Part 4 (1/2)

Our three hands were clasped together in an instant and we knew that, come what might, each would be true to that bond.

”And now,” I said, ”to draw lots as to who shall be the first to try his chance. How shall we settle it?”

”There's no fairer way,” said Arthur, ”than the throw of a die. Have you any poker dice, Tom?”

”Yes, I have a couple of sets somewhere.”

”Very well then, we'll take a single one and the first man that throws Queen is the winner.”

I found the dice and the leather cup and dropped a single one into it.

Poker dice, for the benefit of the uninitiate, have the Queen on one side in blue, like the Queen in a pack of cards, the King in red and the Knave in black. On two other faces, the nine and the ten.

”Who will throw first?” said Pat.

”You throw,” I said.

There was a rattle, and nine fell upon the table. I nodded to Arthur, who picked up the little ivory square, waved the cup in the air, and threw--an ace.

My turn came. I threw an ace also, and Arthur and I looked at Pat with sinking hearts.

He threw a King. I don't want another five minutes like that again. We threw and threw and threw and never once did the Queen turn up. At last Arthur said:

”Look here, you fellows, I can't stand this much longer, it's playing the devil with my nerves. Let's have one more throw and if Her Majesty doesn't turn up, let's decide it by values. Ace, highest, King, Queen and so on. Tom, your turn.”

I took up the box, rattled the cube within it for a long time and then dropped it flat upon the table.

I had thrown Queen.

CHAPTER TWO

About a fortnight after the memorable scene in my flat when the league came into being, I was sitting in my editorial room at the offices of the _Evening Special_.

I had met Juanita once at a large dinner party and exchanged half a dozen words with her--that was all. My head was full of plans, I was trying to map out a social campaign that would give me the opportunity I longed for, but as yet everything was tentative and incomplete. The exciting business of journalism, the keeping of one's thumb upon the public pulse, the directing of public thought into this or that channel, was most welcome at a time like this, and I threw myself into it with avidity.

I had just returned from lunch, and the first editions of the paper were successfully afloat, when Williams, my acting editor, and Miss Dewsbury, my private secretary, came into my room.

”Things are very quiet indeed,” said Williams.

”But the circulation is all right?”

”Never better. Still, I am thinking of our reputation, Sir Thomas.”

I knew what he meant. We had never allowed the _Evening Special_--highly successful as it was--to go on in a jog-trot fas.h.i.+on. We had a tremendous reputation for great ”stunts,” genuine, exclusive pieces of news, and now for weeks nothing particular had come our way.

”That's all very well, Williams, but we cannot make bricks without straw, and if everything is as stagnant as a duck pond, that's not our fault.”

Miss Dewsbury broke in. She was a little woman of thirty with a large head, fair hair drawn tightly from a rather prominent brow, and wore tortoise-sh.e.l.l spectacles. She looked as if her clothes had been flung at her and had stuck, but for all that Julia Dewsbury was the best private secretary in London, true as steel, with an inordinate capacity for work and an immense love for the paper. I think she liked me a little too, and she was well worth the four hundred a year I paid her.

”I,” said Miss Dewsbury, ”live at Richmond.”