“What I propose to do,” grinned Jack, “is to take him round to Mrs. Postwhistle’s. She’s under a sort of obligation to me. It was I who got her the post office. We’ll leave him there for a night, with instructions to Mrs. P. to keep a motherly eye on him. To-morrow he shall have his ‘bit of fun,’ and I guess he’ll be the first to get tired of the joke.”
It looked a promising plot. Seven members of the Autolycus Club gallantly undertook to accompany “Miss Bulstrode” to her lodgings. Jack Herring excited jealousy by securing the privilege of carrying her reticule. “Miss Bulstrode” was given to understand that anything any of the seven could do for her, each and every would be delighted to do, if only for the sake of her brother, one of the dearest boys that ever breathed—a bit of an ass, though that, of course, he could not help. “Miss Bulstrode” was not as grateful as perhaps she should have been. Her idea still was that if one of them would lend her a couple of sovereigns, the rest need not worry themselves further. This, purely in her own interests, they declined to do. She had suffered one extensive robbery that day already, as Jack reminded her. London was a city of danger to the young and inexperienced. Far better that they should watch over her and provide for her simple wants. Painful as it was to refuse a lady, a beloved companion’s sister’s welfare was yet dearer to them. “Miss Bulstrode’s” only desire was not to waste their time. Jack Herring’s opinion was that there existed no true Englishman who would grudge time spent upon succouring a beautiful maiden in distress.
Arrived at the little grocer’s shop in Rolls Court, Jack Herring drew Mrs. Postwhistle aside.
“She’s the sister of a very dear friend of ours,” explained Jack Herring.
“A fine-looking girl,” commented Mrs. Postwhistle.
“I shall be round again in the morning. Don’t let her out of your sight, and, above all, don’t lend her any money,” directed Jack Herring.
“I understand,” replied Mrs. Postwhistle.
“Miss Bulstrode” having despatched an excellent supper of cold mutton and bottled beer, leant back in her chair and crossed her legs.
“I have often wondered,” remarked Miss Bulstrode, her eyes fixed upon the ceiling, “what a cigarette would taste like.”
“Taste nasty, I should say, the first time,” thought Mrs. Postwhistle, who was knitting.