I had been needlessly alarmed at the possibility of undue delay in leaving for Africa. Gran'pa undertook the resurrection of his fifty-year-old love affair in the same whirlwind fashion that had characterized his conversion to the glandular theory of youth.

He should have been a detective, for, in less than a week, he had traced the whereabouts of a little white-haired old maid of seventy summers. Her name was Sally Rebecca Froud. In spite of the antiquity of her Christian names, I liked her from the first. She had the sweetest and daintiest manners imaginable, and when Gran'pa invited her round to dinner one evening, I saw at once that he was desperately fond of her even now.

The meal was one of the most enjoyable I can remember. She brought to it just that subtle, artistic atmosphere which would have been imparted by the presence of a very valuable and exquisite piece of old Dresden china. All the grace and irreproachable womanliness of the crinoline period were there, but without any of its narrow-minded bigotry. She seemed to personify all the attributes one requires to make a grandmother tolerable and lovable. Her hands fluttered over Molly's fair hair like white moths, and when she stood on tiptoes to kiss her, it was with the air of a queen saluting a young goddess. When she moved there was a faint rustle of hidden silk, and the tenderness which dwelt in her lips and eyes soothed and captivated one immediately.

Although Gran'pa had told her the exciting story of his rejuvenation, every now and again I caught her looking at him as if she were not quite certain of his identity. It must have been strange for her to see the twenty-five-years-older-than-herself lover of fifty years ago sitting there, the very embodiment of a vigorous man of only forty-five.... But, to me, it was stranger still to think of Gran'pa as a lovesick swain. After a man or woman has reached middle age, it is absurd for them to delude themselves that they are still "in love." Affection, tolerance, understanding, sympathy, friendship—any of these lukewarm expressions may be applicable; but the hot, consuming fire of youth seeking youth—no! And yet ... there was Gran'pa, his eyes shining with passionate devotion, his hand trembling as he passed his loved one the cruet, and his voice unsteady and caressing when he spoke to her.

"Would you believe it," he said, suddenly turning to me, "Sally hasn't a single unsound tooth in her head!"

"Sally" blushed as prettily as a maiden of sixteen—and I mumbled something intended to express amazement, without laying undue emphasis on her great age.

In these degenerate days of artificial denture and gold fillings it was an accomplishment of which she might well be proud. Even immature Molly possessed a crowned tooth—as the result of an encounter with a golf ball—and as for Gran'pa himself.... Well, he hadn't (and couldn't have) suffered from toothache for over thirty years.

"That's the result of care, George," said Gran'pa, drifting into one of his lecturing moods. "Attend to your health when young and you get your reward with compound interest when you're ... er, that is, later on in life," he added, tactfully. "What'll happen to the modern cake-and-chocolate eating flapper of to-day when she's seventy or eighty, I should like to know?..."

He continued in this vein for some time, until at last Sally Rebecca interrupted him by saying that she thought Molly was adorable—and Molly glanced at me through the corner of her eyes, closed the nearest, and then gently kicked me under the table.

"Present company excepted, of course," said Gran'pa, a trifle embarrassed.

"Ah!" laughed his guest. "You're the same as ever, Charles."

It sounded very peculiar to find her addressing him by his Christian name. I had never heard it used before. To me he had always been "Gran'pa"—the synonym for a sort of impersonal unit of the vague species Ancestor—and not to hear him referred to as such seemed to bring him down from his lofty pedestal and make him too human and ordinary. I could no more picture him as somebody's "Charles," or "Charlie," than I could visualize the King of England in pajamas. Some things are so homely that they seem disrespectful. Gran'pa as "Charles" was one of them.

The visit ended in Gran'pa's seeing Sally Rebecca home in a taxi—and returning two hours later!

"Well," I asked, "is your lady-love willing to undergo this rejuvenation treatment?"

"She won't promise, yet."

"Now listen to me, Gran'pa," I said, firmly. "I like the lady immensely and I admire your taste, but we can't have this gorilla expedition sidetracked for the sake of a mere woman. You'll have to insist on a definite answer by the end of next week, say. Either she will or she won't; but, whatever her decision, we must leave for Africa this month. If she agrees, all the more incentive to your trying to make the expedition a success; if she refuses—well, we still owe a duty to humanity. You've sufficient sense at your age to know that you can't afford to fritter away your time on an abortive love-affair with a lady old enough to be your mother."

"You know what women are, George," he replied meekly.

"I do. That's why I recommend strong handling."

"She recognizes in me quite sufficient proof that she can regain her youth. But she thinks that it's not ... right."

"Fiddlesticks! If she loves you, her answer is obvious."

"You must admit, George, that it also requires some courage," he replied, thoughtfully.

"Of course it does. But love thrives on courage and self-sacrifice. Put her to the test. Let her endure it."

He was silent for awhile.

"You think that I ought to insist?" he said, at last.

"Absolutely!"

"Y-e-s!... I suppose I must...."

"The least sign of weakness will be fatal," I continued. "Unless you're careful, she'll go on wavering—it's so difficult to get people at that age to make a move. But you can't marry a woman ... who feels and looks thirty years older than yourself."

"N—o!""Then it's agreed that you give her a couple of weeks in which to make up her mind, and that we leave for Africa before the month's out in any case?"

"Yes!... I agree!" he answered, slowly.

After this, events moved swiftly. At my suggestion, Gran'pa devoted the whole of his energies to the courting of his beloved, while I busied myself with the final preparations for our expedition abroad.

There was a great deal to be done. I arranged with Dr. Croft to accompany us to Gaboon, obtained a couple of pilots for our aeroplanes, saw to the medical and surgical equipment, unearthed an interpreter for the natives, and then set about forming the necessary nucleus of old men for our Rejuvenation Sanatorium in the Kalahari.

This last was the most exciting task of all, for we had to keep the matter secret—I was so afraid of Government interference—and yet at the same time we had to noise our scheme abroad. The daily press was chosen as the best medium of approach, and the following advertisement was inserted in seven different papers:—

"TO ALL MEN OVER SEVENTY.—A philanthropist, desirous of carrying out the new system of rejuvenation wishes to get into touch with at least one hundred old men who would be willing to submit to a grafting of new thyroid glands. Applicants, who must be reasonably healthy and in possession of all their faculties, should communicate with the box number quoted at the end of this advertisement. They should give full particulars of their age, ailments (other than old age), and social position; state the reason for desiring to extend their life; and also express their willingness to defray the average net cost per individual of the actual treatment only. The glands will be provided free, and a special ship will also be chartered for the passage out to South Africa, where the operation will be performed by skilled medical men. A proportion of the applicants will be interviewed and a selection made of those suitable by a man of 95, who has himself submitted to this novel treatment and who will afford proof positive of its extraordinary power to banish old age."

It may not have been a particularly alluring announcement; but it was at least mildly intriguing. Many papers took up the refrain. Was it a hoax, asked some of them? Was it some new confidence trick? Or was it a genuine attempt to start a rejuvenation cult? Coming at a time when there were few divorces or murders, when Parliament was in recess, and when the labor world was temporarily quiescent, it proved to be of some journalistic value.

The papers in which we advertised sent down young and persistent reporters to try and get lurid details for their insatiable public. But Gran'pa and I were not to be "drawn." We whetted their curiosity, but insisted on the privacy of that box number. The papers in which we did not advertise speculated, and sneered, and joked, and moralized, each according to its lights. And slowly the whole thing developed into a little newspaper boom—and the letters began pouring in.

We got three hundred and seventy applications for a new lease of life within the first ten days. Some of them even came from the inmates of workhouses and almhouses.

An army pensioner of 97 wrote:—

"Dear Sir,

"I should like to try your glands but haven't enough money to pay for being done. Hoping you can arrange this for me, I beg to remain,

"Dear Sir,

"Yours fraternally,

"John Sleep.

"P.S.—Could you come and see me one morning. I am healthy except for my feet, which are eat up with rheumatics so that I cannot get about much."

"Chuck it aside," said Gran'pa. "This isn't a new bath salts or mineral waters treatment. We can't do anything with rheumaticky people."

"Poor devil," I said. "He'll think that poverty is the real bar."

"Very well! Write and tell him that it isn't. Say we're full up, but that he'll be put on the waiting list."

"And leave him hoping—in vain?"

"While there's hope there's life at that age," said Gran'pa. "It'll give him a new interest in existence. In a business like this we can't be influenced by sentimental considerations."

We had letters from people who wished to rejuvenate their parents or grandparents, from people who were under 70 (but felt slightly over), and a few from old ladies. One of these last, a spinster, wished to remain on earth a few years longer in order to look after her dogs and to minister to "poor dumb creatures" belonging to others. We even had an application from a ninety-one-year-old member of the House of Lords, who was evidently dreaming of his lost greatness and hoping that, with youth on his side, he might be able to stem the tide of the new labor movement and save Britain from the dogs. His letter was really an essay on politics, liberally peppered with "damns."

"Here's a rigmarole from a lord," I said to Gran'pa. "He has a mission to perform in the way of ..."

"So have I," answered Gran'pa, tersely. "I'm an American—a republican. These wonderful, complicated and aristocratic titles all leave me cold. Let him die—or get his own glands."

A little reluctantly, I put the coronetted notepaper among the rejected and turned to the next application.

"Sir," it began austerely, "If your appeal is genuine I would have you beware, lest by tampering with the inscrutable laws of nature, you bring down on your head the malediction of God. According to our deserts are we spared to live on this earth," and so on....

"According to our deserts!" exclaimed Gran'pa, when I showed him the document. "What about the youngsters who were killed in the war?... Burn the damned thing, George!... And listen to this:—

"'Dear Sir,

"'I'm a man of 81 with the heart and brain of a youngster. I want to live another twenty or thirty years because I think that the next two or three decades will be crammed with more progress (and excitement!) than the whole of the last century. Having survived the crawling stage, the human race is beginning to run. By the greatest misfortune in life, I was born eighty years too soon. I can't alter it now, but I can at least mitigate the blow—with your help. If you have the hundredth place still vacant, will you temporarily reserve it for me until I have the pleasure of a personal interview? I am willing to defray the cost of my own treatment and of any six others you care to choose as worthy of your philanthropy.

"Sincerely yours,

"Thomas Finikins."

"If that man isn't an American," cried Gran'pa, "I'll give a thousand dollars to the first beggar I meet. We'll include him, George. I like the tone of the letter, too. It shows a zest in life. Just the thing we want in these blasÉ days."

So Thomas joined the ranks of the chosen!

The applicants were divided into three groups—the picked men (ninety strong), the reserves (forty-seven), and the rejected. The first would be the vanguard of this new army of old men marching on the Citadels of Youth; the second would form the nucleus of the army itself, when it drew recruits from all parts of the world and became a vital fighting force. Meanwhile, we arranged interviews with the chosen ninety.

The proceedings which followed were, naturally, treated as strictly private; and we insisted on a written pledge of secrecy from each before giving any further particulars. Three of them would not give this pledge—and so to these we still remained an enigmatic box number. But the remaining eighty-seven were presented with cards of admission to a small hall in Battersea which we had hired for the inaugural meeting.

In case of trouble, we took with us Stringer, the gentle hypnotist, who had completely recovered from his bout with the gorilla. We also arranged for Dr. Croft to attend, in order to perform the very necessary medical examinations. I was to act the part of sidesman and ticket collector. Gran'pa was to be the lecturer and sole exhibit of the new Rejuvenation Club (as we had decided to call it).

The fateful day having duly arrived, the four of us proceeded to the hall and prepared to welcome the first arrival.

He appeared half-an-hour before time, a tall, thin man, with a peculiar bend, like a huge interrogation mark, an eye-glass, and a long white moustache which was partly visible even to those who approached him from the rear. With a brisk step, he came hurrying up the deserted road, swinging a cane and puffing vigorously at a great bulldog pipe.

"Retired army man, by the look of him," observed Gran'pa, who was standing with me in the doorway of the hall.

"That'll be Major Atkinson," I said.

"Of course ... there was a major."

When he reached us, he produced his card of admission and inclined himself a little stiffly and self-consciously. Gran'pa extended a hand pleasantly, and said:

"Welcome, sir! I hope the remainder are as promising as yourself. As a man of ninety-five, I may be permitted to compliment you on your youthful appearance."

The major gasped.

"Ninety-five ...! You're not...?""Yes!" answered Gran'pa, proudly expanding his chest. "I'm the living, irrefutable proof of everything you've been promised."

"Marvellous, sir!... Er— ... marvellous! You're an American, I perceive. A wonderful country for which I have the greatest admiration and respect. But ... if I express a doubt ... you will, I hope, pardon me...."

"By all means! Come inside!"

In the hall we were prepared for the doubting Thomases. Gran'pa not only had his birth certificate, but also an imposing array of photographs which would shatter the most incredulous. There were family portraits of himself from fifty years of age and upwards and, most convincing of all, there was the series of likenesses taken since the operation—showing the daily progress of rejuvenation.

"By gad, sir!" cried the major. "This is a miracle!"

"It's certainly very near it," observed Gran'pa, studying a picture of himself at the decrepit, pre-rejuvenation age of ninety-two.

"And you feel young?"

Gran'pa caught hold of a couple of seats, arranged their backs parallel-bar fashion and raised and inverted himself like an acrobat.

"The devil!" exclaimed our spectator. "I haven't done a thing like that for thirty or forty years, sir!"

"In twelve months' time you'll be jumping five-barred gates!"

The major, overcome with emotion, sat down and mopped his brow.

At the same moment, the next arrival appeared. He was a little protuberant man with white whiskers and a red face.

"Am I right?" he queried in a thin, small voice.

"I hope so!" answered Gran'pa, cheerfully.

Then they came in droves. I went to the door to take the tickets and saw a sight which nearly moved me to instant flight. Clustered round the entrance, like a great swarm of black beetles, was a collection of fifty or more old men, clad apparently in every variety of clothes they could unearth or discover. There were fashions which took one back nearly a century, and some which might have been created only yesterday—all in dead black or dark navy, except for one bucolic old rouÉ who wore a light check suit and a gray trilby.

They shuffled and shoved their way to the door with a sort of blind and obstinate impoliteness, fumbling for their tickets, grunting, clearing their throats, and mumbling to themselves like ill-tempered children. As they peered up at me and asked numerous and absurd questions, my irritation increased. They seemed mildly curious and very intent on pushing one another; but there was no trace of enthusiasm in their manner, no spontaneity, no zest. It was as if the whole business was an almost impersonal affair, and when the full eighty-seven were at last seated I saw in a flash what the assembly reminded me of.

As I looked at their great, solemn, bewhiskered faces, their gloomy clothes and their stiff, uncomfortable postures it became impossible to shake off the conviction that this was a gathering of learned scientists about to discuss (but certainly not to participate in) this new and wonderful discovery of eternal youth. Also, it might conceivably have been a committee on divorce law reform, or a company meeting, or a teetotal prohibition campaign—but, whatever it was, I could not bring myself to view these people as the world's first contingent of volunteers for the army of rejuvenation.

It was the most august body of ancient and unromantic-looking people I have ever seen, and, as I stood scanning their faces and revolting at their working mouths and fluttering whiskers, a sense of utter failure and hopelessness seized me. Was this our material? Was this the clay from which we had to fashion the grace and beauty of Youth? Was this the promise of the future? God forbid ...!

In the midst of these gloomy speculations, Gran'pa stepped briskly on to the platform and raised an authoritative hand. Immediately, there was a great clearing of throats, a cackle of coughings, and a rumble of shuffling feet. Then silence.

After a quick bow, Gran'pa placed his lips to the megaphone, which he had so thoughtfully provided for the benefit of those who were suffering from the commonest defect of old age.

His voice was loud enough to reach not only the deaf, but to rouse even the dead. It was stupendous, overpowering—appalling.

In a terse and convincing manner, he proceeded to give full details of his own marvellous case and to explain that, while he wished to benefit others, he insisted on recruiting only men of enthusiasm, imagination, courage, and go. Doubters and laggards were useless; but he could promise those who did come to Africa that they should have the best of everything—the best food, the best care and attention and the best and most powerful glands—those of the male gorilla.

Before embarking, however, all new members of the club would have to take an oath of secrecy not to divulge its objects until they had actually been accomplished. Ostensibly, they would be emigrating because they were "fed up with England, and disgusted with the high rate of taxation, and alarmed at the spread of Socialism."

He also stated that, instead of slaughtering the gorillas which were captured, their thyroid glands would be replaced by similar ones taken from goats. When the gorillas had recovered from the operation they would be conveyed back to the jungle and given their freedom again. That was as near to humanitarianism as one could possibly get....

Finally, he introduced me as his great-grandson (the "brains of the movement!"), Dr. Croft as the surgeon-in-chief, and Stringer as the animal magnetist.

"Gentlemen," he concluded, without any unnecessary peroration, "I thank you for your patience and attention."

Loud and prolonged applause—followed by much coughing.

So ended one of the most momentous speeches in history.

Descending from the platform, Dr. Croft and Gran'pa passed into the little anteroom at the back of the hall, where the medical examination was to be held, while Stringer and I busied ourselves with personally conducted tours round the photographic exhibits.

We finished this last in about an hour and a half, but the examination, with its rationed twenty minutes per candidate, promised to take three or four days at least. Arrangements were accordingly made for further appointments at Dr. Croft's surgery and, at 5.30 p.m., the assembly dispersed and Gran'pa, Stringer and I returned home."Any trouble with the sceptics?" asked Gran'pa, as we sat down to supper.

"Yes!" said Stringer, to my great surprise. "There were five or six of them a bit rocky, but I managed to get their eye when I was talking—and put matters right at once."

"Sort of ... convinced them ... eh?" chortled Gran'pa between his munches. "That old chap with the let-us-pray whiskers was one of them?"

"Yes! He was a bit of a handful at first, but came round in the end, like a little child."

"Good ...! By the way, George, those whiskers'll never do. They're insanitary and ugly things—although I once wore them myself. We must get these people shaved. It'll tone them up and be a good start. Give them more confidence—more freedom.... Nice lettuce, this! I shall miss the garden out in Africa, George."

When Stringer had retired I thought it was time to question Gran'pa once more on the progress of his love suit with Sally. He had neither mentioned her name nor seen her for a whole week.

"Everything is going beautifully, Gran'pa," I observed. "To-morrow, I'm fixing up about the steamer, and on Thursday the 'planes are leaving for Libreville. With luck, we should be able to start by the fifth of next month at the latest. Apparently, the only thing still undecided is whether Miss Froud joins us."

"I shall get her answer by the morning's post," said Gran'pa, in even tones. It was evident that he was suffering keenly from the suspense and I admired his quiet courage. "I shall come with you in any case. This was made perfectly clear to her. As I told her, if she decides to join us she will have the honor of being the first lady member of the club."

"That was a brain wave!" I exclaimed. "For an old woman, I've never met a keener exponent of the equality of the sexes. She'll come—if it's only to show that she's as good as any man at being rejuvenated!"

"Do you think so, George?" he asked, nervously. "It will be a terrible blow if she refuses. I feel as if I've waited fifty years for this...."

"I shouldn't worry, if I were you! Everything will come right in the end. Even if she won't accompany us now she will be bound to give way when we return—with our eighty-seven rejuvenated recruits. Not even a woman could withstand such overwhelming evidence as that."

"It isn't any question of doubt, George. It's more a sort of maidenly modesty—almost fear. She's very sensitive and shy. She thinks, too, that the whole business is crude and inartistic—but, as I told her, so is any operation or medical attention. Women are very peculiar, George. If they instinctively dislike a thing it's no use trying to reason with them—they'll only dislike it all the more.... I suggested that female glands might meet with her approval, and the idea seemed to pacify her somewhat. But I'm not very hopeful; and, even if she does agree, I feel that it will be from a sense of martyrdom."

He went to bed in a very pessimistic mood that night, and when he came down in the morning to an empty letter-box his grief was touching to see. He ate practically no breakfast, spoke very little to anyone, ignored Molly's motherly concern, and looked at least ten years older than he had the previous day."What time are you going over to Dr. Croft's?" I asked.

"I don't think I shall go until this afternoon."

"But isn't he expecting you? One of us should be there."

"Will you go, George?" he requested pathetically.

"I can't. I've that appointment about the steamer."

"Stringer—would you mind?" he asked.

"Not at all!"

"I don't feel ... very fit, this morning," murmured Gran'pa, apologetically. "I think I overdid it yesterday."

"For a man of your age," said Stringer, "I don't know how you kept going as you did. A day's rest will do you good."

So Stringer went, and Gran'pa moved restlessly about the house, like a man on the border of a nervous breakdown.

"I'm inclined to think that you overtaxed your strength at that meeting," I said.

"It isn't that. It's this ... terrible suspense. My God, George, women are the very devil—even when they are angels!"

"You mustn't worry. Go and see her."

"I promised that I wouldn't until she wrote."

"It's quite possible that she has missed the first post. Wait till to-morrow. Meanwhile, come with me this morning. It'll stop your brooding."

"I don't like leaving home. Suppose she's ill and sends a wire, or ..."

The front door bell rang and I saw Gran'pa go a shade paler and hold his breath. I, too, had the sense of something ominous in the air.A few seconds later Nanny entered the room and announced:

"Miss Froud!"

There was a dramatic silence; and then Gran'pa suddenly thrust Nanny gently aside, strode out into the hall, and took his beloved in his arms.

I caught sight of her face through the chink in the door. It was raised to his, and if ever a man read a message in a woman's eyes, Gran'pa did at that divine moment of ecstasy.

"After half a century!" I thought. "America and England.... Hands across the sea!... Love is deathless, indeed ...!"