green,
white-faced livery overcoat, a cap with a white-glazed peak shading a
lean, brickdust-coloured face, with ugly, honest eyes that are familiar to
the reader, cocked one of the eyes inquiringly at his employer, and
receiving a sign implying that his services would not be required for some
space of time to come, pulled up the lever, moved on, and turned down the
side-street where were the entrance-gates of the stable-yard that had been
turned into a garage. He had been in Saxham's employment nearly two
months.

W. Keyse, late Corporal, Gueldersdorp Town Guards, had learned to clean,
manage, and drive a motor-car belonging to an officer of the Garrison in
spare hours during the Siege. This accomplishment, with some other
learning gained in those strenuous and bracing times, had justified him in
answering a _Times_ advertisement for a sober, active, and intelligent
young man, possessing the requisite knowledge of London--"Cripps!" said W.
Keyse, "as if I couldn't pick my way about the Bally Old Dustbin
blindfolded!"--to act in the capacity of chauffeur to a West End medical
practitioner.

An acquaintance who was a waiter at a Pall Mall Club gave him the tip, and
the chance came in the nick of time, for Mr. and Mrs. W. Keyse were up
against it, and no gay old error. "If you was to offer to blooming-well
work for people for nothing," said Mrs. Keyse, "my belief is, they
wouldn't 'ave you at the price!"

The Old Shop, as W. Keyse affectionately called his native island, had
drawn the exiles home. Good-bye to the bronzed, ungirdled vastness of veld
and karroo, and the clear, dark, distant blue of level-topped mountains
bathed in the pure stimulating atmosphere that braces like champagne. Old
England called with a voice there was no resisting, great draggle-tailed,
grimy London beckoned to her boy and girl, as the big grey liner, with the
scarlet smoke-stacks, engulfed her mails and passengers, dipped the Red
Ensign in farewell to Table Mountain, and sped homewards on even keel over
the heaving sapphire plain.

Southampton Dock was a pure delight to Mr. and Mrs. W. Keyse. The Waterloo
Arrival platform sent thrills through their boot-soles to the roots of
their hair. They sat in the Pit at the Oxford that night, and there was a
South African sketch on with two of the chronic-est jossers you ever see,
gassing away in khaki behind earthworks of sacks stuffed with straw, and
standing up to chuck sentimental and patriotic