I

We left Inigo Jollifant hurrying away from Washbury Manor in the darkness of Monday night. We have just seen him arrive at the Station Refreshment Rooms in Rawsley on Thursday afternoon. In order to understand how he came to be there at all, we must know what happened to him during those three days, or, to be more precise, those sixty-four hours that began at 12:30 a.m. on Tuesday.

Then it was that Inigo decided that Fauntley had been right. He ought to have gone to bed. The night was not warm enough and certainly not light enough to make walking very pleasant, especially after a long day of French and History and birthday celebrations. He ought to have drunk more Rob Roy or less. As it was, Rob had played him false, for after conjuring him out of the school, out of his bed, he had not stayed with him and kept him glowing inside but had gradually dropped behind, and now, at the end of half an hour’s walk, had slunk away altogether. A little more Rob or a little less, and he would have been in bed now. So Inigo argued, and incidentally entertained himself, as he walked the last half mile or so of a familiar side-road that linked Washbury to the world. When he came at last to the main road, running north and south, he was back again in the world, but there was little of it to be seen as nothing was happening in it. He turned to the right, then spent the next minute wondering which of the faint points of light was the North Star, and the next ten minutes wondering about stars in general. It was, as usual, a cheerless meditation. If you are going to bother about these things, he decided, you have to turn astronomer, to weigh them and measure them, out of sheer self-defence.

A rumble that he had heard behind him for some time turned at last into a lorry. This was the first vehicle he had seen on the road. He turned round and gave a shout when it came near. It pulled up, but the driver seemed dubious when he was asked for a lift.

“It’s all right,” said Inigo, “I’m on a walking tour.”

That was sufficient. The driver realized at once that a man on a walking tour is an enemy to nobody but himself, and may safely be given a lift.

“But I can’t take yer far,” the driver shouted as they rumbled on again. “About ten mile and no more. That’s where I finish. I live there, yer see.”

“Where?”

“Near Dullingham. And I’ll tell yer what. Yer can get a train at Dullingham Junction. Yer wouldn’t think it but yer can. It’s the only place for miles and miles where yer can get a train at this time o’ night is Dullingham Junction.”

“Splendid!” cried Inigo at the top of his voice. The lorry appeared to be full of suits of armour carelessly packed. “I like to hear that. You wouldn’t imagine anything ever happened at a place with a name like that, would you? Dullingham Junction! Where do they go to, these trains?”

“I dunno. Up Lincoln and Grimsby way or Doncaster way I dare say, but I don’t rightly know. I’ve never been on ’em but there’s a feller I know, feller called Harry Briggs, works at the station and I know he’s on duty at night for this train. Always late too, he tells me. I’m not sure he isn’t on this week.”

“I’d like to have a look at this station.”

“That’s right,” roared the driver. “I’ll put yer down close to it.” And then he went on to shout of other matters, the chief of them being a very awkward journey he had just made to Northampton, and he so often demanded agreement that Inigo, who felt that he ought to be sympathetic, made himself hoarse before the ten miles were covered.

At last the driver pulled up and pointed. “There y’are. See them lights. That’s Dullingham Junction. Yer just go down that bit o’ road and yer there. See if it’s Harry Briggs.”

The road curved down sharply to the station. As he descended, Inigo could see the signal lights, the faint gleam of the metals, and a dim yellow glow from somewhere in the station itself. His spirits dropped at the sight. There was something very melancholy about Dullingham Junction. The wide night itself was somehow not so cheerless as this halfhearted attempt to drive it away, this sad glimmer of light. It was so quiet too. He could not imagine a train ever arriving there. The usual cheerful railway bustle seemed as remote from this little station as Paddington itself. He began to ask himself what he was going there for, whether it would not be better to return to the main road, and about twenty yards or so from the entrance he stopped and leaned against the wooden rail at the side of the road. Dullingham Junction only confirmed his opinion that he was indeed a young ass.

Perhaps he would have turned away (and walked out of this chronicle altogether) had he not heard a most astonishing sound. The sound itself was pleasing and its unexpectedness, its daft incongruity, were ravishing. He listened in delight, telling himself that he had judged Dullingham Junction too hastily. It was saying that he was not a young ass, that this is still a world in which midnight exits may be rewarded, that he has not everything who has bed and breakfast. Somebody in Dullingham Junction was playing the banjo.

If this was Harry Briggs, Inigo decided as he drew nearer, then Harry Briggs was wasting his time in the service of the London and North Eastern Railway, for this banjo was not being fumbled with but was being played. The night retreated hastily before its impudent twanka-pang, twanka-pang. Tired as he was, Inigo found that his feet itched to break into a double shuffle. If the station had been crammed with grinning coons, buried under melons and cotton blossoms, he would not have been surprised.

He walked through the booking office, where only one tiny light was burning, and on to the dim and empty platform. The banjoist, now in a happy fury of syncopation, was obviously in the waiting-room. Inigo peeped in through the half-opened door. At one side of the little fire was Harry Briggs or one of his colleagues, a young man with a round red face, and at the other side, sprawling on the seat, was the banjoist himself. One was so busy playing and the other staring and listening, with his mouth wide open, that Inigo stood there several minutes without being observed.

With a final and triumphant wag of his head, the banjoist concluded his performance. “How about that, my boy?” he cried, holding up the banjo as if inviting it to share in the applause. “You’ve heard that? Now where are you going to hear the next like it? Can I rattle the old banjo or can I not?”

“You can that, Mister,” replied his audience earnestly. “My word, you’ve got a touch, you ’ave!”

“You’ve said it. I have got a touch,” the banjoist remarked with dignity. His utterance was rather thick and there were other indications that he had been refreshing himself very generously earlier in the night. Apart from this thickness, however, his voice was peculiar. It was a curious, harsh drawl, and though he could not be said to have a definite American accent, nevertheless his accent was not quite an English one. It was so unusual that it excited Inigo’s curiosity.

“You ’ave got a touch, and I don’t care where the next one comes from,” his listener went on, enthusiastically if a trifle vaguely. “What about giving us just another, Mister? ’Ere, do you know ‘’Er ’Air Was Golden’?” And, fixing his gaze sternly on his companion, who looked rather startled, the railwayman sang very slowly and solemnly, with the most lugubrious portamentos, the following ballad:

“Errair was go‑olden on the day
She gave ’er love to mee-yer,
And though it’s long since turned to gray,
We’re still in sympathee-yer,
And ’and in ’and⁠—”

But here he was interrupted.

“No, no,” cried the banjoist. “No, don’t know it. And between you and me, stationmaster, it’s not quite my style. A little too heavy on the sentimental side, too much heart message, for me, a matter of taste, you know, a matter of taste.”

“Ar, ar, I like a good ballad.”

“You like ’em tender and trew, I can see that,” said the banjoist, with a droll glance. “That’s because you stay up so late by yourself, waiting for the midnight express. Did you ever see The Midnight Express⁠—the drama? I played in it once for three nights in Montreal!”

Inigo chose this moment for his entrance.

“Hallow, hallow!” cried the performer. “What’s this?”

The railwayman jumped to his feet, looking startled, and was then annoyed because he had felt frightened for a moment or so. “ ’Ere, what’s the idea?” he demanded angrily. “Coming creeping in like that!” Then, having taken a good look at Inigo, he moderated his tone. “Beg your pardon, but you made me jump. What is it you want?”

“I want a train,” replied Inigo, though up to that moment he had not really thought about trains.

“Oh, you want the 1:20, eh? Where do you want to go to?”

“Where do I want to go to? Now that’s rather a puzzler. Let me see,” Inigo meditated. “Well, what about Stockport?”

“Stockport! You can’t get to Stockport on this line.”

The banjoist now took charge of them. “Stockport,” he repeated, rather condescendingly. “Ever been to Stockport?”

“Never set eyes on it,” Inigo told him.

“Then my advice is⁠—don’t bother. There’s nothing there, not at all. I know it well, my boy. I’ve been there; I’ve been everywhere. If you do go, you ask ’em. Ask ’em at the Red Lion if they don’t know me. They’ll remember me all right. Morton Mitcham, that’s my name. They’ll remember Morton Mitcham.” And he stood up, perhaps to show exactly what it was they would not be able to forget. He was certainly not a person who would be easily forgotten. He was tall but very thin, and his clothes, a light check, merely hung upon him. There was a Shakespearian cast about the upper part of his head, for he was bald on the crown but had very thick dark hair at each side, bushed about his ears. His eyebrows were immense and dramatic; his nose boasted a fine curve and a rather richer colouring than the rest of his face; his long upper lip and his long pointed chin were blue; his slightly hollow cheeks were blue below and brown above; and indeed his whole face had that curious parchmenty look that comes from exposure, at some time or other, to hotter suns than this country ever sees. His collar and tie reminded Inigo vaguely of Tenniel’s Mad Hatter. Altogether, Mr. Morton Mitcham was an unusual person; his appearance was as puzzling as his accent, oddly combining the tropical planter, the tragic actor of the old school, and a rather down-at-heels senator from one of the remoter states of those that are united.

“I was listening to you playing the banjo,” Inigo told him. “And by jingo, it was good too. It’s a rattling good instrument played like that.”

“It is. But it’s a difficult instrument, let me tell you. Yes, sir. It’s good, as you say, when it’s played like that, but how often is it played like that?”

“Ar,” said the railwayman fervently. “That’s right.”

Mr. Mitcham fumbled in a waistcoat pocket and finally brought out about an inch and a half of dusty cheroot. “Indian cheroot,” he explained. “There’s nothing to beat ’em once you acquire the taste. I had twenty boxes of the very best given to me once when I was up at Bangalore. I never knew who sent ’em, didn’t know a thing. ‘To Morton Mitcham Esquire from an admirer’⁠—that’s all it said, on a plain card. Woman’s handwriting, though. I’ve one or two of the boxes still, in there.” He pointed to a very large and disreputable bag on the seat. “I’ve carried ’em round ever since. But no cheroots in ’em. Ha, ha!” Nor did it seem likely that he had any stock of cheroots with him, for the one he was lighting now had evidently been smoked before. He began putting away his banjo in its case. “You a musician?” he inquired of Inigo.

“I play the piano from time to time.”

“A professional?” And he raised his immense eyebrows.

“No, a very ordinary amateur.”

“Ah, pity!” Mr. Mitcham lowered his eyebrows, but did not condescend to explain why it was a pity.

Inigo suddenly remembered the chocolate and biscuits that Daisy Callander had given him, and now he brought them out, inviting the others to eat with him.

“You’re a traveller, a campaigner, a trouper, my boy, I can see that,” cried Mr. Mitcham approvingly, helping himself and carefully extinguishing the cheroot. “Give me a few biscuits and some chocolate and a few bottles of whisky, rye for choice, and I’ll face anything. Blizzard, shipwreck, anything. I once lived for a fortnight on nothing else, up on the Black Hills between Wyoming and South Dakota⁠—”

“South Dakota!” Inigo’s cry was ecstatic. The man must really have been there because you couldn’t think of South Dakota, couldn’t just lift it out of some mental map.

“Yes, South Dakota. There were two of us. Let me see, what was that fellow’s name? Ah, yes⁠—Sheerman. He was an ex-Wesleyan minister who’d been running a quick-lunch bar down in Denver. Hardest winter they’d known for forty years, and the two of us walked right into it.”

“Have another biscuit,” said Inigo enthusiastically.

“Thanks, my boy, I will. Of course we’d whisky there too, any amount of it. Perhaps you’re thinking whisky wouldn’t shake down with biscuits and chocolate, but let me tell you, they’re fine together. If you’ve got a flask with you, just try it.”

“Sorry, but I haven’t.”

“Always carry a flask,” said Mr. Mitcham severely. Then he turned to the railwayman, who was demolishing a gigantic sandwich. “What about that tea you were talking about, stationmaster?”

The other mumbled something in his sandwich. Evidently he was dubious now that there were three of them.

“You’re not Harry Briggs by any chance, are you?” Inigo asked him.

He was Harry Briggs; admitted the fact with delight, and insisted upon Inigo explaining exactly how he came to hear of him. When the identity of the lorry-driver had been fully established, Harry Briggs at once changed his attitude towards Inigo, who felt he was now regarded almost as an old Dullinghamian. His round red face beaming at the thought of what coincidence could do, Harry Briggs set to work now to make some tea.

Mr. Mitcham fastened the straps of his banjo-case. “Just a little hobby of mine, you know,” he remarked airily, tapping the case. “But it’s most useful; made the evening go all over the place. ‘Ask Morton Mitcham to come in and play his banjo,’ they’d say. Guest nights at Residencies, you know, and that sort of thing. I’ve played to at least half a dozen colonial governors in my time, and they simply ate it, simply ate it⁠—all except one and that was old Lord Stennenfield.”

“What was the matter with him?” asked Inigo. “No soul?”

“Deaf as a post, couldn’t hear his own brass cannon going off. And the best bridge-player east of Alexandria, they used to tell me. That’s what he wanted, you see. ‘Get the card tables out,’ he shouts, right in the middle of my performance, I walked straight out. You can’t do that to Morton Mitcham.”

“Quite right,” murmured Inigo. “You’re an artist, sir, I can see that.” And he saluted him with a stick of chocolate.

“Well, I’ve been told so. I’ve been asked to give lessons by a colonial governor. I’ll give you his name⁠—though this is in confidence, gentlemen.” And he looked sternly at Harry Briggs, who was standing open-mouthed, with a kettle in his hand. “It was Sir Elkin Pondberry. ‘Damn it all, Mitcham,’ he said to me, ‘you’ll have to teach me how to play that thing.’ ‘Very proud, Sir Elkin,’ I told him, ‘but it can’t be done.’ ‘Damn it all,’ he said, ‘it must be done.’ ‘It would take years,’ I told him. ‘Then you’ll have to stay here years,’ he said. ‘I’ll have you kept here, Mitcham, damned if I won’t.’ ‘Can’t be done,’ I told him, ‘I’m catching the next boat up to Bangkok.’ And he had to give in. But I told him about Stennenfield⁠—they were meeting at Singapore very soon⁠—and showed him how to deal himself four aces and four kings. ‘Damn me if you’re not a genius, Mitcham,’ he said when he’d got the hang of it. ‘I’ll try that on old Stennenfield.’ And he did, and it was the great joke that year in all the clubs out there. I heard about it up at Hong Kong.”

“Hong Kong!” cried Inigo, who was feeling rather dazed. “You’ve held the gorgeous East in fee, absolutely. But what about those aces and kings? You’re not a conjuror, are you?”

“Not exactly a conjuror. I’ve never bothered about illusions and the mechanical trick acts, you know. But sleight of hand’s a hobby of mine. I think I can do most things with a pack of cards.”

“You’ve got a heap o’ talent, if you ask me, Mister,” said Harry Briggs, who had now made the tea. “I wish I’d only got a bit of it. You wouldn’t catch me ’ere. You’ve got a touch on that there banjoey, my word! ’Ere, ’ave a drop o’ tea. One’ll ’ave to ’ave the cup and other the saucer.”

“It passes the time, it passes the time,” said Mr. Mitcham, and with an apparent absence of mind, he took possession of the cup. “I’ve found these little accomplishments useful now and again on my travels, and polished ’em up a bit as I went along. I learned a trick or two in the sleight-of-hand business from an old Chink I met one time in Shanghai, and then another time one of the Frenchified niggers you get in New Orleans showed me one or two things I didn’t know about playing the banjo when I was down there. Though one of the best players I ever heard⁠—in a class right above all these New York jazz-band men, and, mind you, I’ve heard them all⁠—was an old Irishman I struck down in Sydney.”

“There’s a cousin o’ mine there,” Harry Briggs put in eagerly, “same name as me, except he’s Jim, and he drives a van for a laundry. You might ’ave come across ’im.”

“What, Jim Briggs of the laundry!” cried Mr. Mitcham, with a wink at Inigo. “I knew him well. He told me he’d a cousin down here. ‘Look him up,’ he said, ‘if you’re ever at Dullingham Junction.’ ”

“That was clever of ’im, seeing that I’ve only worked ’ere six months and it’s two or three years since we ’eard from ’im. You can’t pull my leg, Mister.”

“Well, it’s fifteen years or more since I was there,” remarked Mr. Mitcham imperturbably. “I’ve been all over since then. I’m a wanderer over the face of the earth, I am, my boys. I’ve only been back in the Old Country two years, just looking round, you know, visiting a few old friends.”

“Ar, a gentleman o’ leisure like, now,” Mr. Briggs observed with respectful envy.

“You’ve hit it,” said Ulysses, in his queer harsh drawl, now American, now English. Once more he brought out the stub of cheroot, this time a very small and dusty stub, lit it, and blew out clouds of smoke in a manner that contrived to suggest leisure, a rich indolence, a return at last from innumerable and astonishing journeys round and round the globe.

“Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage,” said Inigo, who was wondering how this incredible personage had ever been able to land himself at Dullingham Junction in the middle of the night. It was really surprising that he had been able to find this small island of ours at all.

“That’s right, my boy,” he replied condescendingly. Then he yawned. “What about that train of yours?”

“Should be ’ere this next half-hour,” said Harry Briggs, slowly turning himself into a railway official again. “She’s an hour late tonight. I’ll just ’ave a walk round.” And he lumbered out.

“I don’t know whether I shall bother catching it,” said Mr. Mitcham, settling himself down on the seat. “I’m going on to Nottingham, just to see a few old friends, you know. But I might as well wait until the morning now. I missed a connection down the line.

“Did you?” yawned Inigo. “Where was the place?”

“Um⁠—I don’t remember.” For once, it seemed, that unusual memory of his had failed him.

Inigo had a suspicion that Mr. Morton Mitcham had not missed any connection. Mr. Morton Mitcham was a very unusual person, either a great traveller or a great liar. Inigo decided that he wanted to see more of him.

What he did see, however, was Mr. Tarvin. He and Mr. Tarvin were struggling through deep snow up a hill, and when they were halfway up, Mr. Tarvin stopped and looked round, saying: “All this is South Dakota then. Chumha. Just call the boys, Jollifant,” and he called the boys, though there were none to be seen. But the next moment they were there, a whole crowd of them, making the most extraordinary humming noise. It made Inigo so angry that he shouted at them, but they made more noise than ever. Then he stared so fiercely at the nearest boy, young Withington, that he stared himself out of South Dakota altogether, back again into the waiting-room, where Mr. Morton Mitcham was sleeping with his mouth wide open and snoring prodigiously.

Inigo stretched himself out at full length on the seat and used his knapsack as a pillow. He listened to the snores for a minute or two, then slipped away again, not into South Dakota this time, but into oblivion. There he stayed, though once or twice it seemed as if the darkness and quiet were being mysteriously invaded, as if there were alarms and skirmishes on some distant frontier.

II

Somebody was shaking him. He opened his eyes, to see a black moustache, large and badly trimmed, and it annoyed him so much that he closed his eyes again. “Now then, sir, now then!” it said.

Inigo did not feel called upon to reply.

“Time you was moving if you want the 6:45,” it went on.

This remark was so extraordinary that it opened his eyes again. The waiting-room looked quite different in the morning light. He stared at the porter. “Where’s Morton Mitcham?” he asked.

The porter shook his head. “ ’Tain’t on this line. I never ’eard of it.”

“It’s not a station but a man. He was sitting there last night, talking about banjos in Bangkok and conjuring in Singapore. Unless I dreamt him.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m that way myself,” said the porter earnestly. “Let me ’ave a few or a bit of tinned salmon last thing, and I’m off, all night. The stuff I’ve seen! Banjos and Singapore’s nothing to it.”

“I don’t know that I care for Old Rob Roy,” Inigo mused. “He’s split my head open and left a sort of dark brown taste in my mouth, as if I’d been chewing some of his Highland peat. But look here, where’s what’s-his-name⁠—wait a minute⁠—Harry Briggs?”

“Ar, now you’re talking! You didn’t dream ’im, I can tell you. Went off duty a bit back, he did. You missed the 1:20, didn’t you? Going North, aren’t you, sir?”

“Am I?” Inigo thought it over. “I suppose so, but before I go anywhere I want a bath and a shave and some health salts in a tumbler of tepid water and then some tea and toast. And perhaps an egg⁠—you never know⁠—one of those young and tender eggs, the little brown ones. Now,” and he produced a shilling, “what do you think about that programme?”

“Thank you, sir. Well, what I think is you’d best get on to Grantham on this next train. Dullingham’s no good to you, I give you my word. Get anything you like at Grantham, anything you like.” And the porter smacked his lips at the thought of this roaring metropolis.

So Inigo went to Grantham. He sneaked through the early morning sunshine to the Angel and Royal, where he slipped into a bathroom before most of its guests had looked at their early cups of tea, and had to keep several of them at bay because he stayed so long luxuriating in nakedness and warm water. By the time he was fit to appear at the breakfast table, he was ready for anything it had to offer. After breakfast he smoked his pipe and stared, in a rather dreamy fashion, at several newspapers, and it was half past ten when he finally took the road.

It was only because he was the prospective author of “The Last Knapsack,” that prose elegy of pedestrianism, that Inigo chose to walk out of the town, which offered him innumerable trains and buses. Walking did not seem very pleasant that morning; the day was warm already; the westward road was dusty and never free from motor traffic; and he did not feel inclined to exert himself. It was better when at last he was able to turn down a side-road, which brought him, after many a corner that seemed alarmingly like a blank end, to a small redbrick inn and bread and cheese and beer. There was nobody to talk to at the inn, for the landlord evidently had other work to do during the day, his wife had so little time to spare that she appeared even to serve the beer under protest, and there was no company; but Inigo lingered there until two o’clock, in a dreamy reverie. When he sauntered on again, skirting fields of stubble and bright but decaying woods, the beer within and the sun without conspired to make that reverie dreamier still.

He did not know where he was or where he was going, and he did not care. He drifted like a leaf down the vacant lane. The whole burnished afternoon was only an idle fantasy. “I move among shadows a shadow,” he told himself over and over again, for his mind was a shining jumble of quotations from the more melancholy anthologies. Here everything was golden, and nothing real perhaps except the dust. “Golden lads and girls⁠ ⁠… come to dust.” That was how it went, and that too he repeated with swelling vowels that sent little shivers of pleasure down his spine. He came at last to a place of exquisite shade and peace, where the lane turned into a narrow road and great branches hung over a grassy space at the corner. It was a place where a man could meditate or perhaps sleep for an hour. But someone had left a little car there. There was plenty of shaded space on either side of the car, but the sight of it, suggesting noise and fuss, kept Inigo standing where he was. The car spoilt the place. He looked at it in disgust. Then he looked at it in astonishment. He went nearer.

Yes, there it was. Along the bottom of the windscreen was a notice printed in bold crimson letters: Take heed for the end draweth nigh. In the rear compartment were a number of placards, two or three feet square and printed in even bolder crimson letters. Inigo did not scruple⁠—for clearly this was no time for scruples⁠—to take out two of them. And the stars of heaven fell upon the earth, even as a fig tree casteth her untimely figs, when she is shaken by a mighty wind. And the heaven departeth as a scroll when it is rolled together; and every mountain and island were moved out of their places. Then he turned to the other, which said: And I beheld, and heard an angel flying though the midst of heaven, saying with a loud voice, Woe, woe, woe, to the inhabiters of the earth by reason of the other voices of the trumpet of the three angels, which are yet to sound! He carefully replaced the placards and stretched himself on the grass by the side of this strange apocalyptic little car.

It was very quiet. The few sounds there were, a distant creaking, a vague twittering, were so remote that they might be coming from another world, another life. He stared out of the shade about him into the shimmer of green and gold beyond. The whole afternoon had been insubstantial. Now it all seemed little more than so much painted silk, quivering at a breath. Its fragility hurt him; he closed his eyes. But the ground he was resting on was solid enough, and the blades he pulled were the old sweet blades of grass. He opened his eyes again. The car itself, though a little battered, had very definite substance. He noticed it had been fitted quite recently with a new set of tyres. Inigo juggled idly with the thought of these tyres. Perhaps the prophet who owned the car bought them because he expected to be still running about in his car when the cities were sheets of flame and the mountains were fading like smoke. He might run right through Armageddon in it. That would be a record indeed; a nonstop run into the new heaven and earth. And all the journalists and advertising men, poor ghosts, biting their spectral lips because the very last edition had been printed, sold, withered away, long before! These fancies made Inigo feel more comfortable, though there was still a little hollow place, as hollow as the world without, inside him. He yawned, shut his eyes, wondered who owned the car, then fell asleep.

He awoke about an hour later, sat up, and discovered that the owner of the car was there, fussing with it. For a minute or two, Inigo could only blink at him, but he decided that the man looked disappointingly unprophetical. Their eyes met.

“Hello!” cried the man. “Do you think I disturbed you? I must have done, mustn’t I? But you weren’t here, were you, when I first came? It’s very warm this afternoon, isn’t it?” He spoke in rather high chanting tones, and as he spoke his whole face beamed. He was a man of about forty, and he had curly auburn hair damply clustered about a somewhat lumpy forehead, gold spectacles, prominent cheekbones, a small curling moustache and too many teeth. He was very neatly dressed in a dark blue suit and a black tie, and there was something vaguely evangelical about his appearance.

“I don’t think you disturbed me,” Inigo replied, “and it doesn’t matter if you did. It’s stupid to fall asleep like this, gives you a headache⁠—but I was awfully tired.” And he yawned.

The other flashed his spectacles at the knapsack. “You’ve been walking, haven’t you? I should think you’re taking a holiday, aren’t you? What splendid weather we’re having, aren’t we? Perhaps you’re going about alone, are you?”

“I wander lonely as a cloud, absolutely.” Inigo struggled to his feet.

“Ah, I recognize that, you know,” cried the other enthusiastically. “That’s Wordsworth, isn’t it? About the daffodils, isn’t it? A beautiful piece too, don’t you think? Now you’re probably not feeling like walking, are you? I wonder if I could give you a lift. I’m going on to Oxwell. Do you know it? Are you going that way at all?”

“To tell you the truth,” said Inigo, “I don’t know where I’m going. I’m just wandering about for a day or two, on a kind of holiday.”

“That’s splendid, isn’t it? Though, mind you, I don’t envy you because the work I am doing⁠—and it takes me all over the country⁠—is better than any holiday, much better. Do you know what I’m doing? Of course you don’t. I’m organizing secretary to the Second Resurrectionists. Perhaps you’re a Second Resurrectionist, are you?”

“No. I’m not even a First Resurrectionist. I’m afraid I never heard of them before.”

“Is that so?” The man’s face clouded for a moment, then brightened again. “But there, you have now, haven’t you? I thought you might be one because we’re holding one of our special gatherings tonight at Oxwell, and I thought you might be on your way there. I’m going there myself, but I told you that, didn’t I? Yes, the special meeting for all the East Midland district⁠—including both Ephraim and Gad⁠—”

“Ephraim and Gad!” cried Inigo. “What have they got to do with it?”

“Ah, that puzzles you, does it? You recognize them of course? Well, I must explain, mustn’t I? One moment, though. I must tell you my name.” He looked quite grave when he said this: “I’m E. G. Timpany.” Then he smiled again.

“And my name’s Jollifant, Inigo Jollifant⁠—rather absurd, isn’t it?”

E. G. Timpany held up his hand. “No, no, no. Not at all. You mustn’t say that. I know the name. Yes, I do. A Mrs. Jollifant is one of our prominent workers in the Southwestern district⁠—that’s Simeon, you know. Exeter is the headquarters of Simeon, and Mrs. Jollifant is, I believe, an Exeter lady. Yes, she keeps a teashop there. A relation perhaps?”

“I don’t think so,” replied Inigo. “But tell me about Gad and Ephraim, and why Exeter is in Simeon.”

“We divide up our country as Jehovah divided up Canaan among the twelve tribes. I was the humble instrument of the command. At the Annual Convention, someone complained about the confusion between the various districts. Our President turned to me. ‘Perhaps Mr. E. G. Timpany can suggest something,’ he said. At that very moment, I heard a Voice. And the Voice said ‘Look in your Bible.’ In a flash, I saw what we were to do. ‘Are we not the Children of Israel?’ I said, for we believe that the great Anglo-Saxon race is descended from the ten lost tribes, just as the British Israelites do, only we have looked further into things than they have. ‘We will divide up our territory as Canaan itself was divided,’ I said.” He stopped and took out his watch. “Time is getting on, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is,” said Inigo, disappointed. He did not want to lose Mr. E. G. Timpany.

“Now I want you to do me a favour, Mr. Jollifant. I’m sure you’re an educated man, aren’t you? Have you any profession?”

“I’m a schoolmaster of sorts.”

“A university man perhaps?”

“Cambridge. A Third in French, and a History Special.”

“A Special, eh? That’s splendid, isn’t it?” cried Mr. Timpany, whose notion of a Special was evidently quite different from that of the university authorities. “I knew, though, I knew. I could tell in a moment. You always can, can’t you? Not that I’m a university man myself. I’m not. I’m self-educated. I left school when I was fifteen⁠—a day school in Wolverhampton, it was⁠—and all I’ve had since has been a Correspondence Course⁠—in Accountancy, and very poor, I thought, not at all thorough⁠—and some evening classes in Commercial Spanish. That was before I discovered the great teacher, Mr. Jollifant⁠—the Bible, the common, everyday, beautiful old Bible.” And he suddenly produced one from nowhere, like a conjurer. “I’m sure you’re not one of these so-called higher critics, are you?”

Inigo truthfully replied that he wasn’t, but tried to convey the impression that he might have been a higher critic if he had cared about that sort of reputation.

“But there I go, talking and talking away,” said Mr. Timpany. “What I wanted to ask you, as a favour to me, was to come with me to Oxwell. You’ll be very welcome, Mr. Jollifant. There’s a high tea at half past six⁠—people coming from all parts, you see⁠—and then a gathering afterwards. I want you to come simply as my guest, my friend, if you don’t mind my calling you that, and I’m sure you don’t, do you? Now what do you say? I’d like nothing better than to stay here and talk to you about some of our Second Resurrection truths, but⁠—as you can see, can’t you?⁠—I haven’t the time.” And he smiled his wide innocent smile, with its flashing confusion of ivories, and passed a hand over his damp forehead and auburn curls.

There was no resisting this invitation. Inigo packed himself and his raincoat and knapsack (both of which found a place among the texts from Revelations at the back) in the little car, and off they went. They slowly chut-chutted down the winding lanes, crawled through half a dozen villages, for Mr. E. G. Timpany was an excessively cautious driver, so that there was plenty of time for people to read the notice on the windscreen: Take heed for the end draweth nigh. If such people grinned, as they frequently did, Inigo gave them a solemn and prophetic stare, but if they looked puzzled or startled⁠—and one little girl and a man in a milk-cart really did look startled⁠—he beamed upon them with the air of a man bringing glad tidings. His companion did not talk much because there were so many corners and crossroads and the like to be carefully negotiated, but from time to time he let fall some information about either the Second Resurrection movement or himself. So far as Inigo could gather, then and later, the Second Resurrectionists took their stand on some fantastic interpretation of the twentieth chapter of Revelations, believing that Satan was let loose, given almost unlimited powers, about 1914, when he instantly set to work deceiving the nations and gathering them together for battle, that worse was soon to follow, more and bigger battles, floods and earthquakes, fire out of heaven, all within the space of the next two or three years, after which the sea would give up its dead, the sun, the moon, stars, and the round earth would vanish like clouds, and there would be an end of all material things. In addition to this apocalyptic dream, there were astonishing theories about the ten lost tribes and the Great Pyramid. It was all very confusing, not unlike hearing somebody describe a nightmare. Mr. Timpany’s own history, or such scraps of it as Inigo caught, seemed simplicity itself. The central fact in it was that he had sold what he called “one of the best insurance books in Wolverhampton” to devote the remainder of his life, three years at the most, to the Second Resurrectionists. When Inigo applauded such courage and faith, Mr. Timpany was very modest indeed, and pointed out that once he had come to believe in the Second Resurrection view of the future, it was impossible for him to remain in the insurance business.

“I want to talk to people about our S.R. truths,” said Mr. Timpany, “and I felt it wrong to take their money, just as you would, wouldn’t you? What was the use of my trying to persuade a man to take out a twenty-years endowment policy, a thousand pounds, we will say, with benefits at a premium of fifty-one pounds ten, when I knew so well in my own heart that everything was coming to an end long before then? The very last day, I remember, a man came to me because he wanted to take out an education policy for his two boys, and I had to tell him outright that his boys never would be educated, not as we know education, you see. It was the least I could do, wasn’t it? It wouldn’t have been honest to have gone on, would it? Not that I wanted to, but in any case it wouldn’t, would it?”

Inigo thought this over. “I think it would,” he announced at length, as gravely as he could. “After all, I suppose people only insure themselves to set their minds at rest, because they feel assured about the future. Well, they’d have had that, you see. And their future is settled anyhow, you believe. They’d really have had their money’s worth, you see.”

Mr. Timpany did not see, and they were at Oxwell before the question was settled. Oxwell proved to be a miserable little town, and Mr. Timpany explained that it had only been chosen as the scene of the gathering because one of the chief Second Resurrectionists in the district happened to live there and it was he who was providing them with the hall for the meeting and the tea. “Mr. Grudy is one of our old stalwarts, a strong character and very deep-thinking man,” Mr. Timpany went on to explain, “entirely self-made and quite well-to-do. He’s a farmer and corn-chandler and horse-dealer and several other things besides. Quite a patriarchal character, and one of our most substantial S.R.s. I’d been taking a message to one of his married sons when I met you,” he added, as if that somehow clinched the matter.

There were several cars, a trap or two, and a little bus standing outside the hall, a redbrick building of small size and less dignity that evidently served the town as a recreation-room. People, mostly women, were already buzzing in and out of the place, and Mr. Timpany, with a hasty excuse to Inigo, immediately dived among them and finally disappeared for some time, leaving Inigo outside, staring at the people and at the large notices that surrounded the door. These were even more fiercely apocalyptic than those in Mr. Timpany’s car. In crimson lettering, bright as arterial blood, they announced a speedy end to all familiar things. And in those days, they screamed, shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them. The Second Resurrectionists, all washed and brushed, stiffly erect in their best clothes, passed in and out and shook hands, asked one another how they were and said they were quite strangers. Inigo moved nearer the door and was pleasantly assailed by the smell of freshly cooked ham. He remembered that he had had nothing since breakfast but a little bread and cheese. Yes, he was hungry. Then his eye was caught by the furious crimson of another placard: Therefore I will shake the heavens, and the earth shall remove out of her place, in the wrath of the Lord of hosts, and in the day of his fierce anger. He was also feeling very dirty and untidy.

“This is Mr. Jollifant.” Mr. Timpany was beaming upon him once more. “Mr. Grudy.”

“We are very pleased to see you here today,” said Mr. Grudy in a very deep voice. There was certainly something patriarchal about him. He was a gaunt elderly man carefully dressed in black. His eyebrows were bushy, intimidating; his nose had a masterful Semitic curve; his long white moustache was not altogether of this world. It was a face you could see framed in the smoke of a desert sacrifice.

Inigo said he was very pleased too, and then took Mr. Timpany on one side and asked him about washing and brushing. Mr. Timpany remembered that Inigo would have to spend the night somewhere. He consulted Mr. Grudy, who advanced upon Inigo again. “There is room in my house for you tonight,” he said. “You will stay with us.”

Inigo, wishing he could reply in the same grand manner, could only stammer something about thanking him awfully, better not, lot of trouble, very decent, easily manage somewhere though, to all of which Mr. Grudy paid no attention.

“There is a place for you,” he announced. “My wife is superintending the preparations for tea, but my niece shall take you to the house.” And he stalked away, followed by Mr. Timpany.

Inigo waited for the tall bony female with the large nose, the daughter of Ephraim or Gad. To his astonishment, however, Mr. Timpany returned with a girl about twenty, all rosy and smiling, quite a pretty girl. And this was Mr. Grudy’s niece, Miss Larch, the maiden of the tribe, who would wait upon him. Inigo, an almost painfully susceptible youth, shook her hand enthusiastically and accompanied her to the house, which was only about quarter of a mile away, in the highest spirits. There, it is true, he was handed over to an elderly woman, who showed him into a neat little bedroom; but when he had washed and brushed himself and returned to the hall, Miss Larch, still rosy and smiling, was waiting for him. He wanted to shake hands with her all over again. She wore a charming blue dress that gave place, at the knee, to silk stockings of a most admirable contour; the five freckles dotted about her small nose were delicious in themselves; she had large blue eyes, thickly fringed, and they seemed to twinkle when they turned upon him. It was incredible that she should be a daughter of either Ephraim or Gad.

“You don’t look a bit like a Second Resurrectionist,” he boldly confided on the way back. And then, of course, he had to tell her what a Second Resurrectionist did look like, and drew a strong picture of a bony female that made her laugh. Didn’t she look like that, then? She didn’t, he replied with fervour, and left her more rosy and smiling than ever. But he too didn’t look like one, she told him. He wasn’t one. Then what was he doing there? He explained shortly, then drew from her an explanation of her own presence on the scene. She had lived there for the last eighteen months, Mrs. Grudy being her mother’s sister, and she helped in the house and it was all very, very dull, though her uncle and aunt were very, very kind, but there was nothing really to do and everybody who came was either old or stuffy or both, and nobody talked about anything but the Bible and the lost tribes and the Pyramids, and sometimes she thought it was silly and then at other times she had to believe in it, they were all so sure about it, and then she felt she was awfully wicked and was a bit frightened, yes, awfully frightened sometimes. It all came out in one breathless rush, and it was evident that Miss Larch⁠—Freda⁠—had not exchanged confidences with anyone for a long time. By the time they reached the hall, they were not so much friends as fellow-conspirators, for Youth, when it is exiled into the kingdoms of the old, at once turns itself into the strongest of secret societies. At the door, Inigo glanced meaningly at the crimson letters, and Freda glanced at them too. Then their eyes met.

The door was closed but they opened it softly and peeped in. Some sixty or seventy people were sitting at the long tea-tables. They were not eating but listening to Mr. Grudy, who was apparently concluding an address from the platform at the far end of the room. He boomed on for some little time before Inigo could make out what he was saying, but his final quotation from the Bible he carried in his hand came clearly enough, and Inigo, peeping over Freda’s shoulder, heard it with a sense of incredulity, as if all Oxwell were some fantastic dream.

“And it shall come to pass,” roared Mr. Grudy, “in that day, that his burden shall be taken away from off thy shoulder, and his yoke from off thy neck, and the yoke shall be destroyed because of the anointing. He is come to Aiath, he is passed to Migron; at Michmash he hath laid up his carriages.” Then, after a suitable pause, Mr. Grudy stepped down from the platform. “Let us have tea,” he said in a milder voice, and instantly there was a babel.

“It looks as if we’ve come to Michmash, absolutely,” muttered Inigo. Mr. Timpany had reserved a space for them next to him, but the table was so crowded and the others had been sitting there so long that not much of the space was left, for they were using long wooden forms and not chairs. Freda sat down, then Inigo jammed himself between her and Timpany, who was almost steaming. “Warm in here, isn’t it?” he said to Inigo. “But a splendid gathering, really splendid!”

It may have been a splendid gathering but it was certainly a very odd meal. Inigo remembered other high teas but none higher than this. The forms were a solid mass of eaters and drinkers, and the tables were a solid mass of food. There were hams and tongues and rounds of cold beef and raised pies and egg salads; plates heaped high with white bread, brown bread, currant teacakes, scones; dishes of jelly and custard and blancmange and fruit salad; piles of jam tarts and maids of honour and cream puffs and almond tarts; then walnut cake, plum cake, chocolate cake, coconut cake; mounds of sugar, quarts of cream, and a steady flood of tea. Inigo never remembered seeing so much food before. It was like being asked to eat one’s way through the Provision and Cooked Food departments of one of the big stores. The appetite was not tickled, not even met fairly; it was overwhelmed. The sight of these tables drove hunger out of the world, made it impossible to imagine it had ever been there. Inigo ate this and that, but he hardly knew what he was eating, he was so warm, so tightly wedged in, so amazed at the spectacle. The Second Resurrectionists were worthy of the colossal meal spread before them. This highest of high teas had met its match. If they had all been forty years in the wilderness, they could not have dealt with it more manfully. They were not your gabbling, laughing eaters; they did not make a first rush and then suddenly lose heart; they did not try this and taste that. No, they were quiet, systematic, devastating; they advanced steadily in good order from the first slice of ham to the last slice of chocolate cake; and in fifty minutes the tables were a mere ruin of broken meats, the flood of tea a pale and tepid trickle. Inigo, who retired early from the conflict, though he had to stay where he was, with Mr. Timpany steaming on one side and Freda delicately grilling on the other, looked on with wonder and admiration. Across the table were two middle-aged women with long yellow faces, almost exactly alike, and a little round man who had no teeth and whose nose and chin came within an inch of one another as he worked away. It did not look as if three such persons would be able to do more than skirt the fringes of a high tea, but actually they walked right through and emerged unruffled at the other end. Above their heads, high on the opposite wall, was yet another of Mr. Grudy’s crimson placards, which began: And the light of a candle shall shine no more at all in thee. Inigo stared, now at the people, now at the placard. It was all very odd, absolutely.

Tea was over. Freda disappeared; Mr. Timpany was borne away by the daughters of Ephraim and Gad; and Inigo strolled outside to taste the air, which had a novel and delicious flavour. After that he smoked a pipe and sauntered up and down the road, keeping an eye on the door so that he should not miss the fair Freda. A few belated Resurrectionists, whose work had kept them from the last Grudy high tea but two that this world would know, hurried into the hall. Then a large car arrived and carefully deposited on the road several persons who evidently could not be expected to grapple with a high tea. There was a tremendous middle-aged woman, purple and commanding, who was attended, as such women so often are attended, by a thin depressed-looking girl in a frock she had never liked. There was also a tall man with an excessively long and lean and brown face and a military bearing. Inigo watched these three new arrivals sail, drift, and march into the hall. Then he caught a glimpse of Freda’s blue frock in the doorway.

“Well,” he asked her, “when does the meeting begin?”

“In a minute,” she replied. “The nobs have arrived. Did you see them? They won’t come to the tea, they’re too grand. That woman with the red face and the big nose is Mrs. Bevison-Burr, and that’s her daughter with her⁠—she never says a single word and wears the most awful clothes. And the man with them is Major Dunker. He’s rather nice, but he’s a bit cracked.”

“Never mind. We’re all a bit cracked.”

“You may be,” retorted Freda, “but I’m not⁠—”

“I know what you’re going to say next,” he told her.

“You don’t.”

“I do. You were going to say ‘So there?’ ”

“No, I wasn’t,” cried Freda. Then she made a little face at him, plainly asking for more. This was Freda’s idea of conversation. After sitting in corners so long and listening to stuffy old people who said things that were either silly or downright frightening, to contradict a young man who smiled at her and had nice eyes⁠—it was lovely. So Inigo exchanged a little more of this stuff⁠—“sandbag badinage,” he called it⁠—and had time to reflect that if she had worn steel spectacles or scaled three stone more, he could not have done it, would have been elsewhere. As it was, he too was happy, delighted with Freda herself, with the phrase he had just made, and with his own ironical reflections.

It was time, however, for the meeting, the gathering, the convention⁠—whatever it was⁠—to begin. The tea things had been cleared away, the tables moved back, and all the forms ranged in front of the little platform. Now Mr. Grudy, Mrs. Bevison-Burr, Major Dunker, and Mr. Timpany marched on to the platform and looked as if they were about to sing a quartette. Everybody else made a rush at the forms. Freda and Inigo were among the last, with the result that they had to squeeze in at the end of one of the back forms. Freda was jammed against a very stout woman, who smiled at her and patted her hand. Inigo was jammed against Freda and in order to sit there at all he had to hold on to the form itself, just at the back of Freda. There was really only half of him on the form.

Mr. Grudy stepped to the front of the platform and surveyed them with a benevolent patriarchal stare, as if he saw before him his shepherds and bowmen and handmaidens and flocks and herds. Then he lifted a hand. Immediately everybody leaned forward and covered their faces. Inigo was not sure what was about to happen, but he leaned forward too, with a sharp jerk, so that the arm behind Freda slipped up and landed somewhere in the neighbourhood of her waist. She shook herself and whispered something. “Sorry, couldn’t help it,” he began whispering, and at the same time, by a gigantic effort, contrived to remove the innocently offending arm. She gave him a fierce little Sh-sh-sh. Mr. Grudy was opening with a prayer. It was rather a long prayer, and Inigo was so uncomfortable, his body twisted at a fiendish angle, that he found it impossible to listen to it. Nevertheless he was in sympathy with it, for Mr. Grudy continually referred to captivities and migrations across great deserts and Inigo felt them in every limb. When everybody sat up again at the end of the prayer, Mr. Grudy stood there, very erect, and did nothing but look at them for at least two minutes. Inigo wondered what would happen next.

“Jee‑ee⁠—” sang Mr. Grudy.

Everybody jumped up at once⁠—except Inigo. He sat there a second too long; his end of the form went down and he fell with a crash; the other end shooting up and slightly forward, hurled a little round man⁠—it was the toothless one⁠—into the seat in front; and there was a confusion and uproar. The hymn could not begin until the little man had been restored to his own row, the seat had been put back in its place, and Inigo, crimson, dusty, and furious, had scrambled to his feet.

“Jee‑ee⁠—” sang Mr. Grudy again, and this time they were off. Inigo did not sing, for the hymn was one he had never heard before. He felt foolish. When they came to sit down again, he felt still more foolish because the few inches allotted to him had now been swallowed up. He was about to abandon the seat altogether, to go and lean against the wall, when Freda captured about six inches from the large lady on her right and offered it to him so prettily that he could not refuse. And there he sat, very close, for the rest of the evening.

Mr. E. G. Timpany was called upon to address them. Moist and triumphant, he stepped forward, clutching at a large bundle of notes, and looked all gold spectacles and teeth and preposterous auburn curls. He beamed upon them. For such moments as these he would gladly have sold all Wolverhampton. He produced figures, compared the numbers in Ephraim with those in Dan, was convinced that Gad would soon outstrip Issachar and even gave them percentages. Indeed, he made such good use of his correspondence course in accountancy that Inigo expected him at any moment to remember his other course and drop into Commercial Spanish. It was impossible not to like Mr. Timpany, he was so innocently happy, so naively proud of his position as organizing secretary. Inigo found it quite painful to think that just when Mr. Timpany was beginning to enjoy this life, he would either have to quit it or be compelled to admit he was a fool⁠—unless it was possible for the Second Resurrectionists continually to postpone Doomsday.

Mrs. Bevison-Burr, the commanding woman, came next. Her subject was Unbelief. She referred to Unbelief as if it were a very obnoxious person who was in the habit of insulting her every morning and evening. Mrs. Bevison-Burr commanded them to do all manner of things to Unbelief. She did not hold out any great hopes for them when they had done all these things. Only a few of them were wanted by Jehovah, but the least they could all do was to settle Unbelief. They were asked to remember that Unbelief and Bolshevism were one and the same. There was a little more about Jehovah, to whom she referred as if he were a prominent politician staying at her country house. Mrs. Bevison-Burr was not a success, though her presence there was evidently gratifying to most of her audience.

Major Dunker followed. His themes were the Pyramids, international relations, and earthquakes. Holding a little notebook very close to his face, he talked at some length of pyramid inches, which determined all the chief dates in the world’s history, but it was difficult to follow this part of his speech because of the notebook. He passed on to international relations, which were rapidly approaching a supreme crisis. We were on the eve of the greatest and the last of all wars, the real Armageddon. But worse was to come. Earthquakes. Everybody had noticed that in recent years there had been more and more storms and floods and earthquakes, and scientists had all been baffled by these phenomena. All over the world they were investigating to discover the causes of these disturbances. They could find nothing. The causes were not in the mere rise and fall of the barometer nor even in spots in the sun. Forces were being let loose upon this planet that had formerly been restrained. These were the first activities of the newly released Prince of Darkness. And when the thousand years are expired, Satan shall be loosed out of his prison. And having delivered this quotation in the same dry tones he had used throughout, the Major abruptly concluded. He was, Inigo decided, quietly and decently mad.

Mr. Grudy called for the testimony of other friends. Nobody spoke for a minute or two. Then a man with a black beard jumped up, said something about King George the Fifth being the ninety-ninth in succession from King David, and then sat down again. He was followed by a shrill little woman, who declared that she had dreamt four times that year of an angel waving something that looked like a golden coal-scuttle over the dome of St. Paul’s. Mr. Grudy nodded approvingly at her, but there seemed to be a general impression that she had not done well in putting herself forward in this way. After that there was another wait. Then Mr. Grudy stepped forward again and was about to address them when there was a stir at the back of the hall.

“I see that our friend, the Reverend Higginworth Wenderby, has arrived,” cried Mr. Grudy. “I am sure he will be pleased to give us his testimony. It is a privilege to have him here with us.”

A tall stout man in black climbed on to the platform, and stood there, panting and mopping his brow, while they applauded furiously. He was a curious figure. He had a mane of dark hair and an unusually large, white, wet face, which retreated at the forehead and the chin. “My dear friends,” he boomed, “please allow me a moment. I cannot talk to you without breath, and I have come here in such haste that I have no breath.” Everybody applauded again, including Inigo, who looked round and saw that a change had come over the whole meeting. Everybody seemed expectant. They were leaning forward now, all eager attention.

Mr. Wenderby held up a large white hand. “My friends,” he began, softly this time, “it is a joy to address you once more, and there are not many joys in this vale of suffering and sorrow. We live here in sin, and Death is busy among the people. The husband must go from the wife, and the mother must weep over the departed child.” He continued in this strain for some time, his voice as artful and moving as a passage for muted strings. The matter was nothing, the manner everything; and even Inigo, who had disliked the man at sight, found himself vaguely moved. As for the rest of his audience, they frankly abandoned themselves to the luxury of easy emotion. Some of the women sobbed. Freda stirred uneasily and bit her underlip. Inigo sat there in both physical and mental discomfort.

Mr. Wenderby paused and let his huge head droop. Then he raised it, higher and higher, until at last his white wet face seemed to shine in the light. “But have I come here, my friends, to bear testimony to these things?” he asked, without raising his voice. “Are they strange tidings, these of sin and misery and death, that I should come and relate them to you? Have I nothing more to say? Is this the end of our message?” He stepped forward another pace, so that he stood on the very edge of the platform. “No,” he thundered. “No, and a thousand times, no!”

“Ephraim!” yelled a voice in Inigo’s ear.

“I beg your pardon,” he cried, startled. But the man, who had drawn up a chair just behind Inigo, took no notice whatever of him but stared fixedly at the preacher.

“I look for the Word, and the Word is here.” Mr. Wenderby, now in full diapason, held up his Bible. “And after these things,” he chanted, “I heard a great voice of much people in heaven, saying, Alleluia; Salvation, and glory, and honour, and power unto the Lord our God. For true and righteous are his judgements; for he hath judged the great whore, which did corrupt the earth with her fornication, and hath avenged the blood of his servants at her hand. And again they said, Alleluia. And her smoke rose up forever and ever.” Mr. Wenderby then crumbled the world to dust and blew it away in one mighty shout. He led the faithful to their eternal home. He arrayed them in fine linen and took them through the gates of pearl and along the streets of pure gold to where the river of the water of life flowed from the throne of the Lamb.

The arms he raised seemed to lift most of his audience out of their seats. If they had groaned before, now they shouted. Only Mrs. Bevison-Burr and Major Dunker remained unmoved. Mr. Timpany had taken off his spectacles and was wiping them feverishly. Mr. Grudy towered in his chair and his face grew bright in the glow of unseen desert suns. Inigo looked round in astonishment. The place was a pandemonium. Face after face, almost transfigured, caught and held his glance. This then was the secret, these moments, crashing in Dionysiac rout through months of boredom, glittering and trumpeting for a space in lives as quiet and faded as an old photograph. Something pitiful tugged at his heart, then was gone.

Mr. Wenderby, dripping and paler than ever, blessed them fervently. All was over. There was a rush to the platform. “What do we do now?” asked Inigo.

“Let’s go, shall we?” said Freda. “It wasn’t quite so frightening this time, but it was bad enough. You feel better about it all outside, I’ve noticed.”

They walked up the road, cheerfully libelling all the Second Resurrectionists, but when they arrived at the house, Freda hesitated. “I suppose I ought to go in, really. My aunt may want me to help her with supper.”

“Supper!” Inigo was horrified. “There can’t be supper, not after that tea. Surely none of ’em want supper⁠—unless they’re going to stay up all night.”

“Yes, they will. They’re awful greedies, I can tell you. And Uncle will be bringing some of them in. That’s why I don’t want to go in. They’ll talk and talk and talk, and I’ve had enough of it, haven’t you?”

He admitted that he had had a good deal of it. They strolled about a mile farther up the road, stood on a bridge and talked nonsense, and then returned to the house. Freda did not go in, however, but crept up to a lighted window and peeped through a space between the drawn curtains.

“They are there,” she announced, “and they’re eating sandwiches. Didn’t I say they would?”

“It’s incredible,” Inigo cried softly. “They can’t go on putting it away like this. They simply will bring the world to an end. I can see Timpany’s teeth just fastening on a wretched sandwich. Horrible, horrible! Come away.”

Freda had another peep, then joined him. “Mr. Wenderby’s there. I don’t like him, do you? He’s the queerest of them all, I think. Do you know, he always calls me ‘Little Sister’⁠—”

“Like his infernal cheek!”

“And⁠—and⁠—he always looks as if he wants to kiss me. He doesn’t, you know⁠—”

“I should think not.”

“But I always feel he would if I didn’t dodge. He frightens me.”

“Then he’s a vile brute,” cried Inigo. He was quite indignant. The arm he slipped round her, as she stood there looking so defenceless, so prettily forlorn, quivered with righteous indignation.

“Do you think so?” she murmured, not stirring except to lift her face a little.

“Beyond the pale, absolutely,” said Inigo firmly. He saw her fair face tilting until it caught the light. He saw the dark curve of her mouth. It was irresistible. He bent forward, and at that very moment the front door opened. Before anybody could come out, Freda had flown round the corner. Inigo went after her but by the time he had caught up to her they had been all round the house and were back again at the front door.

In the hall they met Mr. Timpany. “A splendid gathering, wasn’t it?” he called to them.

They replied, breathlessly, that it was, absolutely splendid.

“Now don’t tell me you’re sorry you came, Mr. Jollifant,” Mr. Timpany continued. “Don’t tell me you weren’t interested.”

“I won’t,” said Inigo, shaking him by the hand.

III

On the following night, Wednesday, Inigo was sauntering through the streets of Nottingham. He had not gone there to look for Mr. Morton Mitcham, though he had reminded himself with a certain quickening of interest, that this was Mr. Mitcham’s destination, where, like the gentleman of leisure he was, he had decided to look up a few old friends. At any moment, Inigo told himself, he might be passing an old friend of Mr. Mitcham’s. Inigo was there, however, because at the breakfast table that morning Freda had declared that she must go to Nottingham to visit a dentist. It then appeared at once that Inigo, who had been rather vague about his movements, was really on his way to Nottingham too. This astonishing coincidence had landed the pair of them on the same motorbus from Oxwell, given them the same table for lunch, and finally, at Freda’s request, had condemned them to spend the afternoon together, and some of it unnecessarily close together, in a huge sensuous cavern that called itself a picture palace.

Inigo did not care very much for films, especially in the middle of the afternoon, when their bludgeoning sentimentality, their glycerine tears, seemed downright blasphemy. This picture palace had an organ that was nothing but one gigantic, relentless, quavering vox humana stop, and listening to it was like being forcibly fed with treacle. However, Freda, having escaped from the wilderness of Oxwell, the captivity of the Second Resurrectionists, enjoyed it all. She munched chocolates, drank tea, ate little cakes, and coughed her way through two cigarettes; she laughed when the screen told her to laugh, stared mournfully when all was lost save love and the vox humana stop, shuddered and gasped and clutched at Inigo at all appropriate crises; and filled in the duller intervals in the programme by flirting with him. They were in there so long that Inigo was surprised to emerge, blinking, into broad daylight, and for a moment or so the sane and three-dimensional world about him looked quite unreal. It also made him feel rather foolish, and somehow he said goodbye to Freda, still rosy and smiling as she mounted the 6:15 motorbus, with a feeling that was more like relief than regret. He returned to the mournful little commercial hotel where he had left his knapsack and there had a very bad dinner.

After wandering about the streets for quarter of an hour or so, Inigo turned into the nearest tavern for a glass of bitter. The place was almost empty, fortunately, for he wanted to be quiet and to think. What was he going to do? Should he wander on like this for a few days more, then return to his uncle’s place at Dulwich and, once there, go the rounds of the scholastic agents? Did he want to go on teaching? No, he did not. But what did he want to do? He didn’t know. He could afford to give himself a little holiday, but sooner or later he would have to decide about a job. This was an opportunity to experiment, certainly, but what was he going to experiment in? Journalism? His soul revolted, absolutely. It was while he was still telling himself how much his soul revolted or was prepared to revolt that the landlord came in and nodded to him.

“Breakin’ up now,” said the landlord. “But we can’t grumble, can we? ’Ad a good month.”

Inigo never knew what to reply to remarks of this kind about the weather. People who made them always seemed to belong to a society of weather observers or even weather owners, and he always felt that he himself was too much of an outsider to do more than merely mumble something in response. He mumbled now, then hesitated, and finally remarked: “I’ve just been wondering what to do. Now what would you do if you were a young man like me, with a little, just a very little, money of your own?”

“I wouldn’t go into this business again,” replied the landlord promptly.

“You wouldn’t, eh?”

“Wouldn’t touch it, wouldn’t have it given. Nothing in it now. All to pieces. What with dogs, football, pitchers, one thing and another⁠—you can’t sell beer, can’t get ’em regular, yer know. Oh I wouldn’t look at it.” He straddled in front of the fireplace and jingled some coppers in his pocket.

“Well, what would you do?” asked Inigo.

“If I’d my time over again, I wouldn’t ’esitate,” replied the landlord, lowering his voice. “I’d make a book, go in the ring. It’s money for dust. They can’t give it to you fast enough. Why, there’s fellers come in ’ere⁠—tut‑t‑t⁠—” And he tut-tutted away and wagged his head to show that mere words were failing him.

“Be a bookie, eh? That’s no good to me, I’m afraid. Nothing in my line. I don’t understand racing and I couldn’t shout loud enough.”

“Don’t need to shout, don’t need to know anything,” cried the other. “Some o’ these fellers ’ardly know where they live. Doesn’t matter. They get it all the same. Rolling in it, rolling! And where do they get it from, where do they get it from?” He walked right across the room to ask this momentous question and stood over Inigo, who told him he didn’t know where they got it from. “All right, I’ll tell you,” said the landlord. “They get it from mugs, like you and me. Mugs! Don’t they, Charlie?” This was to a man who had just entered the room.

“That’s right, Jack,” said Charlie, winking at Inigo. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but that’s right.” And he sat down, pushed his cap to the back of his head, and began whistling very loudly.

“ ’Ere, Charlie,” said the landlord, “what’s this about old Fred telling Jimmy you said I’d picked up a tenner on Cherry Lass?”

Inigo made his escape. The streets were lighted now and livelier, but the only entertainment they offered him was that of watching innumerable youths ogle innumerable pairs of over-powdered and undernourished young girls, who took care to parade within easy reach of the various picture theatres. He soon came to the conclusion that these streets were not lively at all. They began to depress him. He thought once of going in, to add a few sentences to “The Last Knapsack,” but the image of that melancholy commercial hotel daunted him. No good literature could be composed in that hotel. “It would all come out wrong,” he told himself. “I should be putting down ‘as per yours’ and things like that.”

He stopped outside a large and glittering tavern. It announced that it had a Singing Room, and Inigo did not remember ever having been inside a Singing Room. He walked in, to find himself facing a long curved bar that had far too many mirrors and electric lights. Business was brisk, so brisk that the bar counter was flooded, the change he received was all wet, and the beer itself had a nasty rinsed look. There were several swing doors, gorgeous with leaded lights, opening out of this bar, but there was nothing to indicate the one that would admit him to the Singing Room. He took a sip of beer, put the glass down, and determined to forget about it, and began dodging through the throng, to find the Singing Room. It was then that he heard, behind the back of a man who held one of the swinging doors open, the voice. “In the absence of the pianist, ladies and gentlemen,” said the voice, “I will not give you one of my famous banjo solos, but I will, with the kind permission of one and all, endeavour to entertain you with a few feats of sleight of hand.”

There was no mistaking it. This was the voice of that returned traveller, that gentleman of leisure, that looker-up of old friends in Nottingham, Mr. Morton Mitcham.

Inigo pushed his way in. This was the Singing Room, and there, at the far end of it, near the piano, addressing an audience of about twenty men, youths, and girls, who did not seem particularly interested in him, was Mr. Morton Mitcham. He wore the same light check suit, the same Mad Hatter collar and tie; and his eyebrows seemed larger, his nose richer, and his chin longer and bluer than they did before. “I will open,” he was saying, “with a little trick I’ve performed in all parts of the world, America, Australia, India, and every important place in the U‑nited Kingdom⁠—except Nottingham. Notice that, ladies and gentlemen⁠—except Nottingham.” He held out a pack of cards. “Now I want a lady or gentleman to take a card⁠—”

“Any orders,” cried a waiter suddenly springing up from nowhere.

“Wairer, I wanternother double.” This was from a very ripe gentleman, who was sprawling at a little table by himself.

Inigo told the waiter to bring him a bottle of Bass and sat down not far from the ripe gentleman and near a middle-aged man and a little woman with eyeglasses who were sitting over two glasses of stout and placidly holding hands. Mr. Mitcham stared at the newcomer, brought his immense eyebrows down and pursed up his lips. Inigo grinned at him and at last got a nod and a grin in return. Mr. Mitcham, who clearly did not want to begin his trick until the waiter had returned, crossed over and calmly remarked to Inigo: “I know you, my boy, and I see you know me. I’m just trying to place you.”

“We met the other midnight at Dullingham Junction,” said Inigo.

“Of course we did. And you had the chocolate and biscuits. And a merry little session we had, didn’t we?” He lowered his voice. “I’m just filling in the evening here, you know, just amusing myself. This isn’t my kind of thing at all.”

“No, I should think not. Have a drink?”

“Thank you, my boy, I will. I’ll have a whisky, just a⁠—well, you might as well make it a double Scotch.” He lowered his voice again. “If you told most people you’d seen Morton Mitcham here, they wouldn’t believe, simply wouldn’t believe you. But it amuses me, you know. And I like to show these boys and girls a thing or two. They’ve seen nothing, absolutely nothing.”

The waiter having returned and departed again for the double whisky, Mr. Mitcham began his performance. A man in a brown hat far too small for him was persuaded to take a card. “Look at that card, sir,” said Mr. Mitcham impressively, “examine it carefully. You may show it to any other members of the audience but don’t let me see it, ha-ha! Now take this envelope, an ordinary plain white envelope, you observe, and place the card in the envelope and put the flap inside. Don’t lick the envelope, sir, I may want it again. Now I take the envelope. It is impossible for me to see what the card is. Now follow me closely. I shall place the envelope⁠—”

But here the ripe gentleman created a diversion. “Never mind about cards,” he cried thickly. “I wanner a bit o’ music.”

“I say, I shall place the envelope underneath this handkerchief⁠—”

“I wanner a bit o’ music.”

Mr. Mitcham frowned at him. “All in good time, sir, all in good time. Just now I’m trying to entertain the company with this trick. I shall be much obliged, sir,” he said severely, “if you will not interrupt.”

“Thaz all ri’, thaz all ri’!” He waved a hand, and a large and idiotic smile slowly spread over his rubicund face.

“It is, you will observe, an ordinary handkerchief. I slip the envelope underneath⁠—”

“Ber I like a bit o’ music.”

Mr. Mitcham stopped and glared. Two or three members of his audience laughed, but a young man in a green cloth cap was very annoyed. “Oh, put a sock in it,” he said to the ripe gentleman, who immediately and very loudly asked him what he meant by it.

“Now then, gentlemen, give order if you please,” cried the waiter, who had returned with Mr. Mitcham’s double whisky. They gave order, and Mr. Mitcham was able to finish the trick, which he did by producing the card that was placed in the envelope from the middle of the pack, to the astonishment and admiration of everybody except the ripe gentleman and the two people who were holding hands. Inigo himself thought it a very good trick indeed. The young man in the green cap was loud in his admiration. “Clever!” he cried aggressively. “And new to me. Clever!”

“I seen it done once before,” said the man who had first taken the card. “Fellow at the Hippodrome ’ere done it.”

“May I ask his name, sir?” said Mr. Mitcham, frowning. “Because that’s my trick. I think you must be mistaken.”

“No, I’m not,” replied the other, mildly though firmly. “I seen it all right. And I’ll tell you his name. The Great Julius, that was him. The Great Julius. He was a Yank.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” cried Mr. Mitcham, with hearty condescension. “If it was the Great Julius, you’re right. I taught him that trick in Philadelphia in 1910. There was no Great Julius about him then, I can tell you. He was just plain Julius Isenbaum, and nobody could be plainer. Yes, I taught him that trick.”

Inigo gazed at him in admiration, caught his eye, and indicated the presence of the whisky. The great man strode across, gave him a wink and “the best, my boy!” and halved the liquor in one gulp. Then he produced a number of cards from his elbow, his knee, and the empty air, and finally asked the young man in the green cap, who still said “Clever!” at intervals, to put the four queens wherever he liked in the pack. Mr. Mitcham then shuffled the pack, held it up in one hand, held it up in the other hand, and put it down on the nearest table. The four queens, however, he produced from the pocket of the ripe gentleman, who had fallen into a doze. This delighted everybody except the ripe gentleman himself, who hit the table and cried: “All a lorrer bunkum! Lessav a birrer music.”

“That’s right. Where’s Joe?” asked someone.

“Joe’s the pianist,” Mr. Mitcham explained to Inigo. “Regular job here, you know, but hasn’t turned up tonight. Here’s the vocalist,” and he waved a hand at a rather short and flat-faced man who had just entered the room. “He can’t do anything, either. But I shall try ’em with the banjo soon, pianist or no pianist. I’ve kept a whole room going with that banjo in places where there wasn’t a piano within two or three hundred miles. Believe me, my boy, I’ve travelled a hundred and fifty miles just to play it at a wedding party. That was up in Saskatchewan one time, Ninety-five or Ninety-six, I think it was.” He finished the whisky, then added: “No, it wasn’t. I’m not telling you the truth.” Inigo gasped. “It was in Ninety-four,” Mr. Mitcham concluded triumphantly.

Inigo glanced across at the piano, which was an ancient grand. “Look here,” he said finally, “I think I could knock something out of that, if you really want a pianist.”

“Of course you could,” cried Mr. Mitcham enthusiastically. “Didn’t you tell me the other night you played? You’re the very man we’re looking for. Let me see⁠—your name’s just slipped⁠—oh, Jollifant, is it? Of course it is.” He beckoned the vocalist and rose impressively at his approach. “Meet Mr. Jollifant, an old friend of mine, who’s just turned up and who’s one of the finest pianists that’s ever stepped into this town. He’s just promised to help us out.”

Five minutes later Inigo found himself sitting at the piano with some tattered sheets of music in front of him. It had been arranged that the vocalist should take his turn first. Inigo ran his fingers over the keys, which were very yellow, burned in places, and far too loose. The piano itself, however, was better than he had imagined it to be, and was certainly capable of making a terrific din. He dashed into the opening bars of the first tattered song, and the vocalist, in a voice so hard and so high that it hurt, proclaimed to the Singing Room that he lived in a la‑and of rer‑hoses but he drer‑heamed of a la‑and of sner‑how. At the conclusion of this astonishing ballad there was a certain amount of applause, led by the ripe gentleman who had been beating time and humming in a vague sort of way. The vocalist treated his ravaged throat to a draught of stout, waited until six newcomers had sat down and given orders, then nodded to Inigo and declared, in his highest and hardest notes, that the woman for him in all the world was just his dear old mother. This was a sentiment that aroused the enthusiasm of the company, and one after another of them joined in until at last they were all asserting that the one woman for them was just their dear old mothers. By the time it was ended, the room was nearly full, and there was so much applause that the vocalist, now purple in the face, had “to thank them one and all” and burst into an encore. Here again it appeared they had all a common enthusiasm, this time for dear old Ireland, especially the colleen in the cabin back in Connemara. Only Inigo, Mr. Morton Mitcham, and the waiter appeared to have no tender memories of this colleen.

The vocalist departed; Mr. Mitcham began tuning his banjo; the waiter collected orders and told Inigo to give it a name; more people came crowding in and filled the room with smoke and babble; Mr. Mitcham whispered instructions and hummed tunes in Inigo’s ear; the waiter dumped glasses of beer and whisky on the piano; the ripe gentleman vainly demanded more double Scotches; and Inigo emptied the glass in front of him and began to feel excited.

Off they went, softly at first, Mr. Mitcham wagging his head to his lilting twanka-pang, twanka-pang, Inigo vamping away and putting in artful variations. More and more people came crowding in, to tapper-tap-tap with their feet. Mr. Mitcham wagged furiously, quickening the pace. Inigo never lagged behind for a second and the louder and faster they went, the crazier were his elaborations. He would bring down both hands to crash and rumble in the bass and then would send them tinkling like hey-go-mad in the treble. “Quiet!” cried Mr. Mitcham, and then played as softly and solemnly as it is possible to play a banjo; indeed, you would not have thought it possible. Then after a minute of this⁠—“let her go!” he cried. And they let her go, in a triumph of twanging and panging and tinkling and crashing. And when it was done, the Singing Room let itself go too. There was such a din that the landlord himself looked in and was delighted to see how enthusiastic and hot and thirsty everybody appeared to be.

“With your permission, ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr. Mitcham, after he acknowledged the applause, mopped his face, and drained his glass, “a little impression of a military patrol. I may say that I first thought of this number when listening to some of our own brave boys up at⁠—er⁠—Allahabad.”

There was a great stamping of feet and banging of glasses, and a red-faced man roared out that the banjoist was a good old something-or-other “wallah.” Mr. Mitcham bowed his acknowledgements, then produced his impression of a military patrol, which he did simply playing a quickstep very softly at first and gradually increasing the tone. As no accompaniment was necessary, Inigo took another drink from those that were still steadily finding their way to the top of the piano, looked about him, and tried, not very successfully, to simmer down and give the appearance of being an old hand. The military patrol was a tremendous success, and Mr. Mitcham had to give the latter half of it all over again. He then waved a hand to show that he was completely exhausted. “You give ’em something,” he told Inigo, and emptied several glasses.

Inigo promptly played some of his own little tunes, finally arriving at the one we all know too well now, his “Slipping Round the Corner.” While he was still strumming it quietly, he heard a queer clinking sound and saw the long lean figure of Mr. Morton Mitcham moving about the crowded room. That gentleman of leisure was undoubtedly going round with the hat. Inigo had a shock, but it did not last long. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” he told himself, and then added: “If it is a pound.” He could hear the feet tapping to his tune. Perhaps he did not play it as well as he had done at Washbury Manor⁠—now a little dark place thousands of miles away⁠—but he ended by playing it even faster and louder. Nor did he end alone, for Mr. Mitcham, presumably with the hat, returned to join in with admirable gusto, having picked up the tune. The whole Singing Room was slipping round the corner.

“Time, gentlemen, please!” the waiter shouted, but nobody appeared to take any notice of him, except the two performers, who came to a triumphant conclusion. There was no doubt about their reception. The Singing Room had not heard so enthusiastic applause for years. Three glasses were broken. There were cries of “Encore” and “Keep on, boys.” But Mr. Mitcham, still the dignified performer in spite of his dripping face and the innumerable drinks he had consumed, shook his head at Inigo.

“Time, gentlemen, if you please!” cried the waiter again now in an agony of supplication. Several moist enthusiasts insisted upon shaking the musicians by the hand, and there was trouble with the ripe gentleman, who was crawling about the floor looking for his hat; but gradually the room was cleared. Inigo felt rather dazed. He saw Mr. Mitcham very carefully counting a heap of small change. Then he discovered the landlord at his elbow.

“You can tickle ’em all right,” said the landlord, pointing to the keyboard. “ ’Ere, ’alf a minute.” And he dragged Inigo to one side. “If thirty bob a week’s any good to you,” he said, lowering his voice, “and all the drinks you want, the job’s yours and Joe can go to ’ell.”

“Thanks,” Inigo found himself muttering, “but I don’t want the job, if that’s what you mean.”

“What’s the matter with it?” the landlord demanded. “You won’t get better money in this town, let me tell you.”

“But I’m not staying on in this town.”

“Ah, that’s different, that is. Well, you can tickle ’em all right. Give us a call and a tune any time you’re round this way. ’Ere.” And he dragged Inigo back again, to where Mr. Mitcham was counting his coppers. “This is my little contribution, gentlemen.” He threw a ten shilling note on the heap, drew Mr. Mitcham on one side to whisper to him, then shouted to the waiter and walked away.

Mr. Mitcham wrapped up the money in a handkerchief. “I know a place where they’ll give us a decent little feed, that is, decent for these parts. There’s no food really here, of course; you mustn’t expect it. Now what about giving ourselves a little supper? I’ve hardly had a bite all day, didn’t want it, you know. I’m so used to feeding late. Come on then; it’s not far, just near the station.”

They sat in the window of the upstairs room of the unpretentious little restaurant, which was almost empty. Inigo ordered a mere snack, but Mr. Mitcham, who gave Inigo the impression of having been on short commons for a day or two, asked for large steaks and bushels of onions and potatoes. As soon as the waitress had gone, he brought out the handkerchief containing the money. “Now, then,” he began, “the landlord made it ten, didn’t he? And the takings in the room were twenty-three shillings and ninepence ha’penny. That’s exactly thirty-three shillings and ninepence ha’penny. Now what’s half of that?”

“Sixteen and something,” replied Inigo. “But why do you want to know? Are you thinking of dividing it between us?”

“Naturally, my boy, naturally! Like an honest trouper! No quibbling about shares, either. I don’t say,” he added thoughtfully, “that some of this might not have been a little appreciation of my sleight of hand, and of course you’d nothing to do with that. That card in the envelope trick went devilishly well, you know. But⁠—share and share alike, I say, and no quibbling.”

“I can’t take any of it. It’s jolly good of you, but I can’t.”

“You can’t?”

“No. You see⁠—”

Mr. Mitcham patted him on the arm and at the same time, with great dexterity, swept all the money away with the other hand. “My dear boy, of course I see. You’ve no need to tell me.”

“I did it for a lark, you see⁠—”

“Just for the fun of the thing and to oblige a friend,” cried Mr. Mitcham enthusiastically. “And naturally you wouldn’t touch a penny of it. I know, because that’s just how I feel myself. Done it myself many a time. Ask them in Toronto what Morton Mitcham did at old Reilly’s benefit, or for that fire concert in ’Frisco, or the time when the stage hands went out at Melbourne. I know your feelings, know them to a hair, my dear boy. They’re the feelings of a gentleman, a musician, a true artist. You remind me⁠—everything you’ve done has reminded me of Captain Dunstan-Carew⁠—played for me, played with me, scores of times out in India, and ‘Proud to do it, Mitcham,’ he’d say, and he was the best amateur pianist out there⁠—and a Dunstan-Carew. You’ve both got the same touch⁠—recognized it in a minute⁠—a gentlemanly touch, but full of fun, plenty of devil in it.”

Inigo said he was proud to have the same touch as Captain Dunstan-Carew.

“But I’ll tell you one thing, my boy,” continued Mr. Mitcham. “You may not let me give you a share of the takings, but you’re going to let me pay for this supper. I insist. I don’t care what you’re having tonight, I insist. The supper is mine.” He looked first at Inigo and then round the room with such an air of noble generosity that Inigo found it difficult to remember that his own share of the supper would only amount to about tenpence.

“For that matter, of course,” said Mr. Mitcham, after he had wolfed in silence the greater part of his steak, “the business tonight’s been a mere piece of foolery with me. As I told you before, I think, it’s not at all my line of country. But, the fact is, I’ve been unlucky just lately. You know what it is. Twenty years ago I was landed in the same damned hole. No, it was worse. I was down there in Memphis⁠—”

“Not Memphis!” cried Inigo in delight.

“Memphis,” replied Mr. Mitcham firmly. “And I hadn’t a nickel to my name. And you can imagine what a hole Memphis is when you haven’t a cent.”

“Rather!” cried Inigo. “You couldn’t be in a worse place, could you?” He said this with conviction, though actually all that he knew about Memphis was that it is a city somewhere in the United States.

“You couldn’t. Well, three months afterwards, exactly three months⁠—where was I? I’ll tell you. I was in a suite on the first floor of the best hotel in all New Orleans, and telegrams pouring in, just pouring in. Go here, go there, go everywhere! Three syndicates all eating out of my hand! I don’t say it will be the same all over again exactly. Times have changed, my boy, you can take it from me. There’s not enough money in this country. But as I was saying, I’ve been unlucky just lately. Vaudeville’s gone to pieces here, absolutely to pieces. And what with one thing and another, these last few weeks I’ve just been living from hand to mouth; on little engagements picked up here and there, some of it damned near to busking. If it was summer, I wouldn’t mind, but winter⁠—you know what it is. You want a cast-iron contract in winter. I tell you, things have been so bad, I’ve even considered band work, but I couldn’t get near, couldn’t get near. The Union, you know⁠—they’ve a union and it won’t let an outsider come within a mile. Then I thought of concert-party work, pierrot stuff. It’s a hell of a drop, of course. Mind you, I won’t say I’ve never done it before. I’ve even done the blackface business, though that was in the days when it still had style.”

“But these concert parties or pierrots or whatever they call themselves, don’t they just go round, hopping from pier to pier, so to speak, in summer? Won’t they all have just finished?” And it struck Inigo that he had not seen any of these troupes for years. Did the men still bend their knees in an idiotic way when they sang choruses? What a life!

“Most of them have finished now, but some keep on through the winter, doing small inland towns, you know, where people are glad to see anybody.”

“They must be,” said Inigo, who was still turning over his memories.

“Well, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, and I want you to listen very carefully, my boy. I’m going to see a concert party tomorrw. And I’ll tell you why. I ran across two people I know⁠—decent nice folks, man and wife, vocalists, but not, I think, absolutely bursting with talent⁠—and they told me they were in a troupe that was running on through the winter and there might be a vacancy or two in the autumn. I saw a notice in The Stage saying they were at Rawsley for two weeks, that’s not too far from here, and so tomorrow I’m running over to have a look at ’em. Now if you’re doing nothing⁠—but look here, what are you doing?”

Inigo gave a brief but spirited sketch of his own position.

“If you do anything but play the piano,” said Mr. Mitcham earnestly, “you’re just throwing yourself away. I was watching your work tonight, and I said to myself, ‘That boy was born with it. A bit of experience, a few tips from an old hand, and he can go anywhere.’ And believe me, I know. I’ve seen and heard thousands.” Inigo laughed. “Did you like my tunes?”

“Catchy stuff, very catchy stuff, and new to me. Where did you pick ’em up?”

“Out of the ether.”

“Ah, I never bother with this wireless myself,” said Mr. Mitcham judiciously, “but I’ve no doubt you can pick up a good tune or two occasionally if you listen long enough.”

“No, no, I don’t mean that. I mean, they’re my own tunes. I make ’em up myself.”

Mr. Mitcham stared at him. Then he extended a long yellow hand. “Shake that,” he commanded, “and as hard as you like. Now you listen to me. There’s a pot of money in those tunes if they’re properly handled. You’ve got the gift, though, mind you, I don’t say you don’t need experience or a little advice from people who’ve had experience. After this, I can’t let you go, I just can’t. It would be a crime. You’ve just got to stick to the old man, my boy. Come with me tomorrow. If there’s an opening for me, there’ll have to be one for you too. If there isn’t, we can move on. We’ll try that stuff out somewhere.”

Inigo had come to the conclusion that it really would be rather a lark. “But what do they call this pierrot troupe?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” replied the other. He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and finally produced a little newspaper cutting. “Here it is. They call themselves ‘The Dinky Doos.’ ”

Inigo gave a yell. “But I couldn’t be a Dinky Doo,” he gasped. “Don’t ask me to be a Dinky Doo.”

Mr. Mitcham lowered his great eyebrows. “What’s the matter? Do you know the show?”

“No, but the name, the name! It would hurt, absolutely.”

“No, a mere nothing, that!” Mr. Mitcham’s face cleared, and it was as if the sun had risen upon those black hills of South Dakota he had once mentioned. He stood up, then patted Inigo on the shoulder. “If I don’t mind the name, you shouldn’t. At your age, my dear boy, it doesn’t matter what they call you or make you wear; you can get away with it. But look at me, at my age! I ask you, do I look like a Dinky Doo?”

He looked fantastic enough for anything, Inigo thought. All that he said, however, was that they might put it to the waitress, who was approaching with the bill. “Now would you say,” Inigo solemnly inquired of her, “that either of us looked like a Dinky Doo?”

“Get on with you!” said the waitress, who understood this to be some sort of chaff but was too sleepy to bother her head about it.

“And that’s the answer all right,” said Mr. Mitcham as they walked down the stairs. “Get on with it. I’ll look you up in the morning. Where are you staying?”

And in the morning, quite early, Mr. Mitcham arrived at Inigo’s hotel, accompanied by his banjo-case and his large and disreputable bag. He did not say where he had been sleeping, and had the appearance of not having slept anywhere except in his check suit. Two little cross-country trains finally landed them in Rawsley, and in the early afternoon they walked past those Station Refreshment Rooms to which, later, they had to return. Mr. Mitcham did not know where his acquaintances, whose name was Brundit, were staying, in the town, and it took some time to find their lodgings. Inigo did not see how it was to be done at all, but Mr. Mitcham, pointing out once more that he was an old hand, declared that everybody in these small towns knew everybody else’s business and succeeded in uncovering a trail that brought them at last to the temporary home of the Brundits. There, a little woman with five curling-pins stuck round her furrowed forehead gave them cheerless news. The “Dinky Doos” were no more.

“And I’m sure I’m right sorry for them. Mr. and Mrs. Brundit, too. Very nice people, and them with a little boy of their own,” said the bepinned landlady breathlessly. “Off he goes on Sunday, this chap that’s running it all, and the young woman that plays the piano for them going with him, and not a penny they’ve had for weeks. And people in the town’s saying all sorts of things about them⁠—and of course you do want your money, don’t you, especially these days, when everything’s top price⁠—but as I say, and I’m as much out as anybody, I feel right sorry for them, and didn’t know where to look when they came and told me, and Mrs. Brundit, such a dignified and ladylike person, not like some of them, crying the eyes out of her. And now they’ve gone down to the station to see about something, and they told me they’d be all having a cup of tea and a bit of a meeting down at Mrs. Mounder’s⁠—that’s the Station Refreshment Rooms, a tin place, just opposite⁠—and that’s where you’re likely to find them, if you ask me.”

That is how they came to be at the Station Refreshment Rooms, entering them⁠—or rather it⁠—for there was only one large public room in the hut⁠—at the same time as a slender fair woman and her surprising companion, a short but sturdy man who looked like a workman of some kind or other. The four of them seemed to Inigo to make a very odd quartette indeed.

There were only six people in the tearoom, and they were all sitting together at the far end. Obviously these were the forlorn entertainers, though they did not sound very forlorn, for they all seemed to be talking at the top of their voices and laughing a great deal. Mr. Mitcham marched up the room to them, and he was followed by the fair woman who had just come out of the car. Inigo, for once unaccountably shy, hesitated, took off his knapsack, then stopped where he was. He turned to find that the little man who looked like a workman had also stopped. Their eyes met. Inigo raised his eyebrows and gave a little grin. The other replied with a wink.

“Are these here,” he began, in a kind of hearty whisper, “the thingumjybobs⁠—pier‑rots?”

“They are,” replied Inigo. “They call themselves the Dinky Doos.”

“Eh, they get some daft names!” Then he added ruminatively: “I know nowt about a Dinky Doo, but it seems to be a queer do all right. But it’s been nowt but a queer do all t’week wi’ me.”

Inigo was amused by his impressive tones and broad accent and earnest open face. “Oh, how’s that?” he asked.

“It began o’ Monday night, when you were i’ bed and fast asleep, lad⁠—”

“Half a minute, my dear sir, half a minute! Let me tell you,” said Inigo, with mock solemnity, “I was not in bed and fast asleep on Monday night. I never saw a bed that night⁠—”

“Ner more did I. Nobbut a sofa.”

“I was in the waiting-room of a Godforsaken place called Dullingham Junction, listening to my friend over there playing his banjo. What do you think about that?”

“I nivver knew there were so many folk wandering about. Once you’ve fairly set off, you come on ’em all over t’place. Do you know where I was o’ Monday night?”

“I give it up.”

“On a lorry wi’ two o’ t’biggest rogues you ivver clapped eyes on, coming down t’Great North Road.” And Mr. Oakroyd’s blue eyes fairly shone with pride. This time he had a listener worthy of him.

“That’s the stuff, absolutely the stuff!” cried Inigo, beaming upon this droll little Yorkshireman, who was evidently a Romantic like himself. Then he looked down the room, to see Mr. Morton Mitcham beckoning him with waves of his gigantic arm.

At that moment a voice came ringing from the centre of the group. “Come on, you two,” it cried. “Don’t be shy. Hurry up and join in.” It was a girl’s voice, casual but a trifle mocking. Inigo heard it with a curious little thrill of excitement that afterwards he was at great pains to explain. He has not forgotten it yet, and perhaps he never will. It came ringing⁠—and up went a curtain.

“Nowt shy about yon lass,” said Mr. Oakroyd. “Well, we’ve come a fair way, we mun join in.”

And that will do very well for the last word now. It is the tag of the first higgledy-piggledy piece, with its glimpses of too familiar backgrounds, scenes that are undoubtedly set scenes, and of roads jogging invitingly out of them, with its scattered hints of discontent and rebellion and escape. Here they all are, our people, and for a little space we darken the stage that holds them, leaving them staring at one another.