The Saki Megapack. Saki

never had anything to do with one before,’ said Constance.

      “‘Well, neither have I. If we even knew its sex we might give it a name. Perhaps we might call it Esmé. That would do in either case.’

      “There was still sufficient daylight for us to distinguish wayside objects, and our listless spirits gave an upward perk as we came upon a small half-naked gipsy brat picking blackberries from a low-growing bush. The sudden apparition of two horsewomen and a hyaena set it off crying, and in any case we should scarcely have gleaned any useful geographical information from that source; but there was a probability that we might strike a gipsy encampment somewhere along our route. We rode on hopefully but uneventfully for another mile or so.

      “‘I wonder what that child was doing there,’ said Constance presently.

      “‘Picking blackberries. Obviously.’

      “‘I don’t like the way it cried,’ pursued Constance; ‘somehow its wail keeps ringing in my ears.’

      “I did not chide Constance for her morbid fancies; as a matter of fact the same sensation, of being pursued by a persistent fretful wail, had been forcing itself on my rather over-tired nerves. For company’s sake I hulloed to Esmé, who had lagged somewhat behind. With a few springy bounds he drew up level, and then shot past us.

      “The wailing accompaniment was explained. The gipsy child was firmly, and I expect painfully, held in his jaws.

      “‘Merciful Heaven!’ screamed Constance, ‘what on earth shall we do? What are we to do?’

      “I am perfectly certain that at the Last Judgment Constance will ask more questions than any of the examining Seraphs.

      “‘Can’t we do something?’ she persisted tearfully, as Esmé cantered easily along in front of our tired horses.

      “Personally I was doing everything that occurred to me at the moment. I stormed and scolded and coaxed in English and French and gamekeeper language; I made absurd, ineffectual cuts in the air with my thongless hunting-crop; I hurled my sandwich case at the brute; in fact, I really don’t know what more I could have done. And still we lumbered on through the deepening dusk, with that dark uncouth shape lumbering ahead of us, and a drone of lugubrious music floating in our ears. Suddenly Esmé bounded aside into some thick bushes, where we could not follow; the wail rose to a shriek and then stopped altogether. This part of the story I always hurry over, because it is really rather horrible. When the beast joined us again, after an absence of a few minutes, there was an air of patient understanding about him, as though he knew that he had done something of which we disapproved, but which he felt to be thoroughly justifiable.

      “‘How can you let that ravening beast trot by your side?’ asked Constance. She was looking more than ever like an albino beetroot.

      “‘In the first place, I can’t prevent it,’ I said; ‘and in the second place, whatever else he may be, I doubt if he’s ravening at the present moment.’

      “Constance shuddered. ‘Do you think the poor little thing suffered much?’ came another of her futile questions.

      “‘The indications were all that way,’ I said; ‘on the other hand, of course, it may have been crying from sheer temper. Children sometimes do.’

      “It was nearly pitch-dark when we emerged suddenly into the highroad. A flash of lights and the whir of a motor went past us at the same moment at uncomfortably close quarters. A thud and a sharp screeching yell followed a second later. The car drew up, and when I had ridden back to the spot I found a young man bending over a dark motionless mass lying by the roadside.

      “‘You have killed my Esmé,’ I exclaimed bitterly.

      “‘I’m so awfully sorry,’ said the young man; I keep dogs myself, so I know what you must feel about it. I’ll do anything I can in reparation.’

      “‘Please bury him at once,’ I said; ‘that much I think I may ask of you.’

      “‘Bring the spade, William,’ he called to the chauffeur. Evidently hasty roadside interments were contingencies that had been provided against.

      “The digging of a sufficiently large grave took some little time. ‘I say, what a magnificent fellow,’ said the motorist as the corpse was rolled over into the trench. ‘I’m afraid he must have been rather a valuable animal.’

      “‘He took second in the puppy class at Birmingham last year,’ I said resolutely.

      “Constance snorted loudly.

      “‘Don’t cry, dear,’ I said brokenly; ‘it was all over in a moment. He couldn’t have suffered much.’

      “‘Look here,’ said the young fellow desperately, ‘you simply must let me do something by way of reparation.’

      “I refused sweetly, but as he persisted I let him have my address.

      “Of course, we kept our own counsel as to the earlier episodes of the evening. Lord Pabham never advertised the loss of his hyaena; when a strictly fruit-eating animal strayed from his park a year or two previously he was called upon to give compensation in eleven cases of sheep-worrying and practically to re-stock his neighbours’ poultry-yards, and an escaped hyaena would have mounted up to something on the scale of a Government grant. The gipsies were equally unobtrusive over their missing offspring; I don’t suppose in large encampments they really know to a child or two how many they’ve got.”

      The Baroness paused reflectively, and then continued:

      “There was a sequel to the adventure, though. I got through the post a charming little diamond brooch, with the name Esmé set in a sprig of rosemary. Incidentally, too, I lost the friendship of Constance Broddle. You see, when I sold the brooch I quite properly refused to give her any share of the proceeds. I pointed out that the Esmé part of the affair was my own invention, and the hyaena part of it belonged to Lord Pabham, if it really was his hyaena, of which, of course, I’ve no proof.”

      THE MATCH-MAKER

      The grill-room clock struck eleven with the respectful unobtrusiveness of one whose mission in life is to be ignored. When the flight of time should really have rendered abstinence and migration imperative the lighting apparatus would signal the fact in the usual way.

      Six minutes later Clovis approached the supper-table, in the blessed expectancy of one who has dined sketchily and long ago.

      “I’m starving,” he announced, making an effort to sit down gracefully and read the menu at the same time.

      “So I gathered;” said his host, “from the fact that you were nearly punctual. I ought to have told you that I’m a Food Reformer. I’ve ordered two bowls of bread-and-milk and some health biscuits. I hope you don’t mind.”

      Clovis pretended afterwards that he didn’t go white above the collar-line for the fraction of a second.

      “All the same,” he said, “you ought not to joke about such things. There really are such people. I’ve known people who’ve met them. To think of all the adorable things there are to eat in the world, and then to go through life munching sawdust and being proud of it.”

      “They’re like the Flagellants of the Middle Ages, who went about mortifying themselves.”

      “They had some excuse,” said Clovis. “They did it to save their immortal souls, didn’t they? You needn’t tell me that a man who doesn’t love oysters and asparagus and good wines has got a soul, or a stomach either. He’s simply got the instinct for being unhappy highly developed.”

      Clovis relapsed for a few golden moments into tender intimacies with a succession of rapidly disappearing oysters.

      “I think oysters are more beautiful than any religion,” he resumed presently. “They not only forgive our unkindness to them; they justify it, they incite us to go on being perfectly horrid to them. Once they