Part 4 (1/2)

”Here we are,” said Spennie. ”Hop out. Now what's the betting that there isn't room for all of us in the bubble?”

From farther down the train a lady and gentleman emerged.

”That's the man. Is that your uncle?” said Jimmy.

”Guilty,” said Spennie gloomily. ”I suppose we'd better go and tackle them. Come on.”

They walked up the platform to where Sir Thomas stood smoking a meditative cigar and watching in a dispa.s.sionate way the efforts of his wife to bully the solitary porter attached to the station into a frenzy. Sir Thomas was a very tall, very thin man, with cold eyes, and tight, thin lips. His clothes fitted him in the way clothes do fit one man in a thousand. They were the best part of him. His general appearance gave one the idea that his meals did him little good, and his meditations rather less. His conversation--of which there was not a great deal--was designed for the most part to sting. Many years'

patient and painstaking sowing of his wild oats had left him at fifty-six with few pleasures; but among those that remained he ranked high the discomfiting of his neighbors.

”This is my friend Pitt, uncle,” said Spennie, presenting Jimmy with a motion of the hand.

Sir Thomas extended three fingers. Jimmy extended two, and the handshake was not a success.

At this point in the interview, Spike came up, chuckling amiably, with a magazine in his hand.

”P'Chee!” said Spike. ”Say, Mr. Chames, de mug what wrote dis piece must ha' bin livin' out in de woods for fair. His stunt ain't writin', sure. Say, dere's a gazebo what wants to get busy wit' de heroine's jools what's locked in de drawer in de dressin' room. So dis mug, what do youse t'ink he does? Why----”

”Another friend of yours, Spennie?” inquired Sir Thomas politely, eying the red-haired speaker with interest.

”It's----”

He looked appealingly at Jimmy.

”It's only my man,” said Jimmy. ”Spike,” he added in an undertone, ”to the woods. Chase yourself. It's not up to you to do stunts on this beat. Fade away.”

”Sure,” said the abashed Spike, restored to a sense of his position.

”Dat's right. I've got wheels in me coco, that's what I've got, comin'

b.u.t.tin' in here. Sorry, Mr. Chames. Sorry, gents. Me for the tall gra.s.s.”

He trotted away.

”Your man seems to have a pretty taste in literature,” said Sir Thomas to Jimmy. ”Well, my dear, finished your chat with the porter?”

Lady Blunt had come up, flushed and triumphant, having left the solitary porter a demoralized wreck.

”I'm through,” she announced crisply. ”Well, Spencer? How are you?

Who's this? Don't stand gaping, child. Who's your friend?”

Spennie explained with some incoherence that his name was Pitt. His uncle had shaken him; the arrival of his aunt seemed to unnerve him completely.

”Pleased to meet you,” snapped Lady Blunt. ”Spencer, where are your trunks? Left them behind, I suppose? No? Well, that's a surprise. Tell that porter to look after them. If you have any trouble with him, mention it to me. _I'll_ make him jump around. Where's the automobile?

Outside? Where? Take me to it.”

Lady Blunt, when conversing, resembled a Maxim gun more than anything else in the world.

”I'm afraid,” said Spennie in an abject manner, as they left the station, ”that it will be rather a bit of a frightful squash--what I mean to say is, I hardly think we shall all find room in the auto. I see they have only sent the small one.”