A Knight on Wheels. Ian Hay

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      "No. I am usually called Peggy. Sometimes Pegs."

      "Why?"

      Miss Falconer sighed indulgently.

      "Peggy is the short for Marguerite," she explained. "Didn't you know?"

      "No," said Philip.

      He was about to proceed to a further confession, when the little girl said graciously:—

      "You may call me Peggy if you like."

      Here Philip, whose moral stamina seemed to be crumbling altogether, took his second downward step.

      "I shall call you Pegs," he said boldly.

      "All right," replied the lady so designated. "Now tell me what Uncle Joseph said."

       "Uncle Joseph," began Philip once more, "was with me on Sunday, when you were sitting here."

      "Was I?" enquired Peggy with a touch of hauteur. Then she continued inconsequently: "I remember him quite well. Go on."

      "He saw you," continued the hapless Philip, "when you smiled at me."

      Miss Falconer's slim body stiffened.

      "O—o—o—oh!" she gasped. "How can you say such a thing? I never did!"

      Poor Philip—who had yet to learn the lesson that feminine indiscretions must always be accepted without comment and never again referred to without direct invitation—merely reiterated his tactless statement.

      "But you did," he said. "Or perhaps," he added desperately, for Peggy's eyes were almost tearful, "you were only smiling to yourself about something."

      To his profound astonishment this lame suggestion was accepted. Miss Falconer nodded. Her self-respect was saved.

      "Yes," she said; "that was it. Go on."

      "—And when Uncle Joseph saw you smiling—to yourself—he said that women always did that. He said they couldn't help it. It was a—a prebby—a prebby-something instinct. I can't remember the word."

      "Presbyterian?" suggested Miss Falconer helpfully. "Our cook is one."

      "Something like that. Yes, I believe it was that," said Philip. He was quite sure it was not, but he was anxious not to offend again. "He said it was due to a—a Presbyterian instinct. He thinks women ought to be avoided."

      "Why?" asked Peggy, deeply intrigued.

      "He doesn't like them," explained Philip. He spoke quite apologetically. Half an hour ago he could have set forth the doctrines of Uncle Joseph as matters of fact, not of opinion.

      But Miss Falconer did not appear to be offended. She seemed rather pleased with Uncle Joseph.

      "I don't like them much myself," she announced. "Except Mother, of course. I like little girls best—and then little boys." She squeezed Philip's arm in an ingratiating manner. "But why doesn't Uncle Joseph like women? They can't do anything to him! They can't stop him doing nice things! They can't send him to bed!" concluded Miss Falconer bitterly. Evidently the memory of some despotic nurse was rankling. "Did he ever tell you why?"

      "Oh, yes—often."

      "What does he say?"

      "He says," replied Philip, getting rapidly into his stride over long-familiar ground, "that women are the disturbing and distracting force in Nature. They stray deliberately out of their own appointed sphere in order to interfere with and weaken the driving-force of the world—Man. They are a parry—parry—parry-sitic growth, sapping the life out of the strongest tree. They are subject to no standard laws, and therefore upset the natural balance of Creation. They act from reason and not instinct—no, I think it is the other way round—they act from instinct and not from reason. They have no breadth of view or sense of proportion. They argue from the particular to the general; and in all argument they habitually beg the question and shift their ground if worsted. They cannot organise or direct; they only scheme and plot. Their own overpowering instinct is the Prebby—Presbyterian instinct—the instinct of plunder—to obtain from Man the wherewithal to deck their own persons with extravagant and insanitary finery. This they do, not to gratify man, but to mortify one another. A man who would perform his life's work untravelled—no, untrammelled—must avoid women at all costs. At least," concluded Philip traitorously, "that is what Uncle Joseph says."

      Miss Falconer puckered her small brow. Evidently she declined to go all the way with Uncle Joseph in his views.

      "I don't understand it all," she said frankly, "but some of it sounds pretty silly. Is your Uncle Joseph a nice man? Do you like him?"

      "Yes," said Philip stoutly. "He is very kind to me."

      "He sounds a funny man," mused Peggy. "I shall talk to Mother about him. I must go now. It is getting dark."

      She slipped off the gate, and Philip perceived, for the first time, that for all her youthfulness she was half a head taller than himself.

      "Where do you live?" enquired Philip, forgetting his previous intentions.

      "Over there, where the lamp-posts are. Goodnight, Phil!"

       "Good night, Pegs!"

      The children shook hands gravely. Both desired most ardently to ask the same question; but Philip was restrained by his principles (now returning hurriedly to duty), and Miss Peggy by maidenly reserve. But each secretly made the same resolution at the same moment.

      II

      Philip found his uncle smoking a pipe in a big armchair before the study fire. He was jotting down calculations on a blotting-pad.

      "The opposite sex has its uses, Philip," he said. "To-day, thanks to the sentimental credulity of a number of estimable but credulous females, we have raked in forty-seven pounds ten. With that sum we shall be able to do some real good."

      "How are you going to spend it this week, Uncle Joseph?" asked Philip.

      "Considering the season of the year, I think the best thing I can do is to devote practically all of it to Christmas benevolences—chiefly of the coal-and-blanket order. I have no quarrel with the very young, and I don't like to think of any child, male or female, going hungry or cold on Christmas Day. You can do a lot with forty-seven pounds ten, Philip. For about fourpence you can distend a small stomach to its utmost capacity, and you can wrap it up and keep it warm for very little more. What a blessed thing it is that these misguided females have some one to divert their foolish offerings into wise channels. This very week, but for us, forty-seven pounds ten would have dropped into the banking-account of some professional beggar, or gone to bolster up some perfectly impossible enterprise, such as the overthrow of the Church of Rome or the conversion of the Jews."

      Uncle Joseph laughed whimsically.

      "There is a touch of humour about it all," he said. "It would appeal to the editor of the 'Searchlight.' I must tell him all about it some day—when I go out of business! Yes, we'll stick to coal-and-blanket charities at present, Philip. After Christmas I want to tackle the question of emigration СКАЧАТЬ