Meet Mr Mulliner (25 page)

Without a word James added himself to the
procession. His interest in Toto was but tepid. What he wanted was to get near
enough to William to discuss with him that matter of the tea on his trousers.
He reached the road and found that the order of the runners had not changed.
For so small a dog, Toto was moving magnificently. A cloud of dust rose as he
skidded round the comer. William followed. James followed William.

And so they passed Farmer Birkett’s barn. Farmer
Giles’ cow shed, the place where Farmer Willetts’ pigsty used to be before the
big fire, and the Bunch of Grapes public house, Jno. Biggs propr., licensed to sell
tobacco, wines and spirits. And it was as they were turning down the lane that
leads past Farmer Robinson’s chicken run that Toto, thinking swiftly, bolted
abruptly into a small drain pipe.

“William!” roared James, coming up at a
canter. He stopped to pluck a branch from the hedge and swooped darkly on.

William had been crouching before the
pipe, making a noise like a bassoon into its interior; but now he rose and came
beamingly to James. His eyes were aglow with chumminess and affection; and
placing his forefeet on James’s chest, he licked him three times on the face in
rapid succession. And as he did so, something seemed to snap in James. The
scales seemed to fall from James’s eyes. For the first time he saw William as
he really was, the authentic type of dog that saves his master from a frightful
peril. A wave of emotion swept over him.

“William!” he muttered. “William!”

William was making an early supper off a
half brick he had found in the road. James stooped and patted him fondly.

“William,” he whispered, “you knew when
the time had come to change the conversation, didn’t you, old boy!” He
straightened himself. “Come, William,” he said. “Another four miles and we
reach Meadowsweet Junction. Make it snappy and we shall just catch the up
express, first stop London.”

William looked up into his face and it
seemed to James that he gave a brief nod of comprehension and approval. James turned.
Through the trees to the east he could see the red roof of Honeysuckle Cottage,
lurking like some evil dragon in ambush.

Then, together, man and dog passed
silently into the sunset.

That (concluded Mr Mulliner) is the story
of my distant cousin James Rodman. As to whether it is true, that, of course,
is an open question. I, personally, am of opinion that it is. There is no doubt
that James did go to live at Honeysuckle Cottage and, while there, underwent
some experience which has left an ineradicable mark upon him. His eyes to-day
have that unmistakable look which is to be seen only in the eyes of confirmed
bachelors whose feet have been dragged to the very brink of the pit and who
have gazed at close range into the naked face of matrimony.

And, if further proof be needed, there is
William. He is now James’s inseparable companion. Would any man be habitually
seen in public with a dog like William unless he had some solid cause to be
grateful to him,—unless they were linked together by some deep and imperishable
memory? I think not. Myself, when I observe William coming along the street, I
cross the road and look into a shop window till he has passed. I am not a snob,
but I dare not risk my position in Society by being seen talking to that
curious compound.

Nor is the precaution an unnecessary one.
There is about William a shameless absence of appreciation of class
distinctions which recalls the worst excesses of the French Revolution. I have
seen him with these eyes chivvy a pomeranian belonging to a Baroness in her own
right from near the Achilles Statue to within a few yards of the Marble Arch.

And yet James walks daily with him in
Piccadilly. It is surely significant.

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