A' ^
 
 THE 
 
 ROLLING STONE 
 
 OF CALIF. LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES
 
 NEW BORZOI NOVELS 
 SPRING, 1920 
 
 PETER JAMESON 
 
 By Gilbert Frankau 
 
 THE SECRET BATTLE 
 By A. P. Herbert 
 
 THE CROSS PULL 
 By Hal G. Evarts 
 
 DELIVERANCE 
 
 By E. L. Grant Watson 
 
 THE TALLEYRAND MAXIM 
 By J. S. Fletcher 
 
 WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO 
 TREAD 
 
 By E. M. Forster
 
 THE 
 
 ROLLING STONE 
 
 A NOVEL, 
 
 BY 
 
 C. A. DAWSON-SCOTT 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 ALFRED A KNOPF 
 
 MCMXX
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY 
 ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC. 
 
 This book has been published and 
 copyrighted in England under the 
 title "Against the Grain" 
 
 FEINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 TO 
 TOBY 
 
 2132670
 
 CEapter I 
 
 THE child sat up in bed. 
 The June evening was light, a soft greyness 
 that would last through the long hours till day 
 returned. Beyond the white bed was the stretch of dark 
 floor and a loom of objects that he knew rather than saw. 
 He was not thinking of anything in the room but of some- 
 thing beyond the closed door, and it seemed to him that 
 he could see the oblong of the door very clearly and that 
 its stiffness and stillness meant for him safety. 
 
 In that room, behind that shut, latched door, he was 
 safe quite, quite safe. 
 
 He sighed, for it was nice being safe, nice and yet . . . 
 He liked being safe, yet he wanted to be in danger. He 
 wanted to feel queer and creepy and afraid, to dare the 
 thing that was lurking in the dark outside the door. 
 
 He knew what to do. You ran to the door, you flung 
 it open, and then a wild rush and you were back in bed. 
 When you had got over your terror you sat up again and 
 called "Bogey!" 
 
 You called " Bogey ! " three times. 
 
 You called, sitting up and with the door open, with 
 nothing between you and it ; and then you waited you 
 waited . . . 
 
 Till it came. 
 
 You were not really brave unless you could do this. 
 
 Harry had tried before, but he had failed. Sometimes 
 he had fallen asleep while thinking about it; sometimes, 
 
 7
 
 8 The Rolling Stone 
 
 when he had just made up his mind to take the risk, 
 James had come to bed, and then, of course, it was no 
 good. A boy must be all by himself when he called 
 Bogey ! " 
 
 Tonight James was away. He was staying with 
 grandmother at her farm. And Richard would not come 
 to bed until the clock on the stairs struck eight. Harry 
 had an hour to himself, a whole hour. 
 
 He wondered over " Bogey." Something black and 
 ugly and bad. All bones, perhaps, bones that would 
 rattle, and chains yes, chains ! The boy next door said 
 Bogey was a ghost with a light inside his head and blood 
 on him. 
 
 And when he came slipping round the edge of the door- 
 way, creeping gradually in, the black, horrible Bogey, 
 what would he do? 
 
 What would he do to the boy, the little boy, who had 
 let him in, who had called him? 
 
 Would he spring suddenly . . . ? 
 
 Harry was damp with fear, but he slipped one leg out 
 of bed and then the other. The journey across the floor 
 was all too quickly accomplished. He had his hand on 
 the door. 
 
 Another moment and he was scampering back, was 
 safe in bed with his dark head under the clothes. It 
 was some time before he emerged, before he sent a ques- 
 tioning glance about the room. Bogey might have come. 
 But no, the place was as before, grey with the summer 
 night and very still. It was certainly shadowy but the 
 shadows did not move. Harry assured himself of this. 
 He stared fixedlv at each corner in turn, and his heart 
 gradually left off beating so quickly, for nothing moved, 
 not even the blind or the cover of the dressing-table 
 nothing.
 
 The Rolling Stone 9 
 
 The moment was coming, the terrible moment when he 
 must call. 
 
 He would count one, two, three, and then 
 
 He counted slowly, a pause between each word, 
 and his noisy, childish voice was a mere thread of 
 sound. 
 
 " Bogey ! " 
 
 And again, " Bogey ! " 
 
 And yet again. 
 
 His two hands held each other tightly and he sat very 
 still. The least movement might draw attention to him; 
 but if he, as it were sank into the night, became a part 
 of the furniture, he might be unobserved. He held his 
 breath, straining his hearing. He was ready, he was 
 tensely expectant. 
 
 What was that? 
 
 He had caught a faint sound, but it was not from be- 
 yond the door, it was in the room itself. His nerves 
 thrilled in earnest. At the bottom of his sceptical soul he 
 had cherished a doubt of Bogey, but the doubt vanished 
 before this little definite sound. His skin turned goose- 
 flesh, he tried to pierce the shadowy greyness. He was 
 so very large, sitting upright with hunched knees, so 
 visible in his white nightshirt. He seemed to himself 
 simply immense. Bogey could not possibly miss him. 
 
 He rallied his forces. He was afraid, but he must not 
 mind his fear. Afraid or not, he must face what was 
 coming. As he so resolved his fear seemed to grow less. 
 He began to look about him, looked with sharp glances, 
 and presently he had located the noise, the little stir of 
 movement. Bogey was on the other side of the room, 
 near the bed in which Richard slept. 
 
 He heard a light thud, and his heart bounded, then fell 
 to quiet beating.
 
 10 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " Tommy ! " he exclaimed, and then, reproachfully, 
 "Oh, Tommy!" 
 
 The kitten had ensconced itself in a forbidden nest. It 
 had hidden itself from the many children of the house 
 from baby's unconscionable affection, from Harry's 
 dominance had nestled down between the pillows of 
 Richard's bed until only one spot of warm blackness 
 could be seen from above. Harry, undressing and getting 
 into bed, had not noticed it. His cry had roused it, had 
 suggested that its downy hiding-place was discovered; 
 and, unwilling, with the yawning of a pink-lined mouth, 
 with stretching of fine claws, it had stepped out and 
 jumped. 
 
 " Oh, Tommy, you naughty cat, you know you aren't 
 'lowed here ! " 
 
 He had forgotten Bogey ; the sinfulness of Tommy 
 filled his six-year-old mind to the exclusion of all else. 
 He had got out of bed, he had turned Tommy soft, 
 cuddly, pin-pricky Tommy out of the room. He 
 pushed him over the top stair, scolding him a little, telling 
 him to go down, to go down quickly or mother would catch 
 him. 
 
 Tommy was very naughty. He knew he oughtn't to 
 come into the bedrooms. He deserved to be beaten. 
 
 Harry got back into bed thinking he should have beaten 
 Tommy so that 'nother time he would have 'membered. 
 But it was too late now. Tommy had run over that top 
 stair and over all the others as far as Harry could see. 
 He had gone down, down into the dark. 
 
 And suddenly he remembered Bogey, who was down 
 there in the dark. Tommy had run down to him. He 
 had not miau-ed ; he had not minded a bit, not a bit. 
 
 Cats were very brave.
 
 The Rolling Stone 11 
 
 II 
 
 Jack Tremaine had come to spend the half-holiday with 
 Harry, and they had spent it in the garden, of which 
 Harry was proud because it consisted of a long piece at 
 the back and an extra strip, a strip at the side. His 
 father had bought the land and built the house. No other 
 house in the road had more garden than the straight 
 piece at the back. The Kings, however, had not only the 
 straight piece of grass, with vegetable-beds and a chicken- 
 run but, between that and No. 13 Parkside, a yard and a 
 wild bit; and in the wild bit were trees and a summer- 
 house. Harry's father had built the summer-house and 
 Harry had helped. On the roof Mr. King had set a dove- 
 cot, and the cooing inhabitants of it had always inter- 
 ested Harry. 
 
 " Let's play pirates," said Jack. 
 
 It being Harry's garden, he felt it was for him to say 
 how they should spend their time. Besides pirates ! 
 He disapproved of pirates. 
 
 " Let's be a man-of-war like the Lord and catch 
 the pirates." 
 
 Jack was dubious. He had never heard of playing 
 " Man-of-war." He didn't believe there was such a game. 
 He tried to think why " Pirates " was fascinating and 
 Harry, watching his freckled face with the snub nose and 
 grey-green eyes, knew that he was trying, heavy fashion, 
 to get his own way. Jack often tried but he was slow, 
 he never managed it. 
 
 " Pirates," said Jack, " catch sailors and make them 
 walk the plank." 
 
 Behind, the water-butt was a number of boards. To 
 drag them out, balance them on bricks, make the prisoners 
 walk them yes, a point in favour of piracy.
 
 12 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " Battleships," said Harry, " catch the pirates, they al- 
 ways catch them. Then fjiey hang them from the yard- 
 arm." 
 
 Hanging from the yard-arm was not so thrilling even 
 if you saw them dangling in a row as walking the plank. 
 Harry threw in a further attraction. " Men on battle- 
 ships wear uniform." 
 
 " You haven't any." 
 
 " Have, then." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " Never you mind." 
 
 The promise of uniform turned the scale. Jack would 
 play battleships, even though there wasn't such a game, if 
 playing it meant a warlike appearance. Under Harry's 
 directions he dragged out the boards and improvised a 
 deck. 
 
 " The look-out's up there," said Harry, with a blink 
 at the dovecot. He had often wished to see where the 
 birds laid their eggs and what baby-doves were like. The 
 dovecot, though forbidden, was accessible, and who was 
 to know? 
 
 " And I'm captain ! " 
 
 Jack reflected, a little sourly, that Harry was always 
 captain. It wasn't fair ! However he, Jack, was growing 
 quickly ; he would soon be bigger than Harry and then 
 they would see. He pushed the last plank into place and 
 stood back to admire the resultant bristle. Difficult to 
 walk on but a real wooden deck ! 
 
 Harry, who had disappeared into the house on mys- 
 terious business, returned carrying a lumpy bundle. He 
 had trotted from room to room annexing properties. 
 The red silk curtain-ties in the drawing-room would make 
 soldier-sashes; Richard's striped jersey, his father's scar-
 
 The Rolling Stone 13 
 
 let chest-protector, Mrs. King's Paisley shawl, his sister's 
 hair-ribbons he stuffed them into the bundle. More- 
 over, as guns and ammunition were imperative, he laid 
 Bet's money-box under contribution. The sixpence was 
 difficult to extract; it needed patience and a pair of 
 scissors. 
 
 He had also to provision the ship. If only his mother 
 would go up to her room for a little ! 
 
 " I've had a hard morning's work," he heard her tell 
 Mrs. Clarke of next door. 
 
 "Baking, I suppose?" said Mrs. Clarke. 
 
 " On my feet since six ; but I never sit down till I'm 
 done." 
 
 " It's the best plan." 
 
 He looked through the crack of the scullery door and 
 saw her wiping her hands on the towel. That meant that 
 she had finished washing-up. He slipped into the boot- 
 cupboard and waited till she came out till, indeed, he 
 heard the stairs creak under her tread. 
 
 In the larder were freshly baked rock-cakes. 
 
 Also apples and jam-tarts! Strawberry jam oh, 
 golly! 
 
 The boys turned themselves into a press-gang and col- 
 lected the family pets. A ruffled tom-cat, a goat, the 
 monkey from Jamaica, and two protesting hens were 
 brought on board to serve as crew. 
 
 Harry's duty to con the ship! From the dovecot he 
 would obtain a wide sea-view, get an early glimpse of mer- 
 chant prizes, of pirates, corsairs, and other interesting 
 water-craft. All, indeed, might have gone well with that 
 particular game if his roving glance had not lighted on a 
 pot of green paint which had been left by his father on 
 the bench by the kitchen door. To leave it sunning 
 itself in peaceful inactivity, was impossible. Harry did
 
 14 The llolling Stone 
 
 not know what he would do with it; nevertheless he pro- 
 vided for emergencies by carrying it with him into the 
 clovecot. 
 
 For some time the pursuit of marauders kept him busy, 
 but when the ammunition was expended and the provi- 
 sions had disappeared he found himself at a loss. The 
 pirates were dangling in a row, and Jack had gone home 
 to tea. He looked about him for something on which to 
 expend his still unexhausted energy and, looking, saw the 
 pot of paint. 
 
 He glanced from the paint to the doves. 
 
 Grey was a dull colour. The poor birds couldn't help 
 being grey; but they would, of course, rather be some- 
 thing else, something brighter. 
 
 Green was brighter. 
 
 During the afternoon Mrs. King had more than once 
 sent a thoughtful glance down the garden. Harry was 
 making " a rare old litter " but, for once, did not seem 
 to be in mischief. She knew her larder had been raided, 
 and for that would in good time see that he was punished ; 
 meanwhile she could think placidly of him as busy and 
 within reach. After all, he had not taken many of the 
 rock-cakes. 
 
 When he came in to tea she noticed specks of green on 
 hands and clothes. That pot of paint ought not to have 
 been left on the bench. Still, no harm seemed to have 
 been done. 
 
 " Come here and wash your hands." 
 
 As he stood at the sink, scraping and scrubbing, he 
 chattered of pirates Algerine pirates. He had hanged 
 all he could catch all his sisters' dolls. They were 
 hanging out there in a row, and he thought of their 
 fluttering garments, their loose legs and arms. A most 
 satisfactory afternoon.
 
 The Rolling Stone 15 
 
 His mother, unsuspicious of the pirates' identity, stood 
 listening. For once he had not been up to mischief, he 
 had been a good boy. 
 
 Suddenly, however, she bethought her of the raided 
 larder. 
 
 He must learn he should not go behind her back and 
 help himself; but he was getting big. No longer possible 
 to lay him across her knee. Necessary, though, to keep 
 the upper hand. 
 
 The boy, grubby paws in water, innocent face a-lather, 
 was at her mercy. She struck him sharply across the 
 cheek. 
 
 " What's that for? " he cried, but she had turned and 
 was crossing the kitchen on her way to the tea-table. 
 Hastily he wiped off the soap and followed. " What was 
 that for?" 
 
 " Oh, you know ! " She was already busy apportioning 
 the slices of bread and dripping. He must know, and if 
 he didn't, let him think it out. 
 
 Harry went to his place. This was not the first time 
 that his mother, apparently for no reason whatever, had 
 thus taken him unawares. Why? His conscience was 
 clear. He had done nothing a prick well, nothing, 
 at least, of which she knew! 
 
 His mother was undoubtedly a person to be avoided. 
 
 Not until the following day did the reason for those 
 paint-specks on Harry's clothes and face come to light. 
 The doves had not taken kindly to their coats of spring 
 green. Harry, confronted with the dead birds, was sorry 
 and said so sorry, not that he had painted them but 
 that they had been so foolish as to die. How could a boy 
 guess that doves were so delicate? 
 
 " Henry, come upstairs with me." 
 
 " I don't want to come." He thought of the strap
 
 16 The Rolling Stone 
 
 that hung by the bed-head in his father's room. " And 
 if you drag me up, I'll kick your shins, I will." 
 
 "Will you? We'll see about that." 
 
 Mr. King, laying on stripes with right goodwill, re- 
 flected that you never knew what Harry would be up to 
 next. 
 
 ni 
 
 " If you'd give me the money, mother, I'd buy the holly 
 and mistletoe for you." 
 
 Three days before Christmas and no sign of evergreens. 
 Could it be his parents had forgotten? 
 
 " We can't / afford it this year." 
 
 Why couldn't they? He had seen berried branches be- 
 ing carried into other houses. Why couldn't his people 
 have them? 
 
 " James's illness," said his mother, lining patty-pans 
 with pastry, ** and then your father hasn't had the rise 
 that he expected, and there's such a lot of you." 
 
 James had been ill a long time. He had stayed home 
 from school and had lain in bed. Harry hadn't seen him 
 for weeks and weeks. Did staying in bed cost money? 
 Of course, there were a lot of them Richard, James, 
 Himself, Bet, Nancy, and little Mab; but what had that 
 to do with decorating the house for Christmas ? 
 
 " You want such a lot of boots and shoes," volunteered 
 his mother as she put a dab of mincemeat in the middle of 
 each patty-pan. The dark speckled lumps were very 
 small. Harry watched her with a feeling that something 
 was wrong. A mince-pie should be large, and full of 
 mincemeat ! 
 
 His mother cut rounds of pastry and fitted them over 
 the dark lumps. " Such a lot of boots and shoes," she 
 sighed, " and everything costs money."
 
 The Rolling Stone 17 
 
 But you didn't decorate the house with boots and shoes, 
 and as to the evergreens, why should they cost money? 
 
 Harry would find some. Findings were keepings, and 
 he fancied that he knew where to look. 
 
 Holly, of course, grew on bushes and could be picked, 
 but he was not sure about mistletoe. He had never seen 
 it growing. Still, it was just a plant, it must grow some- 
 where! He set out for the residential part of the town, 
 and, looking over garden-walls, saw many bushes and trees 
 of holly, but not one not so much as a single plant 
 of mistletoe. Should he make do with what offered or 
 should he go further afield? . . . 
 
 While he debated a greengrocer's cart came up the road. 
 It paused before the side-door of a substantial house and, 
 while the man was delivering his goods, Harry lightened it 
 of a fine bunch of Christmas greens. 
 
 How pleased his parents would be ! They would be able 
 to decorate the house, make it like all the other houses in 
 the road. They could put holly-sprigs over the pictures 
 and hang mistletoe from the coloured globe in the hall. 
 There would be holly, too, for the pudding, a nice berried 
 bit. 
 
 "Where did you get that holly?" His father's voice 
 did not sound pleased. Could anything have happened to 
 put him out? 
 
 " Oh, I don't know; I just got it." 
 
 " Where, Henry? " said Mrs. King. 
 
 " Down the road." Harry hoped his reply suggested 
 hedges of holly in a country lane, hedges that were free 
 to any boy. 
 
 '* Was it given to you? " 
 
 As if any one would give you a big bunch of Christmas 
 greens ! " I thought you'd be glad of it." 
 
 " Was it come by honestly? "
 
 18 The Rolling Stone 
 
 What a fuss about nothing! If he had realized that 
 they were so particular he would have broken up the 
 bunch, made a disorderly bundle of it, and said he had 
 gone into the fields and picked it. 
 
 " You young limb," said his father, " where did you 
 get it? " 
 
 Harry, taken by surprise, told the truth. Old Short, 
 the greengrocer, had lots of holly, lots and lots ; he would 
 not miss one small bunch. 
 
 " It is not that ! " Mr. King explained that they would 
 rather have gone without Christmas decorations than that 
 Harry should have taken the evergreens. " It's stealing," 
 he said; but Harry thought that if he could have per- 
 suaded them he had picked the holly in the fields, they 
 would have put it on the walls and been glad of it. It 
 was only stealing because he had been found out. 
 
 After tea he was made to carry the bunch to Mr. 
 Short's shop, confess what he had done, and hand it over. 
 His father said that would be good for him. 
 
 " I can't see," said Harry, " why other people should 
 have holly and mistletoe at Christmas if we can't." 
 
 " We can't have everything we want," said the father. 
 They were passing an old red manor-house set back among 
 the trees, and he pointed to it. " For instance, we can't 
 all expect to live in a house like that." 
 
 " Why not ? " The wild bright eyes, slightly aslant 
 in the broad face, looked from the house with its sweeps 
 of lawn, its proud outlook over the surrounding country, 
 to the man at his side. 
 
 " It stands to reason," said Mr. King. 
 ' The men in the big houses get what they want and 
 the others don't?" 
 
 " Nobody gets what he wants." A man wanted things
 
 The Rolling Stone 19 
 
 for himself love, gratified ambition ; instead he got chil- 
 dren and had to work for them, to work all day and over- 
 time. " We all learn, at last, to do without." 
 
 Doing without, thought Harry, was poor fun. He did 
 not intend to try it not more, that is, than he could 
 help. Parents made you go without, but when you were 
 grown up you could do as you pleased. When he had a 
 house of his own he would decorate every room with holly 
 and mistletoe and he would not pay for a single sprig, not 
 one. 
 
 Mr. Short's shop was on Main Street, and many an 
 apple had Harry prigged when the greengrocer was meas- 
 uring out paraffin at the back. Mr. King led the way in. 
 and the culprit, clutching the evergreens in chilblainy 
 hands, followed. He did not like crossing the threshold. 
 If his father had not been there he would have thrown 
 the bundle in at the door and run away. What would 
 Mr. Short do to him? 
 
 A barrel of apples just inside the door, farther on a 
 crate of oranges ; so easy to pocket one or two. 
 
 But he mustn't. 
 
 Mr. Short tossed the bunch of evergreens his, 
 Harry's bunch, the bunch that was to have made festive 
 his home on to a pile at the back of the shop. " If 
 boys always had to give back what they helped themselves 
 to," he said, " my place 'ud be pretty full," but he thanked 
 Mr. King and said that was the way to bring boys up and 
 no mistake. 
 
 Harry was leaning against a crate of oranges. If they 
 went on talking he knew that he would help himself. 
 He didn't want to, but the crate was open and his fingers 
 were sliding over the rough roundness of the fruit. 
 
 His father wouldn't like him to take the oranges, He
 
 20 The Rolling Stone 
 
 had disapproved so greatly of his taking the holly. It 
 had seemed to hurt him that Harry should have taken 
 that holly. 
 
 He must be more careful. 
 
 You didn't learn to do without, you helped yourself 
 to what you wanted, but you did it carefully, very, very 
 carefully. 
 
 When Richard came up to bed that night he paused 
 just inside the door and sniffed. " Oranges ! " said he. 
 " Who's got oranges ? " 
 
 " There's one for you." Harry sat up in bed. " Here 
 you are catch ! " 
 
 Though Richard accepted the fruit he was suspicious. 
 " Where did you get them ? " 
 
 Harry had his explanation pat. "Boy at school," 
 said he.
 
 Chapter II 
 
 HARRY, trying to look as if wholly occupied with 
 his dinner, was listening to the conversation of 
 his elders. He had signalized his first day at 
 the new school the school that was for boys only 
 by a fight, and Richard was telling about it. He wanted 
 to hear what Richard would say. 
 
 Before him, on a grey-blue landscape plate, was a 
 helping of meat and potatoes. Presently he would nudge 
 his mother and ask for more. He was such a hungry boy. 
 
 " When I came into the room," said Richard, " Henry 
 was sitting on the bench ; but his face had that look, 
 that sort of set look you know " 
 
 Mr. King nodded. He knew. 
 
 " The big boys were telling Two Puddings he mustn't 
 put up with cheek from a kid." 
 
 " Two Puddings, as you call him, is bigger than 
 Henry? " The little feeling of elation in that one of the 
 brood had proved stronger than another man's son was 
 wrong. The old Adam again. He must wrestle with it, 
 put it down. 
 
 " Oh yes, he's the same age as James." 
 
 The family looked at James, who was two years older 
 and half a head taller than Harry. " Bigger'n me," said 
 James. 
 
 " After a bit, old Two Puddings came on, swinging his 
 arms and, when he came close, Henry jumped up and 
 hit him. He hit him on the chin and Two Puddings 
 
 21
 
 The Rolling Stone 
 
 went down. The boys were awfully surprised and they 
 burst out laughing. He couldn't stand that, so he got 
 up and came for Henry again, and again Henry knocked 
 him down." 
 
 Mr. King looked along the table three boys one side, 
 three girls on the other, his children; and his glance 
 came to rest on Harry. Richard was handsome and 
 clever; James was all right. But Harry? He wasn't 
 clever at least, not at his books and he certainly 
 wasn't handsome. The face was too heavily boned, the 
 well-cut mouth too wide, but there was a something about 
 the boy, some quality. Harry was that was it he 
 was alive ! 
 
 " What was the fight about, Henry ? " 
 
 Harry put the last bit of potato into his mouth and 
 glanced at the big vegetable-dish. " He said my mother 
 made my breeches." 
 
 The father could not see more than an inch or two 
 of the garments in question, but the pattern seemed fa- 
 miliar. " Well, didn't she? " 
 
 Harry's straight brows came into a point over narrowed 
 eyelids. " I won't have any one say so." 
 
 The breeches, cut from a pair of Mr. King's trousers, 
 were a sore point. Other boys had suits, suits bought 
 at a shop. Two Puddings had one of corduroy velvet 
 real corduroy velvet. His mother, when he asked if he 
 could not have one like it, had said it was out of the 
 question that Two Puddings' father, Mr. Chapman, 
 was rich, had the biggest draper's shop in the town. 
 
 Harry wondered why his father wasn't rich. Was it 
 because he sat in an office all day instead of selling things 
 in a shop? You got lots of money selling things, you 
 were getting money all the time. Besides that, there 
 were the things in the shop. If you wanted them, you
 
 The Rolling Stone 23 
 
 could take them. In Two Puddings' Shop there was a 
 window full of suits. No doubt they had gone to it and 
 just taken out the real velvet corduroy. How Harry 
 wished that his father had a shop ! 
 
 " I'm afraid," said Mr. King, clearing his throat, " I'm 
 afraid, Henry, that you've made a bad beginning at your 
 new school." 
 
 The look of ingenuous surprise that flitted over the 
 child's face showed him this was an occasion which it 
 was his duty to improve. Heathens, these boys; and 
 that in spite of all you did or said. 
 
 " You don't suppose, do you, that fighting is the way 
 to get on? " 
 
 Harry's eyes grew round. The whole school was talk- 
 ing of the fight ! 
 
 " Fighting gets you into the master's bad books and 
 will make you unpopular among the boys." 
 
 " It is unchristian," contributed Mrs. King. 
 
 " Makes you feel good," ventured Harry, looking at his 
 father. When Two Puddings had called him a 
 " mammy's boy " and asked who made his breeches, he had 
 felt very hot and angry. He had hated Two Puddings ; 
 he had hit him as hard as he could, hit him twice and 
 knocked him down. Then he, Harry, felt all right. Two 
 Puddings wasn't a bad chap no, in spite of the corduroy 
 suit, he wasn't. 
 
 " You mean," said Mr. King, " that because you have 
 won you feel pleased with yourself? " 
 
 " No," said Harry. That wasn't it. You were 
 pleased of course, pleased to have won, but also well, 
 you felt good. 
 
 "That, my lad," pursued Mr. King, "is just what is 
 wrong with fighting. A boy should make his way in the 
 world by hard work and sticking to his books, not by
 
 24 The Rolling Stone 
 
 hurting people and getting the better of them and glory- 
 ing in it." 
 
 He glanced at his other sons, and Harry knew that 
 he was being compared, unfavourably, with those meri- 
 torious ones. In the home circle they were the shining 
 lights, he the person who got all the kicks. But he 
 didn't do things in order to be bad; in fact, he meant 
 to be good. He was good inside, it was only that things 
 happened. Wherever he was they happened, and people 
 blamed him. Really, it wasn't fair. 
 
 II 
 
 Mr. King, just home from the office, was bending over 
 a hen-coup at the end of the garden. He had lifted a 
 spadeful of manure, picked out the worms and brought 
 them to the eager chickens. The mother-bird clucked, 
 and the grey chicks picked up the worms and ran with 
 tjhem about the enclosed space that was their world. 
 Stimulating food worms ! The chicks would grow all 
 the bigger for that spadeful. He must remember to 
 give them one daily. 
 
 A crunch of feet on the cinder-path made him look up. 
 A little compact figure, erect as an oak yet flowing in 
 movement that was unusually swift, was coming towards 
 him. He watched it with an indulgent eye. A young 
 turk, if ever there was one ! 
 
 " Well, Henry, what's up with you ? " 
 
 Evident from the brightness of Harry's eyes that some- 
 thing of an exciting nature had occurred. The boy 
 plunged into his tale. Two Puddings Chapman had 
 been late for school, but when he came 
 
 " Oh, father, he was on a velocipede, and it was hi* 
 own. It had a big wheel in front and a little one at the
 
 The Rolling Stone 25 
 
 back, and he can ride it. He let me try, and I want 
 oh, I want one, father." 
 
 " You must think I'm made of money-" 
 
 The brown hen, espying a worm which, overlooked, was 
 giving signs of life, called to her little srreedies. The easier 
 running of the tiny feet pleased Mr. King, and he smiled. 
 
 Harry, watching the bearded face, took the smile for 
 a sign of yielding. He broke into entreaties. If his 
 father would only give him a velocipede 
 
 Mr. King wished that he could. The worst of narrow 
 means was that you must deny, not only the children, 
 but yourself. Nothing would have given him greater 
 pleasure than to gratify their legitimate desires. Better 
 for them, of course, that he could not; but he wished 
 that sometimes, just once in a way 
 
 Harry wanted that velocipede so badly. Coming third 
 in the family, the poor little chap did not get much. 
 Cast-off clothes, old school-books, the leavings of the 
 others. It was hardly fair. 
 
 " I'll see," he said at last, and Harry could hardly be- 
 lieve that he had heard aright. 
 
 Ill 
 
 '. \ ' 
 " Richard, mother wants you to help her." 
 
 "What's up?" 
 
 " My tricycle has come." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " It's in a crate, and the crate is so big it won't go 
 into the yard." 
 
 Richard put his books aside and came. Harry was a 
 lucky dog. If he, Richard, had known that velocipedes 
 were going he would have put in for one. Even a second- 
 hand article, which was a tricycle at that, was better
 
 26 The Rolling Stone 
 
 than nothing. He felt an elder brotherly interest in the 
 crate. What was Harry's was also, in a sense, his. 
 
 He found his mother helping a carman to manoeuvre 
 the crate into the drying-yard. The big wooden case 
 seemed to have particularly hard and sharp corners ; it 
 was also weighty. 
 
 " Quarter of a ton, I says," remarked the carman. 
 
 Released from its wrappings, the new acquisition justi- 
 fied him by a certain cumbrousness. The tyres were 
 solid, the chains and ironwork of a clumsy make. The 
 tricycle had been built for an invalid gentleman who, 
 having gone the way of wings, no longer needed it. On 
 its being offered for sale second hand, Mr. King, by now 
 repenting a weak moment, had seen his chance. 
 
 " It will do for Henry to practise on," he said. 
 
 IV 
 
 " There's Uncle Bob," said Harry, " I could go and 
 see him." 
 
 " Shoo ! " said Mrs. King, " of course you can't." 
 Uncle Bob lived at Bristol, and Bristol was forty-five miles 
 by road, too big a journey for a boy of ten. She had 
 seen Chapman on his velocipede, had heard it said that 
 he rode round and about, did as much as six miles in 
 a day. A good boy that, one who would never cause 
 his parents anxiety. She glanced at her wild, dark son. 
 Forty-five miles ! 
 
 Well," said Mr. King, " I don't know . . ." 
 
 She threw up her hands. " If you're going to egg 
 him on . . ." 
 
 " I'm not egging him on." He didn't want the boy 
 turned into a mollycoddle because his mother was afraid! 
 "But Bristol would be only a day's journey on this,"
 
 The Rolling Stone 27 
 
 he tapped the tricycle, " and if he knows a boy who would 
 go with him . . ." 
 
 The elders of the family had gathered to see Harry oil 
 the machine. He had already bestowed more of the lubri- 
 cant on his person than on the tricycle; and more on 
 both, Mrs. King thought, than could have been in the little 
 oilcan. He looked up, drawing a hand across his brow and 
 leaving behind a glistening smear. " Jack would go." 
 
 " His mother wouldn't let him." 
 
 But Harry knew better. " His mother lets him do 
 things." 
 
 " Five shillings, Henry, will be enough to take you 
 there and back. Put down on this piece of paper what 
 you spend and don't let it be more than you can help." 
 
 Mr. King, a little uneasy lest, after all, harm might 
 befall his Benjamin, walked with Harry to the door. 
 In the road Jack Tremaine was standing by a new machine. 
 He looked, with his honest freckled face and straight 
 glance, as staunch a comrade as any father could wish 
 his son. Mr. King glanced at the sky. " July weather," 
 he said, " you ought to have a pleasant run. Now, 
 don't forget a ship-chandler's shop on the quay, name 
 of Hall. Well, give my love to your uncle." 
 
 Harry sat his four hundredweight of clumsy contrivance 
 as if it had been a high-mettled steed. His heart was 
 full. This was not a game, he and Jack were not making 
 believe ; they were actually starting off by themselves 
 to see the world. 
 
 Ho had thought he would never, never get the tricvcle. 
 His father had told him that the Organization was looking 
 for it. A queer thing, the Organization. You never saw 
 it, yet it brought eggs and butter and hams from farms
 
 28 The Rolling Stone 
 
 up and down the line and it put them in your larder. 
 His father had told him that every railway-station was 
 at a town and the Organization looked in the shops of 
 those towns for what you wanted. The Organization 
 lived, he thought, in the railway-stations; it must live 
 somewhere. 
 
 It didn't buy things for everybody, only for people 
 like his father, who worked for the railway. His father 
 had said it was a wonderful thing, that it made the money 
 go twice as far. His mother said that might be; but, 
 for her part, she liked to see things before she bought 
 them. 
 
 The Organization had been a long time looking for the 
 tricycle. It was really, of course, looking for a veloci- 
 pede, and Harry was sorry that no second-hand boy's ve- 
 locipedes were to be found. However, he was lucky to get 
 anything. Richard, who was going to Cheeley Grammar 
 School next term, would have given his eyes for it ; Harry 
 knew by the way his brother had examined it, that he 
 would. 
 
 " I say, Bear ! " Bear was Harry's nickname " I 
 felt a spot of rain." 
 
 A drop had splashed on Harry's face. He looked at 
 the hurrying clouds. " I don't expect it will be much." 
 
 " Mother said she didn't believe we should have it fine." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Something about July rains." 
 
 " Do you want to go back? " 
 
 He scouted the idea. " Rather not." 
 
 The boys buttoned up their coats, slanted their heads 
 to meet the drive of the rain and pedalled on. Rain or 
 shine, they would get to Bristol before they turned. 
 
 Before long, however, the water was squishing out of 
 the seats of their knickers. Harry knew by experience
 
 The Rolling Stone 29 
 
 that the rub of wet cloth cuts the skin, and at Chippen- 
 ham they compromised with fate by seeking refuge in a 
 little tavern. 
 
 A motherly woman, after stripping them by her kitchen 
 fire, sent them flying naked overstairs. In the downy 
 depths of a four-poster they slept till skies had brightened 
 and their clothes were dry. When the reckoning came, 
 Harry discovered that his five shillings had not been 
 calculated on a basis of tavern meals and beds. 
 
 The weather on the following day alternated between 
 wet and fine. As the boys were obliged to spend a good 
 deal of time sheltering from showers, their journey was 
 protracted beyond what careful parents had thought pos- 
 sible. On the evening of the second day they stopped 
 outside the windows of a cookshop to discuss how Harry's 
 last shilling could be spent to the best advantage. The 
 choice lay between hot boiled ham and a meat-pie. 
 Harry's stomach craved the former. Having been on 
 short commons all day, he was fiercely hungry. Clutch- 
 ing the coin in a small hard hand, he sniffed the appetizing 
 smell. 
 
 " Crikey ! I feel as if I could eat the shop ! Come 
 on in." 
 
 As he spoke a stout woman jogged his elbow with her 
 market-basket and the shilling was jerked out of his 
 hand. The boys were standing on a cellar-grating, and 
 the coin fell between the bars and disappeared. 
 
 A cry of dismay broke from Harry's lips. " My shill- 
 ing, Jack I " and he rushed into the shop. 
 
 The proprietor was a big fat man who filled all the 
 space behind the counter. He looked at the boys with 
 little eyes that seemed to be playing at hide-and-seek 
 between rolls of pale fat. To their story he listened with 
 a smile. Fine story, that ! He hoped they didn't expect
 
 30 The Rolling Stone 
 
 him to believe it? Let them into his cellar to look for 
 what wasn't there? He knew a trick worth two of that. 
 If they wanted to buy anything he'd be pleased to wait 
 on them ; if not, let them clear out of that and pretty 
 quick too, or he would send for a policeman. 
 
 Outside the town Harry, who had been silent for some 
 time, called a halt. " You stay here with the machines," 
 he said. " I shan't be long." 
 
 " What are you up to, Bear? " 
 
 " I'm going back for my shilling." 
 
 " Let me come, too." 
 
 " No, you stay here." 
 
 An hour later he returned carrying a large pork pie. 
 
 "How did you get that, Bear?" 
 
 " Oh, I just took it." 
 
 The boys ate till they were satisfied. " You wouldn't 
 believe," said Harry, " how much that man is disliked. 
 While I was there some one threw a stone and smashed 
 his window. I should think it would take more than a 
 shilling to mend it." 
 
 They got to Bristol late that night, and found that 
 Uncle Bob, having heard from Mr. King that they were 
 on their way, was grown anxious as to what had delayed 
 them. The boys were very dirty, very tired too tired 
 to do more than roll into the beds Mr. Hall's housekeeper 
 had prepared. 
 
 When, a day or two later, they were ready to return, 
 Harry asked for a road-map. He wanted to plan a 
 different route. 
 
 "Why not go back the way you came?" 
 
 " No fun in that, Uncle Bob. You see, we know the 
 people on that road." 
 
 " All the better for you." 
 
 But Harry was not sure that he agreed with Uncle Bob.
 
 Chapter III 
 
 <t "T'" THINK, Mr. King, that your son is doing no good 
 to himself or other people here. He should go to 
 
 -M~ boarding-school." 
 
 The father thought of an attic room which he never 
 failed to visit before going to bed. Under the slope of 
 the roof were iron beds with blue-and-white quilts, and 
 on the pillows had lain three dark heads. Richard and 
 James were gone, now it was Harry's turn. The school 
 that swallowed them for the greater part of the year 
 must take him also. Mr. King would not need to toil 
 night after night up the attic stairs. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " to boarding-school." 
 
 "The others are doing well?" Mr. Lane was proud 
 of his old scholars, now at Cheeley Grammar School. 
 He had taught them since they were little chaps, and 
 Richard's scholarship, James's high place in class, re- 
 flected glory on the day-school. 
 
 " Better than I could have hoped." 
 
 With their example, such a shining one, before Harry's 
 eyes, with the " out-of bounds " to wall him from tempta- 
 tion, surely the wild strain would be, if not eliminated, 
 at least brought under control. Yes, Harry must go, 
 must have his chance; but without him, Lord, how quiet 
 the house would be ! " I'll send him to Cheeley." 
 
 " There's a lot of good in the boy." To Mr. Lang he 
 was as a Pied Piper among the lads, leading them astray. 
 " If he could be made to work he'd do well not as well 
 
 31
 
 32 The Rolling Stone 
 
 as Richard, perhaps, not even as well as James, but well 
 enough." 
 
 Made to work; that is, made to work at his books. 
 Harry liked work of a sort, but not book-work. Was 
 there no other road to success? Mr. King had a sus- 
 picion that there might be, and this glimmering persisted 
 for a little; but no, he could not think of any other road. 
 " When Henry settles down," he said heavily. 
 
 " He will settle down all right under Dr. Waugh." 
 
 " Well, thank you, Mr. Lane. I expect you have had 
 a good deal to put up with." 
 
 The schoolmaster pushed back his chair. " There have 
 been compensations," he said, wondering for a moment 
 whether original sin was not more endearing in a boy 
 than scholarship. 
 
 II 
 
 " You'll do all right because you are good at games," 
 said Richard ; " that is, if you aren't cocky." 
 
 " How many boys are there at Cheeley? " 
 
 " About three hundred and sixty." 
 
 Harry, following his seniors into the school precincts, 
 determined to be self-effacing. He would watch other 
 boys, do just what they did. One of fifty new-comers, 
 he fell back among them, feeling that the place was big 
 and he very small. It was a little oppressive, Cheeley, 
 and everything was strange. The town in which he had 
 lived seemed to his backward glance a place of half-lights 
 and pleasant familiarity. He knew every street and turn- 
 ing, almost every boy. But this old grammar school 
 
 bare, cold, ringing with unknown, perhaps hostile life 
 
 he was lost in it, unpleasantly alone. 
 
 Still, they had picked him to play in the House game. 
 His name was at the bottom of a half-sheet of paper
 
 The Rolling Stone 33 
 
 that was pinned up on the wall. A lot of other names, 
 then " King." 
 
 He had been playing with the kids and had shot three 
 goals, and they had cheered him and Gaunt, a big chap, 
 had said, " You may have the honour of walking to chapel 
 with me." 
 
 Sweet the plaudits : " King ! King ! Go it, Bear ! " 
 
 He was called " Bear " because of his black mop and 
 because he was quick. Bears were like lightning and 
 you never knew what they would do next. Also they 
 boxed; they stood up on their hind legs and hit out like 
 a man. He did not mind his nickname ; he rather liked it. 
 
 Richard and James were pleased with him. They saw 
 him walking into chapel with Gaunt, and Richard had 
 said, " What's that young brother of mine been up to 
 now? " If he hadn't been pleased he wouldn't have 
 said " young brother." 
 
 Harry had made himself felt a little ; but he must 
 be quiet about it, he mustn't tell anybody, mustn't let 
 himself go. 
 
 Difficult that. There were such a lot of things he 
 wanted to do. He felt sometimes as if he must attempt 
 some of them, one just one. 
 
 If he did it secretly, didn't tell a soul, not a single 
 solitary soul? 
 
 Better try it than burst. 
 
 If he didn't try it, that is what he would do, burst. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Dr Waugh, having arranged his shaving apparatus on 
 the shelf that stretched below the round toilet-mirror, 
 turned to set his watch by the abbey clock. 
 
 His glance, crossing the leafage of intervening space, 
 the roof of the junior school, the medley of headstones,
 
 34 The Rolling Stone 
 
 found the spire and rested on it contentedly his spire, 
 the tapering lines by which he set the clock of his daily 
 life, the lines that went up and up. The half-chick at 
 the top was gleaming in the sun. A fine autumn day, 
 and he in tune with it. What a thing it was to have 
 before your window the pointing serenity, the conviction 
 of those lines .' 
 
 But 
 
 What was it? 
 
 Against the grey-blue of the sky a sharply increased 
 curve, a bulge, was visible, not far from the base. Hastily 
 picking up long-distance spectacles, Dr. Waugh studied 
 the altered line of the spire, and as he did so thoughts of 
 architects the best in England of builders, crafts- 
 men, steeplejacks, ran through his mind. If the spire 
 were damaged, tottering to a fall, it must be restored. 
 His beautiful spire yes, whatever it cost ! 
 
 The boss was moving, it was distinct from the abbey 
 spire, it had life. The spire was in no danger, but 
 
 The boss was a boy one, he felt certain, of the three 
 hundred and sixty whom trusting parents had placed 
 in his care. The boy would fall, he would be killed. 
 
 Ghastly ! One of his boys he saw a little broken 
 body 
 
 The bulge was ascending, it was moving slowly but 
 steadily. Yes, but a slip, a false step, and it would come 
 slithering down. And the sides of the spire! they were 
 so steep ! Dr. Waugh dared not hope ; yet boys did 
 escape, did make good, and even when hurt, badly hurt, 
 they recovered. Boys were wonderful, so recuperative. 
 Still such a fall ; and below were flagstones. He must 
 not 
 
 He could only will that the boy should get to the top. 
 A step and yet another step ! What a blessing it was a
 
 The Rolling Stone 35 
 
 still morning, no wind! Yet another step! Must have 
 a good head, that boy. Ah what? No, he had done 
 it. He was actually at the top of Cheeley Abbey spire. 
 
 The head master drew a long sighing breath of relief. 
 Well, and now the youngster would come down. 
 
 What was he about? Dr. Waugh leaned forward, 
 peering. The boy was shinning up the pole of the 
 weathercock ! To think that at that altitude he dared ! 
 He was up, though, and hanging his cap on the half- 
 chick. It dangled, rakishly atilt, the proof of his exploit ! 
 
 On the shelf at Dr. Waugh's side, the water in the 
 green porcelain jar was grown first tepid and then cold. 
 The head master had forgotten it, and he continued to 
 forget. 
 
 Once before in the history of Cheeley a boy had at- 
 tempted the abbey spire. The school got wind of it, and 
 the lad, looking down on a concourse of masters and boys, 
 lost his head. Though he fell, Dr. Waugh remembered 
 that he had not been badly hurt. 
 
 His parents had taken him home, had not been en- 
 couraged to send him back, and Dr. Waugh, walking 
 quickly through the graveyard, wondered why. A boy 
 who climbed the spire of Cheeley Abbey must have parts ; 
 it might even be that his daring was rooted in heroic 
 earth. Such a boy must, surely, trust in something out- 
 side himself his luck, his star, the unknown God to 
 bring him through ; must put all he had into some great 
 hand, make his attempt in the conviction that this hand 
 would bear him up. Such faith might take its possessor 
 far. 
 
 Turning a corner Dr. Waugh found the small adven- 
 turer of whom he was in quest, lowering himself into 
 safety; he waited, suddenly conscious of weariness, until 
 the boy's feet should have touched the ground.
 
 36 The Rolling Stone 
 
 Harry was smiling to himself, smiling contentedly. 
 They had said no one could climb the spire and he had 
 done it ; he had done it during his first term. 
 
 He was hungry now, he wanted his breakfast. Would 
 he be late? He did not think so. He had allowed him- 
 self plenty of time. He would slip in to breakfast with 
 the others ; and he would whisper to Bakewell about the 
 spire, and perhaps to Vincent. If they didn't believe 
 him, he would tell them to look at the weathercock. 
 
 The news would spread all over the school. " King 
 has climbed the spire ! " 
 
 " Where is your cap ? " 
 
 Harry was staring at the homely but awe-inspiring 
 figure of the head master. If only a gulf could immedi- 
 ately be fixed between his feet and those large house-shoes ! 
 
 " Why did you climb the spire ? " 
 
 His voice did not sound exactly angry. 
 
 " They told me I couldn't do it." 
 
 " It has been done before," said the voice, and Harry's 
 countenance fell ; he was to have been first, first and last ! 
 " The boy who did it was sent home." 
 
 Would the little fellow plead with him? No, not a 
 word. The heavily boned face was set in unsmiling lines, 
 the eyes clung to those vaguely patterned house-shoes. 
 
 " It has not been thought necessary to make a rule for- 
 bidding boys to climb the abbey spire, but you knew you 
 were doing wrong." 
 
 No answer. Harry had a sensation as of the emptying 
 of his little carcase. 
 
 " However, I have decided not to punish you." The 
 blood began to flow back into the boy's face and he 
 blinked, as a bird blinks to clear its vision. " Neverthe- 
 less, I am responsible for you to your parents, and you 
 might have broken your neck." Dr. Waugh was fingering
 
 The Rolling Stone 37 
 
 in his pocket a broad silver-piece. " As I don't want the 
 other boys to follow your example, I shall put you on 
 your honour not to speak of this exploit." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " I expect you will be punished for your carelessness in 
 losing your cap." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 He brought out the coin. " You'll be late for break- 
 fast. Cut along to the tuck-shop ; the sausages there are 
 pretty good." 
 
 The boy sped away and Waugh rose stiffly from the 
 tombstone on which he had been sitting. " Can't remem- 
 ber when I've felt so tired," he murmured as he went along 
 the paved walk that led to the schoolhouse. In his back 
 was a twinge as of impending lumbago, and he put a hand 
 to it, but not as if it held for him its old terrors. In the 
 school workshops was a machine, the last thing according 
 to Dr. Waugh, in beauty; and although Harry did not 
 strike him as beautiful, his movements had brought the 
 machine into the master's field of vision. The boy seemed 
 made for the purpose to which he had set himself. Every 
 part worked sweetly to the common end, and about him 
 was no superfluous flesh nor any other sort of superfluity 
 not even, as Dr. Waugh remembered with a smile not 
 even any superfluous words. 
 
 He did not know the boy's name, but the compact fig- 
 ure, the bright eyes in a heavy face, the tousle of black 
 hair, would not be difficult to remember; and his develop- 
 ment ought to be interesting among the three hundred 
 and sixty, always one or two who were interesting to 
 watch !
 
 38 The Rolling Stone 
 
 IV 
 
 Richard, walking with the Rugger captain, had paid a 
 satisfactory visit to the tuck-shop. 
 
 " Let's stroll around for a bit." If he meant to get 
 the Balliol Scholarship he ought not to spare the time, 
 but he did not often get Chesterman to himself. f 
 
 They walked past the sacred cricket-ground and alon^ 
 the end of the " footer " field. Richard stopped midway. 
 
 "What is it, King?" 
 
 " My young brother's playing. I wish you'd have a 
 squint at him." 
 
 The great man drew up alongside. " Which? " 
 
 " The kid playing back this side." 
 
 They stood in silence for some minutes watching the 
 game. Presently Chesterman laughed. " Little beggar 
 kicks every way at once." 
 
 Richard nodded. " And he's no funk ! " 
 
 " He'll do. His foot-work is jolly good for a youngster 
 and he's heavy. I'll keep an eye on him." 
 
 " Thanks." 
 
 V 
 
 " The north wind doth blow," quoth Mr. Deacon, 
 Harry's house-master. " I don't know " 
 
 " The paper-chase is all arranged now, sir," urged a 
 hare. 
 
 The head master's birthday, which was kept as a holi- 
 day, fell early in November, and for those boys Harry 
 was one of them whose parents were too busy or too 
 remote to visit their children, amusement was devised. 
 
 Mr. Deacon looked at the rout of brown and yellow 
 leaves that was whirling past the door. " Well, Baker, 
 keep in sight of the spire. If we have snow it isn't likely, 
 at this time of the year, that it will be much."
 
 The Rolling Stone 89 
 
 " Very well, sir." The low-hanging woolly clouds might 
 promise snow, but the wind was rising and would keep 
 it off till they were back at Cheeley. Even if it didn't, 
 what was a little snow? He wouldn't go far, but he had 
 planned a puzzling run the miry reaches of the river, 
 the lanes about his home. 
 
 Anyway, you could see the spire for miles and miles. 
 The struggling pack was some time before it realized 
 that the first white feathers, one here and one there, 
 heralded a mighty plucking. Heated with running, it 
 caught the occasional flakes and found their coolness 
 grateful. By the time the lanes in which it was involved, 
 debouched on a main road, however, the snowfall had 
 curtained off what of the landscape was familiar. The 
 boys found themselves in a dip of land, a sort of wide, 
 shallow cup with the cloud-filled sky for cover and the 
 snow for porcelain walls. Up these the road ran right 
 and left without finger-posts, without even a landmark, 
 to tell them which led to Cheeley. 
 
 One after another the boys, hurrying along, paused to 
 look up and down the road. The hares, never once 
 sighted, had led them hither; but already the light-blown 
 paper of their scattering had disappeared under the snow. 
 Even if they turned to the right, as the leaders suggested, 
 that might not take them to Cheeley. The boys were 
 only anxious to be safe housed against the weather. They 
 decided to toss a coin. " Heads right, tails left ! Tails 
 it is." 
 
 VI 
 
 " Let's do that spider-web, Bear." 
 
 The web had been attached to a bramble-bush by a 
 spider who knew the attraction blackberries have for every 
 mall winged creature. She had retired from business,
 
 40 The Rolling Stone 
 
 but the torn net still stretched across the reddening leaves. 
 Harry was running with a little boy who had been sent to 
 Cheeley for his health and who was the possessor of a 
 black pocket-microscope, three lenses set in vulcanite and 
 hung on one hinge. With this the boys had beguiled the 
 tedium of the chase. 
 
 " The ground looks pretty slushy, Miller." Between 
 the footpath and the bank on which, a gorgeous tangle of 
 sprays, grew the bush, lay a piece of flat ground. This 
 ground had once been a ditch, so broad that pond was 
 the better name. 
 
 " Oh, it's firm enough," and the smaller boy set his 
 foot on a tussock of wind-bitten grass. As he did so a 
 mouse, which had been sheltering on the further side, ran 
 out, making for the spiny cover. " Oh, look ! " and Miller 
 made after it. A step and the mire of the ditch was over 
 his boot. He called to his companion, and Harry, spring- 
 ing forward, felt the caked surface shake and give. In 
 another moment both boys were scrambling back to firm 
 ground ; but Miller, the more nervous of the two, had had 
 a fright. His face had gone grey and he was shivering. 
 
 " I thought I was going to be sucked in." 
 
 " We'll stick to the path after this," said Harry. The 
 water having run over the tops of his boots, his feet were 
 wet, and he stamped them impatiently* 
 
 " It was a real bog. We might have sunk right down 
 and only our caps been left to show what had happened." 
 
 Harry had no desire to minimize the danger. *' They 
 ought to put up a post as a warning. I've read in news- 
 papers of people disappearing. I dare say some, ever so 
 many, are at the bottom of that ditch. It's just as well," 
 he added, looking down at his miry boots, " we didn't go in 
 head-first." 
 
 Miller had recovered sufficiently to take an interest in
 
 The Rolling Stone 41 
 
 his surroundings. " Why, it's beginning to snow, and 
 and 1 can't see any of the others." 
 
 " They went this way," said Harry, pointing to some 
 pieces of paper, and he quickened his pace. 
 
 When he and his companion reached the hollow which 
 had the sky for patine and never a tree to make the 
 snowy rim unequal, the rest of the hunt was out of sight 
 on what it fondly hoped was the road to Cheeley. The 
 boys paused to consider. To the left were the marks 
 of feet, to the right bits of torn paper, over all the rush 
 of thickly falling snow. They decided to follow the hares ; 
 but, before starting, Harry's glance rested thoughtfully 
 on his companion. 
 
 " Look here, Milly, you'll get wet." 
 
 The smaller boy shrugged his shoulders and glanced 
 afield over the quickly whitening landscape. " The snow 
 isn't melting." 
 
 " It'll melt on you, silly." 
 
 " Can't be helped." 
 
 " You are going to have my coat." In those simpler 
 times the boys had but two suits, one for daily wear and 
 one for Sunday. They had no special running kit, and 
 when Harry started that morning he had taken a great 
 coat from the peg, not because he was cold but as a 
 matter of habit. 
 
 " Shut up, Bear ; I shan't do anything of the sort." 
 His own coat had been left behind. 
 
 " You will, though." 
 
 " Not me." But for all his voice was confident, he 
 had noted the square set of Harry's jaw. " I'm perfectly 
 all right ; besides, you'd catch cold." 
 
 "What, me?" His spirit flung the suggestion scorn- 
 fully aside. " I'm awfully strong. Why, when the others 
 had mumps I didn't. I can't catch anything, not even if
 
 42 The Rolling Stone 
 
 I try." He pulled off the thick coat which until that 
 moment had been a handicap. 
 
 " Why should I have your coat? " 
 
 " Here, put it on." The other was succumbing, not to 
 temptation, but the stronger will, succumbing thankfully. 
 His eyes turned from the snowy waste, silent, lonely, 
 threatening, to the steadfast countenance of his com- 
 panion. He was not lost for he had Bear. He slipped 
 his chilled arms into the coat. 
 
 To Harry, fastening the flap under the other's chin 
 with a sense of glad surrender, came that uplift of the 
 spirit which is ecstasy. To help what was weaker than 
 himself; what, because of that weakness, must depend 
 on him, always thrilled him to endeavour. Their plight, 
 lost in the rapidly deepening snow for these scurries 
 out of the north meant a heavy fall in a short time 'held 
 no terrors for him. He had faith in a something outside 
 himself, something which would bring them into safety. 
 
 " Come on ! " he cried, and, with no longer any protec- 
 tion from the blast, stepped cheerily forward. 
 
 The boys bent their heads to the driving flakes and 
 trudged for some time in silence. By deciding to follow 
 the hares they had turned their backs on Cheeley and 
 were traveling north. In the blinding scurry they failed 
 to notice that the paper trail had vanished through a 
 break in the whitening hedge ; they had, in fact, forgotten 
 the hunt and were mainly occupied with the effort to 
 push through the growing drifts and, at the same time, 
 keep on the look-out for a landmark. 
 
 " I say, Bear," cried Miller at last, his foot sinking 
 through a drift of snow into what in summer days had 
 been a hollow by a roadside bank. " Let's sit here for 
 a bit." 
 
 " We haven't time,"
 
 The Rolling Stone 43 
 
 "It isn't late." 
 " Anyway, it's getting dark." 
 
 Miller yielded and began to walk on. " We don't seem 
 to be getting anywhere," he said unhappily. 
 " Give us a chance." 
 
 The other boy sighed. " What a long road this is." 
 "You tired?'" 
 
 " We seem to have been walking for hours." 
 " The hares," said Harry, who always knew where to 
 lay the blame, " must have lost themselves. They ought 
 to get a hiding for this. They would," he added, his 
 anger running through him like a cordial, " if my father 
 knew about it." 
 
 " If only there was a house." 
 
 The hurrying flakes were a grey wall between the little 
 fellows and the countryside; to right and left of them 
 the hedges ran on with only an occasional gate, and that 
 leading not to a house but the inhospitable fields. 
 " I'm done, Bear. I can't go any farther." 
 " We must be near some place." He pulled the other 
 to his feet. " I'll help you." 
 " Let's go back." 
 
 " Not much." He put an arm, already unusually thick, 
 round Miller, urging him forward, and the boy, subdued 
 to the stronger will, made a stumbling effort ; but his lips 
 were blue, his strength nearly at an end. 
 " I can't go any farther." 
 " You can. Come on now." 
 " I I won't." 
 
 Harry's face was set. " You've got to." 
 " No." 
 
 " See here, Milly. I'll hit you." 
 
 " You'll hit me ? " He quavered the words in feeble 
 astonishment.
 
 44 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " Ay." 
 
 Miller's head had been swaying on his shoulders. He 
 was sleepy with exhaustion, but this roused him. He 
 stared into Harry's steadfast eyes for a moment, then 
 began to flounder along the road. Harry would hit him. 
 Harry had been kind but now he was cruel ; and he 
 meant it, meant to hurt. They went on again, and about 
 them the dusk deepened, and still the flakes drove softly 
 through the grey air. Suddenly Miller fell in a heap. 
 
 " Get up." 
 
 " Don't care," he muttered drowsily. Sleep was his 
 utmost need ; but Harry's fierce heart knew no hesitation. 
 He fell on his companion with the flails of his frozen 
 hands ; he beat him back to consciousness. His anger 
 warmed the other boy to a tearful effort, warmed himself 
 too, and again they went staggering along the road. 
 
 VII 
 
 Samuel Baker, owner of Windyknowe Farm, was on 
 his way home from Cheeley. In sufficient awe of the 
 head master not to go contrary to his expressed wishes, 
 the farmer, in spite of weather and inclination, had 
 driven his son one of the hares back to the school. 
 Now, with cap low over his eyes and collar up, he was 
 using a lifetime's knowledge of the road to avoid sinking 
 axle-deep into the drifts. So intent was he that, although 
 for a time he was conscious of something small and snowy 
 on the waste ahead, he had not brought his mind to bear 
 on it. A hundred yards from Windyknowe the road 
 turned sharply, and the farmer, occupied with his horse, 
 nearly drove over a heap, which the gig lamps revealed 
 as endowed with some sort of struggling life. 
 
 " Hullo," he shouted, pulling up, and, as the horse
 
 The Rolling Stone 45 
 
 stopped, the heat differentiated itself into two boys, one 
 lying supine, the other aiming at him, in half-dazed me- 
 chanical fashion, blows which, though feeble, were still 
 resolute. Neither child took any notice of the farmer; 
 they were, indeed, reduced to the expression of a need 
 the need in the one for rest, and in the other to save. 
 
 "Hi, there, what are you doing?" and he jumped a 
 little awkwardly, for he too was cold, out of the gig. His 
 voice, followed by his presence, reached Harry, the less far 
 gone of the children. He stood up, staring stupidly. 
 
 " He mustn't go to sleep." 
 
 Baker had a flask in his pocket. 
 
 He set to work on the sleeper. " And now," said he, 
 lifting Miller into the gig, " you get in too. We'll be 
 home in a jiffy." 
 
 Harry tried to obey, but his feet, long numb, had 
 grown suddenly leaden ; he could not lift them. 
 
 " You're pretty near done, old man. Here, give us 
 your hand. There, that's it." He tucked the waterproof 
 rug round the boy and started his horse. " It was lucky 
 for the little chap," said he, and his voice deepened into 
 a sort of thanksgiving, " very lucky indeed, that he had 
 you with him."
 
 Chapter IV 
 
 MRS. BAKER, fearing lest her husband might 
 be asleep, came quietly into the parlour. The 
 room was lighted by a log-fire, and Sam, in 
 sprawling comfort, was stretched before it. His wife, 
 tiptoeing round the walnut-wood table, saw a pipe in his 
 mouth, and smiled her relief. 
 
 "Well, Sally, put your new babies to bed?" 
 
 " I've put them in John's room." 
 
 " I lay they'll sleep tonight." 
 
 " The little one is asleep now and well so is the 
 other." 
 
 He marked her hesitation. "What's wrong?" 
 
 " Don't like the look of him, Sam." 
 
 " Not like the look of him? " In his surprise he left 
 his mouth wide. " Why, if it hadn't been for him t'other 
 little chap would have been a goner. I was sitting here 
 thinking of him, the one down and done for and the other 
 nearly as bad but hammering away for dear life it was 
 for dear life, too." 
 
 " I don't mean that way ; but he isn't sleeping as quiet 
 as I should like." 
 
 " He'll be all right in the morning." 
 
 " I wish you'd take a look at him." 
 
 Sam heaved himself out of the armchair with a grunt 
 and followed her upstairs. In the chamber hitherto sacred 
 to the son of the house were a couple of small beds, one 
 
 for John, the other for any boy he might bring home, 
 
 46
 
 The Rolling Stone 47 
 
 and in these the chance visitors had been put. In that 
 nearest the door little Miller lay in the deep sleep of 
 exhaustion. He was so still the coverlet was hardly lifted 
 by his breath, but in his cheek was the faint rose of re- 
 turning strength. 
 
 " That one will be all right," said Baker as they passed. 
 " Tougher than he looks." 
 
 Mrs. Baker's glance slipped quickly from this bed to the 
 next. " Oh, yes," she said absently, " but " 
 
 The farmer, accustomed to judge an animal's health by 
 its appearance, turned on Harry a sharp, appraising 
 glance. The boy, stretched on his back, was muttering 
 in his sleep. His skin was dry, his face flushed, and he 
 was moving his curly black poll from side to side as if 
 he found it impossible to remain still. 
 
 Same repeated his verdict, but not as if he meant it 
 to carry conviction. " He'll be all right by the morning." 
 
 " They were out for hours in that snow, the precious 
 lambs," said Mrs. Baker, " and this one hadn't a great- 
 coat." 
 
 " He's taken a chill." 
 
 " I hope it's nothing worse." 
 
 " Well, you can't do anything more for him tonight.'* 
 
 She drew aside the blind and looked out. Snow was 
 still falling; big flakes sailed out of the blackness and 
 fell on the heaped window-sill. " I suppose not." 
 
 " I expect there's a precious to-do over the boys at 
 Cheeley, but there's no way of letting the school know. 
 I'll drive in early tomorrow." 
 
 " Do," she said, and continued to stare into the murk. 
 
 "What is it, mother?" 
 
 " It might have been John," and as* she spoke, Harry 
 cried in his sleep as if in pain. " I think," she said softly, 
 " I'll just lie down on the sofa here for tonight."
 
 48 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " You'll knock yourself up." 
 
 " I should feel happier, somehow, if I stayed with him." 
 
 He pulled her ear, a sign with him of tenderness, and 
 went off, thinking it was a pity that, being Bakers, they 
 had not the dozen that should have gone with the name. 
 What was one child? It left the mother-heart too soft. 
 
 Before dawn Harry woke, complaining of aches in his 
 joints, thirst and general discomfort. After giving him 
 to drink, Mrs. Baker roused her husband. 
 
 " The wind has dropped and the snow is melting fast." 
 
 "It's early yet." 
 
 " I want you to drive to Cheeley and bring back Dr. 
 Hargreaves." 
 
 " Is the lad worse ? " 
 
 " He's feverish and he's in pain." 
 
 Harry, in the initial stages of rheumatic fever, had 
 only a dim understanding of events. At first the faces 
 that came and went were strange, but it seemed to him 
 that they grew gradually more and more familiar, until 
 at last his father and mother stood beside his bed. 
 
 He had been in pain, but some doctor-draught had 
 deadened it for the nonce and he was fallen into an uneasy 
 sleep. His opening eyes rested on his father's handsome 
 face, full now of pity and anxiety. It puzzled Harry, 
 who had never before seen his father moved. 
 
 " What is the matter? " he said feebly, and, looking 
 for the reason, encountered his mother's glance. She, too, 
 was in some way different. As far as her children were 
 concerned she had hitherto swept through life on a gale of 
 confidence ; now she seemed troubled. 
 
 " Five others," she was saying, " no, I can't do it." 
 
 " He must come home," said Mr. King. 
 
 " I'm only one woman. I can't do everything." 
 
 " Well, but . . ."
 
 The Rolling Stone 49 
 
 " He must go to the hospital." 
 
 Plainly she suffered some reluctance, but not enough 
 to affect her resolution. " They will look after him there 
 better than I could." And, she said again, " Five others 
 no, I can't do it." 
 
 His father looked at her as if she were beyond his un- 
 derstanding. " You are willing that the boy should go ? " 
 
 " I can't help it," she said. 
 
 " You don't like nursing," he said, and Harry heard 
 in his father's voice a note that was familiar. 
 
 His mother turned away. " I'm no good at it," she 
 said. 
 
 II 
 
 He did not see his parents again for some time was, 
 indeed, too much occupied with himself to care who 
 nursed him. Wrapped in blankets, he was transferred 
 from the farm to a hospital ward, and the travelling 
 thither proved so agonizing that many years passed be- 
 fore he was able to look back on the journey without a 
 wince for pain not yet forgotten. At intervals he became 
 conscious of his father's face, of a voice in his ear that 
 whispered encouragement; but his mind was mainly occu- 
 pied with the thought that if the pain did not get better 
 he must scream, and he did not want to scream. Later, 
 he asked the nurses if he had cried out, and was amazed 
 to find they did not know. A thing of so much importance 
 and they did not know! When he put the question he 
 had reddened with fear, had hung on the edge of shame, 
 and they they had not remembered ! 
 
 " You must know." 
 
 "I'm afraid I didn't notice." 
 
 Harry couldn't believe it. " You didn't notice? " 
 
 " You were so ill, Harry."
 
 50 The Boiling Stone 
 
 But that to him was only a circumstance. " If I had 
 called out," he said hopefully, " you would have remem- 
 bered," and his face brightened. From thenceforward he 
 might believe that he had not sinned against his canons. 
 
 During his long illness, his long convalescence, Mr. 
 King, busy as he was, made opportunities to visit his son. 
 Under an indifferent surface his heart hungered for a 
 sight of the lad, now gaunt and feeble, who lay so quietly 
 on his bed in the county hospital. The mother did not 
 find she could spare the time, and the boy, not having 
 been taught to look to her for tenderness, did not mark 
 her absence. Hard mothers breed fierce sons, and Harry 
 asked no more affection than he got. 
 
 " Hot stuff," said Dr. Hargreaves, and regretted that 
 the lad would not emerge from the fierv ordeal unscathed. 
 
 " You say his heart is enlarged," said Mr. King. " What 
 does that mean? " 
 
 " He'll have to be careful for a bit." 
 
 "But will it get all right?" 
 
 " Compensation will be set up." 
 
 " Will he be able to play games ? " 
 
 " I expect so." 
 
 " He'd miss them." 
 
 " His physical development is quite remarkable. I've 
 never seen such limbs." 
 
 The father's heart warmed towards this understanding 
 man. "And when he leaves the hospital?" 
 
 " I should send him to the seaside." 
 
 Mr. King had never heard of sending people to the 
 coast in winter. " I've a brother-in-law at Bristol." 
 
 " The boy would be looked after? " 
 
 " Hall is a bachelor, but his housekeeper is a good sort, 
 and Harry was there last year." 
 
 " I dare say it will be all right," and the doctor reflected
 
 The Rolling Stone 51 
 
 that from such a rough-and tumble emerged the hardy 
 Englishman, the pioneer. In Harry's case it would be 
 sink or swim. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Christmas was still in the offing when Harry, with a 
 handbag he was too weak to carry, arrived at the ship- 
 chandler's shop kept by Robert Hall. His uncle, bearing 
 in mind the adventure of the tricycle, suffered a shock 
 when the boy, almost too tired to keep on his feet, stumbled 
 across the threshold. " Lad's in a decline," he thought, 
 unable to believe rheumatic fever responsible for the 
 change; and his chief feeling was irritation. The young- 
 ster had been promising, had been likely to do his stock 
 credit, but this whey-faced, shambling scarecrow ! Mr. 
 Hall sent the boy to his housekeeper and thought no more 
 of him. 
 
 Over the dark, queer-smelling shop with its well-salted 
 customers was a room with rounded windows that looked 
 south-west, and in this room the boy spent the greater 
 part of the next fortnight. Every afternoon the place 
 was flooded with sunshine, and Harry, basking in it, 
 would lie on the window-seat and look through the many 
 square panes on to the bustling quay. A forest of masts 
 stretched from the grey stones to which the nearest boat 
 was warped ; and behind this leafless wood the sun set. 
 Sometimes the forest was thick-set, close black lines 
 against the glow; at others it swayed on the lifting 
 waters ; at others, again, it left gaps through which a 
 path could be seen running west a path which at close 
 of day was liquid fire. This path it was to which Harry, 
 when he was tired of watching the ships load and discharge 
 cargo, turned his eyes. Boat after boat, cast off, gath- 
 ered way and went down the golden road ; and never vessel
 
 52 The Rolling Stone 
 
 left Bristol during those weeks but the boy's heart, the 
 boy's questing spirit, went with her. 
 
 As he grew stronger his uncle, still taking him for 
 granted, began to send him on errands ; and these carried 
 his eager feet on board ship and down into the inner parts, 
 brought him in contact with men from abroad men with 
 gold ear-rings and parakeets and ditty-boxes, brown and 
 black as well as white men. He lingered on the quays and 
 by the docks ; and insensibly, like Samson of old, he gath- 
 ered strength. His sojourn in Bristol bred in the inland 
 child a love of the sea, awoke in him that roving spirit 
 which has peopled the earth. When a fresh term opened 
 at Cheeley, Harry carried back a mind less than ever able 
 to nourish itself with the sawdust of school-books a 
 mind which, like the spars of the outgoing vessels, the 
 vessels that sailed into the sunset, was taken with glory. 
 
 IV 
 
 The February of that year being cold and dry, the 
 school had good skating on the old fish-ponds. These sur- 
 vivals lay in a loop of the river about a mile from 
 Cheeley, and Harry crossed the frozen land between as 
 often as the authorities would permit. Figure-skating 
 provided a vent for his unrest, and for a little he was 
 able to forget the creaking of cordage, the cries and 
 inging of the men at work, the many smells brackish, 
 foreign which had made the Bristol quay a place of 
 glamorous suggestion. When the cold snap showed signs 
 of coming to an end and the ponds were declared out 
 of bounds, the boy was in the full enjoyment of powers 
 new to him. He was learning the Figure Three, and if 
 he were to perfect it, must have practice over the 
 turn. " A snidey thing " the thermometer, and when
 
 The Rolling Stone 
 
 no one was looking he shook it in the hope of causing 
 the mercury to fall. Its continued rise even after this 
 treatment was to him incomprehensible, a piece of 
 spite. 
 
 The thaw came hesitatingly, to be held up by a wind 
 from the north-east, a black wind and a bitter. If the 
 water had been running in every dyke, the grass showing 
 a young growth, Harry must have accepted the inevi- 
 table, but the land was still locked in frozen sleep. His 
 form-master had spoken of a tragedy which was respon- 
 sible for stringency on the part of the authorities ; but 
 Harry, listening, had been unmoved. He had once had 
 his hand told by a gipsy, and she had promised him a 
 long and adventurous career. While Mr. Cobb was de- 
 scribing the return of the disobedient Ellis on a hurdle 
 covered with a brown-and-yellow horse-cloth Harry was 
 saying to himself, " A long life and lots of changes ! A 
 long life and lots of changes ! " 
 
 Two days previously the boys had been skating by 
 moonlight, and Harry's thoughts returned persistently 
 to his experience. He did his lessons ill because, between 
 his eyes and the printed page rose the vision of a sheet 
 of smooth grey ice, stretching from a belt of trees into 
 the colourlessness of frost and flat fields and the wintry 
 night. He did his lessons so ill that when morning school 
 was over he found himself in the master's study waiting 
 to be caned. 
 
 He had not hitherto been in this room, and, with the 
 instinct of a little animal which may need at any moment 
 a means of egress, he subjected it to a quick scrutiny. 
 The brain dominating that stiff, compact body was full 
 of half-formed plans. At any moment circumstance 
 might make one or other of them possible, and for this 
 he was ardently on the look-out. His roving glance,
 
 54 The Rolling Stone 
 
 passing lightly over furniture and bookshelves and less 
 lightly over some African curios, came to rest on a French 
 window which opened into a walled garden. He stepped 
 up to it and studied such details as the height of the 
 walls, the branches of adjacent trees which could be 
 climbed, the lie of the rough ground beyond. The house 
 faced the abbey, the garden sloping towards the river; 
 and so small was Cheeley, such a mere wraith of its 
 monkish self, that although the school was in the heart 
 of the town, its grounds were bounded by rich pasture- 
 lands. The market square, with Corn and Hop Exchange, 
 the lanes branching from it and full of decaying business 
 premises, some fine houses wrapping their age in a cloak 
 of ancient trees, were all that remained of the once famous 
 cathedral town ; and Harry, looking out of Mr. Deacon's 
 window, saw only fields and river and a distant farm. 
 The garden called to him, offering its solitude, its low 
 walls, its position ; and he wondered whether his house- 
 master used the study of an evening, and if so, at what 
 time he went to bed. He knew nothing of the man's' 
 habits, but a young Mrs. Deacon existed stylishly in 
 another part of the house, and it might be that he spent 
 his evenings with her. The fireless grate made this ap- 
 pear likely, and when Mr. Deacon came hurriedly in, 
 though Harry made the customary excuses, offered the 
 customary pleas, accepted his fate with the customary 
 air of submitting, because he must, to rank injustice, 
 his mind continued busy with the garden-door and Mr. 
 Deacon's habits. With regard to these latter, a cautious 
 study of the young master's face helped him no whit. 
 It was fair to redness, a nondescript in faces, the sort for 
 which Harry, seeking quality, had no use. Contrasting 
 it swiftly, contemptuously, with that of the head master,
 
 The Rolling Stone 55 
 
 he decided to give the plan now maturing itself in his 
 brain " a go." 
 
 To keep awake was easy, and at twelve that night a 
 shadow stole through the dimly lighted house. Harry, 
 skates slung round his neck and boots in hand, pushed 
 open the baize door which divided Mr. Deacon's life and 
 house into two parts. The key had been turned in the 
 study door, and as it was rolled back the wards clicked 
 with an unoiled, metallic sound. During the afternoon 
 Harry had discovered that the master's bedroom was 
 over the study. He paused to listen, but no further 
 sound broke the quiet. As wind drowns sound, the 
 boy could have wished the night had not been so still. 
 He stole cautiously across the study and, sitting on the 
 mat before the door, put on his boots. Fear, not so much 
 of discovery and punishment as of being prevented, made 
 his ears feel as if they were growing. Unhasping the 
 glass door and drawing it to behind him, he stepped lightly 
 on to the frozen grass. The night was calling to him and 
 the spirit in him that loved change and risk was answering 
 on a jubilant note. He scudded across the lawn and in 
 a twinkling was over the wall. His feet, crunching the 
 rime, broke some thin plates of ice, and he heard the 
 little crisp sounds with a sense of rapture. The light of 
 the waning moon was bright enough for him to see his 
 way, and, in an ecstasy of being, he sprang and danced as 
 he ran joyously from field to field and along the road. He 
 was free. He had left behind him the routine, the tame- 
 ness, the subjection. For an hour or two he could be 
 himself. 
 
 Arrived at the ponds, Harry found a long lane of 
 smooth ice, snow-banks on either side, a low-lit whiteness 
 and blackness that faded into grey mist. The loneliness
 
 56 The Rolling Stone 
 
 was entirely to his taste, and for two hours he practised 
 the Three, also the sweeping curves of Figure Eight, 
 absorbed and happy, a little engine working full belt. 
 As the moon declined, however, practical considerations 
 began to intrude themselves, and he was presently trotting 
 homeward. He was tired, but he had had his way, and 
 if the frost lasted, might look forward to another night 
 of freedom. 
 
 In this hope he vaulted the low wall of Mr. Deacon's 
 garden and made for the house. Darkness was creeping 
 over the earth, hiding the saliences, making the school- 
 buildings something black and indistinguishable ; but 
 Harry's seeking hand fell lightly on the glass door. It 
 yielded to his cautious push, and, stepping in, he fastened 
 it securely, then sat down and began to unlace his boots. 
 On the polished boards by the window the lace-tags fell 
 with a tiny click which made his heart leap. He had put 
 off freedom, he had left his courage with the night and 
 was again a boy under authority, his one thought how 
 to escape the punishment he had merited, how to pass 
 from mat to carpet without a sound, how to climb the 
 stairs without making them creak, how to slip past his 
 schoolfellows' beds in the dormitory without being 
 seen. 
 
 The boots were safely shed and Harry was stealing out 
 of the study when the unforeseen happened. Mr. Deacon 
 was plagued with unsound teeth, and, wakening to pain, 
 had got up in search of a remedy. Where was the 
 Bunter's Nervine? Only a brown stain on the shelf 
 above the washstand showed the anguished man where it 
 had stood. He remembered then that he had had it 
 that afternoon in the study, and was on his way, candle 
 in hand, to fetch it when Harry opened the door. For a 
 moment master and boy faced each other in horrified
 
 The Rolling Stone 57 
 
 silence, Mr. Deacon forgetting that his teeth ached and 
 Harry conscious of that sinking with which we greet force 
 at once superior and menacing. 
 
 " What are you doing here ? " Collecting himself, the 
 master led the boy back into the cold, dark room. 
 
 Harry, caught skates in hand, thought it best to give 
 a truthful account of the expedition. 
 
 In Mr. Deacon's ear, however, the tale rang false. 
 Ridiculous to suppose that a boy had broken out of the 
 house in order to practise figure-skating; to practise it 
 all by himself, too, on a distant pond. 
 
 " It was market-day," he said severely, as he reached 
 for his cane, " the monthly market." 
 
 Harry, a little puzzled, acquiesced. 
 
 " Why couldn't you say at once that you went to the 
 booths and theatre? " 
 
 " I didn't, sir." 
 
 "You didn't?" 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " You went through the town." 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " You couldn't have got to the Old Ponds without 
 going down the High Street." 
 
 " I went across the fields." 
 
 " You mean to tell me you went all that way 
 round? " 
 
 " I went across the fields." 
 
 Mr. Deacon caned him, firstly for being out without 
 leave, secondly for having lied about it ; and Harry would 
 have accepted the punishment without troubling his head 
 if, when it was over, the master had not talked for some 
 minutes on the iniquity of trying to impose on him. The 
 voice, which fell exasperatingly on the boy's ear, droned 
 on, and a little hot feeling began to stir in Harry's heart,
 
 58 The Rolling Stone 
 
 to quicken, to increase. He felt a trickle over the scalp, 
 and the trickle made him interject little breathless 
 answers. They had the effect of further annoying Mr. 
 Deacon. Why could not the boy own up to what was 
 self-evident ? Instead : 
 
 " I'm not accustomed, sir, to being told I'm a liar even 
 by a master." 
 
 The hazel eyes stared defiance out of a white face. 
 
 " If you are impertinent I'll report you to the head 
 master." 
 
 " I wish you would." 
 
 " Write me out a thousand lines." 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 Harry marched off to the dormitory, uneasy but carry- 
 ing off some of the honours. He had not knuckled under 
 to " Bert " Deacon's given name was Herbert and 
 it was a shame that when a boy did speak the truth he 
 should not be believed. If he were reported to Dr. Waugh 
 he would continue to speak it, and he had no doubt not 
 a shadow of a doubt but that the great man would 
 know it. Nevertheless Dr. Waugh was to him as awful, 
 though not as unsympathetic, as his mother's god; he 
 was, too, of the same stuff; and Harry knew the gods 
 disapproved of everything pleasurable that a boy 
 did. 
 
 He sat the following afternoon in the long classroom, 
 a sheet of paper on the desk before him. He should have 
 been writing out the thousand lines, but his pen was 
 dry and the piece of quicksilver he thought of as his 
 body was still. Not that he was at rest, but that his 
 mind was concentrated on a momentous question.
 
 The Rolling Stone 59 
 
 Should he or should he not? 
 
 Under the question was a mounting sense of excitement, 
 a feeling that warmed him, that tingled through that 
 quiescent body. The vision of a ship sailing down the 
 sea-roads, the vision he had brought from Bristol and 
 which had been temporarily blotted out by skating, had 
 returned. He saw it now, with himself on board, himself 
 a part of that straining, leaping life; saw the roll and 
 heave of water, the slope of decks, the strange crying 
 of birds saw it so clearly that he passed his tongue over 
 his lips for the salt that should have been on them, saw 
 it with such longing that he must lay his head on the 
 desk with a dry sob. 
 
 A boy came into the classroom for a book he had 
 forgotten a whistling, careless boy, who, glancing at 
 Harry, remembered that he had broken out of the house 
 to go skating. 
 
 " I say, you've got a nerve." 
 
 " Bert didn't believe me." 
 
 " The chap's a putrid ass. Can't think where the old 
 War-horse got him. What's he given you? " 
 
 " A thousand lines." 
 
 " Phew ! " 
 
 He lingered for a few minutes, hunting in impossible 
 places for the lost book. " I say, Bear, next time you 
 get up to larks, you might let me come too? " 
 
 Harry shook his head. " There won't be any next 
 time. I'm fed up with this place." 
 
 He had had enough of Cheeley, where if you did tell the 
 truth you weren't believed. He had had enough of sit- 
 ting on a form at a desk. He had had enough of being
 
 60 The Rolling Stone 
 
 caged and driven, of being shut in such a little, little 
 cage. 
 
 " Oh, well," said the other boy vaguely, and went off, 
 whistling. 
 
 Mr. Deacon, looking idly out of an upper window while 
 he waited for Mrs. Deacon in order that they might re- 
 turn some calls and drink some lukewarm tea in the draw- 
 ing-rooms of other masters, had his interest quickened 
 by the sight of a small boy walking down the road. 
 Harry should have been shut in the long schoolroom, 
 at work on the thousand lines. Mr. Deacon stared, but 
 there was no mistaking the thick-set figure, the air as 
 of an engine, compact, well oiled, and with every part 
 in working order. In one hand the boy held a cricketing- 
 bag. He was walking at a round pace almost, Mr. 
 Deacon thought whimsically, as if he had to catch a 
 train. 
 
 " I told him to stay in till the lines were written," said 
 the master to himself. " The young beggar ! I'll give 
 it to him when he comes back." 
 
 But Harry did not come back.
 
 Chapter V 
 
 "\ "IT TILL they take Harry back at the school? " 
 %/%/ Robert Hall, standing beside his brother-in- 
 T T law on the quay-side, was watching an old 
 tub, laden with fruit from Spain, make fast. Unless they 
 had been misinformed, his errant nephew was on board. 
 
 " I haven't asked them to." 
 
 " Thought you were so keen on book-learning." 
 
 " The boy has had his chance." 
 
 " Found you couldn't keep his nose to the grindstone, 
 eh?" 
 
 Mr. King nodded gloomily. To him scholarship was 
 a key which unlocked doors. Through these doors, closed 
 to him, their father, his other sons would walk. They 
 would walk away from him, and he would be content. 
 He had toiled in order to give them the opportunity ; they 
 had rewarded him by grasping it. When he saw them 
 moving on an equality among the great ones of the earth 
 he would be more than content. The wind blew out the 
 skirts of his black shabby coat, the coat of a man who 
 sat all day on an office-stool. 
 
 " I don't know as it matters," continued Robert Hall. 
 " There's some born to bide at home and look after 
 things ; but there's others as take their education from 
 going up and down the earth." 
 
 "'A rolling stone '" said Mr. King bitterly. "I 
 wanted my boys to do well." 
 
 " Ay, it's all doing, but what's doing? This little chap 
 
 61
 
 62 The Rolling Stone 
 
 of yours '11 be a man, and you can't be more'n that." 
 
 " You are not ambitious, Robert." He spoke a little 
 fretfully, for his brother-in-law had a way of declaring 
 all sorts of fine, embossed vessels to be storehouses of 
 rubbish. 
 
 " What are you going to do with Richard? " 
 
 The father smiled, that smile of confidence in an ideal. 
 Richard who had taken scholarships, who was going to 
 Oxford, Richard would justify him. 
 
 " Civil Service," he said modestly, and saw his son dis- 
 pensing justice, taking with an easy swagger his place 
 among the rulers, receiving after years of honourable 
 service, a star, a riband . . . 
 
 " A perch for a tame bird, seed and water, and perhaps 
 a bath! And James? " 
 
 But Mr. King did not answer. He had been watching 
 the orange-laden ship and had, at last, caught sight of 
 that for which he was looking. Towards him, across the 
 worn grey stones of the quay, came a blithe lad, in his 
 hand an old red-and-yellow carpet-bag. Sea winds had 
 blown away the last vestiges of the delicacy left by 
 rheumatic fever, and Harry was twice the boy who a 
 month earlier had gone down the school road in a hurry. 
 The little craft caught sight of Mr. King, whose city 
 clothes made him an unusual figure in the waterside 
 crowd, and for a moment hung in the wind. That figure 
 reminded the boy of a certain strap hanging from a 
 certain nail. He had intended, on reaching Bristol, to 
 take the few shillings owing to him and ship again, this 
 time on a longer voyage. 
 
 '* The young devil thinks he is going to have his hide 
 tanned," said the father, and the fact that he was glad 
 to see his boy, to be relieved of an unacknowledged 
 anxiety, brightened his face. Harry, reading the signs
 
 The Polling Stone 63 
 
 aright and, on the whole, pleased to see a familiar figure, 
 came up to the men. 
 
 " Where have you been? " 
 
 " To Spain." 
 
 "Why did you go?" 
 
 " Dimno." His going was ancient history. 
 
 " Well, come on now to the station. There's a train in 
 half an hour." 
 
 Harry yielded without so much as a backward glance. 
 He walked beside his father, answering that father's ques- 
 tions as to the voyage opening out, in fact, as soon 
 as he saw that he was to escape punishment. Under his 
 prattle, however, lay resolve, the resolve to return. Hav- 
 ing once asserted his independence, he could do it 
 again. 
 
 And Mr. King was conscious of this underlying hard- 
 ness. Harry could feed and clothe himself and Harry 
 knew it. 
 
 The father had realized that the stairway of books was 
 not one his boy could climb, and he knew of no other that 
 led to social consideration. If there were no Jacob's lad- 
 der for Harry, however, at least he should have a trade. 
 In the railway pic were plums for the " little Jack Hom- 
 ers," if only they would be " good boys " ; and, whether or 
 no Harry " steadied down," trained fingers would enable 
 him, at all times and in all countries, to earn a living. 
 
 II 
 
 " I want to go to sea." 
 " You are going into the works." 
 " I want to get about a bit and see the world." 
 " A right engineer gets about nearly as much as a sailor 
 and earns better money."
 
 64 The Rolling Stone 
 
 Harry considered. " They have engineers on board 
 ship." 
 
 " Later on you might have a try for the Navy." 
 
 In the end it was agreed between father and son that 
 Harry should sandwich between the hard slices of appren- 
 ticeship any meat of travel that might offer. In this 
 way, during the next five years his feet trod the cobble- 
 stones of Copenhagen, he saw Stamboul with the morning 
 sun upon its domes, and drove more than once through 
 a stiff gale in the Bay. 
 
 He had gone into the railway shops a little reluctantly, 
 but given a job on a nut-lathe, found it more to his taste 
 than anything that had had to do with books. Cleverness 
 Harry regarded as a quality that had nothing to do 
 with capacity. Though proud of Richard as a credit to 
 the family, he had for his scholarship a secret contempt. 
 He felt, though he could not have found words to express 
 his thought, that the scholar is the amateur, playing at 
 life, that his brilliant display is of no value, that a man 
 should spend his strength making something of practical 
 value to the community. The opportunity to do this hav- 
 ing been given him, he accepted it without enthusiasm 
 but with the conviction that he was on the right tack. 
 Though his inclinations favoured a wandering life, a life 
 of fighting and adventure, in him was the sober idealism 
 of his father and the strange quality of a dead grand- 
 father, presumably Russian, who, fleeing from tyranny, 
 had scattered the seed of his dreams on English soil. 
 
 "How did you get on?" asked Mr. King, joining the 
 boy as he left the works at the end of the first day. 
 
 " All right." 
 
 " There are as good chaps in the engineering shops as 
 anywhere else." 
 
 Harry, who had been listening to the men's talk, wished
 
 The Rolling Stone '65 
 
 that Mr. King could have heard it. He had noticed how- 
 ever, that on his father's appearance other men fell 
 silent. 
 
 " They play shove-ha'penny." He had seen a group 
 of middle-aged men in the toolmakers' shop intent on 
 their game. 
 
 " The apprentices may," said Mr. King, " but don't 
 you follow their example. Your foreman, now do as 
 he does and you'll be all right." 
 
 The foreman had been among the players; his eyes 
 had had a glint in them, his hatchet-face had been eager, 
 it had been evident he was enjoying himself. Harry re- 
 solved that he would try his hand at shove-ha'penny. 
 
 " You're in a fine muck," said his mother, as he fol- 
 lowed Mr. King into the house. " Take the dipper and 
 go out into the yard." 
 
 " He can't wash in the yard," expostulated Mr. King. 
 
 " He can't wash in my clean scullery." 
 
 " But, er the people next door . . ." 
 
 " They won't be looking over the wall, and besides, 
 he isn't a girl." 
 
 Harry, discarding his greasy clothes for an old but 
 clean suit, proceeded to cram his leisure hours with oc- 
 cupation. 
 
 " Born in a hurry," said Mrs. King as she watched him 
 bolt his tea, " and been in a hurry ever since." But be- 
 fore long a period was set to Harry's hurryings. While 
 filing an axle his shirt-sleeve was caught in the machinery. 
 Being stout, the stuff held, and though Harry, awake to 
 his danger, wrenched at it with all his strength, the arm 
 was drawn in. Such accidents being of frequent occur- 
 rence in engineering shops, the limb was quickly extri- 
 cated and the bone set. Harry was told to go home, 
 and, though a little dizzy, it did not occur to him to go
 
 66 The Rolling Stone 
 
 in any but the usual way. With coat slung across the 
 damaged arm for, much as he liked the limelight, he 
 was not proud of having been caught napping he stag- 
 gered through the streets. One of the curates of St. 
 Luke's passed him with a greeting, but the words, though 
 they reached his ear, had an impersonal sound, and he did 
 not answer. 
 
 "Do you see that boy?" said the curate to his com- 
 panion. " His father attends our church. Shocking, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 The friend, glancing after Harry, noticed only the 
 uncertain gait. " There ought to be a law that lads of 
 that age are not to be supplied with anything stronger 
 than lemonade ! " 
 
 As Harry came out of the gates the timekeeper, a 
 family man, had asked if he would like somebody to go 
 home with him, and the boy had shaken his head. He did 
 not feel ill, only languid. His arm ached, and between 
 him and the sounds and movement of the town was a thin 
 mist ; he looked through it and saw men as trees walking. 
 He himself was lapped in a curious stillness, and though 
 he saw and heard, the voices and the figures remained 
 outside the mist. It was odd but not unpleasant. He 
 wished, however, that it were not so great an effort to lift 
 and set down his feet, he could get on more quickly. As 
 he turned into the quiet road, lined with houses of which 
 the last was his home, his fancy ran before him to the end. 
 He saw it vividly the house Mr. King had built with 
 his savings ! One step and another step. Strange how 
 often he seemed to be slipping over the curb, and now the 
 trees were as men walking and the houses leaned out of 
 the perpendicular. How funny of them ! He wished he 
 could laugh, but for some reason laughter was beyond
 
 The Rolling Stone 67 
 
 him ; all he could do was to lift those heavy feet one after 
 another, one after the other. . . . 
 
 When Mrs. King came to the door she found her son 
 lying in an untidy heap on the rough granite of the step. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The arm healed by first intention, but not before 
 Harry's restless energy had turned three admiring little 
 sisters into pillars of exasperation. " I hate you," said 
 Bet, and Nancy joined in the chorus; even little Mab, 
 mourning a beheaded doll, muttered, " 'Ates you ! Bad 
 boy ! 'Ates you ! " 
 
 At a loose end, Harry took his idle hands into the 
 highways and byways, and the little girls, hugging 
 menaced treasures, rejoiced to see him go. His mother, 
 too busy with her domestic duties to spare time for him, 
 merely put a perfunctory question. 
 
 " Where are you going? " 
 
 "Up the street." 
 
 "Ay, but where?" 
 
 "For a walk." 
 
 " Then don't get into mischief." 
 
 At the top of the town was a little pub in which congre- 
 gated those abandoned boys who play Snooker and Crown 
 and Anchor. 
 
 They also drank a little beer. Harry joined them in 
 the games but not in the beer his father did not ap- 
 prove of beer-drinking and his father was a good man. 
 Good? Did good mean a person who refrained because it 
 was his nature to refrain? He, Harry, meant to experi- 
 ment with the forbidden fruit. He only did not drink beer 
 because he did not like the taste.
 
 68 The Rolling Stone 
 
 IV 
 
 When Richard and James came from school for the 
 holidays they found Harry in possession of the attic 
 to which age gave them the prior claim. His belongings 
 had overflowed into every drawer of the chest and he 
 occupied the more comfortable of the two beds. 
 
 " Look here, Bear, you've got to muck in with James ; 
 that's my bed." 
 
 " It isn't, then. This is my room ; I have it all the 
 year round and you're only home for the holidays. I 
 say, James, stop that." 
 
 James was industriously turning out the contents of 
 the middle drawer, preparatory to replacing them with 
 the clothes he had brought from school. The only notice 
 he took was to dump a heap of shirts on the floor. 
 
 In the scrimmage that ensued it looked for a moment 
 as if Harry would get the better of it. This could not 
 be allowed. The youngster was already a good deal too 
 cocky, and seniority must prevail. Richard intervening, 
 matters were arranged to the satisfaction of the older 
 boys, and Harry, darkly surmising that a day would come, 
 accepted his fate. The fact was that, though nothing 
 would have induced him to give up his rights or other 
 people's without a struggle, the return of his brothers 
 had excited and pleased him. He was a full-blown ap- 
 prentice, a wage-earner, but the others were public-school 
 men! 
 
 From the moment of their arrival he had hung about, 
 listening to their talk of Cheeley, and, almost, he found 
 it in his wild heart to envy them. 
 
 " You going to bed? " he asked Richard. It was after 
 ten and the older boys had begun to peel.
 
 The Rolling Stone 69 
 
 "I'm not particular. Why?" 
 
 "Let's have a jape." 
 
 Richard rolled up his tie and put it on the mantel- 
 shelf. 
 
 "What sort of a jape?" 
 
 " I dare you to play Captain Webb." A spirit in his 
 feet had drawn Harry down the room, and he now stood 
 by the hearth, his eyes observant of his brother. Richard 
 with his well-cut clothes, his toilet niceties, his lordly 
 manner, was to the roughly dressed lad the incarnation 
 of splendour. Harry decided to let his mother go to 
 chapel by herself the following Sunday; he would accom- 
 pany Richard to church. He would let the railway town 
 know this was his brother! 
 
 " Captain Webb? " Richard got out his razors and 
 put them on the washstand. Razors ! 
 
 " Yes ; you know when he dashes in and saves the 
 child." 
 
 James, having unpacked to the last tie and handker- 
 chief, sauntered idly towards them. " What's this ? " 
 
 Harry turned. James did not count; he was neither 
 this nor that. " You daren't play Captain Webb from 
 the chest of drawers to our bed." 
 
 "What jump?" 
 
 " Yes. You drive across, then swim over and get the 
 child just as it's sinking for the third time!" 
 
 The others looked at the gulf, full a dozen feet from 
 chest to bed, and Richard shook his head. " No, Bear, 
 can't be done." 
 
 "Pooh! I've done it." 
 
 " When the bed was nearer the chest." 
 
 " No, as they are." 
 
 " Go on, Old Blow-Hard." 
 
 "I'll show you, then."
 
 70 The Rolling Stone 
 
 Swinging himself on to the chest, he sprang off, alight- 
 ing on the mattress of the double bed in a spread-eagle. 
 Working his arms and legs, he propelled himself smoothly 
 over the further side. 
 
 " See? You dive, then you swim. The child is here." 
 He reappeared, holding the boots Richard had just kicked 
 off. " Here it is." 
 
 " I'll have a shot." Richard climbed on to the chest 
 of drawers and jumped. James followed. The leap was 
 well within their powers. 
 
 " Let's see who can do it quickest," said Harry, after 
 each had rescued the boots as often as he wished. 
 
 " How? " James asked the question James who had 
 been nicknamed by his father " the Old Codger " because 
 in his veins ran something more like blood than quick- 
 silver. 
 
 " We'll each do it three times running and time our- 
 selves by Richard's watch." 
 
 " All right." 
 
 The striking of active bodies in quick succession on the 
 mattress had pushed it aside, leaving the iron framework 
 of the bed exposed. Moreover, the leap proving easily 
 negotiable and no interruption coming from outside, the 
 boys had grown careless. They laughed and shouted as 
 they jumped. 
 
 " I'll go first," said Richard, handing his watch to 
 James. Though Harry had invented the game, he must 
 be made to remember he was only the little brother; 
 and Harry was content. He stood looking on. Rich- 
 ard's jumps were neat and finished, he was like a cat; but 
 James scrambled, he took off clumsily, he fell like a sack 
 of potatoes, he did not at once swim headlong over the 
 side. " I'm quicker than James," thought the little 
 brother.
 
 The Rolling Stone 71 
 
 When his turn came he launched himself laughingly 
 into space. He felt sure of his landing, so sure that he 
 did not look before he sprang away. If only he could do 
 the three dives in as short a time as Richard ; not so 
 neatly, of course, but in as short a time ! His heart was 
 whispering to him of a quicker leap and a quicker. 
 
 James, clumsy and heavy, had thrust the mattress yet 
 further from the iron edge of the bedstead, and Harry, 
 leaping too hastily, fell short. Picking himself up, he 
 staggered to the nearest chair. 
 
 " I've cut my leg." 
 
 " I don't wonder ! " Conscious that he had not done 
 well, James felt an ugly satisfaction in his brother's mis- 
 hap, felt it until he saw the cut. " Oh, I say, Bear . . ." 
 
 " Here, let's see," and then Richard too stood silent. 
 
 Falling with considerable force on the iron edge, Harry 
 had laid open his leg in a diagonal cut, a couple of inches 
 below the knee. The blood was running down the limb, 
 dripping on to the oilcloth, gathering in a dark little pool. 
 
 " Why, you've cut it to the bone ! " cried James, realiz- 
 ing, with some excitement, that the hardness behind the 
 gash was actually the bone of his brother's leg. 
 
 " Horrible ! " said Richard, and proceeded, sombrely, 
 to hunt for a handkerchief. " I'll do it up for you." 
 
 Harry was twisting himself round so as to get a glimpse 
 of the bone. He was more interested than horrified. 
 " Never seen one of my bones before. You know, I broke 
 my arm last half, but it didn't come through." 
 
 " What will father say? " asked James, waking to an- 
 other aspect of the matter. 
 
 Mr. King was a man who kept order in his household, 
 exercising a wholesome discipline. They should have 
 been in bed and asleep. The boys looked at each other 
 in consternation. Even Richard, that great man who had
 
 72 The Rolling Stone 
 
 won a scholarship which would take him to Balliol, 
 trembled as he thought of the just wrath of that greater 
 man, his father. 
 
 " And who," pursued James, " is going to tell him ? " 
 
 Richard, by this time busily bandaging the cut in the 
 rough-and-ready fashion of the football field, showed no 
 inclination to claim his rights as the eldest; and James 
 was never one to put himself forward. Remained Harry, 
 who felt that his father would blame him as originator 
 of the unlucky " jape." The others, being only that day 
 from school, would be treated with leniency, but there 
 was little hope for him. Glancing at his leg, he saw that 
 the blood was soaking through the white bandage. His 
 father would be very angry, justifiably angry. It would 
 be wise, perhaps, to wait till morning. 
 
 "Don't let's bother about it tonight." 
 
 Richard, washing his ensanguined hands, wondered if 
 they might put off the reckoning. " Well, but there's 
 your leg. . . ." 
 
 " That's just it. I'm always getting into scrapes." 
 
 "What do you think, James?" 
 
 " I don't know." He had decided that he would do 
 nothing. The accident, such an unlooked-for ending to 
 a silly but harmless game, made him feel angry. He had 
 not deserved it. The Codger was a good lad and, as his 
 mother said, no trouble. It annoyed him to think that 
 the first evening he was back from school he should have 
 got into mischief. He hadn't either ; it was Harry 
 Harry who was always in hot water. Oh, confound 
 Harry ! 
 
 Richard, catching a glimpse of his brother's set face, 
 saw that " Old Jimmy " did not mean to help. 
 
 " The pater will hold us responsible." 
 
 That was the worst of it. Harry had invented the
 
 The Rolling Stone 73 
 
 game but they would be held responsible. " I don't 
 care." 
 
 Richard, knowing that in face, height, and build he 
 resembled his father, struck one of Mr. King's attitudes 
 and menaced the others with an uplifted hand. His con- 
 sternation was passing. Sufficient unto the day . . . 
 " At your age ought to have known better thought I 
 could have trusted you a bad example for Harry ! As 
 long as he's here by himself no trouble no trouble at all 
 but directly you come home . . ." 
 
 A chuckle from Harry. 
 
 " Oh, stow it, Richard ! " But the Codger's voice was 
 less morose. " Look here, you can do as you like, but 
 I'm going to bed," and he began to push the mattress 
 into place. 
 
 " Me, too," said Harry, and tried to limp across from 
 chair to bed. " Wow ! this fellow's got me." He could 
 not put his foot to the ground. 
 
 Richard, with considerable effort for Harry, though 
 short, was even then heavy lifted him on to the bed. 
 " Is it still bleeding? " 
 
 " It feels as if it were. Don't you think you'd better 
 put another handkerchief over it? " 
 
 James, at full length, was beginning to feel sleepy. 
 " It'll mess the bed if you don't." 
 
 Richard readjusted the bandage. " How's that? " 
 
 " All right." Supported by the springy mattress, the 
 leg felt easier. 
 
 " Comfortable? Do you think you'll go to sleep? " 
 
 " Rather." 
 
 Turning out the gas, Richard got into bed. It was 
 late and he was tired. He thought kindly of the little 
 brother on the far side of the room and, hoping the cut 
 would not prove serious, fell asleep. James also slept,
 
 74 The Rolling Stone 
 
 and even Harry was able to doze. But not for long. 
 
 " I say, Richard ! " 
 
 A grunt. Richard turned over and slept again. 
 
 "Richard!" 
 
 " Um-m." 
 
 " Wish you'd turn up the gas." 
 
 " What for ? " Richard's grasp on events had slipped. 
 
 " My leg feels damp ; I believe it's coming through the 
 other handkerchief." 
 
 "Oh, go to sleep." 
 
 ""I can't." The voice dropped unhappily, almost 
 broke, and Richard came to himself. 
 
 " Let's have a look at it. By gum, yes, it's still bleed- 
 ing." He went to the drawer that contained his hosiery. 
 " We shall have to go slow, I've only two more handker- 
 chiefs." 
 
 " That'll be enough." 
 
 " Not if it goes on till morning." 
 
 " It's nearly morning now." 
 
 " Oh, no." 
 
 " I've been awake hours and hours." 
 
 Richard looked at his watch. " It's ten minutes to 
 two." 
 
 He went back to bed, and Harry, half-relieved to find 
 that his leg was not bleeding as freely as he had supposed 
 yet half-disappointed, settled down again. To Richard 
 it seemed as if he had only been asleep a minute when 
 the little brother's voice once more broke in upon his 
 dreams. 
 
 " Richard, it's trickling down my leg." 
 
 Four or five times that night he was called on to minister 
 to Harry. Considering the size of the cut and that the 
 bone had been laid bare, the bleeding was not excessive. 
 A very little blood, however, goes a long way; and, in
 
 The Rolling Stone 75 
 
 spite of the boys' care, the sheets showed a confusion of 
 crimson. 
 
 " Mother will be on to us about this," said Richard 
 at last, but the long hours of pain and sleeplessness had 
 made Harry indifferent. 
 
 " I don't care." 
 
 Richard, tightening the knot of his last handkerchief, 
 saw that the boy's face, always of the milky tone which 
 holds a suggestion of blue, was shadowed almost to grey- 
 ness. " We ought to have gone to the pater last night, 
 I can't think why we didn't." 
 
 " It doesn't matter." 
 
 The increasing brightness of the morning sky was sham- 
 ing the gas-jet, and Richard put his hand to the tap. 
 " I wish we had now." 
 
 No need that day to call the boys, they were up and 
 dressing as soon as the household was astir. As they 
 moved about they conferred as to what should be done, 
 but without coming to a conclusion. How were they to 
 account to their parents for the state of Harry's leg? 
 They went to breakfast with lagging steps and, not know- 
 ing what to say, said nothing. 
 
 "Where's Henry?" 
 
 Mr. King had discovered the empty chair. The ques- 
 tion not being addressed to any one in particular, was 
 left unanswered. 
 
 "Isn't he up yet?" 
 
 He turned to James, who sat on his left; and the 
 Codger, drinking coffee, murmured something and began 
 to cough. 
 
 " You don't think so ? " Mr. King, the bacon on his
 
 76 The Rolling Stone 
 
 plate half-eaten, pushed back his chair. " He isn't often 
 late." 
 
 Going to the foot of the stairs, he called on the absent 
 one, who, though he heard, thought it advisable to lie low. 
 
 " Henry ! Henry ! " A pause. " The boy must be 
 asleep ! " Conscious of something unusual in the atmos- 
 phere, Mr. King, forgetful of congealing bacon-fat, ran 
 up the stairs. " Henry ! Get up." 
 
 " I can't, father." 
 
 " Eh? " 
 
 " I've got a bad leg." 
 
 " Now then, none of your shamming, you lazy young 
 dog ! " He thought the boy was scheming for a day off 
 with his brothers. " Let's have a look at it." 
 
 Harry, pulling himself up in bed, displayed the blood- 
 stained bandages. 
 
 " Hullo ! What is this ? " Mr. King, still unbelieving, 
 unfastened them. He knew boys, a humbugging set of 
 rascals! The blood, drying on the handkerchief, had 
 glued it to the leg, and Mr. King, giving it a tug, was con- 
 fronted suddenly with the gaping cut. His face changed. 
 "How did you do it?" 
 
 " I fell against the edge of the bed." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Last night." 
 
 "Why didn't you let me know? " 
 
 " I thought it would be all right in the morning." 
 
 The attic window was between the bed and the chest 
 of drawers. Mr. King did not stay for further parley. 
 Harry heard his steps on the oilcloth of the stairs, heard 
 a door bang, and from his eyrie saw his father running 
 up the street. The coat-tails of the long black figure 
 were flying, the hat was set on carelessly, he seemed to
 
 The Boiling Stone 77 
 
 be wearing seven-league boots. In a moment he had 
 reached the corner, turned it and was out of siffht. 
 
 Could he the vounsr heart swelled with importance- 
 oh, could he be going for the doctor?
 
 Chapter VI 
 
 HARRY, on the horsehair sofa at the end of the 
 long room, was wishing that Satan he pre- 
 ferred Satan, as that agency gave more in- 
 teresting results would find employment for his idle 
 hands. His leg, still useless, was stretched stiffly out. 
 The doctor had told him that very soon the cut would 
 be healed and 'the limb as good as ever, but the " very 
 soon " of middle age seemed to poor Harry " very long." 
 His sofa was across the one window of the lodging-house 
 parlour, and from where he lay he could see the tide of 
 holiday-makers flowing towards the beach; he could even 
 hear the shouts of children at play on the sands. On 
 reaching the lodging-house he had been settled on the sofa. 
 The others had gone on an exploring expedition, but 
 Henry must rest. 
 
 Turning impatiently from the window, he let his dis- 
 contented glance rove about the room. What an ugly 
 room ! On the walls was a shiny paper such as his father 
 had put over the bathroom at home, but the bathroom 
 paper was in blue-and-white squares and this was muddy 
 brown. The bathroom, too, smelt of soap and hot but 
 fresh air ; it gave him a peculiarly pleasant sensation. 
 This place had quite the opposite effect ; it spoke to him, 
 not of a clean freshness, but of food. He liked the smell 
 of roasting and frying meats he thought it, indeed, a 
 most delicious scent, far above roses ; but in the air of 
 
 this room lingered the smell of eaten meats t In the 
 
 78
 
 The Rolling Stone 79 
 
 centre was an oblong table covered with dark, shiny 
 American cloth. The legs of it had been hacked by gen- 
 erations of young seaside visitors, and Harry looked at 
 it thoughtfully. It was reminiscent of all the meals 
 that had been eaten in this room. It spoke of stained 
 knives, of plates greasy with particles of skin and fat ; 
 but it spoke also of restless feet feet that twined round 
 the chair-legs, that struck in their exuberant life against 
 the solid mahogany, denting and scoring it. Harry 
 sighed. When would he be able to hack a table-leg again? 
 
 The note of comfort in the room was a warm red carpet. 
 It rolled from his sofa to the mahogany sideboard at the 
 end of the oblong space, the wave of colour being broken 
 by faint hints of pattern. To the owner it was evidently 
 an article to be preserved with care, for narrow widths 
 of oilcloth had been laid from door to fireplace, before 
 the sideboard and by the table. The little shiny paths 
 caught Harry's eye ; underneath them the carpet would be 
 a yet warmer and richer red. He promised himself that 
 as soon as he could get about, he would prise up the tacks 
 and have a look. He liked the carpet ; red was his fa- 
 vourite colour, and it was thick, thicker than the carpet in 
 the dining-room at home. A rummy idea to put oilcloth 
 down here and there! His mother said she had six pairs 
 of feet running over her floors, but equalized the wear and 
 tear by changing her carpets round. He felt he could not 
 approve of the little oilcloth paths ; it showed in the land- 
 lady, Mrs. Gudge, a fussy mind, and fussy landladies were 
 a terror. 
 
 Why had his parents taken these particular rooms? 
 He had heard them say they feared Northpool would be 
 full and that they would have a difficulty in securing lodg- 
 ings. Left in the station waiting-room while they went 
 to see what could be got, he had felt a little anxious.
 
 80 The Rolling Stone 
 
 Supposing all the lodgings in Northpool were taken, what 
 would they the whole family of them do ? Would 
 they be allowed to sleep on the beach? He had heard of 
 people being packed, heads and tails like sardines, on the 
 billiard-room table of a public-house; and he thought of 
 himself lying among his brothers and sisters, with his 
 mother at one end, his father at the other. But no, his 
 father would never consent to take refuge in a public- 
 house, it would be the beach for them ; and he wondered 
 whether they would know when the tide turned or whether 
 it would come coldly lapping round them in the night. 
 As a bedroom the beach did not seem to him all that 
 could be desired, and while his mind was still anxiously 
 concentrated on the problem of bed or no bed his parents 
 had come back. They had been wonderfully fortunate ; 
 the first house at which they had called had had rooms to 
 let. They had been jubilant over their success, and 
 Harry, too, had been pleased. No beach, no chilly, creep- 
 ing water for him, but a bed under a roof. As he lay on 
 the sofa, following with his glance the pattern on the, 
 little oilcloth paths, he felt less pleased. There was some- 
 thing about the room . . . 
 
 For one thing, it was dark. Mrs. Gudge, saying the 
 sun would take the colour out of her carpet, had insisted 
 on lowering the Venetian blind. One could, of course, 
 look between the slats, but it had been another proof 
 that she was fussy. He hated a dark room. Why, he 
 could hardly get the sense of the illuminated texts that 
 hung on the walls ! " God is Love " was over the fire- 
 place, and facing it " Jesus Wept " ; but what were the 
 words in black and gold, above the sideboard? He could 
 distinguish the capitals, a V, an M, I, R and L, but the 
 smaller letters baffled him. As soon as he could stand 
 on his recalcitrant leg he would go down the room and,
 
 The Rolling Stone 81 
 
 however long it took, would extract from that cardboard- 
 oblong its meaning. 
 
 For the present, however, to decipher it was beyond 
 him, and presently his glance dropped to the piece of 
 mahogany that stretched below. The surface of this was 
 covered with jars and tins and those bulgy, crackly, light- 
 brown parcels that came from the grocer. 
 
 As soon as Mrs. King had entered into possession of 
 her temporary home she had begun to unpack. Her hus- 
 band obtained their stores from the Railway Buying As- 
 sociation. Firkins of butter, sides of bacon, boxes of 
 eggs, farm products of all sorts, came from country dis- 
 tricts up and down the line, and from these stores Mrs. 
 King, bearing in mind the high prices charged by seaside 
 shops during the season, had made a careful selection. 
 The lid of the big case having been prised open, she had 
 been methodically sorting out the contents when Richard 
 intervened. 
 
 " Now, mother, none of this I Come and smell the sea- 
 weed." 
 
 Mrs. King, never able to withstand the blandishments 
 of her first-born, had protested. " I ought to finish un- 
 packing these groceries." 
 
 " Just put out what we want for tea. There, that 
 tongue and the strawberry jam." 
 
 " Oh, Richard, do mind my cap ! " 
 
 Harry, looking on from the sofa, wished he could be of 
 the party. He remembered the joy in other summers of 
 that first rush to the sea. " Isn't it isn't it tea-time? " 
 he asked desperately, as one after another the children 
 slipped away. 
 
 " Not for another hour," said Richard, as he drew his 
 mother's not altogether unwilling hand under his arm. 
 
 " Don't be long," called Harry after them, but in the
 
 82 The Rolling Stone 
 
 surge of chattering voices his plea was lost. The sounds 
 passed away, a dry dunt of sand-shoes on the asphalt 
 the excited trebles of his little sisters, the deeper note of 
 his father (who was to stay over the week-end), all thin- 
 ning gradually to a vague murmur of sound. 
 
 Harry, a little choky, wondered for the thousandth 
 time why that clumsy idiot of a James had not noticed 
 he was pushing the mattress aside, leaving the iron edge 
 of the bedstead exposed? But it was no good worrying 
 over that now ; the mischief was done. He innocent 
 victim of a brother's carelessness was tied to this hard 
 rounded, uncomfortable sofa while the others . . . He 
 choked again. What were the others doing? Looking 
 for things in the pools? Paddling? He thought of a 
 queer creature he had found the previous year. The 
 colour of the weed, it had been moving slowly across the 
 sandy bottom of a pool. It had had brown tubes in its 
 back, tubes that in a land animal would have been con- 
 cealed by a neat and decent skin. He had lain for a long 
 time by the pool, watching it and wondering about the 
 tubes. Somebody had told him the creature was a sea- 
 slug and that it ate the weed. He had never been for- 
 tunate enough to find another, but perhaps this year 
 
 He remembered there was to be no paddling for him, 
 no dredging up of sea-creatures from pools left by the 
 ebbing tide. 
 
 He turned on the hard sofa with an impatient jerk. 
 What a long time the others were away ! They were hav- 
 ing a good time and had forgotten the poor boy at home. 
 They would not think of returning until hunger drove 
 them. He looked longingly at the heap of groceries on 
 the sideboard six little packets of tea, two tins of 
 cocoa, a ham, the box of Primrose soap, and, flanking
 
 The Rolling Stone 83 
 
 them in a friendly group, jars of jam and marmalade and 
 potted meat. What had his mother intended them to have 
 for tea? Richard had said tongue, but Harry was in 
 favour of potted meat. It was home-made and you were 
 given a good lump of it, enough to spread over several 
 slices of bread. Tongue, being a delicacy, was cut thin ; 
 it melted in your mouth. He planned a tea in which 
 tongue was dealt with as generously as potted 
 meat a tea of unlimited thickly buttered toast, of piled- 
 up strawberry jam. He shut his eyes in order to visualize 
 more clearly the rich abundance of the spread. 
 
 A sound disturbed him, and he found that the afternoon 
 had slipped away. The shadows had thickened in the 
 long room, and it was so dark he could hardly distinguish 
 the person who had come in to lay the cloth. A white 
 cap gave substance to a shadowy head, a wide lace collar 
 stretched from a broad but rounded back to a full bosom. 
 The landlady had come in person to attend to the wants 
 of her lodgers. Harry, his eyes growing accustomed to 
 the dusk, was able to distinguish the pale disk of a large 
 shiny face as the woman, opening a drawer in the table, 
 took out a cloth. She turned to the sideboard, and he 
 wondered if she were going to tidy away the stores his 
 mother had tumbled hastily out of the big case. 
 
 In the hall a lamp had been lighted, and its beams 
 fell through the open doorway on to the woman's figure. 
 Harry saw that Mrs. Gudge was examining the parcels, 
 reading the labels on the pots and tins, weighing in her 
 hand the knobbly packages on which was only a pencil 
 hieroglyph to mark the contents. As she lifted them they 
 gave forth a little crisp sound, suggestive of compression 
 and tense paper. How often had Harry watched the 
 grocer make up packets of tea or rice or currants. First 
 came the plumping on the counter of the fuli l?lue qr
 
 84 The Rolling Stone 
 
 brown bag, then the folding-in of the top, then from the 
 brown box the swift running of the new string, and, after 
 the tying, the smart jerk and the parcel handed over to 
 you. But what was Mrs. Gudge doing with his mother's 
 parcels ? 
 
 " Are you going to lay supper ? " he asked, and the 
 stout figure spun round. 
 
 " You mustn't startle me like that. I've I've a 
 heart." 
 
 " I thought you wanted something." 
 
 " These things ought to have been put away." 
 
 Harry could not understand why she should speak as 
 if the litter of groceries was an annoyance. " They don't 
 matter there." 
 
 " I like a place kept tidy." 
 
 " My mother will put them away when she comes back." 
 
 " I hope she will. Anyway, I can't be running after 
 people all day long. I've something else to do." 
 
 " I suppose you've other lodgers? " 
 
 "What's that to do with you?" 
 
 Harry thought her a disagreeable person, but then 
 grown-ups so frequently kept their civilities for each other. 
 He did not attempt to relieve his boredom by further 
 chat, but watched her setting out the knives and forks, the 
 cups and saucers. Everything was laid a little obliquely, 
 even the cloth hung on a gradual slant. " So like a 
 woman," he thought, " no eye." 
 
 The return wave of sand-shoes was beginning to flow, 
 and Mrs. Gudge lighted a lamp in readiness. Harry, re- 
 membering his difficulty with the text, studied the long 
 black letters afresh. " V-ven-vengeance ! " Ah yes, he 
 had it : " Vengeance is Mine, I will Repay, saith the 
 Lord." 
 
 It was a text any boy could understand, for to repay
 
 The Rolling Stone 85 
 
 was wholly enjoyable. As far as he could, Harry repaid 
 all blows, kicks, harsh words and other injuries bestowed 
 on him, repaid them with interest, made a point of giving 
 good measure, of bearing them in mind until the debt was 
 paid. He understood that the Lord, too, found it enjoy- 
 able to lie in wait for the unwary, to bestow, when oppor- 
 tunity served, the kick or buffet that was owing. Harry 
 had thought that God, an old gentleman on a big blue 
 throne, an old gentleman surrounded by feathered and 
 squawking angels, had a pretty dull time of it, but this 
 insistence on vengeance led the boy to revise his judgment. 
 God avenged not only His own wrongs but those of other 
 people. No doubt there were flabby creatures who would 
 be content with this. He, Harry, would do his own re- 
 paying, but he could understand that those who could not 
 stand up for themselves might be glad of help ; could un- 
 derstand, too, what a good time God, for ever hunting, 
 ambushing, waylaying the wrong-doer, must have! 
 
 II 
 
 A bustle in the tiled hall apprised him of the family's 
 return, and his father came in carrying Mab. 
 
 " I should put the child to bed ; she doesn't seem to me 
 a bit well." 
 
 " She is only tired after the journey," said Mrs. King. 
 
 " She's got a very heavy cold. Look how her eyes 
 are running." 
 
 " Well, you take her upstairs. I've got the tea to 
 see to." 
 
 Mr. King, still carrying little Mab, went out of the 
 room, and his wife, turning to the sideboard, began to 
 lay the groceries on the shelves of a cupboard. 
 
 " Dear me, I thought there were six packets of tea,"
 
 86 The Rolling Stone 
 
 she said in a puzzled tone. " Richard, didn't I put out 
 six packets? " 
 
 " I don't remember, mother." 
 
 " There were six," said Harry suddenly. 
 
 " There are only five now." At that moment Mrs. 
 Gudge came in carrying a tray. " Do you know if any 
 of the things I left on the sideboard have been touched? " 
 
 Mrs. Gudge directed an oblique glance down the room. 
 
 " Your son's been 'ere all the time." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " I can't say what he's been up to." 
 
 " He can't move off the sofa." 
 
 " Oh, can't 'e? You never know what boys can do." 
 
 " Did you touch the tea, Henry? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Well, I can't bother about it now, but I certainly 
 thought there were six packets." 
 
 " Anyway," reiterated Mrs. Gudge with heavy triumph, 
 " your boy was 'ere all the time." 
 
 Ill 
 
 Little Mab's indisposition was due neither to the jour- 
 ney nor a cold, and a few days later Mrs. King wrote to 
 her husband to say the child had developed measles. " I 
 shall be glad to see you at the week-end, for the landlady 
 is disagreeable about it. She says it has prevented her 
 taking another party and that we ought to pay for the 
 empty rooms. She is bone-idle and a regular harpy." 
 
 When Mr. King reached Prospect Villa he found the 
 front door open and the sitting-room empy. A murmur 
 of voices in the upper part of the house led him to the 
 stairs, and, following the sound, he was presently at the 
 door of his little daughter's bedroom.
 
 The Rolling Stone 87 
 
 "Can I come in?" 
 
 " Oh, Henry, is it really you ? " The relief in his wife's 
 voice was so intense he had a wondering fear. What had 
 been the matter? Measles was only a trifling ailment. 
 With the exception of Mab, the family had had it, and it 
 had been see-saw, down one day and up the next, but no 
 one ill, not really ill. In Mrs. King's voice, however, was 
 a note suggestive of strain, of weariness, and his heart- 
 beats quickened. 
 
 But in the sunny bedroom was nothing to justify his 
 fatherly apprehensions. Little Mab was already sitting 
 up, and before her, on the pleasant land of counterpane, 
 was a Noah's Ark with sundry unpainted additions made 
 by Harry. Mr. King's glance turned from the conva- 
 lescent child to its mother. The colours of his comely 
 wife were faded ; she looked worn. 
 
 "What is it, my dear?" 
 
 " Oh, Henry ! " Her eyes swam, and for once in her 
 capable maturity she clung to him. " That woman ! 
 We've had such a time." 
 
 Bit by bit he gathered that Mrs. Gudge had revealed 
 herself, as not only grasping, but unkind. She had de- 
 clined to come into their rooms, which she said were " in- 
 fected," and though she cooked the food, she would not 
 serve it. The dishes were placed on a slab outside the 
 kitchen door and the King family were left to do as best 
 they could. 
 
 " Did you tell the doctor? " 
 
 " Oh, no, Henry." 
 
 " I shall, then. Has he been today? " 
 
 " He generally comes about now." She went to the 
 window. " That's his dogcart opposite No. 6. He won't 
 be long." 
 
 Events favoured them, for Mr. King, on entering, had
 
 88 The Rolling Stone 
 
 closed the front door, and the doctor had to ring for 
 admittance; he had to ring more than once. 
 
 " I thought you was one of my lodgers," Mrs. Gudge 
 said. 
 
 " Well, but you don't keep them waiting, do you ? " 
 retorted Dr. Keenan. 
 
 " Oh, them ! " she said, and tossed her head. 
 
 The doctor glanced at her keenly. " Same trouble, 
 Mrs. Gudge?" 
 
 She did not meet his eye. "That? It wasn't my fault." 
 
 " Then you should have taken it into court." 
 
 " Can't afford no lawyers' bills." 
 
 " No well." He went on up the stairs to where 
 Mr. King was waiting for him. 
 
 " She agreed to do the work, but for a week now she 
 has not been inside our rooms, and, having our little 
 girl ill, my wife finds it more than she can manage." 
 
 "Ah," said Dr. Keenan. "Yes I'll speak to Mrs. 
 Gudge. I think it will be all right now; but if not, you 
 must let me know." 
 
 " I didn't like to trouble you." 
 
 "A doctor's would be an easy job if he had only to 
 physic the ills of the flesh." 
 
 " But I thought . . ." 
 
 " Ah, so did I till I left the hospital." 
 
 He ran down the stairs calling, " Mrs. Gudge ! Mrs. 
 Gudge ! " and the Kings could hear her steps on the 
 oilcloth of the kitchen, her slow, dragging steps as she 
 came to the door. 
 
 " Where's that prescription," he began. Then he was 
 drawn in and the door shut. 
 
 "Prescription! What prescription? " said Mrs. King. 
 "The woman isn't ill?"
 
 The Rolling Stone 89 
 
 Mr. King had turned on the wee convalescent. " Did 
 Henry make these cows and sheep? Good old Henry! 
 By the by," he glanced up, " how is he? " 
 
 " Dr. Keenan took the plaster off yesterday." 
 
 "Leg all right?" 
 
 " Gone to skin and bone." 
 
 " Ah, but Henry'll see to that." 
 
 A rap sounded on the door. " Come in," said Mrs. 
 King, and their landlady entered, carrying a jug of hot 
 water. She did not look at them but went to the wash- 
 stand and, puting it in the basin, covered it with a towel. 
 
 " Dr. Keenan told me to bring you some, and what 
 time would you be wanting supper tonight? " 
 
 " The usual time ! " Mrs. King was recovering from 
 her surprise. " I suppose you know the sitting-room 
 hasn't been swept out for a week? " 
 
 " I'll do it this afternoon." 
 
 " The beds haven't been made or the slops emptied." 
 
 The woman did not answer, but they heard her go into 
 the adjoining bedrooms, and, from the sounds, judged 
 that she was setting to work with broom and duster. 
 
 "She will be all right now," said Mr. King. "Dr. 
 Keenan made her realize she wasn't doing her duty by us. 
 You can see she means well." 
 
 " I'm not so sure," returned his wife. 
 
 " You always think the worst of people." 
 
 They sat down to supper that night in a comparatively 
 clean room. " I'll have in the mutton, Mrs. Gudge." 
 
 "The mutton?" 
 
 " What was left of the shoulder." 
 
 " I've seen nothing but the bone." 
 
 " There was more than enough on it for Mr. King's 
 supper. Please bring it in."
 
 90 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " Oh, that bone? I threw it in the dustbin." 
 
 As she went out of the room Mrs. King turned to her 
 husband. " There, Henry ! " 
 
 The younger Henry ventured a question. " Does she 
 take our things, mother? " 
 
 " Don't interrupt me when I'm talking to your father." 
 
 " No, mother but does she? " 
 
 " You can't leave a thing about," said Mrs. King, ignor- 
 ing him. " That cocoa-tin on the mantelpiece ! I filled 
 it this morning. I was going to make you a cup tonight, 
 but when I looked just now there wasn't half a spoonful 
 left. She's got a name, Henry, and that's why her rooms 
 were empty and why she didn't haggle about the price of 
 them and why there are no other lodgers." 
 
 " Did you speak to her about the cocoa? " 
 
 " Yes, I did, and she said it was mice. Mice ! " 
 
 Harry had watched this particular mouse at its nib- 
 bling, and mice suggested to his mind the harmless, neces- 
 sary cat, but a cat big enough to cope with such a mouse 
 a big stripy cat, black on yellow. " It's a pity this 
 isn't India," he said. 
 
 " It isn't as if we gave any extra trouble or wanted a 
 lot of waiting on. I believe the woman drinks." 
 
 " Cocoa? " asked Mr. King with a smile. 
 
 " If she takes our things," said Harry thoughtfully and 
 with an eye to the text over the sideboard, " I suppose the 
 Lord will repay ? " 
 
 With Mrs. King indignation had the upper hand. " If 
 only I could be sure He would ! " 
 
 Her son blinked at her, his eyes bright in an unsmiling 
 face. In his pocket was a knife that he had picked up 
 on the beach, a knife with a dull edge. He decided to 
 grind in into keenness. A knife was a good standby, you 
 never knew when it might be useful. He nudged his
 
 The Rolling Stone 91 
 
 mother. " One more slice of bread and treacle? " 
 " No, really, Henry, you've had enough." 
 " Just one more." 
 
 " That four-pound tin was only opened on Friday." 
 A voice from the other end of the table. " Let the boy 
 have his fill. Hungry times down here." 
 " He'll eat us out of house and home." 
 " I want them to have good food and plenty of it." 
 Mr. King looked with a feeling of deep paternal satis- 
 faction at the vital faces, the strongly built bodies, of his 
 progeny. They justified him. Richard's Oxford schol- 
 arship had been made possible by his father taking every 
 well-paid job that offered. Mr. King had asked in return 
 that his child, his children, should climb the hill of worldly 
 success. He smiled at them as he ate, happy to think of 
 these small, strong feet on the upward path, happy in his 
 long dream of the pinnacle which they might eventually 
 reach. 
 
 He ate dreamily, and behind each face gathered at the 
 table were the individual thoughts of these beings who had 
 come into existence because Henry King, walking one 
 spring evening by the Manor Farm, had helped to disen- 
 tangle a skirt caught by a briar ! The same blood ran 
 through all these pumping hearts, yet the thoughts of each 
 were unknown to the others. Even the mother, of whose 
 flesh they had been a part, knew nothing of what went 
 on in the different minds, of what was going on under the 
 dark thatch of the child who was nudging her for " bread 
 and treacle just one more slice." 
 
 IV 
 
 Only lately released from sofa bondage, Harry's little 
 brain was full of plans. His leg, contrasting woefully
 
 92 The Rolling Stone 
 
 with its fellow, was his chief concern. Exercises and a 
 primitive rubbing of the muscles occupied part of his valu- 
 able time, but he was able to spare some whole after- 
 noons, in fact for fishing in the pools, building sand- 
 works on the edge of the tide, and other seaside pursuits. 
 Through these satisfactory occupations ran, however, a 
 thread of thought. He could not approve of the way in 
 which Mrs. Gudge was treating his family. She took his 
 mother's things ; he knew she did. Also she was dis- 
 agreeable. She made a fuss about the sand they brought 
 into the house, about the noise, about the hot water. 
 His mind returned from the contemplation of her many 
 unpleasant ways to the one that seemed to him most 
 reprehensible. She took his mother's things ! 
 
 That was stealing, and she could be sent to prison for 
 it; but, instead, his mother would only grumble. She 
 would not do anything. He saw Mrs. Gudge, unamiable 
 landlady, dishonest woman, getting off scot-free; getting 
 off, too, with all the things she had taken. She would 
 not, of course, go to heaven, but heaven was a long way 
 off and Harry impatient. He wanted her to suffer for 
 her sins, he wanted her to suffer now. 
 
 " Coming out, Bear? " asked Richard the last afternoon 
 of their stay in Northpool. The pretty girl who had 
 been staying next door was gone home and skies were 
 overcast. 
 
 " No." Harry held in the palm of his hand the knife 
 he had found ; it had been ground to a fine edge. 
 
 " Well, then, don't ! Nobody wants you." 
 
 As he took himself and his discontent out of the room 
 Mrs. King turned to her youngest son. " Don't you 
 want to go out on your last afternoon?" 
 
 " I'm sleepy," lied Harry, and made for the horsehair 
 sofa. " I'll go presently."
 
 The Rolling Stone 
 
 Mrs. King had intended to make use of it herself; but 
 a bed, she thought, would do just as well be, in fact, 
 more comfortable. As she walked upstairs she reflected 
 on Harry's sleepiness and hoped he wasn't sickening for a 
 disease. It was unlike him to lie down in the middle of 
 the day. 
 
 Harry, at his short length, waited until the family had 
 gone its several ways. His need was not for sleep but 
 solitude, and as soon as he heard the bed creak under his 
 mother's weight in the room over his head he went to the 
 door. In all the house was no sound but Mrs. Gudge's 
 voice addressing a neighbour on the other side of the 
 wall. It filtered in by way of the back kitchen, and for 
 a moment Harry, a queer smile on his lips, listened. 
 
 " I says to 'er, * You've 'ad 'em in, every one of 'em,' 
 and so she 'ad. Near ? My word, she is that ; but what 
 can you expect? those sort of people in a very small 
 way . . ." 
 
 An impulse to run out and show Mrs. Qudge up, accuse 
 her of stealing, throw her sins in her wicked face, shook 
 the boy. But no, he could do better than that. He 
 raised his eyes to the text over the sideboard. " Ven- 
 geance is Mine." That was it. Vengeance should be his, 
 and not at the end of life but now. 
 
 The oilcloth path, with smooth gleam, ran from door 
 to fender. Loosening the ends, Harry rolled it back and 
 surveyed the warmer rose of that space of carpet which 
 had been hidden. What a rich colour! How lovely! 
 He had never seen a carpet that he liked so much. He 
 took out the knife he had so assiduously sharpened and, 
 kneeling down, let the edge shear through a strand, a 
 dark strand woven into the pattern. It parted, but the 
 fraying edge of the wool covered the tiny slit. Harry's 
 appetite for cutting grew. The woven threads were taut
 
 94 The Rolling Stone 
 
 under his knife; he drew the keen blade across them and 
 they yielded. He felt them yield, and the little give 
 thrilled him. Setting to work in earnest, he cut a few 
 strands here, a few strands there, until in every foot of 
 the carpet was a tiny, unnoticeable slit. 
 
 Mrs. Gudge was a bad woman. She should not steal 
 his mother's tea. She should pay that was it pay 
 for what she had taken. One more cut between the border 
 and the carpet, another along the dark line of pattern, 
 a bigger one where the concealing oilcloth would lie. 
 When the time came for carpets to be taken up and beaten 
 this one would fall to pieces. Ah, but just one more cut. 
 She would never be able to relay it. " Mice ! " she had 
 said, and mice nibbled things, ruined them. A half-cut 
 strand here, another there, and no sign, no sign at all 
 that the mice had been busy. 
 
 Harry, his pixy soul aglow with satisfaction, trod the 
 oilcloth into place and pressed home the tacks. The 
 smell of decaying weed, the murmur of the beach, was 
 drawing him. On his way out, however, he lingered for 
 a moment before the black-and-gold text. God had be- 
 come real to him, for God was some one who felt as he 
 did in the important matter of enemies and vengeance. 
 He understood about God now, this God Who punished 
 sinners, who repaid. 
 
 And what fun it was too. He had enjoyed ruining that 
 carpet. " Vengeance is Mine, I will Repay, saith the 
 Lord." 
 
 Yes, no doubt, but the Lord could not expect to have 
 all the fun.
 
 Chapter VII 
 
 IN the warm, bright kitchen Mrs. King, subconsciously 
 aware that autumn winds were tearing at the leaves 
 with a wild lack of decorum, was making an apple- 
 pie. Before her, on the board, was a lump of pastry, to 
 be turned later into puffs and turnovers; and while she 
 rolled the piecrust, she was considering whether she should 
 get out a pot of raspberry jam or use what was left of 
 the plum. 
 
 "Mrs. King madam are you there?" 
 
 A voice from the back door, a voice of pleasant mascu- 
 line cadence, the mellowness of summer yet the roughness, 
 that roughness of wind, of change, that had made her 
 restless. She turned a brightening face towards the 
 scullery. 
 
 "That you, Mr. Chew? Come in, please. I'm making 
 pastry and can't leave it." She worked more quickly, 
 fitting the crust over the cored apple-quarters, running a 
 knife round the edges. She wanted the job finished, 
 wanted to be free for the delights a visit from Chew, the 
 tallyman, promised. 
 
 A tall man, stooping his head under the lintel, smiled 
 at her across the bare scrubbed space. In this house he 
 was sure of a welcome at least from the mistress. 
 
 " Set down your pack, won't you? " 
 
 Although the case was light, being of wickerwork cov- 
 ered with dark brown American cloth, the goods were 
 heavy, and Chew felt glad to lift the strap from his chest. 
 He had journeyed far that day, and found it good to come 
 
 95
 
 96 The Rolling Stone 
 
 at evening into this homely place. With a red handker- 
 chief, silk, for the tallyman had his niceties, he wiped his 
 face; and Mrs. King's curious glance noted the change 
 in the skin where the cap, pressing down his ruffle of 
 short curls, had been pulled forward. A bonnie colour, 
 she thought, warm, with faint yellows and reds under 
 the cream, very much her own colour as a girl. What 
 a world of difference there was between these tints and 
 the sallow reds in a blue-white skin of her husband ay, 
 and of her children. Not a single one of her babies had 
 been apple-skinned and fair. She had longed for a baby 
 like the babies of her own family, and one after another 
 dusky youngsters, with copper or black hair and milky 
 skins, had been born to her. 
 
 " You'll let me make you a cup of tea ? " 
 Outside, the brisk air had a nip in it, whipping the 
 blood. " You're very kind, and I'll be glad of the tea 
 if you'll have a cup with me." It would be pleasant to 
 stretch his long legs before the fire, sitting in another 
 man's chair, drinking out of another man's cup, making 
 believe that both were his. " I was thinking of you last 
 week, when I was in Nottingham." He would not let 
 his appreciation of the buxom woman interfere with 
 business. Throwing back the lid of his pack, he routed 
 among the contents, seeking a certain package. " This 
 is a new design. I got it cheap, and I've been keeping it 
 for you." In the corner of the roomy kitchen was a 
 horsehair sofa with curly ends. Tallyman, unfolding 
 the parcel curtains of machine-made cotton lace 
 spread them widely over the black cushions. Well he 
 knew that Mrs. King's weakness was curtains to have 
 cleaner, crisper curtains than her neighbours, than any 
 woman in the road. He pandered to this weakness, but 
 not only because he wanted to sell the contents of his
 
 The Rolling Stone 97 
 
 pack. " Directly my eye fell on it I seemed to see it 
 hanging in one of your windows." 
 
 " Why did you get it cheap ? " She decided to use 
 what remained of the plum jam ; less trouble. She wanted 
 to finish with the pastry, to be able to examine the con- 
 tents of the pack the dress goods, the household linens, 
 all Tallyman had gathered from the factories up and 
 down the country. She knew that he would let her have 
 her will of the basket, that he would sit toasting his toes 
 and watching her with his lazy, almost proprietorial smile. 
 On the fire a kettle was singing; a moment more and it 
 would boil. She would make the tea, and then 
 
 He showed an inequality in the pattern. " The shuttle 
 missed kissing," he said. 
 
 Mrs. King had not known that she required a new pair 
 of Nottingham lace curtains. " I don't think," she said 
 disparagingly, " I should care to have them if they are 
 damaged." 
 
 He draped the border with cunning fingers. " It would 
 never show and they are of good quality, worth a lot 
 more than I shall ask you for them." She had seen the 
 effect at a distance, but he brought them across to her 
 to show the texture. " No dress in this and good stout 
 stuff. They'll wash and wash." 
 
 The curtains were a bargain, handsomer than those 
 Mrs. Jackets had put up last spring-cleaning and to be 
 obtained at less cost. Mrs. King allowed her lips to relax, 
 and Autolycus, tossing the curtains on to the 
 ancient couch, put business out of his mind. The pie 
 was almost ready in the oven, and Mrs. King's busy 
 fingers were folding cored apple into paste, making a 
 big turnover. The man, watching her, understood that it 
 was for him that, crisp and brown, it would be rolled 
 into a bit of clean linen and slipped into his pocket.
 
 98 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " Eh," he said, " you are good to me. I tramp the 
 country but my round ends at your door." 
 
 She gave a final twist to the turnover. " I wonder, 
 Mr. Chew, that you've never settled down." 
 
 " No," he said, " you don't wonder." 
 
 " Well, but you could have been a successful man, with 
 a shop of your own, a big shop ; you could have made 
 money." 
 
 " With a wife like you in the back premises ? I'd have 
 liked that fine the wife, I mean." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense, Mr. Chew." 
 
 " Strewth, I would; but not the shop." 
 
 " It would have been respectable." 
 
 " It would that." 
 
 " Now, when you're old " 
 
 " Eh? I'll never be old; I'll die before that." 
 
 "In a ditch?" 
 
 " Why not ? Come to die, one place is as good as 
 another." 
 
 The turnover was in the oven and she had laid tea on 
 a corner of the kitchen-table. His eyes had a dancing 
 light in them, they spoke to her over the domestic cup 
 of other things than curtains. 
 
 He understood, indeed, as did no one else that in her, 
 smothered by her fear of the common tongue, was a 
 longing for something out of the ordinary. If life had 
 been spiced with uncertainty she would have accepted, 
 as it came, failure or success. She would have been 
 undaunted, patient, hardworking a pal, thought 
 Chew. 
 
 " Die in a ditch? " she cried, and he saw that she was 
 passionately anxious to prove that what she had missed 
 would not have been worth while. " No, it's better to 
 have home and children, to live like a Christian, and, in
 
 The Rolling Stone 99 
 
 the end, lie down with your own people and wait for the 
 Resurrection." 
 
 " You don't think it," he answered softly, and took no 
 notice of her instantly repeated asseveration. For once 
 he would not spare her. She might deny the truth but 
 she should know. In homely phrase he told of the tinkler 
 life, shine and shade, calling winds and a refuge from the 
 cold. What more could any one want than sky for roof 
 and turf for carpet, the clean earth, the fresh water, and 
 the jog, jog, jogging along the road? 
 
 " It it isn't respectable," she told him faintly at 
 the end. 
 
 Chew was a walking newspaper, a sort of weekly instal- 
 ment of all the human dramas being played in the neigh- 
 bourhood, but of these things he did not speak to Mrs. 
 King. 
 
 " And," she said, " there isn't only this world." 
 
 He smiled at her. " Ah you don't think a chap like 
 me has any chance? " 
 
 Not any chance for the man who, though he scoffed at 
 a rooted vegetable existence, was the companion she 
 would have chosen in that place where, fortunately, was 
 no marrying or giving in marriage? 
 
 " I wish," she said uncomfortably, " that you were go- 
 ing to be buried in our graveyard. I should be 
 sorry " 
 
 His thought jumped to hers. " Oh, I'll be there," he 
 said. 
 
 II 
 
 When Harry, greased to the eyes, came in that evening 
 he found his mother standing idly in the bow of the 
 kitchen-window. On the table was a freshly baked pie 
 and some turnovers.
 
 100 The Rolling Stone 
 
 "Where's father?" 
 
 Mrs. King, recalled from dreams to the requirements 
 of family life, went to the dresser. Harry home and the 
 dining-room tea not laid? She took up a tray. 
 
 " Your father has gone to give Mrs. Allen a pass for 
 one of her boys. I expect she will keep him to supper. 
 Why? " 
 
 " Oh, it doesn't matter," but he had aroused his moth- 
 er's suspicions. 
 
 "Pay-day? You can give me the money." 
 
 He began to move away. " I always think father likes 
 me to settle up with him." 
 
 " Hand it over." 
 
 Reluctantly the boy produced two half-crowns and 
 pushed them across the table. His mother gave him 
 back threepence. 
 
 " Couldn't you make it a little more? Threepence a 
 week is awful little." 
 
 But she had been extravagant in the matter of curtains. 
 " It's as much as any other boy gets. I can't think what 
 you want with so much money. What do you do with 
 it? " 
 
 Harry envisaged and dismissed the idea that he should 
 take her into his confidence. He wanted the money for 
 an important plan he hoped to put into execution that 
 evening no less than the wheedling of old Bill Mountain, 
 the pugilist, into giving him a boxing-lesson. 
 
 " Oh, I dunno." 
 
 " Money is the root of all evil," pursued Mrs. King, 
 wondering how she was to explain those unnecessary 
 curtains. " If you hadn't any you wouldn't be for ever 
 getting into mischief." Yet if they had been better off 
 and she had a bigger allowance she would have been able 
 to buy as many curtains as she fancied.
 
 The Rolling Stone 101 
 
 Harry also thought it was the lack, not the possession, 
 of money that led him into temptation. How often had 
 it not driven him to extract pennies with a knife from 
 his sisters' money-boxes? He could even remember an 
 occasion when, having longed for uncounted days after 
 a certain brightly coloured top, he had helped himself 
 to the price from his mother's purse. 
 
 " Where did you get that ? " she had asked as he pur- 
 sued it over the floor. 
 
 " Reuben Jackets gave it to me." 
 
 But Mrs. King had seen it in a shop-window. " Don't 
 tell me ! " She had taken out her purse and counted 
 the contents. " You bought that top ! Where did you 
 get the money? " She had been ninepence short, and 
 that had been the price of the toy. Suddenly she had 
 swung round. " You stole it," she had cried, and had 
 given her son a stinging slap across the face. 
 
 The top would have been cheap at the price, but, to 
 Harry's surprise and wrath, not only was he punished 
 for that foraging visit to his mother's room when he had 
 stood under the hung-up skirt feeling for the pocket, the 
 pocket that held the purse but the top was taken from 
 him. That was unjust; the whole thing was unjust. 
 A boy ought to have enough pocket-money to get anything 
 he wanted badly ; and if the pocket-money were not forth- 
 coming, he should not be held to account if on occasions 
 he helped himself. What else could he do? Parents 
 didn't understand. They were, too, so tiresomely sus- 
 picious. After the episode of the top his father had 
 made a practice of going through Harry's pockets on a 
 Saturday. He even called on the boy to account for his 
 possessions ! 
 
 "Jack Collins gave you this ice-cream glass? Where 
 did he get it?"
 
 102 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " Dunno." 
 
 " I don't suppose he'd more right to it than you have. 
 You'd better ask him where it came from." 
 
 " Oh, I can't, father." 
 
 " Well, you aren't going to have things you can't ac- 
 count for." 
 
 The result when he said he had " found " a lens and a 
 pair of folding-scissors proved as unsatisfactory. " You 
 can't be always finding things, Henry." 
 
 And these troubles had come upon him not because he 
 had money, but because he lacked it! He knew, too, 
 that if he had not the wherewithal to stand Bill Mountain 
 a can or two of beer that evening he would certainly not 
 get the lesson he craved. " Can't you spare me another 
 penny or two this week? " 
 
 " I shan't be able to make both ends meet as it is," 
 and Harry, following her glance, realized that for once 
 he and she were in like case. He laughed good-naturedly. 
 Need of money had taught him sundry ways of procuring 
 a few pence and he need not worry ; but she was different. 
 He wondered how she would excuse herself to the purse- 
 bearer, whether she would be able to hold her own. 
 
 "What, more curtains, mother?" he chuckled. 
 " Whatever will father say ? " 
 
 " Go and wash, Henry." 
 
 The boy crossed to the sofa. " And two pairs ! " 
 
 " Don't you touch them with your dirty hands." 
 
 " I wonder you encourage old Chew." 
 
 " A fair-dealing, civil man." 
 
 " An old apple-woman ! " cried Impudence. " Big fine 
 chap like that, he ought to be a Guardsman. Really, 
 mother, I'm surprised at you ! " 
 
 " Get along with you, do." She pursued him with a 
 teacloth. " Take that kettle of hot water and mind you
 
 The Rolling Stone 103 
 
 rinse your hands properly before you dry them. No need 
 to make the towel dirty." 
 
 She carried her tray into the dining-room and laid the 
 cloth. If her husband accepted Mrs. Allen's ready invi- 
 tation she the poor wife who was left at home would 
 have to cut the ham and the bread, as well as pour out 
 the tea. A lot for one person to do. Her glance fell on 
 the basket of stockings. The clean clothes had been 
 mended and put away, but the stockings remained. Such 
 a big pile ! She had washed them, and she remembered the 
 holes and the thin places. She would have to spend the 
 evening darning them. She would be all by herself, 
 drawing the worsted backwards and forwards across the 
 heels, slaving for her children and husband. 
 
 All by herself! 
 
 in 
 
 The little girls came in to their tea. A buzz of subdued 
 conversation for the Kings were brought up on the 
 axiom that children should be seen and not heard 
 marked their entry, and Mrs. King began to cut bread 
 and butter it. A little clash made her look up, and she 
 saw that Harry, a scrubbed and towelled Harry, his black 
 hair in wet rings, had come in carrying a handleless cof- 
 fee-pot and an old kettle. 
 
 " Can I have these? " 
 
 She understood the request as a development of that 
 for more pocket-money. If Harry could not get a thing 
 one way ha would try another and yet another; he would 
 not rest till he had what he wanted. " Hold the kettle 
 up to the light." She peered inside. " Three holes. I 
 might get a new bottom put to it hardly worth while. 
 What do you want with them? " 
 
 " They are in the way, kicking about here,"
 
 104 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " What are you going to do with them ? " 
 
 " Take them to the metal-broker." 
 
 " Very well ; but come, now, and get your tea." 
 
 Harry put kettle and pot in a corner of the tiled hall. 
 Old Gibbons paid for broken iron at the rate of a penny 
 a pound, and there was plenty of it in the railway town. 
 The boy thought of the black heaps at the brickfield, 
 the banks of the canal, all the back lanes and yards and 
 alleys that had yielded him treasure of discarded pots. 
 Had he or had he not enough metal and er rags for 
 his adventure? 
 
 " Don't bolt your tea," admonished Mrs. King. 
 
 " Didn't want to keep you waiting." 
 
 The idea of Harry keeping anybody waiting amused 
 the mother. He was always, not exactly in a hurry, 
 but so swift. Before you could look round he had 
 come and he was gone gone, too, so that you had not 
 been aware of him as he passed. Her glance rested on 
 him thoughtfully. " How how fat why, Henry! '* 
 She caught hold of his sleeve. " You've got on two 
 coats ! " 
 
 " Cold ! " and Harry twitched his arm away. 
 
 " Cold ? But this isn't an overcoat ? You you 
 aren't cold." 
 
 " Well," he muttered, " it was easier to carry." 
 
 " To carry where? " 
 
 He did not answer. 
 
 " Henry ! " 
 
 " It's an old coat, it's it's ragged." 
 
 " It's your second-best." 
 
 He showed a tear of recent origin. " And the lining's 
 gone." 
 
 " That can be mended. Take it off, sir ; yes, now at 
 once,"
 
 The Rolling Stone 105 
 
 " I thought it was done for ; I did really." 
 
 " You were taking it to the old-clothes man." 
 
 " Well, mother, you know you like me to get rid of the 
 rags for you." 
 
 As he dragged his arms out of the tightly fitting coat 
 Mrs. King caught sight of a bulging pocket. Ignoring 
 his objections, she investigated it, and produced a red- 
 and-black object, at the sight of which one of the little 
 girls uttered a cry. 
 
 " It is the frock Auntie Bertha made for Nancy's 
 doll." 
 
 " It was on the nursery floor." 
 
 " It's mine," said Nancy. 
 
 " I wanted to teach her to be tidy." 
 
 When Harry at last escaped it was with the feeling that 
 his efforts for the good of the family had been sadly 
 misconstrued. Noiselessly he picked up the broken coffee- 
 pot and kettle. So arbitrary were the ways of parents 
 that his mother might even deprive him of these useless 
 sherds. Hitherto she had been grateful to him for rid- 
 ding her of such rubbish, but you never knew. He did 
 not feel safe until he had handed them over to old Fred 
 Gibbons and received the price. 
 
 IV 
 
 On his way to the " Pig and Whistle," favoured by Bill 
 Mountain because it was the only " house " which allowed 
 a customer to sit in the chimney corner and watch his 
 beer being mulled, Harry reflected ruefully on the trials 
 of home life. If it had not been for his mother's meanness 
 with regard to old clothes, he would have had enough 
 and more than enough for the treating of the ex-prize- 
 fighter. He counted his pence; they would buy two
 
 106 The Rolling Stone 
 
 pots and that was all. Moreover, there would not be a 
 penny left for sweets or any of the things he himself 
 wanted. A lesson from Bill Mountain, however, would 
 if he could persuade the man to give it be worth more 
 than a week's pocket-money. Slipping between the swing- 
 doors of the tavern, his glance fell on the pugilist seated 
 in his customary corner. Behind him rose the black wood 
 of the settle, and against it the pale shades of his cordu- 
 roys, of his greyish hair, his shaven face, showed up 
 clearly. Bill, a clay between his lips, was ruminating 
 over a past of which he had no reason to be ashamed 
 when Harry, with one of his quick movements, became 
 a part of the scene on which the man's glance was resting. 
 Gradually he became aware of Harry, of respectful youth 
 eager to replenish his beer-can, of youth ready to talk 
 but too modest to venture a remark. Mountain's pale 
 eyes, neither grey nor green but diamond-bright, twinkled 
 acceptance of the beer, and he allowed himself to be 
 drawn into conversation. Before long he had embarked 
 on his most famous tale, his fight with the Waterloo Kid ; 
 and in the end Harry received the offer for which he had 
 been angling. 
 
 Old Bill would put him up to a " wrinkle or two." 
 
 That first lesson, precursor of many, was given at the 
 man's cottage in Cranford Lane. " The old woman's 
 out tonight ; washes for some of the people in the New 
 Town, and Fridays she trundles it home and gets her 
 money. We shall have the place to ourselves." 
 
 He sought the key in a window-box full of autumnal 
 flowers, found it, threw open the door all in a noiseless 
 fashion which Harry, his own movements sure, could ap- 
 preciate. " Wait here a moment while I turn up the 
 light." 
 
 The cottage was not altogether in darkness, for a fire,
 
 The Rolling Stone 107 
 
 which had been slacked down, glimmered in the grate 
 and from the mid-rafter of the kitchen hung a lamp. As 
 the flame in this waxed at Mountain's touch, it revealed 
 to Harry a room different from any he had hitherto seen, 
 a room that' in some way reminded him of ships' cabins. 
 He glanced round, wondering why in this roomy place he 
 should think of a cabin, and, so wondering, saw that the 
 trifles which lie about in other houses had in this been 
 tidied away, and that what pictures decorated the walls 
 were not hung but pasted. 
 
 On the dresser stood a pair of scales and a basket 
 for clean linen, but the china which should have bright- 
 ened the shelves was absent. The place contained noth- 
 ing that could be jarred or shaken down by heavy 
 vibrations. 
 
 " I like light," said Mountain, pausing for a moment 
 under the lamp, " and I like to be warm. Come on in 
 and shut the door." 
 
 Harry, obeying him, felt his feet grit on the sanded 
 floor. There was nothing on it over which a man might 
 trip. The boy became aware that this room had been 
 set forth with an end in view, and at the thought, some- 
 thing rose for a moment in his throat. 
 
 Mountain poked the fire into an upleap of flame, and 
 Harry, watching him with eyes which, though respectful, 
 were closely observant, found the quality of the room 
 repeated in its owner. The man, though middle-aged, 
 was light on his feet. He moved so quickly that his going 
 baffled the eye. His assault on the dull-burning coals 
 had been as irresistible as the blow of a Nasmyth hammer. 
 Definite, simple, expert, he had been built, muscled, 
 trained to one purpose, to a single end, and he had fulfilled 
 himself. 
 
 " Like to see my gloves ? "
 
 108 The Rolling Stone 
 
 Harry's mere respect deepened to reverence. " Oh, I 
 should." 
 
 With a little shining key that was warm from his 
 pocket, Mountain opened a box which stood on a shelf 
 under the dresser, and took therefrom a pair of well- 
 blooded, four-ounce fighting-gloves. " These have been 
 in many a good mill," he said, and Harry was allowed 
 to hold them, even to draw them on his hands. He stood 
 staring at them in a rapturous dream at the brown 
 leather with finger-tips cut away, backs slightly padded, 
 and in the palm a little silk-edged ventilation-hole. 
 
 " You can fight harder with the gloves than with the 
 bare dooks," said Mountain, looking at knuckles so big 
 and bony that they seemed to give his assertion the lie. 
 " You see, it puts more body into the punch." 
 
 " I " said Harry, quite unable to express his feelings 
 and with that odd feeling still at the back of his throat 
 "I oh!" 
 
 Mountain, rescuing the gloves, assumed an air of 
 business. He had remembered that before long his wife 
 would be home, and that on a Friday night she always 
 bought something extra toothsome for supper. " There's 
 a-many come to me to know if they'll make good fighters," 
 said he, anxious to give the boy good measure, not so 
 much for the beer as for his whole-hearted admiration. 
 When you are getting long in the tooth ..." D'yer 
 know what I look for first? " 
 
 " I don't," said Harry, but hopefully. 
 
 Seating himself on the white sand-scoured table, Moun- 
 tain put his hand under the boy's chin and tilted back 
 the heavily boned face. " I look at the nostrils. A chap 
 never does any good if his nostrils are pinched." 
 
 " Oh ! " For all Harry knew his nose might have 
 failed him in this important particular.
 
 The Rolling Stone 109 
 
 " Yours are all right," grunted the arbiter, " and your 
 neck is short, and," he laid his hands on the boy's back 
 and chest, " yes, you are thick." His appraising glance 
 swept the small erect figure, divining under the clumsy 
 clothes its promise of brawn. " I can teach you proper," 
 he said, and, guessing at Harry's wild hopes, added a 
 rider, " but if I do you must use your knowledge like a 
 sport and not to cock it over other boys." 
 
 The colour came into the lad's face. " The others," 
 said Mountain, " won't have the advantage of being 
 primed by an old bruiser like me. Now " and Harry 
 noticed that, though the man sat, he was not still; also 
 that in every movement was a suggestion, a suggestion the 
 observer could not fathom but which kept him on the 
 alert. " Now let us get to work. What are the four 
 punches that will put a man to sleep? " 
 
 In his unscientific scrapping with other boys Harry 
 had come to certain conclusions. " Well," he said shyly, 
 " I should avoid the nose because it bleeds and then the 
 boy blubs and people stop you." 
 
 " The nose don't matter. You soon get it broken, 
 any way." 
 
 His indifference to facial disfigurement lifted Harry out 
 of a world in which parents complained to other par- 
 ents his of damage done. " I always try to bung 
 up their eyes." 
 
 " And they don't matter either ; though it's a good 
 thing to have them set well back behind the bone like 
 yours. No, the four vital spots are : the point ! Do you 
 know where that is?" 
 
 Harry indicated his square and dimpled chin. 
 
 " Ay, on each side of it, about an inch up. Hit a man 
 there and the jerk dislocates his neck! That knocks him 
 out. To guard the point you carry your chin like this,"
 
 110 The Rolling Stone 
 
 He moved upon Harry, a movement the boy countered 
 by a nimble retreat. Mountain kept him wary, kept his 
 faculties on the stretch; yet the atmosphere of the bare 
 room, of the talk, made him feel at home. Here he could 
 be himself. He was entirely comfortable, and it seemed 
 to him that the clean cottage, the simple ways, were all 
 a man could want all that he, Harry, would ever want. 
 His good father, his schoolmasters, set a value on all sorts 
 of unnecessary things, things to gain which a man had 
 to work hard and long and distastefully. Old Bill had 
 not thought them worth while ; instead he had done the 
 thing natural to him. 
 
 Harry's poor father was the servant of the railway 
 and must do and go as he was bidden. In Mountain the 
 boy sensed an attitude that was primitive and wild. The 
 man obeyed the promptings, the incalculable promptings, 
 of an emotional nature. How, in a world of compromise, 
 of economic dependence, was he able to maintain his free- 
 dom? Harry answered the question in his own way: 
 Mountain was strong. 
 
 " The other vital points," said the prize-fighter, " are 
 the heart, the temple, and the mark. Some calls the 
 mark," his finger rested on Harry's solar plexus, " the 
 half-crown ; it's about the size of one. It's between wind 
 and water." He went over the information again, driv- 
 ing it home, amplifying it as he did so with guards, with 
 the free movements of the left arm, the threat of the more 
 powerful right. 
 
 " Now we can get on a bit. And to begin with, my 
 lad, how should you stand? If a boy comes up to you 
 and says, ' Look here, young shaver, I've had enough 
 of your cheek and I'm going to give yer what for,' d'yer 
 stand like this ? " He drew back his head, sloping his
 
 The Rolling Stone 111 
 
 body from an imaginary adversary, his attitude the em- 
 bodiment of fear. 
 
 Harry shook his head. 
 
 "You don't?" 
 
 " I go for him." 
 
 Mountain's scarred face relaxed. " And why shouldn't 
 you stand like this ? " 
 
 " Dunno." He knew it was the fury of his onslaught 
 that made a fight with him dreaded by the other boys, 
 but he could not say why he rushed the attack. 
 
 " Because," said the other, his trained muscles main- 
 taining the awkward attitude with ease, " because in this 
 position you are already half-way to the ground, and the 
 first time he hits you he puts you there. No, you throw 
 yourself forward." He was on his toes, transformed into 
 a battering-ram. Harry felt that to be shut up with him 
 in a room was like playing rabbit to a caged python. 
 
 " He meets you first then, with all your weight behind 
 it." 
 
 The boy nodded, but kept a space of sanded floor 
 between himself and his redoubtable teacher. 
 
 " If you stand like this " he was thrown forward, 
 bony head first, fists moving, heavy body behind " the 
 other chap has to lift you up and push you back ; both, 
 before he can knock you down. See? " 
 
 " I see." 
 
 " We'll have a go to find out what you can do. Take 
 off your coat." He shed his own, laying it with tie and 
 collar on the table, then put a belt about his middle. 
 A thirteen-stone man, his chest muscles stood out in mas- 
 sive curves above a twenty-five-inch waist. 
 
 " My word," said Harry, opening his eyes, " but you 
 are a man ! "
 
 112 The Rolling Stone 
 
 Though old Bill pretended not to hear, he was enjoying 
 his evening. Fighting was his craft and to impart the 
 rudiments of it a pleasure. As he tightened the belt 
 about his trousers he continued to talk. " There's the 
 arm-blow, now, and that won't hurt a man, nohow. You? 
 Ah, but you are soft. The man isn't living who can hurt 
 me with an arm-blow; the most he could do would be to 
 punch my nose and make it bleed, but that don't hurt." 
 
 Though Harry came of a hard and vigorous family, not 
 one of them could take punishment in this primitive 
 fashion. " It's the body behind the blow," explained the 
 boxer, " that gives the power, the strength of the body 
 from the waist up. Well now then." 
 
 He moved on Harry, and Harry, seeing him as incarnate 
 strength, as a will concentrated on his destruction, yet 
 accepted the challenge. In his throat was that queer 
 thrill, nearly a sob but not quite. The shallow hope 
 and observations of his individual life had begun to 
 fade; something deeper was answering Mountain's call, 
 responding to the menace with one younger, less terrible 
 perhaps, but as fierce. 
 
 " Now then, let out with your left, don't come teetering 
 up like an old gal. Come on now, come on. Your left; 
 that's it." 
 
 Harry, moving quickly round and over the lamplit 
 kitchen, answered to the stimulus of the exciting phrases 
 with an earnest collection of himself into one aspect which 
 yet was not himself but the weapon of some unknown and 
 greater force. Mountain, slapping him lightly with the 
 open hand, sent him reeling, a catch in his breath, against 
 the table, against the dresser. He fell back before those 
 lightning slaps, but only to come on again, and his face, 
 for all its soft boyish contours, was as set as that of the 
 man.
 
 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " Now then, come on, hit out ; come on then. Fight 
 fight " 
 
 Harry was no longer an individual, he was part of a 
 whole, subservient to the swell of emotion that was di- 
 recting him, one wave of a mighty sea. The insistent 
 voice, hard and fierce, brought him racing on to the shore. 
 
 " Fight, will you ? Fight ! " 
 
 And what was the shore but a destroying force? 
 
 " Come on now, fight." 
 
 With the fingers of the large hand set straight and 
 close, the boxer touched Harry wherever he would. He 
 drove the boy about until he had taken the last ounce 
 of his strength, till Harry fell against the matchboard of 
 the kitchen cupboard and lay there, sobbing. 
 
 " You'll do ! " grunted Mountain, pulling him to his 
 feet. 
 
 His head under the cold-water tap in the back kitchen, 
 his sobs dying away, Harry came to his normal self. The 
 queer emotion had sunk into the depths of his being. 
 For a moment he had been out of himself, but now he 
 was once more Harry King. 
 
 And the said Harry had had a wonderful evening. He 
 had stood up to a real fighting-man! 
 
 He hardly realized, so full of himself was he, that Mrs. 
 Mountain was come back. 
 
 " Chitterlings," cried she on a note of triumph, and 
 when Harry said good night to his mentor he saw that 
 Mountain's face wore a look of happy anticipation. 
 
 " 'Ope you're 'ungry, Bill? " 
 
 " Well, old woman, I could do with a bit," and the 
 cottage door shut on their mutual content.
 
 114 The Rolling Stone 
 
 When Harry reached home St. Luke's clock was strik- 
 ing ten. He judged it advisable, therefore, to go in by the 
 back door, was indeed relieved to find it on the latch. 
 Leaving his boots in the scullery, he walked with careful 
 lightness across the hall. If he could get upstairs unseen 
 all would be well. 
 
 A light shone from the half-open dining-room door and 
 he could hear the voices of his parents. The stairs went 
 up abruptly from this door, and Harry paused for a 
 moment on the mat at the foot. He had caught a phrase 
 that interested him. 
 
 " Well, you see, they were such a bargain." 
 
 " Yes, but, my dear," expostulated his father, " you 
 didn't want them." 
 
 " I don't know about that. I've none too many." 
 
 " The man is a regular nuisance. He takes good care 
 not to come when I'm at home." 
 
 " You weren't at home, certainly," said Mrs. King, and 
 Harry noticed, without understanding it, a peculiar in- 
 flexion in her voice, " you had just gone up the road." 
 
 His father responded as if suddenly put on his defence. 
 " I'd got the pass and I didn't like to keep them waiting 
 for it." 
 
 " No, you make the fatherless and the widow your first 
 care. Well, I think it's time for bed." 
 
 And the scrape of her chair sent Harry flying up the 
 stairs.
 
 Chapter VIII 
 
 "\ "IT THAT were you doing last night, Henry? " 
 V/Y/ ^ there was one tn i n g Harry disliked it 
 was having to render an account of his 
 comings and goings. He began to eat his dinner as if 
 pressed for time. " I was having a lesson." 
 
 On the opposite side of the table, the three little sisters 
 pricked up their ears. Harry studious was a Harry un- 
 known to them. 
 
 " What sort of a lesson ? " asked Mr. King. 
 
 " A lesson in boxing! " 
 
 The father's face relaxed. "Who was your teacher? " 
 
 " A man named Mountain." He gave the name with 
 confidence; it would not awaken echoes in these innocent 
 minds. 
 
 Mr. King remembered that one of the teachers in the 
 Sunday-school had spoken to him of the value of physical 
 exercise. He had never had any use for it himself, but 
 he perceived that it might help to keep the demon of 
 youthful sensuality in check. Could the man's name have 
 been Mountain? 
 
 " Does he teach in St. Luke's Sunday School? " 
 
 Harry thought it unlikely. 
 
 "How did you come across him?" 
 
 " A chap told me this other chap could box, so I went 
 and saw him about it." 
 
 On the whole, this venture met with Mr. King's ap- 
 proval. " The boys at the works are a rough lot . . ." 
 
 he began thoughtfully. 
 
 115
 
 116 The Rolling Stone 
 
 To Harry the roughness of his fellow-apprentices was 
 of no moment; what he could not stomach was their 
 dirt dirty minds in dirty bodies, dirty talk he could 
 not stand it ! He would go elsewhere for his associates ; 
 and his thoughts flew to the evening company at the 
 " George," where the bar was presided over by handsome 
 Polly Martin. The talk there was of horses and dogs, 
 and, comparatively speaking, it was clean. 
 
 " And it is perhaps as well you should know how to 
 stand up for yourself," Concluded Mr. King. 
 
 " What about turning the other cheek? " asked Mrs. 
 King. 
 
 " Well er " the father smiled over the vision she 
 had conjured up, the vision of Harry turning that cheek, 
 " it might be misunderstood." 
 
 " The meek shall inherit the earth." 
 
 " True, my dear, but is it worth inheriting? " 
 
 She stared at him in surprise. In the chapel she at- 
 tended no one commented on, much less questioned, a 
 pious utterance. " It was a reward." 
 
 " We are not told so, and it's my humble belief that 
 by the meek was meant the farm-labourer. He certainly 
 inherits the earth, but I've never thought he made a good 
 thing of it." 
 
 Invigorated by the little connubial brush, he turned to 
 Harry. " You know I don't approve of fighting for fight- 
 ing's sake." 
 
 The lad, filling his recurrent emptiness with cold beef 
 and boiled potatoes, pondered the remark. Mountain, 
 the clean man in the clean cottage, had fought for fighting's 
 sake, because it came natural to him to fight, because 
 he had a fierce instinctive joy in the giving ay, and the 
 receiving of a blow, and, as Harry felt, because fighting 
 was for him the work he had been put here to do. His
 
 The Rolling Stone ll? 
 
 father had never fought; how could he understand? 
 
 " Why don't you approve? " 
 
 The dogged question took Mr. King by surprise. " Oh 
 er because it's wrong." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 A boy should not question those in authority. Mr. 
 King felt uneasily that Harry, even Harry, was growing 
 up. Very soon only the little girls would be left. 
 
 "Well it's brutalizing." 
 
 The final word had been spoken. Prize-fighting was a 
 brutal sport, on a level with bull-baiting and other early 
 English pastimes. He was surprised to annoyance when 
 Harry, with an air of wanting to know, said, " How? " 
 
 A note of asperity crept into Mr. King's voice. 
 Though such a big lad, the questioner was not yet of an 
 age to think for himself. " Prize-fighters," he said, " are 
 a drinking, betting, pot-hunting, low lot. And that is 
 enough about it. When I say a thing, Henry, you 
 shouldn't question. I've had experience and I know." 
 
 Harry considered this. " But I can't know just be- 
 cause you have had experience. I've got to find out for 
 myself." 
 
 " When you are older, when you are a man. Mean- 
 while, you can take it from me that prize-fighting de- 
 grades and brutalizes." , 
 
 And Harry thought of Mountain. 
 
 He thought, also, of a conversation he had that morn- 
 ing overheard. His foreman was talking to another man 
 and he was supposed to be too busy to heed. The men 
 had said his father was stupid and narrow-minded, that 
 he had a " wonderful " boy, a boy who was going to do 
 something, but who was " kept down." They had glanced 
 at Harry, at work on a nut-lathe, and spoken of his 
 football. " Mark my words," his foreman had said, " we
 
 118 The Rolling Stone 
 
 shall see that lad an International." A murmur from the 
 other man, and then the foreman said : " He was put into 
 our best team this season and I hear he's shaping extraor- 
 dinarily well. I'm going down this afternoon to see 
 for myself. Pity his guv'nor . . ." 
 
 That was how other men felt and thought about it. 
 
 Harry glanced at the clock. He was in his shorts, had 
 only to get the tasselled cap he wore with so much pride. 
 
 " Have you chopped the wood, Henry? " 
 
 " Yes, mother." 
 
 "Brought in the coal?" 
 
 "I have." 
 
 She nodded, and her son, setting back his chair, went 
 out like an engine starting off at full throttle. At the 
 door, however, he was intercepted by his sister Bet. 
 
 " Be back early, Bear." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " We're going to the party tonight Susie Allen's 
 birthday-party." 
 
 " Good," he said, pleased with the prospect. " Will 
 there be dancing? " 
 
 " I expect so." 
 
 He did a polka down the hall, and for the moment his 
 mind was distracted from football by the vision of Susie 
 Allen, the little girl he had so often seen returning to her 
 home from school. She wore her fair, glossy hair in 
 short, thick curls and she had peculiarly soft eyes. The 
 eyes had looked at him thoughtfully, at this big boy com- 
 ing from the works in the Old Town and, though dirty, 
 with a something about him which made him not easily for- 
 gotten. And Harry had been intrigued by the curls. 
 They were so different from his sisters' tumbling manes. 
 He wanted to see them close, to touch their smoothness
 
 The Rolling Stone 119 
 
 with a tentative finger. It seemed to him unreal. He 
 would not be content until he knew. 
 
 n 
 
 Once in the street, his pace quickened. His Saturday 
 afternoon walk to the football field was a play he was 
 wont to stage-manage with considerable care, and he was 
 afraid lest he should be late. By back lanes and alleys 
 he hurried to the head of the main thoroughfare, and, 
 once there, ran up a flight of steps which, ostensibly lead- 
 ing to a bank, was for him a watch-tower. He was on the 
 look-out for certain people, Great Ones, who would come 
 this way. First he glanced down the street to see if they 
 had passed, then up to see if they were coming. In that 
 crowd of released workers, that jabble of people glad, 
 after the week's confinement, to be free and in the open, 
 it needed both quick and clear sight to distinguish par- 
 ticular faces. Harry studied the people intently, and at 
 length caught sight of the men for whom he was waiting, 
 crossing from the stopping-place of the trams. 
 
 He intended to walk before then? down the street, to 
 draw their attention to himself and listen to what was 
 said. It was nuts to Harry to hear men discussing him. 
 He would play all the better for the knowledge of their 
 faith in him. He had done well, but he would do better. 
 A chance, an opportunity, and they should see. 
 
 Returning lightly to the pavement, he waited until 
 the Great Ones were on his heels, then, adapting his pace 
 to theirs strolled ahead. For some time his short, thick, 
 stubby figure, forging its casual way through the shifting 
 groups of people, failed to win remark ; but in the end, 
 a wandering eye fell on the thick, shapely calves, fell
 
 120 The Rolling Stone 
 
 with recognition. The interest of the expert quickened. 
 He turned to the man with whom he was walking. 
 
 " Why, there's the Rough 'Un." 
 
 "Not that little chap?" 
 
 "Little? Anyway, he's our Champion Chucker." 
 
 " You catch 'em young." 
 
 " Wait till you see him pinch the ball and shove it to 
 the three-quarters. Young 'uns are the nippiest; this 
 one's a miracle." The voice grew confidential. " Man 
 over from the Rangers last week noticed the Rough 
 'Un's play . . ." 
 
 " I bet Fiander don't want the Rangers snoopin' round 
 after his men." 
 
 " Ay, Fiander could ha' done wi'out him." 
 
 Harry had warmed to the word " miracle," but what 
 was this about the Rangers? The heat of his internal 
 combustion engine went up several degrees. The Rangers 
 were an important team, in quite a different class from 
 the one for which he played. Was it possible they would 
 ever ask him to play for them? He wondered if a 
 Ranger were likely to be among the onlookers that after- 
 noon. If so and Harry clenched himself on a resolu- 
 tion to do his best and more than his best! 
 
 He was put to mark the biggest man in the opposing 
 team ; and the man was inclined to be contemptuous of 
 him as a youngster not yet come into his strength. The 
 contempt lasted until, for the first time, the stranger's 
 two hands touched the ball. In a trice the Rough 'Un 
 had collared him round the knees, was pulling him forward. 
 The big man buckled and, a ludicrous expression of 
 amazement on his face, came down. A roar of delighted 
 approval went up from the crowd. Such a little chap 
 and so spunky! Harry heard his name shouted in that 
 great blended voice not his baptismal name, but the
 
 The Rolling Stone 121 
 
 one popularity had found him. " Go it, Rough 'Un, go 
 it ! " and he wondered again whether a Ranger were look- 
 ing on. 
 
 Bet met the muddy object that returned in triumph 
 from the football field with an anxious adjuration to be 
 quick. 
 
 " We won, Bet four goals to nothing." 
 
 " Oh, Bear, we are so late, we ought to be there by now. 
 Let me come and help you change? " 
 
 He surveyed the muslin frock and blue sash a little 
 dubiously. " The others ready? " 
 
 " We've been ready a long time." 
 
 "My things out?" 
 
 " I've put them on your bed." 
 
 " All right, then, I won't be half a tick. And I say, 
 Bet . . ." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " I'm hungry. I don't believe I had much dinner." 
 
 " Yes, you did ; I saw." 
 
 " Anyway . . ." 
 
 " They give us a scrumptious tea there." 
 
 The thought of a candle-lit table with coloured cakes 
 and jellies, perhaps even crackers, made his mouth water. 
 Already the football was forgotten. " Still . . ." 
 
 " I'll see what I can do," and presently she came run- 
 ning up the stairs with a big hunch of cake. 
 
 " Are you ready, Bear ? " 
 
 " Pretty near. I say, Bet, you are a bit of all right." 
 
 She looked down at her frock. " It's new. We've all 
 got new muslin frocks and they're to do us for the dancing- 
 class. Nancy has a pink sash and Mab's is green." 
 
 " Why do you tie your curls in a bunch? " 
 
 She patted the big blue bow on her neck approvingly. 
 " It's the fashion."
 
 122 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " Oh ! " and though he could not deny that " the 
 fashion " suited Bet's open face, he knew a way of hair- 
 dressing that was prettier far. " Come on, now. I'm 
 ready." 
 
 Ill 
 
 The three little girls, convoyed by a spruce brother, 
 hurried down the road. They did not want to be late 
 for the birthday-tea, for the cake which the pastrycook 
 had iced and on the white sugar of which would be written 
 Susie's name in pink letters and the date of her birth. 
 Several little families had gone past and they, waiting 
 in the dining-room while Harry dressed, had seen them 
 go. Not until they were safely under Mrs. Allen's roof 
 was their anxiety allayed. 
 
 " Now that we are all here," she said and they loved 
 her for her patience, and also for so quickly inaugurating 
 the joys of the party " I think we will have tea." 
 
 On each child's plate was a pink card with its name, 
 and down the centre of the laden table was an abundance 
 of crackers. Mrs. Allen had an intuitive knowledge of 
 the food young people preferred. She wanted Susie to 
 enjoy her birthday to gain, too, a little experience, so 
 that when her turn came she might be able to give suc- 
 cessful parties. Therefore she had said, " To begin with, 
 darling, we'll have tea ; it breaks the ice." 
 
 " And then, mums ? " 
 
 " Then a lively, stirring sort of game ; it makes people 
 friendly." 
 
 After tea, therefore, Auntie Maud went to the piano 
 and they played musical chairs. Harry, with the energy 
 football had depleted restored by food and such de- 
 licious food found himself running round a diminishing 
 row of seats with his attention divided between a little girl
 
 The Rolling Stone 123 
 
 in front a little girl whose hair, parted on a neat small 
 head, hung in large glossy curls and the need to keep 
 an ever-changing chair in view. The little girl's dress was 
 in a peculiar way different from that of other little girls. 
 It was of white satin. Yes, the satin was certainly white, 
 yet in the folds and as she moved it glowed as if the slim 
 bod} r underneath was a flame and was shining through. 
 This rosy glow at once pleased and puzzled him; it drew 
 his curious glance, so that he looked at her all the time 
 they were running and sitting down and running again. 
 At last there was only one chair and they were running 
 round it, but by then Harry's attention was so much 
 taken up with the mystery of the frock that when, the 
 music stopped for the last time it was the little girl who 
 was sitting on the solitary chair and not he. 
 
 He did not mind being beaten by her, for as she sat 
 down she lifted her skirt a little and he saw that, under 
 the white satin, she was wearing a petticoat of flame- 
 coloured brocade. Never had he imagined such a petti- 
 coat ! He had seen his mother's, drab and workaday ; 
 the little plain underskirts, white or coloured according 
 to the season, that his sisters wore. He had not known 
 there was in the world such a petticoat as this which was 
 flaming through the frock designed to hide it. When 
 he had left home he had been well pleased with Bet's 
 muslin frock ; he now regarded it no more than the rags 
 he was wont to carry to the old-clothes man. 
 
 IV 
 
 When the young people had been warmed out of their 
 shyness by the hearty give-and-take of games Auntie 
 Maud began a polka. 
 
 " Darling," and Mrs. Allen laid a detaining hand
 
 124 The Rolling Stone 
 
 on her daughter's arm, " where are you going? " 
 
 " To get a partner." 
 
 " But little girls don't ask little boys." 
 
 " Then," she raised troubled eyes to her mother's face, 
 "how do you get a partner? " 
 
 " If you wait quietly, a boy will come." 
 
 " Oh, but," said Susie, " I don't want any boy." 
 
 " No, but still, you mustn't do the asking." 
 
 Susie considered this until mother-wit showed her a 
 way out of the difficulty. She walked deliberately into 
 the middle of the room and stood under the twinkling 
 lustres of the great glass chandelier. If she might not 
 make the advances, at least she would be seen. To her 
 it seemed of the utmost importance that she should not 
 be overlooked, and, standing in the blaze of light, she 
 lifted her soft blue eyes and looked across the room. 
 
 She had no need to do more. Harry, without seeming 
 to do so, had been watching the little head set round with 
 curls, the figure in that glowing frock. He had seen her 
 leave her mother's side. He waited until she paused under 
 the chandelier, then a spirit in his feet brought him across 
 to her. Neither spoke to the other, but he put an arm 
 round her waist and they began to dance. 
 
 " So that was the boy," said Mrs. Allen to herself. 
 " Well, yes. . . ." 
 
 Their faces as they swung past were grave and they 
 seemed more occupied with the dance than with each 
 other, for neither said a word. They danced until the 
 music stopped, then Harry brought his partner to a seat 
 and left her. 
 
 " Well ? " said Mrs. Allen again, and smiled. 
 
 " When a boy wants a partner," said Susie, who had 
 been meditating on her mother's convention, " he looks 
 about him."
 
 The Rolling Stone 
 
 "Yes?" said Mrs. Allen. 
 
 " And you try to be where he is looking." 
 
 When the dancing recommenced Harry came to her at 
 once. Other boys had determined to ask her for a dance 
 but he shouldered them aside, and she took his doing so 
 as a matter of course. 
 
 " Yes," said the mother to herself. 
 
 The boy and girl danced every dance together. They 
 were absorbed and quite remarkably silent. Mrs. Allen, 
 watching, did not see them exchange a single word, and 
 when Mr. King fetched his flock they parted without so 
 much as a handshake. 
 
 A quadrille was being started, and Bertie Nockolds, 
 the son of a local doctor, thought his chance was come. 
 
 " No, thank you," said Susie sedately, " I don't want 
 to dance this," and out of the tail of her eye Mrs. Allen, 
 as she arranged the sets, saw her daughter go to the 
 window and, lifting the corner of the blind, peer into the 
 night. 
 
 " Too dark," she thought, but the young things knew 
 better. 
 
 Harry had fallen behind father and sisters and was 
 looking back. He felt that a satisfaction, a last sweet- 
 ness, was awaiting him, and saw without surprise the lifted 
 blind, the beam of light, the outline of a little head. The 
 street-lamp made him darkly visible. He raised his arm 
 in a gesture of farewell, his gesture and for her only. 
 
 The evening was at an end, their evening; but he knew 
 now the reality of those silky curls. He had touched 
 them surreptitiously, touched them when she was not 
 noticing, and he knew. 
 
 Susie had not been noticing, of course, but she also 
 knew!
 
 Chapter IX 
 
 MEGAN ROBERTS stood at the window of her 
 attic yawning. The Clarkes, to whom she had 
 lately come as mother's help, were out for the 
 day, and she could not see why, if they were enjoying 
 themselves, she should work. 
 
 On her left stretched the garden two plots where 
 other houses were built on one of Mr. King. A sound 
 of splashing came from the neighbourhood of the scullery- 
 door but Megan heard it with indifference. In all proba- 
 bility Mrs. King, whom she knew by sight, was washing 
 down the yard ; and the girl could imagine the shallow 
 scurry of dirty water as it was pushed by a hard brown 
 broom towards the open drain. She did not turn her 
 head. 
 
 Away went Polly, 
 
 With a step so jolly 
 
 That I knew she'd win . . . 
 
 sang a voice which she recognized, with a start, as mascu- 
 line and young. A tap was running, but above the gurgle 
 of water rose the blithe, resonant tones, the words clear 
 as if spoken in her ear: 
 
 All the rest were licked and might 
 As well ha' ne'er been born. 
 Whoa, mare! Whoa, mare! You've earned 
 
 Your little bit of corn. 
 126
 
 The Rolling Stone 127 
 
 Megan ran over in her mind the next-door household. 
 As far as she knew, it consisted of some bright, vigorous- 
 looking girls, a bustling mother, and a handsome middle- 
 aged man. Harry, who was at the works by six and 
 who spent his evenings in town, she had not yet seen. 
 Could the singer be Mr. King? She crossed to the other 
 side of the window and looked down. From where she 
 stood she had a good view of the yard into which the 
 scullery door opened, of its capsized pails sweetening in 
 the sun, the lumber of barrels and washing-trough, and, 
 under the window, the broad bench. As she glanced over 
 it inquiringly, a youth came through the doorway carrying 
 a pitcher of water a youth who was naked to the waist 
 and who carried the heavy vessel as if it had been empty. 
 Harry was seventeen. He was coming into his strength, 
 and as the girl's glance fell on his wide shoulders and 
 the square, yet rounded barrel of his chest her pulse 
 quickened. Never had she seen anything so, to her mind, 
 beautiful. The big chest fell away to a small waist, 
 and under the loosely girt trousers she guessed at brawny 
 curves that matched the big and shining arms. In a trice 
 all who had previously caught her fancy grew shadowy. 
 Harry, still singing, poured water into a basin and began 
 to wash off the grime not apparent to the onlooker 
 overhead of the works. His head was pleasantly full 
 of his own concerns. As captain of the local cricket team 
 he had embarked on a successful season. The previous 
 Saturday he had made a hundred and forty-five not out, 
 and he hoped to do better at the match they were playing 
 with the Sissiter eleven a fortnight hence. He thought 
 of his team. Ward was a good bowler but he pitched 
 his balls too short. The best plan would be to mark 
 the blind spot and make him practise. He, Harry, must 
 see about it.
 
 128 The Rolling Stone 
 
 On his bare back beat a sudden shower, and for a 
 moment he wondered whether, in spite of the sunshine 
 and cloudless sky, rain could be falling. The shower ap- 
 pearing, however, to be limited to a small area, he looked 
 about till he caught sight of a head above the 
 wall, a head with michievous eyes and strange hair. He 
 had never seen such hair; it was like new copper wire. 
 
 " Hullo ! " he said, picking up the towel, " what are 
 you doing? " 
 
 " Only watering the flowers." As she spoke she 
 dropped the nozzle of the hose, and it spurted harmlessly 
 along the gravel-path on which she was standing. 
 
 Harry thought that he liked the look of her. That 
 hair and creamy skin and long narrow, red-brown eyes 
 but were they red-brown? 
 
 " You aren't a Clarke ? " They were dull chaps, the 
 Clarkes, could not play games for toffee. He had no use 
 for them. "What are you doing here?" 
 
 " I'm helping Mrs. Clarke. There were too many of us 
 at home and it's quiet at Lwm-crwn. But I find it is 
 quiet here too, though this is a town." 
 
 Harry thought he had never heard such a pretty voice ; 
 he wanted to imitate its rise and fall. " There are the 
 Clarkes," he said, instinct teaching him why such an one 
 found the place dull. "Albert . . ." 
 
 " Albert ! " She gave him a sidelong glance, and again 
 he wondered whether the eyes were wholly brown. '* I 
 prefer the boy on the other side ! " 
 
 "Old Rube?" 
 
 " And not him, either. I do not like everybody ; in- 
 deed and indeed I do not, so I am lonely." 
 
 Harry registered the fact that the voice rose at the 
 end of a sentence. As soon as he was alone he would 
 repeat the phrases with her intonation. " Poor little
 
 The Rolling Stone 129 
 
 girl," he said, but absently. He was saying over to him- 
 self " lonely." He was giving the word a little treble 
 lilt. 
 
 " They are all out. They've driven over to Mr. Endi- 
 cott's farm to make hay and pick strawberries. They've 
 left me behind." 
 
 "What a shame!" It was just like the Clarkes, the 
 sort of thing they would do. The idea of having a girl 
 like this in the house and leaving her out of things ! 
 Harry waxed indignant. " The Clarkes think of nobody 
 but themselves." 
 
 " It would not have hurt them to have taken me." 
 
 He saw her lip trembling, perceived that she was dis- 
 appointed. He had a vision of Albert sitting beside her 
 in the wagonette, tossing hay over her, able, by looking 
 deep into those troubling eyes, to discover what was it 
 he had wanted to discover? He drew a step nearer, the 
 towel held to his chin, his shoulders gleaming satin-white 
 above it. But the sun was in his face, he could not see. 
 
 " I hate being there," she made a gesture towards the 
 house, " by myself. The rooms are dark." She shiv- 
 ered as if their gloom were uncanny, and as she moved, the 
 sun glittered in her coppery hair. " I'd gone upstairs to 
 get away from things." She pointed to her window, 
 and he saw the attic through her eyes as a haven. 
 " Then " she was no longer piteous " I saw you." 
 
 II 
 
 " Henry ! " cried a voice from the interior of the house, 
 and, as if the sound had been a danger-signal, the red 
 head sank out of sight. Harry was putting the towel 
 to its legitimate use when the voice embodied itself in 
 Mrs. King.
 
 130 The Rolling Stone 
 
 "Who were you talking to?" 
 
 " One of the Clarkes." 
 
 She had caught a glimpse of sun-fired hair, and, the 
 Clarkes being mud-coloured, she wondered a little and 
 doubted. " Your father wants you. He's had a letter." 
 
 "Where is he?" The Kings having but few corre- 
 spondents, every square envelope that came to the house 
 was regarded by youth with curiosity, with hope. Harry 
 turned. Already the wash of a new interest was sweeping 
 over his mind, dimming that impression of a full throat, 
 of dazzling hair. She was by no means the first who 
 had spoken to him, but he did not care about girls. Not? 
 Well, then, yes, he did ; after all, a fellow was a man. 
 But he wanted more than just that; something dif- 
 ferent. He would find it too some day. For the mo- 
 ment he was too busy to go and look for it. He would 
 content himself with what came; but, later . . . 
 
 " Your father has gone upstairs to wash his hands." 
 
 The children, the whole family, knew that Mr. King 
 lived a little private life of his own, called " washing his 
 hands." It was connected with the big green safe which 
 stood by the bed in his room, and which was kept locked. 
 Whenever money was unexpectedly required Mr. King 
 would go upstairs, he would rub his pale hands one over 
 the other as if drying them, and when he returned he 
 would have the necessary sum in his pocket. At other 
 times, when he had half an hour to spare, he would dis- 
 appear. The key would be turned in the bedroom-lock 
 and silence would reign. The family could not believe 
 that it was the silence of inactivity ; they imagined him 
 mysteriously busy with the contents of the safe. Richard, 
 whose mind had been influenced by books of adventure, 
 thought of his father as weighing out ounces of gold-dust 
 and gloating over precious stones; the Codger suspected
 
 The Rolling Stone 131 
 
 him of collecting something, perhaps beetles ; while Harry 
 fancied the safe must contain the insignia of some secret 
 society, a society like the one to which he belonged, but 
 more mysterious. To all the children the safe was a 
 mystery-box which they would have liked to investigate, 
 but Harry was the only one who had tried to discover 
 where his father kept the key. 
 
 Ill 
 
 In response to the boy's knock Mr. King came to the 
 bedroom door. " What do you want?" 
 
 " Mother sent me up." 
 
 " Oh, ah, yes." He stood back, and Harry, entering, 
 sent a quick glance round the room. To his surprise, 
 the door of the safe was ajar; so also was the door of a 
 little corner bracket, which contained a few medicines such 
 as castor-oil, Gregory's powder, Beecham's Pills. 
 
 " I've never gone through that cupboard properly," 
 thought Harry, and resolved to repair the omission. 
 
 " Just met Archdeacon Margerison ; in fact " his 
 smile was one of boyish gratification, " in fact, he walked 
 home with me." Harry, perceiving that the family had 
 received its due, warmed to the Archdeacon. People in 
 high places were not always so discriminating. " He 
 was speaking of you." 
 
 Alarming that, but he had been confirmed. Surely 
 there was nothing more they the parsons could do to 
 him? 
 
 " He is short of Sunday-school teachers. He asked 
 what you did with yourself of a Sunday afternoon." 
 
 " I go for a walk." 
 
 " It's only an hour out of the afternoon." 
 
 " But it's the only afternoon I have."
 
 132 The Rolling Stone 
 
 Mr. King, strolling across the room, pushed the gilt 
 knob of the safe, and the door shut with a metallic clang 
 and snap. " He wants you to take the big boys' class j 
 they've got rather out of hand." 
 
 Harry, less certain that he required the whole of Sun- 
 day afternoon for his own purposes, was still cautious. 
 
 "Where is it held? " 
 
 " In the little classroom at the schools. They have it 
 to themselves." 
 
 Which, being interpreted, meant that he would have 
 it and them to himself. In those circumstances, to take 
 the big boys might prove amusing. 
 
 " Windle used to teach them, but last Sunday they 
 locked him out, so he has thrown up the job." 
 
 Roseate hues began to play over the Archdeacon's re-> 
 quest. Take the big boys' class? Harry thought he 
 might. 
 
 "What time ought I to be there?" 
 
 " Three o'clock." 
 
 " Well I don't mind." He was turning away when 
 he remembered that his mother had spoken of a letter. 
 "Anything else?" 
 
 Mr. King turned the key in the oiled lock of the safe, 
 and Harry saw that it bore a tin label, forked at the end. 
 He would know it again. 
 
 '* Yes," said the older man, and his tone was business- 
 like, " I've heard from the naval authorities." 
 
 Harry gaped on him in sudden throbbing joy, the rush 
 of feeling so strong that he could hardly articulate. 
 "You have heard?" 
 
 "You are to go to Bristol for the physical examina- 
 tion." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " Tuesday week,"
 
 The Rolling Stone 133 
 
 Mr. King went into details. " You can stay the night 
 with your Uncle Robert. People tell me there's no doubt 
 of your getting in if you can pass the physical examina- 
 tion." 
 
 " And I'm pretty strong." He dwelt with satisfaction 
 on his swelling muscles. The Ramblers had asked him 
 to play for them next season; he was Captain of the 
 Parkside Cricket Club; captain, too, of the "Gym." No 
 doubt about his strength! Old Liddicoat, the cost-price 
 man, had said there wasn't a fellow in the place could 
 stand up to him, and it was true. The new chaps boxed 
 with him, but not the old; they knew. Of late he had 
 been swinging locomotive-engine brake-blocks from his 
 teeth, and that took some doing. Strong? He hadn't 
 his match. 
 
 " I know, but they are mighty particular." Harry 
 heard the doubt. Doubt? Doubt of his strength? 
 Why should his father seek to belittle it? Though no 
 good at books, he was a right engineer. The great Mr. 
 Steel, the works manager, who had once seen him spar- 
 ring, had called him the " Pocket Hercules." As good as 
 a certificate, that. There could not be surely there 
 could not be any doubt? 
 
 " Well, it's tea-time." Harry woke to the fact that his; 
 father was fidgeting about the room, waiting for him 
 to go, waiting to slip the key of the safe into its hiding- 
 place. 
 
 Tea might be on the table, but the hunger of which 
 towards meal-time he was healthily conscious had de- 
 serted him. He ran up to his room. Before he faced the 
 family he must get the first exuberance of his joy and ex- 
 citement under control. An engineer in the Navy! He 
 loved the sea, the cold, relentless sea ; loved to see a good 
 ship plunging through heavy seas, loved the warm engine-
 
 134 The Rolling Stone 
 
 room. If he could have these things and the one thing 
 more: if he were chosen, chosen to serve! 
 
 His country! A something big, vague, immensely im- 
 portant a something worthy of him, of the utmost he 
 could give! 
 
 His eyes were full of tears, his chest heaving with 
 emotion. " England ! " he said to himself, and walked 
 up and down the room. One little body could not contain 
 so vast a flood of feeling; he must do something to work 
 it off. Food? He was beyond the need of food. He 
 was going to serve his country; he was going to fight 
 for her, to fight all in, to give all he had ! 
 
 He ran lightly down the stairs, tiptoed past the dining- 
 room door for he could not face the family yet and 
 let himself out of the house. For the last few months he 
 had hired a room at the " George," a room in which he 
 could box. Thither came the hardiest of the apprentices. 
 They came once and Harry gave them of his best ; it was 
 not often that they came again. Only a few, young and 
 earnest, were willing to go on. Old Mountain came, gave 
 terse advice, put them up to wrinkles, treated a new-comer 
 to a few pats and a dab on the nose, and criticized Harry's 
 performances. One or two sporting men turned up, not 
 as a regular thing but on occasion. The horsy, doggy 
 frequenters of the saloon bar said Harry was " a stiff 
 little chap and would go far." He thought they treated 
 him as one of themselves. . . . 
 
 " I want to hurt some one," he said, turning on the 
 bar a face of entreaty. 
 
 A man named Mallet laughed. " I'm not on tonight 
 but I saw Mountain go by just now. He had a likely lad 
 in tow. Go and plug him." 
 
 Polly Martin, handsome Polly Martin, who had long
 
 The Rolling Stone 135 
 
 since recognized in Harry a humble lover, shed him a 
 kindly glance. 
 
 " What's the matter with you tonight? " 
 
 " Oh, it's a good old world." 
 
 " Don't let them maul you about." 
 
 " I'll do the mauling." 
 
 But when, an hour later, he looked into the room where 
 the men were playing Crown and Anchor, one of his eyes 
 was what is known as " black." He seemed satisfied, how- 
 ever, and at peace; and when Polly spoke of remedies, 
 only grinned with " A bat between the eyes ? What's that 
 to an admiral of the Fleet? " 
 
 Happily conscious of having let off steam, he sauntered 
 up to the group of men about the Crown and Anchor 
 board. Mallet, whose status at the " George " he did not 
 quite understand, was in charge and was enlivening the 
 proceedings with a flow of patter. 
 
 Harry at seventeen was earning fifteen shillings a week, 
 and although of this twelve-and-six went to his father, 
 he had ways of adding to his income. A shilling was 
 burning in his trousers pocket and the game was often 
 kind to him. He would order a schooner of beer and with 
 the rest of the money would have a go. 
 
 " Come on, my lucky lads ! " cried Mallet, rattling the 
 dice. " Who says a punt on this lucky old board? Come 
 here in wheelbarrows, go away in your own gigs. Can't 
 I talk some of you into money? You pick 'em and we'll 
 pay 'em; the old man's got the stuff. A shilling on the 
 hook, eh? Now, who says a bit of snow on the four 
 corners? There's four aces going for the old man. Two 
 shillings half-way is a good bit. Split that two bob a 
 shilling on the die and club. What about a little snow 
 on the spade and heart? Who says a little punt on the
 
 136 The Rolling Stone 
 
 old shovel? Come on, my lucky lads, stack it on thick 
 and heavy. There's the heart running for the old man. 
 Nobody say a little punt on the old jam tart? Any more 
 before we lift her? Are you all set? " He paused and 
 looked round. Harry had staked with the rest. Forget- 
 ting the schooner of beer, he had staked his shilling. 
 
 " Then up she comes ? " 
 
 With an eager movement they closed about the board. 
 
 " There's the name and the game and the die ; the 
 crown, hook, and die just where the stinking stuff lies. 
 Paid there five bob, paid there. All paid, well paid, and 
 away she goes again. If you don't like our shake you 
 can shake her yourselves." 
 
 Harry had been lucky. Conscious now of hunger, he 
 was able to order some bread and cheese and, yes, the 
 delayed schooner of beer. His father prided himself on 
 never having tasted alcohol. He often spoke of it to 
 a family he imagined admiring and hoped to influence. 
 But Harry saw no merit in abstention. Better, surely, to 
 try a thing for oneself. Therefore, on this day of opening 
 prospects he ordered beer. 
 
 It was not the first time he had taken it. The cool 
 dark brown liquid, bubbling in the long glass, looked at- 
 tractive but was not altogether to his taste. That night, 
 however, he was both hungry and thirsty. 
 
 IV 
 
 He ate and drank to the squeaking of a merry fiddle 
 played in the street and, after paying his score, sauntered 
 out. For all he had lived a crowded hour, the evening 
 was not far advanced. Harry watched the children foot- 
 ing it to the blind man's tune. A year or two earlier 
 and he would have joined them. Even now he looked at
 
 The Rolling Stone 137 
 
 them enviously ; but an engineer in the Navy no. 
 
 He turned to go home, and, instinctively, he chose a 
 roundabout way. Home meant a little woolly talk and 
 then bed ; but why bed when the sunset sky was glorious 
 with colour? He would go by way of the canal, and 
 perhaps the adventure he never sought but so frequently 
 found would be awaiting him on its green banks. Others 
 were of like mind, and the towing-path was populous with 
 youth. Harry took the glances directed at him by pass- 
 ing maidens with a non-committal eye. He saw other 
 lads of his age chaffing the girls, strolling with them, sit- 
 ting in the dusk of the trees with an arm about a trim 
 waist, and he was envious but a little shy. It seemed to 
 him that every girl was pretty, the colours she wore a 
 jov after masculine blacks and greys and browns, the 
 glimpses of her twinkling ankles under discreet skirts a 
 most thrilling matter. He wanted to answer those pro- 
 vocative glances, he was agog to answer them, yet did 
 not quite dare. He walked by the grouDs, therefore, and 
 the girls looked after him longingly; but they also were, 
 thrillingly, a little shy. 
 
 The sky was reflected, blue and gold and crimson, on 
 the murky water ; a brightly painted barge broke through 
 the mirrored lights, and Harry, absently watching the gay 
 disturbance, thought it a dull show. He had come to a 
 lonely stretch of the canal, and to the right of him lay 
 brickfields, the torn earth, the lines of newly burnt bricks, 
 the round, strongly odorous kiln. He sniffed in the smell 
 appreciatively. That was good, a rough scent and a 
 clean. 
 
 " Hullo, darling ! " 
 
 Not a soul in sight ! No one but their two selves, and 
 Gipsy Sal had the full figure that he admired. He saw 
 a girl not much older than himself and pretty, with a
 
 138 The Rolling Stone 
 
 high colour and big smiling eyes. Instantly he felt at 
 home with her, felt a pleasant thrill of anticipation; but 
 he must show her that he was a man, that he knew the 
 right thing to say. 
 
 " What's the price tonight? " 
 
 " What you can afford, dear." She drew a step nearer 
 and the quality of her smile changed. She had something 
 to sell and she would make the best price she could. Her 
 full breast was almost touching Harry, her full lips were 
 pouting up at him. It was her moment and she must 
 get what she could. " Come, brass up, my lad," she said 
 heavily, " brass up." 
 
 Harry drew away. " You can have what I've got," 
 he said, and handed her his remaining pieces of silver, 
 " but I don't want . . ." 
 
 He would not buy what he felt, suddenly and con- 
 vincingly, must be a gift. He could not buy it. His 
 body revolted from her, from her lure, her easiness, her 
 promiscuity. He had something to learn, but not from 
 her. 
 
 " Thank you, dearie," she said, and slipped the money 
 into the safest place she knew, her stocking. 
 
 " Isn't it a pretty poor trade? " 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. " Depends on the chaps, 
 but when they're free-handed and there's plenty of lush 
 I don't want nothing better." 
 
 " Don't you? I should have thought a fine woman like 
 you would have wanted a fellow to work for her and a 
 home of her own." 
 
 " I don't see myself a slommocky drab drudging from 
 morning till night for some " and she swore. " No 
 thanks, not for this child." 
 
 "But . . ." 
 
 "I say, what's the gime? " As he had given her what
 
 The Rolling Stone 
 
 he had in his pocket, she realized that his intentions 
 were friendly. " You're soft, ain't you? " 
 
 " I'm thinking of you." 
 
 I never!" 
 
 " I want you to chuck it." 
 
 She burst into a loud laugh. " Hi, Bill ! " she cried, 
 and a big man emerged from the shadow of the bricks. 
 " There's a chap 'ere what's barmy." 
 
 The big man loomed up between them but Harry stood 
 his ground. "Been h'insultin' of you? Holy Moses! 
 Why, it's the Rough 'Un ! " His truculence vanished. 
 " Run along 'ome, kiddie. I ain't goin' to try and cut 
 the bleedin' 'eart out of you." 
 
 He took the woman by the arm and they went up the 
 tow-path. The sound of their rough laughter came back 
 to Harry. Had he made a fool of himself? He stood 
 for some moments nonplussed and wondering, but gradu- 
 ally his confidence returned. Conduct such as Gipsy Sal's 
 brought women to drink and to the growing horrors of 
 the descent into hell. Not his business, perhaps, to utter 
 a warning, but some one he thought vaguely of Arch- 
 deacon Margerison, his father, the Lord God ought. 
 How otherwise were people to know? At any rate, he 
 had spoken out ; perhaps he had been meant to. Perhaps 
 that was why he had had strength to resist temptation. 
 Dwelling on the look in Gipsy Sal's fine eyes, he realized 
 that the temptation had been strong. A raw boy, inex- 
 perienced, he had yet been able to resist. He went home 
 satisfied with, even elated by, his evening. 
 
 " Indoors by ten," was the rule of No. 14 Parkside, 
 and Harry was half an hour late. He was too well
 
 140 The Rolling Stone 
 
 pleased with himself, however, to be cautious. As he 
 came into the dining-room Mr. King looked up from the 
 ledger he was auditing. 
 
 " James went upstairs half an hour ago," he said 
 pointedly. 
 
 The character of the household had known a change. 
 Bet was at boarding-school and James, having left Cheeley, 
 had gone into the works. He was nineteen a slow, 
 studious lad whose engineering designs were beginning to 
 attract notice. As a room-mate Harry found him as 
 lively as a snail in a cranny. 
 
 Mrs. King folded the nightdress she had been mending. 
 " Where have you been ? " 
 
 " For a walk." 
 
 " At this time of night ! Where? " 
 
 " By the canal." 
 
 "Alone?" 
 
 " I met people I knew." Harry had a whimsical pic- 
 ture of Gipsy Sal in his mother's house. 
 
 Mrs. King got up, intending to lay the folded work with 
 other garments ; but as she passed Harry she stopped 
 abruptly. " You've been drinking." 
 
 " Drinking? " Harry had been annoyed by his moth- 
 er's questions. His brows came together in an obtuse 
 angle a sign, with him, of anger ; but though Mrs. King 
 saw, she did not care. The boy's breath smelt, and she 
 would not have it. A fine thing for a son of hers to come 
 home from some low pot-house and lie to her about walks ! 
 
 " I've had a can of beer. No harm in that." 
 
 Mr. King closed the ledger with a slam. He was not 
 angry, but the cover had slipped from his uncertain 
 fingers. No, not angry, only troubled. Harry was 
 scarcely seventeen and already, in spite of precept and
 
 The Rolling Stone 141 
 
 example, was beginning to drink. The father felt his au- 
 thority waning. 
 
 " Look here, my lad, I can't have it ; we're teetotallers 
 here." 
 
 " I don't see why I should be a teetotaller because you 
 are." 
 
 His mother broke in. " You begin with one glass and 
 get a liking for the stuff, and the liking grows till you 
 can't do without it. Drink is the curse of the country." 
 
 " It isn't necessary to take too much." 
 
 " People always do. You may think you are strong, 
 Henry, but you will find drink is the stronger. Where 
 did you buy this beer?" 
 
 " At the ' George,' " said Harry sullenly. 
 
 " And how did you get that black eye? " 
 
 " Boxing." 
 
 " So that is how you spent your evening? And you 
 told us you had been for a walk. A pretty walk 
 brawling in a pub." 
 
 " Once and for all, Henry," interposed Mr. King, " I 
 won't have it. As long as you are in this house you 
 must conform to the rules we have seen fit to make. There 
 shall be no drinking here." 
 
 " All this bother," said Harry as he swung out of the 
 room, " about a can of beer ! " Really, his parents were 
 impossible. They sat at home and, outside, life was bub- 
 bling and fermenting but they knew nothing of it. Their 
 range was limited: in one direction, by a desk in an office; 
 in the other, by a few similarly placed neighbours ; and 
 finally, by their church and chapel. How could they pro- 
 nounce for him? And what had he done? Less than 
 other lads of his age! All this flapdoodle about one pot 
 of beer! He laughed bitterly to himself. To have ac-
 
 142 The Rolling Stone 
 
 cused him of bad habits him ! Had he not spent the 
 evening trying to prevent a fellow-creature rushing head- 
 long to destruction, reasoning with her, pleading; and 
 that he remembered Bill at some risk ? How little 
 his parents understood him ! Little fussy rules and all 
 this chin-wagging when, at heart, he was such a decent 
 chap. 
 
 He went upstairs, past the rooms in which the rest of 
 the family slept, past the window in the bend, the window 
 which lighted the upper landing. The weather being so 
 warm, this window had been left open in fact, for- 
 gotten ; and Harry turned back to shut it. Although his 
 parents treated him harshly, he would not bear malice. 
 He would shut their window for them. Not his business, 
 but if it rained in the night the stair-carpet would be 
 damaged. Perhaps, when they realized his thought for 
 them they would understand him a little better. 
 
 The night was starlit, with a rising moon, and Harry 
 paused to look out. The window being in the side of 
 the house, he had only a limited view of the road. A cat 
 ran across, and in the opposite garden another called. 
 Before him rose the dark bulk of No. 13. The houses 
 in Parkside were detached, and a wall with a gravel path 
 on either side separated No. 13 from No. 14. The privacy 
 of the families inhabiting them, however, was ensured by 
 an absence of windows ; only one broke the large blank 
 surface, and the panes of that were muffed and starred 
 and coloured. Harry, glancing across, saw that the stair- 
 case window of No. 13 was open. How careless people 
 were, other people! But no, some one was sitting by it. 
 He looked more sharply and saw, etherealized by night, 
 the girl to whom he had spoken that afternoon. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke, tired by her pleasuring, had returned in 
 an irritable mood. Restless because so tired, she had
 
 The Rolling Stone 148 
 
 examined Megan Roberts's work and, discovering it haid 
 been scamped, had waxed wroth. The girl, under notice 
 to leave at the end of the month, had come upstairs to 
 bed. But the staircase window gave on the house in which, 
 presumably, Harry was sleeping; and she had kneeled 
 down by it and given rein to unhappy thought. Her mind 
 was still obsessed by the vision which had been vouchsafed 
 her. In which of the rooms of that dark moon-bathed 
 house was he? She was an unlucky maid. If she had to 
 leave Mrs. Clarke her mother would be displeased. Mrs. 
 Clarke might refuse to give her a character, and what 
 then? She wanted, she wanted very much, she wanted 
 terribly to lean her head on the wide shoulder she had 
 seen that day and pour out her troubles. She wanted 
 to tell him all about it and, while she told, to feel his arm 
 tightening tightening 
 
 A tear, large and glittering, fell on the window-sill, 
 and Harry saw it. He glanced back into the house, savr 
 his parents pass into their room and, their voices blending 
 in a complaint that "the lad was difficult, was growing 
 more so, but discipline must be maintained," close the 
 door. Difficult? when he only asked for a little natural 
 liberty. Discipline? when his impulses were so good, 
 so kindly, when all he wanted was to help those in any 
 sort. of trouble. He heard the key turn in his father's 
 door ; then he leant out and called he, too. He called 
 very softly, but his was a carrying voice. 
 
 Megan had seen him, had thought her fortune almost 
 too good to be true. " I am so miserable," she sobbed, 
 and laid her head on her hands. 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 " I can't I can't tell you." 
 
 " Shall I come over? " 
 
 '* Oh no ! It does not matter."
 
 144 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " I'll come." 
 
 With difficulty she held the leap of her blood in check. 
 If he should come, should really come . . . 
 
 " You could not," she said mournfully, and added a sob. 
 
 The sob echoed through the boy's lonely, misjudged 
 soul. Here was a fellow-sufferer. Those Clarkes ! 
 What had they been doing to her? 
 
 "Oh, can't I?" He studied the possibilities. A 
 water-butt, the pipe that fed it, the space between the 
 pipe and window-sill. Could he do it? Once his fingers 
 had gripped the sill he would be able to pull himself 
 across, but a bare bit of wall lay between pipe and window. 
 
 " Please do not try. You could not do it ; I am sure 
 you could not." 
 
 He felt the stimulus of her doubt. After all, though 
 short, he had a long reach. The climb presented diffi- 
 culties, but he thought he could manage it. 
 
 " I'll do it." 
 
 She could hardly speak for joy that she was to have 
 her will. " I could let down one end of a sheet," she 
 said tentatively, " and fasten the other to the banisters? " 
 
 " No," he said, " no." 
 
 " It would save you the climb." 
 
 He shook his head. " The climb," he answered blithely, 
 " the climb is what I want."
 
 Chapter X 
 
 ARCHDEACON MARGERISON, known to his 
 intimates as " the Seal," because he resembled 
 that benign-faced animal, introduced Harry 
 to the big boys' class at the Sunday-school. His large 
 bland presence overshadowed the new teacher, and until 
 he had withdrawn the lads hardly realized the quality of 
 " Mr. Henry King, who has so kindly . . ." 
 
 Harry himself did not leave them in any doubt. 
 
 " I want you to understand," he said ; and first one 
 lad, then another, realized with amazement that Harry 
 was no stranger. They had seen him playing football, 
 had admired his methods. " I want you to understand," 
 he said, " that I'm master here. What I say goes. I'll 
 fight any one who thinks he is stronger than me; in 
 fact " his glance swept the class appraisingly, " I'll 
 take any two of you on at once." 
 
 Like wooden images the boys stared before them. This 
 was the Champion Chucker, the Rough 'Un. Strange to 
 find him in Sunday-school, a little saddening; but they 
 were not altogether convinced that he was dangerous. 
 On the football field, yes, but this was different. 
 
 " Now we'll take the story of Samson, the strong man. 
 I'll tell it to you and you'll try and remember it, and the 
 one who remembers the most will get a ticket for the 
 circus that's coming here next week." 
 
 A paper pellet whizzed through the air; the thrower 
 looked more unconscious than any boy in the room, but 
 
 145
 
 146 The Rolling Stone 
 
 Harry knew. He had made, he had thrown, he had hidden 
 the throwing of paper pellets. His glance lit on the 
 thrower. " You boy over there no, the one with the 
 red head . . ." 
 
 "Me, sir?" 
 
 " You go outside and throw pellets in the street." 
 
 "I ain't done nothink, sir." But, almost immediately, 
 Redhead found himself on the wrong side of the door. 
 The others were impressed, but now and again some bolder 
 spirit stirred. Miraculous that Harry should always 
 drop on the inciter to mischief. Moreover, his methods 
 were drastic. The only pleasure the class had that after- 
 noon lay in the Bible story. The Rough 'Un, they agreed, 
 could " pitch a yarn." 
 
 " Next Sunday," he said as he dismissed them, " I'll 
 tell you of a chap who wanted to knock about a bit before 
 he settled down. He was a pretty decent chap but up 
 against it with his mother. The old lady was dead nuts 
 on his younger brother so this bloke, Esau, cleared 
 out. Now then, dismiss and go quietly. No larking and 
 no hanging about the door ! " 
 
 The class scattered out of Harry's life and mind the 
 latter because he had remembered that his father, who 
 also taught in the Sunday-school, was to the Archdeacon 
 a sort of handy man; he would be detained doing odd 
 jobs for at least another half-hour, and his absence might, 
 by an active and intelligent son, be turned to account. 
 
 On reaching home his first care was to ascertain his 
 mother's whereabouts. The Sunday ritual of clean and 
 best clothes, of cooking and carving the dinner, had 
 wearied Mrs. King. When the last plate had been set 
 on the rack, the last spoon slipped into the basket, she 
 had dropped on to the old horsehair sofa with a sigh of 
 relief. She was alone in the house, in the quiet of the
 
 The Rolling Stone 147 
 
 big kitchen ; and, putting up her feet, leaning her head 
 on the hard black bolster, she had fallen into recuperative 
 slumber. Harry, glancing through the window, saw her, 
 and, reassured, went quietly into the house. He had been 
 afraid she would be lying down in her room. 
 
 Upstairs the rooms were in daylight order the white 
 beds neatly made, the toilet-sets in correct array, the 
 dressing-tables meticulously tidy. Blinds were drawn to 
 keep out the sun, and behind them stretched the white 
 curtains which were Mrs. King's pride. Harry, moving 
 very quietly, went into his parents' bedroom. He meant 
 to find the key of the safe, and he thought he knew where 
 to look. The key of the tiny medicine-cupboard was 
 kept in his mother's trinket-box. He left the box open, 
 in case a retreat at short notice should become necessary. 
 In the medicine-chest a row of innocent bottles met his 
 gaze, the bulge of Dr. Gregory, the bluish transparency 
 of glycerine, the round wooden box with the coloured 
 wrapper in which were pills. No sign of a key. But 
 stay; what was that sticking up at the back of Beecham? 
 Was it the end of a forked tin label? Harry's groping 
 hand closed on metal. His father kept the key behind 
 the bottles. He had calculated on their being seldom 
 taken down, on the fact that dusting tidying fingers 
 would not come that way. 
 
 Harry's progress from cupboard to safe was executed 
 with tiptoe caution. He had found that with which his 
 mind at many an odd moment had been busy; and he 
 was about to probe the secrets of that society to which 
 his father must belong. He wondered whether it was in 
 any way similar to his. 
 
 The key fitted and the heavy door swung open, dis- 
 closing an iron shelf, which divided the interior into 
 equal halves. The lower was again divided by an upright,
 
 148 The Rolling Stone 
 
 and the whole was painted a green so pale it was almost 
 white. 
 
 The door once open, Harry paused before investigating 
 the sacred contents, paused to listen for a step. He had 
 hurried home ahead of his father, ahead of his sisters, 
 but they were following. He went on to the landing and 
 leaned over the banisters. Not a sound broke the Sunday 
 quiet. Except for the sleeper on the kitchen sofa the 
 house was empty. 
 
 " I've got five, perhaps ten minutes," he thought, " but 
 no more." At first glance the appearance of the safe 
 struck him as disappointing. On the upper shelf lay 
 ledgers, bank-books, account-books ; below, in one com- 
 partment, was a black-and-gold cash-box; the other ap- 
 peared to hold nothing but papers. The books were con- 
 nected with business the business of running the family, 
 of paying bills, of putting by for a rainy day ; the cash- 
 box was equally uninteresting; and as for the old pa- 
 pers well, he would turn them over, there might be 
 something . . . 
 
 In front and on top lay a long envelope marked " My 
 Will " business again ! Harry put it on one side. The 
 articles must be replaced in the order in which they had 
 been found. His father must not suspect that any one 
 had been at the safe. 
 
 Under the will lay a bundle of letters tied with pink 
 tape and labelled " Letters from Sophia." Sophia was 
 Harry's mother, and he could not suppose anything she 
 had written could be interesting. They were probably, 
 he thought, just lovey-dovey letters, the usual sort of 
 thing. He put them on the carpet, by the will, and looked 
 again. Nothing under the packet of letters yes, a 
 single thin, oblong envelope. Taking it up, he found it 
 was addressed, in an attractive curly writing, to his father,
 
 The Rolling Stone 149 
 
 and that, across it, in that father's hand, was, " Her last 
 letter to me." The envelope was stiff, as if it contained 
 some sort of card, and Harry felt a wakening interest. 
 Who was this " her "? Not his mother; her writing was 
 small and pointed. The envelope was open, worn indeed 
 by touch and time, so worn that the edge was a little 
 broken. Harry slipped out a sheet of paper on which 
 were a few words in the same pretty writing an as- 
 surance that she was getting better, that she hoped to 
 see her " dear lad " again on the morrow but was too 
 tired to write any more ; and the signature, " Always your 
 loving -T- Marie." 
 
 Folded in the sheet was an old carte-de-visite, a sweet 
 smiling young girl, in full velvet skirt and wide sleeves. 
 Across the quarter of a century since she had been laid 
 to rest she smiled at the son of her " dear lad," and Harry, 
 looking at her, felt that he too could have loved her, felt 
 also a little ashamed. Not for the world now would he 
 have his father know that he had been at the safe. He 
 put the clear, old-fashioned photograph back into the 
 letter. Time was flying and the square pale green com- 
 partment still held a number of objects, each of which 
 must be taken out and examined before with a satisfied 
 mind he could restore the key to Gregory and Beecham. 
 So far there had been secrets indeed, but no sign of 
 any society, not even so much as a masonic jewel. He 
 fancied, however, that behind will and letters he had 
 caught a glimpse of something more promising, a gleam, 
 a glitter. He pulled it out, and grinned to see that he 
 had found a jackdaw-hoard of crystals. He had seen 
 them before, could remember finding them in a Derbyshire 
 cave, remembered too his father's interest. Mr. King, 
 admiring the prisms, finding them incomprehensible, had 
 slyly appropriated them, had hidden them here. To him
 
 150 The Rolling Stone 
 
 they had been a sort of treasure. Harry, by the glitter 
 of these crystals, saw his father as boyish, as very little 
 his senior. Mr. King was still young; he had grown up 
 and married and become a father, but he was still only 
 a boy. 
 
 " Is that all? " Harry was groping at the back of the 
 safe. He had fancied he could discern something of 
 darker colour, a thin oblong. He pulled out a small blue 
 book. 
 
 " The Masterpiece," by Aristotle. He had never heard 
 of it. Opening it haphazard, he read a sentence, another. 
 Queer stuff this, made you hot to read it. Yet it was 
 not the sort of book that you wanted to skip ; by no 
 means. You would read every word, but you would deny 
 that you had done so. Once more, but this time with 
 finger between the pages of the blue book, Harry listened 
 at the head of the stairs. Faint sounds reached him. 
 His mother was awake, was laying the tea. The others 
 would not be long. He had but a few moments more. 
 
 No wonder his father had hidden the book ! Such mat- 
 ters were never spoken of, never alluded to, in the family. 
 As far as could be gathered from conversation, the young 
 Kings were neuters and the whole six had been found under 
 bushes in the vegetable-garden. The fact of sex was 
 not concealed so much as ignored. In spite of the amaz- 
 ing candour of chickens and such-like, it did not exist. 
 
 Aristotle's treatise was a revelation to Harry. He 
 gulped it with a goggling mind, very hot, rather uncom- 
 fortable, but anxious to read as much as possible. 
 
 Below, the sounds increased in number, in volume: um- 
 brella-ferules hit the tin lining of the hat-stand, heels 
 rang on the tiles, voices proclaimed an English thank- 
 fulness that Sunday that day of services and best 
 clothes and the big midday dinner was nearly at an end.
 
 The Rolling Stone 151 
 
 Harry returning each article to its place in the safe, 
 locked it and hid the key. Aristotle's treatise was an 
 orange which had not yet been squeezed of more than half 
 its juice. But there would be other Sundays during which 
 his innocent parent would be taking a Bible class, other 
 opportunities. . . . 
 
 It was, Harry thought, a disgusting book, and life 
 was disgusting, and he couldn't believe these things were 
 true, yet. . . . 
 
 He did not want to bother with such matters ; they were 
 dirty. 
 
 There was Megan, of course, but that was different 
 moonlight and the dark and some one warm and loving, 
 some one who understood him, who adored him, and who 
 was soft, so soft. . . . 
 
 " The sinful lusts of the flesh." 
 
 The familiar phrase floated up through some well of 
 memory but Harry thrust it away. He could not see 
 that it applied to him. Neither did it apply to the sub- 
 jects treated frankly in Aristotle's treatise. It must, 
 he thought, apply to matters of which he was still in 
 ignorance. 
 
 He let off steam by a ferocious brushing of his hair. 
 The feel of the hard bristles on his thick black locks and 
 on his scalp was refreshing. With each stroke the strange 
 book was pushed farther away. When he laid down the 
 brush his cheeks were no longer heated. He had begun 
 to think of tea was wondering, indeed, whether the cake 
 his mother always made for Sunday would be big enough 
 to go round twice. 
 
 When he reached the dining-room he found the others 
 already seated. 
 
 "What luck with the big boys, Henry?" 
 
 " Lambs."
 
 152 The Rolling Stone 
 
 Mr. King smiled over a fuller knowledge of the class. 
 " Ah, they let you down lightly today, but you wait a 
 bit. I suppose you will take them again? " He thought 
 to do so might have a steadying influence on the lad. 
 Harry was growing up, growing into a manhood very 
 different from that of his father. Mr. King wished that 
 he were not such a busy man, that he could see more of 
 his children, could join in their pursuits. He wondered 
 whether the freedom allowed them by his preoccupation 
 with money-getting was good for them, and he looked with 
 doubt on the bright eyes and vigorous bodies that had 
 been born to him. 
 
 " Doesn't that depend on whether I get into the 
 Navy?" 
 
 The word Navy thrilled Mr. King. One son in the 
 Civil Service, another an officer better that than being 
 a clerk in a railway office! 
 
 " How are you going to Bristol? " 
 
 " I'll cycle save the train fare." 
 
 " Good ! " Mr. King smiled to see his admonitions 
 bearing fruit. His doubting fancies took a happier turn. 
 After all, they were a satisfactory group of young people ; 
 while as for their mother, what a comely, wholesome 
 woman she was ! He had much for which to be thankful, 
 and thankful he was. About him surged the placid Sun- 
 day talk, but Mr. King .was not listening. His spirit 
 was being lifted in thanksgiving, the thanksgiving of a 
 sincere piety. 
 
 And Harry, glancing furtively at his father, was think- 
 ing of " Marie ! " 
 
 II 
 
 When he reached Bristol Harry was told that the 
 examination would take place the following day, on board
 
 The Rolling Stone 153 
 
 the Victory. He had often sailed and tacked about the 
 ship as she lay in her berthing, but never with any 
 thought that it would some day be his duty to go aboard. 
 She was visible from the windows of his uncle's house, 
 a prominent and, he thought, beautiful bit of the fore- 
 ground. For a long time that evening he sat looking 
 at her and dreaming. 
 
 Stories of adventure, of dare-devil escapades, of resul- 
 tant honour, flitted through his mind. He recalled the 
 deed by which the first Victoria Cross had been won. 
 Midshipman Lucas had picked up a shell that threatened 
 a group of superior officers and, the fuse still burning, 
 thrown it into the sea. A small thing to do. A little 
 courage, a little address, no more. 
 
 If the naval surgeon would pass him, Harry King, he 
 would do his best oh, his humble, faithful best to be 
 worthy. His heart was so big in his body that the dream 
 changed into a glamorous mist. 
 
 When he reached the Victory he was taken to an empty 
 cabin and told to strip. As the minutes accumulated 
 he regretted the promptitude of his obedience. A chilly 
 wind was blowing, and Harry, stark as he came from his 
 mother, grew gradually indignant. He was in a draught, 
 and draughts were bad for you; he would catch cold. 
 Why did not somebody come? 
 
 A sound of approaching voices reached him and a 
 tanned, brown-bearded man came briskly into the cabin. 
 He looked from Harry to the open port-hole. " Don't 
 you find this a bit chilly?" 
 
 Harry liked the twinkling eyes and the trim air of 
 the new-comer. " Oh, it's nothing," he said ; " a little 
 fresh air don't hurt." Nevertheless he shut the port- 
 hole. 
 
 " Well," said the surgeon, surveying him, " it does
 
 154 The Rolling Stone 
 
 not look as if there was much amiss with you," and he 
 put a few questions. 
 
 In his answers Harry demonstrated the perfect fitness 
 of his body, the wholesome nature of his upbringing; 
 and, as each item was established, the surgeon nodded 
 approvingly. This was the sort of lad the Navy needed. 
 
 " And in the engineering shops you've done the work 
 of a smith? I suppose that accounts for this forearm." 
 
 The girth of the forearm in question was fourteen 
 inches. 
 
 " Not altogether," said Harry, believing what he said. 
 " I do what I can myself, dumb-bells, you know, and 
 gym, and boxing." 
 
 "You can box?" 
 
 " A bit. Bill Mountain, the chap who put the Water- 
 loo Kid to sleep, taught me." 
 
 " Ah, we've a fellow here who will be glad to meet you 
 Kennedy," and Harry slipped the name into a pigeon- 
 hole of memory. The new life showed a widening pros- 
 pect. To fight for King and country ay, and for 
 Harry King. To sail the world over, to sail with a repu- 
 tation, to find a fight awaiting him in every port. Let 
 them trot out Kennedy the sooner the better ! 
 
 " We must get to work." Lannigan had satisfied him- 
 self that Harry was, as he put it in his Irish mind, " a 
 broth of a bhoy," and that he would be a credit to the 
 service. He hoped the examination would prove him to 
 be physically fit. " We'll test your sight " he set to 
 work ; " fair a bit astigmatic, a bit myopic not 
 enough to matter. Your teeth some time since you 
 saw a dentist, eh? Two of the molars are pretty badly 
 decayed. . . ." 
 
 One after another he pointed out tiny flaws in what 
 he saw as a splendid young body, a body finer than any
 
 The Rolling Stone 155 
 
 he could call to mind. Slowly, inexorably, he damped 
 the fires of Harry's pride in his make-up, and it was to 
 the lad as if the port-hole were still open, the breeze still 
 playing on his naked skin. 
 
 " But," Lannigan smiled at him reassuringly, " you 
 could not have done all you have if you weren't all right 
 in what really matters." 
 
 Harry's hopes revived. " What matters, then?" 
 
 " Oh, heart and lungs, that sort of thing." 
 
 An echo from the past troubled the waters of Harry's 
 mind, but he would not heed. As the surgeon had said, 
 a fellow cannot use hundred-pound dumb-bells, cannot 
 swing locomotive break-blocks from his teeth, cannot play 
 back for the Rangers, unless he is physically fit. The 
 surgeon applied his stethoscope to the finely arching chest. 
 He listened and then he looked at Harry, at Harry gazing 
 trustfully out to sea. 
 
 "Have you had rheumatic fever?" he asked. 
 
 " When I was a little chap." 
 
 " Ah, yes." 
 
 " A long time ago." He must impress on this man, who 
 a moment before had been twinkling at him reassuringly, 
 that the illness was well over, that he had recovered from 
 it to a state of absolute health to more than that, to 
 years of accumulated strength and well-being. 
 
 " Mitral stenosis," said the surgeon, grown, Harry 
 thought, unaccountably grave. " Stenosis with some hy- 
 pertrophy." 
 
 " What is that ? " The atmosphere seemed to have 
 thickened. Harry's throat was constricted, he found a 
 difficulty in uttering; he found himself afraid, horribly 
 afraid, of what Lannigan was about to say. 
 
 " It is what rheumatic fever often leaves." 
 
 " It it can be cured surely ? "
 
 156 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " You'll have it till the end of your days, you'll take 
 it with you." 
 
 Harry turned to the heap of his clothes, took up one 
 garment, then another. 
 
 "Have I failed?" 
 
 "I'm sorry." 
 
 Mechanically he was slipping his limbs into the fa- 
 miliar openings. " I am so strong," he said dully, yet 
 with an eye to the effect of his words. Surely that fore- 
 arm, that chest, if the surgeon could be brought to con- 
 sider them, must make a difference! The strongest lad 
 for his age in the railway town, the strongest, whatever 
 their age, of the apprentices. It must oh, it must 
 count ! 
 
 Lannigan was writing diligently ; he did not look up. 
 He could not give the youth hope, for there was none to 
 give. With such a heart Harry could not be passed for 
 the Navy. 
 
 Harry, seeing his plea had failed, wondered desperately 
 whether he himself might not be able to find the way 
 out. He had always been considered resourceful. Now, 
 if ever, was the time to prove the truth of that assump- 
 tion. 
 
 "What is mitral mitral . . ." 
 
 "Mitral stenosis?" Lannigan blotted the paper he 
 had been filling in. " It is the narrowing of the mitral 
 valve of the heart so that the blood has a difficulty in 
 passing from the left auricle to the left ventricle." 
 
 " But how does that . . ." 
 
 " It is a diseased condition and unfits a man for any 
 strenuous work." 
 
 " But I do strenuous work ; I do it every day, all day." 
 
 " And at any moment the hypertrophy may fail. 
 That " he spoke with finality " that is what dishes
 
 The Rolling Stone 157 
 
 you." Folding the paper, he gave it to Harry, who took 
 it silently and as silently went back to the ship-chandler's 
 shop. 
 
 "What news?" said Robert Hall. 
 
 But Harry could not yet utter the dire intelligence. 
 
 "They'll let me know," he said. He met the older 
 man's kindly gaze, and his eyes were bright as ever, bright 
 and hard. Hall saw that something had gone wrong, saw 
 too that explanations were as yet impossible that it 
 would be well, in fact, to speed the parting guest. 
 
 " If I start now," said Harry, " I shall get home to- 
 night. I don't want to take another day off from the 
 works." 
 
 Ill 
 
 He could not remember a single incident of that forty- 
 five mile ride. It seemed to him that he was passing 
 through blackness and heaviness and mist, that he had 
 no body, was only a struggling, unhappy spirit. His one 
 wish was to get home. He felt that some comfort awaited 
 him under the familiar roof, and he rode blindly forward 
 in search of it. 
 
 When he arrived the hour was late and only Mr. King 
 was up. His mother's absence stirred in Harry a vague 
 sense of relief ; she never understood, but the governor 
 yes, the governor was different. 
 
 " Well? " said Mr. King, and Harry gave him the paper. 
 
 To him, standing in a stupor of dull misery, it seemed 
 a long, dreary while before his father, who had carried 
 the paper nearer to the one gas-jet still alight, turned. 
 
 "What's mitral stenosis?" 
 
 Harry tried to remember what the surgeon had told 
 him. Strange words and incomprehensible. All he had 
 grasped was that they were damning. " Dunno."
 
 158 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " Don't know? " said his father irritably. " You must 
 know. I suppose you asked him? " 
 
 Harry was vaguely conscious of this irritation as a 
 sort of sympathy. His father was disappointed, sorry 
 for him, upset. " I did, and he 'he paused again, 
 trying to find the words that were eluding him. " I can't 
 remember it was something about an auricle. Well," 
 with a sudden burst, " he said two of my teeth were de- 
 cayed. . . ." 
 
 That statement, repeated to the family, was respon- 
 sible for the legend of Harry's failure. He had been 
 refused because two of his teeth were imperfect ! That 
 was the way the authorities did things. A worthy lad 
 was turned down because of a trifling defect any two- 
 penny-ha'penny dentist could have remedied. Hardly en- 
 couraging to smart young fellows. Yet the Service was in 
 need of such. The King family came to look on Harry's 
 rejection as mere short-sighted policy on the part of the 
 Admiralty. Eventually they spoke of it with that con- 
 temptuous tolerance which the general public feels for 
 those in high places. But at first it was a blow ; it hurt 
 their pride, it stung. 
 
 " Never heard of such nonsense," said Mr. King angrily, 
 and in his wrath tore the offending paper across and 
 crumpled it and flung it into the grate. If only he could 
 have dealt similarly with those who had judged, misjudged, 
 his boy ! " At any rate, it is not your fault. Well," a 
 pause, " I suppose we had better go to bed." 
 
 The son preceded his father up the stairs, and their 
 feet were heavy on the treads. Harry, when he reached 
 his room, turned up the light and glanced at his brother. 
 He was thankful to find that James was asleep, that he 
 had the place to himself. Hurriedly he flung off his 
 clothes and slipped into bed.
 
 The Rolling Stone 159 
 
 He had been able to postpone the moment of full reali- 
 zation. No sooner was he between the sheets, however, 
 than misery closed in upon him, carrying him from deep 
 to blacker deep, carrying him to such bitter profundities 
 he felt that that poor heart of his must burst. 
 
 He was no good, a crock; his strength had been as 
 nothing, had not won him a moment's consideration, and 
 it was to his strength that he had trusted. They had 
 taken from him the plank on which he stood ; they had 
 flung him down, down. ... A whole body and the powers 
 of that body, but his body was damaged beyond repair 
 damaged by his folly, the folly of an innocent child, the 
 folly of long ago. His heart would never be as the heart 
 of other men. He must not hope to realize his dreams. 
 
 They did not consider him man enough for the Navy. 
 
 They knew. 
 
 What was the use of a cracked vessel that at any mo- 
 ment might fall apart? Better come to an end than live 
 like fellows he had seen the fellows who did not play 
 games because they couldn't, who looked on. . . . 
 
 It seemed to Harry as if he la.y for hours, abject and 
 despairing, as if his suffering only grew with time, as if 
 it grew until it was unendurable and he cried out under 
 it, cried out for help. 
 
 And help came. 
 
 At the moment of utmost agony the help came. 
 
 The weight of the world was lifted from him and his 
 spirit floated up through ever-lessening darkness into light, 
 and presently he was not in the light but of it. He was 
 reconciled to life, and more than reconciled, for he had 
 reached the source of it, become one with it. The change 
 had come like the opening under intense pressure of a 
 safety-valve. Harry passed in a moment from despair to 
 ecstasy.
 
 160 The Rolling Stone 
 
 One with air and light, part of the sunlit universe, in 
 communion with the ultimate. His spirit expanded. He 
 was not to die. He was reserved for some unknown great- 
 ness Chosen ! 
 
 The recollection that he had not been considered man 
 enough for the Navy, that he was a cracked vessel, was 
 swept out of his mind. God had manifested Himself: not 
 his father's, not his mother's God, but the Being he had 
 always known was at the back of things. Harry be- 
 lieved, with utter faith, that he had been given a strength 
 beyond his own; believed that, out of the multitudes of 
 the earth, he had been chosen. He was uplifted, divinely 
 glad, miraculously reconciled. 
 
 But ecstasy, the golden moment, the absolute light, 
 passes, fades. It was as if the sun had set, but as if 
 the sky were still bright, still glorious with colour. 
 Harry's happiness persisted, but it was changed into the 
 calm of beatitude. He lay content, a boat rocking in shal- 
 low waters after the amazing adventure of the deep a 
 boat which was to strand, ultimately, on the shores of 
 sleep. 
 
 IV 
 
 Primed by their father, the Kings were careful not to 
 ask Harry questions, not to speak of his visit to Bristol. 
 They could not know that an after-experience had 
 armoured him against kindly indiscretion. 
 
 Moreover, he had awakened to a mood of defiant plan- 
 ning. The Navy would not have him? He was to be 
 prevented from serving his country? They should see. 
 
 Harry swinging break-blocks two tied together with 
 a handkerchief and held by his teeth had attracted the 
 attention of Daly, the shop foreman, a man of considerable 
 personality. This man held strong opinions as to his
 
 The Rolling Stone 161 
 
 and other people's duty to the State, and to him Harry 
 went. 
 
 " You're a volunteer, aren't you? " 
 
 " Yes. What do you want? " 
 
 " I'd like to join." 
 
 " Very well, King. Every lad ought to serve his coun- 
 try in some way or other. Come down to the hall this 
 evening." 
 
 " Can you keep it quiet till I'm in? The * old man ' 
 might cut up rough." 
 
 Mr. King and Mr. King's opinions were well known in 
 the works. Daly, who had no sons, would have given a 
 great deal for a boy like Harry. He grudged him to the 
 father who not only failed to admire his gifts, but who, 
 ambitious for social consideration, regarded them 
 doubtingly. 
 
 " We'll get you over that all right. If you come down 
 Tuesday night I'll have a uniform ready for you. The 
 fit don't matter, we can fix that afterwards. Once you 
 are sworn in, your father can't do anything." 
 
 Mrs. King was busy in the little square box known as 
 the morning-room, or Mr. King's study, cutting out 
 nightgowns for the chapel maternity-bags. From time 
 to time her eyes rested on a little pile of red and black 
 books which the spreading white material had pushed 
 aside. Her thoughts, as she measured and cut and pinned, 
 were occupied with them. They were the account books 
 of the clothing club, and they had refused to balance. 
 Obstinately, as if they were living and perverse entities, 
 they had set themselves up against her. Again and again 
 she had gone over the items, had reckoned the columns,
 
 162 The Rolling Stone 
 
 and every time she had been faced with a deficit. She 
 acknowledged herself a poor hand at accounts. She had 
 been so pleased when the circuit steward had asked her to 
 be the treasurer of the clothing club. She had forgotten 
 that figures were her bane, that they had a way of leaping 
 together and entangling themselves and, when she dealt 
 with them, of growing more and more entangled, until the 
 muddle was a hard and unyielding knot. 
 
 It was of such a knot that she was thinking. Two 
 pounds three shillings and sixpence! She had had the 
 money, she supposed that she had spent it; but she had 
 nothing to show for it not a button, not even a bill. 
 One thing only was certain: the money was gone. 
 
 It was gone and questions were being asked. That 
 afternoon Mrs. Cobb, spiteful cat, had insinuated that 
 the treasurer had been inexcusably careless. Careless ! 
 If that were all! But Miranda Cobb had looked at her 
 oddly and so had Miss Dent. They thought . . . 
 
 The poor woman shrank from the thought, shrank as 
 ashamedly as if she had been guilty. She had hurried 
 home with the books, had gone over the items and the 
 columns, until her head buzzed with rolls of flannelette, 
 reels of cotton, pounds, shillings, and pence. 
 
 Whatever she did, the deficit persisted. 
 
 Nothing for it but to tell her husband, and she 
 dreaded oh, how she dreaded ! the moment of avowal. 
 Henry was so particular about money. In spite of her 
 forty-five years, she felt like a small child who had been 
 naughty and for whom the dreaded moment of confession 
 had come. 
 
 Her scissors went " crusp, crusp " through the stout 
 long cloth. She was unconsciously hearing and register- 
 ing the little sounds of the house. Mab was in bed and 
 asleep, but Nancy was still moving about overhead, and
 
 The Rolling Stone 163 
 
 only a few minutes ago James had carried his drawing 
 materials into the dining-room. Harry, about whose 
 movements and companions she was always dubious, was 
 out, and so was her husband. But she was expecting the 
 latter, had only just finished laying for him a cold supper. 
 He was absent on one of those evening jobs by which he 
 augmented his income. 
 
 When he came in she must show him the books, tell 
 him what Miranda Cobb had said, beg him to believe 
 there was no truth in what she had thought, had in- 
 sinuated. The creak of a stairboard, and her heart 
 jumped; but it was only one of the noises of the night. 
 
 What would Henry say? Two pounds! And she had 
 been so careful never to use a penny of the money for 
 anything not strictly clothing club. She had even, when 
 paying the bills, added a shilling here, a few pence there, 
 from money that was strictly hers, being her dress al- 
 lowance. 
 
 Yet she could not account for two pounds, three shill- 
 ings and sixpence ! 
 
 The sounds of movement overhead had ceased and the 
 house was still. Her heart jumped again as the stillness 
 was broken by the insertion of Mr. King's key in the 
 lock of the front door. Her fingers shook so that she 
 let the scissors fall. She did not hear the resultant clatter, 
 did not realize she had been holding them. The moment 
 for which she had been waiting, the moment she had been 
 dreading, was come. 
 
 " I've something to tell you." 
 
 "Yes, Henry?" 
 
 " They want me to be secretary, for the technical 
 schools." 
 
 " How " she moistened her lips " how wise of 
 them."
 
 164 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " I held out for decent pay, got it too, and now I shall 
 be able to give Richard more. He is always saying his 
 allowance is less than that of the other men at Balliol." 
 Mr. King rolled the name of the college off his tongue; 
 he enjoyed uttering it. " My son at Oxford " and " my 
 son at the 'Varsity," " My son at Balliol " the phrases 
 were sweet to him as sugar-plums to a child. 
 
 " Yes," she said. 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 Picking up the books, she offered them to him. She 
 could not speak. With concern he saw her face was 
 puckering, that she was on the verge of tears. " Why, 
 my dear, what's this? " 
 
 Words came with a rush. " The accounts of the 
 clothing club. I've gone over them again and again, 
 but I can't . . . oh, Henry, I can't make them come 
 right." 
 
 " Are you much out ? " 
 
 She could not give utterance to that nightmare total. 
 Two pounds, three shillings and sixpence ! It loomed 
 tremendous. Impossible that she should have lost it. He 
 would not be able to believe her. " Oh, don't don't 
 ask me. . . ." 
 
 " But if I'm to be of any use, I must know." 
 
 " Henry . . " her voice broke and she stood struggling 
 for control, " they think they think I've taken the 
 money." If only she could get her voice out, past the 
 constriction in her throat, past the sobs ! 
 
 At last they came, but together, voice and sobs. " I 
 never touched a farthing of it never, never. I promise 
 you, Henry, I never touched it." 
 
 Mr. King understood, and the husband in him was 
 moved. He went up and put his arms about her and
 
 The Rolling Stone 165 
 
 kissed her tenderly on her wet cheek. " My dear," he 
 said strongly, " I know you didn't." 
 
 She clung to him. She put her head on his shoulder 
 and she sobbed. 
 
 " There, there, my dear. I know you couldn't." 
 
 " Oh," she said after a time, " I've had such a day. 
 I was so afraid you wouldn't understand, and I went over 
 and over the accounts and added them different ways, but 
 nothing made any difference. I suppose I've been care- 
 less. . . ." 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. King, but very kindly. 
 
 " In future I'll get you to keep them for me " Her 
 tone changed to one of simple amazement. " Gracious ! " 
 she cried, and looked across her husband's shoulder 
 towards the door. Mr. King, releasing her, turned in 
 the same direction, and he, too, was taken aback. 
 
 Harry, entering in his usual fashion that is to say, 
 quickly and quietly had been checked on the threshold 
 by the unusual sight of his mother being kissed and com- 
 forted by his father, an occurrence which in his experience 
 was without precedent. In his surprise he had forgotten 
 what had brought him thither, forgotten also the change 
 in his appearance. 
 
 "What is this mummery?" said Mr. King, recovering 
 his wits. 
 
 "Mummery?" began Harry, then recollected that he 
 was wearing the Glengarry cap with two streamers, the 
 black-and-green uniform of the Rifle Volunteers. " I took 
 the oath this evening." 
 
 "You have joined? Joined the Volunteers?" 
 
 " If I can't serve my country one way I will another." 
 
 " But," said Mr. King, secure of his facts, " people of 
 our sort don't join the Volunteers."
 
 166 The Rolling- Stone 
 
 " If we had a war," said Harry, quoting the shop fore- 
 man, " a big war and you never know what is coming 
 I should offer to fight. I," becoming Harry King again, 
 " should love a bit of soldiering." 
 
 " Meanwhile you want to dress up and go band-march- 
 ing," said Mr. King severely, "with all the riff-raff of 
 the town." 
 
 " Oh, come, it's not so bad as that." 
 
 " Soldiering of any sort," said Mr. King with convic- 
 tion, " and this amateur kind is no different from the other, 
 leads to drinking and vice. I never thought a son of 
 mine would become a volunteer." 
 
 " There are as good men in the Army as out of it." 
 
 " The temptations are terrible." 
 
 " And," interposed Mrs. King, " we are always praying 
 ' Lead us not into temptation.' Besides, Amos's son is a 
 volunteer." 
 
 Amos was the odd-job man employed in the garden 
 and to clean boots and knives. 
 
 "What does it matter?" Harry liked young Amos, 
 was teaching him to box, meant to make a man of him. 
 
 " Your associates, Henry, should be people you can 
 bring to your home, people you can introduce to your 
 mother and sisters. Amos is a respectable man but his 
 children are hardly fit companions for Bet and Nancy." 
 
 Harry did not cavil, neither did he feel that his father 
 was right. Upstairs, in his room, was a book " The 
 Blight of Respectability." When he had read it he 
 would be able to confute these views, convince his father 
 of lifelong mistakes. 
 
 " Also," said Mr. King, warming a little, " I disapprove 
 of the under-the-carpet way in which you have gone about 
 this business. You should have come to me. I never re- 
 fuse you children anything that is for your good."
 
 The Rolling Stone 167 
 
 " It's done now," said Harry, still unable to agree. 
 He looked about him, vaguely disappointed. He had 
 meant to create a sensation, to startle his family, but he 
 had also hoped they would admire. A pity his sisters 
 were in bed and asleep. " Mother ! " he said. " Mother 
 don't you like my uniform? " 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. King unexpectedly ; " yes, I do. 
 Now be off with you." 
 
 " Well, really, Sophy, I'm surprised at you ! " remon- 
 strated Mr. King as the door closed on Harry. 
 
 But Mrs. King was still under the influence of softening 
 emotion. 
 
 " Well, Henry/' she said, " volunteering may be low, 
 but that uniform makes him look a smart lad." She took 
 the elastic band off the clothing-club books and pointed 
 to the total. " Two pounds, three shillings and six- 
 pence." 
 
 " I'll bring it to you, my dear. Til er go and get 
 it now."
 
 Chapter XI 
 
 OLD AMOS, wheeling a heavy barrow up the 
 slight incline on the top of which stood No. 14 
 Parkside, started as a hand clapped him on the 
 shoulder and a voice cried, " Hullo ! What have you got 
 there?" 
 
 " You are home early, sir." If he had not supposed 
 Mr. King at work in the office he would hardly have fetched 
 the dumb-bells. "These? They be some of young 
 master's contraptions." 
 
 Mr. King, leaning over, put a hand to one of the 
 heaviest. He was surprised to find it as unyielding as if 
 it had been nailed to the floor of the barrow. " Why 
 . . . ? " said he. 
 
 " Thiccy there's all of a hundredweight, but that little 
 'un hain't more'n a seven-pounder." 
 
 " What does he want them for?" 
 
 " 'Tis summat to do wi' the display down at th' drill- 
 hall. But there's Master Harry waiting. He can tell 
 'ee." 
 
 Mr. King, looking up, met young hopeful's apprehen- 
 sive eye. 
 
 " Turning your home into an iron foundry? " he asked 
 mildly. He had been impressed by the fact that Harry 
 could play with dumb-bells that he, the father, could not 
 lift. 
 
 " I'm doing a turn with these on the nineteenth," said 
 
 Harry hardily, " and I must practise a bit." It had been 
 
 168
 
 The Rolling Stone 169 
 
 his intention to smuggle them into the house before his 
 father returned from the office, and to use them after 
 he was supposed by the rest of the family to be in bed. 
 
 " The nineteenth ? " said Mr. King vaguely. His mind 
 had returned to the consideration of some news Arch- 
 deacon Margerison had given him. 
 
 " It's the annual display at the drill-hall. I am ar- 
 ranging the program this year. You must come to 
 it, father." 
 
 " I? Oh, I shouldn't have time ! " 
 
 " I wish you'd take an evening off just for once." If 
 his father saw what he could do, surely he would be proud 
 of him, proud as were the men at the works and the fre- 
 quenters of the " George." 
 
 " Well, we'll see." He was pleased the boy should seem 
 anxious to have him present a very proper spirit. 
 
 Harry, lifting the two heaviest dumb-bells, began to 
 walk away. 
 
 " Where are you going to keep them ? " 
 
 " The bottom of my cupboard." 
 
 " You can't carry them up all those stairs." 
 
 Harry only smiled and Mr. King, watching the com- 
 pact figure as it went up the rough granite steps, wished 
 for a moment that he could see more of his boy that he 
 were not busy, evening after evening, earning the money 
 for Richard, for the girls' boarding-school, the money that 
 was to lift his children a step up the social ladder, to 
 raise their heads just a foot higher than his had been. 
 He was missing something. Was that something only 
 a pleasure? Was it not also an opportunity, the oppor- 
 tunity to guide young Harry Harry who was naturally 
 such a wild lad? 
 
 Which brought him back to the Archdeacon's warning. 
 " If it had been you, Mr. King, no harm could possibly
 
 170 The Rolling Stone 
 
 ensue; but a young fellow like your son! I should cer- 
 tainly think twice before giving my consent." 
 
 When Harry, breathing a little quickly, reappeared, 
 his father tackled him. 
 
 " What's this I hear about your playing football for 
 the Midland Counties? " 
 
 " I played for them all last season." 
 
 " I mean this idea of your playing in the team that is 
 being sent to Paris." 
 
 To play for England against France had long been one 
 of Harry's ambitions, but he had kept it secret. " If 
 they'll only send me . . ." he said. 
 
 " I most sincerely hope they won't." 
 
 " I don't see why you should be against it ? " From 
 under his thick thatch he stared resentfully at his father. 
 Was there nothing he could do of which the " old man " 
 approved? Every one else thought he would be lucky if 
 he were chosen. Lucky? A poor word! 
 
 " Paris is a hotbed of vice." 
 
 " I'm going on for nineteen, and if I can't take care 
 of myself now I shall never be able to." 
 
 " You won't go with my consent." 
 
 " Look here, father, it's no good you yowking to me 
 about it ! You've never been to Paris and you're only 
 going by what people say. If you were speaking because 
 you'd been through the mill it would be different, but 
 you you don't know! " 
 
 Was this the result, thought poor Mr. King, of keeping 
 yourself unspotted from the world? A blameless youth 
 and your son, in the fulness of time, reproached you 
 with it ! How differently things turned out from what 
 one had been led to expect. In books the good man had 
 the respect of the rising generation, was deferred to and 
 consulted. His experience had been that the good man
 
 The Rolling Stone 171 
 
 was left high on a bank and that the stream of young 
 life rushed by, sufficient unto itself. 
 
 " If you mean that I haven't . . ." he began. 
 
 " That's it," said intolerant youth. 
 
 " In this matter our duty is plain. A man should avoid 
 that which is evil." 
 
 " Ah," said Harry, " but I never was afraid of things." 
 He picked up a further load of dumb-bells and carried 
 them into the house. 
 
 Mr. King, following, sought his wife. He had cleaved 
 to that which is good and his children saw it as weakness, 
 fear. They dispossessed him of his attributes, they drove 
 him out. Only with Sophy was he any longer of the 
 first importance, but he and she they were of an age. 
 He went to her as one seeking a refuge from rain and 
 wind. In autumn the sun sets early and the evenings 
 are dark, but there is the fire on the hearth the fire at 
 which man may warm his poor heart. 
 
 Harry, on the contrary, was jubilant. So it had got 
 about that there was a chance of his being chosen to 
 play for England ! Eleven men out of the thousands who 
 played football and he one of the eleven ! To play for 
 England, in a small way to represent her ! 
 
 And his father disapproved ! He would rather Harry 
 were teaching in Sunday-school. Harry grinned over 
 his recollections. He had done as they wished, taken 
 on a class, brought it along on a diet of strong men, 
 on Samson, Esau, and the fall of Jericho : " Trumpets 
 are all very well, but the Jews were no fools and they knew 
 God helps those who help themselves. They mined those 
 walls, and the trumpeting was the signal to light the 
 fuses. Can't you see them . . ." 
 
 Unfortunately, the Bible according to Harry King did 
 not meet with the approval of the authorities. After
 
 172 The Rolling Stone 
 
 three Sundays a more orthodox teacher was induced, 
 against his better judgment, to take Harry's place, and 
 the Sunday-school knew him no more. 
 
 He had a rich gurgling laugh, and as he laid the dumb- 
 bells in a row along the bottom of the cupboard which 
 held his coats he chuckled over the poor Archdeacon's 
 troubles. Margerison had been anxious to get rid of his 
 unorthodox teacher, but even more anxious not to offend 
 the susceptibilities of that teacher's very useful father ! 
 Harry laughed, too, at thought of the man who had suc- 
 ceeded him, old Bobbie Chapman " Two Puddings " 
 Chapman who had no hold over them, never would, never 
 could have. They would be sky-larking all the time. 
 With Harry they had been mice; he had seen to it that 
 they were. He had been a head-on collision, had backed 
 away from controversy but stood stubborn as a mule to 
 any who were hunting trouble; and he had enjoyed it, en- 
 joyed every minute of it. 
 
 He went to fetch the last of the dumb-bells, and, pass- 
 ing the staircase window, saw that some one was sitting 
 at that of No. 13, sitting as Megan Roberts had sat. 
 The sight sent a thrill through him, sent his thought to 
 the idyll of two summers ago. She had had successors, 
 a crowd of light quick fancies, but she had been the first. 
 How sweet she had been, sweet all over ! He had loved 
 to pinch up little bits of her delicate arm between his 
 strong thumb and finger, to hurt her a little, a very little, 
 enough to make her turn on him with a dash of fierceness. 
 
 It was over so quickly. A few meetings, desperate 
 climbs through darkness to a little warm eyrie, and she 
 was gone. She had not written. He did not know where 
 in the wide world was that passionate heart and he hardly 
 cared. He had the perfect memory of her, and in the
 
 The Rolling Stone 173 
 
 rush of tumbling emotions was too busy to remember, 
 too eager on fresh scents to long for a renewal of what 
 had grown familiar. 
 
 If his father had known ! If he knew where Harry 
 went and what he did and who were his associates, the 
 hundred-and-one interests of his keen, busy, questing ex- 
 istence. If his father only knew half 
 
 He would disapprove, of course, and yet why should 
 he? Had he himself never been young? Harry, bursting 
 with vitality, with desire, with every sort of emotion, 
 conscious of the wild riot of his pulses, wondered if his 
 father's spring-time had been less sappy? Had he been 
 different? Was he not driven by instincts which Harry 
 divined under the subterfuges and superficialities of other 
 men? If he were, surely he must understand how it was 
 with his sons, with this particular son? 
 
 Harry added the last dumb-bell to the line and sat 
 for a moment on the end of his bed, gloating. He had 
 been at -some pains to get them made for him, and he 
 was to use them on the platform of the drill-hall. He 
 was to do the strong-man turn on the nineteenth show 
 the railway town how much he could lift, lift with his 
 hands, lift with his teeth. Like Richard, he, Harry, was 
 gradually coming into his own a different own certainly 
 but, in its way, as valuable to the country. 
 
 With a breath of happy anticipation he rose and took 
 his way into the town. He was due at the " George " for 
 a committee meeting. Dr. Ryan, the man who drove the 
 best horses, Cunliffe the auctioneer, Bell the wine mer- 
 chant, were members, and were backing Harry's effort to 
 make the gym. display a success. Old Bill Mountain, 
 though not of their class, had also been admitted. Box- 
 ing contests were to follow on Harry's turn as strong
 
 174 The Rolling Stone 
 
 man, and Mountain's knowledge of the rules was useful. 
 
 " It's a good program," said Bell, the big, lame 
 wine-merchant, " but it ends a bit tamely." 
 
 " Why not match a pair of old stiffs for a fifteen-round 
 exhibition spar? " suggested Mountain. 
 
 " How much would they want ? " 
 
 " Side-stakes and a purse of quids," said Mountain. 
 " I could get Jerry O'Gorman and Sid Hobbs for twenty- 
 five apiece." 
 
 " An excellent idea," said Dr. Ryan in his precise way. 
 
 " Take the town by storm," chuckled Cunliffe. " We 
 shall have to put up the money among us, I suppose? 
 Well, here's a fiver ! " 
 
 " Mr. Ponsonby at the Grange can box a bit," suggested 
 Mountain ; " he'd help." 
 
 " I believe he would, and there are others. Then it's 
 agreed? " Ryan put the motion to the committee. " We 
 find the money and Mountain writes to the men." 
 
 " You go ahead, old cock," cried Cunliffe enthusiasti- 
 cally, " and get 'em ; and as soon as you know for certain, 
 we'll put their dials in the pub. windows and bill 'em 
 all over the town." 
 
 " I'll send a notice to the Dispatch," said Dr. Ryan, 
 " and it would be as well, perhaps, to have handbills left 
 at the doors. It's fortunate the hall is so large. It will 
 be crowded." 
 
 n 
 
 Mr. King, coming home one evening after he had finished 
 his secretarial work at the technical schools, walking 
 briskly through streets that had been flushed and left 
 shining by a shower, was brought up short by something 
 in a shop-window of which he had caught a passing 
 glimpse. The shop was that of a jeweller, and the window
 
 The Rolling Stone 175 
 
 displayed a silver cup. Against it two photographs had 
 been placed upright, and below them was a small hand- 
 bill. To Mr. King the features of both photographs were 
 familiar. That on the right represented a young man 
 in his office, by name Ted Mudford, a young man of 
 drinking, betting proclivities, the incarnation of every 
 thing of which Mr. King disapproved. The other the 
 father could hardly believe it, but there was no possibility 
 of mistake ! the half -naked lad, with arms folded across 
 his chest, big arms across a tremendous chest, was Harry. 
 
 Mr. King stared at the upturned face, the smooth 
 young face of eighteen, all curves and roundness and trust. 
 He stared at the stark presentment of the lad's muscles, 
 at the shoulders stretching almost incredibly broad, at 
 the forearm ; and if for a moment he had thrilled at the 
 sight of that flesh which he had fathered, the thrill was 
 quickly drowned by a rush of less primitive emotions. 
 His son, naked, photographed naked, set up in a shop- 
 window for all to see ! Nakedness was for bedrooms, and 
 even then only for a moment, the moment between shirt 
 and nightshirt. Mr. King was inexpressibly shocked. 
 
 How had it come about? Why were the lads exposed 
 to public view? Mr. King did not read the Dispatch, 
 had not seen the handbills, and had forgotten about the 
 display. His glance travelled from the photographs to 
 the printed leaflet below, and even then he was some time 
 in discovering what he wanted to know. The names of 
 O'Gorman and Hobbs were in heavily leaded type, also 
 the number of rounds, the amount of the purse offered. 
 Mr. King, to his disgust, presently realized that he was 
 looking at the program of the gymnastic display, and 
 that the last and most important event was to be a boxing 
 contest between professionals of the ring. 
 
 But Harry, what had that to do with Harry? His
 
 176 The Rolling Stone 
 
 father made out at last that several minor contests pre- 
 ceded the Hobbs-O'Gorman fight, the last of these being 1 
 between Ted Mudford and Henry King. The lads were 
 well known in the town, popular favourites on the foot- 
 ball field and elsewhere hence the photographs. 
 
 " Not while he lives in my house," said Mr. King, and 
 set his lips in a straight line. 
 
 He saw his social position menaced by Harry's undis- 
 ciplined energies. 
 
 Confound Harry ! Did he never think of anybody but 
 himself? Did he not realize how unpleasant it would be 
 for them all if that photograph were recognized by ac- 
 quaintances newly made and a little higher in the scale ; 
 by clergymen's wives who were inclined to smile on Rich- 
 ard and invite him to their vicarages, by rich school- 
 fellows who asked Bet to stay with them? Mr. King 
 hurried through the shining streets. The photograph 
 must be taken out of Barham's window. He felt sure it 
 had not been there more than a few hours ; possibly not 
 many people had noticed it. 
 
 " I've just come past Barham's in High Street," he 
 said ominously, as he entered the dining-room where Harry 
 was lingering while his mother replaced a lost button. 
 " What is the meaning of that disgusting photograph of 
 you, Henry? " 
 
 Harry, hit on a tender spot, changed colour. " It's 
 only me to the waist ! " 
 
 " Only ! " snorted Mr. King. " It's it's indecent ! " 
 
 " Oh, really, father ! " Used to the simple garb of 
 the athlete, Harry had lost the family point of view, but 
 the accusation troubled him. Indecent? He glanced at 
 his placid mother. Would she think it indecent? He 
 supposed she might. He grew hot and uncomfortable; 
 for the first time in his life he felt ashamed.
 
 The Rolling Stone 177 
 
 " What is the matter? " said Mrs. King, sticking her 
 needle through a hole in the button. 
 
 " There's a photograph of Henry in Barham's shop." 
 
 " I saw it this afternoon." 
 
 " My dear he has nothing on 1 " 
 
 " He's made much like other lads, I suppose." Naked 
 bodies were nothing to the woman who had borne six 
 children. She twisted the thread round her stitches and 
 fastened it at the back. " There ! " she said comfortably, 
 and Harry blessed her. The queer, hot feeling had gone ; 
 he was no longer at a disadvantage with his father. 
 
 " I don't understand you, Sophy. To expose the body 
 is revolting to all clean-minded people." 
 
 " It may be, Henry, but I've seen them so often I can't 
 think anything of it." 
 
 " Thank goodness, then, that I have a clear sense of 
 right and wrong." He was offended by her lack of 
 sympathy. " This photograph must be taken out at 
 once." 
 
 " All right." 
 
 " I see there is to be a fight between you and Ted 
 Mudford." 
 
 " He challenged me." 
 
 " You are to fight in public ? " 
 
 "At the display." What was his father driving at? 
 
 " At an entertainment of which the principal attrac- 
 tion is to be a fight between real pugilists." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Mr. King was standing on the hearthrug. He straddled 
 his legs a little. " Now, Henry, I will not have you 
 mixed up with anything of the sort." 
 
 "What?" said the surprised Harry. 
 
 " I won't have it. You have come to the parting of 
 the ways, Henry. It's your home, your family, or these
 
 178 The Rolling Stone 
 
 brutal associates of yours. I won't have you fight Mud- 
 ford at the display." 
 
 " But you knew about this entertainment, father. It's 
 the annual display, and it's to raise funds for the hos- 
 pital." 
 
 " It's not the usual thing, for you have introduced the 
 element of professionalism, you are bringing people to 
 this town whose mode of life is a disgrace to humanity." 
 
 " They are decent chaps." 
 
 " They are brutalized, degraded." The tremulous 
 shrinking which kept him clothed even in the presence 
 of his wife made boxing a matter about which it was 
 difficult for him to be reasonable. The body was sacred, 
 not to be approached by a razor, not to be exposed to 
 wanton injury. " Do you think that man, made in the 
 image of God, was meant to be battered about by the 
 fists of other men? The idea is horrible. And to think 
 there are people who earn their living by inflicting injuries 
 on each other." 
 
 Mr. King was speaking nakedly, and he got from Harry 
 as sincere an answer. 
 
 " I'd rather be a fighter than anything else in the 
 world." 
 
 Silence fell on this declaration. Mrs. King looked at 
 her offspring in surprise at his audacity. She had had a 
 short way with her children, and she regretted that this 
 short way was no longer practicable. 
 
 " You don't mean it ! " cried poor Mr. King, rallying 
 his forces. Harry a pugilist? Better he had never been 
 born. Of all things a pugilist ! Not even the astound- 
 ing physical development of the lad had suggested that 
 this might follow. To Mr. King it would not have seemed 
 possible that any one of his blood could want to become 
 a prize-fighter ; as well be a scavenger, a hangman. . . .
 
 The Rolling Stone 179 
 
 "I do mean it." 
 
 " Nonsense, Harry," said his mother, and felt she had 
 disposed of the matter. 
 
 " You don't know what you are talking about." He 
 looked anxiously at his son, at the square, resolute little 
 vessel that had been built to sail on perilous seas, that 
 was ready to up-anchor and be off. At all costs, Harry 
 must be prevented from sailing this particular sea. Mr. 
 King marshalled the reasons that could be urged against 
 adventuring on its waters. " We are civilized ; we don't 
 need to defend ourselves with our hands. The law fights 
 our battles and defends us from aggression. This boxing 
 is a relic of barbarism ; the man who makes his living by 
 it is nothing better than a savage." 
 
 Though it was Harry's habit to distrust his father's 
 conclusions, the older man's position in the family gave 
 them weight. The lad, longing to be a pugilist, yet 
 doubted. He could not put into words his feeling that 
 fighting called out and developed fine qualities. He could 
 not have named those qualities ; he was conscious of them 
 but could not bring out their names, flaunt them in the 
 face of authority. 
 
 " I was made for a fighter," he said, feeling that his 
 father's opposition was a forerunner of the attitude that 
 would be taken by the rest of the family, by friends, by 
 acquaintances. " I should make a good thing of it. I 
 might " he warmed at the thought, " I'm a heavy- 
 weight, you know, and yet I'm quick, and that's unusual. 
 I might be in the running for the belt." He was thinking, 
 as Harry always thought, of the utmost, the extreme, 
 the top. Some one must be the champion; why not he? 
 
 " In fact," said Mr. King, finding an apposite quotation 
 in his mind and seizing it, " you'd rather ' rule in hell than 
 .serve in heaven '? No, no, my boy, I haven't brought
 
 180 The Rolling Stone 
 
 you up in a good home, among respectable, God-fearing 
 people, for you to throw away every chance of making a 
 position for yourself. You are an engineer. You may 
 become as great a man as Brunei. This is sheer boyish 
 folly, the folly that makes a child want to be a policeman 
 or an engine-driver. You are attracted by the show and 
 glitter, by the easy money ; but easy come is easy go and 
 the show is hollow hollow." 
 
 He held out the mess of pottage, asking in return 
 Harry's birthright of gifts ; and Harry knew, deep down, 
 that for him the exchange was a loss, a heavy, irreparable 
 loss ; but, being young, he wavered. Was his father mis- 
 taken? He was old and, up to a point, experienced. 
 Was what he said true? Was fighting, after all, brutal 
 and brutalizing? 
 
 Of late Harry had spent his spare money on tickets to 
 London. The ring drew him, and he had seen a good 
 many contests, the good and the bad side of fighting. 
 The boxers were men, fierce, hard men. Was he, Harry 
 King, of that company; or had his life blossomed under 
 the sun for other, perhaps finer, purposes? 
 
 If he were only sure ! 
 
 His father seemed so confident, and with him, backing 
 him up, strengthening his conviction, was the family. 
 People looked down on pugilists. Could he, Harry, bear 
 to number himself with a folk held in light esteem by his 
 parents and their friends? His brothers were rising in 
 the world. Could he take a step down, choose for his 
 companions rough and simple people? Had he the 
 strength to come out from his middle-class associations, 
 cast off the trappings of respectability? His instincts 
 bade him set the world at defiance and follow his bent; 
 but should instinct be the guide? 
 
 Harry was so young.
 
 The Rolling Stone 181 
 
 He had no certitude as to the course he should pursue, 
 Things of no importance tugged at him, pulling him 
 hither and thither. He discounted the promptings of his 
 nature, he wavered. If he became a pugilist the family 
 would say he had disgraced them. He could not do it. 
 Engineering, though it had lost interest for him, must 
 be his life-work, fighting only a hobby. He made the 
 choice deliberately, wondering vaguely why he should feel 
 so depressed, so unhappy. 
 
 " All right," he said in a voice that struck his father as 
 strangely lifeless. 
 
 Mr. King, who had waited for the decision in fear and 
 trembling, was restored to cheerfulness; his spirits rose. 
 " You'll come to see, my boy," he boasted in his little 
 wisdom, " that I'm in the right. You'll live to thank 
 me for having been firm with you." 
 
 At the moment Harry was seeing his future as a wheel 
 of laborious days, each more dismal than the last. 
 
 " Now," said Mr. King, big as a frog who has drawn 
 a deep breath, " you'll drop this fighting at the gym. 
 display." 
 
 Harry woke up. " I can't do that." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " People have backed me to win, put money on me. 
 I can't let them lose it." 
 
 "Nonsense! What are their bets to do with you?" 
 
 " I can't go back on them." 
 
 The taste of power had gone to Mr. King's head. 
 " But I won't have it," he paused, then spoke with em- 
 phasis, " not while you are under my roof." 
 
 He saw that he had Harry's full and questioning atten- 
 tion. " Not while you are under my roof," he repeated. 
 
 Harry's articles had still some months to run. He 
 reflected rapidly on his position. Could he support him-
 
 182 The Rolling Stone 
 
 self on the pittance paid to an apprentice? His father 
 was declaring- that if he, Harry, fought Mudford he would 
 be given the key of the street turned adrift. 
 
 "You hear what I say? You choose, once for all. 
 It's the low rmblic-house lot or your home." 
 
 Mr. King believed that he was clinching the matter, 
 that it was necessary to be firm with the lad. He did not 
 quite mean what he said ; but Harry did not realize this. 
 He knew that he was old enough to leave home, that 
 many boys of his ap-e were " on their own." 
 
 " I'll think it over," he said, his voice once more lifeless. 
 Take everything they would ; oh, they were a merry crew ! 
 His home or the streets, and that because he was set 
 on keeping an undertaking he had given. He went to 
 bed, wondering whether if the worst came to the worst, 
 he could manage on the fifteen shillings a week that he was 
 paid. The whole town knew he was to meet Mudford. 
 He could not oh, he could not " scratch " ! 
 
 That night his sleep was haunted by dreams in which 
 he was fleeing from various sorts of adversity, was taking 
 refuge in a cave, finding in its depths a dark tranquillity. 
 
 Morning brought a solution of his difficulty. 
 
 Mudford, he remembered, was in his father's office. 
 He had often heard Mr. King complain of the young 
 fellow's laziness, declare that his being there was due to 
 influence ; some one was interested, some one on the 
 board. Mr. King, pulling all the strings he could for his 
 brood, objected to influence as unfair, objected to Mud- 
 ford because influence was his stepping-stone, but ob- 
 jected to him also because he was so often insolent, be- 
 cause he made covert fun of his senior. Mr. King might, 
 Harry thought, be glad if Mudford came off second best 
 in a boxing contest, might even feel his heart go out to the 
 victor.
 
 The Rolling Stone 183 
 
 At any rate, Harry would risk it. 
 
 Ill 
 
 When the evening came he was one of those deputed 
 to meet Hobbs and O'Gorman. He stood with Cunliffe 
 and Dr. Ryan, proudly conscious that the group of which 
 he formed a part was the observed of all the station of- 
 ficials. He was preening himself because this display, the 
 program of which he had arranged, was bringing these 
 stars from London. He had done it he, Harry King. 
 Standing by Dr. Ryan, stiffly impassive, he was, in fact, 
 a little keg bursting with pride. The bands of his self- 
 control were iron round his staves, but within was a 
 molten glow, a swelling satisfaction. Forgotten were his 
 father's admonitions. He was, as usual, living, living 
 intensely, in the moment. 
 
 The train ran into the station. The door of a first- 
 class compartment opened and two men in hard hats and 
 long check overcoats got out. Harry had an impres- 
 sion of brightness, of stripy waistcoats, tawny neck- 
 clothes a general look of hard, shiny competence. He 
 swayed forward in the wake of Dr. Ryan, and in another 
 moment was being introduced, was listening to Hobbs's 
 deep, rough " Glad to meet you," to O'Gorman's Cornish 
 accent. 
 
 He rushed home to get his tea. He would be wanted 
 at the hall, a thousand-and-one things to see to ; his mind 
 was running over with the trifles, each so important, for 
 which he was responsible. To his dismay, he found that 
 his mother had forgotten he wanted an early tea. He 
 burst into the dining-room, where Bet, home for the 
 Christmas holidays, was shaking a mop of damp, newly 
 washed hair before the fire; while Richard, down from
 
 184 The Rolling Stone 
 
 Balliol, was discussing an invitation from Archdeacon 
 Margerison. 
 
 " They don't ask us," Bet was saying, and Richard 
 had grinned with, " Not yet, my child, but they will." 
 
 " Can I have my tea, mother? " cried Harry. On the 
 mantelpiece was an envelope containing tickets, the front- 
 row tickets he had sent the family. He glanced at them, 
 wondering who was coming but too shy to ask. 
 
 " It isn't tea-time," grudged Mrs. King, and Bet, gen- 
 erally ready to run on her youngest brother's errands, 
 did not move. 
 
 " I'm wanted at the hall," said Harry, giving everybody 
 an opportunity. 
 
 " There is cake in the larder and some milk ; you must 
 make do with that." 
 
 Harry, munching a thick slice of yeast-cake, pondered 
 the situation. Why had his remark fallen flat? Was 
 every one so full of his and her interests they had no 
 leisure for a brother's affairs? His heart swelled at the 
 unkindness. This was his evening, his first appearance 
 on a platform, his challenge to the town. Surely his 
 people were proud of him? 
 
 And in the dining-room Nancy, the most outspoken of 
 the sisters, was exclaiming bitterly, " Henry? He's noth- 
 ing but a disgrace to us ! " 
 
 IV 
 
 Harry, at the back of the hall, was kept busy, but he 
 found time for an occasional glance at the row of seats 
 held inviolate by those blue tickets on the mantelshelf at 
 home. The hall was filling rapidly. He saw many people 
 whom he knew. Susie Allen's pretty, appealing face
 
 The Rolling Stone 185 
 
 smiled stagewards from the third row. Bobbie Chapman 
 was sitting next to her Bobbie whose suit of " real " 
 velvet corduroy he had once envied so desperately, Bobbie 
 who had been the first of his compeers to own a velocipede. 
 Once more Bobbie would be looking on while he, Harry, did 
 the trick. But Harry looked thoughtfully at Susie. 
 He was glad she had come to see him box Mudf ord ; it was 
 sweet of her. When he did his strong-man feats he would 
 do them for her. He would gather up her attention, 
 make her forget altogether that Bobbie was sitting there. 
 Perhaps he might even find time between the events to run 
 round and speak to her ; he would see. 
 
 Were his people never coming? The hall was nearly 
 full. It did not look well for them to be so late. 
 
 " King you are wanted " 
 
 He did not get back to his spy-hole until after the first 
 event, and then, with a rush of joy, saw that the seats 
 were occupied. A second glance extinguished his joy. 
 The seats were occupied, but by strangers. 
 
 No member of the family had come: not Richard, be- 
 fore whom he wanted to show off; not his father, whom 
 he had hoped to impress ; not even Bet. His heart filled 
 with bitterness. What a mouldy lot they were! This 
 was his hour and they were refusing to see it as of any 
 importance; it was possible he could not believe it 
 probable they even disapproved. 
 
 Yet the display was going with a swing and a rush. 
 The hall was crammed. The audience, hearty, sporting, 
 unrefined, had come in from the country round farm- 
 ers who fancied their own muscles, dealers, graziers, 
 fanciers. The railway works had contributed its quota ; 
 Bill had come with the missus and Jack had brought his 
 Jill. The black-coats had stayed away, no clergy were 
 present. But squire had come, both the old man and his
 
 186 The Rolling Stone 
 
 soldier son ; they were all right, the Ponsonbys men ! 
 
 If they could come, surely his people . . . 
 
 If the Ponsonbys approved, who were his people to 
 object? He saw the squire against the background of 
 his big house and grounds ; saw his own people, obdurate, 
 prejudiced, small. 
 
 His bitterness made him reckless. When his turn came 
 he attempted feats that he had not rehearsed, did things 
 he was never to do again. And the audience applauded, 
 they went wild over him. Yes, these people understood ; 
 he was no stranger to them but the boy who had grown 
 up in their midst. Only to his own people was he a 
 stranger. 
 
 It was because they were narrow-minded and ignorant ! 
 If he had had the gift of the gab he could have expounded 
 the matter to them, made them see where they were mis- 
 taken. 
 
 The boxing contest between Harry and Ted Mudford 
 was an easy win for the former; but the victory left him 
 sour. His father should have been looking on. . . . 
 
 The referee addressed the house : " These gentlemen," 
 said he, indicating the pugilists who, clad, the one in a 
 purple dressing-gown, the other in a striped red-and- 
 white, were awaiting their turn, " these gentlemen have 
 come from London to give us fifteen rounds of exhibition 
 sparring Queensberry rules. Left, Mr. O'Gorman ; 
 right, Mr. Sid Hobbs." 
 
 As the men walked into the middle of the ring Harry 
 saw in a flash what he must do. His father was only 
 opposed to fighting because he knew nothing about it. 
 He had never met any boxers ; he was ignorant of their 
 fine and manly qualities. It was for Harry to enlighten 
 him, and when would he have a better opportunity? His
 
 The Rolling Stone 1ST 
 
 mind was made up on the instant. He would persuade, 
 cajole, somehow induce the boxers to accompany him 
 home ; he would introduce them to the family circle. 
 
 As soon as the entertainment was at an end Harry 
 went up to the men with his request. His feats of 
 strength and his boxing had made a pleasant impression. 
 The}' were willing to see more of him. 
 
 " Got to catch the last train back to town," said 
 O'Gorman good-naturedly. 
 
 " You'll have plenty of time." 
 
 " All right, then. We'll come as soon as your com- 
 mittee has done with us." 
 
 The doorkeeper touched Harry's arm. " There's some 
 men want to see you. I've took 'em along to the dressing- 
 room." 
 
 " Want to see me? " Harry, somewhat surprised, hur- 
 ried to the back of the stage. 
 
 Three big weather-beaten men, who looked out of place 
 under a roof, were blocking the door. They moved aside 
 for him. 
 
 " We thought we'd like to see you about those weights." 
 
 Harry looked squarely into the speaker's eyes. " Want 
 to test them? " 
 
 "Well . . ." 
 
 " Thought they were faked, did you? Come on, then." 
 
 The smallest of the three examined the dumb-bells. " I 
 can carry four hundredweight on my back," he said. 
 " I take the bags of chemical manure down to the fields 
 that way; less trouble than getting out horse and cart." 
 He lifted the dumb-bells, he tested them, and his manner 
 changed. " 'Tis right enough what the young chap said," 
 and he turned back to Harry, a new heartiness in his 
 tones. " Look here, you come and play with these toys
 
 188 The Rolling Stone 
 
 over my way. I'm Jack Joicey Joicey and Sons of 
 Gormeston and I'll fill a hall for 'ee. What d'vou 
 say? " 
 
 " I say that, if my committee will agree, I'll come 
 with pleasure." 
 
 " Well spoken. Dr. Ryan's on your committee, ain't 
 he? I know him. Come along, then! This day week, 
 and the hospital to benefit." 
 
 Harry led him to the group about the pugilists. He 
 had heard vaguely of Jack Joicey, the breeder of champion 
 stock, the big farmer out at Gormeston ; and, his mind 
 racing ahead, he saw himself one of a troop of athletes 
 giving exhibitions of strength now at Gormeston, now at 
 Townley, perhaps even at Stroud and Cirencester. 
 
 As, having secured his pugilists, he walked off between 
 them, his ears tingled. " Never see such lifting strength 
 in all my born days ! " 
 
 It was fortunate for Harry that Hobbs and O'Gorman 
 were actually the simple fellows for whom he had taken 
 them. Hobbs had been a collier, O'Gorman was the son 
 of a small Cornish farmer. Both were clean-living, good- 
 natured fellows, and they went with Harry in the com- 
 fortable belief that his home would not contain for them 
 any element of surprise. 
 
 In the dining-room at No. 14 Parkside, Mr. and Mrs. 
 King were preparing, leisurely fashion, to go upstairs. 
 Mrs. King had folded and put aside her work; Mr. King 
 had stacked his ledgers on the cupboard to left of the 
 fireplace. But they were in no hurry, for Richard, a 
 slim, handsome figure in his thin overcoat and patent- 
 leather boots, was regaling them with an account of his
 
 The Rolling Stone 189 
 
 evening at the vicarage. Mr. King regarded the Arch- 
 deacon with unfeigned respect, but it amused him to hear 
 Richard call him, with affectionate tolerance, " an old 
 windbag." 
 
 " And Miss Margerison ? " asked his mother. 
 
 But if Richard could see clearly where the father was 
 concerned, he had not the same perspicacity when the 
 object was feminine and young. " She's getting up a 
 penny reading. They need money for the infants' Christ- 
 mas treat, and she wants me to help her." 
 
 "And you will?" 
 
 " Well I've nothing much to do." 
 
 " How will you help? " asked Mrs. King. 
 
 " I'll sing one or two songs she plays accompaniments 
 rather nicely and I'll get some of the fellows to come 
 over. By the bye, you'll have to turn up." 
 
 " Oh, we will, my boy we'll all come," said the father, 
 and Mrs. King nodded. She would like to see Richard 
 Richard in evening dress, so slim, so elegant, so handsome 
 stand upon a platform and sing. She would not ap- 
 plaud but she would listen to the applause of others, and it 
 would be to her like rain falling softly on dry earth. 
 
 " Oh, yes," she said, " I'll come." 
 
 From the hall was wafted the sound of an opening door, 
 of boots being rubbed on the mat, of voices. 
 
 " It's Henry," said Mr. King, " and he has some one 
 with him ! He ought to know better than to bring people 
 in at this time of night." 
 
 " I expect it's only Jack Tremaine," said Richard 
 easily. " Well, mother, I'm hungry ; they don't give you 
 much to eat at the vicarage. I'll cut myself some bread 
 and cheese. Do you know if that Bass has come? " 
 
 Mr. King looked uneasy. " I don't like your having 
 to drink beer. I don't think the doctor should have
 
 190 The Rolling Stone 
 
 ordered it. We never have had any in the house be- 
 fore. . . ." 
 
 " Don't you worry, dad. It will be all right." He 
 laid his hand affectionately for a moment on his father's 
 shoulder and was passing on when the door opened and 
 Harry, followed by the pugilists, came into the room. 
 
 " I've brought Mr. O'Gorman and Mr. Hobbs to see 
 you, father," he said. 
 
 The men advanced genially, but only Richard, smother- 
 ing a sudden chuckling conviction that this was " a rare 
 old game," realized who and what they were. He came 
 to the rescue. 
 
 "The star turn!" he said. "Father, Mr. O'Gorman 
 and Mr. Hobbs have been giving an exhibition of boxing 
 at the gymnasium display." He turned to the boxers, 
 prepossessing them with his bright, friendly smile. 
 "That's so, isn't it?" 
 
 " Yes, we have been having a bit of a mix-up," said 
 Hobbs; and Mr. King realized, with a sinking feeling at 
 the pit of his stomach, that he was face to face with men 
 of a kind he had all his life abhorred men of strange 
 powers, prize-fighters. He looked at them covertly while 
 Richard talked of having seen O'Gorman " get a well- 
 deserved verdict at Oxford the previous year," and to> 
 his mind they resembled nothing so much as a pair of 
 Bengal tigers. About them was a general atmosphere 
 of brightness and stripiness: their check overcoats were 
 warmly toned, the waistcoats and neckerchiefs revealed 
 when the men seated themselves were different shades of 
 colour from tawny red to yellow, and against the back- 
 ground of faded leather and dull wall-paper they stood out 
 sharply. Mr. King cursed the ever-active mind of his 
 youngest son. What had Henry been thinking of to 
 bring such men home with him?
 
 The Rolling Stone 191 
 
 " Fine evening, sir," said Hobbs, turning to his host, 
 and Mr. King, smoothing his beard with a nervous hand, 
 stared at the pugilist's thickened ear and " hoped that 
 the display had gone well." 
 
 " House was crammed, there wasn't standing room," 
 boasted Harry. " The hospital will do well out of us 
 this year. I persuaded Mr. Hobbs and Mr. O'Gorman 
 to come back with me, because I knew you would like 
 to meet them." 
 
 " Delighted," said Mr. King, trying not to look un- 
 happy. He must be careful not to irritate the tigers, 
 not to say anything to which they could take excep- 
 tion ; but afterwards afterwards he would settle with 
 Henry. 
 
 " I knew you had never met any one who was in the 
 ring." 
 
 " I have not had that pleasure," and Mr. King shifted 
 his gaze from Hobbs 's thickened ear to the S in the middle 
 of O'Gorman's otherwise handsome face, the S that did 
 duty as a nose. 
 
 " So I seized the opportunity." 
 
 " Quite er quite right, my boy." 
 
 "Hope I see you well?" said O'Gorman agreeably. 
 King's father was a funny old josser. Why hadn't he 
 been at the display? Perhaps he fancied he had a cold 
 in the head. That sort of person thought a cold mat- 
 tered. 
 
 " I find this weather a little trying," said Mr. King. 
 
 " That accounts for it," and Mr. King wondered what 
 it accounted for but didn't like to ask. " Nice little hall." 
 
 " Very nice." 
 
 " And your youngster gave us some good sport." In 
 all probability the old geezer was dying to know whether 
 his bantling had pulled it off.
 
 192 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " Henry did? " Mr. King tried to simulate the interest 
 he was far from feeling. 
 
 " Yes ; treated the other chap to an out-and-out box- 
 ing-lesson, he did. Mudford did bravely but it only got 
 him a pummelling. Your lad was sticking in, first his left, 
 then his right; sticking them in any liddle old place he 
 wanted." 
 
 "I er " began Mr. King. He knew that he ought 
 to stand up for his principles, and yet the tigers were 
 smiling at him so amiably that it was a temptation to 
 hold his peace. 
 
 " Mudford was knocked out in the ninth round," con- 
 tinued O'Gorman. " He was crossed on the point for- 
 got to lift his left arm to fend it off, y'know, and they 
 counted him out." 
 
 " Ay," said Hobbs, who was a heavier and shorter man 
 with less to say for himself, " but he got the referee's goat 
 before that." 
 
 " Goat ? " said the bewildered Mr. King. 
 
 " Using his head," explained Hobbs. " Either he don't 
 know the rules or he don't think they should apply to him. 
 Referee thought they did, though." 
 
 " You won't know him tomorrow, father," said Harry 
 cheerfully. 
 
 Mr. King, struggling with himself, cleared his throat. 
 Though the tigers ate him, it was his duty, with a last 
 dying effort, to make his position clear. 
 
 " I should say," said Hobbs critically, " that Mudford 
 lushes " 
 
 " He can neck it by the half-bottle," agreed 
 Harry. 
 
 " He drinks ! " said Mr. King severely, and, to his sur- 
 prise, found that the tigers were with him in reprobating 
 drink.
 
 The Rolling Stone 193 
 
 " It's done in many a good man," said Hobbs, shaking 
 a square, prematurely grey head. 
 
 Mr. King pulled himself together. The tigers were not 
 altogether tigerish and he must make his stand. 
 
 " I'm sorry my son should have taken part in this box- 
 ing contest," he said. He could not look at the men, for 
 his heart was beating quickly and he was afraid. Instead, 
 he studied the floral groups on the new green carpet and 
 wondered anxiously what would happen next. 
 
 "Ah," said O'Gorman, "I'm with you there. The 
 young blighter's too good for a one-horse place like this. 
 Fighting is an instinct with your boy. He fights with 
 passion, he does, and the boxer who does that will draw 
 most any man's bluff. He'll go far." 
 
 " He's going to be an engineer." 
 
 " Nothing like having a trade to fall back on," agreed 
 the Cornishman. " But, bar accidents, you've no call to 
 worry about him." 
 
 Richard, though he had been enjoying the situation, 
 thought it time to intervene. " I expect you'd like a 
 drink," he said, rising. 
 
 Mr. King looked from Richard to his youngest son. It 
 was on the tip of his tongue to say, " Not in my house." 
 
 " I could do with a wet," said Hobbs, getting to his 
 feet; and Mr. King, disapproving, yet saw a gleam of 
 light. They would drink Richard's beer and then they 
 would go. 
 
 " Come along." He led the way, and the trusting tigers 
 followed where he led. They were glad to leave the old 
 bloke behind; he wasn't sporty not really what you 
 would call sporty. 
 
 " I don't believe," said Hobbs when they were sitting 
 comfortably about the kitchen table with clays and beer, 
 " that your guv'nor has ever seen a slam."
 
 194 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " That's going rather far," returned Richard with a 
 half-smile, and they agreed that perhaps it was. Even 
 Mr. King had been young once, and young fellows gener- 
 ally had a look round before they settled down. They 
 might not say much about it afterwards, but that was 
 neither here nor there. 
 
 VI 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. King, with the dining-room door shut 
 between themselves and the tigers, waited until returning 
 steps told them that the men were leaving. 
 
 " Now we can go to bed," said Mr. King a little peev- 
 ishly, and opened the door. Harry, after saying good-bye 
 to the pugilists, was crossing the hall ; he also was on his 
 way to bed. 
 
 " Well," said Mr. King irritably, " well, Henry, I can't 
 congratulate you on your friends." 
 
 Until that moment Harry had not known how thor- 
 oughly disgruntled he had been by the behaviour of his 
 family. Their absence from the display ; their lack of in- 
 terest in his performance, his success ; their disapproval, 
 were so many counts against them. At the back of his 
 mind discontent with them had been smouldering. His 
 father's words, captious and unsympathetic, proved the 
 little wind that blows the embers into a flame. Suddenly, 
 to his surprise and that of Mr. King, he blazed into wild 
 wrath. Accusation and reproach tumbled from his lips. 
 "But this is the end. I'll stand no more of it. You've 
 made a stranger of me. You've done it." 
 
 " But Henry " stammered the amazed Mr. King. 
 
 " I've had enough of it and I'm going now at once." 
 He swung about, snatched his hat from its peg, and, be-
 
 The Rolling Stone 195 
 
 fore any one could move to prevent him, had opened the 
 front door and was gone. 
 
 The sound of the banging door reverberated through 
 the midnight house. Mr. King, aghast, looked at his 
 wife. 
 
 " You've done it now," said the snake he had warmed 
 in his bosom. 
 
 " But," said Mr. King, opening his hands in a depre- 
 catory gesture, "I I've done nothing."
 
 Chapter XII 
 
 D 
 
 4 ' ~J "^ ON'T you think you'd better grow up a bit be- 
 fore you try to annex other people's dances ? " 
 said a young voice insolently. 
 
 The occasion was a dance at the Aliens' house, Susie's 
 first grown-up dance ; and the speaker a tall, red-headed 
 cousin, to whom Harry King's reputation was unknown. 
 Susie had promised to dance No. 20 with her old friend, 
 but this was an extra. 
 
 " Ewen, how can you ! " 
 
 Harry's hand had clenched, his body had made a swift, 
 almost imperceptible forward movement, and she had seen 
 it. She was between the two men, but you could never 
 be sure of Harry, of what he would do, of where he would 
 be. His face, as she surveyed it hastily, showed grey 
 above a shirt collar that was a size too small. Susie mis- 
 doubted that greyness. He was angry. Perhaps, 
 though Ewen was so big six foot three in his stockings 
 Harry would hit him. 
 
 If he hit him it would mean a row, a row at her party. 
 
 She thrilled, but at the same time looked round for 
 Ralph. It would not do to have a row. Some of her 
 mother's friends were present, and she must think of their 
 middle-aged susceptibilities. If only Ralph were not 
 dancing! He was so sensible, such a man of the world, 
 he always knew how to deal with a situation; but Ralph, 
 in his short blue coat and his gold lace, was waltzing with 
 all the jolly abandon of a sailor. He went past without 
 
 196
 
 The Rolling Stone 197 
 
 a glance for his sister, without a thought that she might 
 be in need of him. 
 
 She had known the men disliked each other. From the 
 beginning of the evening their animus had been evident, 
 and it was because of her. 
 
 How wonderful that she would have this power over 
 them ! Harry and then her cousin and, yes, Bobbie Chap- 
 man, but Bobbie didn't count. It was exciting, it went 
 to your head ; it was the most delightful thing in the world. 
 Yet it was difficult to believe you really had it, that it 
 wasn't all play-acting and make-believe. She had longed 
 to put it to the test but she had not done so. She had 
 been a good girl, she had remembered " the glove in the 
 lion's den " and other stories of that kind, and she had 
 behaved as if neither Harry nor Ewen were more to her 
 than any other young man; yet this had come of it. 
 
 " Harry ! " she said entreatingly, and stretched a slim, 
 girlish arm between the men. 
 
 Harry did not hear, did not see her; rage had swept 
 her out of his thoughts. He saw nothing but the look on 
 the big Australian's face, felt nothing but a rush of anger. 
 He must wipe the smile off that face. A hateful face, 
 the sort of face a man wanted to hit. Nasmyth had 
 crossed Harry's path more than once that evening, and 
 each time Harry's instinctive dislike of him had grown. 
 The mistake over the dances and Harry was certain he 
 was in the right had brought matters to a head. 
 
 Harry's answer to the insult would be made with his 
 hands. Anger was pushing him towards a blow, but out- 
 side the main stream of his consciousness was a retarding 
 self that held on to him, held him back. Not now an4 
 not here. . . . 
 
 His rage must culminate in an explosion, but the explo- 
 sion might be delayed. The retarding self was gaining
 
 198 The Rolling Stone 
 
 power; it was helped by the strangeness of the room, by 
 the people present, by the atmosphere of cheerful festivity. 
 He must not make a scene, he would not. 
 
 " I'll meet you outside," he said after a pregnant pause. 
 
 The Australian looked at him uncomprehendingly. 
 Might was right, and little chaps must be taught their 
 place. As to meeting him outside, that, of course, was 
 hot air. The fellow wanted to save his face. 
 
 " Come on, Susie," he said. 
 
 Susie was only anxious to get away before the storm 
 broke. She glanced back with an apologetic " It is really 
 his dance, Harry ours is the next," and allowed herself 
 to be carried off. 
 
 Harry stood for a moment where they had left him. 
 His wild desire had steadied into purpose. He would 
 wait as long as was necessary. 
 
 "Grow a bit?" He would show Nasmyth that height 
 was unimportant, that this intensity of feeling, this pas- 
 sion, the something that put a sting into blows, that gave 
 a man dominance, had nothing to do with size. He would 
 do more than that: he would knock him out. The man 
 had dared to belittle him, to make him of no account. He 
 had belittled him before a woman, and there was only one 
 way in which to wipe off the insult. 
 
 Avoiding, without consciousness of them, the gyrating 
 couples, he walked towards the door. It was the only door 
 of the room, and out of it Ewen Nasmyth must eventually 
 come. Harry would wait for him in the hall. 
 
 June nights are short and it was already late. Some 
 of the guests had left and others were preparing to go. 
 Harry found his one-time henchman, Jack Tremaine, wait- 
 ing by the hall door. 
 
 " I want you."
 
 The Rolling Stone 199 
 
 On leaving home Harry had taken a room in the house 
 of Tremaine's widowed mother, and the fact of their friend- 
 ship accounted for the extension of Mrs. Allen's invita- 
 tion to the young engineer. 
 
 " I'm waiting for Bet." 
 
 " Oh, let Bet alone for once ; I want you." He was 
 willing that Tremaine should become a member of his 
 family, but the long courtship must not be allowed to in- 
 terfere with his arrangements. 
 
 " I promised Mrs. King I'd see her home." 
 
 Bet, a fleecy white wrap round her vivid face, came out 
 of the cloakroom. To Harry she was not a sonsie young 
 woman but an obstacle. 
 
 " Why are you going so early? " 
 
 "Early? Why, it's gone three, and mother said I 
 wasn't to stay until the end ; it doesn't look well." Why 
 were Harry's eyes so fierce? What had happened? 
 
 " Look ? " His words came tumbling. " You are al- 
 ways thinking of appearances. Who do you suppose is 
 noticing how long you stay or when you go ? " 
 
 The stimulus of a happy evening kept her sweet. What 
 was the matter? Some trifle! Anyway, it didn't con- 
 cern her. All she wanted was to go into the white night 
 with Jack, to walk with him under the paling stars and 
 listen to the queer ups and downs of his voice, to the ac- 
 cent that grew more marked when he forgot himself, as 
 he did when alone with her. 
 
 " I want Jack want him to stay here." 
 
 " Oh, no, Henry ! " Throughout the happy evening she 
 had been looking forward to their walk home. 
 
 " It's only a step from here to our house." 
 
 " But mother said ..." 
 
 " You run along by yourself." He took her lightly
 
 200 The Rolling Stone 
 
 by the shoulders, and before her resistance had become 
 definite or Tremaine, big and slow, could come to the res- 
 cue, he had her across the threshold. 
 
 " I've an account to settle," he vouchsafed, as he shut 
 the door between the disappointed man and maid. " I 
 may want your help." 
 
 " Oh, of course, if that's it ! " For a moment he had 
 felt ugly. It was outrageous that Harry should prevent 
 him taking Bet home; but if there were need of his serv- 
 ices, real need, it was a different matter. He thought of 
 Bet walking buoyantly away, her blue skirts lifted from 
 the dust of the road. His heart followed her. But for 
 him and her remained all the nights in all the years till life 
 should end ; he might spare this to Harry not very 
 willingly, but he would. 
 
 Mrs. Allen, crossing the hall on the arm of Tom Drum- 
 mond, the man she was going to marry, caught sight of 
 the two young men. 
 
 "Not dancing, Harry?" That so vigorous a per- 
 former should be standing idle struck her as odd. He 
 looked, too, as if something had disagreed with him. His 
 thick eyebrows were meeting in an obtuse angle over nar- 
 rowed eyelids; it gave him a Mongolian look. She had 
 seen the same look on Mr. King's face, had learnt to re- 
 gard it as a storm-signal. It was extraordinary, she 
 thought, how like Harry was to his father. 
 
 The quick shuttle of her thoughts flew back. The 
 young man's attitude was tense and Tremaine was looking 
 uneasy. What had happened? Harry was good-natured, 
 easy. The consciousness of his unusual strength made 
 him careful. There were times, however, when the best- 
 tempered man takes offence. If Susie, for instance, had 
 shown a ballroom preference . . . 
 
 One could not deny that Harry was a rough diamond.
 
 The Rolling Stone 201 
 
 Where had he bought his evening suit? And had he got 
 it ready-made? It looked ready-made; it rucked at the 
 neck and was too tight across the shoulders. And who 
 was responsible for his shirts? That which he was wear- 
 ing bulged at one side. And oh, if he hadn't put grease 
 on his hair ! The crest of strong curls that had been so 
 characteristic was gone ; his hair was sleeked back it 
 shone, softly, greasily. . . . 
 
 A red curtain hung across the front door, framing the 
 two young men. In spite of Harry's ill-fitting suit, badly 
 laundered shirt and murdered locks, there was something 
 about his face . . . Mrs. Allen perceived it, considered 
 it. One had to distinguish between the unimportant and 
 this something. 
 
 Not that she wanted Susie to take him seriously. The 
 girl was only seventeen. Time enough. 
 " I am waiting for some one." 
 
 If he were waiting for a dancing partner, the hall door 
 was hardly the place; but Mrs. Allen saw she was not to 
 be taken into his confidence. 
 
 " By the bye," she said, beginning to move away, " there 
 is that horoscope. Did you remember to ask Mrs. King 
 what time of the day you were born? " 
 
 In the ballroom the music had ceased, and some couples 
 were seeking the cooler atmosphere of the stairs. " I 
 don't think so," said Harry vaguely. His eyes were on 
 the bright oblong of the door. At any moment Nasmyth's 
 red head might show above the stream. 
 
 Jack Tremaine turned a surprised face upon his friend. 
 " Why, you asked Mrs. King last night, I heard you, and 
 she said she said " he could not remember, " I think 
 she said Harry was born October 20." 
 
 " Harry," said Mrs. Allen dryly, " must know the date 
 of his own birthday."
 
 202 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " I was born October 17, 1874." 
 
 " Yes, and your mother said I have it now at half- 
 past three in the afternoon. She said you came in a hurry 
 and have been in a hurry ever since." 
 
 " Thank you." Mrs. Allen made a mental note of hour 
 and day. " It is some time since I've drawn a horoscope. 
 I got the ephemeris yesterday but could not do anything 
 more until I knew the time." 
 
 " Do you believe in horoscopes? " Tremaine, in the 
 dark as to Harry's wishes and expectations, saw no harm 
 in continuing the conversation. Mrs. Allen was a pleas- 
 ant lady, he thought her quite beautiful, and it was dull 
 work standing by till Harry should make a move. 
 
 " I ? Oh, I neither believe nor disbelieve. They are 
 drawn according to certain empirical rules, and no doubt 
 those rules were framed by shrewd observers who had 
 noticed that, given certain conditions, certain results fol- 
 low. I find it surprising how often horoscopes hit the nail 
 on the head. Still, they don't cover much ground. ..." 
 
 The opening bars of " Sir Roger de Coverly " smote 
 on Harry's consciousness. Not much longer now. He 
 heard Mr. Drummond's " You promised to dance this with 
 me, Ursula," and was relieved to see Mrs. Allen led away. 
 She paused, however, on the threshold of the ballroom, 
 paused to glance back at them. 
 
 " Won't you let me find you partners for this ? It's the 
 last, you know," and if Harry had not intervened, Tre- 
 maine would have gone. 
 
 " All right, then," he said, yielding to the pressure of 
 Harry's hand, " but just let me look in." He moved to 
 the door, and his glance embraced the large bright room. 
 Long rows of men and girls were forming down the sides*, 
 but there appeared to be a hitch. Susie Allen was sitting 
 partnerless by the piano ; she seemed to be waiting. He
 
 The Rolling Stone 203 
 
 saw Bobbie Chapman go up to her, saw her rise reluctantly 
 and, with a glance towards the door, take her place among 
 the others. 
 
 Susie was asking herself whether Harry were offended, 
 and Harry, waiting impatiently until the dance should be 
 over, had forgotten. 
 
 " Another drink and I must be off," said Nasmyth to 
 young Allen as the music stopped. 
 
 " Where are you sleeping? " 
 
 " At the ' Crown.' " They turned into the room, now 
 deserted, in which light refreshments had been served, and 
 there Harry came up with them. 
 
 " You have to settle with me," he said, and his words, 
 long withheld, fell like tiny blows. He was not offensive, 
 but the look of him, the sound of his voice, was enough 
 for Allen. 
 
 "Hullo, what's up?" 
 
 Nasmyth, having done with Harry, found the fact of 
 his continued existence surprising. As for settling with 
 him, what did he mean? " Oh, come ..." 
 
 " You have kept me waiting." 
 
 " My dear chap, the thing is over and done with." He 
 was in no mood for scrapping. " Here, Allen, make this 
 chap hear reason." 
 
 " Don't barge in, Allen ; it's nothing to do with you." 
 
 " This is my mother's house." 
 
 " Very well, then, we'll go outside." 
 
 " But, confound it all," said Nasmyth, " you can't make 
 a serious quarrel out of it ! " 
 
 "I'm in dead earnest." With his open hand Harry 
 struck him smartly across the cheek, and the impact of 
 those four hard fingers left a red and angry mark. ' Now 
 will vou fight? " 
 
 Allen stepped between the men. "Outside," he said,
 
 204 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " outside. Here, the garden is this way." Drawing back 
 a curtain, he threw open the French window. " Why, it's 
 daylight ! " 
 
 The garden lay before them, deserted and dewy a 
 stretch of lawn, paths that wound among beds of roses 
 and under nut- and apple-trees. " The drying-ground, I 
 think," he said shortly, " it is farther away." He led 
 them to a summer-house white-walled and thatched. 
 " Tremaine, your man can have the tool-shed. We'll join 
 you on the grass." 
 
 The big Australian was very angry. At the end of an 
 evening's entertainment why should he have to teach a 
 little hop-o'-my-thumb manners? First the chap tried to 
 do him out of one of his dances, then he made himself of- 
 fensive. Wanted a lesson, did he? Well, it was coming 
 to him. Nasmyth put a hand to his smarting cheek. 
 " I suppose you can box, Ewen? " 
 
 " A bit ! " He could box more than a bit. " You got 
 a set of gloves? " 
 
 " King doesn't mean fighting with gloves." 
 " Doesn't he ? " He found this statement puzzling. 
 "Can he fight?" 
 
 " The people about here think he can." Ralph, a naval 
 officer, had not spent much time in the railway town; he 
 had not had the good fortune to see Harry box. On the 
 other hand, he had known him all his life, while Ewen 
 Nasmyth, though his cousin, was almost a stranger. Ewen 
 was finely built ; he certainly looked as if he could do Harry 
 in. For the honour of the family Ralph hoped that he 
 might. 
 
 "Light weight?" 
 " No, heavy." 
 "You don't say?"
 
 The Rolling Stone 205 
 
 " Scales at thirteen stone. He's an amateur, of course, 
 but they tell me he's pretty good." 
 
 Nasmyth did not doubt the issue. Six-foot-three with 
 science and some experience in the ring, against provin- 
 cial five-foot-six. But to give the little chap a thrashing 
 might take longer than he had supposed. 
 
 Allen led the way to the drying-ground, and at the 
 same moment Harry, followed by Tremaine, emerged from 
 the earthy obscurity of the tool-shed. The Australian 
 had not bothered to remove more than his outer garments, 
 but Harry was naked to the waist. 
 
 " Fancies himself ! " said Nasmyth, and, throwing back 
 his head, swaggered across the grass. " Look here," he 
 cried in his loud, overbearing voice, as the two parties met 
 between the posts of the drying-lines, " this is a boxing 
 match. We aren't fighting for our lives." 
 
 The sun's rim was over the edge of the world. The 
 yellow light fell on Harry's massively boned face, on the 
 narrow eyes and implacable mouth. " I shall kill you 
 if I can." 
 
 Nasmyth experienced a slight shock, but he had met 
 other men who tried to scare their opponents by their 
 ferocity. "With your mouth?" he asked. 
 
 He was not prepared for what followed. Ralph had 
 told him that Harry was quick, but his quickness proved 
 phenomenal. It was as if a whirlwind had broken loose. 
 The Australian, like most heavy-weights, was slow, and 
 he soon found it was all he could do to keep going. At 
 the end of the first round his right eye was badly gashed 
 and he was bleeding from the lips and nose. When Ralph, 
 the self-appointed referee, called " Time," he leaned up 
 against a drying-post feeling dazed. The little chap 
 but somehow, seen without those countrified evening clothes
 
 206 The Rolling Stone 
 
 he did not look small, only short ; and that chest ! Nas 
 myth was still angry, but not altogether with Harry. 
 What had they quarrelled about? He couldn't remember. 
 Oh, yes Susie. Curse Susie ! she wasn't worth this 
 this 
 
 What was it the fellow had said? He had threatened 
 him threatened to kill him? Mere words, of course, 
 but those blows of his, there was a sting in them, he hit to 
 hurt, and his eyes they were hard, revoltingly hard, 
 hard as the hobs of hell. 
 
 Time was up and Harry had started anew on his re- 
 lentless attack. Nasmyth had some skill at stalling, but 
 the swift pace, coupled with the constant pummelling be- 
 gan to tell on him. 
 
 To the onlookers it had been evident from the first that 
 he was out-boxed, evident too that Harry was fighting not 
 merely to win. When Nasmyth got back to his corner at 
 the end of the round the conviction had been forced upon 
 him that King had meant what he said. 
 
 He was out to do him serious bodily injury. Unsports- 
 manlike but words had no power with such as King. 
 " I will kill you if I can," he had said. 
 
 Amazing ! The chap had meant it. For a thoughtless 
 phrase of an hour ago the fellow was out to kill, to kill 
 not just anybody, but Ewen Nasmyth. His blows meant 
 that, and they were the utterance of his will. 
 
 Nasmyth stared about him at the morning sky, the 
 quiet garden, the low fruit-laden trees. Impossible that 
 here, in nineteenth-century civilized England, he should 
 be up against it ; he must be dreaming. 
 
 Into his mind slipped a memory of the quay-side at 
 Sydney. A man had been ill-treating a dog his dog, 
 and he could do as he pleased with it ; but Curzon, Dandy 
 Curzon the Irish welter-weight, had said " No." They
 
 The Rolling Stone 207 
 
 hi*d fought, and Curzon had killed his man killed him 
 out there in the road, killed him with his hands. He had 
 been sentenced to penal servitude for life, but what was the 
 good of that? The man was dead. 
 
 These things happened. 
 
 They happened to other men, it could not be that they 
 were happening to him, that the lust to slay had looked 
 at him out of King's eyes? It it was all bunkum. 
 
 What was Ralph saying? 
 
 Time was not up? Not yet, surely not? Well then, 
 he must go. And King? The brute was as fresh as paint ! 
 Nasmyth fell into wild, childish fury. The law would 
 avenge him. In this case there were no extenuating cir- 
 cumstances. Men would hang King hang him, hang 
 him, hang him. . . . 
 
 Yes, but before that . . . 
 
 A man has only one life. 
 
 King must be mad. Why didn't the others see it and in- 
 terfere? 
 
 His life. 
 
 He could preserve it if he would pay the price. What 
 did the price matter? 
 
 He was lying on the ground. King was standing over 
 him. The blow had not been a knock-out a left-arm 
 jolt to the point, delivered when he was going away. It 
 had hardly touched him still, he preferred to lie where 
 he was. 
 
 " Come on, you beggar. Get up. Let's get on with it. 
 
 Fight!" 
 
 Nasmyth threw his arm over his face. As long as he lay 
 
 there he was safe. 
 
 "Get up and I'll jab you again. What, you don't 
 want any more? No fight in a big chap like you? What 
 an old Mary Ann 'tis."
 
 208 The Rolling Stone 
 
 Tremaine came up to them. " He's down and out." 
 But Harry waited, waited hopefully. His anger was 
 mellowing into contempt, but still he hoped; and as long 
 as he waited the Australian lay where he had fallen. 
 " It's domino," said the naval officer, " no guts." 
 The fight was over. As Nasmyth, walking groggily, 
 was led away, the corner of a blind that had been curled 
 back from an upper room fell into place. Once more 
 Susie had been looking out of a window at Harry. 
 
 Her feet and hands and the tip of her little nose were 
 cold, for she was insufficiently clad in a nightgown; and 
 it may have been to warm herself that she pirouetted across 
 the floor to her bed. It may have been, but as she danced 
 she sang in a small voice, sang very softly, for her mother 
 slept in the next room. 
 
 " He did it for me, Harry did, for me for me for 
 me! " 
 
 II 
 
 " Phineas used to say marriage was Nature's way," 
 remarked Mrs. Allen, " of bringing each generation back 
 to a sane mediocrity." 
 
 " Levelling up and down," said Mr. Drummond, who 
 was contentedly puffing at his pipe. 
 
 Mrs. Allen had been making calculations, first in black 
 ink, then in red, on the ephemeris of Harry King's horo- 
 scope. She laid the penholder in the old Indian dish 
 and leaned both elbows on the table. She was tired and 
 wanted the refreshment of idle talk. 
 
 " I suppose that is why clever men marry congenital 
 idiots," she said, speaking as one who had suffered, " and 
 strong men " she paused, her glance seeking the horo- 
 scope, " strong men select delicate women. Nature abhors 
 the superhuman."
 
 The Rolling Stone 209 
 
 " Well, I should say so." 
 
 " Ah, but not only in brains, in every walk of life. Now 
 this young King is unusual. ..." 
 
 " Forearm of an ox ! " 
 
 " Oxes I mean oxen don't have forearms ; but he 
 is one in a thousand." 
 
 " He has got to prove that he is." 
 
 " He'll do that all right, and meanwhile I say it and, 
 for the sake of argument, you agree with me." 
 
 " Have it your own way." 
 
 " Very well. Now what will happen ? When he mar- 
 ries he'll choose a woman as much below the average in 
 constitution health, you know as he's above it. Na- 
 ture will see to it that he does. She doesn't want a race 
 of kings, she wants average people ordinary, every- 
 day men and women." 
 
 " But he seems to like Susie and she's all right." 
 
 " He won't marry Susie." 
 
 "Why shouldn't he?" 
 
 " He's running after her," said Mrs. Allen thought- 
 fully, " because other people are and he can't see a man 
 running without wanting to race him. I don't think he 
 really cares for Susie, not," she smiled at him and the 
 lines of her face took an upward curve, " not as I do, 
 Tom." 
 
 " You're a peach," he said irrelevantly. 
 
 " I don't want him to ; I don't think he would make her 
 happy." She took up the horoscope. " It isn't that I 
 believe in this, but that it coincides with what I have ob- 
 served. Since he began to come here, Tom, I've been 
 watching him " 
 
 " Trust you ! " 
 
 " At the time of his birth," she referred to her calcula- 
 tions, " the sun occupied Libra and the moon was in Cap-
 
 210 The Rolling Stone 
 
 ricorn, while Neptune was in the ascendant and Jupiter 
 ruled the mid-heaven." 
 
 Mr. Drummond waited contentedly. Behind this ver- 
 biage lay the gold of Ursula's conclusions. 
 
 " And that means Neptune is his ruling planet. Nep- 
 tune is elusive, it brings the unusual and unexpected into 
 the lives of those it rules. I have noticed that Harry 
 thinks one thing today and one tomorrow, that his mind 
 is restless and carries him along at a tremendous rate, that 
 he lives in the moment ; and this explains it." She was 
 not altogether in earnest over this matter of the horo- 
 scope, did not want him to think she was, still it was in- 
 teresting that it should confirm her observations. " Nep- 
 tune is the planet of fitfulness and impermanence, of little 
 weaknesses, petty meannesses " 
 
 Her Tom showed a placid interest. " And King? " 
 
 " He is a nomad, here today and gone tomorrow. Ac- 
 cording to this there is no permanence in his life and never 
 will be." 
 
 "Humph!" 
 
 " The sun is passing through Scorpio, and that means 
 toil and struggle. He'll roam the world on one adventure 
 after another." 
 
 " Not a bad sort of life." 
 
 " A life of perpetual struggle oh, Tom ! " 
 
 " A life of adventure, my dear ! " 
 
 " What a boy you are still ! " They exchanged a look 
 and she returned to the subject occupying her thoughts. 
 
 " His circumstances ought to improve about 1910, and 
 then he will be, let me see, how old? He was born in '74." 
 
 " Thirty-six." 
 
 " Until then he won't be able to keep a wife," and she 
 smiled, well pleased. 
 
 " That isn't to say he won't have one."
 
 The Rolling Stone 211 
 
 " N-no ; still I hope, if he does, that it won't be Susie. 
 According to this, it won't. The sign Virgo is on the cusp 
 of his house of marriage, which shows that his affinity has 
 her Sun posited in that sign and that her birthday should 
 be between August 21 and September 21 Susie was born 
 in March." 
 
 " I'm afraid you attach some weight to these prognos- 
 tications." He knocked out his pipe on the edge of the 
 fender. 
 
 " You mean I believe what I want to believe? But be- 
 lief with me is a thing of layers. Under the layers is a 
 depth of scepticism that goes, as the nigger said, * all de 
 way down.' There is just one thing about this horo- 
 scope ..." 
 
 " I want," said Tom mildly, " I want you to come round 
 the garden with me." 
 
 " What an out-of-doors man you are. One moment, 
 dear." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " It's curious that, given what we know of Harry, his 
 knack of creating a situation wherever he goes you re- 
 member poor Ewen? that the horoscope should predict 
 for him a life of cataclysms, great success and heavy re- 
 verses, alternate poverty and riches." 
 
 " Yes, it is certainly odd." 
 
 " I haven't faked it in any way. Any one given these 
 data, who knew how to calculate a horoscope would give 
 a similar reading." 
 
 " It may not come true." 
 
 " And yet it may, Mr. Doubting Thomas. Anyway 
 the years between forty-five and fifty-five should be 
 crucial. With Jupiter, beneficent old Jupiter, ruling the 
 mid-heaven conjunct with the Sun, there is no 
 may rise to any height, do anything."
 
 212 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " And all's well that ends well. Now, my dear, let's 
 go for a stroll round the garden." 
 
 In the round white summer-house were casements filled 
 with diamond panes, casements that opened outward; and 
 the couple, approaching it by way of the shrubbery, 
 caught sight of something small and black that was 
 perched on the sill. 
 
 " Look there is one of Susie's bantams," said Mrs. 
 Allen. 
 
 " And where the bantams are ..." 
 
 A sound of hammering came from the summer-house. 
 " And where Susie is ..." amended Mr. Drummond with 
 a smile. 
 
 Through the glass door of the summer-house, the in- 
 terior, lined with brown wood, showed darkly clear. 
 Harry King, using the iron table as a bench, was mend- 
 ing a chicken-coop, while Susie, in the low chair that had 
 been hers since nursery days, sat looking on. She watched 
 but her little hands were busy. She was crocheting, with 
 fine cotton and a slim, active needle, a strip of lace. Up- 
 stairs in a drawer her bottom drawer she had other 
 strips, some wide, some narrow, but all fine. She spent 
 the long, dreamy leisure of her girlhood crocheting this 
 lace. When she became engaged her mother would supply 
 her with material as fine, with delicate cambric, linen of 
 which the threads could hardly be seen, and she would 
 turn them into clothing, ornament them with cobwebby 
 crochet with some of it, but not with the filmiest rolls, 
 not with the very lightest and softest, no. And when she 
 was married she would carry with her to her husband's 
 house these miracles of stitchery, these white garments 
 which were embodied hope ; and under them, at the very 
 bottom of her trunk and wrapped in tissue-paper, would 
 lie the soft reserve of lace. No one would speak to her
 
 The Rolling Stone 213 
 
 about it, she would not even speak of it to herself; but 
 she would know it was there. 
 
 Susie, from her low cane-chair, was looking across the 
 iron table, looking at Harry. To do so was a satisfactory 
 way of passing the time. She liked to look at his black 
 hair hair so strong that it could not lie down unless he 
 tamed it with brilliantine. She liked the oblique setting 
 of his eyes. Other people's eyes did not go up at the 
 outer corners. Harry's, too, were so bright, so intent. 
 She had been looking at him for quite a long time and 
 never once had he met her glance. 
 
 If only he had not been going to India ! She saw it 
 as a place full of wild beasts and mutinous blacks. Why 
 couldn't he be content to stay in England? He had told 
 her he wanted scope ; but he was doing well. Mr. Drum- 
 mond had said that for his age Harry was doing unusually 
 well. Why must he go rushing off to the ends of the 
 earth? 
 
 " It is a pity you have only got these two hens," said 
 Harry, as the bantam which had been enjoying a dust- 
 bath under the fixed wooden seat, got up and shook her 
 feathers. " You want a cock." 
 
 "Why do I? "said Susie. 
 
 " Er " Harry found the explanation beyond him, 
 " people never have hens without cocks, you know." 
 
 " They don't seem to." Susie considered the matter. 
 " But the little hens seem happy as they are, and cocks 
 are so quarrelsome. If I got one he might ill-treat 
 them." 
 
 " He wouldn't." Harry twisted a screw into place. 
 It seemed a pity there should never be any downy little 
 chicks. He was sorry for the spinster hens. " It's dull 
 for them," he said at last. " You'd find it dull, Susie, if 
 no young men ever came to the house."
 
 214 The Rolling Stone 
 
 Susie looked at him with astonished, wide-open eyes. 
 " But chickens aren't like us." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 She was puzzled. There was, of course, the difference 
 that she was a human being and the bantams were only 
 birds, but that was self-evident. " Well, they can't talk," 
 she said, and warmed a little. " People men, you know 
 come here in order to sit and talk to us." 
 
 "And is that all?" 
 
 " Ye-es," she said a little uncertainly, " that that's 
 all. ..." 
 
 Harry gave it up. It was all right that girls like Susie 
 should be ignorant, just as it was that they should be 
 chaperoned ; it set them apart, was like the bloom on the 
 grape. The winds must not blow on them, nor the rain 
 fall. He admired this guarded ignorance, but felt that 
 from one point of view that of companionship it 
 left something to be desired. Still, you mustn't expect too 
 much. 
 
 Mrs. Allen opened the summer-house door. " I've fin- 
 ished your horoscope, Harry. You'll find it on the blot- 
 ter in the morning-room." 
 
 He paused, screwdriver in hand, and thanked her. 
 " What do you make of it ? " he asked eagerly. This was 
 interesting; it concerned Harry King. 
 
 " That you are a rover, that change is the breath of 
 life to you." 
 
 Ah ! " 
 
 " That you will roll all round the habitable globe, that 
 you will never settle down for long." She became aware 
 of Susie's anxious eyes and changed the subject: " When 
 are you going to London ? " 
 
 " As soon as I can get my clothes and that reminds
 
 The Rolling Stone 215 
 
 me, I'm due at the tailor's." He began to clear up the 
 accumulation of tools and wood. 
 
 " You haven't finished the coop," said Susie plaintively. 
 
 " I'll do it tomorrow." 
 
 She went with him through the house, open, back and 
 front, to the warm June air, and though he was in a hurry, 
 he did not forget the horoscope. Mrs. Allen was a good 
 sort. It was difficult to impress some people notably 
 his brothers and sisters but she seemed to realize that 
 he was more than just one young man among many, that 
 he would do what? He did not yet know. Well, no 
 matter. The world was big and the future was big; it 
 lay before him like a cake, he had only to choose where 
 he would cut. 
 
 He congratulated himself on having drawn out his sav- 
 ings and ordered himself a suit of clothes, the best pro- 
 curable in the railway town. If the black morning coat 
 and light trousers did not obtain for him the berth on the 
 East India Railway that he was after but they would. 
 
 He went swiftly along the quiet roads. A sleepy old 
 place the very air was stagnant ! He must get out of 
 it. 
 
 He would not come back until his name was on every- 
 body's lips, until he was rich and famous, until a grateful 
 country had recognized how much it owed to him. What 
 price Richard when he was Sir Henry? His father, too. 
 They would all be proud of him. He had not been able 
 to take scholarships, he had not gone into the Civil Serv- 
 ice, but when England had been in need of help he had been 
 ready. " Everything I have and am." 
 
 He had saved his country. 
 
 His name would be written on the rolls of fame; it 
 would be handed down from generation to generation.
 
 216 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " Born in this town but his greatest work was done in 
 India and the colonies." 
 
 To his surprise, he was already at the tailor's shop. 
 He walked in, and dreams of greatness hung about the 
 trying on of the new clothes. He had no fault to find with 
 cut or fit indeed they were almost worthy. He stood 
 a moment looking at himself in the tailor's long glass. 
 Those who had the making of desirable appointments 
 would never be able to harden their hearts against such 
 admirable clothes. 
 
 " You will let me send these for you ? " The cutter, the 
 fitter, Mr. Sykes himself, had gathered to view this tri- 
 umph of their art. 
 
 " Thanks, I'll wear them." 
 
 He would saunter through the streets wearing them; 
 he would gather, as the Children of Israel gathered manna, 
 the comments of his acquaintances, their surprise, their 
 curiosity. " What's King up to now? " But they should 
 not know, not until after he had pulled it off. 
 
 He carried an impassive face. He hardly noticed his 
 acquaintances; he was preoccupied, absorbed. He, as it 
 were, kept the blinds down so that no man or woman of 
 them should see the grinning elf, who, inside, was turning 
 somersaults and standing on his head and sticking his 
 tongue into his cheek. 
 
 " Ain't 'ee a bloomin' torf ! " 
 
 " Not much Rough 'Un ' about them togs ! " 
 
 " That's the chap who put the kibosh on Sam Prickett. 
 I lay he's up to something." 
 
 " Clothes do a lot for a man. Would you believe it, 
 that's Harry King ! " 
 
 " Wonder where he's off to garden-party at Bucking- 
 ham Palace? I don't think." 
 
 Harry had been eighteen when he left home, he was now
 
 The Rolling Stone 217 
 
 twenty-four. At first Mr. King had been unwilling that 
 he should live with the Tremaines live anywhere except 
 under the paternal roof. It did not look well; people 
 might think 
 
 For once, however, Mrs. King was on Harry's side. 
 Eighteen years of him had not inured her to the surprises 
 that his restless mind was for ever springing on those 
 unfortunate enough to be in his neighbourhood, and she 
 would be glad of a little peace. 
 
 " You don't mind my leaving home ? " He expected 
 her to raise an objection. She ought to mind. 
 
 But she was no more sentimental than he. " I don't 
 think boys and girls should stop in the nest after they 
 are grown up. Pretty business if they did. The old 
 birds would never get any rest." 
 
 " You ought to miss me." He would give her another 
 chance. After all one's mother! 
 " Ay, and 'twill be a good miss." 
 
 She consented, however, to continue making and mend- 
 ing for him " 'till you get a woman of your own." 
 
 Harry had not been the first to leave home, for Richard, 
 having entered the Civil Service, was already in Egypt. 
 His had been the usual fate of the scholarship boy. Clever 
 and charming, he would do well in a mediocre way do 
 well in his rabbit-run, be a useful servant. His mind had 
 leaped along the beaten tracks ; he would never force a 
 way for himself, it had not even occurred to him that he 
 should. Mr. King was developing, about the boy of whom 
 he had been so proud, a sense of disappointment. Rich- 
 ard seemed to have come to an end ; the Service had swal- 
 lowed him, there was nothing more to happen. About 
 James too for the Codger was still the Codger : the com- 
 pany had ear-marked him as a useful servant and he 
 would rise, he might even become the head of a depart-
 
 218 The Rolling Stone 
 
 ment. But if the one son had ceased to do sensational 
 things, Mr. King knew the other would never attempt them. 
 
 " And in Egypt, Richard, how do you occupy your 
 time?" 
 
 " We play a good deal of tennis." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " And we dine out a goodish bit. It's the usual round. 
 And then, of course, there's the office." 
 
 Tennis and dinners and the office but the office last ! 
 And that was the boy of whom he had expected so much. 
 
 Richard had risen in the world, his career at school and 
 college had been distinguished. What was lacking? 
 
 Mr. King was a servant and Richard too. The father 
 had hoped for something more, had hoped his boy would 
 prove a master of men. Why was he, too, only a servant? 
 Had it anything to do with his training? Did the public 
 schools and universities only trim you and shape you to 
 this end? He turned from the thought. If his god had 
 feet of clay he would avert his eyes, he would not look. 
 
 But the feeling of dissatisfaction, though he denied it, 
 was growing, and there remained only Harry : Harry, 
 who had wasted the years that should have been devoted 
 to study in idle amusement football, boxing, and the 
 like ; Harry who his brothers said was a dark horse. Was 
 it possible that Harry . . . ? 
 
 From his daughters Mr. King had not expected much. 
 He had sent them to an expensive finishing school, that 
 to which the Misses Margerison had gone. He had hoped 
 much from that conjunction. The girls' manners would 
 be softened, they would make useful friends, their school- 
 fellows would have brothers. 
 
 All that had come of it was that Richard had married 
 Ethel Margerison.
 
 The Rolling Stone 219 
 
 A good thing in its way, a better if Ethel's tone could 
 have affected Mab and Nancy. 
 
 Unfortunately, they voted her namby-pamby, a ninny! 
 He did what he could. He brought home fellows from 
 the office, the sort he hoped his daughters would marry; 
 and the young men came once but not again. Bet had 
 made her choice, she was engaged to Jack Tremaine ; yes, 
 Bet had sense. But Mab and Nancy said they could wait, 
 they were not going to throw themselves away. 
 
 With his boys out in the world and his girls home from 
 school, Mr. King's burthen had been lightened. He no 
 longer worked all day and every evening. He had given 
 up some of his secretarial appointments and was begin- 
 ning, vaguely, to think of retiring. 
 
 Harry came upon him in the study. " Bought these 
 at a sale today," said Mr. King, indicating the books he 
 was arranging. " As I've given up the technical schools 
 I shall want something to do in the evenings." 
 
 The books were bound in bright blue and had red edges. 
 Harry saw with interest that they were an edition of 
 Chambers's " Encyclopaedia." He also would read them. 
 James and Richard talked of matters of which he was 
 ignorant of a person called Socrates, whose works 
 Harry had not been able to borrow from the town library, 
 and he had decided that when opportunity arose he would 
 dig in and learn. 
 
 " Good biz," he said, and placed his silk hat on a chair. 
 " I'll take a volume back with me." 
 
 " Why, Henry ! " Mr. King, straightening himself 
 from the finished task, caught sight of the hat. " What's 
 this?" 
 
 "This?" In the fresh interest Harry had forgotten 
 his clothes. " Eh oh, yes ; as I'm going to apply for
 
 220 The Rolling Stone 
 
 a berth in the East India Railway I thought I'd better 
 get some decent togs." 
 
 " In the East India Railway ? This is the first I've 
 heard of it." 
 
 " You didn't suppose, father, that I was going to stop 
 on here? " 
 
 " Humph ! Well, I hope if you get this job you'll stick 
 to it. You've shifted about a bit since you were out of 
 your articles." 
 
 " A man shouldn't stop too long in any one place ; he 
 is apt to get stale." 
 
 Mr. King had stayed a working lifetime with one firm 
 and in one place. James would follow his example. 
 James, ay, and Richard ! Whence came the drop in 
 Harry's blood that made him a wanderer? His mother's 
 people had been farmers ; they had lived for generations in 
 the same parish, dust of it were they and unto its dust 
 they had returned. Remained his own side of the family 
 his father. He had never been able to persuade the 
 old man to talk of the past ; it was too painful, he said. 
 Mr. King did not even know for certain whence his father 
 had come. Marcus King a strange name Marcus, un- 
 English. Was the grandfather with the un-English name 
 and terrible memories responsible for Harry's queerness, 
 for what made him different from the rest of the family? 
 
 For once the surprise Harry had sprung on him was 
 not disagreeable. The girls had been " finished," so ap- 
 parently had Richard, but not Harry. He was going 
 abroad, going in search of the one man called it suc- 
 cess, the other adventure ! 
 
 " I wonder what your mother will say ? " 
 
 Mrs. King, her sewing on a small table at her side, was 
 threading a needle. She looked up as the men came in
 
 The Rolling Stone 221 
 
 from the study. " I thought for the moment you were 
 Richard," she said. 
 
 Harry explained, and, getting up, she smoothed, with 
 work-worn fingers, the collar of the new coat. 
 
 "Ah, Sykes made it? Yes, he made for Richard, but 
 you haven't the figure." 
 
 Harry looked at her reproachfully. "It's always 
 .Richard with you." 
 
 She defended herself. " He'd less original sin than 
 the rest of you." She meant that to her he had been more 
 affectionate. 
 
 " If you wear those clothes," said Nancy, " I don't mind 
 going for a walk with you on Sunday. You look quite 
 decent." 
 
 " For once in your life," said Mab pertly. 
 
 " Thanks," Harry tossed back the ball, " but I don't 
 take my sisters for walks. Get a man of your own." 
 
 " No difficulty about that," said Nancy, her colour a 
 little heightened. 
 
 Remembering Socrates, he carried off the S volume of 
 the encyclopaedia, and that evening after supper applied 
 himself to study. But Socrates was a puzzling disappoint- 
 ment : an old chap who made a nuisance of himself by 
 asking questions, a man who never did anything but talk. 
 He had got on the nerves of those appointed to govern, 
 and they had accused him of a beastly sort of corruption, 
 the corruption of youth. Harry supposed that the au- 
 thorities had known what they were about ; yet Richard and 
 James discussed this mouldy old chatter-box as if, in spite 
 of time and death, he mattered. It was mystifying. He 
 did not understand. Well, at any rate, he knew now who 
 Socrates was. He turned the pages, and under " Steel " 
 found matter more congenial.
 
 222 The Rolling Stone 
 
 On the following day he called at the head office of the 
 company, and without much difficulty passed the outer 
 defences and reached the sanctum. " It's the clothes," he 
 told himself as he was ushered in. 
 
 The Presence was a white-haired man wearing horn- 
 rimmed spectacles. When he took them off his eyes were 
 a mild blue, but seen behind the glass they had a keener 
 glint. 
 
 " Your business, Mr. King? " and Harry explained it. 
 
 " Your qualifications? " 
 
 Harry had done good work for the firm. " I have just 
 finished putting in the lighting plant for Grove Station." 
 
 The Presence turned up an entry. " Yes," he said, 
 "and . . .? 
 
 Harry went into further details. He had worked at 
 Ipswich, at Doncaster. He produced his papers and the 
 old man examined them. 
 
 " It is not usual for people to apply for a post abroad. 
 We prefer to choose for ourselves among the young men 
 in our employ. We watch their work and select those 
 we think suitable." 
 
 " I thought if I applied it might hasten matters." 
 
 " We like to send out men who are keen." But he dis- 
 trusted overkeenness ; it did not seem to him English. 
 And he hesitated, ruffling the papers before him with 
 long, thin fingers and considering, considering. " You 
 know, of course, that it means making your home in In- 
 dia? " 
 
 " I am prepared for that ? " 
 
 " If we appointed you, when should you be ready to 
 start?" 
 
 Harry had often started at a moment's notice on some 
 vessel bound on a short voyage. He had taken his holi-
 
 The Rolling Stone 223 
 
 days, learnt his geography, that way. " I am ready now." 
 
 " Now? " 
 
 He stood up, balancing lightly, looking, as the Presence 
 felt, ready to start at that instant for the ends of the 
 earth. " If you wanted me to, I could go from here to 
 the docks and sleep on board tonight." 
 
 He was irresistible and the old man smiled. " We 
 should hardly be so inconsiderate as that. Let me see: 
 this is June. A boat will be sailing on July 21. We shall 
 send you out on her as " he paused to correct his mem- 
 ory from a paper, " as assistant locomotive superintend- 
 ent of the line. It rests " he smiled again, " it quite 
 evidently rests with you how quickly you rise ; and India, 
 to a man of alert mind and healthy body, affords great 
 opportunities." His manner changed from the paternal to 
 the businesslike. He was once more a man whose physical 
 life was nearly at an end, whose personal life had ended long 
 ago. " Anything you want to know they will tell you in 
 the office. Good morning." 
 
 Ill 
 
 The morning-rooom at Rosemeads overlooked the gate 
 and a space of tree-shadowed road; and the window, a 
 sunlit window, was one of Susie's favourite haunts. She 
 was sitting there the evening of Harry's successful raid on 
 London; but she was not expecting him. If you ex- 
 pected people they did not come ; the best way was to tell 
 yourself they were busy, had not got back, had an ap- 
 pointment ; then, at any moment, the contrary might hap- 
 pen. 
 
 Harry, walking up the road after he had electrified his 
 family with the news " It was the silk hat did it ; they
 
 224 The Rolling Stone 
 
 realized I knew what was what " saw her little head 
 through the clear pane of glass and, though he was very 
 full of himself, felt suddenly a little chilled, a little doubt- 
 ful. He wanted to get out of England, to see new coun- 
 tries, try his luck; but he didn't, no, he didn't want to 
 leave Susie behind. 
 
 She was a darling, a little piece of perfection, a jewel. 
 He would have liked to pack her in cotton-wool and put 
 her in his trunk and carry her off. She would be there 
 for when he wanted to look at her, to play with her. He 
 did not want her all the time, only when he was in the 
 mood. 
 
 He couldn't do it, of course; girls were not bits of 
 jewellery to be wrapped in cotton-wool and packed in a 
 trinket-box and put at the bottom of a Saratoga trunk. 
 Yet, if he did not take her, another would. 
 
 He saw her surrounded ! Bobbie Chapman but, 
 somehow, Bobbie didn't count; still, there were others. 
 Frank Margerison was always making excuses to drop in, 
 and there was Gage. Harry's thoughts circled about 
 Gage. He was doing well; Drummond had lately made 
 him manager of Golden Hill Quarry. He was in a posi- 
 tion to marry and was the sort not to think of marriage 
 until he had the brass. It was quite evident that he had 
 begun to think, that he was thinking of Susie. 
 
 Harry's impulse was to swoop. Susie belonged to him. 
 He wanted to drive off the others, to parade her as his. 
 At the same time, he did not want to endanger his freedom. 
 There were quite a number of things he meant to do in 
 which Susie could have no part; he must do them, too. 
 
 " I've got it ! " he cried up to her. He was in too great 
 a hurry to go round by the door. 
 
 She pushed open the window. "The appointment? 
 I'm so glad; at least, what what does it mean? "
 
 The Rolling Storie 225 
 
 " I'm going to India ! " 
 
 The gladness died out of her face. " Oh, Harry 
 soon? " 
 
 " In three weeks' time ! " 
 
 The tears welled into her eyes ; she did her best not to 
 let them run over and fall. She stood, seeing him as a 
 dark blurr, and struggling with herself. She must not 
 cry, not now but it had been so sudden ! 
 
 Harry gripped the sill with his strong hand and pulled 
 himself up. He had the feeling that he was repeating a 
 forgotten experience. Once, long ago, he had grasped a 
 stone roughness and climbed into a room. The action 
 was familiar, but he could not remember what had gone 
 before, what had followed, only that it was concerned 
 with tears. He could not bear to see a girl cry. . . . 
 
 Susie had risen and was facing him. She was a little 
 frightened, and on her soft face was a tell-tale smear. 
 He put his arms round her and drew her close. 
 
 " Don't you want me to go, Susie? " 
 
 Hope shot into her heart. After all, perhaps he needn't 
 go. " I don't. I don't." 
 
 His voice had sunk to a tender soundlessness. " Come 
 with me ! Darling come with me." 
 
 She hadn't thought of that as a possibility. The face 
 she raised to his was troubled. India was so far away. 
 
 Her unwillingness acted on him as a spur. " I want 
 you, darling." 
 
 " Do you, Harry, do you really ? " 
 
 Protestations that she heard with a divided mind. Su- 
 sie was a blossom, not a butterfly. She was rooted in 
 English soil. "Are you going to stay in India, live 
 there? " 
 
 He drew a picture of railroad life, of the openings for
 
 226 The Rolling Stone 
 
 a young fellow with ideas, of giddy heights to which that 
 young fellow might rise. " Of course it will be our home." 
 
 And India as a home did not appeal to her island mind. 
 " Snakes," she thought, " and black holes and natives ! " 
 Still there would be Harry. The railway town without 
 Harry would be a dreary place. It was a choice of evils. 
 In the end she allowed herself to be persuaded, and the 
 Susie who sought her mother was a modestly happy little 
 girl. 
 
 "Well, my bud?" said Mrs. Allen, who was sorting 
 towels in the glorified cupboard she called a linen-room. 
 When she heard what had happened she pushed the linen 
 aside and sat down with Susie on an ottoman. 
 
 " You want to go out to India ? " 
 
 " I want to go with Harry." 
 
 The mother guessed at the scene. If only she could 
 have spread a maternal wing over her chick, a wing that 
 would have beaten off the swooping marauder ! 
 
 " It was because you didn't want him to go to India." 
 
 " He " began Susie softly, and fell silent. She could 
 not tell any one what Harry had said. 
 
 " Oh, I know. ..." Mrs. Allen had listened to more 
 than one tale of love. 
 
 Susie broke from her shyness to paint afresh Harry's 
 picture of the Dependency, and while she talked her mother 
 pondered the situation. 
 
 She must not be made unhappy, neither must she be al- 
 lowed to turn a foolish promise into performance. 
 
 " Did you say he was sailing on the 21st, dear? Let 
 me see : this is June 30. Only three weeks ! " She paused 
 on the awkward fact. Susie had common sense. Let the 
 fact sink into her mind. " You are sure he could not go 
 later, say in a month or two? " 
 
 " He wouldn't."
 
 The Rolling Stone 227 
 
 " All your things to get ! Your underclothes, of course, 
 must be hand-made. What a rush! Are you quite cer- 
 tain he couldn't wait?" 
 
 " How could he, mother? " 
 
 " If only," murmured Mrs. Allen, " you had been en- 
 gaged to him for a little while! If only people had been 
 told ! " 
 
 " But, mother, he only thought of getting the smart 
 clothes and asking those people in London for the berth 
 last last the end of last month. He couldn't speak 
 to me till he knew, and he only knew today ! " 
 
 " Yes, dear, I see how it was ; but it leaves so little 
 time." 
 
 " Surely, though," she was growing anxious, " surely 
 we can manage? " 
 
 " Well, let me think. We shall have to write to every- 
 body and tell them ; then we shall have to get your things 
 it's India, you know, and you can't go with any sort 
 of a trousseau and then there'll be the wedding. You'll 
 want a proper wedding. ..." 
 
 " Ye-es." She must have the sort of wedding other 
 girls had ; must be married in white satin and a veil, must 
 have bridesmaids and orange-blossoms and a cake. Her 
 brothers, too they must get leave of absence from their 
 ships. She supposed that, as her father was dead, Ralph 
 would give her away ; and, of course, the uncles and aunts 
 would come and there would be wedding presents and an 
 " At home." 
 
 " I don't see how we can do it in the time." 
 
 " Oh, mother ! " 
 
 "Well, dear, think of your frocks." She spoke at 
 length on the frocks she meant Susie to have. It was 
 soothing talk, it was like a hand passing again and again 
 over a cat's fur.
 
 228 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " Don't you think," she said, when she judged the mo- 
 ment was come, the moment of acquiescence, " don't you 
 think, Susie, that as the time is so short you had better 
 let him go out and get some sort of a home ready for you? 
 You could follow in a month or two. ..." 
 
 " Oh no, oh no ! " 
 
 Mrs. Allen talked on. Susie must acquiesce. Those 
 who loved her were not going to trust her to an unknown 
 lover. " Time tryeth troth," and Harry must prove him- 
 self, prove that he was reliable. " A month or two later, 
 dear, then you could go comfortably. It isn't so very 
 long " 
 
 " I should hate travelling alone." 
 
 " We could easily find some one to chaperone you." 
 
 " If I didn't go with him oh, mother, I do want to 
 go." 
 
 " I know, dearest, I know, and I wish it were possible ; 
 but you see yourself ..." 
 
 She did see. " Then when ? " 
 
 " I believe October is a good month in which to travel." 
 
 "October? And this is June? " She considered. "I 
 could be ready by then ? " 
 
 " If we work hard, dear." 
 
 "I shall enjoy making my things." The thought of 
 the fine stitches she would set in fine materials was help- 
 ful. A delay of three months and she could go to Harry 
 " all glorious within." 
 
 " We shan't have to scamp them." 
 
 " There is that." She got up from the ottoman. 
 " Well," she said sadly, " I'll tell Harry what you say ; 
 but I'm afraid he'll be dreadfully disappointed."
 
 The Rolling Stone 229 
 
 IV 
 
 Harry, making his preparations for India, knew it to 
 be of the first importance that he should take with him 
 fighting-gloves and a set of boxing-gloves. He put them 
 into the Saratoga trunk and stopped to think. What 
 else would he require? Tools? Yes, tools would come in 
 handy. He overhauled his possessions, then, unostenta- 
 tiously, those of James. The desire-for constituting with 
 Harry the right-to, he decided that several of James's 
 tools were in reality his. He would take them, how- 
 ever, when there was no chance of their being reclaimed; 
 the last evening would be soon enough. 
 
 Harry's " hookey " thumb was also in evidence, but 
 more openly, when it came to a question of clothes. He 
 hunted garments with the assiduity a dog puts into digging 
 out a rabbit. He laid everybody under contribution, and 
 was so heartily pleased with each addition to his belong- 
 ings that it was difficult for people like Susie and Mrs. Al- 
 len to deny themselves the pleasure of giving. His sis- 
 ters were less inclined to be generous. 
 
 " No, Henry, you can't have father's slippers," and 
 " Why are you walking off with that photo? It's mine." 
 
 Susie gave him a pair of plain gold sleeve-links, and 
 he was as delighted as a child with a new toy. 
 
 " I'll send you things from India," he promised. How 
 kind the Aliens were ! He wanted to make them some re- 
 turn, do something for them. If only an opportunity 
 would arise a horse run away with them, a dog attack 
 them, a mad dog! He was at his best in an emergency. 
 If only he could have saved Susie from well, from any 
 of the things she found alarming! At intervals during 
 his pursuit of clothes he saw himself rescuing her from 
 drowning, from burglars, from an angry bull, from being
 
 230 The Rolling Stone 
 
 run over; saw himself taking her back to Rosemeads with 
 " You trusted me to look after her ! " 
 
 Mrs. Allen would be grateful. She was passionately 
 fond of Susie. She was he felt sure of it rather 
 fond of him. A good sort, Mrs. Allen. 
 
 It was true she had objected to his carrying off Susie 
 to India. A pity, for if he had taken her with him after 
 a three weeks' engagement what a sensation it would have 
 caused. Nothing he had hitherto done, not even his fights 
 or his playing for England against France, would have 
 come up to it. 
 
 Susie was a little duck ; she would have come. Perhaps, 
 however, it was as well Mrs. Allen had intervened. He 
 had meant what he had said, had meant it at the moment. 
 He would have liked to have had Susie; but he wanted 
 still more to sally forth on this adventure without anything 
 hanging to his arm. To have her bound to him, yet 
 leave her behind for the present, seemed to him a better 
 arrangement. She would be there when he wanted her ; 
 no other man, neither Margerison nor Gage, would have a 
 chance. 
 
 She was not to accompany him, but she was his her 
 time was at his disposal. His sisters thought him a nui- 
 sance, but Susie found a pleasure in doing things for him ; 
 and he was happy bringing handkerchiefs for her to mark, 
 gloves for her to mend. 
 
 Susie herself, though she had little time to think, found 
 herself wondering more than once how she would hnve 
 managed to get her trousseau together in the bustle and 
 hustle of these last weeks. With a touch of resignation 
 she told herself her mother had been right, and yet oh, 
 everything was so unsatisfactory. 
 
 Being engaged was so like not being engaged. True, 
 she might go about with Harry and do things for him
 
 The Rolling Stone 231 
 
 and it seemed an understood thing that in some undefined 
 way she belonged to him. But she had expected something 
 more. 
 
 Harry was the son of an undemonstrative mother and 
 knew nothing of caresses. The girls he had met had 
 wanted to kiss him and he had taken what they gave; 
 they might do the kissing, just as they might the running. 
 Susie was a different sort of being, a new experience. 
 He did not know what to do with her. Love he could 
 make, but her ignorance, the bloom on the grape, kept 
 him from showing the chief emotion that he felt. 
 
 Susie had looked shyly at other engaged couples. They 
 were it was a horrid word but covered thrilling expe- 
 riences they were spoony. 
 
 Harry wasn't. 
 
 She had expected he would want to sit with him in the 
 dusk and say silly things and hold her hand and yes, 
 kiss her. She had made it possible. 
 
 After shutting up the bantams, he and she were return- 
 ing one evening to the house when she suggested they 
 should sit for a little on the bench in the summer-house, 
 and Harry had agreed. She had sat close to him not 
 very, only enough to make it natural that his arm should 
 go around her. 
 
 Harry was talking, he was discussing Ralph. I'm 
 afraid he doesn't understand that nothing worth having 
 comes without serious effort. I've always thought he 
 wanted stiffening. The world makes way for those who 
 have the will-power to conquer and forge ahead." 
 
 " I'm sure it does," said Susie and wished she hadn't a 
 brother. " Harry, I put this frock on specially for you. 
 It's new. How do you like it? " 
 
 " Getting too dark to see it. Let's go indoors." He 
 got up and, stijl talking platitudes, led the way out
 
 232 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " Those who are half-hearted and dubious of results never 
 get anywhere." 
 
 " No," said Susie. It was tantalizing to sit close to 
 Harry and have him talk and think of other people. Was 
 it her fault? Did other girls know better how to man- 
 age? Was it because she was so inexperienced be- 
 cause though Bobbie had cared, though Ewen had cared, 
 she hadn't? 
 
 She couldn't help it and there was no one she could ask. 
 You did not ask your mother, and to other girls you pre- 
 tended that you had the best and most perfect lover in the 
 world. 
 
 Before they were engaged, when Harry had looked at 
 her, when on rare occasions his voice had lost its big res- 
 onance, had sunk into that queer soundlessness, she had 
 been thrilled and expectant. A fire was burning under 
 that impassive surface and it was for her ; when they were 
 engaged it would break through the crust, it would flame. 
 They were engaged and nothing had happened. 
 
 The fire was there it must be but it had not broken 
 through. When with his long, firm lips Harry touched 
 her cheek she found the kiss entirely unsatisfactory ; her 
 prospective stepfather kissed her as warmly. 
 
 During those three weeks Drummond more than once 
 found Susie's glance resting on him ; she seemed puzzled 
 about something. 
 
 "Well, little girl?" 
 
 But she could not tell him she was wondering whether 
 the older couple were as undemonstrative; whether love, 
 after all, was only a craving and a craving 
 
 Mrs. Allen went with Susie to the docks ; and Harry at 
 first was wholly occupied with his berth, the bestowal of 
 his luggage, his seat in the dining-saloon. He had sailed 
 in wind-jammers, in fishing-smacks, in grain ships, but
 
 The Rolling Stone 233 
 
 never before in a liner. He would enj oy the experience, he 
 would enjoy the fact that he was travelling first class. 
 
 When the last hour came the young couple were alone 
 in the hotel sitting-room. 
 
 Susie snatched at the happiness she had not had. " Oh, 
 kiss me, Harry," she said, half crying, " you never kiss 
 me." 
 
 Harry, surprised, put his strong arms about her and 
 gave her a hug. " There ! " he said consolingly. 
 
 The clasp was warm and thrillingly strong; it showed 
 Susie what she might have had. 
 
 " It's too bad," she said. 
 
 " What's too bad? " 
 
 " I've been engaged to you three weeks," she said, and 
 broke at last from her reserve. " I've wanted to kiss you 
 all the time." 
 
 "Kiss me, then." 
 
 She took his face between her little hands and kissed it 
 hungrily the firm cheeks, the short straight nose, the 
 brows that came to a point when he was displeased but 
 at the moment were lying level over the bright hazel eyes ; 
 and, lastly, because she was beside herself with grief and 
 longing, she kissed him full and fiercely on the lips. 
 
 And Harry pressed her to him, and something in him 
 melted and he kissed her back. Women, though with the 
 bloom on them, were still women. " Stick to me darling," 
 he said soundlessly, " and I won't fail you. Never. I'll 
 be faithful to you all my life." 
 
 The door handle rattled. "It's time you went on 
 board, Harry," said Mrs. Allen. 
 
 Susie, very happy, very miserable, satisfied yet on the 
 eve of loss, hung on his arm. 
 
 " You never finished my bantam-coop," she said as they 
 went down to the wharf.
 
 234 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " I will," Harry promised her, " I will when I come 
 back." 
 
 And in Mrs. Allen's heart echo gave back a single word, 
 " When . . when . . "
 
 Chapter XIII 
 
 THE dining-room at Rosemeads looked through 
 French windows on to a gravel-path. Susie 
 had given up sitting by the morning-room win- 
 dow. Why sit there, when every one who came in at the 
 gate made you hope for the impossible? She preferred the 
 dining-room with its northern aspect and lack of sun, and 
 to it she had moved the little cane-chair. She sat over the 
 fire but she was not crocheting; in her bottom drawer were 
 as many rolls of trimming as she would use, perhaps 
 more. Her hands were idle, but on her knee she nursed 
 a book " Kim " a book which she had read once and 
 was reading again. 
 
 She read it when other people were in the room. When 
 she was by herself she looked over the top of the page 
 and followed, among the red embers, the dark procession 
 of her thoughts. 
 
 It was so long since Harry had written. 
 
 His last letter was in the pocket of her moireen petti- 
 coat. 
 
 She was resting one hand on the tiny area of skirt that 
 concealed it. When she closed her eyes she could see 
 the plain strong writing, the characters dense and black 
 on the cream-laid note. 
 
 In every letter had been some one phrase on which she 
 could feed her heart; she recalled them, dwelt on them. 
 " You are the only person I can really talk to." " You 
 are sunshine to me." " Much has happened and I want 
 
 23i
 
 236 The Rolling Stone 
 
 you. No one else is any good." " If a thousand women 
 were to line up before me and I was told to choose again, 
 it would be you I should choose." 
 
 He had chosen her ; that was everything. She must 
 remember that keep it before her eyes, in front of her 
 mind. She must not let herself get depressed. Once and 
 for all she had been chosen. 
 
 Yes, chosen, but 
 
 " Much has happened and I want you." 
 
 If he wanted her why did he not ask her to go out to 
 him? She was ready; she had been living from day to 
 day, month to month, in hope of a summons. She 
 counted on her fingers August, September, October ; he 
 had been gone seventeen months. Seventeen months ! 
 She wondered how she had managed to live through them. 
 She had her memories and Harry's letters ; not much in 
 either to sustain her. 
 
 Harry, poor fellow, could not help himself; he was like 
 that. He could not put down what he felt. He was 
 marvellous, one in a thousand, and he was hers, but he 
 was dumb. He could not express the love he felt, he 
 could not put it into words. In his breast was the same 
 craving as in hers ; but she could say tender things, while 
 he he could only feel them. 
 
 Why had he not sent for her? What was preventing 
 him? He must want her or he would not have said so. 
 Well then, why? 
 
 In an early letter he had said there were no English- 
 women at Mookta and that the place seemed to him 
 unhealthy. He had not alluded to it again, had left her 
 to infer the reason. 
 
 How seldom he spoke of the thing that was really 
 interesting their life together, their future. She 
 sighed. But that was Harry; he was reserved, he took
 
 The Rolling Stone 237 
 
 things for granted. He talked of politics, of ideas, of 
 view-points, and rarely, very rarely, of his feelings; you 
 might almost have thought he hadn't any. 
 
 You might if you hadn't known better. 
 
 A step on the tiling of the hall made Susie open her 
 book. She held it with her left hand, and while she bent 
 her eyes upon the page, they rested also on the fingers 
 steadying it. 
 
 Harry had promised to send her a ring, to get it as 
 soon as he landed. Her mother had refused to let her 
 tell her aunts and uncles about Harry until she had it 
 to show them. It had not come and he had not explained 
 why. 
 
 It was to have been a turquoise ring, the blue, Harry 
 had said, of her eyes. 
 
 He could not have known how she felt about it, how 
 much it would have comforted her to see it on her finger, 
 to wear it and, in the dark of night, put her other hand 
 on it and tell herself it was there. 
 
 His ring! 
 
 After all, he did not know and what did it matter? 
 Harry loved her and she loved him; a ring was only the 
 outward and visible sign. 
 
 One lived not by the sight of a ring, not even on the 
 phrases of a letter, but by an inward conviction, by faith. 
 
 And faith faith - 
 
 If only Harry would write more frequently! 
 
 She moved restlessly. Seventeen months and nothing 
 to do but sew and think. A day and another day and yet 
 another, and each day saturated with a queer sort of 
 feeling, a feeling that was all mixed up, that was hope 
 and yet was pain. 
 
 The step had passed. Susie lifted her skirt and drew 
 out his last letter. It had been written in August, and
 
 238 The Rolling Stone 
 
 this was December. A fairly long letter, two sheets of 
 thin paper. 
 
 " DEAR, A few lines to let you know all's well. What 
 a drive I have got on ! But all are keying in and becom- 
 ing imbued with the spirit of leadership. They have given 
 me charge of a Maxim gun eh, what? Beginning to 
 recognize my quality. Have been in the Himalayas for 
 a spell fever but am back invigorated, ready for 
 anything. 
 
 " I told you once I could do anything I chose. Say I 
 choose to make a fortune and then try my hand at using 
 it for the benefit of others? Not swimming-baths, 
 libraries, organs, but the real uplift of those with whom 
 I am thrown. 
 
 " All would have to perish who antagonistically flung 
 themselves on the rock that's me of an inflexible 
 will and determination. 
 
 " But it would need the Day of Judgment to change 
 the outlook of people in England. Take the ugly 
 parts beer, vice, neglect of child-life, housing, profiteer- 
 ing, swindling, hypocrisy, cant, humbug, religion, and that 
 rot ; and yet, the finished product, the finest thing in 
 the shape of men and women the world holds or ever will ! 
 
 " If I had my way no Cabinet should hold office in 
 Britain unless sound on the following points: . . ." 
 
 Susie, hunting among the hard, aloof incoherences for 
 crumbs of affection, had to content herself with the 
 signature : 
 
 " Yours ever, 
 
 " HARRY." 
 
 Her eyes, softening to the " yours " and " ever," lost
 
 The Rolling Stone 239 
 
 for a moment their unhappiness. Under the vague 
 theorizing was buried the kind Harry who was so strong, 
 who loved her but could not put his love into words. 
 With his pen he had shaped the " ever," his broad hand 
 had pressed the paper. And "ever" had meant? As 
 long as they two should live. 
 
 " Yours ever." It was comforting, reassuring. 
 Though *she had had no letter for three months, she need 
 not distress herself. Mails were lost at sea, in railway 
 accidents, in the pockets of dishonest postmen. In time 
 Harry would write again. Christmas was at hand. Per- 
 haps he had remembered, had bought the turquoise ring 
 and was timing it to reach her on Christmas Day. 
 
 If he had oh, if he had ! 
 
 Mrs. Allen or rather, Mrs. Drummond, for she had 
 been Tom Drummond's wife for over a year coming 
 into the dining-room in search of her daughter, saw the 
 transient gleam. 
 
 " Are you ready, my bud? " 
 
 "Ready, mother?" 
 
 " Ready to go into the town with me? " 
 
 Susie rose with some of the old-time willingness to fall 
 in with the wishes of others. 
 
 " I won't be a minute." 
 
 " I wonder if she has heard from him," said Mrs. Drum- 
 mond to her reflection in the glass over the mantelshelf. 
 
 II 
 
 "Mother," said Susie as they walked briskly towards 
 the High Street, " I can't understand why you go to the 
 shops yourself for what we want. The boys call for 
 orders."
 
 240 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " If I didn't choose the joint I should get just anything 
 the butcher liked to send, and the same with the fish." 
 Under the words lay her sense that it was a pleasure to 
 select the food her Tom was to eat, one pleasure among 
 many. 
 
 " What are you smiling at, mother? " asked Susie wist- 
 fully. 
 
 " I was thinking," said Mrs. Drummond, " how pleasant 
 it is to lite in a town like this, where you know everybody. 
 I hope, Susie, that when you marry you will settle near, 
 so that you can run in and out." 
 
 " I should like it, too," said Susie, and thought to 
 herself, "Yes but if I marry a rolling stone?" 
 
 The bright December day, a red sun overhead and rime 
 on the grass, had brought the warmly clad people out 
 of their houses. Christmas was near, the shop windows 
 flauntingly gay, and they had money to burn. 
 
 " Look, mother, there's Ethel King." 
 
 A short, fair girl in a fur coat and cap was coming out 
 of an ironmonger's. She had come to show the Arch- 
 deacon and Mrs. Margerison their eldest grandchild. 
 Susie looked at her wistfully. She could not go to the 
 Kings for news of Harry, but his sister-in-law might be 
 willing to talk. 
 
 "How's baby?" 
 
 Mrs. King turned with a sense of pleasure. Her Rich- 
 ard was a dear, but she did not get on very well with his 
 relatives. Susie as a connexion and, though an en- 
 gagement had not been announced, she suspected an un- 
 derstanding was a relief. Mrs. King hoped that Harry 
 would stick to her, though really, as things were, she did 
 not see ... 
 
 Their shopping finished, the three women turned out 
 of the High Street.
 
 The Rolling Stone 241 
 
 " Old Mr. King has gone to London," Ethel King said 
 conversationally. 
 
 " Old? " thought Mrs. Drummond. " Oh, these young 
 things ! " 
 
 " On business ? " asked Susie. Mr. King's comings and 
 goings did not interest her ; but any news was better than 
 none. 
 
 "Would you call it business?" 
 
 Susie looked helpless. " I don't know. Why is he 
 gone?" 
 
 Ethel settled her little pointed chin in her furs with a 
 feeling of satisfaction. It did not do to discuss one's 
 in-laws' affairs with other people, but Mrs. Drummond 
 and Susie especially Susie were different. 
 
 " To meet Harry." 
 
 " To meet Harry? " Susie did not attempt to con- 
 ceal the immensity of her surprise, of her joy. Harry 
 coming home, Harry in England? Impossible! "I 
 I have not heard for a mail or two. I had no idea. What 
 is it? What has happened?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing to worry about. He threw up his job 
 in order to go to the war." 
 
 " To South Africa? " How like Harry ! It was splen- 
 did of him and yet war was a thing of bullets, of 
 wounds. Her eyes grew dim, the light died off her face. 
 South Africa ! 
 
 " But they wouldn't pass him on account of his health." 
 
 Harry was ill. She tried to stem the rush of joy with 
 that vague terror but did not succeed. He was coming 
 home, he was home; his ship had been racing towards 
 her across the blue Mediterranean, across the grey waters 
 of the Bay. She had been fretting over his silence when 
 it only meant that he was on his way to her. 
 
 " His letters aren't very explicit, but it sounds like
 
 242 The Rolling Stone 
 
 malaria. Of course, Mookta lies low." She resented 
 the reserve which had withheld all details, hushed all sur- 
 mise. " Anyway, they had to send another man to the 
 Transvaal with Harry's gun and he is on his way home. 
 That is practically all we know." 
 
 " Our Bear will have a sore head," Mrs. Drummond 
 said. " He won't like another man going in charge of 
 his gun." 
 
 " Oh, but he is coming home," said Susie, and her 
 mother was conscious of a semi-regret. She wished, at 
 long last, that she had never made Mr. King's acquain- 
 tance and, through him, that of his family. He had been 
 helpful about railway passes and she had repaid his 
 kindness with a little she smiled over her recollec- 
 tions with a little hospitality, a little friendliness. 
 
 Of it had come this. 
 
 " Harry," said Susie dreamily, " will be here to- 
 night." 
 
 " If the boat is in. My word, he'll find it cold here 
 after India ! " And, shuddering prettily, Ethel King 
 turned in at her father's gate. 
 
 And that day Mrs. Drummond noticed that her daugh- 
 ter ate with appetite. Harry was home ! At that mo- 
 ment he might be driving from the station to No. 14; he 
 might be kissing his mother, talking of the voyage. 
 
 But he was ill. She must not forget that he had been 
 invalided home. Poor Harry, who was so impatient of 
 sickness that is to say, impatient of it in others. But 
 he had had a month on board ship, a month of sea-air 
 and rest and liner-feeding. It must have made a differ- 
 ence. She didn't want him to be quite, quite well. Re- 
 stored health would mean rushing about in search of 
 work. If he were only convalescent he would have time 
 on his hands, he would be often at Rosemeads.
 
 The Rolling Stone 243 
 
 She moved the cane-chair back into the morning-room 
 and got out her crochet. Ethel King had shown her a 
 new pattern, a heading for short curtains ; and she would 
 sit by the window, telling herself that a watched pot never 
 boils, that Harry's boat was not yet in, that he could not 
 possibly have arrived. 
 
 She sat there till the dusk fell, till she could no longer 
 see the strip of white work about which her fingers were 
 moving. On the following morning she went back to 
 her post, and Mrs. Drummond, returning from her daily 
 shopping, brought her what news there was. 
 
 " Mr. King is not yet back from town," she said, and 
 Susie thanked her and went on with her work. She had 
 waited seventeen months, what was another day? 
 
 December days can be the longest in the year and the 
 coldest and the blackest. 
 
 A week of waiting and yet Harry had not come. Su- 
 sie's crochet lay in her lap, but she still sat at the window, 
 at the wide window that overlooked the path to the front 
 door. 
 
 Ethel King, meeting Mrs. Drummond by chance, told 
 her what she knew. " Yes, the boat is in, but Harry 
 isn't coming home. I don't understand it." 
 
 "Is he ill?" 
 
 "I I don't know. I think he is better. At any rate, 
 he's going away again." 
 
 "Where is he going?" 
 
 " I think, I'm not sure, but I think he is going to South 
 Africa. Queer, isn't it? But they don't tell you much." 
 
 She was resentful. The wife of the eldest son and yet 
 excluded from family talks! You would have thought, 
 taking everything into consideration, that they would have 
 been glad to confide in her, ask her advice. But no, they 
 kept, their own counsel. What was it the curate had
 
 244 The Rolling Stone 
 
 said " a stiff-necked generation " ? " Stiff-necked " 
 a good word, just right for them. They were that, all 
 of them, all but Richard, all but dear old Dick. 
 
 Mrs. Drummond walked on home. As she entered the 
 garden she glanced at the morning-room window. Susie 
 was in her chair but, in eloquent testimony to wakeful 
 nights, her head was laid against the red cushion and 
 she no longer marked who came and went. Her mother, 
 seeing that she slept, paused for a moment. Under the 
 closed eyes were shadows, deeper shadows than had been 
 cast by her lashes. Even in her sleep she looked un- 
 happy. 
 
 A pang went through Ursula Drummond's heart for 
 Phineas, dead and rotting in his grave, for Phineas's little 
 girl, his favourite child, cherished yet so unhappy. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Mr. King pulled down his cuffs and, moving slowly, 
 pushed the brim-brush around his hat. His work was 
 done. Regretfully he prepared to leave. During the day 
 he was so busy that he had moments of absorption, mo- 
 ments when his inner life seemed hushed and dead. He 
 dreaded the return of night, of the night in which no man 
 may work. 
 
 On the edge of the night, too, came the recurrent pass- 
 ing of the feet. They were the feet of workmen re- 
 leased from work, of clerks like himself, of factory op- 
 eratives ; and their trampling broke through all absorp- 
 tion. At the end of a business day, when the feet were 
 going out of the town, when none were coming back, 
 they beat, not on the pavement, but on his tired brain. 
 
 When he returned from London Mr. King had told 
 his wife and children that Harry's health had improved
 
 The Rolling Stone 245 
 
 during the voyage ; that he had wished to volunteer for 
 service in South Africa; that, in fact, he had done so 
 and was gone. Between himself and his family he had 
 set up a screen of silence, between himself and the world. 
 
 But behind the screen ! 
 
 Though he did his best, there were times. He would 
 be absorbed in calculation and a shadow would fall, blot- 
 ting out the figures, releasing his unruly thoughts. They 
 would rush, flashing him pictures, back to that evening 
 at the hotel. 
 
 Among so much else, an evening of aspects. 
 
 He could not understand how a child born of his cool- 
 ness, his stern restraint, could have gone so terribly 
 astray. 
 
 He had put it to Harry, and Harry had hesitated for 
 a moment. " It was curiosity." 
 
 " But she the woman you tell me she was black? " 
 
 " She was a native." 
 
 " I should have thought that would have made it im- 
 possible." 
 
 Harry, hanging his head boyishly, had blundered on. 
 " They told me it would be different." 
 
 Different! Then Harry . . . 
 
 He had often wondered about his boys, and, wondering, 
 had hoped for the best. He could not do more than set 
 them an example. " Different ! " he had said, with un- 
 happy acceptance of the implication. 
 
 In the whirl of uprooted faiths he had clung to one 
 supporting stay: it was not in any way his fault. 
 
 Harry had said long ago that he was not afraid, that 
 he would try things for himself. Mr. King had not 
 thought it possible that the itch to experiment could carry 
 him over the gulf fixed between good and evil. The boy 
 had been brought up in a Christian home, had not lacked
 
 246 The Rolling Stone 
 
 for precept any more than example. Yet with every- 
 thing in his favour he could coldly, out of mere curiosity 
 
 A rush of footsteps! They broke in on Mr. King's 
 consideration of cause and effect, on his bewilderment. 
 They carried him back to the sound of other steps of 
 Harry's steps on the oilcloth of the passage, of Harry's 
 steps receding, growing fainter those steady steps which 
 were going out. 
 
 Something tore at Mr. King's heart, for if he had said 
 a word, if he had sprung up from that hard, upright 
 chair and called to the lad . . . 
 
 Coming, breathless, to the surface, Mr. King found he 
 was still pushing the brim-brush around his hat. 
 
 Under a full moon the December night was pale. In 
 the street the flood of workmen was diminishing, and when 
 Mr. King stepped out of the door ne looked on a sweep of 
 grey road broken only by an occasional figure, a me- 
 chanic, a belated errand-boy, a woman laden with parcels. 
 
 The velvet-clad figure of the woman seemed to him 
 familiar; but, preoccupied as he was, people whom he 
 had known were become almost strange. 
 
 " I wanted to see you," Mrs. Drummond said as he 
 came up to her. 
 
 He murmured the conventional greeting. What did 
 she want? She belonged to the immensity surrounding 
 his lurid inner life. Like the rest of the world, she was 
 a figure seen through mist. 
 
 " Before Harry went to India he asked my little girl 
 to marry him. . . ." 
 
 " Poor child," said Mr. King, but with a relapse into 
 vagueness and distance. Susie's sorrows were to him as 
 the crying of a seagull in the dark. That innocent crying
 
 The Rolling Stone 247 
 
 was part of the mist, and he was sorry, mildly, for what 
 it expressed; but there were worse things than loneliness 
 and cold and night, worse things even than broken troth. 
 
 " Ah ! " cried Mrs. Drummond, with a little rush of 
 mother-heat. " I was afraid of this. He is so weak, 
 so changeable." 
 
 The accusation echoed through Mr. King's mind. Had 
 Harry's backsliding been due to weakness? Was he, 
 whose physique was so splendid, morally weak? A poor 
 creature, weak? 
 
 Not at long last, no. Mr. King could be proud of 
 Harry, of Harry who had accepted his fate, who had 
 offered no plea, no excuse, but had gone willingly. 
 
 But changeable? Perhaps. Pugilist and engineer, 
 England, India, and South Africa. Lover of variety, he 
 had been for ever drifting and shifting. Ay, up till now ! 
 But what he had to do now would be carried through. 
 He had been changeable in life, but it was no longer a 
 question of life. 
 
 With an effort the father dragged his thoughts back 
 to Mrs. Drummond. She had been speaking to him of 
 her daughter, a little young thing whom he remembered 
 vaguely, a hapless thing. 
 
 " She is young," he said kindly. 
 
 " Seventeen no, eighteen." 
 
 " She will forget." 
 
 How blessed to be young and within reach of forget- 
 fulness! "Poor child!" he said again. After all, the 
 sorrows of a child . . . 
 
 In Mrs. Drummond's mind was the merest glimmer of 
 understanding, but she felt that here was trouble, a 
 trouble beyond consolation. She walked beside Mr. King
 
 248 The Rolling Stone 
 
 in silence, and he was dully conscious of her as a figure 
 on the edge of his inferno, a something that did not add 
 to his pain. 
 
 It was a long while since any one had come so near. 
 It seemed to him as if for ages he had been alone with 
 his thoughts, with that one disastrous memory. 
 
 Harry had said " I can go out," and he had answered, 
 misapprehending him, "To South Africa?" 
 
 Harry had said almost carelessly, " Oh, in the other 
 sense ! " Then, after a moment's thought, " But that 
 will do ; South Africa will be the way of it." 
 
 There had been the faintest pause. He felt that Harry 
 must have hoped. It was, after all, his life. All the 
 long and fruitful years . . . 
 
 But he, Harry's father, had not spoken, and the boy 
 had got up and without another word he had gone out. 
 
 " The lusts of the flesh," said Mr. King as if he were 
 thinking aloud, as if his thoughts were an indictment 
 of the power which had given poor humanity, not bread, 
 but tables of stone. 
 
 To Ursula Drummond the words were illuminating. 
 The tale of some illicit love-affair must have come to 
 Mr. King's ears and because of it he had refused to let 
 Harry return home. She was familiar with the workings 
 of the older man's mind ; knew that in those circumstances 
 he would think Harry unfit for the society of his sisters, 
 unfit to marry a girl such as Susie. 
 
 " The wages of sin," said Mr. King, as if the words 
 were wrung from him, as if he spoke them against his 
 will, unable any longer to hold them back, " the wages 
 of sin is death." 
 
 The woman beside him smothered an exclamation. She 
 was startled out of her easy attitude towards events and
 
 The Rolling Stone 249 
 
 character. What did he mean? What had happened? 
 Sin? His interpretation of the word had always been 
 narrowed to sexual irregularity. 
 
 He was intolerant of it as a desecration of the body, 
 that body which to him was the temple of Godhead. But 
 he must know that his view was unusual that such things 
 happened, were lived down and, for all practical purposes, 
 forgotten. Why talk of death in connexion with them? 
 The woman taken in adultery had been told to go and sin 
 no more, and why not Harry? Was there more in the 
 matter than she, Ursula, had supposed? It looked like it. 
 The note of pain in Mr. King's voice had been unmis- 
 takable. 
 
 She abandoned the attempt to understand. No matter 
 the cause. Here was a soul in straits, a soul that was 
 calling to her, not because she grasped what was amiss, 
 but because she was kind. To Mr. King she was not a 
 friend, not even a woman, only a something living, a 
 something that heard. 
 
 " Death makes clean," he said in a sort of quick mutter, 
 " and he was given to me clean. 
 
 " God is hard. I have served Him all my days 
 ' uphill all the way ' and after a lifetime of service 
 
 " That I should have to say it. 
 
 " If I had to do it again oh yes, I should, I should. 
 
 " I was so proud of him. 
 
 " With my own lips, I, who begot him . . . 
 
 " I try to do my work. Thinking does no good. It's 
 done, it's done. 
 
 " I can't stop thinking. I'm back at the hotel and 
 I see his face. He was willing; so young, yet yet he 
 was willing.
 
 250 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " I follow him across the map, down the grey-green of 
 the sea to the red patch at the South, a little black ship 
 
 " If only something would break, here, inside, so that 
 I need not think. 
 
 " So that I could forget I sent him . . . 
 
 " So that I didn't hear his footsteps . . . 
 
 " I cannot bear it and I've got to ; but I cannot, no, 
 no, I cannot." 
 
 His steps had quickened until Mrs. Drummond had 
 found it difficult, then impossible, to keep up with him. 
 She fell behind but he did not notice. Still muttering 
 to himself, he walked rapidly along the moonlit road. 
 
 IV 
 
 " Ursula," said Mr. Drummond, " I can't bear to see 
 that kid of yours so down in the mouth." 
 
 Mrs. Drummond sighed, yet looked expectant. She 
 had done her best and it had been of no avail. Was it 
 possible Tom had something to suggest? 
 
 " As I came through the garden just now I saw her 
 speaking to Mrs. Clegg." 
 
 " The woman to whom she has given the bantams ? " 
 
 He nodded. " It was evident Mrs. Clegg wanted the 
 coop as well as the birds." 
 
 " Oh, poor Susie ! " She recalled Harry's last words ; 
 " I'll finish it when I come back. . . ." 
 
 " She seemed willing to give it, yet she held back as 
 if the woman were asking for something out of reason." 
 
 A listless, dragging step came through the hall, and 
 presently Susie entered the room. She was looking for 
 something. 
 
 " What is it, my bud? "
 
 The Rolling Stone 251 
 
 " A book I was reading, but it doesn't matter." 
 
 " What was the name? " 
 
 " * Story of an African Farm.' " 
 
 Mrs. Drummond did not glance at her Tom. " I think 
 it is in the drawing-room, dear; on one of the shelves 
 by the fireplace." 
 
 Harry, in Africa, was learning at first hand about 
 kopjes and Kafirs and the veldt, and Susie must be read- 
 ing of these matters. The pity of it that all eyes 
 should be turned upon the Transvaal ! 
 
 " Oh, thank you ! " Susie, a pale listless Susie, drifted 
 away. She did not care whether or no she found the 
 book, but she would look on the drawing-room shelves 
 because it was the next thing to be done and life was a 
 procession of dull hours to be padded out with events, 
 with events that were like sawdust. 
 
 The clear brightness of the drawing-room green felt 
 over black boards, black curtains and dado threaded with 
 lines of vivid Eastern colour, sunlight on cushions of gold 
 tissue, of dragons, the hairy prickly dragons of Chinese 
 imagination affected her pleasantly for a moment. 
 She entered with a little blink of the long eyelashes. Not 
 very long ago the days had been like that kind, warm 
 room. 
 
 " Now," she thought, " it's as if the scrogglywogs on 
 the cushions had been changed from that nice thick gold 
 to stuffy material. I wonder why? Oh, but it doesn't 
 matter." 
 
 The shelves by the fireplace held the flotsam of the 
 house. Susie ran her eyes along the uneven lines. No, 
 her mother had been mistaken : but she didn't particu- 
 larly want the " African Farm," any book would serve. 
 " A Self-denying Ordinance " in royal blue challenged 
 her attention, and she pulled it out. Drawing a rush-
 
 252 The Rolling Stone 
 
 stool towards the fire for Susie was a chilly mortal 
 and of late chillier than ever she turned the pages. It 
 seemed a melancholy book, the sort of book to read by 
 a warming fire, when the wind was talking to itself in the 
 chimney and out of doors the grey rain swept like a mov- 
 ing curtain over the land. 
 
 Susie turned the pages but she did not read. She was 
 listening to the wind, endowing it with consciousness, 
 giving it a story. 
 
 " Even if he has left you, Wind, you should not whim- 
 per. That is not the way to do. You should behave as 
 usual ; go about your little household duties, the flowers 
 and that. It bothers other people if you don't. 
 
 " I expect he got tired of you, Wind. I dare say the 
 only prizes you got at school were for good conduct oh 
 yes, and punctuality. Perhaps when he talked of mag- 
 netos and crank-shafts and things like that, you did not 
 understand. A man gets tired of explaining and explain- 
 ing oh yes, Wind, he does. 
 
 " And you can't blame him. 
 
 " If you are a stupid little creature, Wind . . ." 
 
 But Wind continued to bemoan itself, and presently 
 Susie turned to the " Self-denying Ordinance." It was 
 fat; it would take a long time to read. She glanced at 
 the chapter-headings; some were in verse. She did not 
 care very greatly for poetry, but little snacks, little se- 
 lected bits, were sometimes interesting. All unsuspect- 
 ingly she began a verse : 
 
 Never any more 
 
 While I live 
 Need I hope to see his face 
 
 As before. 
 
 When her mother had said " Harry has not been faith-
 
 The Rolling Stone 253 
 
 ful to you," the blow, falling on the source of sensation, 
 had left Susie stunned, and this condition had persisted, 
 but behind it a change had been gradually taking place. 
 She read, and the barrier fell before a tide that had long 
 been rising. She saw Harry's face, dear, oh, inexpres- 
 sibly dear saw it as a whiteness against a dark back- 
 ground, the face that she so loved. 
 
 Never any more while she lived might she hope to see 
 it. 
 
 Susie bent her head over the book, rocking to and fro 
 in an agony of grief. 
 
 Never any more oh, never, never. . . . 
 
 In the other room her elders were seeking a way out. 
 " The child wants a change of scene," said Tom Drum- 
 mond kindly. 
 
 " But if we took her to Brighton or Worthing . . ." 
 
 " I've a better idea. I've always wanted to know how 
 foreign owners ran their quarries. For a month or more 
 work will be slack here . . . and there are quarries in the 
 South of France, in Spain, in Italy. I could get intro- 
 ductions to the owners and managers . . ." 
 
 " You'd take Susie and me? " 
 
 Tom Drummond lifted his pipe from the mantelshelf 
 and began to fill it. " Should you mind if Gage went 
 along? I'm going to take him into partnership, and 
 it would be a good thing for him to see how these foreign 
 jossers manage." 
 
 " Tom ! " said Mrs. Drummond, and went over to him 
 and put a finger under his square chin. 
 
 "Well, my dear?" 
 
 " Do you know, I've wondered sometimes . . ." She 
 swung abruptly into a fresh sentence. " It's been a grief 
 to me that I couldn't give you children." 
 
 " It's all right, old lady, quite all right."
 
 254 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " I didn't like to think that a man like you ... I 
 wanted you to have sons and grandsons and things." 
 
 Well? " 
 
 " Well, perhaps it is all right eh, Tom? " 
 
 Tom, puffing, was heard to murmur, " I should say so." 
 
 " Oh, Tom, how wrong of you, how very, very wrong ! " 
 She meditated. " And Gage is like you your shoulders, 
 your walk. . . ." 
 
 " He's doing well," said the impenitent Tom, " and he's 
 a good chap. Can't help hoping that in the end he'll 
 pull it off with Susie." 
 
 " And if they did . . ." said Mrs. Drummond, brighten- 
 ing. " Why, Tom, if they did, their children would be 
 our yes, our grandchildren ! " 
 
 " Nothing like a woman for looking ahead," said Tom, 
 but he smiled. "Then that's settled, old lady off to 
 the Continong this day week."
 
 Chapter XIV 
 
 TTE iron roofing o f the dock-sheds was a daz- 
 zling white under the rays of the sun. In the 
 background rose the strange bulk of Table 
 Mountain and the front was a dapple of bright water. 
 Big liners, ugly as warehouses, lay like so much dead 
 material on the lapping tide; innumerable sailing vessels 
 swayed and swung; dirty tramps stacked with compressed 
 hay were being unloaded by brown Malays, light-coloured 
 Cape boys, jet-black, red-brown Kafirs; and through the 
 movement and bustle ran the creak of lifting derricks and 
 the deep note of the African voice. 
 
 A company of men in khaki, men with sea-burned faces, 
 had been drawn up in a double line by some open trucks. 
 They stood by their dunnage, waiting for more than the 
 order to board the trucks; they had been standing for 
 some time in the sun and dust beside the open trucks, 
 waiting. 
 
 Captain Smee, who had come from England with the 
 
 draft, and who thought it disposed of, looked up from a 
 
 refreshing tumbler to see it still standing beside the line. 
 
 " What the devil " said he, and tilted his glass quickly 
 
 and went out. 
 
 " What is the hitch? " he asked of the sergeant, but 
 before explanation could be given a short, thick man 
 with an eye hard and cold as that of a cock stepped for- 
 ward and saluted. 
 "Well?" 
 
 " There are some Cape boys in the truck, sir." 
 
 255
 
 256 The Rolling Stone 
 
 The young officer became aware of three dock labourers, 
 brown-skinned men who were standing in a corner of one 
 of the railway-wagons. 
 
 " I see ! " What he did not see was how the natives 
 could be prevented from going about their lawful business. 
 He cursed his lack of experience, conscious of a cold, 
 bright glance resting on him, appraising him. What did 
 one do? The crying need was to do something, and he 
 plunged. 
 
 " Well there's plenty of room." 
 
 Trooper King's eye told him he had done the wrong 
 thing. 
 
 " We can't travel with Cape boys, sir." 
 
 Having chosen a course, Captain Since persisted in it. 
 To do so showed you were a leader, earned you the respect 
 of the men. 
 
 " You've got to get up to the front ! " 
 
 " If you'll give the order, sir, we'll shift those niggers." 
 An offer very simply urged; no eagerness, merely a wish 
 to be of use. Snee looked at the man doubtfully. A 
 word and the Cape boys would be sent flying. It would 
 not do, of course. 
 
 "What do they matter?" he asked. "There's only 
 three of them. You will have worse things to put up 
 with than that." 
 
 Harry King did not answer. During his weeks on the 
 troopship extra fatigues had taught him that he, even he, 
 was under discipline. The Army was a school from which 
 you did not run away at least, if you did you were 
 brought back and shot. You could not even down tools 
 and walk off. The liberty of the subject was interfered 
 with in every way. Nevertheless you had rights, a few, 
 and in order to prove you were not a slave you stood for 
 them. Until Harry told the draft, they had not known
 
 The Rolling Stone 257 
 
 they need not travel with natives, but, knowing it, they 
 stood immovable. 
 
 " Come, men." 
 
 They looked from him to the Cape boys in the truck, 
 and no one stirred. 
 
 " We can't travel with niggers, sir." Harry's voice 
 was so respectful that not even his N.C.O had any fault 
 to find ; he was, in fact, of the same opinion as the man. 
 
 Captain Smee drew him aside for a moment. The 
 trucks had been provided to take the draft to the front 
 and no more would be forthcoming ; but if the la- 
 bourers were also wanted up the line? 
 
 " I should see the transport officer, sir." 
 
 Harry, left with the draft, began to talk in clipped, ex- 
 plosive fashion, his fashion: 
 
 "They thought we didn't know; but I'm just from 
 India. No white man travels with natives; it isn't done. 
 They'd think Jack was as good as his master. Then 
 where should we be? British rule in India! Prestige! 
 And what started this war? Coloured chaps getting too 
 big for their boots." 
 
 " Boers aren't coloured," said a hard-bitten Scot ; 
 " they're Dutchies." 
 
 " It's all the same ; they aren't English." 
 
 " British, you mean ! " returned the Scot. 
 
 Trooper King ignored him. 
 
 "We're here. We're willing to fight till all's blue. 
 Bursting to be up and at 'em. We've chucked our jobs 
 at home and come out, and what do we get for it? Be- 
 cause we didn't know, they try to send us up-conntry 
 with stinking brutes of Kafirs. No way to do. Taking 
 advantage." 
 
 His audience was pleased with the little interlude, but 
 the sun was hot, the small black flies teazingly active*
 
 258 The Rolling Stone 
 
 Now that they had asserted their rights they hoped fresh 
 and more comfortable arrangements would be made and 
 soon. Dry work waiting and the sun was no joke. 
 
 " Old sweats," concluded Harry, " might have put up 
 with it, they'd put up with anything; but we're volun- 
 teers, we have rights " 
 
 In one of the sheds a driven transport officer was deal- 
 ing with the matter, and while he laboured Captain Smee 
 talked idly with another man. 
 
 "Who made the objection?" 
 
 " Trooper King." 
 
 "King?" 
 
 " The chap who kept the ship waiting at Queenstown." 
 
 " I remember ! Couldn't get leave so took it and half 
 the draft with him. Jove ! I shan't forget seeing it 
 stravaiging back on those outside cars." 
 
 " Which had been borrowed forcibly ! " said Smee. 
 He was worried, inclined to magnify offences. 
 
 " Thought every moment would see the lot of them 
 in the water," chuckled the other. 
 
 " We took it out of them him afterwards," said 
 Smee viciously. " ' Fatigue, sir? I don't know what 
 fatigue is.' I bet he knows now." 
 
 " Pity he's only a volunteer. He's the sort, once he's 
 learnt discipline, to make a fine soldier; but for that you 
 need time. Can't turn out a good brand without years 
 of maturing, and this war 
 
 The other shrugged his shoulders regretfully. " What 
 do you expect? a lot of farmers." 
 
 Other dock labourers had come up, had climbed into 
 the trucks, and the draft had stood with stony faces, 
 looking on. The trucks no longer concerned them. In 
 good time accommodation would be provided ; meanwhile, 
 if one or two got sunstroke
 
 The Rolling Stone 259 
 
 Fresh rolling-stock was at length provided and the 
 order given to entrain. The carriages provided had been 
 cattle-trucks and were without seats ; in each was standing 
 room for about forty persons. The men's grievance had 
 been legitimate. The authorities had vindicated their 
 right to power by attending to it, and the draft, placated, 
 settled down contentedly to a two days' journey the dis- 
 comforts of which would be heartbreaking. 
 
 But what matter? Their rights had been acknow- 
 ledged and " up there " a fight was on. They had to get 
 " there," and flies, dust, heat, parched throats, and lack 
 of space were all in a day's work. They looked past the 
 moment into the future, a future each man pictured hap- 
 pily as lurid. They must get " there " before the fun 
 was over. 
 
 Harry King, no longer the eternal cigarette between 
 his lips the doctor had forbidden him to smoke stood 
 looking between the bars of the truck at the country 
 through which the train was passing. The monotony of 
 ship-board life had tried his temper, and he was glad to 
 exchange the waste of water, deep blue waves on every 
 side as far as the eye could reach, for this. Land must 
 have been dubbed terra firma by some one fresh from a 
 sea voyage, some one sick of the ceaseless movement of 
 the water. 
 
 Cape Town might be hot strange that December in 
 old England should mean summer here but except for 
 that, and the coloured folk and the loom of Table Moun- 
 tain, the place was not unhomely. Something about it 
 was familiar, welcoming. India was a far land and a 
 foreign ; but this, in spite of seas between, was next door 
 to England. As the suburbs swung into view, Harry 
 could have fancied he was gazing at a Surrey landscape. 
 White cottages peeped at him from among trees that he
 
 260 The Rolling Stone 
 
 could name, a thin blue reek rose on the quiet air, and 
 about the lawns were flower-beds. " Roses," he said 
 to himself, " and oaks and firs." 
 
 Behind him his thirty-nine companions were easing their 
 discomfort as best they could. Some slept, some read, 
 the majority smoked. Very few were interested in the 
 land, new to them, through which they were travelling. 
 Even when the river ran through the Hex River Pass, 
 climbing through magnificent vegetation into a region of 
 misty rain, they saw the scenery, not as a wonder and a 
 wild desire, but as the cause of greater discomfort than 
 they had yet known. Harry proclaimed to himself that 
 they were soulless brutes. He was impressed by the 
 quickly changing character of the landscape. He won- 
 dered over the rocks and depths, the strange trees, tow- 
 ering yellow-woods, specbooms full of sap, the wild vines 
 laden with purpling fruit. What a big world ! Three 
 weeks of steady travelling and a new landscape; as it 
 were, a fresh creation. England the Hex River Pass 
 two out of a dozen, a hundred. The astounding va- 
 riety ! Ah, it was good to be alive in such a world ! 
 
 For an expansive moment he forgot he was doomed. 
 The mists of the pass, breaking to let him view the far- 
 flung wonders of rock and slope and torrent, shook a 
 grey veil before his eyes. As the rain fell he remembered 
 he had come to South Africa under sentence of death. 
 
 His heart sank, the hollow of his chest filled with a sen- 
 sation no longer strange to him, with an ache. 
 
 The folly of an idle hour. Mr. King had dubbed it 
 vice, but Harry knew it had only been folly. Some men 
 had come up the line, they had spent a convivial evening, 
 and towards the drunken end of it some one had suggested 
 the bazaar, He had not been very keen to go
 
 The Rolling Stone 261 
 
 A still night and dark. They went between windowless 
 walls and through thick blackness and smells. He had 
 not known where he was, but the feeling that at any mo- 
 ment he might be attacked, that danger lurked in the 
 silence, a danger of knives and vengeance, had been ex- 
 hilarating. He did not know when he had enjoyed a 
 walk so much. 
 
 The dim lights and the strange perfume that burn- 
 ing perfume and the woman. 
 
 She must have known; yet, if she did, why why ? 
 
 He had not harmed her. 
 
 Ah but if he could ! At long last he desired her, 
 desired and he saw her face, saw it through a red mist. 
 
 If he could have gone back to the little room in which 
 was that acrid scent! If he could have found her there! 
 
 His hands clenched on the bars of the cattle-truck until 
 the wood creaked. 
 
 When the Boers had been convinced of folly he would 
 go back. Though it took years he would find her, and 
 then the knuckles of his hands were white as he clutched 
 the bar then he would squeeze her neck. He saw the 
 slim brown throat ; he could span it with one hand. His 
 fingers would close would sink yes, when the war was 
 over, when peace 
 
 Peace? 
 
 His grip relaxed. Before peace was proclaimed he, 
 Harry King, would be dead. 
 
 Dead? No - 
 
 He stood aghast. Impossible that he should be dead. 
 Not dead? 
 
 He glanced at his hand, the hand that could do so 
 many things, and saw it dead; it would be stiff, inert, 
 white. It would lie on the ground until lucky devils who
 
 262 The Rolling Stone 
 
 were still alive dug a hole and shovelled it in ; it would lie 
 there in the earth changing, changing horribly, until onlv 
 bones remained a raffle of nameless bones. 
 
 Harry no longer saw the country through which he 
 was being carried. What was South Africa to him? He 
 had come hither because accident and folly had made it 
 impossible that he should live. His body had become 
 foul with disease, rotten, and he abhorred it. He could 
 not feel it was himself. Himself unclean? he who all 
 his life had set cleanliness before godliness? His body 
 was not himself but a skin that could be sloughed. Him- 
 self was what thought on this matter what felt disease 
 as a disgrace, as disgusting, something contained in this 
 unfortunate body but free of it. 
 
 Ah, but the time had been when his body had been 
 subservient to his needs, his need to strive, to impress 
 himself on his fellows, to take part in what was doing. 
 He had been content with it, proud of it the inches of 
 his chest, the girth of his limbs, his punch, the punch 
 with a sting in it. 
 
 Twenty-six years, and he had hoped for three score 
 and ten, for more ! He did not want to untie whatever 
 bound him to his body. He had meant to set the Thames 
 afire. He could not bear to think of others doing it 
 
 If he had deserved his fate ! He glanced at the soul- . 
 less thirty-nine and wondered whether any one of them 
 had lived a cleaner life than he. He had been too busy 
 with his schemes and plans to waste much time on women. 
 Yet it was he on whom the curse of disease had fallen 
 he who, because of it, was to stop a bullet, to stay be- 
 hind when the others sailed for England. 
 
 He imagined their return. They had homes in the old 
 country. They would go back to their workaday lives, 
 doing odd jobs about some little house at evening after
 
 The Rolling Stone 263 
 
 they had finished a day of toil. Slatternly wives, grubby 
 children, ill-requited labour! Ah, but nothing mattered 
 as long as you were in it, part of the show. 
 
 They would go back but he he must stay. 
 
 Again that vision of earth being shovelled into a pit, 
 of a quietude that was negation. 
 
 He had a theory that the mound on a grave was in 
 proportion to the size of him it covered. The mound on 
 his would be high yes, till his chest gave, till the ribs 
 sank, till they were pressed against his backbone, till 
 they lay bone to bone. 
 
 On the levelled mound the grass would be lush; it 
 would be well nourished, that grass. 
 
 Mechanically Harry lowered himself on to the boards of 
 the cattle-truck. His trouble, the ache in his breast, 
 was robbing him of vitality. He wanted to curl up, to 
 hide like an animal that has been injured. Elbows on 
 knees, he sat hunched up in a corner, his face buried in 
 his hands, and if any looked that way they thought he 
 slept. 
 
 He was very far from sleeping. The rhythm of the 
 train beat out his fierce, despairing contention that it 
 was unjust, unjust, unjust; and through the slits between 
 the bars the red dust of the Karoo sifted, settling on the 
 men and their accoutrements; and every hour brought 
 the draft nearer to the singing of bullets and the roar 
 of guns. 
 
 Harry had been told by persons as ignorant as himself 
 that for this disease was no cure. The doctors, the 
 people with information, spoke guardedly, impressing on 
 him the necessity for treatment. He had not opened 
 his mind to them; he could not voice its crude beliefs 
 and nothing would have induced him to put into words 
 the fear that was tearing at him. Acknowledge that he,
 
 264 The Rolling Stone 
 
 Harry King, could be afraid? But he was. He feared 
 disease, its ravages, the helplessness to which he might 
 be reduced. He was so terribly afraid, that death had 
 come to mean escape. 
 
 The doctors were, perhaps, lacking in imagination 
 The patient was a young, hitherto healthy man. After- 
 effects? In this case quite unlikely. The fever would 
 run its course. There was no need for alarm but he must 
 be sure to report himself, to take the medicine. 
 
 They did not suspect that the patient's silence covered 
 terror and credulity, that he regarded them as paid to 
 make soothing statements and that he did not believe a 
 word they said. 
 
 He did not, in fact, pay much attention to them. He 
 would take the medicine, more because he liked taking 
 it than from belief in its efficacy. He knew that no cure 
 was possible knew because he had been told, because 
 those who told him had backed their statements with ex- 
 amples. He had had wrecks of humanity pointed out 
 to him. 
 
 He had told his father and his father had been over- 
 whelmed. He had talked brokenly of the judgment of 
 Heaven, had grovelled before his Deity; but the main 
 point was, he had been overwhelmed ! 
 
 He felt about it as Harry did. By different routes 
 father and son had come to the same conclusion. 
 
 The old man had been crushed. Harry felt a thrill of 
 miserable elation. His father cared. He had not guessed 
 his father, so stern, so aloof, would care. 
 
 And, though he cared, he did not waver. Wonderful! 
 Gee, but he was strong! 
 
 When it was his own son, too ! 
 
 Disease was foul. The body was made in the image of
 
 The Rolling Stone 265 
 
 God. Harry had sinned and had been overtaken by the 
 wrath of his Maker! 
 
 He was doomed : the wages of sin a slow, a horrible 
 death. Mr. King had read about it in an old novel. 
 Though shocked, he had read to the end. There were 
 things a man, the father of a family, ought to know. 
 
 But oh that it should be Harry ! 
 
 That he must rot, slowly, into his grave! He would 
 be a misery to* himself, a burden to them all. No, he 
 must not take his life 
 
 But he might give it! 
 
 There was the war! 
 
 O God his life, Harry's life ! 
 
 Harry, troubled in health, confounded, desperate, had 
 been willing. At least he would have one last fine adven- 
 ture, finer, perhaps, than all the others 
 
 His voyages from India home and from England to 
 Cape Town had, however, proved beneficial. He was, 
 if not his old self, at least a heartier man than he had 
 been for months. The extra fatigues that he incurred 
 no longer left him exhausted, and with the flowing tide 
 came regret for what he was about to lay down. 
 
 He had been damned unlucky! 
 
 So he had; still, there was one compensation, and he 
 came gradually to the contemplation of it. No risk was 
 any longer too great for him to take! When in the 
 past he had dared recklessly he had known all the time 
 that he was a fool for his pains. Now he had acquired 
 the right tq risk his life. The bullet that was going to 
 end his trouble had been cast, and by nothing he could 
 do could he bring any nearer the appointed hour. For 
 him life and its ambitions were at an end, and he might 
 please himself dare all, venture all, attempt the impos-
 
 266 The Rolling Stone 
 
 sible. Glorious, splendid ! These last hours would be 
 his happiest, his most satisfying. He was going to the 
 front to kill Boers, to have a last wild, mad, reckless, 
 ecstatic fling. 
 
 He sat up in his corner, an indomitable little man 
 little as Roberts, as Wellington, as Napoleon ; a fighter 
 too. He would fight until they dropped him. Every 
 Boer that he killed would mean one less, would bring a 
 little nearer the triumph of England not Britain as the 
 Scot had said; and he didn't like that Scot, too argu- 
 mentative ! 
 
 " England, Mother England ! " What a rallying-cry ! 
 The thirty-nine decent chaps, all of them had come 
 out to fight. He'd show them how. They should fight 
 till they won, fight till they knew no more. That was 
 the way of it. You were trying so hard to get the other 
 man that you never thought of yourself, and if by some 
 mischance it fell that he got you well, you didn't know 
 it. You died but you didn't know that you were dead; 
 you never knew. 
 
 II 
 
 The yellow-brown waters of the Orange River had come 
 down in flood; they were swirling in suggestive eddies 
 over the Drift. On either side the loamy banks had 
 been trampled by the passage of feet and the clay of them 
 pushed down, pressed into the sand and stones that formed 
 the river-bottom. At ordinary times the combination 
 made a ford by which man and beast could cross, but 
 rains up-country had increased the pressure of the water. 
 The bed of the wide stream was no longer uniformly 
 shallow, the opaque water hid pits and holes, and on 
 the preceding day some horses and a man in charge of 
 them had been washed away.
 
 The Rolling Stone 26? 
 
 Captain Smee was worried. Should he wait till the 
 waters had fallen or make another attempt? His orders 
 were to advance as quickly as possible, but when it was 
 a case of risking the men's lives 
 
 Responsibility was the devil and all. He wished he 
 had not chosen the Army as a profession; he wished he 
 knew what to do. 
 
 A trooper stepped up to him and saluted. Smee un- 
 derstood that he was volunteering to make the passage. 
 He hesitated a moment longer. 
 
 " You think you could get over? " 
 
 " Sure of it, sir ! " 
 
 " But Sergeant Knight was drowned there yesterday." 
 
 " He crossed too low, sir." 
 
 Captain Smee's face cleared. " Very well, King, carry 
 on, and good luck to you ! " 
 
 Harry waded forthwith into the stream. The pull of 
 the water was cold against his legs. It tugged like a 
 thousand fingers, it pushed with an ever-shifting but 
 steady push. Yet it was not deep. The water flung 
 itself at him, it splashed and tore; but it could not reach 
 above his knees and the foothold was good. Harry was 
 happy. To pit one's strength against the remorseless 
 river, to know it up to every dodge, know it would get 
 you if it could ! His round pillars of legs pushed mightily 
 against the turgid current, and his comrades on the bank 
 watched with an interest heightened by the knowledge 
 that where he went they must follow. 
 
 He reached midstream, and still the water, leaping, 
 churning, pushing, was only up to his knees. Suddenly 
 the breath of the watchers became a sound, a cry of dis- 
 may. The water had risen to Harry's waist, to his neck. 
 One moment the footing had been good, a strong footing, 
 hard ; another and it was gone. It had sunk away, there
 
 268 The Rolling Stone 
 
 was no footing. Harry went souse, felt himself whirling 
 in an irresistible torrent. The river had him and was 
 carrying him away. On the bank a cry of dismay ran 
 from lip to lip. Harry was popular. From the begin- 
 ning he had foraged for them ; he had a hookey thumb and 
 a conviction that the men should be fed like fighting-cocks. 
 His passage through a Boer farm left it an unwitting 
 contributor to the needs of the Army, and when jam 
 was short elsewhere his company could, if it wished, have 
 overeaten itself. Not a man in the column but searched 
 the seething waters for Harry's black head, not 1 one but 
 shouted when it reappeared. 
 
 When Harry, the defiant crest plastered in wet rings 
 on his crown, broke the surface, he found he was some 
 way down the river. His instinct was to struggle against 
 the force whirling him away. He was a strong swimmer, 
 and it did not occur to him that his life was in danger. 
 He could get out on the wrong side of the river where 
 the current curved in towards the bank ; but he would 
 not then have found the passage by which the troops 
 could cross. The watching men saw that he was heading 
 for a sandbank in the middle of the stream saw him 
 gain it, pull himself out, and look about him for a moment 
 as if taking stock. They watched him eagerly. Would 
 he swim across or would he try to come back to them? 
 Well, he had done his best, and it was evident the crossing 
 was impossible. They must wait till the river had gone 
 down. To their surprise, however, Harry set his face 
 up-stream and began, step by step, to stem the rushing 
 spread of tho water. The bank shelved a little and the 
 rush grew fiercer. It was as much as he could do to 
 make headway. Nevertheless, he was doing it. He was 
 working slowly up. He had passed the spot from which 
 he had started on his forlorn hope. It dawned on the
 
 The Rolling Stone 269 
 
 men that, having set out to find a way by which they 
 could cross, he was holding to his purpose. 
 
 A few feet farther up and, turning at right angles, 
 he splashed out to the middle of the stream. At each 
 step he sank a little and the water raged at him. This 
 time, however, it was in vain. The bottom was sound 
 a bed of stones and sand held together by the clay. He 
 crossed without mishap and, the water streaming from 
 him, at once began to climb the opposite bank. 
 
 The column cheered, and Trooper King, looking back 
 in surprise, waved to it and vanished over the brow. 
 He was in a hurry for he had private business to transact, 
 the preliminary to which was starting a fire ; and he was 
 wondering whether his little metal box had kept the 
 matches dry. 
 
 By the river grew some dinna-bessie shrubs. Harry 
 selected a couple of large flat stones, set them on end, 
 and piled the space between with the oily fuel of the 
 plants. His quick eye had noted the usual litter of 
 kerosene-tins; he selected one and, after holding it be- 
 tween his eye and the sun to make sure it was sound, filled 
 it with water. 
 
 When the first men of the advancing column came over 
 the brink flames were leaping about the kerosene- 
 tin and Trooper King, with an absorbed expression, was 
 cramming his breeches into the bubbling water. 
 
 " You don't lose no time," said a man, halting beside 
 him. 
 
 " They are crummy." 
 
 "I guess we're all that," grumbled Bristow; "they 
 ought to give us a change of clothes." 
 
 "Or time off to boil them," said a third. "I boiled 
 mine last Saturday week and in two days the little chaps 
 were as busy as ever ! "
 
 270 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " You didn't boil them long enough," said Harry. 
 
 Scouts having brought word that no signs of the enemy 
 could be discovered, orders had been given for the column 
 to camp for the night on the farther bank of the river. 
 Harry, his skin gleaming white against the riding-boots 
 of his mates, lent a hand wherever needed, and at intervals 
 returned to stir the scummy contents of the kerosene- 
 tin. 
 
 The day was advanced. Presently a meal would be 
 served out, and the men, well fed and sleepy, would gather 
 round the camp fires and sing and talk. A smell of 
 coffee rose from his billy-can. 
 
 Suddenly, with a vicious spit, a bullet struck the 
 mimosa-tree by which he was standing. He was taken 
 so much by surprise that for a moment he stood motion- 
 less. The flames shining on his queerly apparelled figure, 
 made it only too visible. A bullet kicked up the dust 
 at his feet, another flew past his ear, and then Trooper 
 King, coming to himself, took cover. 
 
 The scouts had been misled and the Boers were closing 
 in. They had arranged a surprise party for the column, 
 had hoped to catch it napping. 
 
 A bugle blew, the order to break camp was given, and 
 Harry found himself in a quandary. In the pot his 
 breeches were boiling merrily, but not even his hardihood 
 could face slipping his legs into their heated trunks. 
 
 What to do? 
 
 " Mount and ride," sang the bugle. " You'll be shot," 
 spat the bullets. 
 
 The camp was like a nest of disturbed ants, but in a 
 few minutes, with what they could save of their gear, 
 the men were off. 
 
 Only later, on parade, was the discovery made that 
 Harry's nether garment was to seek. His sergeant was
 
 The Rolling Stone 271 
 
 inclined to regard the incident as Trooper King trying 
 to be funny. He shook his head over the explanation 
 offered. 
 
 " If we was to allow such goings-on the whole company 
 might turn up without their breeches." 
 
 The worst of it was they had no extra stores and were 
 far from a depot. In the end Harry was fitted out with 
 a pair that had belonged to Sergeant Knight. Unfor- 
 tunately, that worthy had been full-waisted and long in 
 the leg. 
 
 Harry was fined the cost of a new pair. 
 
 He made no comment, but as he walked away was seen 
 to draw a small black notebook from his pocket and make 
 an entry. 
 
 Bristow, who was near, could see he had entered some 
 figures on the debit side of the page. 
 
 " What are you up to now? " 
 
 " I keep accounts," said Trooper King. 
 
 " If you put down all they pinch it'll be a pretty long 
 reckoning," said the other. 
 
 " The longer the better. I'm good at addition." He 
 grinned and looked up sideways. " And at subtraction," 
 said he. 
 
 Bristow, thinking of jam and other matters, could 
 agree. "But what's it for?" 
 
 " I came out here to fight," his wide brow had come 
 down into an obtuse angle over narrowed lids, " and I 
 do my best, and this is the way I'm treated. Every 
 farthing of mine they pinch I'll get back, every little 
 damned farthing." 
 
 " By the time we've got the old Bible-punchers on the 
 run you'll have forgotten," said Bristow. 
 
 " Me forget? " said Harry. " I don't think." 
 
 " Oh when the war's over "
 
 272 The Rolling Stone 
 
 Like a cold hand on his heart came the recollection 
 that when the war was over he would indeed have for- 
 gotten. He slipped the notebook back into his pocket. 
 They had taken his money, taken it unjustly, but what 
 did it matter? He about to die
 
 Chapter XV 
 
 TROOPER KING on his own initiative had 
 taken a prisoner. He had been swinging along 
 to the pleasant jingle of chains and creaking of 
 leather when, as the line passed a low kraal wall, a bullet 
 " zipped " from behind it. It had picked him out from 
 the rest, drilling a hole in his hat. Trooper King, imagin- 
 ing himself hit, had forthwith leaped the obstacle and 
 gone in pursuit ; before he fell he would " get " the man 
 who had fired at him! 
 
 An angle of the wall formed a sort of shelter, and as 
 Harry leaped, a man, crouching, bent double, the man 
 who had fired, ran towards it. Harry, bayonet in hand, 
 bore down on him, and at the sound of hoofs he turned. 
 He was a big dark man, finely built and of a brave car- 
 riage, but at the clink of steel he wavered. He could fight 
 from behind a wall he came of a harried race that for 
 many generations had fought thus but he could not 
 fight in the open. Dearly as he wanted to fire again, the 
 look on Henry's face proved too much for him. He hes- 
 itated, he went to pieces. 
 
 As Harry knocked up the gun he saw that the man wore 
 the chevrons of a sergeant. " You are no Dutchie," he 
 said. It was not thus the Boers behaved ; give them their 
 due, they were handsome fighters. 
 
 The man grinned, a helpless vicious grin. " I'm Irish 
 taken prisoner by the Boers." 
 
 " Turncoat ! " said Harry rudely. 
 
 The other scowled. " Been doing all I know to escape." 
 
 273
 
 274 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " Looks like it. Well, come on, now." 
 
 He disarmed the man, watched him vault the kraal wall 
 and stride down the slope. Trying to escape? Why, the 
 swine had taken deliberate arm and then run for it. Irish, 
 too 
 
 On rejoining the column Harry received a sharp repri- 
 mand for having taken it on himself to fall out. 
 
 " What the bloody hell did you mean by it? " 
 
 " I was hit." 
 
 " Don't see no sign of it." 
 
 " Well, I felt a smack." He was surprised there were 
 no outward signs of a wound and that he felt none the 
 worse. He had been told, however, that this was often the 
 case. Men did not know when they were wounded, did 
 not feel the loss of limb or fingers. It might be that the 
 bullet was inside him that, without giving any sign 
 of it, he was bleeding to death. " I thought the fellow 
 might get away." 
 
 " Another time you leave the thinkin' to me." 
 
 He walked off with the prisoner, and later, in the or- 
 derly tent, Sergeant Devlin was permitted to tell his tale. 
 He sent a swift glance about for Harry, and was relieved 
 to find that the trooper's evidence had not been thought 
 necessary that Captain Smee, young and fresh-com- 
 plexioned, was orderly officer for the day. 
 
 The tale that Devlin told was ingenuous. He had been 
 traveller for a Sheffield firm, and, being up-country when 
 war broke out had been seized by the Boers and, in spite 
 of his protests, forced to remain with them. They were 
 aware that at one time he had been a volunteer, and that 
 consequently he knew his drill. Since then he had made 
 various attempts to escape, but the burghers had been 
 suspicious and he had had to be very careful. Today his 
 chance had come and he had seized it.
 
 The Rolling Stone 275 
 
 He hoped, modestly, that he would be allowed to fight 
 for his country. While he had been with the Boers he 
 had not been idle, he had learned all he could in the hope 
 that some day he might be able to turn it to account. 
 
 Captain Smee was impressed, but his dislike of responsi- 
 bility made him hesitate. It would be better, perhaps, to 
 hear what the Battalion Commander had to say. 
 
 Devlin was taken before a heavy man with little eyes 
 set under grey bushes. He begged humbly for work, for 
 an opportunity to prove himself. 
 
 The officer, glancing at Devlin, a smart and soldierly 
 figure, saw he might be useful. He was so open in his 
 offers of information that it did not occur to them he 
 might have papers on him which would have been even 
 more useful. 
 
 " Who brought him into camp ? " 
 
 " Trooper King." 
 
 "The man surrendered to him?" 
 
 " Yes." They did not ask for King's account of the 
 surrender. 
 
 "Where did he find him? " 
 
 " At Blauw Vlei." 
 
 " And we are a sergeant short ! " He considered. 
 " It's easier to keep your eye on an N.C.O. than a pri- 
 vate yes." 
 
 To the amazement of the troops, Devlin came back to 
 them not only a free man, but a sergeant. He was to 
 take the place of poor Sergeant Knight ; had been put in 
 authority over the very man who had taken him prisoner. 
 Harry could hardly believe it. 
 
 That evening, when Devlin would have joined the circle 
 about a camp fire a gruff voice forbade him: "Don't 
 want no traitors 'ere," and it was the same elsewhere. 
 
 " The men are very quiet tonight," said Captain Smee
 
 276 The Rolling Stone 
 
 to the adjutant. " I haven't heard a single song." 
 
 " Uneasy about something. It is always a bad sign 
 when they bunch together and talk." 
 
 The men had gathered about Harry, who was telling 
 again the story of Devlin's capture. As the sergeant ap- 
 proached, their voices, discussing it, died away ; and they 
 waited, in a pregnant silence, until he should be out of 
 hearing. 
 
 He cursed them as he went. Boer or Englishman, they 
 were nothing to him. 
 
 " Made him sergeant," said Harry in disgust, " when 
 only this very morning the chap was potting at us from 
 behind a wall ? Beats creation, it does ! Wonder what 
 yarn he pitched them ? " 
 
 " Whatever it was," said Bristow, " they swallowed it 
 horns, hoofs, and all. If they aren't lambs ! " 
 
 " He's been fighting for the Boers," said Harry. " And 
 because he thinks it'll suit his book, he is going to pretend 
 to fight for us." 
 
 " If he came to my shop," said Bristow, who had been 
 a butcher, " I wouldn't give him credit for so much as a 
 pound of liver." 
 
 " He's turned his coat and he can turn it again. One 
 of these days the regiment will find itself in Queer Street, 
 and it'll be owing to our fine Boer sergeant. I know one 
 thing " he stared at the fire, " they'd better not detail 
 me to go out with him." 
 
 II 
 
 De Heig Kranz was reported empty, deserted, but it 
 was necessary to make sure. It lay just off the route 
 the column was to take, lay convenient for a camping- 
 ground. Sergeant Devlin was to ride on overnight and
 
 The Rolling Stone 277 
 
 reconnoitre, and Trooper King was detailed to accompany 
 him. If the place was suitable they were to make what 
 preparations were possible for the comfort of the advanc- 
 ing column. 
 
 When the order reached him Harry was standing, one 
 foot on a log, polishing his accoutrements. He stood up, 
 straightening himself so suddenly that Corporal Briggs 
 took a step back. 
 
 " I'll go with any one else," said Harry, unaware that 
 he had been detailed for this work as a man whose loyalty 
 was above suspicion, a man who could be trusted to keep 
 his eye on the specious Irishman, " but not with Devlin." 
 
 " You're not here to pick and choose who you'll go 
 with ! " 
 
 " He'll betray us to the Boers." 
 
 " It'll be up to you to see he doesn't." 
 
 Harry stood stiff and immovable. 
 
 " Come now," ordered Corporal Briggs, but the other 
 did not stir. The men stared at each other with hard 
 eyes, neither willing to yield. " Don't you know, you 
 bloody fool, that disobedience on active service is mu- 
 tiny? " 
 
 " Anybody but Devlin," repeated Harry. He had tak- 
 en him prisoner ; he knew the man was treacherous, that he 
 had something up his sleeve. Trooper King could not 
 pierce to Devlin's intention, but he misdoubted it and, 
 misdoubting not for himself but for the unsuspicious 
 column riding into some death-trap stood to his re- 
 fusal. 
 
 The corporal changed his tone. King was the most 
 exasperating chap he knew, yet he kept the men cheerful, 
 also he fed them. A good man in his way, and Corporal 
 Briggs did not want to get him into trouble. 
 
 " Look here, King," he said, " this won't do, you know.
 
 278 The Rolling S-tone 
 
 It's Army discipline, and if a man can't knuckle under 
 he gets the worst of it. I don't want to put you under 
 arrest." 
 
 Harry's face was mulish; he had made up his mind. 
 
 "You know the penalty for disobeying orders?" A 
 pause, but Trooper King's hard eyes still stared unblink- 
 ingly. 
 
 " You'll be shot." 
 
 He threw a note of pleading into his voice. Just for a 
 notion out of obstinacy to be shot ! It was silly. 
 
 " Shot at dawn." 
 
 Trooper King's glance shifted. He looked down at the 
 bare brown earth and he sighed ; but he did not yield. 
 
 " I'm not going," he said. 
 
 Ill 
 
 So quickly had the situation arisen and developed that 
 Harry was still dazed. Between men carrying fixed bay- 
 onets he had been taken to the guard-tent, there to remain 
 until the morning. He had gone quietly, for as yet he 
 hardly understood what had come to pass. 
 
 He understood better when he saw Bristow's face. The 
 little man was openly distressed. 
 
 " Why did you go for to do it? " and " We can't spare 
 you." 
 
 Spare him? Was it true, then, what Corporal Briggs 
 had said? 
 
 The flap of the tent fell, cutting him off from the life 
 of the camp, shutting out Bristow's red face. 
 
 He sat down and tried to understand. 
 
 For a time he could only listen. Sounds of stamping 
 hoofs, of men whistling at their work, came from the
 
 The Rolling Stone 279 
 
 horse-lines. Nearer was the beat of a steady tramp: a 
 nan was doing sentry-go outside the tent. 
 
 It came home to him that he, Harry King, was under 
 arrest. 
 
 Under arrest because he had refused to go with Devlin, 
 with the man who shot at English soldiers from behind a 
 wall ! 
 
 He had meant to refuse and he had done it. 
 
 He had been right to refuse oh, quite right. Strange 
 that no one saw how right he was. Ten days previously 
 Harry had been one of a firing-party detailed to shoot a 
 deserter. He had watched the army surgeon pin over 
 the heart of the blindfolded man the square of white paper 
 at which they were to aim. 
 
 He had been profoundly sorry for the poor chap, but 
 he had not refused to shoot. 
 
 A firing-party and he in the place of the deserter ! 
 
 Bristow and Long and others, the men with whom he 
 had slept and eaten, his comrades in arms, they would 
 be sorry for him, but they would not refuse to shoot. 
 
 " They shan't blindfold me," he muttered. 
 
 IV 
 
 Harry, waiting outside the orderly-room tent with 
 guard and witnesses, realized that he had probably only 
 another day to live. His purpose in coming to South 
 Africa smote him, and suddenly he smiled. The joke was 
 on him. 
 
 Shoot him, would they? Well, he had come out to be 
 shot. 
 
 A queer end to the business. 
 
 That touch of morning coolness made the sunshine
 
 280 The Rolling Stone 
 
 pleasant. He was attracted by the veld. A fine country ! 
 He would have liked to take up land and farm. His 
 mother's people had been farmers 
 
 " Right turn. Halt ! " 
 
 They had taken off his cap ah yes, a prisoner went 
 in bareheaded. He was in the tent and the Colonel's little 
 gimlet eyes had picked him out Private 1278, King, 
 Henry. " Corporal, what have you to say? " 
 
 " Sir, on the night of the twenty-third instant I was 
 instructed to tell off Trooper King to accompany Sergeant 
 Devlin on a scouting expedition and Trooper King refused 
 to go." 
 
 " Refused to obey orders ! " said the Colonel, lifting 
 the little bushes over his eyes into a grey line of surprised 
 displeasure. He took up the charge-sheet, read it over 
 to himself, then read it aloud. " Private 1278, what have 
 you to say for yourself? " 
 
 Harry's resonant voice quivered slightly; he was pal- 
 pably ill at ease. " Sir, I took Sergeant Devlin prisoner. 
 He's a turncoat Boer. I felt I couldn't go with him." 
 
 " It's not for you to decide what you will do," said the 
 colonel sharply. 
 
 Captain Smee leaned over the table. " Sir, can I say 
 something " 
 
 Colonel Ruthven signed to the sergeant-major to with- 
 draw the prisoner, and Harry found himself back in the 
 sunshine. It had grown warmer, not so pleasant. 
 
 " Orders must be obeyed," said the Colonel. " For the 
 sake of discipline an example " 
 
 But Captain Smee had not forgotten the fording of the 
 Orange River. The circumstances of King's disobedience 
 were, he thought, a little unusual. The man was brave 
 enough; it was not as if he had funked going 
 
 " Sure? " said Colonel Ruthven,
 
 The Rolling Stone 281 
 
 Captain Smee told his story, told of other exploits, ex- 
 plained that Harry was the most reckless daredevil in the 
 regiment. 
 
 " Then, why ? " said his commanding officer. 
 
 " I think it's something between the men." 
 
 " Ah ! " 
 
 " King took the other prisoner. I dare say he feels that 
 Devlin ought not to have been put over him." 
 
 The little grey bushes twitched and the Colonel hesi- 
 tated a moment, then shook his head. " We can't over- 
 look it too serious ; man must be court-martialed. I'm 
 sorry, Smee." 
 
 " I shall be sorry to lose him, sir." 
 
 " Humph well can't be helped." He made a final 
 pronouncement. " Private 1278 to be sent to brigade 
 Headquarters this afternoon under escort sergeant and 
 four men." 
 
 Brigade Headquarters was on the side of a hill, a soli- 
 tary hill overlooking a wide and dusty plain. Villars Dorp 
 nestled at the foot, and beyond were the half-brick, half- 
 iron sheds of a railway-station to which the war had lent 
 importance. 
 
 The tent which was to be Trooper King's prison had 
 been erected on the top of the slope. Harry, taking pos- 
 session of his quarters, felt them to be remote. On the 
 top of the hill, on the roof of the world, he found himself 
 a solitary and unconsidered atom, with time to burn. 
 
 He hoped it would not be long before the court martial 
 was held. 
 
 A day passed and another day, but nothing happened. 
 Though his guards looked forbidding, he must question 
 them; he could not go on like this,
 
 282 The Rolling Stone 
 
 He got but little satisfaction. They did not know and 
 " he was a confounded nuisance, that's what he was. Why 
 did he go disobeying orders? They hadn't come to South 
 Africa to be policemen, no blooming fear ! " 
 
 Harry watched the sun rise and set, watched it day 
 after day for seven interminable weeks. 
 
 Overlooked by the authorities, who at the moment had 
 something more important to think of than Trooper King, 
 his needs were ill-supplied by those responsible for him. 
 The food brought was scanty, consisting mainly of mealie- 
 pop, the water insufficient. Hard work dragging water 
 up a hill, and one could not always remember 
 
 Harry, who set cleanliness before godliness, poor Harry 
 who had sacrificed his breeches rather than go verminous, 
 had not enough water to drink, let alone wash. 
 
 He was verminous now. 
 
 The tent was insanitary ; his stomach craved a change 
 of diet, his body a change of linen ; do what he would he 
 could not keep clean. 
 
 To be shot was one thing, but to lie in dirt, to want food, 
 to battle with shadowy creatures that grew in a night 
 from stragglers into armies 
 
 The foulness of disease had been a haunting terror, but 
 this foulness of the body was worse, infinitely worse. The 
 creeps ! He had nothing to do but think of his sufferings. 
 And he had brought this on himself ! 
 
 He would not go with Devlin, would not help to betray 
 the column. Devlin was a treacherous hound; he, Harry, 
 had not been thinking of himself but of his unsuspicious 
 mates. But no one realized that, no one understood, and 
 there was no one to whom he could go with his story. 
 
 The soldiers in charge of him had been unfriendly, but 
 as the weeks passed they became merely indifferent. They 
 neglected him. He was " an extra fatigue,"
 
 The Rolling Stone 283 
 
 He might have been a stone, a bridgehead. 
 
 A diet of mealie-pop is not sustaining. Harry lost 
 strength, grew haggard and unkempt. 
 
 To carry on day after day in this squalor! Talk of 
 hell-fire that would at least be cleansing. Nothing 
 could live in it. The grey and shining companies would 
 shrivel, blacken, his foul body be refined away, only the 
 metal of the spirit remain. He laughed and stretched 
 out his arms. 
 
 What a number of moments were in a single day ! how 
 it dragged and dragged ! Men were callous brutes. You 
 tried to help, you gave yourself for your fellows, and in 
 return they tortured you. They did not care, no one 
 cared ; there was no one to whom you could appeal. In 
 the distance a machine was working, was grinding out 
 government and army discipline and justice; presently he 
 would be caught up like a grain of corn and ground be- 
 tween the noisy stones, and no one would hear his protest, 
 not one. 
 
 And still the sun rose and the sun set. The brawn on 
 Harry's arm was melting away, he was nearly thin enough 
 to scare the crows. 
 
 He could not remember how long he had been on the 
 hill-top, how long he had been fighting the grey and shin- 
 ing hordes 
 
 If they would only put him out of his misery ! 
 
 VI 
 
 Harry in camp and on the march had been a personality, 
 and Captain Smee looked daily for news of his fate. 
 
 The result of the court martial should have been re- 
 ported to him. He hoped Harry had not been shot. It 
 was not as if he had struck the N.C.O.
 
 284 The Rolling Stone 
 
 A week went by and still no news. It was odd ! Smee 
 remembered that an old schoolfellow of his Willy No- 
 lan was stationed at Villars Dorp. He would be sure 
 to know how the case had gone. 
 
 Smee was orderly officer again and 4oo busy to write, 
 but as soon as he had time 
 
 Nolan would make it his business to find out what had 
 become of Private 1278. At school they had called him 
 " Nosey " because he had nosed out everything a boy 
 wanted to keep hidden. He had had a handsome handle 
 to his face, a good door-knocker of a nose, but he wasn't 
 " Nosey " because of that. 
 
 Smiling over recollections of old days at Cheeley, Cap- 
 tain Smee had opened the purple blotter his sister had 
 given him before he left home and, poising it on his knee, 
 had written to Nolan. Would " Nosey find out what 
 had happened to a man Private King who had been 
 sent to Villars Dorp on the 28th of last month to be court- 
 martialled for disobedience to orders? The circumstances 
 were peculiar ; he, Captain Smee, was interested in the man 
 and thought him not altogether to blame." 
 
 On receipt of the letter Captain Nolan's glance had 
 leaped the pages. "Old Smee out here? Well I never! 
 What's this?" 
 
 He made inquiries but no one seemed to have heard of 
 Private King; there was no such person at Villars Dorp. 
 A tiny place, and he would know if there were. He wrote 
 briefly to Captain Smee, then stumbled by accident upon 
 the tent. 
 
 " Hullo ! Hullo ! What's this ? " 
 
 A prisoner? A Boer prisoner? Oh, English, was he? 
 And why was he there? Awaiting court martial? How 
 long had he been awaiting it ? Seven weeks ? Good God !
 
 The Rolling Stone 285 
 
 Disregarding the protests of the soldier on guard, No- 
 lan threw back the flap of the tent. 
 
 " Phew ! " 
 
 From the shadows of that vile, uncleanly hole Harry's 
 face looked out at him, Harry's eyes. 
 
 Nolan saw a white disk and those eyes. 
 
 VII 
 
 The finding of the court martial was that Private 1278 
 should have obeyed orders. The time to enter a com- 
 plaint was after the orders had been carried out. Taking 
 into consideration, however, that Private 1278's intentions 
 had been good that he believed Sergeant Devlin to be 
 in sympathy with the enemy and that he had already 
 suffered seven weeks' imprisonment, the Court ruled that 
 he should forthwith be returned to his unit. 
 
 Harry, enfeebled by confinement, only understood that 
 he was not to be shot. 
 
 His appearance, gaunt to emaciation, had told in his 
 favour. Captain Nolan, who had taken up the case and 
 was defending him, had managed to confuse the issues. 
 He had described the lousy blankets, the tent, the food, 
 the condition in which he had found the prisoner; and 
 the good men and true, Trooper King's judges, had looked 
 at him and with rumblings in their throats had blamed 
 well, whoever was to blame. The matter must be inquired 
 into ; it was scandalous. 
 
 After all, though, the man had disobeyed orders. Oh 
 yes, they would take his condition into consideration, they 
 would let him off as lightly as they could. Still, if pri- 
 vate soldiers were to be allowed to refuse duty it would 
 be the end of discipline. Let King go back to the bat-
 
 286 The Rolling Stone 
 
 talion, let him be put under Sergeant Devlin, let him find 
 out by observation that the man was no traitor. 
 
 The Boer sergeant had been weighed in the balance by 
 those competent to judge. They had pronounced him 
 worthy to serve under the British flag and the court up- 
 held their decision. Time would prove the wisdom of it, 
 time would impress on Trooper King's mind the folly of 
 thinking he knew better than his superior officers. 
 
 Harry stumbled out of the farmhouse in which the court 
 martial had been held. Upon his limbs the sun struck 
 warmly, and he was glad of the warmth. The dust blew 
 across the plain in dull red clouds but it did not annoy. 
 He was free of the tent, of its semi-darkness, of its evil 
 conditions, and he was not to be shot. 
 
 He had had seven weeks of hell; he had paid, his judges 
 thought, the penalty for his stubbornness. Of their mercy 
 they had overlooked his fault and were sending him back to 
 his regiment, back to the front. The sky was a blue arch 
 and, within limits, he might come and go under it as he 
 would. He drew deep breaths. He was content he 
 was more than content, he was glad. 
 
 Yet there had been something 
 
 He wrinkled his forehead trying to remember. Yes, 
 yes something. He had it. The court martial had 
 sent him back to be under Devlin. 
 
 Under Devlin? 
 
 Of their mercy 
 
 VIII 
 
 From the upper windows of Byl Kranz Boers had fired 
 on the passing rooineks. Foolish of them, for otherwise 
 the soldiers would have gone their way without damaging 
 house or property. As it was, a lesson had to be writ in
 
 The Rolling Stone 287 
 
 characters of fire across the farm and Sergeant Devlin 
 had been dispatched to write it. 
 
 Among the men who received orders to acompany him 
 was Trooper King, and this time he made no objection. 
 The seven weeks at Villars Dorp had broken him to the 
 necessity for obedience. Whatever happened now, he 
 would not rebel. 
 
 The Boer farmer had defended his home to the last. 
 He lay across the threshold, his beard white as the whit- 
 ened stone. Harry was sorry for him. After all, the 
 old man had built the house and it was his 
 
 He should not have fired upon the soldiers certainly 
 not. But why should the two countries be at war? Why 
 should not the remaining summers of that busy life have 
 been spent in the peace of man as well as of God? 
 
 The flames were devouring the house he had built, de- 
 vouring his life-work, devouring him. 
 
 Harry became aware that Devlin was shouting to him. 
 What did the fellow want? He was ingenious, Devlin. 
 If there were anything you disliked doing he saw it fell 
 on you. Harry on his way back from Villars Dorp had 
 made up his mind that whatever he had to bear should 
 be borne with Indian stoicism ; the toad, to all appearances, 
 should enjoy being under the harrow. 
 
 He had had need of his stoicism. 
 
 Devlin was rejoiced to have him back. Mother of 
 Christ, but it was pleasant to have a man under you whom 
 it was your bounden duty to plague. Between marches, 
 between fights, a congenial ocupation to think out what 
 you would do next, what you would say; it made one feel 
 good. 
 
 A pity the victim did not squeal, but a clever prick, a 
 clever twist, and he might. Saxons were stolid, but they 
 must have their vulnerable spots.
 
 288 The Rolling Stone 
 
 On this occasion, however, Devlin's mind was running 
 on something of more importance than vulnerable spots, 
 something that concerned himself and the future. 
 
 He had come to South Africa to make money. He 
 meant to buy the land his father farmed, the stony fields 
 between the brown bog and the hills. By hook or by crook 
 he must earn enough. 
 
 And the Saxon was a goose who laid golden eggs. 
 
 The Boer was too slim ; hard as Dublin streets, the 
 Boer ! Devlin was glad to be fighting on the side of the 
 English. Sooner or later his opportunity would arise, the 
 money he wanted be within his grasp. 
 
 He fancied the time had come. The golden egg was 
 to be found on this lonely farm, but before he seized it he 
 must make sure of Harry. 
 
 Harry wasn't to be trusted. Unless he stood to make 
 something out of the deal he wouldn't be safe. 
 
 Devlin raised his voice, shouting so that Harry heard 
 above the roar of the flames. 
 
 Though reluctant to come within reach of the sergeant, 
 he moved in his usual quick, effortless way. Before the 
 noise of Devlin's great voice had ceased Harry was beside 
 him. " They're driving off the cattle. I want you to 
 take Billy Deans and cut round by the stream. They 
 haven't got far." 
 
 Harry moved as if to set off without delay, but Devlin 
 detained him. 
 
 " The cattle are to be rounded up and driven into 
 camp." He looked hard into the other's face and found 
 it inscrutable. 
 
 " Look here, King," he pointed to a fringe of trees at 
 a distance, " that is the border Basutoland. Of course, 
 we must take some of the mob into camp 
 
 So that was Devlin's game cattle-duffing ! But what
 
 The Rolling Stone 289 
 
 Devlin did was his affair, not Harry's. A soldier's duty 
 was to obey orders. He might enter a protest if he 
 survived and when it was too late, but meanwhile his super- 
 ior officers would do the thinking for him. Well they 
 might ! Clever chaps his superior officers ; they had swal- 
 lowed Devlin's story and made him a sergeant and their 
 precious sergeant was robbing them right and left ! 
 
 " The rest you and Deans can drive over the border. 
 I'll see you get your share " 
 
 Harry stood before Devlin neither assenting nor refus- 
 ing, and the Irishman cursed his British phlegm. But if 
 he handed over the cattle 
 
 " Take them to those trees and wait with them till two 
 men come up to you. Ask their names, and if they say 
 4 Budden ' it's all right. Got it? " 
 
 " Budden if they say the name is Budden," repeated 
 Harry, and turned away. Devlin looked after him for a 
 moment. He could not guess what King was thinking. 
 Queer chap that, so unexpected. You might have thought 
 he would have been glad of a little easy money. But 
 whatever you did or said, it was the same. He set up a 
 blank wall a wall that was both high and impenetrable; 
 do what you would you could not tell what was happening 
 on the other side. 
 
 When Devlin got the money he would pay Harry a 
 share, a small share. So far the man had only obeyed 
 orders, but once the coins were in his hand 
 
 Five beasts were brought into camp, and Devlin ex- 
 plained to Captain Smee that the Boers had got off with 
 the rest. " Byl Kranz is very close to the border, sir." 
 
 Some days later Harry straightened himself after bal- 
 ancing a billy-can on one corner of the fire to the peril 
 of other precariously poised pots, to find Devlin at his 
 elbow. The footsteps of the sergeant had been deadened
 
 290 The Rolling Stone 
 
 by the noise of the camp, and for some moments he had 
 stood looking on. 
 
 " Well done yourself ! " he cried. A light deft touch, 
 so useful! 
 
 "D'you want me?" 
 
 " Brought you this." He held out his hand. " Your 
 share, King." 
 
 The firelight touched the coins in Devlin's hand, and 
 Harry glanced from them to the swarthy face. 
 
 " Not for me ! " said he, and stepped back a pace. " I 
 won't touch a farthing of your dirty money." 
 
 Devlin ceased to smile. " You've earned it." 
 
 " I carried out your orders." 
 
 " On the understanding you had your bit of the plun- 
 der." 
 
 " No ! " He flicked his fingers as if cleansing them. 
 
 For a moment Devlin's blood ran cold. His eyes ques- 
 tioned Harry and got no answer. Always the wall be- 
 tween them. " You'll peach? " 
 
 Harry's turn to smile a bitter, disillusioned smile. 
 " Not my business ; between them they've taught me that. 
 You can go ahead, you can rob them all you like. It's 
 nothing to me." 
 
 " Sound wisdom ! " said the other. " But the money? " 
 It clinked agreeably in his hand. " Well, if you won't," 
 he slipped it into his pocket, " there's others aren't so par- 
 ticular." Even those few pounds would make a difference. 
 
 He began to whistle : " My father and mother were 
 Irish." The world was a good place, and overseas was a 
 whitewashed cottage with thatched roof and an earthen 
 floor; he would buy it and rebuild it and enlarge it. 
 " Never say I didn't offer to settle with you." 
 
 Harry lifted the lid from a bubbling pot. " Don't you 
 fret, we'll settle our accounts some day."
 
 The Rolling Stone 291 
 
 IX 
 
 Sick parade was nearly over and, as if to emphasize 
 the happy moment, the smell of hot coffee, of bacon, was 
 flowing out of the mess-tent. Hard lines that Captain 
 Minns, who was so fond of his bed, should have to take 
 sick parade before breakfast; any other time in the day, 
 but before breakfast! Really, it was a bit rough on 
 a fellow. 
 
 " Any more ? " he asked of the orderly. 
 
 " Trooper King, sir, for a bottle of medicine." 
 
 " King? Oh, yes." He rummaged among his papers. 
 " I'll see him." 
 
 Harry, burned by sun and wind, hardened by life in the 
 open, Harry at the top of his strength, entered the tent. 
 The hungry surgeon eyed him with approval. 
 
 " Last time I saw you I took a specimen of your blood." 
 
 There had been some foolery with a drop of blood and 
 a tube, but Harry had not understood why the blood was 
 taken. 
 
 " The report came yesterday. You will be glad to 
 know that you need not come for any more medicine 
 you are perfectly well." 
 
 " Perfectly well? " said Harry; and something so deep 
 in him it seemed to lie under everything else vibrated. 
 But Captain Minns was talking nonsense. How could he, 
 Harry, be well? He was suffering from an incurable dis- 
 ease. 
 
 " Your blood has been tested and there wasn't a trace. 
 You are as well today as you have ever been." 
 
 " But " He dared not even begin to believe. Dis- 
 appointment was awaiting him round the corner. He must 
 not, no, he must not think what it would mean to him 
 if if it were true. " But "
 
 292 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " Yes? What's the difficulty? " 
 
 "Is it possible?" 
 
 Captain Minns clapped him on the shoulder. " The 
 proof of the pudding is in the eating." 
 
 The little tremulous hope had shot up out of the deeps. 
 His father, other men could they have been mistaken? 
 
 " I thought you couldn't get over it, that it was always 
 there, ready to break out " 
 
 Captain Minns looked at him thoughtfully. " You have 
 been suffering from a fever," he said. " The only differ- 
 ence between that and other fevers is that it lasts longer. 
 Rheumatic, scarlet, enteric they can all damage a man ; 
 so can this fever, but you have been lucky. I do not 
 think mind you, I don't know for certain, I can only 
 tell you what I think but I don't fancy you will suffer 
 from any after-effects." 
 
 "How is that?" 
 
 " You've sweated the poison out of you by the hard 
 life you have been leading. Also, of course, you have 
 taken the medicine regularly." 
 
 Harry was smiling foolishly; his eyes were bright, his 
 mouth had fallen open. Yes, the surgeon was sincere, he 
 meant what he said. 
 
 " I'm cured ! " Harry repeated it to himself as if the 
 words had a peculiar sweetness and he were savouring it. 
 " I'm cured cured " 
 
 " You're as sound a man," said Captain Minns, rising, 
 " as sound a man, barring the little bother with your mit- 
 ral valve, as I could wish to see." 
 
 Harry, dismissed, had walked away and had continued 
 walking. It was more natural to put one foot before the
 
 The Rolling Stone 293 
 
 other, to go on, than to stand still. He had not room in 
 his soul for more than his simple, his wide, his tremendous 
 happiness. He had offered his poor and tainted life and, 
 behold, it had been given back to him, given back whole. 
 He was to live, not die. His feet carried him beyond-the 
 camp, beyond the sights of it, beyond the sounds; they 
 brought him to a quiet place, to a greenness of plants 
 and singing of water. He threw himself down by the 
 stream ; and the ripple of the water was bright and the 
 sides of the leaves, even the little stones. Ripple and 
 leaf and stone he gazed at them and smiled at them 
 and forgot. 
 
 The sense of deep relief had been contained in him like 
 wine in a crystal goblet. He was Trooper King, a crea- 
 ture apart from other creatures, an individual ; but as he 
 lay on the edge of the water in the warmth and the still- 
 ness, the crystal walls that had hemmed in his personality 
 thinned until they were become a part of the circumam- 
 bient air, until the golden light of his happiness was dif- 
 fused through space. 
 
 The war and his life as Trooper King dwindled to a 
 black speck. He was stretching out to something be- 
 yond these carnal manifestations. The black speck grew 
 smaller, it had been and it was no more. Harry was no 
 longer an individual ; he was one with the force that casts 
 itself in starry systems across the void, that moves as the 
 tiny amoeba in a woodland pool. He was of God. 
 
 XI 
 
 " Show a leg ! Show a leg ! " 
 
 Early morning in the camp at Roberts's Heights. 
 
 "Go to hell!" 
 
 " Well, then, show a leg."
 
 294 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " Oh, go to hell ! " 
 
 " Come now, no more of it ; show a leg ! " 
 
 The regiment was waiting to be demobilized. Peace 
 had been proclaimed and the greater number of the men 
 were returning to England, but a few, and King among 
 them, intended to remain in Africa. The Government 
 had proclaimed that a grant of land would be made to 
 any soldier who was prepared to take up farming. 
 
 Trooper King did not know much about the conditions 
 that obtained in Africa but he could learn. No doubt 
 the State would help would dig down into its jeans for 
 the intending settler, give him seed and implements, loan 
 him enough money to buy a few head of cattle. After 
 he, King, had collected two outstanding debts he would 
 go down to Pretoria and claim the land which he had 
 been promised. 
 
 Meanwhile the debts obsessed him. The toad had to 
 settle with the harrow. No longer was it sergeant and 
 private, but one man and another. Pigeonholed in his. 
 mind was the memory of a hundred trifling indignities, 
 the pin-pricks inflicted by a cunning mind on one adjudged 
 his enemy and at his mercy. Harry longed for the set- 
 tlement of that account. 
 
 To reimburse himself with the moneys of which a grate- 
 ful country, in return for years of volunteered service, had 
 mulcted him was less important, but should in turn have 
 his attention. 
 
 Devlin came first. Harry remembered his fight with 
 Ewen Nasmyth. Then he had been out to kill ; he had 
 felt that Nasmyth must be wiped off the face of the earth. 
 But this was different. He was going to humiliate Devlin 
 as he, Harry, had been humiliated ; he was going to thrash 
 him within an inch of his life and yet leave him that life. 
 The man should live on and remember. Long life to him !
 
 The Rolling Stone 295 
 
 The regiment had been ordered to parade. Colonel 
 Ruthven, no great speaker, had uttered a few inspiriting 
 commonplaces, had told them to be good boys, and had 
 dismissed them. Harry, listening, cheering his late com- 
 manding officer, had yet kept an eye on Devlin. The 
 Irishman was a slippery customer, he might yet escape. 
 
 The men scattered to draw their pay and collect their 
 belongings. Their mood was holiday. They thought of 
 beer in tankards, of crowded streets and of the welcome 
 they would receive, and they were going home. 
 
 Sergeant Devlin was in as gay a mood. Many a good 
 steer had he sent across the border! The proceeds were 
 lying at a Cape Town bank ; they lay there, a fat sum 
 enough to buy the little farm on the edge of the bog, the 
 long, low cottage in which he had been reared. The pic- 
 ture of heather-clad hills, the hills his opening eyes had 
 rested on every morning of his young life, was more real 
 to him than the green veldt and the ridges of rock. He 
 strode along whistling his favourite tune : 
 
 My father and mother were Irish 
 And I am Irish too. 
 
 When he had been home a wee while he would marry; 
 he would have a tail of boys, he would bring them up 
 to agitate for Irish freedom. He had done his bit for 
 the old country and he wanted to settle down. His boys 
 should carry on the work. 
 
 / bought a wee -fiddle for ninepence 
 And it is Irish too. 
 
 No haunting melodies today, no " Wearing of the Green," 
 but the lilt he would be singing in the good nights to come
 
 296 The Rolling Stone 
 
 when the peat was smouldering red on the open hearth 
 and his little old mother 
 
 From behind a kopje came Harry King, stepping 
 lightly. The Irishman saw his purpose with a twang of 
 nerves. He had forgotten Harry. 
 
 " Going home ? " said he, with a glance to right and 
 left. What for was he stravaiging over the veldt when he 
 should have been in his quarters packing? And Holy 
 Mother! why was King carrying a riding-switch? 
 
 " The corps has been disbanded," said Harry grimly, 
 " and now, Devlin, it's man to man. I promised I'd settle 
 with you when the time came." 
 
 " If you've anything agin me," blustered the other, 
 drawing himself up to his full height. He was the ser- 
 geant, the man in authority. He dared Harry to attack 
 him. 
 
 " Of course I've nothing," said Harry, " not a single 
 extra fatigue ! Oh, no and you've never thrown it up 
 at me ! " A procession of black, distorted memories 
 crossed his mind ; they were black but they changed slowly 
 to red. 
 
 " What I did as sergeant " He would fight if he 
 must. After all, he hated Harry; he would enjoy knock- 
 ing him down and kicking him. 
 
 " Tell that to the Marines ! " 
 
 " 'Tis a fight, then? " He had the stomach for it and 
 his boots were heavy. 
 
 " I could fight you, you black bastard, with one hand," 
 cried Harry, " but you'd lie down and howl for mercy." 
 He bent the switch in his hands, and suddenly Devlin 
 recognized it as his. His riding-switch? " I'm going to 
 take it out of your hide with this, I'm going to see you have 
 your stripes." 
 
 " Give me that whip."
 
 The Rolling Stone 297 
 
 Harry threw it on the rocks at his side. " All in good 
 time," said he and met the sergeant's rush with a straight 
 left j ab. A right and left to the j aw and Devlin dropped. 
 But Harry had not done with him. A stripe for every 
 extra fatigue, stripes for that gibing tongue, and then 
 the man might have his whip ; he might carry it home 
 with him, keep it as a trophy. 
 
 " You'd hit a man when he's down? " 
 
 " Don't you make any mistake. I told you this wasn't 
 a slam. Come on or I'll kick you up. You're getting 
 the pay you've earned and I'm handing it out to you." 
 
 A pity Captain Smee and the others could not see their 
 fine sergeant see him cringe ! Harry gave him what 
 he'd earned, then flung the whip at him and walked away. 
 One debt discharged. 
 
 That night there was a stir in the horse-lines. When 
 morning came it was discovered that two of the Basuto 
 ponies were missing, they and their equipment. By that 
 time Harry was on his way to Pretoria. He had drawn 
 from his pocket 1 a shiny black notebook and the stub of 
 a pencil. He smiled to himself, murmuring a total, and 
 at the bottom of a column of figures, now almost illegible, 
 he wrote in the clear roundhand of the drawing-office the 
 word " Paid."
 
 Chapter XVI 
 
 "^ T'OU'VE come to ask for a grant of land? " In 
 ^f the office a man with a burned skin and iron- 
 JL grey hair looked up from the letter he was 
 writing. His dark eyes ran swiftly over Harry, apprais- 
 ing him " Another hungry Britisher ! " 
 
 " I believe I have qualified for one." 
 
 " Where were you born ? Who are your parents ? 
 What is your claim? Are you an African? " 
 
 " No, English, discharged from the Army." He pro- 
 duced his papers. 
 
 De Groot shook his head. " Nothing doing." 
 
 " I was told I had only to apply " 
 
 " Oh, the land is there all right." He pointed to mark- 
 ings on a map, and Harry wondered why he should look 
 as if he were enjoying himself. " The land is there all 
 right, but it's for Boers." 
 
 "For Boers? " A trickle of feeling, like a run of hot 
 blood, crept over his brain. " But we fought them and 
 licked them. Do you mean to tell me the grants are for 
 them?" 
 
 " A paternal Government," said the Civil Servant, " is 
 giving the land to those who took part in the war," he 
 paused and smiled at Harry, " those born in Africa." 
 
 "Well, I'll be jiggered!" His farming plans went by 
 the board. " Then it's no go? " 
 
 The other slightly moved his shoulders. " The place 
 is notching with foreigners." 
 
 298
 
 The Rolling Stone 299 
 
 " Foreigners? " said Harry. " Is that what we are? " 
 
 " Well, you aren't a native here, are you ? You come 
 from another country, another continent, and you come 
 for what you can get. Personally, I don't think there's 
 room " 
 
 " Not room in Africa ? " 
 
 " We want it," said the Africander, his grin frankly 
 hostile, " for ourselves." 
 
 " By gum," cried Harry, " you don't want much ! " and 
 went out into streets that for the first time struck him as 
 unfriendly. 
 
 He took the next train to Johannesburg. The town 
 was studded with the offices of mining companies, and a 
 man who had served seven years' apprenticeship to an 
 engineering firm ought not to have any difficulty in ob- 
 taining work. With hope renewed he turned into the 
 Corner House, but a busy clerk referred him to the mine 
 manager, and told him that if there were any jobs going, 
 they were the people who would know. 
 
 Any jobs going? There must be jobs. The Corner 
 House was a huge concern. 
 
 Harry travelled out to the nearest mine and called on 
 the manager. Hender Thomas was glad of a talk about 
 England. He was from Camborne, and had the Cornish- 
 man sent to him every week. How were things doing 
 down in the West? As to a job at the Van Tromp mine, 
 he shook his head. The workings were flooded. The 
 company was discharging, no<t taking on men. In fact, 
 mining was in a bad way. 
 
 " Can't you find me some sort of a job? " 
 
 " There are a skite of people with good qualifications 
 looking for work " 
 
 " I can't understand it. After a war there must be a 
 lot of rebuilding and speeding up to be done? "
 
 BOO The Rolling Stone 
 
 " Oh, in the future, yes ; but at the moment we have 
 got to shake down and sort ourselves. I'm afraid there 
 are hard times coming for some." 
 
 " Are you telling me that with a trade at my finger-tips 
 I shan't be able to earn my living? " 
 
 "Just that." 
 
 "Well, I'm damned!" 
 
 " If I were you, Mr. King, I should take the next ship 
 to England." 
 
 Harry shook his head and his face set in stubborn lines. 
 
 " I'll give this country a go first," he said. 
 
 II 
 
 Doggedly Harry quartered Johannesburg, but every- 
 where he found that the companies of the out-of-work 
 had preceded him. He left no door untried, he was as 
 energetic as a terrier in pursuit of a rat, but no one seemed 
 in need of his services. His papers were in order, he 
 had recommendations from every firm that had employed 
 him, but mining-house after mining-house turned him 
 down. Places of business, offices, shops no vacancies ! 
 His feet grew sore with beating the streets in his fruitless 
 search. The gold in his pockets changed into silver, and 
 that melted until he had not the wherewithal to keep life 
 in his craving body. Bitter days for Harry! He had 
 no friends in Johannesburg, not even an acquaintance, 
 and he was on his beam-ends. For a fortnight he was 
 penniless, sleeping out, drinking at the public fountain, 
 tightening his belt over an empty stomach. Poor Harry ! 
 Eyes bright with hunger and the heavy bones of his face 
 standing out in a fierce protest. The only people to rea- 
 lize he was starving were outcasts like himself, and dur-
 
 The Rolling Stone 301 
 
 ing that fortnight what food he had was the gift of pros- 
 titute and felon. 
 
 Bit by bit Harry's possessions had disappeared. He 
 clung to the wallet that held his papers, clung also to the 
 shiny black notebook which had borne witness to the in- 
 gratitude of " England, mighty mother." The notebook 
 was at that period something of a comfort to the poor 
 fellow, for he was able to enter in it vague accounts of 
 the situation. 
 
 " What a desperate feeling I have about things gener- 
 ally! The awful loneliness of it all! God, that I 
 sn6uld have come to this torture, despair, a derelict ! 
 Read I can't ; hope I can't ; struggle I can't." 
 
 That day he made money in a drinking-bar by a lucky 
 bet. Had he lost he would have been unable to pay. He 
 had been certain, however, that he would win. He bought 
 with the money a thimble-rigging outfit ! 
 
 " The difference," wrote Harry in the shiny black note- 
 book, " between the fellow who succeeds and the one who 
 fails is that the one gets up and chases after the man 
 who needs him and the other sits and waits to be hunted 
 up." 
 
 Pleased with that, he wrote under it, " Very true." 
 
 Yet he did not so much chase after men who needed 
 him as insist to any and every one he met that he was 
 the fellow who could make the business, the show, the 
 mine in which they were interested a success. 
 
 In consequence of these tactics, during the next four 
 years he played many parts. 
 
 He walked on at a theatre ; he toured the country with 
 a circus as one of the Saxon Brothers, boxers and strong 
 men; he got a job as engineer in a gold-mine; he was up- 
 country on a farm. Eventually he went into business 
 with a man named McFarlane. The said McFarlane was.
 
 302 The Rolling 8-tone 
 
 the owner of two stores and required a partner ; it was ar- 
 ranged that Harry should manage one and that they 
 should share the profits. He took the partnership in 
 happy-go-lucky fashion, signed a deed without bothering 
 to read it through, and only after he had put in six 
 months' work did he learn that the stores were mortgaged. 
 
 " He is a fool," wrote Harry in the notebook, " who 
 when he bumps facts does not recognize them. I've been 
 careless." 
 
 He closed the store, said good-bye to Juliana van Grut- 
 ten, the owner of the nearest farm a young Dutch- 
 woman who had shown him hospitality and started for 
 McFarlane's house. He was not sorry to leave. Jul- 
 iana's father and brothers had been killed in the war and 
 she had offered to make him manager of the farm. From 
 manager to husband is but a step, and Harry by this time 
 knew that he didn't want to settle in the Orange River 
 Colony as a farmer. But Juliana had cooked him wonder- 
 ful hot suppers ! He did not refuse her offer. It was his 
 duty to settle with McFarlane, then he would see. 
 
 He was not sorry to shut down the store. Though he 
 had tasted the pleasure of making money, he found that 
 sitting at the receipt of custom was dull work. During 
 the six months he had grown restless at times, as the note- 
 book bore witness, even depressed. 
 
 " Sick and weary of it all." 
 
 " After getting into bed last night felt the same old 
 feeling of depression." 
 
 " Miserable scabby lot in this neighbourhood, disgusted 
 with them ! " 
 
 " Weary, weary weary." 
 
 He rode off with a light heart and a merry. McFarlane 
 had cheated him and must be punished. It was his,
 
 The Rolling Stone 303 
 
 Harry's, duty to bring him to justice. The man was a 
 menace to society ; he must be discredited ! 
 
 Unfortunately for Harry's purpose, McFarlane had a 
 wife and children, and to punish the man in purse and 
 reputation would have injured them. When could Harry 
 resist the appeal of weakness? He gave the man a thrash- 
 ing and did not prosecute. 
 
 His next essay proved more satisfactory. With the 
 revival of trade and agriculture came a demand for every 
 sort of tool and machine. Harry saw his chance. He 
 and another engineer, pooling their resources, sent a care- 
 fully considered order to a firm in Birmingham, to an- 
 other in Sheffield. They knew what the Transvaal re- 
 quired, they knew where the goods could be obtained ; and 
 from the beginning the firm of King and Cavendish pros- 
 pered. The difficulty was capital. So good were the 
 prospects of the young firm, however, that Harry felt 
 justified in asking his father to lend him five hundred 
 pounds. 
 
 By return of mail came a draft for the amount. 
 
 But the same mail brought a letter from James. The 
 family thought Harry had no business to take advan- 
 tage of the old man's generosity. Five hundred pounds 
 was a large sum, and Harry's ventures had not hitherto 
 proved successful. Though the family hoped he would 
 have better luck in the future 
 
 " Back it goes ! " said Harry furiously, and returned it 
 with grateful thanks. 
 
 Not a word more. 
 
 Nice brotherly act on the part of James to twit him 
 with his lack of success ! A fellow might be butted all 
 over the ring for nineteen rounds yet land on the solar 
 plexus of the proposition on the twentieth.
 
 304 The Rolling S-tone 
 
 Just like James not to be able to see an inch before his 
 nose! Why, there was a fortune in this tool business. 
 If Richard had been in England 
 
 It occurred to him that Richard was, like himself, in 
 Africa, that he was at the other end of the big pear-shaped 
 bit of land. He had not thought of it before. 
 
 A pity they would not lend him the five hundred pounds. 
 Without capital he could not make the little business into 
 a big one, and what was a trickle of orders when you 
 should be having a river of them? 
 
 " Oh, there's a fortune in it all right," he said to Cav- 
 endish, " but not for me." 
 
 He peddled ploughshares and knives, steel goods and 
 ironmongery, for a few months longer ; but he was growing 
 restless. 
 
 " Look here, Cavendish," he said at last, " I've had 
 enough of it. You can keep the business. I want to be 
 off." 
 
 Cavendish had more patience; he was the dogged Eng- 
 lishman; he would not weary of the slow building which 
 would bring so many of the things the heart of man de- 
 sires. 
 
 " How about the name King and Cavendish ? " 
 
 " Let it stay as it is. After all, it was my idea." 
 
 Today the firm is mighty in the land of Ham, a monu- 
 ment of peaceful penetration, and Cavendish is a great 
 man ; but Harry has never regretted his decision. 
 
 " I'd have gone mouldy, grown moss on me, if I'd stayed 
 any longer." 
 
 But it pleases him to see the name. " Yes King and 
 Cavendish just one of my ideas."
 
 The Rolling Stone 305 
 
 III 
 
 Richard King, on a Government launch, was running 
 down to meet his brother. Harry had written to say he 
 was coming via Delagoa Bay, through Suez, past the salt 
 lakes of Ismailia, and so to Port Said. He had neglected 
 to say that he was travelling steerage. 
 
 Richard was full of pleasant anticipations. He would 
 be glad to see Harry, to take him round and give him a 
 good time. During the last few years the family had 
 scattered. Bet was in Buenos Ayres with her husband and 
 Nancy in Canada. The Codger was married, and that 
 seemed to have lifted him out of the family circle as com- 
 pletely as if he had gone to heaven. Richard was vaguely 
 aware that though the life he led suited him, though he 
 was on the whole content, the tumultuous family circle in 
 the old home had been more stimulating. He missed, in 
 the polish of his later days, the rough sincerity of brothers 
 and sisters. He was really very glad that Harry was 
 coming to stay with them. 
 
 It didn't matter what Ethel thought. 
 
 There were the four children. Harry was such a fav- 
 ourite with children. He, Richard, would enjoy showing 
 him the baby. Fine little chap the baby, a King every 
 inch of him 
 
 That must be the ship ! 
 
 So eager was he that he nearly overlooked Harry, in 
 the steerage Harry, who, not expecting to be met, was 
 standing farewell drinks to the friends he had made dur- 
 ing the voyage. It was he who, glancing up, caught sight 
 of Richard interviewing the captain. Mr. Henry King? 
 The captain did not remember the name. No, he wasn't. 
 on board, must have missed the boat. The Government
 
 306 The Rolling Stone 
 
 official, the Government launch, did not suggest the steer- 
 age. 
 
 Richard saw Harry coming swiftly down the deck, 
 Harry looking as if he had had a rough-and-tumble voy- 
 age. The captain also saw him. 
 
 " Er in the third class " said he. 
 
 " Oh," said Richard lightly, as he grasped the situation, 
 " my brother is very eccentric." 
 
 " Same old crackpot," he said, as they shook hands, 
 " and why couldn't you travel like a Christian? I nearly 
 missed you." 
 
 " Seemed a pity to waste the money." 
 
 " Well get your things and come along. We've a 
 dinner-party on tonight, and I'm in a hurry. I say, I'm 
 jolly glad to see you, old man." 
 
 " Same here." They plunged into comfortable talk, 
 and it seemed to Harry only a few minutes before he was 
 following Richard into a cool and spacious house, Rich- 
 ard's house. 
 
 " You do yourself well," he said, aware of himself as 
 very much the younger brother. He was the rolling stone, 
 that, as it rolled, touched earth with every side of it, with 
 every bit of its surface that was a humble thing, kicked 
 on by chance. Richard was different; he was rooted, a 
 plant, and he had grown to a stately height. Wonderful 
 man, Richard. 
 
 " I say, Dick, about that dinner-party ! " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " I haven't any dress clothes." 
 
 Richard considered. " You'll have to wear my old 
 suit." 
 
 " It would trail on the ground ! " 
 
 " I'll ask Ethel about it. And look here, Henry, the 
 Sirdar is coming and people like that. They may be
 
 The Rolling Stone 307 
 
 useful in getting you a job. You try and interest them." 
 
 " All right," said Harry cheerfully. 
 
 When, an hour later, they went to dress, Richard de- 
 layed his brother for a moment. 
 
 " You haven't seen my youngest." 
 
 " I was going to ask you " 
 
 " The nursery is here." 
 
 They found the baby in his bath, a healthy youngster 
 with the clear skin of the Kings. He turned long blue 
 eyes on his uncle and decided to smile. Harry held out 
 a hand and with a thrill felt little fingers close about his 
 thumb and cling. 
 
 " What lunch-hooks he's got ; there's strength for you ! " 
 He pulled gently, and the baby, clinging, rose a little in 
 the water. " He's going to be a fighter, that one. Wish 
 I could have the training of him. That's right, punch 
 your old uncle, hit him hard. What's his name, Dick?" 
 
 " Henry." 
 
 "You don't say so?" The thrill again. What a jolly 
 youngster, and he was Richard's ! The luck some people 
 had ! Well, time enough. 
 
 " Henry," too. Another Harry King ! It made you 
 feel queer to think of it. " I must cross his hand." 
 
 Ethel had come in and was looking on. Her brother- 
 in-law turned to her. "Are you superstitious?" 
 
 " Not more than other people." 
 
 He took some coins out of his pocket and, selecting a 
 sovereign bearing the date 1905, crossed the baby's pink 
 palm with it. " You must take the first sock he wore ; 
 have you got it? " 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " Put this talisman in it and keep it till he's old enough 
 to know its value. Look ! " He showed a sovereign 
 minted in 1874. " Not a day passes but I turn this
 
 308 The Rolling Stone 
 
 over two or three times. Influence is a factor in our lives 
 of which we know nothing. The stars, this coin, I don't 
 know how it may influence my life." 
 
 Richard moved impatiently. The queer chap that 
 Harry was with his half-savage beliefs ! And Ethel was 
 looking impressed. She would put the coin in the sock 
 and keep it for baby Henry. Trust a woman! 
 
 " Come along or we shall never be ready." 
 
 IV 
 
 The women had left the men to their cigars and wine. 
 
 " Person from the office, sir," said the dark servant at 
 Richard's elbow ; " says he will not keep you long." 
 
 "Tell him," said Richard softly, "to go to hell and 
 wait for me there." 
 
 " He says the mail goes out tonight, sir." 
 
 Richard resigned himself. His guests would excuse 
 him. His subordinate was fresh from England, did not 
 yet know the ropes. 
 
 He dispatched the business it was, after all, of slight 
 importance and returned. As he opened the door he 
 was conscious that the hum of general conversation had 
 ceased, that one resonant voice was dominating the room. 
 What was Harry saying? 
 
 " I had no food that day or the next, then a bitch who'd 
 come down to selling matches in the street spoke to me. 
 * Hullo, my old toe-rag,' says she, ' you look as if you'd 
 bumped the rock.' I wasn't asking help, mind you 
 sooner died but when she spoke to me I nearly broke 
 down. Not a word, not a kindness, not a bit of bread for 
 me in all Johannesburg " 
 
 The prosperous gentlemen who sat at ease about the 
 table were listening like children to a tale. Circumstances
 
 The Rolling Stone 309 
 
 had railed them off from the herd, from contact with the 
 harsh surface of life. Harry, outcast, scallawag, who 
 had done dubious things and known dubious people, was 
 like the troubadour paying for bed and supper with a 
 song of fascinating adventure. They asked him ques- 
 tions, seeing the Boer War through the eyes of a private, 
 listening to stories of Devlin, of cattle-duffing, of Johan- 
 nesburg in war and peace. 
 
 On the way home the greatest among them said that 
 Richard King was a good fellow, a thoroughly decent 
 chap, " but that brother of his, if he were given a chance 
 he might do something." 
 
 When Richard brought Harry's qualifications under 
 the notice of those who were making the new Egypt he 
 found no difficulty in getting him a job. He knew himself 
 to be a popular man ; and, of course it was that. They 
 were glad to oblige him by finding his brother work. 
 
 " They've given you the Port Sudan job, Henry. It 
 will be a fine thing for you, getting in here. Egypt is 
 going ahead." 
 
 Harry's slanting eyes considered him. " I can do with 
 little old Egypt for a bit," said he, " but I'm not your 
 kind, Dick. I'm not here for keeps." 
 
 Richard looked disappointed. What a pity Harry 
 never stuck to anything ! " A rolling stone " 
 
 "And moss is money?" Yes, it would be pleasant 
 to send home five thousand pounds for James to invest, 
 teach him to call other people unsuccesssful, still " Fact 
 is, I don't really want it. I I want " 
 
 " What do you want ? " 
 
 " Oh, just to knock about." He was aware of his need 
 as a wind that drove him before it, but he could not put 
 it into words. Life was disappointing; he filled his belly 
 with husks and they were not satisfying. Once, long ago,
 
 310 The Rolling Stone 
 
 he had found something he could do, something that had 
 left him content. They had called it degrading, brutaliz- 
 ing, and he had let them turn him from it ; but, ever since, 
 he had been searching, searching 
 
 Richard would not understand. 
 
 At Port Sudan he put up a crane, and the attendant 
 difficulties kept him interested until they had been solved. 
 The crane was one of his finest pieces of engineering work. 
 In token of approval the Government gave him other jobs. 
 He built barracks for them and then a wharf, and finally 
 was sent to Khartoum to inaugurate a water-supply. 
 
 " You are safe now for a clear 800 a year," said 
 Richard. 
 
 " Never monkeyed with waterworks before," said 
 Harry ; " it will be an experience." 
 
 " A little influence is a useful thing." 
 
 " You and your influence ! They saw me put up that 
 crane." 
 
 Richard heard no more of Harry for some time. He 
 could congratulate himself on having steered the rolling 
 stone into a good berth. When writing home he said that 
 Harry appeared to have settled down, and Mr. King, 
 who since his son had come unscathed through the Boer 
 War, regarded him as " spared," wondered if it could be 
 true. Had Harry's hour struck? had he settled down 
 like Richard, like James? An answer to prayer; and 
 he, the boy's father, would be yes, of course he would be 
 glad. 
 
 He need not have feared. One morning, when Richard 
 reached the office he found Harry in possession. 
 
 " Finished," said he. 
 
 " Well but they've appointed you the engineer in 
 charge of the waterworks." 
 
 " Soft job; any old Mary Ann could run it now."
 
 The Rolling Stone 311 
 
 " You're not going to jack it up? " 
 
 " Done it ! " 
 
 Richard sat back in dismay. " What next? " 
 
 " I've a fancy for the goldfields, then I might go on to 
 New Zealand." 
 
 " You're hopeless." 
 
 " Send you the first nugget I find." 
 
 " When are you sailing? " 
 
 " Tomorrow, on the Bremen. If you know anybody 
 out there, you might give me an introduction." 
 
 " All right. You will stay the night with us ? " 
 
 " Thanks, old man, but I won't. Ethel had enough of 
 me last time. I've lived rough and I don't take kindly 
 to dressing for dinner and that. Besides, I want to see 
 Cairo the Cairo you've never seen. Get a batch of 
 introductions ready and I'll call for them in the morn- 
 ing." 
 
 Richard hesitated. He would have liked to cut official- 
 dom and make a night of it, and Harry, seeing his hesita- 
 tion, grinned. " Not all beer and skittles being a respec- 
 table member of society. Eh, what? Lordy, I'm glad 
 I'm a tough." 
 
 " You wait," said Richard.
 
 Chapter XVII 
 
 SO bright was the sunshine that Harry King, fol- 
 lowing his host from the garden into the shadowy 
 drawing-room, found it difficult to distinguish the 
 forms and faces of those sitting there. He walked 
 blindly in the wake of Philip Madden until he found that 
 he had been led up to a black-and-gold sofa on which lay 
 Philip Madden's invalid wife. 
 
 The gloom of the long room was changing to twilight, 
 a clear dark twilight, and in it, softly yet sufficiently 
 defined, were the figures of other women. He heard Mrs. 
 Madden's " Mr. King Miss Holden, Miss Kitty 
 Gray." 
 
 The girls were pouring out tea. If he did not help 
 them they would think him a lout, yet he felt awkward. 
 The woman on the sofa, the woman with the bright eyes 
 in a dead face, was looking at him thoughtfully ; her look 
 was piercing, and something in him shrank. 
 
 The room and the people affected him strangely, made 
 him feel out of things and young. 
 
 He wasn't young now, he was over thirty. Perhaps he 
 felt out of things because he had just come from the 
 Australian gold-fields, from the rough open life. 
 
 He went across to the girls. Kitty Gray was in nurse's 
 uniform. She turned laughing eyes on him, welcoming 1 
 his help. A nice little thing and pretty. He felt in- 
 stantly at home with her. 
 
 " I hope you play tennis, Mr. King? " 
 
 312
 
 The Rolling Stone 313 
 
 " I do, but I haven't either racquet or shoes with me." 
 
 " I think we can supply them. Margaret and I were 
 just wishing some one would drop in to make up a set." 
 
 Miss Holden's name, then, was Margaret. It seemed 
 to him that he had been aware of her as soon as he entered 
 the room. He ventured now to turn from Kitty, to turn 
 as if for corroboration to the tall girl with the sweep 
 of heavy dark hair. 
 
 " Singles are tiring," she said in a deep voice. 
 
 He carried a cup of tea across the room to Mrs. Mad- 
 den. What strange cups black ! Now he came to 
 think of it, the room was strange ; the grey walls were the 
 colour of mist and the furniture was black and gold a 
 very odd sort of drawing-room. He preferred something 
 warmer and more like what other people had. 
 
 Mrs. Madden detained him for a little, talking of his 
 journey, of Sidney 
 
 " Darling harbour ! " said Harry. 
 
 She inquired after the Richard Kings, after Ethel's 
 people. Was the old Archdeacon still alive? And Harry 
 himself, what had brought him to New Zealand? 
 
 " I'm an engineer, but I prefer pioneer work to any 
 other." He told her of the crane at Port Sudan, and 
 always, as she listened, he was conscious of her thoughtful 
 gaze. 
 
 " Mr. Madden will know what is being done here. Are 
 you in a hurry to start work? " 
 
 " Oh, no." 
 
 " Christchurch is a pleasant, hospitable sort of 
 place " 
 
 " It seems so. Mr. Madden has already put me up 
 for the club." 
 
 " I hope you will come up and see me as often as you 
 can. I am always here." She indicated the sofa, angling
 
 314 The Rolling Stone 
 
 for the young man's pity. She had seen him look at 
 Kitty, turn from Kitty to Margaret. It was a chance. 
 
 "I suppose you are going to play tennis now? Well, 
 I won't keep you, but you must stay to dinner." 
 
 From her sofa she could see the court. She looked 
 down the long black-and-gold room with its walls of mist, 
 looked out of wide French windows that opened on a tiled 
 veranda. Opposite was the Holdens' house, and the ten- 
 nis-court lay between. Many a bitter afternoon had Mrs. 
 Madden spent watching Margaret play singles with her 
 husband with Philip ! 
 
 If the stranger from overseas should take a fancy to 
 Margaret 
 
 He played well with a hard serve, a serve it was dif- 
 ficult to return, and he was amazingly quick on his feet. 
 
 Margaret could not but be impressed. 
 
 Mrs. Madden would give him opportunities. He looked 
 an unusual sort of young man. He wasn't handsome, 
 she doubted his being particularly clever, but he had 
 fine shoulders, shoulders, disproportionate to his height. 
 A woman would admire those shoulders ! Rosa Madden 
 saw them as an indication of strength; and that evening 
 at supper she turned the talk on narrow escapes, tight 
 corners, sudden death. 
 
 " It is curious how careless people are," said Harry. 
 " I remember an instance when I was at the mines in 
 South Africa. It was against the rules for any one to 
 sit on the trolly-lines, yet men did it. One day the 
 loaded trolley had just been dragged up the incline, and 
 a big Cornishman, named Tredegar, sat himself down just 
 there, and began to fill his pipe. The chain of the trolly 
 must have been flawed ; anyway, it broke and the released 
 trolly came roaring back." 
 
 " And the man sitting there? " breathed Kitty.
 
 The Rolling Stone 315 
 
 " They took what was left of him up in a sack." 
 
 "Oh!" screamed Kitty, putting her hands over her 
 ears. " How terrible ! " 
 
 " It was a quick death," said Margaret slowly, and 
 she thought that though such a death sounded terrible, 
 it was not. One moment and you were fighting your 
 losing battle, the battle that was so exhausting; the next, 
 and the gnawing pain in your heart was gone, extinguished. 
 Her eyes dwelt on Harry with an unseeing gaze. What 
 was it like to be utterly, everlastingly at peace? She 
 had a sensation as of wings bearing her up not her own 
 wings. She turned her eyes from Harry to Philip Mad- 
 den. No, not even for the peace of God 
 
 " It is queer," murmured Mrs. Madden, " that after 
 seeing a thing like that men should still believe in a special 
 Providence, should still think there is a God who can in- 
 terpose between them and accident." 
 
 Harry looked at her in surprise; he did not see the 
 connexion. " Yes," he said, " I do. Why not? " 
 
 " Simply because He doesn't." 
 
 " You mean He doesn't always," said Harry. 
 
 "You believe in a God who has favourites?" 
 
 " I think He has His chosen." 
 
 " Oh, you are like my brother ! The poor boy was 
 killed during the Boer War. In his last letter he said, 
 * My escapes have been hair's-breadth. I cannot think 
 but that they are due to One Above who has taken me 
 specially under His protection. No doubt I am being 
 preserved for some purpose ' The man who shared his 
 tent was playing with a revolver, did not know it was 
 loaded, and as my brother wrote those words it went off. 
 Across them is a brown smear " She sighed, for she 
 was the only sister of five brothers and the five were dead. 
 How could she expect more happiness, a better fate than
 
 316 The Rolling Stone 
 
 had been theirs ? " Ah, Mr. King, we none of us like to 
 believe that we are subject to immutable law." 
 
 " I don't believe it," said Harry. " I've evidence to 
 the contrary." 
 
 " Evidence ? Oh, come now ( " 
 
 " Anyway, whether or not it is what you would call 
 evidence, it is good enough for me." 
 
 He had volunteered for every foolhardy expedition, 
 gone on every forlorn hope during the Boer War. But 
 she would say that his escapes had been due to chance! 
 There was also his remarkable cure he could hardly 
 speak to her of that. Yet surely that was convincing? 
 Later, when he was in the billiard-room with his host, 
 he mentioned it. 
 
 " Why, good heavens, man," said Madden, " such cures 
 are as plentiful as flowers in spring! Look at White, the 
 man I introduced you to at the club; he's an instance 
 in point. He's as sound as a roach now and the father 
 of half a dozen kids, and he's only one of many. If that 
 gammey heart of yours had got right, though, you would 
 have had something to make a song about." 
 
 This, though disconcerting, did not alter Harry's con- 
 viction. How could it when he had walked with God? 
 
 II 
 
 When he left the Maddens' house it was as an escort to 
 the girls. He was sorry Margaret Holden had such a 
 little way to go ; she had appeared willing to listen when 
 he talked and he wanted to go on talking. If he had had 
 any encouragement he would have lingered, pouring out 
 words, have kept Margaret at her gate and Kitty waiting. 
 
 But Margaret, smiling at him faintly, held out her 
 hand. " I seem to have been born tired," she said, " and
 
 The Rolling Stone 317 
 
 tonight I'm worse than usual. There's nothing for it but 
 bed. Good night, Mr. King." 
 
 " I shall see you again ? " 
 
 " You want to tell me more about preferential tariffs 
 for the Empire ? " 
 
 " I want to make you see what the Empire means." 
 
 " Do you? Well, good night now. Good night, 
 Kitty." 
 
 She went slowly up the drive. 
 
 Harry walked on with the little nurse. " Who are 
 the Holdens ? " he said. 
 
 " Holden made a fortune in Canterbury lamb. He is 
 a widower and Margaret is his only child. Very pretty, 
 isn't she? " 
 
 " Pretty? Hardly." Pretty wasn't the right word. 
 
 " Not your style? Dear me, and I thought she was." 
 
 Not far to Kitty's lodgings. " Won't you come in 
 and have a drink ? I do as I like here ; and there's always 
 whisky and soda going for my friends." 
 
 " Afraid I must get back." 
 
 " Well another time. You know, I was awfully in- 
 terested in what you said about the Empire and that. 
 I've never met any one before who could explain it to 
 me ; I dare say I'm stupid " 
 
 " We'll have lots of talks." He shook her hand so 
 heartily that she cried out with the pain. 
 
 " Oh," she said, " but I do like a man to be strong." 
 
 Ill 
 
 Harry at the club was writing letters home; but the 
 ink used for " Dear mother " was long since dry and he 
 had added nothing further. His thoughts, indeed, were 
 with Margaret Holden, with the black swathe of hair
 
 318 The Rolling Stone 
 
 folded smoothly across Margaret's brow, with the dark 
 eyes that so often rested on him without seeing him. 
 
 To him entered Madden with an offer of work. " A 
 well-paid job! " 
 
 "Constructive?" 
 
 " They are making a tunnel over at Orea, and up to 
 now have been using hand-labour rock-drills, you know. 
 But they are not making much headway. They want a 
 man to take down machinery and set it up." 
 
 " I could do that. When should I be wanted? " 
 
 " As soon as you could go." 
 
 " I like this place," said Harry ; " I don't know that 
 I'm in any hurry." 
 
 Madden moved as if he found the deep leathern chair 
 of the club uncomfortable. " Like more than the place, 
 perhaps? " he said, and did his best to smile. 
 
 Harry laid down his pen. " That is so," he said at 
 last. "Do you think do you think I've a chance?" 
 
 "A chance with Holden, do you mean? " 
 
 "Well, I didn't but " 
 
 " Depends on what you have to offer." If only he 
 could have knocked the silly smile off Harry's face! 
 
 " To offer? " The other was taken aback. " I've got 
 my hands and my head. I can earn enough to support a 
 wife. What more does he want?" 
 
 " It wouldn't be much use going to Old Joe unless you 
 could show him you had an established position." 
 
 Harry had not intended to go to Old Joe. " I was 
 drawing 800 a year in Egypt." 
 
 " You were yes." Why the devil hadn't the fellow 
 stopped in Egypt? 
 
 " I hope," said the unsuspecting Harry, " that I shall 
 soon be in an equally good position here." 
 
 " Oh will be." He forced a grin. Harry was a free
 
 The Rolling Stone 319 
 
 man ; he could go ahead with his work ay, and with 
 his wooing. Madden lifted his hand from the arm of the 
 chair and let it fall again ; it felt weighed down, loaded 
 with invisible shackles, loaded so heavily that it was use- 
 less. 
 
 " You mean that I've got to show them ? " The idea 
 of a task, of something tangible, pleased him. When it 
 came to deeds he was the man. " Very well, then, it's 
 me for Orea, and I'll work like a navvy." He turned an 
 awakened face on the man lying back wearily in the 
 deep chair. " Isn't she a topper, Madden? You think 
 you think I've got a chance? " 
 
 " Has she ever led you to suppose " 
 
 The prospect of a job, the hope of returning to the 
 strains of " See, the Conquering Hero Comes," was work- 
 ing in him like yeast that evening he wrote in the 
 shiny black notebook that Madden was the whitest man 
 he had ever known ! 
 
 " Ah! " said he jovially, " wouldn't you like to know? " 
 He got up from the writing-table. " Let's go and have a 
 drink? " 
 
 Madden excused himself. A little more of Harry's 
 society and the feelings he was controlling with so much 
 difficulty must break loose. 
 
 "Business? It's always business with you, old man." 
 He slapped Madden on the shoulder; and Madden set his 
 teeth and bore it. " Well you shall dance at our 
 wedding " 
 
 IV 
 
 Harry when he reached the camp at Orea found himself 
 the representative of a new order. Machinery was to 
 take the place of hand labour and Harry was to erect it. 
 For some time after his arrival the entries in the shiny
 
 320 The Rolling Stone 
 
 black notebook were entirely concerned with his work. 
 
 " Went up Fellbrigg Creek to see where the pipe-line 
 is coming for the power. 790 feet." 
 
 " Working at crane fine." 
 
 " Rails and timber-loading fine." 
 
 " Got up high-pressure side compressor and bed-plate. 
 Three horses up incline." 
 
 " Fixed compressors on their beds with bolts and 
 dowel-pins." 
 
 " Drills started on the tunnel-face : satisfactory." 
 
 The foreman of the hand-labour contingent, Dan Dillon, 
 was notorious for having bossed every camp in which 
 he had worked. Tales of his brutality hung, like a warn- 
 ing, in the atmosphere, and where he was concerned men 
 walked delicately. This man perceived that the ma- 
 chinery which Harry had brought would supersede him. 
 He brooded over the state of affairs, and the anger in 
 him, the anger that was always smouldering, began to 
 flame. It was not directed against the masters, however, 
 nor against the iron and steel, but against the men, 
 traitors to their class, who were helping Harry to bring 
 power down the mountain-side and substitute machinery 
 for hand labour; in particular it was directed against 
 Archie McClean, a mechanic who had come to Orea Camp 
 with the new boss. 
 
 One Sunday in August, a bitterly cold day of rain and 
 wind which towards afternoon had ended in a snowfall, 
 Harry was in his shack on the hill-side. He had been 
 engaged fixing up a fireplace, and was surveying it with 
 the approval of a man who knows how great have been 
 the difficulties he has had to surmount, when the sound 
 of a commotion in the camp reached his ears. 
 
 He went to the door. The snow had ceased, but a wind, 
 a piercingly cold wind, was blowing. Harry did not like
 
 The Rolling Stone 321 
 
 the cold, was not enjoying a winter in the mountains 
 wished, indeed, he were back in Egypt. The wind re- 
 minded him of holes in the hut-walls, of interstices be- 
 tween the roughly squared tops. He meant to plug them 
 as soon as he could spare the time. After all, no time like 
 the present ! As for the camp, the men weren't babies 
 
 He was turning back into the room when he caught 
 sight of a figure, dark against the snow. It was that of 
 a man, and the man was running towards him up the 
 track. In another minute a small foxy fellow, West by 
 name, came across the little clearing. 
 
 " It's Dillon and McClean," he panted. 
 
 Harry reached for his revolver. " Can't you fellows 
 stop them? " 
 
 " The men are afraid of Dillon." 
 
 "Pah! Afraid?" 
 
 " He's looking pretty ugly." 
 
 " All right ! " With West at his heels, he ran down 
 the hill-side. In the camp the men were clustered about 
 a small open space, and what was going on there Harry, 
 being short, could not see. He thrust in among them, 
 using his strength. 
 
 Dillon and McClean? As far as make-up was con- 
 cerned, he did not think them unequally matched. The 
 foreman was a square chunk of muscle, but the Scot was 
 taller, had the longer reach. Remained the spiritual 
 factor, the fierce will behind the muscle. 
 
 Harry forced his way to the front, and as his glance fell 
 on the men he saw at once that their fighting was elemental 
 and without science. Neither knew how to box and their 
 scrapping consisted of fierce attempts to damage each 
 other. They had, indeed, as much idea of clean fighting 
 as a mongrel dog. When Harry reached the edge of the 
 crowd they were rolling over on the ground. McClean
 
 322 The Rolling Stone 
 
 had just frustrated an attempt on the part of Dillon to 
 gouge out his eyes and Dillon was seeking a fresh hold. 
 
 " He'll do him a mischief," cried O'Farrell, a lean 
 cornstalker from Sydney ; and before Harry, quick as 
 he was, could interfere the mischief was done. 
 
 " Gaw blimy he's bitten him ! " 
 
 Harry, calling for volunteers to part the men, flung 
 himself on the struggling heap. 
 
 For the next few minutes he was far too busy with the 
 leg he had tackled to grasp the enormity of what Dillon 
 had done. The cornstalker, little West and another, were 
 working with him ; but it was all they could do, each 
 grappling with a limb, to drag Dillon off McClean. The 
 man put out his utmost strength, once and again he al- 
 most broke from their hold; and in the end, before they 
 had him quiet, there were two men hanging to each limb. 
 Even then the madman glowered at them, furious and 
 unappeased. 
 
 " I'll do him in yet," he shouted as they carried him 
 into a shack. " It's him or me bites the dust." 
 
 He was covered with blood and soil ; and blood, not his 
 own, was on his lips. " Fetch water," said Harry. 
 
 They brought it in a kerosene tin. 
 
 Inadvertently the men had relaxed their grasp of Dillon. 
 As the kerosene tin was brought in he sprang up and, with 
 one mighty kick, sent it through the roof of the shack. 
 They had their work to do over again. The icy water 
 had been scattered over them ; it ran down the walls, sank 
 through their rough clothes. They slipped on the wet 
 floor as they wrestled with Dillon, but at last they had him 
 helpless and apparently resigned. 
 
 " Never seen him in such a bait," said West, as Harry, 
 after locking the shack on Dillon, turned away. " He's 
 got the devil's own temper. He meant killing McClean."
 
 The Rolling Stone 323 
 
 " He must learn he can't do as he likes here," said 
 Harry, whose mind was divided between pity for the man 
 who, superseded, had blundered in his wrath, and horror 
 at the form that blundering had taken. 
 
 At the moment horror was uppermost, for Dillon had 
 bitten a lump of flesh out of McClean's shoulder. 
 
 When Harry reached the injured man's shack he found 
 that others versed in the rough surgery of the wilds, were 
 already bandaging his hurt. McClean had been bleeding 
 freely and the place was a reeking shambles. As Harry's 
 shadow fell on the threshold McClean started up as if to 
 rush away. Seeing it was only the boss, he fell back on 
 his seat. " I think I'll draw my pay," he muttered. 
 " This is more than I bargained for. I'll chuck the 
 job." 
 
 Harry was, however, disinclined to lose a useful me- 
 chanic. "No," said he, "it's Dillon goes." 
 
 But Dillon's ferocity had scared the man; he was 
 frightened, as of a mad dog. " It was him or me. I 
 suppose you've got him safe? He he can't get out?" 
 
 " I fancy he's had about enough of it," said Harry 
 reassuringly. " Anyway, he's under lock and key." 
 
 He went back to his hut and resumed work on the log- 
 walls. Dillon must go of course he must. A foul of 
 the worst kind, and, anyway, his action had only precip- 
 itated matters. He and his kind were no longer needed 
 at Orea. The pity of it that such strength should be no 
 longer of any use, that cold, dull iron should have 
 taken its place! The strength Dillon had shown! 
 Harry's arms ached. He could not remember to have seen 
 anything like it before. 
 
 He was stuffing up an interstice through which the wind 
 had whistled suggestively since first the logs were laid 
 on one another, when echoes of another disturbance
 
 824 The Rolling Stone 
 
 reached his ears. This time he did not wait to be fetched 
 but, revolver in hand, tore down the track. If Dillon 
 should have broken loose 
 
 He thought, with sudden clearness, of the kerosene tin. 
 The shacks were crazy buildings. If Dillon had set his 
 mind on getting out he would do it. Why hadn't he, 
 Harry, bound him, staked him out? 
 
 And McClean was hurt, was afraid. He wouldn't put 
 up much of a fight the poor beggar couldn't. 
 
 Harry was heading for Dillon's shack when he saw that 
 the door was off its hinges. Fool he might have 
 known ! 
 
 West shouted to him as he ran past, " Dillon's with 
 McClean ! " and Harry saw that a crowd had gathered 
 about the hut. 
 
 The door was shut. 
 
 He swore. The white-livered skunks, why didn't they 
 burst it in? They were afraid of Dillon. Good Lord 
 afraid ! 
 
 No time to lose! From within the shack rose bestial 
 shouts, the crash of tinware, of iron, a sudden scream. 
 
 With a kick he stove in the door. Dillon had got his 
 victim down ; he was throttling the life out of him. " It's 
 him or me bites the dust," he had said. 
 
 It was difficult for Harry, in the medley of overturned 
 furniture and torn woodwork, to get at the struggling 
 men. Slipping his revolver into his pocket, he aimed a 
 blow at Dillon's face, and, as luck would have it, caught 
 him, good and hard, on the temple. He rolled over 
 stunned, and Harry pulled McClean from under him. 
 When, a few minutes later, Dillon came to himself he 
 was covered by a revolver. 
 
 " Don't you make any mistake : you move and I'll shoot 
 you."
 
 The Rolling Stone 325 
 
 Dillon looked from Harry to McClean, gurgling and 
 sobbing on the floor in slow recovery. He was still dazed. 
 
 " How was it? " he said stupidly. 
 
 " I hit you." 
 
 "You?" 
 
 He stared at the boss, met the impact of a will fiercer 
 even than his, and, perforce, accepted the situation. He 
 was beaten, the boss had beaten him. 
 
 "Why did you come barging in? It wasn't your 
 show." 
 
 " If you'd done for McClean you'd have been stretched." 
 
 "What's the odds?" 
 
 Sullen, broken, unresisting, he was led away. Harry 
 gave orders that he was to be staked out in his shack 
 a thong round each wrist and ankle to fasten them apart. 
 He would be safe then till morning, and when the first 
 working day of the week should break over the snowy 
 landscape he was to be drummed out of the canrm. 
 
 The feelings of the men who gathered on the following 
 morning to witness the passing of Dillon, were mixed. 
 They had suffered at his hands, more than one hd bpen 
 savagely ill-treated, yet they were vaguely sorry for him. 
 He had been mighty in his little way and he was fallen. 
 The story would run before him. Wherever he found 
 work, if he tried the old bullying, blustering tactics, it 
 would be, " 'Ere, don't you come it over us ! We know 
 all about you. Ever 'eard of Orea? " 
 
 For Dillon it was domino. 
 
 Difficulties with springs in the rock face, difficulties 
 with the concrete, with the foundation; and as long as 
 Harry had difficulties with which to contend he was happy.
 
 326 The Rolling Stone 
 
 The company increased his salary and listened to his ad- 
 vice. They hoped he would stop among the snow-capped 
 mountains until their tunnel was driven through into 
 daylight. They could not ask for a harder-working, 
 more resourceful manager, and they thanked Madden for 
 recommending him. 
 
 " A really good man," said White, the chairman of 
 directors, " is difficult to get. Now King doesn't drink, 
 he works like a nigger, he puts his brains into the job, 
 yet he's, how old thirty-four, did you say? Such a 
 man ought to be at the top of the tree. What's his vice? " 
 
 The men were sitting in the smoking-room at the club. 
 
 " As far as I can make out," said Madden, " he can't 
 stick to a job. He's had good opportunities, but he's 
 here today and gone tomorrow." 
 
 The fat face of the chairman showed anxiety. " I hope 
 he'll stick to Orea." 
 
 " I hope he'll stick to it," said Madden heartily, " till 
 he walks out the other side." 
 
 " He has just asked for a week's leave of absence." 
 
 "The deuce!" 
 
 " Of course, it was granted. Indeed, as we've sur- 
 mounted the main difficulties, he could be spared." 
 
 " Then," said Madden, " you'll be lucky if you get 
 him back." He swallowed his whisky and soda at a gulp 
 and rose. Harry on his way back to Christchurch 
 
 Madden's feet were noisy on the parquet-flooring as he 
 went out, and White looked after him, surprised at his 
 abruptness, at the hasty, almost angry way in which he 
 moved. Madden was a fine-looking man, but as a friend 
 unsatisfactory. Well, every one knew he didn't get on 
 with his wife, and if a man had no comfort in his 
 home 
 
 White thought complacently of the right little, tight
 
 The Rolling Stone 327 
 
 little button-rose who was the mother of his six children. 
 Poor old Madden! 
 
 VI 
 
 That evening, in the city clothes he had not worn for 
 months, Harry King walked out to the Maddens', and 
 every house he passed that was to let won from him a 
 glance, a thoughtful, measuring glance as of one who says : 
 "Is it large enough? Will the furniture I mean to buy 
 look well in it? Will She think it the right sort of house 
 or would She prefer something different larger, smaller, 
 more stately, cosier what ? " 
 
 As he entered the drawing-room it was as if Orea had 
 never been. The present linked itself to the past without 
 a break. Mrs. Madden, in a crimson gown which accen- 
 tuated her pallor, was lying on the black-and-gold sofa. 
 Kitty Gray, who had just returned from Wellington, had 
 come up to gossip about her last case, and Margaret 
 Holden's tall figure, in the white she habitually wore, 
 was at the piano. She was playing from memorv, and 
 Madden was in a -long chair at her side. He had insisted 
 on lighting the piano-candles 
 
 As Harry came through the hall he had heard the music, 
 and had guessed the player to be Margaret. He was in 
 luck. He had come to look for her, to say " Have I a 
 chance? " and she was here, under this roof which shel- 
 tered only his friends. 
 
 " You back? " said Madden, and the surprise and pleas- 
 ure of the others covered the banality of his welcome. 
 
 Mrs. Madden raised herself on the pillows. " We are 
 all glad to see you," she said in her clear, slow voice. 
 " It has been dull here while you have been away stag- 
 nant. I expect you will wake us up." She looked about
 
 328 The Rolling Stone 
 
 her, at the faces of the girls, at her husband. " Sit 
 down, Mr. King, and tell us what you have been doing." 
 
 Below his preoccupation with Margaret lay the fresh 
 memory of the fight between Dillon and McClean; it was 
 near enough to the surface for Harry to clothe it with 
 words. He gave his impression of it the savagery and 
 the pity, the old order passing 
 
 Even Rosa Madden saw the rough camp among the 
 mountains, saw Harry crashing through the door of the 
 shack, running in on the would-be murderer. " I wonder 
 you dared." 
 
 " Oh, that was all right. I was the boss ; it was my 
 job." 
 
 Kitty's eyes were round. " And you had to be so 
 quick 
 
 " Rather ! McClean was black in the face." 
 
 " Oh ! " She shrank from the crude detail. 
 
 " Strange," said Mr. Madden, " that Dillon should have 
 been afraid of the revolver." 
 
 " I don't think he was. I think it was just a sort of 
 last straw. He had made his bid and lost. He'd cocked 
 it over the other men all his life and in machinery he'd 
 found something stronger than himself. He was broken, 
 done for." 
 
 " Something stronger than himself," repeated Madden, 
 " and that breaks a man, yes." 
 
 VII 
 
 When the little gathering said good night Mrs. Madden 
 laid a hand on Kitty's arm : " Just a minute." 
 
 " I'm afraid I must be going." 
 
 " Mr. King wants to speak to Margaret. Give them 
 time to get ahead."
 
 The Rolling Stone 329 
 
 " She doesn't care for him." 
 
 "You think the caring is all on his side?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know." She figured an etui lying on 
 the table at the head of Mrs. Madden's couch, fingered it 
 so roughly that the clasp gave and the mother-of-pearl 
 contents were scattered over the carpet. Mrs. Madden 
 watched her collecting them. " And the gold thimble, 
 Kitty? It must have rolled under the sofa." 
 
 Kitty had them all at last, every little gleaming imple- 
 ment. She shut them hurriedly into the green-and-silver 
 box and made her escape. In Mrs. Madden's eyes as she 
 watched the slight figure pass rapidly across the lawn, 
 was contemptuous understanding. " She, at least, has 
 changed her note." 
 
 She lay back among pillows stiff with gold. They 
 were no more easy to her than her life ; but they were, she 
 thought, beautiful. When the tinsel of them grew 
 tarnished she would throw them away, buy others. She 
 would have what she wanted 
 
 What she wanted? 
 
 Harry, walking with Margaret Holden to her gate, was 
 fiercely conscious that each step was the passing of op- 
 portunity. He must speak to her ; his heart was bursting 
 with what he had to say, it was throwing itself about in 
 his chest so that he was nearly choked, and yet he could 
 not find words. " You know," he said at last, " you know 
 why I went to Orea? " 
 
 Margaret stirred in her dream. " It was a good open- 
 ing, I suppose." 
 
 " I wanted you to realize," said Harry, " that I was a 
 man who could do things." 
 
 She had hardly been aware of him. Outside the drama 
 of her life a few dim figures moved, and Harry's had been 
 one of them. She had seen him, vaguely, as a friend's
 
 330 The Rolling Stone 
 
 friend ; had not bestowed on him more than a moment's 
 thought. That he should have been thinking of her was 
 startling, it was also disquieting. 
 
 " I did not doubt it," she said coldly. 
 
 " You know I went because of you ! " 
 
 They had reached her gate. She stepped inside and 
 turned, a tall figure, black and white under the brilliant 
 moon. 
 
 " I? " she said, as if he had accused her of something 
 discreditable. " How was I to know? " 
 
 " I thought my going would speak for me." 
 
 " Dear Mr. King, I never dreamed it had anything to 
 do with me." 
 
 She hoped that was conclusive, but Harry could not 
 believe what had been so patent to others had been hidden 
 from her. 
 
 " Why did you think I went to the Maddens'? " 
 
 " I didn't think." 
 
 " I went to meet you." 
 
 She moved impatiently. It irked her that a man's 
 thoughts even his thoughts should have come about 
 her, come near. 
 
 " And Madden knew. He encouraged me " 
 
 "Mr. Madden?" 
 
 " He got me the job at Orea. He told me I hadn't a 
 chance unless I proved to you I wasn't a waster." 
 
 "He sent you to Orea?" He detected a hint of 
 laughter, of feminine exultation, and imagined she was 
 at last beginning to realize what he had done. 
 
 " I worked there like a dock-labourer," he said earn- 
 estly. " I want to spend my life working for you." 
 
 A shadow like a grey moth flitted by ; it hesitated pre- 
 ceptibly, but neither saw it and it flitted on down the 
 road.
 
 The Rolling Stone 331 
 
 " Oh no," said Margaret in a troubled voice, " no." 
 
 " I'm rough compared to you. I left school early ; 
 I have not bothered much with books. But," he paused 
 and his voice sank to soundlessness, " well, I'd do anything 
 on earth for you " 
 
 " Don't " said Margaret. 
 
 " You've only to say." 
 
 " Mr. King, I'm sorry, more sorry than I can tell you, 
 but it's no use." 
 
 He began to plead, urging on her the proof of devotion 
 that he had given, begging her to think it over, to let 
 him have a chance. Why shouldn't she? What more 
 could he do or offer? 
 
 " Oh, stop " she said, lifting a hand as if to stay the 
 flow of words. " Mr. King, be sensible." 
 
 " Sensible? " said Harry. 
 
 " A woman knows whether any particular man attracts 
 her ; and if he doesn't, she says ' No ' at least, she does 
 if she's honest." 
 
 " It might come." 
 
 " Come? " she said derisively, and touched the back of 
 his hand with a finger-tip. " If I could care for you, that 
 would have sent a quiver of fire up my arm ; it doesn't." 
 
 How did she know? "There is some one else," he 
 said. 
 
 She looked at him sadly. " It's growing late, Mr. 
 King." The old unseeing look had come back to her 
 eyes ; do what he might he could not banish it. For her he 
 hardly existed. " Good night." 
 
 Kitty's lodgings were in a corner house. As Harry 
 came swinging by he caught sight of a little figure at the 
 gate, and guessed that she was waiting for him. His 
 heart turned to her in gratitude. She would know that 
 Margaret had turned him down.
 
 332 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " It's early yet," he said. " Come out to supper with 
 me." 
 
 The thought of his dark and silent room at the hotel 
 was unendurable. He would get Kitty to sit with him 
 as long as possible. Affection is comforting when you 
 are down on your luck. 
 
 As they went through the streets she slipped her hand 
 under his arm, and he, who was as finicky with regard 
 to touch as a woman, responded gratefully. She stood 
 between him and the realization that he had lost Mar- 
 garet. 
 
 At the " Black Cat " they had a choice of tables, and 
 decided on one at the end of the long room. Kitty had 
 looked round a little anxiously. She sat opposite to 
 Harry, and in a glass behind him kept watch on the 
 door no one here that she knew, no one as yet. 
 
 Ordering a light wine, he drank " to your bright eyes," 
 and Kitty dimpled. From under her nurse's cap tendrils 
 of glistening hair, breaking in little curls, made her look 
 younger than she was. The sight of Harry, released 
 from thraldom, gave her a little excited feeling. Here was 
 the man that she would like to catch 
 
 "I'm going to chuck my job with the Orea Tunnel 
 Company. Don't know whether I'm wise or not and don't 
 care. Sick of the whole business." 
 
 "What shall you do?" 
 
 " Go on a tour round the islands. Must be something 
 in the country worth seeing." 
 
 He was going away, going in reckless mood; he might 
 never return. Kitty's heart began to beat quickly. " Oh, 
 Harry," she breathed, and in her anxiety leaned towards 
 him across the table, " take me with you ! " 
 
 The offer was to the poor fellow like moonrise on a
 
 The Rolling Stone 333 
 
 dark night; it could not turn the night into day but it 
 might prevent him losing his way. He looked at her 
 kindly. " I wish I could." 
 
 " I'd love to go. Oh, Harry, I would like it so much." 
 
 The meaning of her offer had hardly reached him. She 
 wanted to be good to him, to comfort him in his trouble. 
 He met her eyes, and there was that in Kitty's face, on 
 her parted lips, that brought him a fuller knowledge. 
 " But " he said, for he was no betrayer of innocence. 
 
 She twisted her wine-glass about, making the yellow 
 lights shift in the wine, watching them. " It it 
 wouldn't be the first time," she murmured. 
 
 He was still dubious. " I like a square deal." 
 
 " Yes yes," she said, " it would be all right, really." 
 She was at her ease again, only eager to carry her point. 
 
 " Well, then perhaps." 
 
 " Oh, Harry," she clapped her little hands, " how jolly 
 it will be ! " And she smiled at him, happy as a child. 
 
 " How will you manage? " 
 
 " That's easy. I have an offer of a case at Orunga. 
 I'll wire it off." 
 
 " People will know." 
 
 " Stupid ! " She pouted at him. " I shall tell every 
 one that I've gone to it." 
 
 Evident she could take care of herself. " I shall pull 
 out on the ten o'clock train tomorrow," he said. 
 
 " I'll be there. We won't start together, we'll meet 
 down the line." 
 
 " Yes," he said, smiling over her simple ruses, feeling 
 that it was dear and sweet of her to be willing to come 
 with him, for though Margaret had turned him down, 
 it was still Margaret ! 
 
 No question of anything serious between him and Kitty ;
 
 334 The Rolling Stone 
 
 but he liked a girl who was not always on the make, who 
 wanted to give. What would Kitty get out of their fort- 
 night together? As far as he could see nothing. 
 
 VIII 
 
 In her eyrie at the corner house, an eyrie with look- 
 outs along the crossing roads, Kitty sat before her dress- 
 ing-table. She had said good night to Harry and come 
 up to bed; but she was too excited to be sleepy. More- 
 over, she had a letter to write. 
 
 It was a warm evening, and, with her nightgown open 
 at the throat, she sat at her dressing-table. The lace 
 cover was cumbered with silver pots, pots she kept 
 meticulously clean and which she thought showed what 
 a refined and artistic person she was. That night, how- 
 ever, the pots had been pushed aside to make room for 
 her writing-case. It was a fat writing-case, it bulged 
 with letters, and it went with Kitty on all her journeyings. 
 She opened it and searched among its contents for one 
 particular letter. 
 
 Before she went off for her fortnight with Harry she 
 meant to make sure of the future. That fortnight would 
 imperil what she valued most in the world, but she was 
 going to insure herself against disaster. Harry was not 
 to be trusted : he would accept what you offered, he would 
 not give anything in return. 
 
 But he was adorable. 
 
 That fierceness and the strength of him! A shiver of 
 anticipatory delight ran through her limbs. She was 
 conscious of a sweet hot stir whatever it cost she must 
 
 go- 
 She found the letter; it was from Ernest Franks, the 
 
 accountant, and it asked her to marry him. Franks was
 
 The Rolling Stone 335 
 
 a fair, dapper man with very thin legs. She had refused 
 him twice, had refused him on account of those thin legs. 
 What else could he expect? 
 
 " DEAR ERNEST, Just off to a case at Orunga, but I 
 don't expect to be away more than a fortnight. Perhaps 
 when I get back I may have something to tell you that 
 you will like to hear. 
 
 " Your flighty but affectionate little 
 
 " KITTY." 
 
 IX 
 
 The evening of the first day found the travellers in a 
 fairyland of lakes and mountains. They had decided to 
 stop when and where the humour took them. The sight 
 of a white hostelry, reflected in still waters waters 
 which under the sunset sky flamed and shone caught 
 their fancy. 
 
 "What do you say to this?" asked Harry; and his 
 companion, weary of the train, agreed. 
 
 A broad road ran from the station to the inn, and be- 
 yond it the hills rose abruptly, fold on fold. 
 
 " I know the islands pretty well but I've never been 
 here," said Kitty. 
 
 They inquired for rooms and found that the place, 
 which catered for summer visitors, was nearly empty. 
 The season was over. " We close down for the winter," 
 said the clerk simply, " but, of course, that is not yet." 
 He opened the ledger. "What name shall I enter?" 
 
 " King Mr. Henry King." 
 
 "And wife?" 
 
 " No." Harry had spoken without thinking, and for 
 a moment he held his breath. What would Kitty do? 
 
 The clerk glanced questioningly at her. " Sister," she 
 said quickly, " Miss King ! "
 
 336 The Rolling Stone 
 
 But when they were alone she flew at Harry. " How 
 could you ! I felt my cheeks flame such a position to 
 put me in! Any one can see we are not brother and 
 sister." 
 
 " Couldn't tell a lie about a thing like that," said Harry. 
 He was confident that here also he spoke the truth. 
 
 Kitty looked at him forlornly. A man who could not 
 lie for one, commit all the sins of the decalogue for one ! 
 Together only a few hours and already he had left her 
 to face the music ! A good thing, perhaps, that she had 
 written that letter to Ernest Franks. He might have 
 thin legs but you could depend on him. 
 
 She went to her room to wash off the stains of travel. 
 Perhaps there were two kinds of men, lovers and husbands, 
 the one for holidays, the other for the serious business of 
 life. She thought wistfully of Harry. In a room he took 
 the eyes of women. In England, in Africa, wherever he 
 had been, women must have felt for him as she did; and 
 he had he failed them as he had failed her that day ? 
 Would he fail every woman that he fancied he loved or 
 who loved him ? He would she knew it ; yet how des- 
 perately she wanted him, wanted him not merely for a 
 fortnight. She loosened her soft glinty hair and ran 
 out on to the landing. 
 
 " Harry ! " 
 
 He came to his door. 
 
 " I only wanted to suggest you put on something you 
 can row in. We might go on the lake after dinner." 
 
 In her blue Japanese wrap, the fleece of gold rippling 
 to her waist, she was the sort of oleograph Harry could 
 appreciate. She stood smiling up at him, and he caught 
 her in his strong arms, pressed his hard lips to hers, and 
 whispered in her ear. 
 
 The clerk, passing quietly through the hall, smiled to
 
 The Rolling Stone 337 
 
 himself. " Not much brother and sister about that," 
 said he. 
 
 " Why do you want to go back? " said Kitty, conscious 
 of restlessness on Harry's part, annoyed by it. " You 
 are your own master." 
 
 " Want will be my master if I don't get a job." 
 
 "There are more jobs going in Australia than here. 
 Why not try your luck there ? " 
 
 "*I might." 
 
 " Oh, do, Harry." She thought, " And I will go with 
 him, and in the end he'll forget Margaret, and I shall be 
 there, and perhaps perhaps " 
 
 " But just now," said Harry, "we're bound for Christ- 
 church." 
 
 " It's out of our way." Best to take it for granted she 
 was going too. " The boat sails on Friday, and if we 
 go straight down we shall catch it." 
 
 " My trunk is at Christchurch." He thought fondly of 
 his tools. 
 
 " They'd dispatch it to meet us at the dock. Let 
 me" 
 
 She rose, eager to take the steps that would ensure his 
 going, but Harry shook his head. 
 
 " You don't get me." 
 
 The trouble was that she did, that she understood too 
 well. For a fortnight she had done all she knew, yet 
 at the end of it he was still thinking of Margaret. It 
 was like trying to climb a slippery rock, you were up 
 one moment and down the next. " Harry " she said, 
 and came across the room to him and perched herself on 
 the arm of her chair. He was intermittently sensuous; 
 liked to feel a hand on the thick waves of his hair, a slow
 
 338 The Rolling Stone 
 
 stroking hand. He would sit still for minutes at a 
 time while the hand passed over his strongly springing 
 crest, over the short warm hair on the back of his head, 
 the crisp, close hair above his ears would sit with his 
 eyes shut, enjoying it. 
 
 As her hand moved she thought in quick dismay that 
 this might be the last time she would touch those dark 
 locks. . . . 
 
 Not that Margaret would take him from her no, but 
 she had sensed in Harry an elusiveness with which she 
 knew that she could not cope. 
 
 He would slip out of her life when she least expected it. 
 
 " Harry," she whispered, " we've been happy, haven't 
 we? " 
 
 " Very." 
 
 " Let's go on being happy, dear." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Let's go away together, just you and me; let's stick 
 to each other." 
 
 He opened his eyes, looking out of the window as if 
 in search of something. 
 
 " Will you, darling, will you? " 
 
 He sat up, moving his head away from her stroking 
 hand. " Look here," he said, " it's our last day and we 
 were going riding. That stable-help must have forgot- 
 ten." 
 
 Kitty's face fell into puckers and her eyes filled. 
 " You you are unkind," she said. 
 
 " Now, now, don't try and come that over me." 
 
 A tear splashed on to his hand. " Oh, Harry you 
 must love me a little." 
 
 " Very much, my dear." 
 
 " Then " 
 
 He had put her off the chair-arm, but she caught hold
 
 The Rolling Stone 339 
 
 of his hand, fondling it. " Don't, don't leave me, Harry, 
 I can't bear it." Yet at the back of her mind she knew 
 that he would. 
 
 " Look here," he said. " We've had a good time ; let 
 it go at that." 
 
 " You don't love me." 
 
 He had drawn his hand away and gone to the window. 
 The stables were to the right of the hotel. He was listen- 
 ing for the sound of hoofs on the stones. 
 i Kitty followed, but she did not venture to touch him. 
 " Harry," she said humbly, " there was that man in Well- 
 ington, but I was young. I swear to you I didn't know. 
 It's different now. I want I do want to be a good girl. 
 You have made me want to. If if you would help 
 me" 
 
 The appeal found its way between the cracks, sank 
 through to his heart. Kitty was weak ; she clung to him, 
 needed him. Without him she would go from fancy to 
 fancy till she was down and out. 
 
 Turning from the window, he put an arm round her 
 shoulders, and, for a joyful moment, she thought that 
 she had won. 
 
 " Come," he said soothingly, " come, come." 
 
 She broke away and flung herself into a rocking-chair 
 by the further window. Her little high-heeled shoes 
 tapped on the polished boards. 
 
 Harry whistled, wishing the matter at an end. Silly 
 to have taken the girl along ; he would have been as happy 
 without her. 
 
 He had not enjoyed the fortnight overmuch. Kitty 
 was an engaging little pussy-cat, she scratched and purred 
 lelightfully, but kittens were not much in his line. He 
 could spare them an odd half-hour or so, but a fortnight, 
 a whole fortnight ! The last day or two had (Dragged.,
 
 340 The Rolling Stone 
 
 He would be glad to get back. He wanted to see Mar- 
 garet again. Pretty hopeless, but you never knew 
 
 " Come on," he said. " Let's go and see about those 
 horses." 
 
 The little foot stopped its irritating tattoo. Kitty sat 
 very still for a moment, her face turned away, and Harry 
 thought she was going to be sensible. Though he en- 
 joyed scenes, he had had enough of this. He came nearer 
 and bent over to look into her averted eyes. 
 
 The confident glance was too much for her. She sprang 
 up. She caught at that defiant crest of curls and she 
 tugged. 
 
 "Little cat!" said Harry with his chuckling, jolly 
 laugh as he extricated himself. " Well, now you've evened 
 up matters so let's go out."
 
 Chapter XVIII 
 
 MARGARET HOLDEN could not sleep. A light 
 burned dimly in the wide and airy room. It 
 was protected from the breeze that came 
 through the open window, and its steady pear-shaped 
 flame cast a shimmer as of water on the ceiling. Mar- 
 garet looked at it, hoping that to do so would make her 
 forget the little pain in her side. Many times that night 
 she had shifted her position, hoping to forget the little 
 pain, to forget it in sleep ; and always, after a minute or 
 two, it had begun again, a faint pushing sensation, then 
 a small definite ache, then 
 
 Perhaps if she could leave off coughing? 
 
 Foolish of her to have sat about when she was hot, 
 after playing tennis when she knew, too, that she was 
 liable to chills, that her chest wasn't strong. 
 
 She pushed the pillows into a hillock and leaned against 
 them ; she might be more comfortable sitting up. 
 
 Her handkerchief showed a rusty stain; that was the 
 cough. You could not cough all through a night and 
 nothing happen. Her poor chest ! The cough seemed 
 to come from inside it, and it shook her and hurt her. 
 
 She was tired of lying in bed, tired of the long night 
 and her own restlessness. If she were to get up? If 
 she were to write one of those letters the letters she 
 never sent . . . 
 
 She wrapped herself in the white woollen gown that 
 hung over the end of the bed, slipped her feet into white 
 
 fur slippers that stood ready, and went to her desk. 
 
 841
 
 342 The Rolling Stone 
 
 Her side no longer hurt her; how could it when she was 
 going to write to him? 
 
 From a secret drawer in the old table she took a special 
 pen and a special pad of cream-laid paper. The pen- 
 holder was of crystal, a white transparency, and the ink 
 red. Almost every night Margaret wrote with it, and 
 every morning she burnt what she had written. 
 
 " Beloved," she wrote, and sighed with the relief of 
 utterance. Her heart had been overcharged with that 
 word. She formed her letters with care, took delight in 
 shaping them. " Beloved ! " 
 
 After that she wrote quickly. 
 
 " It is strange how emotion ebbs and flows. It is like 
 the sea. When it ebbs you never dream the tide will turn, 
 but the moment comes and the little waves of feeling begin 
 to run back. You may have been glad to think the ebb 
 has come and that there will be peace. You may have re- 
 joiced in the stretches of recovered personality and the 
 freedom. But you will do so only for a little time. Back 
 it comes, memory, the vivid words, the stir of the blood, 
 with finally the longing only one person can satisfy. The 
 tide is full again, it hems you in ; and its restlessness is 
 the restlessness of your heart." 
 
 The pain had returned, pushing its way from unknown 
 depths to the surface. Margaret got up and moved rest- 
 lessly about the room. "What can I do? Oh what 
 can I do? " 
 
 As before, the change of position proved momentarily 
 beneficial. She returned to the old bureau, to the pad 
 lying white between the two candles, to the half-finished 
 script fine thin lines gleaming in the light, gleaming 
 red. " I write from my heart," she said. 
 
 " The Buddhist doctrine of absorption into the divine 
 used to leave me cold; but I see it differently now. To
 
 The Rolling Stone 343 
 
 be absorbed in what you love would not be extinction but 
 life. It would be like lying in the sun on a hot spring 
 day. You would be warmed through, you would hear 
 the distant roar of the sea, the human sea, and you would 
 have peace. You would be satisfied oh, to be satis- 
 fied ! you would sleep, yet you would still be you. 
 
 " Oh yes, Nirvana for those who love. 
 
 " Beloved, if for one hour I might be absorbed in you ! 
 
 " But if I had that hour I should want another and an- 
 other all time." 
 
 A grey light was filtering through the wide meshes of 
 the window-curtain and the wind had dropped. A fit of 
 coughing tore Margaret's delicate chest and the pain came 
 in stabs. She pushed the letter, with its fine scarlet 
 writing, into a drawer, and staggered across the room to 
 her bed. Another hour and the maid would come to her 
 with a cup of tea. She had borne the pain all night, 
 surely she could endure it that one hour more? She won- 
 dered, unhappily, if she could. She was so hot, so un- 
 comfortable. She began to feel as if she were sinking, 
 sinking through the mattress. A horrid feeling! It 
 opened up possibilities of infinite descent. She saw herself 
 sinking through her little bed, through the polished floor 
 into oh, not into the earth ! 
 
 She could not lay there and face that possibility. Her 
 hand groped for the bell 
 
 II 
 
 " I think we must have a night-nurse as well," Dr. Wil- 
 loughby said. 
 
 Old Joe Holden sat in his big library, among the books 
 that were to him as furniture. " Whatever you like, 
 doc. ; you've only to mention it."
 
 344 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " Well, then, I should like another opinion." 
 
 "Who will you have West?" Holden was a big 
 portly man, but his florid colouring had faded and he 
 looked anxious. 
 
 " I would suggest Cameron ; I think he's the best chest 
 man in the islands." 
 
 " Get him as quick as you can. I suppose " He 
 could not ask the question ; he was remembering that his 
 wife had died of lung-trouble. 
 
 " I'm not satisfied, Mr. Holden, and that's the truth." 
 
 Ill 
 
 Margaret, in her small white bed, was more comfortable 
 than she had been since the beginning of her illness. It 
 was good to be adequately nursed, to have no bother about 
 anything, to resign oneself. 
 
 She did not want the nourishment they brought in the 
 queer cup with a spout. 
 
 It was less trouble to take it than to refuse. She must 
 be really ill. Two nurses meant that, and if she were, 
 she need no longer try to keep Him out of her thoughts. 
 A little indulgence ! When she got better she would start 
 the old treadmill effort that ended in nightly letters 
 letters that, poor things, had to be burnt. 
 
 While she lay ill she might drift a little yes, surely. 
 She lay between sleeping and waking, and around her was 
 darkness, but against that darkness was his face. She 
 slept seeing it, woke to the vision of it. 
 
 Curious how near he seemed. It was as if his thoughts 
 were holding her embraced, as if she were resting on 
 them, on his breast. His voice was in her ear, deepened, 
 trembling, as she had heard it once, twice, as she might 
 have heard it often.
 
 The Rolling Stone 345 
 
 The house was very still. The nurse, a stranger to 
 Margaret, was sitting by the window. She was glad they 
 had not sent for Kitty Gray ; she preferred a stranger. 
 
 In the silence she heard the steps of a man on the tiles 
 of the hall : his step, but it did not ring, it it dragged. 
 Was it possible that he also was ill? She opened her 
 eyes, and the nurse came to her with something in the 
 familiar cup. 
 
 " Nurse," she said in her new voice, a voice that was 
 hoarse and difficult, " some one came.'* 
 
 " Is it some one you would like to see? " 
 
 "Could I?" 
 
 If they would allow her to see people she could not be 
 very ill. 
 
 " For a moment." 
 
 "Do I " she smiled faintly, "do I look all right?" 
 
 It was fortunate, the nurse thought, that she could not 
 see herself. " Oh, quite all right," she said, and walked 
 crisply away, her starched skirts rustling, her shoes mak- 
 ing a dry sound on the boards. She had seen Mr. Mad- 
 den come up to the house and she knew that he had gone 
 into the library. When she knocked on the door he came 
 in answer. She was thankful he, and not Mr. Holden, 
 had come, for she was afraid of Old Joe; he was so grim 
 and so unhappy. 
 
 " Miss Holden would like to see you." 
 
 His face changed. "Does it mean she is better?" 
 
 " Oh, I'm afraid " She was sorry. " The doctors 
 said any wish that she might express that it didn't 
 matter." 
 
 He turned back to tell Old Joe that Margaret had 
 asked for him, then followed the nurse. She had expected 
 that he would ask her questions, but he followed silently. 
 
 Margaret's poor altered face was turned towards the
 
 846 The Rolling Stone 
 
 door, and Philip Madden saw it with a sudden sinking of 
 the heart. He knew and yet 
 
 Though he knew, he had not realized how ill she was. 
 
 The nurse went back to her seat by the window. Out- 
 side was life, and behind her, in the darkened airy room, 
 only things of which she did not wish to think. 
 
 " Margaret ! " said the man, but the hunger in his voice 
 was more than Margaret, enfeebled and with the feeling 
 that she was adrift between sleep and waking, that at any 
 moment she might slip into unconsciousness, could bear. 
 
 "Don't," she said. 
 
 He wanted to anchor the little drifting vessel, wanted 
 her, she felt, to make some sort of effort. 
 
 " I can't," she said hoarsely. " You you must let 
 me go." She was weak, she could not make the effort. 
 
 " No, no," he whispered. " Darling nothing shall 
 come between us after this. Get better, and I'll give up 
 everything and we'll go away. I I want you so." 
 
 The old cry, that he wanted her. For two years he 
 had sought to impose his will on hers. 
 
 He must not talk of the future ; it meant worry and 
 trouble. She did not want to think, she wanted nothing 
 so much as peace. When he looked at her like that there 
 was no peace. 
 
 " Soon better," she assured him. " Don't don't be 
 anxious." She moved her hand a little. She felt vaguely 
 that he needed comfort, though she did not understand why 
 he should. 
 
 " Oh, my dear," he said brokenly as he laid his lips on 
 it, laid it against his cheek. 
 
 She felt his trouble as a vibration, as something that 
 disturbed the stillness. She wished to drift away into a 
 long dream, a dream of the good days before they knew
 
 The Rolling Stone 347 
 
 they loved ; and his eyes, insistent, even fierce, were hold- 
 ing her back. " Tomorrow," she said. 
 
 The nurse stirred in her seat by the window, and Mad- 
 den rose. 
 
 He went out with his head, iron-grey and square, car- 
 ried high. Margaret's dim eyes watched him, her dulling 
 ears listened to the sound of those retreating steps. It 
 was as if she had been working a sampler, as if it were 
 finished now, to the last stitch. She might fold up the 
 canvas, lay it aside 
 
 IV 
 
 The colours in which Mrs. Madden clothed herself ex- 
 pressed the mood of the moment. When she first heard 
 that Margaret was ill she had put on a wine-coloured 
 gown with ornaments of barbaric gold, heavy bosses which 
 as she moved swung together with a metallic sound. 
 
 Margaret, who had been young and strong, who had 
 been able to go about, to play tennis, to ride with Phillip, 
 Margaret was ill. 
 
 Her turn to be helpless and inadequate, to see others 
 doing and going. 
 
 That day Mrs. Madden could not rest on her sofa ; she 
 got up at intervals, she made little attempts at a return 
 to everyday occupations. Margaret's illness was a stim- 
 ulus. 
 
 She sent often to inquire, but the inquiries were never 
 
 " kind." 
 
 Margaret stood between her and hope; if if there 
 were no Margaret 
 
 Mrs. Madden knew something about septic pneumonia ; 
 one of her brothers had died of it. Her thought went
 
 348 The Rolling Stone 
 
 again and again to that sharp illness, so short, only three 
 days. His life blown out like a candle. 
 
 She remembered her mother's face, its white bewilder- 
 ment. Even though her mother had been dead these ten 
 years, she felt a little ache of pity for her; she had been 
 so stricken. 
 
 She pitied her mother, she pitied Mr. Holden ; but for 
 Philip, for Margaret, she had no pity. 
 
 Margaret should not have come between her and 
 Philip. 
 
 There is love and love: the one is but amorous adven- 
 ture, it is of the flesh, it comes and goes ; the other 
 Rosa Madden loved her husband 
 
 He might have come back to her, given her love for 
 love, if it had not been for Margaret. 
 
 If it had been Kitty Gray it would have been amorous 
 adventure, nothing more. 
 
 But with Margaret it was different. 
 
 For months now perhaps even years, she could not 
 remember, but, at any rate, for a long, long time her 
 heart had been wrung with fear. If he cared for Margaret 
 in that way 
 
 How she hated Margaret ! 
 
 And now Margaret was ill. Rosa Madden clashed her 
 heavy bosses of gold and moved about the room. She, the 
 invalid, the dispossessed, she was comparatively well. 
 
 Philip did not come near her. She saw him go across 
 to the Holdens' house, guessed that he was sitting with 
 Holden. 
 
 The specialist had been. So they had had Cameron, 
 not West? Well, West was past his work. 
 
 Mrs. Madden sent over to know the result. The Hol- 
 dens were their most intimate friends. Natural that she 
 should want to know.
 
 The Rolling Stone 349 
 
 Mr. Cameron had recommended this, recommended that 
 " the resources of science ! " 
 
 A day and a night; and Mrs. Madden heard the drag 
 of Philip's step as he came in for a bath. He had shared 
 Holden's vigil, and now Holden was with his child. 
 
 Philip was tired, and though his grief and tiredness were 
 for another woman, Rosa found herself thinking of him. 
 Poor Philip, he could not help himself. 
 
 She took from her hanging cupboard a quiet-coloured 
 gown. Her mood had changed, was changing. That day 
 she did not move about, but lay on the black-and-gold sofa 
 and kept watch. At first she watched the house opposite. 
 
 Philip was avoiding her. Since the beginning of Mar- 
 garet's illness she, Rosa, had not seen him to speak to. 
 She had, of course, seen him. When old Holden was up- 
 stairs Philip would come out of the house, and he would 
 walk up and down. Every time he turned Rosa saw his 
 face. She lay there, and after a time she did not see the 
 house, she saw only his face. 
 
 She could not endure that he should be so unhappy. 
 
 Her hope that last hope the hope she had been 
 cherishing! Well what did it matter? Some days 
 were cloudy, had no sun, and her life was such a day. 
 
 Because she loved him she must let him go. She did 
 not want to but she must 'she must. 
 
 The boundary between their garden and the Holdens* 
 was a row of low shrubs. It was easy for Rosa Madden to 
 pass from the one lawn to the other. 
 
 Holden was with Margaret, and Philip was pacing to 
 and fro below her window. He walked along the side of 
 the house. At the corner he turned and went up again. 
 He walked mechanically because his thoughts were with 
 Margaret, and also because he had not slept for many 
 hours.
 
 350 The Rolling Stone 
 
 As he reached the corner he saw the tall, angular figure 
 of Rosa coming towards him across the sward. What did 
 she want? 
 
 " Philip," she said harshly, and behind the high cheek- 
 bones her eyes glittered with a queer fierce light, " would 
 it help if if I set you free? " 
 
 An indescribably bitter look came into Madden's face. 
 "Now?" he said, and threw back his head and laughed. 
 " If you had done it two years ago but, now? " 
 
 He turned his back, striding away, striding like a man 
 possessed. He felt as if he were suffocating, suffocating 
 with rage. The sense of what he was losing, of what 
 if this feeble, inefficient life had not blocked the way he 
 might have had, had overwhelmed him. He wanted to 
 take Rosa by the throat, to shake her, shake the breath 
 out of her. That she should still be cumbering the earth ! 
 
 And in the room above, Margaret, lulled by the sound 
 of that continuous pacing, half-opened her eyes. " Phil- 
 ip's voice 1 " she murmured. 
 
 Rosa's back hurt her. In crossing the gardens she had 
 attempted more than with comfort she could perform. 
 She found the return journey a matter of time and pa- 
 tience; but at last she was leaning against the drawing- 
 room window, the long open window. 
 
 " I am afraid you are ill," said a voice from within. 
 " Allow me ! " and suddenly she was lifted, she was being 
 carried, she lay once more on the black-and-gold sofa. 
 
 " Oh it is Mr. King ! " she said feebly. A tall woman, 
 she had been wafted across the room as if she had been 
 a baby in arms. " I thought you were at Orea." 
 
 " Just back," he said vaguely. " I dropped into the
 
 The Rolling Stone 351 
 
 club, and when I heard the news, of course, I came out." 
 He looked at her inquiringly ; he was hoping against hope 
 that she would have good tidings for him. 
 
 " Margaret is a delicate girl, Mr. King, no stamina." 
 
 " You can't mean " 
 
 She did not answer, and he got up and moved about 
 the room. At all times a restless fellow, it seemed now 
 as if he could not be still, and after a time the housewife 
 in her took alarm for her delicate old cane chairs with 
 the inlet mother-o'-pearl. She need not have feared. 
 Harry's movements were as sure, as light, as those of a 
 dancer. 
 
 " May I stay for a little? " he said. 
 
 " Stay as long as you like." 
 
 He came over to the sofa. " You too, you were fond 
 of her." 
 
 " Oh, very," said Rosa Madden. 
 
 " She was always here." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Of course, she was very much younger than you." 
 
 The lines by Mrs. Madden's mouth deepened. " Young 
 enough to be my daughter." 
 
 " And so bonnie." He twisted round in his chair. 
 " You were so kind to her, you and Mr. Madden." 
 
 " She was fond of of us." 
 
 He got up, found another chair, brought it forward. 
 " I can't understand it. I've only been away a fortnight, 
 and when I went she was quite well." 
 
 "Quite well." 
 
 " And now " 
 
 " It is septic pneumonia, Mr. King." 
 
 He got up. "I'll just go over and inquire; there 
 may " he looked at her questioningly, " there might be 
 a crisis."
 
 352 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " Oh yes, go," she said. 
 
 The news was the same. Margaret was slowly sinking 
 and nothing no device of science could stay her. 
 Mr. Cameron had been again, he had sat for some time with 
 Old Joe in the desolate library, and now he was gone. The 
 sun was rising over other lands but it was setting here. 
 
 " It is getting late," said Harry. 
 
 " You need not bother about that, Mr. King ; I shall 
 not go to bed." 
 
 He looked at her gracefully. " No, of course you 
 wouldn't." 
 
 What a difference it made when you were in trouble, 
 tto be with some one who was in like case. 
 
 " But," said Rosa Madden suddenly, " you don't love 
 Margaret ! " 
 
 He stared in blank amazement. " I've never loved a 
 woman as I love her," he answered. 
 
 " Then you have loved ? " 
 
 K, hesitated. " I don't know." 
 
 " Perhaps women have loved you? " 
 
 He looked at her but did not answer. 
 
 "Have they?" 
 
 " Perhaps." 
 
 " And you what do you want? " 
 
 " A friend." 
 
 " Most men want a sweetheart." 
 
 " I don't." Harry twisted himself about so that his 
 feet were hanging over the arm of his chair. Mrs. Mad- 
 den thought whimsically that presently they would be 
 hanging over the back. How queer he would look ! but 
 no, not much queerer than he did now. To her he seemed 
 a boy, foolish, rather a dear. She would make him talk ; 
 it would help to pass the time. 
 
 "Well?"
 
 The Rolling Stone 353 
 
 " It's this way. Men aren't your friends, they are 
 your rivals ; you are out to get the better of them if you 
 can. And women? Well, women want you to make love 
 to them. But I'm lonely, I want a friend. I thought 
 that Margaret " 
 
 " Margaret," said Rosa bitterly, " has all the friendship 
 that she needs." 
 
 " Ah ! " he said simply, " I was afraid there was some 
 one else." 
 
 " And it doesn't matter." 
 
 " Perhaps not." 
 
 She stared past him into the darkness of the garden. 
 " To think it should have come to that ! " 
 
 They sat for a time in silence, but Harry could not be 
 quiet, could not be still. He moved away, he came back. 
 At last he began to talk to her of old times, old memories, 
 the railway town. 
 
 " You wanted to be a pugilist," she said. " Well 
 why not? " 
 
 He looked surprised. 
 
 " My father was against it." 
 
 "Why did he object?" 
 
 " He was afraid of my becoming brutalized." 
 
 " It was for you to decide." 
 
 " I thought there was something in it." 
 
 " A man has to take risks." 
 
 " If I could have felt that fighting was right I'd have 
 gone on with it, but I couldn't quite." 
 
 " Having given it all up, you are at peace with your 
 conscience, you are quite happy, quite satisfied? " 
 
 " I'm afraid," said Harry, " that is not so. I have 
 been all over the world looking for something that I liked 
 as much ; I can't find it." 
 
 " You never will."
 
 354 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " Oh, come ! " 
 
 " Are you very keen to go on living? " 
 
 " Not very. You see, there's nothing worth while." 
 
 " No." 
 
 The moon was rising. The pallid beams, passing 
 through the farther window, fell on the strange com- 
 panions on the outline of Mrs. Madden's head, on Har- 
 ry's face. " No," she said, " nothing else will be quite 
 worth while. You were afraid, you did not dare, you 
 gave up the big thing." She pushed the stiff cushions 
 farther under, pulling herself higher on the couch. " This 
 is how I see life. Most of us are born to do some one 
 thing, to love some one person. We can't pick and 
 choose. It's take it or leave it ; you'll get nothing more. 
 You had your bent fighting ; the Lord God gave it you, 
 He made it the fulfilment of your nature, and you 
 let yourself be turned from it. Ah poor boy ! " 
 
 He was silent for a time, cogitating. " Yes," he said 
 at last, " I think you've hit it." 
 
 " Only one thing we want to do, one person we can 
 love; not much, but all we get." She put her hand over 
 her eyes. One person she could love, the one who had 
 turned away. Why? Her health, because she had not 
 borne him children? Why because! The answer was 
 no answer. Why had he left her? He could not have 
 said. It had happened so. He had not meant to, had not 
 wanted to, but he had seen Margaret, the person that he, 
 in his turn, could love; and he had not been able to help 
 himself. 
 
 The night wore on, and sometimes the strange compan- 
 ions talked, but more often they listened listened to 
 dull and far-off sounds, the faint suspicious noises of the 
 dark, listened to their own hearts. 
 
 Mrs. Madden drowsed, and even Harry ceased his rest-
 
 The Rolling Stone 355 
 
 less movements. A lassitude that was the beginning of 
 peace had fallen on them. Once and again Harry crossed 
 the gardens to ask for news. 
 
 In the chill hour before the dawn a little wind broke 
 like a ripple over the earth. A bird rose, calling to those 
 who lingered, and Harry got up from his chair. 
 
 " It is the day," he said as he went out, and Mrs. Mad- 
 den knew that this time he would not come back knew 
 that Margaret slept. 
 
 VI 
 
 She lay very quietly on her sofa watching the darkness 
 thin into day. At dawn Philip came out of the Holdens* 
 house, walking slowly. He had grown old during the 
 long hours of the night. Rosa listened to the dragging 
 steps. Would he come to her? Her heart was brimming. 
 Oh, if he would but come ! 
 
 The steps went by the door of the drawing-room and 
 she half rose. If she dared call to him! They went on 
 to his room. She heard him go in, and still she waited 
 and listened. 
 
 The key turned in the lock, and Rosa Madden fell back 
 on the sofa. She was outside his life ; Margaret was still 
 between them. He would not come back.
 
 Chapter XIX 
 
 IN the smoking-room the men had settled down to cards. 
 As Harry could play a bluffing game but not one that 
 required thought, he had left the crowd and estab- 
 lished himself on the red-cushioned seat that stretched from 
 end to end, along the wooden wall. Sitting there, he could 
 watch the long procession of the waves. 
 
 Coming round Cape Horn the ship had experienced a 
 spell of calm cold weather. Whales had spouted, the sun 
 had glittered on the pinnacles of an iceberg. But since 
 then the weather had been foul. A succession of gales 
 had buffeted the liner across the deep, and Harry had 
 grown weary of the roughness and the cold. He had a 
 cough, and felt the ship was ill-found, full of draughts. 
 Forty-one days on board, 11,266 miles covered. A sail- 
 ing-ship was one thing ; but life on a liner was too full 
 for him of chin-wagging. 
 
 Forgotten by the card-players, he stretched himself 
 along the red velvet cushions and added a note to the 
 many in the shiny black book. " Ap. 20. Gale and big 
 sea. Hailstones. Lots of people nearly washed over- 
 board, lee-side alleyway. Stable companion broke loose 
 last night and confided. He was just out of an asylum. 
 Cheerful ! 
 
 " Usual growling and contentiousness. Can't do with 
 it. Most deadly lot I have ever encountered. Hardly a 
 saving individual. 
 
 " Depressed. The old feeling of negation. 
 
 356
 
 The Rolling Stone 357 
 
 " Wonder if father will meet me in London ! He doesn't 
 know when I shall arrive. Still, he was always good at 
 ferreting out things." 
 
 Shutting the book, he restored it to his pocket and 
 took out some letters. The ship was entering the channel. 
 As well, perhaps, to read them again. 
 
 On his return from the Maddens' house he had found 
 them awaiting him, and after glancing through them has- 
 tily, had laid them aside. 
 
 One was from Kitty Gray. He had written to her from 
 Rio, giving her his home address. A dear little sweet- 
 heart Kitty ! 
 
 The other a thick black-edged letter was from his 
 sister Nancy. The black edge had filled him with appre- 
 hension. 
 
 His father? He trusted not. One reason for going 
 home was that he wanted to see the old man again. 
 
 The first words of the letter had relieved that anxiety. 
 Mr. King was hale, was still only dallying with the idea 
 of retirement. The sign of mourning had been for a 
 younger member of the family. 
 
 Bet had been married to Jack Tremaine for some years ; 
 they had prospered but had had no children. The depri- 
 vation being sore, they had consulted a doctor and he had 
 advised an operation only a slight operation, Nancy 
 said. 
 
 Bet had gone into a nursing home to have it done, and, 
 to the surprise, the horror, of the family, had died the 
 following day, died from shock. Harry, himself mourn- 
 ing a loss, had wept for Bet. In her death she was nearer 
 to him than she had been in life. The longing she had 
 felt was one of which he too was dimly conscious. Child- 
 ren? Why, of course. He felt with Bet, that life with- 
 out them was not good enough. The plucky old dear!
 
 358 The Rolling Stone 
 
 She would not hesitate, not she ! She would make her ar- 
 rangements, set the house in order for Jack, then take his 
 arm and walk to the nursing-home. He could see them 
 Jack pretty down in the mouth, but Bet talking cheer- 
 fully. When the door was shut between them, when she 
 was on the dark side of it, her face might change ; but 
 no, she had herself to bluff. She would be sanguine and 
 hopeful till she stepped through that other doorway. 
 And then? 
 
 Poor old Bet ! Where was she now? 
 Did she mind? 
 
 It was, after all, interesting to die; you found out 
 things. Yes, but to die before the proper time, before 
 you were three score and ten? 
 No catch in that. 
 
 A tear ran out of Harry's eye and down his nose 
 not the full round tear of youth, but one that was small 
 and impoverished. Rotten luck that Bet should have 
 lost her life ! Hard, too, on old Jack. He was a stick- 
 in-the-mud, Jack ; he would not get over it in a hurry, 
 he might never get over it. 
 
 Harry saw his brother-in-law, big and fair and slow, 
 sitting by himself in diggings, and his heart swelled. He 
 had known Jack for so many years, knew him so well, good 
 points and bad. He was terribly sorry for old Jack. 
 
 The letter was long. Nancy did not like letter-writing, 
 but for once she had squared her elbows to the task. A 
 good deal had happened since she last wrote. Poor Bet, 
 and then there was Mab. Mab had been and gone and 
 done it; she was married. Did Harry remember Albert 
 Swinton? Perhaps he would not, but Swinton had served 
 his apprenticeship in the railway works. " I don't like 
 him ; he's the carncying sort, curries favour with father. 
 There is no doubt he is out for what he can get. He lost
 
 The Rolling Stone 359 
 
 his job a fortnight after they were married and seems un- 
 able to get' another, but I hear there are plenty going. 
 Meanwhile they live with us." 
 
 Swinton? There had been a Swinton at the works. 
 Harry had some difficulty in recalling him. A pasty- 
 faced lad with pimples? He remembered the pimples, also 
 that he had had stiff fair hair that stood up ! 
 
 One of the crowd : what a man for Mab to have picked ! 
 A sponger too. Poor father! He wouldn't like to kick 
 the fellow out, but Harry was on his way home; he'd see 
 that Swinton got a job. 
 
 He turned back to the letter. Nancy, discontented 
 with her lot she taught in a secondary school had 
 decided to leave home. " Father does not approve, but 
 I'm fed up with the place. I've had work offered me in 
 Saskatchewan and I'm off." 
 
 Harry reflected. " If I'm thirty-four she must be 
 let me see thirty. Well, time she saw something of 
 the world." 
 
 Bet dead, Mab married, Nancy in Canada ! The girls 
 had not done well. The old man had worked hard in or- 
 der to procure them a good education, but something had 
 been lacking. Harry wondered about it. Was it pos- 
 sible that college education made women too big for their 
 opportunities? He had the feeling that his sisters, fine 
 women as they were physically, were less feminine than, 
 say, Ethel. 
 
 They had chances but did not grasp them, did not think 
 them good enough, preferred to wait. 
 
 If a jig thing had offered they would have taken it, 
 but it was that or nothing. 
 
 Bet childless ; Mab, at thirty, taking up with a ne-er-do- 
 well ; Nancy adrift ! 
 
 Thev had turned out very differently from the boys,
 
 360 The Rolling Stone 
 
 No flies on Richard ! Harry thought of his brother's 
 spacious home by the Nile, of his entertaining Great Ones, 
 entertaining them as equals. Oh, Richard was all right. 
 James too : James was the responsible head of a depart- 
 ment and married to Ella ; James was in a better position 
 than the old man. 
 
 Richard and James had proved entirely satisfactory, 
 they had fulfilled their father's expectations. And he? 
 
 He chinked a few coins in his pocket. He had been 
 absent from England ten years and during that time he 
 had garnered sheaves of experience. Yes ! Wherever he 
 had been he had left his mark: he had erected quarantine 
 plant, built barges, wharves, barracks, waterworks, cranes, 
 tunnels, towers what hadn't he done ? In the old Sar- 
 atoga trunk were photographs of his minute scratchings 
 and buildings on the mighty round of the globe. He might 
 not have made money ; but to the best of his ability he had 
 worked. Harry might have neither gold nor glory but 
 he had done his bit, had been a pioneer. What more would 
 you have? 
 
 The card-players pushed back their chairs and one, a 
 red-faced jolly man, came up to him. "After dinner, 
 what do you say to a game of poker, King? " 
 
 " I'm on," said Harry. 
 
 II 
 
 Heavy weather in the channel and a thick haze hiding 
 the land ! Harry, who, though as undemonstrative as 
 the ordinary tom-cat, liked attention a judicious 
 amount of stroking hoped that letters would be await- 
 ing him at Plymouth. 
 
 His family, however, was not of the stroking kind. 
 That their prodigal was longing for signs of affection and
 
 The Rolling Stone 361 
 
 rejoicing did not occur to them. They had not written. 
 Why should they? They would see him before long. 
 
 When the liner, at seven of an April morning, reached 
 the Albert Docks Harry had looked eagerly for a home- 
 face and looked in vain. The boat special took him to 
 Liverpool Street, and from Paddington he caught a train 
 which after a couple of hours' slow travelling, would land 
 him in the railway town. He did not care. Securing a 
 corner seat, he sat scanning the familiar country side, 
 watching for landmarks that he remembered, that he 
 had known all his life. 
 
 Of the seven elms which had stretched slantwise across 
 the big meadow one was gone. Some winter storm ! The 
 asylum, however, looked as greyly desolate as ever ; in the 
 grounds deplorable little groups were still wandering. 
 The river ran over the weir with the identical curl of snowy 
 foam that he had so often seen ; it dropped smoothly into 
 the old brown depths. A few more houses along the route, 
 more factories. His heart distinguished between the new 
 and the old with an emotion that was almost painful. 
 
 When he stepped out of the train he glanced about him 
 with a sudden hope; but no, nobody. He thought the 
 station very dingy and he hated the advertisements. He 
 also disliked the look of the ticket-collector, for he, alas ! 
 was young and knew not Harry. A different return this 
 from the one he had planned 1 He gave directions about 
 his luggage and walked away. 
 
 Ten years ! 
 
 He had intended to make a fortune, grow famous, bring 
 back with him a name which should ring familiar in the 
 ears of home-keeping youth. Well, time enough ; he would 
 do it yet. He turned the corner into Parkside, and his 
 glance fell on the grey palings. He had dreamed of re- 
 turning with enough money to buy up squire's mortgaged
 
 362 The Rolling Stone 
 
 estate. The old red manor-house glowed cheerfully be- 
 tween the trees, and in Harry's pocket lay but a couple 
 of sovereigns. He was as poor, poorer, than when he 
 went away. No matter ! His chance would come. 
 
 He had his record of work done. He had his hope for 
 the future, his belief that God had interposed to preserve 
 him both in sickness and in war, that God had chosen him, 
 and that in His good time the way would be made clear. 
 
 Harry's mind was at rest. He could look with uncon- 
 cern at the red house among the trees. Some day he 
 would have the money to buy it. 
 
 Meanwhile he was very glad to be home. A shower had 
 settled the dust and the sweetness of burgeoning life was 
 in the air. England was a good place to come back to. 
 " England, mighty mother ! " 
 
 The gate of No. 14 Parkside stood open, and taking 
 that as an omen of welcome, he ran up the rough granite 
 steps. Another moment and he would be among his folks. 
 He thundered on the door, excited, very happy 
 
 "Who is it?" A middle-sized man, opening the door 
 a few inches, stood in the aperture. Harry had an idea 
 this might be Swinton, but he was not sure. The man 
 looked as if he resented Harry's knock and Harry's ap- 
 pearance meant, in fact, to keep him out. 
 
 " I'm Harry King and I'm coming in." He leaned for- 
 ward and the other hastily gave place. 
 
 " Mab ! " 
 
 She came out of the dining-room, a napkin in her hand, 
 her mouth still working. 
 
 "Why, it's Henry!" 
 
 " The same ! " He gave her a cool brotherly kiss and 
 looked into the room. A meal was on the table but only 
 two places had been laid. " Where's mother? " 
 
 " Come in here first,"
 
 The Rolling Stone 363 
 
 "Where's mother?" 
 
 " You can't see her, she's in bed. She's got a chill." 
 
 "Can't see her?" said the amazed Harry. 
 
 " She isn't well. It would be too much of a shock." 
 
 " Rot ! " He was already on the stairs, and a moment 
 later husband and wife heard him rap on Mrs. King's door. 
 "Are you there, mother? Can I come in?" 
 
 She knew the voice. " Come in, come in, Henry." 
 
 She was sitting up in bed, a shawl round her shoulders, 
 and he saw with regret that her hair, her thick strong 
 hair, was now iron-grey ; otherwise the ten years had not 
 changed her much. He kissed her, thinking she did not 
 look ill. 
 
 " Seeing you, Henry, has done me good. I feel better. 
 I shall dress and come down." 
 
 " Ay do." 
 
 "Have you had your dinner?" 
 
 Same old mother, her first thought the material welfare 
 of her brood ! " I'll get some tucker while you are dress- 
 ing." 
 
 In the dining-room Mab had laid a place for him. Her 
 manner was uneasy. He felt that she was not glad to 
 see him, that his return interfered in some way with her 
 plans. Well, if she meant to quarter herself and her 
 husband on the old people for the rest of their lives she 
 had better look out. He, Harry, would not stand it. 
 Share and share alike was his motto. While he ate his 
 sister gave him the news. Nancy had gone to Canada ; 
 she had been offered a post as librarian. Oh, he knew? 
 Did he know that Jack Tremaine was going back to Buenos 
 Ayres ? He could not stick England now that Bet 
 her glance went to the water-colours Bet had painted while 
 still at school. 
 
 Mab was in black, Swinton too. Harry grew conscious
 
 364 The Rolling Stone 
 
 that he was wearing a blue shot-silk tie. He had a black 
 one in his box ; after dinner he would run up and change. 
 
 As he listened he glanced from his sister to her husband. 
 Mab was thirty but she looked older, she wasn't wearing 
 well. She had a peaked elfin face, mouth and chin the 
 same shape ; her eyes also were on the slant, and her rus- 
 set dark hair came down into a point. She wasn't a bit 
 pretty, but something about her face made him think 
 of wings. He wondered if she cared for Swinton. Was 
 if possible she could? The fellow had a long, thin nose 
 and he talked in a drawly voice, and at the end of every 
 sentence he sniffed. 
 
 "You see, don't you, King?" Sniff! "Bad thing, 
 wasn't it, King? " Sniff! 
 
 Harry's habit was to eat in silence, to eat with enjoy- 
 ment and give thanks to the cook as he phrased it, 
 " stomach-felt thanks." 
 
 When he had finished he got up. " I'm going round 
 the house." 
 
 " Like me to come with you ? " offered Swinton. 
 
 "I shouldn't." 
 
 He meant to start at the front door and renew acquain- 
 tance with every room upstairs and down. Swinton to 
 go along? Swinton to keep an eye on him? The cheek 
 of it! 
 
 What were they after? The old man's savings? They 
 had better look out. 
 
 He started on his perambulations. In the hall, over 
 each doorway, was a pair of mounted horns. " New since 
 my time," said Harry, and went towards the nearest. 
 " Jove ! they are some I sent." 
 
 He was surprised and pleased. In the drawing-room 
 it was the same ; in fact, the aspect of every room in the 
 house had been sensibly altered by contributions from him.
 
 The Rolling Stone 365 
 
 He had no idea that he had sent home so many curios ; 
 they hung on walls, they stood on tables, they lay in cab- 
 inets. He patted himself on the back. They showed that 
 he had not forgotten the old people, the old home, that 
 out of sight, with him was not out of mind. 
 
 It was evident that his offerings had been acceptable, 
 that they were prized. Assegais, skins, gold quartz, 
 Kafir beads, greenstone they had been set forth to the 
 best advantage. He could imagine his mother's " Another 
 box from Henry ! Now where shall we " 
 
 He could see his father pottering round, putting the 
 horns here, the assegais there, trying the effect. 
 
 His offerings had enriched the house, but behind the 
 weapons and savage trophies was the old furniture that 
 he remembered, the familiar surfaces that had been pol- 
 ished by the elbow-grease of his folk. He was moved by 
 the sight of it. The fine old pieces, the dear old things ! 
 
 The horsehair sofa, on which tempter Chew had once 
 spread his curtains of Nottingham lace, had lost a castor ; 
 Harry would replace it. The oak chest his mother had 
 brought from her Lancashire home lacked a screw 
 " pretty plain that fellow Swinton did not do much about 
 the house." 
 
 Mr. King's welcome was a little thoughtful. He had 
 played the part of Abraham, of streaming locks and up- 
 lifted hand, and at the last moment his Isaac had been 
 spared. Only Harry wasn't Isaac. It seemed he 
 brooded over the Jewish story as if he had surrendered 
 Isaac, bound him, laid him on the altar of sacrifice; and 
 that the person risen from that funeral pyre had been 
 Ishmael. 
 
 It was a disturbing idea. 
 
 "What do you think of doing next?" The. family 
 had gathered in the dining-room for tea.
 
 866 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " Nancy said that there were plenty of jobs going." 
 
 " By this time, Henry, you ought to know what you can 
 do best." 
 
 " I do, and though I'm all right as an engineer, I dis- 
 covered in Africa that I have a positive genius for bus- 
 iness." 
 
 His father moved impatiently. If Harry was what he 
 claimed, why had he not made good? Anyway, as he 
 hadn't why did he brag? 
 
 " What I should like," continued Harry, unconscious 
 of criticism, " would be to strike a group of financiers 
 who'd find me a job one that would include bossing a 
 lot of workmen and selling goods." 
 
 " H'm ! And if you found the financiers, how would 
 you persuade them you could be useful? " 
 
 " You can safely leave that to me, father." Mab passed 
 him his cup. It was white with a dark blue band and 
 gold edge, an ordinary cup. Harry looked at it with dis- 
 favour. " I say, mother, can't I have something a little 
 larger? " 
 
 Mrs. King smiled, indulgent. She was glad to see that 
 mop of black hair in its old place at the table. Albert 
 was a pleasant son-in-law, waited on her, ran errands, but 
 against her own boys he seemed to her colourless. She 
 was willing that Harry, so newly returned, should be con- 
 sidered. 
 
 " Why, yes ! " she said. " Marbel, will you " 
 
 " If Henry has a swedgeling cup, mother, there won't 
 be enough tea to go round." She turned to h'er brother. 
 " You must put up with what you've got." 
 
 " All right," said he, and the long lips went up at the 
 corners. To have got him what he wanted wouldn't have 
 hurt her. He looked across the table at Swinton, eating 
 with relish food that was a gift.
 
 The Rolling Stone 367 
 
 " I think you were at the works with me? " 
 
 " Towards the end of your time." 
 
 "Ah, yes. Are you still there?" 
 
 " Sorry to say I'm out of a job." 
 
 "Been out long?" 
 
 " Er er " He appeared to consider. 
 
 " How long? " 
 
 " I can't exactly say. Let me see " 
 
 " It isn't your business, Henry," snapped his sister, 
 but Henry took no notice. 
 
 " And how long," said he, " are you going to sponge 
 on our old man? " 
 
 m 
 
 In a corner of the attic cupboard lav. forgotten, a pair 
 of the graduated dumb-bells Harry had had made for the 
 display of long ago. He found them that evening when 
 he went to bed and he took them out, even played with 
 them for a few minutes. Good to feel he was still the 
 strong man, the man with the fourteen-inch forearm. The 
 years had dropped like stones into a pool, they had van- 
 ished as if they had never been. 
 
 He shook himself out of his clothes. Six movements 
 and he was in bed, in the old bed with the broken knob. 
 How short the time since he had last lain there! Was it 
 farther back than yesternight? Between then and now 
 he had dreamed of India, Africa, New Zealand, but it 
 had only been a dream. He was back in England, and 
 that was reality. 
 
 He felt that he was come to stay. To stay? Well, 
 for a time, and during that time he would make things 
 hum. For this had he been spared, to this end chosen. 
 The mists were beginning to clear. He would make things 
 hum here in England, make them hum mightily.
 
 368 The Rolling Stone 
 
 He planned a crusade against Socialists, Little Eng- 
 landers, people who had been born tired. He was instinct 
 with energy, only anxious t*o make a start. A nuisance 
 that nights should intervene between day and day. 
 
 IV 
 
 Mrs. King, nursing her chill, was breakfasting in bed, 
 and by the time Harry came' down Mr. King was on his 
 way to the office. 
 
 A brisk Harry, the kindlier for a good night's rest, 
 entered the dining-room, but his brow clouded when he 
 caught sight of Swinton. The fellow should have been 
 out looking for work. 
 
 Mab passed her brother a cup of coffee. " There are 
 eggs and bacon," she said, looking at the clock, " but I 
 don't know that they are hot. Breakfast here is at 
 eight." 
 
 " Looks like it," said Harry, with a glance at Swinton, 
 who was still eating. 
 
 Mab smiled to herself. She had brooded over her hus- 
 band's discomfiture until she had found a way of aveng- 
 ing it. She might not like Albert's being out of work, 
 but it was not for Harry to come " butting in." Sponge? 
 Albert was not the only one who would sponge if he could. 
 
 By Harry's plate lay a folded paper. Mab had busied 
 herself writing and blotting it. When she heard Harry's 
 step on the stairs she had put it ready for him and gone 
 back to her place. 
 
 " What's that? " Albert had asked. 
 
 " Never you mind. It's between me and Henry." 
 
 " You take care, Mab." 
 
 " It's only a little practical joke."
 
 The Rolling Stone 369 
 
 Albert had shaken his head. "Practical jokes are 
 annoying." 
 
 " Well, he shouldn't talk about sponging." 
 
 Harry had helped himself to eggs and bacon and had 
 begun his breakfast before he noticed the paper. 
 
 "What's this? "said he. 
 
 For a moment Mab wondered whether she had been 
 wise. Harry in the flesh was formidable. But, after all, 
 it was only a joke. 
 
 " You talked so big last night about not sponging on 
 father," she said. 
 
 He stared. "Well?" 
 
 " So I made out your account." 
 
 The paper was a bill for food and lodging for one day ! 
 
 For a moment Harry saw red. Into his mind slid the 
 remembrance that upstairs in his trunk lay the axe with 
 which he had squared the logs for his shack at Orea. He 
 left like using it on the chairs and table. 
 
 He was beside himself with rage. 
 
 Yet, cutting across his rage was the conviction that 
 Mab would not care he and she had been shaped from 
 the same block; moreover, the chairs and table were not 
 hers but his father's. Heavenly to let yourself go, to 
 chop and smash and utterly destroy ; but not so heavenly 
 if the onlookers only laughed at you. 
 
 Mab, looking at him with eyes as hard as his own, 
 would say, " When you have finished, Henry," or " Dad 
 will be pleased." 
 
 No, he wouldn't chop up the furniture, but he was very 
 angry, also he was hurt. 
 
 He looked at his sister, looked reproachfully. " After 
 ten years," he said. 
 
 " It was only a joke," protested Mab, but a joke at 
 Harry's expense was no joke.
 
 370 The Rolling Stone 
 
 He pushed back his plate and rose. 
 
 " You crackpot " she began. 
 
 Harry turned on his brother-in-law. He might not be 
 able to overawe Mab, but Albert was of a softer make. 
 " Look here," he said rising, " I'm going out of this house, 
 here and now. But I'll keep this paper and I'll never for- 
 get the welcome my sister gave me after I'd been away 
 ten years, never. As for you, Swinton, see you find a 
 job and jolly smart, or I'll come back and kick you out 
 of this. You're not going to live on the old man, so don't 
 you think it ; and if I catch you trying to get round him to 
 alter his will I'll break your neck." With his right fist 
 he hit the palm of the other hand, and Swinton, wishing 
 he had more self-control, yet jumped. Harry's gestures 
 were so forcible! 
 
 " I'll give you a fortnight, and, wherever I am, if you 
 have not got work by then I'll come back." 
 
 Pulling silver out of his pocket, he counted down the 
 exact sum entered on the bill. 
 
 " Don't be such an idiot," cried Mab. " I tell you it 
 was a joke. As to my husband, he had an offer of a job 
 this morning they want him back at the works ; so you 
 can put that in your pipe and smoke it." 
 
 Harry took no notice; he did not, in fact, believe she 
 spoke the truth. " 7 don't cadge," he said, continuing 
 to glare at Swinton. " I'm no yattering charity child. 
 Joke? " He turned at last and looked at his sister. 
 
 **A pretty joke," he said. 
 
 To Harry, in his London lodgings, came a paper from 
 New Zealand containing an account of wedding festivities.
 
 The Rolling Stone 371 
 
 Kitty Gray had married the young accountant with the 
 thin legs. She was now Mrs. Franks. 
 
 A month after he had sailed ! 
 
 So much for constancy ! He felt sorry for himself as 
 one who had been doubly betrayed. Margaret dead, 
 Kitty married and he, who had loved them, alone in 
 diggings at the top of a dingy London house in a dreary, 
 blackened street. Never had he been so friendless, so 
 lonely. 
 
 True, the woman who kept the lodgings 
 
 Also the waitress at the restaurant he favoured 
 
 Also Black Jane, the housekeper at the club ; but he 
 did not like her because she harried the cashier, who also 
 yes, she had even asked him to take her to a theatre. 
 
 Now he came to think of it, too, there was Katie Be- 
 henna also Miss Wilson. 
 
 Still, he was lonely. 
 
 The Dorothys and Jessies and Annies, each had the 
 same ulterior motive: they were looking for a man who 
 would provide them with bread-tickets. What had they 
 to give in return ? Nothing that Harry wanted. 
 
 What did he want? 
 
 Well, he certainly did not want to spend his time 
 waste his time making love. 
 
 He got more of that sort of thing offered him free, 
 gratis, and for nothing than he could do with. 
 
 He was a bit fed up with it, wanted something different. 
 
 Yes what he wanted, what for years he had been 
 trying to find, what he thought he had found in Margaret, 
 was a woman who was not out for herself, not " on the 
 make," a woman who was not a getter but a giver. 
 
 His simple need was for a woman who would give all 
 and ask nothing in return. 
 
 3he was a little difficult to find.
 
 372 The Rolling Stone 
 
 Meanwhile he walked with the Maggies and Elsies and 
 Marions ; but he walked warily. 
 
 VI 
 
 Harry found work in London as traveller for an engi- 
 neering firm. The salary was small and the prospects 
 poor, but for a month he had tramped the pavements of 
 the great city without finding employment, and he re- 
 membered Johannesburg. 
 
 He stayed with Patterson and Beale for a half-year; 
 then, hearing of a job that would suit him better, returned 
 to the railway town. 
 
 He could not go home, for though Swinton was now 
 in regular employment, he and his wife still lived at No. 
 14 Parkside. Until it suited Harry's convenience to for- 
 give his sister he would foster his grudge. Meantime it 
 provided him with a reason for lodging in the town and for 
 bestowing on his parents only as much of his time as he 
 saw fit. 
 
 He had gone back to the rooms he had once shared with 
 Jack Tremaine. Jack's mother, deprived of her own 
 lamb (for Jack had gone to South America), made Harry 
 welcome. His occupation of the rooms would give her 
 something to do, help her to tide over the empty months 
 and years between Jack's going and his return. 
 
 She would mother Harry, feed him on the fat of the 
 land on good Cornish junkets, on baked rabbit, on po- 
 tato-cakes. 
 
 And Harry liked it for a little. 
 
 But the same rooms, the same furniture, the same 
 sort of work as when he and Jack were together. On the 
 whole it was dull. He began to wish something might hap- 
 pen. 
 
 The one mood of Harry's that was constant!
 
 The Rolling Stone 37S 
 
 On the breakfast-table one morning he found among 
 his letters another newspaper, a newspaper which reminded 
 him of Kitty and Kitty's wedding. It bore the Christ- 
 church postmark, it was addressed in Kitty's round writ- 
 ing. 
 
 He realized as he slit the cover that the image of Kitty, 
 all claws and softness, was growing faint. Only natural 
 when you thought how badly she had behaved, marrying 
 like that after what she had said. It was enough to make 
 a man lose faith in womanhood. 
 
 The corner of one sheet was turned down. A blue pen- 
 cil-mark had been set against a modest announcement 
 among the births. " To Mr. and Mrs. Ernest Franks, 
 of Waironga, a son, Ernest Henry (premature)." 
 
 Really? Well, it was all right. She was doing her 
 duty to the Empire. A son? A vague sense of disap- 
 pointment crept over Harry. So Kitty had a son. He 
 shouldn't have thought she would have borne sons, not 
 Kitty. Well, well she had his best wishes. Good luck 
 to her and many returns of the day. 
 
 She had called the little chap Henry? Then she had 
 not forgotten their fortnight together. Jolly of her to 
 make him a sort of godfather. He must send the youngs- 
 ter a mug or a spoon or something. 
 
 Kitty a mother ! The Kitty who he lost himself in 
 agreeable recollections. What a long time ago it seemed! 
 Nine no, ten months. He looked at the date of Ernest 
 Henry's birth. Nine months after 
 
 Suddenly he grew hot, hot in a queer, uncomfortable, 
 yet ecstatic way. The blood beat in his temples. 
 
 No, nonsense, it could not be, and yet 
 
 Premature? 
 
 Was that why she had sent him the announcement? 
 Could it be?
 
 374 The Rolling Stone 
 
 Why else? 
 
 He threw back his head chuckling. The little cat, she 
 had known how to take care of herself and Ernest Henry ! 
 Fine! He would never have thought Kitty, little fluffy 
 Kitty, had had it in her. 
 
 For a moment he rendered homage. He had caught, 
 among the cloud-drifts, a gleam of light. Kitty's will, 
 purpose, inscrutability, flashed out at him. She had used 
 him, she had done as she would, she had been silent. 
 
 He was a little awed. 
 
 Suddenly he began to doubt. 
 
 He was a fool, just that. He had made up a fine story 
 but it was all bunkum. 
 
 Kitty was Kitty! 
 
 She wasn't the sort that leaves you guessing; during 
 their last talk she would have hinted 
 
 Well, she hadn't. 
 
 There might have been reasons! He sat down to his 
 breakfast and found that he was hungry; found that, 
 though he had not liked to acknowledge it, he was also 
 happy extremely happy ! 
 
 If Kitty had told him he would have married her, Mar- 
 garet or no certainly. 
 
 Could it be possible that she had not trusted him to 
 do the straight thing? He did not know what her ex- 
 perience had been. Probably some man had let her down, 
 let her down badly. If she had been any judge of faces 
 she might have known that he was different. 
 
 A mistake to lump all men together! 
 
 A fellow who could leave a woman to face the music 
 was a lousy scab, that*s what he was. 
 
 A son ! 
 
 With a thrill, Harry remembered Richard's children,
 
 The Rolling Stone 375 
 
 the baby who had clasped little pink fingers about a big 
 hookey thumb. 
 
 He had envied Richard. 
 
 He lost himself in a dream : the child the child he 
 would never see. Never? What nonsense! Some day 
 he would go back to New Zealand and hunt up Ernest 
 Henry. Would he know him? In a room full of boys 
 he visualized him in a schoolroom would he be able to 
 spot him, to say with certainty, " That's the one ! That's 
 mine ! " 
 
 Kitty ought to have let him know. A man, a father, 
 had rights. 
 
 Yet he depends on a woman's acknowledgment of his 
 parenthood for those rights ! Not a pleasant state of 
 affairs : belittling. Henry wondered why the Ruler of 
 the Universe should have permitted it. 
 
 "Aren't you rather late this morning?" Mrs. Tre- 
 maine put her old, still handsome head round the door, 
 and Harry wished that he might have told her his news. 
 He mustn't, of course, it would not do ; and, after all, it 
 was only a guess. 
 
 But he felt pretty sure. 
 
 " I'm not going to the works today." 
 
 She scanned his face. He did not look ill. ** Bad 
 news? " 
 
 " Er no." 
 
 He loafed about the room, whistling a song, one the 
 men had sung round camp fires, a song about " home " 
 and " mother." Yes, he felt pretty sure. The fact of 
 his fatherhood was like a fire at which he was warming 
 his hands, warming his heart. He was filled with happi- 
 ness, he glowed. If that old pumper of his were to give 
 out now, this very moment, something of him would still
 
 376 The Rolling Stone 
 
 live on. The miracle of birth held him entranced. Flesh 
 of his flesh, speaking with his voice, looking on the world 
 with his eyes, yet some one of whom he might save for 
 Kitty's guarded message have never heard ! 
 
 The very existence of his son might have been kept from 
 him. As it was, the boy was a stranger. 
 
 So near and yet a stranger. 
 
 The closest of relationships and yet it could not be 
 acknowledged. Something wrong there. He wanted his 
 son to know him, be proud of him. 
 
 But the boy would be brought up in New Zealand, would 
 bear another name, call another man " father." 
 
 No catch in that! 
 
 Harry imagined the youngster was learning to walk, to 
 read, to fight: developing the traits of his true sire. He 
 should have had a hand in the lad's upbringing. A boy's 
 best friend is his father. 
 
 " My son," said Harry rather mournfully. He had 
 been cheated of his rights. 
 
 VII 
 
 Too restless to remain long indoors, he sauntered, after 
 dinner, into the town. The weather being fine, Main 
 Street was filled with shoppers. Harry regarded them 
 with an air of benevolence. They were mostly women, 
 they were wasting their husbands' hard-earned money on 
 things they did not want, but what did it matter? Money 
 was not everything. 
 
 A little boy, thin and ragged, was staring into a pastry- 
 cook's window. Harry gave him a penny. " Run in 
 and buy yourself a bun." 
 
 He could not bear to think of a child hungry. If ever
 
 The Rolling Stone 377 
 
 his dream-fortune materialized he would endow an orphan- 
 age. All children ought to have a good home, good school- 
 ing, the opportunity to make a good living. 
 
 "Why, it's Harry King!" Mrs. Drummond stopped 
 and held out her hand, and he knew that he was glad to 
 see her. She was, if not a friend, at least a friendly ac- 
 quaintance ; she was a pal. He looked from Mrs. Drum- 
 mond to her daughter, looked at Susie's round dimpling 
 face, at her plump, matronly figure regular little 
 pouter-pigeon." 
 
 " Oh, Harry, I'm so glad it's you ! You've never seen 
 baby?" 
 
 " I want to." Harry knew the other children, had as- 
 cended to their nursery now and then for a " roughhouse," 
 but baby was new. 
 
 " They are just ahead with nurse." She quickened 
 her steps, hastening after a smart young woman in butch- 
 er-blue. The young woman was wheeling a perambulator 
 by which walked two little boys. To Mrs. Gage's dismay, 
 baby, who until that moment had been cooing and blowing 
 bubbles, had, as nurse said, " just dropped off." 
 
 " What a nuisance ! " said baby's mother. She stooped 
 over the perambulator. " Honey-lamb's little chin is 
 quite hidden, such a ducky chin ! " 
 
 " Stir it up," said Harry, " I want to see it properly." 
 
 " Indeed I won't, you Goth. What an idea ! " 
 
 "What is it? A boy?" 
 
 " Why, Harry, can't you see her bonnet and the pink 
 bows? Of course she's a girl." 
 
 " Only a girl." Harry felt important and superior. 
 He had a son. 
 
 " Tom said he'd divorce me if I had another boy. He 
 wanted a girl." She tucked the cover closer about the 
 sleeping baby. " My blossom ! "
 
 378 The Rolling Stone 
 
 " Oh, she's a daisy," said Harry gaily. " What's her 
 name? " 
 
 " We called her after mother Ursula Ursula 
 Mary. I think one ought to hand on family names." 
 
 " Yes," said Harry, but with a sudden loss of gaiety. 
 The name he wanted to hand on was King. 
 
 Ernest Henry Franks! 
 
 It was simply damnable. 
 
 VIII 
 
 " Are you busy? " 
 
 " No, I've taken the day off." 
 
 " Then come and have tea with us at the Geisha." 
 
 "And drink to your bright eyes? Rather!" 
 
 "You remember what a stuffy hole it was? The 
 Humbys were too old to run it properly. Now they've 
 got a manager, a really smart woman, and everybody 
 drops in of an afternoon for tea. It is more like a club 
 than a tea-shop." 
 
 The cafe was a large room with a beamed ceiling and 
 panelled walls, the darkness of which had been relieved by 
 strips of mirror. Table-cloths, china, flower-vases were 
 scrupulously clean and fresh, and in the scheme of colour 
 white predominated, but with the white was always a sug- 
 gestion of purple. 
 
 "Isn't the place improved?" said Susie over her 
 shoulder, as they made their way to a table which com- 
 manded the room, but Harry was himself looking back 
 and did not hear. Near the door was a red-brown ma- 
 hogany cage with clear glass walls in which sat a young 
 woman. Harry, walking up the room in the wake of Mrs. 
 Drummond and her daughter, had glanced in at the crys- 
 tal window, had met a soft and serious gaze.
 
 The Boiling Stone 379 
 
 He was looking back in the hope of meeting it again. 
 
 " It is odd," said Mrs. Drummond, as a neat waitress 
 with white apron and purple bows brought their tea, " that 
 we should have met you today, Harry, for this morning 
 I was turning out my desk and I found a copy of that old 
 horoscope I did for you. I was noticing the date of 
 your birth." 
 
 " Seventeenth of October," said Harry. 
 
 " The last chapter of Proverbs has thirty-one verses, 
 and each verse is said to describe the person born on that 
 day of the month. I was curious and looked up yours. 
 It was : ' She girdeth her loins with strength and maketh 
 strong her arms.' ' 
 
 " But, mother," said Susie, " I thought for a man the 
 date of his birth in Proverbs showed what sort of a wife 
 he would have." 
 
 " They say so, but the seventeenth verse seemed de- 
 scriptive of Harry; it may, of course, be descriptive of the 
 sort of woman he should marry." 
 
 " I don't want strength in a wife, I want sweetness." 
 
 Mrs. Drummond looked at him thoughtfully. Would 
 any one hold him? She doubted it. "I wonder if you 
 know what you want? " 
 
 " A man," said Harry, " wants peace in his home." 
 He had shifted his chin so that, without appearing to 
 stare, he could watch the cage. 
 
 " You enjoy strife." 
 
 " I'm afraid you don't really know me, Mrs. Drummond. 
 I've led a wandering sort of life, but all the time I've 
 looked forward to having a home of my own. I've a 
 strong domestic side." 
 
 "No really?" What next would he say? 
 
 *' I'm a lonely beggar." He was so sorry for himself 
 that his eyes watered. He was indeed alone in the world.
 
 380 The Rolling Stone 
 
 No one cared what became of him; if he died tomorrow 
 no one would grieve. What a state of affairs ! " I'm 
 not so young as I was." Fancy painted a picture of ad- 
 vancing years, of senility, an old man without ties, with- 
 out descendants ay, there was . the rub, without de- 
 scendants ! Richard had children. James had a youngs- 
 ter, he had heard that even Mab was hoping. It wasn't 
 fair that he, Harry, should have only the bantling that 
 he could not claim. " Really, Mrs. Drummond, I can 
 think of nothing that would give me greater, more real 
 happiness than to settle down, to settle here where I was 
 born; to give up wandering in order to get what other 
 men have a home, my own sticks of furniture " He 
 smiled but did not complete the sentence Harry was 
 always modest. 
 
 "Who is the lady?" 
 
 Having but that moment seen her, having as yet no idea 
 of her name, he could not say. 
 
 " I'll tell you when I know." 
 
 " I'm glad you think of settling down," Mrs. Drum- 
 mond said, and Susie echoed her words. But she was not 
 glad. Happily married, a proud mother, she would yet 
 have preferred Harry to remain a bachelor. Though she 
 no longer loved him, she remembered. 
 
 " I want a home," repeated the rolling stone. He 
 wanted more than a home, he wanted a family a number 
 of dark heads all bearing a strong resemblance to Harry 
 King. 
 
 " Poor Harry ! " said Susie softly, " yes, of course ! " 
 
 The big room was filling rapidly. At a table near the 
 cage sat a Dane whom Harry knew slightly. Jansen was 
 manager of the margarine works. He was drinking tea 
 and he was looking at the cage. It was evident he did
 
 The Rolling Stone 381 
 
 not care who saw his preoccupation with it. Harry felt 
 a sudden desire to bat this innocent, unsuspecting person 
 between the eyes "a bald-headed coot, old enough to be 
 her father." 
 
 " This place is very different from what it was," he be- 
 gan, turning to Susie. 
 
 " That is due to the manager," she indicated the cage, 
 " Mrs. Roslyn." 
 
 "Mrs?" 
 
 " A widow," explained Mrs. Drummond, " a widow 
 with one little boy." 
 
 " Looks young for that," but at the information his 
 heart had leaped. Her motherhood added to her value 
 in his eyes. It was as if she had said : " See what I 
 can do. I have done it once and I can do it again." In 
 him a current of thought was running parallel with one 
 of emotion. Mrs. Roslyn was bonnie, a big bonnie woman ; 
 he had never seen any one he admired so much. She was 
 emphatically his style. 
 
 " Her name is Belle. Suitable, isn't it ? " said Mrs. 
 Drummond. " >he is one of those capable people who 
 make you realize that at her own sort of work a woman 
 can always earn a living. Her husband died last year, 
 and though she had no special training, she offered for 
 this job and got it." 
 
 So she had to make a living for herself and her boy, 
 had she? Harry admired capability. 
 
 " The Humbys," continued Mrs. Drummond, " are so 
 pleased they talk of adopting her, but," she smiled " it 
 won't be long before she has a home of her own." 
 
 " She is engaged to Mr. Jansen," said Susie, and was 
 glad to say it. 
 
 * Ah ! " said Harry, and went on with his tea. En-
 
 382 The Rolling Stone 
 
 gaged was she, and to the bald-headed coot ? engaged 
 before even she met him, Harry? A mistake to be in such 
 a hurry. 
 
 Not that he wanted to marry. Well then, he did and 
 he didn't. He wanted, when that old pumper of his gave 
 way, to leave behind a bit of himself, and that bit must 
 bear his name, must be recognizable as his. 
 
 Ridiculous that illegitimate children belong to the 
 mother, have her surname. 
 
 Also he would like to have a home for a time. 
 
 As things were, life was dull. 
 
 To enter the lists against Jansen would be exciting, 
 give him something to think about, to do. 
 
 He was already planning his campaign. He would say 
 good-bye to Mrs. Drummond and Susie at, the door of the 
 cafe and come back for well, for his stick. 
 
 A few words with the manager. 
 
 Then he would hang about till the Geisha closed. When 
 Mrs. Roslyn appeared at the side door she would find 
 him waiting. 
 
 He would beg to be allowed to see her home. 
 
 A bit of courting, eventually a house of his own and, 
 upstairs, rooms filled as Susie had filled hers. Boys 
 Susie had two boys 
 
 Mrs. Drummond beckoned to a waitress and paid the 
 bill. Harry followed his hostess out of the cafe, trying, 
 as he passed the mahogany cage, to catch Mrs. Roslyn's 
 soft hazel eye. But the manager was writing busily and 
 did not look up. 
 
 What a sweep of dark lashes, what a bloomy cheek ! 
 
 " Thanks so much, Mrs. Drummond. Bother ! I must 
 have left my stick behind. If you'll excuse me " 
 
 " Here it is ? Harry. I noticed you had left it."
 
 The Rolling Stone 383 
 
 Harry's hard face relaxed. " Done ! " and he chuckled. 
 " Never mind her," soothed Mrs. Drummond. " You 
 be off back!" 
 
 And Harry turned without a word. 
 
 IX 
 
 He had no time to lose. Engaged to Jansen? After 
 all, a thing wasn't worth having unless you had to fight 
 for it. 
 
 You wanted what other men wanted; not for its own 
 sake but because they wanted it. And you wanted it just 
 as long as you had to fight in order to keep it. 
 
 That was the fun of it the fighting, not the purse 
 and the side-stakes. 
 
 Harry thrilled to this adventure as he had to every 
 other from the day he called " Bogey," from the day he 
 first drew breath. 
 
 He wanted Mrs. Roslyn because Jansen wanted her but 
 also for what she could give. His instinct was clamorous. 
 
 He had nothing to offer, neither money nor position. 
 
 Yet he would win. 
 
 He knew it before he saw Mrs. Roslyn again, before 
 he crossed the threshold of the cafe. 
 
 Damn Kitty! Here was something better worth his 
 while. 
 
 THE END
 
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