“Now, Hal,” called out Max imperatively, “you’re a good hand at a lively ditty—let’s have ‘The Boys of England’ without ado. I’ll give you your key.”
And Max, not entirely unappreciative of his position, started the first verse of the latest popular melody—a “patriotic” song, reeking of battle, and defiance, and general jingoism. Hal caught up the air, and Max subsided until the correct moment, when he demanded a “jolly good chorus”.
The song ended, Hal retired to his seat amid loud plaudits, and Max racked his brains for ideas. His glance was on an old clock ticking on the mantel-shelf. A quarter to eight! Another half-hour and he surely might reckon safely on his father’s return home as an accomplished fact.
“And then,” concluded the boy in rapid thought, “if he hadn’t got to Baker’s cottage, I could fetch him before Joe had done any harm. I’m sure that stout chap would keep him here a bit if I asked him. The thing is, to hold on a while, and then leave this lively crew in first-rate temper.”
Max made the best of matters, and, following impulse, addressed the company.
“That was a right good song, men, and we’re all obliged to Hal for it. Aren’t we? Yes, that’s the way to say ‘Thank you’. Well now, what for a change before I go? If you like, I’ll tell you a story I read somewhere the other day. It’s not long, and it’s no end exciting.”
Max told his story accordingly; and if he were at first gratified by comparative silence and a fair amount of attention from his rough audience, he was none the less aware of a beating heart as he approached his climax. For Max’s tale was a true one, and its chief incident—exciting, as he had promised—was the rescue of an injured wife from her husband’s brutality by a band of chivalrous and pitiful rustics. Max almost held his breath as he concluded. He had played for high stakes, and might have lost everything.
When the boy’s voice ceased, there was absolute silence; his hearers had been following him closely. Suddenly Baker started from his corner with a savage growl.
“’E’s lettin’ on at me, that’s wot ’e is! Do you ’ear me, I say? ’E’s told that ’ere story agin me; and ’anged if I don’t take it out o’ ’im instead o’ Bell! No! I’ll git ’im first, an’ Bell arter!”
Baker threw himself furiously towards the table, where Max stood, quiet and watchful. He knew that he would be helpless in Joe’s clutches, if no one took his part.