The Burglars' Club Part 14

"Then I'm sure that Lord Roker does himself an injustice," she said, turning her smiling eyes upon him.

Roker shook his head.

"I toil not, neither do I spin."

"What do you do all the time?" she asked.

"I shoot and fish and hunt, and--er--once a year I see the Eton and Harrow cricket match."

"Gosh!" exclaimed Mr. Pilgrim. "He shoots and fishes and hunts, and once a year he goes to a cricket match."

"I said the Eton and Harrow match."

"Cert'nly. They must give it some name, I reckon. An' what do you do when you can't shoot, an' fish, an' hunt?"

"I add up my lists of kills and catches."

"This is downright interestin'," said Mr. Pilgrim. "What do you shoot an' hunt?"

"Birds and foxes."

"You seem to fancy small fry, sir. Did you never hanker after elephants?"

"Never. If I had a Maxim or a Gatling gun I might turn my attention to elephants, but I'm not going to buy one for the purpose."

Mr. Pilgrim looked hard at his guest, but Lord Roker bore the scrutiny impa.s.sibly.

"May I ask how you get your dollars?" the American continued.

"I have an income from my father. I don't mind telling you the amount--three thousand a year."

"Dollars?"

"No; pounds sterling."

"That's a tidy figure; but did you never wanter make that three thousand into thirty thousand?"

"I have suggested an increase to my father, but not such a big one as that. I asked him to make it five, but he would not. Some day perhaps he may, but thirty thousand is out of the question."

"I should suppose it was. I didn't mean an increase in your allowance.

Did you never think of dippin' into trade, and increasin' it that way?"

"Never."

"Doesn't fancy elephants or trade," Mr. Pilgrim soliloquised. "Well, I reckon it takes all sorts of swallows to make a summer. Your father must have been in a good way of business."

"Not a bit of it. He inherited all he has from his ancestors."

"And how did the original ancestor make his pile?"

"In war, in the time of Edward III. He had the good fortune to capture a Royal Prince, two dukes, and a marshal of France. We are still living on the ransoms he got."

"I'd like to have known the original ancestor," said Mr. Pilgrim.

"Reckon he'd have tackled elephants if he'd only got a pea-shooter."

"Father," broke in Miss Pilgrim, "I'm sure Lord Roker is tired of answering questions. Don't you think it's our turn to do something now?"

"That's so," said Mr. Pilgrim, who long since had forgotten his unkind suspicions of his visitor's intentions. "I hope I haven't worried you too much, my lord. It isn't every day that I get the chance of interviewin' a future hereditary legislator. I promised last night to show you some historical curiosities. We'll just go an' rout out my secretary, Tullitt, who has the keepin' of 'em."

They adjourned to the next room, and found Mr. Tullitt busy at his desk.

He opened various cabinets and drawers for them.

"This," said Mr. Pilgrim, "is the original warrant signed by Henry VIII., consignin' his sixth wife to the Tower of London for beheadin'

purposes. He had it penned in Latin to frighten her more. The writ was never served, as Henry changed his mind, an' decided to keep her on the throne.

"Here, sir, is my last purchase--thirty pages of 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' written by John Bunyan in Bedford Jail. I paid ten thousand dollars for that, an' I'd have paid twenty before missin' it. You see, my name is John Pilgrim, an' it seemed to me that I have a sort of claim on that book--a kind of relationship. Anyway, there's my two names on the t.i.tle-page.

"Moreover, I've got on so well since I started life in a Chicago stock-yard that 'Pilgrim's Progress' would best describe my record. If it wasn't irreverent, I'd have called the autobiography I'm writin' by the name of that book; but as I can't do so, I've bought the original ma.n.u.script. You'll handle it carefully; it's not in first-rate repair."

Mr. Pilgrim showed his guest other historical treasures, and would have gone on indefinitely had not his daughter compa.s.sionately intervened.

The rest of the evening was spent in conversation, and in listening to c.o.o.n songs witchingly sung by Miss Pilgrim to her accompaniment on a harpsichord, once the property of Mrs. Thrale of Streatham, a friend of the immortal Dr. Johnson.

"Good-night, my lord," said Mr. Pilgrim at eleven o'clock. "P'raps you'll be kind enough to look round in the mornin'. I shall make a few notes of the information you've given me, and my secretary will lick them into shape."

"Right," said Lord Roker, with his eyes beyond Mr. Pilgrim, fixed on an enchanting vision of brown and gold, seated in the basket chair before the fire.

On the following morning Lord Roker found Mr. Pilgrim's secretary before a typewriter which he seemed to be working against time. A pile of correspondence lay around him. He finished the sheet on which he was engaged, and then, with a sigh of relief, he turned to his visitor.

"Mornin', my lord; I have this ready for you."

He handed a type-written sheet to Lord Roker, who sat down and read:

"Some day I may be an hereditary legislator. At present I'm a drone. I fish, shoot birds, and hunt foxes, and once a year I attend a cricket match. Birds are more suited to the bore of my gun than elephants.

If I had a Maxim I might tackle elephants. I am in receipt of an income of three thousand pounds sterling a year from my father, who refuses to increase the amount. I am otherwise well satisfied with the universe.

"My record last year was: Birds............

Fishes...........

Foxes ..........."

"I've left s.p.a.ce for the mortality returns, and any note you may wish to add," said the secretary courteously. "Kindly fill in the figures, and initial the sheet if you find it correct. Your name will not appear if Mr. Pilgrim makes use of the information."

Lord Roker referred to his pocket-book for statistics, and then inserted the figures required. The note he added was: "_De mortuis nil nisi bonum._"

"Good kills, all of 'em," he explained.

The secretary took the sheet and placed it methodically in a folio labelled "Britishers."

"Is Mr. Pilgrim anywhere about?" Lord Roker asked. "Or Miss Pilgrim?"