“I expect there’s one in each of the hampers. Yes; here’s another. W. K. Ross, The Elms.”
The colonel came across, and began to examine the hampers with his own hand. Each hamper contained a visiting-card, and each card bore the name of a neighbour. The colonel returned to the breakfast-room, and laid the nineteen cards out in a row on the table.
“H’m!” he said, at last. “Mr. Reginald Dallas does not seem to be represented.”
Sylvia said nothing.
“No; he seems not to be represented. I did not give him credit for so much sense.” Then he dropped the subject, and breakfast proceeded in silence.
A young gentleman met the colonel on his walk that morning.
“Morning, colonel!” said he.
“Good-morning!” said the colonel grimly.
“Er—colonel, I—er—suppose Miss Reynolds got that dog all right?”
“To which dog do you refer?”
“It was a pug, you know. It ought to have arrived by this time.”
“Yes. I am inclined to think it has. Had it any special characteristics?”
“No, I don’t think so. Just an ordinary pug.”
“Well, young man, if you will go to my coachhouse, you will find nineteen ordinary pugs; and if you would kindly select your beast, and shoot it, I should be much obliged.”
“Nineteen?” said the other, in astonishment. “Why, are you setting up as a dog-fancier in your old age, colonel?”
This was too much for the colonel. He exploded.
“Old age! Confound your impudence! Dog-fancier! No, sir! I have not become a dog-fancier in what you are pleased to call my old age! But while there is no law to prevent a lot of dashed young puppies like yourself, sir—like yourself—sending your confounded pug-dogs to my daughter, who ought to have known better than to have let them out of their dashed hampers, I have no defence.
“Dog-fancier! Gad! Unless those dogs are removed by this time tomorrow, sir, they will go straight to the Battersea Home, where I devoutly trust they will poison them. Here are the cards of the other gentlemen who were kind enough to think that I might wish to set up for a dog-fancier in my old age. Perhaps you will kindly return them to their owners, and tell them what I have just said.” And he strode off, leaving the young man in a species of trance.
“Sylvia!” said the colonel, on arriving home.
“Yes, papa.”
“Do you still want to marry that Dallas fellow? Now, for Heaven’s sake, don’t start crying! Goodness knows I’ve been worried enough this morning without that. Please answer a plain question in a fairly sane manner. Do you, or do you not?”
“Of course I do, papa.”
“Then you may. He’s the furthest from being a fool of any of the young puppies who live about here, and he knows one end of a gun from the other. I’ll write to him now.”
“Dear Dallas” (wrote the colonel),—”I find, on consideration, that you are the only sensible person in the neighbourhood. I hope you will come to lunch to-day. And if you still want to marry my daughter, you may.”
To which Dallas replied by return of messenger:
“Thanks for both invitations. I will.”
An hour later he arrived in person, and the course of true love pulled itself together, and began to run smooth again.
TOM, DICK, AND HARRY
This story will interest and amuse all cricketers, and while from the male point of view it may serve as a good illustration of the fickleness of woman and the impossibility of forecasting what course she will take, the fair sex will find in it an equally shining proof of the colossal vanity of man.
“It’s like this.”
Tom Ellison sat down on the bed, and paused.
“Whack it out,” said Dick Henley encouragingly.
“We’re all friends here, and the password’s ‘Portland.’ What’s the matter?”
“I hate talking to a man when he’s shaving. I don’t want to have you cutting your head off.”
“Don’t worry about me. This is a safety razor. And, anyhow, what’s the excitement? Going to make my flesh creep?”
Tom Ellison kicked uncomfortably at the chair he was trying to balance on one leg.
“It’s so hard to explain.”
“Have a dash at it.”
“Well, look here, Dick, we’ve always been pals. What?”
“Of course we have.”
“We went to the Empire last Boatrace night together–-“
