"Where are the Mudges?" cried George.

"Where's my musical box?" retorted the man in possession.

George had made a rule never to use bad language; by an exception then he proved the rule's existence. Some men are frightened when sworn at because they never know what may come next; and the Wallower in Wealth belonged to that cla.s.s. He sat silent and sulky, while George repeated his question with one more exception.

"Gone vor their holiday," came the answer. "I looked in to wish 'em gude-luck, and Mrs. Mudge asked me to bide till you come. Keys be in the doors, I was to tell ye."

"Their train doesn't go till seven o'clock tomorrow morning."

"Postman told 'em there's an excursion up to London at eleven, so they reckoned they'd go part of the way in that, and get there quicker."

"The fools!" cried George. "That train will take them in the very opposite direction."

"They was a bit mazed. Robert had begun to enjoy his holiday, and Bessie wur trying to catch up wi' 'en. Now they'll ha' to wait all night outside the station."

"What are you drinking?" asked George, sniffing at the fumes.

"Mrs. Mudge said 'twur coffee, but it tastes more like hot whisky and water. I'll give ye thirty shillings vor the musical box."

"I'm not going to talk business at this time of night. It's my bedtime and yours too," said George, making a motion towards the door.

"There's a drop o' this wonderful nice coffee in the jug."

"Take it with you."

"I won't take it in the jug, lest I forget to bring it back. Your very good health, Mr. Drake--and I'll give anyone thirty-five shillings for that musical box."

George hurried into the town next morning, and ascertained from a porter who had relations in Highfield, that the muddled Mudges had started upon their journey in the right direction shortly after midnight, by obtaining an introduction to the guard of a goods train and travelling--contrary to all regulations--in his van. The porter mentioned that the guard had possibly been influenced by the fact that Bessie was carrying a basket of delicacies, while the neck of a bottle protruded from the pocket of Robert's overcoat.

Satisfied on this point, George visited a certain place of business, and interviewed the manager who promised to send up to Highfield, very early on the following morning, two furniture vans, with sufficient men to do the packing in one day. The simplicity of working out a plot caused George to laugh aloud; also to treat himself to a luncheon from which bread and margarine pudding was rigorously excluded.

On the way home he sighted, in the dip of the road, a pair of strolling youngsters, boy and girl, who looked back often as if expecting somebody; the back of the one, and the beauty of the other, seemed familiar. Suddenly the girl took to her heels and raced round the bend, while the boy allowed George to draw up to him.

"Why does the little girl run so fast?" asked George in a paternal fashion.

"She's full of beans," replied Sidney.

"Taking a holiday?" George continued.

"I fancied a friend might be coming by the three o'clock train; but I've had the walk vor nothing."

"Another young lady, I suppose?"

"That's right," said the laughing profligate.

"Well, I'm confounded! It seems to me you are collecting girls," George muttered.

"There's plenty. I'll leave ye a few to choose from," said Sidney.

"I've done my choosing and I'm going to settle down after this month. I suppose you know we are all clearing out of Highfield? Miss Blisland has gone already, and you'll never see her again. You tried to catch Nellie," said George, who frequently lost by his silly conversation all he had gained by his cunning. "But she saw through your nasty little ways, my lad. She didn't fancy your harem. Nellie is one of the most sensible girls I have ever met, and she's got the makings of a good woman in her."

"I reckon," said Sidney, like an oaf.

"It's a bit of a change to me to marry any one, but I don't mind sacrificing myself," George rambled on. "There's no secret about it.

We've taken a house at a place called Drivelford, and we're going to let Miss Yard live with us. You won't get the chance to congratulate Nellie, and I shouldn't permit it in any case, as I don't think you are the sort of young fellow she ought to speak to; but I do hope you are feeling a bit sorry for yourself. I'm not perfect, but I do think a man ought to be honest and truthful, and be satisfied with one wife, so long as she does what he tells her."

"That's right enough," said Sidney.

"You see what a callous young fellow you are already. You pretended to be in love with the future Mrs. Drake; but, now that you have lost her, you don't care a hang."

"Not that much," said Sidney, snapping his fingers.

"That's your character," said George bitterly. "Why should you care?

There are plenty of Dollies, and Teenies, and painted ladies, cheap for cash as the advertis.e.m.e.nts say."

"Here, you mind what you're saying. You're going a bit too far!" cried Sidney, rounding angrily upon his oppressor.

"I'm not insulting you," George explained. "But I do want to give you a little good advice before we part. I can quite understand that you don't want to hear the truth about your young women, and they wouldn't like to hear it either. That little girl ran away just now because she couldn't face a decent gentleman."

"She ran because she wouldn't be introduced to you."

"That shows she can't be altogether bad," said George approvingly. "Now I must leave you, as I'm going to take the short cut across the fields.

I do hope you will remember what I've said. When this new young woman arrives, try to show yourself a lad of courage. Send her home again or, if you don't like to do that, send her to me."

For some inscrutable reason Sidney could not restrain his laughter.

"Ah, you think I should want to make love to her," said George angrily.

"I know your nasty mind. You and your grandfather had better be careful. You haven't got a friend in the parish."

"Except the vicar," Sidney reminded him.

"And, if he goes on visiting you, he won't have a friend in the parish either. Do you know what they call you in the village?"

"Do you know what they call you?" Sidney retorted joyously.

"They call you the Mormon."

"And they call you Ananias!"

"Well, that beats everything," gasped George, as he dropped clumsily over the stile. "I never tell lies except in the way of business. I always speak the truth in private life."

Days were shortening, so that by the time George had finished his tea, which included a propitiatory offering of doughnuts, the boom of beetles sounded in the street. As life was dull in the bakery, he decided to spend a tranquil evening in his own house, surrounded by the furniture he had been brought up with. He went and settled himself in an easy chair with one of the copies, still unburnt, of his uncle's monumental work, "A History of Highfield Parish." But reading grew tedious, and the doughnuts he had consumed so recklessly began to trouble, and the buzzing of flies and wasps became tempestuous.

Yet these sounds recalled pleasant memories of the past; he had not done much with his life, still he had managed to win distinction as an insect killer. He had eased his uncle's labours by crushing the wasp, and averted his aunt's displeasure by obliterating the blowfly. He rose and went into the kitchen to search for a cork.

The lighted candle cast weird shadows as he blundered through the pantry to the larder; discovering at last a cork which smelt of alcohol. That at least would give the wasps a pleasant death. But, while hurrying back to the insect-haunted parlour, he heard a new disturbance: no sleepy buzzing, but the fall of active footsteps. Then a handbag was flung recklessly through the open window; banging upon a chair, rolling to the floor. The footsteps died away, and the gate of the garden slammed.

With horrible dread of a possible explosion, George crept towards the missile, and touched it gingerly. It was a neat brown bag, ridiculously small to hold a wardrobe, and it bore the initials N.B.