is rather a busy 
 morning with me. See you on Wednesday at the golf 
 I've got a rotten handicap myself. Many thanks, 
 again. Good-bye.
 
 218 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 (Business of shaking hands. The PATIENT opens 
 and closes door C. Then goes quickly to the window 
 and calls down. ) 
 
 I say, should I be too much of an interruption? 
 Thanks, awfully. I'll jump for it.
 
 XXI 
 
 SOME IMITATIONS 
 
 MY cousin Elsa is the despair of her mother and 
 the ecstasy of every artist who beholds her. 
 Men adore her until they know her, and she has the 
 longest list of broken engagements of any woman in 
 London. She has great charm and a system of ethics 
 of which an ordinary house-breaker or card-sharper 
 would be heartily ashamed. 
 
 When she called on me at twelve in the morning, 
 thereby interrupting my work, and observed that 
 friendship was a lost art, I naturally asked who he 
 was. 
 
 "If you wouldn't keep on trying to be clever," said 
 Elsa, "it would be much better. There is no man in 
 the case at all this time. Besides, if it had been any 
 trouble with a man in it I could probably have ar- 
 ranged it myself. I've often done so before." 
 
 "You have ?" I said. "Well, what is the trouble this 
 time?" 
 
 "Suppose I asked you to go to Mrs. Talford Green's 
 on Wednesday night?" 
 
 "I should say I was awfully sorry, but that I was 
 too busy and too old for that kind of thing. I should 
 add, in a humble style, that you would find many other 
 men there, and I should only be in your way." 
 
 219
 
 220 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 Elsa stamped her foot impatiently. "Once more, 
 don't be clever. Don't jump to conclusions. I never 
 said I was going, did I ? I'm not. I don't go to every 
 blessed thing I'm asked to." 
 
 "Don't brag. I know you too well, and it's no 
 good. You go to Mrs. Talford Green's whenever you 
 get the chance, and are thankful. And why on earth 
 am I to go if you don't intend to be there?" 
 
 "I particularly want you to meet Irma Morrice." 
 
 "Why? I've met her scores of times. I know she's 
 your dearest friend, and absolutely delightful and per- 
 fectly ducksy, and all the rest of it. All the same, if 
 we don't meet on Wednesday night neither of us will 
 die of it" 
 
 "Did I say she was my dearest friend? She is a 
 friend, of course, in a way, and I wouldn't say a word 
 against her." 
 
 "Let's have the word, then." 
 
 "More cleverness ! Why don't you keep it for those 
 little penny stories that you write? Irma's pretty, of 
 course, and I dare say she will learn >how her hair 
 ought to be done one of these days. It's not her fault 
 that she's got no money, and I always wondered how 
 she managed to dress so well on it until I heard about 
 the Exchange. She doesn't dress really well, of course, 
 and she has the finest luck at bridge I ever came across 
 in my life, if it is simply luck. And I hope it is, of 
 course." 
 
 "Yes, that all sounds very nice. And why do you 
 want me to meet her?" 
 
 "You really ought to go out a great deal more than 
 you do. If you don't study life, how can you write 
 about it properly? I heard someone say the other
 
 SOME IMITATIONS 221 
 
 day that you were the kindest and most chivalrous of 
 men." 
 
 This was conclusive. My cousin Elsa does not say 
 these things for nothing. If she stroked a cat she 
 would expect the animal to go away, skin itself, get 
 the skin dyed imitation mink, and send it to her with 
 an affectionate message. 
 
 "Evidently," I said, "you're in some pretty serious 
 trouble." 
 
 She picked up a little Italian looking-glass and 
 peered into it carefully, and, as she was surveying her 
 own face, found therein no fault at all. "I want to 
 ask you something," she said. "Suppose I got some- 
 body to lend me money on some diamonds. And well 
 they weren't really diamonds ?" 
 
 "A term of imprisonment with hard labor. You 
 ought to have been either in a prison or madhouse 
 long ago. I've often told you so. If you want me to 
 help you you must put your cards on the table at any 
 rate. I must have the whole story." 
 
 "It isn't quite what I said about borrowing the 
 money, I mean but it's pretty bad. If I told mamma 
 there'd be the most awful row. I suppose I'd better 
 tell you, only you must promise not to peach, and you 
 must promise to get me out of it. Take me out to 
 lunch somewhere and then we can talk it over." 
 
 II 
 
 DURING luncheon Elsa was appallingly scandalous and 
 extremely amusing. When lunch was over she leaned 
 forward confidentially, one arm resting on the table.
 
 222 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "Now I'm going to tell you about it. It's the worst 
 mess I ever got into in my life, and it's not my fault 
 at all." 
 
 "I knew it wasn't your fault, of course." 
 
 "Do you remember that little diamond pendant that 
 Uncle Harry gave me?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You wouldn't. You never see anything. I've got 
 it on now. Look. Well, you know the way that 
 women will go mad on some particular piece of jew- 
 elry. Irma Morrice went mad on my pendant. I be- 
 lieve she half thought I might give it her one day when 
 I had got tired of it. I couldn't do that, because it was 
 a present from dear Uncle Harry. Besides, I took it 
 to a jeweller the day he gave it to me, and the man 
 said it was worth at least fifty pounds." 
 
 "Pleasant little trick of yours." 
 
 "Don't interrupt. One day I was going down Bond 
 Street and I came across a pendant in a window which 
 was the very exact image of mine. I went in and asked 
 to look at it, and found that the stones were paste, and 
 that it wasn't too dear. I had to buy it for safety. 
 Otherwise Irma might have seen it and got it, and I 
 hate to have her wearing anything like anything that I 
 wear. That's natural, isn't it? Then I lost two 
 watches in one week, and mamma said I ought to be 
 more careful. So I thought that in future I would 
 keep the pendant with the real stones safely locked up 
 at home and wear the other. I only knew them apart 
 by the fact that I kept the real one in a different shaped 
 box to the other. Then one afternoon Irma had got a 
 bridge-party, just a few of us, all girls. I never held 
 such absolutely awful cards in my life."
 
 SOME IMITATIONS 223 
 
 "And," I suggested, "to pay your losses you bor- 
 rowed money on the imitation pendant, asserting that 
 the stones were real." 
 
 Elsa was indignant. "Not a bit. Do you think I 
 would tell a lie like that? And do you think I would 
 go into a horrible, dirty, disgraceful pawnbroker's shop 
 to get money? Never. I would sooner owe any 
 amount than do such a thing. What happened was 
 this : I paid the money at the time, and then when the 
 rest had gone I had a few words with Irma. You see, 
 I had to pay Mathilde some money next day (she's a 
 demon for money, and if she hadn't got quite perfect 
 taste, I'd leave her). So I suggested that I should pay 
 the money in a month's time, and meanwhile I would 
 let Irma wear my pendant, and I told her that if I 
 didn't pay at the end of the month she could keep it. 
 I didn't say 'diamond pendant' I simply said 'pen- 
 dant.' And I couldn't help what she thought, could I? 
 She jumped at it, so I took it off and gave it her." 
 
 "What were your losses ?" 
 
 "Somewhere about ten pounds." 
 
 "And you let her believe that she held as security a 
 pendant worth fifty?" 
 
 "I couldn't help what she thought," said Elsa petu- 
 lantly. "I told you that before." 
 
 "And what had you actually paid for the paste pen- 
 dant?" 
 
 "Four pounds ten shillings." 
 
 She looked pathetic and deeply wronged as she gave 
 me this account of her own dishonorable and dis- 
 gusting conduct. If she had not been an irresponsible, 
 ignorant, and charming child I might have been even 
 angrier with her. "Well," I said, "there is only one 
 thing to be done. I'll put you into a hansom, and you
 
 224 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 must drive to the Morrices' at once. You will then 
 pay your card debt to Irma and take back your Brum- 
 magem pendant. And I ought to tell your mother, and 
 you ought to be well spanked. You can repay me when 
 you have it." 
 
 "Thanks," said Elsa sadly, "it's awfully kind of 
 you, but I'm afraid it's no good. Irma has found me 
 out already, and that's why I wanted you to go to 
 Mrs. Talford Green's and talk to her and hear what 
 she meant to do, and see if you couldn't make her 
 change her mind." 
 
 By this time Elsa had got actual tears in her eyes. 
 Her appearance of being deeply injured by a hard and 
 cruel world was so deceptive that it nearly took me in. 
 
 "How do you know that Irma has found you out?" 
 
 "I'll tell you. The other day I happened to tread on 
 a brooch of mine and the silly thing broke; so I took 
 it to a very good man I know of. As I went into the 
 shop I saw Irma standing at the counter, and behind 
 the counter a shopman with that pendant of mine in 
 his hand. I'm not quite certain whether Irma saw me, 
 but I think she did. I rushed out of the shop at once. 
 That happened yesterday. I can't go on Wednesday 
 night because I simply can't meet her. I never meant 
 to do any harm. I had heaps of money coming at the 
 end of the month, and I was quite certain to pay her 
 and take the pendant back then. No harm would have 
 been done at all if she hadn't found me out. It was a 
 suspicious, low, catlike thing for her to do, taking that 
 pendant to a jeweller." 
 
 "Well," I said, "I'll do what I can. Only, my dear 
 Elsa, you've got to make me a few promises." 
 
 They were promises connected with her reformation.
 
 SOME IMITATIONS 225 
 
 She made them all with the utmost willingness and 
 kept one or two of them for quite a long time. 
 
 in 
 
 I MET Miss Morrice on Wednesday night, and I was 
 a little puzzled, for if ever a woman looked the picture 
 of conscious guilt and horrible embarrassment, that 
 woman was Irma Morrice. We talked about nothing 
 in particular for a moment or two, and parted. 
 
 Later I took Miss Morrice down to supper. She 
 clearly had something on her mind, and I thought I 
 would give her the weaker position by letting her 
 speak first. 
 
 She asked me if Elsa was there. "No," I said, 
 "she told me she wasn't coming to-night." 
 
 "Do you know why?" 
 
 "No," I lied. 
 
 "I don't believe she'll ever speak to me again. And 
 she was quite my dearest friend, and I'm afraid it's 
 partly my own fault." 
 
 "Can't I do anything?" I suggested. 
 
 "You might, perhaps, be able to give her my ex- 
 planation of a thing that must have looked perfectly 
 horrible. She lost a little money to me at bridge, and 
 as her dressmaker was bothering her, I wouldn't take 
 it until she got her next quarter's allowance. So she 
 insisted on my wearing a little pendant of hers that 
 I admired until the money was paid." 
 
 "I know all about that," I said. "In fact, she gave 
 me the money to hand on to you to-night. But what's 
 the trouble?"
 
 226 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "Out of pure curiosity and nothing else I took that 
 pendant to a jeweller. I wanted to know how much 
 it was worth. I thought perhaps I would get one like 
 it one day. As he held it in his hand Elsa came into 
 the shop. I could see she was furious. She must 
 have thought that I suspected her and was getting the 
 thing valued. It's too horrible and sordid." 
 
 "Don't say that," I said. "This is a commercial 
 age. By the way, that little pendant of hers is rather 
 good, isn't it?" 
 
 "The man told me he would give me fifty-two 
 pounds for it any time. But, tell me, will you try and 
 make it all right with Elsa? I couldn't bear to lose 
 her." 
 
 I said I would do my best, and I did. 
 
 Elsa had, of course, mixed the two pendants, as 
 she was bound to do. The reconciliation took place, 
 and Elsa told me all about it afterwards. She said 
 she was very saintly and martyrish at the interview 
 between her and Irma, and that she had told Irma 
 that she had never been angry with her only pained 
 and grieved. And then Elsa asked me not to laugh.
 
 XXII 
 THE CELESTIAL'S EDITORSHIP 
 
 THE Celestial (this was merely his nickname), 
 having finished dinner, collected his faithful 
 follower Smithson. and proceeded down the hill from 
 the schoolhouse to Hunley's. He paused several times 
 on the way, once in an unsuccessful attempt to make 
 a pug dog bite Smithson, and once in order to make 
 Smithson jump a low stone wall by the roadside. 
 Smithson was compelled to jump this wall at intervals 
 when the Celestial decided that it was good for him. 
 Once in every five times Smithson cleared the wall, 
 which was distinctly disappointing, but the other four 
 times he fell, and there were few people who could 
 get more comic illustration into a fall than Smithson. 
 This time he was particularly good; in fact, the Ce- 
 lestial had to climb up on the wall and sit there until 
 he had recovered himself. 
 
 "I'll bet this is the last time I ever go at that 
 beastly thing," said Smithson, and he rubbed his shin. 
 
 "So you said before, my son. It won't do. A chap 
 who can fall like you ought to belong to the nation." 
 
 When they reached Hunley's the little shop was 
 full. 
 
 "Banks," said the Celestial, "kindly step down from 
 that throne." 
 
 227
 
 228 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 Banks was occupying the one chair in the shop; 
 he got down tinder protest, and the Celestial, having 
 taken unto himself three raspberry- jam tartlets and 
 a stick of chocolate, and commanded a vanilla ice to 
 be ready for him the moment he had finished, observed 
 with a deeply serious air that we all ate and drank 
 far too much. 
 
 "Seen the 'Mag'?" somebody asked. 
 
 "No," said the Celestial. 
 
 "It's out this morning." 
 
 "It can stop out," said the Celestial. "I am not 
 going to look at it. It is all run for the sixth and the 
 masters. Real talent isn't given a chance. At any 
 rate, they chucked me," he added modestly. 
 
 There was a general chorus of disbelief that the 
 Celestial had ever sent any contribution in. He had 
 many eccentricities, but no one had ever accused him 
 of a literary turn of mind. Smithson expressed a 
 decided opinion that the Celestial could not write 
 anything even if he wanted to. 
 
 "All right, Fathead," said the Celestial : "if I didn't 
 value this particular tartlet I'd break it over your 
 face. I tell you I did send something in, and it did 
 get chucked; and if you don't believe me you can ask 
 the noble and scholarly Pilkington, who is the editor 
 thereof." 
 
 "What did you send ?" asked Smithson. 
 
 "I sent a short essay entitled 'Hoppers ; their treat- 
 ment in sickness and in health/ ' 
 
 As the senior mathematical master, a man of small 
 size and great agility, was known throughout the 
 school as "The Hopper," the rejection of Cyprian 
 Langsdyke's article may be easily understood, quite 
 apart from any question of its literary merits.
 
 THE CELESTIAL'S EDITORSHIP 229 
 
 "If you will kindly cease this unmannerly and in- 
 tempestive laughter," said the Celestial, with an excel- 
 lent imitation of his head master's manner of speech, 
 "I will give you a few thoughts that have occurred to 
 me on this subject. (Fathead, eat one of these green 
 things with the red stripe around them, and tell me 
 if they're any good.) The school magazine is rot. It 
 contains reports of concerts telling us how the swan- 
 like voice of Smithson was heard to great advantage; 
 it informs us that the Rev. J. B. Jiggers" this was 
 a purely imaginary name "has kindly presented to 
 the school library a volume entitled 'What a Little 
 Girl can do'; it gives up poems by the noble and 
 scholarly Pilkington, and it chucks a few trenchant 
 and witty remarks by the brutal and licentious Langs- 
 dyke." He took his adjectives from the history he 
 happened to be reading (under compulsion) at the 
 time. "The only thing that is any good is the match 
 scores; and, barring the out-matches, we generally 
 know a lot more about them than the magazine does. 
 It has been well observed by the immortal Lecky, or 
 some other bounder, that without competition trade 
 cannot thrive. It is the same thing here. What we 
 want is an opposition magazine of our own, with me 
 to edit it." 
 
 "You'd never get Pilkington or any of these chaps 
 to write for it," said Banks. 
 
 "Oh, my sacred aunt!" said the Celestial, "do you 
 think we want Pilkington? Do you think we want 
 a yard and a half of poetry called 'Thoughts on a 
 Summer Evening'? Avaunt! We don't want the 
 sixth, and we don't want the masters. If they come 
 in at all, they will come in as the subject of a few 
 critical editorial remarks. My magazine will be a
 
 230 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 society magazine. It will tell you all the real news. 
 It will show up abuses. It will give character-sketches 
 of great and notable people, such as Henry Reginald 
 Liggers, M.A., likewise the Hopper. It will be in 
 manuscript, and Smithson will have to write it out. 
 Everybody who wants to read the number will have 
 to pay a penny, and the surplus, after paying ex- 
 penses, will go to the Banana Society." 
 
 The Banana Society had also been invented by the 
 Celestial. Its aim was to provide a small fund to 
 enable the society to buy bananas in great quantities 
 when they were two a penny. Such cheapness was 
 temporary, and without a fund full advantage could 
 not be taken of it. 
 
 The discussion of the magazine continued, and vari- 
 ous duties were assigned. Banks, for instance, was 
 required to provide accurate information as to all the 
 head master's dinner-parties, including a list of the 
 guests and an exact transcript of the menu. Douglas 
 was to furnish short biographies of any visitors at the 
 schoolhouse. 
 
 "That's all very funny," said Douglas, "but how 
 am I to get 'em?" 
 
 "That is your look-out," said the Celestial. "You've 
 got a tongue in your head. 'If you do not see what 
 you want, kindly ask for it/ In that way we shall 
 rise on stepping-stones of our dead selves to higher 
 things, as the josser remarked who did the stuff that 
 the sixth had to cork into Elegiacs this morning." 
 
 "How did you know?" asked Smithson. 
 
 "Because, Fathead, I heard the stuff being given 
 out to them." 
 
 "And that don't explain how you remembered it," 
 said Smithson, who never remembered anything.
 
 THE CELESTIAL'S EDITORSHIP 231 
 
 "Well," said the Celestial, "I cannot stop to ex- 
 plain it to you, because I am just about to give my 
 celebrated imitation of a lion-hearted English school- 
 boy cutting cricket on a beastly hot Saturday after- 
 noon, and getting a surreptitious swim in the river 
 Wathy." 
 
 "I'll come too," said Smithson. 
 
 "You will bet your last boots you won't. As 
 Socrates very pointedly observes, where one can slink 
 out all right two may be missed." 
 
 II 
 
 IN due course of time "Langsdyke's Home Truths" 
 made a successful appeal to its limited public. The 
 method of production was original, and has not yet 
 been followed by the bulk of the leading London 
 magazines. The Celestial lay at full length on his 
 back on a table in the day-room, having in his hand 
 the rough pencil-notes of news given to him by his 
 accomplished staff. Smithson knelt on the floor with 
 a penny exercise-book and his inkpot on a form be- 
 side him, and took down the paragraphs that his editor 
 dictated to him. The magazine consisted almost en- 
 tirely of paragraphs. The following are some of the 
 more elegant extracts from the first number : 
 
 "Anyone who is reading this magazine is requested 
 to keep it in his locker when he isn't. 
 
 "We would wish to ask, as a matter of public in- 
 terest, whether the pro. is not intended to coach the 
 eleven, and if it is necessary for him to waste half 
 an hour every day sending easy ones down for the 
 Hopper to hit, so that he may fancy himself.
 
 232 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "We are informed by the Secretary of the Banana 
 Society that the price of this fine and succulent fruit 
 at Mr. Stanforth's emporium is now i^d. each. They 
 are pretty big ones, but that does not excuse it. It 
 is a great pity that chaps with more money than brains 
 should encourage it by buying them. It would show 
 more public spirit if we all held aloof, and then, when 
 they all began to go brown, old Stan forth would have 
 to climb down a bit. Bananas of this size at 2 for id., 
 even if they had begun to go a little, would be emi- 
 nently desirable. 
 
 "General Mayne (or Mayner) has been stopping at 
 the schoolhouse. He took lunch at the school dinner 
 yesterday, and sat next to the noble and scholarly 
 Pilkington. We are given to understand that the 
 gallant general was something or other in Afghanis- 
 tan. The remaining details of his life are unknown. 
 Pilkington was heard to observe in conversation that 
 he was not a bad old cock. 
 
 "In the match against the Hopper's team last Sat- 
 urday, our esteemed collaborator Mr. Banks, in a 
 frantic attempt to prevent a cricket-ball from pulping 
 his face, found that the ball had accidentally stuck 
 to his hands. As he has been speaking rather freely 
 about catching their best bat, we think it well to give 
 this information. 
 
 "The noble and scholarly Pilkington has purchased 
 three neckties. He also inquired the price of pearl 
 pins, but no business resulted." 
 
 The tone of the magazine was decidedly personal, 
 and that made talk. The Celestial was far from thirst- 
 ing for fame, but it happened that even that great 
 man Pilkington, editor of the legitimate school maga-
 
 THE CELESTIAL'S EDITORSHIP 233 
 
 zine, prefect, and in both the team and the eleven, 
 heard of it, and tackled the Celestial on the subject. 
 "What's all this about your magazine, Langsdyke?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "It's nothing much," said the Celestial modestly. 
 "You see, we thought it might do to practise in, and 
 perhaps later we might get to be good enough for the 
 real magazine." 
 
 "Well," said Pilkington, "as far as you are con- 
 cerned, you might be good enough already. Anyhow, 
 it's no good sending in things which are aimed at 
 masters. You're too beastly cheeky." 
 
 "I see," said the Celestial sadly. 
 
 "However, I said I'd like just to run my eye over 
 the thing. Bring two or three of the numbers up to 
 my study, will you?" 
 
 The Celestial ran over his back numbers in his mind, 
 and could not recall a single one which did not con- 
 tain remarks of a personal nature likely to be offensive 
 to Pilkington, so, as he was not hungering and thirst- 
 ing for a licking, he said that he should be very glad 
 and forgot about it. When Pilkington reminded 
 him later, the back numbers were not to be found. 
 In Pilkington's presence the Celestial inquired most 
 diligently for these back numbers from Smithson and 
 Banks and all the others. They none of them seemed 
 to know anything. 
 
 But as time went on the Celestial grew lazy, and 
 deputed the greater part of his work to Smithson. 
 Consequently one number appeared of which the Ce- 
 lestial had never seen the last page, and when he saw 
 it he was angry. "It's no good talking to you, Fat- 
 head," he said ; "you've got no sense. Just read that
 
 234 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 through again." He pointed to the offending para- 
 graph. 
 
 "Yes," said Smithson brightly, "I did almost think 
 of leaving it out; but it was Duncan who sent it in, 
 and he might have turned shirty, and I was in a hurry 
 to get the thing finished, and " 
 
 "All right," said the Celestial: "no one else has 
 seen it. You black it right out, and I'll go and have 
 a talk with Mr. Duncan." 
 
 The Celestial's interview, like almost everything 
 that he did, was half in fun and half serious. A super- 
 ficial observer might have thought that Duncan was 
 merely being ragged. Duncan, who had every means 
 of knowing, was under the impression that he was 
 being licked. The chastisement was deserved. It was 
 all right to chaff the Hopper and the other masters, 
 but this paragraph dealt with that very different thing, 
 a master's wife a lady, moreover, who was extremely 
 popular in the school. As the Celestial observed, even 
 if the lady in question were not beautiful, it was no 
 reason for a sandy-haired pudding-faced pig of the 
 prairies like Duncan to call attention to it. The chas- 
 tisement was administered smiling, and it left Duncan 
 with a strong desire to propitiate the Celestial. 
 
 Now, Smithson was above all things a slow, con- 
 scientious, and painstaking boy. He had been told 
 by the Celestial, his lord and master, to black out the 
 offending paragraph, and he had only got a "G" pen 
 to do it with. He decided that a "J" pen was neces- 
 sary to execute the job thoroughly, and as Dobson 
 in the junior day-room had an entire box of "J" pens, 
 Smithson went off to appropriate one. It was while 
 he was absent that Mr. Liggers sauntered into the
 
 THE CELESTIAL'S EDITORSHIP 235 
 
 room and took up the paper. His eye fell on the of- 
 fending paragraph. He had just finished it when 
 another master called to him, and he went off to play 
 fives. He had forgotten to confiscate the paper, but 
 he could do that later. When his game was over he 
 went to his own rooms, and the page-boy who waited 
 upon the masters in the schoolhouse came down to 
 the day-room to say that Mr. Liggers wished to see 
 Langsdyke. 
 
 "See that?" said the Celestial cheerfully. "He 
 loves me so much that he cannot keep away from me 
 even for one hour." There was at this time almost 
 perpetual warfare between Mr. Liggers and the Celes- 
 tial. "Go back again," he said sternly to the page-boy, 
 "and tell Mr. Liggers that I regard a message like 
 that as cheek, and if I get any repetition of it I shall 
 write to his parents and stop his pocket-money." 
 
 The page-boy grinned. 
 
 Two minutes later an extremely polite Langsdyke 
 knocked at the door of Mr. Liggers's room. 
 
 "I wish to see you, Langsdyke," said Mr. Liggers, 
 "with reference to some sort of publication in manu- 
 script that I found on the table in the day-room. It 
 bears your name, and I suppose you are responsible 
 for it?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the Celestial. 
 
 "I did not examine it at length, but it appeared to 
 me to contain a good deal of impertinence." 
 
 "It was not intended to be shown to the masters, 
 sir." 
 
 "Quite so," said Mr. Liggers "quite so. I see 
 the justice of that plea. We do not expect you always 
 to speak of us with the same respect with which you
 
 236 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 speak to us, but if you speak disrespectfully of us and 
 allow us to overhear, you have to take the conse- 
 quences. If you produce a magazine and leave it 
 about where we can find it, you must take the con- 
 sequences of that also." 
 
 "Strictly speaking," said Langsdyke, "it shouldn't 
 have been left about. We made a rule that it was to 
 be kept in the lockers when it wasn't being read." 
 
 "Well, well," said Mr. Liggers, "I can settle after- 
 wards what we will do about your precious magazine. 
 What I wanted to speak about particularly was one 
 paragraph in it dealing with the wife of one of the 
 masters. You let that paragraph go in?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the Celestial. 
 
 "Well, I don't expect much from you, but I thought 
 you were more of a man than that. Who wrote it?" 
 
 The Celestial hesitated. "Well, practically I did," 
 he said. 
 
 "There is no 'practically' about it. You did or you 
 didn't." 
 
 "Then I did," said the Celestial. 
 
 "Then you will learn for me by heart the first 
 chorus in the 'Agamemnon.' If it were any use I 
 would ask you to try to behave more like a gentleman 
 in the future, but I do not think it is. Boys of the 
 type that would do that kind of thing would be better 
 out of the place altogether, and that is how I expect 
 you will end, Langsdyke. Now you can go, and send 
 up that number of your magazine to me at once." 
 
 Langsdyke was extremely angry as he came down 
 the stone stairs. He could not, of course, have given 
 Smithson away, or Duncan, more especially as he 
 had already punished Duncan himself; still, he did
 
 THE CELESTIAL'S EDITORSHIP 237 
 
 not much like being spoken to in that way, and it was 
 only the fear that on some further investigation the 
 real culprit might be discovered that made him submit 
 quietly. 
 
 There were many inquiries when he got back to the 
 day-room as to what Mr. Liggers had wanted. 
 
 ''He wanted," said the Celestial, "to know if I 
 could come to tea next Sunday to meet the Emperor 
 of Gigaboo. I explained that I drew the line at 
 emperors, and in a fit of uncontrollable passion the 
 bounder has given me the first chorus to learn by 
 heart. Smithson, ^Eschylus forward. Show Aga- 
 memnons." 
 
 in 
 
 AFTER dinner that night Mr. Liggers unbosomed him- 
 self to Mr. Dunham, another master, in the school- 
 house. 
 
 "You have sometimes accused me," said Mr. Lig- 
 gers, "of being a bit too rough with that chap Langs- 
 dyke." 
 
 "So you are," said Dunham. "The Celestial's all 
 right." 
 
 "Well, I happen to know he isn't." Here he pro- 
 duced the number of "Langsdyke's Home Truths." 
 "This is a pleasant little amateur magazine that he 
 has been running, and I'll ask you to hear what this 
 chivalrous little beast has to say about Mrs. Morris." 
 He turned to the place in the magazine, and looked 
 blank amazement. "Why," he said, "the paragraph 
 has all been deleted. Look at that."
 
 238 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "Yes," said Dunham: "a very artistic piece of work. 
 It would take at least ten minutes to black it out like 
 that. When was it done?" 
 
 Liggers wrinkled his forehead, and could find no 
 way out of it. "When I sent for Langsdyke he cer- 
 tainly didn't know that I had ever seen the magazine. 
 When he left me I told him to send it up to me at 
 once: there would have been no time to delete any- 
 thing at all, especially in that finished style." 
 
 "Then here are a few simple deductions. The 
 thing was deleted before you ever made any row 
 about it." 
 
 "It would seem so," Mr. Liggers admitted. 
 
 "And it was deleted by the Celestial, or by his 
 order, for I think the rest of the senior day-room 
 know that he is a dangerous chap to play games 
 with." 
 
 "That may be so." 
 
 "It must be so. Now, if he deleted it, you may be 
 absolutely certain that he did not write it." 
 
 "But he told me himself that he did write it." 
 
 "That is just what I should have expected from 
 that boy. You see, this magazine is 'No. 5' : I doubt 
 if he would be able to keep up an active interest for 
 the space of five numbers; he would hand the work 
 over to the faithful Smithson, or somebody else in 
 his crowd." 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Liggers snappishly, "if he chooses 
 to tell me a direct lie, he must take the consequences." 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Dunham, "it was a direct lie right 
 enough, though he wasn't lying for his own sake. 
 However, let us be moral. What are the conse- 
 quences ?" 
 
 "The first chorus of the 'Agamemnon' by heart."
 
 THE CELESTIAL'S EDITORSHIP 239 
 
 "Never mind that," said Dunham. "You probably 
 told the chap he was a cad." 
 
 "So would you in my place." 
 
 "Very possibly," said Dunham. "If I had I should 
 take it back." 
 
 "Well, I shan't." 
 
 Dunham changed the subject abruptly, and spoke 
 of a coming cricket match. 
 
 "Why should I ?" said Mr. Liggers peevishly. 
 
 "Because you think you should," said Dunham. 
 
 "Very well. Anything for peace and quietness. I 
 shall see him in prep, to-night." 
 
 "I have been looking over your magazine, Langs- 
 dyke," said Mr. Liggers judicially, "and I see that 
 the paragraph to which I particularly objected has 
 been deleted. When was that done?" 
 
 "Done this morning, sir." 
 
 "In that case perhaps I expressed myself too 
 strongly when I saw you upstairs. It seems that after 
 all you had some sparks of decent feeling. That be- 
 ing so, and on the understanding that the magazine 
 is discontinued, you need not finish that chorus in 
 the 'Agamemnon.' ' 
 
 "Thanks very much, sir," said Langsdyke; "but I 
 knew it by heart before you gave it to me to do. I 
 learnt it for fun, and I'd only got to freshen it up a 
 bit." 
 
 "Bring me your 'Agamemnon.' Now, then, begin." 
 
 The Celestial repeated the chorus from beginning 
 to end with an occasional hesitation, but he required 
 no prompting. 
 
 "That's very good," said Mr. Liggers briefly. 
 
 Later, when all the boys had gone to bed, and he 
 and Dunham sat smoking together, Mr. Liggers sud-
 
 240 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 denly broke off from the subject in hand to say: "If 
 there is one thing in this world that I cannot under- 
 stand, it is that chap Langsdyke." 
 
 "That," said Dunham dryly, "has always been 
 fairly obvious."
 
 XXIII 
 THE TENWOOD WITCH 
 
 MR. AMBROSE KAY made his living by being 
 born with money, marrying some more, and 
 inheriting the rest There is no other method of 
 making a living which throws so little strain upon 
 the maker, and if this way were more generally 
 adopted it is probable that much grumbling and discon- 
 tent would be avoided. Ambrose Kay had a sweet and 
 gentle disposition, never having felt any strain of any 
 kind. He never grumbled about his house in Hill 
 Street, and he was careful not to speak about Ten- 
 wood Manor in the county of Sussex at all, because 
 if he had spoken he would have bragged. He thought 
 Tenwood to be in every respect perfection in spite of 
 its gruesome tradition; he loved the place. He was 
 always rather formal, and at the age of forty his round 
 eyes peered through gold-rimmed glasses and his 
 speech was slow and precise. Strangers were gener- 
 ally a little surprised when they found that he was 
 a good sportsman, of an old-fashioned type. He had 
 married at twenty-five a good-natured tomboy of a 
 girl seven years younger than himself, and the mar- 
 riage had been eminently happy. 
 
 But no man is so happily placed that he may avoid 
 all anxieties, and Ambrose Kay had his share of them. 
 There was, for instance, the time when his hair was 
 
 241
 
 242 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 getting thin on the top. There was a long period of 
 struggle. Specialists were called in; flagrant and im- 
 possible quacks were not disdained. One remedy 
 followed another. There were gleams of hope 
 occasionally in a night of despair times when he 
 would come down to breakfast and tell his wife that 
 he thought he had really hit on the right stuff at last. 
 But one by one the gleams died out, and an inexorable 
 looking-glass assured him that the struggle had gone 
 against him. That anxiety was all over now. James 
 had long ago cleared the majestic array of ineffective 
 bottles from Mr. Kay's dressing-room. Ambrose Kay 
 was quite resigned now, and the crown of his head 
 was completely bald. He was still anxious about his 
 figure. He kept a weighing-machine in his dressing- 
 room, and consulted it at regular intervals. And here 
 his war with fortune was more successful. On the 
 days when that stupid machine made insulting dis- 
 closures of a gain of flesh, Ambrose Kay became ap- 
 pallingly strenuous. The time which was not given 
 to violent exercise was time lost. At the table he 
 became an ascetic, partaking of specially prepared 
 dishes from which everything at all amusing had been 
 rigorously excluded. And he always triumphed; the 
 weighing-machine admitted the loss of the requisite 
 number of pounds, and for a while Ambrose Kay was 
 happy and himself again. But he was still anxious; 
 at any time it might be necessary to begin the struggle 
 again. 
 
 But his chief and most persistent anxiety was his 
 only child Victoria, just fourteen at the time of this 
 story. He was most seriously troubled on the subject 
 of her health, which was excellent. He worried con- 
 tinually about her education, and the formation of her
 
 THE TENWOOD WITCH 243 
 
 character, and the books she read, and the pony she 
 rode. Ordinary parental care would have looked like 
 stark neglect beside the multitudinous solicitudes of 
 Ambrose Kay. Never was any child so hygienically 
 fed and clothed as Victoria, so protected and waddled 
 in cotton-wool, so meticulously administered. Few 
 nursemaids had been able to keep up to the high 
 standard that Mr. Kay demanded for Victoria for 
 more than a month or two. The world was ransacked 
 to find a governess of perfection for her. Her pony 
 had been subjected to tests that would have found 
 out the weak points of a canonized saint, and was 
 without doubt the safest pony in Sussex. Victoria 
 surveyed it all with wondering eyes, and called the 
 pony an old sheep. 
 
 It occurred to many people, Victoria included, that 
 Mr. Kay rather overdid it. "After all," her mother 
 observed, "she's not ill, you know. She's not even 
 delicate." 
 
 "Possibly not," Mr. Kay admitted, "possibly not. 
 But there's the nervous constitution to consider. Only 
 to-day I discovered (fortunately in time) that Mrs. 
 Annersley had given her that book of Hans Ander- 
 sen's. I will not allow her to hear anything whatever 
 about fairies, or ghosts, or ogres, or any supernatural 
 nonsense of that kind. That's the way that children 
 are tortured and their nerves ruined for life." 
 
 "Don't know," said Mrs. Kay meditatively. "I used 
 to read Hans Andersen, and my nerves have come out 
 of it all right. And the child lives in a haunted house, 
 anyhow." 
 
 ."Please don't revive that old story; we know that 
 there's nothing in it, and it's best forgotten." 
 
 "Well, the Tenwood Witch died here,"
 
 244 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "Some old woman who was so called died here 
 undoubtedly. That is the only scrap of truth in the 
 whole thing. Nothing has ever occurred to make us 
 believe that the house is haunted." 
 
 "The servants talk among themselves at times." 
 
 "Servants will always talk. If any one of them 
 breathes a word on the subject to Victoria it will 
 mean instant dismissal, and they know it. If there 
 had been anything ghostly to see or hear, you or I 
 would have come across it." 
 
 "I suppose so." 
 
 "And it's not only Victoria I'm thinking about. 
 You know how nervous Alicia is, and she's sleeping 
 in the haunted room I mean the room that was once 
 said to be haunted." 
 
 Alicia was Lady Alicia Medley, a distant cousin of 
 Ambrose Kay's. She was unmarried, sixty years old, 
 melancholy, and gifted with a fine capacity for be- 
 lieving almost anything. She was particularly great 
 at amateur doctoring and dispensing. She never vis- 
 ited Tenwood without discovering that Victoria needed 
 "a little something." This time she insisted upon 
 cod-liver oil. Victoria loathed cod-liver oil, and to 
 say that she loved her Aunt Alicia would be a misrepre- 
 sentation of fact. The only other Christmas guests 
 who had arrived so far were Mr. Annersley and his 
 wife the lady who had been indiscreet enough to 
 present Victoria with "Hans Andersen" and their 
 daughter Judith, a girl of about the same age of Vic- 
 toria and her dearest and most intimate friend. 
 
 As the two girls crossed the park that afternoon 
 Miss Judith Annersley observed that the surrounding 
 scenery was rather decent, and that one ought to have 
 a pretty good time at Tenwood.
 
 THE TENWOOD WITCH 245 
 
 "Think so, Judy?" said Victoria. "It wouldn't be 
 so rotten if it weren't for the grown-ups." 
 
 Miss Annersley protested that she had found Mr. 
 and Mrs. Kay rather decent in which apparently 
 they resembled the scenery. 
 
 "Dear papa's all right," said Victoria, "when I'm 
 handling him alone. He's an awful muff about me, 
 but I can generally work things somehow." 
 
 "Queer too," said Judith, "because he's not a muff 
 other ways I mean to say he's a good shot and all 
 that." 
 
 "Yes, but he's got me on his mind and on his 
 nerves, and now that he's got Aunt Alicia to back him 
 it's no joke. Judy, that woman's a holy terror. It's 
 cod-liver oil at present. But she's taken the carriage 
 and driven off to the chemist's this afternoon, so good- 
 ness knows what it will be next. She says that at this 
 season of the year the young and thoughtless (that's 
 you and me) are apt to try their digestions severely, 
 and it is as well to have a few useful correctives on 
 hand. Those were her own blessed words." 
 
 "I say," said Miss Judith Annersley, "couldn't we 
 shunt her?" 
 
 "Don't I wish we could!" said Victoria, with fer- 
 vor. "She's an utter and complete cat, and I wouldn't 
 much mind what I did. Mind you, you're not safe, 
 Judy. She was on to your mother this morning, say- 
 ing that you didn't look robust, and she could recom- 
 mend a tonic. I had that tonic myself last year, and 
 it was enough to poison an elephant." 
 
 "I don't know why she shouldn't go," said Judith 
 pensively. "And I've got an idea that wouldn't be 
 half bad."
 
 246 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 They discussed that idea at great length. 
 
 Lady Alicia Medley looked pale and haggard at 
 breakfast next morning. In answer to kind inquiries 
 from Victoria and her friend Judith, she admitted 
 that she had not slept well. Later in the morning she 
 had a serious interview with Mr. and Mrs. Kay. 
 
 "Ethel," said Lady Alicia solemnly, "I am sorry 
 to have to tell you that I cannot be one of your Christ- 
 mas party this year. I cannot, in fact, spend one 
 more night under this roof, and I leave by the after- 
 noon train. And, if you take my advice, you also 
 will leave this house as soon as may be and at any cost, 
 and never return to it." 
 
 "Dear me!" exclaimed Mr. Kay, "I'm awfully 
 sorry. This is very sudden. What has been happen- 
 ing?" 
 
 Lady Alicia Medley observed that there were more 
 things in heaven and earth than Ambrose supposed. 
 She had had a strange and awful experience, one 
 which she would never forget, and wished never to 
 go through again. 
 
 "You don't mean to say that you think you've 
 seen " 
 
 "No, Ambrose, I do not think I've seen. I am not 
 that kind of woman. I have actually seen the his- 
 toric ghost of this house the Ten wood Witch and 
 seen as clearly as I see you now." 
 
 "This is too extraordinary. Are you sure you didn't 
 dream it?" Mrs. Kay asked. 
 
 "Not being a complete imbecile, Ethel, I know 
 whether I am awake or not. When this occurrence 
 happened I was wideawake."
 
 THE TENWOOD WITCH 247 
 
 "Do tell us about it." 
 
 "Like yourselves, I discredited the story of the 
 Tenwood Witch. I have slept in the haunted room 
 often on previous visits, and have neither seen nor 
 heard anything unusual. I never expected to see 
 anything, and I am not a nervous woman. If I felt 
 anything approaching to nerves I should take 
 Thatcher's All-round Tonic or some other suitable 
 remedy. I have been told that I am particularly cool 
 and clear-headed, and certainly I am not a person to 
 imagine things." 
 
 "Certainly not." 
 
 "Very well. At a quarter to two this morning I 
 was awakened by an icy breath passing over my face. 
 I looked round and saw that the door of my room 
 was slowly opening. As it opened the moonlight 
 streamed in from the big window on the other side of 
 the passage, so that I could see distinctly and beyond 
 the possibility of any mistake. And suddenly there 
 in the doorway stood the figure of the Tenwood Witch 
 a bent old woman with a shawl over her head and 
 a cloak that reached to the ground. I could not see 
 the face very well, but in dress and general appearance 
 she closely resembled the portrait of the Tenwood 
 Witch in the county history." 
 
 Mr. Kay made a mental note that Victoria must on 
 no account be allowed to consult the county history. 
 
 "In one hand the figure held a great staff, the 
 twisted bough of some tree, and with this it made 
 threatening gestures. When I looked again it had 
 gone vanished without the faintest sound of a foot- 
 step. I waited a little, and then I switched on the 
 light, got up, and shut and locked the door. That 
 was all, but it was enough. I am sorry, but I must go.
 
 248 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 My maid is packing my things at this moment she 
 feels quite as I do about it." 
 
 Lady Alicia's account of what had happened was 
 not strictly accurate. I doubt very much if she ever 
 felt that icy breath. Nor was it true that the foot- 
 steps were absolutely noiseless. I happen to know 
 that the Tenwood Witch on this occasion was wearing 
 tennis shoes, in order to step as quietly as possible, 
 but she was not absolutely noiseless. Lady Alicia 
 remained obdurate. No persuasions could move her. 
 "No, Ethel," she said, "I'll come and see you in Hill 
 Street with pleasure, but never again in this house. 
 And if you take my advice you'll sell the place at 
 once." 
 
 "But she did dream it," said Ambrose Kay to his 
 wife when they were left alone. 
 
 "Yes, unless someone was playing a practical joke 
 on her." 
 
 "I don't think it likely. Of course, I don't believe 
 a word of the nonsense any more than you do, but we 
 must take steps at once to prevent any word of this 
 getting to Victoria's ears." 
 
 "You think Vic would be frightened?" 
 
 "I can't say. She appears high-spirited, but I am 
 convinced that the nervous constitution is there. Chil- 
 dren have been frightened into lunatic asylums by 
 these stupid ghost stories before now. Unfortunately, 
 Alicia told her maid, and there can be no doubt that 
 the maid will have told our own servants. I must see 
 to it immediately." 
 
 Ambrose Kay developed as much energy as if his 
 weighing-machine had recorded a three-pound increase. 
 Long before Lady Alicia had left the house every 
 servant in the house knew that if they breathed one
 
 THE TENWOOD WITCH 249 
 
 word of what had happened to Miss Victoria Kay their 
 portion would be instant dismissal, with, in all proba- 
 bility, a long term of penal servitude to follow. 
 
 "Ambrose," said Lady Alicia sternly, just before 
 her departure, "I can see by your manner that you 
 disbelieve me." 
 
 "Not at all," said Ambrose. "I'm sure you thought 
 you saw what you say. These illusions do sometimes 
 happen, especially when one is not quite awake." 
 
 "Really, you're extremely trying, Ambrose. I don't 
 have illusions. I saw what was there, and I will not 
 run the risk of another similar shock to my nerves." 
 
 "You could have any of the other bedrooms, of 
 course. It's only the room you had that is supposed 
 to be haunted. You used to laugh at it." 
 
 "That was before I had this awful experience. 
 Nothing would induce me to spend another night in 
 the house. And in my opinion you will be acting very 
 wrongly if you do not warn your other guests and let 
 them visit you later, when you've sold this place and 
 have a decent house where this kind of thing does not 
 happen." 
 
 "But, you know, I can't sell this place, even if I 
 wanted to. It's to go to Victoria. And if I warned 
 people about a ghost they'd either laugh at me or 
 think that I was making excuses because I didn't want 
 them." 
 
 "Well, I have done my duty. I have warned the 
 Annersleys, and I am sorry to say that they treated 
 the matter in a very flippant and frivolous manner. 
 Possibly by this time to-morrow they will be sorry 
 they did not leave when I did. You may be sorry 
 also." 
 
 As Ambrose Kay watched the carriage vanish down
 
 250 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 the drive he did not feel absolutely heartbroken at the 
 loss. They had done their duty in asking her, but 
 she was rather a lugubrious old lady, and did not add 
 to the enjoyment of a Christmas house-party. Be- 
 sides, he felt a little doubtful about Lady Alicia's 
 indiscriminate prescriptions. If Victoria needed medi- 
 cine, would it not after all be as well that the medicine 
 should be given by a regular doctor? And, finally, 
 he was annoyed with her for her attempt to detach 
 the Annersleys. She was of the family, and could 
 come and go as she pleased or as her nightmares might 
 happen to move her; but what right had she to try 
 to spoil his Christmas house-party? 
 
 An idea occurred to him. If Lady Alicia had told 
 the Annersleys all about it, it was just possible that 
 they might be mad enough to speak of it in the pres- 
 ence of Victoria. Obviously, it was of no use to 
 muzzle the servants if the visitors were free to do the 
 harm. He could picture Victoria in a madhouse, her 
 nervous constitution wrecked from the terror inspired 
 by indiscreet revelations of the spirit world. He 
 sought for Mrs. Annersley at once. 
 
 She treated the matter as a joke, but was quite 
 willing to promise to say nothing to Victoria about it. 
 "Still," she added, "why not let her share the fun? 
 I told Judith, and she doesn't seem much upset by 
 it." 
 
 "Ah, but possibly Judith has not Victoria's nervous 
 constitution, and children often suffer terribly from 
 these things when they are too proud to admit it. 
 Dear me, there is Judith in the garden with Victoria. 
 If you don't mind, I think I'll just say a word to her." 
 
 He went down and secured Judith. "I say, my 
 dear, I believe you've heard why Lady Alicia left so
 
 THE TENWOOD WITCH 251 
 
 suddenly. Now, of course,. I know that she never 
 saw any ghost at all." 
 
 "So do I," said Judith. 
 
 "Sensible girl. There are no such things as ghosts. 
 Still, it might be as well not to tell Victoria. She is 
 not quite so strong-minded as you are. She has a 
 nervous constitution. A thing like that might keep 
 her awake at night. So don't tell her why Lady 
 Alicia left." 
 
 "All right," said Judith seriously, "I won't tell 
 her," and then, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, she 
 broke into a wild burst of uncontrollable laughter. 
 She apologized breathlessly as soon as she could speak, 
 and explained that her father and mother had made 
 fun of it; she supposed that was why she had laughed. 
 
 "I see," said Mr. Kay, but he shook his head seri- 
 ously. 
 
 "I assure you," he told his wife afterwards, "that 
 the child, Judith Annersley, was on the verge of 
 hysteria. Of course she would not confess that she 
 was frightened, and tried to make me believe that 
 she was rather amused than not, but I could see very 
 well that she was not herself. I'm really sorry we 
 ever asked that old cat here at all ; why should every- 
 body suffer because she happens to have a nightmare ? 
 It's too bad. Thank Heaven, Victoria will never hear 
 anything about it. I've guarded against that." 
 
 His weighing-machine that night guaranteed a loss 
 of several ounces. From one point of view this was 
 satisfactory. It illustrated, as he observed, the power 
 of mind over matter, and the effects of worry on the 
 general physique.
 
 252 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 Judith and Victoria spent a happy afternoon. Their 
 conversation was interrupted at intervals by bursts of 
 laughter that left them helpless and speechless. 
 
 "And to think, Judy," said Victoria, "that I nearly 
 missed it altogether. I'd made up my mind to go at 
 twelve o'clock, because that's the proper time for 
 ghosts and hobgoblins. But I didn't wake till nearly 
 two. I'd half a mind to chuck it until to-night, but 
 then I thought I'd take my chance. It would have 
 been better just at midnight, but I guessed it would 
 scare her any time. So I slipped on my toggery and 
 slithered down the tower stairs in my tennis shoes. 
 She never said a word. Oh, that was all right that 
 was quite absolutely right! And there's a good five- 
 shilling bottle of cod-liver oil at the bottom of the 
 fish-pond." 
 
 "Her parting present to me," said Judith, "was 
 a large tin of eupeptic tablets. I was to take one after 
 every meal or two if I had any feeling of constric- 
 tion." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "Blessed if I know." 
 
 "What have you done with them?" 
 
 "I gave a big handful of them to your old pony." 
 
 "What a pig you are, Judy ! You oughtn't to have 
 done that." 
 
 "That's all right. He wouldn't look at them. So 
 I buried them all !" 
 
 "Do you know what I'm going to do?" asked Vic- 
 toria. "I'm going to ask papa to give me the haunted 
 room. It's much nicer than the room I've got. It's 
 bigger, and it's got lots of cupboards, and it's pan- 
 elled." 
 
 "He won't do it."
 
 THE TENWOOD WITCH 253 
 
 "Yes, he will. He doesn't believe in the witch 
 business himself, and he'll always do anything I want 
 unless he can argue that it's bad for me. The worst 
 of it is that I'll have to tell him about this little spree 
 of ours one of these days." 
 
 "I shouldn't. Why?" 
 
 "Don't know. I've got to tell the poor old dear 
 everything that I can tell him. I can't tell him that 
 I rode his hunter the other morning, because if I did 
 he'd sack every man and boy in the stables. And 
 it's not their fault, because I persuaded them. But 
 I'll tell him about the Tenwood Witch; I shouldn't 
 wonder if it amused him. I fancy he's not too keen 
 about Aunt Alicia himself. Besides, it's Christmas 
 time, and nobody can make much of a row about 
 anything at Christmas time." 
 
 
 
 Victoria kept her word. She told her father the 
 whole story. He said that she had been very wrong, 
 and she must promise never to do it again. She 
 promised at once. It was, he reminded her, the duty 
 of children to show a proper respect for their aunts. 
 
 "Even if they give you pills?" suggested Victoria. 
 
 Besides, her father urged, these practical jokes were 
 very dangerous. Victoria herself apparently had not 
 got a nervous constitution, but Aunt Alicia had. It 
 was entirely due to Victoria's wickedness that Aunt 
 Alicia was not with them and sharing in the Christmas 
 festivities. 
 
 At this point a slight spasm crossed over her father's 
 face. The spasm became a smile, and the smile be- 
 came a laugh.
 
 254 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 It may be presumed that she was forgiven. For 
 at 'present she occupies the haunted room, and at an 
 impromptu fancy dress dance that Christmas she had 
 considerable success as the Tenwood Witch.
 
 XXIV 
 LOVERS ON AN ISLAND 
 
 TOW sweet it would be," said Isobel, "to remain 
 
 _|_ J. here for ever in this lovely little island in the 
 middle of the big, lonely lake, just you and I, Willy !" 
 
 "Table d'hote at 7.30," said William gloomily, "and 
 we've got to get back for it. And then we shan't get 
 another moment alone together till after nine. And 
 even then we shan't unless we wander off into the 
 garden together, and the last time we did that we 
 were accused of selfishness. We're all right, but I 
 can't make out what the rest of the world was made 
 for." 
 
 Truly it was an enchanting island, with tall trees 
 where the herons built, and gray, moss-grown boulders 
 where shy, rare lizards sunned themselves, and 
 stretches of bracken. Here for a brief hour they had 
 been quite out of the world. But it was five o'clock, 
 and it would take them nearly two hours to get back 
 to hateful civilization, and hateful civilization de- 
 manded them acidly and peremptorily. 
 
 "Listen," said Isobel, "to the little wavelets talking 
 nonsense all round the coast making love to the 
 silence. Oh, this fragment of pure, sequestered Na- 
 ture Nature as sweet as she always is when she is 
 left to herself!" 
 
 255
 
 256 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "And we're going back," said William, "to that 
 inferior pot-house masquerading as a first-class hotel 
 under the guidance of an intelligent Swiss. Back to 
 the sole that is really plaice, and to the crime de 
 volatile with a quadrupedal origin, and to the lamb 
 that is frozen, and the peas that are tinned. And at 
 the next table will be the Reverend Father with the 
 indigestion, and the mature lady with the conversation, 
 and the satisfied American who tells us what he will do 
 with this country when he has bought it." 
 
 "I don't like the people," said Isobel. "And 
 mamma doesn't like them either. And the dinner 
 isn't nearly as good as it looks and sounds. But all 
 the same you think too much about food. You're 
 too material." 
 
 "I'm particularly spiritual by nature," said William 
 modestly. "But at dinner food is rather thrust on 
 your attention, and I have an honest man's hatred 
 of imitations. Otherwise my wants are few. A loaf 
 of bread, a jug or just the ordinary bottle of wine, 
 and thou beside me singing in the wilderness, and 
 nobody need trouble about me further; in fact, I 
 
 wouldn't insist on the bread. It's Good 
 
 heavens !" 
 
 They had just come round the corner to the landing- 
 stage, and in one flash of an eye William had realized 
 that the boat in which he had rowed Isobel across to 
 the island was no longer there. 
 
 "The boat's got away!" cried Isobel in anguish. 
 
 "So I was observing, and I'm afraid it's my fault. 
 I can't make it out, for the knot that I tied can't slip 
 or go wrong. The harder the boat pulled the tighter 
 the knot would get. If there were or had been
 
 LOVERS ON AN ISLAND 257 
 
 anyone on the island besides ourselves, I should say 
 that someone had been having a little game with us." 
 
 "Oh, Willy! I've remembered. Can you forgive 
 me?" 
 
 "Not at present, because I've got nothing to forgive. 
 But if you'll provide the material " 
 
 "It was my fault all my fault. It was while you 
 were struggling with our fire to boil the kettle. I 
 slipped back to the boat to get my parasol, and it was 
 right at the other end of the boat; and I untied it to 
 pull it round, and then I tied it up again, and I suppose 
 that was it." 
 
 "That's all right," said William. 
 
 "But what will everybody think? And what will 
 they do?" 
 
 "Well, with our customary secretiveness we never 
 said where we were going. They know that we took 
 the tea-basket and a rug." He had been carrying 
 these, and he now put them down. "And that's all 
 they know. We might be up one of the many noble 
 mountains that give this desolate country its attraction 
 for the tourist. We might be over at the ruined abbey. 
 The lake is three miles away from the hotel, and may 
 never occur to them at all. About half -past eight or 
 nine they will begin search-partying, but they won't 
 have the faintest idea where to search. If we had 
 hired the boat, the man who let it could have been 
 depended upon to rescue us. But this is Jefferson's 
 private boat, which he gave me the use of, and I doubt 
 very much if anybody saw us unlock the boat-house 
 and get it out. If we'd been trying to steal the boat 
 we should have had some of his men round us in no 
 time. So, taking one consideration with another, we
 
 258 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 shall certainly be rescued, but quite possibly it won't 
 be till to-morrow morning." 
 
 "It's perfectly awful. But I'm quite sure someone 
 will come for us long before that. Don't look so 
 downhearted, Willy ; it will only mean that your dear 
 dinner will be put off for an hour or two. I don't 
 mind it a bit. It's rather adventurous and romantic!" 
 
 "Yes, but there's just a chance that it will be 
 beastly uncomfortable for you, if we have to stop here 
 all night. That's what I don't like." 
 
 "We aren't going to stop here. Some other boat 
 will come over." 
 
 "Bit late in the day for it." 
 
 "Well, something's certain to happen. It always 
 does on desert islands. Now what ought we to do?" 
 
 "I'm told there are a lot of queer cross-currents 
 in the lake, and it's quite possible our boat may have 
 drifted in again. We'll just go round the island and 
 look. Or I'll go alone, if you're tired." 
 
 "Not a bit. I'll go one way and you'll go the other, 
 and we'll meet. Then we shall do it in half the time." 
 
 The entire circuit of the island could be made in 
 twenty minutes, and they had in all probability many 
 vacant hours before them. But there is a joy in saving 
 time even when it is a very little time and you have 
 no particular use for it. Old gentlemen of an obese 
 habit will run to catch a train on the Underground 
 when there is another in three minutes, and then there 
 are inquests. 
 
 So William and Isobel encircled the island. But 
 they found no trace whatever of their boat. Isobel 
 said she had been quite sure from the start that that 
 would never do. 
 
 "And now," she said, "I know what."
 
 LOVERS ON AN ISLAND 259 
 
 "Well. What Is it?" 
 
 "We must try smoke-signals. They're often used 
 by the natives, you know." 
 
 "Natives of where?" 
 
 "How should I know? Just plain natives you get 
 in travel-books." 
 
 "I see," said William gravely. And then they set 
 to work collecting bracken for the smoke-signal. One 
 of Jefferson's gardeners was to see it, answer it, and 
 start to the rescue at once. Of that Isobel felt quite 
 sure. In the meantime, her word "travel-books" had 
 started her on a train of thought as she gathered the 
 bracken. 
 
 "Willy, dearest," she said suddenly, "we ought to 
 have a barrel of pickled pork, very little injured by 
 the sea-water. People always have that on desert 
 islands." 
 
 "They do," said William. "It is washed up from 
 the wreck. They've lost their parents in the wreck, 
 but they don't think nearly so much about losing their 
 parents as about finding that barrel. However, it's no 
 good complaining. We've got no pickled pork and 
 no sea- water to damage it with." 
 
 "We've got no wreck," said Isobel, "that's the 
 initial mistake. When you're cast upon a desert 
 island you have the wrecked vessel fixed firmly on 
 the adjacent coral reef. That is so in the story-books, 
 and it comes in very usefully, for that wreck does not 
 stop at pickled pork. Anything you want, from a 
 steam-crane to a toothpick, is washed out of the cap- 
 tain's cabin and delivered safely on the beach at your 
 feet next morning." 
 
 "Yes, I know that wreck. It's a gratis Whiteley, 
 with the tide as the vans."
 
 260 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "I don't know that I don't miss the patent desert 
 island's animals even more. You know those animals? 
 They're wild, but not so very wild. When George, 
 or any of the desert-island family, gets hold of them, 
 they become rapidly docile. George finds a hippo- 
 potamus and treats it kindly. Next day it is still a 
 little shy; but by the end of the week George is driv- 
 ing it tandem in a curricle (washed up from the 
 wreck, of course), with an iguana as leader." 
 
 "What's an iguana?" 
 
 "Haven't the faintest idea; but I'm pretty certain 
 I've come across it in the desert-island stories. We've 
 got nothing of the kind here. We haven't even got 
 the deep, dark forest of eucalyptus and opodeldoc, 
 with the monkeys swinging in it, all packed with 
 bread-fruit, guava jelly, and ripe bananas. Oh, this 
 is nothing of a desert island, and I don't care how soon 
 we get out of it !" 
 
 "Varia et mutabilis semper! An hour ago you 
 didn't care how long we stopped here." 
 
 "Yes," said Isobel; "but there's a difference be- 
 tween stopping because you want to stop and stopping 
 because you can't get away. Here, we must have got 
 enough bracken for our fire by now." 
 
 William struck a match. The dry fern blazed 
 freely, and a column of smoke went up on the still 
 air. But no answering signal came from the main- 
 land, and gradually they realized that their fire had 
 not been seen, or had not been understood. Isobel 
 strained her eyes to see a boat being rowed towards 
 them, but no boat came. 
 
 "This begins to be a nuisance," she said impatiently. 
 "It's nearly seven, and I am simply faint with hunger 
 and fatigue."
 
 LOVERS ON AN ISLAND 261 
 
 "What a fool I was to let you tire yourself with 
 gathering that bracken," said William. "However, 
 I'll bring up the rug and the tea-basket, and we must 
 do the best we can. Very likely your smoke-signal 
 was seen, and they're on the way to us by now." 
 
 "On the way to us? They'd have been here by 
 this time. You said yourself we shouldn't get off 
 before to-morrow, and I don't for a moment suppose 
 we shall get off then. It gets frightfully cold at night 
 too. Never mind; it can't be helped. It was silly 
 of me to let you arrange things, that's all." 
 
 Decidedly, fatigue, hunger, and disappointment 
 were doing deadly work with Isobel's temper. 
 
 ii 
 
 "LUCKILY," said William, as he unscrewed the stopper 
 of the bottle, "when one goes on a tea-picnic, one 
 always takes far too much milk. That milk will be 
 very useful now. Milk is a food, you know; one 
 doesn't starve when one has milk." 
 
 "Who says that milk is a food?" 
 
 "The doctors say so." 
 
 "Well, I say milk is not a food. Milk's a drink. 
 You drink it; you don't eat it. How can it be a 
 food?" 
 
 William good-natured and pusillanimous said 
 that the doctors were very likely wrong; doctors often 
 were. 
 
 "And there's only about a teacupful of it," said 
 Isobel. 
 
 "I never touch milk myself, except in tea," lied
 
 262 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 William. "It makes me ill. Lots of men are like 
 that." 
 
 "I'm almost certain I've seen you drink it." 
 
 "Never. Unfortunately, we used all the tea at 
 tea-time. In fact, we seem to have used everything. 
 There are a few biscuits, and ah! any amount of 
 butter." 
 
 "How many biscuits will there be each ?" 
 
 "Oh, I'm not going to spoil my dinner by eating 
 anything now." 
 
 "There isn't going to be any dinner," said Isobel, 
 in tones of the deepest melancholy. 
 
 "We shan't get it for two or three hours, perhaps, 
 but I'm certain we shall get it ultimately. We'll get 
 off this accursed island somehow. Cheer up, Isie!" 
 
 Isobel did her best to smile faintly. She let herself 
 be persuaded into drinking all the milk and eating all 
 the biscuits, and her conscience smote her. She was 
 a very good girl, and as a rule her conscience had little 
 to do; so on the rare occasions when her conscience 
 did get to work, it did not always work in the most 
 approved manner. Here, for instance, it urged her 
 to prove that she was quite right. 
 
 "I'm quite sure," she said, "that you think I'm in 
 a horribly bad temper, Willy." 
 
 William laughed. "Not a bit of it. Naturally, this 
 isn't much fun for you." 
 
 "I wasn't thinking of myself," said Isobel, with, 
 I fear, a touch of the Christian martyr in her voice. 
 "I was thinking about poor mamma and the others. 
 How terribly anxious they'll be! Have you thought 
 of that?" 
 
 "Yes; but they won't have begun to be anxious 
 yet. They won't begin to be really troubled before
 
 LOVERS ON AN ISLAND 263 
 
 nine. We've been late for dinner before sometimes, 
 you know." 
 
 "Yes, and they've talked to us about it. And we 
 promised that we would never be late again." 
 
 "Well, it's not really our fault this time." 
 
 "We know that, of course, and our own people will 
 know it too, and believe it. But will the rest of the 
 people in the hotel believe it, or will they believe we 
 did it on purpose? It's horrible! It's compromis- 
 ing!" 
 
 "We've been engaged a year. We are to be married 
 next month." 
 
 "That doesn't stop people's tongues." 
 
 "There are lots of ways of stopping people's 
 tongues," said William darkly. 
 
 By this time Isobel had quite justified herself in 
 her own mind and believed that she had a legitimate 
 cause for grievance. 
 
 "It's really rather too bad," she said. "Naturally, 
 I leave you to manage everything. One always leaves 
 it to the man. Then you bring me to this horrible 
 place, and then you go and lose the boat. And you 
 don't seem to have the faintest idea what to do to get 
 us away again. An emergency like this is a test, and 
 you really don't come out of it very well. It destroys 
 one's confidence. One doesn't feel that one can de- 
 pend on you to get one through. You can only just 
 stand there and talk." 
 
 This was severe on the island. It had been a "frag- 
 ment of pure, sequestered nature" ; it was now a 
 "horrible place." It was severe on William, too, for 
 after all it was Isobel, and not he, who had lost the 
 boat; and if he did nothing, it was chiefly because
 
 264 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 there was nothing to do. Isobel was on the verge of 
 tears and at her consummate worst. 
 
 "I'm most awfully sorry," said William. "I know 
 how trying it must be for you. I'll go and get the 
 stuff together for another fire; it will show up better 
 when it is dark." 
 
 "You can try it, of course," said Isobel resignedly. 
 
 in 
 
 WILLIAM went, and at that moment his luck turned 
 right round. At first he could hardly believe his eyes. 
 There was the boat, brought back by the queer cur- 
 rents of the lake, drifting quietly along as if it had 
 never done anything wrong in its life. 
 
 "Isie!" he called. "It's all right. Come along 
 home." 
 
 She came running towards him. He pointed out 
 the boat. 
 
 "Return of the wanderer," he said. 
 
 "Yes, but it's drifting away from us. And even 
 now it's quite out of reach." 
 
 "I'm prepared to bet one hundred pounds to one 
 hayseed that it is not out of my reach," said William. 
 "Please hold my coat for a minute." 
 
 He waded the first part of the way and swam the 
 rest, and he brought back the boat. As he stood on 
 the shore, panting and wringing the water from his 
 clothes as well as he could, Isobel's conscience smote 
 her once more, and by this time it had got into thor- 
 ough working order and smote hard and truly. 
 
 "Willy! You're soaked, and you'll simply catch 
 your death of cold."
 
 LOVERS ON AN ISLAND 265 
 
 "Not I. Rowing will keep me warm. If you'll 
 just catch hold here, I'll fetch the basket and rug." 
 
 When he came back he found her repeating with 
 all the solemnity of a Litany: "I'm a beast. I am 
 a pig. I won't forgive myself. I'll never, never, never 
 forgive myself." 
 
 "Hul lo!" he exclaimed. "What's all the trou- 
 ble?" 
 
 "I'm ashamed of myself. I'm very sorry. You 
 may give me up altogether if you like. It would only 
 serve me right." 
 
 "Afraid I can't. Not got time, for one thing. 
 Tumble in, sweetheart. All right? Off we go then." 
 
 As he pulled hard away from the island she con- 
 tinued : "It was simply splendid the way you brought 
 that boat in. I never saw anything like it. It was 
 magnificent. And to think that you did it all for the 
 stupid, spiteful, cowardly she-cat that I am." 
 
 "I say, don't go on like that," said William, "or 
 you'll make me laugh. And I can't laugh and pull at 
 the same time. To think that I sneered at the in- 
 telligent Swiss who runs our hotel. Shan't I fly at his 
 warmed-up garbages as soon as I get a chance !" 
 
 "I do wish you hadn't gone into the water like 
 that." 
 
 "It won't do me any harm, and it will do us col- 
 lectively good. It proves that we really did lose the 
 boat" 
 
 "You're an angel!" 
 
 And luck having now decided to take the lovers in 
 hand did the thing thoroughly well. They tucked 
 the boat up in its little home by the edge of the lake, 
 and took the path up into the main road; and they
 
 266 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 had hardly reached the road before they heard behind 
 them the sound of a quick-trotting horse. 
 
 'That's Vera!" exclaimed William. "Must be." 
 The horse and cart swung round the corner into sight. 
 "By Jove, it is! Hi, there! Tom!" 
 
 Vera was a fast mare belonging to the proprietor. 
 William always maintained that the intelligent Swiss 
 must have stolen her, on the grounds that the Swiss 
 would never have bought so good an animal, and 
 nobody would have been fool enough to give her to 
 him. 
 
 The man pulled up, and William helped her up into 
 the cart. "You'll be home in a quarter of an hour," 
 he said. 
 
 "But aren't you coming too ?" 
 
 "Too wet; I'll run for it I shan't be long after 
 you." 
 
 On his arrival he found that she had already estab- 
 lished for him a serviceable reputation as a hero and 
 a genius. As the utmost of his exploit was that he 
 had swum a few yards in his clothes and recognized 
 a horse, he felt that he had obtained the reputation 
 at a very moderate cost. 
 
 The hotel dinner was over, but the intelligent Swiss, 
 susceptible to the beauty of Isobel and the long purse 
 of her father, did wonders. They dined well, under 
 the admiring supervision of Isobel's family. The 
 Swiss produced with an air of mystery a very special 
 bottle. "No," he said to William, "zat is not on ze 
 vine list. It is not filth, zat. I haf drunk him myself." 
 
 And Isobel explained to her mother that if you 
 were in a railway collision, a colliery explosion, a ship- 
 wreck, and an earthquake simultaneously, you were 
 quite all right so long as you had William with you.
 
 LOVERS ON AN ISLAND 267 
 
 "If I'd been with anybody else I should have been 
 sitting on that darling little island without any dinner 
 at this moment." 
 
 The length of the swim increased and multiplied 
 exceedingly. By the end of dinner it was represented 
 that William had swum half-way across the lake. She 
 also proved that, but for William, there would have 
 been no cart to take her swiftly home from the lake. 
 I do not know how she did this, because the cart 
 would have overtaken her in any case, and, even if 
 she had not recognized the horse, the man Tom would 
 certainly have recognized her, and pulled up. So I do 
 not know how she did it ; but she did it, and with such 
 enthusiasm as to convince all who heard her, with the 
 solitary exception of William himself. He protested 
 frequently and firmly, until he found that he was 
 merely earning another reputation for excessive mod- 
 esty. Then he gave up. 
 
 But it was pleasant to sun himself in his lady's 
 favor once more. 
 
 IV 
 
 LONG after Isobel had gone to bed William sat in the 
 hotel smoking-room consuming many cigarettes and 
 listening to the converse of an aged angler. 
 
 Now the angler was a cynic, which is not wonderful. 
 While the angler is not catching fish that is, for by 
 far the greater part of the time that he is trying to 
 catch them he has leisure for meditation, and his 
 meditations are likely to take a bitter tone. But I do 
 not know why all cynics are extremely liable to say 
 things about women; there seems to be no reason 
 for it.
 
 268 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 The aged angler's principal opponent was the 
 dyspeptic clergyman whom William and Isobel had 
 dignified by the name of the Reverend Father. But 
 to-night the Reverend Father had gone to bed early 
 in a state of harassing doubt as to whether it had 
 been wise of him to take a second helping of ice pud- 
 ding. Consequently, the aged angler had room to 
 spread himself, and he talked on the subject of women. 
 
 "You will never find in any woman," he cried 
 dictatorhlly, "a really perfect sense of truth and jus- 
 tice. Even the best of them have not got it. The 
 best woman in the world will blame her husband for 
 what is really rank bad luck and not his fault in the 
 very least. If the train in which they are travelling 
 breaks down, and she has a few hours to wait, she 
 always feels and acts as if her husband was in some 
 way responsible." 
 
 "But then," said William, "she also praises and 
 loves her husband for his good luck, for which also he 
 is not responsible. One injustice cancels the other, 
 and they both go out, and so no harm's done." 
 
 "You really think like that?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "Then all I can say is that you have no proper sense 
 of justice yourself." 
 
 "Very likely," said William. "And I'll bet you the 
 want of it doesn't keep me awake at night. Good 
 night, everybody." 
 
 "Of course," said the aged angler, when William 
 had gone, "we have to take into account that he's very 
 much engaged to be married. Poor chap!"
 
 XXV 
 
 THE HERO AND THE BURGLAR 
 
 ON the ninth day of the honeymoon, being at the 
 time in the presence of his wife, Mr. Herbert 
 Fayle broke a bootlace. And that settled it. From 
 that time forward, onward, and upward, through 
 twenty years of happy married life, Mrs. Fayle enter- 
 tained an immutable opinion of her husband's poten- 
 tial ferocity in direct contradiction to the facts. Her 
 sister, who once ventured to suggest that Herbert was 
 not so very terrible, was treated with superiority. 
 
 "You would naturally think so, Clara. That quiet 
 manner of Herbert's is very deceptive. You see, you 
 have never seen Herbert when he is roused. I have. 
 I remember one occasion, quite early in our married 
 life, when the storm broke." This was the occasion 
 when the bootlace also broke. "I assure you I shall 
 never, never forget it." 
 
 Mrs. Fayle used Herbert's potential ferocity to over- 
 awe her erring servants. This she did with singular 
 persistence, perfect confidence, and no success what- 
 ever. "If," she would say to a careless housemaid, 
 "Mr. Fayle had seen the way the drawing-room was 
 dusted or, rather, not dusted this morning, I trem- 
 ble to think what might have happened." The 
 servants did not tremble. They knew better. Mrs. 
 Fayle was away once for a month, and her husband 
 
 269
 
 270 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 was left in the house. During that month the servants 
 had the time of their lives. Mr. Fayle was vaguely 
 conscious that he could never get any hot water, and 
 that there were many horrid irregularities; but the 
 only time it was when dinner was an hour late he 
 had ventured to inquire why, he was told that the 
 dog had got out. This satisfied Mr. Fayle thoroughly, 
 and made him ashamed that he had spoken. The dog 
 got out quite a good deal while Mrs. Fayle was away, 
 and so did the servants; and if one of them not the 
 dog missed the last train back, then why, as the 
 cook observed, did those railway companies want to 
 go altering their time-tables about ? 
 
 The fact is that, in an international competition, 
 Herbert Fayle would have been awarded first prize 
 and champion gold cup for sheer meekness. But his 
 wife's belief in her husband's brutally heroic qualities 
 remained unshaken. The high opinion that so many 
 women have of their husbands frequently has no basis 
 in facts, but it is always touching, and sometimes 
 useful. 
 
 Herbert Fayle lived a peaceful life in a quiescent 
 suburb, and the heroic quality that is never required 
 is never missed. But let us do Mr. Fayle justice. He 
 did protest, with all the strength that congenital meek- 
 ness would allow, against any excessive estimate of 
 his militant character. "I'm a good-tempered man," 
 he said. And he was. It was only after the incident 
 in which Joshua Bidder was concerned that he gave 
 up the struggle. 
 
 Joshua Bidder was a burglar, and a disgrace to his 
 profession. He knew nothing, he could do nothing, 
 he was intemperate, and he had nerves. He was un- 
 skilful and unfortunate; he had frequently been in
 
 THE HERO AND THE BURGLAR 271 
 
 prison, and he never had anything to show for it. He 
 was despised by his own fraternity. "The only time 
 Bidder ever got anything," said one able and scientific 
 crook, "was once when he broke into a place where 
 they had the mumps." If a job of peculiar softness 
 was to be described, it was said that Josh Bidder 
 himself couldn't hardly miss it. Police-court mission- 
 aries had done their best with Bidder, and so had the 
 Salvation Army, but nobody was more eager to get 
 Joshua to stop it than the old-established burglars 
 were. It was not merely that he brought the profes- 
 sion into contempt; his bungling often gave warning 
 and spoiled a chance. "Look 'ere, Josh Bidder," said 
 an elderly expert, at the present moment eligible for 
 entertainment at the State's expense, "if ever I catches 
 you tryin' anythink as I've a mind to touch myself, 
 I'll just put your lights out ! You turn your attention 
 to sneakin' milk-cans on a foggy mornin' that's all 
 you're fit for !" 
 
 Failure and ignominy having driven him from the 
 metropolis Mr. Bidder went to the suburbs. Here he 
 hung about and peeped over walls, and attracted the 
 notice and suspicion of the local police. His face alone 
 was, almost enough to justify arrest. Dogs would go 
 two miles out of their way to bite Bidder, and do it 
 cheerfully. The most credulous of maid-servants at 
 the back door refused to believe his preposterous state- 
 ment that he was a travelling photographer, and un- 
 chained the dachshund. 
 
 When Joshua Bidder decided that on the night of 
 August 2. he would enter and ransack the residence 
 of Herbert Fayle, it might have seemed to the careless 
 observer that he had at last struck the line of least 
 resistance. But a judicious burglar would have dis-
 
 272 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 covered that the Fayles were leaving for their holiday 
 on the following day, and that on the afternoon of 
 August 2 their plate and jewels had been safely de- 
 posited in the strong-room of the local bank. And 
 the judicious burglar does not crack empty nuts. 
 
 On the evening of August 2 Joshua was in a position 
 of affluence which was unusual with him, having that 
 morning succeeded in changing a bad half-crown. 
 This being so, Joshua entered a public-house and took 
 a light dinner, consisting of a quart of stout with 
 sixpenny worth of gin in it. He felt that this gave him 
 heart for the work before him. It cannot be necessary 
 to add that the judicious burglar does not drink when 
 he is on business, and does not provide evidence by 
 entering public-houses. Briefly, he does very few of 
 the things that Joshua did. 
 
 At eleven o'clock he entered the garden of the 
 Fayles' residence. Standing with his flat feet on a 
 Jacoby geranium he surveyed the house, and came 
 to the conclusion that everybody was in bed and 
 asleep. If he had walked round to the other side of 
 the house he would have seen that one room on the 
 first floor was still lit up ; but Joshua was not a glutton 
 for physical exertion, and he did not walk round. He 
 pushed back the catch of the scullery window, removed 
 his boots, opened the window, and entered. He should 
 not have left his boots in the garden, but the table- 
 knife procedure was quite correct. He struck a silent 
 match, and by the light of it made his way into the 
 dining-room. That fatal dining-room! Many a 
 burglar far abler than Joshua has found in the dining- 
 room the graveyard of his reputation. 
 
 Joshua now switched on the light. He noted with 
 pleasure decanters, a siphon, and glasses. "Anybody
 
 THE HERO AND THE BURGLAR 273 
 
 would think they were expectin' of me," he said to 
 himself, as he poured out half a tumbler of whisky, and 
 took a comfortable chair. He intended to take just 
 that one drink and to come back for the rest after he 
 had made his collection. But in five minutes he was 
 fast asleep. 
 
 In his study upstairs, Mr. Herbert Fayle had heard 
 nothing of Joshua's entrance. Fayle was a tidy man, 
 and he was arranging and putting away his papers 
 preparatory to his departure on the morrow. This 
 being done, he felt thirsty, and decided to go down 
 to the dining-room for a whisky-and-soda. Repre- 
 hensible conduct of this kind was very unusual with 
 Mr. Fayle. 
 
 He noticed the light under the dining-room door, 
 and made a mental memorandum to ask Mary to 
 speak to the servants about their carelessness. Then 
 he opened the door, and his heart sank within him. 
 The sleeping Joshua was a horrifying and repulsive 
 blackguard. Herbert Fayle decided that his right 
 course would be to close the dining-room door as 
 softly as possible, so as not to wake the burglar, and 
 then to fetch one or more policemen. But at that 
 moment Joshua suddenly awoke, realized Herbert 
 Fayle, and staggered to his feet. 
 
 Joshua was not, speaking pedantically, sober. But 
 he pulled himself together as well as he could and 
 embarked hurriedly on a story which he believed to 
 be plausible. 
 
 "Sorry, guv'nor," said Joshua. "My mistake en- 
 tirely. I've been dinin' with a few genelmen friends 
 HI' gel's birthday and lorst me way 'ome. What 
 I expect is I put the wrong latch-key in my pocket
 
 274 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 and the trine took me past my right station, 
 and " 
 
 Joshua stopped short. He had suddenly grasped 
 an important fact that the other man was much more 
 frightened than he was. In two lurches he put himself 
 between Mr. Fayle and the door, and changed his 
 manner. 
 
 "Hand over your ticker and your cash, or I'll cut 
 your liver out!" said Joshua fiercely, producing his 
 table-knife. 
 
 Mr. Fayle retreated, with one hand grasping his 
 watch-pocket, and with fourpence and a bunch of keys 
 jingling alluringly in his trousers' pocket, took up a 
 strong position behind the dining-room table, and said : 
 "Now, steady now. Steady now. Steady now. 
 Really now. Steady now." 
 
 Joshua brandished his knife and overbalanced him- 
 self. He clutched at things in general, and brought 
 the tray of whisky and glassware to the ground, with 
 himself on the top of it. His uninviting face was cut 
 considerably, and the noise was such that it woke the 
 sleeping Pomeranian in its basket on the second-floor 
 landing. 
 
 "Yap yap yap yap yap!" said the Pom. Its 
 varied excursions had been useful to the servants, and 
 now it was rendering splendid service to Mr. Fayle 
 himself. The dog is the friend of man. 
 
 Joshua Bidder, picking himself up from the ruins, 
 heard the dog and recognized the force of its argu- 
 ment. He had been bitten before, and now, in the 
 presence of any dog, his backbone turned to water. 
 He had just time for a little parting sarcasm as he 
 made for the window.
 
 THE HERO AND THE BURGLAR 275 
 
 "So long, ole pal!" said Joshua. "Sorry I cawn't 
 stop. Remember me to the missus." 
 
 He flung up the window and stepped out on to the 
 drive. As he did so a large black thing jumped out 
 of darkness and collared Joshua by the neck and the 
 left wrist. And the bass voice of the large black 
 policeman said : " 'Ere, where do you think you're 
 comin' to?" 
 
 "Fair cop," said Joshua humbly. 
 
 Inside the dining-room Mr. Herbert Fayle heard 
 the comforting voice of the policeman, and saw in a 
 flash that pursuit was now deprived of any attendant 
 disadvantages. So he went in pursuit at once, and 
 the way he came through that window with a poker 
 clasped in one hand was perfectly glorious. 
 
 "It's all right, sir," the policeman called, as he 
 clicked the handcuffs on Joshua's wrists. "It's all 
 right; I've got him here." He flashed his bull's-eye 
 over Joshua's lacerated visage. "My word, sir, but 
 you've given him what for, and no mistake !" 
 
 "Bit of a rough and tumble," said Mr. Fayle com- 
 placently. 
 
 "Lucky for him I got him before you come up with 
 that poker. You'd have done for him, sir." 
 
 "I've bin cruelly mis'andled," whined Joshua. "If 
 there ain't one law for the rich and another for the 
 paw, 'e should be made to awnswer for " 
 
 "Hold your jaw!" said the policeman unfeelingly. 
 
 And then Mrs. Fayle and the dog arrived on the 
 scene, the former in a dressing-gown, and both agi- 
 tated. Mrs. Fayle clung to her husband, and the dog 
 clung, by its teeth, to Joshua. The dog being removed, 
 explanations followed. 
 
 Mrs. Fayle's account of the incident was based
 
 276 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 partly on the policeman's account Mr. Fayle gave 
 him a sovereign afterwards, and I think the man had 
 earned it and partly on Joshua's account, and partly 
 on feminine intuition. With a view to a possible 
 mitigation of his sentence, Joshua continued to main- 
 tain that he had been grievously assaulted. Mrs. 
 Fayle could get very little out of her husband, and he 
 shirked questions, but that was quite easy to under- 
 stand; these brave men are often so modest and reti- 
 cent about what they have done. 
 
 "Fortunately," said Mrs. Fayle to her sister Clara, 
 "the Dobsons' gardener saw the man as he entered, 
 thought he seemed a very suspicious character, and 
 just mentioned it to the next policeman he met. The 
 policeman found the man's boots under the open scul- 
 lery window, and lay in wait for him. And if he had 
 not been there, Herbert would have killed that man 
 killed him!" 
 
 "Would he really?" said Clara. 
 
 "The policeman and the burglar both thought so, 
 and they knew. Herbert makes light of it, but then 
 that is his way. I must tell you, he entered the dining- 
 room without a suspicion there was anything wrong, 
 and there was that awful man crouching with a knife 
 in his hand ready to spring on him. Herbert was un- 
 armed, and, as you know, he is not a big man, not 
 nearly as big as the burglar was. Without an instant's 
 hesitation he picked up a heavy decanter and felled 
 the man to the ground with it. Then there was a 
 most awful struggle between them. At last the burg- 
 lar managed to break away and got through the win- 
 dow. Herbert snatched up a poker and dashed after 
 him. As I say, it is a mercy the policeman was there.
 
 THE HERO AND THE BURGLAR 277 
 
 The people who have never seen Herbert when he is 
 roused simply do not know him." 
 
 Herbert protests mildly that his wife exaggerates. 
 But he would sooner wear the halo of the hero than 
 give the exact version of what happened between him 
 and Mr. Bidder.
 
 MORAL STORIES 
 
 I 
 
 APPRECIATION 
 
 ONCE upon a time or even oftener there was 
 a Desert. 
 
 If you should ever want to make a desert, this is 
 the best way. Take a thousand good square miles 
 and spread thickly with sand; throw in two oases, 
 a nice fresh mirage, a dead camel, and three live 
 Arabs; and serve very hot. 
 
 But this particular Desert was not made. It came 
 so. It had always been like that. But I am sorry to 
 say that it had not got the three live Arabs. Its 
 oases were rich; its mirage was in perfect working 
 order; the sand was spread very thickly indeed; and 
 the camel was just about as dead as any reasonable 
 camel could expect to be ; but there were no live Arabs. 
 In fact, in the whole of that vast desert there was no 
 living thing of any kind. 
 
 Don't begin to blame the Desert now. It knew 
 perfectly well that it was defective, and felt it very 
 deeply. A desert does not expect to be densely popu- 
 lated, but it wants some living things of some kind. 
 A couple of jackals and a mosquito would have made 
 this Desert quite happy. And it had done its very 
 best to attract visitors. Here, for instance, is an 
 
 278
 
 APPRECIATION 279 
 
 advertisement which it inserted in "Bills and Clauses," 
 which I need hardly tell you is the principal political 
 newspaper circulated among the birds : 
 
 "To VULTURES COMMENCING. Before building 
 elsewhere apply to Box 1460 at the office of this 
 paper. Useful climate. Good water and large free 
 camel. Sandstorms twice daily during the season. 
 A fine sunset performs every evening." 
 
 Now if you read that carefully you will see that it 
 was a very nicely worded advertisement. Of course, 
 by useful climate it meant unhealthful climate. But 
 neither a climate nor a sandstorm can kill a breakfast 
 for a vulture unless there is something to kill. Also 
 only one camel was mentioned. These were weak 
 points, and I expect that the vultures noticed them, 
 for not one single reply to its advertisement did the 
 Desert get. I doubt if there is any bird that gets 
 more real aesthetic enjoyment out of a good sunset 
 than a vulture does; but if it gets no food it is the 
 habit of the vulture to die, and when a vulture is dead 
 its enjoyment of things becomes considerably lessened. 
 
 In desperation the Desert put another advertise- 
 ment in "Under the Stripes," which, as you are prob- 
 ably aware, is the leading society journal read by 
 tigers. And this next advertisement I cannot defend 
 at all; it was deliberately untruthful; it makes it im- 
 possible to be sorry for the Desert for what happened 
 afterwards. It ran as follows : 
 
 "To MAN-EATERS. Oases to let in a salubrious 
 desert. Nice position. Well-stocked caravans pass 
 the door weekly. Good living for an energetic couple. 
 Magnificent sunsets night and morning."
 
 280 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 This was all very wrong. The desert was not salu- 
 brious; no caravan ever came near it; and though 
 the sunset was magnificent it was engaged for evening 
 performances exclusively. A tiger will always walk 
 twenty miles to see a really enjoyable sunset, and one 
 came to the Desert to investigate. He arrived in the 
 morning, and asked to see the Sunset. The Desert 
 said it was just over. Then he asked to see the tracks 
 of the caravans, and the Desert explained that this 
 kind of caravan didn't leave any tracks. The Desert 
 showed the tiger into the best oasis in the place, but he 
 grumbled and said he couldn't eat cold camel, and the 
 whole thing was a swindle, and he should have his 
 money back. He left at once. 
 
 And that very day the Sunset turned sulky. He 
 said he was absolutely dead sick of giving perform- 
 ances to empty houses. "What I should like," he said, 
 "would be a few artists, sitting round on camp-stools. 
 Other sunsets get it." 
 
 "Oh, but not in a place like this," said the Desert. 
 "We haven't the facilities." 
 
 "Seems to me you haven't got anything except 
 sand. I've known sunsets that hadn't got a color 
 scheme that I wouldn't have been ashamed of, and 
 yet they've got into the Academy. Last night I 
 brought out an arrangement in crimson and purple, 
 lovely enough to make a company promoter weep, 
 and it was absolutely wasted. It takes all the heart 
 out of one's work. I shall give it up." 
 
 "Pray don't say that," said the Desert excitedly, 
 well knowing that the Sunset was its only attraction. 
 "You may not be able to get a range of hills to work 
 on, such as we provide, if you go elsewhere. And 
 without a nice low range of hills you can't get your
 
 APPRECIATION 281 
 
 effects properly. You see, the artists may come yet. 
 You're doing very well, and they're bound to hear of 
 you sooner or later. It wouldn't surprise me if in a 
 month or two's time all this sand here was simply 
 crawling with artists." 
 
 "Wouldn't it?" said the Sunset sardonically. 
 "Well, it would surprise me. However, I won't make 
 a point of artists, but I do say that I must have an 
 audience of some kind. If I could have a dozen in- 
 telligent vultures and a few tigers of taste I wouldn't 
 leave you." 
 
 "There was a tiger here only this morning." 
 
 "Then why didn't you keep him? You know that 
 I never give matinees. Now listen to me. I've some- 
 thing specially fine for to-night. It's an opal and gold 
 and gray, with quick changes. It's quite the finest 
 thing I've ever done. It ought to last for about an 
 hour. If you can't find some living thing to see it 
 and love it and nearly cry over it, you'll get no more 
 performances out of me. That's definite and final." 
 
 And that night the Desert was illumined with the 
 finest sunset that there has ever been since the world 
 began. But no eye saw it, and all its gentle miracles 
 of beauty were like a lovely voice singing in an empty 
 house. 
 
 Next day there was no sunset, and in its despair the 
 Desert gave up being a desert altogether. The sand 
 was sold by auction to different seaside resorts to 
 make beaches with. And I don't know what became 
 of the dead camel and the other things. But the 
 Desert had to begin life all over again as a corkscrew, 
 and how it became a corkscrew it would take too long 
 to tell here. Besides, I can imagine that you are 
 already impatient to get to the moral.
 
 282 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 And this moral you shall remember whenever you 
 read a book, or look at a picture, or listen to music. 
 It is this : "Without appreciation there is no per- 
 formance." Or, if you would like it put differently: 
 In the genesis of a work of art, its creator is its 
 father, but it has many mothers those that under- 
 stand it; and without them it could not exist. It 
 is quite true that you have helped to make every 
 story, every music, and every picture that you have 
 liked intensely ; but you will never get paid for it.
 
 II 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHER 
 
 THERE was once a man who obtained at an early age 
 the reputation of a philosopher. He had an impres- 
 sive way of telling people that things were not what 
 they seemed, and of proving that any conclusion at 
 which they had naturally arrived must ipso facto be 
 wrong. 
 
 One summer's day as he strolled through the fields 
 he found a maiden stretched in the shade of the trees, 
 face downward, weeping bitterly. 
 
 "Maiden," he said, "tell me why you weep. For 
 I am a philosopher, and haply I may be able to ad- 
 minister to you words of salutary consolation." 
 
 At this the maiden sat up and showed her face. 
 And, behold, her face was as plain as a motor omnibus ; 
 and with much emotion the end of her snowy nose 
 had become rosy and phosphorescent. 
 
 "Oh, sir," said the maiden, "I weep because the 
 gods have given everything to my sister Lesbia and 
 to me nothing at all." 
 
 Then the philosopher sat down beside her. "Let 
 us first see," he said, "if the facts are as you state 
 them. For it happens not infrequently that things 
 are not what they seem. What is it then that the 
 gods have given to your sister and not to you ?" 
 
 "Beauty," said the girl, "and beauty is everything. 
 Lesbia is the loveliest creature in the world. Her 
 
 283
 
 284 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 chestnut hair is so long, so profuse, so delightful in 
 its waves, that she gains an honorable subsistence 
 by exhibiting it in a shop-window as an advertise- 
 ment for a hair tonic. Her eyes are gray and long- 
 lashed, and heavenly. She is a little pale, but it be- 
 comes her; and her fragrant lips are scarlet." 
 
 "Dear me," said the philosopher. "But it happens 
 at times that with the beautiful face there goes an 
 uncomely figure." 
 
 "It is not so with Lesbia. Every curve of her body 
 is a poem. She is full of grace. Artists rave about 
 her. And I alas, I have no beauty of any kind." 
 And once more the maiden fell a-weeping. 
 
 "Stop that," said the philosopher sternly; "you 
 weep without reason; would you rather have a gift 
 that you can keep or a gift that is taken from you?" 
 
 "Certainly, a gift that I can keep. Who would 
 not?" 
 
 "Very well, then. The gift of the gods to your 
 sister is illusory. It is no gift, for it will be taken 
 away again. The years will rob her of her beauty. 
 Old age will wither and twist and bend her body. 
 Now then, can you make the omelette aux fines 
 herbesf 
 
 "I can," said the girl; but with no pride in it. 
 
 "In forty years you will still be able to make the 
 omelette aux fines herbes. That is a gift which brings 
 comfort, and, in consequence, gratitude and popu- 
 larity ; and it does not fade. Are you, perhaps, fonder 
 of reading than your sister is?" 
 
 "Lesbia does not care for it. I, on the other hand, 
 have a library subscription at the cash chemist's." 
 
 "There you are," said the philosopher triumphantly, 
 "you are in commune with the greatest minds of all
 
 THE PHILOSOPHER 285 
 
 ages. You have the power of culture. It is undying, 
 it is the finest solace. Now, with regard to the sewing- 
 machine." 
 
 "I've got one, and use it Lesbia won't touch it." 
 
 "More and more your gifts are being revealed, and 
 they are all of the precious character far better than 
 your sister's fleeting and worthless beauty. Never 
 say again that the gods have neglected you. Weep 
 no more. You have all for which a wise man looks 
 in the partner of his life." 
 
 And then the philosopher saluted and left her; and 
 the girl rose to her feet and began to feel more pleased 
 with herself. 
 
 But presently she was conscious that the philoso- 
 pher had turned back towards her with a notebook 
 open in his hands. 
 
 "Beg pardon," he said, a little sheepishly, "but what 
 did you say was your sister's address ?"
 
 Ill 
 
 THE LIFE OF A BUBBLE 
 
 THE small girl came out of the house with a well- 
 founded idea that the people inside did not par- 
 ticularly want her. She had also with her a bowl of 
 soapsuds and a pipe wherewith to blow bubbles. For 
 solitude must have its solace. She was plain, but obed- 
 ient; good, but gooseberry-eyed. She found a clear 
 ring in the middle of the orchard; the grass grew long 
 there; the sense of remoteness was in the air. It was 
 desperately wild and fine. There she sat down and 
 began bubble-blowing. The first two attempts failed. 
 The third was magnificent. She gave a little shake 
 to the pipe, and the beautiful iridescent globe mounted 
 slowly in the perfectly still air. 
 
 "That," said the small girl, "is a ripper." 
 
 The point of view of the human being who regards 
 the bubble and the point of view of the bubble as it 
 regards the human being present certain well-defined 
 differences in matters of detail. 
 
 "I have been since the beginning of the universe," 
 said the bubble to itself. "I exist now, I shall exist 
 for ever. This present experience comes back to me 
 as something imperfectly remembered from very long 
 ago. It is unpleasant. To be so near a material earth, 
 nearer, perhaps, than I have ever been before, is a kind 
 
 286
 
 THE LIFE OF A BUBBLE 287 
 
 of contamination. It seems to throw a film of corrup- 
 tion over one. Luckily the feeling passes. The ma- 
 terial earth sinks slowly back into the abyss from 
 which it has risen, while I remain stationary and per- 
 manent." 
 
 The gooseberry eyes of the plain little girl watched 
 the bubble very intently. How slowly it rose ! Would 
 it clear that branch? Oh, for a breath of wind to 
 toss it high up, that it might sail far away out of her 
 sight and that she might not witness its breaking! 
 
 "Yes," said the bubble, "it is so. I observe even 
 now that my unpleasant environment is fading away 
 from me. The girl with the gooseberry eyes, and the 
 indifferent cracked bowl of an advertised soap, and 
 the vast masses of uninteresting green leaves, are 
 sinking slowly back into their abyss. Material influ- 
 ences begin to lose their hold upon me. I am now 
 almost as fine and spiritual as I have ever been. The 
 only thing that really troubles me is that I cannot probe 
 the mystery. Have small, plain girls a use in being? 
 Is there any purpose or design about those vast masses 
 of green leaves ? Is soap, however advertised and how- 
 ever perfumed, part of any great scheme tending ulti- 
 mately to the help and the progress of myself or of 
 my brothers?" 
 
 The plain girl listened intently. She thought she 
 heard a voice. She would have obeyed the call, for 
 she would have obeyed anything. She had been 
 brought up to it. She had a dim and rather dismal 
 conviction that, when she went in, it was necessary to 
 send her out again; but that if, of her own volition, 
 she went out, it then became necessary to fetch her in. 
 These were things beyond argument, things that be- 
 longed to the great powers, that is to say, to the peo-
 
 pie in the house. But she had heard nothing ; it was a 
 mistake; she was not to be fetched in just yet. So 
 she could go on watching. 
 
 The smoke from the chimneys came sluggishly up 
 through the oily air under a hot leaden sky. The 
 bubble was far away, just above the smoke, not yet 
 out of sight. 
 
 "Yes," said the bubble, "I do feel distinctly better. 
 That nauseating sense of grossness which was caused 
 by proximity to material things is completely passing 
 away. But ought one to be nauseated? Would not 
 one be happier if one could believe that such things 
 did not exist at all, that they were merely subjective 
 the bad dreams to which a bubble may now and then 
 be liable? In any case they pass as a dream. An all- 
 merciful destiny that designed the universe for the use 
 of bubbles arranged that all right." 
 
 The burning sun of noon stole out from the leaden 
 clouds. Its glory fell full upon the bubble. A drop or 
 two of soapy water flicked the tail of a sparrow flying 
 below it. 
 
 "It's burst!" cried the girl, in a sad ecstasy. 
 
 A voice came from the outer and more civilized 
 portion of the orchard. 
 
 "Where are you, Miss Jane? You come in this 
 minute! Always where you oughtn't to be, aren't 
 you?" 
 
 The girl who was always where she ought not to be 
 went in that minute. 
 
 In the meantime the bubble took an entirely differ- 
 ent view of the situation. The poor thing had not the 
 remotest idea that it had burst.
 
 THE LIFE OF A BUBBLE 289 
 
 "Yes," it said, "it's quite all over now. I am per- 
 fectly myself again, back in the calm, distant ether 
 which suits me best. More than ever I incline to the 
 happy view. The things that troubled me, the girl 
 and the soap and the trees, were nothing but an imag- 
 ining."
 
 IV 
 FOR VALUE RECEIVED 
 
 CUSTOM had overcome natural antipathies, and all 
 three rested in peace on the hearthrug the bull- 
 terrier, the smoke-gray cat, and the mean-eyed guinea- 
 
 Pig- 
 
 "That's my tail you're sitting on," said the cat, 
 
 rather sharply. 
 
 "Sorry," said the bull-terrier, and edged away a 
 little. The guinea-pig gave one quick furtive look at 
 both of them and then shut his eyes. 
 
 "Yes," said the smoke-gray cat, "I need rest. I've 
 been petted all the morning. You can have no no- 
 tion what it is to be loved as much as I am." 
 
 "Really," said the bull-terrier. "Well, I don't know 
 about that. Of course, you are very much admired 
 for your soft fluff and your graceful attitudes, but 
 admiration is not love. One cannot get love that 
 way." 
 
 "How do you get it, then?" asked the cat, a little 
 spitefully. "I suppose you do get it, from the way 
 you talk." 
 
 "Love," said the bull-terrier, "is the reward of the 
 more solid qualities. Let us suppose, for instance, 
 that a young and beautiful girl goes out for a walk 
 by herself in a lonely country. If she is accompanied 
 by a dog of a good fighting breed she feels absolutely 
 safe. Therefore she gets to love that dog. She must 
 
 290
 
 FOR VALUE RECEIVED 291 
 
 do it. It is logically inevitable. And that kind of 
 love lasts when the love of mere beauty fades." 
 
 "You believe all that ?" asked the cat. 
 
 "It certainly ought to be so," said the bull-terrier. 
 "But if I am to be frank, I do not think that our mis- 
 tress loves me the best." 
 
 "Now you're talking sense," said the cat. 
 
 "Nor does she love you the best," added the bull- 
 terrier. 
 
 "I must admit," said the cat, "that it has sometimes 
 crossed my mind that she loves George the best." 
 
 George was the guinea-pig. He was plain, even for 
 a guinea-pig. He was not well-connected, and his 
 moral standard was very low. 
 
 "That is so," said the bull-terrier sorrowfully. 
 "Just wake him up and ask him how he does it." 
 
 The cat gave George a pat on the head. His mean 
 and vicious eyes opened quickly. He told her to be 
 more careful where she put her feet. 
 
 "Look here," said the cat. "What do you do to 
 make our mistress love you better than she loves either 
 of us?" 
 
 "I am," said George. 
 
 "Yes. You are what?" 
 
 "Nothing. I merely am. It is enough." 
 
 "You have neither beauty nor grace," said the cat. 
 
 "You have neither strength nor courage," said the 
 dog. 
 
 "But I am," said the guinea-pig. "That's all that's 
 necessary." 
 
 Their mistress entered the room. 
 
 She picked up the guinea-pig and kissed him. Then 
 she gently moved the cat and the dog so that George 
 might lie nearer the fire.
 
 292 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 There was a moment's silence when she had left the 
 room. 
 
 Then a sound came from the guinea-pig which might 
 well have been a chuckle or might have been a snore. 
 
 The cat went fast asleep out of sheer disgust. 
 
 The dog sat up and stared into the fire with great 
 solemnity, and blinked and thought. He then made 
 the following observation : 
 
 "The highest price that is paid is never by any 
 chance for value received."
 
 V 
 OMNIA VANITAS 
 
 "WITH your kind permission," said the Minstrel, "I 
 will now introduce to your notice my celebrated 
 apologue on the vanity of human wishes." 
 
 "Surely," said the Princess, "I have seen or read 
 something of the kind before." 
 
 "Hush !" said the Minstrel. "The least little inter- 
 ruption is enough to put me out. The sensitiveness of 
 a great artist is finer than anything you can imagine. 
 What would you say if I were to be unable to proceed 
 with that apologue ?" 
 
 "I should forgive you," said the Princess simply. 
 
 "I will render forgiveness harder by proceeding with 
 my story. There was once " 
 
 "About what date?" asked the Princess. 
 
 "In the days of old," said the Minstrel firmly. 
 
 "As usual," said the Princess, and a slight shade of 
 disdain crossed her lovely face. 
 
 "We shall never get on if we stop to talk about 
 every little detail like this. There was once in the 
 days of old, as I have already told you, a man who 
 could have everything that he wanted." 
 
 "Do let me go on," said the Princess. "And after 
 he had got everything that he wanted he found that 
 he did not want it at all. So he ended up just as he 
 had begun before he started on the gratification of his 
 wishes. And the moral of this is, that all little boys 
 
 293
 
 294 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 and girls should be content with that station of life 
 into which it hath " 
 
 "Wrong," said the Minstrel. "Wrong all through. 
 In any case, am I telling the story to you, or are you 
 telling the story to me ?" 
 
 "A little of each," said the Princess. 
 
 "And that," said the Minstrel, "is one of the things 
 that I particularly dislike. I will be a performer if I 
 may. I will be an audience if I must. But I will not 
 be both at the same time. With these few words of 
 preface I will now proceed to tell you that there was 
 once in the days of old " 
 
 "That's the third time," said the Princess. 
 
 "There was once in the days of old," the Minstrel 
 repeated firmly, "a man who could have everything 
 that he wanted. At first he did not know that he could 
 have everything he wanted, and so he became an actor. 
 It was not good, but it might have been worse." 
 
 "He might have been a minstrel," suggested the 
 Princess. 
 
 "Quite true. It might have been worse, or, as you 
 say, it might have been better. As it was he was an 
 actor just a medium mummer with a blue chin and a 
 high opinion of himself, but with no idea of the good 
 fortune that was awaiting him. One day when he 
 was being congratulated by his friends on his masterly 
 creation of the part of the second footman in the new 
 drama entitled 'The Wickedest Woman in the Cab 
 Radius,' he shrank modestly from the compliments 
 and said he would sooner have won the Battle of 
 Waterloo than have played Hamlet at an almost first- 
 rate suburban theater. This was the first intimation 
 that he received of his marvellous destiny. The very 
 next day he did win the Battle of Waterloo."
 
 OMNIA VANITAS 295 
 
 "Come now," said the Princess, "come now; you 
 would like to lie down for a little and rest, then per- 
 haps you will be able to think of something which is 
 more in accord with ascertained facts." 
 
 "Did I say that this was an apologue or did I not? 
 Is an apologue supposed to be a bald record of facts or 
 is it rather a suitable field in which the fancy may 
 soar?" 
 
 "You can't soar in a field," said the Princess. "You 
 can get buried in one. Try it. No; go on with the 
 story." 
 
 "Very well," said the Minstrel. "There was once 
 in the days of old " 
 
 "Stop!" said the Princess, now justly infuriated. 
 "Go on from the point where you left off." 
 
 "Very well," said the Minstrel gloomily. "This 
 man who won the Battle of Waterloo was not for long 
 satisfied with that achievement. He enjoyed it thor- 
 oughly, but he felt that more might be possible. One 
 day he read Gray's 'Elegy,' and having looked round 
 to be sure that the shorthand reporter was present, he 
 took a nice attitude and said that he would sooner 
 have written that poem than have won the Battle of 
 Waterloo. The very next day he found that he had 
 written Gray's 'Elegy.' ' 
 
 The Princess groaned. She said faintly that it was 
 of no use talking. 
 
 "I pointed that out some time ago," said the Min- 
 strel severely. "The man enjoyed being a great poet 
 very much, but he thought of other things which he 
 would also like to be, and he was them. He thought of 
 things that he would like to have, and he had them. 
 The gratification of his wishes never annoyed him at
 
 296 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 all. He never prayed that he might go back again to 
 his simple cottage and his work on the farm." 
 
 "You said he was an actor," snapped the Princess. 
 
 "I did. I also said it was an apologue. That's the 
 beauty of an apologue. This man who wrote Gray's 
 'Elegy' was fully satisfied with the fact that he had 
 got everything he wanted until he suddenly realized 
 that he had reached the end of his abilities and he 
 could think of nothing else to want. That was ter- 
 rible." 
 
 "What do you want me to do about it?" asked the 
 Princess sweetly. 
 
 "Nothing," said the Minstrel. "It's too late to do 
 anything. The man cut his throat and went mad." 
 
 "You got that in the wrong order." 
 
 "No, I haven't. He didn't cut his throat enough; 
 that's what made him mad. It might have happened 
 to anybody. He is now in an asylum. And the moral 
 of it is that we should always want something." 
 
 "I'm glad I never knew that man," said the Princess. 
 
 "Madame," said the Minstrel, "had he known you 
 he would have still had a want unsupplied."
 
 VI 
 THE LOVE PHILTER 
 
 *MP 
 
 ONCE, in a remote time and place, the materials of the 
 usual novel presented themselves. A man had fallen 
 in love with a woman and the woman had not in the 
 least fallen in love with the man. So when he, look- 
 ing particularly handsome, pleaded his cause with her, 
 she said "No." 
 
 Then the young man communed with himself. He 
 had read in the learned books that women are by na- 
 ture coy, and that their "no" not infrequently meant 
 "yes." So he waited three months, then again en- 
 treated, and again she refused. 
 
 Further meditation showed him that it was abso- 
 lutely essential that he should marry this woman. It 
 was impossible to live without her. If the gods gave 
 him all else and denied him that, then there would be 
 no pleasure in any of their gifts. This being so, he 
 thought of ways and methods by which a woman might 
 be attracted. The first that he tried was brilliance and 
 martial achievements. At that remote period there 
 was always a war handy for those who wished to dis- 
 tinguish themselves in this way, and the man went into 
 the war. After long waiting he got his opportunity 
 and came out of it unscathed, and with a magnificent 
 record for courage and skill and endurance. Adorned 
 with the equivalent of the Victoria Cross prevalent at 
 
 297
 
 298 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 that time, he returned to the house of his lady-love, 
 and she would not see him. 
 
 He was equally unsuccessful when he held out to her 
 the allurements of power. All his wealth and all his 
 long trains of slaves impressed her not at all. He 
 bored her very badly. 
 
 Then in despair, and no longer trusting to his own 
 resources, he determined to take counsel of a wise 
 woman that lived seven days' journey away. He went 
 on his pilgrimage on foot, and because he could not 
 sleep nor weary himself he made the journey in four 
 days. The wise woman was old and gray, and sat hud- 
 dled up in an untidy parcel. When she saw him ap- 
 proaching she stretched out a lean hand. 
 
 "I know," she said, "for what you have come. You 
 desire the lady of your love." 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "I desire that and nothing else. 
 I desire that at any price. What would you have me 
 do, what would you have me give you?" 
 
 Then he showed her the equivalent of his bank-book 
 prevalent at that time, and she went over it with care. 
 But she said that she would take everything, all that 
 he had; all his treasure, all his slaves, and in return 
 she would give him a love philter. Then he most 
 cheerfully made over to her, by the equivalent of a 
 deed of gift prevalent at that time, the whole of his 
 possessions, and she placed in his hands a cup of green 
 jade containing a liquid that was as clear as water, 
 and that shone in the dark as though it had been fire. 
 
 "See," she said, "that the lady of your love drinks 
 of this. Then will she love you; you only; you, with 
 her whole heart, you for ever." 
 
 Then he began his journey home again. And by 
 this time he was fain to sleep, and weary in all his
 
 THE LOVE PHILTER 299 
 
 limbs. But for his great longing to win the love of 
 the woman he still went on by night and day. And as 
 he travelled by night the liquid in the green jade cup 
 gave him light to guide his footsteps. But at the last 
 sleep would no longer be denied. He stretched himself 
 on the sand a whole hour, with the cup of green jade 
 standing at his head. And as he slept the only person 
 that ever came into, his dreams came into them once 
 more the woman whom he loved. And in the dream 
 she said to him, "You are coming to see me." 
 
 He answered, "Yes. And now at last have I the 
 means to overcome your hatred to me, and to turn it 
 into such love as I myself have for you and ever shall 
 have." 
 
 She then said : 
 
 "You have been to the wise woman, and you have 
 bought from her a love philter that she alone can 
 make." 
 
 "Yes," he said. "For the liquid gleaming like fire 
 in its cup I have given all my possessions. Do you 
 doubt its power?" 
 
 "No," she answered, "I doubt it not. If I drink 
 thereof I shall love you for ever, only it will not be I, 
 and it will not be you." 
 
 "I do not understand," he said. 
 
 "If I love you not now and love you after I have 
 drunk of this cup, then it is because the philter and 
 not you has made the change in me. It is a trick, a 
 poor deception by which you will try to fool yourself 
 and me." 
 
 "Then," he said, "better this unhappiness than that 
 happiness." And poured the philter into the sand. 
 
 And when he awoke the cup was indeed overturned, 
 and the thirsty sand had drunk the precious liquid to
 
 300 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 the last drop. So having no longer any hope he went 
 back on his way home. 
 
 And as he approached the house where the woman 
 whom he loved lived, she came down the steps towards 
 him, holding out both her hands. 
 
 "I watched for you from the window," she said. 
 "A few nights ago I dreamed of you, a strange dream. 
 You lay on the sands asleep. I have watched ever 
 since."
 
 VII 
 DOING GOOD 
 
 IT was a frosty but dull morning. The fields were 
 shrouded in mist, and the garden looked dead and des- 
 olate. There was not a breath of wind, not a leaf that 
 danced, not a bough that swayed. 
 
 Suddenly there was a rattling and whirring in the 
 ivy that half covered the house, and a dozen sparrows 
 flew out, knowing that it was about time for break- 
 fast. They separated, and sat on different trees that 
 commanded a view of the windows, and kept a look- 
 out. From time to time they shifted their positions 
 impatiently, but they did nothing practical to accele- 
 rate that breakfast. They left that to a bird with more 
 initiative a bird with a beak and a red breast. 
 
 The robin came with a dactylic flight down on to 
 the Duke of Connaught immediately in front of the 
 French windows of the dining-room, where he could 
 be easily seen by those within. He chose a spray 
 which would bend gracefully beneath his weight, and 
 turned his red waistcoat to the window. He looked a 
 perfect Christmas-card on that standard rose, and he 
 knew from experience that this was effective. The 
 trick answered once more. 
 
 A white-haired, genial old gentleman opened the 
 windows and came out. He had a Crown Derby plate 
 in his hands, and the plate was piled high with crumbs ; 
 he scattered the crumbs down the gravel walk, and as 
 
 301
 
 302 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 he did so he said, "Chirrup." He said it several times, 
 and the birds treated it with the contempt it deserved. 
 
 An old lady looked out of the window and said in a 
 fat and warning voice, "Your hat, Charles." And the 
 old gentleman, reminded that he had nothing on his 
 head, went back into the house again. 
 
 Then the birds began on the crumbs. The robin 
 came first; he had no more occasion to make play 
 with his red breast ; it was his other weapon, his beak, 
 that came in useful now. He took a crumb and pecked 
 a sparrow alternately with great regularity. But he 
 was outnumbered, and, finding the general feeling of 
 the meeting was against him, retired with the biggest 
 crumb. After all, it was better to follow the gardener 
 about and keep near the potting-shed during the din- 
 ner-hour; gardeners understood the tastes of robins, 
 and did not restrict them to bread. How would the 
 old gentleman have liked it if he had nothing but bread 
 given him for his breakfast? 
 
 The sparrows were quite contented. They came in 
 from all directions ; they flew fearlessly to the crumbs ; 
 they hopped cautiously to them, jerking down the gar- 
 den path with a light run and a quick stop. There 
 were plump sparrows that had been here, bless you, 
 longer than they would care to say, and had had 
 crumbs all the time ; there were ragged vagabond spar- 
 rows that had dropped in out of nowhere, swearing 
 that they hadn't tasted food for a fortnight. They 
 thieved without shame, and were robbed without re- 
 sentment. One sparrow would select a morsel of 
 bread, and hop off with it. The moment he put it 
 down to get to work on it, another sparrow who had 
 followed him would snatch it up. "Got him again," 
 the thief remarked, with satisfaction. "Plenty more
 
 DOING GOOD 303 
 
 where that came from," replied the philosopher, as he 
 hopped back to the heap of crumbs again. In and out 
 among the brown sparrows went what would have 
 been called in Kensington shops "a pretty little article 
 in art shades." It was a little tomtit, with his cap on, 
 making no secret of the fact that he and the peacock 
 both get their clothes from the same place. Far down 
 the path a fat and timid thrush watched the intrepid 
 and remunerative work of the little birds with plain- 
 tive wonder. 
 
 The old gentleman surveyed the scene from the 
 window for a moment, smiling with pleasure; for he 
 found pleasure in doing good even in the humblest of 
 ways. And at the same time the cat stepped out of 
 the back-kitchen into the garden. 
 
 He was a big cat, white splashed with black, a 
 mighty hunter, and a most notorious evil-liver. Better 
 to him the mouse or bird that he himself had killed 
 than the cream and chicken of insipid domesticity. 
 He told himself that this weather was the very devil. 
 But for the crumbs and their consequences there would 
 be nothing doing. He preferred the summer, when 
 there were so many young birds and so much cover. 
 He had meant to go to the front lawn and the ad- 
 joining paths to see what sport could be got there, and, 
 therefore, being a cat, he started off in the opposite 
 direction towards the kitchen-garden. That is part of 
 the cat strategy. He ambled patiently and humbly 
 along as if he had been a tame pony drawing a load 
 of hymn-books to oblige a missionary. He paused to 
 look into an empty frame and found nothing there, 
 which was just what he had expected, and then turned 
 his attention to business. In two minutes he was on 
 the front lawn; but the birds did not see him because
 
 304 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 he had hidden himself where the lowest boughs of the 
 big cedar touched the grass. Three noiseless hops 
 brought the cat in a flash to the box-edging of the path 
 where the birds were feeding. He pressed himself 
 close to it, and lay motionless but for the extreme tip 
 of his tail, which was rather excited. Then slowly he 
 began oiling and slithering up towards the birds. Not 
 one hair of his sinful body moved. He made one 
 spring, and he had sparrow for dinner. 
 
 When you wish to do good, you should first shut up 
 the cat.
 
 VIII 
 KIND WORDS 
 
 "KIND words," said the Aunt, "are worth far more 
 than gold. They give more real pleasure; they do 
 more real good. Try to remember that, Margaret 
 Ursula." 
 
 Margaret Ursula said she would. She was a good 
 girl, and always tried to do what she was told. 
 
 She thought about the power and value of kind 
 words while she was undressing that night, and while 
 she was saying her prayers, and while she was falling 
 asleep. And that, perhaps, is why she had the follow- 
 ing extraordinary dream. I tell it as it seemed to her. 
 
 Margaret Ursula was going down the sunny High 
 Street of a quiet, provincial town that she knew well. 
 She was conscious that she was very hungry, and that 
 she was interested in what she saw notably in a cart 
 laden with golden sovereigns and drawn by many 
 horses. 
 
 The jolting of the cart jerked some of the sovereigns 
 into the gutter. No passer-by took the least notice. 
 Margaret Ursula ran after the cart and called loudly 
 to the driver to stop. He pulled up and stared sul- 
 lenly. 
 
 "You've dropped some of your sovereigns," she 
 said. "Run quickly back and get them. I'll hold your 
 horses for you." 
 
 305
 
 3o6 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "Idiot!" said the man. "Interfering, fat-headed 
 idiot!" 
 
 "Really," said Margaret Ursula, much shocked, 
 "that is not a very kind or polite way to speak to a 
 girl who " 
 
 "Don't come begging here," said the man sharply. 
 "I've got nothing to give you." 
 
 She looked amazed. 
 
 "And don't stand gaping like a dying fish. Any- 
 body, to hear you talk, would think we lived in the 
 days when this rubbish I'm carting away was worth 
 something the days before people really knew the 
 value of kind words." 
 
 So that was it; the world had moved on; compli- 
 ments and expressions of sympathy had taken the 
 place of coinage. 
 
 That did not seem to her to matter much ; it came as 
 a thing that she might have expected. What did mat- 
 ter was that feeling of hunger she was amazingly 
 hungry. She turned from the sullen driver and walked 
 quickly on, looking into the shops as she went. Sud- 
 denly she stopped. A faint smell of new bread and 
 chocolate floated out through an open shop-door. In 
 the windows were displayed all manner of delightful 
 things to eat. It seemed to her the most glorious and 
 noble confectioner's shop she had ever seen. It was a 
 bad thing, she knew, to enter a confectioner's shop one 
 hour before luncheon. But this was such a wonderful 
 shop, and she was so remarkably hungry, that she was 
 tempted to enter. 
 
 "Wipe your feet, you slut, can't you?" screamed the 
 lady behind the counter a pretty lady, too, and very 
 nicely dressed, but with an angry face. It struck her
 
 KIND WORDS 307 
 
 now that everybody she had met that morning had 
 looked cross and severe. 
 
 She wiped her feet obediently, and said, "My shoes 
 aren't half as dirty as your horrible mat." 
 
 Margaret Ursula had always been a polite girl, but 
 now she had an overpowering conviction that polite- 
 ness was extravagance. 
 
 "Shut up !" shouted the lady behind the counter. 
 
 Margaret took a large cake and began to eat it. It 
 was pink sugar on the top and chocolate at the bot- 
 tom, there was cream in the middle, and the rest of it 
 was hot strawberry jam. It was just about the best 
 cake she had ever eaten, but it made her a little thirsty. 
 
 "Lemonade," she said sharply. 
 
 The lady behind the counter gave her the lemonade, 
 and at the same time observed that there were some 
 people she disliked on sight. Margaret Ursula drank 
 the lemonade, which was delicious, and carefully re- 
 frained from saying "Thank you." Now that any po- 
 lite form of words, intended to give pleasure, had a 
 purchasing value, one was careful not to use them un- 
 necessarily. The time had now come for Margaret to 
 pay for her refreshments; she turned to the lady be- 
 hind the counter and said : 
 
 "I wonder if you would mind my telling you what 
 perfectly beautiful eyes you've got; I shall never for- 
 get them." 
 
 "Go on," said the lady behind the counter. 
 
 "And there's something in your face that makes me 
 think that at some time you must have gone through a 
 great tragedy." Margaret Ursula knew that almost 
 all women liked to be told that. It seemed to her that 
 these two astounding compliments were sufficient pay- 
 ment, and she turned to go.
 
 308 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "Come back, you swindler!" shrieked the lady. 
 "You've not paid for your lemonade." 
 
 "Dear me! What delightful lemonade it was, too! 
 I think this is the very nicest shop I was ever in. I do 
 hope you will make a great fortune in it." 
 
 "Thank you," said the lady, and gave one short 
 smile. Margaret realized that she had paid rather too 
 much for the lemonade, and that the thanks and the 
 smile were the change. "And now," the lady con- 
 tinued, "for goodness' sake get out of my sight !" 
 
 Margaret Ursula left the shop and entered a han- 
 som. The horse immediately began to kick furiously. 
 
 His hoofs went rap, rap, rap. "Come in," said Mar- 
 garet Ursula, rubbing her eyes and yawning. 
 
 And the maid came in and drew back the blinds a 
 little ; and Margaret Ursula was awake again. 
 
 "I suppose," said Margaret Ursula at breakfast, 
 "that it is quite true that kind words are worth more 
 than gold." 
 
 "Far more," said the Aunt. 
 
 "It's just as well," said Margaret Ursula medita- 
 tively, "that most people don't know that." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "Well, nobody would ever say anything nice to you." 
 
 "Occasionally," said the Aunt severely, "you say 
 things that surprise me, Margaret Ursula."
 
 IX 
 
 THE WORTHLESS STONES 
 
 THE two men who had been eagerly studying the lists 
 of situations vacant in the newspapers of the free 
 reading-room came out dejected. They wore frock- 
 coats and silk hats and patent-leather boots, all in the 
 last stage of decay. 
 
 "May as well go and sit in the park," suggested 
 the elder. 
 
 "It's as good as anything else or as bad," assented 
 the younger. 
 
 "I'll tell you what it is, Smithson," said the old 
 man, as he took his seat in the sun and gazed reflec- 
 tively into the interior of his silk hat. "We ought 
 to have seen this coming. We ought to have been 
 prepared for it. We ought to have had something 
 else up our sleeve." 
 
 "As it is," said the younger man, "we are abso- 
 lutely at the end of everything. I haven't got a penny 
 in my pockets. I suppose you haven't either, Marks?" 
 
 "No," said Marks. "I've got a paper of Brazilian 
 diamonds of the first water and I've got a nice little 
 lot of pigeon's-blood rubies. A year ago I could have 
 got about fourteen thousand for them; to-day if I 
 offered them in exchange for a penny loaf the man 
 would laugh at me. Yes, Smithson, we ought to have 
 seen this coming." 
 
 "I don't know about that," said Smithson. "No- 
 309
 
 310 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 body else saw it. Why should they? Ever since the 
 beginning of the world precious stones, as they used 
 to be called, had been held in high esteem. It was so 
 in all nations and all ages. What reason had we to 
 expect this sudden change of fashion, this sudden 
 awakening to the facts, if you like to put it that way?" 
 
 "Because," said Marks, "we might have argued it 
 out. We might have said to ourselves that the game 
 had been good for a very long time and that was all 
 the more reason why it should not last much longer. 
 If we had just put to ourselves the plain question, 
 Why are precious stones precious? we should have 
 made provision for the bursting of the bubble. They 
 were only precious because a lot of fools, principally 
 women, chose to think they were. It was purely arbi- 
 trary. There was nothing else in it at all. As civiliza- 
 tion went on people were bound to wake up to the fact. 
 When one recalls that not so many years ago any 
 amount of capital and labor was being expended in 
 South Africa and elsewhere in order to get some bril- 
 liant rubbish out of the ground for women to stick in 
 their hair or to put round their necks, why it simply 
 seems like a mad dream. It's much more wonderful 
 that the humbug lasted so long than that it stopped 
 when it did." 
 
 Smithson drew from his waistcoat pocket three or 
 four beautiful pearls, spread them on the palm of his 
 hand, and looked at them. 
 
 "I still think, you know," he said, "that there's a 
 kind of charm about these things. Of course, I know 
 that they're no longer worth anything, but still I've 
 got a liking for them." 
 
 "Simply a remnant of your old prejudice," said 
 Marks. "The glass- workers turn out much prettier
 
 THE WORTHLESS STONES 311 
 
 things. They get more variety of color and of pat- 
 tern. All the endless worry with banks and safes is 
 done away with. If a woman loses a few of her beads 
 she can easily go to the nearest shop and buy another 
 sixpenny worth. If in the old days she had lost a few 
 pearls like those that you have in your hand there 
 would have been no end of a hullabaloo. Columns 
 and columns in the paper about it. It was not to my 
 interests, of course, that this change should come. 
 It has ruined men like you and me. But it has done 
 a lot of good as well. Think of the amount of crime 
 there used to be. Heaps of burglars in London not 
 so long ago would have risked their freedom for the 
 rest of their lives, and perhaps their necks as well, 
 to have stolen the rubies that I have got in my inside 
 pocket. Women were bought and sold for those toys. 
 Nations kept vast amounts of capital locked up and 
 unproductive in the form of crown jewels. It was a 
 rotten system, and on the whole it's a good thing that 
 we've done with it. All I say is, we ought to have 
 seen the end was coming." 
 
 "Look here, Marks," said Smithson sharply, "don't 
 say that any more, please. See ? It gets on my nerves. 
 When a man has made an almighty fool of himself 
 and is suffering for it in consequence, it doesn't im- 
 prove his temper to have somebody keep on telling 
 him that he might have foreseen what would happen. 
 I'm going to give up thinking about it altogether. The 
 spring's coming on now and gardeners will be wanted. 
 I always had a little taste that way, luckily, and I may 
 be able to find a job yet." 
 
 "Ah!" said Marks, "you are a younger man than 
 I am. I don't know what's going to happen to me." 
 Absent-mindedly he drew from his pocket his paper of
 
 312 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 Brazilian diamonds and scattered them broadcast. A 
 few sparrows fluttered down and went away disap- 
 pointed. A stern park-keeper came up. 
 
 "Look here," he said sharply, "I can't have that 
 mess made all over these gravel paths. I've a jolly 
 good mind to make you pick 'em all up again. You'd 
 better clear out, you two, and look slippy about it."
 
 X 
 
 GOLD 
 
 THERE was once in the Dark Ages a boy of great 
 ambition and solid worth. He did not play the fool 
 and vex his teachers. He was kind to cats. He did 
 not even annoy his papa and mamma. When other 
 boys were playing at tournaments, damaging their 
 clothes, and sometimes losing their tempers, he never 
 joined them. He sat patiently at home studying the 
 signs of the zodiac and the virtues of herbs and sim- 
 ples. He was devoted to study. His brain developed 
 rapidly. At the age of twelve he had a forehead like 
 the Albert Hall. This made other boys so jealous that 
 they threw things at him, but he did not care because 
 he knew he was doing right. He had great ideas. On 
 the whitewashed wall of his little bedroom he wrote 
 in large letters "CONCENTRASHUN." I may ob- 
 serve in passing that in the Dark Ages spelling was 
 more a matter of individual taste than it is now. His 
 father saw what his little son had done and took the 
 necessary steps, but he could not help feeling he was 
 spanking a boy with a future. 
 
 The father was but a poor armorer, and suffering 
 severely from the competition of a big cut-price estab- 
 lishment that had just started in the same street. But 
 he managed to scrape together enough money to ap- 
 prentice his son to an astrologer and general alchemist. 
 
 The astrologer said frequently and emphatically that 
 313
 
 3H STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 he had never had a better or more studious apprentice. 
 Time passed, and our young friend was no longer a 
 boy. He was a youth, and, moreover, he was a youth 
 whose roomy cranium and established character for 
 steadiness attracted the attention of the maidens of 
 the district. Girls then were very much as they are 
 now. They would have nothing to say to youths with 
 a certain amount of devil in them, however handsome 
 or however wealthy they might be. What they liked 
 was moral worth and plenty of forehead. So they 
 threw shy glances at our young philosopher and they 
 asked him to tea. Likewise, they suggested that he 
 should take part in some amateur theatricals. Further, 
 they said papa would be so glad if he would come over 
 and smoke a pipe with him one night. But the young 
 man would have none of it. Other apprentices sug- 
 gested that he should take part in games where, al- 
 though skill may have been present, chance largely pre- 
 ponderated. But he remained firm. He would not 
 make love; he would not play cards; he would not 
 come out and have a drink ; he was wholly devoted to 
 his work. He managed to scrape up enough money 
 (scraping ran a good deal in the family) to take twelve 
 lessons in the art of transmuting the baser metals into 
 gold. It was true that the teacher had not yet discov- 
 ered the secret himself, but there was always a possi- 
 bility of some useful hints. Nowadays the guides to 
 success in journalism, finance, and matrimony are al- 
 most invariably written by the people who have not 
 attained it. The world has really changed very little. 
 It must not be supposed that the young man's de- 
 votion to the study of the great secret prevented him 
 from close attention to his ordinary business. During 
 the whole time of his apprenticeship he made only one
 
 GOLD 315 
 
 mistake. At the end of his apprenticeship his master 
 offered him, and he accepted, the post of head of the 
 horoscope department, and still every moment of leis- 
 ure was given to study. He heard the music, he heard 
 the dance go on, but for him there was to be no rest 
 and no amusement until he had found the secret which 
 would transmute the baser metals into gold. His brain 
 development had now progressed to such an extent 
 that his hats had to be specially built for him. 
 
 Years passed away and his master died. On his 
 death-bed he called the studious head of the horoscope 
 department to him and imparted the great secret. Our 
 philosopher, now very middle-aged, went straight off 
 to the kitchen to test it and found that it did not work. 
 He countermanded the order for a wreath of everlast- 
 ings with "Mizpah" on it and refused to attend the 
 funeral. 
 
 After he had been middle-aged for a long period he 
 became old. (Really in some respects the world has 
 not changed one little bit.) He had never had any 
 love; he had never had any fun; and he had not got 
 the secret. It was very dull, but one must admire 
 his strength of purpose. He went on. 
 
 The secret came at last when he was a toothless 
 dodderer, and it came by accident. He sat before his 
 furnace with a biscuit-tin which he had just converted 
 into 22-carat gold. With great care he wrote out the 
 long and elaborate formula. 
 
 Then he thought about it. If he had never dis- 
 covered the secret it would always have been worth 
 discovering. But now what could it do for him? 
 Pleasure was a closed book and he had no wants that 
 he had not ample means to satisfy. The discovery 
 had merely stopped his work and spoilt his life. He
 
 316 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 flung the formula into the furnace and his secret died 
 with him. 
 
 If this simple story leads any reader to the convic- 
 tion that the only things worth having are the things 
 we have not got, it will not have been written in vain.
 
 XI 
 THE PIG AND THE JACOBY 
 
 THE garden of the villa was tended by a man once a 
 week and to some extent by the three daughters of the 
 house. They were large, healthy girls who liked ten- 
 nis, easy jokes, occasional tea-parties, and church on 
 Sundays. None of them was plain, and the youngest 
 was as near as nothing engaged to the curate. This 
 tells you, or ought to tell you, exactly what kind of a 
 garden it was. 
 
 You know, for instance, the bed cut out on the 
 smaller lawn between the front of the house and the 
 road. You are aware that by this time it is decently 
 filled with the Jacoby geranium. You know that the 
 bed is edged with blue lobelia or with pyrethrum, and 
 that after all it does not much matter which. You 
 can hear Agnes laughing in a strong voice of no musi- 
 cal quality at the back of the house because her sister 
 Lilian, in running back for a ball on the smooth-shaven 
 tennis lawn, has skidded and fallen humorously. You 
 can hear Lilian's retort of "you are a beast" words 
 which she would not have used if the curate had been 
 present. But you do not know what those patient 
 geraniums in their deadly rows thought about it and 
 other things. Therefore listen. 
 
 "As a matter of fact," said a plant which was rather 
 taller than the rest, "we are quite beautiful." 
 
 "That's no use," said a miserable starveling. 
 317
 
 318 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 The starveling was quite the smallest of the Jacoby 
 geraniums. It never ought to have been sent out at 
 all. The family had complained about it. 
 
 "And may I ask why?" said the tall Jacoby. 
 
 "Because we are so appallingly common," said the 
 starveling. "It seems to me that it saddens the warm 
 onset of summer to think how many Jacobies just like 
 us are at this time being bedded out in gardens just 
 like this." 
 
 "Undoubtedly," said the tall geranium, "we pay the 
 price of our popularity. It would certainly be well if 
 only the better-grown specimens were used." 
 
 "Thanks," sneered the starveling. 
 
 "I meant nothing personal. There are too many of 
 us. I admit it. But surely our popularity is proof 
 positive of our beauty. It is a comfort. It gives us 
 confidence. It enables us to say that we are beautiful 
 without either vanity or mock humility, without ex- 
 pressing our own opinion, but referring to the concen- 
 trated wisdom of generations of a higher race." 
 
 "The concentrated wisdom of seventy thousand su- 
 burban red-brick clerk boxes with a small strip of 
 ground in front made to look like a jam tart and called 
 a garden, and with a tennis-lawn for Agnes, Ethel, and 
 Lilian. Another scream I gather that that poor, 
 long-legged child has gone over once more." 
 
 "I can understand why you personally should be 
 embittered. For myself I can look at the exquisite 
 color of my leaves and the sanguine glory of 
 my " 
 
 The telegraph boy who had called earlier in the 
 morning had left the front gate open an improper 
 action, but common to all telegraph boys. A remark- 
 ably fat pig who had escaped from somewhere, with
 
 THE PIG AND THE JACOB Y 319 
 
 no other motive than a vague desire to get somewhere 
 else, strayed into the garden. It thrust what it confi- 
 dently believed to be a loving smile, though it did not 
 look it, into the middle of the geranium bed. 
 
 "Well, my little friends," said the pig, "and what 
 were you talking about?" 
 
 "Put crudely," said the tall geranium, "it sounds 
 a little vain. We were complaining of our excessive 
 popularity, due, no doubt, to our remarkable beauty, 
 but having a distinct tendency to lower us in the eyes 
 of the fastidious and eclectic." 
 
 "What beautiful words you do use," said the pig, 
 with a sigh that a superficial observer might have mis- 
 taken for a grunt. "Would that I had some of your 
 despised popularity. Men give me nothing but foul 
 food and grumble that I am a foul feeder. They keep 
 me in the dirtiest places and complain that I am not 
 nice in my habits. My very name is become a term of 
 reproach and contempt. And yet I go on." 
 
 "And it all ends in dead leaves," said the starveling. 
 
 The pig shook his head. "It ends, I believe, in 
 ham." 
 
 "We all have our cross to bear," said the tall Jacoby, 
 who, like all vain people, had a streak of sentimentality 
 in her disposition. "Here am I, a well-grown speci- 
 men of a beautiful plant. I know it, but I cannot be 
 happy because I am conscious of commonness. Better 
 the outcast that is rare than the cherished beauty that 
 is common. Here I must sit and suffer through the 
 long summer months until the frosts come." 
 
 "Must ?" said the pig. 
 
 "Absolutely must," said the Jacoby. 
 
 "Not at all," said the pig. 
 
 A few moments passed. Lilian came round from
 
 320 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 the back of the house in search of a lost tennis-ball. 
 She saw the pig and screamed to Ethel. Ethel 
 screamed to Agnes. Agnes screamed because it was 
 her habit. Then, armed with rackets, they descended 
 upon that pig. He went out of the garden in an awk- 
 ward, untidy trot, complaining bitterly of injustice. 
 They chevied him a little way down the road, met the 
 curate, and were much ashamed. He walked back 
 with them to the house. 
 
 "Dee-ah ! dee-ah !" said the curate in his refined cler- 
 ical voice, as he stood by the bed of Jacobies, "that 
 pig has destroyed one of your best geraniums."
 
 XII 
 THE WRONG ELIXIR 
 
 IN the days when science was more poetical and less 
 scientific than it is now there lived a certain alchemist. 
 He was an old man. His feet shuffled and his knees 
 doddered as he walked. He had the gray and hairy 
 face of a sick monkey. His knowledge was so pro- 
 found that he was generally respected, and his temper 
 was so abominable that he was intensely unpopular. 
 Therefore, when on a fine morning in May he came 
 down to breakfast with an expression approaching 
 complacence and entirely omitted to curse the cook 
 (his universal procedure before taking food), his wife 
 and family were surprised and a little nervous. It was 
 so unlike him. His wife asked him if he were unwell. 
 He not only answered the question, though on prin- 
 ciple he never answered his wife's questions and usu- 
 ally affected not to have heard her speak, but he even 
 added a "thank you" to his "no." She was the more 
 distressed and he noticed it. He never thanked any- 
 body. It portended something serious. 
 
 "The fact is," he said, "that the studies of a life- 
 time culminated last night in a discovery which I be- 
 lieve to be of importance. Hence my unusual hilarity." 
 
 Hilarity was perhaps a strong word for it. Yet 
 even a great and tumultuous joy would have been 
 comprehensible considering the nature of his discovery. 
 
 "Is it the philosopher's stone?" his wife asked. 
 321
 
 322 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 But he was in no mood to overdo his vein of gra- 
 cious light-heartedness. He stared at her stonily as if 
 she were something in a bottle which he had already 
 analyzed. Then he shuffled out towards his laboratory. 
 
 It was not the philosopher's stone. It was, if pos- 
 sible, an even greater discovery, for in the elixir which 
 that very night he meant to taste he held the secret 
 of eternal life. Eternal life was in these dark 'ages 
 considered desirable by quite a number of people. He 
 did not propose to communicate his secret to any of 
 his fellows. It was to be for himself alone. They 
 would go and he would remain, growing slowly into 
 the wonder of the whole world. There were even in- 
 dications in his researches that made it seem prob- 
 able that with the unlimited years of his life there 
 would be an accession of youth. His hair would grow 
 again and he would get new teeth and perhaps learn 
 once more the meaning of the word romance. Em- 
 perors would come from the East to look upon him 
 the one man in the world who held the secret. 
 
 In the meantime he was not disposed to be idle. 
 His ordinary avocations called him. A gipsy-faced 
 slut of a girl had come to him with gold pieces, got, 
 the devil knows how. The alchemist did not inquire. 
 He tested the gold and found it true. "And for this ?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "There is a man," she said in a tired, uninterested 
 way, "who has got to die. I need a very swift poison 
 and one that leaves no trace of poison in the body." 
 
 "Painless?" he inquired. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. "It is of no impor- 
 tance," she said. He begged her to come to him again 
 in three days. 
 
 He was a man of vast experience and had no trouble
 
 THE WRONG ELIXIR 323 
 
 in satisfying the simple needs of the gipsy girl. He 
 took one drug here and another there. He blended 
 and cooked and strained. When he had finished he 
 had a pale green liquor with neither taste nor smell. 
 A drop of it would have killed an elephant, and a gal- 
 lon of it would have defied the best of our modern 
 chemists. It was of the same color as the elixir of 
 life which he himself was to drink that evening. 
 
 And, of course, he made the usual mistake. Pos- 
 sibly he had primed himself with strong waters to give 
 him courage for his experiment, and the courage had 
 been bought at the expense of clear-headedness. 
 
 At any rate, he reached his hand to the wrong glass, 
 and in a moment it was all over. He had drunk the 
 poison that had been intended for the gipsy girl's faith- 
 less lover. He lay, an untidy lump of clay-colored 
 wornout humanity, on the studio floor with a fixed 
 grin on his face that would have frightened people. 
 His wife found him there in the morning and wept 
 bitterly, and was sincerely sorry that she would never 
 hear him curse the cook again. There was a glass 
 filled with a greenish fluid, and this she threw away, 
 not knowing that she had lost here the discovery that 
 had never been made till then and will never be made 
 again. It seemed to her safer. The gipsy girl was 
 annoyed, but said nothing. She had enough money 
 left to buy herself a knife, and she got into serious 
 trouble over it. 
 
 That he took the poison was undoubted. That he 
 took the wrong elixir is a point on which I should like 
 to have the dead man's opinion.
 
 XIII 
 EVOLUTION 
 
 AN elderly ape perched himself comfortably high up 
 on a tree of the forest. He was taking a rest cure, 
 and he had a large bunch of bananas by his side for 
 purposes of reference. When his twinkling eyes 
 looked downwards into the heart of the forests it was 
 as if he had looked into the night. Something moved 
 in the darkness below him and tapped politely with 
 a stone on the trunk of the tree. 
 
 "Are you at home, uncle?" called out a voice from 
 below. 
 
 "You may come up," said the elderly ape, without 
 enthusiasm. He groaned in spirit. This young 
 nephew of his was a jabberer and a general nuisance, 
 and had views. It was certain if he came up that he 
 would talk. Talk to that elderly ape was nearly as 
 bad as work. Perfect rest and bananas as near per- 
 fection as he could get them were the things that at 
 his time of life he particularly desired. 
 
 "I thought I'd just look in as I was passing, uncle," 
 said the younger ape. "I'm afraid I'm interrupting 
 you at your luncheon ?" 
 
 "You are interrupting me at my breakfast, which 
 is a shade worse." 
 
 "Sorry. I see you've got plenty of first-rate bananas 
 there." 
 
 324
 
 EVOLUTION 325 
 
 "Then you see wrong," said the uncle. "They are 
 second-rate. I've eaten six of them and I ought to 
 know. And I have not got plenty. I have only got 
 just enough for one." 
 
 "I didn't mean to suggest anything," said the young 1 
 ape nervously. 
 
 "A nephew who suggests that he wants my bananas 
 intentionally is impertinent but shows sense. A 
 nephew who makes the same suggestion without inten- 
 tion is just as impertinent and is a blundering fool be- 
 sides. Kindly peel that banana for me. I am tired 
 this morning and not up to much work." 
 
 "With pleasure," said the nephew effusively. "I 
 suppose you've heard of the great news in the scientific 
 world?" 
 
 "What is it?" asked the uncle. "And be a little 
 bit quicker with that banana. Laziness is the curse of 
 all you young apes." 
 
 "The discovery is called evolution." 
 
 "Then I don't believe in it," said the uncle. 
 
 "But you don't know what it is." 
 
 "That," said the uncle majestically, "is immaterial. 
 J disbelieve it just the same. I disbelieve it on the 
 sound of it. How's your mother this morning?" 
 
 "Mamma is a little upset. One cocoanut too many 
 last night, she seems to think. I do not profess to 
 understand the arguments in favor of evolution my- 
 self. But the main conclusions, which I hear are gen- 
 erally accepted, are that the different forms of animal 
 life sprang from one original form, some kind of a 
 fish, I believe. We, of course, stand at the top of the 
 scale, and we were evolved from man." 
 
 "Is this the kind of thing that your parents gave you 
 a pious education for?" asked the uncle sternly.
 
 326 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 "Well," said the young ape, "I always try to keep 
 abreast of modern thought. When new facts spring 
 up and they are proved you've got to believe in them." 
 
 "You may have," said his uncle contemptuously. 
 "I, on the other hand, have not. I saw you only the 
 other day with a chimpanzee of known bad character. 
 I have no doubt that it is his influence which makes 
 you talk in this ribald and blasphemous way." 
 
 "Not at all," said the nephew. "I had no wish to 
 be ribald. What I say is that you must face facts. 
 An ape has been discovered in some part of Europe 
 wearing clothes like a man, using a knife and fork 
 like a man, sleeping in a bed like a man." 
 
 "Then he should be sequestrated," said the uncle. 
 "If not worse," he added thoughtfully. 
 
 "Then, again," the nephew urged, "there is the an- 
 atomical argument. The shape of the skull of a man 
 is different from that of an ape. It is not so highly 
 developed. Now the shape of my skull " 
 
 "The shape of your skull," said the elderly uncle, 
 "will undergo some material alteration in a minute 
 if you insist on talking this nonsense. I tell you that 
 man could never, under the most favorable condi- 
 tions, develop into an ape. We are as far above him 
 as the stars above the trees. Do you mean to tell me 
 that this tree could evolve into a fixed planet?" 
 
 "Of course not," said the nephew nervously. "My 
 argument is " 
 
 "Peel me another banana," said the uncle, "and don't 
 argue. You never hear me argue. I tell people things. 
 I say that they are so. That is enough. There is no 
 necessity to go beyond that. Now go home and try to 
 live a better and cleaner life in future, and if I ever
 
 EVOLUTION 327 
 
 hear that word evolution from you again I will knock a 
 considerable hole in your face." 
 
 "All I wanted to urge " 
 
 "Get down the tree," roared the uncle. 
 
 And the nephew obeyed promptly. 
 
 As he slithered and scrambled down his uncle threw 
 banana-skins at him and hit him every time. After 
 that he gave a sigh of content and resumed the rest 
 cure.
 
 XIV 
 BLUE ROSES 
 
 THERE were once blue roses. 
 
 It was long and long ago, and even then the blue 
 roses were very scarce. There was but one bush 
 growing in a wood near to a royal palace, and until 
 the flowers were in bloom it looked exactly like an 
 ordinary wild rose. But children playing in the wood 
 in June had come upon it and spread the story, so 
 that many went out to see the blue roses, and strange 
 stories were told of the power that they had. 
 
 In the royal palace there lived a princess who dis- 
 tinguished herself from the princesses of romance by 
 not being at all beautiful. This was the harder upon 
 her because she was a woman who herself worshipped 
 beauty wherever she saw it and of whatever kind it 
 might be. When she was told that a marriage had 
 been arranged and would shortly take place between 
 herself and a prince from a neighboring country 
 whom she had never seen she shrugged her shoulders 
 and acquiesced. These things were a matter of state. 
 She would never love the prince, and her mirror told 
 her that he would never love her, but the succession 
 would be secured. 
 
 Now, as it chanced, this prince, though not other- 
 wise notable, was an extremely beautiful young man 
 and fully conscious of it. He spent much time and 
 
 328
 
 BLUE ROSES 329 
 
 trouble on his dress and his adornment. He looked 
 like the very picture of a prince always. He also had 
 recognized that the marriage was one of interest and 
 expediency, and when he saw the little plain woman 
 who was to be his wife he was quite polite and fasci- 
 nating in his manners. He did not grumble. He was 
 not recalcitrant. At the same time he was not in the 
 least in love with her. This was entirely as she had 
 expected. The really serious trouble was that she fell 
 very much in love with him. So much so that she 
 annoyed the king, her father, and the ministers on 
 whose counsel he relied by saying that, come what 
 might, even if she never married at all, she should not 
 marry this prince. 
 
 "What have you against him?" the king asked. 
 
 The princess laughed. Pressed further, she would 
 only repeat with obstinacy that she would not marry 
 him. 
 
 The natural effect of this was to make everybody 
 extremely disagreeable to her. All who had the right, 
 and some who had not, spoke at large on the subject 
 of duty. So the princess kept out of the way, in her 
 own apartments or wandering in the wood by the pal- 
 ace. And sometimes she wept. And sometimes she 
 painted from memory a portrait of the prince who 
 loved her not. For a princess she painted rather well. 
 
 One day, as she sat in her apartments, she heard 
 a young page beneath the window speaking to his fel- 
 lows and saying that as he passed through the wood he 
 had seen the blue roses. Then the stories that she had 
 heard of them came back to her mind, and all unat- 
 tended she went out into the wood. Long was her 
 search, but it was rewarded in the end. Deep in a 
 shadowed place far from the track she saw the intense
 
 330 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 blue of the strange roses, and at the foot of the bush 
 she sat and rested and thought for a while. 
 
 Then timorously she plucked the petals from one of 
 the roses and ate them, and their taste seemed to be at 
 first sweet and afterwards very bitter. Having done 
 this she lay down at full length waiting to see whether 
 the strange story of the blue roses was true, or whether 
 perhaps the petals might be poisonous, or whether they 
 might have no power at all over her. And very soon 
 she slept. 
 
 In her sleep she was still herself, but she had become 
 very beautiful, so that it was a delight to her to see 
 her own face in a mirror or in a clear stream. And 
 she knew that on the morrow she was to wed the 
 prince. And he came to her with love in his eyes, 
 love in his words, so that for the first time she knew 
 what it was to be ignorant whether to yield or to re- 
 sist. As he kissed her she awoke again. 
 
 Now the sunlight had found out the corner where 
 she lay and shone hot upon her. The blue roses had 
 done their work and she had known love. Then she 
 thought to herself of the bitterness of going on for 
 the rest of her life without it, and she took out her 
 dagger and cut down that rose bush and tore out the 
 roots of it, that no one else might suffer as she suf- 
 fered. 
 
 After that she lived for quite a long time, rather 
 bad-tempered and slightly addicted to good works, but 
 the blue roses are happily lost to us.
 
 XV 
 THE STREET OF PERIL 
 
 THERE was in the old days a king who had a very 
 beautiful daughter. It is to be remarked that in the 
 old days all the kings had very beautiful daughters. 
 This should form the subject of a Royal Commission. 
 
 As I was just going to say, when I started to think 
 about something else, the name of the very beautiful 
 daughter of this king was the Princess Caramel. 
 
 Her father adored her, and had the highest possible 
 opinion of her. It is quite possible to adore people 
 without having any opinion of them at all. But the 
 king did not do this. He considered the Princess 
 Caramel to be the perfect woman. He wondered how 
 he was to find any man who would be half good enough 
 to marry her. The thought of this used to keep him 
 awake at night. He would say to his courtiers : "The 
 Princess Caramel has the most superb beauty, but she 
 also has the highest ability and the finest character." 
 
 And then the courtiers would yawn and say they 
 had noticed it themselves. 
 
 II 
 
 The trouble that the kings of fable had in selecting 
 husbands for their very beautiful daughters should
 
 332 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 engage the attention of the Psychical Research So- 
 ciety. 
 
 One day the king entered the apartments of the 
 Princess Caramel, and spake as follows: 
 
 "My dearest child, lying awake upon my bed, I de- 
 vised a test by which I might tell if any man were fit 
 to have the high honor of being your husband. I 
 have now under process of construction a street which 
 shall be called the Street of Peril. It will be one mile 
 in length, and it will contain all the temptations of 
 which the professors of iniquity can bethink them- 
 selves. The man who can make the passage of that 
 street in anything under twenty minutes will be as 
 gold that has been tried in the furnace. He shall be 
 your husband." 
 
 "Thanks so much, papa," said the princess. But, 
 privily, she took her own dispositions. 
 
 So the street was built and furnished. It was full 
 of allurement and perfume. Delirious and gambling 
 games went on there, and the aspirant had to pass the 
 tables of pochre and orchshun and znooka. There 
 were also musicians with pipe and tabor. (The dif- 
 ference between a tabor and a tambourine is not worth 
 mentioning.) There were dancing girls of surpassing 
 beauty and excessive amiability. There were tables 
 spread with the richest and most enticing banquets, 
 and, be it noted, the young aspirant had to enter the 
 street fasting. 
 
 in 
 
 Precisely at eight o'clock in the evening the aspirant 
 entered the Street of Peril. At the other end of the
 
 THE STREET OF PERIL 333 
 
 street waited the king with his stop-watch in his hand, 
 and the band of the Striped Hungarians. 
 
 When, as always happened, at the end of twenty 
 minutes the aspirant had not appeared, and telephoned 
 that he was detained by a fog in the City, the band of 
 the Striped Hungarians would play the melody of a 
 song which was to the effect that there was another 
 good man who had gone wrong. 
 
 The Street of Peril became popular. "To show 
 oneself worthy of the Princess Caramel" became a 
 synonym for moral degradation, just as "I apply for 
 the Chiltern Hundreds" means "Can I have a peerage, 
 please ?" 
 
 At the end of ten years no one had succeeded in 
 making the passage of the Street of Peril in the pre- 
 scribed time. And the king, who was not so young as 
 he had formerly been, fell very sick. 
 
 IV 
 
 As he lay a-dying he called his daughter to him. 
 
 "Caramel, I have done you a great and grievous 
 wrong. I have required perfection for you, and there 
 is no perfection in this world. Therefore my shy wild- 
 rose has been left to fade upon her stem, so to speak." 
 
 "I look all right by artificial light," said the princess 
 modestly. 
 
 "While I searched in vain for perfection, your life 
 was left without joy or savor, ascetic, and cloistral." 
 
 "Not entirely, dear papa." 
 
 "How mean you?" 
 
 "Well, when you told me that you had devised this
 
 334 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 Street of Peril, by bribery and corruption I arranged 
 certain matters with the professors of iniquity. And, 
 not to put too fine a point upon it, for the last ten 
 years I have been one of the temptations." 
 The king died immediately.
 
 XVI 
 THE CURATE, THE BOY, AND THE BEE 
 
 THE bee lay dead on the gravel path just outside the 
 patent hive. The curate, who never missed the chance 
 of an object lesson, called attention to it. 
 
 "See," he said to the boy whom it was his pleasure 
 and duty to instruct, "here lies this poor little insect, 
 its life-work done, its task accomplished." 
 
 The boy looked at it stolidly. He was a bullet- 
 headed boy, with spectacles, and a nasty German habit 
 of taking nothing for granted. 
 
 "Yes," said the boy, "in a garden there's a lot of 
 that kind of thing about. A bit further up the path 
 there is a black slug. I pulped his head with my heel 
 as we passed. So his life's work's done and his task 
 accomplished. There's a dead chrysanthemum. More 
 life-work and task as per schedule." 
 
 "Gently, George," said the curate, "gently. You 
 are going on too fast. Your analogies are incorrect. 
 The slug does harm ; the bee does good. The chrysan- 
 themum has never worked; the bee is always busy. 
 You may remember how this fact impressed the great 
 Watts. He noticed how the little busy bee improved 
 each shining hour, and gathered honey all the day 
 from every " 
 
 "Half-speed astern," said the boy. "Steady your 
 horses. Put in the reverse. That somewhat spavined 
 argument ought not to be worked any longer. All the 
 
 335
 
 336 STORIES WITHOUT TEARS 
 
 slug cares for is to get something to eat, and that is 
 all the bee cares for. The fact that, unless some 
 thoughtful boy happens to pulp their heads, slugs feed 
 on strawberries and lettuces, does not affect the argu- 
 ment. Bees would feed on strawberries and lettuces if 
 they did not prefer honey." 
 
 "One moment," said the curate, triumphant. "An- 
 swer me this question. Does the slug exercise fore- 
 sight, does the slug lay up a store of honey for itself ?" 
 
 "No," said the boy. "The slug does not lay up a 
 store of honey. Neither does it lay up a store of dog 
 biscuits. Neither does it lay up a store of anything 
 else. The reason is simple. There is always food for 
 it. If it went into the warehouse business like the 
 bee, it would show not foresight, but extreme folly." 
 
 "You must admit, at any rate, that the bee shows 
 extreme wisdom. Could you build one of those 
 waxen cells?" 
 
 "I hate cells, anyhow," said the boy. "That is why 
 I cannot consent to have the wisdom of the bee played 
 upon me. It's fool enough to go into a patent hive, 
 and sweat its life out at rilling up sections with honey, 
 which sections it will never keep, since they will be 
 taken out of the hive and sold for a shilling apiece, 
 or more if you have luck. The bee has no wish to 
 benefit humanity at all. When humanity sneaks the 
 honey it has to wear a veil and thick gloves. The bee 
 merely benefits humanity by being a stupendous idiot." 
 
 "Hush," said the curate. "Men far better and wiser 
 than you are, or perhaps ever will be, have admired 
 the wisdom and industry of the bee." He picked up 
 the dead insect and laid it on the palm of his fat hand. 
 "I am humble enough to say that I wish that I myself 
 were more like this little insect."
 
 THE CURATE, THE BOY, THE BEE 337 
 
 "But you are," said the boy. "Exactly like it." 
 
 "I fear not," said the curate, with a gratified smile. 
 
 "I try to do my work, but every now and then there 
 
 are hours of laziness which " 
 
 "I don't mean that at all," said the boy. "What 
 
 you haven't noticed is that this particular bee happens 
 
 to be a drone. Now let's go and play tennis."
 
 XVII 
 GEORGE 
 
 "HE is a remarkably plain young man," she wrote in 
 her diary the first day she met him. "He has rather 
 an interesting face," she said to her mamma a month 
 later, as she decked her apricot-colored tea-gown 
 with the William-Allen-Richardsons that he had just 
 sent her. 
 
 When she wrote to her best friend to give the news 
 of her engagement she expressed herself thus: "He 
 has not the regular- featured dollish good looks which 
 I have always hated in men. He has a strong, char- 
 acterful face and magnificent eyes." 
 
 "You loveliest one!" she sighed, as she poured out 
 his tea at the third breakfast of the honeymoon. "I 
 could sit and look at you for ever." 
 
 Six months later, when the other man had come 
 along, she observed to her husband: "I don't know 
 whether you're aware of it, George, but your hair's 
 getting most frightfully thin on the top, and you're 
 just about the last man in the universe that can afford 
 to go bald." 
 
 A man's looks must not be judged by appearances.
 
 XVIII 
 PULL THE RIGHT STRING 
 
 THE great man had a well-salaried berth at his- dis- 
 posal. It was a comfortable berth. The man who got 
 it was likely to go short of nothing except work. 
 
 Jones had really deserved it. The great man, in 
 considering Jones's application, admitted to himself 
 that the claim was well founded. 
 
 Brown's testimonials were magnificent, and he sent 
 them in. The great man said that he had never seen 
 better testimonials. 
 
 Smith had no testimonials, had deserved nothing, 
 and was otherwise unsuitable. But Smith had a little 
 talk with the great man's wife. 
 
 Smith got that berth. 
 
 My poor friends, it is not politeness to the paying 
 cashier which will arrange the overdraft. 
 
 Go straight for the inner office. 
 
 339
 
 XIX 
 
 TOO MUCH SELF-HELP 
 
 THE Editor, having come to the conclusion that his 
 paper needed to be livened up, put on his hat and went 
 round to the Employment Agency. 
 
 "Good morning, Mr. Agency," he said. "I want 
 you to find me a young man who can write really 
 smart paragraphs." 
 
 "Thank you," said Mr. Agency as he booked the 
 order. "We've got four hundred and eighty of them 
 on our books. I'll send a few dozen of the best round 
 to your office this afternoon and you can pick one. 
 That do?" 
 
 "Nicely," said the Editor, and rose to go, when he 
 remembered something. "By the way," he said, "I 
 also want a boy who can be trusted to take charge of 
 the stamps and petty cash." 
 
 Then Mr. Agency threw down his pen. He did not 
 book that order. He gave a sigh like a high-power 
 suction-pump. "Do you?" he said in a melancholy 
 voice. "Well, if you find two, save one for me. I 
 want one myself." 
 
 Oh, my poor friends who are trying to be cleverer 
 than you are, remember that the world also wants 
 honest men. 
 
 And, as things stand at present, Patent Tills with 
 the Unmonkeyable Lock are a better market than Brain 
 Fertilizers containing Free Phosphorus. 
 
 340
 
 XX 
 
 NOT IMPERVIOUS TO DAMP 
 
 THE pretty suffragette made a long, convincing speech, 
 filled with historical allusions, a quart of best mixed 
 statistics, and a nice peroration, all made to wind up. 
 A report of that speech appeared in a daily paper which 
 had been disappointed of a company prospectus, and 
 consequently had space to fill. 
 
 Mr. Average came home from the City, read that 
 daily paper till he came to the report of that speech, 
 and nearly went past Surbiton, which is where he lives. 
 
 A few days later the pretty suffragette accompanied 
 by friends went out to make trouble. They made it. 
 The pretty suffragette managed to create a riot, and 
 slapped a good-tempered, mutton-fed policeman on the 
 nose. 
 
 "And she'd jolly well get six months hard for that 
 if I were the magistrate," growled Mr. Average. 
 
 And then the pretty suffragette, pleading in court 
 in her defense, broke down and wept bitterly. As a 
 matter of fact, she was a woman. 
 
 Mr. Average read all about it and was conscious of 
 a sense of discomfort. "Oh, take and give her the 
 silly old vote if she wants it," he said, feeling vaguely 
 ashamed. 
 
 Pause before you smile at Mr. Average. 
 
 The strictly logical mind is one of the few things 
 in this world that cannot be produced by Chemistry 
 out of Coal-tar. 
 
 Inconsistency does not necessarily hurt. The Brit- 
 ish Constitution is founded on it.
 
 University of California 
 
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