“The same kind of reason.”
“Oh, Mr. Cade,” protested Miss Taylor, much distressed, “I’m sure you shouldn’t say that. Papa was only saying last night what gentlemanly manners you had.”
“Very kind of your father, I’m sure, Miss Taylor.”
“And we are all agreed that you are quite the gentleman.”
“I’m overwhelmed.”
“No, really, I mean it.”
“Kind hearts are more than coronets,” said Anthony vaguely, without a notion of what he meant by the remark, and wishing fervently it was lunch time.
“That’s such a beautiful poem, I always think. Do you know much poetry, Mr. Cade?”
“I might recite ‘The boy stood on the burning deck’ at a pinch. ‘The boy stood on the burning deck, whence all but he had fled.’ That’s all I know, but I can do that bit with action if you like. ‘The boy stood on the burning deck’—whoosh—whoosh—whoosh—(the flames, you see) ‘Whence all but he had fled’—for that bit I run to and fro like a dog.”
Miss Taylor screamed with laughter.
“Oh, do look at Mr. Cade! Isn’t he funny?”
“Time for morning tea,” said Anthony briskly. “Come this way. There is an excellent café in the next street.”
“I presume,” said Mrs. Caldicott, in her deep voice, “that the expense is included in the Tour?”
“Morning tea, Mrs. Caldicott,” said Anthony, assuming his professional manner, “is an extra.”
“Disgraceful.”
“Life is full of trials, isn’t it?” said Anthony cheerfully. Mrs. Caldicott’s eyes gleamed, and she remarked with the air of one springing a mine:
“I suspected as much, and in anticipation I poured off some tea into a jug at breakfast this morning! I can heat that up on the spirit lamp. Come, father.”
Mr. and Mrs. Caldicott sailed off triumphantly to the hotel, the lady’s back complacent with successful forethought.
“Oh, Lord,” muttered Anthony, “what a lot of funny people it does take to make a world.”
He marshalled the rest of the party in the direction of the café. Miss Taylor kept by his side, and resumed her catechism.
“Is it a long time since you saw your friend?”
“Just over seven years.”
“Was it in Africa you knew him?”
“Yes, not this part though. The first time I ever saw Jimmy McGrath, he was all trussed up ready for the cooking pot. Some of the tribes in the interior are cannibals, you know. We got there just in time.”
“What happened?”
“Very nice little shindy. We potted some of the beggars, and the rest took to their heels.”
“Oh, Mr. Cade, what an adventurous life you must have led!”
“Very peaceful, I assure you.”
But it was clear that the lady did not believe him.
It was about ten o’clock that night when Anthony Cade walked into the small room where Jimmy McGrath was busy manipulating various bottles.
“Make it strong, James,” he implored. “I can tell you, I need it.”
“I should think you did, my boy. I wouldn’t take on that job of yours for anything.”
“Show me another, and I’ll jump out of it fast enough.”
McGrath poured out his own drink, tossed it off with a practised hand and mixed a second one. Then he said slowly:
“Are you in earnest about that, old son?”
“About what?”
“Chucking this job of yours if you could get another?”
“Why? You don’t mean to say that you’ve got a job going begging? Why don’t you grab it yourself?”
“I have grabbed it—but I don’t much fancy it, that’s why I’m trying to pass it on to you.”
Anthony became suspicious.
“What’s wrong with it? They haven’t engaged you to teach in a Sunday school, have they?”
“Do you think anyone would choose me to teach in a Sunday school?”
“Not if they knew you well, certainly.”
“It’s a perfectly good job—nothing wrong with it whatsoever.”
“Not in South America by any lucky chance? I’ve rather got my eye on South America. There’s a very tidy little revolution coming off in one of those little republics soon.”
McGrath grinned.
“You always were keen on revolutions—anything to be mixed up in a really good row.”
“I feel my talents might be appreciated out there. I tell you, Jimmy, I can be jolly useful in a revolution—to one side or the other. It’s better than making an honest living any day.”
“I think I’ve heard that sentiment from you before, my son. No, the job isn’t in South America—it’s in England.”
“England? Return of hero to his native land after many long years. They can’t dun you for bills after seven years, can they, Jimmy?”
“I don’t think so. Well, are you on for hearing more about it?”
“I’m on all right. The thing that worries me is why you’re not taking it on yourself.”
“I’ll tell you. I’m after gold, Anthony—far up in the interior.”
Anthony whistled and looked at him.
“You’ve always been after gold, Jimmy, ever since I knew you. It’s your weak spot—your own particular little hobby. You’ve followed up more wildcat trails than anyone I know.”
“And in the end I’ll strike it. You’ll see.”
“Well, everyone his own hobby. Mine’s rows, yours is gold.”
“I’ll tell you the whole story. I suppose you know all about Herzoslovakia?”
Anthony looked up sharply.
“Herzoslovakia?” he said, with a curious ring in his voice.
“Yes. Know anything about it?”
There was quite an appreciable pause before Anthony answered. Then he said slowly:
“Only what everyone knows. It’s one of the Balkan States, isn’t it? Principal rivers, unknown. Principal mountains, also unknown, but fairly numerous. Capital, Ekarest. Population, chiefly brigands. Hobby, assassinating kings and having revolutions. Last king, Nicholas IV. Assassinated about seven years ago. Since then it’s been a republic. Altogether a very likely spot. You might have mentioned before that Herzoslovakia came into it.”
“It doesn’t except indirectly.”
Anthony gazed at him more in sorrow than in anger.
“You ought to do something about this, James,” he said. “Take a correspondence course, or something. If you’d told a story like this in the good old Eastern days, you’d have been hung up by the heels and bastinadoed or something equally unpleasant.”
Jimmy pursued his course quite unmoved by these strictures.
“Ever heard of Count Stylptitch?”
“Now you’re talking,” said Anthony. “Many people who have never heard of Herzoslovakia would brighten at the mention of Count Stylptitch. The Grand Old Man of
