A Knight on Wheels Part 51

Any doubts as to Miss Matterson's ability to escape from her present predicament were at once set at rest. With a few convulsive wriggles she succeeded in getting her lips to the horse-whistle which hung round her neck.

"Thank Heaven, we can't hear her!" said Mr. Mablethorpe to his wife, as the lady's cheeks distended themselves in a resounding blast.

Next moment the door was kicked down, and Maimie's performing horse entered the room and pawed the floor politely. Sylvia clapped her hands.

"I knew it!" remarked Mr. Mablethorpe resignedly.

In obedience to a frenzied signal from his mistress the sagacious animal first proceeded to operate the lever in the middle of the floor, pulling it back (presumably) to safety. This feat accomplished, he set to work, amid thunders of applause, to unpick with his teeth the knots which kept Maimie Matterson bound to the table. He was rewarded for his gallantry by being promptly mounted and ridden at full gallop across a heartbreaking line of country, apparently for a distance of about twenty miles.

Then for the last time the scene changed to the railway track. The train, which had covered quite two hundred yards in the last quarter of an hour, was now close to the post, and Mexican Steve and his friends were crouching by the line armed with six-shooters. Above their heads the signal-arm still stood at danger. Suddenly it dropped.

_"Who did that?"_

inquired an indignant line of print.

"That was the dear horse!" replied Sylvia triumphantly.

The train, which had been exhibiting signs of indecision, suddenly quickened its pace and shot past, to the discomfiture of the desperadoes, who childishly fired a volley at the wheels. Next moment an armed band, headed by the Sheriff and Miss Maimie Matterson,--they must have covered forty miles in something like fifteen seconds,--dashed out of an adjacent wood. After a perfunctory struggle the incompetent criminals were duly taken into custody and marched off by their captors.

The Sheriff, having got rid of his posse, seized the opportunity to indulge in an exchange of tender endearments with Miss Matterson.

_"We will find the preacher-man, right now!"_

he declared.

Miss Matterson's reply was not recorded in print, but to judge from the last few yards of the film, it was of an encouraging nature.

As the Sheriff's arms closed round the unresisting form of his athletic bride, Philip was conscious of a gentle movement beside him. Then a small, warm, gloved hand was slipped into his own in the darkness. He made no sign: he merely allowed the hand to rest where it lay. Presently it was withdrawn as softly as it came. It was a brief, almost momentary episode, but it settled the course of Philip's life for him.

The lights went up; a blurred and bearded figure was thrown upon the screen; and the band, rising to its feet, offered a hurried tribute of loyalty.

"Supper?" suggested Mr. Mablethorpe to the company in general.

"You must all be my guests to-night," said Philip. "I may not have another opportunity."

At supper he told them that he was going to America for a year at least.

"I presume," said Mr. Mablethorpe, as they sat alone together after Sylvia and her mother had gone to bed, "that when you do return from your travels we must not expect to see--quite so much of you as. .h.i.therto?"

"No, I think not," replied Philip. Then he added awkwardly, "You understand the situation?"

Julius Mablethorpe nodded.

"Yes," he said, "I do, and I know you are right. There is a power of difference between giving one's best and one's second best. You can't compromise over the really big things of life: with them it must be everything or nothing. You are doing the right thing. But we shall miss you, my son Philip,--all of us!"

So our knight rode away, exceeding sorrowful. His departure was mourned by many, notably one,--but not by Mr. Derek Rayner.

CHAPTER XXVIII

A BRAND FROM THE BURNING

THE liner Bosphorus, after a comfortable nap of some eight days in the Mersey, was making a reluctant effort to tear herself from the land of her birth and face an unfriendly ocean upon her seventy-eighth voyage to New York. Motive power for the time being was supplied by four fussy tugboats, three of which were endeavouring to speed the parting guest by valiant pushings in the neighbourhood of her rudder, while the fourth initiated a turning movement at her starboard bow. An occasional rumble from the engine-room announced that the tugs would soon have no excuse for further officiousness.

The cabin pa.s.sengers were leaning over the rails of the upper deck, surveying the busy landing-stage. They were chiefly males--their wives were down below, engaged in the unprofitable task of endeavouring to intimidate stewardesses--and were for the most part Americans. Philip stood apart, watching the variegated farewells of the crowd.

The etiquette of valediction at the sailing of a great ship varies with the three cla.s.ses of pa.s.senger. The friends of cabin pa.s.sengers accept a final drink, say good-bye, leave the ship, and are no more seen. The friends and relations of the second cla.s.s--and they are _all_ there--line up along the landing-stage and maintain a running fire of chaff and invective until the ship has been warped out into the stream and the engines begin to run. The steerage and their friends, being mainly aliens and knowing no better, weep and howl.

Philip knew that the second-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers were on the deck below him; but as he could not see them (though he could hear them) his attention wandered to the throng which was engaging them in conversation. They were of many types. There were people who shouted cheerfully, "Well, send us a line when you get there!" and then, after a laborious attempt to discover another topic, cried despairingly, "Well, don't forget to write!" And so on. "Give my love to Milly when you see her," commanded a stout matron in bugles, "and say I hope her cold is better."

Farther along, a girl with tears raining down her cheeks was more than holding her own in an exchange of biting personalities with a grimy gentleman at a porthole--apparently her _fiance_--whom she had come to see off. A comic man, mistaking a blast upon the siren for a definite indication that the moment of departure had arrived, took out a dirty pocket-handkerchief and wept loudly, periodically squeezing the handkerchief dry and beginning again. But it was a false alarm: the ship did not move; and his performance, which was to have been the crowning effort of a strenuously humorous morning, continued perforce to halt lamely along for another ten minutes. Finally, in response to an urgent appeal from a matter-of-fact lady friend that he would not act the goat, the unfortunate gentleman, submitting to the fate of all those whose enterprises are born out of due time, put his handkerchief sheepishly in his pocket and took no further part in the proceedings.

At last the Bosphorus swung clear. There was a jingle of bells deep down in the engine-room, followed by a responsive throb of life throughout the hitherto inert ma.s.s of the great vessel. The voyage had begun.

The crowd on the landing-stage broke into a cheer, which was answered from all parts of the ship. As the sound died away a girl stepped forward and waved her handkerchief for the last time. She was a short girl, with a pleasant face, and wore gla.s.ses.

"Good-bye, Lil, dear!" she cried.

There was an answering flutter from directly below where Philip stood, and a clear voice replied:--

"Good-bye, May, darling!"

Philip scrutinised the girl on the landing-stage.

"Who on earth is that?" he said to himself. Then he remembered. It was Miss May Jennings, sister of Miss Lil Jennings, typist at the office in Oxford Street.

Having taken part, with distinction, in the free fight round the person of the second steward which our great steamship companies regard as the only possible agency through which seats at table can be booked for a voyage, and having further secured a position for his chair and rug from the deck-steward, Philip took stock of his surroundings.

Transatlantic ship's company is never very interesting. The trip is too short to make it possible for the pleasant people to get to know one another: only the bores and thrusters have time to make their presence felt. On this occasion the saloon appeared to be divided fairly evenly between music-hall artistes and commercial travellers of Semitic origin; so Philip, wrapped up in a rug, addressed himself to the task of overtaking some of the arrears of sleep due to him after the recently completed Joy-Week.

Next morning, experiencing a desire for society, Philip descended a deck upon a visit to the second cla.s.s, feeling tolerably certain that here, at least, he would find a friend.

He was right. Miss Jennings was sitting by herself under the lee of the boiler casing, perusing a novel.

"Yes," she said, after an exchange of greetings, "I dare say you are a bit surprised to see me. I'm a trifle that way myself. I only settled to do it a week ago."

"I did not even know you had left the Britannia Company," said Philip, sitting down. "Tell me about it."

"Well," explained Miss Jennings, "there isn't much to tell. I got tired of Oxford Street. It didn't seem to be leading to much, and I wasn't getting any younger; and just about six months ago I had had a letter from a girl friend of mine who had settled in New York, saying that a good stenographer could do twice as well there as in London. So I decided to go--if only for a bit of a change."

"What about your mother and sister?" asked Philip.

"Oh, you haven't heard. Poor Mother died over a year ago, when you were away at Coventry. I'm just out of black for her now. May is married. I have been living with her and Tom for some time back. I didn't like it much. Makes you feel inferior-like, living in a house belonging to a married sister that's plainer than yourself. That's all about me. I hope you are very well, Mr. Meldrum. You are out on the Company's business, I suppose?"