Margaret, whose good-humour, like that of most young women of her age, was as quickly restored as it had been disturbed, laughed, and said:
“By accident, yes.”
“Oh?” said her father, his eyes twinkling.
“Yes, the Burts,” replied Margaret. “I was not meant to overhear, of course, but Mr. Burt has a voice like a megaphone and Mrs. Burt— Cora McCanley, you know—screeches like the low-class young woman she really is, especially when she gets angry. I had gone up to the Bungalow to collect Burt’s subscription for the village lending library—you remember we started it last winter, Mr. Wells?—and they were arguing, dreadfully loudly, about Burt’s meanness and Cora’s extravagance. She declared he never gave her any money beyond the bare housekeeping allowance, and he declared that she didn’t want fine clothes to wear in a place like Saltmarsh. It was horribly unpleasant. Oh, well, never mind them! Let’s get the tea cleared away, and then, Mr. Burns, you are to find some way of amusing us until it is time to dress for dinner.”
Burns smiled, and racked his brains in a truly gallant attempt to think of some form of entertainment. By the time the tea-things had disappeared he was ready.
“You stand over here,” he began, and trod heavily upon the dog. The dog sprang up with an anguished yelp. Burns shouted to Margaret:
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to do that. I was just going to say—” The dog began barking and Margaret stooped to caress and soothe him. The dog, a well-behaved, good-tempered chap, strove to show that there was no ill-feeling by leaping up, first at Margaret, and then, very suddenly, at Burns. Burns, obsessed, as I say, by a nervous dread of dogs which he had contracted, I suppose, as a very small child and had never been able to conquer nor even thoroughly control, shouted and struck at the excited animal.
“Down, boy, down!” said Margaret, laughing. I made an ineffectual grab at the dog’s collar and tripped and fell flat, thus adding to the confusion.
“Down, sir!” said Sir William, rising to control the dog. “Hurt yourself, Wells?”
I shook my head and apologised for being clumsy. I had to shout, for the noise was indescribable.
“Quiet! Quiet!” bellowed Burns, dashing his hand wildly down at the animal’s eyes, and kicking him with a heavily-shod foot. The dog gave way with a yelp, and then flew at the foot, fastened his teeth in Burn’s sock and began to worry his prey frenziedly. Burns also was frenzied and tried to beat off the dog. Nearly mad with terror, he seized a cut glass vase from the mantelpiece and smashed at the dog’s head with it. Margaret cried out; her father swore horribly; I believe I yelled, too. The dog, sensible of anger, let go and leapt out of harm’s way, and the glass vase crashed to the ground. Before anyone could prevent him, Sir William had gripped Burns by the neck and had begun very efficiently to throttle him to death. Burns’ eyes bulged. He gurgled. Margaret shouted. Mrs. Bradley leapt from her chair, and, with great presence of mind, seized a vase containing flowers and flung its contents, which, of course, included a fair amount of cold water, abruptly and forcibly into Sir William’s face. Sir William loosed his hold. Margaret, shaking at the knees, gripped the dog by the collar and put him outside the door. Mrs. Bradley sat down again and wiped her thin yellow fingers delicately upon a silk handkerchief. The two men glared at one another. Then Sir William, muttering, turned aside and began to wipe his hair, his face and his suit. Altogether it was an embarrassing occasion, and I was glad to take my leave. Margaret seemed anxious to have me stay for dinner, but I had several things to talk over with Daphne about the fete, and, besides, I was not particularly keen on remaining. Mrs. Bradley walked with me to the gate. Suddenly she said:
“So it was the Burts?”
“Yes,” I replied. “At least, Burt denied making the bet with Mr. Gatty, but did not deny incarcerating him in the crypt.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bradley. I had already told Sir William and the others about the person or persons unknown who had bunged loose tiles at William and me from the roof of Burt’s bungalow. I had remarked that I suspected some of the choir lads. I repeated this observation.
“Don’t say a word about it to them, young man,” said Mrs. Bradley; and she would not allow me to leave her until I had promised.
I found Daphne in what was still called the playroom. It was a big, bare, chilly room at the top of the house, and I was surprised that she had chosen it. It was to get away from her aunt, I suppose. They did not hit it off, of course, Daphne and Mrs. Coutts.
“Sit down somewhere, Noel,” she said. “I say, what’s all this about people trying to kill William and you last night?”
I had to tell her, of course, and then I pledged her to secrecy. She said:
“Oh, I shan’t tell. But it’s all over the village.”
“But how?” I asked. “William?”
“He says not.” Daphne frowned. “It’s those beastly boys,” she said. I agreed, but told her that I had been compelled to promise not to tackle them on the subject. She said suddenly:
“They say Mrs. Gatty was quite normal before he made her live there. It sounds rather awful, doesn’t it? I suppose that is what the divorce courts call mental cruelty.”
She turned her candid, beautiful eyes away from me, but took hold of my hand.
“It’s all very queer, anyhow,” I said. “By the way, I wonder whether we shall be able to get hold of a small bell tent for the fortune telling on August Monday?”
“Oh, we can have it. I meant to tell you. I saw Tommy Manley, and he saw William, and William saw the scoutmaster and he says we can borrow it without charge, so I’ve invited the troop to the fete. William is very pleased, I think. Comic how I have to approach him through Tommy, isn’t it? The Scouts are going to give us a display of camp-craft and gymnastics and I’ve put a special Scouts’ Hundred Yards Handicap into the sports programme. I must let uncle know. And I must get hold of the prize list from him. The Girls’ Egg and Spoon Over Eleven can’t have less than three prizes, because there are fifteen entries, so I must cut down the Boys’ Over- Fourteen Two-Twenty to a first and second, because there are only seven entries for that, and even at that I had to bribe Oliver, the gardener’s boy at the Manor House, to go in for it, or there would have been only five.”
“Six, surely?” I said.
“No. By getting Oliver to enter I also secured the entry of a boy named Briggs who hates running and hates
