She knelt down by the nearest hamper, and cut the cord that fastened it. A pug jumped out like a jack-in-the-box, and rushed to the water. Sylvia continued her work of mercy, and by the time the colonel had recovered sufficiently to be able to express his views in English, eighteen more pugs had joined their companion.
“Get out, you brute!” shouted the colonel, as a dog insinuated itself between his legs. “Sylvia, put them back again this minute! You had no business to let them out. Put them back!”
“But I can’t, papa. I can’t catch them.”
She looked helplessly from him to the seething mass of dogs, and back again.
“Where’s my gun?” began the colonel.
“Papa, don’t! You couldn’t be so cruel! They aren’t doing any harm, poor things!”
“If I knew who sent them–-“
“Perhaps there’s something to show. Yes; here’s a visiting-card in this hamper.”
“Whose is it?” bellowed the colonel through the din.
“J. D’Arcy Henderson, The Firs,” read Sylvia, at the top of her voice.
“Young blackguard!” bawled the colonel.
“I expect there’s one in each of the hampers. Yes; here’s another. W. K. Ross, The Elms.”
The colonel came across, and began to examine the hampers with his own hand. Each hamper contained a visiting-card, and each card bore the name of a neighbour. The colonel returned to the breakfast-room, and laid the nineteen cards out in a row on the table.
“H’m!” he said, at last. “Mr. Reginald Dallas does not seem to be represented.”
Sylvia said nothing.
“No; he seems not to be represented. I did not give him credit for so much sense.” Then he dropped the subject, and breakfast proceeded in silence.
A young gentleman met the colonel on his walk that morning.
“Morning, colonel!” said he.
“Good-morning!” said the colonel grimly.
“Er—colonel, I—er—suppose Miss Reynolds got that dog all right?”
“To which dog do you refer?”
“It was a pug, you know. It ought to have arrived by this time.”
“Yes. I am inclined to think it has. Had it any special characteristics?”
“No, I don’t think so. Just an ordinary pug.”
“Well, young man, if you will go to my coachhouse, you will find nineteen ordinary pugs; and if you would kindly select your beast, and shoot it, I should be much obliged.”
“Nineteen?” said the other, in astonishment. “Why, are you setting up as a dog-fancier in your old age, colonel?”
This was too much for the colonel. He exploded.
“Old age! Confound your impudence! Dog-fancier! No, sir! I have not become a dog-fancier in what you are pleased to call my old age! But while there is no law to prevent a lot of dashed young puppies like yourself, sir—like yourself—sending your confounded pug-dogs to my daughter, who ought to have known better than to have let them out of their dashed hampers, I have no defence.
“Dog-fancier! Gad! Unless those dogs are removed by this time tomorrow, sir, they will go straight to the Battersea Home, where I devoutly trust they will poison them. Here are the cards of the other gentlemen who were kind enough to think that I might wish to set up for a dog-fancier in my old age. Perhaps you will kindly return them to their owners, and tell them what I have just said.” And he strode off, leaving the young man in a species of trance.
“Sylvia!” said the colonel, on arriving home.
“Yes, papa.”
“Do you still want to marry that Dallas fellow? Now, for Heaven’s sake, don’t start crying! Goodness knows I’ve been worried enough this morning without that. Please answer a plain question in a fairly sane manner. Do you, or do you not?”
“Of course I do, papa.”
“Then you may. He’s the furthest from being a fool of any of the young puppies who live about here, and he knows one end of a gun from the other. I’ll write to him now.”
“Dear Dallas” (wrote the colonel),—”I find, on consideration, that you are the only sensible person in the neighbourhood. I hope you will come to lunch to-day. And if you still want to marry my daughter, you may.”
To which Dallas replied by return of messenger:
“Thanks for both invitations. I will.”
An hour later he arrived in person, and the course of true love pulled itself together, and began to run smooth again.
TOM, DICK, AND HARRY
This story will interest and amuse all cricketers, and while from the male point of view it may serve as a good illustration of the fickleness of woman and the impossibility of forecasting what course she will take, the fair sex will find in it an equally shining proof of the colossal vanity of man.
“It’s like this.”
Tom Ellison sat down on the bed, and paused.
“Whack it out,” said Dick Henley encouragingly.
“We’re all friends here, and the password’s ‘Portland.’ What’s the matter?”
“I hate talking to a man when he’s shaving. I don’t want to have you cutting your head off.”
“Don’t worry about me. This is a safety razor. And, anyhow, what’s the excitement? Going to make my flesh creep?”
Tom Ellison kicked uncomfortably at the chair he was trying to balance on one leg.
“It’s so hard to explain.”
“Have a dash at it.”
“Well, look here, Dick, we’ve always been pals. What?”
“Of course we have.”
“We went to the Empire last Boatrace night together–-“
“And got chucked out simultaneously.”
“In fact, we’ve always been pals. What?”
“Of course we have.”
“Then, whenever there was a rag on, and a bonner in the quad, you always knew you could help yourself to my chairs.”
“You had the run of mine.”
“We’ve shared each other’s baccy.”
“And whisky.”
“In short, we’ve always been pals. What?”
“Of course we have.”
“Then,” said Tom Ellison, “what are you trying to cut me out for?”
“Cut you out?”
“You know what I mean. What do you think I came here for? To play cricket? Rot! I’d much rather have gone on tour with the Authentics. I came here to propose to Dolly Burn.”
Dick Henley frowned.
“I wish you’d speak of her as Miss Burn,” he said austerely.
“There you are, you see,” said Tom with sombre triumph; “you oughtn’t to have noticed a thing like that. It oughtn’t to matter to you what I call her. I always think of her as Dolly.”
“You’ve no right to.”
“I shall have soon.”
“I’ll bet you won’t.”
“How much?”
“Ten to one in anything.”
“Done,” said Tom. “I mean,” he added hastily, “don’t be a fool. There are some things one can’t bet on. As you ought to have known,” he said primly.
“Now, look here,” said Dick, “this thing has got to be settled. You say I’m trying to cut you out. I like that! We may fairly describe that as rich. As if my love were the same sort of passing fancy that yours is. You know you fall in love, as you call it, with every girl you meet.”
“I don’t.”
“Very well. If the subject is painful we won’t discuss it. Still, how about that girl you used to rave about last summer? Ethel Something?”
Tom blushed.
“A mere platonic friendship. We both collected autographs. And, if it comes to that, how about Dora Thingummy? You had enough to say about her last winter.”
Dick reddened.
“We were on good terms. Nothing more. She always sliced with her brassy. So did I. It formed a sort of bond.”
There was a pause.
“After all,” resumed Dick, “I don’t see the point of all this. Why rake up the past? You aren’t writing my life.”
“You started raking.”
“Well, to drop that, what do you propose to do about this? You’re a good chap, Tom, when you aren’t making an ass of yourself; but I’m hanged if I’m going to have you interfering between me and Dolly.”