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The Grampus—A Turn with the Foils—An Interruption—Enter a Regidor—Flour and Water—A Soft Answer—Pepito—Biographical—Captain O'Hare—Mr. Vaughan is announced

It began to rain when Jack was still two miles out of Salamanca, and he was wet and chilled when, having put up the stranger's horse, he entered the regidor's house and sought the general room, where, as he knew from the sounds of laughter proceeding from it, his friends and comrades were assembled. There was a universal shout as Jack pushed open the door.

"Here's the commissary-general!" cried a tall, fair-headed subaltern of seventeen years. "Look here, Jack, if this corn-chandler business of yours gets you promotion before me, I'll—I'll punch your head."

"Thanks! Pommy, my dear, unless you're careful, respectful, you know, you'll find your next billet will be a stable or a pig-stye; you can take your choice. A pig-stye would be the easier got, perhaps—this country teems with porkers; but there are plenty of mules too, and one more won't matter."

"All the same, Lumsden," said Harry Smith, a lieutenant of twenty-one, "I don't wonder Pomeroy's jealous. We didn't all have the luck to be babies in Spain! But let me introduce a friend of mine—an old school-chum. Lumsden—Dugdale, Percy Dugdale, otherwise the Grampus."

Jack found his right hand engulfed in a huge fist, and shaken almost to a jelly. It belonged to a tall young man in civilian dress, stout, massive, broad-shouldered, with a rubicund, open, ingenuous face, and a smile that bespoke friendliness at once.

"Heard of you," said Dugdale cordially. "Heard of your little bet. Reminds me of my wager with Blinks of Merton when I was a freshman. Bet me a pound to a polony I wouldn't screw up a proctor; loser to eat the polony. I won—and bought a champion polony in St. Aldate's. Blinks stood us a supper to be let off. Ha! ha!"

The Honourable Percy Dugdale's chuckle had a quality of its own. While it seldom resulted from what others would have regarded as wit or humour, it never failed to breed sympathetic laughter, and the room rang with appreciative merriment.

"What's this bet of yours, Lumsden?" asked Bob Shirley, lieutenant in Jack's company.

"Oh, a little affair with Pomeroy! He's so desperately cocksure of everything, and what is worse, he will talk, you know. Said he'd hold me at boxing, at wrestling, at swimming, at every mortal thing, including fencing, so I bet him before we left Alcantara that I'd give him points at them all, and we're going to begin with the foils."

"What are the stakes?" asked Shirley. "Why didn't I hear of this?"

"It's a guinea to a Bath bun. Pomeroy's amazing fond of Bath buns; and as at present I haven't a guinea, at least to spare, and he hasn't a bun, we're going to settle up when we get back to London, and you fellows can come to Gunter's and see Pommy shell out twopence, if you like."

"No time like the present," said Smith. "We've half an hour before supper, and nothing to do. If you fellows are game we'll make a ring now."

"I'm ready," said Pomeroy, pulling off his jacket, "if the corn-dealer is."

"By all means," retorted Jack, laughing; "but I hope, for the sake of the company, your riposte is better than your repartee."

"No more cackle!" cried Smith. "Let's get to business. Where are the foils?"

At a word from Jack, a tall, strapping Rifleman, who had followed him into the room, disappeared for half a minute, and returned with a couple of foils in his hands. He handed one to his master, who had meanwhile peeled, and the other to Reginald Pomeroy. The two faced one another; they were of equal height, but otherwise presented a strong contrast. Both were tall, but Jack was slight and lissom, with dark hair, brown eyes, and clear-cut features, while Reginald Pomeroy was heavier in build, fresh-complexioned, with blue eyes and light curly hair. In brief, if Jack was Norman, Pomeroy was as clearly Saxon, and as they stood there, they were worthy representatives of the two fine strains of our present English race. They were always sparring, always girding at each other, but at bottom they were the best of friends, and had indeed been inseparable chums ever since they entered the Charterhouse together.

"Gad, reminds me of the mill between Jones of Jesus and De Crespigny of the House, in Merton meadow," said Dugdale with his capacious chuckle.

"'His eyebrow dark, and eye of fire,

Shows spirit proud, and prompt to ire,'"

quoted Shirley, amid a chorus of groans.

"Shut up, Shirley!" cried Jack; "if you begin spouting poetry you'll shatter my nerve."

"Yes, by George," said Smith, "we had enough of Marmion on the way out. Shirley's a long way too fond of poetry. Now, you two, are you ready? Buttons on the foils? That's right. Now then!"

"Charge, Chester, charge; on, Stanley, on!'"

shouted Shirley, who was irrepressible, and who, indeed, was said to have got Marmion by heart a week after it was issued, in February of this year.

The duel began. The combatants were pretty evenly matched, and as the spectators watched thrust and parry, lunge and riposte, now cheering one, now the other, the air became charged with electric excitement. Right foot well forward, left arm well behind his head, Jack watched his opponent with the keenness of a hawk, and for a time seemed to content himself with standing on the defensive. He knew his man, and held himself in with the confident expectation that Pomeroy would by and by become reckless.

"Two to one on Pomeroy!" shouted Dugdale, who was growing excited.

"Done!" said Smith. "Name your stakes."

"Anything you like; I'm not particular. I want a new pair of breeches. Yours won't fit me, but mine'll fit you with a little trimming'. Gad, Lumsden was nearly pinked that time. Make it two pairs!"

"D'you mind moving aside?" said Shirley, who, being head and shoulders shorter than Dugdale, found his view obstructed by six feet two and a back broad in proportion.

"Sorry; get on my back if you like," said Dugdale. "Won a bet by running a race with young Jukes of Pembroke on my back. I don't mind."

But Shirley contented himself with edging in to a place beside the big sportsman.

The foils clashed; Pomeroy made a rapid lunge at Jack, who instantly straightened himself, and before his opponent could recover his guard, Jack's foil was out, and slid along the other, and with a dexterous turn of the wrist he sent the weapon flying out of Pomeroy's hand, over the ring of onlookers, to the other end of the room, where it clattered against the wall and fell with a clash to the floor.

"Oh, come now! I never lose my wagers. I make a point of it," said Dugdale with a rueful look.

"End of the first round; that's Lumsden's," said Smith quietly. "Five minutes' rest, then to it again. Give you six to one next round."

"No, thanks! I'll wait a bit. Can't afford to part with all my pants. What's that?"

Above the voices of the officers discussing the details of the match rose the clamour of a repeated battering on the door.

"Oh, I say!" cried Dugdale, "we can't have this interrupted. Is the door locked?"

"Fast," replied Shirley, adding:

"'And neither bolt nor bar shall keep

My own true—love—from—'"

The quotation remained unfinished, for Jack laid Shirley on his back and sat on him. The knock was repeated again and again, with increasing loudness; the door was rattled with ever-growing vehemence.

"Set your back against the door, Giles," said Jack. "It'll take some force to move your fourteen stone of muscle."

The big Rifleman set his straight back against the door, planted his feet firmly on the floor so that his body formed an obtuse angle, and crossed his arms on his breast. The knocking continued.

"Can't come in," shouted a shrill-voiced ensign. "We're busy."

From outside an angry voice bawled in reply.

"Be quiet, you fellows," cried Smith. "Let us hear who it is."

The noise inside the room was hushed, and through the door came muffled tones of angry and excited remonstrance.

"It's very bad language, but I can't understand it," said Smith, who now had his ear against the oak. "Here, Jack, you're the only fellow who knows the lingo; leave that drain-pipe and see if you can make anything of it."

Jack rose from his wriggling seat, and, going to the door, shouted "Who are you?" in Spanish. A moment later he turned to the company and said: "By George! it's the regidor himself. We'd better let him in."

"Not till I've licked you," said Pomeroy. "Let the old boy wait."

"That's Pommy all over," said Smith; "I'm Reginald Pomeroy, and hang civility! The regidor's our host, and we owe him a little consideration."

"Exactly," put in Jack. "Heave over, Giles, and let me open the door."

He turned the key, threw the door open, and gave admittance to the oddest figure imaginable.

"Pommy's Bath bun—underbaked!" said Shirley under his breath. The rest of the company were too much surprised for speech or laughter. The intruder was presumably a man, but he was so completely covered with an envelope of paste that form and feature were undiscoverable. Two unmistakable arms, however, were wildly gesticulating; an equally obvious fist was being shaken towards the group; and a human voice was certainly pouring out a stream of violent language, of which no one there, not even Jack, could make out a word.

"Come, Señor Regidor," said Jack in Spanish, "what is the matter? Really, you talk so fast that I cannot understand you."

He laid his hand on the regidor's arm, but drew it back hastily; it was covered with wet flour.

"Shut the door, Giles," he said, wiping his hand; "this needs an explanation. In fact" (he gave a quizzical glance from the floor to the company) "it needs clearing up!"

Taking the fuming regidor gingerly by the hand, he led him to the middle of the room, where, with Pomeroy's assistance, he set to work to scrape away the clinging paste that swathed the poor man from head to foot. The first shock of surprise being over, the rest of the officers were now fairly bubbling with merriment, for the regidor was too angry to keep still, and never ceased from objurgating some person unknown. Dugdale had stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth to stifle his laughter, and Smith was thumping Shirley vigorously on the back. After some minutes' scraping with the foils, the new-comer was revealed standing in a circle of clammy flour—a little, round, pompous individual, with a very red and wrathful face, made ludicrous by the stiff moustache, to which a coating of flour obstinately adhered.

"Now, Señor Regidor," said Jack soothingly, "tell us all about it. I hope the mischief has gone no deeper than your clothes."

And then the little alderman unfolded his pitiful story. It appeared that he had gone round his premises in the rain, to see that all was safely locked up for the night, when he found that his barn at the back of the house had been left open—not only the lower door, but also the upper door, through which sacks of flour entered the loft. It was very dark, and he had been unable in the rain and wind to obtain a light. Feeling his way into the barn, he had crept up the ladder leading to the loft, stumbling as he did so over an empty sack that covered the last two or three steps. Then, arrived at the top, he had lifted the trap-door, and raised head and shoulders above the opening, when without warning he was smothered by an avalanche of flour, which took him so entirely by surprise that he had fallen backward, and only saved himself from a headlong descent to the foot of the ladder by clutching at a rope that dangled a few inches in front of him. It was no accident, he declared, for he had heard the scurry of some living creature moving in the loft. On recovering from his shock he had mounted again and searched the place as thoroughly as he could in the darkness, but without success. He had then locked up the barn securely, and being convinced that he was the victim of a practical joke on the part of one of the subalterns billeted upon him, he had come to demand satisfaction for the insult, and compensation for the irreparable damage done to his clothes.

Such was his story, told at much greater length, and punctuated with many violent gestures and still more violent expletives. Jack listened to him patiently, while the rest of the company stood in a ring about them, striving with ill success to hide their merriment. When lack of breath at length brought the little man to a stop, Jack spoke to him consolingly, assuring him that he was mistaken, and that no British officer would so far have forgotten the courtesy due to their obliging host. The regidor was not appeased; he was on the point of recommencing his denunciation of the culprit, when Jack stopped him, and said that he would question his brother officers and convince the regidor that he was mistaken. He then briefly told his companions the outlines of the story he had heard. Just as he came to the point where the shower of flour had descended on the unfortunate regidor, he was annoyed at hearing a loud chuckle.

"Pomeroy, that's too bad," he exclaimed. "How can I persuade our host that we have had nothing to do with his plight if you disgrace yourself like that?"

"Look here, Lumsden," said Pomeroy, "I'm not going to be lectured. As a matter of fact, I didn't make a cheep."

"Sorry, Pommy," said Jack, with a glance at Dugdale. "Well now, I can assure the regidor, on your honour, that none of you had a hand in this?"

Every officer present gave his word. Then Jack put on his coat, and, slipping his arm within the regidor's, led him off with a promise to investigate the matter, and see whether any of the officers' servants had been in fault. The moment their backs were turned, the same loud chuckle was heard, followed by an unmistakable guffaw. Giles Ogbourne, Jack's big servant, while maintaining a rigid position against the wall, was putting his broad face through the oddest contortions of amusement.

"What are you grinning at?" cried Pomeroy angrily. "Was it you who gave that oily chuckle just now?"

"Beg pardon, sir," said Ogbourne, endeavouring to look grave. "I really couldn't help it. 'Tis a trick of that young varmint Pepito; I be sure 'tis."

"That imp of a gipsy! I told Lumsden he'd be sorry he ever set eyes on the creature. Why do you think he is at the bottom of it?"

"Why, sir, I seed the boy bummelled out of the kitchen, and prowling around by the barn, and, sakes alive, 'tis he and no one else."

"Who's Pepito?" asked Dugdale.

"A young sprat of a gipsy Jack picked up outside Queluz soon after we left Lisbon. Here, Ogbourne, you know more about him than I do. Speak up."

"'Tis just as you say, sir. Mr. Lumsden found the critter on the roadside, a'most dead, and took'm up and fed him, sir. A thoroughbred gipsy, sir. His band had been cut up by the French after the fight by Vimeiro; every man of 'em was killed dead except this mortal boy, and a' got a cut in th' arm from a sabre. Mr. Lumsden gave him a good square meal, sir, and next day a' hitched hisself on to us, followed us all along, went a-fetching and a-carrying for Mr. Lumsden, for all the world like a little dog. Mr. Lumsden says to me: 'Giles,' says he, 'there's enough women and childer along of us without this young shaver; what'll we do with him?' I couldn't think of anything, so Mr. Lumsden he takes him to a Portuguese barber and hands him over some money for the boy's keep, and tells him to make a barber of him. Bless you, next day the varmint turns up again, and we can't shake him off nohow. If a' goes away for a day, back a' comes the next, as perky as a Jack-in-the-box."

"A sort of millstone round Lumsden's neck," said Shirley.

"Not but what he's useful," added Ogbourne. "He's first-rate at shining buttons and cleaning swords, and all sorts of little odd jobs. Only he's so full of monkey tricks, you can't believe. One night a' put two live toads in my bed, a' did; another night a' mixed some dubbin wi' my soup. I tanned him, I did, but though a' blubbered hard enough, next minute his wicked little black eyes were as mischievous as ever. Mr. Lumsden's got a handful, sir, and that's gospel truth."

"If that's his character, depend upon it he's responsible for the regidor's whitening," said Smith. "We'll have to abolish the boy; don't you think so?"

"Oh, I say!" struck in Dugdale, "never mind about a scrubby gipsy. I wish Lumsden would hurry up. I want to see Pomeroy lick him."

"You'll lose this time," said Smith.

Dugdale made a wry face. "Didn't know he was such a paragon. Speaks Spanish as well as the Don. Learnt it for a bet, I suppose."

"No," said Pomeroy, laughing. "He lived at Barcelona till he was eleven."

"Where on earth's Barcelona? Is it where the nuts grow?"

"Yes—in the big square!" said Smith with a smile.

Dugdale grunted. "But what was Lumsden doing there?" he asked.

"Eating, and growing, and learning the lingo, of course," said Pomeroy. "His father's a partner in some Spanish firm whose head-quarters are at Barcelona, and lived there, as I say, until Jack was eleven. Then, as the kid was more or less running wild, I suppose, Mr. Lumsden returned to London as head of the branch there, and sent Jack to the Charterhouse, and that's where I licked him first—"

"Now, Pommy, at it again!" said Jack's voice.

Dugdale chuckled, and Pomeroy looked aggressive; but immediately behind Jack, as he re-entered the room, came a figure at the sight of which the whole group broke out in exclamations of welcome.

"Peter!" said Smith to Dugdale in a stage whisper.

The new-comer was a tall man of some thirty-six years, wearing a big greatcoat and a peaked cap drawn over his brow. His face was particularly ugly, but redeemed by a pair of bright good-tempered-looking eyes. He stood for a moment quizzing the company, while the water streamed from his coat and made a pool on the floor.

"Bedad," he said, observing the pasty mixture there, "sure if it's roast beef that it is, it's myself that's thankful; but the flure's a queer place to mix the Yorkshire."

"No such luck," said Pomeroy. "No chance of that this side of Portsmouth; it's only a toad-in-the-hole this time."

Captain Peter O'Hare laughed when they told him of the regidor's plight.

"And who was the blackguard that did it?" he asked, suddenly looking serious. "Such conduct is terribly unbecoming an officer and a gentleman."

"It was Pepito," exclaimed Jack; "that little scamp of a gipsy who's been shadowing me since we left Lisbon. I found him crouching in the regidor's stable, smothered in flour from head to foot. It appears he had made for the loft as the only dry place, and emptied a bag of flour on the regidor in sheer self-defence, being afraid of a walloping if he was caught. He jumped out of the upper door and slid down a gutter-pipe. I'm afraid that young man will prove a thorn in my side."

Captain O'Hare having by this time removed his dripping garments, Smith took the opportunity to introduce his friend Dugdale.

"He's just escaped from Oxford, O'Hare; heard the bugles sounding and couldn't sit still."

"What regiment, sir?" said the captain, shaking hands. "I knew a Dugdale in the 85th."

Dugdale chuckled.

"My brother Tom, no doubt. Laid him a poodle to a pork-pie that I'd be at the front first, and here I am."

"Ah! an amachure, I preshume," said Captain O'Hare, glancing at his civilian costume. "Sure, an' I hope you'll like it, for 'tis not all beer and skittles. And that reminds me; 'tis time we cleared the decks for supper. You'll stay and take pot-luck, Mr. Dugdale?"

"Thank you, sir! but, you see—well, we had a little wager—in short, thank you, sir!"

O'Hare looked puzzled, and still more as he noticed a smile on the faces of the rest of the company.

"Never mind, Grampus," said Smith with a nudge, "they can fight it out another time, and meanwhile you've saved your breeches."

At this moment Rifleman Giles Ogbourne entered the room.

"Please, sir," he said to Jack, "there's a Mr. Vaughan at the door as would like to see you. I was to say 'twas he that borrowed your horse a while ago."

"Show him in," said Jack.

"Beg pardon, sir, but he says as he would like to see you alone."

"Oh, very well!" said Jack, rising, and he followed Giles from the room.