THE Novelist A WANDERER’S MATE.

Otago Witness, Issue 3969, 8 April 1930, Page 70

THE Novelist A WANDERER’S MATE.

By

(Special fob the

CHAPTER XI.

Hoot! Hoot! It was fifteen minutes k> five and the peace of Whangamumu’s landlocked harbour was broken by the weird, loud hooting of the cook’s cowhorn.

He had been up since three o’clock preparing breakfast of fried fish and potatoes boiled in their jackets, for healthy, hungry whalers. Lights flashed in the small shanties and whares on the hill-side, and sleepy men tramped down to the clear creek Tunning cheerily through the sheltered gully. Here they vigorously washed away all traces of sleep, and then trooped, a hungry, happy crew, into breakfast. Porteus was the last in.

“Hullo! late again,” laughed a boatheader, “ you sure must have had pleasant dreams.”

Porteus did not answer. He took his Beat unsmiling.

The boatheader saw that he had inadvertently made a remark unpleasing to the Englishman, and with prompt good nature turned the subject to the sport of the previous day.

Porteus ate his breakfast in silence. He had been awake most of the,night, thinking, thinking. He knew where his •wife was through his lawyer. She had refused her allowance and sent him no message. That she had not given the lawyer a chance to tell her where her husband was, he did not know. Day after day he hoped that she would write to him, but as the weeks passed and no word came he grew more than usually silent. He had joined the station hoping in the excitement and danger of the chase, to forget for a little. The men liked him. They were sorry for him and took no notice of his ’moods.

They knew well his skill and courage in the boat. They knew him a clean, dependable, strong man, and an exceedingly good harpooner.

Tamehana had also come north and explained the situation according to his ideas. He was now assistant in the cook-house, with a great weakness for whale-steaks.

Breakfast was soon over, and the men trooped to the wharf, where the boats were moored. Six men go to each boat, five to row, the sixth, the boat-header, taking the steer oar.

The whales coast down from northwards, passing between a point of Cape Brett and a small island. A heavy mooring has been laid, buoyed with a large cask. From the buoy to the rocky point five hundred feet distant a strong rope is stretched, and on this rope a net is hung made of one and a-quarter inch steel rope cut into sevenfoot lengths, with an eye spliced into each end.

These lengths are shackled together at the eyes, forming a square mesh each way. Each of the pieces of net is composed of a hundred meshes each, measuring about ten fathoms long, and the same deep. Seven or eight of these pieces of net are hung on the long line, being made fast to the rope with light rope yarn.

When the -whale strikes the net the yarn carries away, and off goes the monster with a section of the net hanging all round him, while a waiting boat hangs on another section in the vacant space.

The boats left the wharf almost together, and a three-mile race to the nets ensued, just for the fun of getting there first. ’•

Each boat header backed his own boat, offering his crew 11b of tobacco if they got out first. It was a fine race. A faint pink flush was showing through the grey light of coming day, the cheers of. the boatheaders echoed against the cliffs, a black oily swell rolled in, sweeping up the black rocks leaving a white line, of foam. The boats raced on, now gliding between the rollers, now on top, leaving a fiery wake. The men bent to their oars, and as the winners reached the rope they all cheered and rested on their oars to get breath and wait until the light was good enough to see that no whale was close at hand. To have part of the net on a whale and part in the boat is to be in a very bad fix. The crews waited until it was light enough to see a few miles along the coast. All being clear the boats lay along the rope, the crew closest inshore beginning to hang the net. As soon as that portion was in position the second boat joined a section, and so on till the net was all laid. When all was finished the boats pulled to the landing place where the crews scrambled ashore and up to a place on the cliffs known as the “ Lookout.” Two men were left m each boat to keep all in readiness for the cry of “ Blow—oh! ” They set work to catch fish for the morning breakfast. On the “ Lookout ” some of the crew pulled out books, some roamed about seaching for wild honey, but taking care to keep well within call.

C.O.S.

Otago Witness.)

Porteus sat with his hands round his knees staring out to sea. The boatheader who had twitted him at breakfast watched him from behind his book. He saw. Porteus set his lips in a grim straight line, and the cheery whaler watched sympathetically. He hadn’t got a sweetheart, he didn’t want one, you never knew what they were going to do next, but he was sorry for the Englishman, sorry that his affairs were all out of gear. It was probably the devil to be in love. He would stick to the whales; it appeared to be safer and pleasanter. In the night Porteus had almost made up his mind to write to his wife and try to explain things, but here on the “ Lookout ” in the grey' light of early morning he heard again so clearly the bitter, stinging words, they’ cut in as clearly as on that miserable morning that now seemed so long ago. No, she must come to him. He shut his mouth grimly, and the boatheader watched. Porteus looked out to the grey sea. The sun was now shining full on the “ Lookout,” and the rising sou’-west wind blew high overhead, the high cliffs making a natural breakwind. For a mile out the sea was as smooth as glass, only the long swell rolled in sweeping up the rocks, then receded leaving thousands of tiny cataracts. The whalers swept the horizon with their glasses, but so far only a small schooner and a tramp steamer had broken the range. Suddenly Porteus jumped up. Something flashed about 15 miles away. All glasses were turned in that direction. Then what was apparently a puff of smoke rose to the height of 20ft or more and blew away to leeward. As it died the cry rang out “ Blow—oh! ” “ Blow—o—o—o! ” and it was answered from a dozen different places on the cliffs.

In a few minutes the boats’ crews were gathered on the “ Lookout.” They watched the whale throw up his great flukes and disappear. For 10 minutes they lost sight of him, then the smokelike cloud, the condensed breath of the whale, rose again and blew away to leeward, and the sun shone on the black, shining body. He was fully two miles nearer. Then he sounded again, rising nearer each time, though sometimes nearer inshore, sometimes further out, but coming on all the time.

When he was a couple of miles off the net the order came to man the boats, and the crews hurried to the landing. The men left in the boats had them ready alongside the rocks, and in a few minutes each man was in his place. The harpooner took the sheaths off his irons, bending on the whole line, which was passed forward to him after being passed round the loggerhead aft and over all the oars. Great care is taken to see that there are no kinks or turns, as one kink may mean the lives of the boat’s crew.

The other four pulled away until the boat was outside the mooring buoy, then they rested on their oars to wait until the disappearance of the net told that the whale was foul of it.

The crews had taken off their seaboots, as they never know what minute the boat may be smashed to matchwood, or taken down by a foul line, also they must face sudden squalls and storms.

Minute after minute went by, but they heard nothing but the roar of the surge on the rocks, as it swept up and down. “ Blow—o—o—o ” said the boatheader quietly, and a noise like a handful of loose powder going off reached their ears. The crew turned their heads in the direction of the sound in time to see the huge flukes rise quietly in the air and slip out of sight again. All eyes were on the row of buoys floating the net.

“ Down! ” the cry rang out as two of the buoys disappeared amidst a whirl of water.

“Give way, boys! ” five oars hit the water like one; the boat shot forward, increasing her speed at every stroke. “ Stand up! ” called- the boatheader.

Porteus, the man in the bow, peaked his oar and stood up, firmly grasping his harpoon. He looked like a statue for. a second as he stood with his arms poised. Then there was a roar, and 50yds ahead of them, sheer out of the water, rose the head of the whale, look-' ing more like a rock that a living thing, the net hanging like a mantle round him. “ Pull ahead! Pull ahead! ” roared the boatheader.

The oars bent like canes and the boat leapt forward. A dozen or two strokes brought them almost on him. Then came the words:

“ Steady there! Hold the boat!” The whale looked dangerous. He was shaking his head like a huge dog in his efforts to clear himself of the tangle of net, his great fins swung like the sails of a windmill, striking the water and sending up clouds of spray that

almost hid him from view. But it was all to no purpose, he had driven his nose too hard into the mesh to readily get it out again. He tried another plan.

Throwing his great head and body as high out of the water as possible, he let himself suddenly sink, flukes first, endeavouring to wash off the net. That failing, he rolled over and over, as though trying to. unwind it, then, finding himself still beaten, he made off for the open sea. But the boatheader had been watching for this trick, and before the whale had time to steady himself and get. properly under way he felt a prick in'his side, then another.- Porteus had got two irons into him, and those irons would break before they draw. Up went the whale’s great flukes, down they came again, with a noise likq,the report of a cannon, but the boat was clear. Only a cloud of spray flew over it, drenching the crew, but of that they took no notice. They were fast! A cheer went up as the whale darted off, towing the boat after him. Porteus now went aft, taking the steer-oar, and the boatheader went forward, taking the sheath off his lance, a terrible weapon in the hand of a good man. It is like a spoon flattened out, with a razor-like edge, on the end of a 6ft iron rod, |in in thickness, fitted to a wooden pole sft in length. But there was little chance of getting the lance into the whale, as he was travelling at a good 15 knots, and it is more than a boat’s crew can do to haul upon a monster going at that speed. But soon the,, whale found that he could not shake off his foe by speed alone, so he threw up his great flukes and went down, down, down. ■“Give him line! Give him line!” roared the boatheader, and the line flew out, smoking, at the loggerhead and bow chocks. Fathom after fathom flew out, the boat ran to the spot where the whale had gone down, and then stayed stationary, the line running sheer down from the bow.

A large air bubble rose from the depths, breaking on the surface. By this the crew knew that one of the buoys had crushed under the great pressure of the water. Then another bubble rose and burst.

“ Two buoys gone! ” said Porteus “ We’ll lose the net if he breaks away now.”

As he spoke the line slackened; the whale was coming up. The crew’ hauled in the slack as fast as possible, one coiling it into the tub, to have all clear should the whale take it into his head to sound again.

The boatheader gave a hand with the slack, and he must have pulled in faster than the others, for he had tw’o or three fathoms at his feet when the whale, after coming to the surface, suddenly darted off again, and before the boatheader knew what was happening he was overboard, _ with half a turn round his leg. He tried to reach forward to get hokl of the line beyond his foot, but, failed, and all he could do was to shut his mouth as the water was forced up his nose. He could see the whale ahead, his great flukes moving up and down. The line was cutting into the - boat header’s leg, the water was full of bubbles. Suddenly he felt a pull downwards. The whale had sounded. It seemed to the unfortunate man as if those in the boat would never cut the line. Then all was darkness and blank. When the boatheader opened his eyes he was lying in the boat with Porteus working his arms backwards and forwards and two other members of the crew rubbing his limbs. As the dazed man opened his eves, one of the crew said with a great sigh of relief:

“You’re a beauty!” “You’re another!” muttered the boatheader. “M hy in the blazes didn’t vou cut the line. Is my leg off?” We did,” answered the other. “We did it pretty quick, too, and Porteus fished you out. You’ve got vour leg and you’re mighty lucky.” “ I’m afraid it is rather oadly cut ” said Porteus. “ We’ll take you ashore.” t A® fear!” said the whaler angrily. Tie it up and give me some brandy. lin game yet and I’m going to kill the brute myself.” In 10 minutes they were after th« whale again. All the line had run out, so the huge fish had something to bother him besides the net, and the boat soon caught up to him, picking up the line. liien the monster sounded again, but he was tired, and came right up to the surface with a blow that was almost deafening, and lay quiet, as if thinking what was the next best thing to do. It~ was the chance for which the boatheader had been waiting, for with a hiss the lance sank to the very pole in the whale’s side, just aft the fin. “Good!” muttered the boat-header, as with the lanyard he jerked the lance out again. With a kick of hi a flukes to aad left > tllen UP and down, the wnale disappeared, but only for a short /I’i 1 *? S he r -° Se tl,e boat-header nirled his lance with the same effect. Down the whale went again. For a few minutes all was quiet, then he rose slowly to the surface, sending up with his spout a spray of blood that became thicker at every blow. Again the boatheader hurled his lance. A quiver shot through the great the only sign the leviathan gave of having the blow. But he was getting weaker* from loss of blood, his move° ments were slow, and again and again the boatheader hurled his lance, until it struck a bone, and all efforts were useless to get it out.

Then the boatheader threw the lanyard overboard, and took a fresh lance, but just as he was on the point of sending it home, the whale lifted his

great head a little, then it sank again and the whole body began to quiver. “Stern all! Stern all!” roared the boatheader.

The crew sitting facing the bow gave a few vigorous strokes, the boat was clear, but only just in time. High in the air rose the great flukes, then down, sending a sea off on each side. Again and again the whale brought them down, sweeping to right and left, and clouds of spray rose and fell.

The whalers watched the death fury with set faces. A pang of pity crept into their hardened hearts as they watched the monster’s magnificent fight for life. But the end was very near, the whale’s strength was fast leaving him, the blows of his flukes were less heavy, every spout was thick with blood, and only a few feet in height. His flukes half rose, then fell back, and a bucket of clotted blood was vomited from his blow-hole, and slid over his head like so much ice, to be seized by the everready fish. Then the' great jaw dropped, and the monster of the sea rolled over on his side with his fin standing some twenty feet in the air, swinging slowly backwards and forwards like a ship’s mast in a swell.

“Fin up! Fin up! ” came the cry from all sides, as the boats rushed in to examine the prize and to get the net off.

The boatheader suddenly collapsed. “I’m afraid I’m all’in,” he said, “ leg’s! pretty bad.” “ Have some brandy,” said Porteus. “ You shouldn’t have tried to stick it out. Anyhow, you’ll have to go ashore now.”

Leaving the other two boats to get the net off and wait for the small tug, Porteus’s crew pulled back to the wharf. As they neared it they saw’ a small knot of men gathered near the end, and Tamehana doing a wild, impromptu wardance.

“ War! War! ”he yelled, as the boat drew near. “A rider’in with news! ” “ What ? ” shouted Porteus.

“ Englan’ fight Shermany. Hurro! Hurro! Good ol’ Englan’! Kapai Englan’!” As the boat drew alongside the wharf the rider hurriedly explained the news and the whalers took off their hats, cheering again and again. “ Kapai old England! Well done, England! ” till the cliffs echoed back the cry. Tamehana continued his war-dance, his eyes rolling, his tongue lolling, the blood’of his fighting ancestors coursing wildly through his veins. “Kapai! Kapai!” he shouted. “Igo to fight for Englan’. Hurroo! Igo to fight the Sherman poaka (pig). Kapai, ol’ Englan’!” CHAPTER XIT. I’m very glad he fell out,” said Jack Smith, as he sat on the back steps of Mrs Sylvester’s veranda, leaning his curly brown head against the veranda post. “Who fell out of what?” asked Mrs Porteus, from the scullery where she was piling up breakfast dishes. “ Tawhaki, of course. He must have fallen out of something, though he couldn’t have had an aeroplane, they didn’t -have them long ago. I wonder, what he did have?”

“But, Jack Smith, I don’t know what, you are talking about.” Jack Smith continued to gaze across' the road. He was seven, and the years to come were treasure troves of wonders and adventures. It was a very pleasant road. A hawthorn hedge across the white shell yard was covered with nasturtiums ablaze with red and gold The opposite side of the road was lined with pohutukawa. trees, some early flowering already showing tufts of crimson, spiky blooms, and the honey-sweet scent floated on the soft morning air through the scullery window. There was a lamp-post at the corner where the four roads met, and a grove of cabbage palms, intermingled with flowering Australian gum, and if one went a few steps round the wash-house, there was a glimpse of the sea, painted with the soft blue of early summer. “ Yes,” thought Mrs Porteus “ it was a pleasant road and yard if one had to wash other people’s dishes, and Jack Smith was a cheery little companion, and he was called Jack, though when asked his name he invariably gave Christian and surname rolled sharply into one.

“Mell, Jacksmith. I’m waiting, vou know,” said Mrs Porteus.

Jack Smith left the steps, and climbed in the scullery window. In common with his kind, he never used a door if a window’ offered possibilities. “ Where’s the rag ? ” he asked. “ Tea-towel, Jack.” “Rag’s shorter,” he answered.

His home was further along the road, but he was a frequent visitor to the Sylvester household, and since the advent of Mrs Porteus six months previously his visits had been of daily occurrence. He liked the pretty face and pleasant English voice. Settling himself comfortably on the scullery dresser, and man’ fully tackling a large blue dish, he began.

Well, Tawhaki was a Maori fairy-god and he tried to climb to heaven, and fell out, at least he fell down, and he must have been pretty broken up in a good many places, because his blood redded the flowers of the rata.”

Oh, not rata!” and Mrs Porteus, turning quickly to the gas stove, lifted off the kettle and began pouring the water on the dishes.

“ Don’t do that,” exclaimed Jack Smith. “You’ve just this minute filled that kettle up, and it isn’t hot, and it isn’t an eggy breakfast this morning, it s hapuka, and you want the water very hot.”

“ I’m sorry, Jack,” said Mrs Porteus, as she obediently put the kettle back on the stove, but she bit her lips and sighed as she took up the dish-mop. “ I’m afraid,” she continued, “ that I am very stupid this morning.” “Yes, you are,” said Jack.ungallantly. Then noticing her distressed face he said: “Never mind, I expect you didn’t go to sleep early enough. But it was the rata, you know. My mother said so, and it was the pohutukawa too. You don’t know, you’re English. But I wish I was big enough to have an aeroplane, to fight in this war. I would fly to Germany.” “ What would you do this time?” Since the declaration of war four months previously Jack’s plans of capturing the hated Kaiser had been many and various.

“ I would fly to Germany and drop fertilizer on the Kaiser.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the horrified Mrs Porteus. “ How nasty.”

“Yes,” said Jack. “Isn’t it—it’s the nastiest thing I know.” “Mrs Porteus! Mrs Porteus! I’ve heard of help at last! and Mrs Sylvester bustled out to the scullery.

Oh, bless her!” muttered Jack. She’s an awful nuisance.” “Oh, Jack!” “ Y es, Mrs Sylvester, what has happened ? ” ‘‘ A letter from the north, from a friend of mine, who lives in some forgotten roadless place. A young girl wants to come to town as housemaid, she doesn’t know much, but is willing to learn. It is better than I’ll ring up Marmaduke to telegraph “ Yes ” and the steamer down. She can at least wash dishes.

“ She’d be an awful rotter if she couldn’t,” commented Jack.

“ My dear little bov, what a naughty word,” and Mrs Sylvester shook a' reproving finger at him.

Oh, no it isn’t. I heard my father say so. Mrs Clark came to call, and mother told father that all she said was that her new maid couldn’t even wash dishes. Father laughed, and said she must be an awful rotter; but mummie said, no, that it took a jolly lot to wash dishes properly. { “ Daddy laughed, and mummie said, ‘ You just try it, John, it takes an empty Christian spirit to wash dishes properly all the year round.’ ” “An empty Christian spirit, Jack?” “ Oh, well, it mightn’t have been empty, it was something like it.” “ Was it an eminently Christian spirit, Jack?” r ’

“ I suppose it was. But I’d better go home now, Jocelyn will be lonely.” and the little lad slipped off the dresser, and sauntered down the road under the pohutukawa trees, stopping to climb the post and rail fence to gather a bit of the scarlet honey-sweet flowers to put in the band of his old gi-gi hat. Mrs Sylvester watched him, smiling. “He’s a dear little fellow,” she said. “ But talking of dish-washing and the north, my dear, doesn’t it make you want to get back to your own little home? I think you are so brave to come out as you have done. I can’t think what I shall do when the time comes for you to go back. “ Oh, no, I—I—” stammered Mrs Porteus. Just then a fowl cackled. “Oh, I must run,” she said huurriedly. “ That fowl is laying away somewhere. She’s got a nest down the field, I’ve been watching for her for days,” and Mrs Porteus bolted through a gap in the I must run,” she said hurriedly. “ That hedge, leaving Mrs Sylvester to return to Marmaduke on the veranda. He had had a cold, and was having a day out of town. “ Really, Marmaduke,” she said, “ Mrs Porteus seems to,like being here, she is so interested in everything. She has even rushed off to find a fowl’s -nest. I have never had anyone else who would do that, in the blazing sun, too, and no hat on.”

“ Not afraid of the paint,” murmured Marmaduke, pursing his absurd buttonmouth into a little satirical smile. But Mrs Porteus did not look for the hen’s nest, she did not even look for a soft patch of buffalo grass to sit down on, she just sat down on the hard ground under a friendly puriri tree and put her head on an old log and sobbed. Then she sat up, angrily mopping the tears with her handkerchief.

“ Oh, why does everything combine to remind me of the north! Something crops up every day, and I wanted to forget. I meant to forget, but—but I don’t think I really want to,” and she put her head down on the log again. The forgetting, so valiantly determined on, had been a failure, an exceeding great failure. But this was the first time she had given way. “ Oh, Jack,” she sobbed, “if you would only come, I would never expect you to speak a word! ” This was the first real break-down since leaving the north, and her heart ached to go back to it.

The sea of the north was no brighter that the hazy, sunny bit of blue that she saw from the scullery window, but-, the glamour of love was over it, and she thought of the sail on her wedding eve, of the strong man with the stern, set mouth, the sudden, tender, exquisite smile-when he had crushed her to him and kissed her eyes, her hair, and her mouth, she thought only of the summer seas, and forgot the days and weeks of loneliness.

Suddenly she stopped crying and sat up. Her mouth hardened. “He doesn’t care,” she said, “be doesn’t care. He would have come months ago.”

Then she got up and began vigorously hunting where there was, she know, no possibility of a hen’s nest, in fact, the

hen was in the yard, only Mrs Sylvester, romantic lady, never knew enough about a cackle to know where it was, she never got beyond larks trills in the feathered line. So having adjusted her feelings, she sauntered back with her - handkerchief over her pretty head. Her eyes were a trifle red, and her face too, hut Mrs Sylvester put it down to the sun. She finished washing the dishes, made the morning tea, and talked charmingly about nothing in particular to Marmaduke. That good man’s discerning eye saw that something was amiss. So far he had not been able to get in touch with anyone from the north who knew anything of Mrs Porteus. But the good man was troubled. Many times he had been on the brink of asking her real reason for leaving the north, but he had always hesitated, it seemed like prying. In his business he came across no sea-faring men, nor the men of the Coast, fishermen, scow-men, or those of the coastal fleet. His ways were not their ways, his little pompous mannerisms would haVe put them off telling what they did know.

They could have told him of the silent Englishman, who now, except for his dog, always sailed alone. They all knew him on the coast, and they had either seen or heard of the pretty golden-haired English girl. They knew that he had gone back to the whaling station, and although they wondered, none asked him why.

Tamehana, the Maori boy, had said: I think some row, by golly. Boss face like stone, Mary’s eyes very angry. Get all right some day.” So they left it at that. For those that go down to the sea in ships learn much wisdom—when they choose. To-day Mr Sylvester had almost made >ip his mind to begin on the subject of the north, when Jack and his little sister Jocelyn appeared on the veranda. They stood in no awe of him, being Ordinary every-day children they sensed the kind heart under the dignified selfimportent manner.

“ Have you ever smelt a Maori bug, Mr Sylvester?” began Jack excitedly. “We have,” chimed in Jocelyn. “ Just pow.” “Be quiet, Jocelyn. Have you, Mr Sylvester? ” “ H’m, Ah—well I believe I did once.” “It was pretty awful, wasn’t it ? ” questioned Jack. • “ H’m. Yes. Well it was pretty awful, as you say.” “ Well, you see, we saw Mrs Porteus, we were up a tree, hunting round in the paddock, we guessed she was looking for a nest, but I don’t know why. We helped daddy stuff up our fowl-yard fence, you see it is mostly tecoma hedge, and ours couldn’t get out.” “Yes,” butted in Jocelyn. “It’s mostly pretty red flowers, and ” “Now, Jocelyn, do be quiet, we’ll never get to the eggs—and your fowls don't get out. Daddy says your fowlhouse is all a fowlhouse ought to be ” “And,” chimed in Jocelyn, “ mummie gays ours is all it oughtn’t to be, she thinks the fowls must be jolly glad.” “ So there really was a nest, Jack,” asked the relieved Mrs Porteus. She had felt Marmaduke’s searching gaze, and was glad to have her assertion about the nest confirmed.

“ Yes. But wait a minute. We looked all over and found a Maori bug nest in the old log. “ Near where you put your head,” said Jocelyn.

“ They made it smell awful, so we couldn’t look there properly, so we hunted by the creek, and then we came back to the log, and we found it in the grass just where you lay down.” Mr Sylvester sat up, but Mrs Porteus interrupted quickly. “ I had to have a rest, Jack, it was so hot.” “ Yes. What did you go without a hat for ? ” ‘ “ Most reprehensible,” laughed Mr Sylvester, keenly watching Mrs Porteus. “ And you nearly put your head on the eggs,” said Jocelyn, delightedly. “ Bad ones, awful bad ones.” “ Oh!” said the horrified Mrs Porteus. “ But how did you know that they were bad, they couldn’t have been, I heard the hen for days.” She had to keep up the fiction of the nest somehow. “We found out said Jack. “ You know the cabbage palm by your front gate; you can get a good straight throw down hill there. We carried the eggs there in my hat, and we took it in turn to throw one egg at the cabbage tree. I hit it, Jocelyn’s bust in the grass.” “ But how .” Jack did not give Mr Sylvester time to finish the question. “ Why we went down and smelt them of course.”

“ Yes,” said Jocelyn. “ Daddy says you always tell a bad egg by the smell.” “ But we’re going to keep the rest for daddy,” said Jack. “ Lucky daddy,” murmured Marmaduke.

“Yes. Daddy can throw the others, he can throw a long way and then he can go and smell them, and Jocelyn and I will know by daddy’s face if they are good ones,” explained Jack. Suddenly Mrs Porteus jumped up and began to hurriedly pack the tea things. “Oh, Jack, Jack, you awful child, it is Mrs Sylvester’s “ at home ” day, and,” she turned a horrified gaze at Marmaduke, “ those eggs are at the front gate.” Mr Sylvester tried to look stern, but the effort failed, he lay back in his comfortable chair and laughed. Jack and Jocelyn looked very crestfallen, then Jocelyn’s sober little face brightened, she had a brilliant idea. “ Mrs Sylvester keeps a big bottle of eau-de-Cologne on her dressing table, and smelling' salts in the drawing room,

couldn’t we empty them out by the gate, on the eggs ? ”

“Oh, yes,” said Jack. “They’d think is was those new red belladonna lilies, those, kind of lilies have pretty queer smells sometimes.”

“Go ahead, Jocelyn,” said Mr Sylvester.

“ But, Mr Sylvester ” began Mrs Porteus.

“ Never mind, my dear, a good laugh is worth an eau-de-Cologne bottle, besides I’m curious to hear the remarks of my wife’s visitors. I believe she has some extra special ones coming this afternoon, someone extremely artistic, limp, and the latest mode, and the lady is sure to notice those new lilies, and I presume, the smell. Only don’t tell, you youngsters.”

“Mr Sylvester, you are getting demoralised.”

“ Oh, no,” he said, smiling kindly, “ I’m only getting a little younger. Don’t forget, my dear, that I have never had a daughter, but I should have liked one like you. If you have any worries, business or otherwise, don’t forget that perhaps I should not have made a very bad job of being a father,” and the pompous middle-aged gentleman looked as kindly and ordinarily human as his little mannerisms would allow.

“ Oh, thank you,” answered Mrs Porteus with a very watery smile, “ I won’t forget, I think you would have made a very kind, sensible one, I won’t forget,” and she disappeared with the tea tray.

In the kitchen she set about getting out the best tea-cups and cutting sandwiches, then she suddenly thought of that bolt from the blue—the girl from the north—and what part of the” north ? ” “ Oh, dear,” she said, and she went to the scullery window and stood looking at the blue patch of summer sea, shimmering over the cabbage tree tops, “ Oh. dear, everything is all wrong to-day, but I won’t give way, and I won’t tell Marmaduke.” Then she came hack to the kitchen and jabbed her knife into the top of a plum cake. (To be continued.)