The Flyers | Page 5

doing out in the rain?" she asked after the
order for drinks had been taken.
"Hurrying to get out of it," he said with evasive good humour, "and
thinking how much nicer your fogs are than ours," he added quickly.
"Anybody come over with you?" asked the bore, agreeably.
"No, they're playing bridge over at Mrs. Thursdale's and that lets me
out. Beastly headache, too. Got out for a breath of air." The silence that
followed this observation seemed to call for further explanations. "Miss
Thursdale retired soon after dinner, wretchedly under the weather. That
rather left me adrift, don't you know. I'm not playing bridge this year."
"You're not? Why not, pray?"
"Chiefly because of last year. My Mercedes came on from New York
yesterday and I got her out for a spin. Couldn't resist, don't you know.
She's working beautifully."
"There's one thing about a Mercedes that I don't like--and you don't
find it in a Panhard. I've got a Panhard and--" Dobson was saying with
all the arrogance of a motor fiend, when Mrs. Scudaway ruthlessly and
properly cut him off.
"We know all about your Panhard, Dobby. Don't bother. Is Eleanor
really ill, Mr. Windomshire?"
"I had it from her own lips, Mrs. Scudaway."
"Oh, you know what I mean. Is it likely to be serious?"
"Really, I can't say. I offered to go and fetch the doctor in my car, but
she assured me she'd be all right in the morning. What say, Mr.
Dauntless?"

"I didn't speak, Mr. Windomshire."
"I thought you did." More than one at the table had heard Joe's
involuntary chuckle.
"I say, Windomshire, what's the name of that pretty governess over at
Thursdale's?" asked the busy bore. "Saw her this morning."
The Englishman looked down and flecked the ashes from his cigarette
before answering.
"Miss Courtenay," he responded.
"She's a corking pretty girl." Windomshire went through the
unnecessary act of flecking ashes again, but said nothing in reply. "Are
there any more at home like her?" with a fine chuckle in behalf of his
wit.
"She's of a very good family, I believe," said Windomshire, looking
about helplessly. Mrs. Scudaway caught the look in his eyes and
remembered that English gentlemen are not supposed to discuss
women outside of their own set.
"It must be time for the 'bus," she said. "We're all going in by the 10.10,
Mr. Windomshire."
"Can't I take some of you over to the station in my car?"
"The 'bus is dryer, I think, thank you." She led the way, and the other
women followed her upstairs. "We'll be down in time," she called.
"I'll take some of you men over in Hardy's machine," volunteered
Dauntless. "I've got it out here this week, while he's east."
"Ain't you going in, Joe?" demanded Rolfe.
"Not to-night. I'm staying overnight with my uncle in Cobberly Road."
"The 'bus is good enough for me. I haven't forgotten how you ran off

the Peters Bridge last fall," said Carter.
"Hang it, man, he wasn't thinking about bridges that time," said the
cheerful bore. "There was a girl with him. Elea--Ahem! I say, old man,
what the devil time is it? Time for the confounded 'bus? Don't want to
miss the train." He had caught the scowl of warning from Carter and,
for a wonder, understood.
"By the way," said Windomshire, irrelevantly, "what was the
disturbance over in O'Brien's Lane this morning? Anybody hurt? I was
driving the car up Andrews' Hill when I saw the excitement. Couldn't
make it out. Were all of the horses running away?"
"Running away!" roared the blase man, forgetting his pose for the first
time. "Running away!" and he broke into a roar of laughter. "Why, that
was the advance guard of the Faraway Country Club. Good Lord, did
you see them coming in?"
"My word, they were coming in. But what was the rush? I came over
to- night to see if any of the women had been hurt. I could have sworn
the horses were absolutely unmanageable. They were tearing through
bushes and taking fences they'd never seen before. Egad, I give you my
word, one of the women took the fence at the south end of the golf
course, and she didn't turn out for the bunker at No. 7, either. She took
it like a bird, and straight across the course she flew on a dead line for
the home green. What the deuce---"
"Sh! Windomshire, it will cost you your life if she hears you. That was
Mrs. Scudaway. You don't know what happened, so I'll tell you. Half a
dozen of the women went out with us for a run over the usual course.
They are among our best and oldest hunters, too. Well, they were
keeping right up with