The Long Trick Part 12

"Is she unhappy about anything?" pursued James. "Has Armitage been making love to her? I know he used to follow her about like a sick dog, but I didn't know it upset her."

Sir William smiled. "No," he said, "I shouldn't have said so either.

But I don't claim any profound insight into the feminine mind. All I know is that she looks rather pale, and she has grown uncommonly quiet.

At times she has restless moods of rather forced gaiety. But the reason for it all, I'm afraid, is beyond me."

"Do you remember d'Auvergne?" asked his nephew suddenly. "Podgie d'Auvergne. He spent a summer leave with us once, and he used to come up to town a good deal from Whale Island when he was there. Do you think Cecily is in love with him?"

"Bless me," said Sir William helplessly, "I don't know. I never remember her saying so. Do you think that would account for--for her present mood? Women are such curious beings----"

"I know he's fearfully gone on her," said James, "but he lost a foot early in the war. He hasn't been near her since."

"Why not?" asked the Scientist vaguely.

"Oh, because--because he's fearfully sensitive about it. And he's frightfully in love with her. You see, a thing like that tells enormously when a fellow's in love."

"Does it?" enquired Sir William. "Well, granted that your theory is correct, I fail to see what I am to do. I can't kidnap this young man and carry him to my house like the alien visitor you once brought to disturb my peaceful slumbers."

"Ah," said James, "Crabpots!" He chuckled retrospectively.

"If he has really developed a neurotic view of his injury, as you imply,"

continued the older man, "it's no use my inviting him, because he would only refuse to come."

"You'll have to work it somehow," replied his nephew. "Sea voyages aren't safe enough just now--we'd never forgive ourselves if we let Cecily go and anything happened to her--or Podgie either," he added grimly.

By twos and threes the members of the Mess had risen from the table and drifted into the ante-room to play bridge, or to their cabins, there to write letters, read, or occupy themselves in wood-carving and kindred pursuits. At a small table in the comer of the long Mess the officers of the Second Dog Watch had finished a belated meal, and were yarning in low voices over their port.

James and his uncle alone remained seated at the long table.

"Well," said the former, "let's move on, Uncle Bill. Would you like a rubber of bridge?"

"I can play bridge in London," replied his guest, rising. "No, Jim, I think I'd like to take this opportunity of paying a visit to the Gunroom.

When you are my age you'll find a peculiar fascination about youth and its affairs. Do you think they'd object to my intrusion?"

"They'd be awfully bucked," said James. "Come along." As they pa.s.sed out of the door they met the Marine postman entering with his arms full of letters and papers. "Hullo," he continued, "here's the mail--you'll see a Gunroom devouring its letters: rather like a visit to the Zoo about feeding-time!"

They came to the door of the Gunroom, and James, opening it, motioned his guest to enter. One end of the table resembled a bee swarm: a babel of voices sounded as those nearest the pile of letters shouted the names of the addressees and tossed the missives back over their heads.

The two men stood smiling and un.o.bserved in the doorway until the distribution was complete. Then they were seen, and the Sub advanced to extend the hospitality of his realm.

"Kedgeree," said James, "this is my uncle. He's getting bored with the Wardroom and I've brought him along here." The Sub laughingly shook hands, and the inmates in his immediate vicinity gathered round with the polite air of a community of whom something startling was expected.

"Won't you sit down, sir?" asked one, drawing forward the battered wicker arm-chair. "It's all right as long as you don't lean back--but if you do we must prop it against the table." He suited the action to the words, and the guest sat down rather gingerly.

"Won't you have something to drink?" queried Kedgeree. "Whisky and soda or something?"

Sir William smilingly declined.

"Would you care to hear the gramophone?" queried the champion of that particular form of entertainment. "We've got some perfectly priceless George Robey ones--have you ever heard 'What there was, was Good?'" He moved towards the instrument.

"Never," said Sir William, taking advantage of the support afforded by the table and leaning back, "but nothing would give me greater pleasure."

The disk had no sooner commenced to revolve when Lettigne advanced with a soda-water bottle, a corkscrew and half a lemon, collected at random from the sideboard.

"I don't know if you like watching a bit of juggling," he said shyly, and began to throw into the air and catch his miscellany, while the trumpet of the gramophone proclaimed that "What there was, was Good," in stentorian, brazen shouts.

Sir William screwed his eyegla.s.s tighter into his eye. "Remarkable!" he said warmly. "A remarkably deft performance! Capital! Capital!"

The Gunroom eyed one another anxiously. It was only a question of moments before the perspiring Bosh smashed something; the gramophone record was palpably cracked; their powers of entertainment were rapidly reaching their climax. Then came a diversion. The door opened and the Mids.h.i.+pman of the Watch entered.

"The Flags.h.i.+p's barge has called for you, sir," he said.

The gramophone stopped as if by magic, and the overheated juggler caught and retained the soda-water bottle, the corkscrew and the half lemon with a gasp of relief.

Sir William rose regretfully and held out his hand. "I have to thank you all for a very delightful quarter of an hour," he said, smiling, and took his departure amid polite murmurs of farewell, followed by James. Proof of his appreciation of the entertainment reached them a week later in the form of an enormous plum cake, and was followed thereafter at regular intervals by similar bounty.

Lettigne sat down and wiped his forehead. "Phew!" he said when the door had closed behind the visitors. "Who was that old comic? I didn't catch his name."

"Sir William Thorogood," replied another. "He's full of grey-matter."

He tapped his forehead, and stepping across to the common bookshelf indicated the back of a text book on advanced mechanics. "That's one of his little efforts," he said.

Lettigne followed the other's finger. "Good night!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.

"Have I been giving a display of my unequalled talents for the benefit of the man who has caused me more sleepless nights than Euclid himself?

Here is poor old George Robey been shouting himself hoa.r.s.e too----"

"And I haven't even looked at my mail yet," said Harcourt, drawing an unopened letter from his pocket. He slit the envelope and sat down in the vacated arm-chair. It was from his sister at school in Eastbourne, and enclosed another written in a vaguely familiar hand. Boy like he read the enclosure first:

DEAR FATHER [it ran],--I have just put my name down for the boxing champions.h.i.+p, and I'll do my best to win, because I know how awfully keen you are. All the same, I think it's a pity you took up that bet with Harcourt's father at the club. He probably can afford to lose and you can't. There are lots of things that Mother wants that ten pounds would buy. Besides, Harcourt is my best friend, and if we both get into the finals it would be beastly and like fighting for money. I wish you hadn't told me. I must end now. With love to Mother and d.i.c.k. In haste. Your loving son,

BILLY.

Harcourt, grown suddenly rather pale, picked up his sister's letter and read with puzzled brows:

DEAR HARRY,--When I opened your last letter I found the enclosed. It had evidently been put in by mistake, because the envelope was in your handwriting. I am sending it back....

Harcourt pursed up his lips into a whistling shape and refolded the enclosure. It was in Mordaunt's handwriting. But how did it get into the envelope he himself had addressed to his sister?

At that moment Mordaunt came across the mess holding out a letter.

"Harcourt," he said, "my father has just sent me this letter. Isn't it your handwriting?"

Harcourt took the sheet of paper and glanced at it. "Yes," he said, "it's one I wrote to my sister for her birthday. And here's one that she has just sent back to me. Is it yours by any chance?"

He carelessly extended the folded missive, and summoning all his self-possession, looked his friend in the eyes and smiled wanly. "I've only just read my sister's letter," he went on. "She seemed rather puzzled..."

Mordaunt took the proffered letter and nodded. "Yes," he said, "it's mine." He, too, paled a little. "I think I know what's happened. Do you remember that sc.r.a.p just as we were finis.h.i.+ng our letters the other night? Bosh pulled the table-cloth down and capsized everything. Our letters got mixed up, and we must have addressed each other's envelopes."