* * * * *
Five minutes later, Denny, emerging from Middlefield shrubberies, found
himself close to the house. The late September sun was beginning to
slant through the beech trees on the lawn, dappling the ground beneath,
and all was drowsy peace.
Denny, who was always a little shy of the Middlefield butler, avoided
the front door and cut across the lawn towards the schoolroom. His
course took him past the library. The French windows stood wide open,
and within Denny was conscious of the form of a rather dapper little
gentleman in tweeds, crouching in a constrained attitude over something
in the middle of the room. It was Mr. Bagby. Hearing Denny’s step on the
gravel, Mr. Bagby cried out, without moving:
“Is that you, Leo? Come in here, sir, at once.”
“It’s me, Mr. Bagby,” replied Denny, pausing outside and politely
removing his cap.
“Oh!” he said. “Come and give me a hand, will you, like a good chap?
That young whelp has been at it again.”
Realising without difficulty that Mr. Bagby was referring to his only
son, Denny entered the library by the open window. Mr. Bagby, holding a
large piece of pink blotting paper in his hand, was executing a species
of stealthy toe-dance round an inlaid lacquer table. In the centre of
the table, serene and glistening, lay a large pool of ink; beside it a
common penny ink-bottle, overturned.
“Dirty little devil!” observed Mr. Bagby earnestly, still referring, it
seemed, to his absent offspring. “I told his mother not to let him come
and make his messes in this room. But you know what women are!”
To this rather large assumption Denny made no reply. His attention was
focused upon Mr. Bagby’s dispositions for the removal of the ink blot.
He was a tidy and methodical man, was Mr. Bagby, and he prided himself
on keeping his house in order. There was always an immaculate array of
clean towels hanging in the bath-room at Middlefield, and Mr. Bagby’s
knowledge of the current allowances on returned empties was almost
indecent.
Very slowly and stealthily the pink blotting-paper slid over the
polished table, until one corner touched the outer edge of the pool of
ink.
“This is the awkward bit,” said Mr. Bagby breathlessly. “If the ink
breaks away now—surface tension, and so on—it will run all over the
place; on the carpet, probably. Stand by with some more blotting-paper,
Denny, just in case—— Why, _damn_ the thing!”
For the pink pool did not break away, not even when the blotting-paper,
after a moment’s hesitation, slid right over its glossy surface; not
even when Mr. Bagby pressed the blotting-paper down with the tip of his
finger. The paper still remained a virgin pink.
“Surely the infernal stuff hasn’t solidified!” Mr. Bagby placed the full
weight of his palm upon the protuberance; then, with another regrettable
exclamation, snatched the blotting-paper away and began to fumble for
his monocle.
The ink pool lay as composed and as unruffled as ever. This was not
altogether surprising, for it was composed of black sealing-wax,
artistically moulded and varnished.
What Mr. Bagby said when he adjusted his monocle is irrelevant to this
narrative, and was fortunately cut short at the very outset by a series
of war-whoops of a raucous and penetrating character which burst from
behind a sofa in the corner of the room.
“Ee-ee-ee! A-a-ah! Oo-oo-ooh! Sold again! Sold again! Silly old Bingo!
Sold again!”
And Master Lionel Bagby, vacating his ambush, shot from the open doorway
into the hall and disappeared through a curtained arch on the other
side, yodelling triumphantly.
Denny, tactfully leaving the overwrought Mr. Bagby to himself, slipped
out of the room after his “chum” and, travelling familiar ground,
proceeded down a linoleum-covered passage in the direction of the
schoolroom, where he knew that the feast to which he had been invited
would be spread. Even as he entered the passage a maid debouched from
another doorway, carrying a loaded tray which exuded an agreeable aroma
of poached eggs and hot muffins.
Gathered in the schoolroom Denny found Mrs. Bagby herself, present in
his honour; Miss Groves, Gwen’s governess; Lionel the Terrible, still
chanting his song of victory; and the present disturber of his peace,
Miss Gwendoline Bagby. Denny shook hands rather shyly all round, that
susceptible and elastic organ, his heart, missing a beat or two when he
greeted the daughter of the house. Mrs. Bagby took the head, Miss Groves
the foot of the table. Master Lionel, who was a dirty feeder and
required considerable elbow room, was accommodated with a side to
himself. Denny and Gwen sat together.
Mrs. Bagby, having helped the others, addressed her son with an
indulgent smile.
“Little Leo,” she said, “will you have a poached egg?”
“Yes,” replied Little Leo.
“Yes—what, dear?”
“What? An egg, of course. Don’t be silly!”
Mrs. Bagby smiled feebly.
“I am waiting for a certain little word, darling,” she said.
“And I,” riposted Lionel the Terrible, “am waiting for a certain little
poached egg!”
Mrs. Bagby made another effort.
“If you——?” she prompted.
“If you don’t give me one,” roared Little Leo, in a most threatening
voice. “I shall come and take one. So hurry up!”
Mrs. Bagby, finding the situation, as usual, beyond her, smiled
resignedly and passed the egg.
Gwen began to question Denny about his scholarship. When he told her
that it was worth sixty pounds a year she was visibly impressed, and
Denny turned pink with gratification.
“It doesn’t mean much, really,” he said modestly.
“What are you going to do with the money?” asked Gwen.
“I don’t think you get any money; they just knock sixty pounds off your
school bill.”
Lionel the Terrible here interposed, to remark that when he won a
scholarship he would spend the money on himself and not go to school at
all. Having disposed of this topic to his entire satisfaction, he helped
himself to jam with an eggy knife.
“What house are you going to, Denis?” asked Miss Groves.
“Keeley’s.”
Miss Groves’s thin face flushed with pleasure.
“My brother was there,” she said, “long ago.”
“What a rotten house it must have been,” observed Little Leo.
As it appeared to be nobody’s business to controvert this statement,
Miss Groves continued, timidly:
“Of course it was some time ago. My brother has been vicar of Much
Moreham for many years now. Will you ask Mr. Keeley if he still
remembers him?”
Denny promised to do so, and furthermore undertook to write and tell
Miss Groves if Mr. Keeley did remember her brother. The ice thus
artfully broken, he asked if Gwen would like him to write to her too.
“Rather!” said Gwen. “Tell me all your troubles, my child, whenever you
feel like it.”
“Shall I write to you as well, Leo?” asked Denny, turning away a little
dashed.
“No,” replied the Terrible One.
“Leo, darling!” interposed his mother. “No—what?”
“No blooming fear!” explained her offspring. “I should have to read the
thing. Hello, here’s Bingo!”
The schoolroom door was wrenched open, and the master of the house stood
lowering upon the threshold.
“Leo,” he announced with an air of intense resolution, “I shall whip you
to-night before dinner.”
“No you won’t,” replied his son calmly.
“But I shall!” repeated Mr. Bagby with less conviction.
“No, you won’t!” bellowed Lionel the Terrible. Finding his utterance
somewhat impeded by bread and jam, he took a large gulp of tea, and
continued: “What’s the good? It only hurts your hand, and makes me
laugh. Look out—you’re treading on something!”
There were cries of concern from Mrs. Bagby.
“Ring for Hannah!” she exclaimed. “She must have dropped it off the
dish. How careless of her! Don’t touch it with your fingers, Miss
Groves. Take the coal shovel.”
But Miss Groves, who, whatever she might lack in assertiveness, was not
deficient in common sense, merely stooped down, picked up the jettisoned
poached egg between her finger and thumb, and laid it on the table close
beside its engaging proprietor. It really was a capital imitation. The
streaming yolk in particular did credit to the designer.
Little Leo was once more bounding about the room.
“Sold again! Sold again!” he yelled. “Silly old Bingo! Silly old Bingo!
Sold again!”
* * * * *
After tea the infant humorist summoned his reluctant guest from the side
of his sister, and conducted him upstairs, where he revealed to him the
source of his present playful inspirations. It was a Conjurer’s
Catalogue, entitled _Amusing Jokes and Novel Surprises_.
“You get six jokes in a box for half a crown,” he explained. “The
poached egg, and the spilt ink thing, and another like spilt jam, and a
bandage all bloody that you stick round your finger to make people think
you’ve cut it—Gwen fairly blubbed when she saw it on me—and an
imitation wasp, and some india-rubber bugs you drop into people’s soup.
The catalogue says the bugs are also Suitable for Beds. I haven’t used
them yet. Half a jiffy! I’ll slip down to the drawing-room now, and put
them on mother’s tea-table.”
The horrid child sped away, and before Denny could summon sufficient
courage to go back to the schoolroom in search of Gwen, returned
enraptured, announcing that two beetles now floated in the cream-jug,
while the wasp occupied a conspicuous position upon the seat which would
shortly be occupied by his father.
“I got a ten-bob tip last week,” he continued, gloating over the
catalogue, “and I’m going to order some more—real spiffers this time.
The first lot were all as stale as anything, but of course they were
quite new to Mum and Bingo. Here’s something. ‘_The Mysterious Voice.
With this little novelty anyone can make the exact imitation of a kitten
mewing, while all your friends are wondering where it is. Very amusing
and quite new._’ That’s rotten. All you do is to hold a sort of bag in
your hand and squeeze it, or else put it down for someone to sit
on. . . . Here’s something better. ‘_The Plush Jewel Case. This little
box is in the form of a small jewel case. When your friend opens it, it
gives a loud bang, causing much laughter among the onlookers._’ I dare
say, but it’s two bob. What’s this? ‘_The Crash-Bang. This consists of
six metal pieces which are thrown against a wall. They give the exact
representation of a window being broken. Sixpence._’ I’ll get a set of
those for Bingo. Hallo! ‘_The Red-Hot Cinder. One of these cinders
placed on the hearth-rug causes great consternation, followed by
merriment, and calls forth exclamations of “How good!” when picked up.
Fourpence._’ You ought to take some of these to Eaglescliffe with you,
Denny. You could rag the masters fearfully.”
“I think I’ll have a look at the masters first,” replied Denny.
Lionel finally settled upon two more purchases—namely, some Nihilist
Bombs, “_one of which, exploded in a theatre or railway carriage, will
cause people on the spot to gradually get away as far as possible_,” and
the Electric Bell—“_which you fasten to a table or wall and ask your
friend to ring it. To his great surprise, he pricks his finger. Roars of
laughter! Tenpence_”—and then suggested a visit to the orchard.
Denny, supremely bored, acquiesced. His sole interest in the House of
Bagby was centred—and that, as time was to prove, but temporarily—in
the female branch. Besides, the morrow, with its unrevealed and
half-feared mysteries, was tugging at his thoughts, rendering him even
more impervious than usual to the charms of Little Leo’s society. To
some of us any company is better than none—which, by the way, accounts
for most of the undesirable friendships of this world. Denny was one of
the rarer spirits. He desired only the society of the congenial; failing
that, he preferred his own. Such society, at the moment, was represented
to him solely by Miss Gwendoline Bagby; in a few months time he would
have revised his standards completely, and be living only for the
occasional patronage of brawny youths who could run faster or manipulate
a ball more skilfully than himself. But, in the main, Master Denny was a
lady’s man, as the future will unfold. In other words, he was booked for
trouble for many years to come. Meanwhile, his sole preoccupation was a
single-minded aversion to the continued society of Little Leo.
However, an apple is seldom amiss when you are thirteen. So he
accompanied his host to the orchard. On the way Little Leo espied two
beetles scuttling across the gravel path. He picked them up and secured
them, with an air of professional secrecy, in an old pill-box.
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