seemed to combine in equal proportions the outstanding characteristics
of Nero, a wildcat, and the second mate of a tramp steamer.
* * * * *
That night Ramsden Walters sat in his study, a prey to the gloomiest
emotions. The gold had died out of him by now, and he was reproaching
himself bitterly for having ruined for ever his chance of winning the
only girl he had ever loved. How could she forgive him for his
brutality? How could she overlook treatment which would have caused
comment in the stokehold of a cattle ship? He groaned and tried to
forget his sorrows by forcing himself to read.
But the choicest thoughts of the greatest writers had no power to grip
him. He tried Vardon 'On the Swing', and the words swam before his
eyes. He turned to Taylor 'On the Chip Shot', and the master's pure
style seemed laboured and involved. He found solace neither in Braid
'On the Pivot' nor in Duncan 'On the Divot'. He was just about to give
it up and go to bed though it was only nine o'clock, when the telephone
bell rang.
'Hello!'
'Is that you, Mr. Waters? This is Eunice Bray.' The receiver shook in
Ramsden's hand. 'I've just remembered. Weren't we talking about
something last night? Didn't you ask me to marry you or something? I
know it was something.'
Ramsden gulped three times.
'I did,' he replied hollowly.
'We didn't settle anything, did we?'
'Eh?'
'I say, we sort of left it kind of open.'
'Yuk!'
'Well, would it bore you awfully,' said Eunice's soft voice, 'to come
round now and go on talking it over?'
Ramsden tottered.
'We shall be quite alone,' said Eunice. 'Little Wilberforce has gone to
bed with a headache.'
Ramsden paused a moment to disentangle his tongue from the back of his
neck.
'I'll be right over!' he said huskily.
10
The Coming of Gowf
PROLOGUE
After we had sent in our card and waited for a few hours in the marbled
ante-room, a bell rang and the major-domo, parting the priceless
curtains, ushered us in to where the editor sat writing at his desk. We
advanced on all fours, knocking our head reverently on the Aubusson
carpet.
'Well?' he said at length, laying down his jewelled pen.
'We just looked in,' we said, humbly, 'to ask if it would be all right
if we sent you an historical story.'
'The public does not want historical stories,' he said, frowning
coldly.
'Ah, but the public hasn't seen one of ours!' we replied.
The editor placed a cigarette in a holder presented to him by a
