“Aunt kept on saying I ought to bring her up to London with me.” The perturbed lad examined closely the peak of his cap. “What the others seeggested was that I should get you to go down to Railway Terrace and argy it all out with my late landlady. One of the ticket collectors said there wasn’t nobody on the station who could make himself so unpleasant as you, Mr. Swan, when you felt so inclined.”

“I do my best,” admitted Porter Swan.

“’Nother one recommended you should go down there and knock at the door and pretend to have had a drop or two too much.”

“Why pretend?”

The new porter had endured a hard week; all the tricks of an inventive staff had been played upon him, and Porter Swan took a lively interest in these, prompting colleagues to further efforts. Now that young Mannering arrived with his troubles and appealed for help, games were set aside.

“She’s evidently a terror,” admitted Porter Swan presently. “If you’d only come and asked me at the outset I might have told you where to go. ’Pon me word, I don’t know quite now what to be up to!”

“If you don’t,” said young Mannering hopelessly, “then no one does.”

“Why not go back and make the best of it for a while?”

“Mr. Swan,” declared the youth tearfully, “I do assure you her chops are worse than her vegetables, and her vegetables worse than her chops. I was bound to leave.”

“And you want your property, then, without paying too much?”

“I’d rayther get it without paying nothing at all.”

Porter Swan went off duty at seven, having first washed with unusual vigour and changed his official headgear for the bowler hat of private life. Near the suburban station he bought a cigar, and, lighting it, strode towards Railway Terrace, rehearsing the coming debate on the way. At the door of No. 17 he gave a sharp, definite knock and frowned at some children who ran up to watch the course of events. He had to knock again, and this time also rattled the flap of the letter-box to express impatience.

“Well?” asked the trim, determined woman at the open doorway. “What are you kicking up all this row for?”

“I don’t want to make any unpleasantness, or any un-anything else,” he began truculently, “but you’ve got a tin box belonging to one of our young men, and I have to request, ma’am, that you hand it over to me at your early convenience.”

“Pay me his week’s board and lodging, and you can take not only the tin box, but all that’s in it.”

“Goes against the grain,” he said loudly, “to argue with a lady, but I ask you one simple question. Have you, since you’ve taken to letting, ever had a lodger that stayed so long as a month?”

“The last two,” she replied calmly, “stayed until they got married.”

“They must have had iron constitutions,” he argued.

“Martha!” she called, turning her head.

“Yes, mother.”

“Did you hear what this gentleman said?”

“Yes, mother.”

“It’s as well,” she remarked to him, “to have a witness. Makes all the difference in a court of law.” She found her handkerchief. “I’ve always made it a special boast that I never had to tell a lodger to go, and I do think it’s hard—”

“Look here, ma’am,” said Porter Swan, still in aggressive tones, “we don’t want to quarrel. We want to arrange this trifling affair in a nice, sensible, amicable way.”

“If you’re going to settle it,” she said, “I’ll go and make out the bill.”

“Let me understand first of all,” repressing annoyance. “What does your claim actually amount to?”

She mentioned the sum.

“And you’ve got the assurance to stand there and demand all that for keeping this young country lad for three days! Why, it’s my opinion you’re nothing more nor less than a female swindler.”

“Martha!” she called. “Are you still listening, dear?”

Porter Swan went on to the house of his own landlady, where he complained with bitterness of the absence of a mat and the condition of the wallpaper; she soothed him with a cup of tea so excellent that it stood outside the pale of criticism. In his room he used the hair-brush with considerable fierceness, a process that seemed to arouse ideas, for after a few moments’ consideration he changed his collar and fixed a necktie hitherto reserved for Sundays, Good Friday, and Christmas Day. Then he set out, whistling as he went, announcing cheerfully to his landlady that he would return in less than half an hour. If her husband came in, she was to beg him to stay up: Porter Swan would have something to relate to him. In Douglas Street he purchased a threepenny bunch of chrysanthemums—all white.

At the door of the house in Railway Terrace he gave this time a deferential knock. The child answered it, crying to her mother that the man with the red face had called again. Swan asked the little girl whether she cared for flowers, and made a genial presentation.

“Sorry to trouble you once more, ma’am,” he said, taking off his hat and throwing away the end of the cigar, “but I’ve come round to apologise. In the heat of argument I used one or two remarks I’d no business to use to any lady, and if you’ll kindly dismiss them from your mind I shall esteem it a favour.”

“Look what he’s give me, mother,” said the child.

“A sweet-faced little thing,” mentioned Swan, gazing down at the youngster sentimentally. “I’ve often thought that if ever I did get married— Only”—with a regretful shrug of the right shoulder—“I’ve never been lucky enough to find any one that cared for me. That accounts for my want of good manners.”

“It is a bit noticeable,” she agreed.

“It’s partly, too,” he contended, “the result of good nature. This young chap, he appealed to me to help him, and I, foolish like, consented to do my best. Never occurred to me that I should be no use at all when I set myself against the sharpness of a woman. When a woman’s got a clear head and a certain amount of good looks, no man has the leastest chance.” He looked around the passage for a new subject. “Is this the late lamented, may I ask, ma’am?”

“That’s Lord Kitchener,” she answered, not displeased. “Would you care to come in and sit down for a bit? I expect you’re tired, running about all over the place. Martha dear, you come in, too, and let us see how nicely you can arrange the flowers. That,” entering the front room and pointing to a large, tinted photograph, “that was Mr. Rickards.”

“Sensible sort of forehead,” said Porter Swan guardedly.

“More than could be said of what was inside it. He was always talking about what he’d put by in the Railway Savings Bank, and every pay day he used to come home and say, ‘It’s adding up rapidly,’ and ‘You won’t want for nothing, my love, if I should be took away.’ And,” with acerbity, “when he did go off, I found that instead of having about forty pounds there—enough to give me the chance of opening a little business—he hadn’t put by as many shillings. Not as many pence.”

“Some men are like that.”

“All men are like that,” she insisted.“No, no, no!” protested Swan. “We’ve got our faults, but we haven’t got the same kind of faults. Most of us are straightforward. How do you manage to rub along, ma’am, if it isn’t a rude question?”

“It is a rude question; but I do dressmaking, and I take lodgers.”

“You take in lodgers?”

She smiled, and Swan could not help thinking that only trouble interfered with her good looks. She sent the child to the scullery for a jug of water.

“Not for me,” he insisted. “I shall have something with my supper, later on.”

“It’s for the flowers,” as the child obeyed. “And I didn’t want her to hear what I was about to tell you,” she went on confidentially. “The fact is— As you say, it has been an extraordinary autumn. The sun to-day was enough to make people’s eyes ache.”

“Ain’t spilt a drop,” announced the child, who had returned swiftly.

Swan moved his chair nearer.

“You’ve got eyes,” he said, lowering his voice, “eyes like the head-lights on an engine.”

She tried to frown, and gave a meaning glance in the direction of the occupied little girl.

“I shall be dreamin’ of ’em for weeks,” he whispered earnestly. “I’m not one to take much notice of females in a general way—a woman hater; that’s what they call me in the porters’ room—but as I was going to say, I can quite well imagine a chap like myself, going on for years just racketing about and then coming across a pair of eyes like yours and saying to himself, ‘Swan, old man, it’s time you began to take matters seriously!’”

“Martha, my dear, go on with your work. Me and Mr. Swan are only talking business!”

“You must have been a decent-looking girl in your day,” Swan went on. “Of course, time doesn’t stand still with any of us, and very few can weather the storm, as you may say, without showing some signs of wear and tear.”

“I’ve had more of a struggle than most,” she said, glancing at the mirror.

“You want somebody to take you out for walks, and now and again an evening at the theatre. Sometimes I get pit orders for two, and I tear ’em up, because,” said Swan, with a touch of melancholy, “simply because I can’t get no one to go with.”

“That is a shame!” she cried. “Surely your landlady—”

“You know what landladies are,” he interposed. “Always on the make. So long as they can over-charge you, that’s all they want. I don’t mean anything personal,” he added quickly, and rose from the easy chair. “It’s a fine moonlight night,” he went on; “I shall just take a turn round and get a mouthful of fresh air.”

“I haven’t been outside the front door to-day.”

“I’ll wait for you,” he whispered, “a few houses off.”

“Martha,” she cried severely, “do you see what the time is? Pack off to bed this minute, and I’ll come up and hear you say your prayers. Bid ‘Good-night’ to Mr. Swan, and thank him prettily for what he gave you.”

“Bring a bigger bunch next time,” said the child shrilly.

Swan, walking up and down on the pavement, was hailed by one or two colleagues on their way home, who asked to be informed whether he had succeeded in recovering young Mannering’s box: he contented himself by replying to the effect that negotiations were in progress, and that a full report would be made in the morning. They predicted that he had for once bitten off more than he could chew.

“This takes me back,” she remarked brightly, as she came up, “I shouldn’t like to say how long. Wonder whether I can get your step?”

“You’ll get accustomed to it,” he replied. “Any objection to me smoking?”

“I love a pipe! Oh, but,” with sudden agitation, “I didn’t say you could take my arm! Whatever will the neighbours think?”

“They’ll think what a lucky one I am.”

“Mr. Swan, you seem to have an answer ready for everything!”

She announced half an hour later that she did not feel in the least tired, adding a belief that she could go on walking for ever; but Swan, who needed his supper, was firm, and at her door mentioned that he was early duty all the current week. She offered her hand and thanked him for his kindness; he held it and asked determinedly where and when could he see her again. Surely, she retorted, surely once was enough! Once, Swan announced, was by no means enough—twenty thousand times would not, in his opinion, be reckoned sufficient.

“You must think I’m simple to believe that!” she said.

“What about to-morrow?” he asked, ignoring the assertion.

“Would you care to come in the evening and have something to eat before the child goes to bed?”

Porter Swan, in a moment of inspiration, kissed her hand, thus striking the exactly right note, and she declared she seemed to have known him for years. Would Mr. Swan do her one favour?

“Command me!” he begged.

Would he mind taking that lad’s box away with him, and leaving it at the station or somewhere? The sight of it on the morrow would recall bitter words that she wished to drive from her memory.

“I don’t mind obliging you,” said Swan, feigning reluctance, “to that extent.”

It had cost a deal of thought and of trouble, but good repayment came the next morning. He conducted Mannering to the Up Parcels Office, and there formally presented him with the tin box, sent free from the suburban station as “Luggage Left Behind.” The staff of the Up Parcels Office cheered Swan, and, clustering around, begged to be informed how the feat had been accomplished, and had to interpret a wink given as reply. Porter Swan waved aside the lad’s thanks, declined the grateful offer of refreshments, and walked out with the air of a successful diplomatist leaving the Guildhall after receiving in a gold casket the freedom of the City. During the day he found a new regard paid to him; colleagues came for private conference on knotty points of law, ranging from difficulties with a neighbour concerning cats to the regaining of engagement rings held by lady bailees. It was all very pleasant and gratifying, and, in order to enjoy it to the full, he gave less than his usual energy to the collection of tips, actually leaving one leisurely passenger without allowing her time to find her purse.

Not until a client, searching for sound legal advice, and finding it impossible to state his case amidst the puffing and whistling of engines, inquired: “What are you doing with yourself this evening, old man?”—not until then did he recall the circumstance that he had promised to eat a meal on the occasion of his ensuing visit. He wanted to see her again—just once more, at any rate—and he knew domestic authorities were not too well pleased when disappointed in regard to a guest. To arrive after the supper hour would mar the warmth and geniality of his reception.

“Mannering!”

“Yes, Mr. Swan. Anything I can do for you?”

“Want a little more information out of you, my lad. You gave me a vague sort of description of the food that was given you at that last place; just let me have a few more details—the exact truth about, say, the last meal you had there.”

As the lad complied Swan’s forehead took an extra crease; young Mannering spoke with the fluency of one dealing with a subject on which he felt deeply.

“Steady on!” protested Swan. “It couldn’t possibly have been so awful as all that.”

“It was worse!” declared the other. “A jolly sight worse! At first it seemed all right; but the third day— You ought to have been there! If you ’appen to have a taste for tough meat—they say there’s nothing like leather; but that’s a mistake—overdone and all black at the edges, why, you would have enjoyed yourself!”

“She doesn’t look like a woman who can’t cook.”

“She’s a very nice person,” agreed the lad judicially, “and I’ve got no other fault to find whatsoever. Horrible particular, though, about late hours. Old-fashioned and out of date, I call her.”

“What do you mean,” roared Swan impetuously, “by talking in that way about a lady? Keep a civil tongue in your head, will you? Who are you, I should like to know, to find fault?”

The lad begged for pardon.

“What do you know about food?” he raved on. “Accustomed to nothing but raw turnips hitherto, how can you possibly tell whether cooking is good or not? Be off and see about your work, or else I’ll get you shifted back to that toad-in-the-hole station in the country. Coming up here,” continued Swan aggrievedly, “and dictating to Londoners about food—I never heard of such impudence!”

He strode to the porters’ room’, and, flinging off his jacket, sat at the desk and took a penholder, assuming the attitude of mental stress common to those who start upon literary efforts. Like many others in similar position, he found himself baulked at the very start. Should he, in writing to excuse himself from paying his call until after the hour of supper, begin, “My dear Madam” or “Dear Friend,” or, his memory going back to the days of youth, dare to write “Sweetest”? He tried all of these, and others, and could not persuade himself to feel satisfied with any. The old remedy of shining boots gave him an idea that brought back contentment to his features, and he went about his tasks for the remainder of the day humming cheerfully. At six o’clock he ran around to the eating-house near to the station and ordered a special eightpenny steak, with chipped potatoes.

“That’ll save me!” remarked Porter Swan.

In marching down towards Railway Terrace he could not help thinking of his soldier days when there was never a dearth of housemaids, and never a one who did not, sooner or later, betray some defect which led to cessation of amiabilities. Here, again, was a case of a trim little woman who, if she but knew how to cook, might well be either highly commended or, perhaps, awarded the prize of second marriage. He had enjoyed his meal at the eating-house, and felt willing to look on the world with an indulgent air; nevertheless, he could not help seeing the drawback was serious.

“Hullo, my dear!” as the child opened the door. “How are we this time?”“Brought me anythink?”

“What do you say to a few chocolates?”

“Mr. Swan,” called a pleasant voice from the kitchen, “don’t you go spoiling her. She’s not been behaving nicely.”

“Hand ’em over!” ordered the youngster.

The mother came through the passage, slightly flushed by the fire or from confusion, reproved her daughter for want of manners, gave a welcome to Mr. Swan, and expressed a hope that he had a good appetite.

“Don’t know what’s the matter with me,” he replied anxiously. “If I don’t get better I shall have to see a chemist. I could no more touch food at the present moment than I could swim the Channel. I’m very sorry, but you must excuse me, reelly.”

“It’s a pity,” she said with distress. “You don’t mind sitting down and watching us eat, I hope.”

“That’ll suit me,” declared Swan, entering the room.

The table was neatly set out for three, with glasses, shining knives and forks, an attractive roll of bread at each plate. She went to the kitchen.

“We’ve got a fowel,” whispered the child importantly. “Roast fowel!”

“You’re welcome to my share,” he answered.

This, repeated with some extravagance, caused the child’s mother to stop as she came in with the dish. She said “Oh!” in such a pained way that he hastened to assure her no reflection upon her culinary skill was intended; the internal complaint from which he was suffering had to take the responsibility. The child said grace.

“You’re a first-rate carver,” he said interestedly.

“It’s a tender bird,” she remarked.

“Looks to me as though it’s beautifully done,” declared the astonished Swan, his mouth watering.

“I was cook in a good family before I married my first,” she explained. “If you’ve once learnt, you never forget. When I get a lodger who keeps good hours I take a pride in preparing his meals. When he doesn’t, I know enough about cooking to cook so that he doesn’t want to stop.”

The staff subscribed threepences, and bought a fish knife and fork. Porter Swan sent in an application for leave, and for passes—passes for two: self and wife.