Chapter VI: Part 6

The race was not due to start until noon, but any indecision which they may have felt about the employment of the next few hours was settled for them by the local police, who were engaged in directing all traffic, irrespective of its particular inclinations, on the road to the course. No pains had been spared about this point of organization; several days before, the Chief Constable had issued a little route map which was to be memorized by all constables on point duty, and so well had they learned their lesson that from early that morning until late in the afternoon no vehicle approaching the town from any direction escaped being drawn into that broad circuit marked by the arrows and dotted line A-B which led to the temporary car park behind the Grand Stand. (Many doctors, thus diverted, spent an enjoyable day without apparent prejudice to their patients.)

The advance of the spectators had already assumed the form of a slow and unbroken stream. Some came on foot from the railway station, carrying sandwiches and camp stools; some on tandem bicycles; some in ‘runabouts’ or motor cycle side-car combinations, but most were in modestly priced motor cars. Their clothes and demeanour proclaimed them as belonging to the middle rank; a few brought portable wireless sets with them and other evidence of gaiety, but the general air of the procession was one of sobriety and purpose. This was no Derby day holiday-making; they had not snatched a day from the office to squander it among gipsies and roundabouts and thimble-and-pea men. They were there for the race. As they crawled along in bottom gear in a fog of exhaust gas, they discussed the technicalities of motor car design and the possibilities of bloodshed, and studied their maps of the course to pick out the most dangerous corners.

The detour planned by the Chief Constable was a long one, lined with bungalows and converted railway carriages. Banners floated over it between the telegraph posts, mostly advertising the _Morning Despatch_, which was organizing the race and paying for the victor’s trophy—a silver gilt figure of odious design, symbolizing Fame embracing Speed. (This at the moment was under careful guard in the stewards’ room, for the year before it had been stolen on the eve of the race by the official time-keeper, who pawned it for a ridiculously small sum in Manchester, and was subsequently deprived of his position and sent to gaol.) Other advertisements proclaimed the superiorities of various sorts of petrol and sparking plugs, while some said ‘£100 =for Loss of Limb. Insure To-day=.’ There was also an elderly man walking among the motor cars with a blue and white banner inscribed, ‘=Without Shedding of Blood is no Remission of Sin=’, while a smartly dressed young man was doing a brisk trade in bogus tickets for the Grand Stand.

Adam sat in the back of the car with Miles, who was clearly put out about his friend’s lack of cordiality. ‘What I can’t make out,’ he said, ‘is why we came to this beastly place at all. I suppose I ought to be thinking of something to write for the _Excess_. I _know_ this is just going to be the most dreary day we’ve ever spent.’

Adam felt inclined to agree. Suddenly he became aware that some one was trying to attract his attention.

‘There’s an awful man shouting “Hi” at you,’ said Miles. ‘My dear, _your friends_.’

Adam turned and saw not three yards away, separated from him by a young woman riding a push-bicycle in khaki shorts, her companion, who bore a knapsack on his shoulders, and a small boy selling programmes, the long-sought figure of the drunk Major. He looked sober enough this morning, dressed in a bowler hat and Burberry, and he was waving frantically to Adam from the dicky of a coupé car.

‘Hi!’ cried the drunk Major. ‘Hi! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ shouted Adam. ‘I want some money.’

‘Can’t hear—what do you want?’

‘Money.’

‘It’s no good—these infernal things make too much noise. What’s your name? Lottie had forgotten.’

‘Adam Symes.’

‘Can’t hear.’

The line of traffic, creeping forward yard by yard, had at last reached the point B on the Chief Constable’s map, where the dotted lines diverged. A policeman stood at the crossing directing the cars right and left, some to the parking place behind the Grand Stand, others to the mound above the pits. Archie turned on to the left. The drunk Major’s car accelerated and swept away to the right.

‘_I must know your name_,’ he cried. All the drivers seemed to choose this moment to sound their horns; the woman cyclist at Adam’s elbow rang her bell; the male cyclist tooted a little horn like a Paris taxi, and the programme boy yelled in his ear, ‘Official programme—map of the course—all the drivers.’

‘Adam Symes,’ he shouted desperately, but the Major threw up his hands in despair and he disappeared in the crowd.

‘_The way you pick people up . . ._’ said Miles, startled into admiration.

‘The pits’ turned out to be a line of booths, built of wood and corrugated iron immediately opposite the Grand Stand. Many of the cars had already arrived and stood at their ‘pits’, surrounded by a knot of mechanics and spectators; they seemed to be already under repair. Busy officials hurried up and down, making entries in their lists. Over their heads a vast loud speaker was relaying the music of a military band.

The Grand Stand was still fairly empty, but the rest of the course was already lined with people. It stretched up and down hill for a circle of thirteen or fourteen miles, and those who were fortunate enough to own cottages or public houses at the more dangerous corners had covered their roofs with unstable wooden forms, and were selling tickets like very expensive hot cakes. A grass-covered hill rose up sharply behind the pits. On this had been erected a hoarding where a troop of Boy Scouts were preparing to score the laps, passing the time contentedly with ginger beer, toffee, and rough-and-tumble fights. Behind the hoarding was a barbed wire fence, and behind that again a crowd of spectators and several refreshment tents. A wooden bridge, advertising the _Morning Despatch_, had been built on the road. At various points officials might be seen attempting to understand each other over a field telephone. Sometimes the band would stop and a voice would announce, ‘Will Mr So-and-So kindly report at once to the time-keeper’s office’; then the band would go on.

Miss Runcible and her party found their way to the pit numbered 13 and sat on the matchboard counter smoking and signing autograph books. An official bore down on them.

‘No smoking in the pits, please.’

‘My dear, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t know.’

There were six open churns behind Miss Runcible, four containing petrol and two water. She threw her cigarette over her shoulder, and by a beneficent attention of Providence which was quite rare in her career it fell into the water. Had it fallen into the petrol it would probably have been all up with Miss Runcible.

Presently No. 13 appeared. Miles’ friend and his mechanic wearing overalls, crash-helmets, and goggles, jumped out, opened the bonnet and began to reconstruct it again.

‘They didn’t ought to have a No. 13 at all,’ said the mechanic. ‘It isn’t fair.’

Miss Runcible lit another cigarette.

‘No smoking in the pits, _please_,’ said the official.

‘My dear, how _awful_ of me. I quite forgot.’

(This time it fell in the mechanic’s luncheon basket and lay smouldering quietly on a leg of chicken until it had burnt itself out.)

Miles’ friend began filling up his petrol tank with the help of a very large funnel.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘You’re not allowed to hand me anything direct, but if Edwards holds up his left hand as we come past the pits, that means we shall be stopping next lap for petrol. So what you’ve got to do is to fill up a couple of cans and put them on the shelf with the funnel for Edwards to take. If Edwards holds up his right hand . . .’ elaborate instructions followed. ‘You’re in charge of the depôt,’ he said to Archie. ‘D’you think you’ve got all the signals clear? The race may depend on them, remember.’

‘What does it mean if I wave the blue flag?’

‘That you want me to stop.’

‘Why should I want you to stop?’

‘Well, you might see something wrong—leaking tank or anything like that, or the officials might want the number plate cleaned.’

‘I think perhaps I won’t do anything much about the blue flag. It seems rather too bogus for me.’

Miss Runcible lit another cigarette.

‘Will you kindly leave the pits if you wish to smoke?’ said the official.

‘What a damned rude man,’ said Miss Runcible. ‘Let’s go up to that divine tent and get a drink.’

They climbed the hill past the Boy Scouts, found a gate in the wire fence, and eventually reached the refreshment tent. Here an atmosphere of greater geniality prevailed. A profusion of men in plus-fours were having ‘quick ones’ before the start. There was no nonsense about not smoking. There was a middle-aged woman sitting on the grass with a bottle of stout and a baby.

‘Home from home,’ said Miss Runcible.

Suddenly the military band stopped and a voice said, ‘Five minutes to twelve. All drivers and mechanics on the other side of the track, please.’

There was a hush all over the course, and the refreshment tent began to empty quickly.

‘Darling, we shall miss the start.’

‘Still, a drink _would_ be nice.’

So they went into the tent.

‘Four whiskies, please,’ said Archie Schwert.

‘You’ll miss the start,’ said the barmaid.

‘What a pig that man was,’ said Miss Runcible. ‘Even if we weren’t supposed to smoke, he might at least have asked us politely.’

‘My dear, it was only you.’

‘Well, I think that made it worse.’

‘Lor’, Miss,’ said the barmaid. ‘You surely ain’t going to miss the start?’

‘It’s the one thing I want to see more than anything . . . my dear, I believe they’re off already.’

The sudden roar of sixty high-power engines rose from below. ‘They _have_ started . . . how too shaming.’ They went to the door of the tent. Part of the road was visible over the heads of the spectators, and they caught a glimpse of the cars running all jammed together like pigs being driven through a gate; one by one they shook themselves free and disappeared round the bend with a high shriek of acceleration.

‘They’ll be round again in quarter of an hour,’ said Archie. ‘Let’s have another drink.’

‘Who was ahead?’ asked the barmaid anxiously.

‘I couldn’t see for certain,’ said Miss Runcible, ‘but I’m fairly sure it was No. 13.’

‘_My!_’

The refreshment tent soon began to fill up again. The general opinion seemed to be that it was going to be a close race between No. 13 and No. 28, a red Omega car, driven by Marino, the Italian ‘ace’.

‘Dirtiest driver I ever seen,’ said one man with relish.

‘Why, over at Belfast ’e was just tipping ’em all into the ditches, just like winking.’

‘There’s one thing you _can_ be sure of. They won’t _both_ finish.’

‘It’s sheer murder the way that Marino drives—a fair treat to see ’im.’

‘He’s a one all right—a real artist and no mistake about it.’

Adam and Miss Runcible and Archie and Miles went back to their pit.

‘After all,’ said Miss Runcible, ‘the poor sweet may be wanting all sorts of things and signalling away like mad, and no one there to pay any attention to him—so discouraging.’

By this time the cars were fairly evenly spread out over the course. They flashed by intermittently with dazzling speed and a shriek; one or two drew into their pits and the drivers leapt out, trembling like leaves, to tinker with the works. One had already come to grief—a large German whose tyre had burst—punctured, some said, by a hireling of Marino’s. It had left the road and shot up a tree like a cat chased by a dog. Two little American cars had failed to start; their team worked desperately at them amid derisive comments from the crowd. Suddenly two cars appeared coming down the straight, running abreast within two feet of each other.

‘It’s No. 13,’ cried Miss Runcible, really excited at last. ‘And there’s that Italian devil just beside it. Come on, thirteen! Come on!’ she cried, dancing in the pit and waving a flag she found at hand. ‘Come on. Oh! Well done, thirteen.’

The cars were gone in a flash and succeeded by others.

‘Agatha, darling, you shouldn’t have waved the blue flag.’

‘My dear, how awful. Why not?’

‘Well, that means that he’s to stop next lap.’

‘Good God. Did I wave a blue flag?’

‘My dear, you know you did.’

‘_How_ shaming. What _am_ I to say to him?’

‘Let’s all go away before he comes back.’

‘D’you know, I think we’d better. He might be furious, mightn’t he? Let’s go to the tent and have another drink—don’t you think, or don’t you?’

So No. 13 pit was again deserted.

‘What did I say?’ said the mechanic. ‘The moment I heard we’d drawn this blinkin’ number I knew we was in for trouble.’

The first person they saw when they reached the refreshment tent was the drunk Major.

‘Your boy friend again,’ said Miles.

‘Well, there you are,’ said the Major. ‘D’you know I’ve been chasing you all over London. What have you been doing with yourself all this time?’

‘I’ve been staying at Lottie’s.’

‘Well, she said she’d never heard of you. You see, I don’t mind admitting I’d had a few too many that night, and to tell you the truth I woke up with things all rather a blur. Well then I found a thousand pounds in my pocket, and it all came back to me. There’d been a cove at Lottie’s who gave me a thousand pounds to put on Indian Runner. Well, as far as I knew, Indian Runner was no good. I didn’t want to lose your money for you, but the devil of it was I didn’t know you from Adam.’ (‘I think that’s a perfect joke,’ said Miss Runcible.) ‘And apparently Lottie didn’t either. You’d have thought it was easy enough to trace the sort of chap who deals out thousands of pounds to total strangers, but I couldn’t find one fingerprint.’

‘Do you mean,’ said Adam, a sudden delirious hope rising in his heart, ‘that you’ve still got my thousand?’

‘Not so fast,’ said the Major. ‘I’m spinning this yarn. Well, on the day of the race I didn’t know what to do. One half of me said, keep the thousand. The chap’s bound to turn up some time, and it’s his business to do his own punting—the other half said, put it on the favourite for him and give him a run for his money.’

‘So you put it on the favourite?’ Adam’s heart felt like lead again.

‘No, I didn’t. In the end I said, well, the young chap must be frightfully rich. If he likes to throwaway his money, it’s none of my business, so I planked it all on Indian Runner for you.’

‘You mean . . .’

‘I mean I’ve got the nice little packet of thirty-five thou. waiting until you condescend to call for it.’

‘Good heavens . . . look here, have a drink, won’t you?’

‘That’s a thing I never refuse.’

‘Archie, lend me some money until I get this fortune.’

‘How much?’

‘Enough to buy five bottles of champagne.’

‘Yes, if you can get them.’

The barmaid had a case of champagne at the back of the tent. (‘People often feel queer through watching the cars go by so fast—ladies especially,’ she explained.) So they took a bottle each and sat on the side of the hill and drank to Adam’s prosperity.

‘Hullo, everybody,’ said the loud speaker. ‘Car No. 28, the Italian Omega, driven by Captain Marino, has just completed the course in twelve minutes one second, lapping at an average speed of 78·3 miles per hour. This is the fastest time yet recorded.’

A burst of applause greeted this announcement, but Adam said, ‘I’ve rather lost interest in this race.’

‘Look here, old boy,’ the Major said when they were well settled down, ‘I’m rather in a hole. Makes me feel an awful ass, saying so, but the truth is I got my note-case pinched in the crowd. Of course, I’ve got plenty of small change to see me back to the hotel and they’ll take a cheque of mine there, naturally, but the fact is I was keen to make a few bets with some chaps I hardly know. I wonder, old boy, could you possibly lend me a fiver? I can give it to you at the same time as I hand over the thirty-five thousand.’

‘Why, of course,’ said Adam. ‘Archie, lend me a fiver, can you?’

‘Awfully good of you,’ said the Major, tucking the notes into his hip pocket. ‘Would it be all the same if you made it a tenner while we’re about it?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Archie, with a touch of coldness. ‘I’ve only just got enough to get home with.’

‘That’s all right, old boy, _I_ understand. Not another word. . . . Well, here’s to us all.’

‘I was on the course at the November Handicap,’ said Adam. ‘I thought I saw you.’

‘It would have saved a lot of fuss if we’d met, wouldn’t it? Still, all’s well that end’s well.’

‘What an _angelic_ man your Major is,’ said Miss Runcible.

When they had finished their champagne, the Major—now indisputably drunk—rose to go.

‘Look here, old boy,’ he said. ‘I must be toddling along now. Got to see some chaps. Thanks no end for the binge. So jolly having met you all again. Bye-bye, little lady.’

‘When shall we meet again?’ said Adam.

‘Any time, old boy. Tickled to death to see you any time you care to drop in. Always a pew and a drink for old friends. So long everybody.’

‘But couldn’t I come and see you soon? About the money, you know.’

‘Sooner the better, old boy. Though I don’t know what you mean about money.’

‘My thirty-five thousand.’

‘Why, yes, to be sure. Fancy my forgetting that. I tell you what. You roll along to-night to the Imperial and I’ll give it to you then. Jolly glad to get it off my chest. Seven o’clock at the American bar—or a little before.’

‘Let’s go back and look at the motor cars,’ said Archie.

They went down the hill feeling buoyant and detached (as one should if one drinks a great deal before luncheon). When they reached the pits they decided they were hungry. It seemed too far to climb up to the dining tent, so they ate as much of the mechanic’s lunch as Miss Runcible’s cigarette had spared. Then a mishap happened to No. 13. It drew into the side uncertainly, with the mechanic holding the steering wheel. A spanner, he told them, thrown from Marino’s car as they were passing him under the railway bridge, had hit Miles’ friend on the shoulder. The mechanic helped him get out, and supported him to the Red Cross tent. ‘May as well scratch,’ he said. ‘He won’t be good for anything more this afternoon. It’s asking for trouble having a No. 13.’ Miles went to help his friend, leaving Miss Runcible and Adam and Archie staring rather stupidly at their motor car. Archie hiccoughed slightly as he ate the mechanic’s apple.

Soon an official appeared.

‘What happened here?’ he said.

‘Driver’s just been murdered,’ said Archie. ‘Spanner under the railway bridge. Marino.’

‘Well, are you going to scratch? Who’s spare driver?’

‘I don’t know. Do you, Adam? I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if they hadn’t murdered the spare driver, too.’

‘I’m spare driver,’ said Miss Runcible. ‘It’s on my arm.’

‘She’s spare driver. Look, it’s on her arm.’

‘Well, do you want to scratch?’

‘Don’t you scratch, Agatha.’

‘No, I don’t want to scratch.’

‘All right. What’s your name?’

‘Agatha. I’m the spare driver. It’s on my arm.’

‘I can see it is—all right, start off as soon as you like.’

‘Agatha,’ repeated Miss Runcible firmly as she climbed into the car. ‘It’s on my arm.’

‘I say, Agatha,’ said Adam. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘It’s on my arm,’ said Miss Runcible severely.

‘I mean, are you quite certain it’s absolutely safe?’

‘Not _absolutely_ safe, Adam. Not if they throw spanners. But I’ll go quite slowly at first until I’m used to it. Just you see. Coming too?’

‘I’ll stay and wave the flag,’ said Adam.

‘That’s right. Good-bye . . . goodness, how too stiff-scaring. . . .’

The car shot out into the middle of the road, missed a collision by a foot, swung round and disappeared with a roar up the road.

‘I say, Archie, is it all right being tight in a car, if it’s on a race course? They won’t run her in or anything?’

‘No, no, that’s all right. All tight on the race course.’

‘Sure?’

‘Sure.’

‘All of them?’

‘Absolutely every one—tight as houses.’

‘That’s all right then. Let’s go and have a drink.’

So they went up the hill again, through the Boy Scouts, to the refreshment tent.

It was not long before Miss Runcible was in the news.

‘Hullo, everybody,’ said the loud speaker. ‘No 13, the English Plunket-Bowse, driven by Miss Agatha, came into collision at Headlong Corner with No. 28, the Italian Omega car, driven by Captain Marino. No 13 righted itself and continued on the course. No. 28 overturned and has retired from the race.’

‘Well done, Agatha,’ said Archie.

A few minutes later:

‘Hullo, everybody. No. 13, the English Plunket-Bowse, driven by Miss Agatha, has just completed the course in nine minutes forty-one seconds. This constitutes a record for the course.’

Patriotic cheers broke out on all sides, and Miss Runcible’s health was widely drunk in the refreshment tent.

A few minutes later:

‘Hullo, everybody; I have to contradict the announcement recently made that No. 13, the English Plunket-Bowse, driven by Miss Agatha, had established a record for the course. The stewards have now reported that No. 13 left the road just after the level crossing and cut across country for five miles, rejoining the track at the Red Lion corner. The lap has therefore been disallowed by the judges.’

A few minutes later:

‘Hullo, everybody; No. 13, the English Plunket-Bowse car, driven by Miss Agatha, has retired from the race. It disappeared from the course some time ago, turning left instead of right at Church Corner, and was last seen proceeding south on the bye-road, apparently out of control.’

‘My dear, that’s lucky for me,’ said Miles. ‘A really good story my second day on the paper. This ought to do me good with the _Excess_—_very_ rich-making,’ and he hurried off to the post office tent—which was one of the amenities of the course—to despatch a long account of Miss Runcible’s disaster.

Adam accompanied him and sent a wire to Nina: ‘_Drunk Major in refreshment tent not bogus thirty-five thousand married to-morrow everything perfect Agatha lost love Adam._’

‘That seems quite clear,’ he said.

They went to the hospital tent after this—another amenity of the course—to see how Miles’ friend was getting on. He seemed in some pain and showed anxiety about his car.

‘I think it’s very heartless of him,’ said Adam. ‘He ought to be worried about Agatha. It only shows . . .’

‘Motor men _are_ heartless,’ said Miles, with a sigh.

Presently Captain Marino was borne in on a stretcher. He turned on his side with a deep groan and spat at Miles’ friend as he went past him. He also spat at the doctor who came to bandage him and bit one of the V.A.D.’s.

They said Captain Marino was no gentleman in the hospital tent.

There was no chance of leaving the course before the end of the race, Archie was told, and the race would not be over for at least two hours. Round and round went the stream of cars. At intervals the Boy Scouts posted a large red R against one or other of the numbers, as engine trouble or collision or Headlong Corner took its toll. A long queue stretched along the top of the hill from the door of the luncheon tent. Then it began to rain.

There was nothing for it but to go back to the bar.

At dusk the last car completed its course. The silver gilt trophy was presented to the winner. The loud speaker broadcast ‘God Save the King’, and a cheerful ‘Good-bye, everybody.’ The tail of the queue outside the dining tent were respectfully informed that no more luncheons could be served. The barmaids in the refreshment tent said, ‘All glasses, ladies and gentlemen, please.’ The motor ambulances began a final round of the track to pick up survivors. Then Adam and Miles and Archie Schwert went to look for their car.

Darkness fell during the drive back. It took an hour to reach the town. Adam and Miles and Archie Schwert did not talk much. The effect of their drinks had now entered on that secondary stage, vividly described in temperance handbooks, when the momentary illusion of well-being and exhilaration gives place to melancholy, indigestion and moral decay. Adam tried to concentrate his thoughts upon his sudden wealth, but they seemed unable to adhere to this high pinnacle, and as often as he impelled them up, slithered back helplessly to his present physical discomfort.

The sluggish procession in which they were moving led them eventually to the centre of the town and the soberly illuminated front of the Imperial Hotel. A torrential flow of wet and hungry motor enthusiasts swept and eddied about the revolving doors.

‘I shall die if I don’t eat something soon,’ said Miles. ‘Let’s leave Agatha until we’ve had a meal.’

But the manager of the ‘Imperial’ was unimpressed by numbers or necessity and manfully upheld the integrity of British hotel-keeping. Tea, he explained, was served daily in the Palm Court, with orchestra on Thursdays and Sundays, between the hours of four and six. A _table d’hôte_ dinner was served in the dining-room from seven-thirty until nine o’clock. An _à la carte_ dinner was also served in the grill room at the same time. It was now twenty minutes past six. If the gentlemen cared to return in an hour and ten minutes he would do his best to accommodate them, but he could not promise to reserve a table. Things were busy that day. There had been motor races in the neighbourhood, he explained.

The commissionaire was more helpful, and told them that there was a tea-shop restaurant called the Café Royal a little way down the High Street, next to the Cinema. He seemed, however, to have given the same advice to all comers, for the Café Royal was crowded and overflowing. Every one was being thoroughly cross, but only the most sarcastic and overbearing were given tables, and only the gross and outrageous were given food. Adam and Miles and Archie Schwert then tried two more tea-shops, one kept by ‘ladies’ and called ‘The Honest Injun’, a workmen’s dining-room and a fried-fish shop. Eventually they bought a bag of mixed biscuits at a co-operative store, which they ate in the Palm Court of the ‘Imperial’, maintaining a moody silence.

It was now after seven, and Adam remembered his appointment in the American bar. There, too, inevitably, was a dense crowd. Some of the ‘Speed Kings’ themselves had appeared, pink from their baths, wearing dinner-jackets and stiff white shirts, each in his circle of admirers. Adam struggled to the bar.

‘Have you seen a drunk Major in here anywhere?’ he asked.

The barmaid sniffed. ‘I should think not, indeed,’ she said. ‘And I shouldn’t serve him if he _did_ come in. I don’t have people of that description in _my_ bar. _The very idea._’

‘Well, perhaps he’s not drunk now. But have you seen a stout, red-faced man, with a single eyeglass and a turned-up moustache?’

‘Well, there _was_ some one like that not so long ago. Are you a friend of his?’

‘I want to see him badly.’

‘Well, all I can say is I wish you’d try and look after him and don’t bring him in here again. Going on something awful he was. Broke two glasses and got very quarrelsome with the other gentlemen. He had three or four pound notes in his hand. Kept waving them about and saying, “D’you know what? I met a mutt to-day. I owe him thirty-five thousand pounds and he lent me a fiver.” Well, that’s not the way to talk before strangers, is it? He went out ten minutes ago. I was glad to see the back of him, I can tell you.’

‘Did he say that—about having met a mutt?’

‘Didn’t stop saying it the whole time he was in here—most monotonous.’

But as Adam left the bar he saw the Major coming out of the gentlemen’s lavatory. He was walking very deliberately, and stared at Adam with a glazed and vacant eye.

‘Hi!’ cried Adam. ‘Hi!’

‘Cheerio,’ said the drunk Major distantly.

‘I say,’ said Adam. ‘What about my thirty-five thousand pounds?’

The drunk Major stopped and adjusted his monocle.

‘Thirty-five thousand and five pounds,’ he said. ‘What about them?’

‘Well, where are they?’

‘They’re safe enough. National and Provincial Union Bank of England, Limited. A perfectly sound and upright company. I’d trust them with more than that if I had it. I’d trust them with a million, old boy, honest I would. One of those fine old companies, you know. They don’t make companies like that now. I’d trust that bank with my wife and kiddies. . . . You mustn’t think I’d put your money into anything that wasn’t straight, old boy. You ought to know me well enough for that. . . .’

‘No, of course not. It’s terribly kind of you to have looked after it—you said you’d give me a cheque this evening. Don’t you remember?’

The drunk Major looked at him craftily. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That’s another matter. I told _some one_ I’d give him a cheque. But how am I to know it was you? . . . I’ve got to be careful, you know. Suppose you were just a crook dressed up. I don’t say you are, mind, but supposing. Where’ld I be then? You have to look at both sides of a case like this.’

‘Oh, God. . . . I’ve got two friends here who’ll swear to you I’m Adam Symes. Will that do?’

‘Might be a gang. Besides _I_ don’t know that the name of the chap who gave me the thousand _was_ Adam what-d’you-call-it at all. Only your word for it. I’ll tell you what,’ said the Major, sitting down in a deep armchair, ‘I’ll sleep on it. Just forty winks. I’ll let you know my decision when I wake up. Don’t think me suspicious, old boy, but I’ve got to be careful . . . other chap’s money, you know . . .’ And he fell asleep.

Adam struggled through the crowd to the Palm Court, where he had left Miles and Archie. News of No. 13 had just come through. The car had been found piled up on the market cross of a large village about fifteen miles away (doing irreparable damage to a monument already scheduled for preservation by the Office of Works). But there was no sign of Miss Runcible.

‘I suppose we ought to do something about it,’ said Miles. ‘This is the most miserable day I ever spent. Did you get your fortune?’

‘The Major was too drunk to recognize me. He’s just gone to sleep.’

‘_Well._’

‘We must go to this beastly village and look for Agatha.’

‘I can’t leave my Major. He’ll probably wake up soon and give the fortune to the first person he sees.’

‘Let’s just go and shake him until he gives us the fortune now,’ said Miles.

But this was impracticable, for when they reached the chair where Adam had left him, the drunk Major was gone.

The hall porter remembered him going out quite clearly. He had pressed a pound into his hand, saving, ‘Met-a-mutt-to-day,’ and taken a taxi to the station.

‘D’you know,’ said Adam. ‘I don’t believe that I’m ever going to get that fortune.’

‘Well, I don’t see that you’ve very much to complain of,’ said Archie. ‘You’re no worse off than you were. _I’ve_ lost a fiver and five bottles of champagne.’

‘That’s true,’ said Adam, a little consoled.

They got into the car and drove through the rain to the village where the Plunket-Bowse had been found. There it stood, still smoking and partially recognizable, surrounded by admiring villagers. A constable in a waterproof cape was doing his best to preserve it intact from the raids of souvenir hunters who were collecting the smaller fragments.

No one seemed to have witnessed the disaster. The younger members of the community were all at the races, while the elders were engaged in their afternoon naps. One thought he had heard a crash.

Inquiries at the railway station, however, disclosed that a young lady, much dishevelled in appearance, and wearing some kind of band on her arm, had appeared in the booking office early that afternoon and asked where she was. On being told, she said, well, she wished she wasn’t, because some one had left an enormous stone spanner in the middle of the road. She admitted feeling rather odd. The station-master had asked her if she would like to come in and sit down and offered to get her some brandy. She said, ‘No, no more brandy,’ and bought a first-class ticket to London. She had left on the 3.25 train.

‘So that’s all right,’ said Archie.

Then they left the village and presently found an hotel on the Great North Road, where they dined and spent the night. They reached London by luncheon time next day, and learned that Miss Runcible had been found early that morning staring fixedly at a model engine in the central hall at Euston Station. In answer to some gentle questions, she replied that to the best of her knowledge she had no name, pointing to the brassard on her arm, as if in confirmation of this fact. She had come in a motor car, she explained, which would not stop. It was full of bugs which she had tried to kill with drops of face lotion. One of them threw a spanner. There had been a stone thing in the way. They shouldn’t put up symbols like that in the middle of the road, should they, or should they?

So they conveyed her to a nursing home in Wimpole Street and kept her for some time in a darkened room.

_Chapter Eleven_

Adam rang up Nina.

‘Darling, I’ve been so happy about your telegram. Is it really true?’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’

‘The Major _is_ bogus?’

‘Yes.’

‘You haven’t got any money?’

‘No.’

‘We aren’t going to be married to-day?’

‘No.’

‘I see.’

‘Well?’

‘I said, I see.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes, that’s all, Adam.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m sorry, too. Good-bye.’

‘Good-bye, Nina.’

Later Nina rang up Adam.

‘Darling, is that you? I’ve got something rather awful to tell you.’

‘Yes?’

‘You’ll be furious.’

‘Well?’

‘I’m engaged to be married.’

‘Who to?’

‘I hardly think I can tell you.’

‘Who?’

‘Adam, you won’t be beastly about it, will you?’

‘Who is it?’

‘Ginger.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Well, I am. That’s all there is to it.’

‘You’re going to marry Ginger?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see.’

‘Well?’

‘I said, I see.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes, that’s all, Nina.’

‘When shall I see you?’

‘I don’t want ever to see you again.’

‘I see.’

‘Well?’

‘I said, I see.’

‘Well, good-bye.’

‘Good-bye. . . . I’m sorry, Adam.’

_Chapter Twelve_

Ten days later Adam bought some flowers at the corner of Wigmore Street and went to call on Miss Runcible at her nursing home. He was shown first into the matron’s room. She had numerous photographs in silver frames and a very nasty fox terrier. She smoked a cigarette in a greedy way, making slight sucking noises.

‘Just taking a moment off in my den,’ she explained. ‘Down, Spot, down. But I can see you’re fond of dogs,’ she added, as Adam gave Spot a half-hearted pat on the head. ‘So you want to see Miss Runcible? Well, I ought to warn you first that she must have no kind of excitement whatever. She’s had a severe shock. Are you a relation, may I ask?’

‘No, only a friend.’

‘A very _special_ friend, perhaps, eh?’ said the Matron archly. ‘Never mind, I’ll spare your blushes. Just you run up and see her. But not more than five minutes, mind, or you’ll have me on your tracks.’

There was a reek of ether on the stairs which reminded Adam of the times when, waiting to take her to luncheon, he had sat on Nina’s bed while she did her face. (She invariably made him turn his back until it was over, having a keen sense of modesty about this one part of her toilet, in curious contrast to some girls, who would die rather than be seen in their underclothes, and yet openly flaunt unpainted faces in front of anyone.)

It hurt Adam deeply to think much about Nina.

Outside Miss Runcible’s door hung a very interesting chart which showed the fluctuations of her temperature and pulse and many other curious details of her progress. He studied this with pleasure until a nurse, carrying a tray of highly polished surgical instruments, gave him such a look that he felt obliged to turn away.

Miss Runcible lay in a high, narrow bed in a darkened room.

A nurse was crocheting at her side when Adam entered. She rose, dropping a few odds and ends from her lap, and said, ‘There’s someone come to see you, dear. Now remember you aren’t to talk much,’ She took the flowers from Adam’s hand, said, ‘Look, what lovelies. Aren’t you a lucky girl?’ and left the room with them. She returned a moment later carrying them in a jug of water. ‘There, the thirsties,’ she said. ‘Don’t they love to get back to the nice cool water?’

Then she went out again.

‘Darling,’ said a faint voice from the bed, ‘I can’t really see who it is. Would it be awful to draw the curtains?’

Adam crossed the room and let in the light of the grey December afternoon.

‘My dear, how blind-making. There are some cocktail things in the wardrobe. Do make a big one. The nurses love them so. It’s such a nice nursing home this, Adam, only all the nurses are starved, and there’s a breath-taking young man next door who keeps putting his head in and asking how I am. _He_ fell out of an _aeroplane_, which is rather grand, don’t you think?’

‘How are you feeling, Agatha?’

‘Well, rather odd, to tell you the truth. . . . How’s Nina?’

‘She’s got engaged to be married—haven’t you heard?’

‘My dear, the nurses are interested in no one but Princess Elizabeth. Do tell me.’

‘A young man called Ginger.’

‘_Well?_’

‘Don’t you remember him? He came on with us after the airship party.’

‘Not the one who was sick?’

‘No, the other.’

‘I don’t remember . . . does Nina call him Ginger?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘He asked her to.’

‘_Well?_’

‘She used to play with him when they were children. So she’s going to marry him.’

‘My dear, isn’t that rather sad-making for you?’

‘I’m desperate about it. I’m thinking of committing suicide, like Simon.’

‘Don’t do that, darling . . . did Simon commit suicide?’

‘My dear, you know he did. The night all those libel actions started.’

‘Oh, _that_ Simon. I thought you meant _Simon_.’

‘Who’s Simon?’

‘The young man who fell out of the aeroplane. The nurses call him Simple Simon because it’s affected his brains . . . but, Adam I _am_ sorry about Nina. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. As soon as I’m well again we’ll make Mary Mouse give a lovely party to cheer you up.’

‘Haven’t you heard about Mary?’

‘No, what?’

‘She went off to Monte Carlo with the Maharajah of Pukkapore.’

‘_My dear_, aren’t the Mice furious?’

‘She’s just receiving religious instruction before her official reception as a royal concubine. Then they’re going to India.’

‘How people are _disappearing_, Adam. Did you get that money from the drunk Major?’

‘No, he disappeared too.’

‘D’you know, all that time when I was dotty I had the most awful dreams. I thought we were all driving round and round in a motor race and none of us could stop, and there was an enormous audience composed entirely of gossip writers and gate-crashers and Archie Schwert and people like that, all shouting to us at once to go faster, and car after car kept crashing until I was left all alone driving and driving—and then I used to crash and wake up.’

Then the door opened, and Miles came popping in.

‘Agatha, Adam, my dears. The _time_ I’ve had trying to get in. I can’t tell you how bogus they were downstairs. First I said I was Lord Chasm, and that wasn’t any good; and I said I was one of the doctors, and that wasn’t any good; and I said I was your young man, and _that_ wasn’t any good; and I said I was a gossip writer, and they let me up at once and said I wasn’t to excite you, but would I put a piece in my paper about their nursing home. _How_ are you, Aggie darling? I brought up some new records.’

‘You are angelic. Do let’s try them. There’s a gramophone under the bed.’

‘There’s a whole lot more people coming to see you to-day. I saw them all at luncheon at Margot’s. Johnny Hoop and Van and Archie Schwert. I wonder if they’ll all manage to get in.’

They got in.

So soon there was quite a party, and Simon appeared from next door in a very gay dressing-gown, and they played the new records and Miss Runcible moved her bandaged limbs under the bedclothes in negro rhythm.

Last of all, Nina came in looking quite lovely and very ill.

‘Nina, I hear you’re engaged.’

‘Yes, it’s very lucky. My papa has just put all his money into a cinema film and lost it all.’

‘My dear, it doesn’t matter at all. My papa lost all his twice. It doesn’t make a bit of difference. That’s just one of the things one has to learn about losing all one’s money. . . . Is it true that you really call him Ginger?’

‘Well, yes, only, Agatha, please don’t be unkind about it.’

And the gramophone was playing the song which the black man sang at the Café de la Paix.

Then the nurse came in.

‘Well, you are noisy ones, and no mistake,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what the matron would say if she were here.’

‘Have a chocolate, sister?’

‘_Ooh, chocs!_’

Adam made another cocktail.

Miles sat on Miss Runcible’s bed and took up the telephone and began dictating some paragraphs about the nursing home.

‘What it is to have a friend in the Press,’ said the nurse.

Adam brought her a cocktail. ‘Shall I?’ she said. ‘I hope you haven’t made it too strong. Suppose it goes to my head? What would the patients think if their sister came in tiddly. Well, if you’re _sure_ it won’t hurt me, thanks.’

‘_. . . Yesterday I visited the Hon. Agatha Runcible comma Lord Chasm’s lovely daughter comma at the Wimpole Street nursing home where she is recovering from the effects of the motor accident recently described in this column stop Miss Runcible was entertaining quite a large party which included . . ._’

Adam, handing round cocktails, came to Nina.

‘I thought we were never going to meet each other again.’

‘We were obviously bound to, weren’t we?’

‘Agatha’s looking better than I expected, isn’t she? What an amusing nursing home.’

‘Nina, I must see you again. Come back to Lottie’s this evening and have dinner with me.’

‘No.’

‘_Please._’

‘No. Ginger wouldn’t like it.’

‘Nina, you aren’t in love with him?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Are you in love with me?’

‘I don’t know . . . I was once.’

‘Nina, I’m absolutely miserable not seeing you. Do come and dine with me to-night. What can be the harm in that?’

‘My dear, I know exactly what it will mean.’

‘Well, why not?’

‘You see, Ginger’s not like us really about that sort of thing. He’d be furious.’

‘Well, what about me? Surely I have first claim?’

‘Darling, don’t _bully_. Besides, I used to play with Ginger as a child. His hair was a very pretty colour then.’

‘_. . . Mr “Johnny” Hoop, whose memoirs are to be published next month, told me that he intends to devote his time to painting in future, and is going to Paris to study in the spring. He is to be taken into the studio of . . ._’

‘For the last time, Nina . . .’

‘Well, I suppose I must.’

‘_Angel!_’

‘I believe you knew I was going to.’

‘_. . . Miss Nina Blount, whose engagement to Mr “Ginger” Littlejohn, the well-known polo player. . . . Mr Schwert . . ._’

‘If only you were as rich as Ginger, Adam, or only half as rich. Or if only you had any money at all.’

‘Well,’ said the Matron, appearing suddenly. ‘Whoever heard of cocktails and a gramophone in a concussion case? Sister Briggs, pull down those curtains at once. Out you go, the whole lot of you. Why, I’ve known cases die with less.’

Indeed, Miss Runcible was already showing signs of strain. She was sitting bolt upright in bed, smiling deliriously, and bowing her bandaged head to imaginary visitors.

‘_Darling_,’ she said. ‘How _too_ divine . . . _how_ are you? . . . and how are _you_? . . . how angelic of you all to come . . . only you must be careful not to fall out at the corners . . . ooh, just missed it. There goes that nasty Italian car . . . I wish I knew which thing was which in this car . . . darling, do try and drive more straight, my sweet, you were nearly into me then. . . . Faster . . .’

‘That’s all right, Miss Runcible, that’s all right. You mustn’t get excited,’ said the Matron. ‘Sister Briggs, run for the ice-pack quickly.’

‘All friends here,’ said Miss Runcible, smiling radiantly. ‘Faster. . . . Faster . . . it’ll stop all right when the time comes . . .’

That evening Miss Runcible’s temperature went rocketing up the chart in a way which aroused great interest throughout the nursing home. Sister Briggs, over her evening cup of cocoa, said she would be sorry to lose that case. Such a nice bright girl—but terribly excitable.

At Shepheard’s Hotel Lottie said to Adam:

‘That chap’s been in here again after you.’

‘What chap, Lottie?’

‘How do I know what chap? Same chap as before.’

‘You never told me about a chap.’

‘Didn’t I dear? Well, I meant to.’

‘What did he want?’

‘I don’t know—something about money. Dun, I expect. Says he is coming back to-morrow.’

‘Well, tell him I’ve gone to Manchester.’

‘That’s right, dear. . . . What about a glass of wine?’

Later that evening Nina said: ‘You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself very much to-night.’

‘Sorry, am I being a bore?’

‘I think I shall go home.’

‘Yes.’

‘Adam, darling, what’s the matter?’

‘I don’t know. . . . Nina, do you ever feel that things simply can’t go on much longer?’

‘What d’you mean by things—us or everything?’

‘Everything.’

‘No—I wish I did.’

‘I dare say you’re right . . . what are you looking for?’

‘Clothes.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, Adam, what _do_ you want . . . you’re too impossible this evening.’

‘Don’t let’s talk any more, Nina, d’you mind?’

Later he said: ‘I’d give anything in the world for something different.’

‘Different from me or different from everything?’

‘Different from everything . . . only I’ve got nothing . . . what’s the good of talking?’

‘Oh, Adam, my dearest . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Nothing.’

When Adam came down next morning Lottie was having her morning glass of champagne in the parlour.

‘So your little bird’s flown, has she? Sit down and have a glass of wine. That dun’s been in again. I told him you was in Manchester.’

‘Splendid.’

‘Seemed rather shirty about it. Said he’d go and look for you.’

‘Better still.’

Then something happened which Adam had been dreading or days. Lottie suddenly said:

‘And that reminds me. What about _my_ little bill?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Adam, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask for it. Have it made out and sent up to me some time, will you?’

‘I’ve got it here. Bless you, what a lot you seem to have drunk.’

‘Yes, I do, don’t I? Are you sure some of this champagne wasn’t the Judge’s?’

‘Well, it may have been,’ admitted Lottie. ‘We get a bit muddled with the books now and then.’

‘Well, thank you so much, I’ll send you down a cheque for this.’

‘No, dear,’ said Lottie. ‘Suppose you write it down here. Here’s the pen, here’s the ink, and here’s a blank cheque book.’

(Bills are delivered infrequently and irregularly at Lottie’s, but when they come, there is no getting away from them.) Adam wrote out a cheque for seventy-eight pounds sixteen shillings.

‘And twopence for the cheque,’ said Lottie.

_And twopence_, Adam added.

‘There’s a dear,’ said Lottie, blotting the cheque and locking it away in a drawer. ‘Why, look who’s turned up. If it isn’t Mr Thingummy.’

It was Ginger.

‘Good morning, Mrs Crump,’ he said rather stiffly.

‘Come and sit down and have a glass of wine, dear. Why I knew you before you were born.’

‘Hullo, Ginger,’ said Adam.

‘Look here, Symes,’ said Ginger, looking in an embarrassed manner at the glass of champagne which had been put into his hand, ‘I want to speak to you. Perhaps we can go somewhere where we shan’t be disturbed.’

‘Bless you, boys, I won’t disturb you,’ said Lottie. ‘Just you have a nice talk. I’ve got lots to see to.’

She left the parlour, and soon her voice could be heard raised in anger against the Italian waiter.

‘Well?’ said Adam.

‘Look here, Symes,’ said Ginger, ‘what I mean to say is, what I’m going to say may sound damned unpleasant, you know, and all that, but look here, you know, damn it, I mean _the better man won_—not that I mean I’m the _better_ man. Wouldn’t say that for a minute. And, anyway, Nina’s a damn sight too good for either of us. It’s just that I’ve been lucky. Awful rough luck on you, I mean, and all that, but still, when you come to think of it, after all, well, look here, damn it, I mean, d’you see what I mean?’

‘Not quite,’ said Adam gently. ‘Now tell me again. Is it something about Nina?’

‘Yes, it is,’ said Ginger in a rush. ‘Nina and I are engaged, and I’m not going to have you butting in or there’ll be hell to pay.’ He paused, rather taken aback at his own eloquence.

‘What makes you think I’m butting in?’

‘Well, hang it all, she dined with you last night, didn’t she, and stayed out jolly late, too.’

‘How do you know how late she stayed out?’

‘Well, as a matter of fact, you see I wanted to speak to her about something rather important, so I rang her up once or twice and didn’t get an answer until three o’clock.’

‘I suppose you rang her up about every ten minutes?’

‘Oh no, damn it, not as often as that,’ said Ginger. ‘No, no, not as often as that. I know it sounds rather unsporting and all that, but you see I wanted to speak to her, and, anyway, when I did get through, she just said she had a pain and didn’t want to talk: _well, I mean to say_. After all, I mean, one is a gentleman. It isn’t as though you were just a sort of friend of the family, is it? I mean, you were more or less engaged to her yourself, weren’t you, at one time? Well, what would you have thought if I’d come butting in? You must look at it like that, from my point of view, too, mustn’t you, I mean?’

‘Well, I think that’s rather what did happen.’