The Coming of Bill. P. G. Wodehouse

and eighty pounds of bone and muscle detached themselves from the couch and loomed up massively before him, was conscious of a weakening of his determination to inflict bodily chastisement. The truth of Steve's remark, that it made a difference whether one's intended victim is a heavyweight, a middle, or a welter, came upon him with some force.

      Kirk, in a sleeveless vest that showed up his chest and shoulders was not an inviting spectacle for a man intending assault and battery. Bailey decided to confine himself to words. There was nothing to be gained by a vulgar brawl. A dignified man of the world avoided violence.

      "Mr. Winfield?"

      "Mr. Bannister?"

      It was at this point that Steve, having bathed and dressed, came out on the gallery. The voices below halted him, and the sound of Bailey's decided him to remain where he was. Steve was not above human curiosity, and he was anxious to know the reason for Bailey's sudden appearance.

      "That is my name. It is familiar to you. My sister," said Bailey bitterly, "has made it so."

      "Won't you sit down?" said Kirk.

      "No, thank you. I will not detain you long, Mr. Winfield."

      "My dear fellow! There's no hurry. Will you have a cigarette?"

      "No, thank you."

      Kirk was puzzled by his visitor's manner. So, unseen in the shadows of the gallery, was Steve.

      "I can say what I wish to say in two words, Mr. Winfield," said Bailey. "This marriage is quite out of the question."

      "Eh?"

      "My father would naturally never consent to it. As soon as he hears of what has happened he will forbid it absolutely. Kindly dismiss from your mind entirely the idea that my sister will ever be permitted to marry you, Mr. Winfield."

      Steve, in the gallery, with difficulty suppressed a whoop of surprise. Kirk laughed ruefully.

      "Aren't you a little premature, Mr. Bannister? Aren't you taking a good deal for granted?"

      "In what way?"

      "Well, that Miss Bannister cares the slightest bit for me, for instance; that I've one chance in a million of ever getting her to care the slightest bit for me?"

      Bailey was disgusted at this futile attempt to hide the known facts of the case from him.

      "You need not trouble to try and fool me, Mr. Winfield," he said tartly. "I know everything. I have just seen my sister, and she told me herself in so many words that she intended to marry you."

      To his amazement he found his hand violently shaken.

      "My dear old man!" Kirk was stammering in his delight. "My dear old sport, you don't know what a weight you've taken off my mind. You know how it is. A fellow falls in love and instantly starts thinking he hasn't a chance on earth. I hadn't a notion she felt that way about me. I'm not fit to shine her shoes. My dear old man, if you hadn't come and told me this I never should have had the nerve to say a word to her.

      "You're a corker. You've changed everything. You'll have to excuse me. I must go to her. I can't wait a minute. I must rush and dress. Make yourself at home here. Have you breakfasted? George! George! Say, George, I've got to rush away. See that Mr. Bannister has everything he wants. Get him some breakfast. Good-bye, old man." He gripped Bailey's hand once more. "You're all right. Good-bye!"

      He sprang for the staircase. George Pennicut turned to the speechless Bailey.

      "How would it be if I made you a nice cup of hot tea and a rasher of 'am, sir?" he inquired with a kindly smile.

      Bailey eyed him glassily, then found speech.

      "Go to hell!" he shouted. He strode to the door and shot into the street, a seething volcano.

      George, for his part, was startled, but polite.

      "Yes, sir," he said. "Very good, sir," and withdrew.

      Kirk, having reached the top of the stairs, had to check the wild rush he was making for the bathroom in order not to collide with Steve, whom he found waiting for him with outstretched hand and sympathetic excitement writ large upon his face.

      "Excuse me, squire," said Steve, "I've been playing the part of Rubberneck Rupert in that little drama you've just been starring in. I just couldn't help listening. Say, this mitt's for you. Shake it! So you're going to marry Bailey's sister, Ruth, are you? You're the lucky guy. She's a queen!"

      "Do you know her, Steve?"

      "Do I know her! Didn't I tell you I was the tame physical instructor in that palace? I wish I had a dollar for every time I've thrown the medicine-ball at her. Why, I'm the guy that gave her that figure of hers. She don't come to me regular, like Bailey and the old man, but do I know her? I should say I did know her."

      Kirk shook his hand.

      "You're all right, Steve!" he said huskily, and vanished into the bathroom. A sound as of a tropical deluge came from within.

      Steve hammered upon the door. The downpour ceased.

      "Say!" called Steve.

      "Hello?"

      "I don't want to discourage you, squire, but——"

      The door opened and Kirk's head appeared.

      "What's the matter?"

      "Well, you heard what Bailey said?"

      "About his father?"

      "Sure. It goes."

      Kirk came out into the gallery, towelling himself vigorously.

      "Who is her father?" he asked, seating himself on the rail.

      "He's a son of a gun," said Steve with emphasis. "As rich as John D. pretty nearly and about as chummy as a rattlesnake. Were you thinking of calling and asking him for a father's blessing?"

      "Something of the sort, I suppose."

      "Forget it! He'd give you the hook before you'd got through asking if you might call him daddy."

      "You're comforting, Steve. They call you Little Sunbeam at home, don't they?"

      "Hell!" said Steve warmly, "I'm not shooting this at you just to make you feel bad. I gotta reason. I want to make you see this ain't going to be no society walk-over, with the Four Hundred looking on from the pews and poppa signing cheques in the background. Say, did I ever tell you how I beat Kid Mitchell?"

      "Does it apply to the case in hand?"

      "Does it what to the which?"

      "Had it any bearing on my painful position? I only ask, because that's what is interesting me most just now, and, if you're going to change the subject, there's a chance that my attention may wander."

      "Sure it does. It's a—what d'you call it when you pull something that's got another meaning tucked up its sleeve?"

      "A parable?"

      "That's right. A—what you said. Well, this Kid Mitchell was looked on as a coming champ in those days. He had cleaned up some good boys, while I had only gotten a rep about as big as a nickel with a hole in it. I guess I looked pie to him. He turkey-trotted up to me for the first round and stopped in front of me as if he was wondering what had blown in and whether the Gerry Society would stand for his hitting it. I could see him thinking 'This is too easy' as plain as if he'd said it. And then he took another peek at me, as much as to say, 'Well, let's get it over. Where shall I soak him first?' And while he's doing this I get in range and I put my left pretty smart into his lunch-wagon and I pick up my right off the carpet and hand it to him, and down he goes. And when he gets up again it's pretty nearly to-morrow morning and I've drawn the winner's end and gone home."

      "And the moral?"

      "Why, don't spar. Punch! Don't wait for the wallop. Give it."

      "You