The Little Warrior

“Good morning,” said Uncle Chris breezily, sailing down the fairway with outstretched hand. “How are— oh!”

He stopped abruptly, perceiving that Mrs Peagrim was not present and—a more disturbing discovery—that Otis Pilkington was. It would be exaggeration to say that Uncle Chris was embarrassed. That master-mind was never actually embarrassed. But his jauntiness certainly ebbed a little, and he had to pull his mustache twice before he could face the situation with his customary aplomb. He had not expected to find Otis Pilkington here, and Otis was the last man he wished to meet. He had just parted from Jill, who had been rather plain-spoken with regard to the recent financial operations: and, though possessed only of a rudimentary conscience, Uncle Chris was aware that his next interview with young Mr Pilkington might have certain aspects bordering on awkwardness and he would have liked time to prepare a statement for the defence. However, here the man was, and the situation must be faced.

“Pilkington!” he cried. “My dear fellow! Just the man I wanted to see! I'm afraid there has been a little misunderstanding. Of course, it has all been cleared up now, but still I must insist on making a personal explanation, really I must insist. The whole matter was a most absurd misunderstanding. It was like this —”

Here Uncle Chris paused in order to devote a couple of seconds to thought. He had said it was “like this,” and he gave his mustache another pull as though he were trying to drag inspiration out of it. His blue eyes were as frank and honest as ever, and showed no trace of the perplexity in his mind, but he had to admit to himself that, if he managed to satisfy his hearer that all was for the best and that he had acted uprightly and without blame, he would be doing well.

Fortunately, the commercial side of Mr Pilkington was entirely dormant this morning. The matter of the ten thousand dollars seemed trivial to him in comparison with the weightier problems which occupied his mind.

“Have you seen Miss Mariner?” he asked eagerly.

“Yes. I have just parted from her. She was upset, poor girl, of course, exceedingly upset.”

Mr Pilkington moaned hollowly.

“Is she very angry with me?”

For a moment the utter inexplicability of the remark silenced Uncle Chris. Why Jill should be angry with Mr Pilkington for being robbed of ten thousand dollars, he could not understand, for Jill had told him nothing of the scene that had taken place on the previous night. But evidently this point was to Mr Pilkington the nub of the matter, and Uncle Chris, like the strategist he was, rearranged his forces to meet the new development.

“Angry?” he said slowly. “Well, of course —”

He did not know what it was all about, but no doubt if he confined himself to broken sentences which meant nothing light would shortly be vouchsafed to him.

“In the heat of the moment,” confessed Mr Pilkington, “I'm afraid I said things to Miss Mariner which I now regret.”

Uncle Chris began to feel on solid ground again.

“Dear, dear!” he murmured regretfully.

“I spoke hastily.”

“Always think before you speak, my boy.”

“I considered that I had been cheated —”

“My dear boy!” Uncle Chris' blue eyes opened wide. “Please! Haven't I said that I could explain all that? It was a pure misunderstanding —”

“Oh, I don't care about that part of it —”

“Quite right,” said Uncle Chris cordially. “Let bygones be bygones. Start with a clean slate. You have your money back, and there's no need to say another word about it. Let us forget it,” he concluded generously. “And, if I have any influence with Jill, you may count on me to use it to dissipate any little unfortunate rift which may have occurred between you.”

“You think there's a chance that she might overlook what I said?”

“As I say, I will use any influence I may possess to heal the breach. I like you, my boy. And I am sure that Jill likes you. She will make allowances for any ill-judged remarks you may have uttered in a moment of heat.”

Mr Pilkington brightened, and Mrs Peagrim, returning with a medicine-glass, was pleased to see him looking so much better.

“You are a positive wizard, Major Selby,” she said archly. “What have you been saying to the poor boy to cheer him up so? He has a bad headache this morning.”

“Headache?” said Uncle Chris, starting like a war-horse that has heard the bugle. “I don't know if I have ever mentioned it, but I used to suffer from headaches at one time. Extraordinarily severe headaches. I tried everything, until one day a man I knew recommended a thing called—don't know if you have ever heard of it —”

Mrs Peagrim, in her role of ministering angel, was engrossed with her errand of mercy. She was holding the medicine-glass to Mr Pilkington's lips, and the seed fell on stony ground.

“Drink this, dear,” urged Mrs Peagrim.

“Nervino,” said Uncle Chris.

“There!” said Mrs Peagrim. “That will make you feel much better. How well you always look, Major Selby!”

“And yet at one time,” said Uncle Chris perseveringly, “I was a martyr —”

“I can't remember if I told you last night about the party. We are giving a little supper-dance to the company of Otie's play after the performance this evening. Of course you will come?”

Uncle Chris philosophically accepted his failure to secure the ear of his audience. Other opportunities would occur.