"I think my blank face must have told them the utter hopelessness of the scheme, even before I had explained to them all my hopes and beliefs as to what I intended to be. One of the things I regret most in my life was the grief I saw only too plainly upon the old Dad's face. He had been brought up a business man all his life, he didn't believe in Literature as a living. He never argued, he didn't storm, hardly said anything, except begging me in an appealing sort of way to reconsider my decision. But I saw at once that I had dealt a death-blow to all his hopes, and, like the selfish young brute I was, I didn't care so long as I got my own way.

"I must have been utterly mad at the time, or intoxicated with my own belief in myself, for I even went further, and said I was going away without any further help of any sort, and that I would make a name, and not come back until I had done so. I refused all assistance; I only wanted their good-will and belief in me, and this I knew neither of them could honestly give me. The Dad implored me to let him assist me; they both begged me to live at home until I could rely upon myself, feel my own feet, or lastly, the most fatal sentence they could have uttered in my state of pride, to remain at home until I realised the failure I was about to make and alter my mind.

"What a hopeless and silly thing is pride. It must be a dangerous thing, too, if it can suddenly choke years of love and devotion.

"Pride was uppermost then when I left the house where we had all been so happy, and went out into the world, and I told them both I would only return when I had made myself famous, and not before. I believe they both broke down when I left, but I was a selfish young brute, and I never saw their view of things, nor how bitterly it must have hurt them. Retribution was not long in coming; I found as time went on that there were dozens of men, and women too, who could write better than I could. I found a living was not easy to get. I went even further still, and found at last that it was impossible to get any living at all. Education—there were hundreds of men, highly educated men, too, without any means of earning a living. Inspiration—and I had prated about inspiration often enough; inspiration only became inspiration when it was recognised as such. Luck, chance—I found there were no such things, save as words. Money—I never made any now, and gradually I went down and down, grew shabby, was passed hurriedly by friends of my own choosing; then followed shabby rooms and little food, only to give place in turn to an attic and no food at all. Pride must have been still at work with a vengeance, for whatever I suffered there was not a single day or night that I could not have rushed home and been welcomed like the Prodigal of old, and been rejoiced over. But the very idea of this gave me a chill feeling of horror. How could I go home with all my boasts unfulfilled? Was I to creep home a self-confessed failure, with the alternative of acknowledging it and mending my ways and becoming the head of a business firm with a heart embittered for life? I felt I would never do this. I would prefer to starve upon the Embankment, and when I made that resolution I knew only too well what I was in for. I had done the same thing in my earlier life, only it needed a far greater courage to face that life now than it required then. Things were at their very worst when one day, as I was wending my way through the poverty-stricken locality in which I lived, I was hailed by my name. The man was shabbily dressed, but about my own age as far as I could gather, yet I never remembered having met him before.

"'You don't remember me?' he asked.

"'No,' I replied.

"'Humph!' he rejoined, 'and yet at school you had quite a slap-up fight upon my behalf, which ought to have been a lesson to snobs in general, simply because I insisted upon talking to my own father when he was driving one of his own furniture vans.'

"'Murkel Minor,' I murmured. 'Jove, yes, I remember.'

"'Well, I'm a dealer now, got a place of my own, first-class antiques, you know, doing rather well, too.'

"I nodded.

"'But, I say, how about yourself? you don't look up to much. What are you doing? You know all the swell chaps at school, who always looked down on me, used to think you would do no end of things.'

"Somehow or other a sudden feeling of utter frankness came over me. 'I am not doing anything,' I said. 'I've never done anything, and I don't believe now I ever shall do anything.'

"'What are you supposed to do?' asked Murkel, and he asked it in rather a nice way.

"'Writing,' I said.

"'Books?'

"'Yes, and stories, and any blessed thing that comes along; that is to say, when it does come along.'

"Murkel mused for awhile as we walked along, and to this day I do not know whether he considered he was paying off an old debt, or whether he really required my services. Anyway he told me he wanted a descriptive catalogue written of some of his best antiques, their history guaranteed and authenticated, and that he would pay me a fair sum for writing it.

"I left my one-time schoolfellow Murkel Minor, with the certainty of work for which I should be paid, and with something like a ray of hope, and oddly enough I did not lament over the strange fortune which had prevented any one from accepting any of my books or poems, but had given me instead the writing of a catalogue of bric-a-brac. There was one thing I often resented in my own mind, and frequently sneered at most bitterly whenever I remembered it; that was the fact that Lal had prophesied that I should become great, and also that I should meet Dick Whittington. Both these imaginary things I regarded now as being utterly unreliable, and looked upon as two ghostly myths of the past. I might have known better. The nervousness from which I suffered, and which I have already alluded to, was becoming so marked that it greatly stood in my way, particularly whenever I had any writing to do. I would fidget, bite my fingers, nibble the pen, break the nibs, a thousand things sooner than deliberately sit down to write. Concentration seemed at times to me wholly impossible. One day, after sacrificing many nibs, and breaking my only ink-bottle, I settled down sufficiently to finish Murkel's catalogue, and received the sum of five pounds for the work. It seemed untold riches to me at the time. As I went homeward through the maze of dirty streets towards where my garret was situated, I had to pass through one where the outside pavement stalls were always heaped up upon either side of the way with every imaginable thing from greengrocery and scrap-iron to old prints and china-ware.

"Upon one of these stalls an inkstand immediately attracted my attention, partly from the fact that I had broken my own ink-bottle, and had resolved to buy another, but more particularly because this inkstand appeared to me to be one of the most uncommon receptacles for ink I had ever seen. It was made in what I judged must be some old form of china-ware I never remembered to have seen before, and beneath the dirt which was thickly coated over it I could see that both the modelling and colouring of it were very beautiful. It represented a figure lying upon the ground beside a big tree-stump, which, after the mud should be scraped out of it, was evidently intended to contain ink, and a milestone, when a similar operation had taken place, would doubtless contain one pen; a coloured three-cornered hat flung beside the figure upon the ground was obviously designed to hold a taper.

"The inkstand attracted me strangely, and I was so fascinated with it that I could not take my eyes off it. The woman to whom the stall belonged, doubtless spotting a likely customer, asked me how much I would give her for it. I deliberated for some time, as I had not the remotest idea what its value might be in her eyes, so I offered her eighteenpence as a sort of compromise between the inkstand and other articles ticketed upon her stall.

"'Give us two bob, and it's yours,' suggested the stall woman. However, I was firm, and was upon the point of going away when she called me back, and thrust it into my hand, carefully holding on to one of the square corners of it until she saw the money safely deposited.

"It took me some time to clean it properly when I got it home, but I must say it fully rewarded all the efforts I made to wash it, and somehow the more I looked at it the more beautiful I thought it was.

"There was something about that contemplative figure lying upon the grass that gave me confidence and reassurance, and I found myself regarding it as an old friend and talking to it, and when the big tree-stump was filled with ink I used to sit and write from it for hours. There always seemed to be encouragement and inquiry in the laughing face that looked from the figure on the inkstand, as if it were saying, 'Well, what are you going to write now, and when are you going to finish it?' I began to imagine that it gave me inspiration whenever I wrote; whether that was so or not, it certainly answered much better than its predecessor, the dull old ink-bottle that had been broken.

"So day by day I worked hard, and somehow became convinced that the wonderful little inkstand helped and inspired me in some curious manner which I could in no way account for, and after a few months I finished my book, eking out a scanty existence with other odd literary jobs. It was about this time that Murkel called on me.

"He stumbled up the winding stairs to my garret one day, smoking a quite objectionable pipe, and declared that I was the only old schoolfellow he had ever cared to call upon, as all the rest were snobs, and wound up by stating that we probably got along so well together as he came from the people, and he was certain that I came from the people also, and only those people who came from the people themselves ever got there eventually.

"After I had listened patiently to this harangue he came to the point by declaring he was a great friend of a publisher who sometimes bought the Murkel curios, furniture, china, pictures, etc., and if I liked he would get him to read my new book.

"I was only too thankful to accept this offer, and was saying so when a curious thing happened. Murkel, whose eyes had been roaming around my one attic room with the curious instinct of the dealer, and finding nothing that in any way interested him, suddenly crossed over to my rickety writing-table, and pouncing upon my inkstand emitted a low and prolonged whistle which might have been emblematical of either astonishment or delight.

"'Don't drop that inkstand,' I said. 'I'm very fond of that.'

"'Drop it!' almost shouted Murkel, 'drop it! Great Scott, do you know what it is?'

"'Yes,' I said, 'of course, it's an ink-stand.'

"Murkel looked at me almost pityingly. 'Oh, my great aunt,' he said, 'the ways of writers are beyond understanding. Here's one who lives in a garret, probably hasn't enough to eat, and upon a rickety three-legged writing-table, which would be a disgrace to a fifth-rate coffee-house, he has a jewel worth a hundred guineas and more.'

"'Bosh! you're joking,' I retorted.

"Murkel gave a queer smile. 'Am I?' he said. 'Well, I am prepared to go back to my place and write you a cheque for a hundred guineas for this, now on the spot.'

"I suppose I still continued to stare at him stupidly, and most likely the signs of my utter disbelief were plainly to be seen in my countenance, for Murkel continued hurriedly—

"'It's my business, I never make a mistake. This inkstand is Old Bow china, date—early Queen Anne. My friend, there are not five of these left in the world to-day, there are not four, and this is probably the most perfect one in existence; and what makes it so valuable, apart from its glaze, is that it was done by a fine artist, and it is a famous legendary figure perfectly executed. In fact, it is none other than the famous Dick Whittington.'

"'What!' It was my turn to shout this time. 'Dick Whittington!' I cried.

"'Of course,' said Murkel; 'Dick Whittington, only done in the costume of Queen Anne's day instead of his own.'

"'Then it is all true,' I shouted. 'By Jove, what a fool I've been; I see it all now, every bit of it. Oh, Lal! Lal! how impossible you are to understand.' Of course, this was all so much Greek to Murkel, who hadn't the remotest idea what I was so excited about; but he was thoroughly convinced that I meant to jump at his offer, and he thought I was merely madder than usual when I told him that I wouldn't sell Dick Whittington for five thousand pounds if he offered it to me.

"Murkel replaced Dick Whittington regretfully upon the rickety table and sighed deeply.

"'I suppose,' he said, 'that some forms of mental derangement are inseparable from some writers. The annoying part of it is that I wanted this piece for my own cabinet. If I had bought it I should never have sold it again. Well, if you want money, you know where to get it, old chap.'

"'I do,' I replied, 'and I have as good as found it in an unexpected quarter.' I took up the MSS. of the new book, lying upon the rickety table actually in front of Dick Whittington.

"'I will prophesy to you,' I said, 'and although it is a second-hand sort of prophecy it is going to come true nevertheless. You see this manuscript; this is going to make the first lot of money.'

"Murkel looked at me curiously. Do what he would the poor chap could not rid his mind of the thought that I was mad, but I will say he was very patient with me.

"'Give me the introduction to your publisher friend, and I will bet you a dinner, or two dinners, he accepts this as a start, and most probably everything else I write afterwards.'

"'Of course,' debated Murkel, 'you are a very amazing person. I meet you one day and you swear that nobody ever wants anything you do, and is never likely to want any of your work again; and then a few days after, without rhyme or reason, you swear they will take everything, even the things you haven't written. I don't pretend to consider you at all sane, but I am prepared to tackle the publishers for you; and, by Jove, you are really eccentric enough to have done something really good, so you may be right. But I cannot and will not understand why you cannot take a hundred guineas down for that little Dick Whittington.'

"'Do you believe in mascots, Murkel?' I asked.

"'Yes,' he said. 'I've got a black cat in the shop that always sits on a big Chinese idol whenever I have any luck. I don't know what it is, but the combination of my black cat Timps and that Chinese idol is extraordinary, and the greatest mascot I know.'

"Well, I told him that my mascots were a lion and the china Dick Whittington.

"'Where's the lion?' asked Murkel, always on the look-out for curios.

"'Oh, that is at present in a collection,' I told him, at the same time fervently hoping that Lal would forgive me for ever referring to him as being in a collection, for I knew the feeling of majestic toleration with which he regarded the other three lions.

"Very little more remains to be told, except that the person who was most astonished when my first book was instantly accepted was Murkel, and his astonishment appeared to greatly increase as each of my succeeding books made their appearance in print, whilst to-day is one of the red-letter days of my life, for the most important of all my books was published this morning, and so it is all doubtless intended to form part of to-day's story; and, by the way, so is to-day's tea."

* * * * *

"Ridgwell, would you ring the bell for the housekeeper? I have ordered all the sort of cakes you and Christine like best."

"I think it is a more wonderful story than Dick Whittington's," commented Ridgwell, as he rang the bell; "but before we have tea, we do so want to see the little china Dick Whittington which made all your story come true, and which is worth such a lot of money."

"You shall both see him presently, but at the present moment Dick Whittington is safely packed up; he is going to be given away this evening with a copy of my new book."

"Given away?" echoed the children blankly.

The Writer nodded.

"I can't make out how you can bear to part with it," suggested Ridgwell; "I know I would never give it away. Who is it for?"

"You will both see presently; and really, you know, if you come to consider it, it is not of any use giving anybody something one does not care for, for that is not a gift at all."

"It seems jolly hard to part with the one thing you like best," observed Ridgwell.

The Writer laughed. "Ah! Ridgwell, that is the only kind of gift worth giving in the world."



CHAPTER VII

THE LION MAKES HIS SIGN

Tea was finished, the remains of it were cleared away, and the heavy curtains drawn over the big windows overlooking Trafalgar Square. Having turned on all the electric lights he could find, the Writer led Ridgwell and Christine by either hand towards the door.

"The Lord Mayor has arrived," he whispered, "I can hear him coming up the stairs. Now as he comes into the door let us all bow down with a low curtsey, and say, 'Welcome, Sir Simon Gold, Lord Mayor of London.'"

"Bless him, he is still puffing up the stairs," whispered the Writer, "so we shall have time to rehearse it once before he gets here. Now then, all together," urged the Writer. "That's fine; why, you children make obeisance better than I do, but of course I was forgetting you had both been to the Pleasant-Faced Lion's party. That must, of course, have been an education in itself. Now then, get ready."

Outside somebody who was puffing and panting somewhat heavily could be heard exclaiming between these exertions in a cheery voice: "Good gracious me, why ever does the boy live in such a place? These stairs will be the death of me; positively fifty of them if there is one. Really at my time of life it is most unreasonable; he ought to have a lift put in, I will make it my business to see he doesn't live up here in the clouds any longer, whether he always wants to see Lal or whether he doesn't."

The Writer grinned at the children, and Ridgwell and Christine gave a faint chuckle by way of an answer. At last the door was flung open and the pleasantest-faced old gentleman it would be possible to find anywhere, with round pink cheeks, merry eyes, a snowy white upturned moustache and white hair to match, peering through big gold-rimmed spectacles like a cheerful night-owl, stood in the doorway.

Thereupon the three people inside the room bobbed down in a most profound curtesy, and there was a perfectly timed and simultaneous chorus from three voices, "Welcome, Sir Simon Gold, Lord Mayor of London."

"Bless my soul," said the Lord Mayor, "very impressive, upon my word; but as His Majesty the King has only knighted me twenty minutes ago, how on earth did you come to hear of it?"

"Magic," said the Writer. "Besides, Lal prophesied the event."

"Who are the children?" asked the Lord Mayor.

"Friends of Lal's and myself," replied the Writer, "and very anxious to see you in your robes."

"They are all in this bag," vouchsafed the Mayor, "and it may be vanity upon my part, but I brought them up on purpose to stand in front of the window so that Lal could have a good look at them and see the effect of his own handiwork. And now, you rascal," demanded the Lord Mayor of the Writer as he helped himself to a comfortable chair, "what excuses have you got to give me for not coming near either Mum or myself for ages, and for taking up your abode in this absurdly high flat which is as bad as mounting the Monument?"

"I have my excuses all labelled and wrapped up, Dad, and you and Mum must accept them when you have looked at them."

Thereupon the Writer fished out of the mysterious odd-fashioned cupboard two packets very neatly done up, and placed them in the hands of genial old Sir Simon.

The old gentleman opened the first packet with evident pleasure; it was a well-bound book fresh from the printer's press.

"Open it, Dad, and see whom it is dedicated to," suggested the Writer; "you will find it upon the first page."

"Beautiful," murmured the old gentleman, whilst his hands trembled slightly as he held the book and read out, "Dedicated to my dear Dad, to whom I owe everything—created Lord Mayor of the City of London in the year——"

The old gentleman coughed and wiped his spectacles carefully, and even suspiciously, for they appeared to be quite misty. "Oh, you bad boy," he burst out unexpectedly. "How dare you write books and become famous, when you ought to have been sitting upon a stool behind a glass partition as a junior partner in my counting-house? However, I believe Lal was right, he usually is; he said we should disagree, and that the youngest one would be in the right, and upon my word, my dear boy, I never believed how very right he was until to-day. Bless me, I'm proud of you."

"And I'm proud of you, Dad," was the Writer's answer.

"Goodness alive," declared the old man, as he turned and beamed upon Ridgwell and Christine by turns, "do you children know, those were the very words this rascal here used sixteen years ago, when he deposited a lot of ridiculous prizes that nobody ever wanted to read in my lap when I was asleep in front of the fire in my library. Bless me, history does repeat itself."

"And prophecies come true," added the Writer.

"Tut, tut," said Sir Simon, "there was one prophecy our friend Lal made that never came true. How about that absurd statement of his that you would find Dick Whittington? That was all a lot of riddle-me-ree, as you may say, thrown in like the cheap-jack's patter to mystify all of us."

"You haven't opened the second parcel," quietly remarked the Writer; "but when I read in some of the papers three years ago that you had started collecting valuable old china, I always determined you should have this piece."

"It all sounds very mysterious," replied the old gentleman, as he gingerly prepared to take off the outside wrappings.

It was at this point that Ridgwell could contain himself no longer, for he felt as if he were present upon a Christmas Day before the gifts were opened.

"It's worth more than a hundred guineas," shouted Ridgwell.

"Then it is simply disgraceful extravagance," replied Sir Simon, "and I shall certainly not accept it."

"I am sure you will," ventured Christine, "it is the thing that he values most of anything he has got."

The last wrapping was undone, and the beautifully coloured and modelled Dick Whittington was disclosed to view. There was not even a spot or trace of ink anywhere upon his enamelled coat, the tree-stump, the milestone or the three-cornered hat, he had been washed and cleaned for the cabinet with a vengeance, and looked as beautiful and as spick and span as the day the artist had turned him out to an admiring world.

"Bless my heart!" exclaimed Sir Simon, as he viewed the treasure with the keen admiration of a connoisseur. "Why, it is perfect; I don't believe there is another one in existence like it. Where did you get it, and who is it meant to be?"

"Why, Dick Whittington, of course, Dad; so you see Lal was right after all."

Sir Simon placed the little figure carefully upon the table, and folding his hands regarded the Writer severely. "Do you happen to know that it was this particular piece of Lal's nonsense that has worried me more than anything else all these years?"

"It worried me for a long time until I found out his trick," confessed the Writer.

"Yes, but mine is a most disheartening story," declared Sir Simon, "and nearly succeeded in alienating me from all my friends; and as for Mum, I dare not so much as mention Lal's name to her for fear of having my nose snapped off; she never did and never will believe in him, declares that the whole thing is a preposterous lot of nonsense, and declines even to discuss the subject with me at all. You know, my dear boy, that Mum is very sensible upon other points, but about Lal she is openly scornful and secretly adamantine; in fact, the mere mention of Lal is like poison to her, and he was entirely responsible for the only difference we have ever had in our married lives."

"Light a cigar, Dad, before you start; and what will you have by way of a drink?"

The Writer had opened other compartments in the mysterious old oak cabinet that seemed to possess more doors than a Chinese temple.

"These Coronas I remembered you used to smoke, so I got some."

"Excellent," declared Sir Simon, "and, let me see, why, bless me what a lot of bottles you have there. I hope you don't drink them all. Some of that green stuff, my dear boy, if you please, Creme-de-Menthe; yes, I think a couple of liqueurs of that would be most beneficial to me after the most indigestible banquet we all partook of at the Mansion House to-day. The stuff is largely made up of peppermint, I'm sure; and, of course, peppermint, when it is tastily got up like this liqueur, is very good for indigestion, isn't it?"

The Writer lighted the old gentleman's cigar, and placing the Creme-de-Menthe upon the table, filled a tiny liqueur glass to the brim.

"Of course," commenced Sir Simon, "from the very first nothing would induce Mum to believe that the Pleasant-Faced Lion, our old friend Lal, ever had anything to do with my life, or ever influenced me in any way. You know, my boy, it is one of women's weaknesses to invariably believe that they do more than they really do. She declared that everything in my life was owing to your influence and to hers."

"Mine?" asked the Writer in astonishment.

"So Mum always insisted, and so she always undoubtedly believed, and when the time came that you ran away,—yes, you dog, for you did run away, don't deny it,—well, what with sorrow for the loss of you, and trouble with your mother, for she declared I had driven you from home by not encouraging you to write, and women are most illogical and unreasonable when they once get a fixed idea into their heads,—well, between one and the other of you I had a very bad time. The fact remained that you were gone, never gave us any address, and I got all the blame for it. But the thing that annoyed Mum more than anything else was my everlasting habit of going to the Pantomimes."

The Writer laughed. "Well, I never knew before, Dad, that Pantomimes were a special weakness of yours."

"Neither were they, my boy, but as sure as ever Christmas came, and the inevitable Pantomimes also, so did I go to every one; not only in London, but every city of the United Kingdom." Here Sir Simon, as if overcome with emotion, groaned aloud. "My boy, pity me; I believe I am the only person still alive who has ever sat out every single Pantomime that has been written for ten years, and oh! what twaddle they were."

"But what on earth did you go to them for?" asked the Writer, aghast.

"To find you."

"Me? Good heavens, at a Pantomime? Dad, were you dreaming?"

"Yes," answered old Sir Simon, shaking his white head at the recollection. "I was dreaming of what Lal had prophesied—that you would make your name and fortune when you met Dick Whittington, and then you would come back to us. And the more I thought of it, the more I was convinced that there was only one possible way of meeting Dick Whittington in the world to-day, and that would be when some lady—and they were always ladies, plain, fair, ugly, tall, lean, fat, pretty—who appeared as that character—met you whilst impersonating Dick. You rascal, I believed that you would meet one of these female Dick Whittingtons, would ever after write the rubbishy Pantomimes in which she appeared every Christmas season, train up your children to be Pantaloons and Harlequins, and have the audacity to appeal to me to keep the family after having christened the eldest child after me. There is not one single lady," continued the Lord Mayor, as he mopped the perspiration from his face, "from here to Aberdeen, and back to Liverpool and Manchester, who has ever played Dick Whittington that I have not treated to either port wine or champagne (for those were the refreshments they all seemed to favour most) in the hope of finding you; I have spent more than ten times the reputed worth of that Dick Whittington inkstand, in railway fares and buying stalls and programmes. Yet the worst of all to relate is, that when Mum saw the programmes underlined upon my return, she accused me of being enamoured of these extraordinary ladies who stalked the stage in the most indescribable costumes, accompanied by cats. My boy, I know every ridiculous speech, every stupid gag spoken by every Lord Mayor in all those Pantomimes by heart, and the one dread of my life is that I shall one day come out with some of it in one of my speeches at either the Guildhall or the Mansion House."

The Writer lay back in his chair and roared with laughter.

"Poor old Dad, I had no idea you were undergoing such an awful penance!"

"You think it funny, do you?" asked the Lord Mayor indignantly.

"I think it is the funniest thing I have ever heard, but I am sure that all the blame rests with Lal for playing us such a trick."

"Humph! Well, Mum didn't think so, and every time Christmas came there was a coldness between us. Perhaps she will be convinced when I take her this inkstand and explain what it is," wound up Sir Simon triumphantly; "she will believe in Lal then, and believe in me at the same time."

Some two hours later Ridgwell and Christine, having viewed the Lord Mayor in his state robes, were safely despatched home in a carriage with the Writer's housekeeper in charge, but not before old Sir Simon had promised to send one of his state coaches, attended by servants in livery, to fetch them to the Mansion House Children's Ball.

Upon taking his departure, Ridgwell had inquired most particularly if the state coach would drive up to their door for them. The Lord Mayor assured him that this would be the case.

"I believe," declared Ridgwell, as he said good-bye and made his departure, "that all the neighbours will believe we have something to do with fairies."

"I shouldn't wonder," chuckled Sir Simon, "and I will get the Lady Mayoress to send you both two costumes that will help the illusion enormously."

"I do wonder what they will be like," mused Christine; "I do so love dressing up."

"So does the Lady Mayoress, my dear," laughed Sir Simon, "so I am sure both of you will get on capitally together, and really she is the life and soul of a children's gathering. I don't know how I should get on without her."

"It certainly seems very strange," remarked Sir Simon, when at length he and the Writer were left alone, "that Lal has not given any sort of sign; this is undoubtedly the night of all nights that he ought to show he is pleased."

Sir Simon helped himself to a third cigar, and a second Creme-de-Menthe, and after drawing back the curtains, looked anxiously down into Trafalgar Square for at least the twentieth time that evening.

The lights of London twinkled gaily, lighting the Square up in fairy-like brilliancy of colours. Signs were to be seen in plenty; they burst from the tall roofs of houses, in coloured electric lights, which worked out advertisements for Foods, Patent Medicines, brands of Cigarettes, brands of Whisky; nearly everything, in fact, that one could not be reasonably in need of at that time of night; but still the Pleasant-Faced Lion remained obdurate and made no sign at all of ever having been alive.

"There is one thing that both Mum and I insist upon," commenced Sir Simon.

"What's that, Dad?"

"Directly we leave the Mansion House, and I may say at once that although it is undoubtedly very stately, and all that sort of thing, we neither of us feel at home there, and for my part, I would as soon live in the British Museum—directly we leave, I insist that you come back to your old home and live with us, and complete the old happy party we three used to make."

"All right, Dad, I'll do that, I promise you."

"And now that you have made a name and fortune for yourself in spite of my doing everything I could to prevent you——"

"No, no, Dad, that isn't fair, and really, you know, I don't believe we could help ourselves, everything has come about exactly as Lal arranged it."

"I am very angry with Lal and his tricks, and if I thought he would listen to me for one minute, I would go down now and—Good gracious alive!" broke off Sir Simon, as he stared somewhat wildly out of the window; "what's that?"

"What's what?" inquired the Writer inconsequently, from his easy-chair at the other end of the room.

Sir Simon rubbed his eyes, then he looked out of the window again, then he rubbed his spectacles in case by any chance they were deceiving him.

"My dear boy," faltered Sir Simon, "is that—is' that—ahem!—Creme-de-Menthe you gave me exceptionally strong by any chance?"

"No, same as it always is, Dad; why?"

"Then I'm not mistaken, Lal's eyes have gone a bright green, the same colour as the liqueur in that bottle. Green," shouted Sir Simon, "and they are blazing like fireworks. Look! look at them."

The Writer rushed across the room to the window.

There could be no doubt about it that the calm eyes of the Pleasant-Faced Lion, which were wont to gaze haughtily upon the more commonplace things around him in Trafalgar Square, had suddenly changed to the colour of living emeralds, and were terrible to behold.

"Great Scott!" muttered the astonished Writer, "I have never seen him look like that. He's angry about something."

"He's more than angry—he's furious," suggested the Lord Mayor nervously. "What on earth can be the reason of it? Why, yes, I see. Why, how dare she!" spluttered Sir Simon. "There's a woman dancing, positively waltzing round the Square with his wreath of water-lilies I put there for him! I'll stop her, she must bring it back at once."

Without another word, Sir Simon rushed for the door and downstairs with the most surprising speed, followed closely by the Writer, who considered his old friend ought not to be deserted upon such a mission.

"Ho! hi! stop thief," puffed the Lord Mayor, as he toiled three parts round Trafalgar Square after the corybantic lady, who was dancing on ahead with the huge wreath held with both arms, swaying over her, as she danced a sort of bacchanal in front of the enraged Sir Simon.

"Hi!" panted the Lord Mayor, as after frantic efforts he came alongside. "Woman, bring that wreath back at once; how dare you take it away!"

"Oh, go on, ole dear," retorted the lady good-humouredly; "ain't it making me much 'appier than an old lion? Why, bless you, it put me in mind of the days when I used to play Alice in Pantomimes. Lead, I used to play, once, yes, s'welp me if I wasn't. What 'arm am I a-doing? Oh, look 'ere, if you're going to get snuffy, 'ere, take your ole wreath. I'm blowed if you don't look as if you come out of a Pantomime yourself, in them red robes! 'Ave yer been playing in a Pantomime?"

"Certainly not," replied Sir Simon, somewhat stiffly.

"Why, now I sees the light on your face, I knows you quite well; 'ow do yer do, ole sport? I'm Alice; don't you remember little Alice in the Pantomime of Dick Whittington ten years ago at Slocum Theatre Royal? Why, you gave me a bouquet, and stood me two glasses of port."

The Lord Mayor groaned.

"Little Alice," he queried vaguely; "let me see, little Alice?"

"Yes," averred the lady, who must have weighed fully eighteen stone, "shake hands, old pal."

The Lord Mayor felt thoroughly uncomfortable, more particularly as the Writer joined him at that moment.

"Ahem! an old Pantomime friend," explained Sir Simon.

"Yes, my dears," continued the lady, "and I don't get no Pantomimes now, been 'ard up, I 'ave, for a long time, can't even get chorus now; but bless your 'earts! coming along to-night, when I gets to Trafalgar Square, I somehow could 'ave declared I saw that there Lion a-laughing at me, and then when I sees the wreath, blessed if I didn't want to dance once again all of a sudden. Look 'ere, old sport, you used to have plenty of the shinies in the old days, you used to chuck the 'oof about a bit; I remember you was a-looking for some bloke who wrote—that you had an idea in your 'ead all us girls wanted to marry."

The distressed Lord Mayor fumbled in his pockets and produced two sovereigns.

"Thank you, ole dear," observed the lady, as she pocketed the gold with alacrity, "you was always one of the best; and Cissie Laurie, that's me, you know—Cissie—who used to play Alice, will always swear you are a tip-top clipper. Lor! when I sees you in them robes, and you ain't told me yet why you've got 'em on——

"An inadvertency," stuttered the Lord Mayor; "most unfortunate."

"Well, when I sees you in them robes it puts me in mind of the dear old Pantomime, when little Alice flings herself at the Lord Mayor's feet," and here, overcome with past recollections of the drama, the fat lady sunk upon her knees, and dramatically clasping the robes of Sir Simon, to that worthy old gentleman's utter confusion and consternation, at the same time gave forth aloud the doggerel lines that had once accompanied the incident in the play—

"Oh! Dad, I'm your Alice, in whom you're disappointed, And here is Dick Whittington, whose nose was out-of-jointed, Though your heart be as cold as an icicle king's, Forgive us and say we are nice 'ikkle things."

"Oh, hush! hush! dreadful," implored the Lord Mayor, endeavouring in vain to extricate himself from the dramatic lady's clutches.

At this moment a gruff judicial voice, which sent an immediate thrill down the worthy Lord Mayor's back, broke in upon the scene.

"Now, then, what's all this? Move on, there!"

A dark blue policeman stood in the pale blue moonlight.

The Lord Mayor only shivered.

The dramatic lady was equal to the occasion.

"Aren't we a picture?" she asked coquettishly.

"Get up, then," commanded the policeman dryly, "and be a movin' one."

"All right, don't get huffy, dear, we're professionals."

"So I should think," observed the policeman shortly.

The Writer thought this a most propitious moment to seize the Lord Mayor by the arm, and hurry him in the direction of his own rooms, across the almost deserted centre of the Square, without waiting for any further conversation of any description.

The policeman stared after them suspiciously as they moved away.

"What's he doing in them things?" inquired the policeman of the lady.

"Lor', 'ow should I know? I guess he's a good sort, though, he gave me some money."

"Oh, did he?" remarked the policeman in a sepulchral voice. "Well, I hope he came by it honestly, that's all."

"Oh, that old chap's all right, old tin-feet," retorted the once time Lady of the Drama. "I only think 'e's a bit balmy in his 'ead, that's all. So-long, I'm off 'ome!"

"Balmy in his head, eh?" grumbled the policeman gruffly. "Ah, I thought there was a funny look about him; yes. Well, I had better follow him up, and see that he doesn't get up to no mischief of any sort."

"I say, Dad," suggested the Writer, "you had better let me carry the wreath, whilst you lake off those robes; you know they attract a lot of attention, even at this time of night."

"I am afraid they do," confessed the Mayor. "What a dreadful and degrading scene! That upsetting fragment of a pantomime enacted in the open air, too, which is only a specimen of the stuff I was compelled to listen to for so many years!"

"She evidently regarded you as an old friend, and a patron of the theatre," laughed the Writer, "without in any way guessing your identity."

"It was a terrible situation," groaned the Lord Mayor; "however shall I be able to tell Mum about such an incident when I arrive home?"

The worthy Lord Mayor got no further either in his remarks or in removing his bright robes, for as they approached the position occupied by the Pleasant-Faced Lion, Sir Simon became aware of another figure standing menacingly in front of it.

A short, thick-set man in a sailor's dress was holding his hands to his head, and regarding the Lion with his mouth and eyes wide open, whilst an expression of horrified wonder and astonishment appeared to have petrified his face into a sort of ghastly mask of perpetual astonishment.

Whilst the sailor continued to stare and mutter, the Lion's eyes could be seen to shoot out the most brilliant green fires; they looked like the flashing of two wonderful green emeralds.

The Lord Mayor quickened his pace almost to a run. "Look, look! what's the thing that man is flourishing about in his hand?"

"It's a big sailor's knife," replied the Writer uneasily.

"Quick, quick!" shouted the Lord Mayor, "he is going to do Lal some harm with it! Good heavens! he's swarmed up the pedestal and he is positively contemplating cutting Lal's eyes out. Stop, you villain," shouted the Lord Mayor, whilst he ran towards the spot. "Come down at once; how dare you touch that beautiful Lion's eyes!"

Without so much as turning his head, and apparently heedless of any remarks addressed to him, the sailor continued to flourish his ugly-looking knife, shouting meanwhile in the Lion's face as he did so—

"Emeralds, bloomin' emeralds here in London under my very nose. I'll 'ave 'em out," yelled the sailor. "I'll have 'em out in no time. I've come from Hindia, where they've got jools like these 'ere in the hidols' eyes. I couldn't get at them there, but I can get these 'ere," whereupon the sailor made a frantic jab with his knife at the Pleasant-Faced Lion's right eye.

He had no time, or indeed any opportunity of continuing his unpleasant execution, for the enraged Lord Mayor had seized the wide ends of the sailor's trousers and had dragged him down with such abruptness and goodwill that the over-venturesome son of Neptune, dropping his knife, lay upon the ground volunteering expressions which at least had the merit of showing that his travels must have been indeed varied and extensive to have left him in possession of such a widely stocked vocabulary.

"I'll have you up for attempting to mutilate the beautiful statues of London," shouted the enraged Lord Mayor.

The Writer restrained the sailor's more or less ineffectual efforts to get at the Lord Mayor, but the Writer found it singularly impossible to control the shouted execrations of that abusive mariner, among a few of whose remarks could be mentioned, by way of sample, that he wanted to know why an old bloke dressed like an etcetera Mephistopheles meant by coming along from a blighted Covent Garden Ball and interfering with him; that if he, the mariner, could once get at the—ahem!—Mephistopheles in question, he would never go to a fancy ball again as long as he lived, as he would not have a head to go with, and his legs wouldn't ever be any use to him again as long as he lived.

The Writer being sufficiently athletically active to control, or at any rate postpone, these amiable intentions of the mariner, the Lord Mayor was afforded a few brief seconds to climb up and examine his favourite. Flinging the wreath of water-lilies around the Lion's mane to get it out of the way, the Lord Mayor clasped his old favourite Lal round the neck, uttering words of consolation and affection.

The Lion's eyes had changed from their bright emerald colour to a dull topaz yellow, which in turn subsided to their wonted colouring during the Lord Mayor's affectionate address.

The countenance of the Lion gradually resumed its ordinary pleasant-faced expression, and two large tears fell upon the Lord Mayor's outstretched hands.

The worthy Lord Mayor was quite overcome with emotion at this obvious sign from the Pleasant-Faced Lion!

"Dear old Lal," murmured the Lord Mayor, "dear, faithful, loving soul, these are the first tears I have ever known you shed. Are they tears of gratitude because we have rescued you from this ruffian with a knife, who would have destroyed your noble sight? Or are they tears of pity? Speak to me, Lal; if they are tears of pity, they will open the gates of——"

"A police station," interrupted a cold, judicial voice, and the good Lord Mayor turned to find what the Writer, although fully occupied with the mariner, had seen approaching with consternation and alarm, the same policeman who had spoken to them before, followed by a small crowd of late night loafers, who were already starting to exchange remarks and jeer at the somewhat unusual scene.

"Just you come down," said the constable, in his severest and most judicial tones.

The Lord Mayor prepared to climb down, looking somewhat crestfallen, whilst the unsympathetic crowd uttered a faint, ironical cheer.

"This is the second time to-night I have spoken to you," said the constable. "Now, as you have been behaving most strangely and attracting a crowd, I'll just trouble you for your name and address," and the constable unfolded an uncomfortable-looking pocket-book, bound in an ominous-looking black case, produced the stump of a pencil and prepared to take notes. "Now then, out with it, what's your name?"

"Gold," faltered the Lord Mayor, fumbling vainly for a visiting card, which he was unable to find.

The stolid constable misunderstood the action. "No, you don't bribe me," said the constable loftily.

"I was not attempting to," objected the Lord Mayor.

"Well, what's your name, then?"

"Gold," repeated the Lord Mayor.

"Oh, I see," muttered the constable; "what else?"

"Simon Gold."

"What else?" pursued the remorseless officer of the law.

"Sir Simon Gold," groaned the helpless Lord Mayor.

"What address?"

"The Mansion House."

"Here, I don't want none of your jokes," vouchsafed the constable sternly; "this is no joking matter, as you will find out when you're charged afore the magistrate."

The worthy Sir Simon's plump cheeks flushed red with anger at the bare mention of such an indignity. "How dare you suggest such a thing to me?" spluttered Sir Simon. "Do you know who I am? I am the Lord Mayor of London."

This remark was greeted with a loud cheer from the rapidly gathering crowd.

The constable smiled a maddening smile.

"A likely tale," observed the constable. "Why, I was present keeping the crowd off when his Worship, the Lord Mayor of London, opened his Home to-day; he returned hours ago; and I think myself it's some sort of Home as you have got to return to, and I don't leave you until I find out which Home it is."

Whether the mention of the word Home suggested sudden possibilities to the Writer, or whether, like Ulysses of old, he longed so ardently for a return to that blissful abode that he even stooped to emulate the sort of stratagem Ulysses might have adopted in similar circumstances will never be known. Yet the fact remains that the Writer turned the fortunes of war for the time being.

He drew the constable quickly upon one side and spoke rapidly and earnestly to him for some moments. At the end of these whispered explanations the constable closed his pocket-book with a snap, and pointed across the way in the direction of the Writer's chambers.

The Writer nodded.

The constable touched his forehead significantly at the side of his helmet.

Once again the Writer nodded.

"Very well," said the constable, "if you are the one who looks after him, you can go; better get him home as quickly as you can."

Amidst a parting ironical cheer the Writer hastily seized the worthy Lord Mayor by the arm and broke through the assembled crowd with all possible speed.

As they passed upon their way one small incident, however, caused the Writer grave misgiving.

A tall man who had undoubtedly watched the whole proceeding nodded to him and remarked sarcastically, as he passed—

"Good-night; a really most interesting and illuminating episode."

Having safely gained his own abode, the Writer gazed apprehensively out of the window.

The sailor could still be seen supporting himself against the pedestal of the Lion's statue, the policeman appeared to be engaged upon a new crusade of note-taking. The small crowd was melting away, but the sinister face of the sarcastic man could be seen wreathed in a cynical smile of triumph.

The Writer whistled, and drawing the curtains close, turned up the electric light and anticipated the worst.

The Lord Mayor sank into the most comfortable chair he could select, and helped himself to a drink; he felt he needed one badly at that moment.

"What a dreadful and degrading scene," lamented Sir Simon. "Good gracious, if anybody had seen me who recognised me, I should never have heard the last of it."

The Writer lit a cigar thoughtfully, and passed the box to Sir Simon.

"I am afraid, Dad, we never shall hear the last of it," prophesied the Writer gloomily.

"What do you mean?" inquired Sir Simon.

"Did you notice that man who spoke to me at the edge of the crowd, who had presumably seen the whole thing?"

"Of course not," replied Sir Simon; "how on earth could I notice anybody under such distressing circumstances? Who was he? what about him?"

"That was the famous Mr. Learned Bore."

"What, the man who is always advertising himself?"

"Yes," agreed the Writer, "and unfortunately he has the power to do so through the medium of the newspapers; his letters to London are one of the features of the Press," added the Writer significantly.

"Don't tell me," entreated the Lord Mayor, with an imploring look in his eyes, "that he will make me, the Lord Mayor of London, a subject for his heartless gibes."

"He's certain to write two columns about it in one of to-morrow or the next day's papers," declared the Writer hopelessly. "Do you suppose such a man would waste such material and copy as that for one of his satirical eruptions?"

The Lord Mayor groaned aloud at the very thought of this new terror, which threatened to descend like the sword of Damocles and crush all the joy of his new civic dignity. With trembling hands he folded his bright robe and glittering chain of office; the Lord Mayor felt that he could no longer bear the sight of them.

"What on earth I can say to Mum for being out as late as this I don't know," lamented the Mayor dolefully; "she will, of course, believe I have been to another Pantomime; she always taxes me with having gone to a Pantomime whenever I stay out late. However," sighed the Mayor, "I shall show her the Dick Whittington which has really been the cause of all the trouble."

It may have been that Sir Simon was still unusually agitated from the scene he had recently passed through, to say nothing of the vague foreboding caused by the knowledge that Mr. Learned Bore might conceivably do anything within the next few days. There is a possibility that his hand trembled; whatever may have been the cause, as Sir Simon lifted the little Dick Whittington from the table, he let it fall. As it crashed upon the hard polished floor it broke into a dozen pieces, and the merry little figure of Dick Whittington was hopelessly shattered. Sir Simon looked blankly at the Writer.

The Writer looked blankly back at Sir Simon.

As poor Sir Simon ruefully picked up the pieces, he looked disconsolate enough to be upon the verge of tears. The Writer, although keenly affected by the loss, tried, although unsuccessfully, to comfort him.

"Never mind, Dad, it can't be helped, and I suppose Dick Whittington has served his day."

"To think I have broken the most perfect specimen in the world," moaned Sir Simon; "that you must have denied yourself greatly to give me, and to think I shall never be able to convince Mum now, or even mention it, for she wouldn't believe one word of the story. Besides," wound up Sir Simon, "it is so dreadfully unlucky to break china. Call me a cab, my dear boy," implored the old gentleman, "a four-wheeler, if possible; I really dare not go home in a taxi, I feel some other dreadful accident would happen to me if I did."

Upon his way home Sir Simon ruminated upon the events of the evening. He found himself unable to make up his mind which portion of the adventure had been the most discomforting to him. Finally, upon approaching the Mansion House, he caught himself indulging in speculation and uttering his thoughts aloud.

"I wonder what possible story he could have told the policeman, to get me out of that dreadful situation so quickly; and I wonder," mused Sir Simon, "why the policeman tapped his head in that curious manner; he must have told him something that appealed to him at once. I dare say even policemen have their feelings, and looking back upon matters calmly, I suppose my conduct must perhaps have appeared a little out of the ordinary. However, if I ever come across that constable again, I must try and make him a little present."

Sir Simon little realised that he was to meet the constable again very soon, and certainly never realised where, otherwise it is safe to assume that the good Sir Simon would never have slept the tranquil sleep he did that night, full of peaceful dreams, over which the Pleasant-Faced Lion presided like the protecting guardian watch-dog that the good Lord Mayor always believed him to be.



CHAPTER VIII

AN UPSETTING ARTICLE IN THE MORNING PAPER

Some few mornings after the events just recorded the Lady Mayoress sat down to breakfast in one of the most cosy of the morning-rooms in their private suite in the Mansion House. A very smart manservant of quite aristocratic appearance solemnly poured out some most fragrant coffee, and removed many covers from a most delicately appetising breakfast-table, as a preliminary to removing his aristocratic presence from the room altogether. There could be no doubt that the Lady Mayoress was a singularly pretty and attractive lady, and despite her well-dressed head of iron-grey hair, looked fully fifteen years younger than her age, which is invariably a pleasing reflection for a woman who has passed the age of forty-five.

The Lady Mayoress sipped her morning coffee, and in the absence of her husband the Lord Mayor, who was late for breakfast on this occasion, unfolded the morning newspapers and started leisurely to peruse their contents.

The Lady Mayoress, being exceedingly popular, and having taken a prominent part in a number of social functions, like most women, was never averse to reading any paragraphs which might chance to mention her sayings, doings, and, more particularly, her dress. The Lady Mayoress read on; there appeared to be very little in the particular paper she was perusing that interested her, so refolding it carefully the Lady Mayoress selected another morning paper, and opening it, smiled as she read in big print, "Audacious attack by Mr. Learned Bore."

"Ah!" commented the Lady Mayoress, "he certainly is a particularly audacious, as well as being a very naughty man, who makes fun of everything and everybody, but at least his articles and letters are always amusing." Thereupon the smiling lady gently stirred her coffee, folded the newspaper to the required place, and proceeded to enjoy Mr. Learned Bore's contribution to the morning journalism.

Suddenly the little silver coffee spoon dropped from the Lady Mayoress's hand, and she sat bolt upright in her chair as if she had received a galvanic shock. At this inauspicious moment the Lord Mayor made his appearance, very jovial and full of happy morning greetings, mingled with pleasant apologies for being late.

Something in the expression of his wife's face, however, gave the worthy Lord Mayor an uncomfortable, apprehensive sort of feeling, the cheerful flow of his morning remarks died away in little sentences, as if the promise of their young life had been cut short.

The Lord Mayor chipped an egg nervously, and made a brave show of gulping his coffee.

"Well, Mum, you seem very interested in the morning paper," observed Sir Simon, with an assumption of hearty cheerfulness he was far from feeling.

Something in the expression of Mum's face seemed to baffle all analysis, as she continued to read without vouchsafing any answer. After a terrible pause the Lady Mayoress refolded the paper, and laying it upon the table, regarded her husband steadfastly with flushed face and sparkling eyes.

Sir Simon's heart seemed to sink into his boots.

"I thought you distinctly told me, Simon, when you returned, at what I can only describe as a most eccentric hour in the early morning, that you had been visiting an old friend."

"Quite right, my dear, I assure you I had. I'm right upon that point at any rate."

"You told me you had not been to a Pantomime," continued his wife, heedless of the interruption.

"No, my dear,—no Pantomime, I assure you; I never entered a theatre or a building of any such description."

"Apparently not," came the icy reply; "the Pantomime in this case appears to have taken place in the open air. Read that paper," commanded the Lady Mayoress, "and offer any suggestion you can find as to how I can keep up my position, or your position, whilst such a statement as this" (tapping the opened paper) "remains uncontradicted." Then the Lady Mayoress swept from the room.

Sir Simon groaned and closed his eyes before venturing to look at the offending article. He instinctively felt he was about to receive a shock without the necessary strength to bear it. Sir Simon gingerly unclosed one eye and read, "Audacious attack by Mr. Learned Bore." Sir Simon shivered and hastily closed the one eye he had opened. Then he valiantly tried both eyes and read by way of a second and happy headline, "The Lord Mayor revives Paganism in London." Sir Simon never knew how he finished that article. It was a most scurrilous attack.

All the biting satire and vitriolic irony that Mr. Learned Bore had so well at his command was here employed to compliment the Lord Mayor upon being acclaimed a great Christian in the afternoon after opening his New House for Children; whilst he was found at night like any Pagan of old worshipping one of the lions in Trafalgar Square, around whose mane he had hung a votive wreath of water-lilies, across whose unresponsive neck the Lord Mayor had wound his arms in supplication, imploring it that it might speak, and give a sign like the Oracle in Delphi.

Was the Lord Mayor of London the last of the great Pagans? asked the writer, or had he merely gone back a few thousand years in imagination, owing to the insidious suggestions of another Heathen Deity who had doubtless presided over the Wine-press with an unstinted hand earlier in the day during the banquet at the Guildhall? The writer dared to express a hope that it was merely a form of Civic debauchery emanating from the oft-replenished toasts of the Devil's cup, rather than a classical intoxication which if persisted in might plunge the whole of London once more into the perverted darkness of Pagan ages.

The Lord Mayor seized his hat and called for his carriage, and arrived at the Writer's chambers overlooking Trafalgar Square, purple in the face.

"Yes, I've read it, Dad," remarked the Writer as he observed Sir Simon's signs of almost apoplectic agitation. "It's very bad form, and what is worse it's very badly written."

"The pen is mightier than the sword," shouted Sir Simon, "and unfortunately the sword is out of date nowadays, or I would challenge him upon the spot; but, my boy, you have the pen, and you can use it, and a jolly sight better than the silly ass who wrote that article. Will you answer him for me?"

The Writer smiled and shook his head.

"No, Dad, that is exactly what he wants; he would get all the advertisement out of such a controversy that his soul craves for, and which is absolutely necessary for him now to keep up his reputation. I have something to suggest much better than that."

"What is it?" asked the Lord Mayor helplessly.

"Did you ever consider some of the characteristics of Ulysses, Dad?"

"Oh, they talked about him in my school-days, but I didn't have much schooling, you know; and what on earth has Ulysses to do with this?"

The Writer grinned. "Because, Dad, he possessed a remarkably wily gift of always finding his enemies' one vulnerable spot."

"Well?"

"I know at least two of Learned Bore's most vulnerable spots."

"Eh? Unbounded conceit and unlimited calumny?" questioned Sir Simon.

"No," rejoined the Writer, "I should say he was invulnerable upon those two points. However, two things he dreads more than anything else. He has a horror of ridicule when it is turned upon himself, and an unutterable and most unnatural hatred of all children."

"Well, I don't see how that helps me," rejoined the Lord Mayor.

The Writer looked at Sir Simon significantly, and spoke slowly and deliberately so that his words might have their full effect.

"Lose no time in bringing an action against him for libel; as a defendant he will be off his pedestal,—and at a disadvantage."

The Lord Mayor opened his eyes and whistled softly. "I never thought of that," he confessed; "and where does his horror of children come in?"

"The chief witness for your side will be little Ridgwell," suggested the Writer quietly; "it will be something that Learned Bore doesn't understand, has never encountered, and will not know how to deal with, and of the two I know whose story will be believed, however fantastic it sounds. The child will be the one who will score, they always do in Court, and I think that Learned Bore will live to gnash such teeth as he hasn't had pulled, and employ the venom of his remaining fangs upon some one else."

Sir Simon lay back in his chair and laughed heartily, and all his old good-humour seemed to be restored to him.

"'Pon my word," he declared, "it is a capital idea of yours. How shall I commence the action?"

"I'll find the man for you and get Vellum and Crackles, the solicitors, to instruct him at once on the case. His name is Mr. Gentle Gammon, K.C., a famous barrister. He was at school with me, and afterwards at Oxford. Why, Dad, you must remember him, he returned home once with me and spent the Christmas holidays with us at Lancaster Gate. Mum thought an awful lot of him."

"I remember!" exclaimed Sir Simon excitedly; "meek manner, gentle voice, but the young devil always got his own way, I noticed, before any one even knew what he was after."

"He gets his own way rather more now than he did then, if possible, and by the same means. He always wins his cases too."

"Engage him," commanded Sir Simon, "engage him at once, my boy; and are you going to undertake to coach little Ridgwell?"

"Little Ridgwell won't want any coaching," chuckled the Writer. "I only want little Ridgwell to appear in Court and talk to them about the Pleasant-Faced Lion as he talks to me, and I think it will be a refreshing and unusual experience for them all; and I firmly believe for the first time in his life Mr. Learned Bore will not be able to find anything to say."

"It's very odd," remarked Sir Simon as he rose to take his departure, "really very odd that you should have mentioned that chap just now—what's his name—Ulysses; as far as I remember he was a very cunning person, uncannily cunning, and I'm afraid really quite underhand, so to speak, and sometimes deceitful in his methods; and do you know, my boy, you rather remind me of him, now I come to think of the matter."

The Writer grinned affably.

"And whilst we are upon this subject," pursued Sir Simon, "I should really like to know what explanation you gave to the policeman that night, that he considered so convincing and satisfactory."

"Even Ulysses didn't reveal all his wisdom, Dad. Good-bye."



CHAPTER IX

THE WRITER PLANS WICKED PLANS

Now it so happened that the Writer chanced to be quite as fond of jokes as the Pleasant-Faced Lion, and the Writer contended, taking all the circumstances into consideration, that an action for libel with the Pleasant-Faced Lion involved in it would be an excellent great big joke, to say nothing of a graceful retaliation upon the Pleasant-Faced Lion himself for a few of the jokes which that Pleasant Animal had played upon the Writer. Not to mention the fact that such a case promised to supply the Writer with a little light recreation almost in the nature of a holiday, after the labours of producing his last book.

Consequently, as soon as Sir Simon had left, the Writer selected his favourite pipe, filled it with his choicest tobacco, and having lit it, stretched himself at ease upon the most comfortable divan in his rooms, and thought out subtle schemes.

There he lay laughing and chuckling for all the world like a wicked Puck, bent upon mischief, joyfully and solely devised for a confusion of his enemies, particularly Mr. Learned Bore.

Cheered and emboldened by such happy reflections, the Writer hit upon a scheme haphazard which for sheer unscrupulous impudence would baffle all description; gradually embroidering his machinations with that whimsicality that had always served him so well as an author, until his plans appeared to be complete.

"Very fortunate," murmured the Writer as he knocked out his pipe, "that those kids told me all about the Pleasant-Faced Lion's party. Great heavens, what a chance! and it will be worth a fifty-pound note to have Lal brought into Court and to hear the Griffin's song sang in Court, and sung it shall be, only I must alter the words to fit the occasion." Here the Writer sat upon the edge of the table and rocked with delighted laughter.

"Ha! ha! ha!" gurgled the Writer, "only one man in London who can set it, and, by Jove, I'll ring him up on the 'phone at once; a few judicious rehearsals—before Vellum and Crackles, the solicitors, are communicated with—to say nothing of Gentle Gammon, and—ha! ha! ha!—what a glorious joke. What's Billy Cracker's number in the book?"

A quarter of an hour afterwards, in answer to a most urgent summons by telephone, Mr. William Cracker made his appearance in the Writer's rooms.

Mr. William Cracker, called Billy by his friends, was rapidly rising to fame as a writer of musical comedy—a tall, sleek personage, with straw-coloured hair brilliantined very flat over his head, and carefully parted in the centre, wearing a monocle in one eye, which appeared to grow there, and was always lavishly adorned as an exact and living replica of the latest fashion plate.

Billy greeted the Writer and stared at him through his eyeglass quizzically.

"Whenever I hear you give that Mephistophelean chuckle at the end of the 'phone," commented Billy, "I always know you have got some particularly impish scheme on. Well, what is it?"

"Oh, Billy, Billy," chuckled the Writer, "I have indeed got a scheme, and it is funnier, Billy, than any of your musical comedies."

"In that case," announced Billy, as he leisurely helped himself to a smoke which the Writer offered, "I shall steal the plot."

"Listen, Billy. Could you write a tune, a refrain, an air, whatever you call it, so catchy that people would hum it and sing it on the spot? I want a perfectly irresistible tune, Billy."

"All my tunes are irresistible," confessed Billy modestly.

"Yes, but I want an absolute dead cert. The sort of thing you used to write at Oxford before you took up music as a profession; you know, one of those catchy things we all used to stand round and sing the instant you played it."

"Of course," returned Billy equably, "it's my profession. I turn out any amount of such things."

"Oh, yes; but, Billy, this has got to be a Comic Classic."

Billy considered for a space.

"Is it to be sung in a Comic Opera?" he asked.

"No, it's going to be sung in Court."

Billy stared through his eyeglass.

"You're joking!" he said.

"Of course I'm joking," retorted the Writer, "you only have to read the words to gather that fact."

"Have you got the words?"

"Yes, here they are; but wait a minute, old chap, that isn't all, you have got to coach a youngster I know to sing them."

"Oh, that's a very different matter," demurred Billy; "I don't teach, and anyway it would be awful waste of time."

"I will pay you your own fee," grinned the Writer, as he fingered a cheque-book, artlessly placed upon the top of a desk. "Nice fat cheque, Billy, always useful."

Mr. Billy Cracker appeared instantly to succumb to this suggestion and to take very kindly to it.

"Here are the words," said the Writer modestly, handing two half-sheets of notepaper to his friend, "there is the grand piano, Billy, opened already, a medium of expression only waiting for your musical genius."

"Let's see the words," said Billy.

Mr. Cracker perused the lines offered for his inspection with amazement.

"I say," he observed, "they seem awful rot."

The Writer laughed.

"Ah, Billy, that's only because you don't know the situation yet."

"True," assented Billy; "I've had worse given me to set in musical comedies. Now let me see," murmured Mr. Cracker as he seated himself at the pianoforte, "scansion is the great thing—scansion and rhythm."

Thereupon followed a curious procession of tum tiddle, tum tiddle, tum tiddle, tiddle tums, varied by little tinkling outbursts upon the pianoforte, which there could be no doubt that Mr. Billy Cracker played astonishingly well.

"Easy or difficult to set?" inquired the Writer.

"Oh, child's play!"

"That's just what I want it for," remarked the Writer encouragingly, "child's play, and the sort of tune a child would sing whilst he played."

"Half a mo," murmured Billy, "I'm getting it fine—lum, lum, lum, lum, lum, lum, lum, lum, lum. Ha! What do you think of this?"

Out rippled a delicious melody, harmonised with rich full chords this time.

"That's it!" shouted the Writer excitedly. "Oh! lovely!! Billy, you're a treasure. Oh! play it again!"

Mr. Billy Cracker obligingly consented.

The Writer was dancing round the room and singing at one and the same time.

"Ripping! Billy, Ripping! Write it down at once!"

"Suppose you haven't got any music-paper in the place? No, I thought not; never mind, I can soon manufacture some from this manuscript-paper."

"No, not that," exclaimed the Writer hastily, "that's my new poem."

"Humph! Hope it's better than the one you have given me to set."

"Billy," exclaimed the Writer enthusiastically, "I am going to stand you a tip-top lunch, and then I'm going to take you to Balham."

"Balham, good gracious! what on earth for?"

"You've got to give a music lesson in Balham after lunch, Billy, one lesson will be enough with that tune. Why, it's in my head now, I can't forget the thing."

"Isn't that exactly what you required?" asked Billy languidly, as he wrote down notes.

* * * * *

Messrs. Vellum and Crackles, most concise and conservative of solicitors, found themselves suffering for the first time in the history of the firm from a fit of astonishment, not to mention dismay, regarding the strange nature and unusual features of a case concerning which their firm had recently received instructions.

The case was considered so unusual that a sort of hastily contrived board meeting was deemed expedient, and was accordingly held in Mr. Vellum's private room.

At the end of the meeting, Mr. Vellum gave instructions for the writing of a letter to the Board of Works, for special permission to have one of the Lions, which would be, hereinafter, especially pointed out and specified, removed from Trafalgar Square to the Law Courts, as its presence in Court was deemed indispensable in a case of a peculiar and special nature.

"It is a very singular application," remarked Mr. Crackles thoughtfully.

"I hope the request will not bring ridicule upon the firm," rejoined Mr. Vellum.



BOOK III

WHAT THE PUBLIC HEARD ABOUT



CHAPTER X

THE LION GOES TO COURT

There was a curious hush of expectancy one early autumn afternoon in Court X., about to be presided over by Mr. Justice Chatty.

Outside in the streets London was suffering from partial darkness, which is not infrequently the case, so a number of the lights in Court had been lit, and although they burned a somewhat dull amber, the lighting was sufficient to outline a truly remarkable scene.

Mr. Justice Chatty, the Judge, had not yet entered and taken his seat, so that the expectant hush which had momentarily crept over the Court was all the more remarkable by way of contrast to the series of rushes which had gone before this state of calm.

Something approaching a small riot had taken place before the doors of the Court had been opened. Crowds of curiosity-loving people, having stationed themselves outside for hours, and who had even thoughtfully provided themselves with sandwiches, now fought and kicked and struggled in solid wedges to find a place, and even roundly abused the police who controlled the doors when they were thrust away. The public have an unfortunate habit of becoming abusive whenever "House Full" is announced, after bravely enduring the probationary martyrdom of waiting hours for one of their favoured entertainments to start.

The belief that the Judge was about to take his seat was found to be a false alarm, so the hum and hubbub inside the Court recommenced with renewed activity. The solicitors chattered at their table like magpies. The leading barristers turned over their briefs and snapped out replies to the other barristers with them, and fidgeted with their gowns. Everybody glared at everybody else in the amber-lighted Court, but however eagerly they talked, and wherever they looked, the eyes of every one in Court always returned to stare in amazement and wondering curiosity upon one object. In the body of the Court, looming out of the dimness, the head fully illuminated, was the enormous statue of a bronze lion upon its stone pedestal.

"Most extraordinary case in my recollection," drawled a junior barrister to one of his fellows who was flattened beside him; "no wonder there is no room in Court with that ridiculous thing stuck there!"

"Who's for the defendant?"

"Dreadful, K.C., instructed by Brockett and Bracket."

"Umph! then I suppose there will be explosions and fireworks in Court: it's usually so when Dreadful starts."

"Gentle Gammon, I see, for the plaintiff. Biggest spoofer on the Law List, clever though."

Even after the Court appeared to be packed with that overlapping economy which is a characteristic repose of preserved sardines, small bodies of juniors, some with wigs, some without wigs, some in whole gowns, some with their gowns in shreds, forced their way in from other doors and other Courts. Some conspicuously held briefs borrowed for the occasion, some did not even pretend to have any such thing.

The stalwart policeman who guarded this second door suddenly became firm, and closed it with a mighty effort; that is to say, he all but closed it, only was prevented by the foot and head of the last junior hurrying in, who howled his agony aloud at having fallen into such a trap.

"No, no, Mr. Towers," expostulated the tall constable, "can't you see the Court is full and won't hold another one?"

"Lucas, let me in at once."

"I can't, sir, more than my position is worth."

"Then let me out," howled the suffering junior, "you're crushing my foot and my neck."

The stalwart policeman lessened a fraction of his weight against the door, and the imprisoned junior was allowed to scrape himself out as gradually as his peculiar position would admit.

The one person who considered the presence of the Lion in Court to be the most natural thing in the world was Ridgwell, who, standing beside the Writer, peeped through the little glass panel let into the door leading from a passage to one of the witnesses waiting-rooms.

"Is the Round Game going to commence?" Ridgwell asked the Writer innocently.

The Writer admitted gravely that the Round Game was going to commence with a vengeance.

"The ones who lose have to pay the forfeits, haven't they?" persisted Ridgwell.

"Yes," agreed the Writer. "Exactly—ahem!—heavy forfeits."

"I hope Sir Simon wins then," observed Ridgwell.

"You see that man across there, Ridgwell," remarked the Writer, "big fierce-looking man making ineffectual efforts to adjust his wig becomingly over a pair of very big red ears, with two very big red hands?"

"Yes," agreed Ridgwell.

"With the sort of expression upon his face that the first of the Three Bears must have worn when he entered Silverlocks' kitchen and found the bread-and-milk to be missing?"

"Yes," laughed Ridgwell, "I remember, 'Who stole my bread-and-milk?'"

"Well, that is the man who is going to try to make you and I and Sir Simon pay the forfeits."

"How?" inquired Ridgwell.

"Well," suggested the Writer, "you know he will roar and shout and bang the table with those red hands of his, and try to frighten everybody, but the one thing to do is not to take the slightest notice of him. If he annoys you, just smile; if he continues to annoy you, just glance towards the Judge."

At this moment the voices of the ushers were heard shouting for silence and order, and a profound stillness reigned inside the Court, for his Lordship the Judge had entered through the doors leading to his room and had taken his seat.

His scarlet robe only seemed to accentuate the colour of his puffy pink cheeks, whilst the blackness of his little beady eyes and pointed nose rather gave him the appearance of some overfed bird gorged to repletion after a particularly satisfying meal, slightly apoplectic, with its beak out of focus. The Judge, moreover, appeared to be afflicted with a little wheezy asthmatical cough which attacked him at intervals as he prepared to arrange his papers. The Clerk carefully placed a glass of water upon the desk by his Lordship's side, but whether this was done by way of a simple remedy for the Judge's wheezy little cough, or merely as a gentle reminder that the case was likely to be a dry one, cannot be guessed with any certainty. The preliminaries having been arranged, the case having been called, the Ushers of the Court having again shouted unnecessarily for silence, Sir Simon Gold having stared at the Judge, and Mr. Learned Bore having stared at everybody, the Judge having appeared to have closed his beady eyes in slumber, like a broody hen upon a perch, Mr. Gentle Gammon rose and opened his case for the plaintiff.

As Ridgwell observed in a whisper, "the Round Game had started." Mr. Gentle Gammon opened his case in his proverbially gentle tones. It was a silky voice, purring in its gentleness, but with a curious power of penetrating every corner of the over-crowded Court; it insisted even whilst it soothed, and its effect upon his Lordship the Judge seemed to be most pleasing, as he immediately appeared to nod to it as if in greeting. Mr. Gentle Gammon related to the Court how his client, holding the highest Civic position in London, had been made the subject of a virulent and unscrupulous newspaper attack by a man who, in addition to writing plays which nobody professed to understand, undoubtedly wrote articles that all fair-minded people unquestionably deplored. This unprincipled person, Mr. Learned Bore by name, had seen fit to attack no less a person than the Worshipful the Lord Mayor of London, and that, moreover, during his Lordship's tenure of office, believing that he, an unscrupulous journalist, could drag the Lord Mayor down from his exalted position by means of a few clap-trap phrases written for money, although he, the learned Counsel, marvelled how any one could find it in their hearts to remunerate such a person engaged in such a calling using such questionable language in such a preposterous case.

He, the Most Worshipful the Lord Mayor, the observed of all observers in the City as elsewhere, or in any assemblage he adorned with his presence and ornamented with his personality, had been accused in an offensive phrase of "imbibing too freely of the Devil's cup," the Devil's cup in this instance signifying wine, the insidious inference being that the Most Worshipful the Mayor was inebriated, and, moreover, in public, and in Trafalgar Square of all places in London. The Counsel paused dramatically, then a thrill of unutterable horror crept into the hitherto purring voice of Mr. Gentle Gammon.

"That, my Lord and Gentlemen of the Jury, is a foul calumny, an insidious lie, uttered to drag down the exalted of the earth, and bespatter the resplendent robes of Civic dignity with the spiteful mud besprinkled from the nethermost garbaged recesses of the journalistic gutter.

"During the still and beautiful night hours, when this travesty of an accusation is brought, my client, the Most Worshipful, had wandered into the holy star-lit night, clad in the flowing robes symbolical of his exalted earthly estate, to place a wreath, a beautiful wreath, upon one of the monuments of London he deemed the most dignified and fitting to receive it. That monument, if they but lifted their eyes, they would see in Court. A stately noble Lion, whose presence there had necessitated the removal of four separate sets of folding doors leading to the Court in order that it might be present. Could this noble beast but speak," urged Mr. Gentle Gammon, K.C., "could it even roar, it would speak its severest censures, would roar its loudest denunciations at the libellous statement that the noble Civic head of London who honoured it, could possibly have done so, could conceivably have climbed to such a height upon its back, unless he had been eminently sober, unfalteringly steady at the time when, clad in his robes in the calm violet depth of night, he had placed his offering in happy felicitation as a symbol and a greeting to his beloved City of London. This should have excited only admiration; but seen through the prying eyes of a prurient pressman, this touching tribute had been changed by the vile alchemy of suspicion to an unseemly and ridiculous action of midnight debauchery which could only have turned the noble Lion to stone, had it not already been made of bronze.

"My Lord and Gentlemen of the Jury, this Lion stands for liberty, as do all British Lions. I claim the liberty and full right of my client, if he deems fit, to be able to decorate any statue of London whenever he pleases, at any or every possible hour of the night that he chooses, without the stupid and interfering intervention of a constable, or the slanderous pen of a Mr. Learned Bore, having the power to make a lovable and harmless action wear the appearance of a midnight frolic of bibulous recklessness, which, had it taken place, would have been only food and gossip for the senseless and shameful, and reflective regret for the wise.

"My Lord and Gentlemen of the Jury, my client does not wish for big damages, but he does demand strict justice. That is what he is here for, my Lord and Gentlemen of the Jury, that is what we are all here for. If I were given to emotion, which I am glad to confess I am not, my deepest and innermost emotions would be called forth by the picture of his Lordship there before us, who holds the scales of Justice in his hands, who can pierce the outer coverings of dissembling and falsehood with the eagle eye of truth, who can right this hideous wrong, who can smooth out the crooked paths of falsehood, making all plain. Let the false traducer beware, I say, he is veritably between the Lion and the Eagle. His Lordship in this case is the Eagle (metaphorically, of course)," hastily added Counsel, upon noticing the extraordinary likeness of his Lordship to a bird roosting, "and the Lion and the Eagle shall each of them turn and between them rend the truth and nothing but the truth from the lying carcase of calumny.

"Having now shown with impartiality, at the same time characterised with reserve, that the condition ascribed to the Right Worshipful the Lord Mayor was ridiculous, I will proceed to deal with the other statement in this misjudged journalistic attack, that the Right Worshipful was reviving Paganism in London, and in consequence attracting a crowd. Far from the Right Worshipful either attracting attention or causing a scene or obstruction in Trafalgar Square, I shall prove indisputably that it was the Lion, and the Lion alone, that caused the scene; the Lion also, who by a strange metamorphosis occasioned a crowd to collect. We know from classical history that in Babylon and Assyria bulls talked, we have heard of the oracle of Delphi, and in Biblical history of animals who talked. I shall prove by witnesses that this Lion has not only walked but talked as well."

Sensation in Court.

Here his Lordship the Judge appeared to show the first sign of interest he had evinced in the case.

"My learned friend must be careful," cautioned the Judge. "If what he states is true, the Lion may have to go into the witness-box."

Titters in Court. The Learned Judge smiles, rather pleased with his own remark.

Mr. Dreadful, K.C., at this point arose hastily; in fact, the learned K.C. almost jumped.

"My Lord, I protest against such a line of argument, such a travesty being introduced to mar the seriousness of this case."

His Lordship waved the learned and excited gentleman aside.

"I am the Judge here," observed his Lordship, "and in that sense I even resemble Daniel with regard to his duties in a similar capacity, but I fear I do not possess his special knowledge with regard to Lions."

Titters again in Court, in which the Learned Judge joins.

"However, I am always anxious to learn."

Renewed titters.

Mr. Dreadful, K.C., seats himself hurriedly and grinds his teeth in vexation, but finds time to whisper rapidly to a junior, who leaves the Court hastily and mysteriously.

"Pray continue, Mr. Gammon."

"My Lord, I have little more to say."

"I am sorry for that," interposed the Judge; "you were beginning to interest me more than I should have believed possible."

Mr. Gentle Gammon bowed ever so slightly, as if the Learned Judge had crowned him with a compliment that he found too heavy for his head to support, and proceeded—

"But, my Lord and Gentlemen of the Jury, if I say little else with regard to this case before you, which is permeated throughout by the mythical mystery of a classical age, it is only that the witnesses I shall produce to prove this strange thing may speak instead of myself. Three witnesses in all, and one in particular. The one in particular, since only truth can issue from the lips of infancy, I shall call first. My Lord, I shall put a child, a little boy, into the witness box that you may hear his simple story."

Judge. "Dear me, I hope he won't be frightened of the Lion." (Titters in Court.)

Mr. Gammon, K.C. "On the contrary, my Lord, you will find he regards it as an old friend; and, my Lord, when you have listened to what he has to say, I think we may all realise 'that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in—er—philosophy.'"

His Lordship (pleasantly). "I think I have heard that before."

Mr. Gammon (courteously). "Your Lordship is much too well read to have missed it." (Thereupon Mr. Gammon, K.C., sat down.)

Judge (with a little snigger). "The only thing I am likely to miss is how our celestial knowledge is going to be especially advanced this afternoon. However, the curious nature of the case as presented possesses unlimited possibilities."

Ridgwell, having been called, walked with the utmost composure into Court and took his place in the witness-box. He looked very tiny, but very self-possessed, and smiled pleasantly at the Judge.

The Judge smiled pleasantly back at Ridgwell.

Mr. Gammon rose to the occasion and to his feet at one and the same time. He permitted the pleasing impression that Ridgwell had unconsciously created to have its full effect upon the Court, and upon everybody present with the exception of Mr. Learned Bore, whose countenance alone wore the disgusted and horrified expression that might have been expected had a great green toad been introduced into the witness-box. Mr. Learned Bore's countenance afforded a strange study of nausea struggling against outraged dignity.