Big Game. Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey
that if he once gave Ron a fair reading, he would acknowledge his gifts. There is no hope of approaching him direct, but I intend to get hold of him all the same.”
Jack Martin looked up at that, his thin face twitching into a smile.
“You little baggage! and you expect me to help you. I must hear some more about this before I involve myself any further. What mischief are you up to now?”
“Dear Jack, what can I do; a little girl like me?” cried Miss Margot, mightily meek all of a sudden, as she realised that she had ventured a step too far. “I wouldn’t for the whole world get you into trouble. It’s just a little, simple thing that I want you to find out from some one in the office.”
“I don’t know any one in the office.”
“But you could find out some one who did? For instance, you know that Mr. Oliver who illustrates? I’ve seen his things in the Loadstar. You could ask him in a casual, off-hand manner without ever mentioning our name.”
“What could I ask him?”
“Such a nice, simple little question! Just the name of the place where the editor proposes to spend this summer holiday, and the date on which he will start.”
Jack stared in amazement, but the meekest, most demure of maidens confronted him from the opposite chair, with eyes so translucently candid, lips so guilelessly sweet, that it seemed incredible that any hidden mischief could lurk behind the innocent question. Nevertheless seven years’ intimacy with Miss Margot made Jack Martin suspicious of mischief.
“What do you know about this editor man? Have you seen him anywhere? He is handsome, I suppose, and a bachelor?”
“You’re a wretch!” retorted Miss Margot. “I don’t know the man from Adam, and he may be a Methuselah for all I care; but if possible I want it to happen that Ron and I chance to be staying in the same place, in the same house, or hotel, or pension, whichever it may be, when he goes away for his yearly rest. We are going to the country in any case—why should we not be guided by the choice of those older and wiser than ourselves? Why should we not meet the one of all others we are most anxious to know?”
“Just so! and having done so, you will confide in the editor that Ronald is an embryo Poet Laureate, and try to enlist his kind sympathy and assistance!”
Margot smiled; a smile of lofty superiority.
“No, indeed! I know rather better than that! He will be out on a holiday, poor man, and won’t want to be troubled with literary aspirants. He has enough of them all the year round. We’ll never mention poetry, but we will try to get to know him, and to make him like us so much that he will want to see more of us when we return to town. No one can live in the same house with Ron, and have an opportunity of talking to him day by day, without feeling that he is different from other boys, and alone together in the country one can never tell what may happen. Opportunities may arise, too; opportunities for help and service. We would be on the look-out for them, and would try by every means in our power to forge the first link in the chain. Don’t look so solemn, old Jack, it’s all perfectly innocent! You can trust me to do nothing you would disapprove.”
“I believe I can. You are a madcap, Margot, but you are a good girl. I’m not afraid of you, but I imagine that the editor will be a match for a dozen youngsters like you and Ron, and will soon see through your little scheme. However, I’ll do what I can. In big offices holiday arrangements have to be made a good while ahead, so it ought not to be difficult to get the information you want. Now I must be off upstairs to see the boys before they get into bed. Shall I see you again when I come down?”
“No, indeed! I’ve played truant since half-past eleven, so I shall have to hang about the end of the terrace until father appears, and go in under his wing, to escape a scolding from Agnes. I had arranged to pay calls with her this afternoon. I wonder how it is that my memory is so dreadfully uncertain about things I don’t want to do! Good-bye then, Jack, and a hundred thanks. Posterity will thank you for your help.”
Jack Martin laughed and shrugged his shoulders. He had a man’s typical disbelief in the ability of his wife’s relatives.
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