even if you hadn't said so yourself. You
can't leave us yet. You mustn't think of it--must he, dad?"

"Certainly not," declared Septimus Matterson with all his wonted
decision. "Why, Iris would cry her eyes out. She's quite fallen in
love with you, Holt."

For the little girl had returned home, and her seaside adventure--with
me in the role of rescuing hero--had been made known. She had bound
Brian to secrecy on the subject during her absence, lest her amusements
should be restricted and herself placed under an irksome surveillance.
Further than that he refused to be bound, nor did she herself desire it.
On receipt of which tidings I really have the most confused
recollection of what was said to me by each and all, or of the
banalities I stuttered out as the nearest approach to a "suitable
reply." The only definite thing that lives in my memory is the physical
agony I strove to repress what time Septimus Matterson's iron grip
enclosed my own far from delicate paw, while he declared that his house
was henceforth as much my home as it was that of his own children,
whenever and as long as I chose to make use of it--a declaration which
went far to neutralise the excruciating experience which emphasised it,
remembering that the said home was that of Beryl also. Even George was
graciously pleased to approve of me, and in the result ceased to play me
monkey tricks or to make me the butt of his covert impertinence.

"Man, Mr Holt, but that was fine!" he pronounced in reference to the
episode. "_Ja_, I'd like to have been there! But I thought fellows
from England couldn't do anything of that sort."

"Let it be a lesson to you then, George," I said with dignity, "that
`fellows from England' are not necessarily asses."

Then I felt foolish, for the remark savoured of a touch of complacent
brag, and Beryl was a witness. But she seemed to read my inner
confusion, and smiled reassuringly.

"There was Trask," went on the imp; "when he first came out he couldn't
hit a house unless he was shut up inside it. He couldn't sit a horse
either. _Ja_, we used to have fun out of Trask."

"I should say _Mr._ Trask, George," said Beryl.

The correction was received with a lordly contempt, as the young rascal
went on--

"Can you sit a bucking horse, Mr Holt?"

"Did you ever hear what the man said when he was asked if he could open
oysters, George?" I said.

"No. What?"

"I've never tried."

He looked puzzled, then an