. In reply to his summons the hall-door closed with a
defiant bang.

A neighbouring clock struck the hour of midnight. If the cows had
received the gift of human speech at that moment they would not have been
able to make themselves heard. Seven or eight other voices were engaged
in describing Bertie's present conduct and his general character at a
high pressure of excitement and indignation.

In the course of half an hour or so everything that it was permissible to
say about Bertie had been said some dozens of times, and other topics
began to come to the front--the extreme mustiness of the cow-house, the
possibility of it catching fire, and the probability of it being a Rowton
House for the vagrant rats of the neighbourhood. And still no sign of
deliverance came to the unwilling vigil-keepers.

Towards one o'clock the sound of rather boisterous and undisciplined
carol-singing approached rapidly, and came to a sudden anchorage,
apparently just outside the garden-gate. A motor-load of youthful
"bloods," in a high state of conviviality, had made a temporary halt for
repairs; the stoppage, however, did not extend to the vocal efforts of
the party, and the watchers in the cow-shed were treated to a highly
unauthorised rendering of "Good King Wenceslas," in which the adjective
"good" appeared to be very carelessly applied.

The noise had the effect of bringing Bertie out into the garden, but he
utterly ignored the pale, angry faces peering out at the cow-house
window, and concentrated his attention on the revellers outside the gate.

"Wassail, you chaps!" he shouted.

"Wassail, old sport!" they shouted back; "we'd jolly well drink y'r
health, only we've nothing to drink it in."

"Come and wassail inside," said Bertie hospitably; "I'm all alone, and
there's heap's of 'wet'."

They were total strangers, but his touch of kindness made them instantly
his kin. In another moment the unauthorised version of King Wenceslas,
which, like many other scandals, grew worse on repetition, went echoing
up the garden path; two of the revellers gave an impromptu performance on
the way by executing the staircase waltz up the terraces of what Luke
Steffink, hitherto with some justification, called his rock-garden. The
rock part of it was still there when the waltz had been accorded its
third encore. Luke, more than ever like a cooped hen behind the
cow-house bars, was in a position to realise the feelings of
concert-goers unabl