BRITISH MYSTERIES - Fergus Hume Collection: 21 Thriller Novels in One Volume. Fergus Hume

it was undeniably Peter Paul Grench, of Bedford Grammar School.

      “‘The child,’” quoth Philip, advancing to meet his guest, “‘is father to the man.’ It is just on seven, and you, Peter, keep your fifteen-year-old appointment to the minute. I am delighted to see you.”

      “I am sure the feeling is reciprocal,” responded Dr. Grench, primly, as he grasped the baronet’s hand; “it is indeed a pleasure to meet an old schoolfellow after these many years.”

      Peter spoke in a Johnsonian manner, but his words were genuine enough and under the influence of this natural emotion, for the moment he forgot his primness. After a time, however, habit asserted its influence over nature, and Grench resumed his buckram civilities, while Philip, also recovering himself, relapsed into his usual nonchalant manners.

      “So you kept this appointment, after all,” said Cassim, as they settled themselves for a confidential conversation; “I thought it possible you might have forgotten about it.”

      “By no means,” answered Grench, producing a piece of paper similar to that of Philip’s. “I have often looked at this, and always intended, unless prevented by disease or death, to meet my old schoolfellows as agreed. Here we are, my dear friend; but Tim and Jack?”

      “May be at the other end of the world, for all I know,” responded the baronet, carelessly. “Special correspondents and engineers are the Wandering Jews of to-day. Still, as I came from the Guinea coast for this appointment, they will surely not grudge a lengthy journey for a similar purpose.”

      “Tim is in London,” said Peter, unexpectedly.

      “Ah!” remarked Philip, manifesting but little surprise, “you have seen him, then?”

      “No! Since we parted at Bedford I have seen none of you; but I have heard of all three.”

      “Nothing good of me, I am afraid,” said Cassim, with that amiable belief in his fellow-creatures which made them love him so.

      “Nothing bad, at all events,” answered Peter, serenely. “You are constantly travelling; you are still a bachelor; you open your heart to no one, and judge the world as though you were not its denizen.”

      “Which last remark is stolen from La Rochefoucauld. Yes! Your description is accurate if not original. However, let us not talk of Philip Cassim. I am terribly tired of him. What about Jack and Tim?”

      “Of Jack I know nothing, save that he was last heard of in India. Tim, however, wrote to me the other day saying he intended to keep this appointment. Concerning his life, he volunteered no information.”

      “So like Tim! His private correspondence was always unsatisfactory. I like his newspaper letters however; the descriptions are so bright and vivid—plenty of gunpowder and adventure. Certainly Tim makes an excellent war correspondent. I wonder if he still has that strong brogue.”

      “Surely not. When he came to Bedford, he was fresh from Ireland; but now that he has been travelling so much, he must have lost his pronounced Irishisms.”

      “I’m not so sure of that,” said Philip, with a smile, “Tim is Irish of the Irish. I believe he loves his brogue. You can’t educate the race nature out of a man. Believe me, my dear Peter, Tim will be as noisy and as warm-hearted as of yore. I am very fond of Tim.”

      “Yet I should think Tim, such as you describe him, would be the last person to suit a fastidious individual such as yourself.”

      “Come now, Peter, I am not quite so hypercritical as all that. Besides, Tim, with all his noise and brogue, is a thorough gentleman. It is your veneered person I object to. However, Tim may have changed. Meanwhile what about yourself?”

      “Like Canning’s knife-grinder, I have no story to tell. When I left Bedford I went to Cambridge—afterwards came to London. Passed my examinations, walked the hospitals, took my degree, and hearing that a doctor was wanted down at Barnstaple, I went there. For some years I practised with more or less success. Then I retired to give——”

      “Retired!” interrupted Philip, in surprise. “Have you made your fortune?”

      “By no means. Country doctors never make fortunes. No! I inherit five hundred a year from my father, and as there is no necessity for me to physic people for a livelihood, I devote myself——”

      “To sticking pins through unoffending butterflies!”

      “Now, how did you guess that?” asked the little doctor, in mild surprise.

      “Easily enough. You had a butterfly and beetle mania at school. If I remember rightly, we rolled you in nettles to cure you of entomology. Boys don’t relish scientific urchins. So you are still at it. But five hundred a year and beetles. Peter, you are not ambitious.”

      “No,” assented Grench, simply; “I am not at all ambitious. My entomology gives me great pleasure, or why should I not enjoy myself in my own way? Ah, Philip, you do not know what true enjoyment is.”

      “Certainly not—if it’s butterflies.”

      “To see one of the Callidryas species for the first time is indeed a pleasure,” said Peter, beaming with scientific rapture. “Then the Papilios, the Hesperidæ and the red Timitis——”

      “Oh, oh!” yawned Philip, stretching himself, “how dry it sounds.”

      “Dry!” echoed Peter, indignantly; “the most fascinating pursuit in the world.”

      Philip looked kindly at the little man who appeared to be so satisfied with his simple pleasures.

      “Decidedly, Peter, you are a happy person. Come with me on a cruise, and I will introduce you to the paradise of butterflies. Tropical America, Peter, where the insects are like flying flowers. Green butterflies, purple beetles, gilded moths——”

      “Oh!” cried Peter, opening his eyes with delight, “I should like to go to South America. I would find a peculiar species there, the Heliconidæ. Why, Philip, if only——”

      “Hark! there’s the bell,” exclaimed Cassim, rising with alacrity, rather thankful to escape Peter’s lecture. “Is it Jack or Tim?”

      “Tim,” said Peter, promptly, “no one else would ring so violently.”

      “Where did ye say they were?” cried a hearty Irish voice half way up the stairs.

      “That settles it,” remarked Philip, comically, as he opened the door; “no two persons can possess such a strong brogue.”

      And Tim it was. Tim, large and burly, roaring like a Bull of Bashan, who hurled himself into the room, and flung himself on Philip’s neck.

      “My dear friend! my dear boy!” he thundered, squeezing Cassim in his athletic embrace, “it’s glad I am to see you.”

      “Gently, Tim, gently,” gasped Philip, helpless in the hug of this bear; “don’t crush me to a jelly.”

      “And Peter!” exclaimed Tim, releasing the baronet to pounce on the doctor, “you fat little man, how splendid you look.”

      Warned by the fate of Philip, the doctor skilfully evaded the embrace of the giant, and Tim was only able to demonstrate his affection by a handgrip. He threw all his soul into this latter, and Peter’s face wrinkled up like a monkey’s with pain. It was like a fly struggling with an elephant, and Philip, thoroughly roused from his ordinary placidity, laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

      “As soon as you’ve quite done murdering us, Tim,” he said, placing a chair between himself and his too demonstrative friend, “perhaps you’ll give your hat and coat to the servant.”

      Tim, who had rushed upstairs without pause, meekly delivered the articles in question to the servant, who stood grinning at the door. Looking on this respectful grin as a liberty, Philip frowned at the poor