Chapter II: One--two--three--four--five (1)

The last stroke of the village church clock died slowly away, and only the dreary, persistent patter of the rain upon the dead leaves disturbed the uncanny stillness of a sleeping world.

Mr. Bates stood irresolutely in the wet darkness, his hand upon the gate which led into the domains of Professor Stenson. At last, very cautiously, he pushed it open and stepped inside.

Before him lay the drive, lined by laurels and overhung by several gaunt, leafless elms. It was even blacker than the roadway. Step by step he felt his way along, till all of a sudden the shrubbery came to an end, and he found himself at the edge of a small gravelled space facing the front door.

At the side of the house he could just discern a path, which appeared to run round to the back. Crouching down and moving his feet as noiselessly as possible, he advanced along it, keeping one hand against the ivy-clad wall to guide his steps.

After about twelve yards of this uncomfortable progress, he came round the corner into a small square yard. There was a back door with two windows on either side of it, while above these again were, apparently three rooms. All were in complete darkness.

With his heart in his mouth, Mr. Bates crept up to the first window and peered through. He could see nothing. It was like staring into a sheet of black paper. For a second he hesitated, and then, placing his hand against the sash of the bottom pane, gave it a gentle tentative push. It yielded instantly to his pressure, sliding up a matter of two or three inches with a wheezy rattle that made him start back in a fresh access of alarm. Surely someone must have heard it! He half turned to run, and then paused irresolutely, his ears strained for the first sound of any movement within the house.

Nothing happened, however, and, after waiting several minutes, Mr. Bates regained his courage. Very gingerly he again raised the sash, and with extreme caution inserted his head through the empty window-frame. It was the kitchen; of that there could be no doubt, an unpleasing odour of boiled cabbage and damp clothes and dirty plates attesting to the professional deficiencies of the owner's late servant.

Raising himself upon his hands, Mr. Bates lifted his leg and scrambled in noiselessly over the sill. Then he felt in his pocket for a match. By the aid of a dry portion of his trousers he struck it without any superfluous noise, and, shading it with his hand, gazed nervously about him.

It was evident that Mr. Andrew's vaunt had not been an entirely idle one. The room was in a state of shocking disorder. Heaped up anyhow on the table were the dirty appliances of at least three meals. A mountainous pile of ashes beneath the grate bore eloquent testimony to daily tasks neglected, and at least three pairs of uncleaned boots scattered about the floor did nothing to remove the impression. Mr. Bates looked round with a disapproving and disgusted eye. A tidy man by nature and training, his fingers itched to set about this confusion.

The flame of the match reaching his thumb, however, reminded him sharply that he was there upon other and more pressing business. Dropping the charred stump with a mild and whispered oath, he ignited a second, and by its light perceived, on the further side of the apartment, an open door leading into a larder. On a shelf against the wall he could just detect the outline of a cold chicken, apparently still intact.

Mr. Bates did not wait for an invitation. In a moment he had crossed the floor and entered this attractive storehouse. Seizing the chicken, he held up the match and gazed round for further contributions. Half a loaf of bread was the first object to meet his eye, and this, together with a small piece of German sausage, which he found on a plate behind it, satisfied his requirements. Thrusting his booty under his arm, and throwing down his second match, which by this time had burnt itself away, he stepped out into the darkness of the kitchen. As he did so, a slight sound made him pause. An instant later there was a sharp click, and then a blinding flare of electric light suddenly flooded the room.

Mr. Bates staggered back against the wall, his plunder and his jaw dropping at the same moment. An elderly gentleman in a Jaeger dressing-gown with a revolver in his hand, was leaning comfortably against the kitchen door. He was clean-shaven, with longish white hair. A pleasant, if somewhat ironical, smile lurked about his face.

"_Flagrante delicto_, Mr. Burglar," he remarked, "or, to use a language with which you are possibly better acquainted, caught in the act, eh?"

Mr. Bates licked his lips, which felt very dry. "Yes, sir," he whispered.

"You will oblige me by keeping your hands above your head. Thank you. Now permit me to introduce myself. My name is Professor Stenson."

"Yes, sir," repeated Mr. Bates hoarsely.

"And yours, my friend?"

"William Bates, sir."

"And if you won't think me inquisitive, Mr. Bates, may I ask what you are doing in my house at this time in the morning?"

Mr. Bates wriggled, his eyes glued on the muzzle of the revolver.

"The fact is, sir," he jerked out, "I was hungry, sir."

"Ah," said the Professor, "and I suppose you mistook The Firs for an hotel. That is the worst of modern architecture--it has no distinctive note."

With this statement Mr. Bates apparently agreed. At all events, he offered no comment on it. When he spoke again, which he did after a brief pause, his topic was of an altogether different nature.

"If you please, sir," he stammered nervously, "would you mind not pointing that thing at me, sir? It might go off."

"I have no particular wish to point it at you," replied the Professor. "The posture is both fatiguing and ridiculous. If you will take your coat off and place it on the floor, so that I can see that you are not armed, I shall be delighted to assume a less martial attitude. Be good enough to keep your hands from your pockets while you are doing it, or I shall shoot you without hesitation."

With shaking fingers Mr. Bates proceeded to disrobe, being very careful to hold his tattered garment by the extreme edge. Having shed it, he stood in his shirt-sleeves, looking about as dishevelled and miserable a housebreaker as ever cracked a crib.

His captor gazed at him thoughtfully for a moment, and then lowered his weapon. Mr. Bates breathed an audible sigh of relief.

"And now we are at our ease," said the Professor, "I should be interested to hear a little more about you. If you won't think me insulting, your methods, from the technical point of view, appear to be deplorably amateurish. Why didn't you lock the kitchen door?"

There was something in the Professor's tone which made Mr. Bates feel a shade less like a trapped rat. He even drew himself up with a pathetic effort at courage.

"I assure you, sir," he said earnestly, "I am no burglar."

The Professor looked at him quizzically.

"I am inclined to agree with you, Mr. Bates," he said.

"It was very wrong of me to come in here, sir, I admit, but I was hungry, sir--desperately hungry--and I knew I should find some food inside. I assure you, sir, I had no intention of taking away anything else."

"And may I inquire why you were so certain about the contents of my kitchen? Indeed, how did you even know it was the kitchen?"

"If you please, sir, it was hearing what Mr. Andrew said at the inn last night."

A sudden look of illumination flashed across the Professor's face.

"Oh," he said, "so that is how the land lies, is it? I am indebted to the gentle Andrew for the pleasure of your acquaintance, eh? Well, come, come, don't be reticent, my friend; let us have the whole story."

Bit by bit, with his eye still on the revolver, Mr. Bates proceeded to relate the incidents of the previous night, from the time of his entry into the inn. The Professor listened to him without interrupting, the same curious, half-ironical, half-good-natured smile playing all the time about his mouth. Once, when he heard of the postman's final remark, he laughed out loud.

"So Mercury is evidently a gentleman of penetration," he observed. "What did you think of Andrew yourself, Mr. Bates?"

"I didn't like him at all, sir. He seemed to me a shifty, incompetent fellow, and insolent, sir--very insolent."

"I dare say you are right," said the Professor. "He was only insolent to me once, but that may have been for lack of a second opportunity. Shifty he certainly was, and as for incompetence--well, look at the state of this kitchen, Mr. Bates."

Mr. Bates looked. "Yes, sir," he said warmly, "it's disgraceful. It was the first thing I noticed as I came in. When I was--" He stopped abruptly.

"Well, well, well, when you were what? Let us have it, my friend."

"I was going to say, sir, that, when I was in service, I should have died of shame if any one had seen my kitchen in such a state."

The Professor raised his eyebrows. "When you were in service, eh? So you have risen in the world, Mr. Bates! And how long is it since you have exchanged the livery for the crape and jack-boots?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"When was your last professional engagement?"

"I have been out of a place, sir, since I left Mr. Houghton, eighteen months ago."

"And what were you doing for Mr. Houghton?"

"Everything, sir. He was a bachelor gentleman, and didn't care to have women servants about the house, so I looked after him entirely."

"Dear me! How extremely fortunate!" exclaimed the Professor. "Your visit is what the vicar would call almost providential, Mr. Bates. Before I discharge my duty as a citizen, by handing you over to the local policeman, you will be able to straighten out all this distressing confusion for me. If you do it efficiently, it will doubtless be taken into consideration by the magistrate."

"Yes, sir," murmured Mr. Bates dejectedly.

"Well, suppose we start upon the boots, then. It will be pleasant to have a pair of boots properly cleaned again. You will find the brushes and some blacking in that cupboard."

Mr. Bates opened the door and took out the articles in question. He then collected the three pairs of boots which were scattered about the floor, and silently set to work. The Professor, sitting on a corner of the kitchen table, with the revolver dangling in his hand, watched him with amused interest.

When the last boot was finished and laid aside, he got up.

"Your work reflects great credit on you, Mr. Bates," he remarked approvingly. "I shall be proud to wear them. Do you think you are equally skilful at washing up plates and dishes?"

"I think so, sir," said Mr. Bates meekly.

"Well, we may as well make certain, eh? Suppose you collect some of these and bring them into the scullery."

He pushed open a third door, and turned on a switch.

"There is a gas-stove in here, so we can have plenty of hot water in a few minutes."

Scraping the various remnants from the plates and dishes, Mr. Bates heaped the latter up into two piles and carried them into the scullery. The Professor meanwhile had filled a large washing-up pan with water and placed it on the stove.

"While we are waiting for it to boil," he said, "you might tell me a little more about your past history. In view of your accomplishments, how did Mr. Houghton ever bring himself to part with you?"

"Please, sir, he died."

"A pity," said the Professor. "But surely you should have found little difficulty in obtaining another place?"

Mr. Bates hung his head.

The Professor looked at him. "Ah," he said, after a short pause. "I thought there must be some reason. Come, Mr. Bates, what's the trouble? Never be afraid to speak the truth."

"I was out of a place for about three months, sir, and--and my wife got very ill, sir, and I had spent all my savings. The doctor said that the only chance of saving her was to send her out of London. I went to call on a gentleman about a place, and while I was waiting, sir, I--I--I saw a couple of sovereigns on the mantelpiece, and I took them, sir."

"That was very wrong of you, Mr. Bates," said the Professor.

"Yes, sir."

"What happened?"

"The money was missed, and I was arrested, sir. The magistrate was very good to me. He might have sent me to prison, but he only bound me over. I am very grateful to him, sir. Still, that finished me as far as work was concerned, sir."

"And your wife?"

Mr. Bates suddenly began to cry. "My wife is dead, sir."

"Dear me," said the Professor, turning his head away, "dear me!"

There was a short pause, during which Mr. Bates began mechanically to wash up. The Professor sat in silence while plate after plate was cleaned and put aside. When both piles were finished, he looked up at the small clock which was ticking away on the mantelpiece. The time was about five-and-twenty minutes to seven.

"It is a little early for breakfast," he remarked, "but I think that, as you are here, Mr. Bates, I will take advantage of the fact by getting you to cook me some eggs and bacon. There ought to be plenty, unless Andrew has excelled himself."

"Yes, sir," said Mr. Bates.

The Professor went out into the larder, returning almost immediately with the required provisions.

"If you will cook these," he said, "I will go on with laying the table."

"Oh, don't you trouble, sir--I can do it, sir," protested Mr. Bates.

"Please do what you are asked, Mr. Bates. And you might make some tea at the same time; the canister is on the shelf above you."

"Yes, sir."

"And bring it all into the kitchen as soon as it is ready."

"Yes, sir."

The fragrant smell of the hissing eggs and bacon was the most exquisite torture to Mr. Bates. An agonised longing to seize some of the food and stuff it into his mouth almost dazed him with its intensity. Nevertheless, he firmly proceeded with his task, turning out a succulent steaming dish, just cooked to precisely the right point. Then he made the tea, and taking down a plate which he had put to warm, placed the whole lot upon a tray, and carried it into the kitchen. The Professor was sitting at the table, which was laid for two.

"Excellent," he said, taking off the cover and looking at the contents. "But how is this--you have only brought one hot plate?"

"I thought that was all you would require, sir."

"But there is yourself, Mr. Bates. I laid a place for you under the impression that you were hungry."

"Oh, sir," said Mr. Bates, with a little gasp, "if I may have something outside, sir! I--I should hardly like to sit down with you, sir."

The Professor raised his eyebrows again. "Really, Mr. Bates, a little more self-respect, if you please. You must remember that you are a burglar now, not a valet."

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Bates seated himself in the second chair, and the Professor, whose appetite seemed suddenly to have vanished, helped him to about seven-eighths of the eggs and bacon. Mr. Bates fell upon them with as much ferocity as his professional refinement would permit.

The Professor handed him a cup of tea, and after watching him for a minute, got up and walked to where a telephone was fastened to the wall. He took off the receiver.

"Are you there?" he said. "Please put me on to the London Exchange. Yes, thank you. Don't you bother, Mr. Bates, go on with your breakfast. Is that the Exchange? I want 400 City. Yes. Help yourself to some more tea when you want it, Mr. Bates. Are you there? Is that Scotland Yard? Professor Stenson. Would you ask Inspector Green to come to the telephone? All right. You will find some marmalade in the white pot, Mr. Bates. Is that you, Green? Yes. I want you to do something for me. It's just to look up the record of a man named William Bates, who was bound over at--where was it, Mr. Bates?--ah--Marylebone, on--what date?--May 7th. I should like to have any information you possess."

He turned and contemplated Mr. Bates, who was staring at him with his mouth open.

"Wonderful invention, the telephone, isn't it, Mr. Bates?" he remarked. "It keeps us so in touch with the actual facts of existence. But don't let my private business interfere with your breakfast. You must be hungry after your somewhat uncomfortable night."

Mr. Bates said nothing. He seemed content to stare and eat.

Another minute or two elapsed. "Yes, I'm here," said the Professor suddenly, turning again to the instrument. "Thanks." A pause. "What--what's that?" Another and longer pause. "Oh, thanks very much. Yes, that's all. I shall probably see you Wednesday. I hope to look in about that Stevenson case. Yes. Good-bye."

He hung up the receiver.

"Well, Mr. Bates," said he, approaching the table, "it appears that you have spoken the truth."

Mr. Bates gulped down his last mouthful.

"Yes, sir," he said.

The Professor eyed him for a moment severely.

"It is, of course, my duty," he said, "to hand you over to the law."

"Yes, sir."

"But, being opposed to carrying duty to too logical an extreme, I am prepared to make you an alternative offer. If you would care to take the place of the professionally defunct Mr. Andrew, I am willing to give you a trial. Your work would be to devote the same care and skill to my comfort that you doubtless bestowed upon the late Mr. Houghton. Your wages will be fifty pounds a year, and I shall give you a fortnight's holiday."

For a naturally reserved and properly trained servant, Mr. Bates's response was unpardonable. Rising to his feet, he staggered round the table, and falling on his knees in front of the Professor, began feebly groping for the latter's hand. He was sobbing so loudly that it was difficult to hear what he said. It sounded like:

"Thank you--oh, thank you, sir! God bless you, sir!"

For the third time the Professor raised his eyebrows.

"Really, Bates," he said, "a little more self-control, if you please. You must remember that you are a valet now, not a burglar."

A Bit of Old Chelsea

We were strolling through the restful streets of Chelsea when we came suddenly upon a picturesque little tavern close to the Thames. It was half covered with ivy, and from the wooden balcony above, long trailing geraniums hung down and mingled with the dark green leaves. There was a weather-beaten signboard with a picture of a cunning-looking man in a cocked hat. It was called the "Lord Nelson."

"That's a quaint old place," said George carelessly.

"Very," I replied; "so picturesque."

"I wonder what it's like inside. Shall we have a look?"

"Certainly," I said.

I always try to fall in with my friend's wishes, even when I don't approve of them. I may be wrong, but that is my idea of friendship.

George is a journalist with a strange craving for the interiors of taverns. He says they are such excellent places in which to study character. From the outsider's point of view studying character seems to be the chief part of journalism, and I should think few men worked harder at it than George does.

We pushed open a door marked "Saloon," and found ourselves in a narrow compartment just large enough to contain four people without inconvenience. One of the seats was already occupied by an amiable-looking wreck, who was fast asleep with his head on the counter. The public bar exactly opposite contained five or six navvies in various stages of intoxication, and the barman, a smart-looking man of about thirty-five, was attending to their wants.

"Seems a bit tired," remarked George, looking critically at our companion.

"Been studying too much character," I suggested.

George was just beginning a sarcastic reply when the barman came across to take our orders. We decided on two glasses of what I once heard a temperance lecturer describe as "hell-filling alcohol," and while the barman was getting them ready George entered into conversation with him.

"Who's our friend?" he inquired, indicating the recumbent reveller in the corner.

"Dunno 'is name," said the barman, snipping the wire off the Perrier. "Calls 'im Billy Borndrunk round 'ere, and 'e seems satisfied."

"Got a pretty tough lot opposite, haven't you?" I asked.

The barman's face assumed an expression of intense disgust.

"Trash," he remarked. "They're mendin' the Embankment, and come along 'ere after work. They fair mop it, I can tell yer, and then they gits narsty. I'll 'ave to learn 'em something afore I'm done with 'em."

He was only five-foot-six, but he spoke with confidence, and I felt that it was no vain boasting.

"You know something about it, eh?"

He closed an eye and smiled scornfully. "Quite enough for any o' them to go on with."

Then he left us, for the gentlemen opposite were becoming clamorous for more liquor.

During the next few minutes we sat there in silence. George was evidently making a mental sketch of Billy Borndrunk, and with the sympathy of the true artist I refrained from interrupting him. I amused myself by idly scanning the various bottles which were piled up on shelves at the bade, together with a few packets of cheap cigarettes and some weary-looking ferns. This is a favourite pastime of mine when George insists on taking me into taverns. I like to speculate dreamily upon the various flavours. If one is not really fond of drink one can do this without feeling ashamed. It becomes a purely intellectual pursuit.

Suddenly I was aware of a disturbance in the opposite bar. A dialogue was in progress between my friend the barman and a gigantic navvy, proportionately inebriated.

"Pot o' 'arf-an'-'arf, an' not ser much jaw," demanded the latter.

"Yer won't get no more 'ere," replied the barman coldly. "Yer drunk as it is. Go 'ome to bed."

"Oo-oose drunk?" inquired the navvy indignantly.

"You are," said the barman, "beastly."

Then civilization slipped off the navvy like a discarded cloak.

"I'm drunk, am I!" he roared. "Tike that!" His fist shot out, and, landing somewhere in the neighbourhood of the barman's right eye, drove that gentleman across the bar with such velocity that he struck the counter close to us with considerable force.

"That's for yer cheek," observed the navvy in the voice of one whose honour has been satisfied.

The remaining customers, with the honourable exception of Billy Borndrunk, rose hastily to their feet, and a chorus of criticism filled the tavern. "Serve 'im right!" "Shut yer 'ead!" "Don't be a fool, Bill!" "Hit him back!" This last from George.

I remembered the barman's boast, and was silent in pleasant expectation.

To my intense disappointment, however, the blow seemed to have cowed him. He pulled himself together and slowly retraced his steps, holding his hand up to his face.

"You 'adn't no call to 'it me like that," he began reproachfully. "What's your order?"

"Pot o' 'arf-an'-'arf; and when I comes in 'ere again, per'aps ye'll be a bit more perlite--see?"

The navvy leaned across the counter and grinned derisively.

He never grinned again--at least, not under similar circumstances. With amazing swiftness the barman whipped out a large pewter pot from under the counter and struck him a swinging blow across the face, sending him to the floor with a thud that shook the building.

"That's for _your_ cheek," he remarked.

Then he coolly picked up the cloth and began to polish the tankard. "That's the worst o' them dirty faces," he observed. "Spoils the silver."

An awe-struck silence fell upon us all, while the navvy rose up slowly with the brand of can upon his cheek. I do not know how to spell the words, or I would tell you what he said. When he had done the barman eyed him critically.

"I ain't got much time to spare for pleasure," he replied, "but if yer likes to step round to the yard be'ind, we'll give that there mark a bit o' company."

The navvy's eyes glistened, and the whole tavern, with the exception of Billy Borndrunk, rose joyously to the suggestion.

The barman walked to the side door and called his wife.

"Annie," he said, "just look after the bar while I show these gen'lemen our backyard."

We all trooped out, leaving Billy Borndrunk in sole possession. It seemed a shame that he should miss the fight, but it would have taken some hours to wake him up, and by that time everything would have been over.

Outside we were joined by two or three stray inhabitants of Chelsea, who had been busily engaged in their usual strenuous work of leaning over the railings and spitting in the Thames. Scenting a welcome diversion, they lounged up and listened with philosophic calm to the navvy's lurid descriptions of how he was about to operate upon his opponent.

Then there was a sound of bolts being withdrawn, and the barman opened the gate that led into the yard. It was quite small, paved with cobbles, and surrounded by high brick walls: scarcely the place that I should have selected for a fight unless I felt very certain that I was going to win. The barman closed the gate, and we all ranged ourselves round the walls, while he and the navvy removed their superfluous clothing and took up their positions in opposite corners. George, who is a bit of a sportsman, volunteered to act as timekeeper.

There was a moment of almost breathless silence and then he gave the word:

"Time!"

The barman took three quick steps forward, and planted himself firmly in the centre of the ring. In another second the navvy was upon him--head down and hitting like a flail. There was a gorgeous whirl of arms, a couple of sharp smacking blows, and the navvy suddenly sat down with his hand to his eye, while the little man danced away apparently uninjured.

Two or three of the fallen warrior's companions advanced and set him upon his feet. "Go fur 'is wind, Bill," suggested one. "Stand orf an' fight 'im clever," added another. "Close wiv 'im," said a third.

The navvy drew the back of his hand across his face and shoved them roughly aside. "I'll kill 'im afore I done with 'im," he muttered.

His friends retreated to the wall, and the two men faced each other again. This time it was the barman's turn to attack. Without a moment's hesitation he waltzed in, and, ducking a terrific swing, landed a straight left on his opponent's nose that brought a roar of mingled anguish and fury from its owner's lips. Whether it was the pain, or whether the blood of some forgotten French ancestor was stirring in his veins, I cannot say, but the navvy now threw aside all pretensions to following the rules of the ring, and, rushing forward kicked at his enemy with all the force of which he was capable. My heart seemed to jump into my mouth for I felt certain that the barman's hour had come. The navvy's boot looked as if it were capable of opening the door for any soul in England.

With a brilliant effort, however, the barman leaped on one side, and, using his right hand for the first time in the fight, smote the navvy a deadly blow across his disfigured countenance that stretched him upon the yard and abruptly terminated the struggle.

George counted him out with all the dignity of a professional timekeeper, but he made no effort to rise, for the barman stood over him, waiting to rebuke him for his attempted treachery. Then he began to roll about as though in great pain.

"Brandy!" he moaned feebly. "Gimme some brandy!"

The barman walked across the yard and picked up a huge bucket of clean water. He had evidently guessed the navvy's weak point, for the latter rose quickly, if somewhat unsteadily, to his feet, with the expression of a man who has narrowly escaped some strange and horrible danger. He staggered slowly to the gate, and then, turning round, addressed his late opponent in a voice of dignified rebuke.

"Thash 'ow you lose cushtom. I shan't come 'ere no more."

The Microbe

"Wot's a microbe, Sam?" inquired Bill Gerridge, putting down his pipe, and looking up from the paper which he had been laboriously reading for the last quarter of an hour.

"A microbe!" repeated Sam doubtfully. "Why a sort o' hinsect--ain't it, Mr. Parbury?"

"Well, it ain't exactly a insect," answered Mr. Parbury with some deliberation. "More like a reptile, as yer might say. Somethin' arter the nature of a rat with wings."

"Kind o' bat?" put in Bill.

"You've got it," agreed Mr. Parbury. "Any'ow, they're dangerous beasts."

"'Ow's that?" asked Sam.

Mr. Parbury took a long pull at his pewter tankard, and then replaced it on the table. "Yer know wot a mad dog's like, don't yer?" he said impressively. "Well, yer can take it from me that a mad dog ain't in it with a microbe. Once a microbe gets a fair 'old on yer, ye're a goner an' no error."

"Why?" demanded Bill sceptically. "Wot do they do to yer?"

"Do to yer?" echoed Mr. Parbury. "Poisons yer! That's wot they do to yer. Each microbe's got some special disease of 'is own like, and 'e only 'as to get in one nip an' 'e can pass it on--see?"

"Why don't they muzzle 'em or stamp 'em out?" suggested Sam, who had a practical mind.

Mr. Parbury laughed scornfully. "Ah!" he said, "that would take a bit o' doin', that would. The only chaps wot understands the way to deal with microbes is doctors. They get so used to 'em they can 'andle 'em like terriers. Didn't I never tell yer that yarn o' Spikey Joe's, 'bout the doctor wot were in the Scrubs same time as 'e were?"

Sam shook his head, while Bill's naturally expressionless face betrayed no sign of recognition.

"Fancy my not 'avin' told yer that," said Mr. Parbury musingly. "Wonnerful interestin' story too. If I weren't so uncommon dry, I'd tell it yer now."

Sam waited a moment or two to see if Bill were going to speak, and then remarked with a faint touch of resentment in his voice:

"Give it a name, Mr. Parbury."

Comfortably installed, with a fresh "bitter and Burton" at his elbow, Mr. Parbury repeated, nodding his head and smiling gently to himself, "It's a wonnerful interestin' story, that is. Spikey Joe told it to me 'isself one night at the Star and Anchor. Ye mind 'ow 'e got into trouble 'bout four years back, on account o' knockin' a copper over the 'ead?"

"It wasn't the 'ead," said Sam. "It was the stummick."

Mr. Parbury waved aside the objection as unimportant. "Well, any'ow 'e got two o' the best for it, and it were while 'e were doin' 'is bit in the Scrubs as 'e come across the doctor. 'E were a clever sort o' chap were this 'ere doctor, but some'ow 'e'd gone the pace a bit too 'ot, an' got 'isself in for forgery, see?

"They shoved 'im in the cell next to Spikey Joe, the bloke wot 'ad been there previous 'avin' been took bad with the cholera, and sent off to the 'orspital. The fact were as 'e'd been bit by a microbe in 'is sleep, but o' course the warders didn't know nothin' about that, 'cause, 'aving been asleep at the time, 'e didn't know it 'isself. So, without meanin' no 'arm, they goes and shoves the doctor in there in 'is place.

"Well, one night this doctor were a-settin' quiet on 'is plank bed, thinkin' 'ow nice it would be when 'is time were up, when all of a sudden out pops the microbe. 'E'd found out as there were someone fresh in the cell, an' it seemed to 'im that 'e might as well 'ave a bite at this cove same as t'other one. Course, 'e 'adn't no idea as 'ow it were a doctor, or 'e'd 'a' laid low. D'rectly 'e come out 'e sees 'is mistake, an' stops as if 'e were paralyzed.

"'Stead o' jumpin' up an' gettin' flustered, same as you or me might do if we run across a microbe unexpected like, the doctor 'e just sits there an' smiles to 'isself. Ye see, 'e'd 'andled 'undreds of 'em in 'is time, an' knew wot to do.

"'Come 'ere,' 'e says, fixin' 'im stern like with 'is eye, an' as soon as ever 'e spoke the microbe come to 'im as quiet as a lamb an' tremblin' all over. 'E saw as 'ow 'e'd met 'is master.

"Now the doctor were a soft-'earted sort o' chap, and 'e kind o' took to that microbe from the first. In about a week 'e'd made a reg'lar pet of it. When the warder wot brought 'im 'is dinner 'ad gone away an' shut the door cell, 'e'd give a gentle whistle, an' the microbe'd come 'oppin' out of its 'ole as friendly as yer please. It used to climb up 'is leg an' sit on 'is knee while 'e 'ad 'is dinner, an' 'e'd always leave a little drop o' skilly for it at the bottom o' the bowl. When it 'ad lapped that up, 'e'd sit there an' scratch 'is 'ead, same as if it were a cat or a dog."

"Didn't it never 'ave a snap at 'im?" inquired Sam.

"Not it," retorted Mr. Parbury. "Why, it were that contented an' 'appy that Joe used to 'ear it purrin' through the wall. If it 'adn't been for one o' the warders, there wouldn't never 'ave been no trouble at all. This 'ere warder--Jackson 'is name was--were wot they calls a Socialist. 'E 'ated the very sight of a nob, consekence o' which 'e were always 'avin' 'is knife into the doctor. One evenin' 'e was a-goin' on 'is rounds when 'e 'eard the microbe purrin' inside the doctor's cell. So 'e kneels down, an' 'as a squint through the peep'ole. There 'e sees the doctor with the microbe on 'is knee, tryin' to teach it to sit up and beg.

"'Wotcher got there,' 'e says, openin' the door sudden, 'a rat?'

"'No,' says the doctor, without so much as lookin' up. ''E's a microbe--a cholera microbe.'

"Bein' a hunedjicated sort o' bloke, the warder thought as 'ow 'e were bein' got at.

"'Ho! a cholera microbe, is 'e?' 'e says, very sarcastic. 'Well per'aps when you've quite done with 'im, you'll be kind enough to 'and 'im over to me. We don't allow no pets in this 'ere prison. You'll be reported for this--that's wot you'll be.'

"'Don't get excited about it,' says the doctor, quite cool, 'or you'll bust your 'eart--that's wot you'll do.'

"'I'll teach yer to give me any o' your lip,' says the warder, steppin' forward an' liftin' up 'is 'and threatenin' like.

"Afore 'e could so much as wink, the microbe gives one 'orrid sort o' snarl, and springs straight at 'is throat like a blood'ound. 'E sees it comin', and flings up the other 'and to guard 'isself. 'E were on'y just in time, too, for the microbe's teeth come together with a snap wot took the top clean off 'is little finger."

"Wot! clean orf?" interrupted Bill incredulously.

"As clean as if it 'ad been cut with a knife," repeated Mr. Parbury firmly. "The warder 'e turns round with a yell o' terror an' makes a bolt for the door. As 'e slams it be'ind 'im 'e 'ears the doctor a-laughin' fit to die, an' tellin' the microbe to drop the bit of finger wot 'e 'ad in 's mouth. 'E goes straight orf to the 'ead warder as 'ard as ever 'e can lick. 'Look 'ere!' 'e says, 'oldin' up 'is finger, or rather wot were left of it.

"'Been cuttin' bread an' butter, Jackson?' says the 'ead warder, wot fancied 'isself as a wit.

"'No I ain't,' says Jackson, a bit unpleasant like. (Bein' a Socialist, ye see, 'e 'adn't got much sense of humour.) 'It's that there microbe o' B24's,' 'e adds, 'and afore I go near 'im again I'll see myself and the 'ole bloomin' prison busted, I will.'

"'Wot are yer talkin' about?' says the 'ead warder.

"Then Jackson tells 'im all about 'ow it 'appened jest slippin' in a little bit 'ere and there to make it more impressive-like. 'Talk about tigers,' 'e finishes, 'why 'e come at me like a ragin' cyclone. If I 'adn't kep' cool an' landed 'im one on the snout I b'lieve 'e'd 'a' tore my windpipe out.'

"'An' wot were B24 a-doin' while the melly were in progress?' said the 'ead warder, takin' out 'is notebook."

"While the wot were in progress?" interrupted Bill and Sam at the same moment.

Mr. Parbury looked at them pityingly. "That's Eytalion for a scrap," he explained. "'Doin' of?' repeated Jackson, 'why, 'e were a-cheerin' of 'im on. I tells you they're 'and in glove together--that's wot they are--'and in glove. If ye don't believe me come an' 'ave a look at 'em yourself.'

"'Not me,' says the 'ead warder. 'I don't want no tops bitten orf my fingers. This 'ere's a case for the guv'nor, this is.'

"So as soon as ever Jackson 'ad 'ad 'is 'and tied up proper, 'e and the 'ead warder goes along to the gov'nor's room. 'E were a retired colonel, were this 'ere guv'nor, an' Spikey Joe says as 'ow 'is language were that 'ot at times as even the convicts useter shiver to 'ear it.

"'Well,' 'e says, when 'e sees the 'ead warder and Jackson, 'wot the blazes is up now? Can't I never 'ave no peace?'

"The 'ead warder 'e salutes. 'Beg pardon, sir,' 'e says, 'but Jackson 'ere's just lost the top of 'is little finger.'

"'Well, I 'aven't got the damned thing,' shouts the guv'nor. 'Wot's the good 'o comin' to me?'

"'It's a matter o' Gov'rnment property,' says the 'ead warder, 'an' accordin' to the regulations I 'as to account for its loss.'

"'Account for it then,' says the guv'nor, 'an' don't stand there like a couple o' blistered idjuts.'

"Then Jackson 'e ups an' tells 'is story again, makin' out this time as 'ow 'e'd fought that microbe for a matter o' ten minutes until the doctor 'ad begun clubbin' 'im over the 'ead from be'ind with a boot.

"'I'll soon put a stop to this sort o' thing,' says the guv'nor hotly, as soon as 'e'd finished. 'I ain't goin' to 'ave none of 'is Majesty's prisons bossed by no bloomin' microbe. You run along an' fetch 'em both 'ere, an' look sharp about it.'

"The 'ead warder 'e turns to the second warder. 'Jackson,' 'e says, 'go and fetch B24, and see that 'e brings the microbe along with 'im.'

"The second warder shifts uneasy-like from one foot to the other.

"'Well, wot are ye waitin' for?' says the 'ead warder very fierce. 'Are yer afraid?'

"'I ain't afraid o' no convict,' says the second warder sulkily, 'but I don't fancy tacklin' this 'ere microbe again, an' that's straight.'

"'You hear that, sir?' says the 'ead warder, turnin' to the guv'nor. ''E's a coward!'

"'Oh, well,' says the guv'nor, 'it's very nachural in a hunedjicated man. You fetch 'im yourself, Simpson.'

"The 'ead warder turns a bit pale. ''Ave you thought, sir,' he says, 'as 'ow it may be dangerous bringin' of 'em in 'ere? 'E's a desperate character, this B24, an' 'e might set the microbe at you, sir.'

"The guv'nor draws 'isself up proudly. 'A English orficer ain't afraid o' no darn microbe,' 'e says. 'You go along an' fetch 'im.'

"The second warder smiles.

"'An' you go with 'im,' says the guv'nor, 'an' 'urry up, the pair of yer.'

"The 'ead warder an' Jackson salutes, an' goes out o' the room lookin' about as 'appy as a pair o' blokes a-marchin' orf to the gallows.

"Jest afore they gets to the door o' the cell, the 'ead warder lays 'is 'and on Jackson's shoulder. 'Jackson,' says 'e, 'one of us 'as got to open this 'ere door.'

"Jackson nods 'is 'ead, and puts 'is uninjured 'and into 'is pocket. 'That's so,' says 'e.

"'Jackson,' says the 'ead warder again, an' 'is voice shook like a haspen tree, 'Jackson, I'm a married man.'

"'I knows that,' says Jackson softly. 'An' 'avin' seen your missus, I can understand 'ow it is you don't mind takin' a few risks.'

"'You ain't doin' yourself no good by bein' insolent,' says the 'ead warder 'otly. 'You go and open that there door, or you'll be losin' your job afore ye're many minutes older.'

"''Tain't my business to open the door,' says Jackson in an obstinate voice. 'You're the 'ead warder, an' you 'as a right to the post of danger. Besides, maybe the microbe won't bite you. 'E looks a bit partikler.'

"The 'ead warder gets very red in the face an' breathes 'ard through 'is nose. 'If I 'ad you outside the prison, my lad,' 'e begins, an' then rememberin' 'is position 'e pulls 'isself together, an' walks orf towards the door o' the cell.

"'E were that there riled that 'e as near as possible turned the key 'an went in without realizin' wot 'e were playin' at. Jest as 'e 'ad 'is 'and on the door, 'owever, 'e suddenly comes to 'is senses, an' I tells yer it give 'im a fair shiver all over to think 'ow near 'e'd been to doin' it. 'E bends down 'is 'ead an' listens, an' 'e 'ears the microbe a-grindin' of 'is teeth an' the doctor tryin' to quiet 'im down.

"'B24,' says 'e, rappin' at the door, an' tryin' to keep 'is voice steady.

"'I b'lieve I 'ave that honour,' says the doctor.

"'The guv'nor wishes to see yer immedjut.'

"'How! does 'e?' says the doctor, 'that shows 'is good taste.'

"The 'ead warder 'esitates a moment. 'If I opens this door,' says 'e, 'will yer promise to keep that there microbe o' yourn from flyin' at me?'

"The doctor laughs 'earty. ''E won't touch yer if yer don't worry 'im,' 'e says. 'Jest keep that lop-eared Jackson out o' the light, an' turn yer own face away, an' 'e'll be as quiet as a lamb, won't yer, old boy?'

"The microbe gives a kind o' snarl, much as to say 'e weren't so sure about it.

"Seein' as 'ow the guv'nor were waitin', 'owever, and there weren't no 'elp for it, the 'ead warder turns the key an' pushes open the door o' the cell. Jackson e' takes a couple o' 'asty steps down a side passage, an' out comes the doctor with the microbe a-sittin' on 'is shoulder. When 'e sees the 'ead warder 'e fair chatters with rage."

"Who does," asks Sam, "the doctor?"

"No, the microbe, o' course," answered Mr. Parbury; "an' wot's more, if yer goes on interruptin' yer can finish the bloomin' story yerself."

"Don't mind old Sam, Mr. Parbury," put in Bill consolingly. "'E don't never get no chanst to open 'is mouth at 'ome, so 'e 'as to let a bit of steam off when 'e's out."

Sam was just thinking hard of something unpleasant to say in return, when Mr. Parbury again took up the thread of his narrative.

"The doctor follows the 'ead warder along the passages to the guv'nor's room, Jackson comin' along slowly some ten yards be'ind. All the time the microbe kep' on grindin' of 'is teeth and lickin' of 'is lips in a way that made the 'ead warder's 'eart jump up an' down like a piston-rod. At last they reaches the guv'nor's room, an' the 'ead warder felt as if 'e'd got to 'Eaven. 'E gives a couple of quiet knocks an' then steps 'astily aside.

"'Come in,' sings out the guv'nor.

"The doctor pushes open the door an' walks into the room. The 'ead warder an' Jackson follows behind, tryin' to look as if they'd just let go of 'im. 'B24, sir,' says the 'ead warder, salutin'; 'an' the microbe,' 'e adds as a kinder afterthought.

"The guv'nor was standing by the window with one 'and under 'is coat.

"'Ho!' says 'e, 'so you're the fellow wot's upsettin' o' my prison and bitin' orf my warder's fingers, eh?'

"'Not guilty, colonel,' says the doctor, laughin' as cool an' friendly as if 'e'd just dropped into 'ave a drink. 'It's our little friend 'ere,' an' 'e pats the microbe's head. 'I only 'ope 'e 'asn't poisoned 'isself,' 'e finishes, lookin' at Jackson.

"'Well, I can't 'ave it,' says the guv'nor. 'Warders are Gov'rnment property, an' as such I'm responsible for 'em to the 'Ome Secret'ry. Besides it's against the prison reg'lations for prisoners to 'ave pets. Take it away from 'im, Simpson.'

"The 'ead warder goes very white, but 'e shuts 'is eyes for a second an' thinks of 'is pension, an' some'ow or other 'is courage come back to 'im. 'E takes one step forward, but as 'e does so, the microbe gives a angry kinder squeal an' leaps orf the doctor's shoulder straight at the guv'nor. The old man sees it comin', an' quick as a flash, 'e whips out a squisher from under 'is coat."

"Wot's a squisher?" asked Bill.

"Why, one o' them bottles with a toobe an' a hinjarubber bulb. Y' see, bein' a hedjicated man, the guv'nor knew as 'ow there was only one way o' dealin' with a microbe an' that were kerbolic acid. One drop of kerbolic acid will lay out the 'ealthiest microbe--stops 'is 'eart at once. So while the 'ead warder an' Jackson 'ad been out o' the room, 'e'd gone an' got a squisher an' filled it up with kerbolic acid in case of accidents. D'rectly 'e sees the microbe comin' for 'im, 'e whips it out an' lets drive. But the microbe were that cunning that when 'e sniffs the kerbolic acid 'e shuts 'is wings an' drops on the floor like a stone. The kerbolic acid goes over 'is 'ead an' as near as possible 'its Jackson in the eye. Then, afore the guv'nor could get in a second squish, the microbe nips in an' 'as 'im by the calf o' the leg.

"It 'ad all 'appened so sudden-like that the 'ead warder an' Jackson were fair took by surprise. D'rectly they sees the microbe catch 'old of the guv'nor, 'owever, they both dashes forward an' seizes the doctor. The guv'nor were 'oppin' round the room tryin' to get in a second shot with the squisher, an' cussin' an' swearin' something awful. Spikey Joe says from the samples of 'is language as reached the cells it's a marvel the microbe didn't drop 'is jaw and let go.

"'Call 'im orf--call 'im orf,' 'e shouts to the doctor.

"'Well, call your microbes orf,' says the doctor, alludin' rude-like to Jackson and the 'ead warder.

"'Let go of 'im, you idjuts!' roars the guv'nor, 'oldin' on to the table an' tryin' to kick the microbe with 'is other foot.

"They drops the doctor's arms, an' 'e starts rearrangin' the collar of 'is coat.

"''Urry up! 'Urry up, man!' yells the guv'nor.

"'All right,' says the doctor coolly. ''Ere, Cholera! Cholera!'

"As soon as 'e calls, the microbe, wot all the time 'ad been 'angin' on like grim death, lets go 'is grip, an' comes 'oppin' back to 'im, waggin' of 'is tail an' purrin' like anything."

"But why did 'e let go when the doctor says 'Collar 'er'?" objected Sam; "that would 'ave made 'im 'ang on all the 'arder."

"Not collar 'er, stupid," retorted Mr. Parbury impatiently; "cholera--see? Cholera microbe!"

"'Ow! I see--'is name like."

"Jest so," assented Mr. Parbury. "Well, when Jackson an' the 'ead warder sees the microbe comin' back, they lets go the doctor an' runs to 'elp the guv'nor.

"'Don't come messin' about me,' yells the guv'nor. 'One of yer ketch 'old o' that ruffian, an' the other fetch the prison doctor.'

"'E's away for the day, sir,' says the 'ead warder. 'Shall I go outside and find another for yer? Jackson'll 'old on to B24.'

"''Tain't no use,' says the doctor, breakin' in with a 'orrid sorter laugh. ''E'll be too late. Ye'll both 'ave the cholera in 'alf an hour unless I gives yer the hantydote.'"

"Wot's that?" demanded Sam.

"Kinder secret medicine," explained Mr. Parbury. "Jest like each microbe's got 'is special poison, so each poison's got 'is special hantydote. Bein', as I said afore, a hedjicated man, the guv'nor sees the force of wot the doctor says.

"'Ye wouldn't murder us, man?' he says.

"'I ain't got no grudge against you,' answers the doctor. 'If ye promises me on yer word as a English orficer yell let me keep the microbe an' won't take no further notice o' this hincident, I'll save yer life.'

"'An' wot about me?' cried Jackson, as was already beginnin' to feel a bit un'appy like inside.

"'Oh, you'll 'ave to go through it.'

"Jackson busts out a-sobbin', and the guv'nor draws 'isself up proud.

"'A English orficer don't desert 'is subordinates,' 'e says. 'You must attend to 'im, too--after you done me.'

"'Right y'are,' says the doctor; 'in that case you'll 'ave to put in a application to 'ave my sentence rejooced.'

"'I'll see you 'ung first,' shouts the guv'nor.

"The doctor shakes 'is 'ead. 'I may be 'ung,' 'e says, 'but you won't see it. You'll be in the morchury.'

"The guv'nor starts explaining as a English orficer weren't afeared o' death but the doctor cuts 'im short by pointin' out that every minute 'e were talkin, the cholera were gettin' a better grip on 'im.

"That settles it, and they all goes orf to the prison surgery--the 'ead warder 'elpin' Jackson, an' askin' 'im kind like whether there weren't no messages 'e could give for 'im after 'e was dead."

"Time, gentlemen, please--time!" The gruff voice of the landlord broke in rudely.

"That's always the way," remarked Bill bitterly, "jest as ye're gettin' interested in the conversation."

"But wot 'appened?" demanded Sam eagerly. "Did 'e cure 'em?"

"'E cured 'em right enough," replied Mr. Parbury. "Leastways 'e cured the guv'nor. Jackson 'ad a go o' cholera, but 'e managed to pull through."

"And did the guv'nor get 'is sentence rejooced?"

Mr. Parbury carefully finished the contents of his tankard and replaced it on the bar.

"Yes," he said, "'e were a orficer an' a gentleman, an' e' kep' 'is word. 'E told the 'Ome Secret'ry as 'ow 'e thought it weren't right on the grounds of 'ealth to keep the doctor in the prison. 'E didn't say 'oose 'ealth, so the 'Ome Secret'ry nachrily thought 'e meant the doctor's, an' let 'im go."

"Now come along, gentlemen, _please_," repeated the landlord impatiently.

"Well," said Sam, as he rose slowly from his seat; "it's a wunderful interestin' tale, as you say, Mr. Parbury, an' it jest shows as 'ow it pays to be kind to dumb animals."

Full-back for England

Very quietly the long reeds that hedged the Okestock football field were parted aside, and a face peered cautiously through, taking a long and careful survey of the immediate neighbourhood. The face belonged to Mr. William Yard, known to his more intimate friends in London as "Pills," and to the police as one of the most daring and successful burglars of the day.

A reason for Mr. Yard's prudence was not hard to find: the briefest glance at his khaki-coloured clothes, plentifully dotted with broad-arrows, made it quite evident that for the time, at all events, any form of publicity would be painful to him.

The fact was that on the previous afternoon Mr. Yard had accomplished the remarkable feat of escaping from Dartmoor. An unexpected mist sweeping down over the granite-studded hillside when he was at work had suddenly inspired him with the idea of making a dash for liberty. Without further thought he had flung down his spade and bolted into its shelter, before either of the nearest warders had been able to stop him. It is true that a couple of charges of buckshot had whistled by, unpleasantly close to his legs, but they had only served to add to his already useful turn of speed. By the time the other convicts had been collected, and the mist had lifted sufficiently for the warders to see what they were doing, Mr. Yard was some two miles away in the opposite direction from which he had started, safely hidden in a small plantation that fringed the main road to Okestock.