THE SMALL BACHELOR

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

THE LITTLE NUGGET

UNEASY MONEY

SOMETHING FRESH

THE MAN UPSTAIRS

THE MAN WITH TWO LEFT FEET BILL THE CONQUEROR

SAM THE SUDDEN

GOOD MORNING, BILLI

DOCTOR SALLY

THE SMALL BACHELOR

P. G. WODEHOUSE

FIFTH EDITION

METHUEN & CO. LTD. 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. LONDON

First Published. . ° . ° Second and Cheaper Edition . F ° ° Third Edition (Cheap Form) . é ° ° Fourth Edstion (Cheap For) . ; . . Fujth Edsiion (Cheap Form) . “ ‘ °

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

Ap.il 28th 1927

July r928

july zm928

July 3930 193%

THE SMALL BACHELOR

CHAPTER ONE

§ 1 HE roof of the Sheridan Apartment House, near Washington Square, New York. Let us examine it. There will be stirring happenings on this roof fn due season, and it is as well to know the ground. The Sheridan stands in the heart of New York’s Bohe- mian and artistic quarter. If you threw a brick from any of its windows, you would be certain to brain some rising young interior decorator, some Vorticist sculptor or a writer of revolutionary vers lsbre. And avery good thing, too. Its roof, cosy, compact and ten stories above the street, is flat, paved with tiles and surrounded by a low wall, jutting up at one end of which is an iron structure— the fire-escape. Climbing down this, should the emergency occur, you would find yourself in the open-air premises of the Purple Chicken restaurant—one of those numerous oases in this great city where, in spite of the law of Pro- hibition, you can still, so the cognoscents whisper, ‘ always get it if they know you.’ A useful thing to remember. On the other side of the roof, opposite the fire-escape, stands what is technically known as a ‘small bachelor apartment, penthouse style.’ It is a white-walled, red- tiled bungalow, and the small bachelor who owns it is a very estimable young man named George Finch, originally from East Gilead, Idaho, but now, owing to a substantial legacy from an uncle, a unit of New York’s Latin Quarter. For George, no longer being obliged to earn a living, has given his suppressed desires play by coming to the metro- polis and trying his hand at painting. From boyhood 1

2 THE SMALL BACHELOR

up he had always wanted to be an artist: and now he is an artist: and, what is more, probably the worst artist who ever put brush to canvas.

For the rest, that large round thing that looks like a captive balloon is the water-tank. That small oblong thing that looks like a summer-house is George Finch’s outdoor sleeping-porch. Those things that look like potted shrubs are potted shrubs. That stoutish man sweeping with a broom is George’s valet, cook, and man- of-all-work, Mullett.

And this imposing figure with the square chin and the horn-rimmed spectacles which, as he comes out from the door leading to the stairs, flash like jewels in the sun, 1s no less a person than J. Hamilton Beamish, author of the famous Beamish Booklets (‘Read Them And Make The World Your Oyster’) which have done so much to teach the populace of the United States observation, perception, judgment, initiative, will-power, decision, business acumen, resourcefulness, organization, directive ability, self-confi- dence, driving-power, originality—and, in fact, practically everything else from Poultry-Farming to Poetry.

The first emotion which any student of the Booklets would have felt on seeing his mentor in the flesh—apart from that natural awe which falls upon us when we behold the great—would probably have been surprise at finding him so young. Hamilton Beamish was still in the early thirties. But the brain of Genius ripens quickly: and those who had the privilege of acquaintance with Mr. Beamish at the beginning of his career say that he knew everything there was to be known—or behaved as if he did —at the age of ten.

Hamilton Beamish’s first act on reaching the roof of the Sheridan was to draw several deep breaths—through the nose, of course. Then, adjusting his glasses, he cast a flashing glance at Mullett: and, having inspected him for a moment, pursed his lips and shook his head.

THE SMALL BACHELOR 8

** All wrong!’ he said.

The words, delivered at a distance of two feet in the man’s immediate rear, were spoken in the sharp, resonant voice of one who Gets Things Done—which, in its essen- tials, is rather like the note of a seal barking for fish. The result was that Mullett, who was highly strung, sprang some eighteen inches into the air and swallowed his chewing- gum. Owing to that great thinker’s practice of wearing No-Jar Rubber Soles (‘ They Save The Spine’), he had had no warning of Mr. Beamish’s approach.

‘‘ All wrong !’’ repeated Mr. Beamish.

And when Hamilton Beamish said ‘ All wrong!’ it meant ‘ All wrong!’ He was a man who thought clearly and judged boldly, without hedging or vacillation. He called a Ford a Ford.

““Wrong, sir? ’’ faltered Mullett, when, realizing that there had been no bomb-outrage after all, he was able to speak.

“Wrong. Inefficient. Too much waste motion. From the muscular exertion which you are using on that broom you are obtaining a bare sixty-three or sixty-four per cent. of result-value. Correct this. Adjust your methods. Have you seen a policeman about here ?”’

“‘A policeman, sir? ”’

Hamilton Beamish clicked his tongue in annoyance, It was waste motion, but even efficiency experts have their feelings.

“A policeman. I said a policeman and I meant a policeman,”

“Were you expecting one, sir?”

““T was and am.”

Mullett cleared his throat.

“* Would he be wanting anything, sir ? ’’ he asked a little nervously.

““He wants to become a poet. And I am going to make him one.”’

“A poet, sir?”

“Why not? I could make a poet out of far less pro-

y THE SMALL BACHELOR

mising material. I could make a poet out of two sticks and a piece of orange-peel, if they studied my booklet carefully. This fellow wrote to me, explaining his cir- cumstances and expressing a wish to develop his higher self, and I became interested in his case and am giving him special tuition. He is coming up here to-day to look at the view and write a description of it in his own words. This I shall correct and criticize. A simple exercise in elementary composition.’’

‘*T see, sir.”

‘**He is ten minutes late, I trust he has some satis- factory explanation. Meanwhile, where is Mr. Finch? I would like to speak to him.”

‘* Mr. Finch is out, sir.”’

*‘He always seems to be out nowadays. When do you expect him back?”

‘‘T don’t know, sir. It all depends on the young lady.”’

“Mr. Finch has gone out with a young lady ?”

‘‘No, sir. Just gone to look at one.”

** To look at one ?”’ The author of the Booklets clicked his tongue once more. ‘‘ You are drivelling, Mullett. Never drivel—it is dissipation of energy.”

“It’s quite true, Mr. Beamish. He has never spoken to this young lady—only looked at her.”

** Explain yourself.’

‘Well, sir, it’s like this. I’d noticed for some time past that Mr. Finch had been getting what you might call choosey about his clothes. ...

‘*‘ What do you mean, choosey ? se

** Particular, sir.”’

**Then say particular, Mullett. Avoid jargon. Strive for the Word Beautiful. Read my booklet on ‘ Pure English.’ Well? ”’

‘‘ Particular about his clothes, sir, I noticed Mr. Finch had been getting. Twice he had started out in the blue with the invisible pink twill and then suddenly stopped at the door of the elevator and gone back and

THE SMALL BACHELOR 5

changed into the dove-grey. And his ties, Mr. Beamish, There was no satisfying him. So I said to myself ‘ Hot dog | a 39d

** You said what ? ”’

** Hot dog, Mr. Beamish.”

** And why did you use this revolting expression ? ”

‘** What I meant was, sir, that I reckoned I knew what was at the bottom of all this.”’

** And were you right in this reckoning ? ”

A coy look came into Mullett’s face.

“Yes, sir. You see, Mr. Finch’s behaviour having aroused my curiosity, I took the liberty of following him one afternoon. I followed him to Seventy-Ninth Street, East, Mr. Beamish.”

‘“* And then? ”’

** He walked up and down outside one of those big houses there, and presently a young lady came out. Mr. Finch looked at her, and she passed by. Then Mr. Finch looked after her and sighedandcameaway. Thenext afternoon! again took the liberty of following him, and the same thing happened. Only this time the young lady was coming in from a ride in the Park. Mr. Finch looked at her, and she passed into the house. Mr. Finch then remained staring at the house for so long that I was obliged to go and leave him at it, having the dinner to prepare. And what I meant, sir, when I said that the duration of Mr. Finch’s absence depended on the young lady was that he stops longer when she comes in than when she goes out. He might be back at any minute, or he might not be back till dinner-time.”’

Hamilton Beamish frowned thoughtfully.

**T don’t like this, Mullett.”’

**No, sir? ”’

*‘ It sounds like love at first sight.”

** Yes, sir.”

‘‘ Have you read my booklet on ‘ The Marriage Sane’? ””

“* Well, sir, what with one thing and another and being very busy about the house. . .”

6 THE SMALL BACHELOR

**In that booklet I argue very strongly against love at first sight.”

‘*Do you, indeed, sir? ”’

‘*I expose it for the mere delirious folly it is, The mating of the sexes should be a reasoned process, ruled by the intellect. What sort of a young lady is this young lady ? fF

‘‘ Very attractive, sir.’’

‘*Tall? Short? Large? Small?”

‘Small, sir. Small and roly-poly.”

Hamilton Beamish shuddered violently.

‘‘ Don’t use that nauseating adjective! Are you trying to convey the idea that she is short and stout ? ”’

‘Oh, no, sir, not stout. Just nice and plump. What I should describe as cuddly.”

**Mullett,’’ said Hamilton Beamish, ‘‘ you will not, in my presence and while I have my strength, describe any of God’s creatures as cuddly. Where you picked it up I cannot say, but you have the most abhorrent vocabulary I have ever encountered. ... What's the matter?”

The valet was looking past him with an expression of deep concern.

‘Why are you making faces, Mullett? ’’ Hamilton Beamish turned. ‘* Ah, Garroway,”’ he said, “‘ there you are at last. You should have been here ten minutes ago.”’

A policeman had come out on to the roof.

§2

The policeman touched his cap. He was a long, stringy policeman, who flowed out of his uniform at odd spots, as if Nature, setting out to make a constable, had had a good deal of material left over which she had not liked to throw away but hardly seemed able to fit neatly into the general scheme. He had large, knobby wrists of a gera- nium hue and just that extra four or five inches of neck which disqualify a man for high honours in a beauty com- petition. His eyes were mild and blue, and from certain angles he seemed all Adam's apple.

THE SMALL BACHELOR 7

‘“‘I must apologize for being late, Mr. Beamish,’’ he said. ‘I was detained at the station-house.’’ He looked at Mullett uncertainly. ‘‘I think I have met this gentle- man before ?”’

‘‘ No, you haven't,” said Mullett quickly.

“Your face seems very familiar.”

‘* Never seen me in your life.”

*‘Come this way, Garroway,” said Hamilton Beamish, interrupting curtly. ‘‘We cannot waste time in idle chatter.” He led the officer to the edge of the roof and swept his hand round in a broad gesture. ‘‘ Now, tell me. What do you see? ”’

The policeman’s eye sought the depths.

‘‘That’s the Purple Chicken down there,” he said. ‘* One of these days that joint will get pinched.”

“* Garroway |”

e¢ Sir ? a9

‘‘For some little time I have been endeavouring to instruct you in the principles of pure English. My efforts seem to have been wasted.’’

The policeman blushed.

** I beg your pardon, Mr. Beamish. One keeps slipping into it. It’s the effect of mixing with the boys—with my colleagues—at the station-house. They are very lax in their speech. What I meant was that in the near future there was likely to be a raid conducted on the premises of the Purple Chicken, sir. It has been drawn to our attention that the Purple Chicken, defying the Eighteenth Amendment, still purveys alcoholic liquors.”

‘‘ Never mind the Purple Chicken. I brought you up here to see what you could do in the way of a word-picture of the view. The first thing a poet needs is to develop his powers of observation. How does it strike you?”

The policeman gazed mildly at the horizon. His eye flitted from the roof-tops of the city, spreading away in the distance, to the waters of the Hudson, glittering in the sun. He shifted his Adam’s apple up and down two or three times, as one in deep thought.

8 THE SMALL BACHELOR

‘It looks very pretty, sir,” he said at length.

‘Pretty? ’’ Hamilton Beamish’s eyes flashed. You would never have thought, to look at him, that the J. {n his name stood for James and that there had once been people who had called him Jimmy. “It isn’t pretty at all,’’

‘*No, sir? ”

“It’s stark.”

** Stark, sir? ”’

“‘Stark and grim. It makes your heart ache, You think of all the sorrow and sordid gloom which those roofs conceal, and your heart bleeds. I may as well tell you, here and now, that if you are going about the place think- ing things pretty, you will never make a modern poet. Be poignant, man, be poignant!”

‘Yes, sir. I will, indeed, sir.”’

*‘ Well, take your note-book and jot down a description of what you see. I must go down to my apartment and attend to one or two things. Look me up to-morrow.”

“Yes, sir. Excuse me, sir, but who is that gentleman over there, sweeping with the broom? His face seemed so very familiar.”’

‘* His name is Mullett. He works for my friend, George Finch. But never mind about Mullett. Stick to your work. Concentrate! Concentrate! ”’

‘Yes, sir. Most certainly, Mr. Beamish.”

He looked with dog-like devotion at the thinker: then, licking the point of his pencil, bent himself to his task.

Hamilton Beamish turned on his No-Jar rubber heel and passed through the door to the stairs.

§3 Following his departure, silence reigned for some minutes on the roof of the Sheridan. Mullett resumed his sweeping, and Officer Garroway scribbled industriously in his note- book. But after about a quarter of an hour, feeling appar- ently that he had observed all there was to observe, he put book and pencil away in the recesses of his uniform and,

THE SMALL BACHELOR 9

approaching Mullett, subjected him to a mild but penetra- ting scrutiny.

‘‘T feel convinced, Mr, Mullett,” he said, ‘‘ that I have seen your face before.”’

‘** And I say you haven’t,”’ said the valet testily.

‘* Perhaps you have a brother, Mr. Mullett, who resembles you?”

“Dozens, And even mother couldn’t tell us apart.”

The policeman sighed.

*‘ Tam an orphan,” he said, ‘‘ without brothers or sisters.”

** Too bad.”

“Stark,” agreed the policeman. ‘‘ Very stark and poignant. You don’t think I could have seen a photo- graph of you anywhere, Mr. Mullett ?’”’

‘** Haven’t been taken for years.”

**Strange!’’ said Officer Garroway meditatively. ** Somehow—I cannot tell why—I seem to associate your face with a photograph.”

*‘ Not your busy day, this, is it? ’’ said Mullett.

‘**T am off duty at the moment. I seem to see a photo- graph—several photographs—in some sort of collection...”

There could be no doubt by now that Mullett had begun to find the conversation difficult. He looked like a man who has a favourite aunt in Poughkeepsie, and is worried about her asthma. He was turning to go, when there came out on to the roof from the door leading to the stairs a young man in a suit of dove-grey.

“Mullett !’’ he called.

The other hurried gratefully towards him, leaving the officer staring pensively at his spacious feet.

“Yes, Mr. Finch?”

It is impossible for an historian with a nice sense of values not to recognize the entry of George Finch, fol- lowing immediately after that of J. Hamilton Beamish, as an anti-climax. Mr. Beamish filled the eye. An aura of authority went before him as the pillar of fire went before the Israelites in the desert. When you met J. Hamilton Beamish, something like a steam-hammer

10 THE SMALL BACHELOR

seemed to hit your consciousness and stun it long before he came within speaking-distance. In the case of George Finch nothing of this kind happened.

George looked what he was, a nice young smal] bachelor, of the type you see bobbing about the place on every side. One glance at him was enough to tell you that he had never written a Booklet and never would write a Booklet. In figure he was slim and slight: as to the face, pleasant and undistinguished. He had brown eyes which in certain circumstances could look like those of a stricken sheep:

and his hair was of a light chestnut colour. It was pos- sible to see his hair clearly, for he was not wearing his hat but carrying it in his hand.

He was carrying it reverently, as if he attached a high value to it. And this was strange, for it was not much of a hat. Once it may have been, but now it looked as if it had been both trodden on and kicked about.

“‘ Mullett,”’ he said, regarding this relic with a dreamy eye, ‘‘ take this hat and put it away.”

“* Throw it away, sir? ”’

‘“‘Good heavens, no! Put it away—very carefully. Have you any tissue paper ? ”’

** Yes, sir.”

“Then wrap it up very carefully in tissue-paper and leave it on the table in my sitting-room.”

“Very good, sir.”

‘“‘ Pardon me for interrupting,’’ saida deprecating voice behind him, “‘ but might I request a moment of your valu- able time, Mr. Finch ? ”’

Officer Garroway had left his fixed point, and was standing in an attitude that seemed to suggest embarrass- ment. His mild eyes wore a somewhat timid expression.

“‘ Forgive me if I intrude,’’ said Officer Garroway.

“Not at all,”’ said George.

“‘T am a policeman, sir.”

ee So I see,’’

“ And,’ said Officer Garroway sadly, “‘ I have a rather disagreeable duty to perform, I fear. I would avoid it,

THE SMALL BACHELOR 11

if I could reconcile the act with my conscience, but duty is duty. One of the drawbacks to the policeman’s life, Mr. Finch, is that it is not easy for him always to do the gentlemanly thing.”

“No doubt,” said George.

Mullett swallowed apprehensively. The hunted look had come back to his face Officer Garroway eyed him with a gentle solicitude.

“‘T would like to preface my remarks,’”’ he proceeded, ‘‘by saying that I have no personal animus against Mr. Mullett. I have seen nothing in my brief acquaintance with Mr. Mullett that leads me to suppose that he is not a pleasant companion and zealous in the performance of his work. Nevertheless, I think it nght that you should know that he is an ex-convict.”

‘* An ex-convict !”’

** Reformed,’’ said Mullett hastily.

** As to that, I cannot say,” said Officer Garroway. “I can but speak of what I know. Very possibly, as he asserts, Mr. Mullett is a reformed character. But this does not alter the fact that he has done his bit of time: and in pursuance of my duty I can scarcely refrain from men- tioning this to the gentleman who 1s his present employer. The moment I was introduced to him, I detected some- thing oddly familiar about Mr. Mullett’s face, and I have just recollected that I recently saw a photograph of him in the Rogues’ Gallery at Headquarters. You are possibly aware, sir, that convicted criminals are ‘ mugged ’—that is to say, photographed in various positions—at the com- mencement of their term of incarceration. This was done to Mr. Mullett some eighteen months ago when he was sentenced to a year’s imprisonment for an inside burglary job. May I ask how Mr. Mullett came to bein your employ- ment? ”’

“He was sent to me by Mr. Beamish. Mr. Hamilton Beamish.”’

“‘In that case, sir, I have nothing further to say,” said the policeman, bowing at the honoured name. “No

12 THE SMALL BACHELOR

doubt Mr. Beamish had excellent reasons for recommend- ing Mr. Mullett. And, of course, as Mr. Mullett has long since expiated his offence, I need scarcely say that we of the Force have nothing against him. I merely considered it my duty to inform you of his previous activities in case you should have any prejudice against employing a man of his antecedents. I must now leave you, as my duties compel me to return to the station-house, Good afternoon, Mr. Finch.”’

“Good afternoon.”

‘‘Good day, Mr. Mullett. Pleased to have met you. You did not by any chance run into a young fellow named Joe the Gorilla while you were in residence at Sing-Sing ? No? I’m sorry. He came from my home town. I should have liked news of Joe.”’

Officer Garroway’s departure was followed by a lengthy silence. George Finch shuffled his feet awkwardly. He was an amiable young man, and disliked unpleasant scenes, He looked at Mullett. Mullett looked at the sky.

“‘ Er—Mullett,”’ said George.

6e Sir ? a8

** This is rather unfortunate.”

‘“Most unpleasant for all concerned, sir.”

“‘I think Mr, Beamish might have told me.”

““No doubt he considered it unnecessary, sir. Being aware that I had reformed.”

“Yes, but even so.... Er-—Mullett.”

66 Sir ? a3

“The officer spoke of an inside burglary job. What was your exact—er—line ?’’

“I used to get a place as a valet, sir, and wait till I saw my chance, and then skin out with everything I could lay my hands on.”’

“You did, did you?”

“Yes, sir.”’

“Well, I do think Mr. Beamish might have dropped me a quiet hint. Good heavens! I may have been putting temptation in your way for weeks.”

THE SMALL BACHELOR 18

“You have, sir,—very serious temptation. But I welcome temptation, Mr. Finch. Every time I’m left alone with your pearl studs, I have a bout with the Temp- ter. ‘Why don’t you take them, Mullett?’ he says to me, ‘Why don’t you take them?’ It’s splendid moral exercise, sir.”

‘‘I suppose so.”

“Yes, sir, it’s awful what that Tempter will suggest to me. Sometimes, when you're lying asleep, he says ‘Slip a sponge of chloroform under his nose, Mullett, and clear out with the swag!’ Just imagine it, sir.”

‘‘T am imagining it.”’

‘‘But I win every time, sir. I’ve not lost one fight with that old Tempter since I’ve been in your employ- ment, Mr. Finch.”

‘‘ All the same, I don’t believe you’re going to remain in my employment, Mullett.’

Mullett inclined his head resignedly.

“*T was afraid of this, sir. The moment that flat-footed cop came on to this roof, I had a presentiment that there was going to be trouble. But I should appreciate it very much if you could see your way to reconsider, sir. I can assure you that I have completely reformed.”

“ Religion ? ”’

“No, sir. Love.”

The word seemed to touch some hidden chord in George Finch. The stern, set look vanished from his face. He gazed at his companion almost meltingly.

“Mullett! Do you love? ’”’

“‘T do, indeed, sir. Fanny’s her name, sir. Fanny Welch. She’s a pickpocket.”

“A pickpocket | ”’

“Yes, sir. And one of the smartest girls in the busi- ness. She could take your watch out of your waistcoat, and you'd be prepared to swear she hadn’t been within a yard of you It’s almost an art, sir. But she’s promised to go straight, if I will, and now I’m saving up to buy the furniture. So I do hope, sir, that you will recon-

14 THE SMALL BACHELOR

sider. It would set me back if I fell out of a place just now.”

George wrinkled his forehead.

**I oughtn’t to.”

“But you will, sir?”

“It’s weak of me.”’

‘*‘Not it, sir. Christian, I call it.’

George pondered.

** How long have you been with me, Mullett ? ”

‘* Just on a month, sir.”

** And my pearl studs are still there? ”’

** Still in the drawer, sir.”’

*“‘ All right, Mullett. You can stay.”

*‘ Thank you very much indeed, sir.”

There was a silence. The setting sun flung a carpet of gold across the roof. It was the hour at which men become confidential.

“* Love is very wonderful, Mullett ! ’’ said George Finch.

** Makes the world go round, I often say, sir.”’

‘* Mullett.”

66 Sir ? a)

** Shall I tell you something ? ”

* If you please, sir.”’

**Mullett,’’ said George Finch, ‘‘I, too, love.”

*“ You surprise me, sir.’

“You may have noticed that I have been fussy about my clothing of late, Mullett ? ’”’

‘* Oh, no, sir.’’

** Well, I have been, and that was the reason. She lives on East Seventy-Ninth Street, Mullett. I saw her first lunching at the Plaza with a woman who looked like Catherine of Russia. Her mother, no doubt.’’

“Very possibly, sir.”’

**T followed her home. I don’t know why I am telling you this, Mullett.’

‘*No, sir.’’

“‘ Since then I have haunted the sidewalk outside her house. Do you know East Seventy-Ninth Street?”

THE SMALL BACHELOR 15

‘* Never been there, sir.”’

‘‘ Well, fortunately it is not a very frequented thorough- fare, or I should have been arrested for loitering. Until to-day I have never spoken to her, Mullett.”’

‘‘But you did to-day, sir? ”’

‘Yes. Or, rather, she spoke to me. She has a voice like the fluting of young birds in the Springtime, Mul- lett.”’

‘Very agreeable, no doubt, sir.’’

‘‘ Heavenly would express it better. It happened like this, Mullett. I was outside the house, when she came along leading a Scotch terrier onaleash. At that moment a gust of wind blew my hat off and it was bowling past her, when she stopped it. She trod on it, Mullett.”’

‘‘ Indeed, sir? ”’

‘‘ Yes, this hat which you see in my hand, has been trod- den on by Her. This very hat.”

‘‘ And then, sir? ”’

‘“‘In the excitement of the moment she dropped the leash, and the Scotch terrier ran off round the corner in the direction of Brooklyn. I went in pursuit, and suc- ceeded in capturing it in Lexington Avenue. My hat dropped off again and was run over by a taxi-cab. But I retained my hold of the leash, and eventually restored the dog toits mistress. She said—and I want you to notice this very carefully, Mullett,—she said ‘ Oh, thank you so much |’ ’’

““ Did she, indeed, sir ? ”’

*“She did. Not merely ‘Thank you!’ or ‘Oh, thank you!’ but ‘Oh, thank you so much!’’’ George Finch fixed a penetrating stare on his employee. ‘I think that is significant, Mullett.”

‘Extremely, sir.’

“If she had wished to end the acquaintance then and there, would she have spoken so warmly ? ”’

“‘ Impossible, sir.’’

“* And I’ve not told you all. Having said ‘Oh, thank you so much!’ she added: ‘ He #s a naughty dog, isn’t

16 THE SMALL BACHELOR

he?’ You get the extraordinary subtlety of that, Mul- lett? The words ‘He is a naughty dog’ would have been a mere statement. By adding ‘Isn’t he?’ she invited my opinion. She gave me to understand that she would welcome discussion on the subject. Do you know what I am going to do, directly I have dressed, Mullett ? ’’

** Dine, sir? ”’

**Dine!’’ George shuddered. ‘‘No! There are moments when the thought of food is an outrage to everything that raises Man above the level of the beasts. As soon as I have dressed—and I shali dress very care- fully—I am going to return to East Seventy-Ninth Street and I am going to ring the door-bell and I am going to go straight in and inquire after the dog. Hope it is none the worse for its adventure and so on. After all, it is only the civil thing. I mean these Scotch terriers... delicate, highly-strung animals. ... Never can tell what effect unusual excitement may have on them. Yes, Mul- lett, that is what I propose todo. Brush my dress-clothes as you have never brushed them before.”

“Very good, sir.”’

** Put me out a selection of ties. Say, a dozen.”

** Yes, sir.’’

** And—did the boot-legger call this morning ? ”’

** Yes, sir.’”’

“‘Then mix me a very strong whisky-and-soda, Mul- lett,’’ said George Finch. ‘‘ Whatever happens, I must be at my best to-night.’

§ 4

To George, sunk in a golden reverie, there entered some few minutes later, jarring him back to life, a pair of three- pound dumb-bells, which shot abruptly out of the unknown and came trundling across the roof at him with a repulsive, clumping sound that would have disconcerted Romeo. They were followed by J. Hamilton Beamish on all fours. Hamilton Beamish, who believed in the healthy body as well as the sound mind, always did half an hour's open-

THE SMALL BACHELOR 17

air work with the bells of an evening: and, not for the first time, he had tripped over the top stair.

He recovered his balance, his dumb-bells and his spec- tacles in three labour-saving movements: and with the aid of the last-named was enabled to perceive George,

**QOh, there you are!” said Hamilton Beamish.

** Yes,’’ said George, “‘and .

** What’s all this I hear from Mullett ? ’’ asked Hamilton Beamish.

‘‘ What,” inquired George simultaneously, “is all this I hear from Mullett ? ”’

““Mullett says you’re fooling about after some girl up-town.”’

‘“‘Mullett says you knew he was an ex-convict when you recommended him to me.”’

Hamilton Beamish decided to dispose of this triviality before going on to more serious business.

‘“‘Certainly,’’ he said. ‘‘ Didn’t you read my series in the Yale Review on the ‘ Problem of the Reformed Crim- inal’? Ipoint out very clearly that there is nobody with such a strong bias towards honesty as the man who has just come out of prison. It stands to reason. If you had been laid up for a year in hospital] as the result of jumping off this roof, what would be the one outdoor sport in which, on emerging, you would be most reluc- tant to indulge? Jumping off roofs, undoubtedly.”

George continued to frown in a dissatisfied way.

‘“‘ That’s all very well, but a fellow doesn’t want ex-con- victs hanging about the home.”

‘‘ Nonsense! You must rid yourself of this old-fashioned prejudice against men who have been in Sing-Sing. Try to look on the place as a sort of University which fits its graduates for the problems of the world without. Morally speaking, such men are the student body. You have no fault to find with Mullett, have you? ”’

‘No, I can’t say I have.”

“Does his work well? ”

ee Yes.”’

18 THE SMALL BACHELOR **Not stolen anything from you?” ee N o.””

**Then why worry? Dismiss the man from your mind. And now let me hear all about this girl of yours.”

** How do you know anything about it ?’”’

‘‘ Mullett told me.”’

** How did he know?”

‘‘ He followed you a couple of afternoons and saw all.”

George turned pink.

*‘T’ll go straight in and fire that man. The snake!”’

** You will do nothing of the kind. He acted as he did from pure zeal and faithfulness. He saw you go out, muttering to yourself...”

‘‘ Did I mutter? ’’ said George, startled.

** Certainly you muttered. You muttered, and you were exceedingly strange in your manner. So naturally Mul- lett, good zealous fellow, followed you to see that you came to no harm. He reports that you spend a large part of your leisure goggling at some girl in Seventy-Ninth Street, Fast.”’

George’s pink face turned a shade pinker. A sullen look came into it.

‘Well, what about it ? ”’

‘‘That’s what I want to know—what about it?”

*“Why shouldn't I goggle? ’’

**Why should you? ”’

“* Because,’’ said George Finch, looking like a stuffed frog, ‘‘ I love her.”

** Nonsense | ”’

‘‘It isn’t nonsense,”

““Have you ever read my booklet on ‘The Marriage Sane’?”’

‘*No, I haven’t.”’

“I show there that love is a reasoned emotion that springs from mutual knowledge, increasing over an extended period of time, and a community of tastes. How can you love a girl when you have never spoken to her and don't even know her name? ”’

THE SMALL BACHELOR 19

“IT do know her name.”

“How?”

“I looked through the telephone directory till I found out who lived at Number 16 East Seventy-Ninth Street. It took me about a week, because...”

‘“‘Sixteen East Seventy-Ninth Street? You don’t

mean that this girl you’ve been staring at is little Molly Waddington ? ”’

George started.

‘“‘ Waddington is the name, certainly. That’s why I was such an infernal time getting to it in the book. Wad- dington, Sigsbee H.’’ George choked emotionally, and gazed at his friend with awed eyes. ‘‘ Hamilton! Hammy, old man! You—you don’t mean to say you actually know her? Not positively know her? ”’

‘‘ Of course I know her. Know her intimately. Many’s the time I’ve seen her in her bath-tub,”

George quivered from head to foot.

“It’s a lie! A foul and contemptible...”

** When she was a child.”

‘‘ Oh, when she was a child ? ’’ George became calmer. *‘Do you mean to say you've known her since she was a child? Why, then you must be in love with her yourself.”

‘*‘ Nothing of the kind.”

‘You stand there and tell me,’’ said George incredu- lously, ‘‘ that you have known this wonderful girl for many years and are not in love with her?”

“T do.”

George regarded his friend with a gentle pity. He could only explain this extraordinary statement by supposing that there was some sort of a kink in Hamilton Beamish, Sad, for in so many ways he was such a fine fellow.

‘The sight of her has never made you feel that, to win one smile, you could scale the skies and pluck out the stars and lay them at her feet?”

“Certainly not. Indeed, when you consider that the nearest star is several million .. .”

** All right,’’ said George. ‘‘ Allright. Letit go. And

20 THE SMALL BACHELOR

now,’ he went on simply, “‘ tell me all about her and her people and her house and her dog and what she was like as a child and when she first bobbed her hair and who is her favourite poet and where she went to school and what she likes for breakfast . . .”’

Hamilton Beamish reflected.

‘‘ Well, I first knew Molly when her mother was alive.’*

‘* Her mother is alive. I’ve seen her. A woman who looks like Catherine of Russia.”’

*That’s her stepmother. Sigsbee H. married again a couple of years ago.”

‘Tell me about Sigsbee H.”

Hamilton Beamish twirled a dumb-bell thoughtfully.

‘‘Sigsbee H. Waddington,” he said, ‘‘is one of those men who must, I think, during the formative years of their boyhood have been kicked on the head by a mule. It has been well said of Sigsbee H. Waddington that, if men were dominoes, he would be the double-blank. One of the numerous things about him that rule him out of serious consideration by intelligent persons is the fact that he is a synthetic Westerner.”

** A synthetic Westerner ? ”’

‘‘It is a little known, but growing, sub-species akin to the synthetic Southerner,—with which curious type you are doubtless familiar.’

“IT don’t think I am.”

““Nonsense. Have you never been in a restaurant where the orchestra played Dixie ?”’

‘* Of course.”

“Well, then, on such occasions you will have noted that the man who gives a rebel yell and springs on his chair and waves a napkin with flashing eyes is always a suit-and-cloak salesman named Rosenthal or Bechstein who was born in Passaic, New Jersey, and has never been farther South than Far Rockaway. That is the synthetic Southerner,”’

oe J see,”

‘*Sigsbee H. Waddington {fs a synthetic Westerner.

THE SMALL BACHELOR 21

His whole life, with the exception of one summer vacation when he went to Maine, has been spent in New York State: and yet, to listen to him, you would think he was an exiled cowboy. I fancy it must be the effect of seeing too many Westerns in the movies. Sigsbee Waddington has been a keen supporter of the motion-pictures from their inception: and was, I believe, one of the first men in this city to hiss the villain. Whether it was Tom Mix who caused the trouble, or whether his weak intellect was gradually sapped by seeing William S. Hart kiss his horse, I cannot say: but the fact remains that he now yearns for the great open spaces and, if you want to ingratiate yourself with him, all you have to do is to mention that you were born in Idaho,—a fact which I hope that, as a rule, you carefully conceal.”’

“I will,’ said George enthusiastically. ‘‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you, Hamilton, for giving me this information.”’

“You needn’t be. It will do you no good whatever. When Sigsbee Waddington married for the second time, he to all intents and purposes sold himself down the river. To call him a cipher in the home would be to give a too glowing picture of his importance. He does what his wife tells him—that and nothing more. She is the one with whom you want to ingratiate yourself.”’

‘‘ How can this be done ?”’

“It can’t be done. Mrs. Sigsbee Waddington is not an easy woman to conciliate.”’

‘“‘A tough baby?” inquired George anxiously.

Hamilton Beamish frowned.

‘“‘T dislike the expression. It is the sort of expression Mullett would use: and I know few things more calculated to make a thinking man shudder than Mullett’s vocabulary. Nevertheless, in a certain crude horrible way it does describe Mrs, Waddington. There is an ancient belief in Tibet that mankind is descended from a demoness named Drasrinmo and a monkey. Both Sigsbee H. and Mrs. Waddington do much to bear out this theory. I am

22 THE SMALL BACHELOR

loath to speak ill of a woman, but it is no use trying to concea] the fact that Mrs. Waddington is a bounder and a snob and has a soul like the under-side of a flat stone. She worships wealth and importance. She likes only the rich and the titled. As a matter of fact, I happen to know that there is an English lord hanging about the place whom she wants Molly to marry.”

‘“‘Over my dead body,”’ said George.

** That could no doubt be arranged. My poor George,” said Hamilton Beamish, laying a dumb-bell affectionately on his friend’s head, “* you are taking on too big a contract. You are going out of your class. It is not as if you were one of these dashing young Lochinvar fellows. You are mild and shy. You are diffident and timid. I class you among Nature’s white mice. It would take a woman like Mrs. Sigsbee Waddington about two and a quarter minutes to knock you for a row of Portuguese ash-cans,—er, as Mullett would say,’’ added Hamilton Beamish witha touch of confusion.

“* She couldn’t eat me,”’ said George valiantly.

“‘T don’t know so much. She is not a vegetarian.”’

“I was thinking,’’ said George, ‘‘ that you might take me round and introduce me.”’

‘“‘And have your blood on my head? No, no.”

‘‘What do you mean, my blood? You talk as if this woman were a syndicate of gunmen. I’m not afraid of her. To get to know Molly ’’—George gulped—“ I would fight a mad bull.”’

Hamilton Beamish was touched. This great man was human.

““ These are brave words, George. You extort my admir- ation. I disapprove of the reckless, unconsidered way you are approaching this matter, and I still think you would be well advised to read ‘The Marriage Sane’ and get a proper estimate of Love: but I cannot but like your spirit. If you really wish it, therefore, I will take you round and introduce you to Mrs. Sigsbee H. Waddington. And may the Lord have mercy on your soul.”

THE SMALL BACHELOR 28

‘‘Hamilton! To-night ? ”’

*‘Not to-night. I am lecturing to the West Orange Daughters of Minerva to-night on The Modern Drama. Some other time.”’

‘“‘Then to-night,’”’ said George, blushing faintly, “I think I may as well just stroll round Seventy-Ninth Street way and—er—well, just stroll round.”

‘* What is the good of that ?”’

** Well, I can look at the house, can’t I ? ”’

“Young blood !’’ said Hamilton Beamish indulgently. **'Young blood !”’

He poised himself firmly on his No-Jars, and swung the dumb-bells in a forceful arc.

$5

** Mullett,”’ said George.

ee Sir ? a9

** Have you pressed my dress clothes ? ”’

** Yes, sir.”

** And brushed them ? ”

** Yes, sir.’

““My ties—are they laid out?”

‘“‘In a neat row, sir.”

George coughed.

“Mullett !”’

“Sir? ”’

**You recollect the little chat we were having just now ?”’

ee Sir ? ad

*‘ About the young lady I—er...

**Oh, yes, sir.

*‘I understand you have seen her.”

** Just a glimpse, sir.”’

George coughed again.

‘‘ Ah—rather attractive, Mullett, didn’t you think ? ”

*‘Extremely, sir. Very cuddly.”

‘‘The exact adjective I would have used myself, Mullett |”

a9

24 THE SMALL BACHELOR

“Indeed, sir? ’’

**Cuddly! A beautiful word.”

‘TI think so, sir.”

George coughed for the third time.

*‘A lozenge, sir? ’’ said Mullett solicitously.

**No, thank you.”

** Very good, sir.”

** Mullett | ”’

Sir?”

*‘T find that Mr. Beamish is an intimate friend of this young lady.”’

‘‘Fancy that, sir!”

‘He is going to introduce me.”

“Very gratifying, I am sure, sir.”

George sighed dreamily.

** Life is very sweet, Mullett.’’

‘‘For those that like it, sir,—yes, sir.”

“Lead me to the ties,’’ said George.

CHAPTER TWO

§1 T the hour of seven-thirty, just when George Finch was trying out his fifth tie, a woman stood A pacing the floor in the Byzantine boudoir at Number 16 Seventy-Ninth Street, East.

At first sight this statement may seem contradictory. Is it possible, the captious critic may ask, for a person simul- taneously to stand and pace the floor? The answer is Yes, if he or she is sufficiently agitated as to the soul. You do it by placing yourself on a given spot and scrabbling the feet alternately like a cat kneading a hearth-rug. It is sometimes the only method by which strong women can keep from having hysterics.

Mrs. Sigsbee H. Waddington was a strong woman. In fact, so commanding was her physique that a stranger might have supposed her to be one in the technical, or circus, sense. She was not tall, but she had bulged so generously in every possible direction that, when seen for the first time, she gave the impression of enormous size. No theatre, however little its programme had managed to attract the public, could be said to be ‘ sparsely filled ’ if Mrs. Wadding- ton had dropped in to look at the show. Public speakers, when Mrs. Waddington was present, had the illusion that they were addressing most of the population of the United States. And when she went to Carlsbad or Aix-les-Bains to take the waters, the authorities huddled together nervously and wondered if there would be enough to go round.

Her growing bulk was a perpetual sorrow—one of many —toherhusband. When he had married her, she had been slim and svelfe. But she had also been the relict of the late P. Homer Horlick, the Cheese King, and he had left

25

26 THE SMALL BACHELOR

her several million dollars. Most of the interest accruing from this fortune she had, so it sometimes seemed to Sigsbee H. Waddington, spent on starchy foods.

Mrs. Waddington stood and paced the floor, and presently the door opened.

‘‘Lord Hunstanton,”’ announced Ferris, the butler.

The standard of male looks presented up to the present in this story has not been high: but the man who now

entered did much to raise the average. He was tall and slight and elegant, with frank blue eyes—one of them preceded by an eye-glass—and one of those clipped mous- taches. His clothes had been cut by an inspired tailor and pressed by a genius, His tie was simply an ethereal white butterfly, straight from heaven, that hovered over the collar-stud as if it were sipping pollen from some exotic flower. (George Finch, now working away at number eight and having just got it creased in four places, would have screamed hoarsely with envy at the sight of that tie.)

‘‘Well, here I am,” said Lord Hunstanton. He paused for a moment, then added, ‘‘ What, what!’ as if he felt that it was expected of him.

‘It was so kind of you to come,”’ said Mrs. Waddington, pivoting on her axis and panting like a hart after the water- brooks.

‘“Not at all.”

‘‘T knew I could rely on you.”

‘““You have only to command.”

“‘ You are such a true friend, though I have known you only such a short time.”

‘“‘TIs anything wrong ?’’ asked Lord Hunstanton.

He was more than a little surprised to find himself at seven-forty in a house where he had been invited to dine at half-past eight. His dressing had been interrupted by a telephone-call from Mrs. Waddington’s butler, begging him to come round at once: and, noting his hostess’s agitation, he hoped that nothing had gone wonky with the dinner.

“Everything is wrong !”*

THE SMALL “BACHELOR 27

Lord Hunstanton sighed inaudibly. Did this mean cold meat and a pickle?

‘‘ Sigsbee is having one of his spells!”

‘**'You mean he has been taken ill?”

“Notill. Fractious.” Mrs. Waddingtongulped. ‘“‘ It’s so hard that this should have occurred on the night of an important dinner-party, after you have taken such trouble with his education. I have said a hundred times that, since you came, Sigsbee has been a different man. He knows all the forks now, and can even talk intelligently about soufiés.”’

‘‘T am only too glad if any little pointers I have been able to... .”

‘* And when I take him out for a run he always walks on the outside of the pavement. And here he must go, on the night of my biggest dinner-party, and have one of his spells.”

‘‘What is the trouble? Is he violent? ”’

‘No. Sullen.”’

‘‘ What about ? ”’

Mrs. Waddington’s mouth set in a hard line.

‘‘ Sigsbee is pining for the West again!”

‘You don't say so?”

‘* Yes, sir, he’s pining for the great wide open spaces of the West. He says the East is effete and he wants to be out there among the silent canyons where men are men. If you want to know what I think, somebody’s been feeding him Zane Grey.”

‘‘Can nothing be done? ”’

‘‘ Yes—intime. Ican get him nght if I’m given time, by stopping his pocket-money. But I need time, and here he is, an hour before my important dinner, with some of the most wealthy and exclusive people in New York expected at any moment, refusing to put on his dress clothes and saying that all a man that is a man needs is to shoot his bison and cut off a steak and cook it by the light of the western stars. And what I want to know is, what am I to do?”’

28 ' THE SMALL BACHELOR

Lord Hunstanton twisted his moustache thoughtfully.

‘** Very perplexing.”

‘**T thought if you went and had a word with him... .

“IT doubt if it would do any good. I suppose you couldn’t dine without him ? ”’

‘‘It would make us thirteen.”

‘‘T see.’’ His lordship’s face brightened. ‘‘ I’ve got it! Send Miss Waddington to reason with him.”

‘Molly ? You think he would listen to her? ”’

‘‘He is very fond of her.”

Mrs. Waddington reflected.

‘¢ It’s worth trying. I’ll go up and see if she is dressed. She is a dear girl, isn’t she, Lord Hunstanton ? ”’

‘Charming, charming.”

“I’m sure I’m as fond of her as if she were my own daughter.’

‘“No doubt.”

‘‘Though, of course, dearly as I love her, I am never foolishly indulgent. So many girls to-day are spoiled by foolish indulgence.”

66 True.’’

“* My great wish, Lord Hunstanton, is one day to see her happily married to some good man.”’

His lordship closed the door behind Mrs. Waddington and stood for some moments in profound thought. He may have been wondering what was the earliest he could expect a cocktail, or he may have been musing on some deeper subject—if there is a deeper subject.

§2

Mrs. Waddington navigated upstairs, and paused before a door near the second landing.

“Molly !”’

“Yes, mother? ”’

Mrs. Waddington was frowning as she entered the room. How often she had told this girl to call her ‘ mater’ |!

But this was a small point, and not worth mentioning at a time like the present. She sank into a chair with a

THE SMALL BACHELOR 29

creaking groan. Strong woman though she was, Mrs. Sigsbee Waddington, like the chair, was near to breaking down.

“‘Good heavens, mother! What’s the matter? ”’

** Send her away,’’ muttered Mrs. Waddington, nodding at her stepdaughter’s maid.

‘‘All right, mother. I shan’t want you any more, Julie. I can manage now. Shall I get you a glass of water, mother ? ”’

Molly looked at her suffering stepparent with gentle con- cern, wishing that she had something stronger than water to offer. But her late mother had brought her up in that silly, stuffy way in which old-fashioned mothers used to bring up their daughters: and, incredible as it may seem in these enlightened days, Molly Waddington had reached the age of twenty without forming even a nodding acquaint- ance with alcohol. Now, no doubt, as she watched her stepmother gulping before her like a moose that has had trouble in the home, she regretted that she was not one of those sensible modern girls who always carry a couple of shots around with them in a jewelled flask.

But, though a defective upbringing kept her from being useful in this crisis, nobody could deny that, as she stood there half-dressed for dinner, Molly Waddington was extremely ornamental. If George Finch could have seen her at that moment. ... But then if George Finch had seen her at that moment, he would immediately have shut his eyes like a gentleman: for there was that about her costume, in its present stage of development, which was not for the male gaze.

Still, however quickly he had shut his eyes, he could not have shut them rapidly enough to keep from seeing that Mullett, in his recent remarks on an absorbing subject, had shown an even nicer instinct for the mot juste than he had supposed. Beyond all chance for evasion or doubt, Molly Waddington was cuddly. She was wearing primrose knickers, and her silk-stockinged legs tapered away to little gold shoes. Her pink fingers were clutching at a blue dressing-jacket with swansdown trimming. Her

3

80 THE SMALL BACHELOR

bobbed hair hung about a round little face with a tip-tilted little nose. Her eyes were large, her teeth small and white and even. She had a little brown mole on the back of her neck and—in short, to sum the whole thing up, if George Finch could have caught even the briefest glimpse of her at this juncture, he must inevitably have fallen over side- ways, yapping like a dog.

Mrs. Waddington’s breathing had become easier, and she was sitting up in her chair with something like the old imperiousness.

‘“‘ Molly,’’ said Mrs. Waddington, “‘ have you been giving your father Zane Grey ?”’

“Of course not.”

“You're sure? ”’

“‘Quite. I don’t think there’s any Zane Grey in the house.”’

‘“Then he’s been sneaking out and seeing Tom Mix again,’’ said Mrs. Waddington.

“You don’t mean... .?”

“Yes! He’s got one of his spells.”

“A bad one? ”’

“So bad that he refuses to dress for dinner. He says that if the boys ’’"—Mrs. Waddington shuddered—“ if the boys don’t like him in a flannel shirt, he won’t come in to dinner at all. And Lord Hunstanton suggested that I should send you to reason with him.”

‘“‘Lord Hunstanton? Has he arrived already? ”’

*‘T telephoned for him. I am coming to rely on Lord Hunstanton more and more every day. What a dear fellow he is!”’

“* Yes,’’ said Molly, a little dubiously. She was not fond of his lordship.

‘“‘So handsome.”

*“'Yes.”’

“Such breeding.”

“IT suppose so.”’

“I should be very happy,”’ said Mrs. Waddington, “‘ if a man like Lord Hunstanton asked you to be his wife.’

THE SMALL BACHELOR 81

Molly fiddled with the trimming of her dressing-jacket’ This was not the first time the subject had come up between her stepmother and herself. A remark like the one just recorded was Mrs. Waddington’s idea of letting fall a quiet hint.

‘“Well ...”’ said Molly.

‘‘What do you mean, well?”

‘** Well, don’t you think he’s rather stiff.”

** Stiff !”’

*‘Don’t you find him a little starchy ? ”’

“‘If you mean that Lord Hunstanton’s manners are perfect, I agree with you.”

“I’m not sure that I like a man’s manners to be too perfect,’’ said Molly meditatively. ‘‘ Don’t you think a shy man can be rather attractive? ’’ She scraped the toe of one gold shoe against the heel of the other. ‘‘ The sort of man I think I should rather like,”’ she said, a dreamy look in her eyes, ‘‘ would be a sort of slimmish, smallish man with nice brown eyes and rather gold-y, chestnutty hair, who kind of looks at you from a distance because he’s too shy to speak to you and, when he does get a chance to speak to you, sort of chokes and turns pink and twists his fingers and makes funny noises and trips over his feet and looks rather a lamb and...”

Mrs. Waddington had risen from her chair like a storm- cloud brooding over a country-side.

‘* Molly !’’ she cried. ‘‘ Who is this young man?”

‘‘Why, nobody, of course! Just some one I sort of imagined.”’

‘‘Qh!’’ said Mrs, Waddington, relieved. ‘‘ You spoke as if you knew him.”’

‘“What a strange idea! ”’

‘“‘ If any young man ever does look at you and make funny noises, you will ignore him.”’

‘“‘ Of course.”’

Mrs. Waddington started.

‘* All this nonsense you have been talking has made me forget about your father. Put on your dress and go down

82 THE SMALL BACHELOR

to him at once. Reason with him! If he refuses to come in to dinner, we shall be thirteen, and my party will be ruined.,’’

‘* I’ll be ready in a couple of minutes. Where is he? ”’

“In the library.”

**T’ll be right down.”

‘* And, when you have seen him, go into the drawing- room and talk to Lord Hunstanton. He is all alone.”

‘Very well, mother.”

“* Mater.”’

“* Mater,” said Molly.

She was one of those nice, dutiful girls.

§ 3

In addition to being a nice, dutiful girl, Molly Waddington was also a persuasive, wheedling girl. Better proof of this statement can hardly be afforded than by the fact that, as the clocks were pointing to ten minutes past eight, a red-faced little man with stiff grey hair and a sulky face shambled down the stairs of Number 16 East Seventy- Ninth Street, and, pausing in the hall, subjected Ferris, the butler, to an offensive glare. It was Sigsbee H. Waddington, fully, if sloppily, dressed in the accepted mode of gentlemen of social standing about to dine.

The details of any record performance are always interest- ing, so it may be mentioned that Molly had reached the library at seven minutes toeight. She had started wheed- ling at exactly six minutes and forty-five seconds to the hour. At seven fifty-four Sigsbee Waddington had begun to weaken. At seven fifty-seven he was fighting in the last ditch: and at seven fifty-nine, vowing he would ne’er consent, he consented.

Into the arguments used by Molly we need not enter fully. It is enough to say that, if a man loves his daughter dearly, and if she comes to him and says that she has been looking forward to a certain party and is wearing a new dress for that party, and if, finally, she adds that, should he absent himself from that party, the party and her

THE SMALL BACHELOR 88

pleasure will be ruined,—then, unless the man has a heart of stone, he will give in. Sigsbee Waddington had not a heart of stone. Many good judges considered that he had a head of concrete, but nobody had ever disparaged his heart. At eight precisely he was in his bedroom, shovelling on his dress clothes: and now, at ten minutes past, he stood in the hall and looked disparagingly at Ferris.

Sigsbee Waddington thought Ferris was an over-fed wart.

Ferris thought Sigsbee Waddington ought to be ashamed to appear in public in a tie like that.

But thoughts are not words. What Ferris actually said was :

‘‘A cocktail, sir? ’’

And what Sigsbee Waddington actually said was:

“Yup! Gimme!”

There was a pause. Mr. Waddington still unsoothed, continued to glower. Ferris, resuming his marmoreal calm, had begun to muse once more, as was his habit when in thought, on Brangmarley Hall, Little-Seeping-in-the- Wold, Salop, Eng., where he had spent the early, happy days of his butlerhood.

“Ferris!” said Mr. Waddington at length.

¢¢ Sir ? a8

‘You ever been out West, Ferris ? ”’

“No, sir.”

‘Ever want to go?”

**No, sir.’’

‘‘ Why not?’ demanded Mr. Waddington belligerently.

‘IT understand that in the Western States of America, sir, there is a certain lack of comfort, and the social ameni- ties are not rigorously observed.”’

‘‘Gangway!”’ said Mr. Waddington, making for the front door.

He felt stifled. He wanted air. He yearned, if only for a few brief instants, to be alone with the silent stars.

It would be idle to deny that, at this particular moment, Sigsbee H. Waddington wasin a dangerous mood. The his-

84 THE SMALL BACHELOR

tory of nacions shows that the wildest upheavals come from those peoples that have been most rigorously oppressed: and it is so with individuals. There is no man so terrible in his spasmodic fury as the hen-pecked husband during his short spasms of revolt. Even Mrs. Waddington recog- nized that, no matter how complete her control normally; Sigsbee H., when having one of his spells, practically amounted to a rogue elephant. Her policy was to keep out of his way till the fever passed, and then to discipline him severely.

As Sigsbee Waddington stood on the pavement outside his house, drinking in the dust-and-gasolene mixture which passes for air in New York and scanning the weak imitation stars which are the best the East provides, he was grim and squiggle-eyed and ripe for murders, stratagems and spoils. Molly’s statement that there was no Zane Grey in the house had been very far from the truth. Sigsbee Waddington had his private store, locked away in a secret cupboard, and since early morning ‘ Riders of the Purple Sage’ had hardly ever been out of his hand. During the afternoon, moreover, he had managed to steal away to a motion- picture house on Sixth Avenue where they were presenting Henderson Hoover and Sara Svelte in ‘ That L’1l Gal From The Bar B Ranch.’ Sigsbee Waddington, as he stood on the pavement, was clad in dress clothes and looked like a stage waiter, but at heart he was wearing chaps and a Stetson hat and people spoke of him as Two-Gun Thomas.

A Rolls-Royce drew up at the kerb, and Mr. Waddington moved a step or twoaway. A fat man alighted and helped his fatter wife out. Mr. Waddington recognized them. B.and Mrs. Brewster Bodthorne. B. Brewster was the first vice-president of Amalgamated Tooth-Brushes, and rolled in money.

“Pah!’’ muttered Mr. Waddington, sickened to the core,

The pair vanished into the house, and presently another Rolls-Royce arrived, followed by a Hispano-Suiza. Con- solidated Pop-corn and wife emerged, and then United

THE SMALL BACHELOR 85

Beef and daughter. A consignment worth on the hoof between eighty and a hundred million.

““How long?’’ moaned Mr. Waddington. ‘‘ How long ?”’

And then, as the door closed, he was aware of a young man behaving strangely on the pavement some few feet away from him.

§ 4

The reason why George Finch—for it was he—was behaving strangely was that he was a shy young man and consequently unable to govern his movements by the light of purereason. The ordinary tough-skinned everyday young fellow with a face of brass and the placid gall of an Army mule would, of course, if he had decided to pay a call upon a girl in order to make inquiries about her dog, have gone right ahead and done it. He would have shot his cuffs and straightened his tie, and then trotted up the steps and punched the front-door bell. Not so the diffident George.

George’s methods were different. Graceful and, in their way, pretty to watch, but different. First, he stood for some moments on one foot, staring at the house. Then, as if some friendly hand had dug three inches of a meat- skewer into the flesh of his leg, he shot forward in a spasmodic bound. Checking this as he reached the steps, he retreated a pace or two and once more became immobile. A few moments later, the meat-skewer had got to work again and he had sprung up the steps, only to leap back- wards once more on to the sidewalk.

When Mr. Waddington first made up his mind to accost him, he had begun to walk round in little circles, mumbling to himself.

Sigsbee Waddington was in no mood for this sort of thing. It was the sort of thing, he felt bitterly, which could happen only in this degraded East. Out West, men are men and do not dance tangoes by themselves on front doorsteps. Venters, the hero of ‘ Riders of the Purple

86 THE SMALL BACHELOR

Sage,’ he recalled, had been described by the author as standing ‘ tall and straight, his wide shoulders flung back, with the muscles of his arms rippling and a blue flame of defiance in his gaze.’ How different, felt Mr. Waddington, from this imbecile young man who seemed content to waste life’s springtime playing solitary round-games in the public streets.

** Hey!’ he said sharply.

The exclamation took George amidships just as he had returned to the standing-on-one-leg position. It caused him to lose his balance, and if he had not adroitly clutched Mr. Waddington by the left ear, it is probable that he would have fallen.

‘‘Sorry,’’ said George, having sorted himself out.

‘** What’s the use of being sorry ?’’ growled the injured man, tenderly feeling his ear. ‘‘ And what the devil are you doing anyway ?”’

‘* Just paying a call,’’ explained George.

‘* Doing a what?”

‘I’m paying a formal call at this house.”

** Which house ? ”’

‘*Thisone. Numbersixteen. Waddington, Sigsbee H.”

Mr. Waddington regarded him with unconcealed hostility.

‘“‘Oh, you are, are you? Well, it may interest you to learn that I am Sigsbee H. Waddington, and I don’t know you from Adam. So now!”

George gasped.

‘You are Sigsbee H. Waddington ? ’’ he said reverently.

ce I am.’’

George was gazing at Molly’s father as at some beautiful work of art—a superb painting, let us say—the sort of thing which connoisseurs fight for and which finally gets knocked down to Dr. Rosenbach for three hundred thousand dollars. Which will give the reader a rough idea of what love can do: for, considered in a calm and unbiased spirit, Sigsbee Waddington was little, if anything, to look at.

“‘Mr, Waddington,”’ said George, ‘‘ I am proud to meet you.”

THE SMALL BACHELOR 87

‘You're what ?”’

‘“‘ Proud to meet you.”

“What of it?” said Sigsbee Waddington churlishly

** Mr. Waddington,’ said George, ‘‘ I was born in Idaho.”

Much has been written of the sedative effect of pouring oil on the raging waters of the ocean, and it is on record that the vision of the Holy Grail, sliding athwart a rainbow, was generally sufficient to still the most fiercely warring passions of young knights in the Middle Ages. But never since history began can there have been so sudden a change from red-eyed hostility to smiling benevolence as occurred now in Sigsbee H. Waddington. As George’s words, like some magic spell, fell upon his ears, he forgot that one of those ears were smarting badly as the result of the impulsive clutch of this young man before him. Wrath melted from his soul like dew from a flower beneath thesun. He beamed onGeorge. He pawed George’ssleeve with a paternal hand.

‘“* You really come from the West ? ”’ he cried.

ce I d 0.’

“From God’s own country ? From the great wonderful West with its wide open spaces where a red-blooded man can fill his lungs with the breath of freedom ? ”’

It was not precisely the way George would have described East Gilead, which was a stuffy little hamlet with a poorish water-supply and one of the worst soda-fountains in Idaho, but he nodded amiably.

Mr. Waddington dashed a hand across his eyes.

‘“‘The West! Why, it’s like a mother to me! I love every flower that blooms on the broad bosom of its sweeping plains, every sun-kissed peak of its everlasting hills.”

George said he did, too.

“Its beautiful valleys, mystic in their transparent, luminous gloom, weird in the quivering, golden haze of the lightning that flickers over them.”

‘““Ah!’’ said George.

‘‘The dark spruces tipped with glimmering lights! The aspens bent low in the wind, like waves in a tempest at sea!”

88 THE SMALL BACHELOR

‘‘Can you beat them!”’ said George.

“The forest of oaks tossing wildly and shining with gleams of fire! ”’

‘‘ What could be sweeter ? ’’ said George.

“* Say, listen,’’ said Mr. Waddington, ‘‘ you and I must see more of each other. Come and havea bite of dinner ! ”’

“Now?”

“Right this very minute. We've got a few of these puny-souled Eastern millionaires putting on the nose-bag with us to-night, but you won’t mind them. We'll just look at °em and despise ’em. And after dinner you and I will slip off to my study and have a good chat.”

‘‘ But won’t Mrs. Waddington object to an unexpected guest at the last moment? ”’

Mr. Waddington expanded his chest, and tapped it spaciously.

“* Say, listen—what’s your name ?—Finch ?—Say, listen, Finch, do I look like the sort of man who’s bossed by his wife ? ”’

It was precisely the sort of man that George thought he did look like, but this was not the moment to say so.

“It’s very kind of you,”’ he said.

‘‘Kind? Say, listen, if I was riding along those illimi- table prairies and got storm-bound outside your ranch in Idaho, you wouldn’t worry about whether you were being kind when you asked me in for a bite, would you ? You’d say, ‘Step right in, pardner! The place is yours.’ Very well, then! ”’

Mr. Waddington produced a latch-key.

‘‘ Ferris,’’ said Mr. Waddington in the hall, “‘ tell those galoots down in the kitchen to set another place at table. A pard of mine from the West has happened in for a snack.”

CHAPTER THREE

§ 1

HE perfect hostess makes a point of never display- ing discomposure. In moments of trial she aims at the easy repose of manner of a Red Indian at the stake. Nevertheless, there was a moment when, as she saw Sigsbee H. caracole into the drawing-room with George and heard him announce in aringing voice that this fine young son of the western prairies had come to take

pot-luck, Mrs. Waddington indisputably reeled.

She recovered herself. All the woman in her was urging her to take Sigsbee H. by his outstanding ears and shake him till he came unstuck, but she fought the emotion down. Gradually her glazed eye lost its dead-fishy look. Like Death in the poem, she ‘ grinned horrible a ghastly smile.’ And it was with a well-assumed graciousness that she eventually extended to George the quivering right hand which, had she been a less highly civilized woman, would about now have been landing on the side of her husband’s head, swung from the hip.

““Chahmed !”’ said Mrs. Waddington. “So very, very glad that you were able to come, Mr. um

She paused, and George, eyeing her mistily, gathered that she wished to be informed of his name. He would have been glad to supply the information, but unfortunately at the moment he had forgotten it himself. He had a dim sort of idea that it began with an F ora G, but beyond that his mind was a blank.

The fact was that, in the act of shaking hands with his hostess, George Finch had caught sight of Molly, and the spectacle had been a little too much for him.

Molly was wearing the new evening dress of which she had spoken so feelingly to her father at their, recent

39

40 THE SMALL BACHELOR

interview, and it seemed to George as if the scales had fallen from his eyes and he was seeing her for the first time. Before, in a vague way he had supposed that she possessed arms and shoulders and hair, but it was only at this moment that he perceived how truly these arms and those shoulders and that hair were arms and shoulders and hair in the deepest and holiest sense of the words. It was as if a goddess had thrown aside the veil. It was as if a statue had come to life. It was as if ... well, the point we are trying to make is that George Finch was impressed. His eyes enlarged to the dimensions of saucers; the tip of his nose quivered like a rabbit’s: and unseen hands began to pour iced water down his spine.

Mrs. Waddington, having given him a long, steady look that blistered his forehead, turned away and began to talk to a soda-water magnate. She had no real desire to ascertain George’s name, though she would have read it with pleasure on a tombstone.

“Dinner is served,’’ announced Ferris, the butler, appearing noiselessly like a Djinn summoned by the rubbing of a lamp.

George found himself swept up in the stampede of millionaires. He was still swallowing feebly.

There are few things more embarrassing to a shy and sensitive young man than to be present at a dinner-party where something seems to tell him he is not really wanted. The something that seemed to tell George Finch he was not really wanted at to-night’s festive gathering was Mrs. Waddington’s eye, which kept shooting down the table at intervals and reducing him to pulp at those very moments when he was beginning to feel that, if treated with gentle care and kindness, he might eventually recover.

It was an eye that, like a thermos flask, could be alter- nately extremely hot and intensely cold. When George met it during the soup course he had the feeling of having encountered a simoom while journeying across an African desert., When, on the other hand, it sniped him as he

THE SMALL BACHELOR 41

toyed with his fish, his sensations were those of a searcher for the Pole who unexpectedly bumps into a blizzard. But, whether it was cold or hot, there was always in Mrs. Waddington’s gaze one constant factor—a sort of sick loathing which nothing that he could ever do, George felt, would have the power to allay. It was the kind of look which Sisera might have surprised in the eye of Jael the wife of Heber, had he chanced to catch it immediately before she began operations with the spike. George had made one new friend that night, but not two.

The consequence was that as regards George Finch’s contribution to the feast of wit and flow of soul at that dinner-party we have nothing to report. He uttered no epigrams. He told no good stories. Indeed, the only time he spoke at all was when he said ‘Sherry’ to the footman when he meant ‘ Hock.’

Even, however, had the conditions been uniformly pleasant, it is to be doubted whether he would have really dominated the gathering. Mrs. Waddington, in her selection of guests, confined herself to the extremely wealthy: and, while the conversation of the extremely wealthy is fascinating in its way, it tends to be a little too technical for the average man.

With the soup, some one who looked like a cartoon of Capital in a Socialistic paper said he was glad to see that Westinghouse Common were buoyant again. A man who might have been his brother agreed that they had firmed up nicely at closing. Whereas Wabash Pref. A., falling to 73%, caused shakings of the head. However, one rather liked the look of Royal Dutch Oil Ordinaries at 54}.

With the fish, United Beef began to tell a neat, though rather long, story about the Bolivian Land Concession, the gist of which was that the Bolivian Oil and Land Syndicate, acquiring from the Bolivian Government the land and prospecting concessions of Bolivia, would be known as Bolivian Concessions, Ltd, and would have a capital of one million dollars in two hundred thousand five- dollar ‘A’ shares and two hundred thousand half-dollar

42 THE SMALL BACHELOR

‘B ’ shares, and that while no cash payment was to be made to the vendor syndicate the latter was being allotted the whole of the ‘ B ’ shares as consideration for the concession. And—this was where the raconteur made his point—the ‘B’ shares were to receive half the divisible profits and to rank equal with the ‘ A ’ shares in any distribution of assets.

The story went well, and conversation became general. There was a certain amount of good-natured chaff about the elasticity of the form of credit handled by the Com- mercial Banks, and once somebody raised a laugh with a sly retort about the Reserve against Circulation and Total Deposits. On the question of the collateral liability of shareholders, however, argument ran high, and it was rather a relief when, as tempers began to get a little heated, Mrs. Waddington gave the signal and the women left the table.

Coffee having been served and cigars lighted, the magnates drew together at the end of the table where Mr. Waddington sat. But Mr. Waddington, adroitly side- stepping, left them and came down to George.

“Out West,” said Mr. Waddington in a rumbling under- tone, malevolently eyeing Amalgamated Tooth-Brushes, who had begun to talk about the Mid-Continent Fiduciary Conference at St. Louis, “ they would shoot at that fellow’s feet.”

George agreed that such behaviour could reflect nothing but credit on the West.

‘These Easterners make me tired,’ said Mr. Wad- dington.

George confessed to a similar fatigue.

“When you think that at this very moment out in Utah and Arizona,” said Mr. Waddington, “strong men are packing their saddle-bags and making them secure with their lassoes, you kind of don’t know whether to laugh or cry, do you?”

That was the very problem, said George.

“Say, listen,” said Mr. Waddington, “I'll just push these pot-bellied guys off upstairs, and then you andI will sneak off to my study and have a real talk.”

THE SMALL BACHELOR 48

Nothing spoils a féte-d-téte chat between two newly-made friends more than a disposition towards reticence on the part of the senior of the pair: and it was fortunate therefore, that, by the time he found himself seated opposite to George in his study, the heady influence of Zane Grey and the rather generous potations in which he had indulged during dinner had brought Sigsbee H. Waddington to quite a reasonably communicative mood. He had reached the stage when men talk disparagingly about their wives. He tapped George on the knee, informed him three times that he liked his face, and began.

“You married, Winch ? ”

“ Finch,” said George.

“How do you mean, Finch?” asked Mr. Waddington, puzzled.

“My name is Finch.”

“What of it?”

“You called me Winch.”

6s Why ? 3?

“T think you thought it was my name.”

“What was?”

“Winch.”

“You said just now it was Finch. ze

“Yes, it is. I was saying .

Mr. Waddington tapped him on ‘the knee once more.

“Young man,” he said, “ pull yourself together. If your name is Finch, why pretend that itis Winch ? I don’t like this shiftiness. It does not come well from a Westerner. Leave this petty shilly-shallying to Easterners like that vile rabble of widow-and-orphan oppressors upstairs, all of whom have got incipient Bright’s disease. If your name is Pinch, admit it like a man. Let your yea be yea and your nay be nay,” said Mr. Waddington a little severely, holding a match to the fountain-pen which, as will happen to the best of us in moments of emotion, he had mistaken for his

cigar. °

44 THE SMALL BACHELOR

“As a matter of fact, I’m not,” said George.

““Not what?”

“* Married.”’

“T never said you were.”

“You asked me if I was.”

“Did 1?”

“Yes.”

“You're sure of that? ” said Mr. Waddington keenly.

“Quite. Just after we sat down, you asked me if I was married.”

“And your reply was...?”

é¢ N O. iP)

Mr. Waddington breathed a sigh of relief.

“Now we have got it straight at last,” he said, “ and whv you beat about the bush like that, I cannot imagine. Well, what I say to you, Pinch—and I say it very seriously as an older, wiser, and better-looking man—is this.”” Mr. Waddington drew thoughtfully at the fountain-pen for a moment. ‘I say to you, Pinch, be very careful, when you marry, that you have money of your own. And, having money of your own, keep it. Never be dependent on your wife for the occasional little sums which even the most prudent man requires to see him through the day. Take my case. When I married, I was a wealthy man. Ihad money of my own. Lots of it. I was beloved by all, being generous to a fault. I bought my wife—I am speak- ing now of my first wife—a pearl necklace that cost fifty thousand dollars.”

He cocked a bright eye at George, and George, feeling that comment was required, said that it did him credit.

“Not credit,” said Mr. Waddington. “Cash. Cold cash. Fifty thousand dollars of it. And what happened ? Shortly after I married again I lost all my money through unfortunate speculations on the Stock Exchange and be- came absolutely dependent on my second wife. And that is why you see me to-day, Winch, a broken man. I will tell you something, Pinch—something no one suspects and something which I have never told anybody else and

THE SMALL BACHELOR 45

wouldn’t be telling you now if I didn’t like your face. . . I am not master in my own home!”

¢é N Oo ? a)

“No. Not master in my own home. I want to live in the great, glorious West, and my second wife insists on remaining in the soul-destroying East. And I'll tell you something else.” Mr. Waddington paused and scrutinized the fountain-pen with annoyance. ‘“‘ This darned cigar won’t draw,” he said petulantly.

“T think it’s a fountain-pen,”’ said George.

“A fountain pen?” Mr. Waddington, shutting one eye, tested this statement and found it correct. ‘‘ There!” he said, with a certain moody satisfaction. ‘“‘Isn’t that typical of the East ? ‘You ask for cigars and they sell you fountain-pens. No honesty, no sense of fair trade.”

‘“‘ Miss Waddington was looking very charming at dinner, I thought,” said George, timidly broaching the subject nearest his heart.

“Yes, Pinch,” said Mr. Waddington, resuming his theme, ““my wife oppresses me.”

“How wonderfully that bobbed hair suits Miss Wadding- ton.”

“T don’t know if you noticed a pie-faced fellow with an eyeglass and a toothbrush moustache at dinner? That was Lord Hunstanton. He keeps telling me things about etiquette.”’

“Very kind of him,” hazarded George.

Mr. Waddington eyed him in a manner that convinced him that he had said the wrong thing. v

“What do you mean, kind of him? It’s officious and impertinent.” He isa pest,” said Mr. Waddington. ‘ They wouldn’t stand for him in Arizona. They would put hydrophobia skunks in his bed. What does a man need with etiquette ? As long as a man is fearless and upstand- ing and can shoot straight and look the world in the eye, what does it matter if he uses the wrong fork ? ”

“ Exactly.”

“Or wears the wrong sort of hat?”

4

46 THE SMALL BACHELOR

“I particularly admired the hat which Miss Waddington was wearing when I first saw her,” said George. “It was of some soft material and of a light brown colour and...”

“My wife—I am still speaking of my second wife. My first, poor soul, is dead—sticks this Hunstanton guy on to me, and for financial reasons, darn it, I am unable to give him the good sock on the nose to which all my better instincts urge me. And guess what she’s got into her head now.”

“T can’t imagine.”

““She wants Molly to marry the fellow.”

*‘ T should not advise that,” said George seriously. ‘‘ No, no, I am strongly opposed to that. So many of these Anglo-American marriages turn out unhappily.”

“I am a man of broad sympathies and a very acute sensibility,’’ began Mr. Waddington, apropos, apparently, of nothing.

“‘ Besides,” said George, “‘I did not like the man’s looks.”

“What man ? ”

“Lord Hunstanton.”

“Don’t talk of that guy! He gives me a pain in the neck.”

““ Me, too,”’ said George. ‘“‘ And I was saying. . .”

“‘ Shall I tell you something ? ”’ said Mr. Waddington.

“What ? ”

“My second wife—not my first—wants Molly to marry him. Did you notice him at dinner ? ”

“‘T did,” said George patiently. ‘‘ And I did not like his looks. He looked to me cold and sinister, the sort of man who might break the heart of an impulsive young girl. What Miss Waddington wants, I feel convinced, is a hus- band who would give up everything for her—a man who would sacrifice his heart’s desire to bring one smile to her face—a man who would worship her, set her in a shrine, make it his only aim in life to bring her sunshine and happingss.”

THE SMALL BACHELOR 47

“‘ My wife,” said Mr. Waddington, ‘‘ is much too stout.”

“T beg your pardon? ”

“Much too stout.”

“Miss Waddington, if I may say so, has a singularly beautiful figure.”

“Too much starchy food, and no exercise—that’s the trouble. What my wife needs is a year on a ranch, riding over the prairies in God’s sunshine.”

“ T happened to catch sight of Miss Waddington the other day in riding costume. I thought it suited her admirably. So many girls look awkward in riding-breeches, but Miss Waddington was charming. The costume seemed to accentuate what I might describe as that strange boyish Jauntiness of carriage which, to my mind, is one of Miss Waddington’s chief .. .”

“ And I’ll have her doing it before long. As a married man, Winch—twice married, but my first wife, poor thing, passed away some years back—let me tell you something. To assert himself with his wife, to bend her to his will, if I may put it that way, a man needs complete financial independence. It is no use trying to bend your wife to your will when five minutes later you have got to try and wheedle twenty-five cents out of her for a cigar. Complete financial independence is essential, Pinch, and that is what Iam on the eve of achieving. Some little time back, having raised a certain sum of money—we need not go into the methods which I employed to do so—I bought a large block of stock in a Hollywood Motion-Picture Company. Have you ever heard of the Finer and Better Motion Picture Company of Hollywood, Cal.? Let me tell you that you will. It is going to be big, and I shall very shortly make an enormous fortune.”

‘Talking of the motion-pictures,” said George, ‘I do not deny that many of the women engaged in that industry are superficially attractive, but what I do maintain is that they lack Miss Waddington’s intense purity of expression. To me Miss Waddington seems like some . . .”

“I shall clean up big. It is only a question of time.”

48 THE SMALL BACHELOR

“The first thing anyone would notice on seeing Miss Waddington .. .”

‘“‘ Thousands and thousands of dollars. Andthen...

“A poet has spoken of a young girl as ‘standing with reluctant feet where the brook and river meet... .’”’

Mr. Waddington shook his head.

“It isn’t only meat. What causes the real trouble is the puddings. It stands to reason that if a woman insists on cramming herself with rich stuff like what we were having to-night she is bound to put on weight. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times... .”

What Mr. Waddington was about to say for the hundred and first time must remain one of the historic mysteries. For, even as he drew in breath the better to say it, the door opened and a radiant vision appeared. Mr. Waddington stopped in mid-sentence, and George’s heart did three back- somersaults and crashed against his front teeth.

“‘ Mother sent me down to see what had become of you,” said Molly.

Mr. Waddington got about half-way towards a look of dignity.

“IT am not aware, my dear child,” he said, “ that any- thing has ‘ become of me.’ I merely snatched the oppor- tunity of having a quiet talk with this young friend of mine from the West.”

“Well, you can’t have quiet talks with your young friends when you’ve got a lot of important people to dinner.”

“Important people!’ Mr. Waddington snorted sternly. “A bunch of super-fatted bits of bad news! In God’s country they would be lynched on sight.”

“Mr. Brewster Bodthorne has been asking for you particularly. He wants to play checkers.”

“ Hell,” said Mr. Waddington, with the air of quot- ing something out of Dante, ‘‘is full of Brewster Bod- thornes.”’

Molly put her arms round her father’s neck and kissed him fondly—a proceeding which drew from George a low,

THE SMALL BACHELOR 49

sharp how! of suffering like the bubbling cry of some strong swimmer in his agony. There is a limit to what the flesh can bear.

“ Darling, you must be good. Up you go at once and be very nice to everybody. I’ll stay here and entertain Mr.——”

“His name is Pinch,” said Mr. Waddington, rising reluctantly and making for the door. ‘‘I met him out on the side-walk where men are men. Get him to tell you all about the West. I can’t remember when I’ve ever heard a man talk so arrestingly. Mr. Winch has held me spell-bound. Positively spell-bound. And my name,” he concluded, a little incoherently, groping for the door- handle, “is Sigsbee Horatio Waddington and I don’t care who knows it.”

§3

The chief drawback to being a shy man is that in the actual crises of rea] life you are a very different person from the dashing and resourceful individual whom you have pictured in your solitary day-dreams. George Finch, finding himself in the position in which he had so often yearned to be—alone with the girl he loved, felt as if his true self had been suddenly withdrawn and an incompetent understudy substituted at the last moment.

The George with whom he was familiar in day-dreams was a splendid fellow—graceful, thoroughly at his ease, and full of the neatest sort of ingratiating conversation. He looked nice, and you could tell by the way he spoke that he was nice. Clever, beyond a doubt—you knew that at once by his epigrams—but not clever in that repellent, cold-hearted modern fashion : for, no matter how brilliantly his talk sparkled, it was plain all the while that his heart was in the right place and that, despite his wonderful gifts, there was not an atom of conceit in his composition. His eyes had an attractive twinkle: his mouth curved from time to time in an alluring smile: his hands were cool and artistic: and his shirt-front did not bulge. , George,

50 THE SMALL BACHELOR

in short, as he had imagined himself in his day-dreams, was practically the answer to the Maiden’s Prayer.

How different was this loathly changeling who now stood on one leg in the library of Number 16 Seventy-Ninth Street, East. In the first place, the fellow had obviously not brushed his hair for several days. Also, he had omitted to wash his hands, and something had caused them to swell up and turn scarlet. Furthermore, his trousers bagged at the knees: his tie was moving up towards his left ear: and his shirt-front protruded hideously like the chest of a pouter pigeon. A noisome sight.

Still, looks are not everything: and if this wretched creature had been able to talk one-tenth as well as the George of the day-dreams, something might yet have been saved out of the wreck. But the poor blister was inarticu- late as well. All he seemed able to do was clear his throat. And what nice girl’s heart has ever been won by a series of roopy coughs ?

And he could not even achieve a reasonably satisfactory expression. When he tried to relax his features (such as they were) into a charming smile, he merely grinned weakly. When he forced himself not to grin, his face froze into a murderous scowl.

But it was his inability to speak that was searing George’s soul. Actually, since the departure of Mr. Waddington, the silence had lasted for perhaps six seconds: but to George Finch it seemed like a good hour. He goaded himself to utterance.

“My name,” said George, speaking in a low, husky voice, “is not Pinch.”

“Isn’t it?” said the girl. ‘“‘ How jolly!”

“Nor Winch.”

“ Better still.”

“It is Finch. George Finch.”

“* Splendid ! ”

She seemed genuinely pleased. She beamed upon him as if he had brought her good news from a distant land.

“Yous father,” proceeded George, not having anything

THE SMALL BACHELOR 51

to add by way of development of the theme but unable to abandon it, “thought it was Pinch. Or Winch. But it is not. It is Finch.”

His eye, roaming nervously about the room, caught hers for an instant : and he was amazed to perceive that there was in it nothing of that stunned abhorrence which he felt his appearance and behaviour should rightly have aroused in any nice-minded girl. Astounding though it seemed, she appeared to be looking at him in a sort of pleased, maternal way, as if he were a child she was rather fond of. For the first time a faint far-off glimmer of light shone upon George’s darkness. It would be too much to say that he was encouraged, but out of the night that covered him, black as the pit from pole to pole, there did seem to sparkle for an instant a solitary star.

“How did you come to know father ?”’

George could answer that. He was all right if you asked him questions. It was the having to invent topics of conversation that baffled him.

‘“‘T met him outside the house: and when he found that I came from the West he asked me in to dinner.”

“Do you mean he rushed at you and grabbed you as you were walking by?”

“Oh, no. I wasn’t walking by. I was—er—sort of standing on the door-step. At least...”

“Standing on the door-step? Why?”

George’s ears turned a riper red.

“Well, I was—er—coming, as it were, to pay a call.”

“A call?”

“Yes.”

“On mother ? ”

“Qn you.”

The girl’s eyes widened.

“On me?”

“To make inquiries.”

“What about ? ”

“Your dog.”

“IT don’t understand.”

52 THE SMALL BACHELOR

“ Well, I thought—result of the excitement—and nerve- strain—I thought he might be upset.”

“Because he ran away, do you mean?”

66 Yes.”’

“You thought he would have a nervous break-down because he ran away?”

‘“‘ Dangerous traffic,” explained George. ‘‘ Might have been run over. Reaction. Nervous collapse.”

Woman’s intuition is a wonderful thing. There was probably not an alienist in the land who, having listened so far, would not have sprung at George and held him down with one hand while with the other he signed the necessary certificate of lunacy. But Molly Waddington saw deeper into the matter. She was touched. As she realized that this young man thought so highly of her that, despite his painful shyness, he was prepared to try to worm his way into her house on an excuse which even he must have recognized as pure banana-oil, her heart warmed to him. More than ever, she became convinced that George was a lamb and that she wanted to stroke his head and straighten his tie and make cooing noises to him.

“How very sweet of you,” she said.

“Fond of dogs,” mumbled George.

“You must be fond of dogs.”

“Are you fond of dogs?”

“Yes, I’m very fond of dogs.”

“So am I. Very fond of dogs.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. Very fond of dogs. Some people are not fond of dogs, but I am.”

And suddenly eloquence descended upon George Finch. With gleaming eyes he broke out into a sort of Litany. He began to talk easily and fluently.

“T am fond of Airedales and wire-haired terriers and bull-dogs and Pekingese and Sealyhams and Alsatians and fox-terriers and greyhounds and Aberdeens and West High- lands and Cairns and Pomeranians and spaniels and schip- perkes and pugs and Maltese and Yorkshires and borzois

THE SMALL BACHELOR 58

and bloodhounds and Bedlingtons and pointers and setters and mastiffs and Newfoundlands and St. Bernards and Great Danes and dachshunds and collies and chows and poodles and...”

“I see,”’ said Molly. ‘‘ You’re fond of dogs.”

“Yes,” said George. ‘‘ Very fond of dogs.”

“So am I. There’s something about dogs.”

“Yes,” said George. ‘‘ Of course, there’s something about cats, too.”

“Yes, isn’t there ? ”’

“‘ But, still, cats aren’t dogs.”

‘No, I’ve noticed that.”

There was a pause. With a sinking of the heart, for the topic was one on which he felt he could rather spread him- self, George perceived that the girl regarded the subject of dogs as fully threshed out. He stood for awhile licking his lips in thoughtful silence.

“‘So you come from the West?” said Molly.

ee Yes.”

“It must be nice out there.”

ee Yes.’’

“ Prairies and all that sort of thing.”

6é Yes.”’

“You aren’t a cowboy, are you?”

“No. I am an artist,’’ said George proudly.

“An artist? Paint pictures, you mean?”

ee Yes.”’

““Have you a studio ? ”

“Yes.”

ae Where ? a8

“Yes. I mean, near Washington Square. In a place called the Sheridan.”

“‘The Sheridan? Really? Then perhaps you know Mr. Beamish ? ”’

“Yes. Oh, yes. Yes.”

“‘He’s a dear, isn’t he? I’ve known him all my life.”

cé Yes.”’

“It must be jolly to be an artist.”

54 THE SMALL BACHELOR

“Yes.”

“T’d love to see some of your pictures.”

Warm thrills permeated George’s system.

“May I send you one of them ? ” he bleated.

“That’s awfully sweet of you.”

So uplifted was George Finch by this wholly unexpected development that there is no saying what heights of eloquence he might not now have reached, had he been given another ten minutes of the girl’s uninterrupted society. The fact that she was prepared to accept one of his pictures seemed to bring them very close together. He had never yet met anybody who would. For the first time since their interview had begun he felt almost at his ease.

Unfortunately, at this moment the door opened: and like a sharp attack of poison-gas Mrs. Waddington floated into the room.

“What are you doing down here, Molly ? ” she said.

She gave George one of those looks of hers, and his newly- born sang-froid immediately turned blue at the roots.

“I’ve been talking to Mr. Finch, mother. Isn’t it inter- esting—Mr. Finch is an artist. He paints pictures.”

Mrs. Waddington did not reply : for she had been struck suddenly dumb by a hideous discovery. Until this moment she had not examined George with any real closeness. When she had looked at him before it had been merely with the almost impersonal horror and disgust with which any hostess looks at an excrescence who at the eleventh hour horns in on one of her carefully planned dinners. His face, though revolting, had had no personal message for her.

But now it was different. Suddenly this young man’s foul features had become fraught with a dreadful significance. Subconsciously, Mrs. Waddington had been troubled ever since she had heard them by the words Molly had spoken in her bedroom: and now they shot to the surface of her mind like gruesome things from the dark depths pf some sinister pool. ‘The sort of man I think I

THE SMALL BACHELOR 55

should rather like,’ Molly had said, ‘would be a sort of slimmish, smallish man with nice brown eyes and rather gold-y, chestnutty hair.’ She stared at George. Yes! He was slimmish. He was also smallish. His eyes, though far from nice, were brown: and his hair was undeniably of a chestnut hue.

‘Who sort of chokes and turns pink and twists his fingers and makes funny noises and trips overhisfeet . . .’ Thus had the description continued, and precisely thus was this young man before her now behaving. For her gaze had had the worst effect on George Finch, and seldom in his career had he choked more throatily, turned a brighter pink, twisted his fingers into a more intricate pattern, made funnier noises and tripped more heartily over his feet than he was doing now. Mrs. Waddington was convinced. It had been no mere imaginary figure that Molly had described, but a living, breathing pestilence—and this was he.

And he was an artist! Mrs. Waddington shuddered. Of all the myriad individuals that went to make up the kaleidoscopic life of New York, she disliked artists most. They never had any money. They were dissolute and feckless. They attended dances at Webster Hall in strange costumes, and frequently played the ukelele. And this man was one of them.

‘‘T suppose,” said Molly, “‘ we had better go upstairs ?”’

Mrs. Waddington came out of her trance.

“‘ You had better go upstairs,” she said, emphasizing the pronoun in a manner that would have impressed itself upon the least sensitive of men. George got it nicely.

“‘|—er—think, perhaps,’”’ he mumbled, “as it is—er— getting late...”

“You aren’t going ?”’ said Molly, concerned.

“Certainly Mr. Finch is going,” said Mrs. Waddington : and there was that in her demeanour which suggested that at any moment she might place one hand on the scruff of his neck and the other on the seat of his trousers and heave. “If Mr. Finch has appointments that call him elsewhere, we must not detain him. Good night, Mr. Finch,”

56 THE SMALL BACHELOR

“Good night. Thank you for a—er—very pleasant evening.”

“It was most kay-eend of you to come,” said Mrs. Waddington.

*““Do come again,” said Molly.

“Mr. Finch,” said Mrs. Waddington, “is no doubt a very ba-husy man. Please go upstairs immediately, Molly. Good na’eet, Mr. Finch.”

She continued to regard him in a manner hardly in keeping with the fine old traditions of American hospitality.

“ Ferris,”’ she said, as the door closed.

“Madam ? ”

“On no pretext whatever, Ferris, is that person who has just left to be admitted to the house again.”

“Very good, madam,” said the butler.

§ 4

It was a fair sunny morning next day when George Finch trotted up the steps of Number 16 Seventy-Ninth Street East, and pressed the bell. He was wearing his dove-grey suit, and under his arm was an enormous canvas wrapped in brown paper. After much thought he had decided to present Molly with his favourite work, Hail, Jocund Spring !—a picture representing a young woman, scantily draped and obviously suffering from an advanced form of chorea, dancing with lambs in a flower-speckled field. At the moment which George had selected for her portrayal, she had—to judge from her expression—yjust stepped rather hard on a sharp stone. Still, she was George’s masterpiece, and he intended to present her to Molly.

The door opened. Ferris, the butler, appeared.

“‘ All goods,’”’ said Ferris, regarding George dispassion- ately, ‘‘must be delivered in the rear.”

George blinked.

“I want to see Miss Waddington.”

** Miss Waddington is not at home.”

“Can I see Mr. Waddington ? ’”’ asked George, accepting the secqnd-best.

THE SMALL BACHELOR 57

“Mr. Waddington is not at home.”

George hesitated a moment before he spoke again. But love conquers all.

“Can I see Mrs. Waddington ? ”

“Mrs. Waddington is not at home.”

As the butler spoke, there proceeded from the upper regions of the house a commanding female voice that inquired of an unseen Sigsbee how many times the speaker had told him not to smoke in the drawing-room.

“But I can hear her,’’ George pointed out.

The butler shrugged his shoulders with an aloof gesture, asif disclaiming all desire to go into these mysteries. His look suggested that he thought George might possibly be psychic.

“Mrs. Waddington is not at home,” he said once more.

There was a pause.

** Nice morning,” said George.

‘“‘The weather appears to be clement,” agreed Ferris.

George then tumbled backwards down the steps, and the interview concluded.

CHAPTER FOUR § x

= LL me all,” said Hamilton Beamish. George told him all. The unfortunate young man was still looking licked to a splinter. For several hours he had been wandering distractedly through the streets of New York, and now he had crawled into Hamilton Beamish’s apartment in the hope that a keener mind than his own might be able to detect in the encompass- ing clouds a silver lining which he himself had missed altogether.

“‘ Let me get this clear,’’ said Hamilton Beamish. “ You called at the house?”

6eé Yes.”

“And the butler refused to admit you? ”

“Yes.”

Hamilton Beamish regarded his stricken friend com- passionately.

“My poor cloth-headed George,” he said, ‘‘ you appear to have made a complete mess of things. By being impetuous you have ruined everything. Why could you not have waited and let me introduce you into this house in a normal and straightforward fashion, in my capacity of an old friend of the family ? I would have started you right. As things are, you have allowed yourself to take on the semblance of an outcast.”

“But when old Waddington invited me to dinner— actually invited me to dinner... .”

“You should have kicked him in the eye and made good your escape,” said Hamilton Beamish firmly. “Surely, after all that I said to you about Sigsbee H. Waddington, you were under no illusion that his patronage would make you ppular in the home? Sigsbee H. Waddington is one

58

THE SMALL BACHELOR 59

of those men who have only to express a liking for anybody to cause their wives to look on him as something out of the Underworld. Sigsbee H. Waddington could not bring the Prince of Wales home to dinner and get away with it. And when he drags in and lays on the mat a specimen—I use the word in the kindliest spirit—like you, and does so, moreover, five minutes before the start of a formal dinner- party, thus upsetting the seating arrangements and leading to black thoughts in the kitchen, can you blame his wife for not fawning on you? And on top of that you pretend to be an artist.”

“IT am an artist,” said George, with a flicker of spirit. It was a subject on which he held strong views.

“The point isa debatable one. And, anyhow, you should have concealed it from Mrs. Waddington. A woman of her type looks on artists as blots on the social scheme. I told you she judged her fellow-creatures entirely by their balance at the bank.”

“IT have plenty of money.”

“‘ How was she to know that ? You tell her you are an artist, and she naturally imagines you .. .”

The telephone rang shrilly, interrupting Mr. Beamish’s flow of thought. There was an impatient frown on his face as he unhooked the receiver, but a moment later this had passed away and, when he spoke, it was in a kindly and indulgent tone.

““ Ah, Molly, my child!”

“Molly!” cried George.

Hamilton Beamish ignored the exclamation.

“Yes,” he said. ‘ He is a great friend of mine.”

““Me?” said George.

Hamilton Beamish continued to accord to him that complete lack of attention characteristic of the efficient telephoner when addressed while at the instrument.

“Yes, he has been telling me about it. He’s here now.”

‘‘ Does she want me to speak to her ? ” quavered George.

“ Certainly, I’ll come at once.”

60 THE SMALL BACHELOR

Hamilton Beamish replaced the receiver, and stood for awhile in thought.

“What did she say ?” asked George, deeply moved.

‘“‘ This is interesting,’’ said Hamilton Beamish.

“‘ What did she say?”

“‘ This causes me to revise my views to some extent.”

““What did she say?”

*‘ And yet I might have foreseen it.”

““What did she say ?”’

Hamilton Beamish rubbed his chin meditatively.

“The mind of a girl works oddly.”

“What did she say?”

“That was Molly Waddington,” said Hamilton Beamish.

“What did she say?”

“I am by no means sure,’”’ said Mr. Beamish regarding George owlishly through his spectacles, “‘ that, after all, everything has not happened for the best. I omitted to take into my calculations the fact that what has occurred would naturally give you in the eyes of a warm-hearted girl, surrounded normally by men with incomes in six figures, a certain romantic glamour. Any girl with nice instincts must inevitably be attracted to a penniless artist whom her mother forbids her to see.”

““What did she say ?”’

‘‘ She asked me if you were a friend of mine.”

“And then what did she say? ”’

“‘ She told me that her stepmother had forbidden you the house and that she had been expressly ordered never to see you again.”

“‘And what did she say after that?”

“She asked me to come up to the house and have a talk.”

““ About me? ”

“So I imagine.”

“You're going ? ”

“At once.”

“Hamilton,” said George in a quivering voice, ‘“‘ Hamil- ton, old man, pitch it strong!”

THE SMALL BACHELOR 61

“‘You mean, speak enthusiastically on your behalf ? ”

“‘T mean just that. How well you put these things, Hamilton |”

Hamilton Beamish took up his hat and placed it on his head.

“It is strange,’’ he said meditatively, ‘‘ that I should be assisting you in this matter.”

“It’s your good heart,’”’ said George. ‘‘ You have a heart of gold.”

“You have fallen in love at first sight, and my views on love at first sight are well known.”

“‘ They’re all wrong.”

““ My views are never wrong.”

*‘T don’t mean wrong exactly,” said George with syco- phantic haste. ‘“‘I mean that in certain cases love at first sight is the only thing.”

“Love should be a reasoned emotion.”

“‘ Not if you suddenly see a girl like Molly Waddington.”

‘“‘ When I marry,” said Hamilton Beamish, “ it will be the result of a carefully calculated process of thought. I shall first decide after cool reflection that I have reached the age at which it is best for me to marry. I shall then run over the list of my female friends till I have selected one whose mind and tastes are in harmony with mine. I shall then .. .”

“ Aren’t you going to change?” said George.

“Change what ? ”

“Your clothes. If you are going to see Her...”

“IT shall then,” proceeded Hamilton Beamish, ‘‘ watch her carefully for a considerable length of time in order to assure myself that I have not allowed passion to blind me to any faults in her disposition. After that...”

“You can’t possibly call on Miss Waddington in those trousers,” said George. ‘‘ And your shirt does not match your socks. You must...”

“ After that, provided in the interval I have not observed any more suitable candidate for my affections, I shall go to her and in a few simple words ask her to be my wife.

5

62 THE SMALL BACHELOR

I shall point out that my income is sufficient for two, that my morals are above reproach, that .. .”

“‘Haven’t you a really nice suit that’s been properly pressed and brushed and a rather newer pair of shoes and a less floppy sort of hat and...”

“. .. that my disposition is amiable and my habits regular. And she and I will settle down to the Marriage Sane.”’

“How about your cuffs? ” said George.

“What about my cuffs?”

“‘ Are you really going to see Miss Waddington in frayed cuffs?”

6¢ I am.”’

George had nothing more to say. It was sacrilege, but there seemed no way of preventing it.

§2

As Hamilton Beamish, some quarter of an hour later, climbed in a series of efficient movements up the stairs of the green omnibus which was waiting in Washington Square, the summer afternoon had reached its best and sweetest. A red-blooded, one hundred per cent American sun still shone warmly down from a sky of gleaming azure, but there had stolen into the air a hint of the cool of even- ing. It was the sort of day when Tin Pan Alley lyric- writers suddenly realize that ‘love ’ rhymes with ‘ skies above,’ and rush off, snorting, to turn out the song-hit of a lifetime. Sentimentality was abroad: and gradually, without his being aware of it, its seeds began to plant them- selves in the stony and unpromising soil of Hamilton Beamish’s bosom.

Yes, little by little, as the omnibus rolled on up the Avenue, there began to burgeon in Hamilton Beamish a mood of gentle tolerance for his species. He no longer blamed so whole-heartedly the disposition of his fellow- men to entertain towards the opposite sex on short acquaintance a warmth of emotion which could be scientifi- cally justified only by a long and intimate knowledge of

THE SMALL BACHELOR 68

character. For the first time he began to debate within himself whether there was not something to be said for a man who, like George Finch, plunged headlong into love with a girl to whom he had never even spoken.

And it was at this precise moment—just, dramatically enough, when the bus was passing Twenty-Ninth Street with its pretty and suggestive glimpse of the Little Church Round The Corner—that he noticed for the first time the girl in the seat across the way.

She was a girl of chic and dan. One may go still further —a girl of espiéglerte and ze ne sats quot. She was dressed, as Hamilton Beamish’s experienced eye noted.in one swift glance, in a delightful two-piece suit composed of a smart coat in fine quality repp, lined throughout with crépe-de- chine, over a dainty long-sleeved frock of figured Marocain prettily pleated at the sides and finished at the neck with a small collar and kilted frill: a dress which, as every schoolboy knows, can be had in beige, grey, mid-grey, opal, snuff, powder, burnt wood, puce, brown, bottle, almond, navy, black, and dark Saxe. Her colour was dark Saxe.

Another glance enabled Hamilton Beamish to take in her hat. It was, he perceived, a becoming hat in Yedda Visca straw, trimmed and bound with silk petersham ribbon, individual without being conspicuous, artistic in line and exquisite in style: and from beneath it there strayed a single curl of about the colour of a good Pekingese dog. Judging the rest of her hair by the light of this curl, Hamil- ton Beamish deduced that, when combing and dressing it, she just moistened the brush with a little scalpoline, thus producing a gleamy mass, sparkling with life and possessing that incomparable softness, freshness and luxuriance, at the same time toning each single hair to grow thick, long and strong. No doubt she had read advertisements of the tonic in the papers and now, having bought a bottle, was seeing how healthy and youthful her hair appeared after this delightful, refreshing dressing.

Her shoes were of black patent-leather, her stockings of

é4 THE SMALL BACHELOR

steel-grey. She had that schoolgirl complexion and the skin you love to touch.

All these things the trained eye of Hamilton Beamish noted, swivelling rapidly sideways and swivelling rapidly back again. But it was her face that he noted most particularly. It was just the sort of face which, if he had not had his policy of Sane Love all carefully mapped out, would have exercised the most disturbing effect on his emotions. Even as it was, this strong, competent man could not check, as he alighted from the bus at Seventy-Ninth Street, a twinge of that wistful melancholy which men feel when they are letting a good thing get away from them.

Sad, reflected Hamilton Beamish, as he stood upon the steps of Number 16 and prepared to ring the bell, that he would never see this girl again. Naturally, a man of his stamp was not in love at first sight, but nevertheless he did not conceal it from himself that nothing would suit him better than to make her acquaintance and, after careful study of her character and disposition, possibly discover in a year or two that it was she whom Nature had intended for his mate.

It was at this point in his reflections that he perceived her standing at his elbow.

There are moments when even the coolest-headed efficiency expert finds it hard to maintain his poise. Hamil- ton Beamish was definitely taken aback: and, had he been a lesser man, one would have said that he became for an instant definitely pop-eyed. Apart from the fact that he had been thinking of her and thinking of her tenderly, there was the embarrassment of standing side by side with a strange girl on a doorstep. In such a crisis it is very difficult for a man to know precisely how to behave. Should he endeavour to create the illusion that he is not aware of her presence? Or should he make some chatty remark? And, if a chatty remark, what chatty remark ?

riamilton Beamish was still grappling with this problem, when the girl solved it for him. Suddenly screwing up

THE SMALL BACHELOR 65

a face which looked even more attractive at point-blank range than it had appeared in profile, she uttered the exclamation ‘Oo1’

‘“‘Oo!’’ said this girl.

For a moment, all Hamilton Beamish felt was that almost ecstatic relief which comes over the man of sensibility when he finds that a pretty girl has an attractive voice. Too many times in his career he had admired girls from afar, only to discover, when they spoke, that they had voices like peacocks calling up the rain. The next instant, how- ever, he had recognized that his companion was suffering, and his heart was filled with a blend of compassion and zeal. Her pain aroused simultaneously the pity of the man and the efficiency of the efficiency expert.

‘You have something in your eye? ”’ he said.

‘‘ A bit of dust or something.”

‘Permit me,’’ said Hamilton Beamish.

One of the most difficult tasks that can confront the ordinary man is the extraction of foreign bodies from the eye of a perfect stranger of the oppositesex. But Hamilton Beamish was not an ordinary man. Barely ten seconds later, he was replacing his handkerchief in his pocket and the girl was blinking at him gratefully.

““Thank you ever so much,” she said.

‘Not at all,” said Hamilton Beamish.

‘“‘A doctor couldn’t have done it more neatly.”

“It’s just a knack,”’

“Why is it,’’ asked the girl, “‘ that, when you get a speck of dust in your eye the size of a pin-point, it seems as big as all out-doors ? ”’

Hamilton Beamish could answer that. The subject was one he had studied.

“The conjunctiva, a layer of mucous membrane which lines the back of the eyelids and is reflected on to the front of the globe, this reflection forming the fornix, is extremely sensitive. This is especially so at the point where the tarsal plates of fibrous tissue are attached to the orbital margin by the superior and inferior palpebral ligaments.”

66 THE SMALL BACHELOR

‘I see,” said the girl.

There was a pause.

‘‘Are you calling on Mrs, Waddington ?’’ asked the

irl. a On Miss Waddington.”

**I’ve never met her.”’

**'You don’t know the whole family, then? ”

‘‘No. Only Mrs. Waddington. Would you mind

ringing the bell? ”’

Hamilton Beamish pressed the button.

‘*T saw you on the omnibus,”’ he said.

‘Did you? ”’

‘‘Yes. I was sitting in the next seat.”

‘* How odd!”’

‘It’s a lovely day, isn’t it.”

‘* Beautiful.’’

‘* The sun.”

“Yes.”

‘“‘The sky.”

“Yes.”

“‘T like the summer.”’

**So do I.”

“When it’s not too hot.”

€¢ Yes.”’

‘‘ Though, as a matter of fact,’’ said Hamilton Beamish, ‘‘T always say that what one objects to is not the heat but the humidity.”

Which simply goes to prove that even efficiency experts, when they fall in love at first sight, can babble like any man of inferior intellect in thesame circumstances. Strange and violent emotions were racking Hamilton Beamish’s bosom: and, casting away the principles of a lifetime, he recognized without a trace of shame that love had come to him at last—not creeping scientifically into his soul, as he had supposed it would, but elbowing its way in with the Berserk rush of a commuter charging into the five- fifteen. Yes, he wasin love. And it is proof of the com- pleteness with which passion had blunted his intellectual

THE SMALL BACHELOR 67

faculties that he was under the impression that in the recent exchange of remarks he had been talking rather well.

The door opened. Ferris appeared. He looked at the girl, not with the cold distaste which he had exhibited earlier in the day towards George Finch, but with a certain paternal affection. Ferris measured forty-six round the waist, but Beauty still had its appeal for him.

‘‘Mrs. Waddington desired me to say, miss,’’ he said, ‘that an appointment of an urgent nature has called her elsewhere, rendering it impossible for her to see you this afternoon.”

‘‘She might have phoned me,” the girl complained.

Ferris allowed one eyebrow to flicker momentarily, con- veying the idea, that, while he sympathized, a spirit of loyalty forbade him to join in criticism of his employer.

‘‘Mrs. Waddington wished to know if it would be

convenient to you, miss, if she called upon you to-morrow at five o'clock ?”’

‘All right.” ‘Thank you, miss. Miss Waddington is expecting you, sir.”

Hamilton Beamish continued to stare after the girl, who, with a friendly nod in his direction, had begun to walk light-heartedly out of his life along the street.

‘Who is that young lady, Ferris? ’’ he asked.

**I could not say, sir.”

“Why couldn’t you? Youseemed to know her just now.”

“No, sir. I had never seen the young lady before. Mrs. Waddington, however, had mentioned that she would be calling at this hour and instructed me to give the message which I delivered.”

““Didn’t Mrs. Waddington say who was calling ?”’

“Yes, sir. The young lady.”

‘“‘Ass{’’ said Hamilton Beamish. But even he was not strong man enough to say it aloud. ‘‘I mean, didn’t she tell you the young lady’s name? ”’

“No, sir. If you will step this way, sir, I will conduct you to Miss Waddington, who is in the library.’”

68 THE SMALL BACHELOR

‘It seems funny that Mrs. Waddington did not tell you the young lady’s name,” brooded Hamilton Beamish. ‘Very humorous, sir,”’ agreed the butler indulgently.

§ 3

‘‘Oh, Jimmy, it was sweet of you to come,”’ said Molly.

Hamilton Beamish patted her hand absently. He was too preoccupied to notice the hateful name by which she had addressed him.

‘‘T have had a wonderful experience,’’ he said.

**So have I. I think I’m in love.”

‘‘IT have given the matter as close attention as has been possible, in the limited time at my disposal,’”’ said Hamilton Beamish, ‘‘and I have reached the conclusion that I, too, am in love.”’

‘I think I am in love with your friend George Finch.”’

‘‘T am in love with ...’’ Hamilton Beamish paused. **I don’t know her name. She is a most charming girl. I met her coming up here on the bus, and we talked for awhile on the front door-steps. I took something out of her eye.”’

Molly stared incredulously.

** You have fallen in love with a girl and you don’t know who she is? But I thought you always said that love was a reasoned emotion and all that.”

‘** One’s views alter,’’ said Hamilton Beamish. ‘‘ A man’s intellectual perceptions do not stand still. Onedevelops.”’

*‘I was never so surprised in my life.”

“‘ It came as a complete surprise to me,” said Hamilton Beamish, ‘It is excessively aggravating that I do not know her name nor where she lives nor anything about her except that she appears to be a friend—or at least an acquaintance—of your step-mother.”’

‘“Qh, she knows mother, does she? ”’

“Apparently. She was calling here by appointment.”

“All sorts of weird people call on mother. She is honorary secretary to about a hundred societies.”

“Thijs girl was of medium height, with an extremely

THE SMALL BACHELOR 69

graceful figure and bright brown hair. She wore a two- piece suit with a coat of fine quality repp over a long- sleeved frock of figured Marocain pleated at the sides and finished at the neck with a small collar and kilted frill. Her hat was of Yedda Visca straw, trimmed and bound with silk petersham ribbon. She had patent-leather shoes, silk stockings, and eyes of tender grey like the mists of sunrise floating over some magic pool of Fairyland. Does the description suggest anybody to you? ”’

‘No, I don’t think so—She sounds nice.’’

“‘ She is nice. I gazed into those eyes only for a moment, but I shall never forget them. They were deeper than the depth of waters stilled at even.”’

‘*I could ask mother who she is.”’

“I should be greatly obliged if you would do so,” said Hamilton Beamish. ‘‘ Mention that it is some one upon whom she is to call at five o’clock to-morrow, and telephone me the name and address. Oh, to seize her and hold her close to me and kiss her again and again and again! And now, child, tell me of yourself. I think you mentioned that you also were in love.”

“Yes. With George Finch.”

“A capital fellow.”

““ He’s a lambkin,’”’ emended Molly warmly.

“‘ A lambkin, if you prefer it.”

"And I asked you to come here to-day to tell me what I ought to do. You see, mother doesn’t like him.”

“So I gathered.”

“* She has forbidden him the house.”

“Yes,”

“I suppose it’s because he has no money.”

Hamilton Beamish was on the point of mentioning that George had an almost indecent amount of money, but he checked himself. Who was he that he should destroy a young girl’s dreams? It was as a romantic and penniless artist that George Finch had won this girl’s heart. It would be cruel to reveal the fact that he was rich and the worst artist in New York.

70 THE SMALL BACHELOR

“Your stepmother,” he agreed, “‘is apt to see eye to eye with Bradstreet in her estimation of her fellows.’’

“I don’t care if he hasn’t any money,” said Molly. ** You know that, when I marry, I get that pearl necklace that father bought for mother. It’s being held in trust forme. I can sell it and get thousands of dollars, so that we shall be as right as anything.”

** Quite.”’

“‘ But, of course, I don’t want to make a runaway mar- riage if I can help it. I want to be married with brides- maids and cake and presents and photographs in the rotogravure section and everything.”

‘‘ Naturally.”

‘‘So the point fs, mother must learn to love George. Now listen, Jimmy dear. Mother will be going to see her palmist, very soon—she’s always going to palmists, you know.”

Hamilton Beamish nodded. He had not been aware of this trait in Mrs. Waddington’s character, but he could believe anything of her. Now that he came to consider the matter, he recognized that Mrs. Waddington was precisely the sort of woman who, in the intervals of sitting in the salons of beauty specialists with green mud on her face, would go to palmists.

“‘ And what you must do is to go to this palmist before mother gets there and bribe her to say that my only happiness is bound up with a brown-haired artist whose name begins with a G.”’

“I scarcely think that even a palmist would make Mrs. Waddington believe that.”’

“She believes everything Madame Eulalie sees in the crystal.”’

“But hardly that.”

“No, perhaps you’re right. Well, then, you must get Madame Eulalie at least to steer mother off Lord Hun- stanton. Last night, she told me in so many words that she wanted me to marry him. He’s always here, and it’s

awtul?’

THE SMALL BACHELOR 71

**I could do that, of course,”

*‘ And you will? ”’

** Certainly.”

“You're a darling. I should think she would do it for ten dollars.”

‘‘Twenty at the outside.”

“Then that’s settled. I knew I could rely on you. By the way, will you tell George something quite casually ?”’

‘‘ Anything you wish.”

** Just mention to him that, if he happens to be strolling in Central Park to-morrow afternoon near the Zoo, we might run into each other.”’

‘Very well.”

‘* And now,”’ said Molly, ‘‘ tell me all about George and how you came to know one another and what you thought of him when you first saw him and what he likes for break- fast and what he talks about and what he said about

3

me.

§ 4

It might have been expected that the passage of time, giving opportunity for quiet reflection on the subject of the illogical nature of the infatuation in which he had allowed himself to become involved, would have brought remorse to so clear and ruthless a thinker as Hamilton Beamish. It was not so, but far otherwise. As Hamilton Beamish sat in the ante-chamber of Madame Eulalie’s office next day, he gloried in his folly: and when his better self endeavoured to point out to him that what had hap- pened was that he had allowed himself to be ensnared by a girl’s face—that is to say, by a purely fortuitous arrange- ment of certain albuminoids and fatty molecules, all Hamilton Beamish did was to tell his better self to put its head in a bag. He was in love, and he liked it. He was in love, and proud of it. His only really coherent thought as he waited in the ante-room was a resolve to withdraw the booklet on ‘ The Marriage Sane’ from circula- tion and try his hand at writing a poem or two. »

72 THE SMALL BACHELOR

‘‘Madame Eulalie will see you now, sir,’”’ announced the maid, breaking in upon his reverie.

Hamilton Beamish entered theinnerroom. And, having entered it, stopped dead.

““You!’’ he exclaimed.

The girl gave that fleeting pat at her hair which is always Woman's reaction to the unexpected situation. And Hamilton Beamish, looking at that hair emotionally, perceived that he had been right in his yesterday’s surmise. It was, as he had suspected, a gleamy mass, sparkling with life and possessing that incomparable softness, freshness and luxuriance.

‘“Why, how do you do?”’ said the girl.

**I’m fine,’’ said Hamilton Beamish.

‘We seem fated to meet.”

‘‘And I’m not quarrelling with fate.”

ee No ? 33

*‘No,’’ said Hamilton Beamish. ‘“‘ Fancy it being you!”’

** Fancy who being me? ”’

‘“‘Fancy you being you.’’ It occurred to him that he was not making himself quite clear. ‘‘I mean, I was sent here with a message for Madame Eulalie, and she turns out to be you.”

**A message ? Who from? ”

“‘From whom ?”’ corrected Hamilton Beamish. Even in the grip of love, a specialist on Pure English remains a specialist on Pure English.

“*That’s what I said—Who from ? ”

Hamilton Beamish smiled an indulgent smile. These little mistakes could be corrected later—possibly on the honeymoon.

‘“‘From Molly Waddington. She asked me to.. .”

*‘Oh, then you don’t want me to read your hand?”

**There is nothing I want more in this world,’’ said Hamilton Beamish warmly, ‘‘ than to have you read my hand.” :

“* T don’t have to read it to tell your character, of course,’’ said the girl. ‘I can see that at a glance.”

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** You can?”

‘Oh, certainly. You have a strong, dominating nature and a keen incisive mind. You have great breadth of vision, iron determination, and marvellous insight. Yet with it all you are at heart gentle, kind and lovable ; deeply altruistic and generous to a fault. You have it in you to be a leader of men. You remind me of Julius Cesar, Shakespeare and Napoleon Buonaparte.”’

‘¢Tell me more,” said Hamilton Beamish.

** If you ever fell in love...”

‘Tf I ever fell in love...”

‘“‘If you ever fell in love,” said the girl, ere her eyes to his and drawing a step closer, ‘‘ you would .

‘‘Mr. Delancy Cabot,’’ announced the maid.

‘* Oh, darn it !’’ said Madame Eulalie. ‘‘I forgot I had an appointment. Send him in.”

‘“‘May I wait?’’ breathed Hamilton Beamish de- voutly.

‘*Pleasedo. Ishan’t belong.” She turned to the door. ‘*Come in, Mr. Cabot.’

Hamilton Beamish wheeled round. A long, stringy person was walking daintily into the room. He was richly, even superbly, dressed in the conventional costume of the popular clubman and pet of Society, He wore lav- ender gloves and a carnation in his buttonhole, and a vast expanse of snowy collar encircled a neck which suggested that he might be a throw-back to some giraffe ancestor. A pleasing feature of this neck was an Adam’s apple that could have belonged to only one manof Hamilton Beamish’s aquaintance,

“‘Garroway!’’ cried Hamilton Beamish. ‘‘ What are you doing here? And what the devil does this mas- querade mean ?

The policeman seemed taken aback. His face became as red as his wrists. But for the collar, which held him in a grip of iron, his jaw would no doubt have fallen.

“I didn’t expect to find you here, Mr. Beamish,’ he said apologetically.

LF

74 THE SMALL BACHELOR

**I didn’t expect to find you here, calling yourself De Courcy Bellville.”

‘** Delancy Cabot, sir.”

**Delancy Cabot, then.”

‘I like the name,’ urged the policeman. ‘I saw it in a book.”

The girl was breathing hard.

‘‘Is this man a policeman ? ”’ she cried.

‘Yes, he is,’’ said Hamilton Beamish. ‘‘ His name is Garroway, and I am teaching him to write poetry. And what I want to know,” he thundered, turning on the unhappy man, whose Adam’s apple was now leaping like a young lamb in the spring time, “‘is what are you doing here, interrupting a—interrupting a—in short, interrupting, when you ought either to be about your constabulary duties or else sitting quietly at home studying John Drinkwater. That,’’ said Hamilton Beamish, ‘‘is what I want to know.”

Officer Garroway coughed.

‘* The fact is, Mr. Beamish, I did not know that Madame Eulalie was a friend of yours.”

‘‘ Never mind whose friend she is.”

‘‘ But it makes all the difference, Mr. Beamish. I can now go back to headquarters and report that Madame Eulalie is above suspicion. You see, sir, I was sent here by my superior officers to effect a cop.”

‘‘What do you mean, effect a cop?”

‘*To make an arrest, Mr. Beamish.’’

“Then do not say ‘effect a cop.’ Purge yourself of these vulgarisms, Garroway.”’

‘Yes, sir. I will indeed, sir.”

“Aim at the English Pure.”’

*““Yes, sir. Most certainly, Mr. Beamish.”

*‘ And what on earth do you mean by saying that you were sent here to arrest this lady? ”’

“It has been called to the attention of my superior officers, Mr. Beamish, that Madame Eulalie is in the habit of telling fortunes for a monetary consideration. Against the law, sir.”’

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Hamilton Beamish snorted.

‘‘ Ridiculous! If that’s the law, alter it.”

‘IT will do my best, sir.”’

‘* I have had the privilege of watching Madame Eulalie engaged upon her art, and she reveals nothing but the most limpid truth. So go back to your superior officers and tell them to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge.’’

‘Yes, sir. I will, sir.’”’

‘‘ And now leave us. We would be alone.”

‘‘Yes, Mr. Beamish,” said Officer Garroway humbly. ‘* At once, Mr. Beamish.”’

For some moments after the door had closed, the girl stood staring at Hamilton Beamish with wondering eyes.

‘‘Was that man really a policeman ? ”’

‘“‘ He was.”

‘* And you handled him like that, and he said ‘ Yes, sir ! ’ and ‘No, sir!’ and crawled out on all fours.’”’ She drew a deep breath. ‘‘ It seems to me that you are just the sort of friend a lonely girl needs in this great city.”’

‘Tam only too delighted that I was able to be of service.”

** Service is right! Mr. Beamish...”

** My first name is Hamilton.”

She looked at him, amazed.

“You are not the Hamilton Beamish? Not the man who wrote the Booklets ? ”’

“‘T have written a few booklets,”

*‘ Why, you're my favourite author! If it hadn’t been for you, I would still be mouldering in a little one-horse town where there wasn’t even a good soda-fountain. But I got hold of a couple of your Are You In A Groove ? things, and I packed up my grip and came nght along to New York to lead the larger life. If I’d known yester- day that you were Hamilton Beamish, I’d have kissed you on the doorstep! ”’

It was Hamilton Beamish’s intention to point out that a curtained room with a closed door was an even more suitable place for such a demonstration, but, even as he tried to speak, there gripped him for the first time dn his

76 THE SMALL BACHELOR

life a strange, almost George Finch-like, shyness. One deprecates the modern practice of exposing the great, but candour compels one to speak out and say that at this juncture Hamilton Beamish emitted a simpering giggle and began to twiddle his fingers.

The strange weakness passed, and he was himself again. He adjusted his glasses firmly.

‘“Would you,” he asked, ‘‘could you possibly .,. Do you think you could manage to come and lunch some- where to-morrow ? ”’

The girl uttered an exclamation of annoyance.

“Isn't that too bad!’’ she said. ‘“‘I can't.”

‘‘The day after? ”’

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I shall be off the map for three weeks. I’ve got to jump on a train to-morrow and go visit the old folks back in East Gilead. It’s pop’s birthday on Saturday, and I never miss it.’

“East Gilead ? ”’

‘‘TIdaho. You wouldn’t have heard of the place, but it’s there.”

‘* But I have heard of it. A great friend of mine comes from East Gilead.’

‘You don’t say! Who?”

‘‘A man named George Finch.”

She laughed amusedly.

“You don’t actually mean to tell me you know George Finch ? ”’

“‘He is my most intimate friend.”

‘‘Then I trust for your sake,’’ said the girl, ‘“‘ that he is not such a yap as he used to be.”

Hamilton Beamish reflected. Was George Finch a yap? How precisely did one estimate the yaphood of one’s friends ?

‘By the word ‘ yap’ you mean...”

““] mean a yap. The sort of fellow who couldn't say Bo to a goose.”

Hamilton Beamish had never seen George Finch in con- versation with a goose, but he thought he was a good

THE SMALL BACHELOR 77

enough judge of character to be able to credit him with the ability to perform the very trivial deed of daring indicated.

“IT fancy New York has changed George,’’ he replied, after reflection. ‘‘ In fact, now that I remember, it was on more or less that very subject that I called to see you in your professional capacity. The fact is, George Finch has fallen violently in love with Molly Waddington, the step-daughter of your client, Mrs. Waddington.”

“You don’t say! And I suppose he’s too shy to come within a mile of her.”’

“On the contrary. The night before last he seems to have forced his way into the house—you might say, practically forced his way—and now Mrs. Waddington has forbidden him to see Molly again, fearing that he will spoil her plan of marrying the poor child to a certain Lord Hunstanton.”

The girl stared.

‘You're right! George must have altered.”

** And we were wondering—Molly and I—if we could pos- sibly induce you to stoop to a—shall I say a benevolent little ruse. Mrs. Waddington is coming to see you to-day at five, and it was Molly’s suggestion that I should sound you as to whether you would consent to take a look in the crystal and tell Mrs. Waddington that you see danger threatening Molly from a dark man with an eyeglass.’

““ Of course.”’

“You will?”

“It isn’t much to do in return for all you have done for me.”

“Thank you, thank you,’”’ said Hamilton Beamish. “‘I knew, the moment I set eyes on you, that you were a woman ina million. I wonder,—could you possibly come to lunch one day after you return ? ”’

“Td love it.”

“‘T'll leave you my telephone number.”

“Thanks. Give George my regards. I’d like to see him when I get back.’’

“You shall. Good-bye.”

6

78 THE SMALL BACHELOR

** Good-bye, Mr. Beamish.”

‘* Hamilton.”

Her face wore a doubtful look.

*‘I don’t much likethatname Hamilton. It’skind of stiff.”’

Hamilton Beamish had a brief struggle with himself.

“My name is also James. At one time in my lifemany people used to call me Jimmy.” He shuddered a little, but repeated the word bravely. ‘‘ Jimmy.”

““ Put me on the list,’’ said the girl. ‘I like that much better. Good-bye, Jimmy.”

‘*Good-by ’’ said Hamilton Beamish.

So ended the first spasm of a great man’s love-story. A few moments later, Hamilton Beamish was walking in a sort of dance-measure down thestreet. Near Washington Square he gave a small boy a dollar and asked him if he was going to be President some day.

§ 5

‘“‘George,’’ said Hamilton Beamish ‘‘I met some one to-day who knew you back in East Gilead. A girl.”

“What was her name? Did Molly give you any mes- sage for me? ”’

‘Madame Eulalie.’’

“IT don’t remember anyone called that. Did Molly give you any message for me? ”’

‘‘ She is slim and graceful and has tender grey eyes like mists floating over some pool in Fairyland.”

‘“‘I certainly don’t remember anyone in East Gilead like that. Did Molly give you any message for me? ”’

“No.”

‘She didn’t ?’’ George flung himself despairingly into a chair, ‘“‘ This is the end!”

“Oh yes, she did,” said Hamilton Beamish. ‘I was forgetting. She told me to tell you that, if you happened to be in Central Park to-morrow afternoon near the Zoo, you might meet her.”’

‘“‘ This is the maddest, merriest day of all the glad New Year,’ said George Finch.

CHAPTER FIVE

§ x ADAME EULALIE peered into the crystal that ML was cupped between her shapely hands. The face that had caused Hamilton Beamish to jettison the principles of a lifetime was concentrated and serious,

“The mists begin to clear away!’’ she murmured.

‘‘Ah!’’ said Mrs. Waddington. She had been hoping they would.

‘‘There is some one very near to you .

“A spirit ?’’ said Mrs, Waddington nervously, casting an apprehensive glance over her shoulder. She was never quite sure that something of the sort might not pop out at any moment from a corner of this dim-lit, incense- scented room.

“You misunderstand me,”’ said Madame Eulalie gravely. “‘T mean that that which is taking shape in the crystal concerns some one very near to you, some near rela- tive.”’

‘Not my husband ?”’ said Mrs. Waddington in a flat voice. A woman careful with her money, she did not relish the idea of handing over ten dollars for visions about Sigsbee H.

‘* Does your husband’s name begin with an M. ? ”

“No,” said Mrs. Waddington, relieved.

‘‘The letter M. seems to be forming itself among the mists ”’

‘“‘T have a step-daughter, Molly.”

““Ts she tall and dark? ”’

““No. Small and fair.”

“Then it is she!’’ said Madame Eulalie. ‘“‘I see her in her wedding-dress, walking up an aisle. Her band is

79

a9

80 THE SMALL BACHELOR

on the arm of a dark man with an eyeglass. Do you know such a person? ”’

‘‘Lord Hunstanton !’’

**T do seem to sense the letter H.”

“Lord Hunstanton is a great friend of mine, and devoted to Molly. Do you really see her marrying him? ”’

*‘I see her walking up the aisle.’

“It’s the same thing.”

‘‘No! For she never reaches the altar.”

*‘ Why not ?’’ asked Mrs. Waddington, justly annoyed.

“From the crowd a woman springs forth. She bars the way. She seems to be speaking rapidly, with great emotion. And the man with the eyeglass is shrinking back, his face working horribly. His expression is very villainous. He raises a hand. He stnkes the woman. She reels back. She draws out arevolver. And then...”

‘Yes?’ cried Mrs, Waddington. ‘ Yes?”

‘‘ The vision fades,’’ said Madame Eulalie, rising briskly with the air of one who has given a good ten dollars’ worth.

“But it can’t be! It’s incredible.”’

*‘ The crystal never deceives.”’

‘‘But Lord Hunstanton is a most delightful man.”

** No doubt the woman with the revolver found him so— to her cost.”’

“But you may have been mistaken. Many men are dark and wear an eyeglass. What did this man look like ?”’

‘What does Lord Hunstanton look like?”

“He is tall and beautifully proportioned, with clear blue eyes and a small moustache, which he twists between the finger and thumb of his right hand.”

“It was he!”

“What shall I do?”

“Well, obviously it would seem criminal to allow Miss Waddington to associate with this man.”

‘But he’s coming to dinner to-night.”

Madame Eulalie, whose impulses sometimes ran away with her, was about to say ‘ Poison his soup’: but con-

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trived in time to substitute for this remark a sober shrug of the shoulders.

“I must leave it to you, Mrs. Waddington,”’ she said, “to decide on the best course of action. I cannot advise. I only warn. If you want change for a large bill, I think I can manage it for you,’’ she added, striking the business note.

All the way home to Seventy-Ninth Street, Mrs. Wad- dington pondered deeply. And, as she was not a woman who, as a rule, exercised her brain to any great extent, by the time she reached the house she was experiencing some of the sensations of one who has been hit on the head by a sand-bag. What she felt that she needed above all things in the world was complete solitude: and it was consequently with a jaundiced eye that she looked upon her husband, Sigsbee Horatio, when, a few moments after her return, he shuffled into the room where she had planted herself down for further intensive meditation.

*‘ Well, Sigsbee ? ’’ said Mrs. Waddington, wearily.

‘Qh, there you are,’’ said Sigsbee H.

“‘Do you want anything ? ”’

‘Well, yes and no,”’ said Sigsbee.

Mrs. Waddington was exasperated to perceive at this point that her grave matrimonial blunder was slithering about the parquet floor in the manner of one trying out new dance-steps

‘* Stand still! ’’ she cried.

‘*T can’t,”’ said Sigsbee H. ‘I’m too nervous.”

Mrs. Waddington pressed a hand to her throbbing brow.

‘“‘Then sit down!”

“‘T’ll try,”’ said Sigsbee doubtfully. He tested a chair, and sprang up instantly as if the seat had been charged with electricity. ‘‘I can’t,” he said. “I’m all of a twitter.’’

‘‘ What in the world do you mean?”

‘‘T’ve got something to tell you and I don’t know how to begin.”

“What do you wish to tell me? ”’ °

82 THE SMALL BACHELOR

“I don’t wish to tell you it at all,’’ said Sigsbee frankly, “* But I promised Molly I would. She came in a moment ago.”

“Well?”

“‘I was in the library. She found me there and told me this.”

““Do kindly get to the point, Sigsbee!’’

**T promised her I would break it gently.”

** Break what gently? You are driving me mad.”

**Do you remember,”’ asked Sigsbee, ‘‘ a splendid young Westerner named Pinch who dropped in to dinner the night before last? A fine, breezy...”

‘“‘T am not likely to forget the person you mention. I have given strict instructions that he is never again to be admitted to the house.”’

“Well, this splendid young Pinch .. .”

‘J am not interested in Mr. Finch,—which is, I believe, his correct name.”

“Pinch, I thought.”

‘‘Finch! And what does his name matter, anyway ? ”’

““Well,”’ said Sigsbee, ‘‘it matters this much, that Molly seems to want to make it hers. What I’m driving at, if you see what I mean, is that Molly came in a moment ago and told me that she and this young fellow Finch have just gone and got engaged to be married !”’

§ 2

Having uttered these words, Sigsbee Horatio stood gazing at his wife with something of the spell-bound horror of a man who has bored a hole in a dam and sees the water trickling through and knows that it is too late to stop it. He had had a sort of idea al! along that the news might affect her rather powerfully, and his guess was coming true. Nothing could make a woman of Mrs. Wadding- ton’s physique ‘leap from her chair’: but she had begun to rise slowly like a balloon half-filled with gas: and her face had become so contorted and her eyes so bulging that any competent medical man of sporting tastes would have

THE SMALL BACHELOR 88

laid seven to four on a fit of apoplexy in the next few minutes,

But by some miracle this disaster—if you could call it that—did not occur. For quite a considerable time the sufferer had trouble with her vocal chords and could emit nothing but guttural croaks, Then, mastering herself with a strong effort, she spoke.

‘““What did you say?”

*“You heard,’”’ said Sigsbee H. sullenly, twisting his fingers and wishing that he was out in Utah, rustling cattle.

Mrs. Waddington moistened her lips.

‘“Did I understand you to say that Molly was engaged to be married to that Finch? ”’

““Yes, I did. And,’’ added Sigsbee H., giving battle in the first line of trenches, ‘‘ it’s no good saying it was all my fault, because I had nothing to do with it.”

‘“‘It was you who brought this man into the house.”

“Well, yes.’’ Sigsbee had overlooked that weak spot in his defences. ‘‘ Well, yes.”

There came upon Mrs. Waddington a ghastly calm like that which comes upon the surface of molten lava in the crater of a volcano just before the stuff shoots out and starts doing the local villagers a bit of no good.

““Ring the bell,’ she said.

Sigsbee H. rang the bell.

‘“‘ Ferris,’ said Mrs. Waddington, ‘‘ask Miss Molly to come here.”

‘Very good, madam.”

In the interval which elapsed between the departure of the butler and the arrival of the erring daughter, no con- versation brilliant enough to be worth reporting took place in the room. Once Sigsbee said ‘ Er ’ and in reply Mrs. Waddington said ‘ Be quiet!’ but that completed the dialogue. When Molly entered, Mrs. Waddington was looking straight in front of her and heaving gently, and Sigsbee H. had just succeeded in breaking a valuable china figure which he had taken from an occasional table

84 THE SMALL BACHELOR

and was trying in a preoccupied manner to balance on the end of a paper-knife.

‘* Ferris says you want to see me, mother,”’ said Molly, floating brightly in.

She stood there, looking at the two with shining eyes. Her cheeks were delightfully flushed: and there was about her so radiant an air of sweet, innocent, girlish gaiety that it was all Mrs. Waddington could do to refrain from hurling a bust of Edgar Allan Poe at her head.

‘I do want to see you,”’ said Mrs. Waddington. ‘‘ Pray tell me instantly what is all this nonsense I hear about you and...” She choked. “ ... and Mr. Finch.”

‘“‘ To settle a bet,” said Sigsbee H., ‘‘is his name Finch or Pinch? ”’

‘“‘ Finch, of course.”

‘‘I’m bad at names,” said Sigsbee. ‘‘I was in college with a fellow called Follansbee and do you think I could get it out of my nut that that guy’s name was Ferguson ? Not in a million years! I...”

‘* Sigsbee | ’”’

** Hello ? ”’

*‘ Be quiet.””’ Mrs. Waddington concentrated her atten- tion on Molly once more. ‘“‘ Your father says that you told him some absurd story about being... .”

“Engaged to George? ’”’ said Molly. ‘“‘ Yes, it’s quite true. I am. By a most extraordinary chance we met this afternoon in Central Park near the Zoo... .”’

“A place,’ said Sigsbee H., “I’ve meant to go toa hundred times and never seen yet.”

** Sigsbee | ”’

“All right, all right! I was only saying...”

““We were both tremendously surprised, of course,’ said Molly. ‘‘I said ‘ Fancy meeting you here!’ and he said...”

“IT have no wish to hear what Mr. Finch said.”

“Well, anyway, we walked round for awhile, looking at the animals, and suddenly he asked me to marry him outside the cage of the Siberian yak.”

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** No, sir! ’’ exclaimed Sigsbee H. with a sudden strange firmness, the indulgent father who for once in his life asserts himself. ‘‘ When you get married, you'll be married in St. Thomas’s like any other nice girl.”’

““T mean it was outside the cage of the Siberian yak that he asked me to marry him.”

‘‘Oh, ah!’’ said Sigsbee H.

A dreamy look had crept into Molly’s eyes. Her lips were curved in a tender smile, as if she were re-living that wonderful moment in a girl’s life when the man she loves beckons to her to follow him into Paradise.

‘You ought to have seen his ears|’’ she said. ‘ They were absolutely crimson.”’

‘* You don’t say !’’ chuckled Sigsbee H.

‘‘Scarlet ! And, when he tried to speak, he gargled.”’

‘‘The poor simp!”

Molly turned on her father with flaming eyes.

‘* How dare you call my dear darling Georgie a simp ? ”’

‘“‘How dare you call that simp your dear darling Georgie? ’’ demanded Mrs. Waddington.

‘“ Because he is my dear darling Georgie. I love him with all my heart, the precious lamb, and I’m going to marry him.”

‘You are going to do nothing of the kind!” Mrs. Waddington quivered with outraged indignation. ‘‘ Do you imagine I intend to allow you to ruin your life by marrying a despicable fortune-hunter ? ”’

‘‘He isn’t a despicable fortune-hunter.”’

“‘He is a penniless artist.”

** Well, I’m sure he is frightfully clever and will be able to sell his pictures for ever so much ”

“ Tchah |”

‘‘ Besides,”’ said Molly defiantly, ‘‘ when I marry I get that pear] necklace which father gave mother. I can sell that, and it will keep us going for years.”

Mrs. Waddington was about to reply—and there is little reason to doubt that that reply would have been about as red-hot a come-back as any hundred and eighty

86 THE SMALL BACHELOR

pound woman had ever spoken—when she was checked by a sudden exclamation of agony that proceeded from the lips of her husband.

“‘ Whatever is the matter, Sigsbee ? ” she said, annoyed.

Sigsbee H. seemed to be wrestling with acute mental agitation. He was staring at his daughter with protruding eyes.

“Did you say you were going to sell that necklace ? ” he stammered.

“Oh, be quiet, Sigsbee!’’ said Mrs. Waddington. “What does it matter whether she sells the necklace or not? It has nothing to do with the argument. The point is that this misguided girl is proposing to throw herself away on a miserable, paint-daubing, ukelele- playing artist...”

“He doesn’t play the ukelele. He told me so.”’

““, . . when she might, if she chose, marry a delightful man with a fine old English title who would .. .”

Mrs. Waddington broke off. There had come back to her the memory of that scene in Madame Eulalie’s office.

Molly seized the opportunity afforded by her unexpected silence to make a counter-attack.

“I wouldn’t marry Lord Hunstanton if he were the last man in the world.” t

“Honey,” said Sigsbee H. in a low, pleading voice, “I don’t think I’d sell that necklace if I were you.”

““Of course I shall sell it. We shall need the money when we are married.”

“You are not going to be married,” said Mrs. Wadding- ton, recovering. ‘“‘I should have thought any right- minded girl would have despised this wretched Finch. Why, the man appears to be so poor-spirited that he didn’t even dare to come here and tell me this awful news. He left it to you...”

“George was not able to come here. The poor pet has been arrested by a policeman.”

“Hal” cried Mrs. Waddington triumphantly. ‘ And

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that is the sort of man you propose to marry! A gaol- bird |”

‘‘ Well, I think it shows what a sweet nature he has. He was so happy at being engaged that he suddenly stopped at Fifty-Ninth Street and Fifth Avenue and started giving away dollar-bills to everybody who came by. In about two minutes there was a crowd stretching right across to Madison Avenue, and the traffic was blocked for miles, and they called out the police-reserves, and George was taken away in a patrol-wagon, and I telephoned to Hamil- ton Beamish to go and bail him out and bring him along here. They ought to arrive at any moment.”

““Mr. Hamilton Beamish and Mr. George Finch,” said Ferris in the doorway. And the nicely-graduated way in which he spoke the two names would have conveyed at once to any intelligent listener that Hamilton Beamish was an honoured guest but that he had been forced to admit George Finch—against all the promptings of his better nature—because Mr. Beamish had told him to and he had been quelled by the man’s cold, spectacled eye.

“‘ Here we are,” said Hamilton Beamish heartily. “‘ Just in time, I perceive, to join in a jolly family discussion.”

Mrs. Waddington looked bleachingly at George, who was trying to hide behind a gate-leg table. For George Finch was conscious of not looking his best. Nothing so disorders the outer man as the process of being arrested and hauled to the coop by a posse of New York gendarmes. George’s collar was hanging loose from its stud: his waistcoat lacked three buttons: and his right eye was oddly discoloured where a high-minded officer, piqued by the fact that he should have collected crowds by scatter- ing dollar-bills and even more incensed by the discovery that he had scattered all he possessed and had none left, had given him a hearty buffet during the ride in the patrol-wagon.

‘“‘ There is no discussion,’”’ said Mrs. Waddington. ‘“ You do not suppose I am going to allow my daughter to marry a man like that.”

“ Tut-tut !’’ said Hamilton Beamish. “‘ George 8 not

68 THE SMALL BACHELOR

looking his best just now, but a wash and brush-up will do wonders. ... What is your objection to George ?”

Mrs. Waddington was at a momentary loss for a reply. Anybody, suddenly questioned as to why he disliked a slug or a snake or a black-beetle, might find it difficult on the spur of the moment to analyse and dissect his prejudice. Mrs. Waddington looked on her antipathy to George Finch as one of those deep, natural, fundamental impulses which the sensible person takes for granted. Broadly speaking, she objected to George because he was George. It was, as it were, his essential Georgeness that offended her. But, seeing that she was expected to be analytical, she forced her mind to the task.

“ He is an artist.”’

““So was Michael Angelo.”

“T never met him.”

“He was a very great man.”

Mrs. Waddington raised her eyebrows.

“TI completely fail to understand, Mr. Beamish, why, when we are discussing this young man here with the black eye and the dirty collar, you should persist in diverting the conversation to the subject of a perfect stranger like this Mr. Angelo.”

“‘T merely wished to point out,” said Hamilton Beamish stiffly, ‘‘ that the fact that he is an artist does not neces- sarily damn a man.”

“ There is no need,” retorted Mrs. Waddington with even greater stiffness, “ to use bad language.”

“ Besides, George is a rotten artist.’

“‘ Rotten to the core, no doubt.”

“‘I mean,” said Hamilton Beamish, flushing slightly at the lapse from the English Pure into which emotion had led him, “he paints so badly that you can hardly call him an artist at all.”

“Is that so?” said George, speaking for the first time and speaking nastily.

“I am sure George is one of the cleverest artists living ’’ cried ‘Molly.

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“ He is not,” thundered Hamilton Beamish. “ He is an incompetent amateur.”

“Exactly!” said Mrs. Waddington. ‘‘ And _ conse- quently can never hope to make money.”

Hamilton Beamish’s eyes lit up behind their spectacles.

“Ts that your chief objection ? ” he asked.

“Is what my chief objection ? ”

“That George has no money ? ”

“ But...’ began George.

“Shut up!” said Hamilton Beamish. ‘‘I ask you, Mrs. Waddington, would you give your consent to this marriage if my friend George Finch were a wealthy man ?”’

“Tt is a waste of time to discuss such .. .”

“Would you?”

“Possibly I would.”

‘‘ Then allow me to inform you,” said Hamilton Beamish, triumphantly, ‘that George Finch is an exceedingly wealthy man. His uncle Thomas, whose entire fortune he inherited two years ago, was Finch, Finch, Finch, Butterfield and Finch, the well-known Corporation Law firm. George, my boy, let me congratulate you. All 1s well. Mrs. Waddington has withdrawn her objections.”

Mrs. Waddington snorted, but it was the snort of a beaten woman, out-generalled by a superior intelligence.

But gee

“No.” Hamilton Beamish raised his hand. “ You cannot go back on what you said. You stated in distinct terms that, if George had money, you would consent to the marriage.”

“ And, anyway, I don’t know what all the fuss is about,”’ said Molly. ‘‘ Because I am going to marry him, no matter what anybody says.”

Mrs. Waddington capitulated.

“Very well! I am nobody, I see. What I say does mot matter in the slightest.”

“Mother!” said George reproachfully.

“* Mother ? ” echoed Mrs. Waddington, starting violéntly.

60 THE SMALL BACHELOR

“Now that everything is so happily settled, of course I regard you in that light.”

“Qh, do you ?” said Mrs. Waddington.

“Oh, I do,” said George.

Mrs. Waddington sniffed unpleasantly.

“I have been overwhelmed and forced into consenting to a marriage of which I strongly disapprove,” she said, “but I may be permitted to say one word. I have a feeling that this wedding will never take place.”

“What do you mean ?” said Molly. ‘ Of course it will take place. Why shouldn’t it?”

Mrs. Waddington sniffed again.

“Mr. Finch,” she said, “though a very incompetent artist, has lived for a considerable time in the heart of Greenwich Village and mingled daily with Bohemians of both sexes and questionable morals.

“What are you hinting ? ” demanded Molly.

“T am not hinting,” replied Mrs. Waddington with dignity. ‘“‘I am saying. And what I am saying is this. Do not come to me for sympathy if this Finch of yours turns out to have the sort of moral code which you might expect in one who deliberately and of his own free will goes and lives near Washington Square. I say again, that I have a presentiment that this marriage will never take place. I had a similar presentiment regarding the wedding of my sister-in-law and a young man named John Porter. I said, ‘I feel that this wedding will never take place.’ And events proved me right. John Porter, at the very moment when he was about to enter the church, was arrested on a charge of bigamy.”

George uttered protesting noises.

“But my morals are above reproach.”

“So you say.”

‘““T assure you that, as far as women are concerned, I can scarcely tell one from another.”’

“ Precisely,”” replied Mrs. Waddington, “ what John Porter said when they asked him why he had married six different girls.”

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Hamilton Beamish looked at his watch.

“ Well, now that everything is satisfactorily settled .. .”

“For the moment,” said Mrs. Waddington.

“Now that everything is satisfactorily settled,” pro- ceeded Hamilton Beamish, “‘ I will be leaving you. I have to get back and dress. I am speaking at a dinner of the Great Neck Social and Literary Society to-night.”

The silence that followed his departure was followed by a question from Sigsbee H. Waddington.

‘‘ Molly, my dear,’ said Sigsbee H., “ touching on that necklace. Now that this splendid young fellow turns out to be very rich, you will not want to sell it, of course ? ”’

Molly reflected.

“ Yes, I think I will. I never liked it much. It’s too showy. I shall sell it and buy something very nice with the money for George. A lot of diamond pins or watches or motor-cars or something. And, whenever we look at them we will think of you, daddy dear.”

“Thanks,” said Mr. Waddington huskily. ‘‘ Thanks.”

“‘ Seldom in my life,”’ observed Mrs. Waddington, coming abruptly out of the brooding coma into which she had sunk, “ have I ever had a stronger presentiment than the one to which I alluded just now.”

‘“‘Oh, mother! ”’ said George.

Hamilton Beamish, gathering up his hat in the hall, became aware that something was pawing at his sleeve. He looked down and perceived Sigsbee H. Waddington.

“Say |’ said Sigsbee H. in a hushed undertone. “‘ Say, listen |”

“Ts anything the matter?”

“You bet your tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles some- thing’s the matter,’’ whispered Sigsbee H. urgently. “ Say, listen. Can I have a word with you? I want your advice.”’

“T’m in a hurry.”

“ How long will you be before you start out for this Hoboken Clam-Bake of yours ? ”’

“The dinner of the Great Neck Social and Literary

92 THE SMALL BACHELOR Society, to which I imagine you to allude, is at eight o’clock. I shall motor down, leaving my apartment at

twenty minutes past seven.” “Then it’s no good trying to see you to-night. Say, listen. Will you be home to-morrow ? ” “Yes.” “ Right!” said Sigsbee H.

CHAPTER SIX

§ 1 a AY, listen!” said Sigsbee H. Waddington. “‘ Proceed,” said Hamilton Beamish.

S ‘‘Say, listen |”

“I am all attention.”

“‘ Say, listen!’”’ said Mr. Waddington.

Hamilton Beamish glanced at his watch impatiently. Even at its normal level of imbecility, the conversation of Sigsbee H. Waddington was apt to jar upon his critical mind, and now, it seemed to him, the other was plumbing depths which even he had never reached before.

“TI can give you seven minutes,” he said. “‘ At the end of that period of time I must leave you. Iam speaking at a luncheon of the Young Women Writers of America. You came here, I gather, to make a communication to me. Make it.”

“Say, listen! ’”’ said Sigsbee H.

Hamilton Beamish compressed his lips sternly. He had heard parrots with a more intelligent flow of conversation. He was conscious of a strange desire to beat this man over the head with a piece of lead-piping.

“Say, listen!” said Sigsbee H. “I’ve gone and got myself into the devil of a jam.”

‘“‘ A position of embarrassment ? ”

“You said it!”

“‘ State nature of same,’’ said Hamilton Beamish, looking at his watch again.

Mr. Waddington glanced quickly and nervously over his shoulder.

“It’s like this. You heard Molly say yesterday she was going to sell those pearls.”

“1 did.”

2? 93

04 THE SMALL BACHELOR

“ Well, say, listen |” said Mr. Waddington, lowering his voice and looking apprehensively about him once more. “‘ They aren’t pearls! ”

“What are they, then ? ”

“ Fakes |”

Hamilton Beamish winced.

“You mean imitation stones ? ”’

“That’s just what Ido mean. What am I going to do about it ? ”

“Perfectly simple. Bring an action against the jeweller who sold them to you as genuine.”

“But they were genuine then. You don’t seem to get the position.”

“I do not.”

Sigsbee H. Waddington moistened his lips.

“Have you ever heard of the Finer and Better Motion Picture Company of Hollywood, Cal. ? ”

“ Kindly keep to the point. My time is limited.”

“This is the point. Some time ago a guy who said he was a friend of mine tipped me off that this company was a wow.”

‘A what ?”

“A winner. He said it was going to be big and advised me to come in on the ground floor. The chance of a life- time, he said it was.”

“Well ? ”

“Well, I hadn’t any money,—not a cent. Still, I didn’t want to miss a good thing like that, so I sat down and thought. I thought and thought and thought. And then suddenly something seemed to say to me ‘ Why not ?’ That pearl necklace, I mean. There it was, you get me, just sitting and doing nothing and I only needed the money for a few weeks till this Company started to clean up and .. . well, to cut a long story short, I sneaked the necklace away, had the fake stones put in, sold the others, bought the stock, and there I was, so I thought, all hotsy- totsy.”’

“ All—what ? ”

THE SMALL BACHELOR 95

“‘Hotsy-totsy. It seemed to me that I was absolutely hotsy-totsy.”

“And what has caused you to revise this opinion ? ”

“Why, I met a man the other day who said these shares weren’t worth a bean. I’ve got ’em here. Take a look at them.”

Hamilton Beamish scrutinized the documents with distaste.

“The man was right,” he said. ‘When you first mentioned the name of the company, it seemed familiar. I now recall why. Mrs. Henrietta Byng Masterson, the president of the Great Neck Social and Literary Society, was speaking to me of it last night. She also had bought shares and mentioned the fact with regret. I should say at a venture that these of yours are worth possibly ten dollars.”

“I gave fifty thousand for them.”

“Then your books will show a loss of forty-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety. I am sorry.”

“But what am I to do?”

“Write it off to experience.”

“But hell’s bells! Don’t you understand? What’s going to happen when Molly tries to sell that necklace and it comes out that it’s a fake ? ”

Hamilton Beamish shook his head. With most of the ordinary problems of life he was prepared to cope, but this, he frankly admitted, was beyond him.

“My wife’ll murder me.”

“Tm sorry.”

“‘T came here, thinking that you would be able to suggest something.”

“‘ Short of stealing the necklace and dropping it in the Hudson River, I fear I can think of no solution.”

“You used to be a brainy sort of gink,” said Mr. Wad- dington reproachfully.

“No human brain could devise a way out of this impasse. You can but wait events and trust to Time tbe erent healer eventually to mend matters.”

96 THE SMALL BACHELOR

‘‘ That’s a lot of help.’

Hamilton Beamish shrugged his shoulders. Sigsbee H. Waddington regarded the stock-certificates malevolently.

“If the stuff’s no good,’’ he said, ‘“‘ what do they want to put all those dollar-signs on the back for? Mis- leading people! And look at that seal. And all those signatures.”’

‘‘T am sorry,” said Hamilton Beamish. He moved to the window and leaned out, sniffing the summer air ‘‘ What a glorious day.”

‘No, it isn’t,”’ said Mr. Waddington.

“‘Have you ever by any chance met Madame Eulalie, Mrs. Waddington’s palmist ?’’ asked Hamilton Beamish dreamily.

‘‘Darn all palmists!’’ said Sigsbee H. Waddington. ‘What am I going to do about this stock? ”’

‘‘I have already told you that there is nothing that you can do, short of stealing the necklace.”

‘‘There must be something. What would you do if you were me?”

“Run away to Europe.”

“But I can’t run away to Europe I haven’t any money.”

‘“‘ Then shoot yourself . . . standin front of atrain . . anything, anything,’’ said Hamilton Beamish impatiently. ‘* And now I must really go. Good-bye.”’

“‘Good-bye. Thanks for being such a help.”

‘‘Not at all,”’ said Hamilton Beamish. ‘‘ Don’t men- tion it. I am always delighted to be of any assistance, always.”

He gave a last soulful glance at the photograph on the mantelpiece and left the room. Mr. Waddington could hear him singing an old French love-song as he waited for the elevator, and the sound seemed to set the seal upon his gloom and despair.

“You big stiff!’’ said Mr. Waddington morosely.

He flung himself into a chair and gave himself up to melantholy meditation. For awhile, all he could think of

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was how much he disliked Hamilton Beamish. There was a man who went about the place pretending to be clever, and yet the moment you came to him with a childishly simple problem which he ought to have been able to solve in half a dozen different ways in five minutes, he could do nothing but say he was sorry and advise a fellow to stand in front of trains and shoot himself. What on earth was the use of trying to be optimistic about a world which contained people like Hamilton Beamish ?

And that idiotic suggestion of his about stealing the necklace! How could he possibly... ?

Sigsbee H. Waddington sat up in his chair. There was a gleam in his eyes. He snorted. Was it such an idiotic suggestion, after all?

He gazed into the future. At the moment the necklace was in safe custody at the bank, but, if Molly was going to marry this young Pinch, it would presumably be taken from there and placed on exhibition among the other wedding-presents. So that ere long there would unde- niably be a time—say, the best part of a day—when a resolute man with a nimble set of fingers might...

Mr. Waddington sank back in his chair again. The light died out of hiseyes. Philosophers tell us that no man really knows himself: but Sigsbee H. Waddington knew himself well enough to be aware that he fell short by several miles of the nerve necessary for such an action. Stealing necklaces is no job for an amateur. You cannot suddenly take to it in middle life without any previous preparation. Every successful stealer of necklaces has to undergo a rigorous and intensive training from early boyhood, start- ing with milk-cans and bags at railway stations and work- ing his way up. What was needed for this very delicate operation was a seasoned professional.

And there, felt Sigsbee H. Waddington bitterly, you had in a nutshell the thing that made life so difficult to live—the tragic problem of how to put your hand on the right Specialist at the exact moment when you required him. All these reference-books like the Classified Telepbone

98 THE SMALL BACHELOR

Directory omitted the vital trades——the trades whose members were of assistance in the real crises of life. They told you where to find a Glass Beveller, as if anyone knew what to do with a Glass Beveller when they had got him. They gave you the address of Yeast Producers and Designers of Quilts: but what was the good of a producer of yeast when you wanted some one who would produce a jemmy and break into a house, or a designer of quilts when what you required was a man who could design a satisfactory scheme for stealing an imitation-pearl necklace ?

Mr. Waddington groaned in sheer bitterness of spirit. The irony of things afflicted him sorely. Every day the papers talked about the Crime Wave: every day a thou- sand happy crooks were making off in automobiles with a thousand bundles of swag : and yet here he was, in urgent need of one of these crooks, and he didn’t know where to look for him.

A deprecating tap sounded on the door.

*“Come in!’’ shouted Mr. Waddington irritably.

He looked up and perceived about seventy-five inches of bony policeman shambling over the threshold.

§ 2 “I beg your pardon, sir, if I seem to intrude,” said the policeman, beginning to recede. ‘‘I came to see Mr,

Beamish. I should have made an appointment.”

“Hey! Don’t go.”’ Said Mr. Waddington.

The policeman paused doubtfully at the door.

‘‘ But as Mr. Beamish is not at home.. .”

‘‘Come right in and havea chat. Sit down and take the weight off your feet. My name is Waddington.”’

“‘Mine is Garroway,’’ replied the officer, bowing courteously.

‘* Pleased to meet you.”

‘“‘ Happy to meet you, sir.’’

““ Have a good cigar.”’

**I should enjoy it above all things.”

‘‘ [wonder where Mr. Beamish keeps them,” said Sigsbee

THE SMALL BACHELOR 99

H., rising and routing about the room. ‘‘ Ah, here we are, Match ? ”’

‘‘T have a match, thank you.”

‘* Capital | ”’

Sigsbee H. Waddington resumed his seat and regarded the other affectionately. An instant before, he had been bemoaning the fact that he did not know where to lay his hands on a crook, and here, sent from heaven, was a man who was probably a walking directory of malefactors.

‘IT like policemen,’’ said Mr. Waddington affably.

‘That is very gratifying, sir.”’

‘‘ Always have. Shows how honest I am, ha hal If I were a crook, I suppose I’d be scared stiff, sitting here talking to you.’”’ Mr. Waddington drew bluffly at his cigar. ‘IT guess you come across a lot of criminals, eh ? ”’

‘‘It is the great drawback to the policeman’s life,’ assented Officer Garroway, sighing. ‘‘ One meets them on all sides. Only last night, when I was searching for a vital adjective, I was called upon to arrest an uncouth person who had been drinking home-brewed hootch. He soaked me on the jaw, and inspiration left me.”

‘““Wouldn’t that give you a soft-pine finish! ’’ said Mr. Waddingtonsympathetically. ‘‘ But what I was referring to was real crooks, Fellows who get into houses and steal pearl necklaces. Ever meet any of them?”

“I meet a great number. In pursuance of his duty, a policeman is forced against his will to mix with all sorts of questionable people. It may be that my profession biases me, but I have a hearty dislike for thieves.”’

“Still, if there were no thieves, there would be no policemen.”’

“ Very true, sir.”

“Supply and demand.”

“* Precisely.”’

Mr. Waddington blew a cloud of smoke.

“I’m kind of interested in crooks,’’ he said. ‘‘ I’d like to meet a few.”’

“‘T assure you that you would not find the expérience

100 THE SMALL BACHELOR

enjoyable,’ said Officer Garroway, shaking his head. ‘‘They are unpleasant, illiterate men with little or no desire to develop their souls. I make an exception, I should mention, however, in the case of Mr. Mullett, who seemed a nice sort of fellow. I wish I could have seen more of him.”

‘Mullett ? Who’s he?”

‘‘ He is an ex-convict, sir, who works for Mr. Finch in the apartment upstairs.”’

‘You don’t say! An ex-convict and works for Mr. Finch ? What was his line? ”’

“Inside burglary jobs, sir. I understand, however, that he has reformed and is now a respectable member of society.”

‘“‘ Still, he was a burglar once?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, well! ”’

There was a silence. Officer Garroway, who was trying to find a good synonym for one of the adjectives in the poem on which he was occupied, stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. Mr. Waddington chewed his cigar intensely.

“‘ Say, listen!’’ said Mr. Waddington.

“Sir? ’’ said the policeman, coming out of his reverie with a start.

““Suppose,’’ said Mr. Waddington, “‘ suppose, just for the sake of argument, that a wicked person wanted a crook to do a horrible, nefarious job for him, would he have to pay him?”

“Undoubtedly, sir. These men are very mercenary.”

“Pay him much?”

“IT imagine a few hundred dollars. It would depend on the magnitude of the crime contemplated, no doubt.”

“‘A few hundred dollars! ”’

““Two, perhaps, or three.”

Silence fell once more. Officer Garroway resumed his inspection of the ceiling. What he wanted was something signifying the aspect of the streets of New York, and he had tsed ‘sordid’ in line two. ‘Scabrous!’ That was

THE SMALL BACHELOR 101

the word. He was rolling it over his tongue when he became aware that his companion was addressing him.

‘‘I beg your pardon, sir? ”’

Mr. Waddington’s eyes were glittering in a peculiar way. He leaned forward and tapped Officer Garroway on the knee.

‘‘Say, listen! I like your face, Larrabee.”

‘‘My name is Garroway.”

“‘ Never mind about your name. It’s your face I like. Say, listen, do you want to make a pile of money? ”’

‘* Yes, sir.”’

‘“‘ Well, I don’t mind telling you that I’ve taken a fancy to you, and I’m going to do something for you that I wouldn’t do for many people. Have you ever heard of the Finer and Better Motion Picture Company of Holly- wood, Cal.?”’

‘No, sir.”

*“That’s the wonderful thing,” said Mr. Waddington in a sort of ecstacy. ‘‘ Nobody’s ever heard of it. It isn’t one of those worn-out propositions like the Famous Players that everybody’s sick and tired of. It’s new. And do you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to let you have a block of stock in it for a quite nominal figure. It would be insulting you to give it you for nothing, which is what I’d like to do, of course. But it amounts to the same thing. This stock here is worth thousands and thousands of dollars, and you shall have it for three hundred. Have you got three hundred?” asked Mr. Waddington, anxiously.

““Yes, sir, I have that sum, but...’

Mr. Waddington waved his cigar.

“Don’t use that word ‘but’! I know what you’re trying to say. You're trying to tell me, I’m robbing myself. I know I am, and what of it? What’s money to me? The way I look at it is that, when a man has made his pile, like me, and has got enough to keep his wife and family in luxury, the least he can do as a lover of humanity is to let the rest go to folks who'll appreciate

102 THE SMALL BACHELOR

it. Now you probably need money as much as the rest of them, eh?”

“I certainly do, sir.”

‘“‘Then here you are,” said Mr. Waddington, brandish- ing the bundle of stock certificates. ‘‘ This is where you getit. You can take it from me that the Finer and Better Motion Picture Company is the biggest thing since Marconi invented the victrola.”’

Officer Garroway took the stock and fondled it thought- fully.

‘“‘ It’s certainly very nicely engraved,” he said.

‘You bet it is! And look at those dollar-signs on the back. Look at that seal. Cast your eye over those signatures. Those mean something. And you know what the motion-pictures are. A bigger industry than the beef business. And the Finer and Better is the greatest proposition of them all. It isn’t like other companies. For one thing, it hasn’t been paying out all its money in dividends.”’

ee No ? a8

*‘No, sir! Not wasted a cent that way.”

“It’s all still there? ”’

** All still there. And, what’s more, it hasn’t released a single picture.”

‘* All still there ? ”’

*‘ All still there. Lying on the shelves,—dozens of them. And then take the matter of overhead expenses,—the thing that cripples all these other film companies. Big studios .. . expensive directors... high-salaried stars...”

‘* All still there ? ”’

‘‘No, sir! That’s the point. They’re not there. The Finer and Better Motion Picture Company hasn’t any of these D. W. Griffiths and Gloria Swansons eating away its capital. It hasn’t even a studio.”

“Not even a studio ? ”

“No, sir. Nothing but a company. I tell you it’s big !”’

Officer Garroway’s mild blue eyes widened.

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‘* It sounds like the opportunity of a lifetime,”’ he agreed.

‘‘ The opportunity of a dozen lifetimes,’’ said Mr. Wad- dington. ‘‘ And that’s the way to get on in the world— by grabbing your opportunities. Why, what’s Big Ben but a wrist-watch that saw its chance and made good?’”’ Mr. Waddington paused. His forehead wrinkled. Hesnatched the bundle of stock from his companion’s grasp and made a@ movement towards his pocket. ‘‘ No!’’ he said, ‘‘ No! I can’t do it. I can’t let you have it, after all! ”’

“Oh, sir!”

‘‘No. It’s too big.’’

**Oh, but, Mr. Waddington .. .”

Sigsbee H. Waddington seemed to come out of a trance, He shook himself and stared at the policeman as if he were saying ‘Where am I?’ He heaved a deep, remorseful sigh.

“‘Isn’t money the devil!’’ he said. ‘“‘Isn’t it terrible the way it saps all a fellow’s principles and good resolu- tions! Sheer greed, that was what was the matter with me, when I said I wouldn’t let you have this stock. Sheer, grasping greed. Here am I, with millions in the bank, and the first thing you know I’m trying to resist a gen- erous impulse to do a fellow human-being, whose face I like, a kindly act. It’s horrible!’’ He wrenched the bundle from his pocket and threw it to the policeman. ““ Here, take it before I weaken again. Give me the three hundred quick and let me get away.”

‘‘T don’t know how to thank you, sir.”

** Don’t thank me, don’t thank me. One—two—three,’ said Mr. Waddington, counting the bills. ‘‘ Don’t thank me at all. It’s a pleasure.”

§ 3 Upstairs, while the conversation just recorded was in progress, Frederick Mullett was entertaining his fiancée, Fanny Welch, to a light collation in the kitchen of George Finch’s apartment. It is difficult for a man to look devo- tional while his mouth is full of cold beef and chatney,

104 THE SMALL BACHELOR

—but not impossible, for Mullett was doing it now. He gazed at Fanny very much as George Finch had gazed at Molly Waddington, Hamilton Beamish at Madame Eulalie, and as a million other young men in New York and its outskirts were or would shortly be gazing at a million other young women. Love had come rather late to Fred- erick Mullett, for his had been a busy life, but it had come to stay.

Externally, Fanny Welch appeared not unworthy of his devotion. Shewasa pretty little thing with snapping black eyes and a small face. The thing you noticed about her first was the slim shapeliness of her hands, with their long sensitive fingers. One of the great advantages of being a pickpocket is that you do have nice hands.

“‘T like this place,’’ said Fanny, looking about her.

““Do you, honey?” said Mullett tenderly ‘‘I was hoping you would. Because I’ve got a secret for you.”

“What's that ? ”’

“* This is where you and me are going to spend our honey- moon | ”’

‘‘ What, in this kitchen ? ’”’

“‘ Of course not. We'll have the run of the whole apart- ment, with the roof thrown in.”

*“What’ll Mr. Finch have to say to that?”

““He won't know, pettie. You see, Mr. Finch has just gone and got engaged to be married himself, and he’ll be off on his honeymoon-trip, so the whole place’ll be ours for ever so long. What do you think of that?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“*’ll take and show you the place in a minute or two. It’s the best studio-apartment for miles around. There’s a nice large sitting-room that looks on to the roof, with French windows so that you can stroll out and take the air when you like. And there’s a sleeping-porch on the roof, in case the weather’s warm. Anda bath H. and C., with shower. It’s the snuggest place you'll ever want to find, and you and I can stay perched up here like two little birds in a nest. And, when we've finished honey-

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mooning, we'll go down to Long Island and buy a little duck-farm and live happy ever after.”

Fanny looked doubtful.

‘‘Can you see me on a duck-farm, Freddy?”

‘‘Can I?” Mullett’s eyes beamed adoration. ‘‘ You bet J can see you there,—standing in a gingham apron on the old brick path between the hollyhocks, watching little Frederick romping under the apple-tree.’’

“Little who?”’

** Little Frederick.”

“‘Oh? And did you notice little Fanny clinging to my skirts ? ”’

‘‘So she is. And William John in his cradle on the porch.”

‘‘T think we’d better stop looking for awhile,” said Fanny. ‘‘ Our family’s growing too fast.”

Mullett sighed ecstatically.

“‘ Doesn’t it sound quiet and peaceful after the stormy lives we’ve led. The quacking of the ducks.... The droning of the bees. ... Put back that spoon, dearie. You know it doesn’t belong to you.”

Fanny removed the spoon from the secret places of her dress and eyed it with a certain surprise.

““ Now, how did that get there? ’”’ she said.

“You snitched it up, sweetness,’ said Mullett gently. “Your little fingers just hovered for a moment like little bees over a flower, and the next minute the thing was gone. It was beautiful to watch, dearie, but put it back. You've done with all that sort of thing now, you know.”

“IT guess I have,” said Fanny wistfully.

“You don’t guess you have, precious,’’ corrected her husband-to-be. ‘‘ You know you have. Same as I’ve done.”

‘“‘ Are you really on the level now, Freddy ? ”’

“‘T’m as honest as the day is long.”

“Work at nights, eh? Mullett, the human moth. Goes through his master’s clothes like a jealous wile.”

Mullett laughed indulgently.

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“‘The same little Fanny! How you do love to tease. Yes, precious, I’m through with the game for good. I wouldn’t steal a bone collar-stud now, not if my mother came and begged me on her bended knee. All I want is my little wife and my little home in the country.”

Fanny frowned pensively.

**'You don’t think it’ll be kind of quiet down on that duck-farm? Kind of slow? ”’

** Slow ?’’ said Mullett, shocked.

“Well, maybe not. But we're retiring from business awful young, Freddy.”

A look of concern came into Mullett’s face.

“You don’t mean you still have a hankering for the old game? ”’

“Well, what if I do?’ said Fanny defiantly. “ You do, too, if you’d only come clean and admit it.”

The look of concern changed to one of dignity.

** Nothing of the kind,”’ said Mullett. ‘I give you my word, Fanny, that there isn’t the job on earth that could tempt me now. And I do wish you would bring yourself to feel the same, honey.”

** Oh, I’m not saying I would bother with anything that wasn’t really big. But, honest to goodness, Freddy, it would be a crime to side-step anything worth-while, if it came along. It isn’t as if we had all the money in the world. I’ve picked up some nice little things at the stores and I suppose you've kept some of the stuff you got away with, but outside of that we’ve nothing but the bit of cash we’ve managed to save. We've got to be practical.”’

“But, sweetie, think of the awful chances you'd be taking of getting pinched.’

“I’m not afraid. If they ever do nab me, I’ve got a yarn about my poor old mother. . .”

“‘ You haven't got a mother.”

“Who said I had? ...a yarn about my poor old mother that would draw tears from the Woolworth Build- ing. Listen! ‘ Don’t turn me over to the police, mister, I only did it for ma’s sake. If you was out of work for

THE SMALL BACHELOR 107

weeks and starvin’ and you had to sit and watch your poor old ma bendin’ over the wash-tubs .. .’”’

‘“‘Don’t, Fanny, please! I can’t bear it even though I know it’s just a game. I... Hello! Somebody at the front door. Probably only a model wanting to know if Mr. Finch has a job for her. You wait here, honey. I’ll get rid of her and be back in half a minute.”

§ 4

More than twenty times that period had, however, elapsed before Frederick Mullett returned to the kitchen. He found his bride-to-be in a considerably less amiable mood than that in which he had left her. She was standing with folded arms, and the temperature of the room had gone down a number of degrees.

‘“‘ Pretty girl? ’’ she inquired frostily, as Mullett crossed the threshold.

«6 Eh ? a3

‘You said you were going to send that model away in half a minute, and I’ve been waiting here nearer a quarter of an hour,” said Fanny, verifying this statement by a glance at the wrist-watch, the absence of which from their stock was still an unsolved mystery to a prosperous firm of jewellers on Fifth Avenue.

Mullett clasped her in hisarms. It was a matter of some difficulty, for she was not responsive, but he did it.

“‘It was not a model, darling. It wasa man. A guy with grey hair and a red face.”’

‘“‘Oh? What did he want?”

Mullett’s already somewhat portly frame seemed to expand, as if with some deep emotion.

‘‘He came to tempt me, Fanny.”

“To tempt you?”

‘“‘That’s what he did. Wanted to know if my name was Mullett, and two seconds after I had said it was he offered me three hundred dollars to perpetrate a crime.”

‘He did? What crime?”

‘*T didn’t wait for him to tell me. I spurned hig offer

108 THE SMALL BACHELOR

and came away. That’ll show you if I’ve reformed or not. A nice, easy, simple job he said it was, that I could do in a couple of minutes.”

‘‘ And you spurned him, eh?”’

“I certainly spurned him. I spurned him good and plenty.”

“And then you came away? ”’

‘Came right away.”’

“Then listen here,’’ said Fanny in a steely voice, “‘ it don’t seem to me that your times add up right. You say he made you this offer two seconds after he heard your name. Well, why did it take you a quarter of an hour to get back to this kitchen? If you want to know what I think, it wasn’t a red-faced man with grey hair at all —it was one of these Washington Square vamps and you were flirting with her.”

“Fanny |”’

‘‘ Well, I’ve read Gingery Stories, and I know what it’s like down here in Bohemia with all these artists and models and everything.”’

Mullett drew himself up.

‘‘ Your suspicions pain me, Fanny. If you care to step out on to the roof, you can peek in at the sitting-room window and see him for yourself. He’s waiting there for me to bring hima drink. The reason I was so long coming back was that it took him ten minutes before he asked my name. Up till then he just sat and spluttered.”’

“All right. Take me out on the roof.”

‘*Therel’’ said Mullett, a moment later. ‘‘ Now perhaps you'll believe me.”’

Through the French windows of the sitting-room there was undeniably visible a man of precisely the appearance described. Fanny was remorseful.

“Did I wrong my poor little Freddy, then ? ’’ she said.

“Yes, you did.”’

“I’m sorry. There!’

She kissed him. Mullett melted immediately.

““ T must go back and get that drink,’ he said.

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‘‘ And I must be getting along.”

‘‘Oh, not yet,’’ begged Mullett.

‘* Yes, I must. I’ve got to look in at one or two of the stores.”

“Fanny!”

‘* Well, a girl’s got to have her trousseau, hasn’t she? ”’

Mullett sighed.

‘* You'll be very careful, precious ? ” he said anxiously.

‘‘T’m always careful. Don’t you worry about me.”’

Mullett retired, and Fanny, blowing a parting kiss from her pretty fingers, passed through the door leading to the stairs.

It was perhaps five minutes later, while Mullett sat dreaming golden dreams in the kitchen and Sigsbee H. Waddington sat sipping his whisky-and-soda in the sitting- room, that a sudden tap on the French window caused the latter to give a convulsive leap and spill most of the liquid down the front of his waistcoat.

He looked up. A girl was standing outside the window, and from her gestures he gathered that she was requesting him to open it.

§ 5

It was some time before Sigsbee H. Waddington could bring himself to do so. There exist, no doubt, married men of the baser sort who would have enjoyed the prospect of a ¢éte-a-téte chat with a girl with snapping black eyes who gesticulated at them through windows: but Sigsbee Wad- dington was not one of them. By nature and training he was circumspect to a degree. So for awhile he merely stood and stared at Fanny. It was not until her eyes became so imperative as to be practically hypnotic that he brought himself to undo the latch.

“And about time, too,” said Fanny, with annoyance, stepping softly into the room.

“What do you want?”

“IT want a little talk with you. What’s all this I

8

110 THE SMALL BACHELOR

hear about you asking people to perpetrate crimes for you ?”’

Sigsbee Waddington’s conscience was in such a feverish condition by now that this speech affected him as deeply as the explosion of a pound of dynamite would havedone. His vivid imagination leaped immediately to the supposition that this girl who seemed so intimate with his private affairs was one of those Secret Service investigation agents who do so much to mar the comfort of the amateur in crime.

‘**T don’t know what you're talking about,’’ he croaked.

‘‘Oh, shucks!”’’ said Fanny impatiently. She was a business girl, and disliked this beating about the bush. ‘‘ Freddy Mullett told me all about it. You wantsomeone to do a job for you and he turned you down. Well, takea look at the understudy. I’m here, and, if the job’s in my line, lead me to it.”

Mr. Waddington continued to eye her warily. He had now decided that she was trying to trap him into a damaging admission. He said nothing, but breathed stertorously.

Fanny, a sensitive girl, misunderstood his silence. She interpreted the look in his eye to indicate distrust of the ability of a woman worker to deputize for the male.

“If it’s anything Freddy Mullett could do, I can do it,” she said, She seemed to Mr, Waddington to flicker for a moment. ‘‘See here!” she said.

Before Mr. Waddington’s fascinated gaze she held up between her delicate fingers a watch and chain.

*‘ What's that ?”’ he gasped.

** What does it look like ? ”’

Mr. Waddington knew exactly what it looked like. He felt his waistcoat dazedly.

‘“‘T didn’t see you take it.”

** Nobody don’t ever see me take it,’’ said Fanny proudly, stating a profound truth. ‘ Well, then, now you've wit- nessed the demonstration, perhaps you'll believe me when I say that I’m not so worse. If Freddy can do it, I can do it.”

& cool, healing wave of relief poured over Sigsbee H.

THE SMALL BACHELOR 11

Waddington’s harassed soul. He perceived that he had wronged his visitor. She was not a detective, after all, but a sweet, womanly woman who went about lifting things out of people's pockets so deftly that they never saw them go. Just the sort of girl he had been wanting to meet.

‘“‘T am sure you can,” he said fervently.

‘** Well, what’s the job? ”

*‘I want some one to steal a pearl necklace.”

‘‘ Where is it? ”’

‘‘In the strong-room at the bank.’’

Fanny’s mobile features expressed disappointment and annoyance.

‘“‘Then what’s the use of talking about it? I’m nota safe-smasher. I’m a delicately nurtured girl that never used an oxy-acetylene blowpipe in her life.’’

“‘ Ah, but you don’t understand,” said Mr. Waddington hastily. ‘‘ When I say that the necklace is in the strong- room, I mean that it is there just now. Eventually it will be taken out and placed among the other wedding- presents,”

‘‘This begins to look more like it.”

‘*T can mention no names, of course...

**I don’t expect you to.”

“Then I will simply say that A, to whom the necklace belongs, is shortly about to be married to B.”’

“‘I might have known it. Doing all those bridge prob- lems together, they kind of got fond of one another.”

‘‘I have my reasons for thinking that the wedding will take place down at Hempstead on Long Island, where C, A’s step-mother, has her summer home.”’

““Why? Why not in New York?”

** Because,”’ said Mr. Waddington simply, *‘ I expressed a wish that it should take place in New York.”

“‘What have you got to do with it?”

“‘IT am D., C’s husband.”’

‘Oh, the fellow who could fill a tank with water in six hours fifteen minutes while C was filling another in five hours forty-five? Pleased to meet you.”

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**I am now strongly in favour of the Hempstead idea,” said Mr. Waddington. ‘‘ In New York it might be difficult to introduce you into the house, whereas down at Hemp- stead you can remain concealed in the garden till the suit- able moment arrives. Down at Hempstead the presents will be on view in the dining-room, which has French win- dows opening on to a lawn flanked with shrubberies.”’

ee Eas { FY

** Just what I thought. I will, therefore, make a point to-night of insisting that the wedding take place in New York, and the thing will be definitely settled.”

Fanny eyed him reflectively.

“‘It all seems kind of,funny to me. If you’re D and you're married to C and C is A’s step-mother, you must be A’s father. What do you want to go stealing your daugh- ter’s necklaces for? ”’

‘* Say, listen,’”’ said Mr. Waddington urgently, ‘‘ the first thing you’ve got to get into your head is that you’re not to ask questions.’’

‘‘Only my girlish curiosity.”

‘‘ Tie a can to it,’’ begged Mr. Waddington. ‘“‘ This isa delicate business, and the last thing I want is anybody snooping into motives and first causes. Just you go ahead, like a nice girl, and get that necklace and pass it over to me when nobody's looking, and then put the whole matter out of your pretty little head and forget about it.’’

‘* Just as you say. And now, coming down to it, what is there in it for me? ”’

‘‘Three hundred dollars,”’

‘‘Not nearly enough.”’

“It’s all I’ve got.”

Fanny meditated. Three hundred dollars, though a meagre sum, was three hundred dollars. You could always use three hundred dollars when you were furnishing, and the job, as outlined, seemed simple.

“All right,” she said.

**'You'll do it?”

“Im on.”

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“Good girl,’ said Mr. Waddington ‘‘ Where can I find you when I want you?”

“‘ Here’s my address.”’

‘“‘T’ll send you a line. You've got the thing clear?”

““Sure. I hang about in the bushes till there’s nobody around, and then I slip into the room and snitch the necklace .. .”’

‘‘. , and hand it over to me.”

** Sure.”

‘‘T’ll be waiting in the garden just outside, and I’! meet you the moment you come out. The very moment. Thus,”’ said Mr. Waddington with a quiet, meaning look at his young friend, ‘“‘ avoiding any rannygazoo.”’

‘“‘What do you mean by rannygazoo?”’ said Fanny warmly.

‘‘Nothing, nothing,’ said Mr. Waddington, with a deprecating wave of the hand. “’ Just rannygazoo.”’

CHAPTER SEVEN

HERE are, as everybody knows, many ways of measuring time: and right through the ages learned men have argued heatedly in favour of

their different systems. Hipparchus of Rhodes sneered every time anybody mentioned Marinus of Tyre to him: and the views of Ahmed Ibn Abdallah of Baghdad gave Purbach and Regiomontanus the laugh of their lives. Pur- bach in his bluff way said the man must be a perfect ass : and when Regiomontanus, whose motto was Live and let live, urged that Ahmed Ibn was just a young fellow trying to get along and ought not to be treated too harshly, Pur- bach said Was that so ? and Regiomontanus said Yes, that was so, and Purbach said that Regiomontanus made him sick. It was their first quarrel.

Tycho Brahe measured time by means of altitudes, quadrants, azimuths, cross-staves, armillary spheres and parallactic rules: and, as he often said to his wife when winding up the azimuth and putting the cat out for the night, nothing could be fairer than that. And thenin 1863 along came Dollen with his Dre Zestbestitmmung vermitteslt des tragbaren Durchgangsinsirument 1m Verticale des Polar- stens (a best-seller in its day, subsequently filmed under the title Purple Sins), and proved that Tycho, by mistaking an armillary sphere for a quadrant one night after a bump- supper at Copenhagen University, had got his calculations all wrong.

The truth is that time cannot be measured. To George Finch, basking in the society of Molly Waddington, the next three wecks seemed but a flash. Whereas to Hamilton Beamish, with the girl he loved miles away in East Gilead, Idaho, it appeared incredible that any sensible person could suppése that a day contained only twenty-four hours.

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THE SMALL BACHELOR 118

There were moments when Hamilton Beamish thought that something must have happened to the sidereal moon and that time was standing still.

But now the three weeks were up, and at any minute he might hear that she was back in the metropolis. All day long he had been going about with a happy smile on his face, and it was with a heart that leaped and sang from pure exuberance that he now turned to greet Officer Garroway, who had just presented himself at his apartment.

‘Ah, Garroway!’’ said Hamilton Beamish. ‘‘ How goes it? What brings you here?”

‘“‘T understood you to say, sir,” replied the policeman, “that I was to bring you my poem when I had completed