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Page 8
"Dinner," he cried indignantly, gripping me fiercely by the arm--"what
is dinner compared with duty? Do you know, man, I've been doing this
bally Special business for over two years and never had a case yet,
and now that I've got a real fire--and this is my own fire, mind you,
my very own----"
"I thought it was mine," I ventured.
"You talk to me of dinner! Pass right along, please;" and I found
myself back among the crowd, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying it.
There was a small cheer just then as the flames came through the
roof. Of Jones and his wife I saw nothing, but supposed they must have
stayed on to enjoy their saddle of mutton, and wondered if they had
kept mine hot for me. I could have kept it hot in my own house, I
reflected rather miserably.
* * * * *
The fire had been extinguished. As the crowd dispersed I felt a touch
on my shoulder. It was the elderly constable, note-book in hand.
"You are Mr. Brown, Sir, of Myrtle Villa?" he inquired patiently. "I
haven't had your name and address yet, Sir, for showing an unguarded
light at the rear of the premises at 8 P.M."
* * * * *
"Plain Cook (good). Wanted for country house; six
kept."--_Devon and Exeter Gazette_.
Too many; sure to spoil the broth.
* * * * *
"The Irish Party cars are placarded with posters calling on
the electors to vote for 'Unity and Party,' and there are the
cryptic words, '1/8 Up. M'Kenna.'"--_Daily Paper_.
But as the result of the election Mr. MCKENNA went to a slight
discount.
* * * * *
A CH�TEAU IN FRANCE.
Artists reared it in courtly ages;
WATTEAU and FRAGONARD limned its walls;
Powdered lackeys and negro pages
Served the great in its shining halls;
Minstrels played, in its salons, stately
Minuets for a jewelled king,
And radiant gallants bowed sedately
To lovely Pompadours curtseying.
Pigeons cooed in its dovecots shady;
Down in the rose-walk fountains played;
Many a lovelorn lord and lady
Here in the moonlight sighed and strayed;
Here was beauty and love and laughter,
Splendour and eminence bravely won;
But now two walls and a blackened rafter
Grimly tell the tale of the Hun.
My lady's chamber is dust and ashes;
The painted salons are charred with fire;
The dovecot pitted with shrapnel splashes,
The park a tangle of trench and wire;
Shell-holes yawn in the ferns and mosses;
Stripped and torn is the avenue;
Down in the rose-walk humble crosses
Grow where my lady's roses grew.
Yet in the haunted midnight hours,
When star-shells droop through the shattered trees,
Steal they back to their ancient bowers,
Beau Brocade and his Belle Marquise?
Greatly loving and greatly daring--
Fancy, perhaps, but the fancy grips,
_For a junior subaltern woke up swearing
That a gracious lady had kissed his lips._
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