“Finest creel this year, sir,” said the steward, admiringly.
The Major grew purple; the Colonel carefully remeasured the largest fish.
“Twenty-one inches, steward!” he said. “Wasn’t my big fish of last Thursday twenty-two?”
“Nineteen, sir,” said the steward, promptly.
“Then it shrank like the devil!” said the Colonel. “By gad! it must have shrunk in the creel!”
But Langham was in no mood to savor his triumph. He climbed the stairs wearily, leaving little puddles of water on each step, slopped down the hallway, entered his room, and sank into a chair, too weary, too sad even to think.
Presently he lighted his lamp. He dressed with his usual attention to detail, and touched the electric button above his bed.
“I’m going to-morrow morning,” he said to the servant who came; “return in an hour and pack my traps.”
Langham sat down. He had no inclination for dinner. With his chin propped on his clinched hands he sat there thinking. A sound fell on his ear, the closing of a door at the end of the hall, the padded pattering of a dog’s feet, a scratching, a whine.
He opened his door; the bull-terrier trotted in and stood before him in silence. His Highness held in his mouth a letter.