None Other Gods. Robert Hugh Benson

and did no more than jerk his head almost imperceptibly as he went past. (He proposed to go back to the farm to get his dwindled belongings, as the job was over, and to move on a few miles northward before sleeping.)

      As he went, however, he knew that the man had turned and was looking after him: but he made no sign. He had no particular desire for company. He also knew by instinct, practically for certain, that these two were neither husband and wife, nor father and daughter. The type was obvious.

      "I say, sir!"

      Frank turned as bucolically as he could.

      "I say, sir—can you direct this lady and myself to a lodging?"

      Frank had tried to cultivate a low and characterless kind of voice, as of a servant or a groom out of work. He knew he could never learn the proper accent.

      "Depends on what kind of lodging you want, sir."

      "What'd suit you 'ud suit us," said the Major genially, dropping the "sir."

      "I'm going further, sir," said Frank. "I've done my job here."

      The Major turned to the girl, and Frank caught the words, "What d'you say, Gertie?" There was a murmur of talk; and then the man turned to him again:

      "If you've no objection, sir, we'll come with you. My good lady here is good for a mile or two more, she says, and we'd like some company."

      Frank hesitated. He did not in the least wish for company himself. He glanced at the girl again.

      "Very good, sir," he said. "Then if you'll wait here I'll be back in five minutes—I've got to get my belongings."

      He nodded to the low farm buildings in the valley just below the village.

      "We will await you here, sir," said the Major magnificently, stroking his mustache.

      As Frank came back up the little hill a few minutes later, he had made up his mind as to what to say and do. It was his first experience of a gentleman-tramp, and it was obvious that under the circumstances he could not pretend to be anything else himself. But he was perfectly determined not to tell his name. None of his belongings had anything more than his initials upon them, and he decided to use the name he had already given more than once. Probably they would not go far together; but it was worth while to be on the safe side.

      He came straight up to the two as they sat side by side with their feet in the ditch.

      "I'm ready, sir," he said. "Yes; you've spotted me all right."

      "University man and public school boy," said the Major without moving.

      "Eton and Cambridge," said Frank.

      The Major sprang up.

      "Harrow and the Army," he said. "Shake hands."

      This was done.

      "Name?" said the Major.

      Frank grinned.

      "I haven't my card with me," he said. "But Frank Gregory will do."

      "I understand," said the Major. "And 'The Major' will do for me. It has the advantage of being true. And this lady?—well, we'll call her my wife."

      Frank bowed. He felt he was acting in some ridiculous dream; but his sense of humor saved him. The girl gave a little awkward bow in response, and dropped her eyes. Certainly she was very like Jenny, and very unlike.

      "And a name?" asked Frank. "We may as well have one in case of difficulties."

      The Major considered.

      "What do you say to Trustcott?" he asked. "Will that do?"

      "Perfectly," said Frank. "Major and Mrs. Trustcott. … Well, shall we be going?"

      Frank had no particular views as to lodgings, or even to roads, so long as the direction was more or less northward. He was aiming, generally speaking, at Selby and York; and it seemed that this would suit the Major as well as anything else. There is, I believe, some kind of routine amongst the roadsters; and about that time of the year most of them are as far afield as at any time from their winter quarters. The Major and Mrs. Trustcott, he soon learned, were Southerners; but they would not turn homewards for another three months yet, at least. For himself, he had no ideas beyond a general intention to reach Barham some time in the autumn, before Jack went back to Cambridge for his fourth year.

      "The country is not prepossessing about here," observed the Major presently; "Hampole is an exception."

      Frank glanced back at the valley they were leaving. It had, indeed, an extraordinarily retired and rural air; it was a fertile little tract of ground, very limited and circumscribed, and the rail that ran through it was the only sign of the century. But the bright air was a little dimmed with smoke; and already from the point they had reached tall chimneys began to prick against the horizon.

      "You have been here before?" he said.

      "Why, yes; and about this time last year, wasn't it, Gertie? I understand a hermit lived here once."

      "A hermit might almost live here to-day," said Frank.

      "You are right, sir," said the Major.

      Frank began to wonder, as he walked, as to why this man was on the roads. Curiously enough, he believed his statement that he had been in the army. The air of him seemed the right thing. A militia captain would have swaggered more; a complete impostor would have given more details. Frank began to fish for information.

      "You have been long on the roads?" he said.

      The Major did not appear to hear him.

      "You have been long on the roads?" persisted Frank.

      The other glanced at him furtively and rather insolently. "The younger man first, please."

      Frank smiled.

      "Oh, certainly!" he said. "Well, I have left Cambridge at the end of June only."

      "Ah! Anything disgraceful?"

      "You won't believe me, I suppose, if I say 'No'?"

      "Oh! I daresay I shall."

      "Well, then, 'No.'"

      "Then may I ask—?"

      "Oh, yes! I was kicked out by my father—I needn't go into details. I sold up my things and came out. That's all!"

      "And you mean to stick to it?"

      "Certainly—at least for a year or two."

      "That's all right. Well, then—Major—what did we say? Trustcott? Ah, yes, Trustcott. Well, then, I think we might add 'Eleventh Hussars'; that's near enough. The final catastrophe was, I think, cards. Not that I cheated, you understand. I will allow no man to say that of me. But that was what was said. A gentleman of spirit, you understand, could not remain in a regiment when such things could be said. Then we tumbled downhill; and I've been at this for four years. And, you know, sir, it might be worse!"

      Frank nodded.

      Naturally he did not believe as necessarily true this terse little story, and he was absolutely certain that if cards were mixed up in it at all, obviously the Major had cheated. So he just took the story and put it away, so to speak. It was to form, he perceived, the understanding on which they consorted together. Then he began to wonder about the girl. The Major soon supplied a further form.

      "And Mrs. Trustcott, here? Well, she joined me, let us say, rather more than eighteen months ago. We had been acquainted before that, however. That was when I was consenting to serve as groom to some—er—some Jewish bounder in town. Mrs. Trustcott's parents live in town."

      The girl, who had been trudging patiently a foot or two behind them, just glanced up at Frank and down again. He wondered exactly what her own attitude was to all this. But she made no comment.

      "And now we know one another," finished the Major in a tone of genial