The Club of Queer Trades | Page 4

mean and sulky as the scene might be in the
eyes of most of us, it was not altogether so in the Major's, for along the
coarse gravel footway was coming a thing which was to him what the
passing of a religious procession is to a devout person. A large, heavy
man, with fish-blue eyes and a ring of irradiating red beard, was
pushing before him a barrow, which was ablaze with incomparable
flowers. There were splendid specimens of almost every order, but the
Major's own favourite pansies predominated. The Major stopped and
fell into conversation, and then into bargaining. He treated the man
after the manner of collectors and other mad men, that is to say, he
carefully and with a sort of anguish selected the best roots from the less
excellent, praised some, disparaged others, made a subtle scale ranging
from a thrilling worth and rarity to a degraded insignificance, and then
bought them all. The man was just pushing off his barrow when he
stopped and came close to the Major.
"I'll tell you what, sir," he said. "If you're interested in them things, you
just get on to that wall."
"On the wall!" cried the scandalised Major, whose conventional soul
quailed within him at the thought of such fantastic trespass.
"Finest show of yellow pansies in England in that there garden, sir,"
hissed the tempter. "I'll help you up, sir."
How it happened no one will ever know but that positive enthusiasm of

the Major's life triumphed over all its negative traditions, and with an
easy leap and swing that showed that he was in no need of physical
assistance, he stood on the wall at the end of the strange garden. The
second after, the flapping of the frock-coat at his knees made him feel
inexpressibly a fool. But the next instant all such trifling sentiments
were swallowed up by the most appalling shock of surprise the old
soldier had ever felt in all his bold and wandering existence. His eyes
fell upon the garden, and there across a large bed in the centre of the
lawn was a vast pattern of pansies; they were splendid flowers, but for
once it was not their horticultural aspects that Major Brown beheld, for
the pansies were arranged in gigantic capital letters so as to form the
sentence:
DEATH TO MAJOR BROWN
A kindly looking old man, with white whiskers, was watering them.
Brown looked sharply back at the road behind him; the man with the
barrow had suddenly vanished. Then he looked again at the lawn with
its incredible inscription. Another man might have thought he had gone
mad, but Brown did not. When romantic ladies gushed over his V.C.
and his military exploits, he sometimes felt himself to be a painfully
prosaic person, but by the same token he knew he was incurably sane.
Another man, again, might have thought himself a victim of a passing
practical joke, but Brown could not easily believe this. He knew from
his own quaint learning that the garden arrangement was an elaborate
and expensive one; he thought it extravagantly improbable that any one
would pour out money like water for a joke against him. Having no
explanation whatever to offer, he admitted the fact to himself, like a
clear-headed man, and waited as he would have done in the presence of
a man with six legs.
At this moment the stout old man with white whiskers looked up, and
the watering can fell from his hand, shooting a swirl of water down the
gravel path.
"Who on earth are you?" he gasped, trembling violently.
"I am Major Brown," said that individual, who was always cool in the

hour of action.
The old man gaped helplessly like some monstrous fish. At last he
stammered wildly, "Come down--come down here!"
"At your service," said the Major, and alighted at a bound on the grass
beside him, without disarranging his silk hat.
The old man turned his broad back and set off at a sort of waddling run
towards the house, followed with swift steps by the Major. His guide
led him through the back passages of a gloomy, but gorgeously
appointed house, until they reached the door of the front room. Then
the old man turned with a face of apoplectic terror dimly showing in
the twilight.
"For heaven's sake," he said, "don't mention jackals."
Then he threw open the door, releasing a burst of red lamplight, and ran
downstairs with a clatter.
The Major stepped into a rich, glowing room, full of red copper, and
peacock and purple hangings, hat in hand. He had the finest manners in
the world, and, though mystified, was not in the least embarrassed to
see that the only occupant was a lady, sitting by the