The man saved the situation. He seemed to possess that magnetic power over his fellows which marks the born leader. Under his command we became an organised army. The common object, the pursuit of the elusive Aunt Elizabeth, made us friends. In the first minute of the proceedings the Irishman was addressing me as “me dear boy,” and the man, who had introduced himself as Mr. Chase–a lieutenant, I learned later, in His Majesty’s Navy–was shouting directions to me by name. I have never assisted at any ceremony at which formality was so completely dispensed with. The ice was not merely broken; it was shivered into a million fragments.
“Go in and drive her out, Garnet,” shouted Mr. Chase. “In my direction if you can. Look out on the left, Phyllis.”
Even in that disturbing moment I could not help noticing his use of the Christian name. It seemed to me more than sinister. I did not like the idea of dashing young lieutenants in the senior service calling a girl Phyllis whose eyes had haunted me since I had first seen them.
Nevertheless, I crawled into the bushes and administered to Aunt Elizabeth a prod in the lower ribs–if hens have lower ribs. The more I study hens, the more things they seem able to get along without– which abruptly disturbed her calm detachment. She shot out at the spot where Mr. Chase was waiting with his coat off, and was promptly enveloped in that garment and captured.
“The essence of strategy,” observed Mr. Chase approvingly, “is surprise. A neat piece of work!”
I thanked him. He deprecated my thanks. He had, he said, only done his duty, as expected to by England. He then introduced me to the elderly Irishman, who was, it seemed, a professor at Dublin University, by name, Derrick. Whatever it was that he professed, it was something that did not keep him for a great deal of his time at the University. He informed me that he always spent his summers at Combe Regis.
“I was surprised to see you at Combe Regis,” I said. “When you got out at Yeovil, I thought I had seen the last of you.”
I think I am gifted beyond other men as regards the unfortunate turning of sentences.
“I meant,” I added, “I was afraid I had.”
“Ah, of course,” he said, “you were in our carriage coming down. I was confident I had seen you before. I never forget a face.”
“It would be a kindness,” said Mr. Chase, “if you would forget Garnet’s as now exhibited. You seem to have collected a good deal of the scenery coming through that hedge.”
“I was wondering—-” I said. “A wash–if I might—-”
“Of course, me boy, of course,” said the professor. “Tom, take Mr. Garnet off to your room, and then we’ll have lunch. You’ll stay to lunch, Mr. Garnet?”
I thanked him, commented on possible inconvenience to his arrangements, was overruled, and went off with my friend the lieutenant to the house. We imprisoned Aunt Elizabeth in the stables, to her profound indignation, gave directions for lunch to be served to her, and made our way to Mr. Chase’s room.
“So you’ve met the professor before?” he said, hospitably laying out a change of raiment for me–we were fortunately much of a height and build.
“I have never spoken to him,” I said. “We travelled down from London in the same carriage.”
“He’s a dear old boy, if you rub him the right way. But–I’m telling you this for your good and guidance; a man wants a chart in a strange sea–he can cut up rough. And, when he does, he goes off like a four- point-seven and the population for miles round climbs trees. I think, if I were you, I shouldn’t mention Sir Edward Carson at lunch.”
I promised that I would try to avoid the temptation.
“In fact, you’d better keep off Ireland altogether. It’s the safest plan. Any other subject you like. Chatty remarks on Bimetallism would meet with his earnest attention. A lecture on What to do with the Cold Mutton would be welcomed. But not Ireland. Shall we do down?”
We got to know each other at lunch.