Tommy and Co.

“You have a walk and cool yourself,” suggested the raw-boned lady. “Don’t expect he will be long.”

“But, you see – ”

The raw-boned lady slammed the door.

Outside a restaurant in Wellington Street, from which proceeded savoury odours, Johnny paused and tried to think.

“What the devil did I do with that umbrella? I had it – no, I didn’t. Must have dropped it, I suppose, when that silly ass tried to stop me. By Jove! I am having luck!”

Outside another restaurant in the Strand Johnny paused again. “How am I to live till Sunday night? Where am I to sleep? If I telegraph home – damn it! how can I telegraph? I haven’t got a penny. This is funny,” said Johnny, unconsciously speaking aloud; “upon my word, this is funny! Oh! you go to – .”

Johnny hurled this last at the head of an overgrown errand-boy whose intention had been to offer sympathy.

“Well, I never!” commented a passing flower-girl. “Calls ’erself a lidy, I suppose.”

“Nowadays,” observed the stud and button merchant at the corner of Exeter Street, “they make ’em out of anything.”

Drawn by a notion that was forming in his mind, Johnny turned his steps up Bedford Street. “Why not?” mused Johnny. “Nobody else seems to have a suspicion. Why should they? I’ll never hear the last of it if they find me out. But why should they find me out? Well, something’s got to be done.”

Johnny walked on quickly. At the door of the Autolycus Club he was undecided for a moment, then took his courage in both hands and plunged through the swing doors.

“Is Mr. Herring – Mr. Jack Herring – here?”

“Find him in the smoking-room, Mr. Bulstrode,” answered old Goslin, who was reading the evening paper.

“Oh, would you mind asking him to step out a moment?”

Old Goslin looked up, took off his spectacles, rubbed them, put them on again.

“Please say Miss Bulstrode – Mr. Bulstrode’s sister.”

Old Goslin found Jack Herring the centre of an earnest argument on Hamlet – was he really mad?

“A lady to see you, Mr. Herring,” announced old Goslin.

“A what?”

“Miss Bulstrode – Mr. Bulstrode’s sister. She’s waiting in the hall.”

“Never knew he had a sister,” said Jack Herring, rising.

“Wait a minute,” said Harry Bennett. “Shut that door. Don’t go.” This to old Goslin, who closed the door and returned. “Lady in a heliotrope dress with a lace collar, three flounces on the skirt?”

“That’s right, Mr. Bennett,” agreed old Goslin.

“It’s the Babe himself!” asserted Harry Bennett.

The question of Hamlet’s madness was forgotten.

“Was in at Stinchcombe’s this morning,” explained Harry Bennett; “saw the clothes on the counter addressed to him. That’s the identical frock. This is just a ‘try on’ – thinks he’s going to have a lark with us.”

The Autolycus Club looked round at itself.

“I can see verra promising possibilities in this, provided the thing is properly managed,” said the Wee Laddie, after a pause.

“So can I,” agreed Jack Herring. “Keep where you are, all of you. ’Twould be a pity to fool it.”

The Autolycus Club waited. Jack Herring re-entered the room.

“One of the saddest stories I have ever heard in all my life,” explained Jack Herring in a whisper. “Poor girl left Derbyshire this morning to come and see her brother; found him out – hasn’t been seen at his lodgings since three o’clock; fears something may have happened to him. Landlady gone to Romford to see her mother; strange woman in charge, won’t let her in to wait for him.”

“How sad it is when trouble overtakes the innocent and helpless!” murmured Somerville the Briefless.

“That’s not the worst of it,” continued Jack. “The dear girl has been robbed of everything she possesses, even of her umbrella, and hasn’t got a sou; hasn’t had any dinner, and doesn’t know where to sleep.”

“Sounds a bit elaborate,” thought Porson.

“I think I can understand it,” said the Briefless one. “What has happened is this. He’s dressed up thinking to have a bit of fun with us, and has come out, forgetting to put any money or his latchkey in his pocket. His landlady may have gone to Romford or may not. In any case, he would have to knock at the door and enter into explanations. What does he suggest – the loan of a sovereign?”

“The loan of two,” replied Jack Herring.

“To buy himself a suit of clothes. Don’t you do it, Jack. Providence has imposed this upon us. Our duty is to show him the folly of indulging in senseless escapades.”

“I think we might give him a dinner,” thought the stout and sympathetic Porson.

“What I propose to do,” grinned Jack, “is to take him round to Mrs. Postwhistle’s. She’s under a sort of obligation to me. It was I who got her the post office. We’ll leave him there for a night, with instructions to Mrs. P. to keep a motherly eye on him. To-morrow he shall have his ‘bit of fun,’ and I guess he’ll be the first to get tired of the joke.”

It looked a promising plot. Seven members of the Autolycus Club gallantly undertook to accompany “Miss Bulstrode” to her lodgings. Jack Herring excited jealousy by securing the privilege of carrying her reticule. “Miss Bulstrode” was given to understand that anything any of the seven could do for her, each and every would be delighted to do, if only for the sake of her brother, one of the dearest boys that ever breathed – a bit of an ass, though that, of course, he could not help. “Miss Bulstrode” was not as grateful as perhaps she should have been. Her idea still was that if one of them would lend her a couple of sovereigns, the rest need not worry themselves further. This, purely in her own interests, they declined to do. She had suffered one extensive robbery that day already, as Jack reminded her. London was a city of danger to the young and inexperienced. Far better that they should watch over her and provide for her simple wants. Painful as it was to refuse a lady, a beloved companion’s sister’s welfare was yet dearer to them. “Miss Bulstrode’s” only desire was not to waste their time. Jack Herring’s opinion was that there existed no true Englishman who would grudge time spent upon succouring a beautiful maiden in distress.

Arrived at the little grocer’s shop in Rolls Court, Jack Herring drew Mrs. Postwhistle aside.

“She’s the sister of a very dear friend of ours,” explained Jack Herring.

“A fine-looking girl,” commented Mrs. Postwhistle.

“I shall be round again in the morning. Don’t let her out of your sight, and, above all, don’t lend her any money,” directed Jack Herring.

“I understand,” replied Mrs. Postwhistle.

“Miss Bulstrode” having despatched an excellent supper of cold mutton and bottled beer, leant back in her chair and crossed her legs.

“I have often wondered,” remarked Miss Bulstrode, her eyes fixed upon the ceiling, “what a cigarette would taste like.”

“Taste nasty, I should say, the first time,” thought Mrs. Postwhistle, who was knitting.

“Some girls, so I have heard,” remarked Miss Bulstrode, “smoke cigarettes.”

“Not nice girls,” thought Mrs. Postwhistle.