Miss Mapp

by E. F. Benson

  CHAPTER V

  It was the Major's turn to entertain his friend, and by half-past nine,on a certain squally October evening, he and Puffin were seated by thefire in the diary-room, while the rain volleyed at the windows andoccasional puffs of stinging smoke were driven down the chimney by thegale that squealed and buffeted round the house. Puffin, by way ofkeeping up the comedy of Roman roads, had brought a map of the districtacross from his house, but the more essential part of his equipment forthis studious evening was a bottle of whisky. Originally the host hadprovided whisky for himself and his guest at these pleasant chats, butthere were undeniable objections to this plan, because the guest alwaysproved unusually thirsty, which tempted his host to keep pace with him,while if they both drank at their own expense, the causes of economy andabstemiousness had a better chance. Also, while the Major took hisdrinks short and strong in a small tumbler, Puffin enriched his withlemons and sugar in a large one, so that nobody could really tell ifequality as well as fraternity was realized. But if each brought his ownbottle....

  It had been a trying day, and the Major was very lame. A drenching stormhad come up during their golf, while they were far from the club-house,and Puffin, being three up, had very naturally refused to accede to hisopponent's suggestion to call the match off. He was perfectly willing tobe paid his half-crown and go home, but Major Flint, remembering thatPuffin's game usually went to pieces if it rained, had rejected thisproposal with the scorn that it deserved. There had been otherdisagreeable incidents as well. His driver, slippery from rain, hadflown out of the Major's hands on the twelfth tee, and had "shot like astreamer of the northern morn," and landed in a pool of brackish waterleft by an unusually high tide. The ball had gone into another poolnearer the tee. The ground was greasy with moisture, and three holesfurther on Puffin had fallen flat on his face instead of lashing hisfifth shot home on to the green, as he had intended. They had given eachother stimies, and each had holed his opponent's ball by mistake; theyhad wrangled over the correct procedure if you lay in a rabbit-scrape oron the tram lines; the Major had lost a new ball; there was a mushroomon one of the greens between Puffin's ball and the hole.... All theseuntoward incidents had come crowding in together, and from the Major'spoint of view, the worst of them all had been the collective incidentthat Puffin, so far from being put off by the rain, had, in spite ofmushroom and falling down, played with a steadiness of which he wasusually quite incapable. Consequently Major Flint was lame and his woundtroubled him, while Puffin, in spite of his obvious reasons forcomplacency, was growing irritated with his companion's ill-temper, andwas half blinded by wood-smoke.

  He wiped his streaming eyes.

  "You should get your chimney swept," he observed.

  Major Flint had put his handkerchief over his face to keep thewood-smoke out of his eyes. He blew it off with a loud, indignant puff.

  "Oh! Ah! Indeed!" he said.

  Puffin was rather taken aback by the violence of these interjections;they dripped with angry sarcasm.

  "Oh, well! No offence," he said.

  "A man," said the Major impersonally, "makes an offensive remark, andsays 'No offence.' If your own fireside suits you better than mine,Captain Puffin, all I can say is that you're at liberty to enjoy it!"

  This was all rather irregular: they had indulged in a good stiff breezethis afternoon, and it was too early to ruffle the calm again. Puffinplucked and proffered an olive-branch.

  "There's your handkerchief," he said, picking it up. "Now let's have oneof our comfortable talks. Hot glass of grog and a chat over the fire:that's the best thing after such a wetting as we got this afternoon.I'll take a slice of lemon, if you'll be so good as to give it me, and alump of sugar."

  The Major got up and limped to his cupboard. It struck him precisely atthat moment that Puffin scored considerably over lemons and sugar,because he was supplied with them gratis every other night; whereas hehimself, when Puffin's guest, took nothing off his host but hot water.He determined to ask for some biscuits, anyhow, to-morrow....

  "I hardly know whether there's a lemon left," he grumbled. "I must layin a store of lemons. As for sugar----"

  Puffin chose to disregard this suggestion.

  "Amusing incident the other day," he said brightly, "when Miss Mapp'scupboard door flew open. The old lady didn't like it. Don't suppose thepoor of the parish will see much of that corned beef."

  The Major became dignified.

  "Pardon me," he said. "When an esteemed friend like Miss Elizabeth tellsme that certain provisions are destined for the poor of the parish, Itake it that her statement is correct. I expect others of my friends,while they are in my presence, to do the same. I have the honour to giveyou a lemon, Captain Puffin, and a slice of sugar. I should say a lumpof sugar. Pray make yourself comfortable."

  This dignified and lofty mood was often one of the after-effects of anunsuccessful game of golf. It generally yielded quite quickly to alittle stimulant. Puffin filled his glass from the bottle and thekettle, while his friend put his handkerchief again over his face.

  "Well, I shall just have my grog before I turn in," he observed,according to custom. "Aren't you going to join me, Major?"

  "Presently, sir," said the Major.

  Puffin knocked out the consumed cinders in his pipe against the edge ofthe fender. Major Flint apparently was waiting for this, for he withdrewhis handkerchief and closely watched the process. A minute piece of ashfell from Puffin's pipe on to the hearthrug, and he jumped to his feetand removed it very carefully with the shovel.

  "I have your permission, I hope?" he said witheringly.

  "Certainly, certainly," said Puffin. "Now get your glass, Major. You'llfeel better in a minute or two."

  Major Flint would have liked to have kept up this magnificent attitude,but the smell of Puffin's steaming glass beat dignity down, and afterglaring at him, he limped back to the cupboard for his whisky bottle. Hegave a lamentable cry when he beheld it.

  "But I got that bottle in only the day before yesterday," he shouted,"and there's hardly a drink left in it."

  "Well, you did yourself pretty well last night," said Puffin. "Thosesmall glasses of yours, if frequently filled up, empty a bottle quickerthan you seem to realize."

  Motives of policy prevented the Major from receiving this with theresentment that was proper to it, and his face cleared. He would getquits over these incessant lemons and lumps of sugar.

  "Well, you'll have to let me borrow from you to-night," he saidgenially, as he poured the rest of the contents of his bottle into theglass. "Ah, that's more the ticket! A glass of whisky a day keeps thedoctor away."

  The prospect of sponging on Puffin was most exhilarating, and he put hislarge slippered feet on to the fender.

  "Yes, indeed, that was a highly amusing incident about Miss Mapp'scupboard," he said. "And wasn't Mrs. Plaistow down on her like a knifeabout it? Our fair friends, you know, have a pretty sharp eye for eachother's little failings. They've no sooner finished one squabble thanthey begin another, the pert little fairies. They can't sit and enjoythemselves like two old cronies I could tell you of, and feel at peacewith all the world."

  He finished his glass at a gulp, and seemed much surprised to find itempty.

  "I'll be borrowing a drop from you, old friend," he said.

  "Help yourself, Major," said Puffin, with a keen eye as to how much hetook.

  "Very obliging of you. I feel as if I caught a bit of a chill thisafternoon. My wound."

  "Be careful not to inflame it," said Puffin.

  "Thank ye for the warning. It's this beastly climate that touches it up.A winter in England adds years on to a man's life unless he takes careof himself. Take care of yourself, old boy. Have some more sugar."

  Before long the Major's hand was moving slowly and instinctively towardsPuffin's whisky bottle again.

  "I reckon that big glass of yours, Puffin," he said, "holds betweenthree and a half times to four times what my little tumbler holds.Between three an
d a half and four I should reckon. I may be wrong."

  "Reckoning the water in, I daresay you're not far out, Major," said he."And according to my estimate you mix your drink somewhere about threeand a half times to four stronger than I mix mine."

  "Oh, come, come!" said the Major.

  "Three and a half to four times, _I_ should say," repeated Puffin. "Youwon't find I'm far out."

  He replenished his big tumbler, and instead of putting the bottle backon the table, absently deposited it on the floor on the far side of hischair. This second tumbler usually marked the most convivial period ofthe evening, for the first would have healed whatever unhappy discordshad marred the harmony of the day, and, those being disposed of, theyvery contentedly talked through their hats about past prowesses, andtook a rosy view of the youth and energy which still beat in theirvigorous pulses. They would begin, perhaps, by extolling each other:Puffin, when informed that his friend would be fifty-four next birthday,flatly refused (without offence) to believe it, and, indeed, he wasquite right in so doing, because the Major was in reality fifty-six. Inturn, Major Flint would say that his friend had the figure of a boy oftwenty, which caused Puffin presently to feel a little cramped and towander negligently in front of the big looking-glass between thewindows, and find this compliment much easier to swallow than theMajor's age. For the next half-hour they would chiefly talk aboutthemselves in a pleasant glow of self-satisfaction. Major Flint, lookingat the various implements and trophies that adorned the room, wouldsuggest putting a sporting challenge in the _Times_.

  "'Pon my word, Puffin," he would say, "I've half a mind to do it.Retired Major of His Majesty's Forces--the King, God bless him!" (and hetook a substantial sip); "'Retired Major, aged fifty-four, challengesany gentleman of fifty years or over.'"

  "Forty," said Puffin sycophantically, as he thought over what he wouldsay about himself when the old man had finished.

  "Well, we'll halve it, we'll say forty-five, to please you,Puffin--let's see, where had I got to?--'Retired Major challenges anygentleman of forty-five years or over to--to a shooting match in themorning, followed by half a dozen rounds with four-ounce gloves, a gameof golf, eighteen holes, in the afternoon, and a billiard match of twohundred up after tea.' Ha! ha! I shouldn't feel much anxiety as to theresult."

  "My confounded leg!" said Puffin. "But I know a retired captain from HisMajesty's merchant service--the King, God bless him!--aged fifty----"

  "Ho! ho! Fifty, indeed!" said the Major, thinking to himself that adried-up little man like Puffin might be as old as an Egyptian mummy.Who can tell the age of a kipper?...

  "Not a day less, Major. 'Retired Captain, aged fifty, who'll take on allcomers of forty-two and over, at a steeplechase, round of golf, billiardmatch, hopping match, gymnastic competition, swinging Indian clubs----'No objection, gentlemen? Then carried _nem. con._"

  This gaseous mood, athletic, amatory or otherwise (the amatory ones werethe worst), usually faded slowly, like the light from the setting sun oran exhausted coal in the grate, about the end of Puffin's secondtumbler, and the gentlemen after that were usually somnolent, butoccasionally laid the foundation for some disagreement next day, whichthey were too sleepy to go into now. Major Flint by this time would havehad some five small glasses of whisky (equivalent, as he bitterlyobserved, to one in pre-war days), and as he measured his next withextreme care and a slightly jerky movement, would announce it as beinghis night-cap, though you would have thought he had plenty of night-capson already. Puffin correspondingly took a thimbleful more (the thimbleapparently belonging to some housewife of Anak), and after anotherhalf-hour of sudden single snores and startings awake again, of pipesfrequently lit and immediately going out, the guest, still perfectlycapable of coherent speech and voluntary motion in the requireddirection, would stumble across the dark cobbles to his house, and doorswould be very carefully closed for fear of attracting the attention ofthe lady who at this period of the evening was usually known as "OldMappy." The two were perfectly well aware of the sympathetic interestthat Old Mappy took in all that concerned them, and that she had an eyeon their evening seances was evidenced by the frequency with which thecorner of her blind in the window of the garden-room was raised between,say, half-past nine and eleven at night. They had often watched withgiggles the pencil of light that escaped, obscured at the lower end bythe outline of Old Mappy's head, and occasionally drank to the "GuardianAngel." Guardian Angel, in answer to direct inquiries, had been told byMajor Benjy during the last month that he worked at his diaries on threenights in the week and went to bed early on the others, to the vastimprovement of his mental grasp.

  "And on Sunday night, dear Major Benjy?" asked Old Mappy in thecharacter of Guardian Angel.

  "I don't think you knew my beloved, my revered mother, Miss Elizabeth,"said Major Benjy. "I spend Sunday evening as---- Well, well."

  The very next Sunday evening Guardian Angel had heard the sound ofsinging. She could not catch the words, and only fragments of the tune,which reminded her of "The roseate morn hath passed away." Brimming withemotion, she sang it softly to herself as she undressed, and blamedherself very much for ever having thought that dear Major Benjy---- Shepeeped out of her window when she had extinguished her light, butfortunately the singing had ceased.

  * * * * *

  To-night, however, the epoch of Puffin's second big tumbler was notaccompanied by harmonious developments. Major Benjy was determined tomake the most of this unique opportunity of drinking his friend'swhisky, and whether Puffin put the bottle on the further side of him, orunder his chair, or under the table, he came padding round in hisslippers and standing near the ambush while he tried to interest hisfriend in tales of love or tiger-shooting so as to distract hisattention. When he mistakenly thought he had done so, he hastilyrefilled his glass, taking unusually stiff doses for fear of not gettinganother opportunity, and altogether omitting to ask Puffin's leave forthese maraudings. When this had happened four or five times, Puffin,acting on the instinct of the polar bear who eats her babies for fearthat anybody else should get them, surreptitiously poured the rest ofhis bottle into his glass, and filled it up to the top with hot water,making a mixture of extraordinary power.

  Soon after this Major Flint came rambling round the table again. He wasnot sure whether Puffin had put the bottle by his chair or behind thecoal-scuttle, and was quite ignorant of the fact that wherever it was,it was empty. Amorous reminiscences to-night had been the accompanimentto Puffin's second tumbler.

  "Devilish fine woman she was," he said, "and that was the last thatBenjamin Flint ever saw of her. She went up to the hills nextmorning----"

  "But the last you saw of her just now was on the deck of the P. and O.at Bombay," objected Puffin. "Or did she go up to the hills on the deckof the P. and O.? Wonderful line!"

  "No, sir," said Benjamin Flint, "that was Helen, _la belle Helene_. Itwas _la belle Helene_ whom I saw off at the Apollo Bunder. I don't knowif I told you-- By Gad, I've kicked the bottle over. No idea you'd put itthere. Hope the cork's in."

  "No harm if it isn't," said Puffin, beginning on his third most fieryglass. The strength of it rather astonished him.

  "You don't mean to say it's empty?" asked Major Flint. "Why just nowthere was close on a quarter of a bottle left."

  "As much as that?" asked Puffin. "Glad to hear it."

  "Not a drop less. You don't mean to say---- Well, if you can drink that andcan say hippopotamus afterwards, I should put that among yourchallenges, to men of four hundred and two: I should say forty-two. It'sa fine thing to have a strong head, though if I drank what you've got inyour glass, I should be tipsy, sir."

  Puffin laughed in his irritating falsetto manner.

  "Good thing that it's in my glass then, and not your glass," he said."And lemme tell you, Major, in case you don't know it, that when I'vedrunk every drop of this and sucked the lemon, you'll have had far moreout of my bottle this evening than I have. My usual twice and--and myusual n
ight-cap, as you say, is what's my ration, and I've had no morethan my ration. Eight Bells."

  "And a pretty good ration you've got there," said the baffled Major."Without your usual twice."

  Puffin was beginning to be aware of that as he swallowed the fierymixture, but nothing in the world would now have prevented his drinkingevery single drop of it. It was clear to him, among so much that was dimowing to the wood-smoke, that the Major would miss a good many drivesto-morrow morning.

  "And whose whisky is it?" he said, gulping down the fiery stuff.

  "I know whose it's going to be," said the other.

  "And I know whose it is now," retorted Puffin, "and I know whose whiskyit is that's filled you up ti' as a drum. Tight as a drum," he repeatedvery carefully.

  Major Flint was conscious of an unusual activity of brain, and, when hespoke, of a sort of congestion and entanglement of words. It pleased himto think that he had drunk so much of somebody's else whisky, but hefelt that he ought to be angry.

  "That's a very unmentionable sor' of thing to say," he remarked. "An' ifit wasn't for the sacred claims of hospitality, I'd make you explainjust what you mean by that, and make you eat your words. Pologize, infact."

  Puffin finished his glass at a gulp, and rose to his feet.

  "Pologies be blowed," he said. "Hittopopamus!"

  "And were you addressing that to me?" asked Major Flint with deadlycalm.

  "Of course, I was. Hippot---- same animal as before. Pleasant old boy.And as for the lemon you lent me, well, I don't want it any more. Have asuck at it, ole fellow! I don't want it any more."

  The Major turned purple in the face, made a course for the door like aknight's move at chess (a long step in one direction and a short one atright angles to the first) and opened it. The door thus served as anaperture from the room and a support to himself. He spoke no word of anysort or kind: his silence spoke for him in a far more dignified mannerthan he could have managed for himself.

  Captain Puffin stood for a moment wreathed in smiles, and fingering theslice of lemon, which he had meant playfully to throw at his friend. Buthis smile faded, and by some sort of telepathic perception he realizedhow much more decorous it was to say (or, better, to indicate)good-night in a dignified manner than to throw lemons about. He walkedin dots and dashes like a Morse code out of the room, bestowing a navalsalute on the Major as he passed. The latter returned it with a militarysalute and a suppressed hiccup. Not a word passed.

  Then Captain Puffin found his hat and coat without much difficulty, andmarched out of the house, slamming the door behind him with a bang thatechoed down the street and made Miss Mapp dream about a thunderstorm. Helet himself into his own house, and bent down before his expired fire,which he tried to blow into life again. This was unsuccessful, and hebreathed in a quantity of wood-ash.

  He sat down by his table and began to think things out. He told himselfthat he was not drunk at all, but that he had taken an unusual quantityof whisky, which seemed to produce much the same effect as intoxication.Allowing for that, he was conscious that he was extremely angry aboutsomething, and had a firm idea that the Major was very angry too.

  "But woz'it all been about?" he vainly asked himself. "Woz'it all beenabout?"

  He was roused from his puzzling over this unanswerable conundrum by theclink of the flap in his letter-box. Either this was the first post inthe morning, in which case it was much later than he thought, andwonderfully dark still, or it was the last post at night, in which caseit was much earlier than he thought. But, whichever it was, a letter hadbeen slipped into his box, and he brought it in. The gum on the envelopewas still wet, which saved trouble in opening it. Inside was a halfsheet containing but a few words. This curt epistle ran as follows:

  "SIR,

  "My seconds will wait on you in the course of to-morrow morning.

  "Your faithful obedient servant,

  "BENJAMIN FLINT.

  Captain Puffin."

  Puffin felt as calm as a tropic night, and as courageous as a captain.Somewhere below his courage and his calm was an appalling sense ofmisgiving. That he successfully stifled.

  "Very proper," he said aloud. "Qui' proper. Insults. Blood. Secondswon't have to wait a second. Better get a good sleep."

  He went up to his room, fell on to his bed and instantly began to snore.

  * * * * *

  It was still dark when he awoke, but the square of his window wasvisible against the blackness, and he concluded that though it was notmorning yet, it was getting on for morning, which seemed a pity. As heturned over on to his side his hand came in contact with his coat,instead of a sheet, and he became aware that he had all his clothes on.Then, as with a crash of cymbals and the beating of a drum in his brain,the events of the evening before leaped into reality and significance.In a few hours now arrangements would have been made for a deadlyencounter. His anger was gone, his whisky was gone, and in particularhis courage was gone. He expressed all this compendiously by moaning"Oh, God!"

  He struggled to a sitting position, and lit a match at which he kindledhis candle. He looked for his watch beside it, but it was not there.What could have happened--then he remembered that it was in itsaccustomed place in his waistcoat pocket. A consultation of it followedby holding it to his ear only revealed the fact that it had stopped athalf-past five. With the lucidity that was growing brighter in hisbrain, he concluded that this stoppage was due to the fact that he hadnot wound it up.... It was after half-past five then, but how much lateronly the Lords of Time knew--Time which bordered so closely on Eternity.

  He felt that he had no use whatever for Eternity but that he must notwaste Time. Just now, that was far more precious.

  * * * * *

  From somewhere in the Cosmic Consciousness there came to him a thought,namely, that the first train to London started at half-past six in themorning. It was a slow train, but it got there, and in any case it wentaway from Tilling. He did not trouble to consider how that thought cameto him: the important point was that it had come. Coupled with that wasthe knowledge that it was now an undiscoverable number of minutes afterhalf-past five.

  There was a Gladstone bag under his bed. He had brought it back from theClub-house only yesterday, after that game of golf which had been sofull of disturbances and wet stockings, but which now wore theshimmering security of peaceful, tranquil days long past. How little, sohe thought to himself, as he began swiftly storing shirts, ties, collarsand other useful things into his bag, had he appreciated the sweetamenities of life, its pleasant conversations and companionships, itstopped drives, and mushrooms and incalculable incidents. Now they wore aglamour and a preciousness that was bound up with life itself. Hestarved for more of them, not knowing while they were his how sweet theywere.

  The house was not yet astir, when ten minutes later he came downstairswith his bag. He left on his sitting-room table, where it would catchthe eye of his housemaid, a sheet of paper on which he wrote "Calledaway" (he shuddered as he traced the words). "Forward no letters. Willcommunicate...." (Somehow the telegraphic form seemed best to suit theurgency of the situation.) Then very quietly he let himself out of hishouse.

  He could not help casting an apprehensive glance at the windows of hisquondam friend and prospective murderer. To his horror he observed thatthere was a light behind the blind of the Major's bedroom, and picturedhim writing to his seconds--he wondered who the "seconds" were going tobe--or polishing up his pistols. All the rumours and hints of theMajor's duels and affairs of honour, which he had rather scorned before,not wholly believing them, poured like a red torrent into his mind, andhe found that now he believed them with a passionate sincerity. Why hadhe ever attempted (and with such small success) to call this fire-eatera hippopotamus?

  The gale of the night before had abated, and thick chilly rain wasfalling from a sullen sky as he
tiptoed down the hill. Once round thecorner and out of sight of the duellist's house, he broke into a limpingrun, which was accelerated by the sound of an engine-whistle from thestation. It was mental suspense of the most agonizing kind not to knowhow long it was after his watch had stopped that he had awoke, and thesound of that whistle, followed by several short puffs of steam, mightprove to be the six-thirty bearing away to London, on business orpleasure, its secure and careless pilgrims. Splashing through puddles,lopsidedly weighted by his bag, with his mackintosh flapping against hislegs, he gained the sanctuary of the waiting-room and booking-office,which was lighted by a dim expiring lamp, and scrutinized the face ofthe murky clock....

  With a sob of relief he saw that he was in time. He was, indeed, inexceptionally good time, for he had a quarter of an hour to wait. Ananxious internal debate followed as to whether or not he should take areturn ticket. Optimism, that is to say, the hope that he would returnto Tilling in peace and safety before the six months for which theticket was available inclined him to the larger expense, but in thesedisquieting circumstances, it was difficult to be optimistic and hepurchased a first-class single, for on such a morning, and on such ajourney, he must get what comfort he could from looking-glasses, paddedseats and coloured photographs of places of interest on the line. Heformed no vision at all of the future: that was a dark well into whichit was dangerous to peer. There was no bright speck in its unplumbabledepths: unless Major Flint died suddenly without revealing thechallenge he had sent last night, and the promptitude with which itsrecipient had disappeared rather than face his pistol, he could notframe any grouping of events which would make it possible for him tocome back to Tilling again, for he would either have to fight (and thishe was quite determined not to do) or be pointed at by the finger ofscorn as the man who had refused to do so, and this was nearly asunthinkable as the other. Bitterly he blamed himself for having made afriend (and worse than that, an enemy) of one so obsolete andold-fashioned as to bring duelling into modern life.... As far as hecould be glad of anything he was glad that he had taken a single, not areturn ticket.

  He turned his eyes away from the blackness of the future and let hismind dwell on the hardly less murky past. Then, throwing up his hands,he buried his face in them with a hollow groan. By some miserableforgetfulness he had left the challenge on his chimney-piece, where hishousemaid would undoubtedly find and read it. That would explain hisabsence far better than the telegraphic instructions he had left on histable. There was no time to go back for it now, even if he could havefaced the risk of being seen by the Major, and in an hour or two thewhole story, via Withers, Janet, etc., would be all over Tilling.

  It was no use then thinking of the future nor of the past, and in orderto anchor himself to the world at all and preserve his sanity he had toconfine himself to the present. The minutes, long though each tarried,were slipping away and provided his train was punctual, the passage offive more of these laggards would see him safe. The news-boy took downthe shutters of his stall, a porter quenched the expiring lamp, andPuffin began to listen for the rumble of the approaching train. Itstayed three minutes here: if up to time it would be in before a couplemore minutes had passed.

  There came from the station-yard outside the sound of heavy footstepsrunning. Some early traveller like himself was afraid of missing thetrain. The door burst open, and, streaming with rain and panting forbreath, Major Flint stood at the entry. Puffin looked wildly round tosee whether he could escape, still perhaps unobserved, on to theplatform, but it was too late, for their eyes met.

  In that instant of abject terror, two things struck Puffin. One was thatthe Major looked at the open door behind him as if meditating retreat,the second that he carried a Gladstone bag. Simultaneously Major Flintspoke, if indeed that reverberating thunder of scornful indignation canbe called speech.

  "Ha! I guessed right then," he roared. "I guessed, sir, that you mightbe meditating flight, and I--in fact, I came down to see whether youwere running away. I was right. You are a coward, Captain Puffin! Butrelieve your mind, sir. Major Flint will not demean himself to fightwith a coward."

  Puffin gave one long sigh of relief, and then, standing in front of hisown Gladstone bag, in order to conceal it, burst into a cackling laugh.

  "Indeed!" he said. "And why, Major, was it necessary for you to pack aGladstone bag in order to stop me from running away? I'll tell you whathas happened. You were running away, and you know it. I guessed youwould. I came to stop you, you, you quaking runaway. Your wound troubledyou, hey? Didn't want another, hey?"

  There was an awful pause, broken by the entry from behind the Major ofthe outside porter, panting under the weight of a large portmanteau.

  "You had to take your portmanteau, too," observed Puffin witheringly,"in order to stop me. That's a curious way of stopping me. You're acoward, sir! But go home. You're safe enough. This will be a fine storyfor tea-parties."

  Puffin turned from him in scorn, still concealing his own bag.Unfortunately the flap of his coat caught it, precariously perched onthe bench, and it bumped to the ground.

  "What's that?" said Major Flint.

  They stared at each other for a moment and then simultaneously burstinto peals of laughter. The train rumbled slowly into the station, butneither took the least notice of it, and only shook their heads andbroke out again when the station-master urged them to take their seats.The only thing that had power to restore Captain Puffin to gravity wasthe difficulty of getting the money for his ticket refunded, while thedeparture of the train with his portmanteau in it did the same for theMajor.

  * * * * *

  The events of that night and morning, as may easily be imagined, soonsupplied Tilling with one of the most remarkable conundrums that hadever been forced upon its notice. Puffin's housemaid, during his absenceat the station, found and read not only the notice intended for hereyes, but the challenge which he had left on the chimney-piece. Sheconceived it to be her duty to take it down to Mrs. Gashly, his cook,and while they were putting the bloodiest construction on theseinscriptions, their conference was interrupted by the return of CaptainPuffin in the highest spirits, who, after a vain search for thechallenge, was quite content, as its purport was no longer fraught withdanger and death, to suppose that he had torn it up. Mrs. Gashly,therefore, after preparing breakfast at this unusually early hour, wentacross to the back door of the Major's house, with the challenge in herhand, to borrow a nutmeg grater, and gleaned the information that Mrs.Dominic's employer (for master he could not be called) had gone off in agreat hurry to the station early that morning with a Gladstone bag and aportmanteau, the latter of which had been seen no more, though the Majorhad returned. So Mrs. Gashly produced the challenge, and having watchedMiss Mapp off to the High Street at half-past ten, Dominic and Gashlywent together to her house, to see if Withers could supply anything ofimportance, or, if not, a nutmeg grater. They were forced to be contentwith the grater, but pored over the challenge with Withers, and shehaving an errand to Diva's house, told Janet, who without furtherceremony bounded upstairs to tell her mistress. Hardly had Diva heard,than she plunged into the High Street, and, with suitable additions,told Miss Mapp, Evie, Irene and the Padre under promise in each case, ofthe strictest secrecy. Ten minutes later Irene had asked the defencelessMr. Hopkins, who was being Adam again, what he knew about it, and Evie,with her mouse-like gait that looked so rapid and was so deliberate, hadthe mortification of seeing Miss Mapp outdistance her and be admittedinto the Poppits' house, just as she came in view of the front-door. Sherightly conjectured that, after the affair of the store-cupboard in thegarden-room, there could be nothing of lesser importance than "the duel"which could take that lady through those abhorred portals. Finally, atten minutes past eleven, Major Flint and Captain Puffin were seen by oneor two fortunate people (the morning having cleared up) walking togetherto the tram, and, without exception, everybody knew that they were ontheir way to fight their duel in some remote hollow of the sand-d
unes.

  Miss Mapp had gone straight home from her visit to the Poppits justabout eleven, and stationed herself in the window where she could keepan eye on the houses of the duellists. In her anxiety to outstrip Evieand be the first to tell the Poppits, she had not waited to hear thatthey had both come back and knew only of the challenge and that they hadgone to the station. She had already formed a glorious idea of her ownas to what the history of the duel (past or future) was, and intoxicatedwith emotion had retired from the wordy fray to think about it, and, asalready mentioned, to keep an eye on the two houses just below. Thenthere appeared in sight the Padre, walking swiftly up the hill, and shehad barely time under cover of the curtain to regain the table where hersweet chrysanthemums were pining for water when Withers announced him.He wore a furrowed brow and quite forgot to speak either Scotch orElizabethan English. A few rapid words made it clear that they both hadheard the main outlines.

  "A terrible situation," said the Padre. "Duelling is directcontravention of all Christian principles, and, I believe, of the civillaw. The discharge of a pistol, in unskilful hands, may lead todeplorable results. And Major Flint, so one has heard, is an experiencedduellist.... That, of course, makes it even more dangerous."

  It was at this identical moment that Major Flint came out of his houseand qui-hied cheerily to Puffin. Miss Mapp and the Padre, deep in thesebloody possibilities, neither saw nor heard them. They passed togetherdown the road and into the High Street, unconscious that their very lookand action was being more commented on than the Epistle to the Hebrews.Inside the garden-room Miss Mapp sighed, and bent her eyes on herchrysanthemums.

  "Quite terrible!" she said. "And in our peaceful, tranquil Tilling!"

  "Perhaps the duel has already taken place, and--and they've missed,"said the Padre. "They were both seen to return to their houses earlythis morning."

  "By whom?" asked Miss Mapp jealously. She had not heard that.

  "By Hopkins," said he. "Hopkins saw them both return."

  "I shouldn't trust that man too much," said Miss Mapp. "Hopkins may notbe telling the truth. I have no great opinion of his moral standard."

  "Why is that?"

  This was no time to discuss the nudity of Hopkins and Miss Mapp put thequestion aside.

  "That does not matter now, dear Padre," she said. "I only wish I thoughtthe duel had taken place without accident. But Major Benjy's--I meanMajor Flint's--portmanteau has not come back to his house. Of that I'msure. What if they have sent it away to some place where they areunknown, full of pistols and things?"

  "Possible--terribly possible," said the Padre. "I wish I could see myduty clear. I should not hesitate to--well, to do the best I could toinduce them to abandon this murderous project. And what do you imaginewas the root of the quarrel?"

  "I couldn't say, I'm sure," said Miss Mapp. She bent her head over thechrysanthemums.

  "Your distracting sex," said he with a moment's gallantry, "is usuallythe cause of quarrel. I've noticed that they both seemed to admire MissIrene very much."

  Miss Mapp raised her head and spoke with great animation.

  "Dear, quaint Irene, I'm sure, has nothing whatever to do with it," shesaid with perfect truth. "Nothing whatever!"

  There was no mistaking the sincerity of this, and the Padre, Tillingiteto the marrow, instantly concluded that Miss Mapp knew what (or who) wasthe cause of all this unique disturbance. And as she bent her head againover the chrysanthemums, and quite distinctly grew brick-red in theface, he felt that delicacy prevented his inquiring any further.

  "What are you going to do, dear Padre?" she asked in a low voice,choking with emotion. "Whatever you decide will be wise and Christian.Oh, these violent men! Such babies, too!"

  The Padre was bursting with curiosity, but since his delicacy forbadehim to ask any of the questions which effervesced like sherbet round histongue, he propounded another plan.

  "I think my duty is to go straight to the Major," he said, "who seems tobe the principal in the affair, and tell him that I know all--and guessthe rest," he added.

  "Nothing that I have said," declared Miss Mapp in great confusion, "musthave anything to do with your guesses. Promise me that, Padre."

  This intimate and fruitful conversation was interrupted by the sound oftwo pairs of steps just outside, and before Withers had had time to say"Mrs. Plaistow," Diva burst in.

  "They have both taken the 11.20 tram," she said, and sank into thenearest chair.

  "Together?" asked Miss Mapp, feeling a sudden chill of disappointmentat the thought of a duel with pistols trailing off into one with golfclubs.

  "Yes, but that's a blind," panted Diva. "They were talking and laughingtogether. Sheer blind! Duel among the sand-dunes!"

  "Padre, it is your duty to stop it," said Miss Mapp faintly.

  "But if the pistols are in a portmanteau----" he began.

  "What portmanteau?" screamed Diva, who hadn't heard about that.

  "Darling, I'll tell you presently," said Miss Mapp. "That was only aguess of mine, Padre. But there's no time to lose."

  "But there's no tram to catch," said the Padre. "It has gone by thistime."

  "A taxi then, Padre! Oh, lose no time!"

  "Are you coming with me?" he said in a low voice. "Your presence----"

  "Better not," she said. "It might---- Better not," she repeated.

  He skipped down the steps and was observed running down the street.

  "What about the portmanteau?" asked the greedy Diva.

  * * * * *

  It was with strong misgivings that the Padre started on his Christianerrand, and had not the sense of adventure spiced it, he would probablyhave returned to his sermon instead, which was Christian, too. To beginwith, there was the ruinous expense of taking a taxi out to thegolf-links, but by no other means could he hope to arrive in time toavert an encounter that might be fatal. It must be said to his creditthat, though this was an errand distinctly due to his position as thespiritual head of Tilling, he rejected, as soon as it occurred to him,the idea of charging the hire of the taxi to Church Expenses, and as hewhirled along the flat road across the marsh, the thing that chieflybuoyed up his drooping spirits and annealed his courage was the romanticnature of his mission. He no longer, thanks to what Miss Mapp had soclearly refrained from saying, had the slightest doubt that she, in somemanner that scarcely needed conjecture, was the cause of the duel he wasattempting to avert. For years it had been a matter of unwearied andconfidential discussion as to whether and when she would marry eitherMajor Flint or Captain Puffin, and it was superfluous to look for anyother explanation. It was true that she, in popular parlance, was"getting on," but so, too, and at exactly the same rate, were therepresentatives of the United Services, and the sooner that two out ofthe three of them "got on" permanently, the better. No doubt some crisishad arisen, and inflamed with love.... He intended to confide all thisto his wife on his return.

  On his return! The unspoken words made his heart sink. What if he neverdid return? For he was about to place himself in a position of no commondanger. His plan was to drive past the club-house, and then on foot,after discharging the taxi, to strike directly into the line of tumbledsand-dunes which, remote and undisturbed and full of large convenienthollows, stretched along the coast above the flat beach. Any of thosehollows, he knew, might prove to contain the duellists in the very actof firing, and over the rim of each he had to pop his unprotected head.He (if in time) would have to separate the combatants, and who knewwhether, in their very natural chagrin at being interrupted, they mightnot turn their combined pistols on him first, and settle with eachother afterwards? One murder the more made little difference todesperate men. Other shocks, less deadly but extremely unnerving, mightawait him. He might be too late, and pop his head over the edge of oneof these craters, only to discover it full of bleeding if not mangledbodies. Or there might be only one mangled body, and the other,unmangled, would pursue him through the sand-dunes and offer him life at
the price of silence. That, he painfully reflected, would be a verydifficult decision to make. Luckily, Captain Puffin (if he proved to bethe survivor) was lame....

  With drawn face and agonized prayers on his lips, he began a systematicsearch of the sand-dunes. Often his nerve nearly failed him, and hewould sink panting among the prickly bents before he dared to peer intothe hollow up the sides of which he had climbed. His ears shuddered atthe anticipation of hearing from near at hand the report of pistols, andonce a back-fire from a motor passing along the road caused him to leaphigh in the air. The sides of these dunes were steep, and his shoes gotso full of sand, that from time to time, in spite of the urgency of hiserrand, he was forced to pause in order to empty them out. He stumbledin rabbit holes, he caught his foot and once his trousers in strands ofbarbed wire, the remnant of coast defences in the Great War, he crashedamong potsherds and abandoned kettles; but with a thoroughness that didequal credit to his wind and his Christian spirit, he searched a mile ofperilous dunes from end to end, and peered into every important hollow.Two hours later, jaded and torn and streaming with perspiration, hecame, in the vicinity of the club-house, to the end of his fruitlesssearch.

  He staggered round the corner of it and came in view of the eighteenthgreen. Two figures were occupying it, and one of these was in the act ofputting. He missed. Then he saw who the figures were: it was CaptainPuffin who had just missed his putt, it was Major Flint who nowexpressed elated sympathy.

  "Bad luck, old boy," he said. "Well, a jolly good match and we halve it.Why, there's the Padre. Been for a walk? Join us in a round thisafternoon, Padre! Blow your sermon!"