ill. The local doctor took a gloomy view of his case, and talked of

unripe blackberries and appendicitis. Papa thereupon carried the whole family back to Edinburgh before the end of the month. This time they stayed at the Caledonian Hotel, where the noise of Princes Street and the constant trains tried papa even more than the infernal bugles in Ramsay Gardens.

A great doctor, who had not yet started for his holiday, was consulted about Teddy, and he was even graver than the doctor up in Kingussie, and said there must be an operation at once.

That was a puzzling day for Teddy.

He was kept in bed till evening, and nurse and everybody were extraordinarily kind to him.

Then mummy came and sat beside him and held his hand, and told him that he was to go that night to another house, and that the next day the great doctor would do something for him that would make him quite well.

"Why can't he do it here?" Teddy asked.

It seemed that people didn't have these things done in hotels; that doctors were particular men who liked to make people well in specially chosen houses called Nursing Homes, and that Teddy was to go to one of those homes that very night in a taxi-cab.

"Will my nurse come?" he asked anxiously.

"I will come," said mummy, and her voice sounded as if she, too, had got one of the Kingussie colds.

"Not nurse," he repeated, rather puzzled. "Who will dress me?"

"There are lots of nice nurses in the Home who can do that, but you won't be dressed just at first, you know. The doctor will want to keep you in bed a little while after the operation."

"What's a operation? What's it do to you?"

But this mummy did not seem able to explain very clearly, and Teddy began to feel rather doubtful about the whole thing.

"Will it hurt?" he asked at last.

"Not at the time, my precious," said mummy, "but afterwards it may. I'm afraid it will, rather. I'm afraid it may hurt a good deal. But you will try to be brave. I know you will be brave."

"A bave--Bittish--officer----" Teddy muttered. Then, turning his big, bright eyes upon his mother, he asked eagerly: "Can I wear my button?"

Mummy did not understand, but nurse did, and when it was all explained he was assured that he should wear his button.

Then they dressed him, and nurse packed a little suit-case, with Colin Dougal in it, and all his new pyjamas and his dressing-gown, and he and Mummy went alone together to that strange house full of nurses.

A great many odd things happened that night, and Teddy simply couldn't have borne the strangeness of it all if his button had not been fastened on the pocket of the jacket of his pyjamas: they were real pyjamas, two garments, not baby ones fastened together.

He didn't sleep very well that night, but as often as he woke up he touched his button and repeated to himself "Guadaloupe, Martinique, Selingapatam," which are the first three of the long list of battles fought by the Black Watch. Girzie's brother could say them all, and Teddy loved to hear him roll them out in his strong Scottish voice, and tried to learn them himself, but they are mostly very long names, and only the first three remained in his mind.

Every one was most kind, but it was depressing not to have any breakfast. Mummy's cold seemed to get worse, and one of the nurses suggested that it would be better if she did not come as far as the operating-room lest she should give it to Teddy.

His heart was thumping in his ears. He kissed mummy, he kissed Colin Dougal, who simpered sweetly as usual (his leg hardly showed at all) and was quite unmoved; and then, with lips that trembled, he whispered "Bave Bittish officer" to himself over and over again.

He put one hand into that of the kind nurse, and held his button with the other, and together they went down a long passage into a room that was walled and floored with white tiles. It had no chairs in it, only tables, one of them long and narrow and high, right in the middle of the room. Two doctors were waiting for them, and the one Teddy had seen at the hotel had his coat off as if he was going to play some game. He looked very kindly at Teddy as they came in. "You're a man," he said. "I can see that."

"I sall not ky," Teddy said in rather a shaky voice. "I sall not ky, because I'm going to be a soldier, and they don't, you know."

"I guessed that, the minute I saw you," said the doctor. "We like soldiers here, they get well extra quick. Up with you, and you mustn't mind when we put that funny thing over your face."

Teddy lay down on the high narrow table. He looked up anxiously at the doctor he didn't know. "You won't take my button away, will you, not when you make me go to sleep?"

"Keep a tight hold of it," said the doctor, "and you'll find it there when you wake up. No one would dream of touching it."

A soft rubber mask was pressed on Teddy's face; it was not pleasant, but it did not hurt. Then came a roaring in his ears like the burn at Kingussie when it had rained more than usual.

"A--bave Bittish--Guadaloupe, Martinique----"

The burn had swept little Teddy away into oblivion, but even there the small hand was closed tightly over the soldier's button.

That night the doctor congratulated papa both upon the entire success of the operation and on the splendid military training he had given his little son.

*XVIII*

*PAUL AND THE PLAYWRIGHT*

"I was eight yesterday," said Paul to Thor, "so this week's different. I'm different. I'm older--five years older than you, dear, though you are so big."

Thor wagged his tail and looked sympathetic. A deerhound contrives to express more by his looks than most humans, and Paul talked so continually to Thor that the great dog always seemed to understand.

"So," Paul continued, "I think it's time we went about a bit and looked for an adventure--like _him_, you know. We've been awfully good for ever so long. You haven't stole anything, nor chased the sheep, nor ate anybody's slipper, and I haven't gone off for the day, or smacked Lucy, or read a book at meals. We've been sort of saints, and it's time we did something, or we'll be turning into kind of angels--and they always die, you know, and we've no time for that: we've got ever such a deal to see to. Come on, my dear, nobody wants us. Let's walk and walk till we find somethin' instastin'."

Paul wasted no time in preparations. He didn't even wait to put on his boots. He was already equipped with his favourite weapon, a smooth roller-like piece of wood about a foot long, which had originally been used as a support for photographs. They had been rolled round it for postal purposes. Paul annexed it when he was about three, christened it his "chuncheon" (in those days "r's" were a difficulty,) and had treasured it ever since.

Once Dorcas, the under-nurse, tidied it away in her excess of zeal, when his grief was so uncontrollable that the whole household turned out to hunt for it, and it was finally rescued from the dustbin by cook.

Before setting out he would fain have divested himself of his smock, but a smock is a tiresome garment securely fastened at the back by means of treacherous little loops and buttons, quite too complex to be successfully tackled by the wearer. He did his best, however, to turn it into a doublet by tying a piece of string as tightly as possible round his waist, and through the string he thrust his trusty "chuncheon." He pulled his dilapidated cotton hat well over his eyes, and, lest any of the authorities should look out of the window and inquire his intentions, he set off down the drive very slowly, as though bound for nowhere in particular.

Nurse saw him strolling towards the gate, but that was nothing; he was always strolling about the garden with Thor--the only wonder was that some five other dogs had not already joined them.

Mrs. Button at the lodge saw him go by as she was hanging out sheets on the line, and they "changed the weather and passed the time of day," but she only thought he was going across to the village shop for something, so she was not curious or suspicious either.

At the "Cat and Compasses" Paul stopped. Mr. Mumford, the landlord, was standing in the doorway leaning on a hoe. They greeted each other suitably, and Paul remarked, "Miss Goodlake's stopped in bed. She's got a headache----"

"Sorry to 'ear it, I'm sure," Mr. Mumford replied sympathetically. "Per'aps the sun 'ave been a bit too strong for she."

"Janey and Fiammetta," Paul continued, unconcerned as to the causes of Miss Goodlake's headache, "are doing their lessons alone. They're hearing each other, and they said I disturbed them, so Thor and I've come off together."

He paused and looked expectantly at Mr. Mumford, as though waiting for a suggestion of some sort.

Mr. Mumford is shaped rather like a pair of bellows with two substantial legs instead of one slim one. He completely filled his own doorway, and perspiring and benevolent, looked down at Paul.

"I wish as I could ast you to come in and set a bit, Master Paul," he said apologetically, "but my missus she be a-cleanin', and when a woman gets a-cleanin', the 'ouse beant no place for the likes of we. Not a moment's peace or quiet to be 'ad. _You_ knows what 'a' be, doan't 'ee, Master Paul?"

Here Mr. Mumford winked at Paul, who wagged his head sympathetically as the summer stillness was broken by the clashing of pails, the sound of falling brooms, and a strident voice exclaimed "Sammle! you get along down garden an' weed them there parsnips. That bed be disgrace to be'old. You take 'oe along; be off now, don't 'ee stand gossipin' there, ye lazy varmint, you!"

With a groan Mr. Mumford seized the hoe, turned back into the bar, and disappeared from view. Paul, congratulating Thor on the fact that neither of them had a missus who insisted on the weeding of parsnips on such a hot morning, strolled through the village. It was not yet ten o'clock, and no one was to be seen. All the women were busy indoors, the men at work. The sky was blue, the sun was hot, and a ribbon of white road lay before them "beckoning and winding." So he and Thor set off at a good pace, and Paul muttered as he went, "He would have given his housekeeper and his niece for a fair opportunity of kicking the traitor Galabon," adding thoughtfully, "They'd be about as bad as a missus, I expect."

Of course the quotation came from the Book of the Moment, which, just then, happened to be Don Quixote. He had found the Mad Knight in the attic, an old translation in four volumes, published in 1810, with a map and many steel engravings. He read it right through with his usual absorbed interest, but expressed regret that there was such "an awful lot about lovers and that." The Don's passion for the peerless Dulcinea he did not attempt to understand, and the long love stories of other people interspersed throughout bored him. But the adventures thrilled him, and Sancho Panza's was a character that he got on terms with at once. There was something dear and familiar about the sturdy Sancho: something of Mr. Mumford.

For although, so far as Paul knew, Mr. Mumford never went further afield than Garchester, still he was confident that, did occasion arise, Mr. Mumford would not fail him. Paul often pictured himself, attended by this faithful henchman, riding forth on two of his father's best hunters, to seek their fortunes in an unknown world.

It is true that he had never in so many words mooted the idea to Mr. Mumford in any of their more intimate conversations, but he felt assured that Mr. Mumford would never suffer him to set out alone and unaided.

He was, perhaps, a thought disappointed that this boon companion had not suggested going with him that very morning, but he acquitted him of all intentional disloyalty, when he reflected on the compelling qualities of the voice that haled the unwilling Sammle to the parsnip bed. He was sure Mr. Mumford would have preferred to accompany him--which is quite likely.

It was impossible to be Don Quixote without an attendant; so, somewhat regretfully, Paul fell back upon the beloved Boots, the resourceful and ever-conquering third son of his favourite Fairy Book.

Here, Thor was quite in the picture.

It is true that in _Tales from the Norse_ there isn't much about dogs. Horses play all the larger parts, but "lots of animals come in," and Paul liked that. "After all," he remarked complacently to Thor, "we shan't have to keep on being in love on such a hot morning."

Paul's view of love-making strongly resembled that of cook, who, when she caught Greenwood, the groom, kissing the kitchenmaid, boxed their several ears, but related the incident quite dispassionately to mother, concluding her recital with the remark, "I don't hold with it myself, but there--I suppose it's pleasing to some."

Paul, too, was quite ready to allow that it might be "pleasing to some"; but his mood that morning was not attuned to the contemplation of transcendantly beautiful ladies. He pined for the society of a like-minded bachelor, a jolly bachelor of sociable habits, who would understand and sympathise with a desire to be free for a while from the tyranny of the tempestuous petticoat.

So they strolled along in the middle of the winding road for nearly a couple of miles, then an open gate into an unfamiliar field invited them, and, they went in and crossed it. Paul climbed and Thor leapt the gate into the next. There were sheep in that field, but Thor resisted temptation, and rested quietly with his master under the shade of an elm. On again across more fields, meeting with no adventures whatsoever. All the trolls, giants, witches, lions, pirates, knights and princesses seemed to have remained indoors or underground that morning.

A man shouted at them once, but he was too far off to discover whether his words were friendly or the reverse. Previous experience, however, led Paul to believe they were in some way "be off out of that-ish!" and he hurried away in an opposite direction. His feet ached and the soles of his shoes felt very thin. He decided that the moment they struck the road again he'd make for the very first house in sight and ask for some water for both of them.

At last they reached a field bordered by a road. They pushed through a gap in the hedge and found themselves not far from four cross roads and a church. Paul made for the church, for as a rule where churches are, houses are not far off--and, sure enough, right opposite the church gate was one that led into somebody's drive with an exceedingly trim lodge on the left-hand side.

He paused, undecided for a moment whether to go round to the back door, which would be certain to be open, and ask for water from the lady of the lodge, or go right up the drive and see what the people of the house were like.

If he went to the back and rapped with his knuckles a woman would come out--he was sure of that. She might be washing; she might be displeased at the interruption; she would be almost certain to disapprove of Thor.

He decided to go up to the house.

Here, as everywhere else that morning, there was not a soul in sight and it was very still. The sun was high in the heavens, and the great lawns in front of the house stretched almost shadowless--green and shaven and smooth. It was a pretty house: irregular, long and low, covered with creepers, with sloping roofs, clustering chimneys, and kindly-looking gables--a restful house, Paul thought wistfully. Would they let him go in and sit a bit?

The open, front door was hooded by a deep sunblind, but he peeped underneath and beheld a cool dark hall, absolutely untenanted; and here, too, the same soft, all-pervading silence. It was very hot out on the gravel drive; there seemed no shadows anywhere. Even a cedar-tree on the far side of a wide lawn, though it looked dark and cool, threw hardly any shade.

Thor's tongue was hanging out, and he turned his beautiful grave eyes on his master with the clear question, "How long are we to stand here?"

Presently Paul became conscious of a faint sound: a sharp, irregular, clipped sort of sound, that was neither a tap nor a click, but a cross between the two.

The country-bred child is a connoisseur in sounds, and here was one quite new to him. Thor, too, heard it, and looked inquiring.

They moved away in its direction and came upon another door. This, too, had its sunblind. This, too, was open, and the curious sound was coming from the room within that door.

Paul dived underneath the sunblind and Thor followed him.

They found themselves in what appeared to be a small square porch leading to the room within. It contained nothing but a fixed basin with a tap and a towel-rail. Here at all events was water.

Paul ran some into the basin, and Thor put his paws on the edge, reared his great body, sloped his head, and drank greedily. And all the time that curious noise continued, that indescribable irregularly recurrent sound, that was half tap, half click, with a mysterious scrape occurring every thirty seconds or so. When Thor had finished his drink, Paul formed his own hands into a cup and drank from them; he whispered to Thor to lie down, and stood himself in the open doorway leading to the room whence the sound came.

He forgot how his feet ached, he forgot how desperately hungry he was, for he felt that, at last, he had come up with the adventure he had been, questing all that long hot morning.

Never had he beheld such a delightful room. It was large and high, with two big wide-open windows, which, however, were not like ordinary windows, for they started ever so far from the ground, like those in a studio. The panelling, where it could be seen for books, was white; but there was no glare, for books were everywhere, books in many-hued bindings, making irregular patches of subdued colour. Nearly all looked as though they had sat long in their shelves, and wore the pleasant faded tints that time brings to things cared-for and well-loved. There was one line of vivid red that Paul recognised with a little thrill (for we had it at home) as the "Elephant" edition of "_The man who made Mowgli._" But these were on a high shelf, and the steps were too far off for him to drag them over without making a noise. Besides, for once, it was not the books that most interested Paul; it was what he afterwards described as "a kind-of-man-ness" about the room.

"It was all such a jolly muddle and so comfortable."

If there were many books there were even more papers. He didn't mean newspapers and magazines, though there were plenty of them--it was the quantities of letters that impressed him. Never had he seen so many letters, not even at Christmas. They were strewed about everywhere, and on the floor behind the great, double, knee-hole table, an open trunk was lying full of them--stuffed in pell-mell, anyhow.

All the furniture was big and solid and comfortable. There were two pianos--"a big one and a little one"; a huge sofa that invited repose on the part of the slothful; great, deep chairs; steady tables; nothing to upset anywhere; no tiresome "frippy" things.

And seated at the knee-hole table was a man who wore spectacles: a biggish man going bald, with grey hair, grey moustache, and short, closely-trimmed grey beard. Paul decided that he liked the look of him, and that there was something familiar in his appearance; that he had met this man before somewhere in a story. He knitted his brows and thought deeply, never taking his eyes off him, but he couldn't place him. Nevertheless he was sure of him. He was one of the understanding. "He didn't look a 'run-away-and-play' sort of a man," Paul said afterwards, "nor the sort who says 'my boy,' and he didn't ever--not once."

It was he who was making that queer noise. He was playing with both hands on a kind of instrument.

Paul accepted the noise as some novel and not very agreeable form of music. He guessed the man was musical from the fact that he had two pianos. But why, having two real pianos, he should play on that horrid little one, puzzled Paul extremely. It was not nearly so pleasing to the ear as one he himself possessed, which you played by thumping the keys with a hammer made of cork. It was possible to get some sort of tune out of that.

Click-click--click-click-click---- the man could play very fast. He used both hands, and was so absorbed in the tune he was trying to make that he never noticed Paul. He appeared to change his music very often, and it seemed rather a business to get it fixed in the stand, and one thing that interested Paul was that when he chose a new piece he always put in a black sheet of paper behind it. Just inside the door Paul stood gazing absorbedly. Had the man looked up he must have seen him.

"I'll wait till he's finished practising," Paul resolved, "then we'll talk."

The door was at the side, not in the middle of the end wall, and that wall was entirely covered by a huge bookcase--by stretching out his hand he could have taken a book from the shelves, and he was greatly tempted. But he thought it would hardly be polite, as the man was there. Had the room been empty he would have had no such scruples.

He was tired, so he sat down on the floor and leant against the lintel of the open door.

"I wish he'd play a tunier tune," he thought.

Thor lay full length in the little room with the basin, his nose between his paws, his speaking eyes fixed on his master. There was no sound at all except that eternal click-click.

"I kept thinking," Paul said afterwards, "how splendid it would have been to play 'Camptown Races' against Harry. I'd have had the biggest piano and drowned him." Harry could play "Cock o' the North" on the black notes. Paul could thump out "Camptown Races" with one finger! Occasionally, when they got the chance, they would perform against each other, one on the schoolroom the other on the drawing-room piano. Paul was envious of Harry's achievement, but the black notes were beyond him, and "Cock o' the North" skips about so.

If you start "Camptown Races" on F natural it's all plain sailing; the same note is repeated so often that it is not difficult.

Paul stretched out his legs luxuriously and pictured the amazing row he and Harry could produce on those two pianos in what he was pleased to call their "duet."

Presently the man stopped playing on his unmelodious instrument and, looking over his spectacles across the room towards the door, saw Paul. He immediately took off his glasses, and his eyes were blue and keen and kind.

Paul scrambled to his feet. "How d'you do?" he said politely. "I just called in as I was passing."

The man looked rather astonished. "Where were you going?" he asked.

Paul came slowly across the room until he stood close by the big desk. "Nowhere in particular. We've just come out for the day."

"We!" the man repeated. "Are there any more of you?" And he looked rather anxious.

"Only Thor," Paul answered reassuringly. "He's sitting in the little room with the basin--I hope you don't mind. We both drank some water, but we didn't wash--not without leave. May Thor come in?"

"He'd better, I think," said the man.

"You may come in, my dear," Paul said, quietly, without raising his voice, and Thor, large, deliberate, and graceful, strolled into the room, looked inquiringly at the man, wagged his tail gently, and came and stood by his master.

"This is Thor," said Paul. "Do you mind him?"

"Not a bit!" said the man. "I like him."

"Sometimes," Paul remarked, "people are afraid he'll upset things; he's so large, you know.... But it wouldn't be easy to upset things here. Would you mind telling me why you kept playing that funny tune? Do you think it's pretty?"

"Tune?" the man repeated. "When?"

"Just a minute ago--ever since I came in, _and_ outside. I heard you; it's what made me come. I couldn't think what it was."

"Can you read?" asked the man.

"Read!" Paul exclaimed. "I should think so; years and years ago."

The man handed him one of the pages he had been playing.

"That's what I was doing," he said.

"Why, it's print!" cried Paul.

"Exactly; nicer than hand-writing, isn't it?"

Paul's quick eyes devoured the page.

"Like Shakespeare," he added.

The man laughed. "I only wish it was," he said.

"It's a play, anyway, isn't it?"

"It is."

"And you've been making it up as you go along?"

"Well, hardly that, but I scribble it down first, you know."

"Does it spell for you?" Paul asked breathlessly.

"No, it doesn't, bother it---that's where it's rather sniffy sometimes."

"When I'm grown up," Paul said solemnly, "and rich--I hope I'll be rich--I'll have one of those, but I'll get one that does the spelling as well. I suppose they _are_ made."

"I haven't come across one yet," said the man; "when I do I shall buy it at once----"

"And you'll tell me, won't you?" Paul said eagerly.

"I'll let you know very first thing!"

"Would you like me to read some more of your interesting play?" he asked. "I can't quite make out what it's all about beginning in the miggle like this."

"I don't think I'd read it just now," said the man. "You see, I want to talk to you. I want to know all sorts of things."

"I came in on purpose to have a chat," Paul remarked genially. "Do you mind if I sit down? My feet do ache so--Lie down, my dear; the gentleman doesn't mind you."

The man pulled up a comfortable chair for Paul. Thor lay down at his feet, and then their host, in his chair by the desk, swung round and faced them.

"I suppose now," said Paul, "you haven't got a missus, have you?"

"What makes you think that?" asked the man.

"Well, you see, there's such a muddle of papers, isn't there? She'd never let you keep it like that. Mr. Mumford says his missus is always cleanin' and sortin' and putting things away. Not," he added truthfully, "that Mr. Mumford gets many letters--I've never seen any in his house."

"It's not always like this," pleaded the man. "Sometimes it's awfully tidy."

"Oh, but I like it like this," Paul exclaimed eagerly. "Have you a housekeeper and a niece by any chance? Do they tidy for you?"

"Why a housekeeper _and_ a niece?" asked the man.

"He had, you know--Don Quixote. I've been playing at him a good deal lately."

"Do you generally play at the people you read about?"

"Always," Paul said solemnly. "What would be the good of reading about them else?"

"I suppose it's a good plan," the man said musingly; "it must lead you into many adventures."

"It does," Paul said solemnly. "_This_ is one of them, and you, I suppose, are a sort of magician, since you make plays. Do people _really_ act them?"

"Not as often as I could wish," the man said, "... but it's great fun all the same."

"Do _you_ play at being the people?"

The man shook his head. "I'm afraid not," he said sadly. Then more to himself than to Paul--"That's the hardest thing of all to do; to look on is much easier."

"I don't care for looking on," said Paul decidedly. "I want to _be_ it all the time."

"I suppose we all do to begin with, and then ... we find out that lookers-on see most of the game."

"I don't care much about seeing games. I'd rather play them; it's much more fun really. Truly it is," he said earnestly.

"Doubtless you are right," the man said courteously, "but, you see, we don't all care for the same games."

"When I'm grown up--and rich," Paul announced, "I shall write books----"

"You're wise to be rich first," murmured the man.

"I shall write books," Paul continued, "with that little piano, and when I'm not writing I shall play at being all the people in my books--one after the other--at least, all the nice ones, who are successful."

"Are the nice ones always successful?"

"In the end, always. Of course, they have trials and things."

"What about Don Quixote?" asked the man.

Paul looked unhappy. "It worries me," he said. "It worries me dreadfully. He was so nice and so silly and"--the corners of Paul's mouth went down--"and ... he died in the end."

"I quite agree with you," said the man. "It _is_ worrying. Don't let us talk about it."

Thor suddenly sat up on his haunches and tried to lick Paul's face.

"You seem," said Paul, "to be very fond of reading, you've such a splendid lot of books. Do you ever, by any chance, read at meals?"

Paul held him with stern, searching eyes.

"Only when I'm alone," the man said primly.

"Never when people are there?" Paul asked, fixing him with a gaze that seemed to search his very soul.

"Well ... only at tea-time ... occasionally.... Why do you ask?"

"Because," Paul answered, "they're all so down on me for doing it. I always want to read at tea-time, and they won't let me. Now I shall tell them you do it; that'll surprise 'em."

"Oh, don't!" the man urged, "don't give me away. They'd be so shocked."

"Of course, I shan't say anything if you'd rather I didn't," Paul remarked magnanimously, "but I thought if I just mentioned a grown-up gentleman did it they couldn't be so down on me! ... But I truly won't if you'd rather not. I guessed you did it the minute I saw you."

"I'm quite certain neither of us ought to," said the man, "but it _is_ a temptation ... when the conversation is dull."

"It's often jolly dull," Paul groaned--and at that moment a gong sounded.

"That's for luncheon," said the man. "Are you hungry?"

"I'm starving, and do you think there will be any little bits for Thor?"

"Sure of it," said the man. "Would you like to wash? And do you require any ... assistance?"

The man looked down at Paul; he had to look rather a long way, for Paul was very small for his age. Perhaps it was that made him ask. Anyway Paul was not offended.

"I can wash all right," he said, "but nurse generally gives my hair a bit of a do--but if you don't mind I don't."

They went up some steps and through a glass door into another room--more like other people's rooms this--tidy and arranged like other drawing-rooms, then across the hall to the dining-room, where an elderly parlour-maid with a kind face put a fat book on Paul's chair to make it high enough.

He was desperately hungry, and the lunch was very good, but he couldn't have enjoyed it as much if the kind-looking parlour-maid had not brought a big plate of scraps for Thor, and spread a duster under it.

Paul liked his host. He liked the sense of good fellowship, the absence of patronage, the unusual reticence that abstained from questions as to why he was there at all.

"Do you know my father?" he asked presently.

"I'm afraid not," said the man, "but if you tell me his name I dare say I may have heard of him."

"He's not at all like me," Paul announced. "He's awfully sensible, every one says that, but he's a most good-natured man and kind as kind. Surely you must know Squire Staniland?"

The man shook his head. "I'm afraid not, though I have heard his name."

"What county are we in?" asked Paul.

The man told him, and it was not our county.

"Then we've walked right into another shire," Paul exclaimed. "_What_ a way we've come! That's why you don't know father."

"What about your people?" asked the man. "Won't they wonder where you are?"

"They'll _wonder_," said Paul, "and they won't be best pleased, but they won't send out search-parties till evening because I've done it before."

"Oh, you're given to wandering, are you? Don't you think I'd better take you home in the motor?"

"And Thor?" Paul asked anxiously. "He mustn't run with it. Motors go too fast for dogs. Father says so."

"And Thor," said the man. "He can come inside with us."

They had coffee, which pleased Paul greatly, and he confided to his friend that he had never had a cup all to himself before, only the sugar at the bottom of other people's cups if he could get at them before they were cleared away.

Motors were something of a novelty then, and Paul thought it very exciting to go in one. Thor was suspicious and refused to go in before his master, but followed him obediently when Paul got in first.

"We can't have a motor," he remarked, as they slid down the drive, "it would break Button's heart, father says, and we're very fond of horses, though I like the dogs best myself. Did your coachman mind very much?"

"My coachman got so frail and ill he couldn't drive any more, and it would have broken _his_ heart to have any one else drive his horses, so I had to get a motor, because I'm such a long way from the station. He didn't mind that so much."

"It's the same reason really," said Paul. "Did he get better?"

"He'll never be any better, but I think he's pretty comfortable."

Paul was certain he was.

After all it wasn't such a very long way by the road, though it was in another county. The motor stopped at the drive gate, Paul and Thor descended, for, despite entreaties, this hospitable man refused to come up to the house.

"You'll let me know when you've found the printing thing that spells right, won't you?" Paul called out at parting.

"I most certainly will," the man called back, "and if you find it first I expect you to tell me."

* * * * *

Paul's family did not share the reticence of his late host. He was catechised at long length, and would assuredly have been punished but for father's intervention. Father, who refused to be anxious or excited when his younger son played the prodigal, seemed rather to sympathise with his wandering propensities. "As if anything could happen to the boy, with that great dog always at his heels," he said scornfully, when, before lunch, we had all suggested the manifold disasters that might have befallen Paul. "It's no use expecting a boy to stay in the grounds for ever. Let him go out and tramp the country occasionally, and when he comes back take no notice, and he'll soon tire of it. Paul likes to make a sensation. It would be quite flat and tame if we were none of us the least concerned as to where he has been. You may be sure he'll fall on his feet whatever way he goes--he's that sort."

All very well for father, who was the least inquisitive man on earth, but Fiammetta and I were bursting with curiosity, and I noticed mother hovered near during Paul's recital of his adventures.

Just at bed-time he discovered that he had left his "chuncheon" behind. He remembered that it "stuck into him rather" as he sat talking to the man who wrote plays just before lunch, and he had slipped it out of the string round his waist and laid it at the back of his chair.

"You'll never see it again," said Fiammetta. "Somebody's sure to throw it away."

Paul looked sad. Then his face brightened--"I don't think so," he said. "Nothing's ever throwed away out of that room.

"How do you know?" asked mother.

"He hasn't got a missus," Paul said, "anybody could see that. He does _exactly_ what he likes. No one tidies his things. He hasn't got one."

"Perhaps he'll throw it away himself," Fiammetta persisted.

"I don't believe it," cried Paul, on the verge of tears. "He wouldn't do such a thing. He's not that kind of person."

"You'll never see that old truncheon again," Fiammetta remarked with a superior finality that drove Paul to make reprisals.

He stoutly maintained his belief in his friend, but he was plainly anxious, for he knew that he could never find his way again to that other county. He had wandered there, haphazard, across fields, and never noticed the roads on the return journey--he was so busy talking to his friend. He added a petition to his prayers that the beloved "chuncheon" might be restored to him, and "so," as Mr. Pepys would say, "to bed."

Next morning his faith was justified. It arrived by post, in a neat parcel sealed at each end, and inside, printed by the little piano, "I hope you were not worried about it. I found the weapon when I got back."

"There," said Paul, "didn't I say so? I _knew_ he wasn't a throwing-away sort of man."

*XIX*

*A MISFIT*

Ronnie left the beach and climbed the steep slope till he reached the summit, where rough grass and stones edged golden cornfields that stretched inland as far as the eye could see.

No one noticed that he had gone. Miss Biddle, the holiday governess, sat reading in the shade of the cliff, absorbed in _The Blue Necklace_. His cousins, Cedric and Githa, both older than he, were building an elaborate sand-castle, according to a diagram spread on the sand, and held in place by stones laid on the four corners.

When he reached the top he turned his back upon the beach, and sat down on a big stone, elbows on knees, and hands clasped under the sharp little chin that rested on them. The yellow cornfields became blurred and dim as he gazed, for Ronnie was lonely and dreadfully homesick. Everybody he cared for seemed so far away--even Uncle Gerald, the kind and understanding, was shooting in Scotland, and seemed as remote as father and mother in India.

The big tears brimmed over and fell. Then everything grew clear again. It was very pretty, the corn billowing in golden waves under the soft wind; but its beauty did not cheer him. Rather did he remember dismally that last time he sat beside it insects, that he decided must be singularly silent and stealthy mosquitoes, came out and bit him so that he was all over itching lumps afterwards. All the same, he didn't move: he was too miserable. Moreover he had that morning come to the conclusion that something must be done. He had no idea what. But ideas come with reflection. So, after a sniff or two, he unclasped his hands, polished his nose with his sleeve, and then sat very still, going over in his mind all the time since he came Home, to try to discover why there should be what he called "a kind-of-a-ness" over everything.

He was quite fair. He recognised that it was partly his own fault for getting fever in the cold weather. Then, too, fate had conspired against him, for the Friths were coming Home in the middle of May. If they hadn't been sailing then, there would have been nobody to send him with. He had been coming for good next hot weather, when he would be seven, with mother and baby-brother. They were coming then for certain. But a whole year, to a child, seems an interminable, abysmal space, that no hopes can bridge.

He had known all along that he was to go to Aunt Hildegarde till mother came back--Aunt Hildegarde, who lived in a place called Golder's Green. He knew that there was an Uncle Edward and two cousins, in fact he faintly remembered having seen them last time he came Home; but as he was only three then his impressions were somewhat hazy.

Perhaps if he had come straight to these relatives he might have shaken down better, but the Fates had settled otherwise. Just as the P. & O. reached Marseilles, Cedric and Githa got measles, and Aunt Hildegarde, who was most conscientious, decided that she couldn't possibly allow Ronnie to run the risk of infection. She therefore appealed to Uncle Gerald to take him till all danger was past.

This, had Ronnie known it, was asking a good deal; for Uncle Gerald, who was his father's uncle, was an elderly bachelor of fairly fixed habits. Nevertheless, as he was fond of Ronnie's parents, and there really seemed to be nobody else, he agreed to take the little boy till such time as the nursery at Golder's Green was ready to receive him. He even came up himself to Charing Cross to meet the P. & O. express, and took over Ronnie from kind Mrs. Frith, who, with three children of her own to look after, had yet found room in her heart to love Ronnie quite a lot. As he sat there in the sunshine gazing at the golden waves, he thought of the blue green waves that washed around the big home-bound steamer, and in remembering the voyage, unconsciously compared his aunt and Mrs. Frith, wondering why it was Aunt Hildegarde made you "feel so different." Mrs. Frith was often hasty--four children and an ayah in the Red Sea are enough to put an edge on the smoothest temper--but she was always fair even in her hastiness. And she judged the exasperating conduct of Ronnie with precisely the same amount of irritation as she brought to bear on that of her own offspring. Aunt Hildegarde kept a quite separate compartment in her mind for the consideration of Ronnie. He was conscious of this and resented it. Then memory swung back to Uncle Gerald--Uncle Gerald coming down the drive in a cloud of dogs.

As he thought of the dogs the big tears welled up again and rolled down his cheeks. Everything about that first day in England seemed to stand out before him in a series of pictures like those he had once seen at a theatre in India. There was all the bustle and rushing at Charing Cross. Uncle Gerald, tall, with closely-trimmed grey beard, and kind keen eyes under his broad forehead--such a lot of forehead Uncle Gerald had. Ronnie even remembered hearing Mrs. Frith say, "Oh, he's a dear little soul, very talkative and officious, but quite affectionate; cheerful too--which is a great matter with children, don't you think?" Then there was a scramble for luggage. Ronnie's little cabin trunk was disentangled. He was embraced by all the Frith family and ayah, and, hand in hand with this tall, unknown Uncle Gerald, hurried down the big station to a taxi-cab. They drove across London to another station--Paddington it was called, where they had tea--and into the train again for another journey. Then, in the slowly fading spring light, a long drive in a motor through green country lanes till they turned into some big gates and drove up to a house whence issued a most tremendous barking and yapping. The door was opened and four dogs rushed out--long-bodied, rough-haired West Highland terriers, their colour ranging from almost black to lightish grey--who jumped all over Uncle Gerald with noisy manifestations of delight, sniffed curiously at Ronnie, and as he was not in the least afraid of them, took him into favour at once and jumped on him--Collum and Puddock and Mona their mother, and frisky, cheeky little Rannoch, who was no relation to any of them, and took the greatest liberties with all three.

All Uncle Gerald's servants had been with him for untold ages, and all were elderly excepting the housemaid, who had only been there a short ten years, and occasionally was still spoken of as "that new girl." Her name was Grace, and she came from somewhere near Perth, and it was to her care that Ronnie was entrusted for such matters as bathing and dressing and hair-brushing.

Before he slept that night he knew all about Grace, and decided that she was a person to be cultivated. But he felt that about all of them. His coming into that silent (save for the dogs), regular house was something of an adventure. The household rose to it, and the loquacious, inquisitive, lively little boy never even knocked at their hearts, but walked straight in and took possession. He decided that England was a nice place: a bit cold, perhaps, when one got up in the morning, but very pretty and full of interesting things to do. He gardened with the three gardeners, wasting hours of their time, and starting endless horticultural experiments which were wholly without result. He cleaned the motor with Robinson and got so wet that Grace, looking out of the pantry window, caught him and changed all his clothes, which he thought very unnecessary. It was her one fault--she was always so suspicious of damp.

He penetrated to the kitchen, and discussed its small resemblance to an Indian kitchen with Mrs. Robinson, who was Robinson's wife. He was very fond of telling them about India, and thoroughly enjoyed their respectful astonishment at some of his tallest stories, and when he wasn't telling things himself he asked questions. All day long he asked questions, so that, when he was safe in bed and asleep, Uncle Gerald would take down large heavy tomes from the book-cases and prime himself with useful knowledge for the morrow.

Into every corner of that big old Cotswold house did Ronnie poke his inquisitive curly head, and the more he saw of it the better he liked it. It was such a kind, welcoming sort of house. Of course, sometimes he wanted his mother pretty badly, and then he sought Uncle Gerald, who seemed to know exactly what was wrong, and no matter what he was doing would find time for a homesick little boy; and by the charm of his conversation, and sometimes without any conversation at all, would so steep Ronnie in an atmosphere of warm friendship that the curious ache would depart, leaving no remembrance of it.

And now, as he sat looking into the forest of corn, there came to his mind a piece of poetry that he had learned to please Uncle Gerald. It was a very great adventure that led to the learning of these verses, and Ronnie thrilled with the remembrance. One night early in that June, one never-to-be-forgotten night, Uncle Gerald came into his room and woke him up, made Grace put on his clothes, and then wrapped him up in a blanket and carried him out to the back of the house where there was a little copse.

The dogs were not allowed to come.

It was a brilliant moonlight night--almost like a night in India, except that it was nothing like so warm. The copse looked very black against the sky, but they didn't go into it; they stayed outside just beside the wire fence, and some way off he could see the servants standing in a group.

"I felt I must wake you," Uncle Gerald whispered, just as though he were at a concert and feared to disturb the artists; "it's the first of the nightingales--listen!"

Ronnie held his breath and listened with all his might; but at first all he could hear was a soft, whispering sort of note that seemed to say Tio, Tio, Tio, Tio, Tio, Tio, Tio, Tio, Tik!

He pressed his cheek against Uncle Gerald's and yawned. The soft note changed to a full-throated song, full of trills and cascades and roulades and occasional odd chuckles. He supposed it was very wonderful (though he infinitely preferred Robinson's whistling of "The Sailor's Star"), but he was not so much interested in the nightingales as in the night. It was so big and mysterious and scented and silvery out in that moonshine, so warm and safe in Uncle Gerald's arms. It was such _fun_ to be out so late, and to hear nightingales like a grown-up person.

Ronnie's little soul was flooded with an immense content.

They listened for what seemed to him a very long time, and he was nearly falling asleep again when Uncle Gerald said suddenly, still in that hushed, concerty sort of voice, "There! isn't that fine? But I must take you home to bed." And as they went back Uncle Gerald repeated some poetry to himself. Ronnie didn't understand it in the least, but next day asked his uncle to "tell again that bit about fairy lands for lawns."

Uncle Gerald laughed and said it wasn't quite that, but he "told it again," and then suggested that it would be nice if Ronnie, having heard one, learned what a poet called Keats had said about a nightingale: and Ronnie, who had a quick ear and retentive memory, learned two long verses--the end of the poem, Uncle Gerald said, and used to repeat them to his uncle to their mutual pride and satisfaction.

And now as he sat beside this cornfield there sounded in his head the lines--

"Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears among the alien corn; * * * * * Forlorn! the very word is like a bell...."

That was just what Ronnie was. He spared no pity for Ruth, though he knew all about her--for Uncle Gerald had told him. At all events _she_ had not had to go and live with an aunt at Golder's Green, and with odious, priggish, plump cousins, who made fun of the way he talked, and took no interest whatever in India.

He detested Golder's Green. The house seemed so small and pokey, and the garden so prim, after the great rooms in India and Uncle Gerald's kindly, wandering old house and big friendly garden. The trim roads and jumbled, pretty little houses weighed upon him with a deadly weight of depression, though he couldn't have told why. There were no dogs either, only a large aloof cat called "Ra," that Aunt Hildegarde used to enthrone on a cushion, placed on a kind of pillar, while she and visiting ladies, attired in straight, sad-coloured garments, sandals, and digitated socks, sat round about upon the floor and enthused upon his wondrous beauty and wisdom. Ronnie would have liked Ra, if he might have stroked and cuddled him, but the children were not allowed to touch him, as he was supposed to be fierce and resentful of such attentions.

Ronnie was always in trouble, always doing or, even more often, saying what he ought not. Seeing ladies who wore veils on their heads, and had bare feet and sandals, he asked if they were ayahs; on being told hastily "of course not," he suggested that they were Parsi ladies, and was severely snubbed in consequence.

He was slow and clumsy over the little handicrafts his cousins practised with such skill and industry, and when Cedric and Githa irritated him beyond bearing he tried to beat them, which caused a frightful commotion and filled the whole household with consternation.

His aunt and uncle were not like Uncle Gerald in the matter of answering questions. To be sure, they told him all sorts of things he didn't particularly want to know, or knew already; but they refused to answer questions. They held his cousins up to him as models, a fatal thing to do, and they made no allowance for a lonely little boy suddenly transported to an entirely new environment. They were cold, too, sniffy and uninterested in all he had to say about Uncle Gerald, and this he resented extremely. He could not know that they were a centre of light and leading in the most superior set in Golder's Green, and that there existed between them and Uncle Gerald the deep-seated, never-expressed, hearty dislike of the _poseur_ for the simple and sincere.

Had he but known it, Uncle Gerald took care that he never came across them more often than the very remote connection warranted. But Aunt Hildegarde was mother's only sister, and she seemed the natural guardian for Ronnie, and Uncle Gerald never interfered in other people's concerns. But he had his doubts, and his heart was sore for the frank, talkative little boy when he left him.

Nobody was actively unkind. He had plenty to eat, a nice room which he shared with Cedric, who was destined for a school all fads and flannel-shirts, and already could make his own bed and empty his washing-basin--matters wherein Ronnie was hopelessly ignorant, and showed no aptitude when Cedric tried to teach him. That was the mischief: Cedric and Githa were always teaching, and let him know it; and it roused every evil disposition in Ronnie; so that he was rapidly becoming a sort of Ishmael both in feeling and in fact.

Then Miss Biddle brought them to the seaside, while aunt and uncle went for a walking tour in Wales.

The soft wind blew a cloud over the sun. Ronnie shivered and arose from his stone. Cedric and Githa were still absorbed in their plan. Miss Biddle was breathlessly following the fortunes of "The Hon. Jane." Ronnie, wilfully disobedient, decided to go for a walk by himself along the edge of the cornfield. No ideas had come to him except the omnipresent determination to go back to Uncle Gerald till mother should come Home.

But how?

He was sensible and sophisticated enough to know he couldn't walk there, and that he hadn't enough money to go by train. He had, to be precise, exactly one penny in the world; the weekly penny given to each of them every Monday by Miss Biddle on behalf of Uncle Edward. He couldn't write, and he knew that it would both distress and annoy his aunt if she heard that he was unhappy in her house. She would never _see_ he was unhappy; he was sure of that. She would only see that he was "unpleasant."

He stumped along, picking his way through the stones and thistles, big with an entirely vague purpose, when suddenly he came upon a man sitting, as he himself had been sitting a few minutes ago, on a big stone; only this man had a blotting-pad upon his knees and was writing very fast. He wore a panama hat tilted almost over his nose to shelter his eyes, big round spectacles with tortoise-shell rims, and as he finished a sheet he laid it on a pile of others that, like Cedric's plan, were kept from blowing away by the stones laid upon them. Ronnie watched him breathlessly. How fast he wrote! Uncle Gerald could write like that, and daddie ... and thinking of daddie there came into his mind the picture of a busy Eastern street, and the likhne-wala (letter-writer) sitting on the curbstone in the sunshine ready to write letters for those who could not write themselves ... if they could pay him.

"Was this man a likhne-wala?

He looked like a sahib, but then so did Robinson, and he was Uncle Gerald's _gharri-wallah_.

Ronnie drew a little nearer. If this man was a likhne-wala, would he--oh, would he--write a letter for _one_ anna?

Ronnie felt it was a very small sum to offer, but the man looked kind, and he could write so fast. It wouldn't take him long.

Perhaps if he was approached very politely.... Ronnie crept a bit nearer and the man looked up and saw him.

The little boy joined his hands, and touching his forehead bowed his body, as he had seen men in India bow when they came before his father to ask for something.

"Sahib," he said earnestly, "could you write a letter for one anna?"

"Hullo, shrimp!" said the man. "Have you sprung right out of the Shiny into here?"

"I know it's very little monies," Ronnie continued apologetically, "_very_ little monies, but I do want that letter wrote, so badly. I've truly got one anna; here it is."

The man held out his hand, and Ronnie laid the penny on his palm.

The man closed his hand upon it.

"Now," he said, "what shall I write?"

He took a fresh sheet of paper and looked at Ronnie, and the little boy saw that the eyes behind the round glasses were bright and kind.

"Dear Uncle Gerald," Ronnie began. "Please come. I do not like it here. I want to come back to you. It is forlorn here, not fairylands----"

"Eh, what's that?" asked the man. "You dictate very fast. 'Not fairylands'? Yes?"

"I am mizzabel," Ronnie continued. "Please come quickly and take me away. Cejic and Githa do not like me. They are so pompshus----"

"What's that?" asked the man.

"I do not like them," Ronnie went on. "I like the dogs much better; kiss them all on their foreheads for me, not their noses, they are too wet, especially Rannoch. Please come quick. I am so mizzable. Your loving Ronnie.... That's all, thank you."

"Mizzable, eh?" the man repeated. "Is it indiscreet to ask why?"

"I don't know exactly myself," said Ronnie. "It just _is_."

"Ah," said the man. "I know that; that's the very worst kind. Long since you came Home?"

"Oh, very long," Ronnie answered sadly. "Ages and ages."

"Hm-m-m!" said the man. "With relations?"

"Yes, but Uncle Gerald's a relation too, you know, only he's a nice one--oh, a 'dorable relation."

"How is it you're here and not with him then?" asked the man.

"It was arranged," Ronnie said solemnly. "_I_ didn't do it."

"I see," said the man. "'It was an order.' And what will the parents out in the Shiny say?"

Ronnie looked grave. "I b'lieve they'd like it," he said, after a moment's thought. "_They_ 'dore Uncle Gerald too."

"Hm-m-m! Seems a popular person," said the man. "What's his name?"

"Same as daddie's and mine."

"Yes, and yours?"

"Ronald Forsyth Hardy."

"Then he's Gerald Hardy, I suppose? And where is he at present?"

"Scotland," said Ronnie promptly.

"But that's a bit vague. What part of Scotland?"

"Oh, they're sure to know him there; he goes every year; he told me so."

"Were you there with him?"

"No, I was in his own bungalow. He went to Scotland after I left."

"Can you remember the name of his bungalow?"

"Yes: Longhope."

"Any station?"

"There _is_ a station, but it's very far off, and I don't remember its name. Won't my letter get to him?" the little boy asked anxiously.

The man looked through his bright spectacles right into Ronnie's large brown eyes. He noticed that the child was very thin, and that he hunched his shoulders and drooped his head.

The man laid his writing-pad upon the ground and lifted Ronnie on to his knee.

"Old chap," he said, "you've got the blues, and you're a bit of a misfit. That's what's the matter with you. But it won't last. Believe me, it won't last. I'll do my best to find this Uncle Gerald of yours. I'm going to town this afternoon, and I'll look him up in Burke."

"Oh, he's not in Burke," Ronnie declared positively. "He's in Scotland; he's wrote to me from there."

"All right," said the man. "I'll try and get the letter to him somehow. But you mustn't expect too much. It may not be over-easy for Uncle Gerald to do anything, and it takes a deuce of a time for letters to get to Scotland."

"Longer than to Burke?"

"Hark!" said the man. "Isn't that some one calling?"

"It's for me," exclaimed Ronnie, jumping off his knee. "I expect it's time to go to dinner. You won't forget? You do promise? You won't tell them?" For he saw Miss Biddle and Cedric and Githa arrive breathlessly at the top of the slope.

"Honest Injun," said the man. "But it'll take a good week. Then you'll hear _some_thing, if Uncle Gerald's the man I take him for."

They shook hands. Miss Biddle and his cousins were quite close, and he turned to meet them. Their questions and reproaches passed over his head lightly. He didn't care. He had _done_ something at last, and he believed in the likhne-wala.

"How long is a week?" he asked, when the enormity of his conduct had been thoroughly threshed out.

"Seven days, of course. You _are_ an ignorant little boy," said Githa.

* * * * *

As it happened, Uncle Gerald _was_ in Burke, so the likhne-wala found his home address, and Ronnie's letter reached him three days later, when he came back from a long day on the moors. There was another letter also, from the likhne-wala, and in it he used the very phrase he had used to Ronnie. "I fear," he said, "the little chap is a misfit, and it's a painful game to play when one is a kiddy. He looked peaked and thin and timid, and he ought to be such a jolly little chap."

He said a great many other things, did the likhne-wala, and the name he signed at the end of his letter was one well known to Uncle Gerald as the author of certain books he knew and cared for.

* * * * *

The week dragged on. It rained a lot and the days were long for Ronnie in the seaside lodgings. He kept count of the days, though, and at last it reached the sixth day from the time he met the likhne-wala, and no answer had come to his letter. Yet he never doubted him. He was convinced that somehow or other his letter would reach Uncle Gerald.

It was on Monday he had met the likhne-wala, and on Saturday evening after tea it cleared up and they went out to the sands. They were to return to Golder's Green next week, and Ronnie dreaded it unspeakably, for he felt that if nothing happened before he did that, then he was indeed abandoned and forlorn. Cedric and Githa would not let him dig with them because his methods were too erratic. Miss Biddle had finished _The Blue Necklace_, and started on _Love is a Snare_, and found it equally enthralling.

Ronnie was digging by himself, a lonely little figure apart from the rest, and talking to himself as he worked. He had built a bungalow, and had just flattened out the compound round about it, and was beginning on the servants' quarters, when he looked up to see a solitary figure coming across the ribbed and glistening sand. The tide was out, and there seemed miles of beach between him and the sea. They had had their tea extra early, and the beach was almost deserted, for it was just five o'clock. Ronnie watched the distant figure, and his heart seemed to jump up and turn over, for there was something dear and familiar about it, and yet ... he didn't dare to hope.

Then suddenly his long sight told him there was no mistake. It was, it _was_ the Uncle Gerald of his hopes and dreams! He started to run, and the figure made the glad assurance doubly sure by taking off its hat and waving it. Then Ronnie saw the dear, tall forehead, that, as he once pointed out to his uncle, "went right over to the back"; after that there could be no mistake.

"I never thought you would come," he said, safe in the shelter of those kind arms, "and if you did I always thought all the dogs would be bound to come too."

The likhne-wala was quite right when he said it would not be "over-easy" for Uncle Gerald.

It wasn't.

It required a deal of diplomacy, and only Uncle Gerald's charm and tact carried the matter through without a serious breach between the Golder's Green relations and Ronnie's parents. It cost a small fortune in cables, too.

But in the end it was managed, and Ronnie went back to Longhope, where he fitted so uncommonly well.

"I must say," said Uncle Gerald, "you've a nice taste in amanuenses."

"What's that?" asked Ronnie.

"Well, I believe you call it a likhne-wala," said Uncle Gerald. "Both are long, rather clumsy names, and there's not much to choose between them."

"He was a nice likhne-wala," said Ronnie; "and very cheap."

*XX*

*THE CONTAGION OF HONOUR*

It's a far cry from cantonments in a town in Northern India to a village in the Cotswolds, and events had moved so fast in the last four months that for a while Robin felt rather breathless and bewildered.

He was not yet six years old, but he had been through the Suez Canal six times.

The first times he couldn't remember at all, the second two passages only faintly, but the last two were vivid and epoch-making.

They came so close together, too.

Had any one just then asked Robin to define war, he would have tried to explain that it meant continual departure from where you happened to be, separation and loss, that through it all--like the refrain of a marching tune--there sounded stanzas of joyous excitement; but these passed quickly, leaving silence and desolation for those left behind.

Of one thing he was certain: war meant movement. No grown-up person could keep in one place for any length of time when there was war. In April, when the hot weather set in, he and mummy and ayah and Jean went to the hills, as usual; but daddy stayed in cantonments. Long before the hot weather was over they all went back. There was much bustle and activity, and the Sikhs all looked very cheerful indeed.

Then came more moves.

Daddy went first this time, and took the regiment with him; but he wasn't going Home.

Mummy and the children went next, leaving a weeping ayah at the new Alexandra Dock in Bombay.

The voyage was long and wearisome in a very crowded boat, where there were many other children and anxious-looking mummies, but no sahibs--no sahibs at all.

When they arrived in England, they all came to live with grandfather and Aunt Monica at the Vicarage, and, though this was very different from India, and not nearly so gay and cheerful, it was quite bearable till mummy went too.

That was a wholly unexpected blow. Soldiers' children, especially the children of soldiers serving abroad, early realise that a mysterious power called "the Service" may at any moment snatch daddy away. It may be that he has to go where they cannot follow, or that he has to stay and they have to go. In any case, it means separation.

But mummies are different. They belong--most of all when children are quite small.

Yet Robin's mother had gone.

As he pottered up and down the rather wet path that Saturday afternoon, he was remembering a conversation he had heard in the verandah just before the regiment left India. He was building a temple on the floor with his bricks, and mummy was very rapidly turning the heel of a sock while Major Booth talked to her. Major Booth was their doctor, and a very good doctor too.

"It's frightful waste, you know," Major Booth said, in a grumbling voice, "for you to go and rust in a remote village doing nursemaid to a couple of kids."

"You see, they happen to be my kids," mummy answered quietly.

"That's no argument just now," he retorted. "They are healthy, jolly kids; they've got a competent aunt--you told me so yourself. They'll be perfectly well cared for whether you are there or not--and you're wanted, I tell you."

Mummy gave a little gasp. "Oh, man!" she cried, "why do you dangle the unattainable before my eyes? You know I'm just dying to go ... but I've taken on another job ... and there are plenty without me. I won't butt in----"

"Will you go if you're asked for?"

"If I'm asked for!" Mummy repeated the words scornfully. "Of course I'd go."

Robin looked up from his temple.

"Go where?" he asked. "Can I come, too?"

"Don't you worry, sonny dear," mummy said, and her voice sounded flat and tired. "I don't for one moment suppose they'll want me. I only wish they would. 'That's all shove be'ind me--long ago and far away,'" she quoted, while Major Booth shook his head in violent dissent.

They talked of other things that did not particularly interest Robin till he went away, but as Major Booth ran down the verandah steps he had called out: "Mind, it's a bandabost! You come if you're asked for."

Robin remembered that very distinctly.

When they had been four weeks at the Vicarage, when they were just settling down to the quiet life there, the summons came.

It seems that Robin's mummy, before there was any Robin or Jean or even daddy, had been a particularly first-class surgical nurse, and not only that, but an Army nurse. She never talked about it, but Major Booth had discovered it soon after she came to India with daddy. They were out in camp, and there was a bad accident to one of the soldiers, and mummy just took charge and helped Major Booth as only a skilful nurse can help.

After that, if sudden illness or accidents occurred where no trained nurses were handy, people rather got into the way of sending for mummy to lend a hand.

And now they had sent for her to nurse wounded soldiers at a base hospital.

She explained this to Robin the night before she left, as he sat on her knee all ready for bed in front of the nursery fire. He remembered the feel of the nursery fender, the warm wire bars, as he pressed his feet against them.

Mummy did not deny that she was immensely proud and glad to go--it was such an honour to be allowed to do anything--but she hated leaving Robin and Jean. Still, in war we must all give up something. He had to give up his daddy and his mummy--"a good deal for a little boy," she added.

Would he be good and try to please Aunt Monica and the new nurse, and encourage Jean to be good, and not fret, and try to help all he could?

Just then Robin felt so solemn and exalted that it seemed he could give up anything to help the poor wounded soldiers, and so he said. And after his prayers, mummy tucked him into bed and kissed him, and whispered the things mummies do whisper at such times. Her eyes tasted salt when he kissed them, dragging her head down with his two arms that he might do it--mummy was so tall--and the next day she went away.

She had been gone five whole weeks, and Christmas was not far off, and that Friday afternoon Robin wanted her most desperately, for somehow everything had gone wrong.

It began with digging trenches.

Now to dig a trench properly, as in war, you must lie on your tummy and throw the earth up in front of you; if you stood up, the enemy would pot you--that's an understood thing.

But they didn't seem to realise this at the Vicarage. For when Robin essayed to do it in his own garden--a nice large plot at the far end of the kitchen garden that grandfather had given him for his very own--he naturally got what nurse called "all over mould," and she was far from pleased, the less so in that Jean, coming with nurse to find him, immediately flung herself face downwards in the adjacent carrot-bed in imitation of her brother.

Jean was pretty, and every one fell in love with her at first sight; but Robin was what nurse called a "very or'nary child," and visiting strangers showed no inclination to make a fuss of him.

Grandfather was a very old gentleman, and Aunt Monica was always busy with parish work. Robin had heard his father say that she was "as good as three curates" to grandfather. Therefore did he find himself wishing that she had been, less capable, for, he reasoned, if Aunt Monica was equal to three curates now, and a visiting curate whom Robin liked exceedingly was still necessary--had she been rather less efficient, two visiting curates might have been required. Or, better still, the present one might have been permanent. And this, from Robin's point of view, was most desirable.

The visiting curate came every Sunday to intone the service, read the lessons, help in the Sunday-school, and take the children's service in the afternoon, and he always lunched at the Vicarage.

He was tall, with a cheerful red face and broad shoulders, which made a most comfortable seat for little boys. Moreover, he was a most accomplished person. He could waggle his ears without moving his head, and move his hair up and down without disarranging a muscle of his face. He could shut one eye--"shut flat," Robin called it, "no wrinkles"--and stare at you with the other, and he could wink each eye in succession, in a fashion that conveyed infinite possibilities of merriment. And all these things he contrived to do at the solemn Sunday luncheon when neither grandfather nor Aunt Monica happened to be looking.

Then there was Pollard.

Pollard was the gardener. He was not a gifted being like the curate. By no stretch of imagination could he be regarded as entertaining. He was a stocky, silent young man, whose conversation consisted mainly of "Yes, Mazter Robin"; "Noa, little gentleman"; or, "I don't 'old with it myself, young zur," when Robin solicited his opinions about the war and kindred subjects.

Yet there was something in his bearing that subtly conveyed to the lonely little boy the fact that in Pollard he had a friend, and a rather admiring friend at that, and Robin followed him about like a small dog.

Yes, Pollard was a comfort.

He spied him now wheeling a barrow loaded with what Pollard himself called "dong," with a spade resting on the top of the heap.

"Wait for me, Pollard--wait for me!" called the clear little voice. The man stopped, and when Robin caught him up, they went together to the flower-garden, where Pollard was preparing the ground for a hedge of sweet peas next year.

Here Robin was thrilled to perceive that Pollard started to dig a trench. He was a capital digger, throwing up great spadefuls of soil, and the trench was beautifully even.

"They'd like you to help them in Belgium," Robin exclaimed admiringly, "you're so strong--only you couldn't do it that way."

Pollard rested on his spade. "Well, there now, Mazter Robin," he exclaimed, "be you agoin' to teach Oi to dig at this time o' day?"

"Not standing up like that," Robin continued, as though he had not heard--"not to begin with. You'd get shot directly. Can you do it as well lying down?"

"Lyin' down!" Pollard repeated. "Lyin' down! 'Ooever 'eard o' diggin' lyin' down?"

"Soldiers do," Robin answered. "They have to. I can a little, too, only the soil here sticks to one so."

"Do you mean as they lays flat on their backs and scrabbles sideways with a trowel?" asked Pollard, fairly puzzled.

"No, no," exclaimed Robin, "front ways, of course. I could show you in a minute if nurse wasn't so cross. You throw it up in front of you so's to hide you, and when the hill in front's high enough, and your hole is deep enough, then you can stand up, stooping, and dig your way. I've got one in my garden, not a good one, 'cos nurse stopped me, but you should see soldiers do it!"

And just then nurse came to look for Robin, and took him indoors because it was getting dark.

Pollard continued to dig thoughtfully. From time to time he paused, leant upon his spade and scratched his head. By the time he had prepared the ground for the sweet peas it was just about dark, but before he went home he visited Robin's garden. Here he tried digging a trench in military fashion, and exceedingly hard work he found it.

* * * * *

From time to time precious letters came to Robin--from daddy in the trenches (how he longed to see _those_ trenches!), and from mother in her hospital. Aunt Monica was very kind about those letters; she read them aloud over and over again, till Robin knew them by heart and imparted their contents to Pollard, who always appeared much edified, though he was a man of few words.

On the end of a barn that he passed every day between his mother's cottage and the Vicarage, there were posters which declared in flaming, foot-long letters that his "King and Country" needed him, and adjuring him to join the Army NOW for the war, and so on.

Hitherto, Pollard had regarded the war entirely from the outside. "Soldierin' bain't for the likes of me," he said, and his mother quite agreed with him. Some was "fond of a bit of soldiering" even in peace; and it was quite natural and suitable that such should join the "Tarriers." For them, of course, the call to arms was imperative, and Pollard took it for granted that they should obey and march away, and be seen no more. He was quite content that they should do so. But, with regard to himself, such a course seemed neither sensible nor feasible.

"What'd I do with a gun, let alone a bay'nit?" he would inquire facetiously. "I shouldn't know which end to catch 'old on 'im. What good 'ud a' be?"

Lately, though, there had stirred in his mind a tiny, creeping doubt as to whether it was quite justifiable to remain in this state of ignorance. Much talk with Robin, or rather much listening to the talk of Robin, had opened new vistas of possibility to Pollard. He realised in a dim, kindly way that the child was homesick and lonely, and longing for his parents; yet the little boy never wished they had not gone. The Major's letters, too, repeated word for word by his little son, so simple and plain in their language, yet told heroic things of the doings of his men, and these men Pollard knew were "poor Injuns"--"blackies" he had called them, till Robin, indignantly denied that they were anything of the sort.

It began to dawn upon Pollard that the heathen in his blindness, who had crossed the seas to fight for old England, was perhaps doing more to uphold her honour than certain young Englishmen who _could_ go, and remained peacefully at home. He had inquired of Robin as to their worship of "wood and stone," but Robin could throw no light upon this, declaring, indeed, that his father's Sikhs "were very religious men, very religious, indeed." So there was another illusion gone.

Pollard became more and more uncomfortable and uncertain. The red posters seemed to reproach him, but the trench finished him altogether.

As he walked home that night as much "all over mould" as Robin had been earlier in the day, the good, clean smell of the wet earth in his nostrils seemed to go to his head like wine, for he kept on muttering to himself: "There be summat as I can do, any'ow."

The thought that a man who could dig might be of use "over there" was positively staggering in its intensity.

* * * * *

Robin was allowed to sit up half an hour later on a Saturday evening, and during that half-hour Aunt Monica read to him or played spillikins with him, or helped him to stick in his little flags on the big map mummy had given him before she left.

That evening they did the map, for there were a lot of new flags to stick in for Russia. When nurse came for him, as they climbed the broad staircase together, she said in quite an excited voice: "You have done it this time, Master Robin; Pollard's gone for a soldier."

"Gone!" Robin exclaimed aghast, "and never said good-bye, nor anything!"

"Well, not exactly gone; but 'e's 'listed in the 'Gloucesters--did it this afternoon over to Cissister. An' it's all you; he says so."

"Me!" cried Robin--by this time they were in the nursery. "I never sent him. I like him. I don't want him to go."

"Well, anyway, he's been and done it this afternoon, and his mother's in the kitchen this minute in a fine takin'. And it's all along of you and your talk, she says."

Robin pondered. "Of course, he's right to go," he said slowly; "but, truly, I never asked him to."

"I don't know who'll do the garden," nurse said, still in the same thrilled, impressive voice, "or what Vicar'll say, or Miss Rivers."

"Will Aunt Monica be angry?" Robin asked, vaguely troubled. It was bad enough to lose Pollard, but if everybody blamed _him_ for it ... and just then who should come into the nursery but grandfather himself.

He came very slowly, for he was an old, old gentleman.

Robin was standing by the fire with nothing on but his vest and his stockings.

When grandfather reached the hearthrug, he held out his hand. "Grandson," he said, solemnly, "I congratulate you. You've managed to do what none of the rest of us could do. You've roused a spark of patriotism in Pollard. Aunt Monica and I are proud of you."

It was very wonderful to shake hands with grandfather like that, and to have him there looking down at one so kindly through his gold-rimmed glasses. Robin was not at all sure what it all meant, except that grandfather and Aunt Monica were not angry, neither with Pollard nor with him. But he did connect Pollard's sudden action with all he had told him about daddy and mummy and the Sikhs.

"I suppose," he said thoughtfully, "he kind of caught it."

_Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury, England._

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THE LION-HUNTER OF SOUTH AFRICA. Five Years' Adventures in the Far Interior of South Africa. By R. GORDON CUMMING. With Woodcuts.

UNBEATEN TRACKS IN JAPAN. An Account of Travels in the Interior, including Visits to the Aborigines of Yezo and the Shrine of Nikko. By Mrs. BISHOP (ISABELLA L. BIRD). With Illustrations.

A LADY'S LIFE IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS. By Mrs. BISHOP (ISABELLA BIRD). With Illustrations.

RUNNING THE BLOCKADE, A Personal Narrative of Adventures, Risks, and Escapes during the American Civil War. By THOMAS E. TAYLOR. Illustrations and Map.

THE FRESCOES IN THE SISTINE CHAPEL IN ROME. By EVELYN MARCH PHILLIPPS. With Illustrations.

THE LETTERS OF QUEEN VICTORIA, 1837-1861. Edited by ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON, M.A., C.V.O., and VISCOUNT ESHER, G.C.B., G.C.V.O. With 16 Portraits. 3 Vols. 1s. net each Vol.

LAVENGRO: The Scholar, the Gypsy, the Priest. By GEORGE BORROW. With 6 Pen and Ink Sketches by PERCY WADHAM.

THE GAMEKEEPER AT HOME. By RICHARD JEFFERIES.

OUR ENGLISH BIBLE: Its Origin and its Growth. By H. W. HAMILTON HOARE. With Portraits and Specimen pages of Old Bibles.

THE NATURALIST ON THE RIVER AMAZONS. By H. W. BATES, F.R.S. Numerous Illustrations.

DEEDS OF NAVAL DARING; or, Anecdotes of the British Navy. By EDWARD GIFFARD.

HISTORICAL MEMORIALS OF CANTERBURY. By the late DEAN STANLEY.

SINAI AND PALESTINE in connection with their History. By the late DEAN STANLEY. With Maps.

AN ENGLISHWOMAN'S LOVE LETTERS.

NOTES FROM A DIARY. First Series. By Sir MOUNTSTUART E. GRANT DUFF.

STUDIES IN THE ART OF RATCATCHING. By H. C. BARKLEY.

_BY A. C. BENSON._

THE THREAD OF GOLD. THE HOUSE OF QUIET. An Autobiography. THE SCHOOLMASTER.

_BY SAMUEL SMILES._

SELF-HELP. With Illustrations of Conduct and Perseverance. With Portrait.

LIFE AND LABOUR; or Characteristics of Men of Industry, Culture and Genius.

CHARACTER. A Book of Noble Characteristics. With Frontispiece.

JAMES NASMYTH, Engineer and Inventor of the Steam Hammer. An Autobiography. Portrait and Illustrations.

LONDON: JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.