David Saunderson lived on the top floor of one of the few lofty buildings in Chelsea, and as his years increased, the ascent of the five flights of stairs became a serious matter. His heart was none too sound, and the three minutes he once needed to reach his attic from the ground floor had already become five when the War began.

With the first shock of battles the emaciated remains of his bedridden brother were borne down the steep stairs and out of the little flat he had not left for the last five years of his life.

The two had lived together since Philip had returned from India as a man of fifty, with the reasonable hope of enjoying his pensioned retirement. Philip had spent his energy freely in the Indian Civil Service, and the two middle-aged brothers, either too poor to marry, too shy, or both, determined to combine resources with companionship and keep house together.

For a time they sailed contentedly downstream. Philip’s public spirit and industrious habits would not permit of what he called “a life of indolent ease.” He rose early and put in a good eight hours’ day at various unpaid labours. He became churchwarden of the parish, joined the vestry, and was a much valued unit of that obscure element in the population which does a great part of the public work for which individuals of a less modest type get the recognition.

David earned his living as a journalist and literary hack. He had never done or been anything else in his life, although to his small circle he loved, in a guileless way, to convey the impression that his youthful performances had been of no little brilliance.

He would mention the names of the celebrated editors by whom he had been employed as literary or dramatic critic, and was never tired of eulogizing these and other lettered heroes for whom he had slaved in the distant past. He insisted on the appreciation that these forgotten lions had shown of his work; but, however that might be, its manifestation had certainly never been translated into terms of cash, for within no one’s memory had David’s pecuniary resources been other than exiguous.

He was a great lover of the Arts, but his tastes were catholic and he worshipped at many shrines. He had no great patience with those who admire the modern to the exclusion of the old, or whose allegiance to one school precludes acceptance of another. He held his arms wide open and embraced Art in all its manifestations.

He was a great hero-worshipper; there was no sort of achievement he did not admire, but he had his special favourites; generally these were successful playwrights or novelists whose work he revised for publication at a minimum rate and whose additional recognition, in the form of a back seat for a first night or a signed presentation copy, produced in him a quite inordinate gratitude.

David Saunderson was the embodiment of ponderousness; he spoke as slowly as he moved his cumbersome limbs. So gradual were his mental processes that his friends forbore to ask him questions, knowing that they would not have time to wait for his replies. For these reasons the agile in body and mind avoided encounters with him, but if he chanced to meet them where there was no escape they would evade him by cunning or invent transparent excuses which only one so artless as he would have believed.

Now and then he paid visits to old friends who were sometimes caught unawares. Then he would settle his huge bulk in an arm-chair, and his head, bald except for a fringe of grey hair about the ears, seemed to sink into his chest, upon which the bearded chin reposed as though the whole affair were too heavy to support. At such times he gave one the impression of a massive fixture which could be about as easily moved as a grand piano, and his hosts would resign themselves to their fate.

If any one had the temerity to provoke him to discussion, he would wait patiently for an opening, and once he secured it, would maintain his opinion steadily, the even, dispassionate voice slowly wearing down all opposition.

He was not without humour and a certain shrewdness in judging men and things, and would smile tolerantly when views were advanced with which he disagreed. It was not difficult to make merry at his expense, for he suspected no one, and only those who spoke ill of their neighbours disturbed his equanimity. Towards cynics his attitude was compassionate.

Directly war broke out David enrolled himself in the special volunteer corps of artists raised by an eminent Academician. He took his duties very seriously, and was at great pains to master the intricacies of squad-drill. He never admitted that some of the exercises, especially the one that consists in lying on the ground face downwards and raising yourself several times in succession by your arms, were trying to a man of his weight and proportions, but about the time he was beginning to pride himself on his military proficiency Philip’s death occurred. He said little about it and quietly occupied himself with the funeral and with settling his dead brother’s small affairs, but the battalion were little surprised when shortly afterwards his resignation followed on medical grounds.

The Saundersons were connected with a family of some distinction, the head of which, knowing that Philip’s pension died with him and that David’s earnings were smaller than ever since the War, would gladly have offered him some pecuniary assistance. But David’s pride equalled his modesty, and Peter Knott had to be charged with the mission of approaching him.

One afternoon Peter found David in his attic going through his dead brother’s papers and smoking a pipe. Peter knew his man too well to attempt direct interrogation. He felt his way by inquiries as to the general situation of Art, and David was soon enlarging on the merits of sundry unknown but gifted painters and craftsmen whose work he hoped Peter might bring to the notice of his wealthy friends.

“The poor fellows are starving, Knott,” he said in his leisurely way as he raised himself painfully from his chair and walked heavily to a corner where lay a portfolio.

Every piece of furniture in the small sitting-room was littered with a heterogeneous collection of manuscripts and books; the latter were piled up everywhere. David slowly removed some from a table and laid the folio upon it.

“Now, here’s—a charming—etching.” He had a way of saying a word or two and then pausing as though to take breath, which demanded great patience of a listener.

Peter stood by him and examined it, David meanwhile puffing at his pipe.

“The man—who did that—is one of our best line engravers—his name is Macmanus—he’s dreadfully hard up—look at this.”

He held another before his visitor.

“That’s by Plimsoll—a silver point—isn’t it a beautiful thing?”

“Delightful,” replied Peter.

“Well, do you know—Knott—that—” David’s pipe had gone out. He moved slowly towards his chair and began looking for the matches. “Do you know, Plimsoll is one of the most gifted”—he was holding a match to his pipe as he spoke—“gifted young artists in the country—and two days ago—he—was literally hungry—” David took his pipe from his mouth and looked at Peter to see the effect of his words.

“It’s very sad, very”—Peter Knott’s tone was sympathetic—“but after all, they’re young; they could enlist, couldn’t they?”

David sat down in his chair and pulled at his pipe reflectively before answering.

“They’re—neither of them—strong, Knott. They’d—be laid up in a week.”

“Um—hard luck that,” Peter Knott agreed. “But what’s to be done? Everybody’s in the same boat. The writers now, I wager they’re just as badly hit, aren’t they?”

“That depends—” David paused, and Peter gave him time to finish his sentence. “The occasional—er—contributors—are having a bad time—but the regular journalists—the people on the staffs—are all right—of course I know cases—there’s a man called—er, let me see—I’ve got a letter from him somewhere—Wyatt’s his name—now, he’s—” David’s huge body began to rise again gradually. Peter Knott stopped him.

“By the way,” he remarked briskly, “I saw your friend Seaford yesterday.”

David had subsided, and once more began relighting his pipe; he looked up at the name.

“Frank Seaford—oh, did you? How is he? I haven’t seen him for some time—”

“So I gathered,” Peter remarked dryly. “He seems to be getting on very well since Ringsmith took him up.”

“Ah! Ringsmith’s right. He’s a beautiful—artist. Did you—see—”

Peter interrupted. “I think I’ve seen all Seaford’s work. Anyhow he owes his recognition entirely to you. I introduced him to Ringsmith entirely on your recommendation two years ago. He’s sold a lot of pictures during that time. When did you see him last, Saunderson?”

David stroked his beard thoughtfully.

“Let me see—some time before the War—it must have been—more than a year ago.”

“Not very grateful,” Peter could not help rapping out.

David stopped smoking, and seemed to rouse himself.

“You’re quite wrong, Knott. He sent me—that exquisite study—on the wall yonder.” He pointed as he spoke to a small drawing in water colours.

Peter got up, looked at it a moment, and shrugged his shoulders.

“If you’re satisfied, I’ve got nothing to say.”

“Satisfied—of course I’m satisfied—” A tolerant, almost condescending smile stole over David’s eyes and mouth. “You don’t understand—artists, Knott.”

“Perhaps not, perhaps not.” Knott pulled out his watch. “Anything doing in your own line, Saunderson?” he asked in a tone of careful indifference.

David puffed at his pipe.

“I’m not very busy—but—you know—that’s rather a good thing—now I’m a special constable.”

Peter Knott’s single eyeglass wandered over the unwieldy frame sitting opposite him.

“A special constable?” he echoed.

David puffed complacently.

“Sergeant,” he replied.

Peter Knott dropped his glass.

“Really, you know, Saunderson. For a man at your time of life, and obliged to work for his living, it’s—” He hesitated. “Well, you oughtn’t to do it.”

David smiled in a superior way.

“That’s just where—you’re wrong—Knott—we relieve the—younger men—that’s our job—and I’m proud to—”

Peter Knott’s kindly old eyes twinkled at the thought of David tackling a lusty cracksman, twinkled and then became grave.

“Supposing you get laid up, injured in some way?” he asked.

“We don’t think about that.” David’s expression was serene. “I go on—duty at—two—very quiet then—lovely it is—on fine nights—when I’ve been working—to get out—into the cool air—”

As David spoke Peter Knott pulled out his watch again and then got up.

“I saw your cousin Herbert a few days ago, Saunderson. He said he hadn’t seen you for a long time, wondered whether you’d go down to Rendlesham for a few weeks. He wants a catalogue of his prints, and there are some old manuscripts he would like your opinion about. I’m going down this week-end. What shall I tell him?”

David put down his pipe.

“Tell him—I’m much obliged—later on perhaps—I can’t—leave my duties—while these Zeppelin scares last. They need experienced men—one doesn’t know what—may happen.” He had got on his feet and had gradually reached the door of the tiny flat. “Good-bye, Knott,” he said as he took the other’s hand. “Don’t forget—about Macmanus and—Plimsoll—”

His visitor was two flights below when David called to him—

“If you happen—to hear of—a secretaryship—Wyatt’s—”

But by the time he got the words out Peter Knott was out of hearing.

In due course Peter Knott reported the result of his visit to Sir Herbert Saunderson. The latter, a kindly man with an income barely enough for the responsibilities a large family entailed on him, took counsel with his old friend as to what could be done next. There was reason for believing that David’s stolid silence regarding his own concerns concealed a general impecuniousness quite as pronounced as that of the artist friends whose cause he pleaded.

“Why not send him the prints with a cheque on account and say you need the catalogue soon, as you may make up your mind to sell them?”

“A capital idea,” replied the other, and the suggestion was promptly carried into effect.

One winter morning, some months afterwards, a seedy-looking individual called at Portland Place with a typewritten letter, requiring an answer.

Sir Herbert Saunderson, busy reading and signing letters, tossed it over to his secretary. The young lady read it aloud according to rule.

DEAR HERBERT [it ran],—

I have finished the catalogue, but there are one or two details which I should like to settle before sending it to the printers. My friend Mr. Wyatt, who has been kindly helping me with the work since my little accident, will explain the different points to you and take your instructions, I am so sorry I can’t come myself, but Mr. Wyatt is thoroughly competent and I can strongly recommend him if you have any other work of an analogous character.

Yours ever,

D.S.

The one ear with which Sir Herbert Saunderson was listening while he went on signing the papers before him had caught part though not all of the letter.

“Did I hear the word ‘accident,’ Miss Milsome?” he asked, looking up.

“Yes, Sir Herbert.”

“How did it happen? Let’s have a look.”

The busy man glanced through it.

“Send for Mr. Wyatt, please.”

The seedy little man entered and was asked courteously to seat himself.

“What has happened to my cousin?” asked Sir Herbert.

Mr. Wyatt seemed embarrassed by the question.

“The fact is, Sir Herbert,” he began hesitatingly, “Mr. Saunderson didn’t want much said about that. His great wish is that I should be given certain necessary data regarding the catalogue, but to tell you the truth—”

Mr. Wyatt stopped. There was a note of anxiety in his pleasant, cultivated voice.

Sir Herbert Saunderson and Miss Milsome exchanged glances.

“Pray don’t hesitate to tell me if anything is wrong with my cousin, Mr.—er—”

“Wyatt,” added Miss Milsome softly.

“I’m afraid he’s rather bad.”

The little man looked at Miss Milsome as he spoke. Her expression was sympathetic, and he continued—

“You know, I believe, that he has been a special constable?”

Sir Herbert Saunderson nodded.

“As sergeant, he had charge of the arrangements for reducing the lighting of the streets in his own district. One evening, about a month ago, he was returning from duty, when he slipped on a curbstone owing to the darkness. Fortunately it was close to his own place, and he was able, though with difficulty, to make his way slowly up to his flat. When I got there in the morning, at our usual hour for work, he was in great pain. He had injured his arm and right hand—twisted it in some way so that it was quite useless—”

Mr. Wyatt paused.

“I hope you sent for a doctor?” There was evident apprehension in Sir Herbert’s question.

“He absolutely refused to have one. He said he was only one of the light casualties, and that doctors must be spared in these times for important cases. He gave me quite a lecture about it. The charwoman came in with a laudanum dressing from the chemist, who, he said, was a friend of his, and just as good as a doctor.”

“But this is madness—simple madness!” Sir Herbert’s voice was agitated.

“Oh, his hand soon got better,” the little man broke in, “and the pain gradually eased off. In a couple of days he went on working again, but of course he couldn’t write. He joked about it. He seemed to like thinking he was in a sort of way in the firing line, as though he was slightly wounded.”

Mr. Wyatt laughed very softly.

“But I must see to this at once. Miss Milsome, kindly ring up Dr. Freeman. Tell him I’ll call for him.” Sir Herbert looked at his table, covered with papers, and then at his watch. His fine mouth closed firmly. “Now, at once, as soon as he can be ready.”

Miss Milsome took the telephone from the stand beside her.

Sir Herbert Saunderson rose hurriedly and rang the bell.

“The car, at once!” he ordered as the servant entered.

“It’s his heart I’m afraid of,” said Mr. Wyatt. He was sitting on the front seat of the landaulette, facing Sir Herbert Saunderson and Dr. Freeman. “I don’t think he knows how bad he is.”

They were already in Chelsea.

“I think it will be better if Mr. Wyatt and I go up together first,” the doctor suggested as they arrived at the door. “If his heart is weak, a sudden emotion might be injurious.”

“I quite agree,” Sir Herbert replied. “In fact, you need not mention my presence. I only want to know your opinion. Now that he will be in good hands I shall feel relieved.”

The doctor jumped out. Sir Herbert detained the other an instant.

“Please keep me informed, Mr. Wyatt. I’m very much indebted to you for telling me about this and for your care of my cousin.”

Mr. Wyatt acknowledged the courteous utterance with a deprecating gesture as they shook hands and followed quickly after the doctor, who was proceeding slowly up the steep staircase.

Sir Herbert Saunderson buried himself in The Times, always placed in his car. Suddenly he was disturbed. Mr. Wyatt, pale and hatless, stood on the pavement.

“We were too late!” He uttered the words in a whisper, which ended in a gulp.

The awed face told its own tale. Sir Herbert got out of his car and followed him without a word.

At the bedside the three men stood silently, reverently looking down on David Saunderson.

On his face that happy, superior smile seemed to say to them: “What a lucky fellow I am to have the best of it like this—and Wyatt provided for, too!”