Part 2 (1/2)

”You have grasped it. Plunks. Dollars. Doubloons. I line up with the thickwads now, Spike. I don't have to work to turn a dishonest penny any longer.”

The horrid truth sank slowly into the other's mind.

”Say! What, Mr. Chames? Youse don't need to go on de old lay no more?

You're cutting it out for fair?”

”That's the idea.”

Spike gasped. His world was falling about his ears. Now that he had met Mr. Chames again he had looked forward to a long and prosperous partners.h.i.+p in crime, with always the master mind behind him to direct his movements and check him if he went wrong. He had looked out upon the richness of London, and he had said with Blucher: ”What a city to loot!”

And here was his leader shattering his visions with a word.

”Have another drink, Spike,” said the lost leader sympathetically.

”It's a shock to you, I guess.”

”I t'ought, Mr. Chames----”

”I know you did, and I'm very sorry for you. But it can't be helped.

_n.o.blesse oblige_, Spike. We of the old aristocracy mustn't do these things. We should get ourselves talked about.”

Spike sat silent, with a long face. Jimmy slapped him on the shoulder.

”After all,” he said, ”living honestly may be the limit, for all we know. Numbers of people do it, I've heard, and enjoy themselves tremendously. We must give it a trial, Spike. We'll go out together and see life. Pull yourself together and be cheerful, Spike.”

After a moment's reflection the other grinned, howbeit faintly.

”That's right,” said Jimmy Pitt. ”You'll be the greatest success ever in society. All you have to do is to brush your hair, look cheerful, and keep your hands off the spoons. For in society, Spike, they invariably count them after the departure of the last guest.”

”Sure,” said Spike, as one who thoroughly understood this sensible precaution.

”And now,” said Jimmy, ”we'll be turning in. Can you manage sleeping on the sofa for one night?”

”Gee, I've bin sleepin' on de Embankment all de last week. Dis is to de good, Mister Chames.”

CHAPTER III.

In the days before the Welshman began to expend his surplus energy in playing football, he was accustomed, whenever the monotony of his everyday life began to oppress him, to collect a few friends and make raids across the border into England, to the huge discomfort of the dwellers on the other side. It was to cope with this habit that Corven Abbey, in Shrops.h.i.+re, came into existence. It met a long-felt want.

Ministering to the spiritual needs of the neighborhood in times of peace, it became a haven of refuge when trouble began. From all sides people poured into it, emerging cautiously when the marauders had disappeared.

In the whole history of the abbey there is but one instance recorded of a bandit attempting to take the place by storm, and the attack was an emphatic failure. On receipt of one ladle full of molten lead, aimed to a nicety by John the Novice, who seems to have been anything but a novice at marksmans.h.i.+p, this warrior retired, done to a turn, to his mountain fastnesses, and is never heard of again. He would seem, however, to have pa.s.sed the word round among his friends, for subsequent raiding parties studiously avoided the abbey, and a peasant who had succeeded in crossing its threshold was for the future considered to be ”home” and out of the game. Corven Abbey, as a result, grew in power and popularity. Abbot succeeded abbot, the lake at the foot of the hill was restocked at intervals, the lichen grew on the walls; and still the abbey endured.

But time, a.s.sisted by his majesty, King Henry the Eighth, had done its work. The monks had fled. The walls had crumbled, and in the twentieth century, the abbey was a modern country house, and the owner a rich American.

Of this gentleman the world knew but little. That he had made money, and a good deal of it, was certain. His name, Patrick McEachern, suggested Irish parentage, and a slight brogue, noticeable, however, only in moments of excitement, supported this theory. He had arrived in London some four years back, taken rooms at the Albany, and gone into society.

England still firmly believes that wealth accrues to every resident of New York by some mysterious process not understandable of the Briton.

McEachern and his money were accepted by society without question. His solecisms, which at first were numerous, were pa.s.sed over as so quaint and refres.h.i.+ng. People liked his rugged good humor. He speedily made friends, among them Lady Jane Blunt, the still youthful widow of a man about town, who, after trying for several years to live at the rate of ten thousand per annum with an income of two and a half, had finally given up the struggle and drank himself peacefully into the tomb, leaving her in sole charge of their one son, Spencer Archbald.