Miss Violet Burrows, alias Sarde, widlet. Her point of view was: "Once a lady, always cautious." Miss Violet loved herself, which is the true economy of the heart. She had the sense to chuck Joe Chambers, cowboy (four hundred eighty dollars a year and board), in favor of Inspector Sarde (twelve hundred dollars a year, all found, and a social position). Since the one died and the other cheated, she had a ridiculous tenderness toward a common policeman (two hundred thirty-seven dollars and twenty-five cents a year at current rating, less fines, plus board, waster, no social position). Even had she known about my marquisate, that, after all, was only a foreign title, old, worn out—a mere nothing compared with the brand-new knighthood of Sir Augustus Rams of Clapham Junction, for which no less than fifty thousand dollars had just been paid, cash down. After all, business is business, and money talks.
It is true that Joe, Sarde, Rams & Company were sporadic as flies to a spider, whereas I was chronic. It is true that the American, the Canadian and the Englishman were insipid compared with the Spaniard. They alighted with a bang, whereas I only hovered, then fluttered off to take my toll elsewhere. In my broad track, I left the women bewildered and rather cross, because I did not get them into all the trouble they wanted. So while Miss Violet's business principles would always devote her to Rams in business hours, her relaxation was to dream of me. She meant to marry Rams, but feared and hoped I would run away with her. When we arrived, she was effusive to Rams, and cut me. She tumbled all over Rams and bored him. What he wanted was supper, and that right early. He said so, and Uncle Loco bundled her into the kitchen. So when I had stabled Black Prince and Gentle Annie, I found Miss Violet, and kissed her all over for a matter of twenty minutes, while the coffee boiled over, the bacon went to cinders and the beans burned—just good enough for Rams.
Loco was entertaining quality in the parlor, and somehow reminded his weary guest of a Clapham gent, Old Cheese, who always treacled his trousers to keep off mice.
"As an original inventor," said Loco, with an elevated manner and a nasal intonation, tapping his celluloid dicky, "I share the glorious fate of Galileo, Faraday, and John Keeley of Philadelphia: contempt, disparagement, starvation—ah, here comes supper—while we live, and after a death from want—Let me help you to beans, Mr. Rams—the commemorative statue—and some bacon, Mr. Rams—the applause of nations! Ah, I see you've laid two places, Violet. But I have supped. Humbly but sufficiently I have supped. Take these away. Remove these, my dear."
With a clatter of Mexican spurs on the floor, I rolled in from the kitchen for my supper.
"Ah, Constable," said Loco, "I had—at least, I guess my niece reserved some supper for you in the kitchen."
"I only looked in, Burrows," said I, "to tell Rams here to water and feed the horses. I'm spending the night with friends."
"Ah, at the 'Tough Nut,'" Loco beamed with relief. "Most welcome there, I'm sure."
His bald head, as he sat there, was quite irresistible, so I applied a spoonful of mustard and a sprinkling of pepper to the shiny surface. Then, leaving the three freaks to their entertainment, I went out to the stable.
In a sudden passion of blind rage, Miss Violet was calling her uncle a damned fool.