by C. S. Lewis
The Viscount finished his chocolate in silence, and when he had dressed breakfasted at the local inn, repaired to the harbour for a stroll and a cigar on the jetty. As he was thus pleasantly employed, he noticed a spotless steam pinnace puting off from a large cruiser which lay at anchor in the offing, and which, as the pinnace drew nearer, he saw contained a person with whom he was well acquainted – namely Mr James Bar, a small hock-brown bear. This worthy stepped out of the pinnace as soon as it was alongside, and approached the bird arm in arm with a young cat, with whom he laughed and conversed freely and towards whom he displayed every sign of amity.
‘Good morning, my dear Viscount,’ said the bear. ‘Allow me to introduce my friend Mr Cottle.’
‘Delighted,’ said Puddiphat. ‘I suppose he’s one of your desperate set. You are all desparadoes on the Greyhound.’
The two sailors exchanged an almost invisible glance, and Bar cast his bright, beady eyes downwards with a motion which might have been a nod, but which to the owl appeared as the very natural action of inspecting one’s boots.
‘Oh no,’ said the bear gravely, ‘we have had a change: Cottle has reformed us all.’
‘Oh such nonsense, My dear Bar!’ said the owl lightly. ‘I was going to ask you and your friend to split a bottle of Zauber with me at my house to night, but I suppose you are above it.’
Bar’s face displayed grave disaproval.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But we shall be pleased to come and have the pleasure of your conversation, if not of your cellar.’
‘You’ll think differently by gas light, Bar,’ replied the owl, ‘but come any way – a few ladies are coming.’
‘From the alhambra?’ asked Bar severely.
‘Yes. There’s one –’
‘My dear Viscount,’ protested Bar, ‘we must decline your hospitality if it entails mixing with these low actresses, whose presence recalls a chapter in our life, which we would fain forget.’
‘This is Saul among the prophets,’ laughed Puddiphat. ‘But come along, the girls can dine at the inn.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bar. ‘Good morning.’
‘Good day, Mr Bar. But stay! How dare you wear that bright red tie? If I’d noticed it, I’d have cut you dead.’
‘I’ll change it. Good bye.’
The two friends bowed and walked on, leaving the owl in a meditative frame of mind. He had known the little hock-brown too long, and had helped him through too many desparate escapades, to believe in the sincerity of his reform, and yet the cat seemed just such a quiet and respectable person as might reprove the headstrong bear. And, he thought, if Bar had not really changed, he would have no object in pretending such an action, at least to a familiar friend like the Viscount.
While the owl was thus pondering, the two little animals who caused him such surprise and so excited his curiosity, were wending their way with linked arms towards the local admiralty lodge, whither they had been summoned by a telegram, on their arrival.
‘But why,’ Cottle was saying, ‘Why keep it up before the Viscount, whom you describe as a trusty friend?’
‘The Viscount is a gossip, and the news of my reform will have spread over the town in half an hour.’
‘But, my dear Bar, the world at large isn’t interested in your moral condition.’
‘I daresay not: but in a place like Danphabel, anything is good enough to talk about.’
‘Oh! Its a sleepy town?’
‘Very. But Cottle –?’
‘Yes.’
‘How ever shall I keep it up? There’s the inn over there, and I want a bottle of Vin-de-Brus. I may give way any moment.’
‘For heaven’s sake don’t,’ cried the other. ‘Once a saint always a saint!’
‘Dear, Dear, yes! But think of the strain! It was far better in the old days, before Macphail persuaded you to drop your reform idea! And, why should I pose as a reformed character?’
‘Don’t you see,’ said the cat in alarm, ‘I can’t go back to the admiralty with nothing to show: I can’t tell them I’ve given it up. And, as well, it will be for your own benefit, to keep in Vant’s favour.’
‘Here is the admiralty,’ said Bar.
The two conspirators stopped outside a big, over-ornamented building, and, obeying the sonorous ‘Come in!’ which answered their knock, entered the porch.
Chapter XI
THE INTERVIEW
* * * * * * *
Bar and Cottle were met by a grave tortoise who ushered them into a stuffy little office, panelled in unvarnished deal, and divided down the middle by a wooden rail, behind which sat three persons whose greatness would have made Bar shiver in his shoes, had not the little bear been too busily engaged in assuming an expression of penitence and humility. They were, in point of fact, Lord Vant, first Lord of the Admiralty, Marshal Fortescue, Head of the War Office, and Lord Big, Little-Master. The two sailors bowed and remained silent.
‘Well,’ said Lord Big, ‘and how has my colleague’s plan worked?’
‘I can almost foretell the answer,’ said Fortescue scornfully. ‘It is a failure, it is impracticable.’
‘Your Lordship is wrong,’ returned Cottle. ‘True, it is uphill work, but I have had some success.’
Vant’s benevolent countenance softened into a smile of childish glee.
‘Ah, my good little kitten,’ he said. ‘I knew it, I knew it!’
‘Be quiet Vant,’ said the Little-Master in a hurried whisper, and added aloud, ‘And what is this progress, Mr Cottle?’
‘My friend Mr Bar, is a convert,’ said Cottle proudly.
‘Convert to what?’ said Fortescue sharply.
‘To good living, and to an attempt to reform the navy.’
‘Oh!’ said Fortescue, casting a piercing glance on the cat. ‘And how did you convert him?’
‘By hard fighting, M’Lord. We were much at variance at first.’
‘To be sure,’ returned the Marshal. ‘And what do you intend to do while you are in port?’
Colonel Fortescue, General Quicksteppe and an huzzar inside a Piscian State Railway Saloon.
‘Enjoy a few days rest and amusement My Lord.’
‘And what form does this amusement take? For instance, what are you doing to night?’
Cottle opened his mouth to speak and shut it again, and turned red beneath his glossy fur, shooting furtive glances at his accomplice.
‘I – I don’t know that we’re doing anything, My Lord,’ he stammered.
Bar’s face never changed.
‘Oh!’ said Fortescue. ‘Have you met any friends since you came in?’
Cottle was miserable. He dared not reveal the compromising dinner to which they were resolved to go, and where, despite their protestations they were determined to do full justice to the wines and society provided: on the other hand he could not tell how much this sharp little soldier knew, who, as far as Cottle knew, might have been among the crowd who were taking a morning stroll on the jetty, and might have heard their whole conversation with the music hall potentate.
‘Oh yes, a few, My Lord,’ he replied with studied (somewhat too studied) indifference.
‘Oh! Who?’
‘Well – er – Viscount Puddiphat.’
‘Oh, you know him? Well, you are lucky! And where did you meet him?’
‘On the jetty.’
‘Did you converse long?’
‘No, I did not,’ said Cottle whose temper was going.
‘And what did he talk about? I suppose he invited you somewhere? He nearly always has something on.’
‘Really, My Lord, I don’t feel called upon to answer such private questions.’
‘Quite right,’ said the Little-Master who had been growing impatient during his colleague’s examination. Turning to the latter he added, ‘And, I confess, Fortescue, I don’t see the point of this cross examination.’
‘Curiosity, merely curiosity, my dear Little-Master!’
‘You may go,’ said Lord Big to the two
victims.
As soon as they once more were out in the narrow street up which the sea breeze was blowing as through a funnel, Cottle fell onto rather than sat upon a public bench and gasped.
‘Good heavens!’ he sighed. ‘That was awful.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Bar, sitting beside him. ‘But you managed him quite well – for a beginner.’
‘Oh, it was awful. I can’t stand another inquisition like that!’
‘You’ll have to learn if we are to play a winning game.’
‘No, its too bad! I am going to go back and tell them its all humbug, and lump the results. Anything is preferable to –’
‘For goodness’ sake don’t! You’ll brand yourself as the biggest liar in the navy, and perhaps get shot out, or at least get into an awful plight. We must see it through now.’
‘That fellow Fortescue will have us yet. I can see that coming.’
‘Oh no he won’t: I’ll play through him like a trout. Only mind, we’re saints.’
‘Oh dear! Why ever did we get into a mess like this?’
‘Because you stopped reforming.’
‘Well that couldn’t have gone on!’
‘Certainly not. But, we’re still alright. You needn’t give up, Cottle. Only it is a strain. Come and have a glass of – soda-water.’
Chapter XII
THE CURTAINED RECESS
* * * * * * *
Cottle and Bar stood at Puddiphat’s door in evening dress.
‘Shall we go in?’ said Bar.
‘Is it safe?’ asked Cottle.
‘Well, I don’t see why not.’
‘Shall we?’
‘Yes.’
The little bear rang the bell and was shown into a narrow hall, whose size conveyed an impression of poverty, which was everywhere contradicted by the tastful and expensive decorations. Passing through the door which a manservant held open on the left, they found themselves in a small dining room, furnished in the Turkish style, which is to day so popular in Boxen among persons connected with the stage. There were a few chairs, and a great many low, soft divans, and a huge fire was burning in the grate although it was a warm night in April. The occupants of the room were the Viscount himself and an old man, whose snowy beard covered his shirt front and rivaled it in whiteness, but whose eyes twinkled with life & merriment.
‘Allow me,’ said Puddiphat, ‘to introduce his Excellency General Quicksteppe. General, Cottle & Bar, two naval friends.’
Cottle stared! Were the tales that were told of the General’s habit of slipping away from court to join doubtful gatherings, true? And was this indeed the famous soldier?
‘Come, Cottle,’ said the owl, ‘the general doesn’t bite. Sit down.’
‘By the way,’ said Bar, ‘tell us when its quarter to eleven.’
The host promised, and, after a few more guests had arrived, the meal began, when it became noticeable that neither of Puddiphat’s promises, in connection with wines or actresses had been carried out, a fault which, it must be said, the two guests forgave over-easily. Thus the hours sped swiftly by, and the young cat and his mentor were held entranced by the conversation of the gay owl and his theatrical friends.
Suddenly it happened!
It always does happen suddenly, whether it is the murder of the heroine, or the opening of an overture at an opera, or one’s bow tie slipping. But it was none of these calamities which so distressed the bear and his friend: it was merely the commonplace occurrence of the hour of twelve striking.
‘Good Heavens,’ ejaculated Bar in a sepulchral tone as the last stroke ceased to vibrate. ‘The Greyhound sailed an hour ago.’
‘Well,’ said the owl, ‘does it matter?’
‘Matter!! Of course! We shall be tried as deserters.’
‘Dear, Dear!’ said Puddiphat. ‘I don’t know what you’d better do.’
‘You confounded fool,’ said Bar angrily, ‘I told you to remind us.’
‘It is no time for quarrelling now,’ said the owl calmly. ‘I’m as badly off as you. When the affair comes out, I shall come under the arm of the law, for aiding and abetting a deserter. It is too late to do anything now: so split another bottle and forget our danger.’
‘Here! Here!’ cried Cottle, mounting on his chair, and seeking to drown his fears in the bottle of rare old Middlehoff which he brandishes above his head. ‘To the health of liberty!’
‘Liberty!’ shouted the mingled company, and everyone re-filled their glasses, with a hearty laugh.
‘To morrow,’ said Bar, ‘I don’t care what happens. Let us live for to night.’ And with this excellent maxim he sank onto a sofa and dashed off another glass.
Puddiphat alone was miserable. He had seen many such carousals before, and knew their results: he leant back in his chair, and gazed on every guest, and sighed wearily. It was no use! The morning must come, and with it retribution. He himself would see the interior of a jail for this, and so would the deserters. As he was reflecting thus, the door was flung open and a butler announced ‘His Lordship The Little Master and Marshal Fortescue, on urgent business.’
Silence fell on all, except Bar, who, either because of the fumes of the palatable liquid which he had imbibed, or because of his natural courage, continued the song he was singing with redoubled vehemence.
‘Shut up, you d – d fool!’ cried the terrified owl. ‘They’re just coming.’
‘I don’t care,’ chuckled Bar. ‘I know the Little Master. He’s a good fellow – so’s Fortescue, so’s everybody.’
‘Here they come,’ cried the agonized Viscount. ‘Quick, get into that recess and draw the curtains.’
The place indicated was a narrow, panelled imbrasure, containing an oaken settle, and across whose front two baize curtains might be drawn. Cottle, seeing his only refuge, siezed his biblulous friend, and drew the curtains to conceal their furtive forms, just as the door opened to admit the two politicians.
‘Good evening, My dear Little-Master, and you My Lord Marshall,’ said Puddiphat, rising and coming forward, and conveying by his manner the impression that the presence of these newcomers was all he required to make him happy. ‘This is indeed an honour.’
‘If you were to wish us good morning, Viscount,’ returned Fortescue coldly, ‘it would be more correct: we have come on a most distasteful errand.’
‘The errand which bringes your Lordships under my poor roof, has done good to me at least,’ said the owl unctiously.
‘No waste to time,’ said Fortescue, ignoring the compliment, ‘I may as well tell you that we suspect you of entertaining a certain bear and cat who should be at present on board his majestie’s ship Greyhound, and wish to search the house.’
‘Bear and cat?’ retorted the owl in a puzzled tone. ‘This is not a menagarie.’
‘No,’ said Fortescue. ‘Will you let me pass?’
‘I really don’t see why I should submit to this indignity.’
‘I am sorrey Viscount, but in the interests of justice, I must request your obedience.’
‘Well, the door behind you opens into my bedroom, the only other apartment besides this and the servant’s quarters.’
‘Stop!’ said the Little-Master who up till now had been engaged in rebuking Quicksteppe with whom he was intimately acquainted. ‘What is behind those curtains?’
‘An empty recess,’ said Puddiphat without moving a muscle of his handsome face.
‘Ah, well why are the curtains drawn?’ said the Little-Master suspiciously, and, before any one could intercept him, he rushed up, drew back the curtains, and found – an empty space.
Chapter XIII
THE ULTIMATUM
* * * * * * *
A quick flicker of intellegence passed over the Viscount’s face, unobserved by the two politicians who stood glaring at the empty recess, as if at a dangerous beast.
‘Well, Gentlemen,’ he said, seating himself on the settle. ‘You see, I sometimes speak the truth.’
‘Always,
My dear Viscount,’ said Fortescue blandly. ‘Accept our apologies.’
‘All the same,’ said the Little-Master uneasily, ‘we haven’t got to the bottom of this matter yet.’
‘Do you still persist in your odious insinuations?’ said Puddiphat without rising.
‘Oh, of course I take your word,’ said the Little-Master, ‘but all the same I don’t think this mystery is solved.’
‘Really, My Lord, your conversation is either intentionally insolent or foolishly tactless. Your hat is on the peg in the hall.’
‘Come on, Fortescue,’ said the frog, in a tone which implied an unwillingness to stay longer in such a company, and the two baffled politicians left the house. At their departure, the owl neither rose from his seat nor displayed any relief, but continued his polite conversation as if no interruption had occurred, and his guests, divining that he wished to be alone, made their adieux, and departed.
No sooner had the door closed on the last reveller than the owl sprang up, and, lifting the lid of the settle on which he had been seated, helped out two very weary and cramped figures who proved to be Bar and Cottle.
‘Faugh!’ exclaimed the bear. ‘How often is the inside of that place cleaned? I was nearly choked with the dust!’
‘Be thankful you are not inspecting the inside of a prison,’ said the owl gravely. ‘And now, it will be safer for you to leave this house.’
‘We will not trespass on your hospitality much longer,’ said Bar, ‘but let me just have a bottle of Middlehoff, to clear my throat.’
‘No, No,’ said the owl, interposing himself between his guest and the bottles. ‘You are sober now: remain so.’
‘Look here,’ said Cottle wearily. ‘Won’t the Little-Master and Fortescue be about in the street?’
‘Very well,’ said the owl. ‘This window opens onto the railway: get through it.’
‘Good bye, Viscount.’
‘Good bye. No – no more Middlehoff, Mr Bar,’ cried the owl, as the bibulous little hock brown showed signs of approaching the table.
With this terse farewell, the two deserters opened the window, and passed out, to find themselves on a narrow strip of land, covered with rank grass, and lying between the music hall and the railway line. A thin, drenching rain was falling; and, in the uncertain light of dawn, they distinguished a tall figure, wrapped in a cloak who eyed them fiercely as he passed, causing the guilty sailors to shiver with fear. After a few moments a light appeared, and a long goods train lumbered into view, puffing and panting like an animal in pain.