The Literary Lord Peter

 

CHAPTER X

 

Four-Ale Bar

 

 

"What should I have done?" I cried, with some heat.

"Gone to the nearest public-house. That is the centre

of country gossip."

 

Arthur Conan Doyle: The Solitary Cyclist

 

 

The police were out of the house by tea-time. Indeed the unhappy Kirk, having ascertained that by no dodging, stooping or standing on tip-toe could anyone obtain a sight of the clock-face from the window, found himself with but little zest to prolong his inquiries. He made the half-hearted suggestion that Noakes might have temporarily removed the cactus from its pot after 6.20 and replaced it before 9.30; but he could offer himself no plausible explanation of any such aimless proceeding. There was, of course, only Crutchley's word for it that the plant had been there at 6.20—if there was even that; Crutchley had mentioned watering it—he might have taken it down and left it for Noakes to put back. One could ask—but even as he made a note of this intention, Kirk felt little hope of any result. He examined the bedrooms in a dispirited way, impounded a number of books and papers from a cupboard and again examined Mrs. Ruddle about Sellon's interview with Noakes.

 

The result of all this was not very satisfactory. A note-book was discovered, containing, among other entries, a list of weekly payments, five shillings at a time, under the initials "J. S." This corroborated a story that scarcely needed corroboration. It also suggested that Sellon's frankness might be less a virtue than a necessity, since, had he suspected the existence of such a document, he would have realised that it was better to confess before being confronted with it. Peter's comment was, Why, if Sellon were the murderer, had he not searched the house for compromising papers? With this consideration Kirk tried hard to comfort himself.

 

There was nothing else that could be interpreted as evidence of blackmailing payments from anybody, though plenty of testimony going to show that Noakes's affairs were in an even worse state of confusion than had hitherto appeared. An interesting item was a bundle of newspaper cuttings and jottings in Noakes's hand, concerning cheap cottages on the west coast of Scotland—a country in which it is notoriously difficult to proceed for the recovery of civil debts contracted elsewhere. That Noakes had been the "proper twister" Kirk had supposed him was clear enough; unhappily, it was not his misdoings that needed proof.

 

Mrs. Ruddle was unhelpful. She had heard Noakes slam the window shut and seen Sellon retreat in the direction of the front door. Supposing that the show was over, she had hastened home with her pail of water. She thought she had heard a knocking at the doors a few minutes later, and thought, 'He's got some hopes!' Asked whether she had heard what the quarrel was about, she admitted, with regret, that she had not, but (with a malicious grin) "supposed as Joe Sellon knew all about it." Sellon, she added, "often came up to see Mr. Noakes"—her own opinion, if Kirk wanted it, was that he was "a-trying to borrer money" and that Noakes had refused to lend any more. Mrs. Sellon was thriftless, everybody knew that. Kirk would have liked to ask her whether, having last seen Mr. Noakes engaged in a violent quarrel, she had had no qualms about his subsequent disappearance; but the question stuck in his throat. He would be saying in so many words that an officer of the law could be suspected of a murder; without better evidence he could not bring himself to do it. His next dreary job was to question the Sellons, and he was not looking forward to that. In a mood of the blackest depression, he went off to interview the coroner.

 

In the meantime, Mr. Puffett, having cleared the kitchen chimney from above and assisted at the lighting of the fire, had taken his fee and gone home, uttering many expressions of sympathy and goodwill. Finally, Miss Twitterton, tearful but flattered, was conveyed to Pagford by Bunter in the car, with her bicycle perched "high and disposedly" upon the back seat. Harriet saw her off and returned to the sitting-room, where her lord and master was gloomily building a house of cards with a greasy old pack which he had unearthed from the what-not.

 

"Well!" said Harriet, in unnaturally cheerful tones, "they've gone. At last we are alone!"

 

"That's a blessing," said he, glumly.

 

"Yes; I couldn't have stood much more. Could you?"

 

"Not any more.... And I can't stand it now."

 

The words were not said rudely; he sounded merely helpless and exhausted.

 

"I wasn't going to," said Harriet.

 

He made no reply, seeming absorbed in adding the fourth storey to his structure. She watched him for a few moments, then decided he was best left alone and wandered upstairs to fetch pen and paper. She thought it might be a good thing to write a few lines to the Dowager Duchess.

 

Passing through Peter's dressing-room, she found that somebody had been at work there. The curtains had been hung, the rugs put down and the bed made up. She paused to wonder what might be the significance of this—if any. In her own room, the traces of Miss Twitterton's brief occupation had been removed—the eiderdown shaken, the pillows made smooth, the hot-water bottle taken away, the disorder of washstand and dressing-table set to rights. The doors and drawers left open by Kirk had been shut, and a bowl of chrysanthemums stood on the window-sill. Bunter, like a steam-roller, had passed over everything, flattening out all traces of upheaval. She got the things she needed and carried them down. The card house had reached the sixth storey. At the sound of her step, Peter started, his hand shook, and the whole flimsy fabric dissolved into ruins. He muttered something and began doggedly to rebuild it.

 

Harriet glanced at the clock; it was nearly five, and she felt she could do with some tea. She had coerced Mrs. Ruddle into putting the kettle on and doing some work; it could not take very long now. She sat down on the settle and began her letter. The news was not exactly what the Duchess would expect to receive, but it was urgently necessary to write something that she might get before the headlines broke out in the London papers. Besides, there were things Harriet wanted to tell her—things she would have told her in any case. She finished the first page and looked up. Peter was frowning; the house, risen once again to the fourth storey, was showing signs of imminent collapse. Without meaning to, she began to laugh.

 

"What's the joke?" said Peter. The tottering cards immediately slid apart, and he damned them fretfully. Then his face suddenly relaxed, and the familiar, sidelong smile lifted the corner of his mouth.

 

"I was seeing the funny side of it," said Harriet, apologetically. "This looks not like a nuptial."

 

"True, O God!" said he, ruefully. He got up and came over to her. "I rather think," he observed in a detached and dubious manner, "I am behaving like a lout."

 

"Do you? Then all I can say is, your notion of loutishness is exceedingly feeble and limited. You simply don't know how to begin."

 

He was not comforted by her mockery. "I didn't mean things to be like this," he said, lamely.

 

"My dear cuckoo——"

 

"I wanted it all to be wonderful for you."

 

She waited for him to find his own answer to this, which he did with disarming swiftness.

 

"That's vanity, I suppose. Take pen and ink and write it down. His lordship is in the enjoyment of very low spirits, owing to his inexplicable inability to bend Providence to his own designs."

 

"Shall I tell your mother so?"

 

"Are you writing to her? Good Lord, I never thought about it, but I'm dashed glad you did. Poor old Mater, she'll be horribly upset about it all. She'd got it firmly into her head that to be married to her white-headed boy meant an untroubled elysium, world without end, amen. Strange, that one's own mother should know so little about one."

 

"Your mother is the most sensible woman I ever met. She has a much better grasp of the facts of life than you have."

 

"Has she?"

 

"Yes, of course. By the way, you don't insist on a husband's right to read his wife's letters?"

 

"Great heavens, no!" said Peter, horrified.

 

"I'm glad of that. It mightn't be good for you. Here's Bunter coming back; we may get some tea. Mrs. Ruddle is in such a state of excitement that she has probably boiled the milk and put the tea-leaves into the sandwiches. I ought to have stood over her till she'd finished."

 

"Blow Mrs. Ruddle!"

 

"By all means—but I expect Bunter is doing that already."

 

The precipitate entry of Mrs. Ruddle with the tea-tray gave weight to the supposition.

 

"Which," said Mrs. Ruddle, setting down her burden with a rattle on a small table before the fire, "I'd a-brought it before, if it wasn't the policeman from Broxford come a-busting in, jest as I was makin' of the toast. Me 'eart come into me mouth, thinkin' summink 'orrible 'ad 'appened. But it ain't only summingses from the coroner. Quite a bunch of 'em 'e 'ad in 'is 'and, and these 'ere is yours."

 

"Oh, yes," said Peter, breaking the seal. "They've been pretty quick. 'To wit—To Lord Peter Death Bredon Wimsey, By virtue of a Warrant under the Hand and Seal of John Perkins'—all right, Mrs. Ruddle, you needn't wait."

 

"Mr. Perkins the lawyer, that is," explained Mrs. Ruddle. "A very nice gentleman, so I'm told, though I ain't never seen 'im to speak to."

 

"'...one of His Majesty's coroners for the said county of Hertfordshire to be and appear before him on Thursday the tenth day of October' ...you'll see him and hear him to-morrow all right, Mrs. Ruddle...'at 11 o'clock in the forenoon precisely at the Coroner's Court at the Crown Inn situate in the parish of Paggleham in the said County; then and there to give Evidence and be examined on His Majesty's behalf, touching the death of William Noakes, and not to depart without leave.'"

 

"That's all very fine," observed Mrs. Ruddle, "but 'oo's to give my Bert 'is dinner? Twelve o'clock's 'is time, and I ain't a-goin' to see my Bert go 'ungry, not for King George nor nobody."

 

"Bert will have to get on without you, I'm afraid," said Peter, solemnly. "You see what it says: 'Herein fail not at your peril.'"

 

"Lor' now," said Mrs. Ruddle. "Peril of what, I should like to know?"

 

"Prison," said Peter, in an awful voice.

 

"Me go to prison?" cried Mrs. Ruddle, in great indignation. "That's a nice thing for a respectable woman."

 

"Surely you could get a friend to see to Bert's dinner," suggested Harriet.

 

"Well," said Mrs. Ruddle, dubiously, "maybe Mrs. 'Odges would oblige. But I'm thinkin' she'll want to come and 'ear wot's going on at the 'quest. But there! I dessay I could make a pie to-night and leave it out for Bert." She retreated thoughtfully to the door, returning to say, in a hoarse whisper:

 

"Will I 'ave to tell 'im about the paraffin?"

 

"I shouldn't think so."

 

"Oh!" said Mrs. Ruddle. "Not as there's anything wrong in borrowin' a drop of paraffin, w'en it's easy replaced. But them there pleecemen do twist a woman's words so."

 

"I shouldn't think you need worry," said Harriet. "Shut the door, please, as you go out."

 

"Yes, my lady," said Mrs. Ruddle; and vanished with unexpected docility.

 

"If I know anything about Kirk," said Peter, "they'll adjourn the inquest, so it shouldn't take very long."

 

"No. I'm glad John Perkins has been so prompt—we shan't get such a crowd of reporters and people."

 

"Shall you mind the reporters very much?"

 

"Not nearly as much as you will. Don't be so tragic about it, Peter. Make up your mind that the joke's on us, this time."

 

"It's that, right enough. Helen's going to make a grand cockadoodle over this."

 

"Well, let her. She doesn't look as though she got much fun out of life, poor woman. After all, she can't alter the facts. I mean, here I am, you know, pouring out tea for you—from a chipped spout, admittedly—but I'm here."

 

"I don't suppose she envies you that job. I'm not exactly Helen's cup of tea."

 

"She'd never enjoy any tea—she'd always be thinking about the chips."

 

"Helen doesn't allow chips."

 

"No—she'd insist on silver—even if the pot was empty. Have some more tea. I can't help its dribbling into the saucer. It's the sign of a generous nature, or an overflowing heart, or something."

 

Peter accepted the tea and drank it in silence. He was still dissatisfied with himself. It was as though he had invited the woman of his choice to sit down with him at the feast of life, only to discover that his table had not been reserved for him. Men, in these mortifying circumstances, commonly find fault with the waiter, grumble at the food and irritably reject every effort to restore pleasantness to the occasion. From the worst exhibitions of injured self-conceit, his good manners were sufficient to restrain him, but the mere fact that he knew himself to be in fault made it all the more difficult for him to recover spontaneity. Harriet watched his inner conflict sympathetically. If both of them had been ten years younger, the situation would have resolved itself in a row, tears and reconciling embraces; but for them, that path was plainly marked, NO EXIT. There was no help for it; he must get out of his sulks as best he could. Having inflicted her own savage moods upon him for a good five years, she was in no position to feel aggrieved; compared with herself, indeed, he was making a pretty good showing.

 

He pushed the tea-things aside and lit cigarettes for both of them. Then, rubbing fretfully upon the old sore, he said:

 

"You show commendable patience with my bad temper."

 

"Is that what you call it? I've seen tempers in comparison with which you'd call that a burst of heavenly harmony."

 

"Whatever it is, you are trying to flatter me out of it."

 

"Not at all." (Very well, he was asking for it; better use shock tactics and carry the place by assault.) "I'm only trying to tell you, in the nicest possible manner, that, provided I were with you, I shouldn't greatly mind being deaf, dumb, halt, blind and imbecile, afflicted with shingles and whooping-cough, in an open boat without clothes or food, with a thunderstorm coming on. But you're being painfully stupid about it."

 

"Oh, my dear!" he said, desperately, and with a very red face, "what the devil am I to say to that? Except that I shouldn't mind anything either. Only I can't help feeling that it's I that have somehow been idiot enough to launch the infernal boat, call up the storm, strip you naked, jettison the cargo, strike you lame and senseless and infect you with whooping-cough and—what was the other thing?"

 

"Shingles," said Harriet, drily; "and it isn't infectious."

 

"Crushed again." His eyes danced, and all of a sudden her heart seemed to turn right over. "O ye gods! render me worthy of this noble wife. All the same, I have a strong suspicion that I am being managed. I should resent it very much, if I were not full of buttered toast and sentiment—two things which, as you may have noticed, tend to go together. And that reminds me—hadn't we better get the car out and run over to Broxford for dinner? There's sure to be some sort of pub there, and a little fresh air may help to blow the bats out of my belfry."

 

"That's rather a good idea. And can't we take Bunter? I don't believe he's had anything to eat for years."

 

"Still harping on my Bunter! I myself have suffered many things for love, very like this. You may have Bunter, but I draw the line at a partie carrée. Mrs. Ruddle shall not come to-night. I observe the Round Table rule—to love one only and to cleave to her. One at a time, I mean, of course. I will not pretend that I have never been linked up before, but I absolutely refuse to be coupled in parallel."

 

"Mrs. Ruddle can go home to bake her pies. I'll just finish my letter and then we can post it in Broxford."

 

But Bunter respectfully requested to be omitted from the party—unless, of course, his lordship required his services. He would prefer, if permitted, to utilise the leisure so kindly placed at his disposal in a visit to the Crown. He should be interested to make the acquaintance of some of the local inhabitants, and, as for his supper, Mr. Puffett had been so good as to hint that there was pot luck waiting for him at his house whenever he might care to step in and partake of it.

 

"Which means," said Peter, interpreting the decision to Harriet, "that Bunter wants to get a side-line through the local gossip on the late Noakes and all his household. In addition, he would like to establish diplomatic relations with the publican, the coal-merchant, the man who grows the best vegetables, the farmer who happens to have cut down a tree and can oblige with logs, the butcher who hangs his meat longest, the village carpenter and the man who does a job about the drains. You'll have to put up with me. Nothing is ever gained by diverting Bunter from his own mysterious ends."

 

 

The bar of the Crown was remarkably full when Bunter made his way in. No doubt the unobtrusive presence of the late Mr. Noakes behind a locked door lent a special body to the mild and bitter. At the entrance of the stranger, the voices, which had been busy, fell silent, and glances, at first directed to the door, were swiftly averted and screened behind lifted tankards. This was fully in accordance with etiquette. Bunter saluted the company with a polite "Good evening," and asked for a pint of old ale and a packet of Players. Mr. Gudgeon, the landlord, fulfilled the order with a dignified leisure, observing, as he changed a ten-shilling note, that the day had been fine. Bunter assented to this proposition, saying further that the country air was agreeable after town. Mr. Gudgeon remarked that a-many London gentleman had been known to say the same thing, and inquired whether this was his customer's first visit to that part of the country. Bunter said that though he had frequently passed through the district he had never stayed there before, and that Paggleham seemed to be a pretty spot. He also volunteered the information that he was Kentish by birth. Mr. Gudgeon said, Indeed? they grew hops there, he believed. Bunter admitted that this was so. A very stout man with one eye intervened at this point to say that his wife's cousin lived in Kent and that it was all 'ops where he was. Bunter said there were hops where his mother lived; he himself knew little about hops, having been brought up in London from the age of five. A thin man with a lugubrious countenance said he supposed that there gallon of beer he'd had off Mr. Gudgeon last June came from Kent. This appeared to be a reference to some standing jest, for the bar laughed appreciatively, and much chaff was bandied about, till the thin man closed the discussion by saying, "All right, Jim; call it 'ops if it makes you feel any better."

 

During this exchange the customer from London had quietly retired to a window-seat, taking his pint with him. The conversation turned upon football. At length, however, a plump woman (who was, in fact, no other than Mrs. Ruddle's friend, Mrs. Hodges) remarked, with that feminine impulsiveness which rushes in where the lords of creation fear to tread:

 

"You lost a customer, seemin'ly, Mr. Gudgeon."

 

"Ah!" said Mr. Gudgeon. He darted a look towards the window-seat, but it encountered only the back of the stranger's head. "Where one goes another comes, Mrs. Hodges. 'Tain't much I'll be losing on the beer."

 

"You're right," said Mrs. Hodges. "Nor nobody else, neither. But is it true as 'e was put away a-purpose?"

 

"That's as may be," replied Mr. Gudgeon, cautiously. "We'll be hearin' to-morrow."

 

"And that won't do no 'arm to the trade, I reckon," observed the one-eyed man.

 

"Dunno about that," retorted the landlord. "We'll 'ave to close the 'ouse till it's over. 'Tis only decent. And Mr. Kirk's particular."

 

A scrawny woman of uncertain age piped up suddenly:

 

"Wot's 'e look like, George? Can't you let us 'ave a peep at 'im?"

 

"'Ark at Katie!" exclaimed the lugubrious man, as the landlord shook his head. "Can't let a man alone, dead or alive."

 

"Go on, Mr. Puddock!" said Katie; and the bar laughed again. "You're on the jury, ain't you? You gets a front seat free."

 

"We don't 'ave to view the body these days," Mr. Puddock corrected her. "Not without we ask to. 'Ere's George Lugg; you better ask 'im."

 

The undertaker came out of the inner room, and all eyes were turned to him.

 

"When's the funeral to be, George?"

 

"Friday," said Mr. Lugg. He ordered a tankard of bitter and added to a young man who now came out, locking the door behind him and handing the key to Mr. Gudgeon:

 

"You better get started, Harry. I'll be along in two ticks. We'll want to close him down after the inquest. He'll go till then."

 

"Ay," said Harry. "'Tis fine, sharp weather." He called for a half-pint, took it down briskly, and went out, saying, "See you presently, then, Dad."

 

The undertaker became the centre of a small circle, ghoulishly intent upon descriptive detail. Presently the voice of the irrepressible Mrs. Hodges was raised:

 

"And by what Martha Ruddle says, them as didn't 'ave 'is custom 'ull lose least by 'im."

 

"Ah!" said a small man with a fringe of sandy hair and a shrewd eye. "I've 'ad me doubts. Too many irons in that fire, I reckon. Not as I've a lot to grumble at. I don't let no books run beyond the month, and I got me money—allus exceptin' that there collar of bacon as 'e made trouble about. But it's like that there 'Atry and these other big companies as goes bust—you puts money out o' one thing into another, till you don't rightly know wot you've got."

 

"That's right," said the one-eyed man. "Allus investin' in things, 'e wos. Too clever be 'alf."

 

"And a 'ard bargain 'e did drive," said Mrs. Hodges. "Dear, oh, dear! Remember when 'e lent my poor sister that bit o' money? Crool, it was, wot she 'ad to pay. And makin' 'er sign away all her furniture."

 

"Well, 'e never made much on the furniture," said the sandy man. "A soakin' wet day that was, w'en they come up for sale. Tom Dudden 'ad 'em over at Pagford, and there wasn't a soul there but the dealers."

 

An ancient man with long grey whiskers raised his voice for the first time:

 

"Ill-gotten goods never thrive. 'Tis in Scripture. Because he hath oppressed and forsaken the poor, because he hath violently taken away a house which he builded not—ah! and the furniture, too—therefore shall no man look for his goods. In the fulness of his sufficiency shall he be in straits—ain't that so, Mr. Gudgeon?—He shall flee from the iron weapon—ay—but there ain't no good fleein' when the 'and of the Lord is agin the wicked man. There's a curse upon 'im, and we 'ave lived to see it fulfilled. Wasn't there a gentleman came down from London this morning with a writ agin 'im? In the same pit that 'e digged for others is 'is foot taken. Let the extortioner consume all that he hath—'tis writ so—Ah! let 'is children be vagabonds and beg their bread——"

 

"There, there, Dad!" said the innkeeper, seeing that the old gentleman was becoming excited. "'E ain't got no children, praise be."

 

"That's true," said the one-eyed man, "but 'e 'ave got a niece. It'll be a sad come-down for Aggie Twitterton. Wonderful set up, she allus wos, thinkin' there was money comin' to 'er."

 

"Well," said Mrs. Hodges, "them as gives themselves airs above other folks don't deserve nothin' but disappointments. 'Er dad wasn't only Ted Baker's cowman when all's said and done, and a dirty, noisy, foul-mouthed fellow in 'is drink, wot's more, as there ain't no call to be proud on."

 

"That's right," said the old man. "A very violent man. Beat 'is pore wife something crool, 'e did."

 

"If you treat a man like dirt," opined the one-eyed man, "'e'll act dirty. Dick Twitterton was a decent sort enough till 'e tuk it into 'is 'ead to marry the schoolmistress, with 'er airs and lah-di-dah ways. 'Wipe yer boots on the mat,' she says to 'im, 'afore you comes into the parlour.' Wot's the good of a wife like that to a man w'en 'e comes in mucky from the beasts an' wantin' 'is supper?"

 

"Good-lookin' feller, too, wasn't he?" said Katie.

 

"Now, Katie!" said the lachrymose man, reprovingly. "Yes, 'e wos a well set-up man, wos Dick Twitterton. That's wot the schoolmistress fell for, you see. You be keerful o' that soft 'eart o' yours, or it'll get you into trouble."

 

More chaff followed upon this. Then the undertaker said:

 

"None the more for that, I'm sorry for Aggie Twitterton."

 

"Bah!" said the lachrymose man. "She's all right. She've got 'er 'ens an' the church organ, and she don't do so bad. Gettin' a bit long in the tooth now, but a man might go farther and fare wuss."

 

"Well, there, Mr. Puddock!" cried Mrs. Hodges. "Don't say as you're thinkin' o' makin' an offer."

 

"'E's a one to talk, ain't he?" said Katie, delighted to get her own back. The old man chimed in solemnly:

 

"Now, do 'ee look where you're goin', Ted Puddock. There's bad blood o' both sides in Aggie Twitterton. 'Er mother was Willum Noakes's sister, don't 'ee forgit that; and Dick Twitterton, 'e was a violent, God-forsaking man, a swearer and a sabbath-breaker——"

 

The door opened to admit Frank Crutchley. He had a girl with him. Bunter, forgotten in his corner, summed her up as a lively young person, with an up-and-coming eye. The couple appeared to be on affectionate, not to say intimate, terms, and Bunter gained the impression that Crutchley was seeking consolation for his losses in the linked arms of Bacchus and Aphrodite. He stood the young lady a large port (Bunter shuddered delicately) and submitted with good humour to a certain amount of chaff when he offered drinks all round.

 

"Come into a fortune, 'ave you, Frank?"

 

"Mr. Noakes 'ave left 'im 'is share of liabilities, that's what it is."

 

"Thought you said your speckilations 'ad gone wrong."

 

"Ah, that's the way wi' these 'ere capitalists. Every time they loses a million they orders a case o' champagne."

 

"'Ere, Polly, don't you know better 'a to go about with a chap wot speckilates?"

 

"She thinks she'll learn 'im better w'en 'e's bringin' the money 'ome to 'er."

 

"And so I would," said Polly, with some vigour.

 

"Ah! Thinkin' o' gettin' spliced, you two?"

 

"No charge for thinkin'," said Crutchley.

 

"'Ow about the young lady in London, Frank?"

 

"Which one's that?" retorted Crutchley.

 

"'Ark at 'im! 'E've got so many 'e don't know 'ow to keep count on 'em."

 

"You watch your step, Polly. Maybe 'e's married three times a'ready."

 

"I should worry," said the girl, with a toss of the head.

 

"Well, well, after a buryin' comes a weddin'. Tell us w'en it's to be, Frank."

 

"I'll 'ave ter save up for the parson's fee," said Crutchley, good-temperedly, "seein' me forty pound's gone west. But it was almost worth it, to see old Aggie Twitterton's face. 'Ow! Uncle's dead and the money's gone!' she says. 'Ow, and 'im that rich—'oo'd a-thought it?' Silly old cow!" Crutchley laughed contemptuously. "'Urry up with your port, Polly, if you want us to get over in time for the big picture."

 

"So that's what you're after. Ain't goin' into no mourning for old Mr. Noakes, is yer, from the looks of it?"

 

"'Im?" said Crutchley. "No fear, the dirty old twister. There'll be more pickings out o' me lord than ever there was out of 'im. Pocket full o' bank-notes and a nose like a cheese-faced rabbit——"

 

"Hey!" said Mr. Gudgeon, with a warning glance.

 

"His lordship will be much obliged to you, Mr. Crutchley," said Bunter, emerging from the window-seat.

 

"Sorry," said Crutchley; "didn't see you was there. No offence meant. A joke's a joke. What'll you take, Bunter?"

 

"I'll take no liberties from anyone," said that gentleman, with dignity. "Mr. Bunter to you, if you please. And by the way, Mr. Gudgeon, I was to ask you kindly to send up a fresh nine-gallon cask to Talboys, the one that's there being the property of the creditors, as we understand."

 

"Right you are," said the landlord, with alacrity. "When would you like it?"

 

"First thing to-morrow," replied Bunter, "and another dozen of Bass while it settles.... Ah, Mr. Puffett, good evening! I was just thinking of looking you up."

 

"You're welcome," said Mr. Puffett, heartily. "I jest came along to fetch up the supper-ale, George being called out. There's a cold pie in the 'ouse and Jinny'll be glad to see you. Make it a quart, then, Mr. Gudgeon, if you please."

 

He handed a jug over the counter, which the landlord filled, saying, as he did so, to Bunter:

 

"That's all right, then. It'll be up at ten o'clock and I'll step round and tap it for you."

 

"I am much obliged to you, Mr. Gudgeon. I shall attend personally to its reception."

 

Crutchley had seized the opportunity to go out with his young woman. Mr. Puffett shook his head.

 

"Off to them pictures again. Wot I says is, they things are unsettlin' the girls' minds nowadays. Silk stockin's and all. You wouldn't a-seen that in my young days."

 

"Ah! come now," said Mrs. Hodges. "Polly hev' been walkin' out wi' Frank a good while now. 'Tis time 'twere settled between 'em. She's a good girl, for all she's saucy in her ways."

 

"Made up 'is mind, hev' he?" said Mr. Puffett. "Thought 'e was set on 'avin' a wife from London. But there! maybe 'e thinks she won't 'ave 'im, now 'e's lost 'is forty pound. Ketch 'em on the rebound, as they say—that's 'ow they makes marriages these days. A man may do all 'e likes, there's some lass gets 'im in the end, for all 'is runnin' and dodgin' like a pig in a lane. But I likes to see a bit o' money into the bargain—there's more to marriage, as they say, than four bare legs in a bed."

 

"'Ark at 'im!" said Katie.

 

"Or legs in silk stockings, neither," said Mr. Puffett.

 

"Well, Tom," said Mrs. Hodges, comfortably, "you're a widow-man with a bit o' money, so there's a chance for some on us yet."

 

"Is there?" retorted Mr. Puffett. "Well, I give yer leave to try. Now, Mr. Bunter, if you're ready."

 

"Is Frank Crutchley a native of Paggleham?" inquired Bunter, as they walked away up the road, slowly, so as not to set the beer all of a froth.

 

"No," said Mr. Puffett. "He came here from London. Answered an advertisement of Mr. 'Ancock's. Been here six or seven year now. I don't fancy 'e's got no parents. But 'e's a pushin' young fellow, only all the girls is arter 'im, which makes it 'ard for 'im to settle. I'd a-thought 'e'd more sense than to take up with Polly Mason—serious-like, I mean. 'E was allus set to look for a wife as could bring 'im a bit. But there! Say what you like before'and, a man proposes and a woman disposes on 'im for good an' all, and then it's too late to be careful. Look at your good gentleman—I dessay, now, there was a-many rich young ladies arter 'im. And maybe he said he didn't want none on 'em. And 'ere 'e is on 'is 'oneymoon, and from what they was a-tellin' the Reverend, not a wealthy young lady neither."

 

"His lordship," said Mr. Bunter, "married for love."

 

"I thought as much," said Mr. Puffett, shifting the jug to his other hand. "Ah, well—he can afford it, I dessay."

 

 

At the conclusion of a pleasant and, on the whole, profitable evening, Mr. Bunter congratulated himself on a number of things attempted and done. He had ordered the beer; he had put (through Mr. Puffett's Jinny) a nice duck in hand for the following day, and Mr. Puffett knew a man who could send round three pound of late peas in the morning. He had also engaged Mr. Puffett's son-in-law to deal with the leak in the copper and mend two broken panes in the scullery. He had found out the name of a farmer who cured his own bacon and had written and posted to London an order about coffee, potted meats and preserves. Before leaving Talboys he had assisted Mrs. Ruddle's Bert to bring the luggage upstairs, and he now had his lordship's wardrobe arranged, as fittingly as might be, in the cupboards at his disposal. Mrs. Ruddle had made up a bed for him in one of the back rooms, and this, though of minor importance, brought with it a certain satisfaction. He went round stoking all the fires (observing with pleasure that Mrs. Ruddle's friend's husband, Mr. Hodges, had delivered the logs as requested). He laid out his lordship's pyjamas, gave a stir to the bowl of lavender in her ladyship's bedroom, and straightened the trifling disorder which she had left on the toilet-table, whisking away a few grains of powder and putting the nail-scissors back in their case. He noticed, with approval, an absence of lipstick; his lordship had a particular dislike of pink-stained cigarette-ends. Nor, as he had before thankfully observed, did her ladyship enamel her nails to the likeness of blood-stained talons; a bottle of varnish there was, but it was barely tinted. Quite good style, thought Bunter, and gathered up a pair of stout shoes for cleaning. Down below, he heard the car draw up to the door and stand panting. He slipped out by the Privy Stair.

 

 

"Tired, Domina?"

 

"Rather tired—but much better for the run. Such a terrific lot seems to have happened lately, hasn't it?"

 

"Like a drink?"

 

"No, thanks. I think I'll go straight up."

 

"Right you are. I'm only going to put the car away."

 

Bunter, however, was already dealing with this. Peter walked round to the shed and listened to what he had to say.

 

"Yes; we saw Crutchley and his young woman in Broxford. When the heart of a man is oppressed with cares, and so on. Have you taken up the hot water?"

 

"Yes, my lord."

 

"Then cut along to bed. I can look after myself for once. The grey suit to-morrow, with your permission and approval."

 

"Entirely appropriate, my lord, if I may say so."

 

"And will you lock up? We must learn to be householders, Bunter. We will presently purchase a cat and put it out."

 

"Very good, my lord."

 

"That's all then. Good night, Bunter."

 

"Good night, my lord, and thank you."

 

 

When Peter knocked at the door, his wife was sitting by the fire, thoughtfully polishing her nails.

 

"I say, Harriet, would you rather sleep with me to-night?"

 

"Well——"

 

"I'm sorry; that sounded a little ambiguous. I mean, do you feel any preference for the other room? I won't make a nuisance of myself if you're feeling fagged. Or I'll change rooms with you if you'd rather."

 

"That's very sweet of you, Peter. But I don't think you ought to give way to me when I'm merely being foolish. Are you going to turn out one of these indulgent husbands?"

 

"Heaven forbid! Arbitrary and tyrannical to the last degree. But I have my softer moments—and my share of human folly."

 

Harriet rose up, extinguished the candles and came out to him, shutting the door behind her.

 

"Folly seems to be its own reward," said he. "Very well. Let us be foolish together."