Kathleen | Page 8

meet
Kathleen. I lay low, but did some planning. Didn't want to let these
English blighters get ahead of me, especially after all the ragging
Indiana Joe got in the story.

Train stopped at Birmingham at noon. My tobacco pouch had run
empty, and I hopped out to buy some Murray's at the newsstand. Saw
the prettiest flapper of my life on the platform--the real English type;
tweed suit, dark hair, gray eyes, and cheeks like almond blossoms. She
had on a blue tam-o' shanter. Loveliest figure I ever saw, perfect ankle,
but the usual heavy brogues on her feet. Why do English girls always
wear woollen stockings? Was so taken with her I almost missed the
train. She got into a third-class compartment farther up the train. The
others were all bickering in the smoking carriage, so they didn't see her.
I scored over the rest of the crowd when we got to Wolvers. They had
all brought heavy portmanteaus, containing all their vacation baggage.
My idea was, go light when chasing the Grail. Had only my rucksack,
left rest of my stuff at coll., to be forwarded later. While the other chaps
were getting their stuff out of the goods van I spotted Miss Flapper
getting off the train. She got into a hansom. Just by dumb luck I was
standing near. I heard her say to cabby: "318, Bancroft Road!" Lord,
was I tickled? I kept mum.
Most of the fellows took cabs, on account of their luggage, but Goblin
and I hoofed it. Wolverhampton seems a dingy place for Kathleen to
live! Fine old church, though, and lovely market place. We kept our
eyes open for Bancroft Road, but saw no sign.
When we got to the Blue Boar, lunch was all ready for us in the coffee
room. Landlord tickled to death at our arrival. Wonderful cheddar
cheese, and archdeacon ale. We made quite a ceremony of it--all drank
Kathleen's health, and on the stroke of two we got up from the table.
All the others beat it off immediately in different directions-- looking
for Bancroft Road, I expect. I had an idea that more finesse would be
needed. I started off with the others, then pretended I had left my pipe,
and came back to the Boar. I was going to look up the town directory,
to find Kathleen's name-- knowing the address, that would be easy. But
there was Goblin doing the same thing! We both laughed and looked it
up together. The name at 318, Bancroft Road was Kent, Philip Kent,
F.S.A., Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries, I suppose: the book put
him down as an "antiquarian." Kathleen's father, evidently.

Goblin disappeared in that noiseless way of his, and I lit a pipe and
pondered.
The fellows had been full of wild suggestions as to what they would do
when they got to 318, Bancroft Road. One was going to be a book
agent and get into the house that way. Another said he would be the
grocer's man and make friends with the cook. Someone else suggested
dressing up as a plumber or gas-man, and going there to fix some
imaginary leak. Knowing that the Kents were not fools, I imagined it
wouldn't be long before they'd get wise to the fact that that bunch of
dreadnoughts was picketing the house. Probably they'd put the police
on them. Also, there's nobody harder to disguise than an English
'varsity man. He gives himself away at every turn. If "Fred" was around
he'd be sure to smell a rat. One of those chaps would be likely to fake
himself up as a plumber, and get in the house on some pretext or
other--still wearing his wrist-watch!
I thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to stay away from Bancroft Road for
a while and try to pull wires from a distance:
The Blue Boar Inn--a very nice old house, by the way--looks out over
the old Wolverhampton market place. In one corner of the square I had
noticed a little post office. You can send a telegram from any post
office in England, and I thought that would be my best entering wedge.
The word "antiquarian" in the directory had given me a notion. On a
blank I composed the following message, after some revisions:
MISS KATHLEEN KENT, 318, Bancroft Road,
WOLVERHAMPTON.
My friend John Blair of Trinity now in Wolverhampton for historical
study staying at Blue Boar nice chap American may he call on you if so
send him a line sorry can't write hurt hand playing soccer love to all.
JOE.
This was taking a long chance, but was the best move I could think of. I
asked the lady behind the counter to mark the telegram as though it

came from Oxford.