KATHLEEN

BY

CHRISTOPHER MORLEY

TOTHE REAL KATHLEEN_With Apologies_

KATHLEEN

I

The Scorpions were to meet at eight o'clock and before that hourKenneth Forbes had to finish the first chapter of a serial story. The literary society, named in accordance with the grotesque whimof Oxford undergraduates, consisted of eight members, and it wasproposed that each one should contribute a chapter. Forbes was ofa fertile wit, and he had been nominated the first operator. Hehad been allowed the whole Christmas vacation to prepare hisopening chapter; which was why on this first Sunday of term whilethe rest of Merton College was at dinner in hall, he sat at hisdesk desperately driving his pen across the paper. 

Forbes's room in Fellows' Quad was one of those that had housedQueen Henrietta Maria in 1643, and though Forbes's own tasteswere nondescript the chamber still had something of an air. Thedark wood panelling might well have done honour to a royallodger, and a motion-picture producer would have coveted it as abackground for Mary Pickford. It was unspoiled by pictures: twoor three political maps of Europe, sketchily drawn with colouredcrayons, were pinned up here and there. The room was a typicalOxford apartment: dark, a little faded, but redeemed by the grateof glowing coals. Behind the chimney two recessed seats lookedout over the college gardens; long red curtains were drawn toshut out the winter draughts. It was the true English January--driving squalls of rain, dampness, and devastating chill. Theeast wind brought the booming toll from Magdalen tower verydistinctly to the ear, closely followed by the tinny chime inFellows' Quad. It was half past seven. 

Forbes laid down his pen, looked quizzically at the lastillegible lines slanting up the paper, and realized that he washungry. His untasted tea and anchovy toast still stood in thefender where the scout had put them three hours before. 

He switched on the electric light over the dining table in thecentre of the room, and, dropping on the sofa before the fire, prodded the huge lumps of soft coal into a blaze. The triangularslices of anchovy toast were cold but still very good, and hedevoured them with appetite. He lit a cigarette with a sigh ofcontent, and reflected that he had not crossed his name off hall. Therefore he must pay eighteen pence for dinner, even though hehad not eaten it. Also there lay somewhat heavily on his mind thefact that at ten the next morning he must read to his tutor anessay on "Danton and Robespierre, " an essay as yet unwritten. That would mean a very early rising and an uncomfortable chillysession in the college library, a dismal place in the forenoon. Never mind, first came a jolly evening with the Scorpions. Themeetings were always fun, and this one, coming after theseparation of a six-weeks' vacation, promised special sport. Carter was down for a paper on Rabelais; King would have some ofhis amusing ballades and rondeaus; and above all there would bethe first chapter of the serial, from which the members promisedthemselves much diversion. It was too late now to attemptanything on Danton and Robespierre; he picked up a volume ofBelloc and sat cosily by the fire. 

A thumping tread sounded on the winding stairs, then the faintclink of a large metal tray laid on the serving table outside, and a muffled knock at the "oak, " the thick outer door whichForbes had "sported" when he came in at six to write his stint. He unfastened the barrier and admitted Hinton, the scout, whobore in a tray of eatables, ordered by Forbes from the collegestore-room for the refreshment of his coming guests. Forbes, likemost men of modest means, made it a point of honour to entertainlavishly when it was his turn as host, and the display set out byHinton made an attractive still life under the droplight. A bigbowl of apples and oranges stood in the centre; tin boxes fromHuntley and Palmer, a couple of large iced cakes, raisins, nuts, and a dish of candied fruits ended the solids. There was also atray of coffee cups and a huge silver coffee pot bearing thecollege arms, flanked by a porcelain jug of hot milk. De Reszkecigarettes, whiskey and soda, and a new tin of John Cottonsmoking mixture completed the spread--which would be faithfullyreflected in Forbes's "battels, " or weekly bills, later on. Youngmen at Oxford do themselves well, and this was a typical lay-outfor an undergraduate evening. 

Hinton, a ruddy old man with iron-gray hair and a very red andbulby nose, was a garrulous servant, and after a tentative coughmade an attempt at small talk. 

"I didn't see you in 'all to-night, sir. "

"No, " said Forbes, "I had some writing to do, Hinton. "

"Oh yes, sir, " said Hinton, according to the invariable formulaof college servants. A moment later, after another embarrassedcough, he began again. 

"Very wet night, sir; they say the towpath will be under water inanother day or so. "

Forbes was not a rowing man, and the probable submerging of thetowpath was not news that affected him one way or the other. Hisonly reply was to ask the scout to refill the coal-scuttle. Forthis task Hinton donned an old pair of gloves and carried inseveral large lumps of coal in his hands from the bin outside. Then he disappeared into the adjoining bedroom to pour out a fewgallons of very cold water into Forbes's hip bath, to turn downthe sheets, lay out his pajamas, and remove a muddy pair of bootsto be cleaned. Such are the customs that make sweet the lives ofsucceeding undergraduates at Oxford. It is pleasant to know thatPalmerston, Pitt, Gladstone, Asquith--they have all gone throughthe old routine. Forbes's father had occupied the very samerooms, thirty years before, and very likely old Hinton, then a"scout's boy, " had blacked his boots. Certainly Forbes senior hadlain in the same bedroom and watched Magdalen Tower through thetrees while delaying to get up on chilly mornings. 

"Anything else to-night, sir?" said Hinton, as Forbes put downBelloc and began to clean a very crusty briar. 

"Nothing to-night. "

"Thank you, sir, " said Hinton and took his departure, afterpoking up the fire and removing the dead tea things. 

The eight o'clock chimes spoke as Hinton clumped downstairs, anda few moments later Forbes's guests began to straggle in. Allwere wet and ruddy from rain and wind, and, as they discardedraincoats and caps, disclosed a pleasant medley of types. TheScorpions was a rather recent and informal society, but it hadgathered from various colleges a little band of temperamentalcongenials who found a unique pleasure in their Sunday eveningmeetings. None of them was of the acknowledged literary successesof the university: their names were not those seen every week inthe undergraduate journals. And yet this obscure group, which haddrawn together in a spirit of satire, had in it two or three menof real gift. Forbes himself was a man of uncommon vivacity. Small, stocky, with an unruly thatch of yellow hair and aquaintly wry and homely face, he hid his shyness and hisbrilliancy behind a brusque manner. Ostensibly cynical and awitty satirist of his more sentimental fellows, his desk was fullof charming ballades and _pieces d'amour_, scratched off at whiteheat in odd moments. His infinite fund of full-flavoured jest hadwon him the nickname of Priapus. But beneath the uncouth exteriorof the man, behind his careless dress and humorously assumedcoarseness, lay the soul of a poet--sensitive as a girl, anddevout before the whisperings of Beauty. 

Stephen Carter and Randall King were first to arrive, and seizedthe ends of the fireside couch while Forbes poured their coffee. 

"A Clark Russell of an evening!" said Carter, stretching hisgolfing brogues to the blaze. "Don't you love a good drenching, downpouring night? I do!" He was a burly full-blooded blond, extravagantly facetious in convivial moments, and a mournfulbrooder in solitude. King, better known as "The Goblin, " was adark, whimsical elf in thick spectacles, much loved in the'varsity dramatic society for his brilliant impersonations. TheGoblin said nothing as he sipped his coffee and gazed at thefire. 

"There you go again, Falstaff!" exclaimed Forbes to Carter, as heunlocked a corner cupboard and drew out a bottle of port. "Theuniversal enthusiast! I believe you'll be enthusiastic about theexaminers that plough you!"

"What, Falstaff get ploughed?" said a vast and rather handsomenewcomer, flinging open the door without knocking. "I think he'sdown for a ruddy First!" This was Douglas Whitney, of Balliol. 

Carter's only answer to both these remarks was to drain a glassof the port which Forbes was decanting. 

"I say, Priapus, what vile port!" he said. "Is this some of thevintage you crocked poor old Hinton with?"

"Any port in a storm, Falstaff, " said the Goblin, mildly. 

As Forbes was pouring out the coffee loud shouts of "Minters!"greeted the next arrival. This was Johnny Blair of Tennessee andTrinity, the only American among the Scorpions. Blair was aRhodes Scholar whose dulcet Southern drawl and quaint modes ofspeech were a constant delight to his English comrades. His greatpopularity in his own college was begun by his introduction ofmint julep, which had given him his nickname. 

"Hello, Minters!" cried Forbes. "What cheer?"

"Large tabling and belly cheer, " said Blair, quoting hisfavourite Elizabethan author. 

By the time Forbes had poured out eight cups of coffee and asmany glasses of wine, Keith, Graham, and Twiston had come in, making the full gathering. There was much laughing and banter asthe men stood round the table or by the fire, lighting pipes andcigarettes, and helping themselves to fruit and cake. Finally, when everyone was settled in a semicircle round the fire, Forbeshammered his coffee cup with a spoon. According to the custom ofthe society the host of the evening always acted as chairman. 

"The meeting will please come to order, " said Forbes. "BrotherScorpions, what is your pleasure? Has the secretary anything toreport?"

The gatherings of the Scorpions were pleasingly devoid offormality, and untrammeled by parliamentary conventions. Therewere no minutes, and the only officer was a secretary who sentout postal cards each week, reminding the members of the time andplace of the next meeting. 

King, puffing happily at a large pipe, declared that no officialbusiness required attention. 

"Then I call upon Falstaff for his delightful paper on Rabelais, "said Forbes. 

A small electric reading lamp was propped behind Carter's head, and the Scorpions disposed themselves to listen. Carter pulled anuntidy manuscript from his pocket, and after an embarrassedcough, began to read. 

The general tenor of an undergraduate essay on Rabelais, intendedfor the intimacy of a fireside circle, may readily be guessed. The general thesis of the composition was of course to prove thatRabelais was by no means the low-minded old dog of Puritanconception; or, as Carter put it, that he was "not simply aGeorge Moore"; but that his amazing writings bore witnessthroughout to a high and devoted ethical purpose. It is evenconjecturable that Carter may have said _puribus omnia pura_; butif he did so, it was with so droll an accent that his audiencelaughed again. At all events his reading was punctuated withcheery applause, and at the conclusion the Scorpions renewedtheir acquaintance with those historic affinities whiskey andsoda. Discussion was brisk. 

The meditative Goblin then was called upon for his poems; and, after becoming hesitation, unfolded a sheaf of verses. His rhymeswere always full of quaint and elvish humour which was veryendearing. His ballade with the refrain "_When Harry Baillie keptthe Tabard Inn_, " was voted the best of the six he read. 

But the event of the evening was to be the serial story, whichForbes had been appointed to begin. A new round of refreshmentswas distributed, and then the host took his place under thereading lamp. 

"This needs a word of explanation, " he said. "Having the wholevacation to work on this, naturally I did nothing until tea timethis afternoon. I didn't even have an idea in my head untilyesterday. About four o'clock yesterday afternoon I was strollingdown the Broad in desperation. You know when there is somehateful task that has to be done, one will snatch at any pretextfor postponing it. I stopped in at Blackwell's to look for a bookI wanted. Up in one corner of the shop, lying on a row of books, I found this. "

Impressively he drew from his pocket a double sheet of notepaperand held it up. 

"It was a letter, evidently written by some girl to a man at the'varsity. Finding it there, forgotten and defenseless, I couldnot resist reading it. It was a very charming letter, not toointimate, but full of a delicious virgin coyness and reserve. Then a great idea struck me. Why not take the people mentioned inthe letter and use them as the characters of our story? We knowthat they are real people; we know their first names; that's allwe know about them. The rest can be left to the invention of theScorpions. "

Generous laughter greeted the idea. 

"Let's hear the letter!" cried someone. 

"Yes, " said Forbes, "before reading my chapter I'll read you theletter. And then remember that our story is to be built up solelyupon this document. There are to be no characters in the storyexcept those mentioned in the letter, and our task must be todelineate them in such a way that they are in keeping with thesuggestions the letter gives us. Here it is. "

X X X XThese are from Fred. 

318, BANCROFT ROAD, WOLVERHAMPTONOctober 30, 1912. 

DEAR JOE:

Thank you so much for the tie--it is pretty and I do wear tiessometimes, so I sha'n't let the boys have it. 

You must think me rather ungrateful not writing before, but Ihave been out the last two evenings and have had no time forletters. Yesterday Mother and I went to Birmingham as I had myhalf-term holiday. 

I hope you managed to get some tea after writing to me, otherwiseI shall feel so grieved to think I was the cause of yourstarvation. By the way, I read your latest poem and I don't likeit--not that that will trouble you much I'm sure. The idea isn'tat all bad, but that's all I like about it. 

I haven't a bit of news, and I have just found out it is too lateto catch the post to-night, so you will have to wait a littlelonger for this precious letter--it will be precious, won't it?

Charlie has just come home from his class, so I must bring hisfood for him. Daddy's lumbago is better, I'm glad to say. 

Good-night, and with many thanks

I remainYours, KATHLEEN. 

Excuse this scrawl, but the pen's groggy. 

A moment of silence followed the reading of the letter. 

"Joe's a lucky boy, " said Whitney. "She's a darling. "

"The letter doesn't tell us much, " said Forbes, as he handed itround for examination; "but more than you might think. Beforewriting my chapter I summarized the data. Here they are:

"1. _Joe_. He's a member of the 'varsity who writes poetry. Either it's published in some magazine or he sends it privatelyto her. The blighter has sent Kathleen a tie of some kind--probably a scarf with his college or club colours. He's got asfar as the plaintive stage: he tells her that he is going withouthis tea just to write to her. (Probably half a dozen crumpets andfour cups of tea were simmering inside of him as he wrote). Somuch for Joe. I'll wager he's a Rhodes Scholar!

"2. _Kathleen_. I put her at seventeen, and (as Whitney says)she's a darling. She's at school still. She's adorably sane. Shedoesn't care for Joe's yowling poetry (probably he writesVerlaine kind of stuff, or free verse, or some blither of thatsort). She has younger brothers ('the boys') and she helps hermother run the house. I think she likes Joe better than she caresto admit--see the touch of coquettishness where she says 'It_will_ be precious, won't it?' And how adorably she teases him inthose four crosses marked 'These are from Fred. ' Gad, I'm jealousof Joe already!

"3. _Fred_. I think he's the older brother; probably recentlyleft the 'varsity; a friend of Joe's, perhaps. 

"4. _Charlie_ is one of the younger brothers. He goes to somekind of night school or gymnasium. Probably an ugly littlebeggar. Why doesn't he get his food for himself?

"5. _The Mother_. Don't know anything about her except that shewent to Birmingham with Kathleen. 

"6. _The Father_. Has lumbago. "

"One thing you don't mention, " said Graham. "It's an easy runfrom here to Wolverhampton on a motor bike!"

"Rather a sell if Joe should turn out a boxing blue, and mash usall into pulp for bagging his letter!" said Whitney. There was ageneral laugh at this. Whitney was over six feet, rowed number 5in the Balliol boat, and was nicknamed the Iron Duke for hismuscular strength. 

"Go on with your chapter, Priapus, " said the Goblin. 

II

When Forbes had finished there was general laughter and applause. The whimsical idea of building a tale around the persons of theletter was one which his playful mind was competent to develop, and he had written a deft and amusing introduction. Taking "Joe"as his subject he had sketched that gentleman's character with atouch of irony. He had made him a Rhodes Scholar from Indiana(evoking good-natured protest from Minters) and had carried himon a vacation to Guilford House, a small hotel in London muchfrequented by Rhodes Scholars. There he had made him meetKathleen who, with her mother, was staying in London for a fewdays. Forbes had a taste for brunettes, and in his description ofthe imagined Kathleen he had indulged himself heartily. He foundher to be seventeen, slender, with that strong slimness that onlyan English girl achieves; with a straight brown gaze and abundantdark chestnut hair. She was captain of her school hockey team, itseemed; she was good at tennis and swimming and geometry; she hadsmall patience with poetry and sentiment. But within the athleticand straightforward flapper Forbes thought he saw the flutteringof deeper womanhood; the maiden soul erecting a barrier of abruptcommon sense about itself to conceal the shy and sensitivefeelings that were beginning to blossom. Such at any rate wasKenneth Forbes's psycho-analysis, and he developed his chaptertoward a climax where Kathleen and Joe were left walking inRegent's Park, and the next author would find some difficulty inknowing how to proceed with the second instalment. 

"Well done indeed!" cried Blair, as Forbes laid down hismanuscript and reached for his pipe. There was a general murmurof assent as the men got up to stretch and talk. Someone punchedthe coals into flame, and the bowl of fruit was passed round. 

"Who's to write the next chapter?" asked Graham. 

"Let Falstaff do it!" cried Blair. "He's the sentimentalist! Butgo easy on poor Joe. You know all Rhodes Scholars don't come fromIndiana! Have a heart!"

"Do whatever you like to Joe!" cried Forbes; "But be careful withKathleen! She's adorable! I'm going to write a ballade to her andmail it to her anonymously. "

"I wish there was some way of getting hold of her picture, " saidKeith. 

"Her picture?" said Graham. "Nonsense! Why not see the flapperherself? I'm going to bike over there on my Rudge, erb round tillI find the street, and then skid like hell right on to herdoorstep. I shall lie there in mute agony until I'm carriedindoors. "

"I say, now, that's no fair!" cried Forbes. "I discovered her!Just because you've got a motor bike you mustn't take anadvantage!"

"Look here, " said the Goblin, mildly, speaking from a blue cloudof Murray's Mixture, "we must all sign a protocol, or a mandamusor a lagniappe or whatever you law men call it, not to steal amarch. I think we'd all like to meet the real Kathleen. But wemust give a bond to start fair and square, and nobody do anythingthat isn't authorized by the whole club. "

"Right-O!" cried several voices. 

"All right, then, " said the Goblin, "fill glasses everyone, andwe'll solemnize the oath. Brother Scorpions, I do you to wit thatwe all, jointly and severally, promise not to take any stepstoward making the acquaintance of said Kathleen until soauthorized by the whole society. So help me God!"

They all drank to this, with some chuckles. 

"What a lark if we could get Kathleen down for Eights Week!" saidsomeone. 

"Very likely Joe will have her here, " said Whitney. "You seem toforget that he's been rowing this course for some time. "

They all scowled. 

"I wonder how many members of the 'varsity are called Joe?" Keithasked. 

"About three hundred, I dare say, " said Falstaff. 

"I tell you what we might do, " said Forbes. "When the yarn'sfinished we can send it to her, explain just how the whole thinghappened, and ask permission to call. She's got a sense ofhumour, I'll swear!"

"Balmy!" retorted Falstaff. "She'd probably be frightfully fedbecause you bagged her letter! 'S a hell of a thing to do, crib alady's letter!"

"It's a hell of a thing to do to leave it lying around!" criedForbes, impenitent. "No quarter for Joebags! Let the punishmentfit the crime. "

"Well, you chaps, I've got to sheer off, " said Whitney. "It'snearly eleven and I've got an essay on the stocks. Cheer-oPriapus, I've had a ripping time. "

"'Arf a mo, '" cried Forbes. "Who's to do the next chapter, andwhere do we meet next week?"

"Falstaff!" cried several voices. 

"Why not do two chapters a week, " said Carter. "I'll do one, andGoblin can do another. Let's meet in my rooms. "

This was agreed to, and after much scuffling with greatcoats andscarves the guests tramped off down the stairs and out into therainy quad. Forbes could hear them, a minute later, thunderingwith their heels on the huge iron-studded college gate as theywaited for the porter to let them out. The room was foul withsmoke, and he opened a window over the gardens letting in a gushof chill sweet air and rain. Through the darkness he could hearmany chimes, counting eleven. He looked wearily at the scribblednotes for his essay on Danton and Robespierre: then shrugged hisshoulders and went to bed. 

III

By the time that Carter and King had written their chapters andread them aloud, the Scorpions were all frankly adorers ofKathleen; by midterm she had become an obsession. Eric Twistonand Bob Graham, "doing a Cornstalk" (as walking on CornmarketStreet is elegantly termed) were wont to dub any reallydelightful girl they saw as "a Kathleen sort of person. " At theannual dinner of the club, which took place in a private diningroom at the "Clarry" (the Clarendon Hotel) in February, Forbeswas called upon to respond to the toast "The Real Kathleen. " Hisvoice, tremulous with emotion and absinthe frappe, nearly failedhim; but he managed to stammer a few phrases which, thought atthe time to be extemporaneous, called forth loud applause; but itwas found later that he had jotted them down on the tableclothduring the soup and fish courses. "Fellow Scorpers, " he said, "Imean you chaps, look here, I'm not much at this dispatch-boxbusiness, but--hem--I want to say that I regard Kathleen withfeelings of iridescent emotion. I feel sure that she is apronounced brunette and that the Blue Flapper we all used to seeat the East Ocker is nowhere. I've been playing lackers(lacrosse) this term and I give you my word that when I've beenbloody well done in and had an absolute needle of funk I had onlyto think of Kathleen to buck me up. Hem. Now gentlemen, you maythink I'm drunk (loud cries of _No_!) but I want to say in truthand soberness that any man who thinks he's got Kathleen forbondwoman--hem--has me to reckon with!"

The applause at this speech was so immoderate that a partyof Boston ladies dining with a Chautauqua lecturer in theClarendon's main dining room, shuddered and began looking uptime-tables to Stratford. 

By this time the serial story had grown to the length of seven oreight chapters, and the Scorpions became so engrossed in thefortunes of the Kenyons (so, for convenience, they had dubbedKathleen's family) that at the dinner a separate health was drunkto each character in the story, and one of the members was calledupon to reply. Falstaff Carter responded to the toast to "Joe, "and recounted his secret investigations into the number ofmembers of the university who bore that name. He claimed to havetabulated from the university almanac 256 men so christened, andoffered to go into the life history of any or all of them. Hesaid that he was happy to say that the only Joseph who seemed atall likely to be a poet was a scrubby little man at Teddy Hall, who wore spectacles and a ragged exhibitioner's gown and did notseem to threaten a serious rivalry to any Scorpion bent onsupplanting him. "I also find, " he added, "that the master of theNew College and Magdalen beagles is called Joe. He is a member ofthe Bullingdon, and if he is the cheese it's distinctly mooterswhether any of the Scorpers have a ghostly show; but I vote, gentlemen, that we don't crock at this stage of the game. "

It was decided at the dinner that during the ensuing Eastervacation the Scorpions should make a trip to Wolverhampton, enmasse, for the purpose of picketing Bancroft Road and finding outwhat Kathleen was really like. And then, after singing "langersand godders" (Auld Lang Syne and God Save the King) the meetingbroke up and the members dispersed darkly in various directionsto avoid the proctors. 

IV

Friday the fifteenth of March was the last day of term. TheScorpions, busy in their various ways with the hundred detailsthat have to be attended to before "going down, " were allpleasantly excited by the anticipation of their quest, which wasto begin on the morrow. Carter, shaking hands with the warden ofNew College in the college hall (a pleasant little formalityperformed at the end of each term) absent-mindedly replied"Wolverhampton" when the warden asked him where he was going tospend the vacation. He was then hard put to it to avoid a letterof introduction to the vicar of St. Philip's in that city, an oldpupil of the warden. King, bicycling rapidly down the greasy Turlwith an armful of books, collided vigorously with another cyclistat the corner of the High. They both sprawled on the curb, bikesinterlocked. "My god, sir!" cried the Goblin; "Why not watchwhere you're going?" Then he saw it was Johnny Blair. "Sorry, Goblin, " said the latter; "I--I was thinking about Kathleen. " "Sowas I, " said King, picking up his books. And in defiance of theUniversity statute of 1636 (still unrepealed) which warnsstudents against "frequenting dicing houses, taverns, or boothswhere the nicotian herb is sold, " they went into Hedderly'stogether to buy tobacco. 

After breakfast the next morning they were all in cabs on theirway to the Great Western Station. It was a mild and sunny day, with puffs of spring in the air. Who can ever forget the Saturdaymorning at the end of term when the men "go down"? Long lines ofhansoms spinning briskly toward the station, with bulgingportmanteaus on the roof; the wide sunny sweep of the Broad withthe 'bus trundling past Trinity gates; a knot of tall youths inthe 'varsity uniform of gray "bags" and brown tweed norfolk, smoking and talking at the Balliol lodge--and over it all theclang of a hundred chimes, the gray fingers of a thousand spiresand pinnacles, the moist blue sky of England.... Ah, it is thepalace of youth, or it was once. 

The Scorpions met on the dingy north-bound platform. Graham, Keith, and Twiston had been obliged to scratch owing to othermore imperative plans; but five members boarded the 10 o'clocktrain in high spirits. Forbes, Carter, King, Blair, and Whitney--they filled a third-class smoker with tobacco and jest. 

"Now, Goblin, " cried Falstaff, as the train ran past the PortMeadow, and the Radcliffe dome dropped from view; "Open thosesealed orders! You promised to draw up the rules of the game. "

King pulled a paper from his pocket. 

"I jotted down some points, " he said. "This is the time todiscuss them. "

_"Rules to be Observed by the Scorpions on the Great KathleenExcursion_

"1. The headquarters of the expedition will be the Blue Boar Innat Wolverhampton. (I've written to them to engage rooms. )

"2. The Kriegspiel will begin to-day at 2 P. M. , and manoeuvreswill continue without intermission until someone is declared thewinner, or until time is called. 

"3. The object of the contest is to make the acquaintance ofKathleen; to engage her in friendly conversation; to win herconfidence, and to induce her to accept an invitation to Commem, or Eights Week. 

"4. Any deception, strategy, or tactics which are not calculatedto give intolerable distress or embarrassment to Kathleen and herfamily, are allowable. 

"5. If by noon on Tuesday no one shall have succeeded in makingfriends with Kathleen, the game shall be declared off. "

"Suppose she's not at home?" said Whitney. 

"We'll have to chance that. "

"What time do we get there?"

"I've ordered lunch at the Blue Boar at one o'clock. This traingets to Wolvers at 12:30. "

It was a merry ride. The story of Kathleen as they had written itwas discussed pro and con. ; the usual protests were launched atCarter for having in his chapter lowered the theme to the levelof burlesque; praise was accorded to the Goblin for the dexteritywith which he had rescued the plot. Blair's chapter had been fullof American slang which had to be explained to the others. "Joe, " the Rhodes Scholar hero, had shown a vein of fine goldunder Blair's hands: he bade fair to win the charming Kathleen, although the story had not been finished owing to the examinationswhich had fallen upon the brotherhood toward the end of term. The game, begun in pure jest, had taken on something of romanticearnest: there was not one of these young men who did not seein Kathleen his own ideal of slender, bright-cheeked girlhood. And when the train pulled into Wolverhampton, they tumbledout of their smoking carriage with keen expectation. 

V

Perhaps the best way to pursue the next episodes in the quest isin the words of Johnny Blair, the Rhodes Scholar, who jotted downsome notes in a journal he kept:

We got to Wolverhampton 12:25, Ingersoll time. Had a jolly tripon the train, all the Scorps laying bets as to who would be firstto meet Kathleen. I lay low, but did some planning. Didn't wantto let these English blighters get ahead of me, especially afterall the ragging Indiana Joe got in the story. 

Train stopped at Birmingham at noon. My tobacco pouch had runempty, and I hopped out to buy some Murray's at the newsstand. Saw the prettiest flapper of my life on the platform--the realEnglish type; tweed suit, dark hair, gray eyes, and cheeks likealmond blossoms. She had on a blue tam-o' shanter. Loveliestfigure I ever saw, perfect ankle, but the usual heavy brogues onher feet. Why do English girls always wear woollen stockings? Wasso taken with her I almost missed the train. She got into athird-class compartment farther up the train. The others were allbickering in the smoking carriage, so they didn't see her. 

I scored over the rest of the crowd when we got to Wolvers. Theyhad all brought heavy portmanteaus, containing all their vacationbaggage. My idea was, go light when chasing the Grail. Had onlymy rucksack, left rest of my stuff at coll. , to be forwardedlater. While the other chaps were getting their stuff out of thegoods van I spotted Miss Flapper getting off the train. She gotinto a hansom. Just by dumb luck I was standing near. I heard hersay to cabby: "318, Bancroft Road!" Lord, was I tickled? I keptmum. 

Most of the fellows took cabs, on account of their luggage, butGoblin and I hoofed it. Wolverhampton seems a dingy place forKathleen to live! Fine old church, though, and lovely marketplace. We kept our eyes open for Bancroft Road, but saw no sign. 

When we got to the Blue Boar, lunch was all ready for us in thecoffee room. Landlord tickled to death at our arrival. Wonderfulcheddar cheese, and archdeacon ale. We made quite a ceremony ofit--all drank Kathleen's health, and on the stroke of two we gotup from the table. 

All the others beat it off immediately in different directions--looking for Bancroft Road, I expect. I had an idea that morefinesse would be needed. I started off with the others, thenpretended I had left my pipe, and came back to the Boar. I wasgoing to look up the town directory, to find Kathleen's name--knowing the address, that would be easy. But there was Goblindoing the same thing! We both laughed and looked it up together. The name at 318, Bancroft Road was Kent, Philip Kent, F. S. A. , Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries, I suppose: the book put himdown as an "antiquarian. " Kathleen's father, evidently. 

Goblin disappeared in that noiseless way of his, and I lit a pipeand pondered. 

The fellows had been full of wild suggestions as to what theywould do when they got to 318, Bancroft Road. One was going to bea book agent and get into the house that way. Another said hewould be the grocer's man and make friends with the cook. Someoneelse suggested dressing up as a plumber or gas-man, and goingthere to fix some imaginary leak. Knowing that the Kents were notfools, I imagined it wouldn't be long before they'd get wise tothe fact that that bunch of dreadnoughts was picketing the house. Probably they'd put the police on them. Also, there's nobodyharder to disguise than an English 'varsity man. He gives himselfaway at every turn. If "Fred" was around he'd be sure to smell arat. One of those chaps would be likely to fake himself up as aplumber, and get in the house on some pretext or other--stillwearing his wrist-watch!

I thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to stay away from BancroftRoad for a while and try to pull wires from a distance:

The Blue Boar Inn--a very nice old house, by the way--looks outover the old Wolverhampton market place. In one corner of thesquare I had noticed a little post office. You can send atelegram from any post office in England, and I thought thatwould be my best entering wedge. The word "antiquarian" in thedirectory had given me a notion. On a blank I composed thefollowing message, after some revisions:

MISS KATHLEEN KENT, 318, Bancroft Road, WOLVERHAMPTON. 

My friend John Blair of Trinity now in Wolverhampton forhistorical study staying at Blue Boar nice chap American may hecall on you if so send him a line sorry can't write hurt handplaying soccer love to all. 

JOE. 

This was taking a long chance, but was the best move I couldthink of. I asked the lady behind the counter to mark thetelegram as though it came from Oxford. She said she could not doso, but I happened to have a five-bob piece in my pocket and thatpersuaded her. I convinced her that it was a harmless joke. 

I didn't see that there was anything further to be doneimmediately. If the telegram brought no word I should have tothink up something else. In the meantime, if I was to pose asan antiquarian investigator I had better get up some dope onthe history of Wolverhampton. I poked about until I found abookshop, where I bought a little pamphlet about the town, and studied a map. Bancroft Road was out toward the northernsuburbs. A little talk with the bookseller brought me theinformation that Mr. Kent was one of his best customers, apleasant and simple-minded gentleman of sixty whose onlyhobby was the history of the region. He had written a bookcalled "Memorials of Old Staffordshire, " but unfortunately Icouldn't get a copy. The bookseller said it was out of print. 

Then I went to have a look at St. Philip's Church, a fine oldNorman pile with some lovely brasses and crusaders' tombs. Here Ihad a piece of luck--fell in with the vicar. One of the jolly oldport-wine and knicker-bocker sort: an old Oxford man, as ithappened. I pumped him a little about the history of the church, and in his delight at finding an American who cared for suchmatters he talked freely. "Why, " he kept on saying, with a kindof pathetic enthusiasm, "I thought all you Americans wereinterested in was Standard Oil and tinned beef. " Finally heinvited me over to the vicarage for tea. As I sat by his fire andate toasted muffins I couldn't help chuckling to think howdifferent this was from the other Scorpions' plan of attack. Theywere probably all biting their nails up and down Bancroft Roadtrying to carry the fort by direct assault. It's amazing howthings turn out: just as I was wondering how to give theconversation a twist in the right direction, the vicar said:

"If you're really interested in the history of this region youshould certainly have a talk with old Mr. Kent. He's our leadingantiquarian, and knows more about the Stour Valley than any oneelse. He says there was a skirmish fought here in 1645 that allthe books have overlooked. The Battle of Wolverhampton, he callsit. He wrote a little pamphlet about it once. "

I assured the good parson that my eagerness to know more aboutthe Battle of Wolverhampton was unbounded. I nearly spilled mytea in my excitement. 

"Is that Mr. Kent of 318, Bancroft Road?" I asked. 

"Yes, " answered the vicar. "How did you know?"

"They told me about him at the bookshop. "

I explained that I was in Wolverhampton for a day or so only, andfinally the excellent man came across with the suggestion I waspanting for. 

"Well, " he said, "as it happens, I have one or two calls to makein that direction this evening. If you care to have me do so, I'll speak to Mr. Kent about you, and he can make an appointment. You said you were stopping at the Blue Boar?"

I thanked him with such warmth that his eyes twinkled. 

"My dear fellow, " he said, "your enthusiasm does you greatcredit. I wish you all success in your thesis. "

I got back to the Boar feeling that I had done a very goodafternoon's work indeed. 

VI

The Scorpions (continues Blair's diary) were all very merry atdinner that night--particularly at my expense. I was the only onewho had not been out to Bancroft Road to look over the ground. Apparently they had had a very cheery time. 

"Well, Falstaff, what luck?" I asked Carter. 

"Splendid!" he replied. "The local butcher has given me a job andI'm going to call there for a meat order tomorrow morning. "

"What!" shouted someone. "On Sunday? Not likely!"

I knew mighty well that Carter would not concoct anything ascrude as that, and wondered what deviltry he had devised. 

"I noticed that two telegrams were delivered at the house thisafternoon, " said Forbes, in a quiet, non-committal kind of way. 

"Perhaps Joe is on his way here, " said I. "If so, Good-Night!" AsI spoke, I wondered rather anxiously what the _other_ telegramcould be. 

"Well, we saw her, anyway!" said Whitney, "and she's marvellous!She wears a blue tam-o' shanter and has an ankle like a fairytale. We saw her walk down the street. "

"That's nothing, " I retorted, "I saw her hours ago. She was onthe train with us from Birmingham this morning. "

This started a furious wrangle. They said I hadn't played fair, as the contest didn't begin until two o'clock. My point was thatI had not transgressed the rules as I had done nothing to profitby my accident in seeing her first. 

"I couldn't help seeing her, could I?" I asked. "You could have, too, if you hadn't been all frowsting over _Tit-Bits_ in thetrain. And after all, I didn't _know_ it was Kathleen. I onlysuspected it. "

I changed the conversation by asking where the Goblin was. 

No one had noticed before that he hadn't turned up. This was abit disconcerting. I secretly thought him the most dangerouscompetitor. He has a quiet, impish twinkle in his eye, and anunobtrusive way of getting what he wants. However, the othersscoffed at my fears. 

Although they all talked a great deal about the amusing time theyhad had, I could not gather that they had really accomplishedmuch. Forbes claimed to have seen Fred, and said he looked like arotter. We drank Kathleen's health a couple of times, and thenthe other three sat down to dummy bridge. I slipped away to thePublic Library, partly to get some more of my antiquarianinformation about Wolverhampton, and partly because I knew myabsence would disquiet them. 

I found the Library after some difficulty. In the largereading-room I hunted up some books of reference, but to mydisappointment Mr. Kent's volume was out. Looking round for aplace to sit, the first person I saw was the Goblin, bent verybusily over a book and making notes on a pad of paper. I leanedover him. 

"Hello, Goblin, " I whispered. "Getting ready for a First?"

He started, and tried to cover his volume with a newspaper, but Ihad seen it. It was a cook book. 

"That's a queer kind of fiction you're mulling over, " I remarked. 

"I'm looking up a recipe for stuffed eggs, " said the Goblin, without a quiver. "Our Common Room steward does them so poorly. "

"Well, don't let me interrupt you, " I said. I sat down in acorner of the room with a volume of the Britannica. When I nextlooked up the Goblin was gone. 

As usual, I wasted my time with the encyclopedia. I gotinterested in the articles on Wages, Warts, Weather, Wordsworth, and Worms. By the time I got to Wolverhampton it was closingtime. I did just seize the information that the town was foundedin 996 by Wulfruna, widow of the Earl of Northampton. Then I hadto leave. 

I got back to the Boar about ten-thirty. The coffee-room wasempty. The landlord said that Whitney and Forbes were out, butthat Mr. Carter had gone upstairs. 

Falstaff and I were rooming together, and when I went up I foundhim reading in bed. 

"Hello, Wulfruna!" he said, as I came in. 

Evidently he, too, had been reading up some history. Just as Igot into bed he fell asleep and his book dropped to the floorwith a thump. I crept quietly across the room and picked it up. It was "Memorials of Old Staffordshire, " by Philip Kent, F. S. A. , the very copy that I had looked for at the Library. I skimmedover it and then put it carefully back by Falstaff's bedside. Washe on the antiquarian trail, too? I began to realize that theserivals of mine would take some beating. 

The next morning (Sunday) I found a note waiting for me on thebreakfast table. Three indignant Scorpions were weighing it, studying the handwriting, and examining the stationery like threebroken-hearted detectives. 

"It's not Kathleen's hand, but I'll swear it's the samenotepaper, " Forbes was saying. 

Under a venomous gaze from all three I took the letter out of theroom before opening it. Forbes was right: it was the well-knownBancroft Road notepaper. It ran thus:

318, BANCROFT ROAD, WOLVERHAMPTONSaturday Evening. 

DEAR MR. BLAIR, Mr. Dunton, the vicar of S. Philip's, has just told me of yourvisit to him. I am so glad to know that you take an antiquarianinterest in this region. Curiously enough, only this afternoon wehad two wires from our cousin Joe in Oxford, one of whichmentioned your being here. That gives us additional reason forlooking forward to making your acquaintance. 

Mrs. Kent wants you to come to lunch with us to-morrow, at oneo'clock. Unfortunately I myself am laid up with rheumatism, butsome of the family will be delighted to take you to see the quitesurprising relics in this vicinity. Joe has probably told you allabout Fred, who is really quite one of the family. The poorfellow needs exercise dreadfully; you must take him with you ifyou go tramping. Charlie and Oliver, my boys, are away at school. 

Don't attempt to reply to this, but just turn up at one o'clock. 

Sincerely yours, PHILIP KENT. 

This gave me several reasons for thought, and disregarding theappeals from the coffee-room to come in and tell them all aboutit, I walked into the courtyard of the Inn to consider. 

First, what was the _other_ wire from Joe? Heavens, was he on hisway from Oxford to Wolverhampton? If my fake telegram werediscovered too soon I should be in a very embarrassing position. Second, Joe was a cousin, was he! One of those annoying secondcousins, probably, who are close enough to the family to be afamiliar figure, and yet far enough away in blood to marry thedaughter! And then there was this sinister person, Fred, who was"really quite one of the family. " Another cousin, perhaps? Whatwas the matter with the devil, anyway? If he needed exercise whydidn't he go and get it? Certainly I didn't want to spend anafternoon antiquarianizing with him. How was I to get him out ofthe way, so that I could get a tete-a-tete with K. ?

I could see that if this game was to be played throughsuccessfully it must be played with some daring. _Toujours del'audace_! I thought, and let breakfast go hang. Moreover, mysudden disappearance would help to demoralize my rivals. I stuckmy head into the breakfast-room where Priapus was just dishingout the bacon and eggs. In that instant it struck me again thatthe Goblin was not there. I cried "Ye Gods!" in a loud voice, andslammed the door behind me. As I ran out of the front door Ilaughed at the picture of their disconcerted faces. 

My idea was to lure Fred away from Bancroft Road at all hazards. This could only be done by another telegram. And as it was Sunday, the railway station was the only place to send one from. It wasa beautiful, clear morning, and I hurried through the streets withexultation, but also with a good deal of nervousness as to theoutcome of this shameless hoaxing. At any rate, I thought, I mayas well live up to my privileges as an irresponsible American. The Great Kathleen Excursion was beginning to take on in mymind the character of an international joust or tourney. 

At the station (or at the depot as one would say at home), I sentthe following message:

FREDERICK KENT, 318, Bancroft Road, WOLVERHAMPTON. 

Unavoidably detained Oxford hurt leg playing soccer wish youcould join me at once urgent. 

JOE. 

I got back to the Boar in time for a cold breakfast. None ofthe others was there. I ate with my antiquarian notes onWolverhampton propped against the coffee pot. I was determinedthat Mr. Kent should find me as intelligent as possible. 

There was nothing to be done before lunch time. I read Mr. Kent'sletter over several times, and I must confess that the mention ofthat other wire from Joe worried me a good deal. Just how far thetelegram I had just sent might conflict with the facts as knownto the Kents, I could not surmise. I could only trust to luck andpray for the best. I learned from the chambermaid that the Goblinhad come in very late the night before, and had gone out at sixA. M. That bothered me almost more than anything else. 

Finally, after hanging round the empty coffee-room for a while, Igot nervous, and determined to go to morning service at St. Philip's. There would be plenty of time to get out to BancroftRoad afterward, and perhaps Kathleen would be at church and Icould get a distant view of her. I walked round to the church. Service had begun, but I went in and sat down at the back. Duringa hymn I took a good look round. To my horror I saw in a pew afew feet in front of me a young person whose robust outlineseemed familiar. I looked again. It was Falstaff Carter in theget-up of a curate. Trembling with indignation, I crept out ofthe church. I hardly dared speculate on what low device he hadplanned for winning his way into the sanctum. 

At any rate, I thought, I am fixed for lunch: once I get there, Iguess I can gain ground as fast as any pseudo-curate. I ran overmy antiquarian data another time. 

It was half-past twelve, and I was just brushing my hair for thethird time, preparatory to starting for Bancroft Road, when thechambermaid came to the bedroom door. "This note was just leftfor you, sir. " I tore it open. 

BANCROFT ROAD, Sunday Morning. 

MY DEAR MR. BLAIR, I am afraid you will think it very strange, but, owing to asudden domestic disarrangement, will you come to _supper_, thisevening, instead of to luncheon? I am exceedingly embarrassed tohave to make this change, but (to be quite frank) one of ourmaids has been taken ill, and our luncheon to-day will have to bea haphazard affair. We are also rather distressed by strange newsfrom our cousin at Oxford. 

But we shall be very happy to see you at supper time, seveno'clock. 

Cordially yours, PHILIP KENT. 

It came over me that this was pretty dirty work we were puttingup on the poor gentleman, and I suddenly felt thoroughly ashamedof myself. I don't know whether any of the others came back tothe Boar for lunch, or not. I put on my cap and went for a longwalk in the country, out toward Tettenhall Wood. I didn't comeback until tea time. 

VII

As Johnny Blair approached number 318, Bancroft Road, a littlebefore seven o'clock that bland March evening, he bore withinhis hardy breast certain delicacies, remorses, doubts, andrevulsions. But all these were transcended by his overmasteringdetermination to see this superb and long-worshipped maiden nearat hand. 

Bancroft Road proved to be a docile suburban thoroughfare, lined with comfortable villas and double houses, each standing alittle back from the street with a small garden in front. Aprimrose-coloured afterglow lingered in the sky, and the gaslights along the pavement still burned pale and white. Just asthe Rhodes Scholar passed number 302 he saw a feminine figure rundown the steps of a house fifty yards farther on, cross thepavement, and drop a letter into the red pillar box standingthere. Even at that distance, he distinguished a lively slimnessin the girlish outline that could belong to no other than theIncomparable Kathleen. He hastened his step, casting hesitance tothe wind. But she had already run back into the house. 

It would have added to the problems Mr. Blair was pondering couldhe have read the letter which had just dropped into the post-box. Perhaps it will somewhat advance the course of the narrative togive the reader a glimpse of it. 

318, BANCROFT ROAD, Sunday Afternoon. 

DEAR JOE:

Goodness knows what has happened to this usually placid house. Never again will I complain to you that there is no excitement inWolverhampton. 

I got home from Birmingham yesterday noon and since theneverything has been perfectly absurd. I can only believe you havegone balmy. 

First comes your wire about Mr. Blair and your having hurt yourarm playing soccer. What you can have been doing at soccer Ican't conceive. I supposed it was a mistake for hockey, or elsesome kind of a twit. Well, I couldn't see what I could do to helpa historical student but I showed Dad the wire and the old dearsaid he would write Mr. Blair a line. 

I had just settled down to help Mother with some sewing whenalong comes your second wire, addressed to her. Mother and Ithrew up our hands and screamed! Certainly we thought you wereoff your crumpet. Why on earth should you send us another cookwhen you know Ethel has been here for so long? I read the wireforward and backward but it could mean nothing else. It said:_Have found very good cook out of place am sending her to youearnestly recommend give her a trial reliable woman but eccentricname Eliza Thick will call Sunday morning_. 

Well, we all had a good laugh over this, and wondered what kindof a joke you were up to. Then, after supper, to our amazement, came a third wire--not from you, this one, but to Dad, and who doyou suppose from? The Bishop of Oxford if you please! Dad was soflustered (you know how telegrams excite him: they offend all hisantiquarian instincts!)--well, the Bishop said--_Am sending myfavourite curate to call on you magnificent young fellowexcellent family very worthy chap will be in Wolverhampton a dayor two anxious to have him meet your family_. 

Well, this rather flabbergasted us, but Dad took it rather as amatter of course, after the first surprise. He used to know theBishop well--in fact, he dedicated his book to him. "Quite allright, my dear, " Dad kept saying. "I dare say the young man hassome antiquarian problems to talk over. Too bad I'm so crippledwith rheumatism. "

After supper along came Mr. Dunton, and began to talk about acharming young American who had been calling on him, and who didit prove to be but your friend Mr. Blair, who had been quite putout of our minds by the later telegrams. So Dad sat down rightaway and wrote a note to Mr. Blair at the Blue Boar asking himfor luncheon to-day, and sent it up by the gardener's boy. 

But this morning, when I had just decided not to go to church(you'll see why in a minute) comes your perfectly mad message toFred, about hurting your leg at soccer and all the rest of it. This convinced us that you are quite crazy. How could we sendFred all that way alone! And when did you take up soccer anyway?

But we know what a mad creature you are anyway, so we simplysuspected some deep-laid twit. Now I come to the queerest thingof all!

Ethel went out last night, for her usual Saturday evening off, and hasn't returned! In all the years she's been with us, Mothersays, it's the first time such a thing ever happened. And beforebreakfast this morning, turns up this Eliza Thick person ofyours, with a note from Ethel to say that she was sick but thather friend Eliza would see us through for a day or so. Well, yousurely have a queer eye for picking out domestics! Of all thefigures of fun I ever imagined, she is the strangest. I don'tthink she's quite right in her head. I'll tell you all about herwhen I see you. Really, I roar with laughter every time I look ather!

I haven't got time to say more. With this Eliza person in thekitchen goodness knows what may happen. We had to send a note toMr. Blair not to come for luncheon, the house was so upset. Weheard a fearful uproar in the lower regions this afternoon andfound Eliza engaged in ejecting some kind of gas-man who said hehad come to see the meter (on Sunday, if you please!)

Everything seems quite topsy turvy. And Mr. Blair is coming tosupper in a few minutes, and that favourite curate of theBishop's, too. I think I shall have to stay down in the kitchento see that Eliza Thick gets through with it all right. I canforgive you almost anything except her!

Never, never say again that nothing happens in Bancroft Road!

Yours, KATHLEEN. 

VIII

A ruddy-cheeked housemaid in the correct evening uniform admittedBlair, and in the drawing-room he found Mr. Kent sitting by ashining fire. Points of light twinkled in the polished balls ofthe brass andirons. As soon as he entered, Blair felt the comelyatmosphere of a charming and well-ordered home. Books lined thewalls; a French window opened on to the lawn at the far end ofthe room; a large bowl of blue hyacinths, growing in a bedof pebbles, stood on the reading table. Mr. Kent was small, gray-haired, with a clear pink complexion and a guileless blueeye. 

"Mr. Blair, " he said, laying down his paper, "I am very glad tomeet you. A friend of Joe's is always welcome here, andparticularly when he's an antiquarian. I know you'll excuse ourseeming rudeness in putting you off at luncheon. "

Blair bowed, and made some polite reply. 

"As a matter of fact, " said Mr. Kent, "my wife was embarrassedthis morning by strange happenings in the domestic department. Our cook, usually very faithful, did not turn up, and sent asubstitute who has caused her--well, mingled annoyance andamusement. I have not seen the woman myself: my rheumatism haskept me pretty close to the fire this damp weather; but by allaccounts the creature is very extraordinary. Well, well, you arenot interested in that, of course. It is very pleasant to meet afellow antiquarian. How did you happen to visit Wolverhampton? Wehave a number of quite unusual relics in these parts, but theyare not so well known as they should be. "

"To tell the truth, sir, " said Blair, "it was your book, which Icame across in the college library. I was particularly interestedin your account of St. Philip's Church, and I made up my mindthat I ought to see it. You see, we in America have so littleantiquity of our own that these relics of old England arepeculiarly fascinating to us. "

"Quite so, quite so!" said Mr. Kent, rubbing his hands withpleasure. "Magnificent! Well, well, it is certainly a delight tohear you say so. After supper we will dismiss the ladies and havea good crack. There are some really startling things to belearned about Wolverhampton in Anglo-Saxon times. You know thetown lay along the frontier that was much harried by the Danes, and Edward the Elder won a conspicuous victory over the invadersat Tettenhall, which is a village very near here. "

"Yes, " said Blair, "I walked out there this afternoon. "

"Did you, indeed! Well, that was a proof of your perspicacity. You may recall that in my book I referred to the battle atTettenhall--"

"That was in 910, was it not?" queried Blair, adroitly. 

"Precisely. It is mentioned in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. "

"Edward the Elder died in 924, didn't he?" asked the ruthlessAmerican. 

"About that time, I think. I don't remember exactly. Upon myword, Mr. Blair, you have taken up history with true Americanefficiency! I do wish that our young men had the same zeal. I amhappy to say, however, that I am expecting a young cleric thisevening, a protege of the Bishop of Oxford, who is, I believe, also interested in these matters. "

Blair's heart sank, but he had no time to ponder, for at thismoment Mrs. Kent and Kathleen came in. 

"My dear, this is Mr. Blair, Joe's friend from Oxford. We aregreat cronies already. My wife, Mr. Blair, and my daughterKathleen. "

The young Oxonian suffered one of the most severe heartcontusions known in the history of the human race. It was apositive vertigo of admiration. This was indeed the creature hehad seen on the railway platform: a dazzling blend of girl andwoman. The grotesque appellation "flapper" fled from his mind. Her thick, dark hair was drawn smoothly across her head and piledat the back in a heavenly coil. Her clear gray eyes, under richbrown brows, were cool, laughing, and self-possessed. She wasthat most adorable of creatures, the tweenie, between girl andwoman, with the magic of both and the weaknesses of neither. Blair could not have said how she was dressed. He saw only thearch face, the intoxicating clearness of her skin, the steady, friendly gaze. 

"How do you do, " he said, and remembering English reticence, hesitated to put out his hand; then cursed himself for not havingdone so. 

Kathleen smiled, and murmured, "How do you do. "

"I'm very glad to see you, " said Mrs. Kent. "Do tell us what thatcrazy Joe has been up to. Did Mr. Kent tell you we've had threetelegrams from her?"

Blair felt the room twirl under his feet. How one little pronouncan destroy a man! In his agony he saw Mrs. Kent and Kathleen sitdown on the big couch, and painfully found his way to a chair. 

"I--I beg your pardon?" he stammered. "I didn't just catch--"

"The mad girl has sent us three telegrams, " said Mrs. Kent, "inwhich there was only one sensible thing, the reference toyourself. Her other remarks, about cooks and soccer and injuredlimbs, were quite over our heads. "

With a dull sense of pain Blair felt Kathleen's bright eyes onhim. 

"Yes, Mr. Blair, is she ragging us? Or have the girls at MaggieHall taken up soccer?" said a clear voice, every syllable ofwhich seemed so precious and girlish and quaintly English that hecould have clapped his hands. 

He blessed her for the clue. "Maggie Hall!"--in other words, LadyMargaret Hall, one of the women's colleges at Oxford. So "Joe"was (in American parlance) a "co-ed!"

"Why--er--I believe they _have_ been playing a little, " he saiddesperately. "I think he--er--something was said about havinghis--hum--her--arm--hurt in a rough game. "

"Her leg, too, " said Mr. Kent. "In my time, young girls didn'tsend telegrams about their legs. In fact, they didn't sendtelegrams at all. "

"Well, we are quite nonplussed, " said Mrs. Kent. "Kathleen saysJoe must have had a rush of humour to the head. She wired for usto send Fred down to her. Of course she has sent wires to Fredbefore, as a joke; but she must have known we couldn't send himso far alone. I suppose Joe has told you all about Fred? He'squite one of the family. "

"Yes, " said the distracted Oxonian. "He must be a fine fellow. I'm very anxious to meet him. "

There was a ring at the front door bell, and in a kind of stuporBlair realized that something--he hardly knew what--was about tohappen. 

"The Reverend Mr. Carter, " announced the maid. 

Blair had a keen desire to scream, but he kept his eyes firmly onthe rug until he had mastered himself. In the general movementthat followed he had presence of mind enough to seize a chairnext to Kathleen. He saw Falstaff's burly figure enter, habitedas the conventional "black beetle" of the church, and in thesharpened state of his wits noticed that the unpractised curatehad put on his clerical collar the wrong way round. He rejoicedin Carter's look of dismay on finding his fellow-Scorpion alreadyon the battlefield. 

"Mr. Carter, " said Mr. Kent, "this is Mr. Blair, of Trinity. "

The two shook hands gravely. 

Blair determined to make use of his hard-won information to setCarter astray. 

"I know Mr. Carter by reputation, " he said. "I have heard Joespeak of him in terms of great admiration. "

The curate looked worried, but tried to play safe. 

"Oh, yes, Joe!" he said. "Splendid chap. "

Blair made haste to get back to the chair he coveted. He had noidea what mad schemes might lurk beneath Carter's episcopalianfrock, and was determined to gain any headway he could. 

"It seems funny your coming to Wolverhampton, " said Kathleen. "Sofew 'varsity men ever get here. But it's certainly a blessing forDad. He'll talk antiquities with you as long as you like. "

"Are you interested in the subject?" asked Blair. 

"I'm afraid not, " she laughed. "It's too bad Dad is so laid upwith his lumbago. He'd love to walk you out to Tettenhall andBoscobel, to see his burial mounds. "

"How very interesting!" said Blair. "A kind of private familycemetery?"

"Oh, dear no, " declared Kathleen in amazement. "Antiquities, youknow, where the Danes buried themselves. "

"Of course, of course. How I wish I could see them! Are you fondof walking?"

"Yes, when it isn't too muddy. It's been too wet lately to go outwith Fred. He loves a good long walk, but he's getting old andhis rheumatism bothers him. "

"I dare say he may have inherited that from your father?"

"It's very common among Scotties, " said Kathleen. 

"Oh, is your family Scotch?" said Blair, feverishly trying to bepolite. 

"Our family?" queried Kathleen with a smile. "Heavens, no! Ithought you were talking about Fred. You must see him, he'ssomewhere around. "

"I should love to meet him, " said Blair. 

Kathleen went to the door and whistled. There was a scampering onthe stairs, and a grizzled Skye terrier trotted into the room. Blair and Carter looked at each other sheepishly. 

Mr. Kent had been referring to his watch several times, and Blairbegan to suspect that something was wrong. But just then supperwas announced. As they passed into the dining-room, the Americanthought he noticed signs of agitation on the maid's face. Hewondered secretly what the rest of the Scorpions were up to. 

IX

"Come, Mr. Blair, " said Mrs. Kent; "you sit there, next to Mr. Kent, where you can talk about archaeology. Mr. Carter tells mehe knows nothing about such subjects, so he will have to amuseKathleen and me. "

"What errand brings you to Wolverhampton, Mr. Carter?" inquiredBlair, thinking to unmask his opponent's weapons as quickly aspossible. 

Carter was a little staggered by this, but his effrontery was upto the test. 

"The Bishop sent me down, " he said, "to look over the surroundingparishes with a view to establishing a chapel in the suburbs. "

"How very interesting!" exclaimed Mr. Kent. "But surely this doesnot lie in the Oxford diocese?"

"Quite true, " said Carter. "The Bishop had to get specialpermission from Parliament. An old statute of the fourteenthcentury, I believe. "

"Indeed! Indeed!" cried Mr. Kent. "How absorbing! My dear Mr. Carter, you must tell me more about that. I take it you aresomething of a historical student, after all. "

"I'm afraid not, sir, " replied Carter. "My studies in divinityhave been too exacting to leave much opportunity--"

"You must not believe Mr. Carter's disclaimers, " said Blair. "Ihave heard of his papers before the Oxford Historical Society. Hehas a very sound antiquarian instinct. I think you would find hisideas of great interest. "

"We were speaking of the battle with the Danes at Tettenhall, "observed Mr. Kent, turning to Blair. "I think that if Kathleencould arrange to take you out there you would find the burialmounds of unusual interest. My dear, could you walk out therewith Mr. Blair to-morrow morning?"

Kathleen assented, but Blair noticed that she was not eating hersoup. He also noticed that the maid, in the background, wasseized with occasional spasms, which he was at a loss tointerpret. 

"Did I hear you say Tettenhall?" ventured Carter. "That is thevery place the Bishop mentioned to me. He was particularlyanxious that I should go there. "

"You must come with us, by all means, " said Kathleen. 

"Bravo, " said Mr. Kent, beaming genially upon the young people. "I wish I could go with you. You know they say Wulfruna, thewidow of the Earl of Northampton, who founded Wolverhampton, hada kind of summer place once near Tettenhall, and I claim to havelocated--By the way, my dear, what do you suppose has happened tothis soup?"

"I think that Eliza Thick has a heavy hand with the condiments, "said Mrs. Kent. "You may take it away now, Mary. "

"As I recall, Wulfruna founded the town about 996, " observedBlair. "I presume it takes its name from her?"

"Exactly--Wulfruna-hampton. Really, Mr. Blair, your historicalknowledge does you honour. I had no idea that Americans were suchkeen students of the past. "

Blair began to think that he had overplayed his hand, for henoticed that Falstaff was getting in some private conversationwith Kathleen. He attempted to catch her eye to ask a question, but Mr. Kent was now well launched on his hobby. 

"Wulfruna was descended from Ethelhild, who was a granddaughterof Alfred the Great. You recall that the Etheling Ethelwold, theson of Alfred's brother Ethelred, took sides with the Danes. Tostem the invasion, Edward and his sister Ethelfled--"

"Ethel fled, that's just the trouble, " interposed Mrs. Kent. "Kathleen, my dear, do run downstairs and see what's wrong in thekitchen. I'm afraid Eliza is in difficulties again. Mr. Blair, you and Mr. Carter must excuse this irregularity. Our substitutecook is a very strange person. "

Kathleen left the room, and it seemed to Blair as though thesparkle had fled from the glasses, the gleam of candlelight fromthe silver. Across the cloth he had watched her--girlish, debonair, and with a secret laughter lurking in her eyes. And yethe had not had a chance to exchange half a dozen sentences withher. 

The maid reentered, whispered something to Mrs. Kent, and beganto place the dishes for the next course. 

"Kathleen begs to be excused, " said Mrs. Kent. "She thinks shehad better stay in the kitchen to help Eliza. "

"Oh, I say, " cried the curate. "That's too bad. Do you think Icould help, Mrs. Kent? I'm a very good cook. The Bishop himselfhas praised my--er--my--"

"Your what?" asked Blair. 

"My ham and eggs, " retorted the cleric. 

"Perhaps you will let me wash the dishes, " suggested Blair. "Ishould be only too happy to assist. I feel very embarrassed athaving intruded upon you at so inconvenient a time. "

"I should not dream of such a thing, " said Mrs. Kent. "I believethat Eliza is perfectly capable, but as Joe said, she iseccentric. "

"I am quite accustomed to washing dishes, " said Carter. "In fact, the Bishop always used to ask me to do it for him. "

"Dear me, " remarked Mr. Kent, "surely the Bishop has plenty ofservants to help in such matters?"

Blair applied himself to the food on his plate to which he hadhelped himself almost unconsciously. He well knew the daringhardihood of his rival, and feared that the other might find someexcuse to follow Kathleen to the kitchen. As he raised his forkto his lips, suddenly his hand halted. The dish was stuffed eggs. His mind reverted to the Public Library the evening before. Wasit possible that the Goblin--?

He determined that the first thing to be done was to get Carterso firmly engaged with Mr. Kent that the wolf in cleric'sclothing could not withdraw. Then perhaps he himself could framesome excuse for seeing what was going on downstairs. 

"Mr. Kent, " he said, "you should draw out Mr. Carter concerninghis views on amending the liturgy of the Established Church. Hehas some very advanced ideas on that subject which have attractedmuch attention at Oxford. One of his interesting suggestions isthat radical churchmen should wear the clerical collar back sideforemost, as a kind of symbol of their inverted opinions. "

The wretched Carter's hand flew to his neck, and he glared acrossthe table in a very unecclesiastical manner. 

"Really!" said Mr. Kent, "that is most interesting. I had noticedhis modification of the customary dress. In what other ways, Mr. Carter, would you amend the ritual?"

The unfortunate curate was caught. 

"Er--hum--well--that is, the Bishop and I both think that theservice is too long, " he faltered. "I am in favour of omittingthe sermon. "

"Hear, hear!" cried Mr. Kent. "It is most refreshing to hear ahigh churchman make such a confession. And what else do youpropose?"

"Why--ah--hum--it has always seemed to me that the--thirty-ninearticles might--well--be somewhat condensed. "

"Bravo indeed, though I fear the Bishop would balk at that, " saidhis host. 

The maid, appearing in the dining-room again, whispered to Mrs. Kent. 

"Philip, " said the latter, "that gas-man is here again, and sayshe _must_ see the meter. He claims that there is a dangerous leakwhich should be fixed at once. Perhaps I had better go down tothe cellar with him. Your rheumatism--"

"My dear Mrs. Kent, " cried the curate, seeing his chance; "donothing of the sort. It is the privilege of my cloth to takeprecedence when there is danger of any kind. If any one should beovercome by fumes, the consolations of the church may be needed. "And without waiting for another word, he leaped up and ran fromthe room. 

Blair fidgeted in his chair, seeing himself outwitted, but therewas nothing he could do. 

"Pray go on with your supper, Mr. Blair, " urged Kent. "You mustoverlook anything that seems strange this evening. Everythingseems to be widdershins. Perhaps because it is St. Patrick's Day. I do believe that woman in the kitchen is at the bottom of itall. These stuffed eggs are positively uneatable! If I were notcrippled with this lumbago I would go down and fire her out ofthe house. "

"Let me do it for you!" cried Blair, half rising from his seat. 

"Nonsense! I'm not going to sacrifice our good talk onantiquities so easily. I want very much to tell you about theBattle of Wolverhampton. The town was strongly loyalist in thegreat rebellion; in fact, in 1645 it was the headquarters ofPrince Rupert, while Charles the First is said to have stopped atthe Blue Boar for a drink--"

At this moment came a ring at the front door, and Mr. Kentstopped to listen. They heard a male voice mumbling to the maid, who then came to her mistress to report. 

"There's a policeman out here, ma'am, to see Mr. Kent. "

"A policeman?" queried the antiquarian. "What next, I wonder?Well, supper is suspended, send him in. "

And to Blair's dismay the gigantic form of Whitney, the IronDuke, crossed the threshold, in the correct uniform of theWolverhampton police force. 

If Blair was dismayed, the counterfeit policeman was no lessdisgusted to see his fellow Scorpion sitting at the dinner table, but they gazed at each other without any sign of recognition. 

"Begging your pardon for interrupting, sir, but the chief sent mearound for a word with you. There's been a gang o' sneak thievesoperating 'round 'ere, sir, and some of 'em 'as been gettingadmittance to 'ouses by passin' themselves off as gas inspectors, sir. "

Mrs. Kent screamed. 

"I 'ad a notion that one o' these birds is along Bancroft Roadto-night, sir, an' I wanted to warn you. Don't let the maid admitany tradesmen or agents from the gas company unless they 'as theproper badges, sir. "

"Heavens, Philip!" cried Mrs. Kent. "That dreadful man isdownstairs now! Eliza threw him out once this afternoon, but he'shere again. He may have murdered Mr. Carter by this time. Oh, inspector, do hurry down at once and see what's happened! There'sa defenceless high-church curate in the cellar with him. Mary, show the way downstairs. "

Blair poured out a glass of water for Mrs. Kent. 

"Don't you think I had better go down, too?" he asked. 

"Oh, please don't go!" begged Mrs. Kent, faintly. "Stay here, incase he should escape upstairs. I believe we shall all bemurdered in our beds!"

"Come, come, " said Mr. Kent. "We mustn't let all this spoil Mr. Blair's supper. Have another glass of wine. The policeman willattend to the gas-man. We don't often get a chance to talk to agenuine antiquarian. I think, Mr. Blair, that you will be greatlyinterested in the architectural restoration of our parish church. It exemplifies the worst excesses of the mid-Victorian period. The church itself is one of the finest examples of the cruciformtype. The south transept dates from the thirteenth century; thenave, clerestory, and north transept from the fifth. The chancelwas restored in 1865, but I must confess that the treatment ofthe clerestory seems to me barbarous. Now what are your own ideasas to the proper treatment of a clerestory?"

The wretched American was non-plussed. He had a shrewd suspicionthat matters were moving rapidly downstairs yet he did not seeany way of leaving the dining-room to investigate for himself. Hehad hardly heard what was said. 

"Why--ah--to tell you the truth, Mr. Kent, I read very littlefiction nowadays. I'm rather worried about that gas-mandownstairs. Do you suppose your daughter can be in any danger?There might be some sort of explosion--don't you think I hadbetter run down to see if I can help?"

As they sat listening Kathleen's voice was heard from thekitchen, raised in clear and angry tones. 

Blair could contain himself no longer. With an inarticulateapology he hurried out of the room, leaving the puzzledantiquarian and his wife alone at the supper table. 

X

The Rhodes Scholar was correct in having feared the Goblin as adangerous competitor in the quest of the Grail. King, as we haveintimated before, was a quaint-minded and ingenious person, modest in stature but with a twinkling and roving eye. He was oneof the leading spirits of the OUDS, known in full as the OxfordUniversity Dramatic Society, and his ability to portray femalesof the lower classes had been the delight of more than oneShakespearean rendering. No one who saw him as Juliet's nurse ina certain private theatrical performance in the hall of NewCollege can recall the occasion without chuckles. 

When the Goblin left the Blue Boar on Saturday afternoon he alsomade his way out to Bancroft Road; but instead of patrolling themain street in the vague hope of catching a glimpse of Kathleen(as did Falstaff, Priapus, and the Iron Duke), he hunted out thehinder regions of the district. In accordance with a plan he hadconcocted before leaving Oxford, he carried a little portfolio of"art subjects, " of the kind dear to domestic servants, and withthis in hand he approached the door of the basement back kitchen, where Ethel the cook and her assistant, Mary, the housemaid, werehaving a mid-afternoon cup of tea. The windings of the humblerlanes of service, behind the Bancroft Road houses, were theproper causeway for tradesmen, and it was easy for him to reachthe back garden gate unseen by those in front. 

He knocked respectfully at the kitchen door, and Mary came toanswer. 

"Good day, Miss, " said the supposed pedlar. "I 'ave some verypretty pictures 'ere which I wish you would let me show you. "

Mary was a simple-minded creature, but she knew that her mistresshad strict rules about pedlars. 

"I'm sorry, " she said, "but Missus don't let no pedlars in thehouse. "

"If you please, Miss, " said the artful Goblin, "I am no pedlar, but representing a very respectable photographer, and I wouldlike to show you some photographs in the 'ope of getting yourorder. I 'ave taken a number of orders at the nicest 'ouses alongBancroft Road. I thought maybe you would like to 'ave a photo ofyourself taken, to send to your young man. " And he opened hiscase, exhibiting a sheaf of appropriate photos. 

It was a slender chance, but the pedlar had a wheedling eye and agenteel demeanour, and Mary hesitated. She called the cook, astout, middle-aged person, who came to the door to see what wasup. The pedlar rapidly showed the best items of his collection, which he had selected with great care in a photographer's studioin Oxford. Fate hung in the scales, but the two servants couldnot resist temptation. They knew that Mrs. Kent and Miss Kathleenwere upstairs sewing; and the master was confined to his studywith his rheumatism. They invited the photographer into thekitchen. 

It is a psychological fact well known to housekeepers that thereis a vacant hour in the middle of the afternoon when Satansometimes finds a joint in the protective armour of the domesticservant. After the luncheon dishes are washed and put away, andbefore five-o'clock tea and toast are served, cook and housemaidenjoy a period of philosophic contemplation or siesta. Even inthe most docile and kitchen-broken breast thoughts of roses andromance may linger; dreams of moving pictures or the comingcotillion of the Icemen's Social Harmony. Usually this criticaltime is whiled away by the fiction of Nat Gould or Bertha Clay orHarold Bell Wright. And close observers of kitchen comedy willhave noted that it is always at this fallow hour of the afternoonthat pedlars and other satanic emissaries sharpen their arrowsand ply their most plausible seductions. 

The Goblin has never admitted just what honeyed sophistries heemployed to win the hearts of the simple pair in Mrs. Kent'skitchen. But the facts may be briefly stated by the chronicler. After getting them interested in his photos he confessed franklythat he was an old friend of the family from Oxford. He said thathe and Miss Kathleen were planning an innocent practical joke onthe family, and asked if he could take the place of one of theservants for that Sunday. He made plain that his share in thejoke must not be revealed to any one. And then he played histrump card by showing them the text of the bogus telegramrecommending Miss Eliza Thick, which he had dispatched from abranch postal office on his way through the town. 

"And is Miss Josephine in the joke, too?" inquired the cook. 

This question startled the Goblin, but he kept his composure andaffirmed that he and Miss Josephine had concocted the telegramjointly in Oxford. And by a little adroit pumping he learned"Joe's" status in the family. The cook, Ethel, admitted that shewas to go out that evening for her Saturday night off. At lastthe Goblin, by desperate cunning and the exhibition of two goldensovereigns, completely won the hearts of the maids. While theywere talking the door-bell rang, and Mary, returning from theupper regions, announced that it was "another telegram from MissJoe. Missus and Miss Kathleen laughed fit to kill when they readit, " she said. 

"You see?" said the Goblin. "That's the same telegram I justshowed you. It's all right; it's a joke. You don't need to worry, cook. Mrs. Kent won't be angry with you. You let me take yourplace for to-morrow, and write a little note saying you're illand that your friend Eliza Thick will do your work for the day. "

It was arranged that the Goblin should meet Ethel at her homethat night to borrow some clothes. The cook showed him the menufor Sunday that Mrs. Kent had sent down. This rather daunted thecandidate for kitchen honours, but he copied it in his notebookfor intensive study. Then, as it was close upon tea-time, hepacked up the photos, distributed his largesse, and retired. Mary, the housemaid, promised to stand by him in the comingordeal. Both the servants felt secretly flattered that theyshould be included in the hoax. The kitchen classes in Englandhave great reverence for young 'varsity men. 

The Goblin was a canny man, and he had brought with him a wig andcertain other properties. He hunted out a little tea shop, wherehe meditated over three cups of pekoe and hot buttered toast. Then he made his way to the Public Library, where he spentseveral hours over a cook-book. He was complimenting himself onhaving shaken the other Scorpions off his trail when Blair lookedover his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the stuffed-eggs recipeto which the Goblin was addressing himself for the fourth time. The meeting was embarrassing, but it could not be helped. AfterBlair had left him, the cook-to-be returned to his memoranda. 

Mrs. Kent trusted many things to Ethel's judgment, and herinstructions as jotted down on a slip of paper included threepossibilities. "_Eggs, stuffed, devilled, or farci_, " shehad written, and the Goblin was endeavouring to decide which ofthese presented the least distressing responsibility. He was astudent of mathematics, and had attempted to reduce the problemto a logical syllabus. He read over his memoranda:

 THEOREM: STUFFED EGGS. 

 _Data_: six hard, boiled-eggs (20 minutes). 

 (a) Cut eggs in halves lengthwise. (b) Remove yolks, and put whites aside in pairs. (c) Mash yolks, and add (1) Half the amount of devilled ham. (2) Enough melted butter to make of consistency to shape. ("Half _what_ amount of devilled ham?" thought the Goblin. "And where does the devilled ham come from? How does one devil a ham? What a pity Henry James never wrote a cook-book! It would have been lucid compared to this. _To make of consistency to shape_--what on earth does that mean?") (d) Clean and chop two chickens' livers, sprinkle with onion juice, and saute in butter--("No!" he cried, "that's _eggs farci_. Wrong theorem!")

 (d) Make in balls ("Make _what_ in balls?") size of original yolks ("Note: remember to measure original yolks before cutting them lengthwise"). (e) Refill whites ("Let's see, what did I fill 'em with before?") (f) Form remainder of mixture into a nest. ("That's a nice little homely touch. ") (g) Arrange eggs in the nest and (1) Pour over one cup White Sauce. ("Memo: See p. 266 for White Sauce. ") (2) Sprinkle with buttered crumbs. ("Allow plenty of time for buttering those crumbs; that sounds rather ticklish work. ") (3) Bake until crumbs are brown. (h) Garnish with a border of toast points and a wreath of parsley. 

 Q. E. D. 

"Integral calculus is a treat compared to this, " he said tohimself as he reviewed the problem. "I hope they have plenty ofparsley in the house. That nest may need a little protectingfoliage. I don't see how I can make any kind of proper asylum forthose homeless, wandering eggs out of that mess. " So saying, heleft the library to call upon Ethel at her home and complete hisdisguise. 

XI

Mrs. Kent was a deal puzzled by the bearing and accoutrements ofher substitute cook. Eliza Thick appeared on the premises aboutseven o'clock, and with the aid of the housemaid breakfast wentthrough fairly smoothly. It was Kathleen's query about the coffeethat elicited the truth. Mary, with nervous gigglings, announcedto her mistress that Ethel was ill and had sent a substitute. Thecoincidence that Josephine's nominee should turn out to be afriend of Ethel struck Mrs. Kent as strange, and presently shewent down to interview the new kitcheneer. 

Eliza Thick, a medium-sized but rather powerfully fashionedfemale, generously busted and well furnished with rich brownhair, was washing the dishes. She curtseyed respectfully as Mrs. Kent entered the kitchen. 

"Good morning, " said Mrs. Kent. "You are Eliza Thick?"

"Yes, ma'am. "

"You brought a note from Ethel?"

"Yes, ma'am;" and fumbling in an opulent bosom, Eliza drew fortha crumpled scrap of paper. 

"I had a telegram from my niece in Oxford recommending you. Howdid she know of you?"

"I worked at Lady Marg'ret 'All, ma'am, where the young lady isstudyin'. "

"Why did you leave your place there?"

"If you please, ma'am, my dishes was so tasty that it made theyoung ladies discontented when they got 'ome. Their parentscomplained that it gave 'em too 'igh ideas about wittles. Theprincipal said I was pamperin' 'em too much, an' offered torelease me. "

Mary, who was listening, gave a loud snort of laughter, which shetried to conceal by rattling some plates. 

"Well, Eliza, " said Mrs. Kent, "that will do. You must get onwith the work as best you can. Judging by the coffee thismorning, I don't think your cooking will have the same effect onus that it did on the students at Lady Margaret Hall. We wereexpecting a guest for lunch but I will have to put him off untilsupper. I have written out the menu for the day. Mary will giveyou any help she can. "

"If you please, ma'am?" said Eliza. 

"Yes?"

"Cook gave me a message for Miss Kathleen, ma'am, which she askedme to deliver in person. "

"A message for Miss Kathleen?"

"Yes, ma'am. "

"Well, you can tell me, I will tell Miss Kathleen. "

"Cook said I was to give it to her personally, " said thepersistent Eliza. 

"How very extraordinary, " said Mrs. Kent. "What did you say wasthe matter with Ethel--is it anything contagious?"

"Oh, no, ma'am, I think it's just a touch of--of nervousdebility, ma'am--too many white corpuscles, ma'am. "

"Well, I don't think Miss Kathleen can come down now, Eliza; wehave just had a very strange telegram which has rather upset us. "

"Yes, ma'am. "

The new cook sat down to peel potatoes and study the mechanics ofKitchencraft. She found much to baffle her in the array of potsand pans, and in the workings of the range. From a cupboard shetook out mince-meat choppers, potato mashers, cream whippers, egg-beaters, and other utensils, gazing at them in totalignorance of their functions. Mrs. Kent had indicated jugged hareand mashed potatoes for lunch, and after some scrutiny of theproblem Eliza found a hammer in the cabinet with which she beganto belabour the vegetables. Mary, who might have suggestedboiling the potatoes first, was then upstairs. 

By and by Kathleen heard the thumping, and came into the kitchento investigate. 

"Good morning, Eliza. "

"Good morning, Miss, " said the delighted cook. "Oh, I _am_ sohappy to see you, Miss!"

"Thank you, Eliza. Did you have a message for me from Ethel?"

"Yes, Miss. Er--Ethel said she hoped you'd give me all the helpyou can, Miss, because--er, you see, Miss, cooking for a privatefamily is very different from working in a college where thereare so many, Miss. "

"I see. Well--what on earth are you doing to those potatoes, Eliza?"

"Mashing 'em, Miss. "

"What, with a _hammer_!"

"I washed the 'ammer, Miss. "

"Surely you didn't mash them that way at Maggie Hall, Eliza?"

"Yes, miss. The young ladies got so they couldn't abide them doneany other way. "

Kathleen looked more closely, and examined the badly bruisedtubers. "Good gracious, " she exclaimed, with a ripple oflaughter. "They haven't been cooked yet!"

Eliza was rather taken aback. 

"Well, you see, Miss, " she said, "at the college we used nothingbut fireless cookers, and I don't understand these old-fashionedstoves very well. I wanted to get you to explain it to me. "

"It's perfectly simple, " said Kathleen. "This is the oven, andwhen you want to bake anything--_Phew_!" she cried, opening theoven door, "what _have_ you got in here?"

She took a cloth, and lifted out of the oven a tall china pitcherwith a strange-looking object protruding from it. 

Eliza was panic stricken, and for an instant forgot her role. 

"My God! I put the hare in there and forgot all about it. What abally sell!"

Kathleen removed the hideous thing, hardly knowing whether tolaugh or cry. 

"Look here, Eliza, " she said. "They may jug hares that way atMaggie Hall, but I doubt it. Now, what _can_ you cook? We've gotguests coming to-night. A gentleman from America is going to behere and we must put our best foot forward. "

Eliza's face was a study in painful emotion. 

"Excuse me, Miss, " she said, "but is that American gentlemancalled Mr. Blair?"

"Yes, " said Kathleen. "Really, Eliza, you are most extraordinary. How did you know?"

"I've heard of him, " said Eliza. "I think I ought to warn youagainst him, miss. He's--he's a counterfeiter. "

"Nonsense, Eliza. What notions you do have! He's an antiquarian, and he's coming to see my father about archaeology. He's a friendof Miss Josephine, from Oxford. Now I think you'd better get onwith your cooking and not worry about counterfeiters. "

"Miss Kathleen, " said Eliza, "I think I'd better be frank withyou. I want to tell you--"

Here Mary came into the kitchen, and although Eliza Thick madefrantic gestures to her to keep away, the housemaid was too denseto understand. The opportunity for confession was lost. 

"Now, Eliza, " said Kathleen, "Mary will help you in anythingyou're not certain about. I'll come down again later to see howyou're getting on. "

By supper time that night Eliza Thick began to think that perhapsshe had made a tactical error by interning herself in the kitchenwhere there was but small opportunity for a tete-a-tete with thebewitching Kathleen. The news that Blair was coming to theevening meal was highly disconcerting, and the worried cook evencontemplated the possibility of doctoring the American's plate ofsoup with ratsbane or hemlock. Once during the afternoon sheventured a sally upstairs (carrying a scuttle of coal as apretext) in the vague hope of finding Kathleen somewhere aboutthe house. Unfortunately she met Mrs. Kent on the stairs, whopromptly ordered her back to her proper domain. Here Eliza founda disreputable-looking person trying to cozen Mary into admittinghim to the house. He claimed to be an agent of the gas company, in search of a rumoured leak. Eliza immediately spotted Priapus, and indignantly ejected him by force of arms. In the scuffle adish pan and several chairs were overturned. Mary, whose nerveswere rather unstrung by the sustained comedy she was witnessing, uttered an obbligato of piercing yelps which soon broughtKathleen to the scene. Eliza received a severe rating, and soadmired the angry sparkle in Kathleen's eyes that she couldhardly retort. 

"One other thing, Eliza, " said Kathleen, in conclusion. "Thereare to be two guests at supper. Mr. Carter, a curate from Oxford, is coming, too. Please allow for him in your preparations. "

"If you please, Miss, " cried the much-goaded cook, "is that Mr. Stephen Carter?"

"I believe it is, " said Kathleen, "but what of it? Is he acounterfeiter, too?"

"Miss Kathleen, I know you think it strange, but I must warn youagainst that curate. Dear Miss Kathleen, he is dangerous. He isnot what he seems. "

"Eliza, you forget yourself, " said Kathleen, severely. "Mr. Carter comes with an introduction from the Bishop of Oxford. Ihope that is satisfactory to you! In any case, we do not needyour approval for our list of guests. Mrs. Kent wants you to takegreat care with the stuffed eggs. Those mashed potatoes made herquite ill. "

"Please, Miss, I'm dreadful worried about those eggs. The booksays to make a nest for 'em, and truly I don't know how to goabout it. The young ladies at college never ate their eggs innests, miss. And when I gets nervous I can't do myself justice, Miss. I never can remember which is the yolks and which is thewhites, miss. "

"Now, that will do, Eliza, " said Kathleen. "You are a veryeccentric creature, but I don't think you are as stupid as allthat. What do you want? Do you expect me to come down here andoversee all your preparations?"

"Oh, if you only would, Miss, it would be _so_ gratifying!"

Kathleen laughed, a girlish bubbling of pure mirth, which wasdreadful torment to the jealous masquerader. She departed, leaving the cook a prey to savage resolve. "Well, " thought Eliza, "if the supper is bad enough I guess she'll just _have_ to comedown and help me. Thank goodness Blair and Carter are _both_coming; they'll cut each other's throats, and perhaps the stuffedeggs will win after all. As for that gas-man, he won't get intothis house unless it's over my dead body!"

XII

It was a feverish and excited Eliza that Kathleen found in thekitchen when she tripped downstairs after the soup course. On alarge platter the cook had built a kind of untidy thicket ofparsley and chopped celery, eked out with lettuce leaves. Ambushed in this were lurking a number of very pallid andbluish-looking eggs, with a nondescript stuffing bulging out ofthem. 

"I forgot to measure the yolks, Miss, " wailed Eliza. "That's whythe stuffing don't fit. Shall I throw a dash of rum on board tostiffen 'em up?"

In spite of her vexation, Kathleen could not help laughing. "No, no, " she said. "We'll tidy up the nest a bit and send themupstairs. "

"That's grand, " said Eliza, watching Kathleen's quick fingers. "'Tis a beautiful comely hand you have, miss, one that it's apleasure to admire. "

"Now, Eliza, " said Kathleen, "you must not shout up the dumbwaiter so. I distinctly heard you cry out '_This plate's for theparson_!' as you sent up one of the dishes of soup. "

"If you please, Miss, " said Eliza. "That was because itwas the plate I spilled a spoonful of pepper into, and Ithought it had better go to the cloth than anywhere else. Miss Kathleen, I have something very urgent to say to youbefore them two counterfeiters upstairs commit any affidavitsor sworn statements. "

"You dish out the eggs, Eliza, " said Kathleen, "and I'll sendthem up the dumb waiter. Quick, now! And where's your dessert? Isit ready?"

"All doing finely, Miss, " answered Eliza, but as she opened theoven door her assurance collapsed. She drew out a cottagepudding, blackened and burnt to carbon. 

"A great success, " said the bogus cook, but holding it on theother side of her apron so that Kathleen could not see. "Here, I'll just shoot it up the shaft myself before it gets cold. " Shehurried into the pantry, whisked it into the dumb waiter beforeKathleen could catch a glimpse, and sent it flying aloft. 

"That smelt a little burnt, cook, " said Kathleen. 

"Just a wee bit crisp on one side, miss. "

Kathleen was in the pantry, with her nose up the dumb-waitershaft, sniffing the trail of the cottage pudding and wonderingwhether she ought to recall it for inspection, when Eliza, turning toward the back door, saw the gas-man on the threshold. The cook's mind moved rapidly in this emergency. She knew that ifPriapus found himself face to face with Kathleen, dangerousexposures would follow at once. 

"Mary, " she whispered to the maid, who had just come down fromupstairs, "run tell the Mistress the gas-man is here again. I'llsend him down the cellar. " And while Kathleen was still in thepantry and before the pseudo gas-man could demur, Eliza seizedhim by the coat and hurried him across the kitchen to the cellardoor. She opened this and pointed downstairs. The bewilderedgas-man disappeared down the steps and Eliza closed the door andturned the key. 

"Now, Miss, " said Eliza. "I have something very serious to say toyou--"

Just at that moment she saw the clerical black of the ReverendMr. Carter coming down the kitchen stairs. 

"--and that is, we'd best get this fruit up without delay, " andseizing a large bowl of apples, oranges, and bananas, she passedit to Kathleen and backed her into the pantry again. Kathleenunsuspectingly pushed the fruit up the dumb waiter and meanwhileit took no more than an instant for Eliza to take the curate bythe arm, motion him to silence, and push him toward the cellardoor. 

"He's down there, " she whispered, and Carter innocently followedhis fellow Scorpion. Again Eliza closed the door and turned thekey. 

"Well, Eliza, " said Kathleen, "I don't think you're much of acook, but you're a willing worker. "

"Miss Kathleen, " said the cook, who was now more anxious thanever to cleanse her bosom of much perilous stuff, "are you verydown on practical jokes?"

"Practical jokes? Why, yes, Eliza. I think they are the lowestform of humour. Good gracious! I do believe we've forgotten thecoffee! Have you got it ready?"

"Yes, Miss; yes, Miss; right here, " said Eliza, bustling to thestove. "But don't you think, miss, that a frank confession atonesfor a great deal?"

"Really, Eliza, you are the most priceless creature! I don'twonder Joe was taken with you! Hush! There's the front-door bell;what do you suppose that is?"

They both listened, Kathleen at the dumb-waiter shaft and Elizaat the kitchen door. Eliza started to say something, but Kathleenwaved her to be quiet. A heavy step sounded on the stair, and theagitated Mary appeared, followed by a huge policeman. Eliza, ofcourse, recognized the Iron Duke, but the gas-light and thedisguise prevented the latter from knowing his fellow venturer. 

"What on earth is the matter?" said Kathleen. 

"Please, Miss, " said the blue-coat, "your mother said there's agas-man down here and I've been sent by headquarters to take himin charge. I think he's a sneak thief. "

"There's no such person here, officer, " said Kathleen. 

Eliza still kept her sovereign wits about her. She advanced tothe policeman, and whispering mysteriously "He's in here, " tookhis sleeve and led him to the cellar door. 

"He's down there, " she repeated; "put the cuffs on him, quick!"She opened the door, and the doubtful policeman, hypnotized byher decision, stepped on to the cellar stairs. The door closedbehind him, and again Eliza turned the key. 

"What does all this mean?" demanded Kathleen, angrily. "Haseverybody gone daft? Eliza, ever since you came into the house, there has been nothing but turmoil. I wish you would explain. Whyhave you sent the policeman into the cellar?"

"There's three dangerous counterfeiters down there, Miss, " saidEliza. "I want to tell you the truth about this, Miss Kathleen, before that American gets down here--he's bound to be here soon. He's the worst of the lot. "

"Open that door at once!" said Kathleen, stamping her foot. "Idon't know what on earth you mean by counterfeiters, but if thereare any down there, let's have them up, and see what they have tosay. "

The dining-room bell rang, and Mary instinctively hurriedupstairs. At the same moment Blair ran down, three steps at atime, and bounded into the kitchen. He started when he saw Eliza. 

"Are you all right, Miss Kent?" he asked, anxiously. "I've beenso worried about you. Is that gas-man still here? I think I cansmell gas escaping. Can I help in any way?"

"What you smell is a burnt cottage pudding, " replied Kathleen. "There's a policeman in the cellar, I wish you'd call him up. Ihave a great mind to ask him to take Eliza in charge. I don'tthink she's quite right. "

Blair looked at Eliza closely. 

"I agree with you, Miss Kathleen, " he said. "She looks like a badegg to me--a devilled egg, in fact. Which is the cellar door, cook?"

Eliza saw her chance. 

"Right here, sir, " she said, taking hold of the door knob. Sheswung the door open. 

"Looks very dark, " said Blair. "I can't quite see the step. Whereis it?"

Eliza, eager to add this last specimen to her anthology in thecellar, stepped forward to point out the stairway. With one lustypush Blair shoved her through the door, and banged it to. Heturned the key in the lock and thrust it into his pocket. 

"Miss Kent, " he said, "I'm afraid you must think us all crazy. Ifyou will only let me have five minutes' uninterrupted talk withyou, I can explain these absurd misadventures. Please, won't youlet me?"

"To tell you the truth, " said Kathleen, "I'm hungry. I've hadonly a plate of soup, and that was--counterfeit. I think that madwoman intended it for the curate, for whom she had conceived adislike. "

"Let's go up and sit in the dining-room, and I can talk while youeat. "

At that moment Mrs. Kent's voice sounded at the top of thestairs. 

"Kathleen, dear, is everything all right?"

"Yes, Mother, " called Kathleen in the same silvery soprano thatset Blair's heart dancing. 

"Your father wants Mr. Blair to come up to the drawing-roomand talk to him. He wants to tell him about the Battle ofWolverhampton. "

XIII

Blair, nervously playing with a key, stood by the fire in thedrawing-room. Mrs. Kent had excused herself and gone upstairs. Inthe dining-room, across the hall, he could see Kathleen gleaningover the supper table while the maid cleared away the dishes. Inspite of his peevishness, he smiled to see her pick up one of thestuffed eggs on a fork, taste it, and lay it down with a grimace. At the other end of the drawing-room Mr. Kent, leaning on hiscane, was rummaging among some books. 

"Here we are, " said the antiquarian, hobbling back with severalheavy tomes. "Here is Clarendon's History. Now I want to read youwhat he has to say about that incident in 1645, then I will readyou my manuscript notes, to show you how they fill up the gaps. Kathleen!"

"Yes, Dad, " answered Kathleen, coming into the room. 

"Will you get me my glasses, dear?"

"Yes, indeed, " and she ran across the room to fetch them from thebookcase where he had left them. She seated herself on the arm ofher father's chair. She was a charming and graceful figure, swinging the slender ankle that the Scorpions afterward describedwith imaginative fervour as "a psalm, " "a fairy-tale, " and "anaurora borealis. " They none of them ever agreed as to the dressshe wore that evening; but Eliza Thick, who was perhaps the mostobservant, declared that it looked like a chintz curtain. I thinkit must have had small sprigs of flowers printed on it. Her eyes, exclaimed the broken-hearted gas-man, were like "a twilight withonly two stars. " Perhaps he meant a street with two lampslighted. 

"Oh, I'm so glad you're going to read your notes to Mr. Blair, "she said, mischievously. "They are so fascinating, and there'ssuch a jolly lot of them. "

"Perhaps Mr. Kent's eyes are tired?" said Blair, hastily. 

"Not a bit, not a bit!" said Mr. Kent. "I don't often get such agood listener. By the way, what happened to that nice youngcurate? I hope the gas-man didn't injure him?"

Kathleen looked at Blair with dancing eyes. 

"He had to go, " declared Blair. "He was awfully sorry. He askedme to make his apologies. "

"Perhaps the Bishop sent for him suddenly, " said Kathleen. 

"Well, " resumed Mr. Kent, "I shall begin with the Battle ofNaseby. After that memorable struggle, a portion of the royalistforces--"

The front-door bell trilled briskly. 

"Oh, dear me, " sighed poor Mr. Kent, looking up from his papers. "The fates are against us, Mr. Blair. "

The Scotch terrier had been lying by the fire, caressed by thetoe of Kathleen's slipper, as she sat on the arm of her father'schair. Suddenly he jumped up, wagging his tail, and barked withevident glee. A tall, dark-eyed girl, a little older thanKathleen, pushed the hall curtains aside and darted into theroom. 

"Joe, you darling!" cried Kathleen. "How's your leg?"

"What do you mean?" asked Joe. "Which leg? What's wrong with it?"

"Well, Joe, my dear, this is a jolly surprise, " said Mr. Kent, laying aside his books. "We heard you were laid up. Somemisunderstanding somewhere. We've got a friend of yours here, yousee--Mr. Blair. "

Blair wished he could have sunk through the floor. He would havegiven anything to be with the other four in the darkness of thecellar. His ears and cheeks burned painfully. 

"How do you do, Mr. Blair, " said Josephine, cordially. "Theremust be some mistake, I've never met Mr. Blair before. "

"My dear Joe, " cried Kathleen, "I do think we have all gone nuts. Look here!" She took three sheets of paper from the mantelpiece. "Did you or did you not send us those telegrams?"

Joe ran her eye over the messages, reading them aloud. 

"_Miss Kathleen Kent:_

"_My friend Blair of Trinity now in Wolverhampton for historicalstudy staying at Blue Boar nice chap American--_"

Here Joe raised her eyes and looked appraisingly at Blair, whoseconfusion was agonizing. 

"_may he call on you if so send him a line sorry can't write hurthand playing soccer love to all. Joe_. "

"_Frederick Kent: Unavoidably detained Oxford hurt leg playingsoccer wish you could join me at once very urgent. Joe_. "

She bent down to the terrier which was standing affectionately ather feet. 

"Well, Fred, old boy, " she said, patting him, "did Joe send you atelegram, heh?"

"_Mrs. Philip Kent: Have found very good cook out of place amsending her to you earnestly recommend give her a trial reliablewoman but eccentric name Eliza Thick will call Sunday morning. Joe_. "

"My dear Kathleen, " said Joe, "you flatter me. I never sent anyof those messages. Do you know any other Joes?"

"I beg your pardon, Miss Kent, " said Blair. "But I must tell you. I sent two of those telegrams, and I think I can guess who sentthe other. Miss Eliza Thick herself. "

"You!" exclaimed Mr. Kent and both girls in the same breath. 

"Yes, Mr. Kent. I blush to confess it, but you and your familyhave been abominably hoaxed, and I can see nothing for it but toadmit the truth. Painful as it is, I prefer to tell youeverything. "

The two girls settled themselves on the couch and Mr. Kent, bewildered, sat upright in his chair. The dog, satisfied thateverything was serene, jumped on the divan and lay down betweenJoe and Kathleen. The unhappy Blair stood awkwardly on the hearthrug. 

"Last January, " he began, "a gentleman by the name of KennethForbes, an undergraduate of Merton College (now studying the gasmeter in your cellar), was in Blackwell's book shop, in Oxford, browsing about. Lying on a row of books in a corner of the shophe happened to see a letter, without an envelope. He picked it upand glanced at it. It had evidently been dropped there by somecustomer. 

"The address engraved on the paper was 318, Bancroft Road, Wolverhampton. It was dated last October and the letter began:'Dear Joe, Thank you so much for the tie--it is pretty and I dowear ties sometimes, so I sha'n't let the boys have it. ' In theupper left-hand corner were four crosses, and the words 'Theseare from Fred. ' The letter was signed 'Kathleen. '"

The two girls looked at each other. 

"It so happened, " continued Blair, "that the man who found theletter had promised to write, the very next day, the firstchapter of a serial story for a little literary club to which hebelonged. At the time when he found this letter lying about thebookshop he was racking his brain for a theme for his openingchapter. A great idea struck him. He put the letter in his pocketand hurried back to his room. 

"His idea was to build up a story around the characters of theletter. He had no idea whom it came from or to whom it wasaddressed. The thought of making these unknown persons of theletter the figures of the story appealed to him, and with aneager pen he set down the first chapter, with 'Kathleen' asheroine and 'Joe' as hero. "

A faint line of colour crept up Kathleen's girlish cheek. 

"This idea, which suggested itself to Forbes when he found theletter in the bookshop, was taken up enthusiastically bythe group of undergraduates composing the little club. Thefabrication of the story was the chief amusement of the term. 

"It would be unfair to me and to the other men not to say franklythat the whim was not taken up in any malicious or underhandspirit. Given the idea as it first came to the man in thebookshop, the rest flowed naturally out of it, urged by highspirits. I must tell you honestly that the characters of thatletter became very real to us. We speculated endlessly on theirpersonalities, tastes, and ages. We all became frantic admirersof the lady who had signed the letter, and considered ourselvesjealous rivals of the man 'Joe, ' to whom, as we supposed, it hadbeen written. And when the end of term came, the five members whohad entered most completely into the spirit of the game agreed tocome to Wolverhampton for the express purpose of attempting tomake the acquaintance of the Kathleen who had so engaged theirfancy. "

"Really, I think this is dreadfully silly, " said Kathleen, colouring. "Joe, are we characters in a serial, or are we realpersons?"

"This confession is very painful for me, Mr. Kent, " said Blair, "because things don't seem to have turned out at all as wethought, and I'm afraid we have abused your hospitalitybarbarously. I can only beg that you will forgive this wildprank, which was actuated by the most innocent motives. "

"Then do I understand, " asked Mr. Kent, "that your interest inWolverhampton history was merely simulated, for the purpose ofmaking the acquaintance of my daughter?"

"You make me very much ashamed, sir, but that is the truth. "

Mr. Kent rose to his feet, leaning on his cane. 

"Well, well, " he said, "I have no wish to seem crabbed. I'm sorryto lose so excellent a listener. I thought it was too good to betrue! But when one has a daughter one must expect her to grow up, and become the heroine of serial stories. I trust that that storyis not to be published--I can ask that, at least!"

"Our intention, " said Blair, "was to give the manuscript to MissKent as a token of our united admiration. "

"Well, " said Mr. Kent, "make my apologies to the otherconspirators. I take it that that dreadful Eliza Thick was one ofthem. I hope our cook will be back to-morrow. Upon my word, thosestuffed eggs were indescribable! Joe, my dear, suppose you let metake you up to see your aunt. I expect these people will want torecriminate each other a little, and reach some sort ofmisunderstanding. "

Joe and Mr. Kent left the room, but a moment later Mr. Kentreappeared at the door. 

"Mr. Blair, " he said, "please don't think me lacking insportsmanship. I was young once myself. I just wanted to say thatI think you all staged it remarkably well. Give Mr. Carter mycompliments on that telegram from the Bishop. "

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Blair, as Mr. Kent vanished behind thecurtains. "I forgot. Those fellows are still down in the cellar. "He held out the key. "I must let them out. "

"Wait a minute, " said Kathleen. "I have no desire to see thatEliza Thick again, nor that odious curate--not even theenterprising gas-man!"

For the space of fifteen thoughts or so there was silence. Kathleen sat at one end of the big couch, the firelightshimmering round her in a softening glow. Blair stood painfullyat the other side of the hearth. 

"Miss Kathleen, " he said, "I want to beg you, on behalf of theother fellows, not to be too severe with them. I guess I'm theworst offender, with my bogus telegrams and my deliberatedeception of your father. But I ought to explain that we all camehere with a definite intention in mind. The man who was firstable to engage you in friendly conversation and get you to acceptan invitation to come to Oxford for Eights Week, was to be thewinner of the competition. "

"I've already accepted an invitation for Eights Week, " she said, after a pause. 

He uttered a dejected silence that was a classic of its kind, amarvel of accurate registration. 

Kathleen looked up at him for the first time since his confessionof the hoax. Their eyes met. 

"Is it Carter?" he asked, woefully. 

"I've promised to go and stay with Joe at Maggie Hall. "

"Look here, " he said. "I expect to row in the Trinity boat. Willyou and your mother and--and Miss Joe--watch the racing from ourbarge, one afternoon anyway? Then you could come to tea in myrooms afterward, and I'll ask the other fellows in to meet you. "

"The parson and the policeman and the gas-man, and--and--ElizaThick?"

"Yes. They're all splendid chaps, I know you'll like them. "

"Well, " she murmured, "I dare say Eliza Thick would be all rightin his proper costume. I shall never forget his nest-buildinggenius! Now I understand what he meant by all that talk aboutcounterfeiters. "

"You will come to the Trinity barge?" he begged. 

There was a pause. A dropping coal clicked in the grate, andKathleen's small slipper tapped on the fender. 

"I should think, " she said, "that a man as persistent as youwould make a good oar. I'm glad the others aren't Americans, too. It was bad enough as it was!"

"Miss Kathleen, " he pleaded, "I guess I can't make you understandwhat I'd like to. But if you'll just come punting up the Cher, onSunday in Eights Week, there are so many things I'd like to tellyou. "

"Yes, I've always wanted to hear about America, and thedifference between a Republican and a Democrat. "

"And you _will_ come?"

Kathleen rose, laughing. 

"I have already accepted Joe's invitation, " she said. "Good-night, Mr. Blair. " She gave him her hand. 

He held it as long as he dared, looking her straight in the eye. "I'm not nearly as jealous of Joe as I was!"

She was gone through the curtains, a flash of dainty grace. Thenher face reappeared. 

"If you care to call again some time, Dad would love to read youthose notes on the Battle of Wolverhampton!"

Blair looked round the room. The dog, lying by the fire, got up, stretched, and wagged his tail. Blair pulled out his watch. "Giminy!" he said, "I'd better go down and let those poor devilsout of the cellar. "

THE END