Part 5

"Yes, but that gun of mine carries a long way. I killed a hare on the moor, dead on the spot, and paced it, eighty-two paces. Gilfillan saw it."

No one required to be called in the morning; and as each one got up, he went to the window to find a leaden sky and a drizzling rain, which looked as if it meant to stay a few days.

During breakfast there were many glances out of the window in the hope of seeing a clear streak of sky rising behind the hill, and when the repast was over and pipes lit, there was a general saunter round to the kennels to hear Gilfillan's opinion.

"I canna just say I like the look o't; be quiet, wumman; they dowgs is just daft to get oot. I wadna wonder, though, if it clears up by the efternoon. The dowgs ken fine what's up when they see you gentlemen; bit as lang's ye keep on the move, a drap rain'll no hurt ye, though the birds'll no sit sae weel."

The dogs seemed to throw some of their eagerness into the company, and it was resolved to make a start--the first few shots almost making them forget the rain, further than in keeping their cartridges dry. Half an hour, however, brought back to M'Cranky's memory the unpleasant aspect of the sport; the exercise and excitement kept his heart thumping with extra violence, his feet were soaking, and every step made a slushy sound. There is as much inspiration, however, in following a dog as there is in "the sound of the drum," and M'Cranky persevered, wiping rain and perspiration from his face.

The following days were much the same, and as the birds were wild and the bags not large, M'Cranky would not take more than a brace of birds and a hare on leaving.

"No, no," he said, in reply to his host insisting on his taking more, "I like game well enough, but the sport better."

"Is that all you've brought home," said Mrs. M'Cranky. "I thought----"

"I wouldn't take any more; we had bad sport."

"I'll tell you what we'll do then; we'll send them to Mrs. Wallace. You know she----"

"You'll do nothing of the sort, by jingo! Those birds have cost me," but M'Cranky suddenly remembered he had better not mention the sum, as his wife would immediately think of the dress which could have been got for the money--her usual idea of comparison. So he changed his sentence to--"It's not every day I can go to shoot."

"You had a good deal of shooting last season," said Mrs. M'Cranky, not in a tone of reproach, but to put her husband in the good humour she wished, and set him on pleasant reminiscences.

"Well, you know," he said, with a smile of satisfaction with himself, "I couldn't help it; they were always wanting me to give them a hand when they wanted a bag."

"And we can have some lovely hare soup," continued Mrs. M'Cranky, taking the gift of grouse for granted. Generosity, no doubt, was her principal feeling, though there was an under-current of satisfaction in the knowledge that the gift would be understood to reflect credit on her husband as a sportsman, and he was not long out of the house till the birds were despatched to "Mrs. Wallace, with Mr. M'Cranky's compliments."

"What do you think I've got?" said Mrs. Wallace, in the usual enigmatical fashion of females. "A brace of grouse from the M'Crankys. I like the parcel post, but I just hate telegrams; I'm always afraid to open them in case some one's dead."

"I know," said Mr. Wallace, "it's a failing of the sex; you would like the boy to tell you what's inside before you open the envelope."

"And we've got an invitation to go over and stay with Nell for a few days, so I was just thinking we might send the grouse to Mrs. Clark. I want to take the bounce out of her, at any rate, and let her know we have swell friends, too; you can't talk to her five minutes till she is on to her 'county friends,' her 'West End friends,' and her 'carriage people.' I know she won't like taking grouse from me, so I'll just send them."

"You're a rum lot, you women; I've to want the grouse to satisfy your stupid idea, I suppose."

"They were addressed to me, and you can get plenty later on; but I wouldn't miss this chance for anything. She'll perhaps think you've been at the shooting, and she'll be just wild."

"That'll be nice," said Mr. Wallace, with mild sarcasm; but he had more sense than to argue the subject, and the grouse were passed on to "Mrs. Clark, with Mr. Wallace's compliments."

Mrs. Clark put on a careless air when the grouse were brought in, as if she were expecting a few more similar parcels from her various "county friends"; but when she read, "With Mr. Wallace's compliments," the expression on her face changed.

"The i--dea," she said. "Well, I never! Set them up! Mrs. Wallace either wants me to think her husband has been shooting, or that they have got more from their country friends than they can use. I'll have to write and thank her--perfectly annoying."

Mrs. Clark gave vent to her feelings while writing:

"My DEAR MRS. WALLACE--[impertinence].--Thanks so much for the lovely grouse. [I would rather--I don't know what--than she had sent them.] You evidently know my weakness, dear, and yours is the first we have received this season. [That'll let her know we are in the habit of getting game.] I am already looking forward to the treat. [I won't touch them.] Thanking you again, and with love.--Yours affectionately, MARY CLARK.

"I know what--yes. Mrs. M'Cranky called the other day for nothing else, I'm sure, than to let me know her husband was away shooting. I'll let her know we have friends who have shootings as well as she has; she'll not know where we got them."

When Mr. Clark came home at night he had reluctantly to consent to take them with him the following morning and send them to M'Cranky's office.

"Generosity has been rewarded," said M'Cranky, when he took the birds home at night. "Clark sent these to the office; very good of him. Met him at the club at lunch, and asked him to bring his wife on Thursday to help us with them. Young birds won't keep."

"We may as well ask Mr. and Mrs. Wallace, too," said Mrs. M'Cranky; "they haven't been here since they were married."

"All right; but you'll have to buy another brace."

"That will be too many, unless we were to ask Mr. and Mrs. Wilson."

"All right; please yourself."

Mrs. M'Cranky is one of a numerous class who delight in worrying over preparations for a dinner, and who feel well rewarded when any of the ladies remark that "the table is beautifully laid out," and her excitement was kept up till the guests arrived, when the conversation became general, and every one seemed prepared to laugh at the mildest of jokes; but when the grouse were brought in, three of the ladies felt as if the sword of Damocles was hanging over their heads by a very slender thread. Just before going to the dining-room, Mrs. M'Cranky had a final look into the kitchen to see that all was right, when the cook upset her equilibrium by saying:

"Do you know, mum, that the two grouse the master brought in are the same you sent to Mrs. Wallace?"

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. M'Cranky; "surely you are mistaken."

"The self an' same birds, mum. I knew the string; an' one of them had a little grass sticking under the wing, where it had been bleeding."

Mrs. M'Cranky tried to banish the unpleasant thought from her mind, but it would return, as if asking for a solution.

"The grouse is very nice," said Mrs. Wilson. "One enjoys it so much at the beginning of the season."

"You have Mr. Clark to thank," said the innocent M'Cranky, and three swords fell.

Mrs. M'Cranky tried to catch her husband's eye, but he would not look her way, and it was too late, at any rate. Mr. Clark got a warning look from his wife, and though he did not comprehend it fully, he knew he was to say nothing. Mrs. Wallace's cheeks turned red, and she tried to hide her blushes by bending over her plate, feeling she had made Mrs. Clark her enemy.

The stereotyped compliment was repeated by everyone on leaving--"Thank you so much for a very pleasant evening"; but a different sentiment was expressed in two of the cabs on the way home.

"Well, that was a good spread," said Mr. Wallace, with the satisfied tone of one who is at peace with all mankind.

"Don't light that cigar, for any sake; I feel just like to cry; I never was so miserable in my life."

"What's wrong?"

"What's wrong! Can't you see? Mrs. M'Cranky got back her grouse, and we're all found out."

"Ha, ha! well, that's a good one."

"Do you think so? I call it just beastly."

"M'Cranky does the thing well," said Mr. Clark.

"Don't speak about it. I never felt so glad to get out of a house."

"How?"

"That Mrs. Wallace knows I gave away her grouse, but thank goodness she's found out too."

"I don't understand."

"No; men are donkeys."

"Women are mysteries."

M'CRANKY'S DECEPTIONS ABOUT GOLF

It is a pity that evil should be mixed with our most healthy and, in themselves, innocent amusements. Some bad men, who are otherwise modest, boast of and exaggerate their achievements, tell of the good things done, and omit the stupid, as in the case of the sportsman of whom it was said, "What he hit was history, what he missed was mystery."

Golf is generally admitted to be one of the best recreations for combining the necessary amount of excitement, removing all thoughts of business cares, and at the same time giving exercise in the open air, making it all the more regrettable that it should be capable of leading to the debasing and humiliating position experienced by Mr. M'Cranky.

Golfers could be found who are considered--and consider themselves--strictly honest, who would omit to count a miss if they were not observed, or surreptitiously move their ball to a better position.

"There is one thing I like about golf," said an Englishman who has only been a few months at the game, "It is impossible to cheat at it."

"You don't know," said his friend, smiling. "Two caddies were playing for a sovereign, at Musselburgh, and, in going to Mrs. Forman's, one lost his ball, and as the five minutes allowed to look for a lost ball were about up, and he saw the hole would be lost to him, he quietly dropped another ball and said, 'Oh, here it is!' when his opponent, who had apparently been assisting him to find the ball, turned on him reproachfully and said, 'That's a lie! I've had your ball in my pocket all the time.'"

Though M'Cranky is almost invariably in the wrong in the many arguments he has with his better half, he has the greatest dislike to being found out, and never admits being mistaken; and--argue as he may with himself--he feels that his duplicity has been discovered by his wife.

Their friend Mrs. Watson had spent June and July at a farmhouse near Crieff, and one day at tea she told Mrs. M'Cranky how much she and the children had enjoyed the place, and benefited by it.

"You should certainly take it for August and September," she said; and Mrs. M'Cranky, knowing that the selection of summer quarters was generally left to herself, at once determined to write and secure the house, little thinking that M'Cranky had another scheme on hand. She was impatient for the dinner hour, being anxious to impart the glowing account of the place as described by Mrs. Watson.

"Mrs. Watson's home from Crieff," she began, "and she was awfully sorry to leave, and she says it's just the place for us, and I'm going to write after dinner to secure it, in case any one should be after it."

"You'll have to go yourself, then; I can't."

"But you must, dear; you know quite well that you require a rest, and it's a fine bracing place, and plenty of nice milk and eggs, and--"

"I don't care for milk, and in any case I tell you I can't go."

"And the people are so kind, Mrs. Watson says."

"Why did she come home, then?"

"Oh! she had to, you know; and there's a horse and a trap we can have the use of. The farmer used to drive Mrs. Watson and the girls every day, but he says he couldn't drive now, as he'll be so busy; but that'll be all the better, because we'll have it all to ourselves, and you can drive fine. You remember when----"

"Drive! you would drive anybody out of his mind with your talk. Didn't I tell you I can't go."

"But you must, dear. I can't let you kill yourself with work, and Mrs. Watson says it is very cheap. She got the rooms for eight pounds and ten pounds, but she thinks it might be twelve pounds for August, only if we stayed on we might get it in September for six pounds, and then there's a great saving. You know when she was at Luss last year she paid about thirty shillings to get her luggage taken to the house, and then she had to pay for the cartage of the coals--I forget how much, but we would save all that because the farmer would send a cart, and that all helps to reduce the rent, you know."

"Well, we can't go there this month, and that's all about it. I don't care much where we go, but I must get into business every morning, and as you're on the economical tack, we can get the place cheaper in September. Now there's North Berwick; I know several fellows who come into town every morning, and we can all come together; in fact, I was told of a house close to the links--to the station; and then you know"--he added with more than his usual consideration--"it'll not be so lonely for you, as you'll meet a lot of your lady friends, and I can easily spare the Saturdays."

Mrs. M'Cranky was very reluctant to give up the dream of driving about the country without having to think of the cost per hour for a trap. Still she felt business must not be neglected, and September is often a nice month. M'Cranky was in a bad humour with himself. The idea of going to North Berwick had been a week in his head, and he was annoyed that he had not spoken of it before Mrs. Watson called, as he would have simply said, as he intended, that he would take a house there, for the sake of the golf. Now, he had, without thinking of the result, pretended that his object in going there was in order to be able to attend to business. He must now, however, keep up the deception.

"Is there any use putting in your knickerbockers," said Mrs. M'Cranky, the night before they were leaving.

"I dare say you may," said M'Cranky; "I may get a round in the evenings, you know"; and immediately he had spoken he was annoyed that he had not had courage to say he intended having more than a round in the evenings; it made him feel that he was afraid of his wife, though he would not admit to himself that such a thing was possible. It was just the way the thing had come about, but he would let her know soon, though, like most people, he put off the evil day of confession till too late.

"There's no use going in to town to-day," he said on the first morning. "I'll stay and see the things unpacked, and they know to write or wire if there's anything important. Where's my knickerbockers?"

Mrs. M'Cranky was pleased with her husband's thoughtfulness, knowing that he hated to be asked even to untie a rope; but he had little intention of ruffling his temper with the hated work. He was looking at his watch every few minutes, and asking if breakfast wasn't ready.

"Hurry up," he said to the girl; "just bring in whatever you have ready. I smell ham; if it's not ready, I couldn't take any--I mean I don't wish ham this morning, unless it's--; look sharp with whatever you have."

Mrs. M'Cranky was still in the bedroom, and he was hurrying with his breakfast as if he had only a few minutes to catch the morning train, so that he had just about finished when she entered.

"You haven't finished already?" she said, as he rose from the table.

"Yes; you've been a long time of dressing. Just help yourself to the ham, and I'll go out and have a saunter."

He had great difficulty in keeping his hands from his watch, and in restraining himself to walk slowly out of the room with the necessary aimlessness of one who has nothing to do. In the lobby he was careful not to make a noise in lifting the clubs, and though a door in the back garden opened to the Links, he walked out by the front, as the dining-room window commanded a view of the back garden; and no sooner had he got away from the house than he doubled his pace, making up his mind that he wouldn't sneak away in that manner again, but just say he was going to golf--not thinking how much easier it is to get into deceit than to get out of it.

"What's kept you?" said his friend Macfarlane at the teeing ground; "our number has been called."

"Well, there's a lot of things to unpack, you know."

This was literally true, but M'Cranky felt that his expression of it was fallacious, and, as he remembered reading at school, very nearly related to falsehood. It was humiliating, but he would put it all right to-morrow morning, and he might have acted up to his intentions if he had been able to adopt the proverb of thinking twice before speaking once; but when, next morning, Mrs. M'Cranky said, "You're not going to town in your knickerbockers, are you?" he hastily said:

"Oh, I don't know; there's nobody in town you know; but, in fact, I wasn't thinking----"

"Oh yes, keep them on. I like you in knickerbockers. I wish everybody wore them--gentlemen, I mean."

The interruption was unfortunate for poor M'Cranky's resolution; he was screwing himself up to say that he wasn't thinking of going to town, and giving up the pretence of not being able to get away from business. He did not like the idea of going round the Links, continually looking about him in fear of meeting his wife; but she had no suspicion, as he walked out without clubs, having told his caddie to keep them for him; and when she said, "You're not going to town with these clumsy boots on? Put on your brown shoes; they are much neater," he mumbled something about hurting his feet when he had thick stockings on.

The deception had been going on for about a fortnight, and M'Cranky was getting hardened in it, when his friend said, "Mrs. Macfarlane was telling me she had asked Mrs. M'Cranky along to supper to-night, and I was to bring you along with me."

"Thank you," said M'Cranky, with an idea that exposure was imminent. Would he ask his friend not to allude to golf? No; that would be a confession that he was afraid of his wife, and he would have no one think that. He must trust to luck. It would be bad enough for his wife to find it out, but worse if before other people. That was his least enjoyable day; and as golf requires all one's attention, and M'Cranky's thoughts were wandering, he played a bad game. He was wishing the night safely over, and he would certainly put an end to the deceit next day.

"Aren't our husbands looking well?" said Mrs. Macfarlane to Mrs. M'Cranky. "But no wonder they are brown; the two of them are never off the----"

"You have a fine view here," M'Cranky interrupted, trying to change the subject.

"Yes; I suppose you haven't been as far east before? You men never think of anything but the Links; you never think of taking out your wives."

"Well, you know, Mr. M'Cranky hasn't much time just now, and I know he is the better of any exercise he can get. However, next month we are going to Crieff, and he'll have no business to worry him; but when one has to go in to business every day, it just spoils the----"

"May we have a smoke?" said M'Cranky perspiring with excitement. "We might go outside"; and the two women were left to have a talk by themselves.

"Does your wife think you go in to town every morning?" Macfarlane asked, laughing, when they got outside.

"Oh, I don't think so," said M'Cranky, with assumed carelessness. "You see, she wanted to go to Crieff this month, and I--eh--didn't see my way at the time, and--eh--perhaps I didn't say anything about it after. She's always late for breakfast, and, in fact, I never thought anything about it."

The two ladies laughed when their husbands returned; and when Mrs. Macfarlane said, "There's not one better than another; men were deceivers ever," M'Cranky felt that the secret was out. "He has been telling his wife," he thought; "some men can't keep anything from their wives." Still he felt that he was only trying to excuse himself, and that he was in the wrong--a bitter admission for him to have to admit even to himself. And what was the cause of all his deceit? Simply that Davidson had asked him to have a day at Kinghorn, and had beaten him; and he had determined to have a month's practice, and challenge him again. "I could easily beat Davidson," he said, when asked how they got on; "he has a bad style of addressing the ball, and only takes a half swing."

Davidson, however, had been practising too, and has beaten him again in the return match, and now M'Cranky has not even the satisfaction of feeling that his subterfuge and humiliation have been compensated.

MRS. M'CRANKY AT THE INTERNATIONAL FOOTBALL MATCH...

"You don't require uour ulster to-day, dear," said Mrs. M'Cranky on Saturday afternoon, seeing her husband preparing to go out; "it's quite mild, and your ulster's so shabby at any rate, and you've got your heavy shoes on too--are you going to golf?"

"No, I was thinking of going to the football match."

This was said as if his mind had not been made up on the subject, though he had bought two tickets for the stand the week before, one of which he had forgotten to give to the friend for whom he intended it.

"Is that where all the people are going? They were going down Queensferry Street in crowds just now when I came along. I wonder you can be bothered going to such a thing. May I come with you?"

"You'll be tired; you've just been out; and you don't think it will be worth seeing."

"I'll not be tired if I'm with you, and I don't care what it is as long as I'm beside you. I was at the Exhibition."

"Come along, then; we must hurry up to get a good seat."

"What a crowd of people!" said Mrs. M'Cranky, as they were entering the gate. "What do they charge for admission?"

"A shilling," said Mr. M'Cranky, truthfully, but fallaciously, handing over two tickets for which he had paid 3_s._ 6_d._ each.

"There's nothing to be seen but people. What are these men doing at that table?"

"These are the reporters."

"Is it so interesting as that? Will people read about it?"

"I should think so; it's the first thing a lot of fellows look at."

"But what is the game? What do they try to do?"

"Well, you see, the match to-day is between Scotland and Wales. The Scotch will try to drive the ball one way, and the Welsh the other; and if they kick it over that bar, that's a goal, and counts five."

"And do you mean to say that men will come all the way from Wales to kick a ball over a post?"

"Yes, and crowds will come with them to see it."

"Well, I didn't think men could be so stupid."

"Wait till you see them at it, and you'll understand. Here they come! I hear the people shouting. There they are! That's Wales!"

"They look very nice in their red jerseys. I hope they'll win."

"I hope not, by jingo! or I'll lose half a--eh; why do you hope they'll win? Wouldn't you be better pleased if Scotland won?"

"No; I think if they are at the trouble to come all this length, it would be only kindness of our side to let them win, and then they would go home pleased."

"There's Scotland coming in at the other end; hooray!"

"I hope they'll win too. They look very nice, but their jerseys are not so clean; they might have had them washed when they are receiving company. That's not a rough game. I've heard they were sometimes rough with each other."

"They haven't begun yet; that's only a bit fun to stretch themselves. There's a pigeon away."

"Where did it come from, dear?"

"The reporters; there, it's away to the office with a message."

"The dear, sweet, innocent thing; I hope it will find its way; it's flying round about, poor thing."

"Oh, it's all right. Scotland's lost the toss; they're kicking off."