CHAPTER SIX
1.
A taxi-cab stopped at the door of number twenty-two Ovington Square.
Freddie Rooke emerged, followed by Jill. While Freddie paid the
driver, Jill sniffed the afternoon air happily. It had turned into a
delightful day. A westerly breeze, springing up in the morning, had
sent the thermometer up with a run and broken the cold spell which
had been gripping London. It was one of those afternoons which
intrude on the bleakness of winter with a false but none the less
agreeable intimation that Spring is on its way. The sidewalks were
wet underfoot, and the gutters ran with thawed snow. The sun shone
exhilaratingly from a sky the color of a hedge-sparrow's egg.
"Doesn't everything smell lovely, Freddie," said Jill, "after our
prison-life!"
"Topping!"
"Fancy getting out so quickly! Whenever I'm arrested, I must always
make a point of having a rich man with me. I shall never tease you
about that fifty-pound note again."
"Fifty-pound note?"
"It certainly came in handy today!"
She was opening the door with her latch-key, and missed the sudden
sagging of Freddie's jaw, the sudden clutch at his breast-pocket, and
the look of horror and anguish that started into his eyes. Freddie
was appalled. Finding himself at the police-station penniless with
the exception of a little loose change, he had sent that message to
Derek, imploring assistance, as the only alternative to spending the
night in a cell, with Jill in another. He had realized that there was
a risk of Derek taking the matter hardly, and he had not wanted to
get Jill into trouble, but there seemed nothing else to do. If they
remained where they were overnight, the thing would get into the
papers, and that would be a thousand times worse. And if he applied
for aid to Ronny Devereux or Algy Martyn or anybody like that all
London would know about it next day. So Freddie, with misgivings, had
sent the message to Derek, and now Jill's words had reminded him that
there was no need to have done so. Years ago he had read somewhere or
heard somewhere about some chappie who always buzzed around with a
sizeable banknote stitched into his clothes, and the scheme had
seemed to him ripe to a degree. You never knew when you might find
yourself short of cash and faced by an immediate call for the ready.
He had followed the chappie's example. And now, when the crisis had
arrived, he had forgotten--absolutely forgotten!--that he had the
dashed thing on his person at all.
He followed Jill into the house, groaning in spirit, but thankful
that she had taken it for granted that he had secured their release
in the manner indicated. He did not propose to disillusion her. It
would be time enough to take the blame when the blame came along.
Probably old Derek would simply be amused and laugh at the whole
bally affair like a sportsman. Freddie cheered up considerably at the
thought.
Jill was talking to the parlormaid whose head had popped up over the
banisters flanking the stairs that led to the kitchen.
"Major Selby hasn't arrived yet, miss."
"That's odd. I suppose he must have taken a later train."
"There's a lady in the drawing-room, miss, waiting to see him. She
didn't give any name. She said she would wait till the major came.
She's been waiting a goodish while."
"All right, Jane. Thanks. Will you bring up tea."
They walked down the hall. The drawing-room was on the ground floor,
a long, dim room that would have looked like a converted studio but
for the absence of bright light. A girl was sitting at the far end by
the fireplace. She rose: as they entered.
"How do you do?" said Jill. "I'm afraid my uncle has not come back
yet . . ."
"Say!" cried the visitor. "You _did_ get out quick!"
Jill was surprised. She had no recollection of ever having seen the
other before. Her visitor was a rather pretty girl, with a sort of
jaunty way of carrying herself which made a piquant contrast to her
tired eyes and wistful face. Jill took an immediate liking to her.
She looked so forlorn and pathetic.
"My name's Nelly Bryant," said the girl. "That parrot belongs to me."
"Oh, I see."
"I heard you say to the cop that you lived here, so I came along to
tell your folks what had happened, so that they could do something.
The maid said that your uncle was expected any minute, so I waited."
"That was awfully good of you."
"Dashed good," said Freddie.
"Oh, no! Honest, I don't know how to thank you for what you did. You
don't know what a pal Bill is to me. It would have broken me all up
if that plug-ugly had killed him."
"But what a shame you had to wait so long."
"I liked it."
Nelly Bryant looked about the room wistfully. This was the sort of
room she sometimes dreamed about. She loved its subdued light and the
pulpy cushions on the sofa.
"You'll have some tea before you go, won't you?" said Jill, switching
on the lights.
"It's very kind of you."
"Why, hullo!" said Freddie. "By Jove! I say! We've met before, what?"
"Why, so we have!"
"That lunch at Oddy's that young Threepwood gave, what?"
"I wonder you remember."
"Oh, I remember. Quite a time ago, eh? Miss Bryant was in that show,
'Follow the Girl,' Jill, at the Regal."
"Oh, yes. I remember you took me to see it."
"Dashed odd meeting again like this!" said Freddie. "Really rummy!"
Jane, the parlormaid, entering with tea, interrupted his comments.
"You're American, then?" said Jill, interested. "The whole company
came from New York, didn't they?"
"Yes."
"I'm half American myself, you know. I used to live in New York when
I was very small, but I've almost forgotten what it was like. I
remember a sort of over-head railway that made an awful noise . . ."
"The Elevated!" murmured Nelly devoutly. A wave of homesickness
seemed to choke her for a moment.
"And the air. Like champagne. And a very blue sky."
"Yes," said Nelly in a small voice.
"I shouldn't half mind popping over New York for a bit," said
Freddie, unconscious of the agony he was inflicting. "I've met some
very sound sportsmen who came from there. You don't know a fellow
named Williamson, do you?"
"I don't believe I do."
"Or Oakes?"
"No."
"That's rummy! Oakes has lived in New York for years."
"So have about seven million other people," interposed Jill. "Don't
be silly, Freddie. How would you like somebody to ask of you if you
knew a man named Jenkins in London?"
"I do know a man named Jenkins in London," replied Freddie
triumphantly.
Jill poured out a cup of tea for her visitor, and looked at the
clock.
"I wonder where Uncle Chris has got to," she said. "He ought to be
here by now. I hope he hasn't got into any mischief among the wild
stock-brokers down at Brighton."
Freddie laid down his cup on the table and uttered a loud snort.
"Oh, Freddie, darling!" said Jill remorsefully. "I forgot!
Stock-brokers are a painful subject, aren't they!" She turned to
Nelly. "There's been an awful slump on the Stock Exchange today, and
he got--what was the word, Freddie?"
"Nipped!" said Freddie with gloom.
"Nipped!"
"Nipped like the dickens!"
"Nipped like the dickens!" Jill smiled at Nelly. "He had forgotten
all about it in the excitement of being a jailbird, and I went and
reminded him."
Freddie sought sympathy from Nelly.
"A silly ass at the club named Jimmy Monroe told me to take a flutter
in some rotten thing called Amalgamated Dyes. You know how it is,
when you're feeling devilish fit and cheery and all that after
dinner, and somebody sidles up to you and slips his little hand in
yours and tells you to do some fool thing. You're so dashed nappy you
simply say 'Right-ho, old bird! Make it so!' That's the way I got
had!"
Jill laughed unfeelingly.
"It will do you good, Freddie. It'll stir you up and prevent you
being so silly again. Besides, you know you'll hardly notice it.
You've much too much money as it is."
"It's not the money. It's the principle of the thing. I hate looking
a frightful chump."
"Well, you needn't tell anybody. We'll keep it a secret. In fact,
we'll start at once, for I hear Uncle Chris outside. Let us
dissemble. We are observed! . . . Hullo, Uncle Chris!"
She ran down the room, as the door opened, and kissed the tall,
soldierly man who entered.
"Well, Jill, my dear."
"How late you are. I was expecting you hours ago."
"I had to call on my broker."
"Hush! Hush!"
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing, nothing. . . . We've got visitors. You know Freddie Rooke,
of course?"
"How are you, Freddie, my boy?"
"Cheerio!" said Freddie. "Pretty fit?"
"And Miss Bryant," said Jill.
"How do you do?" said Uncle Chris in the bluff, genial way which, in
his younger days, had charmed many a five-pound note out of the
pockets of his fellow-men and many a soft glance out of the eyes of
their sisters, their cousins, and their aunts.
"Come and have some tea," said Jill. "You're just in time."
Nelly had subsided shyly into the depths of her big armchair. Somehow
she felt a better and a more important girl since Uncle Chris had
addressed her. Most people felt like hat after encountering Jill's
Uncle Christopher. Uncle Chris had a manner. It was not precisely
condescending, and yet it was not the manner of an equal. He treated
you as an equal, true, but all the time you were conscious of the
fact that it was extraordinarily good of him to do so. Uncle Chris
affected the rank and file of his fellow-men much as a genial knight
of the Middle Ages would have affected a scurvy knave or varlet if he
had cast aside social distinctions for awhile and hobnobbed with the
latter in a tavern. He never patronized, but the mere fact that he
abstained from patronizing seemed somehow impressive.
To this impressiveness his appearance contributed largely. He was a
fine, upstanding man, who looked less than his forty-nine years in
spite of an ominous thinning of the hair which he tended and brushed
so carefully. He had a firm chin, a mouth that smiled often and
pleasantly beneath the closely-clipped moustache, and very bright
blue eyes which met yours in a clear, frank, honest gaze. Though he
had served in his youth in India, he had none of the Anglo-Indian's
sun-scorched sallowness. His complexion was fresh and sanguine. He
looked as if he had just stepped out of a cold tub,--a misleading
impression, for Uncle Chris detested cold water and always took his
morning bath as hot as he could get it.
It was his clothes, however, which, even more than his appearance,
fascinated the populace. There is only one tailor in London, as
distinguished from the ambitious mechanics who make coats and
trousers, and Uncle Chris was his best customer. Similarly, London is
full of young fellows trying to get along by the manufacture of
foot-wear, but there is only one boot-maker in the true meaning of
the word,--the one who supplied Uncle Chris. And, as for hats, while
it is no doubt a fact that you can get at plenty of London shops some
sort of covering for your head which will keep it warm, the only
hatter--using the term in its deeper sense--is the man who enjoyed
the patronage of Major Christopher Selby. From foot to head, in
short, from furthest South to extremest North, Uncle Chris was
perfect. He was an ornament to his surroundings. The Metropolis
looked better for him. One seems to picture London as a mother with a
horde of untidy children, children with made-up ties, children with
wrinkled coats and baggy trouser-legs, sighing to herself as she
beheld them, then cheering up and murmuring with a touch of restored
complacency, "Ah, well, I still have Uncle Chris!"
"Miss Bryant is American, Uncle Chris," said Jill.
Uncle Chris spread his shapely legs before the fire, and glanced down
kindly at Nelly.
"Indeed?" He took a cup of tea and stirred it. "I was in America as a
young man."
"Whereabouts?" asked Nelly eagerly.
"Oh, here and there and everywhere. I travelled considerably."
"That's how it is with me," said Nelly, overcoming her diffidence as
she warmed to the favorite topic. "I guess I know most every town in
every State, from New York to the last one-night stand. It's a great
old country, isn't it?"
"It is!" said Uncle Chris. "I shall be returning there very shortly."
He paused meditatively. "Very shortly indeed."
Nelly bit her lip. It seemed to be her fate today to meet people who
were going to America.
"When did you decide to do that?" asked Jill.
She had been looking at him, puzzled. Years of association with Uncle
Chris had enabled her to read his moods quickly, and she was sure
that there was something on his mind. It was not likely that the
others had noticed it, for his manner was as genial and urbane as
ever. But something about him, a look in his eyes that came and went,
an occasional quick twitching of his mouth, told her that all was not
well. She was a little troubled, but not greatly. Uncle Chris was not
the sort of man to whom grave tragedies happened. It was probably
some mere trifle which she could smooth out for him in five minutes,
once they were alone together. She reached out and patted his sleeve
affectionately. She was fonder of Uncle Chris than of anyone in the
world except Derek.
"The thought," said Uncle Chris, "came to me this morning, as I read
my morning paper while breakfasting. It has grown and developed
during the day. At this moment you might almost call it an obsession.
I am very fond of America. I spent several happy years there. On that
occasion, I set sail for the land of promise, I admit, somewhat
reluctantly. Of my own free will I might never have made the
expedition. But the general sentiment seemed so strongly in favor of
my doing so that I yielded to what I might call a public demand. The
willing hands for my nearest and dearest were behind me, pushing, and
I did not resist them. I have never regretted it. America is a part
of every young man's education. You ought to go there, Freddie."
"Rummily enough," said Freddie, "I was saying just before you came in
that I had half a mind to pop over. Only it's rather a bally fag,
starting. Getting your luggage packed and all that sort of thing."
Nelly, whose luggage consisted of one small trunk, heaved a silent
sigh. Mingling with the idle rich carried its penalties.
"America," said Uncle Chris, "taught me poker, for which I can never
be sufficiently grateful. Also an exotic pastime styled Craps,--or,
alternatively, 'rolling the bones'--which in those days was a very
present help in time of trouble. At Craps, I fear, my hand in late
years had lost much of its cunning. I have had little opportunity of
practising. But as a young man I was no mean exponent of the art. Let
me see," said Uncle Chris meditatively. "What was the precise ritual?
Ah! I have it, 'Come, little seven!'"
"'Come, eleven!'" exclaimed Nelly excitedly.
"'Baby . . .' I feel convinced that in some manner the word baby
entered into it."
"'Baby needs new shoes!'"
"'Baby needs new shoes!' Precisely!"
"It sounds to me," said Freddie, "dashed silly."
"Oh, no!" cried Nelly reproachfully.
"Well, what I mean to say is, there's no sense in it, don't you
know."
"It is a noble pursuit," said Uncle Chris firmly. "Worthy of the
great nation that has produced it. No doubt, when I return to
America, I shall have opportunities of recovering my lost skill."
"You aren't returning to America," said Jill. "You're going to stay
safe at home like a good little uncle. I'm not going to have you
running wild all over the world at your age."
"Age?" declaimed Uncle Chris. "What is my age? At the present moment
I feel in the neighborhood of twenty-one, and Ambition is tapping me
on the shoulder and whispering 'Young man, go West!' The years are
slipping away from me, my dear Jill,--slipping so quickly that in a
few minutes you will he wondering why my nurse does not come to fetch
me. The wanderlust is upon me. I gaze around me at all this
prosperity in which I am lapped," said Uncle Chris, eyeing the
arm-chair severely, "all this comfort and luxury which swaddles me,
and I feel staggered. I want activity. I want to be braced!"
"You would hate it," said Jill composedly. "You know you're the
laziest old darling in the world."
"Exactly what I am endeavoring to point out. I am lazy. Or, I was
till this morning."
"Something very extraordinary must have happened this morning. I can
see that."
"I wallowed in gross comfort. I was what Shakespeare calls a 'fat and
greasy citizen'!"
"Please, Uncle Chris!" protested Jill. "Not while I'm eating buttered
toast!"
"But now I am myself again."
"That's splendid."
"I have heard the beat of the off-shore wind," chanted Uncle Chris,
"and the thresh of the deep-sea rain. I have heard the song--How
long! how long! Pull out on the trail again!"
"He can also recite 'Gunga Din,'" said Jill to Nelly. "I really must
apologize for all this. He's usually as good as gold."
"I believe I know how he feels," said Nelly softly.
"Of course you do. You and I, Miss Bryant, are of the gipsies of the
world. We are not vegetables like young Rooke here."
"Eh, what?" said the vegetable, waking from a reverie. He had been
watching Nelly's face. Its wistfulness attracted him.
"We are only happy," proceeded Uncle Chris, "when we are wandering."
"You should see Uncle Chris wander to his club in the morning," said
Jill. "He trudges off in a taxi, singing wild gipsy songs, absolutely
defying fatigue."
"That," said Uncle Chris, "is a perfectly justified slur. I shudder
at the depths to which prosperity has caused me to sink." He expanded
his chest. "I shall be a different man in America. America would make
a different man of you, Freddie."
"I'm all right, thanks!" said that easily satisfied young man.
Uncle Chris turned to Nelly, pointing dramatically.
"Young woman, go West! Return to your bracing home, and leave this
enervating London! You . . ."
Nelly got up abruptly. She could endure no more.
"I believe I'll have to be going now," she said. "Bill misses me if
I'm away long. Good-bye. Thank you ever so much for what you did."
"It was awfully kind of you to come round," said Jill.
"Good-bye, Major Selby."
"Good-bye."
"Good-bye, Mr Rooke."
Freddie awoke from another reverie.
"Eh? Oh, I say, half a jiffy. I think I may as well be toddling along
myself. About time I was getting back to dress for dinner and all
that. See you home, may I, and then I'll get a taxi at Victoria.
Toodle-oo, everybody."
* * *
Freddie escorted Nelly through the hall and opened the front door for
her. The night was cool and cloudy, and there was still in the air
that odd, rejuvenating suggestion of Spring. A wet fragrance came
from the dripping trees.
"Topping evening!" said Freddie conversationally.
"Yes."
They walked through the square in silence. Freddie shot an
appreciative glance at his companion. Freddie, as he would have
admitted frankly, was not much of a lad for the modern girl. The
modern girl, he considered, was too dashed rowdy and exuberant for a
chappie of peaceful tastes. Now, this girl, on the other hand, had
all the earmarks of being something of a topper. She had a soft
voice. Rummy accent and all that, but nevertheless a soft and
pleasing voice. She was mild and unaggressive, and these were
qualities which Freddie esteemed. Freddie, though this was a thing he
would not have admitted, was afraid of girls, the sort of girls he
had to take down to dinner and dance with and so forth. They were too
dashed clever, and always seemed to be waiting for a chance to score
off a fellow. This one was not like that. Not a bit. She was gentle
and quiet and what not.
It was at this point that it came home to him how remarkably quiet
she was. She had not said a word for the last five minutes. He was
just about to break the silence, when, as they passed under a street
lamp, he perceived that she was crying,--crying very softly to
herself, like a child in the dark.
"Good God!" said Freddie, appalled. There were two things in life
with which he felt totally unable to cope,--crying girls and
dog-fights. The glimpse he had caught of Nelly's face froze him into
a speechlessness which lasted until they reached Daubeny Street and
stopped at her door.
"Good-bye," said Nelly.
"Good-bye-ee!" said Freddie mechanically. "That's to say, I mean to
say, half a second!" he added quickly. Ha faced her nervously, with
one hand on the grimy railings. This wanted looking into. When it
came to girls trickling to and fro in the public streets, weeping,
well, it was pretty rotten and something had to be done about it.
"What's up?" he demanded.
"It's nothing. Good-bye."
"But, my dear old soul," said Freddie, clutching the railing for
moral support, "it _is_ something. It must be! You might not think it,
to look at me, but I'm really rather a dashed shrewd chap, and I can
_see_ there's something up. Why not give me the jolly old scenario and
see if we can't do something?"
Nelly moved as if to turn to the door, then stopped. She was
thoroughly ashamed of herself.
"I'm a fool!"
"No, no!"
"Yes, I am. I don't often act this way, but, oh, gee! hearing you all
talking like that about going to America, just as if it was the
easiest thing in the world, only you couldn't be bothered to do it,
kind of got me going. And to think I could be there right now if I
wasn't a bonehead!"
"A bonehead?"
"A simp. I'm all right as far up as the string of near-pearls, but
above that I'm reinforced concrete."
Freddie groped for her meaning.
"Do you mean you've made a bloomer of some kind?"
"I pulled the worst kind of bone. I stopped on in London when the
rest of the company went back home, and now I've got to stick."
"Rush of jolly old professional engagement, what?"
Nelly laughed bitterly.
"You're a bad guesser. No, they haven't started to fight over me yet.
I'm at liberty, as they say in the Era."
"But, my dear old thing," said Freddie earnestly, "if you've got
nothing to keep you in England, why not pop back to America? I mean
to say, home-sickness is the most dashed blighted thing in the world.
There's nothing gives one the pip to such an extent. Why, dash it, I
remember staying with an old aunt of mine up in Scotland the year
before last and not being able to get away for three weeks or so, and
I raved--absolutely gibbered--for a sight of the merry old metrop.
Sometimes I'd wake up in the night, thinking I was back at the
Albany, and, by Jove, when I found I wasn't I howled like a dog! You
take my tip, old soul, and pop back on the next boat."
"Which line?"
"How do you mean, which line? Oh, I see, you mean which line? Well
. . . well . . . I've never been on any of them, so it's rather hard to
say. But I hear the Cunard well spoken of, and then again some
chappies swear by the White Star. But I should imagine you can't go
far wrong, whichever you pick. They're all pretty ripe, I fancy."
"Which of them is giving free trips? That's the point."
"Eh? Oh!" Her meaning dawned upon Freddie. He regarded her with deep
consternation. Life had treated him so kindly that he had almost
forgotten that there existed a class which had not as much money as
himself. Sympathy welled up beneath his perfectly fitting waistcoat.
It was a purely disinterested sympathy. The fact that Nelly was a
girl and in many respects a dashed pretty girl did not affect him.
What mattered was that she was hard up. The thought hurt Freddie like
a blow. He hated the idea of anyone being hard up.
"I say!" he said. "Are you broke?"
Nelly laughed.
"Am I! If dollars were doughnuts, I wouldn't even have the hole in
the middle."
Freddie was stirred to his depths. Except for the beggars in the
streets, to whom he gave shillings, he had not met anyone for years
who had not plenty of money. He had friends at his clubs who
frequently claimed to be unable to lay their hands on a bally penny,
but the bally penny they wanted to lay their hands on generally
turned out to be a couple of thousand pounds for a new car.
"Good God!" he said.
There was a pause. Then, with a sudden impulse, he began to fumble in
his breast-pocket. Rummy how things worked out for the best, however
scaly they might seem at the moment. Only an hour or so ago he had
been kicking himself for not having remembered that fifty-pound note,
tacked onto the lining of his coat, when it would have come in handy
at the police-station. He now saw that Providence had had the matter
well in hand. If he had remembered it and coughed it up to the
constabulary then, he wouldn't have had it now. And he needed it now.
A mood of quixotic generosity had surged upon him. With swift fingers
he jerked the note free from its moorings and displayed it like a
conjurer exhibiting a rabbit.
"My dear old thing," he said, "I can't stand it! I absolutely cannot
stick it at any price! I really must insist on your trousering this.
Positively!"
Nelly Bryant gazed at the note with wide eyes. She was stunned. She
took it limply, and looked at it under the dim light of the gas-lamp
over the door.
"I couldn't!" she cried.
"Oh, but really! You must!"
"But this is a fifty-pound!"
"Absolutely! It will take you back to New York, what? You asked which
line was giving free trips. The Freddie Rooke Line, by Jove, sailings
every Wednesday and Saturday! I mean, what!"
"But I can't take two hundred and fifty dollars from you!"
"Oh, rather. Of course you can."
There was another pause.
"You'll think--" Nelly's pale face flushed. "You'll think I told you
all about myself just--just because I wanted to . . ."
"To make a touch? Absolutely not! Kid yourself of the jolly old
superstition entirely. You see before you, old thing, a chappie who
knows more about borrowing money than any man in London. I mean to
say, I've had my ear bitten more often than anyone, I should think.
There are sixty-four ways of making a touch--I've had them all worked
on me by divers blighters here and there--and I can tell any of them
with my eyes shut. I know you weren't dreaming of any such thing."
The note crackled musically in Nelly's hand.
"I don't know what to say!"
"That's all right."
"I don't see why . . . Gee! I wish I could tell you what I think of
you!"
Freddie laughed amusedly.
"Do you know," he said, "that's exactly what the beaks--the masters,
you know,--used to say to me at school."
"Are you sure you can spare it?"
"Oh, rather."
Nelly's eyes shone in the light of the lamp.
"I've never met anyone like you before. I don't know how . . ."
Freddie shuffled nervously. Being thanked always made him feel pretty
rotten.
"Well, I think I'll be popping," he said. "Got to get back and dress
and all that. Awfully glad to have seen you, and all that sort of
rot."
Nelly unlocked the door with her latchkey, and stood on the step.
"I'll buy a fur-wrap," she said, half to herself.
"Great wheeze! I should!"
"And some nuts for Bill!"
"Bill?"
"The parrot."
"Oh, the jolly old parrot! Rather! Well, cheerio!"
"Good-bye . . . You've been awfully good to me."
"Oh, no," said Freddie uncomfortably. "Any time you're passing . . . !"
"Awfully good . . . Well, good-bye."
"Toodle-oo!"
"Maybe we'll meet again some day."
"I hope so. Absolutely!"
There was a little scurry of feet. Something warm and soft pressed
for an instant against Freddie's cheek, and, as he stumbled back,
Nelly Bryant skipped up the steps and vanished through the door.
"Good God!"
Freddie felt his cheek. He was aware of an odd mixture of
embarrassment and exhilaration.
From the area below a slight cough sounded. Freddie turned sharply. A
maid in a soiled cap, worn coquettishly over one ear, was gazing
intently up through the railings. Their eyes met. Freddie turned a
warm pink. It seemed to him that the maid had the air of one about to
giggle.
"Damn!" said Freddie softly, and hurried off down the street. He
wondered whether he had made a frightful ass of himself, spraying
bank-notes all over the place like that to comparative strangers.
Then a vision came to him of Nelly's eyes as they had looked at him
in the lamp-light, and he decided--no, absolutely not. Rummy as the
gadget might appear, it had been the right thing to do. It was a
binge of which he thoroughly approved. A good egg!
