Part 7 (1/2)

”Nay. 'W. W. Rowlatt, 4, Gray's Inn Square.' I'm noan likely to forget it. I never forget nowt,” said Paul, life returning through a vein of boastfulness.

”Tell me all you remember,” said Mr. Rowlatt, with a laugh.

”I can say all the Kings of England, with their dates, and the counties and chief towns of Great Britain and Ireland, and all the weights and measures, and 'The a.s.syrian came down like a wolf on the fold--'”

”Holy Moses!” cried Rowlatt. ”Anything else?”

”Ay. Lots more,” said Paul, anxious to stamp vividly the impression he saw that he was making. ”I know the Plagues of Egypt.”

”I bet you don't.”

”Rivers of Blood, Frogs, Lice, Flies, Murrain, Boils, Hails, Locusts, Darkness and Death of Firstborn,” said Paul, in a breath.

”Jehosaphat!” cried Rowlatt. ”I suppose now you'd have no difficulty in reciting the Thirty-nine Articles.”

Paul puckered his forehead in thought. ”D'yo' mean,” he asked after a pause, ”the Thirty-nine Articles o' Religion, as is in th' Prayerbuk? I ha' tried to read 'em, but couldno' understand 'em reet.”

Rowlatt, who had not expected his facetious query to be so answered, stopped his drawing for a moment. ”What in the name of goodness attracted you to the Thirty-nine Articles?”

”I wanted to learn about things,” said Paul.

The young man looked at him and smiled. ”Self-education is a jolly good thing,” said he. ”Learn all you can, and you'll be a famous fellow one of these days. But you must cultivate a sense of humour.”

Paul was about to seek enlightenment as to this counsel when Barney Bill appeared, cool and refreshed, from the inn door, and lifted a cheery voice. ”Let's be getting along, sonny.”

Rowlatt held up a detaining hand. ”Just a couple of minutes, if you can spare them. I've nearly finished.”

”All right, sir,” said Barney Bill, limping across the yard. ”Taking a picture of him?”

The artist nodded. Barney Bill looked over his shoulder. ”By Gos.h.!.+” he cried in admiration. ”By Gos.h.!.+”

”It has come out rather well, hasn't it?” said the artist, complacently.

”It's the living image of 'im,” said Barney Bill.

”He tells me he's going up to London to seek his fortune,” said Rowlatt, putting in the finis.h.i.+ng touches.

”And his 'igh-born parents,” said Barney Bill, winking at Paul.

Paul flushed and wriggled uncomfortably. Instinct deprecated crude revelation of the mystery of his birth to the man of refinement. He felt that Barney Bill was betraying confidence. Gutter-bred though he was, he accused his vagrant protector of a lack of good taste. Of such a breach he himself, son of princes, could not have been guilty.

Luckily, and, as Paul thought, with admirable tact, Mr. Rowlatt did not demand explanation.

”A young j.a.phet in search of a father. Well, I hope he'll find him.

There's nothing like romance. Without it life is flat and dead. It's what atmosphere is to a picture.”

”And onions to a stew,” said Barney Bill.

”Quite right,” said Rowlatt. ”Paul, my boy, I think after all you'd better stick to Mr.--?”