Jonah and Co.

by Dornford Yates

CHAPTER XI

HOW BERRY PUT OFF HIS MANHOOD, AND ADÈLE SHOWED A FAIR PAIR OF HEELS

But for Susan, I should not have seen the Château, and, but for the merest accident, we should not have revisited Gavarnie. And that would have been a great shame.

It was the day before we were spared this lasting reproach that my brother-in-law stood stiffly before a pier-glass in his wife's bed-chamber. Deliberately Berry surveyed himself.

We stood about him with twitching lips, not daring to trust our tones.

At length—

"But what a dream!" said my brother-in-law. "What an exquisite, pluperfect dream!" Jill shut her eyes and began to shake with laughter. "I suppose it was made to be worn, or d'you think someone did it for a bet? 'A Gentleman of the Court of Louis XIV.' Well, I suppose a French firm ought to know. Only, if they're right, I don't wonder there was a revolution. No self-respecting nation could hold up its head with a lot of wasters shuffling about Versailles with the seats of their breeches beginning under their hocks. That one sleeve is three inches shorter than the other and that the coat would comfortably fit a Boy Scout, I pass over. Those features might be attributed to the dictates of fashion. But I find it hard to believe that even in that fantastic age a waistcoat like a loose cover ever really obtained."

Adèle sank into a chair and covered her eyes.

With an effort I mastered my voice.

"I think, perhaps," I ventured, "if you wore them for an hour or two, they might—might shake down. You see," I continued hurriedly, "you're not accustomed——"

"Brother," said Berry gravely, "you've got it in one. I'm not accustomed to wearing garments such as these. I confess I feel strange in them. Most people who are not deformed would. If I hadn't got any thighs, if my stomach measurement was four times that of my chest, and I'd only one arm, they'd be just about right. As it is, short of mutilation——"

"Can't you brace up the breeches a little higher?" said Daphne.

"No, I can't," snapped her husband. "As it is, my feet are nearly off the ground."

Seated upon the bed, Jonah rolled over upon his side and gave himself up to a convulsion of silent mirth.

"The sleeves and the waistcoat," continued my sister, "are nothing.
Adèle and I can easily alter them. What worries me is the breeches."

"They'd worry you a damned sight more if you had 'em on," said Berry. "And if you think I'm going to wear this little song-without-words, even as amended by you and Adèle, you're simply unplaced. To say I wouldn't be seen dead in it conveys nothing at all."

"My dear boy," purred Daphne, "be reasonable. It's far too late to get hold of anything else: it's the ball of the season, and fancy dress is de rigueur. I'm sure if you would only brace up——"

With an unearthly shriek, Berry collapsed in my arms.

"Take her away!" he roared. "Take her away before I offer her violence. Explain my anatomy. Tell her I've got a trunk. Conceal nothing. Only…."

Amid the explosion of pent-up laughter, the rest of the sentence was lost.

As soon as we could speak coherently, we endeavoured to smooth him down.

At length—

"It's transparently plain," said Jonah, "that that dress is out of the question." Here he took out his watch. "Let's see. It's now three o'clock. That gives us just seven hours to conceive and execute some other confection. It shouldn't be difficult."

"Now you're talking," said Berry. "I know. I'll go as a mahout. Now, that's easy. Six feet of butter muslin, four pennyworth of woad, and a harpoon. And we can lock the elephant's switch and park him in the rhododendrons."

"Why," said Jonah, "shouldn't you go as Mr. Sycamore Tight? You're not unlike him, and the excitement would be intense."

After a little discussion we turned the suggestion down.

For all that, it was not without merit.

Mr. Sycamore Tight was wanted—wanted badly. There was a price upon his head. Two days after he had landed in France, a large American bank had discovered good reason to believe that Mr. Tight had personally depleted its funds to the tune of over a million.

Daily, for the last four days, the gentleman's photograph had appeared in every French paper, illustrating a succinct and compelling advertisement, which included a short summary of his characteristics and announced the offer of a reward of fifty thousand francs for such information as should lead to his arrest.

The French know the value of money.

If the interest excited at Pau was any criterion, every French soul in
France went about his business with bulging eyes. Indeed, if Mr.
Sycamore Tight were yet in the country, there was little doubt in most
minds that his days were numbered.

"No," said Berry. "It's very nice to think that I look so much like the brute, but I doubt if a check suit quite so startling as that he seems to have affected could be procured in time. Shall I go as Marat—on his way to the bath-room? With a night-shirt, a flannel, and a leer, I should be practically there. Oh, and a box of matches to light the geyser with."

"I suppose," said Daphne, "you wouldn't go as a clown? Adèle and I could do that easily. The dress is nothing."

"Is it, indeed?" said her husband. "Well, that would be simplicity itself, wouldn't it? A trifle classical, perhaps, but most arresting. What a scene there'd be when I took off my overcoat. 'Melancholy' would be almost as artless. I could wear a worried look, and there you are."

"Could he go as a friar?" said Jill. "You know. Like a monk, only not so gloomy. We ought to be able to get a robe easily. And, if we couldn't get sandals, he could go barefoot."

"That's right," said Berry. "Don't mind me. You just fix everything up, and tell me in time to change. Oh, and you might write down a few crisp blessings. I shall get tired of saying 'Pax vobiscum' when anyone kicks my feet."

"I tell you what," said Adèle. "Would you go as 'a flapper'?"

"A what?" said my brother-in-law.

"'A twentieth-century miss,'" said Adèle. "'The golf girl,' if you like. Daphne and I can fit you out, and you can wear your own shoes. As for a wig—any coiffeur'll do. A nice fluffy bobbed one would be best—the same shade as your moustache."

Instinctively none of us spoke.

The idea was so admirable—the result would be so triumphant, that we hardly dared to breathe lest Berry should stamp upon our hopes.

For one full slow-treading minute he fingered his chin….

Then he wrinkled his nose.

"Not 'The Golf Girl,'" he said. "That's much too pert. I couldn't deliver the goods. No. I must go as something more luscious. What about 'The Queen of the May'?"

* * * * *

At twenty-five minutes to ten that evening I was writing a note, and wondering, while I did so, whether the original 'Incroyables' ever sat down.

I had just decided that, rather than continually risk dislocation of the knee, they probably either reclined or leaned against pillars when fatigued, when something impelled me to glance over my shoulder.

Framed in the doorway was standing Berry.

A frock of pale pink georgette, with long bell-shaped sleeves and a black velvet girdle knotted at one side, fitted him seemingly like a glove. A large Leghorn hat, its black velvet streamers fastened beneath his chin, heavily weighted with a full-blown rose over one eye, threatened to hide his rebellious mop of hair. White silk stockings and a pair of ordinary pumps completed his attire. A miniature apron, bearing the stencilled legend 'AN ENGLISH ROSE' upon its muslin, left no doubt about his identity.

Beneath my gaze he looked down and simpered, swinging his bead bag ridiculously.

I leaned back in my chair and began to laugh like a madman. Then I remembered my knee-caps, and got up and leaned against the wall, whence I could see him better.

As if his appearance alone were not enough, he spoke in an absurd falsetto.

"No, I'm not supposed to be out till after Easter. But don't let that stop you. I mean—you know I do say such dreadful things, and all the time…. Father always calls me a tom-cat—I mean, tom-boy, but I don't care. Haven't you any sisters? What not even a 'step'? Oh, but what luck—I mean, I think we'll sit this one out, shall I? I know a lovely place—in the inspection pit. I often go and sit there when I want to have a good fruity drink—I mean, think. I always think it's so wonderful to look up and see the gear-box, and the differential, and the dear old engine-shield and feel you're alone with them all—absolutely alone…."

The tempestuous arrival of Adèle, looking sweet as "Pierrette," and
Jonah in the traditional garb of "Harlequin," cut short the soliloquy…

It was ere the two had recovered from their first paroxysm of laughter that Berry minced to the fireplace and, with the coyest of pecks, rang the electric bell.

A moment later Falcon entered the room.

My brother-in-law laughed and looked down, fingering his dress.

"Oh, Falcon," he said archly, "about to-morrow. I don't know whether
Mrs. Pleydell's told you, but there'll be four extra to lunch."

I have seen Falcon's eyes twinkle, and I have seen his mouth work—times without number. I have seen him thrust a decanter upon the sideboard and disappear shaking from the apartment. But never before have I seen his self-control crumple as a ripped balloon.

For a second he stared at the speaker.

Then he flung us one desperate, appealing glance, emitted a short wail, and, looking exactly as if he was about to burst into tears, clapped both hands to his mouth and made a rush for the door.

As he reached it, a little Dutch Jill danced into the room, looking adorable.

Use holds.

Falcon straightened his back, stepped to one side, and bowed his apologies. The temporary check, however, was his undoing. As Jill flashed by, he turned his face to the wall and sobbed like a child….

When Daphne made her appearance, amazingly beautiful as 'Jehane Saint-Pol,' we climbed into the cars and slipped down the sober drive into the fragrant dalliance of an April night.

* * * * *

The ball was over.

It would have been a success any way, but from the moment that Berry had, upon arrival, been directed to the ladies' cloak-room, its enduring fame had been assured.

When, with my wife and sister, reluctant and protesting, upon either arm, he erupted into the ballroom, giggling excitedly and crying "Votes for Women!" in a shrill treble, even the band broke down, so that the music died an untimely and tuneless death. When he danced a Tango with me, wearing throughout an exalted expression of ineffable bliss and introducing a bewildering variety of unexpected halts, crouchings and saggings of the knees—when, in the midst of an interval, he came flying to Daphne, calling her "Mother," insisting that he had been insulted, demanding to be taken home forthwith, and finally burying his face in her shoulder and bursting into tears—when, during supper, with a becoming diffidence, he took his stand upon a chair and said a few words about his nursing experiences in Mesopotamia and spoke with emotion of the happy hours he had spent as a Sergeant-Minor of the Women Police—then it became manifest that my brother-in-law's construction of the laws of hospitality had set up such a new record of generosity as few, if any, of those present would ever see broken.

"… Oh, and the flies, you know. The way they flew. Oh, it was dreadful. And, of course, no lipstick would stick. My dears, I was simply terrified to look in the biscuit box. And then we had to wash in bits—so embarrassing. Talk about divisional reserve…. And they were so strict with it all. Only ten little minutes late on parade, and you got it where auntie wore the gew-gaws. I lost my temper once. To be sworn at like a golf-sphere, just because one day I couldn't find my Poudre d'Amour…. And, when he'd quite finished, the Colonel asked me what powder was for. I just looked round and gave him some of his own back. 'To dam your pores with,' I said…."

It was past three o'clock before our departure was sped.

Comfortably weary, we reached our own villa's door to make the grisly discovery that no one had remembered the key….

There was no knocker: a feeble electric bell signalled out distress to a deserted basement: the servants were asleep upon the second floor.

After we had all reviled Berry and, in return, been denounced as 'a gang of mut-jawed smoke-stacks,' accused of 'blasphemy' and compared to 'jackals and vultures about a weary bull,' we began to shout and throw stones at the second-floor windows. Perhaps because their shutters were closed, our labour was lost.

To complete our disgust, for some mysterious reason Nobby refused to bark and so sound the alarm. In the ordinary way the Sealyham was used to give tongue—whatever the hour and no matter what indignation he might excite—upon the slightest provocation. This morning we perambulated the curtilage of the villa, alternately yelling like demoniacs and mewing like cats, without the slightest result.

Eventually it was decided that one of us must effect an entrance by climbing on to the balcony of my sister's room….

Jonah had a game leg: the inflexibility of my pantaloons put any acrobatics out of the question: Berry's action, at any rate, was more than usually unrestricted. Moreover, it was Berry whom we had expected to produce the key.

It became necessary to elaborate these simple facts, and to indicate most definitely the moral which they were pointing, before my brother-in-law was able to grasp the one or to appreciate the other. And when it had been, as they say, borne in upon him that he was for the high jump, another ten minutes were wasted while he made one final, frantic, solitary endeavour to attract the servants' attention. His feminine personality discarded, he raved about the house, barking, screeching and braying to beat the band; he thundered upon the door with his fists; he flung much of the drive in the direction of the second floor. Finally, when we were weak with laughter, he sat down upon the steps, expressed his great satisfaction at the reception of his efforts to amuse, and assured us that his death-agony, which we should shortly witness, would be still more diverting.

By now it was a quarter to four, and, so soon as Jonah and I could control our emotion, we took our deliverer by the arms and showed him 'the best way up.'

He listened attentively.

At length—

"Thanks very much," he said weakly. "Let's just go over it again, shall I? Just to be sure I've got it cold. First, I swarm up that pillar. Good. I may say I never have swarmed. I never knew anybody did swarm, except bees or people coming out of a football match. Never mind. Then I get hold of the gutter and draw myself up with my hands, while continuing to swarm with my legs. If—if the gutter will stand my weight…. Of course, that's easily ascertained. I just try it. If it will, it does. If it won't, I should like a penny-in-the-slot machine erected in my memory outside the English Club. Yes, I've got that. Well, if it will, I work—I think you said 'work'—round until I can reach the down-pipe. The drain—down-pipe will enable me to get my feet into the gutter. Sounds all right, doesn't it? 'The drain-pipe will enable.' A cryptic phrase. Quite the Brigade-Office touch. Where were we? Oh, yes. The drain-pipe having enabled me, etc., I just fall forward on to the tiles, when my hands will encounter and grasp the balustrade. Then I climb over and pat Nobby. Yes, except for the cesspool—I mean the drain-pipe—interlude, it's too easy."

We helped him off with his coat….

We watched his reduction of the pillar with trembling lips; we heard his commentary upon gutters and those who make them with shaking shoulders; but it was when, with one foot in the air and the other wedged behind the down-pipe, the English Rose spoke of the uncertainty of life and inquired if we believed in Hell—when, after an exhausting and finally successful effort to get his left knee into the gutter, he first knelt upon a spare tile to his wounding and then found that his right foot was inextricably wedged between the down-pipe and the wall—when, as a result of his struggles, a section of the down-pipe came away in his hand, so that he was left clinging to the gutter with one foot in the air and twelve feet of piping swaying in his arms—then our control gave way and we let ourselves run before a tempest of Homeric laughter. We clasped one another; we leaned against walls; we stamped upon the ground; we fought for breath; tears streamed from our eyes. All the time, in a loud militant voice, Berry spoke of building and architects and mountain goats, of France and of the French, of incitement to suicide, of inquests and the law, of skunks and leprosy, and finally of his descent….

When we told him tearfully to drop, he let out the laugh of a maniac.

"Yes," he said uncertainly. "To tell you hell-hounds the truth, that solution had already occurred to me. It's been occurring to me vividly ever since I began. But I'm against it. It isn't that I'm afraid, but I want something more difficult. Oh, and don't say, 'Work round the gutter,' first, because it's bad English, and, secondly, because no man born of woman could 'work round' this razor-edged conduit with a hundredweight of drain-pipe round his neck. What I want is a definite instruction which is neither murderous nor futile. Burn it, you handed me enough slush when I was rising. Why the hell can't you slobber out something to help me down?"

By the time his descent was accomplished, it was past four o'clock—summer time—and there was a pale cast about the sweet moonlight that told of the coming of another dawn.

"I say," said Jill suddenly, "don't let's go to bed."

"No, don't let's," said Berry, with a hysterical laugh. "Let's—let's absolutely refuse."

Jill went on breathlessly—

"Let's go for a run towards Lourdes and see the sun rise over the mountains."

Our first impulse was to denounce the idea. Upon examination, however, its hidden value emerged.

We were sick and tired of trying to wake the servants; to effect an entrance was seemingly out of the question; to spend another two hours wandering about the garden or wooing slumber in the cars was not at all to our liking.

Finally, we decided that, since we should be back before the world proper was astir, our appearance, if it was noticed at all, would but afford a few peasants an experience which they could relate with relish for many years, and that, since the sky was cloudless, so convenient an occasion of observing a very famous effect should not be rejected.

Five minutes later Ping and Pong slid silently under the Pont Oscar II. and so down a winding hill, out of the sleeping town and on to the Bizanos road.

Our headlights were powerful, the road was not too bad, and the world was empty…

I let Jonah, who was leading, get well away, and then gave the car her head.

Well as we knew it, our way seemed unfamiliar.

We saw the countryside as through a glass darkly. A shadowy file of poplars, a grey promise of meadowland, a sable thicket, far in the distance a great blurred mass rearing a sombre head, a chain of silent villages seemingly twined about our road, and once in a long while the broad, brave flash of laughing water—these and their ghostly like made up our changing neighbourhood. Then came a link in the chain that even Wizard Night could not transfigure—sweet, storied Coarraze, fencing our way with its peculiar pride of church and state; three miles ahead, hoary Bétharram, defender of the faith, lent us its famous bridge—at the toll of a break-neck turn, of which no manner of moonshine can cheat the memory.

We were nearing Lourdes now, but there was no sign of Jonah. I began to wonder whether my cousin was faring farther afield….

It was so.

Lourdes is a gate-house of the Pyrenees; it was clear that my sister and cousins had threaded its echoing porch. Their way was good enough for us. We swung to the right, dived into and out of the sleeping town, and flung up the pale, thin road that heads for Spain….

It was when we had slipped through Argelès, and Jonah was still before us, that we knew that if we would catch him we must climb to Gavarnie.

The daylight was waxing now, and when we came to Pierrefitte I switched off the lights.

There is a gorge in the mountains some seven miles long. It is, I think, Nature's boudoir. Its tall, steep walls are hung with foliage—a trembling, precious arras, which spring will so emblazon with her spruce heraldry that every blowing rod breathes a refreshing madrigal. Its floor is a busy torrent—fretting its everlasting way by wet, grey rocks, the vivid green of ferns, and now and again a little patch of greensward—a tender lawn for baby elves to play on. Here is a green shelf, ladies, stuck all with cowslips; and there, another—radiant with peering daffodils. In this recess sweet violets grow. Look at that royal gallery; it is fraught with crocuses—laden with purple and gold. Gentians and buttercups, too, have their own nurseries. But one thing more—this gorge is full of fountains. They are its especial glory. All the beauty in the world of falling water is here exhibited. Tremendous falls go thundering: long, slender tresses of water plunge from a dizzy height, lose by the way their symmetry, presently vanish into sparkling smoke; cascades, with a delicate flourish, leap from ledge to ledge; stout heads of crystal well bubbling out of Earth; elegant springs flash musically into their brimming basins of the living rock. The mistress of this shining court is very beautiful. A bank is overhanging a little bow-shaped dell, as the eaves of an old house lean out to shelter half a pavement. As eaves, too, are thatched, so the brown bank is clad with emerald moss. From the edge of the moss dangles a silver fringe. Each gleaming, twisted cord of it hangs separate and distinct, save when a breath of wind plaits two or three into a transient tassel. The fringe is the waterfall.

Enchanted with such a fairyland, we lingered so long over our passage that we only reached Gavarnie with a handful of moments to spare.

As we had expected, here were the others, a little apart from the car, their eyes lifted to the ethereal terraces of the majestic Cirque.

The East was afire with splendour. All the blue dome of sky was blushing. Only the Earth was dull.

Suddenly the topmost turret of the frozen battlements burst into rosy flame….

One by tremendous one we saw the high places of the world suffer their King's salute. Little wonder that, witnessing so sublime a ceremony, we forgot all Time….

The sudden clack of shutters flung back against a wall brought us to earth with a jar.

We turned in the direction of the noise.

From the window of a cottage some seventy paces away a woman was regarding us steadily….

We re-entered the cars with more precipitation than dignity.

A glance at the clock in the dashboard made my heart sink.

A quarter past six—summer time.

It was clear that Gavarnie was lazy. Argelès, Lourdes, and the rest must be already bustling. Long ere we could reach Pau, the business of town and country would be in full swing….

The same reflection, I imagine, had bitten Jonah, for, as I let in the clutch, Ping swept past us and whipped into the village with a low snarl.

Fast as we went, we never saw him again that memorable morning. Jonah must have gone like the wind.

As for us, we wasted no time.

We leapt through the village, dropped down the curling pass, snarled through Saint-Sauveur, left Luz staring, and sailed into Argelès as it was striking seven.

From Argelès to Lourdes is over eight miles. It was when we had covered exactly four of these in six minutes that the engine stuttered, sighed, and then just fainted away.

We had run out of petrol.

This was annoying, but not a serious matter, for there was a can on the step. The two gallons it was containing would easily bring us to Pau.

What was much more annoying and of considerable moment was that the can, when examined, proved to be dry as a bone.

After a moment's consideration of the unsavoury prospect, so suddenly unveiled, I straightened my back, pushed my ridiculous hat to the nape of my neck, and took out a cigarette-case.

Adèle and Berry stared.

"That's right," said the latter bitterly. "Take your blinking time.
Why don't you sit down on the bank and put your feet up?"

I felt for a match.

Finger to lip, Adèle leaned forward.

"For Heaven's sake," she cried, "don't say there's none in the can!"

"My darling," said I, "you've spoken the naked truth."

There was a long silence. The gush of a neighbouring spring was suggesting a simple peace we could not share.

Suddenly—

"Help!" shrieked the English Rose. "Help! I'm being compromised."

So soon as we could induce him to hold his tongue, a council was held.

Presently it was decided that I must return to Argelès, if possible, procure a car, and bring some petrol back as fast as I could. Already the day was growing extremely hot, and, unless I encountered a driver who would give me a lift, it seemed unlikely that I should be back within an hour and a half.

We had, of course, no hope of salvation. Help that arrived now would be too late. Lourdes would be teeming. The trivial round of Pau would be in full blast. The possible passage of another car would spare us—me particularly—some ignominy, but that was all.

It was arranged that, should a car appear after I had passed out of sight, the driver should be accosted, haply deprived of petrol, and certainly dispatched in my pursuit.

Finally we closed Pong, and, feeling extremely self-conscious and unpleasantly hot, I buttoned my overcoat about me and set out for Argelès.

The memory of that walk will stay with me till I die.

If, a few hours before, I had been satisfied that 'Incroyables' seldom sat down, I was soon in possession of most convincing evidence that, come what might, they never did more than stroll. The pantaloons, indeed, curtailed every pace I took. It also became painfully obvious that their 'foot-joy' was intended for use only upon tiled pavements or parquet, and since the surface of the road to Argelès was bearing a closer resemblance to the bed of a torrent, I suffered accordingly. What service their headgear in any conceivable circumstances could have rendered, I cannot pretend to say. As a protection from the rays of the sun, it was singularly futile….

Had I been wearing flannels, I should have been sweltering in a quarter of an hour. Dressed as I was, I was streaming with honest sweat in less than five minutes…. Before I had covered half a mile I tore off my overcoat and flung it behind a wall.

My reception at the first hamlet I reached was hardly promising.

The honour of appreciating my presence before anyone else fell to a pair of bullocks attached to a wain piled high with wood and proceeding slowly in the direction of Lourdes.

Had they perceived an apparition shaking a bloody goad, they could not have acted with more concerted or devastating rapidity.

In the twinkling of an eye they had made a complete volte-face, the waggon was lying on its side across the fairway, and its burden of logs had been distributed with a dull crash upon about a square perch of cobbles.

Had I announced my coming by tuck of drum, I could not have attracted more instant and faithful attention.

Before the explosion of agony with which the driver—till then walking, as usual, some thirty paces in rear—had greeted the catastrophe, had turned into a roaring torrent of abuse, every man, woman, and child within earshot came clattering upon the scene.

For a moment, standing to one side beneath the shelter of a flight of steps, I escaped notice. It was at least appropriate that the luckless waggoner should have been the first to perceive me….

At the actual moment of observation he was at once indicating the disposition of his wood with a gesture charged with the savage despair of a barbaric age and letting out a screech which threatened to curdle the blood.

The gesture collapsed. The screech died on his lips.

With dropped jaw and bulging eyes, the fellow backed to the wall….
When I stepped forward, he put the waggon between us.

I never remember so poignant a silence.

Beneath the merciless scrutiny of those forty pairs of eyes I seemed to touch the very bottom of abashment.

Then I lifted my ridiculous hat and cleared my throat.

"Good day," I said cheerfully, speaking in French. "I'm on my way back from a ball—a fancy-dress ball—and my car has run out of petrol. I want to hire a cart to go to Argelès."

If I had said I wanted to hire a steam-yacht, my simple statement could not have been more apathetically received….

Happily, for some unobvious reason, no one seemed to associate me with the bullocks' waywardness, but it took me ten minutes' cajolery to elicit the address of a peasant who might hire me a cart.

At last I was told his lodging and pointed the way.

Such direction proved supererogatory, first, because we all moved off together, and, secondly, because it subsequently transpired that the gentleman whom I was seeking was already present. But that is France.

Upon arrival at his house my friend stepped out of the ruck and, with the utmost composure, asked if it was true that I was desiring to be driven to Argelès. Controlling my indignation, I replied with equal gravity that such was my urgent ambition. Taking a wrist-watch from my pocket, I added that upon reaching a garage at Argelès, I would deduct the time we had taken from half an hour and cheerfully give him a franc for every minute that was left.

I can only suppose that so novel a method of payment aroused his suspicion.

Be that as it may, with an apologetic bow, the fellow requested to see the colour of my money.

Then and then only did I remember that I had not a brass farthing upon my person.

What was worse, I felt pretty sure that Adèle and Berry were equally penniless…

My exit from that village I try to forget.

I found that the waters of humiliation were deeper than I could have believed. They seemed, in fact, bottomless.

It is, perhaps, unnecessary to say that I returned by the way I had come. I had had enough of the road to Argelès. My one idea was to rejoin Adèle and Berry and to sit down in the car. Mentally and physically I was weary to death. I craved to set my back against the buttress of company in this misfortune, and I was mad to sit down. Compared with standing any longer upon my feet, the contingency of dislocation became positively attractive….

The first thing that met my eyes, as I limped round the last of the bends, was the bonnet of a dilapidated touring car.

I could have thrown up my rotten hat.

A few feet further from Lourdes than Pong himself was an aged grey French car. Standing in the white road between the two was a strapping figure in pale pink georgette and a large Leghorn hat, apparently arguing with three blue-covered mechanics. From Pong's off-side window the conical hat and extravagant ruff of 'Pierrette' were protruding excitedly.

My companions' relief to see me again was unfeigned.

As I came up, Adèle gave a whimper of delight, and a moment later she was pouring her tale into my ears.

"You hadn't been gone long when these people came by. We stopped them, of course, and——"

"One moment," said I. "Have they got any petrol?"

"Listen," said Berry. "Four bidons of what they had are in our tank. It was when they were in, that we found we hadn't a bean. That didn't matter. The gents were perfectly happy to take my address. A pencil was produced—we had nothing, of course—and I started to write it all down on the edge of yesterday's Le Temps. They all looked over my shoulder. As I was writing, I felt their manner change. I stopped and looked round. The fools were staring at me as if I were risen from the dead. That mayn't surprise you, but it did me, because we'd got through that phase. For a moment we looked at one another. Then one picked up the paper and took off his hat. 'It is unnecessary,' he said, 'for Monsieur to give us his name. We know it perfectly.' The others nodded agreement. I tell you, I thought they'd gone mad…."

He pushed his hat back from his eyes and sat down on the step.

"But—but what's the trouble?" I gasped.

Berry threw out his hands.

"Haven't you got it?" he said. "They think I'm Sycamore Tight."

* * * * *

I soon perceived the vanity of argument.

With my brother-in-law in the hand and fifty thousand francs in the bush, the three mechanics were inexorable.

They accepted my statements; they saw my point of view; they uncovered; they bowed; they laughed when I laughed; they admitted the possibility, nay, likelihood of a mistake; they deplored the inconvenience we were suffering. But, politely and firmly, they insisted that Berry should enter their car and accompany them to Lourdes.

That this their demand should be met was not to be thought of.

Adèle and I could not desert Berry; from the police at Lourdes nothing was to be expected but suspicion, hostility, and maddeningly officious delays; Berry's eventual release would only be obtained at a cost of such publicity as made my head swim.

Any idea of force was out of the question. But for the presence of my wife, we would have done what we could. With Adèle in our care, however, we could not afford to fail, and—they were three to two.

I racked my brain desperately….

Presently one of the trio lugged out a watch. When he showed his fellows the hour, they flung up their arms. A moment later they were clearing for action.

Le Temps was carefully folded and stuffed out of sight. Berry was informed, with a bow, that, so soon as their car was turned round, they would be ready to leave. The slightest of the three stepped to the starting-handle…

The next moment, with a deafening roar, their engine was under way.

I was standing with my hand upon our off hind wing, and as the driver ran to his throttle, I felt a steady tremor.

Under cover of the other car's roar, Adèle had started Pong's engine.

What was a great deal more, she had given me my cue.

I thought like lightning.

There was not a moment to lose. Already the driver was in his seat and fumbling with his gear-lever….

As slowly as I dared, I strolled to the off-side door.

Adèle's and my eyes met.

"When you hear me say, 'Look'," I said.

With the faintest smile, 'Pierrette' stared through the wind-screen….

I returned to the rear of the car.

The way we were using was narrow, but fifty paces away in the direction of Argelès was a track which left our road to lead to a farm. For this spot the driver was making. There he would be able to turn with the acme of ease.

His two companions were standing close to Berry.

As luck would have it, the latter was standing with his back to our car, perhaps a foot from the tail-lamp.

Not one of the three, I fancy, had any idea that our engine was running.

I addressed the mechanics in French.

"I have been talking with Madame, and, tired as she is, she agrees that it will be best if we follow you to Lourdes. Please don't go too fast when you get to the town, or we shall lose our way."

As they assured me of their service, I turned to Berry, as though to translate what I had said.

"There are two steps to the dickey. The lower one is two paces to your right and one to your rear. It is not meant for a seat, but it will do. Throw your arm round the spare wheels and sit tight."

Berry shrugged his shoulders.

A glance up the road showed me the other car being turned into the track.

I crossed to the near side of Pong and stooped as though to examine the exhaust. The two mechanics were watching me….

With the tail of my eye I saw Berry glance behind him, sink down upon the step, drop his head miserably into the crook of his arm, and set that arm upon the spare wheels.

Suddenly I straightened my back, glanced past the two warders, and flung out a pointing arm.

"Look!" I shouted, and stepped on to the running-board.

As I spoke, Adèle let in the clutch….

It was really too easy.

By the time our two friends had decided to turn and inquire what had excited my remark, we were ten paces away and gathering speed…

Of course they ran after us, yelling like men possessed.

That was but human.

Then they recovered their wits and raced for their car.

I cried to Berry to sit tight, and opened the door….

"Is he on?" said Adèle, as I took my seat by her side.

I nodded.

"As soon as we're far enough on, we must take him inside. He ought to be safe enough, but I'll bet he's blessing his petticoats. As for you, sweetheart, I don't know which is the finer—your nerve or your wit."

A cool hand stole into mine.

Then—

"But we're not there yet," said Adèle.

This was unhappily true.

Pong was the faster car, and Adèle was already going the deuce of a pace. But there was traffic to come, and two level crossings lay between us and Lourdes.

I turned and looked out of the glass in the back of the hood. The English Rose had thrust herself inelegantly on to the petrol tank. Her right foot was jammed against a wing, so that her shapely leg acted as a brace: her arms clasped the two spare wheels convulsively: her head was thrown back, and her lips were moving…. Of our pursuers there was no sign. That moment we had rounded a bend, but when a moment later we rounded another they were still out of sight.

I began to wonder whether it was safe to stop and take Berry inboard….

Then the Klaxon belched, and a cry from Adèle made me turn.

Two hundred yards ahead was a flock of sheep—all over the road.

We had to slow down to a pace which jabbed at my nerves.

I did not know what to do.

I did not know whether to seize the chance and take Berry inside, or whether to put the obstacle between Pong and the terror behind, and I felt I must look at the sheep.

The speedometer dropped to twenty … to fifteen … to ten….

Then the tires tore at the road, and we practically stopped.

Adèle changed into second speed.

I opened the door instantly, only to see that to collect Berry now was out of the question. The sheep were all round us—like a flood—lapping our sides.

Adèle changed into first.

I was physically afraid to look behind.

The next moment we were through.

We stormed round a curve to see a level crossing a quarter of a mile ahead.

The gates were shut.

Adèle gave a cry of despair.

"Oh, Boy, we're done!"

"Not yet," said I, opening the door again. "Go right up to them, lass.
At least, it'll give us a chance to get Berry inside."

We stopped with a jerk three feet from the rails.

As I ran for the gate, I glanced over my shoulder.

"Now's your chance!" I shouted. "Get…"

I never completed the sentence.

The English Rose was gone.

I stopped still in my tracks.

Then I rushed back to the car.

"He's gone!" I cried. "We've dropped him! Quick! Reverse up the way we've come, for all you're worth."

Adèle backed the car with the speed and skill of a professional. I stood on the running-board, straining my eyes….

The next moment a dilapidated touring car tore round the bend we were approaching and leapt towards us.

It passed us with locked wheels, rocking to glory.

At a nod from me, Adèle threw out the clutch…

As the mechanics came up—

"I'm sorry, Messieurs," I said, "but I fear you've passed him. No, he's not here. Pray look in the car…. Quite satisfied? Good. Yes, we dropped him a long way back. We thought it wiser."

With that I wished them 'Good day,' and climbed into our car.

"But what shall we do?" said Adèle.

"Get home," said I, "as quick as ever we can. So long as we stay hereabouts, those fellows'll stick to us like glue. We must go and get help and come back. Berry'll hide somewhere where he can watch the road."

As we passed over the level crossing, I looked behind.

The dilapidated grey car was being turned round feverishly.

* * * * *

Forty-five minutes later we sped up the shadowy drive and stopped by our own front door.

'Pierrette' switched off the engine and sat looking miserably before her.

"I wish," she said slowly, "I wish you'd let me go with you. I did hate leaving him so, and I'd feel——"

With a hand on the door, I touched her pale cheek.

"My darling," said I, "you've done more than your bit—far more, and you're going straight to bed. As for leaving him—well, you know how much I liked it, but I know when I'm done."

"'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone…."

Delivered with obvious emotion in a muffled baritone voice, Moore's famous words seemed to come from beneath us.

Adèle and I stared at one another with starting eyes….

Then I fell out of the car and clawed at the flap of the dickey….

My hands were trembling, but I had it open at last.

Her head pillowed upon a spare tube, the ruin of 'An English Rose' regarded me coyly.

"I think you might have knocked," she said, simpering. "Supposing I'd been en deshabille!"