Bones in London

"You must tell her," said Hamilton firmly. "It's only fair to the girlto know exactly what is hanging over her."

Bones pleaded, and offered a hundred rapid solutions, none of whichwere acceptable to the relentless Hamilton.

"I'll tell her myself, if you like," he said. "I could explain thatthey're just the sort of things that a silly ass of a man does, andthat they were not intended to be offensive – even that one about herlips being like two red strips. Strips of what – carpet?"

"Don't analyse it, Ham, lad, don't analyse it!" begged Bones. "Poemsare like pictures, old friend. You want to stand at a distance to seethem."

"Personally I suffer from astigmatism," said Hamilton, and read thepoems again. He stopped once or twice to ask such pointed questions ashow many "y's" were in "skies," and Bones stood on alternate feet, protesting incoherently.

"They're not bad, old boy?" he asked anxiously at last. "You wouldn'tsay they were bad?"

"Bad," said Hamilton in truth, "is not the word I should apply."

Bones cheered up.

"That's what I think, dear ex-officer," he smirked. "Of course, afellow is naturally shy about maiden efforts, and all that sort ofthing, but, hang it all, I've seen worse than that last poem, oldthing."

"So have I," admitted Hamilton, mechanically turning back to the firstpoem.

"After all" – Bones was rapidly becoming philosophical – "I'm not so surethat it isn't the best thing that could happen. Let 'em print 'em!Hey? What do you say? Put that one about young Miss Marguerite beinglike a pearl discovered in a dustbin, dear Ham, put it before acompetent judge, and what would he say?"

"Ten years," snarled Hamilton, "and you'd get off lightly!"

Bones smiled with admirable toleration, and there the matter ended forthe moment.

It was a case of blackmail, as Hamilton had pointed out, but, as theday proceeded, Bones took a more and more lenient view of his enemy'sfault. By the afternoon he was cheerful, even jocose, and, even insuch moments as he found himself alone with the girl, brought theconversation round to the subject of poetry as one of the fine arts, and cunningly excited her curiosity.

"There is so much bad poetry in the world," said the girl on one suchoccasion, "that I think there should be a lethal chamber for people whowrite it."

"Agreed, dear old tick-tack," assented Bones, with an amused smile."What is wanted is – well, I know, dear old miss. It may surprise youto learn that I once took a correspondence course in poetry writing."

"Nothing surprises me about you, Mr. Tibbetts," she laughed.

He went into her office before leaving that night. Hamilton, with agloomy shake of his head by way of farewell, had already departed, andBones, who had given the matter very considerable thought, decided thatthis was a favourable occasion to inform her of the amusing efforts ofhis printer correspondent to extract money.

The girl had finished her work, her typewriter was covered, and she waswearing her hat and coat. But she sat before her desk, a frown on herpretty face and an evening newspaper in her hand, and Bones's heartmomentarily sank. Suppose the poems had been given to the world?

"All the winners, dear old miss?" he asked, with spurious gaiety.

She looked up with a start.

"No," she said. "I'm rather worried, Mr. Tibbetts. A friend of mystep-father's has got into trouble again, and I'm anxious lest mymother should have any trouble."

"Dear, dear!" said the sympathetic Bones. "How disgustingly annoying!

Who's the dear old friend?"

"A man named Seepidge," said the girl, and Bones gripped a chair forsupport. "The police have found that he is printing something illegal.I don't quite understand it all, but the things they were printing wereinvitations to a German lottery."

"Very naughty, very unpatriotic," murmured the palpitating Bones, andthen the girl laughed.

"It has its funny side," she said. "Mr. Seepidge pretended that he wascarrying out a legitimate order – a book of poems. Isn't that absurd?"

"Ha, ha!" said Bones hollowly.

"Listen," said the girl, and read:

"The magistrate, in sentencing Seepidge to six months' hard labour, said that there was no doubt that the man had been carrying on anillegal business. He had had the effrontery to pretend that he wasprinting a volume of verse. The court had heard extracts from thatprecious volume, which had evidently been written by Mr. Seepidge'soffice-boy. He had never read such appalling drivel in his life. Heordered the confiscated lottery prospectuses to be destroyed, and hethought he would be rendering a service to humanity if he added anorder for the destruction of this collection of doggerel."

The girl looked up at Bones.

"It is curious that we should have been talking about poetry to-day, isn't it?" she asked. "Now, Mr. Tibbetts, I'm going to insist uponyour bringing that book of yours to-morrow."

Bones, very flushed of face, shook his head.

"Dear old disciple," he said huskily, "another time … another time… poetry should be kept for years … like old wine…"

"Who said that?" she asked, folding her paper and rising.

"Competent judges," said Bones, with a gulp.

CHAPTER IX

THE LAMP THAT NEVER WENT OUT

"Have you seen her?" asked Bones.

He put this question with such laboured unconcern that Hamilton putdown his pen and glared suspiciously at his partner.

"She's rather a beauty," Bones went on, toying with his ivorypaper-knife. "She has one of those dinky bonnets, dear old thing, thatmakes you feel awfully braced with life."

Hamilton gasped. He had seen the beautiful Miss Whitland enter theoffice half an hour before, but he had not noticed her head-dress.

"Her body's dark blue, with teeny red stripes," said Bones dreamily,"and all her fittings are nickel-plated – "

"Stop!" commanded Hamilton hollowly. "To what unhappy woman are youreferring in this ribald fashion?"

"Woman!" spluttered the indignant Bones. "I'm talking about my car."

"Your car?"

"My car," said Bones, in the off-handed way that a sudden millionairemight refer to "my earth."

"You've bought a car?"

Bones nodded.

"It's a jolly good 'bus," he said. "I thought of running down to