The Duke in the Suburbs | Page 9

He raised his voice and kept his eye on the conservatory door of 66.
"What's wrong?" inquired Hank's voice from the house.
"Come quickly!" called the Duke, extravagantly nervous. "here's a
young gentleman, a stout young gentleman in the military line of
business, who is taking off his coat to me."
"Don't talk such utter damn nonsense," said the angry Hal. "I've done
nothing yet."
"Help!" cried the lounging figure at the top of the wall. "He's done
nothing yet--but--"
"Will you be quiet, sir," roared Hal desperately, red in the face; "you'll
alarm the neighbourhood and make yourself a laughing--stock--"
The Duke had seen the flutter of a white dress coming through the little
glass house, and as the girl with an alarmed face ran into the garden he
made his appeal to her.
"Miss Terrill," he said brokenly. "as one human being to another, I beg
you to save me from this savage and I fear reckless young man. Call
him off! Chain him up! Let him turn from me the basilisk fires of his

vengeful eyes."
"I thought--I thought--" faltered the girl.
"Not yet," said the Duke cheerfully; "you have arrived in the nick of
time to save one who is your ever grateful servant from a terrible and, I
cannot help thinking, untimely end."
She turned with an angry stamp of her foot to her cousin.
"Will you please take me into the house, Hal," she said, ignoring the
young man on the wall, and his exaggerated expression of relief.
CHAPTER VIII
"On behalf of the organ fund," read Hank, and regarded the pink tickets
that accompanied the vicar's letter with suspicion.
"It's a curious fact," said the Duke. "that of all people and things in this
wide world, there is no class so consistently insolvent as the organ class.
There isn't a single organ in England that can pay its way. It's broke to
the world from its infancy; its youth is a hand--to--mouth struggle, and
it reaches its maturity up to the eyes in debt. It has benefit sermons and
Sunday--school matinees, garden parties, bazaars and soirees, but
nothing seems to put the poor old dear on his legs; he just goes
wheezing on, and ends his miserable existence in the hands of the
official receiver. What is this, by the way?"
"A soiree," said Hank moodily, "and will we help."
The Duke sprang up.
"Rather!" he said jubilantly, "will we help? Why, this is the very
opportunity I've been waiting for! I'll sing a sentimental song, and you
can say a little piece about a poor child dying in the snow."
"Snow nothing," said Hank, "you can sing if you want, and I'll go
outside so that folks shan't see I'm ashamed of you." He took a turn or

two up and down the apartment, then came to an abrupt stop before the
Duke.
"Say," he said quickly. "Bill Slewer's out."
The Duke raised his eyebrows.
"The amiable William?" he asked with mild astonishment, "not Bad
Man Bill?"
Hank nodded gravely.
"I got a letter from Judge Morris. Bill had a pull in the state and the
remainder of his sentence has been remitted by the new governor."
"Well?" asked the Duke with a yawn. Hank was searching his pocket
for a letter. He opened one and read:
"... hope you are having a good time... m--m your Nevada properties
are booming... (oh, here we are). By the way, Big Bill Slewer's loose,
the man the Duke ran out of Tycer country and jailed for shooting Ed
Carter the foreman.
"Bill says he is going gunning for Jukey--"
"Ugh!" shuddered the Duke.
"--and reckons to leave for Europe soon. Japhet in search of his pa will
be a Quaker picnic compared with Bill on the sleuth. Tell Jukey--"
The Duke groaned.
"Tell Jukey to watch out for his loving little friend Bill. Bill is going to
have a big send--off and a bad citizens' committee has presented the
hero with a silver--plate Colt's revolver and has passed a special
resolution deprecating the artificial social barriers of an effete and
degenerate aristocracy."
The Duke smiled.

"If Bill turns up in Brockley, I'll run the military gentleman loose on
him," he announced calmly; "in the meantime, let us address ourselves
to the soiree."
It was announced from the pulpit on the next Sunday that amongst the
kind friends who has promised to help was "our neighbour the Due de
Montvillier", and the next morning Miss Alicia Terrill sought out the
vicar and asked to be relieved of a certain promise she had made.
"But, my dear Miss Terrill, it's quite impossible," protested the amazed
cleric; "you were so very keen on the soiree, and your name has been
sent to the printer with the rest of the good