THE meeting of the Ways and Means Committee which had been called for a quarter past ten was of more than local importance. It was of national importance as the Mayor was careful to inform its members, among whom were the picked brains of the community, when he informally opened the business. But it was not until twenty minutes to eleven that he was able to do so. It was not that the Committee itself was unpunctual; it was simply that one and all had seen that morning’s Tribune and that the common task had perforce to yield for the nonce to their hearty congratulations.

For one thing, the Mayor had become decidedly popular; for another, one more glorious page had been written in history by the Blackhampton born. It was really surprising the number of absolutely eminent people who at one time or another had contrived to be born at Blackhampton. In no city in England did local patriotism run higher, in no city in England was there better warrant for it. The Ways and Means Committee was quite excited. It was almost childishly delighted at having, as their Chairman, the rather embarrassed parent of one who, as Sir Reuben Jope, senior alderman and thrice ex-mayor, said in a well turned phrase, “bade fair to become the most famous woman in the Empire.”

Perhaps a certain piquancy was lent to an event that was already historical, by the knowledge in possession of those in the inner circle of municipal life that the Mayor had been hard hit by a former episode in the dashing career of Miss Sally. That episode belonged to the pre-war period when the stock of Mr. Josiah Munt did not stand nearly so high in the market as it did that morning. More than one of these seated round the council board with their eyes on the Chairman had relished the public chastening of the lord of Strathfieldsaye. He had been smitten in a tender place and they were not so sorry for him as they might have been. But other times other modes of thought. Since July, 1914, water had flowed under Sharrow Bridge. Nothing could have been more eloquent of the fact than the rather excited cordiality of the present gathering.

“I really think, gentlemen,” said Sir Reuben Jope, “that the City should recognize Miss Munt’s extremely gallant behavior. I presume, Mr. Town Clerk, it is competent to do so.”

“Oh, quite, sir—oh, quite.” In the expressive words in which the Mayor reconstructed the scene that evening for the benefit of the Mayoress, “that Aylett was grinning all over his lantern-jawed mug like a Barbary ape.”

“Then I shall propose at the next meeting of the Council that a public presentation be made to Miss Munt.”

“I shall be glad to second that, Sir Reuben,” said Mr. Alderman Limpenny, “when the time comes to do so.”

But the Mayor interposed with asperity: “No, no, no, gentlemen. We can’t have anything of the kind. Very good of you, I’m sure, but we must get on with the business.” His worship rapped smartly upon the municipal mahogany. “This is war time, remember. We’ve got to discuss that contract of Perkins and Baylis. Seems to me, as I said at the last meeting, that those jockeys are over-charging the city forty per cent. You know, gentlemen, we’ve got to stop this leakage of public money. Whatever they may do in Whitehall, we are not going to stand for it here. Signing blank checks and dropping them in Corporation Square is not our form. As long as I sit in this chair there is going to be strict control of the public purse. And there is not going to be graft in this city neither. This is not Westminster. We don’t propose to allow a public department to make a little mistake in its accounts of a few odd millions sterling and then jog quietly on as if nothing had occurred.”

“Hear! hear!” from the City Treasurer.

“This war is costing the British people more than seven millions a day at the present time and to my mind it’s wonderful that they are able to do it at the price. However, gentlemen, that is by the way. Let us return to the contract of Perkins and Baylis.”

Truth to tell the contract of Perkins and Baylis had less attraction for the Committee at that particular moment than the picture in the Tribune. Somehow, the picture had captured its imagination. Whether it was the leggings, the “bobbed” hair, the Joan of Arc profile, or the “gallus” smile of the undefeated Miss Sally, it was quite certain that the last had not been heard of her historic actions.

The Committee of Ways and Means was not alone in its response to the picture in the Tribune and the great deeds it commemorated. It was the talk of the whole city. Josiah moved that day and for many days in a kind of reflected glory. Wherever he went congratulations were showered upon him. Three cheers were given him at the Club when he came in to lunch. There was a decided tendency to identify him personally with Sally’s fame, which, if exceedingly gratifying, was in the peculiar circumstances not a little disconcerting.

For one thing, he was rather at a loss to know what line he should take in the matter. On the unhappy occasion of Sally’s going to prison he had written her what he called “a very stiff letter.” In pretty blunt language he had told her that as she had disgraced him in the sight of the world he should have no more to do with her and that he intended to disinherit her.

To this letter no reply had been received. It was the kind of letter which did not call for one. Since that time nothing had passed between Sally and himself on that subject or on any other. But for some months now Josiah had rather keenly regretted that his attitude had been so definite. The war seemed to soften the past and to sharpen the present. In some respects he was a changed man; one less overbearing in temper, one less harsh in judgment.

The times had altered. Life itself had altered. He was not a man to cry over spilt milk, or to deplore the bygone, but at this moment he had one sharp regret. Some weeks before Sally had burst into fame he had made up his mind to restore her to his will and meant to write and tell her so. But for a man of his sort the task was hard and he had weakly put it off from day to day. And now, alas, it was too late to do it with the grace of the original intention. It would seem like compulsion now. Josiah was keenly vexed with himself. Nothing could have been more eloquent of the rule which hitherto had controlled his life, “Do not put off until to-morrow, etc.” In times like those a cardinal maxim.