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Three Men and a Maid
By p. G. WODEHOUSE <
Copyright by George H. Doran Ce.
CHAPTER Xlll—Continued.
“Ohf said Mr. Bennett. "You do.
"uTßennett Bat rt<n. Be put
“' Us handkerchief, which hart cer
fv earned a rest. Then he fas
ta‘ a baleful stare upon his newly
flered son. It was not the sort
<g£% tach'the sort o?“o"whlS
d ti nh sud-e at a eriralnal In the
Sock convicted of a more than usually
rodous murder. Billie, not being in
tb , actual line of fire, only caught the
tail end of it, but it was enough to
create a misgiving. n
"Oh, father! You aren t angry.
"Angry!”
••You can’t be angry I”
••Why can’t I be angry!” demanded
Mr. Bennett, with that sense of injury
which conies to self-willed men when
their whims are thwarted. "Why the
devil shouldn’t I be angry? I am
angry ! I come here and find you like
like this, and you seem to expect me
to throw my hat in the air and give
three rousing cheers! Of course I m
angry! You are engaged to be married
to an excellent young man of the
highest character,, one of the finest
young men I have ever met. . . •
“Oli, well!” said Sam, straightening
his tie modestly. “Of course, if you
say so . . . It’s awfully good of
you ...”
•But, father,” cried Billie. "I never
really loved Bream. I like him very
much, but I could never love hiv. I
only got engaged to him because you
were so anxious for it, and because
... 1 had quarreled with the man
1 really loved ... I don’t want to
marry Bream.”
"Naturally !” said Sam. "Naturally 1
Quite out of the question. In a few
days we ll all be roaring with laughter
at the very idea.”
Mr. Bennett scorched him with a look
compared with which his earlier effort
had been a loving glance.
“Wilhelmina,” he said! “go into the
outer oflice.”
"But, father, you don’t understand.
You don’t realize that Sam has just
saved my life.”
“Saved your life? What do you
mean?”
' There was a lunatic in here with a
pistol, and Sam saved me.”
It was nothing,” said Sam modestly.
'‘Nothing."
“Go into the outer office!” thundered
Mr. Bennett, quite unmoved by this
story.
“Very well,” said Billie. “I shall al
ways love you, Sain,” she said, pausing
mutinously at the door.
"i shall always love you,” said Sam.
"Nobody can keep us apart.”
“They’re wasting time trying,” said
Sam.
You’re the most wonderful man in
the world.”
"There never was a girl like you I”
•let out!” bellowed Mr. Bennett, on
"hose equanimity this love scene,
"hicli I think beautiful, was jarring
profoundly.
‘ v '°' v ’ sir 1” he said to Sam, as the
door closed.
Yes, let’s talk it over calmly,” said
Sam.
I will not talk It over calmly P
Oh, come! You can do it if you
try.’’
"iearn Mortimer is the son of Henry
Mortimer.”
"I know,” said Sam. “And, while It
no doubt unfair to hold that ngalnst
‘ us a Point you can’t afford to ig-
Henry Mortimer! You and I
Henry Mortimer’s number. We
::;1" Henry Mortimer Is like! A
;;;: 1 ,"' ao spends his time thinking up
oik'u '' ann °ying you. You can’t seri
, \ want to have the Mortimer family
' i ,0 Y°u by marriage.”
frj,* I ', Mortimer is my oldest
a m!‘„ at n J akes U all the worse. Fancy
•n who calls himself your friend
you like that!”
J he misunderstanding to which you
' been completely smoothed
. r r, ‘'ations with Mr. Mortimer
• cordial.”
< , j!llve 11 your o ' v n way. Per-
I wouldn’t trust a man like
;^ n d. as for letting ruy daughter
II nis son. . . . j”
decided once and for all
'-■•I ■,?'l 1 , . take my adv,ce - you will
.. s the thing off.”
' 4 n>t take your advice.”
it." exn! i'! t , e^P ect t 0 Charge you for
V 4 i ned & am, reassuringly. “I
y-r. ? 9 . a fr,enf i. not as a law
tn y,, . ‘U -eightpence to others, free
• understand that my daugh
~to marr J’ Bream Mortimer?
■pY* y ° U Pigling about?”
- a os SO silly. The idea of any .
r -‘ n Bream Mortimer, I
ev ; n > f’ e ' eil you he ls thoroughly
Dle young man.”
And there you put the whole thing
in a nutshell. Your daughter is a girl
of spirit. She would hate to be tied for
life to an estimable young man.”
"She will do as I tell her."
Sam regarded him sternly.
“Have you no regard for her happi
ness?”
“I am the best judge of what is best
for her.”
“If you ask me," said Sam candidly,
"I think you’re a rotten judge.”
“1 did not come here to be insulted I”
“I like that! You have been insult
ing me ever since you arrived. What
right have you to say that I’m not fit
to marry your daughter?"
"I did not say that.”
“You’ve implied it. And you’ve been
looking at me as if I were a leper or
something the pure food committee has
condemned. Why? That’s what I ask
you,” said Sam, warming up. This, he
fancied, was the way Widgery would
have tackled a troublesome client.
“Why? Answer me that!"
)
Sam rapped sharply on the desk.
"Be careful, sir. Be very careful!"
He knew that this was what lawyers
always said. Of course, there is a dif
ference in position between a miscreant
whom you suspect of an attempt at per
jury and the father of the girl you love,
whose consent to the match you wish to
obtain, but Sam was in no mood for
these nice distinctions. He only knew
that lawyers told people to be very
careful.
"What do you mean, be very care
ful?” said Mr. Bennett.
“I’m dashed if 1 know.” said Sam
frankly. The question struck him as a
mean attack. He wondered how Widg
ery would have met It. Probably by
smiling quietly and polishing his spec
tacles. Sain had no spectacles. He en
deavored, however, to smile quietly.
“Don’t laugh at me 1” roared Mr. Ben
nett.
“I’m not laughing at you.”
“You are I”
‘Tm not!”
“Well, don’t, then P said Mr. Bennett.
He glowered at his young companion.
“I don’t know why I’m wasting my time
talking to you. The position ls clear to
the meanest intelligence. You cannot
have any. difficulty in understanding It.
I have no objection to you personally
• • •
“Come, this ls better 1” said Sam.
“1 don’t know you well enough to
have any objection to you or any opin
ion of you at all. This is the first time
I have ever met you in my life.”
“Mark you,” said Sam. “I think I nrn
one of those fellows who grow on peo
ple „ . .”
“As far as I am concerned, you sim
ply do not exist. You may be the
noblest character in London or you may
be wanted by the police. 1 don’t know.
And 1 don’t care. It doesn’t matter to
me. You mean nothing in my life. I
don’t know you.”
“You must persevere,” said Sam.
“You must buckle to and get to know
me. Don’t give the thing up In this half
hearted way. „ Everything has to nave a
beginning. Stick to it, and In a week
or two you will find yourself knowing
me quite well.”
“I don’t want to know you 1”
“You say that now, but wait I”
“And . thank goodness 1 have not got
to!” exploded Mr. Benentt, ceasing to
be calm and reasonable with u sudden
ness which affected Sam much as
though half a pound of gunpowder had
been touched off under his chair. “For
the little I have seen of you has been
quite enough 1 Kindly understand that
my daughter is engaged to be married
to another man, and that 1 do not wish
to see or hear anything of you again!
I shall try to forget your very exist
ence, and I shall see to it that Wilhel
rnina does the same! You're an Impu
dent scoundrel 1 I don’t like you 1 I
don’t wish to see you again! If you
were the last man In the world 1
wouldn’t allow my daughter to marry
you! If that ls quite dear, I wiU wish
you good-morning!”
Mr. Bennett thundered out of the
room, and Sam, temporarily stunned
by the outburst, remained where he
was, gaping. A few minutes later life
began to return to his palsied limbs. It
occurred to him that Mr. Bennett had
forgotten to kiss him good-by, and he
went into the outer office to tell him
so. But the outer office was empty.
Sam stood for a moment in thought,
then he returned to the inner office,
and, picking up a time-table, began to
look out trains to the village of Win
dlehurst in Hampshire, the nearest
station to his aunt Adeline’s charming
old-world house, Windles.
CHAPTER XIV
As 1 read over the last few chapters
of this narrative, 1 see that I have
been giving the reader a rather too
jumpy time. To almost a painful de
j gree I have excited his pity and terror;
and, though that is what Aristorie tells
one ought to do, I feel that a little res
pite would not be out of order. The
reader can stand having his emotions
churned up to a certain point; after
that lie wants to take it easy. It is
with pleasure, therefore, that I turu to
THE OANIELSVILLE MONITOR, DANIELSVILLE, GEORGIA.
depict a quiet, peaceful scene in do
mestic life. It won't last long—three
minutes, perhaps, by a stop-watch—
but that is not my fault. My task Is
to record facts as they happened.
The morning sunlight fell pleasantly
on the garden of Windles, turning it
into the green and amber paradise
which nature had Intended it to be. A
number of the local birds sang melodi
ously in the undergrowth at the end
of the lawn, while others, more ener
getic, hopped about the grass in quest
of worms. Bees, mercifully ignorant
that, after they had worked them
selves to the bone gathering honey, the
proceeds of their labor would be col
lared and consumed by Idle humans,
buzzed industriously to and fro and
dived head foremost Into flowers.
Winged Insects danced snrubnnds In
the sunshine. And In a deck-chair un
der the cedar tree Billie Bennett, with
a sketching block on her knee, was en
gaged in drawing a picture of the
ruined castle. Beside her, curled up
in a ball, lay her Pekinese dog, Pinky-
Boodles. Beside Piuky-Boodles slept
Smith, the bulldog. In the distant
stable yard, unseen but audible, a boy
in shirt sleeves was washing the car
and singing as much as treacherous
memory would permit of a popular
sentimental ballad.
You may think that was all. You
may suppose that nothing could be
added to deepen the atmosphere of
peace and content. Not so. At this
moment, Mr. Bennett emerged from
the French windows of the drawing
room, clad in white flannels and buck
skin shoes, supplying just the finish
ing touch that was needed.
Mr. Bennett crossed the lawn, and
sat down beside his daughter. Smith,
the bulldog, raising a sleepy head,
breathed heavily; but Mr. Bennett did
not quail. Of late, relations of distant
hut solid friendship had come to exist
between them. Skeptical at first, Mr.
Bennett had at length allowed himself
to be persuaded of Ihe mildness of the
animal’s nature and the essential
purity of his motives; and now it was
only when they encountered each other
unexpectedly round sharp corners that
he- ever betrayed the slightest alarm.
So now, while Smith slept on the
grass, Mr. Bennett reclined in the
chair. It was the nearest thing mod
ern civilization had seen to the lion
iying down with the lamb.
“Sketching?” said Mr. Bennett.
“Yes,” said Billie, for there were no
secrets between this girl and her fa
ther. At least, not many. She occa
sionally omitted to tell him some such
trifle as that she hud met Samuel Mar
lowe on the previous morning in a
leafy lane, and intended to meet him
again this afternoon, but apart from
that her mind was an open book.
“It’s a great morning.” said Mr. Ben
nett.
“So peaceful," said Billie.
“The eggs you get in the country in
England,” said Air. Bennett, suddenly
striking a lyrical note, “are extraordi
nary. I had three for breakfast this
morning which defied competition,
simply defied competition. They were
large and brown, and as fresh as new
mown hay,!”.
He mused for n while In a sort of
ecstasy.
“And the hams!” he went on. “The
ham I had for breakfast was what I
call hqra! 1 don’t know when I’ve had
ham like that. I suppose it’s some
thing they feed the pigs.” he conclud
ed. in soft meditation. And he gave a
little sigh. Life was very beautiful.
Silence fell, broken only by the snor
ing of Smith. Billie was thinking of
Sam, and of what Sam had said to
her in the lane yesterday; of his
clean-cut face, and the look in his eyes
—so vastly superior to any look that
ever came into the eyes of Bream Mor
timer. She was telling herself that
her relations with Sain were an idyll;
for, being young and romantic, she en
joyed tills freshet of surreptitious
meetings which had come to enliven
the stream of her life. It was pleas
ant to go warily into deep lanes where
forbidden love lurked. She cast a swift
side glance at her father—the uncon
scious ogre in her fairy story. What
would he say if he knew? But Air.
Bennett did not know, and consequent
ly continued to meditate peacefully on
ham.
They had sat like this for perhaps a
minute—two happy mortals lulled by
the gentle beauty of the day—when
from the window of the drawing room
there stepped out a white-capped maid.
And one may Just as well say at once
an 3 have done with it —that this is
the point where the quiet, peaceful
scene in domestic life terminates with
a jerk, and pity and terror resume
work at the old stand.
The maid —her name, not that it
matters, was Susan, and she was en
gaged to he married, though the point
Is of no importance, to the second as
sistani at Green’s grocery stores In
Windleliurst— approached Air. Ben
nett.
“Please, sir, a gentleman to see
vou.”
“Eh?" said Mr. Bennett, torn from a
dream of large pink slices edged with
bread-crumbed fat. “Eh?”
“A gentleman to see you. sir. in
the drawing room. He says you are
expecting him.
••Of course, yes. To be sure."
Mr Bennett heaved himself out of
the deck-chair. Beyond the French
windows ne could see au lndlstinetf
form in a gray suit, nnd remembered
that this was the morning on which
Sir Mallaby Marlowe’s clerk—who was
taking those Schultz and Bowen pa
pers for him to America —had written
that lie would call. Today was Fri
day; no doubt the man was sailing
from Southampton tomorrow.
He crossed the lawn, entered the
drawing room, and found Mr. Johu Pe
ters with an expression on his 111-fa
vored face, which looked like one of
consternation, of uneasiness, even of
alarm.
"Morning. Mr. Peters,” said Mr. Ben
nett. “Very good of you to run down.
Take a seat, and I’ll Just go through
the few uotes I have made about the
matter.”
“Mr. Bennett," exclaimed John Pe
ters. “May—may I speak?”
"What do you mean? Eh? What?
Something to say? Wlmi is it?”
Air. Peters cleared his throat awk
wardly. lie was feeling embarrassed
at the unpleasantness of the duty
which he had to perform, but It was
a duty, and he did not intend to shrink
from performing It. Ever since, gazing
appreciatively through the drawing
room windows at tlie charming scene
outside, he bad caught sight of the un
forgettable form of Billie, seated In
her chair with the sketching block on
her knee, lie had realized that he could
not go away In silence, leaving Mr.
Bennett ignorant of what he was up
against
One almost inclines to fnney that
there must have been n curse of some
kind on this house of Windles. Cer
tainly everybody wlio entered it
seemed to leave his pence of mind be
hind him. John Peters had been feel
ing notably happy during his journey
in the train from London, nnd the sub
sequent walk from the station. The
splendor of the morning had soothed
his nerves, and the faint wind that
blew inshore from the sen spoke to
him hearteningly of adventure nnd ro
mance. There was a jar of pot-pourri
on the drawing-room table, nnd lie had
derived considerable pleasure from
sniffing at it. In short. John Peters
was in the pink, without n care In the
world, until lie had looked out of the
window nnd seen Billie.
“Mr. Bennett,” lie said, “1 don’t
want to do anybody any harm, nnd, If
you know all about It, and she suits
you, well and good; but I think It is
my duty to Inform you that your
stenographer Is not quite right In the
head. I don’t say she’s dangerous,
but she isn’t compos. She decidedly U
not compos, Mr. Bennett!”
Mr. Bennett stared at his well-wish
er dumbly for a moment. The thought
crossed his mind that, if ever there
was a case of the pot calling the kettle
black, this was it. His opinion of
John Peters’ sanity went down to zero.
“What are you talking about? My
stenographer? What stenographer?"
It occurred to Mr. Peters that a man
of the other’s wealth and business con
nections might well have a troupe of
these useful females. He particular
ized.
“I mean the young lady out in the
garden there, to whom you were dic
tating just now. The young lady with
the writing-pad on her knee."
“What! What!” Mr. Bennett splut
tered. “Do you know who that Is?”
he explained.
“Oh. yes. indeed!” said John Peters
“I have only met her once, when she
came Into our office to see Air. Samuel,
but her personality nnd appearance
stamped themselves so forcibly on my
mind, that I know l am not mistaken.
I am sure It Is my duty to tell you ex
actly what happened when I was left
alone with her In the oflice. We hnd
hardly exchanged a dozen words. Mr.
Bennett when—" here John Peters,
modest to the core, turned vividly
pink, “when she told me —she told me
that I was the only man she loved!”
Mr. Bennett uttered a lopd cry.
“Sweet spirits of nitre!"
Mr. Peters could make nothing ot
tills exclamation, and he was deterred
from seeking light, by tlie sudden ac
tion of his host, who, bounding from
his sent, with a vivacity of which ono
could not have believed him capable,
charged to the French window and
emitted a bellow.
“Wilhelmina!”
Billie looked up from her sketching
book with a start. It seemed to her
thnt there was a note of anguish, of
panic In thnt voice. What her father
could have found in the drawing room
to be frightened at. she did not know;
byt she dropped her block and hurried
to his assistance.
“What Is it, father?"
(TO BIT CONTINUED.*
Impossible.
They say Americans don’t make
good waiters. They simply can’t look
hnmhle In the presence of a clerk
playing a duke on Saturday night.—
Duluth Herald.
View Circus Secretly.
Mohammedan. Hindustan and Ben
gnl women view the circus from a sec
tion that is partitioned off with cheese
doth, which allows them to see with
out being seen.
Profanity.
“Profanity shows a lack of courage, -
said Uncle Eben. “A man wouldn’t
dare talk de wny he does to a mule If
de mule could understand ’em."
LIFE’S | JT
LITTLE j|
JESTS
WILLING SACRIFICE
“Mamma,” said little Elsie, “I cE
wish I had some money to give you
for the poor children.”
Her mother, wishing to tench her
the lesson of self-sacrifice, said; "Very
well, dear; if you would like to go
without sugar for a week I’ll give you
the money instead, and then you will
have some."
The little one considered solemnly
for a moment and then said: "Must
it be sugar, mamma?”
“Why, no, darling, not necessarily.
What would you like to do without?”
“Soap, mamma,” was Elsie’s answer.
—Boston Transcript.
Wasting Money.
Hi Snodgrass (wrought up)—Yep,
Jim, here I goes an’ buys a. steamship
ticket for my son Tom to South Amer
ica, lie goes aboard, the ship goes
under an’ he drowns.
Jim Peters—Ain’t It terrible!
Hi Snodgrass Yep, money Just
thrown right out o’ the window.
No Way Out for Him.
Doctor —That’s a bad razor out in
your head, Hast us. Why don’t you
profit by tiiis lesson and keep out of
bad company?
Uastus —Aii would, doctah, but ah
ain’t got no money to get er divorce.—
Mfe.
THE CRYING NEED
The Speaker—Our population has
decreased! The crying'need of this
community is—
Voice in Itehr--Alore babies, old topi
Heard on the Highway.
The burdens will be lighter
And all the work well done,
If you make the country brighter
liy following the Sun.
Almost Too Hard.
“So your daughter's married, I hem.
I expect you found It very hard to
part with her." 1
“Hard! I should think so. Between
you and me, my.boy, I began to think
it was impossible!”—Alnwick Guard
ian.
It’s Come to This.
“What a perfectly adorable lint
you've got. on, dear?”
‘•lsn’t It sweet? Cook’s just’ given
me it for a birthday present, as it’s
too shabby for her to wear.” ' '
Big Time.
Mr. Jackson— What you all tote sect
n big watch fo’?
Mr. Johnson—Cause I’se an Impor
tant man an’ iny time is valuable.
Her Only Hope.
“Miss Oldun clings to tlie Idea that
marriages are made in heaven.”
“Well, It must be comforting to her.
She hasn’t much chance down here.”
STILL FAT
Wfr|
“Has your sister's horseback riding
reduced her weight?”
“Can’t say it lias. Site's fallen off
a good deal, but is still fat.”
According to History.
“When Caesar crossed the Rubicon,
It looks to me,” writes Dennett,
“As though he klnda double-crossed
That bunch, the Roman senate.”
Kid Working Ahead Too Fast.
Visitor—Have you started to teach
the little one to talk?
Father -Yes, we’ve started to teach
Him to be silent.
Justice.
Composer—Ah, how pathetic. How
those old songs do haunt me!
Gert —Why shouldn’t they? You’ve
dug up some old ones.