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“He is a lad of spirit,” said Mr. Babington-Herle, with an extreme sobriety. “He’s a lad eshtrornary spirit. Let’s have game hazard.”

“Agreed, good sir,” said Vanringham, “and I warn you, you will find me a daring antagonist. I had to-day an extraordinary–the usual prejudice, my dear Herle, is, I believe, somewhat inclined to that pronunciation of the word,–the most extraordinary windfall. I am rich, and I protest King Croesus himself sha’n’t intimidate me to-night. Come!” he cried, and he drew from his pocket a plump purse and emptied its contents upon the table; “come, lay your wager!”

“Hell and furies,” the Colonel groaned, “there’s that tomfool boy again! Gi’me some more punch.”

For Osric Allonby had risen to his feet and had swept the littered gold and notes toward him. He stood thus, his pink-tipped fingers caressing the money, while his eyes fixed those of Mr. Vanringham. “And the chief priests,” observed Osric Allonby, “took the silver pieces and said, ‘It is not lawful for to put them into the treasury, because it is the price of blood.’ Are they, then, fit to be touched by gentlemen, Mr.–ah, but I forget your given name?”

Vanringham, too, had risen, his face changed. “My sponsors in baptism were pleased to christen me Francis.”

“I entreat your pardon,” the boy drawled, “but I have the oddest fancies. I had thought it was Judas.” And so they stood, warily regarding each the other, very much as strange dogs are wont to do at meeting.

“Boy is drunk,” Mr. Babington-Herle explained at large, “and presents to pitying eye of disinterested spectator most deplorable results incidental to combination of immaturity and brandy. As to money, now, in Suetonius–” And he launched upon a hiccough-punctuated anecdote of Vespasian, which to record here is not convenient. “And moral of it is,” Mr. Babington-Herle perorated, “that all money is always fine thing to have. Non olet! Classical scholar, by Jove! Now let’s have game hazard.”

Meanwhile those two had stood like statues. Vanringham seemed half-frightened, half persuaded that this unaccountable boy spoke at random. Talk, either way, the actor knew, was dangerous….

“I ask your forgiveness, gentlemen,” said Francis Vanringham, “but I’m suddenly ill. If you’ll permit me to retire–“

“Not at all,” said. Mr. Babington-Herle; “late in evening, as it is. We will go,–Colonel and old Carne and I will go kill watchman. Persevorate him, by Jove,–like sieve.”

“I thank you,” said Mr. Vanringham, withdrawing up the stairway toward his bedroom. “I thank you. Mr. Allonby,” he called, in a firmer tone, “you and I have had some words together and you were the aggressor. Oho, I think we may pass it over. I think–“

Below, the four gentlemen were unhooking their swords from the wall. Mr. Allonby now smiled with cherubic sweetness. “I, too,” said he, “think that all our differences might be arranged by ten minutes’ private talk.” He came back, came up the stairs. “You had left your sword,” he said to Mr. Vanringham, “but I fetched it, you see.”

Vanringham stared, his lips working oddly. “I am no Siegfried,” said he, “and ordinarily my bedfellow is not cold and–deplorable defect in such capacity!–somewhat unsympathetic steel.”

“But you forget,” the boy urged, “that the room is public. And see, the hilt is set with jewels. Ah, Mr. Vanringham, let us beware how we lead others into temptation–” The door closed behind them.

VI

Said Mr. Babington-Herle, judicially, “That’s eshtrornary boy–most eshtrornary boy, and precisely unlike brother.”

“You must remember,” the Colonel pointed out, “that since his marriage Gerald is a reformed man; he has quite given up punks and hazard, they say, for beer and cattle-raising.”

“Well, but it is a sad thing to have a spirited tall rogue turn pimp to balls and rams, and Mrs. Lascelles will be inconsolable,” Sir Gresley considered.–“Hey, what’s that? Did you not hear a noise up-stairs?”

“I do not think,” said the Colonel, “that Mallison finds her so.–Yes, i’cod! I suppose that tipsy boy has turned over a table.”