reconciled, to his presence by slow degrees. They spoke of him among themselves as the Eyesore.

CHAPTER II

HOW SIR PETER ANTROBUS AND JEROME BROOKE-HOSKYN,
ESQUIRE, SMOKED A PIPE TOGETHER

Chapter II headpiece

On Saturday afternoon, May 25, 1805, Pomander Walk was looking its very best. The sun transfigured the old houses; the elm rustled in the river-breeze; the Admiral's thrush was singing wistfully; Mrs. Poskett's cat, Sempronius, was seated in her little front garden, wistfully listening to the bird's song; the Eyesore was patiently wasting worms on discriminating fish who knew a hook when they saw it; and Sir Peter Antrobus and Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, both in their shirt-sleeves, were finishing a game of quoits.

"A ringer!" shouted Sir Peter, whose quoit had fallen fairly over the peg. Then he hurried up to the quoits, and, measuring their respective distances from it with a huge bandana handkerchief, added, "One maiden to you, Brooke! Game all! Peeled, by Jehoshaphat!"

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn flicked the dust off his waistcoat with magnificent indifference. The Admiral produced a boatswain's whistle, and in answer to a blast, his man, Jim, appeared at an upstair window. "Ay, ay, Admiral!"

"The usual. Here, under the elm. And look lively."

"Ay, ay, sir!"

Jim disappeared like a Jack-in-the-box. "We must play it off," said Sir Peter.

But Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn protested. "Another time, Sir Peter. It is very warm, and my eye is out."

"So 's mine," cried the Admiral, with a guffaw; "but I see straight, what?"

It was a matter of principle with Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn never to take the slightest notice of the Admiral's jokes. Sir Peter might be the autocrat of the Walk, although Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn had his own views even on that point; but he himself was the acknowledged wit and man of fashion, and from that position nothing should shake him. He had spied Miss Ruth Pennymint working in her open bow-window, and Mrs. Poskett busy with her flowers. Assuming his grandest manner, he said warningly: "Should we not resume our habiliments? The fair are observing us."

"Gobblessmysoul!" cried Sir Peter, shocked at being discovered in undress. They hastily helped each other into their coats, which were lying on the bench under the elm. Meanwhile, Jim had brought out a tray with two pewters, two long clay pipes, a jar of tobacco and a lighted candle, and had placed it on the bench. From the open upstair window of the Pennymint's house came the strains of a violin: one passage, played over and over again, with varying degrees of success.

"Wish Mr. Pringle would stop his infernal scraping," growled the Admiral.

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn shrugged his shoulders with condescending pity. "Poor fellow! What a way of earning his living!"

Sir Peter turned to the quarter from which the music came, and, making a speaking-trumpet of his hands, roared, "Mr. Pringle! Mr. Pringle, ahoy!"

A hideous wrong note, as if the player had been scared out of his wits, was the answer, and Basil Pringle appeared at the window. "I beg your pardon, Admiral; I was engrossed."

"Join us under the elm, what?"

"With pleasure. I 'll just put away my Strad."

As Basil retired Sir Peter turned to Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn. "His what?"

"His Stradivarius," answered the latter, and as that obviously conveyed no meaning, "his violin."

"Oh! His fiddle! Why could n't he say so?—Jim!"

"Ay, ay, sir!"

"Another pewter."

"Ay, ay, sir." Jim hobbled off into the Admiral's house and Sir Peter and Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn stood, facing each other, each grasping his pewter of foaming ale.

"Well!" cried Sir Peter, "The King!"

But Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn was not to be put off with so curt a toast. Planting his feet firmly together, and throwing his chest out, he boomed in a formal and stately manner, "His Most Gracious Majesty, King George the Third, God bless him!"

The Admiral eyed him curiously for a moment, and seemed about to speak, but thought better of it; and for an appreciable time the faces of both gentlemen were hidden. When they came to light again it was with a great sigh of satisfaction, and they both settled down on the bench for quiet enjoyment.

"Now!" cried Sir Peter, "a pipe of tobacco with you, Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn?"

"Delighted!"

"St. Vincent. Prime stuff: and—in your ear—smuggled!"

"No!—reely?"

The two men leant over the candle and lighted their pipes with artistic care.

"Was you at a banquet again last night, Brooke?" asked the Admiral, during this process.

"Yes—yes," replied the other, with splendid indifference. "The Guildhall. All the hote tonn."

"Lucky dog," said Sir Peter, smacking his lips: "turtle, eh?"

With the air of a man jaded by too much enjoyment Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn condescended to enlarge. "As usual. Believe me, personally I should much prefer seclusion and meditation in the company of poets and philosophers, or dallying with Selina; but my friends are good enough to insist. Only last night," with a side glance to watch the effect he was producing, "Fox—my good friend, the Right Honourable Charles James Fox—said, 'Brooke, my boy'—just like that—'Brooke, my boy, what would our banquets be without you?'"

Sir Peter was deeply impressed. He felt himself in touch with the great world. "Gobblessmysoul!" he cried. "What's your average?"

"I am sorry to say, I usually have to wrench myself away from my precious Selina four nights a week."

"Think o' that, now!—By the way, how is she?"

Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn turned his lack-lustre eyes fondly towards his house. "Selina? Cheerful, sir. Selina is faint but pursuing. We have now been in the holy state of matrimony five years, and never a word of complaint has fallen from the dear soul's lips."

"Re-markable! And all that time Pomander Walk has seen scarcely anything of her."

"She has been much occupied—much occupied," put in Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn, with a deprecatory flourish of his pipe. And, as if in corroboration of his statement, the door of his house opened and a pretty maidservant came out, carrying a year-old baby in her arms. "Chck!