“Ours, indeed! You speak as though we were partners instead of rivals.”
Ashe uttered an exclamation. “You’ve hit it! Why not? Why any cutthroat competition? Why shouldn’t we form a company? It would solve everything.”
Joan looked thoughtful.
“You mean divide the reward?”
“Exactly–into two equal parts.”
“And the labor?”
“The labor?”
“How shall we divide that?”
Ashe hesitated.
“My idea,” he said, “was that I should do what I might call the rough work; and–”
“You mean you should do the actual taking of the scarab?”
“Exactly. I would look after that end of it.”
“And what would my duties be?”
“Well, you–you would, as it were–how shall I put it? You would, so to speak, lend moral support.”
“By lying snugly in bed, fast asleep?”
Ashe avoided her eye.
“Well, yes–er–something on those lines.”
“While you ran all the risks?”
“No, no. The risks are practically nonexistent.”
“I thought you said just now that it would be madness for either of us to attempt to go to the museum at present.” Joan laughed. “It won’t do, Mr. Marson. You remind me of an old cat I once had. Whenever he killed a mouse he would bring it into the drawing-room and lay it affectionately at my feet. I would reject the corpse with horror and turn him out, but back he would come with his loathsome gift. I simply couldn’t make him understand that he was not doing me a kindness. He thought highly of his mouse and it was beyond him to realize that I did not want it.
“You are just the same with your chivalry. It’s very kind of you to keep offering me your dead mouse; but honestly I have no use for it. I won’t take favors just because I happen to be a female. If we are going to form this partnership I insist on doing my fair share of the work and running my fair share of the risks–the practically nonexistent risks.”
“You’re very–resolute.”
“Say pig-headed; I shan’t mind. Certainly I am! A girl has got to be, even nowadays, if she wants to play fair. Listen, Mr. Marson; I will not have the dead mouse. I do not like dead mice. If you attempt to work off your dead mouse on me this partnership ceases before it has begun. If we are to work together we are going to make alternate attempts to get the scarab. No other arrangement will satisfy me.”
“Then I claim the right to make the first one.”
“You don’t do anything of the sort. We toss up for first chance, like little ladies and gentlemen. Have you a coin? I will spin, and you call.”
Ashe made a last stand.
“This is perfectly–”
“Mr. Marson!”
Ashe gave in. He produced a coin and handed it to her gloomily.
“Under protest,” he said.
“Head or tail?” said Joan, unmoved.
Ashe watched the coin gyrating in the sunshine.
“Tail!” he cried.
The coin stopped rolling.
“Tail it is,” said Joan. “What a nuisance! Well, never mind– I’ll get my chance if you fail.”
“I shan’t fail,” said Ashe fervently. “If I have to pull the museum down I won’t fail. Thank heaven, there’s no chance now of your doing anything foolish!”
“Don’t be too sure. Well, good luck, Mr. Marson!”
“Thank you, partner.”
They shook hands.
As they parted at the door, Joan made one further remark: “There’s just one thing, Mr. Marson.”
“Yes?”
“If I could have accepted the mouse from anyone I should certainly have accepted it from you.”
CHAPTER VII
It is worthy of record, in the light of after events, that at the beginning of their visit it was the general opinion of the guests gathered together at Blandings Castle that the place was dull. The house party had that air of torpor which one sees in the saloon passengers of an Atlantic liner–that appearance of resignation to an enforced idleness and a monotony to be broken only by meals. Lord Emsworth’s guests gave the impression, collectively, of being just about to yawn and look at their watches.
This was partly the fault of the time of year, for most house parties are dull if they happen to fall between the hunting and the shooting seasons, but must be attributed chiefly to Lord Emsworth’s extremely sketchy notions of the duties of a host.