alked behind a portmanteau-bearing night-porter
into the wide-corridored, sleeping hotel, whose dust glittered in the
straight shafts of early sunlight. He stopped at the big slate under the
staircase and wrote in chalk opposite the number 187: "Not to be called
till 12 o'clock, under pain of death." And the porter, a friend of some
years' standing, laughed. On the second floor that same porter dropped
the baggage on the linoleum and rattled the key in the lock with a high
disregard of sleepers. In the bedroom the porter undid the straps of the
portmanteau, and then:

"Anything else, sir?"

"That's all, John."

And as he turned to leave, John stopped and remarked in a tone of
concern:

"Sorry to say Alderman Soulter's ill in bed, sir. Won't be able to come
to the Opening. It's him as'll be madder than anybody, ill or not."

George was shocked, and almost frightened. In his opinion the true
intelligence of the city was embodied in Mr. Soulter. Mr. Soulter had
been a father to him, had understood his aims and fought for them again
and again. Without Mr. Soulter he felt defenceless before the ordeal of
the Opening, and he wished that he might fly back to London instantly.
Nevertheless the contact of the cool, clean sheets was exquisite, and he
went to sleep at once, just as he was realizing the extremity of his
fatigue.

He did not have his sleep out. Despite the menace of death, a courageous
creature heavily knocked at his door at ten o'clock and entered. It was
a page-boy with a telegram. George opened the envelope resentfully.

"No answer."

The telegram read:

"Am told we have got it.--PONTING"

Ponting was George's assistant. The news referred to a competition for
an enormous barracks in India--one of the two competitions pending. It
had come sooner than expected. Was it true? George was aware that
Ponting had useful acquaintanceship with a clerk in the India Office.

He thought, trying not to believe:

"Of course Ponting will swallow anything."

But he made no attempt to sleep again. He was too elated.

V

Through a strange circumstance George arrived late for the Opening lunch
in the lower hall, but he was late in grave company. He had been
wandering aimlessly and quite alone about the great interiors of the
town hall when he caught sight of Mr. Phirrips, the contractor, with the
bishop and the most famous sporting peer of the north, a man who for
some mystical reason was idolized by the mass