would think of that; it was not a matter to
broach to them, or one to worry about, prematurely.

Vivian and Guy were respectively rather older and rather younger than
Pocket, and they came in looking very spruce, the one in his Eton jacket,
the other in tails, but both in shiny toppers that excited an unworthy
prejudice in the wearer of the green tie with red spots. They seemed very
glad to see him, however, and the stiffness was wearing off even before
Pocket produced his revolver in the basement room where the two
Westminsters prepared their lessons and had their evening meal.

The revolver melted the last particle of ice, though Vivian Knaggs
pronounced it an old pin-firer, and Guy said he would not fire it for a
thousand pounds. This only made Pocket the more eager to show what he and
his revolver were made of, then and there in the garden, and the more
confident that it never would be heard in the house.

"It would," answered Vivian, "and seen as well. No, if you want to have a
shot let's stick up a target outside this window, and fire from just
inside."

The window was a French one leading into the back garden; but, unhappily,
Mrs. Knaggs's bedroom was only two floors higher, and it also looked out
on the back; and Mrs. Knaggs herself was in her room and near her window
when the report startled her, and not less because she little dreamt what
it was until she looked out in time to see a cloud of smoke escaping from
the schoolroom window, and Pocket examining the target, weapon in hand.

There was a great scene about it. Mrs. Knaggs shrieked a prohibition from
aloft, and having pacified an incoherent cook upon the stairs, descended
to extract a solemn promise which might well have ended the matter.
Pocket was very contrite, indeed, drew his weapon's teeth with a
promptitude that might have been his death, and offered it and them to be
placed under lock and key until he left. But Mrs. Knaggs contented
herself with promoting a solemn promise into a Sacred Word of Honour--which
rather hurt poor Pocket--and with sending him a very straight message by
Vivian after supper.

"The mater's awfully sorry," said Vivian, returning from a mission which
Pocket had been obliged to instigate after all. "There's not a spare bed
in the house."

Guy incontinently declared there was. A fraternal frown alone prevented
him from going into particulars.

"A sofa would do me all right," suggested Pocket, who had long ago lo