Читать книгу Jim Mortimer - R. S. Warren Bell - Страница 3

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CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCING JIM.

People, unless they be star-gazers, do not walk along, as a rule, with their faces turned towards the sky; hence it was that the slender telephone wire communicating between Dr Mortimer's private residence, "Pangora," and the doctor's private asylum, escaped the notice of all but a few who fared along the eight miles of high road dividing Threeways from Millingbourne, in the county of Eastfolkshire.

And yet this slender wire, which showed up against the blue sky much like a substantial cobweb, was fraught with interest. It was barely 300 yards in length, its installation had been a comparatively cheap and simple undertaking, and it had paid for itself scores of times over. Messages of life and death passed across it constantly; instructions in cases of emergency, tingling over the white line of road, saved the time that would otherwise have been occupied in walking the 300 yards--for doctors do not often run; reprimands were roared across it, bulletins despatched by its agency, dietary altered, medicine prescribed.

The sunshine was coquetting with the little wire, and the great oaks and elms were surveying the flirtation with affected indifference, one bright September morning, when Mr James Mortimer, the Doctor's grandson, who was known among his hospital intimates as the "Long 'Un," having breakfasted in trousers, shirt, and dressing-gown, rose from the table and ambled out into the surgery--for, in addition to an asylum, the doctor had a lucrative practice in that part of Eastfolkshire. The waiting-room adjoining the surgery was empty, save for one small, pale boy.

Although James was on holiday, he occasionally acted as deputy when his grandfather and the latter's assistant were not at hand. And James was quite competent to do so, for he was a fully qualified surgeon.

"Well, Johnny, been eating green pears?"

The urchin looked guilty.

"Y-yes, sir."

"Let's see your tongue--ah! hum!" and the Long 'Un affected a serious expression as he mixed a stiffish dose of black draught. The urchin pulled a very wry face as he tasted the dose, and stopped for breath half-way through it.

"Every drop!" commanded the Long 'Un.

The urchin obeyed him, and then, bursting into tears, was pleased to be violently sick.

"You'll feel better now--and here's a penny for you," quoth Jim Mortimer, in a truly paternal way for four-and-twenty.

But the urchin renewed his howling.

"I--I came up for me mother's medicine," he quavered; "I--she--she didn't know I'd been eatin' pears."

The Long 'Un threw back his head and burst into a roar of laughter.

"By George! what a shot! Why, Johnny, I thought you'd come to be doctored. Well, here's sixpence for you. Call again for the medicine--I don't know anything about it."

The urchin took the sixpence with a smile showing through his tears, and with a final sniff shuffled out of the waiting-room.

The Long 'Un still looking highly amused, approached the telephone and rang up the asylum.

"Ay, ay, sir!" came the response.

"That you, Hughes?"

"Yes, Mr James."

"How's the Zoo?"

"All quiet except the major. We've had to put him in the padded room."

"The major again!"

"Yes, sir; broke out at breakfast. It took three of us to get him down. He very near pulled Smith's windpipe out."

"He doesn't like Smith, does he?"

"'Ates him, sir."

"I think I'll come across and have a look at him," said Jim. "I have an idea I can handle the old chap."

"Glad to see you, Mr James," replied the head attendant; "you're going back to town to-day, aren't you, sir?"

"Yes--back to-day, worse luck."

Without bothering to alter his garb, Jim Mortimer, his gay dressing-gown sweeping the ground, strolled out into the garden and sauntered along the gravel path which led to the high road. As he went he pulled lazily at his pipe. Both of the gardeners touched their hats and smiled a welcome as he passed; the Long 'Un was a favourite all over the settlement.

Certainly he looked a quaint figure as he emerged into the high road--a quaint but not unpleasing one. Long he was--six feet, and four inches over that--but square-shouldered and supple. His carriage was easy, but not of a military description, and he stooped slightly, with the stoop of the rowing-man rather than that of one engaged in sedentary work or of one who has overgrown his strength. He looked, as he strolled across the road, like a long, lean hound, trained to the hour, hard as steel and tough as hickory. His face was well cut, with rather sleepy eyes and a certain gentleness about the corners of the mouth that had caused his school-fellows to regard him as somewhat of a "soft"--until he hit them. His hair was clipped short and well brushed, and his complexion was pink with health and the application of cold water.

As Jim was moving across the road in his indolently graceful way, a carriage and pair approached at a quick trot. At a word from one of its occupants the coachman pulled up close by the young surgeon.

"Can you tell me, please, if this is Dr Mortimer's?" inquired a stern-faced elderly lady, whose rich mantle and handsome equipage betokened her to be a person of means and possibly of position.

"Yes, all of this," replied Jim, with a comprehensive wave of his hand which took in each side of the road, "is Dr Mortimer's." A pretty girl was sitting by his questioner's side, and the fact was not lost upon Jim. "The Doctor is out," he added, "but I am a medical man. Can I be of service to you?"

The lady surveyed Jim's dressing-gown with evident disapproval, but Jim glanced unconcernedly at the telephone wire overhead. Meanwhile the pretty girl gazed straight before her at the blue smoke curling over the housetops in Threeways, having decided that this very tall man in such unorthodox attire was quite good-looking.

"I prefer to see Dr Mortimer himself. Do you think he will be in soon?"

"He may be in at any moment," said Jim; "that is the way to his house," he added to the coachman, "through those gates."

"I am obliged to you."

The lady sat back without troubling to bestow another glance on Jim, but she observed to her companion as they entered the drive that the extraordinary young fellow in the dressing-gown was probably one of the madmen.

Jim Mortimer, sauntering on, at length reached the asylum, a cheerful-looking red-brick-building, standing healthily high. He found Hughes in the patients' common room--a spacious and airy apartment provided with a piano, a bagatelle board, and other requisites for indoor pastimes.

As Jim was chatting with the head attendant, a grey-haired, round-shouldered man of some sixty summers came up to them.

"Take care, Mr James!" he exclaimed, "he's just behind you! Oh, if I had a gun now!"

Jim knew that Mr Richards--the speaker--had "alligators" on his bad days.

"No, he's gone under the table," replied Jim. "See him? Here, lend me a cue, and I'll kill him."

"That's right," said the poor fellow; "kill him, and I'll leave you all my money. He sat on the end of my bed last night--he won't let me alone. Kill him now he's not looking."

Jim seized the cue and slashed about under the table with it.

"There--I've done it. I've cut his head off."

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" cried Mr Richards, bursting into tears. "You shall have every penny of my money."

They left him crying quietly for joy. In a corner of the room a saturnine-looking gentleman was standing stock still with his eyes closed.

"Hullo!" said Jim, "I've not seen this one before. Who is he?"

"A new patient--a clergyman," replied Hughes; "he thinks he's dead. Comes to life for his meals, though."

Jim laughed--the careless laugh of thoughtless youth--but the next moment his face became grave. He felt very much for these afflicted souls, and they seemed to know it, for in their half-witted way they loved "Mr James."

After passing through several corridors, Jim and Hughes arrived at a room that was provided with a thick door in which was a grille of the old-fashioned kind. Within could be seen a red-faced, burly man, his clothing much disarranged, and his eyes wildly gleaming.

A stalwart attendant, with a bandage round his neck, was standing by, watching the occupant of the padded room through the little bars of the grille.

"I'll go in and have a chat with him," said Jim.

"You'd better not, sir," returned Hughes; "you'll take your life in your hands if you do."

"Nonsense!" cried Jim. "Open the door, Smith!"

The attendant Smith--he who had been so unfortunate as to earn the major's ill-will--shot back the bolt, and, as Jim stepped into the cell, made haste to secure the door behind him.

The patient fixed a glare of bovine ferocity on his caller as Jim advanced towards him.

"Morning, major! Men pretty fit this morning?"

The major had been about to hurl himself at the young fellow when Jim's words stirred an old memory in his inflamed brain.

"What's that to you--who are you?" he growled.

"The officer commanding the expedition," rapped out Jim.

The major's manner changed on the instant.

"The men are as well as can be expected, sir, considering the beastly bad water. Three more down with enteric to-day."

"Dear--dear!" exclaimed Jim, "that's bad. Well, major, we must hope for the best--hope for the best. And how are you yourself?"

"I think I've got a touch of the sun, sir," said the major, "but I daresay it'll pass off. I've been feeling queer up here for several days now," he added, touching his forehead.

"What you want, major," said Jim, "is a good sound sleep. You're looking overworked. Now just you lie down on your mattress yonder and have a nap. You've been doing very well lately, major, and I shall mention you in my despatches."

The poor madman's face glowed with delight.

"I'm very much obliged to you, sir," he said, with a world of gratitude in his voice.

"Well," said Jim, "I must be going on. Now, do as I say, and have some sleep."

"Thank you, sir, I think I will," said the major, turning towards the mattress with touching docility.

Unfortunately, however, he happened to look round at the grating, and in an instant his face and manner changed. Jim, following the lunatic's glance, saw that the attendant Smith was still peering through the bars.

"Get away from there--sharp!" he shouted, but even as he spoke the major hurled himself against the staunch oaken portal, and tore at it with his nails as he yelled imprecations at the object of his hate.

Jim stepped swiftly forward and laid his hand on the madman's shoulder. The major turned like an infuriated beast, his fingers twitching, and his whole body convulsed with fury.

"I told you to get some sleep, major," said Jim, imperiously, "and I expect my orders to be obeyed."

For a terrible moment the attendants held their breath. But Jim looked the major coolly in the face. Had he flinched the very slightest, the madman would have been at his throat.

Still steadily eyeing the man, Jim pointed to the mattress, and slowly, doubtfully, the major crept towards it and lay down. In two minutes he was slumbering like a child.

Jim made sure that the major was fast asleep before he softly approached the door. Hughes let him out and shot the bolt back into its socket with all possible speed.

"The Doctor himself couldn't have done it better, sir," said the head attendant, with heartfelt admiration. "Will you come and see the cricket now, sir?" he added.

The milder of the asylum's inmates were trying conclusions with bat and ball in an adjoining field. Jim, on arriving at the scene of play, displaced one of the attendants who was acting as wicket-keeper, and took up his position behind the sticks.

The ball came swiftly, and the batsman--a tall, broad-shouldered, ill-tempered-looking fellow--snicked it into Jim's ready hands.

"How's that?" roared the Long 'Un; but the attendant umpiring at the other end, being a diplomat, gave it as "Not out."

As Jim trundled the ball back to the bowler, the big batsman turned to him and testily observed, "Please don't ask a question of that sort again. I don't like it."

"My dear man," said Mortimer, assuming that he was addressing one of the most reasonable inmates of the place, "if I catch you at the wicket, you're out. That's only fair."

But the batsman merely glared at him sulkily.

The next ball was a still more palpable catch at the wicket, and was securely held.

"How's that?" inquired Jim, who didn't believe in showing the white feather. The words had hardly left his lips when the batsman swung round and aimed a terrific blow at his head--a blow that Jim, by great agility, just managed to avoid.

"I told you," said the batsman, with dignity, "that I did not like you saying that."

The ever-watchful Hughes hurried up.

"They're only satisfied by being clean bowled, Mr James," he explained, and then proceeded to administer a few words of rebuke to Jim's assailant, who looked duly reproved.

The Long 'Un was meditating trying an over--with the laudable object of getting the big batsman out in a way he would quite understand--when a page-boy came hurrying towards him with a message to the effect that the Doctor wished to speak to him at the telephone.

So Jim had perforce to postpone his over, and left the field little dreaming that certain words which would shortly come to him across the wire were destined to affect his after-career in a remarkable manner.

CHAPTER II.

OVER THE TELEPHONE.

Old Dr Mortimer was, in every sense of the word, a hard man. Of massive build and handsome countenance, upright and commanding in presence, with a clear brain, a will of iron, and a resonant, penetrating voice, his was at once a dominating and notable personality.

Dr Mortimer's sphere of action, it is true, was limited and local; but if, by the accident of circumstances, his lot had been cast in a military or political arena, he would assuredly have risen to a high place, and possibly cut his initials on the rock of fame.

Beginning on nothing, the Doctor had fought his way up to his present position by dint of sheer perseverance and strength of head. His indomitable will had cleared away all obstacles, and now he was seventy, hale and hearty, a man of wealth and a county magnate.

But Dame Fortune, while she gives with one hand, takes away with the other. The Doctor was now childless, and grandchildless, too, save for James. This man of iron had brought weaklings into the world; his wife had died before she was thirty, and as his riches increased, his brood had one by one faded into the grave. So now, when James--the only son of his eldest son--was in London, Dr Mortimer sat at his mahogany every night all alone--proud, rich, powerful, feared, obeyed on the instant--but alone.

His assistant, M'Pherson, a trustworthy, middle-aged Scotsman, of no especial brilliance, but conscientious to a hair, lived at the asylum and took most of his meals with the patients.

The Doctor had made his will years since, and James was absolutely heir to all he had, save for trifling legacies to his executors and such persons as Hughes, his cook, coachman, and gardeners. Every stick and stone was to be Jim's, and Jim knew it.

But the Doctor was not satisfied with his grandson. Throughout Jim's five years at Rugby the general tenor of his reports had been: "Has done well on the whole, but might have done much better." His hospital career had been of a very similar character. Jim, though of a lazy temperament, had, nevertheless, won warm encomiums from great surgeons for his skill with the knife. Sir Savile Smart, the renowned specialist in abdominal matters, had written to Dr Mortimer--who was an old friend of his--in high praise of Jim. But there, as ever, was the qualifying clause: "Your lad can do wonders when he likes, which isn't always." And then again Jim was given to bursts of rowdyism, accounts of which had trickled down to Threeways, where Jim was regarded as a lovable, harum-scarum youth, who would come into all the Doctor's money, "and so it would be all right." This meant that his wild ways didn't matter--he would never have to earn his living. Besides, he was only a youngster--he would sober down in time. He wouldn't go on fighting policemen all his life--"and so it would be all right."

At dinner on the preceding evening the Doctor, warmed by the generous grape, had been in an affable, not to say confiding mood, and it would have been well for Jim had this been their final conversation ere he departed for town, for the Doctor was in a high good-humour when they lit their bedroom candles, and even went so far as to pat his grandson on the back in a manner that was quite affectionate.

Jim guessed that this amiable frame of mind would decamp with the darkness, and his surmise proved correct, for when he got to the telephone and took the receiver off its peg, he knew by the sound of the Doctor's voice that his grandfather was in an irritable mood.

"Are you there, James?"

"Yes, sir."

"My carriage is waiting, and I must be off in a minute or two, but I want to have a word with you before you go."

"Shall I come across?" suggested Jim,

"No, that will waste time, and I haven't much to say."

It occurred to the Long 'Un that what little his grandfather wished to say would not be of an overwhelmingly genial character.

"I--ah--I received a bill this morning for a plate-glass window you smashed in the Strand about six weeks ago," began the Doctor; "I suppose you recollect it?"

"Seem to remember something of it," replied Jim.

"That's good of you. The bill is for twelve pounds."

"Those big shop windows run into money," hazarded Jim.

"Somewhat superfluous information," snapped the Doctor; "what I want to say is that I won't pay any more of these bills--do you clearly understand?"

"I do," said the Long 'Un.

"And, moreover, I won't have any more of your drunken frolics--it's high time you stopped all that nonsense. I should also advise you to drop the acquaintance of that disreputable reporter friend of yours--he seems to have a bad influence on you--Coke, is that his name?"

Jim chuckled.

"What--Koko? Most harmless man on earth! Gets me out of scrapes, not into them!"

A fresh grievance now occurred to the Doctor. "I am not at all satisfied with the way you are working," he said.

"We dig in pretty hard at Matt's," replied Jim, quite truthfully.

"Yes--but how about your degree? I expect more than a mere qualification from you."

"I'll read like a nigger this time, grandfather----"

"I'm glad to hear you say so," interrupted the Doctor, in a mollified tone.

"Time and weather permitting," concluded Jim, indiscreetly.

A short, ill-tempered cough sounded through the telephone. The Doctor was preparing his ultimatum; Jim's addendum gave him his cue.

"I suppose 'time and weather' mean such dissolute companions as Coker, or whatever his absurd name is. Well, now, attend to me, James. I'm not squeamish, but I expect you to pull up. I won't have any more playing the fool, either at the hospital or down here. For instance," he added, with growing ire, "what on earth d'you mean by masquerading about the high road in a dressing-gown?"

"I prefer ease to elegance," said Jim, cheekily.

"Well, sir," shouted the Doctor across the vibrating wire, "I don't intend that my grandson shall be taken for one of my patients!"

"Why--who took me for one of them?" demanded Jim in amazement.

"The Countess of Lingfield."

"The who?" exclaimed Jim.

"The Countess of Lingfield. She spoke to you from her carriage half an hour ago."

"By George!" Jim broke into a mellow laugh. "Was that a countess? I say, grandfather, who was the pretty girl with her?"

"Her daughter," replied the Doctor; "and it was she who observed that you were probably one of the 'harmless variety'!"

"Indeed!" said the Long 'Un, not quite so heartily.

"Yes, sir," proceeded the Doctor, his ire rising again, "and I was placed under the ignominious necessity of having to admit that you were my grandson."

"Awfully rough on you, grandpa."

The Doctor was evidently fuming at the other end of the telephone.

"So," was his next utterance, "I shall be obliged if you will behave more like a reasonable being in future. No more window-smashing, no more fighting with policemen, and no more drinking. I give you fair warning that if you cut any more capers, I'll stop supplies, and you'll have to get on as best you can by yourself. Good-bye!"

"Half a moment, sir! I should like to see you again before I go."

"I can't wait."

"Can't you spare a minute, sir?"

"No--I've wasted too much time already talking to you. Now remember! Any more nonsense, and you shan't handle another penny of mine. Good-bye!"

Jim let the receiver go with a bang, and a few moments later was flying across the road, his dressing-gown waving gracefully behind him. But he was too late. He arrived at "Pangora" just in time to see the carriage vanishing through the gates of the drive leading to a by-road on the opposite side of the house.

CHAPTER III.

KOKO REPORTS PROGRESS.

Mr Mortimer was seated at breakfast. His rooms were situated in a terrace leading out of a fashionable thoroughfare in Pimlico, but the terrace itself was not at all fashionable, consisting, as it did, chiefly of lodging-houses resorted to by medical students, clerks, actors, and ladies' maids and men-servants out of places. The keeper of the house was a burly, strident-voiced, strong-willed lady of forty, rough but not unkindly, who always gave Jim what she liked (as opposed to what he liked) for breakfast.

This morning--the morning after his arrival in town from Eastfolkshire--his first meal was composed of cold eggs-and-bacon and cold tea--not a deliriously appetising repast, 'tis true; but then, if a man is summoned to breakfast at nine and eventually crawls into his sitting-room at a quarter past ten, what can he expect? And Mrs Freeman was not the sort of lady to keep anything warm for lie-abed lodgers.

Having nibbled half a cold egg, Mortimer turned his attention to the loaf, and eventually breakfasted off bread and marmalade. The butter he eschewed, as it appeared to claim first cousinship with train-oil. As the tea was by this time black, and bitter to the taste, Jim sought to appease his thirst with a bottle of beer from the rickety sideboard. The cork of the bottle being in a state of crumbling decrepitude, Mortimer had to delay his drink while, with the help of a spoon and some expletives, he fished the broken fragments out of the beer.

"A picture," observed a quiet voice, while Jim was thus engaged, "calculated to melt the heart of any maid."

"Hullo--Koko!"

"While I object to that nickname," gravely responded the little man who had entered, as he removed his hat and displayed an almost entirely bald head, "I am compelled to reply to it. Well, how are you, young feller?"

Jim replied in a testy murmur that he felt all right, and proceeded to drag more fragments of cork out of the beer. Meanwhile, the man who had come in laid his hat, gloves, and stick on the far end of the table, and then arranged his tie in front of the mirror over the mantelpiece.

"Doocid dude you are, Koko!" said Jim, looking at his friend over the edge of the glass; "why," springing up, "you've grown!"

Now, as the caller was but an inch or two over five feet in height, there was every reason why he should have felt congratulated by this remark.

"No," he said, in a resigned voice, "I haven't grown--I've only got some of my fat off."

As Jim towered high above his friend--his height, if anything, accentuated by the clinging folds of his dressing-gown--the little man gazed admiringly up at the Long 'Un, and deep down in his heart perhaps, heaved a little sigh because of his own smallness. For, alas! Koko had finished growing. He was thirty, and already bald; he was years older than Jim--so was it likely he would grow now? And this was why, and quite naturally, George Somers, reporter on a sporting newspaper--this little, bald, quiet, unassuming man--had come, at first, to notice Jim Mortimer, and afterwards, when they got to know one another, to like him, and, finally, when they became close friends, to give him his whole heart in that sterling regard which men sometimes have for men, when each is sure that the other is worthy of such unflinching esteem.

Koko was neat and dapper in his dress, with nothing awry about him. He was excellently and attractively tidy, with the tidiness that little people have. So well proportioned was he, that his small stature never seemed ridiculous, even when viewed in close juxtaposition to the Long 'Un's great length. Koko was, in countenance, well favoured, with a small, neatly trimmed dark moustache, and rather large, mild eyes. Though generally impassive, his face would at times light up with a wonderful, sudden smile--a smile that it did you good to look upon, a smile that told you that Koko's nature was all gold.

And Koko, you must know, had for some years been inspired with the feeling that it was his particular mission in this world to look after the Long 'Un. Though he had many other duties, and one other hobby, he always found time to keep an almost maternal eye on Jim Mortimer.

"By the way, old boy," said Koko, after a time, "have you unpacked?"

"Only my pyjamas and dressing-gown," said Jim.

"Shall I lend you a hand?"

Mortimer gave a deep laugh.

"Anybody would think I was a blooming kid, Koko, by the way you talk," he said.

"So you are," said Koko, as he made his way to the adjoining bedroom, "in a great many things."

In a leisurely manner the Long 'Un followed after his friend, who was already bending over the unstrapped portmanteau. Mortimer was in a lazy mood, the beer he had consumed having filled him with a feeling of lethargy. Sitting on the end of his bed, he smoked and watched Koko as the latter endeavoured to find his way through the hurly-burly before him--as he took the socks out of the boots in which it was the Long 'Un's custom to pack them, rescued a tin of tooth-powder from the toe of a dancing pump--wherein it had been wedged to ensure safe travelling--fished a razor and shaving-brush out of the sponge-bag, and a sixpenny popular novel from the folds of a fancy waistcoat, put everything into its proper place in the chest of drawers or wardrobe, and at length paused, his task accomplished, in a somewhat flushed and heated condition.

"First-rate valet you'd make, Koko," said the Long 'Un, ungratefully.

Koko, without replying, pushed the empty portmanteau under the bed, and then washed his hands.

"I must be off now," he said simply.

"Oh, hang on a bit," returned Mortimer, as they went back to the sitting-room.

"Must go," said Koko, smoothing his silk hat with his coat sleeve--"work."

"Where?"

"Billiards in the afternoon, fight in the evening."

And with that he quietly departed.

Nobody would have dreamed that this quiet little man with the bald head had attended and described in nimble boxing terminology some of the fiercest combats that have ever been held at the National Milling Club; nobody would have dreamed that the Mr George Somers, whose hobby was the collecting of old, worm-eaten volumes, and whose initials, "G.S.," were so familiar to the readers of the Book Hunter, was a well-known figure in swimming-baths, gymnasiums, billiard saloons, football, and cricket grounds the country over, gun clubs, lacrosse clubs, tennis clubs, and weight-lifting clubs. Yet the little man who nosed round bookstalls in Holywell Street (that was), Wych Street (that was), and St Martin's Lane (that is), in search of rare first editions, was identical with the little man who accompanied Jim on many of his freebooting expeditions "up west," and with the little man who attended sporting functions of every kind all the year round, rain or shine, in the proud capacity of the Sporting Mail's "special representative."

When Koko, some hours later, on his return from the billiard match, again looked in on the Long 'Un, he found Mr Mortimer still in his dressing-gown lolling over a book. The table bore the débris of Jim's lunch.

As Koko entered the room, Mortimer threw away his book and yawned sluggishly. Koko walked gently up to him, and stood by the arm of his chair.

"I've got a bit of news for you, Jim."

"Go ahead with it."

"I've found out who that girl is."

"What?"

The Long 'Un was out of his chair in a second, all life and fire and eagerness; the transformation was complete.

Koko laughed inwardly; he never laughed out loud.

"Yes, I've found out about her. She's one of the girls at the Milverton Street post-office--she's the girl that takes in the telegrams."

"Are you sure?" exclaimed Jim.

"Certain," said Koko, selecting a cigarette from his little silver case.

Mortimer was struck dumb with delight. For, ever since Koko and he, whilst taking tea at an ABC shop near St Matthew's Hospital, had on three successive occasions observed an extremely handsome girl at a neighbouring table, the Long 'Un had been burning to know the young lady. That was before he went home for a month's vacation. It would appear that Koko, faithful as ever to his friend's interests, had not been idle during that month.

"Come on," exclaimed Jim, "let's go and send off some telegrams. She'll at least be obliged to look at us. That'll be something, won't it?"

"Yes, that'll be something," said Koko; "all right, go and get dressed."

The Long 'Un disappeared into the bedroom, and presently emerged in proper attire.

"You'd better wear your tail coat and top-hat, or I may cut you out," suggested Koko.

With a bellow of laughter, the Long 'Un hurried into his bedroom again, issuing therefrom a minute later clad in the kind of coat and the kind of hat affected by Koko.

"Now," said Koko, as they left Jim's sitting-room, "we start level."