Part 11 (1/2)

”I heard nothing but the pestilential wind,” said Georg hoa.r.s.ely.

There was silence again for some minutes, and then Ulrich gave a joyful cry.

”I can see figures coming through the wood. They are following in the way I came down the hillside.”

Both men raised their voices in as loud a shout as they could muster.

”They hear us! They've stopped. Now they see us. They're running down the hill towards us,” cried Ulrich.

”How many of them are there?” asked Georg.

”I can't see distinctly,” said Ulrich; ”nine or ten,”

”Then they are yours,” said Georg; ”I had only seven out with me.”

”They are making all the speed they can, brave lads,” said Ulrich gladly.

”Are they your men?” asked Georg. ”Are they your men?” he repeated impatiently as Ulrich did not answer.

”No,” said Ulrich with a laugh, the idiotic chattering laugh of a man unstrung with hideous fear.

”Who are they?” asked Georg quickly, straining his eyes to see what the other would gladly not have seen.

”_Wolves_.”

QUAIL SEED

”The outlook is not encouraging for us smaller businesses,” said Mr.

Scarrick to the artist and his sister, who had taken rooms over his suburban grocery store. ”These big concerns are offering all sorts of attractions to the shopping public which we couldn't afford to imitate, even on a small scale-reading-rooms and play-rooms and gramophones and Heaven knows what. People don't care to buy half a pound of sugar nowadays unless they can listen to Harry Lauder and have the latest Australian cricket scores ticked off before their eyes. With the big Christmas stock we've got in we ought to keep half a dozen a.s.sistants hard at work, but as it is my nephew Jimmy and myself can pretty well attend to it ourselves. It's a nice stock of goods, too, if I could only run it off in a few weeks time, but there's no chance of that-not unless the London line was to get snowed up for a fortnight before Christmas. I did have a sort of idea of engaging Miss Luffcombe to give recitations during afternoons; she made a great hit at the Post Office entertainment with her rendering of 'Little Beatrice's Resolve'.”

”Anything less likely to make your shop a fas.h.i.+onable shopping centre I can't imagine,” said the artist, with a very genuine shudder; ”if I were trying to decide between the merits of Carlsbad plums and confected figs as a winter dessert it would infuriate me to have my train of thought entangled with little Beatrice's resolve to be an Angel of Light or a girl scout. No,” he continued, ”the desire to get something thrown in for nothing is a ruling pa.s.sion with the feminine shopper, but you can't afford to pander effectively to it. Why not appeal to another instinct; which dominates not only the woman shopper but the male shopper-in fact, the entire human race?”

”What is that instinct, sir?” said the grocer.

Mrs. Greyes and Miss Fritten had missed the 2.18 to Town, and as there was not another train till 3.12 they thought that they might as well make their grocery purchases at Scarrick's. It would not be sensational, they agreed, but it would still be shopping.

For some minutes they had the shop almost to themselves, as far as customers were concerned, but while they were debating the respective virtues and blemishes of two competing brands of anchovy paste they were startled by an order, given across the counter, for six pomegranates and a packet of quail seed. Neither commodity was in general demand in that neighbourhood. Equally unusual was the style and appearance of the customer; about sixteen years old, with dark olive skin, large dusky eyes, and thick, low-growing, blue-black hair, he might have made his living as an artist's model. As a matter of fact he did. The bowl of beaten bra.s.s that he produced for the reception of his purchases was distinctly the most astonis.h.i.+ng variation on the string bag or marketing basket of suburban civilisation that his fellow-shoppers had ever seen.

He threw a gold piece, apparently of some exotic currency, across the counter, and did not seem disposed to wait for any change that might be forthcoming.

”The wine and figs were not paid for yesterday,” he said; ”keep what is over of the money for our future purchases.”

”A very strange-looking boy?” said Mrs. Greyes interrogatively to the grocer as soon as his customer had left.

”A foreigner, I believe,” said Mr. Scarrick, with a shortness that was entirely out of keeping with his usually communicative manner.

”I wish for a pound and a half of the best coffee you have,” said an authoritative voice a moment or two later. The speaker was a tall, authoritative-looking man of rather outlandish aspect, remarkable among other things for a full black beard, worn in a style more in vogue in early a.s.syria than in a London suburb of the present day.

”Has a dark-faced boy been here buying pomegranates?” he asked suddenly, as the coffee was being weighed out to him.