Once Aboard the Lugger Part 81

My Mary's golden head, my George's head of brown, pressed and nudged as with bulging eyes they read the crisp, telling paragraphs that followed in a column of leaded type.

Readers of the _Daily_, it appeared, would be astonished to learn that the abduction of Mr. Marrapit's famous cat, the Rose of Sharon-- concerning the recovery of which all hope had now been abandoned--had been followed by a similar outrage of a nature even more sensational, more daring.

Mr. Vivian Howard, the famous author and dramatist, whose new novel, "Amy Martin," _Daily_ readers need not be reminded, was to start in the _Daily_ as a feuilleton on Monday week, had been robbed of his famous cat "Abis.h.a.g the Shunamite."

The whole reading public were well aware of Mr. Howard's devotion to this valuable pet. Scarcely a portrait of Mr. Howard was extant that did not show Abis.h.a.g the Shunamite by his side.

It was a melancholy coincidence that in the interview granted to the _Daily_ by Mr. Howard last Sat.u.r.day he had told that Abis.h.a.g had sat upon his table while every single word of the ma.n.u.script of "Amy Martin" was penned. He had admitted that she was his mascot. Without her presence he could not compose a line. _Daily_ readers would imagine, then, Mr. Howard's prostration at his appalling loss.

The occurrence had taken place on Monday night. As _Daily_ readers were well aware, Mr. Howard had for some weeks been staying at the house of his widowed mother in Suss.e.x Gardens. Nightly at nine it had been his custom to stroll round the gardens before settling down for three hours' work upon "Amy Martin." During his stroll Abis.h.a.g would slip into the gardens, meeting her master upon his completion of the circuit.

According to this practice, Mr. Howard, on Monday night, had followed his usual custom. He believed he might possibly have walked a little slower than usual as he was pondering deeply over his final revise of the proof of "Amy Martin." Otherwise his programme was identical with its usual performance. But upon his return the cat was not to be found.

Theories, suggestions, investigations that had already been made, followed. The _Daily_ abundantly proved that the cat had not strayed but had been deliberately stolen by someone well acquainted with Mr.

Howard's nightly promenade; pointed out that this second outrage showed that no one possessing a valuable cat was safe from the machinations of a desperate gang; asked, Where are the police? and concluded with the pica sub-head:

"DAILY" OFFER.

The _Daily,_ it appeared, on behalf of the whole reading public of Great Britain, the Colonies, America, and the many Continental countries into whose tongues Mr. Howard's novels had been translated, offered 500 pounds to the person who would return, or secure the return of, Abis.h.a.g the Shunamite, and thus restore peace to the heart of England's premier novelist, whose new story, "Amy Martin," would start in the _Daily_ on Monday week.

A sketch-map of Suss.e.x Gardens, ent.i.tled "Scene of the Outrage,"

showed, by means of dotted lines, (A) Route taken by Mr. Vivian Howard; (B) Route into Gardens taken by cat; (C) Supposed route taken by thief.

Mr. Henry T. Bitt had achieved a mammoth splash.

IV.

The golden head and the head of brown lifted simultaneously from the paper; stared towards Bill, pacing, smoking.

Tremendous possibilities flickered in George's mind; made his voice husky. "Bill," he asked, "do you believe that cat is this Abis.h.a.g-- Vivian Howard's Abis.h.a.g?"

Bill nodded absently. This man's thoughts were afar--revolving this situation he had named "licker." "Look at the description," he said.

"Look at the cat. It knows its name, doesn't it? I've seen a life-size painting of Abis.h.a.g. It's a cert."

George dropped upon the sofa; his thoughts, too, rushed afar.

Tremendous possibilities danced a wild jig in his Mary's pretty head; trembled her voice. "Oh, Mr. Wyvern!" she appealed, "what does it mean? What does it mean--for us?"

"It's a licker," Bill told her. "It's a fair licker."

Mary dropped by her George's side; to his her thoughts rushed.

Presently Bill threw away his cigarette; faced George. He said slowly: "Mrs. Major must have stolen this cat, George. But how did she get it?

She's been at Herons' Holt the last week."

Mary gave a little jump. "Oh, Mr. Wyvern, she went up to town on Monday till Tuesday."

Bill struck a hand upon the table. "That fixes it. By gum, that fixes it! I tell you what it is, George. I tell you what it is. I believe-- yes, I believe she'd seen this cat before, knew it was like the Rose, and meant to have palmed it off on old Marrapit herself so as to get him to take her back. Margaret told me all about her getting the sack.

I bet my life that's it. By gum, _what_ a splash for the _Daily!_" And upon this fine thought the young man stood with sparkling eyes.

George timidly touched the castles he had been building: "Bill, where do I--where do Mary and I come in?"

Bill clapped his hands together. "Why, my good old buck, don't you see?-don't you realise?-you get this L500. Just do you, eh?"

_"Runnygate!"_ George burst out with a violent jerk; clasped his Mary in an immense hug.

_"Runnygate!"_ came thickly from his Mary, face squashed against this splendid fellow.

When they unlocked my blus.h.i.+ng Mary suddenly paled: "Oh, but you, Mr.

Wyvern--you found it really."

"Not much," Bill declared. "Not likely. You found it. I couldn't have the reward, anyway. I'm one of the staff." He repeated the fine words: "One of the _staff_."

She made to thank him. "Besides," he interrupted her, "I'll make a lot out of it. I'm doing awfully well. The chief was awfully pleased with the way I ran that Rose of Sharon job. Of course this is twice as big a splash, because Vivian Howard's mixed up in it. Look what a boost it is for our new serial--look what a tremendous ad. it is for the paper! Directly Howard came to us the editor dropped the Rose like a hot coal; plumped for this and put me in charge. Now I've pulled it off, just think how bucked up he'll be! It's a licker, George--a licker all round."

"Bill," George said, "I can't speak about it. My head's whirling. I believe it's a dream."

Indeed this George had rushed through so much in the past hours, was now suddenly come upon so much, that the excitement, as he attempted realisation, was of stunning effect. He sat white, head in hands.

"Jolly soon show you!" Bill cried. "Come to the office straight away.

Bring the cat. I was to meet the chief and Vivian Howard there at twelve."

George sprang to his feet; ruddy again of face. "Come on!" he cried.

"Bill, if it isn't his Abis.h.a.g, if there's any hitch, I'll--I'll--oh, Mary, don't build too highly on this, old girl!"

"Shall I come, Georgie?"

George hesitated. "Better not. Better not, if you don't mind. I couldn't bear to see your face if Vivian Howard says it isn't the cat."

White-faced, between tears and smiles, his Mary waved from the window as George, cat under arm, turned the corner with Bill.

CHAPTER IX

Excursions In A Newspaper Office.

I.

Silent, white and stern of face, occupied with immense thoughts, the young men sat as the cab they had found outside Battersea Park station sped them towards Fleet Street.

They were upon the Embankment, rattling beneath Hungerford Bridge, when from the tangle of his plans Bill at last drew a thread; weaved it to words. "George, we mustn't tell the chief anything about your being mixed up with the other cat outrage--the Rose. It might be awkward."