In Kedars Tents | Page 5

them through life. Since Horner had
crossed the threshold the ceaseless hum of the streets seemed to be
nearer, the sound of it louder in the room; the restlessness of that great
strife stirred the air. The fox terrier laid himself on the hearthrug again,
but instead of sleeping watched his two human companions.
Conyngham filled his pipe. He turned to the table where the matchbox
stood at his elbow, took it up, rattled it, and laid it down. He pressed
the tobacco hard with his thumb, and, turning to Horner, said sharply:
'What is it?'
'I don't know yet; ruin, I think.'
'Nonsense, man!' said Conyngham cheerily. 'There is no such thing in
this world. At least, the jolliest fellows I know are bankrupts, or no
better. Look at me: never a brief; literary contributions returned with
thanks; balance at the bank, seventeen pounds ten shillings; balance in
hand, none; debts, the Lord only knows! Look at me! I'm happy

enough.'
'Yes, you're a lonely devil.'
Conyngham looked at his friend with inquiry in his gay eyes.
'Ah! perhaps so. I live alone, if that is what you mean. But as for being
lonely--no, hang it! I have plenty of friends, especially at dividend
time.'
'You have nobody depending on you,' said Horner with the irritability
of sorrow.
'Because nobody is such a fool. On the other hand, I have nobody to
care a twopenny curse what becomes of me. Same thing, you see, in the
end. Come, man, cheer up. Tell me what is wrong. Seventeen pounds
ten shillings is not exactly wealth, but if you want it you know it is
there, eh?'
'I do not want it, thanks,' replied the other. 'Seventeen hundred would
be no good to me. '
He paused, biting his under lip and staring with hard eyes into the fire.
'Read that,' he said at length, and handed Conyngham a cutting from a
daily newspaper.
The younger man read, without apparent interest, an account of the
Chester-le-Street meeting, and the subsequent attack on Sir John
Pleydell's house.
'Yes,' he commented, 'the usual thing. Brave words followed by a
cowardly deed. What in the name of fortune you were doing in that
galere you yourself know best. If these are politics, Horner, I say drop
them. Politics are a stick, clean enough at the top, but you've got hold
of the wrong end. Young Pleydell was hurt, I see-- "seriously, it is
feared."'
'Yes,' said Horner significantly; and his companion, after a quick look

of surprise, read the slip of paper carefully a second time. Then he
looked up and met Horner's eyes.
'Gad!' he exclaimed in a whisper.
Horner said nothing. The dog moved restlessly, and for a moment the
whole world--that sleepless world of the streets--seemed to hold its
breath.
'And if he dies,' said Conyngham at length.
'Exactly so,' answered the other with a laugh--of scaffold mirth.
Conyngham turned in his chair and sat with his elbows on his knees,
his face resting on his closed fists, staring at the worn old hearthrug.
Thus they remained for some minutes.
'What are you thinking about?' asked Horner at length.
'Nothing--got nothing to think with. You know that, Geoffrey. Wish I
had--never wanted it as I do at this moment. I'm no good, you know
that. You must go to some one with brains--some clever devil.'
As he spoke he turned and took up the paper again, reading the
paragraph slowly and carefully. Horner looked at him with a breathless
hunger in his eyes. At some moments it is a crime to think, for we
never know but that thought may be transmitted without so much as a
whisper.
'"The miners were accompanied by a gentleman from London,"'
Conyngham read aloud, '"a barrister, it is supposed, whose speech was
a feature of the Chester le-Street meeting. This gentleman's name is
quite unknown, nor has his whereabouts yet been discovered. His
sudden disappearance lends likelihood to the report that this unknown
agitator actually struck the blow which injured Mr. Alfred Pleydell.
Every exertion is being put forth by the authorities to trace the man
who is possibly a felon and certainly a coward."'

Conyngham laid aside the paper and again looked at Horner, who did
not meet his glance nor ask now of what he was thinking. Horner,
indeed, had his own thoughts, perhaps of the fireside--modest enough,
but happy as love and health could make it--upon which his own
ambition had brought down the ruins of a hundred castles in the
air--thoughts he scarce could face, no doubt, and yet had no power to
drive away, of the young wife whose world was that same fireside; of
the child, perhaps, whose coming had opened for a time the door of
Paradise.
Conyngham broke in upon