Without, the night was cold and wet, but in the small
parlour of Laburnam Villa the blinds were drawn and
the fire burned brightly. Father and son were
at chess, the former, who possessed ideas about the
game involving radical changes, putting his king into
such sharp and unnecessary perils that it even provoked
comment from the white-haired old lady knitting placidly
by the fire.
“Hark at the wind,” said Mr. White, who,
having seen a fatal mistake after it was too late,
was amiably desirous of preventing his son from seeing
it.
“I’m listening,” said the latter,
grimly surveying the board as he stretched out his
hand. “Check.”
“I should hardly think that he’d come
to-night,” said his father, with his hand poised
over the board.
“Mate,” replied the son.
“That’s the worst of living so far out,”
bawled Mr. White, with sudden and unlooked-for violence;
“of all the beastly, slushy, out-of-the-way
places to live in, this is the worst. Pathway’s
a bog, and the road’s a torrent. I don’t
know what people are thinking about. I suppose
because only two houses in the road are let, they
think it doesn’t matter.”
“Never mind, dear,” said his wife, soothingly;
“perhaps you’ll win the next one.”
Mr. White looked up sharply, just in time to intercept
a knowing glance between mother and son. The
words died away on his lips, and he hid a guilty grin
in his thin grey beard.
“There he is,” said Herbert White, as
the gate banged to loudly and heavy footsteps came
toward the door.
The old man rose with hospitable haste, and opening
the door, was heard condoling with the new arrival.
The new arrival also condoled with himself, so that
Mrs. White said, “Tut, tut!” and coughed
gently as her husband entered the room, followed by
a tall, burly man, beady of eye and rubicund of visage.
“Sergeant-Major Morris,” he said, introducing
him.
The sergeant-major shook hands, and taking the proffered
seat by the fire, watched contentedly while his host
got out whiskey and tumblers and stood a small copper
kettle on the fire.
At the third glass his eyes got brighter, and he began
to talk, the little family circle regarding with eager
interest this visitor from distant parts, as he squared
his broad shoulders in the chair and spoke of wild
scenes and doughty deeds; of wars and plagues and strange
peoples.
“Twenty-one years of it,” said Mr. White,
nodding at his wife and son. “When he went
away he was a slip of a youth in the warehouse.
Now look at him.”
“He don’t look to have taken much harm,”
said Mrs. White, politely.
“I’d like to go to India myself,”
said the old man, “just to look round a bit,
you know.”
“Better where you are,” said the sergeant-major,
shaking his head. He put down the empty glass,
and sighing softly, shook it again.
