Tommy and Co.

“Sit down,” said the Briefless one to the Poet. “Let’s talk this matter over quietly.”

Alexander the Poet, mystified, sat down.

“You say you travelled up to London yesterday with Miss Bulstrode. You are sure it was Miss Bulstrode?”

“Sure!” retorted the Poet. “Why, I’ve known her ever since she was a baby.”

“About what time did you reach London?”

“Three-thirty.”

“And what became of her? Where did she say she was going?”

“I never asked her. The last I saw of her she was getting into a cab. I had an appointment myself, and was – I say, what’s the matter with Herring?”

Herring had risen and was walking about with his head between his hands.

“Never mind him. Miss Bulstrode is a lady of about – how old?”

“Eighteen – no, nineteen last birthday.”

“A tall, handsome sort of girl?”

“Yes. I say, has anything happened to her?”

“Nothing has happened to her,” assured him Somerville. “She’s all right. Been having rather a good time, on the whole.”

The Poet was relieved to hear it.

“I asked her an hour ago,” said Jack Herring, who was still holding his head between his hands as if to make sure it was there, “if she thought she could ever learn to love me. Would you say that could be construed into an offer of marriage?”

The remainder of the Club was unanimously of opinion that, practically speaking, it was a proposal.

“I don’t see it,” argued Jack Herring. “It was merely in the nature of a remark.”

The Club was of opinion that such quibbling was unworthy of a gentleman.

It appeared to be a case for prompt action. Jack Herring sat down and then and there began a letter to Miss Bulstrode, care of Mrs. Postwhistle.

“But what I don’t understand – ” said Alexander the Poet.

“Oh! take him away somewhere and tell him, someone,” moaned Jack Herring. “How can I think with all this chatter going on?”

“But why did Bennett – ” whispered Porson.

“Where is Bennett?” demanded half a dozen fierce voices.

Harry Bennett had not been seen all day.

Jack’s letter was delivered to “Miss Bulstrode” the next morning at breakfast-time. Having perused it, Miss Bulstrode rose and requested of Mrs. Postwhistle the loan of half a crown.

“Mr. Herring’s particular instructions were,” explained Mrs. Postwhistle, “that, above all things, I was not to lend you any money.”

“When you have read that,” replied Miss Bulstrode, handing her the letter, “perhaps you will agree with me that Herring is – an ass.”

Mrs. Postwhistle read the letter and produced the half-crown.

“Better get a shave with part of it,” suggested Mrs. Postwhistle. “That is, if you are going to play the fool much longer.”

“Miss Bulstrode” opened his eyes. Mrs. Postwhistle went on with her breakfast.

“Don’t tell them,” said Johnny; “not just for a little while, at all events.”

“Nothing to do with me,” replied Mrs. Postwhistle.

Twenty minutes later, the real Miss Bulstrode, on a visit to her aunt in Kensington, was surprised at receiving, enclosed in an envelope, the following hastily scrawled note: —

“Want to speak to you at once —alone. Don’t yell when you see me. It’s all right. Can explain in two ticks. – Your loving brother, Johnny.”

It took longer than two ticks; but at last the Babe came to an end of it.

“When you have done laughing,” said the Babe.

“But you look so ridiculous,” said his sister.

“They didn’t think so,” retorted the Babe. “I took them in all right. Guess you’ve never had as much attention, all in one day.”

“Are you sure you took them in?” queried his sister.

“If you will come to the Club at eight o’clock this evening,” said the Babe, “I’ll prove it to you. Perhaps I’ll take you on to a theatre afterwards – if you’re good.”

The Babe himself walked into the Autolycus Club a few minutes before eight and encountered an atmosphere of restraint.

“Thought you were lost,” remarked Somerville coldly.

“Called away suddenly – very important business,” explained the Babe. “Awfully much obliged to all you fellows for all you have been doing for my sister. She’s just been telling me.”

“Don’t mention it,” said two or three.

“Awfully good of you, I’m sure,” persisted the Babe. “Don’t know what she would have done without you.”

A mere nothing, the Club assured him. The blushing modesty of the Autolycus Club at hearing of their own good deeds was touching. Left to themselves, they would have talked of quite other things. As a matter of fact, they tried to.

“Never heard her speak so enthusiastically of anyone as she does of you, Jack,” said the Babe, turning to Jack Herring.

“Of course, you know, dear boy,” explained Jack Herring, “anything I could do for a sister of yours – ”

“I know, dear boy,” replied the Babe; “I always felt it.”