There was a shuffling of sand as the dark man sprang up. Sally, intenton the drama which was unfolding itself beside her, absent-mindedly gavethe poodle a piece of nougat which should by rights have gone to theterrier. She shot a swift glance sideways, and saw the dark man standingin an attitude rather reminiscent of the stern father of melodrama aboutto drive his erring daughter out into the snow. The red-haired youngman, outwardly stolid, was gazing before him down the beach at a fatbather in an orange suit who, after six false starts, was now actuallyin the water, floating with the dignity of a wrecked balloon.
"Do you mean to tell me," demanded the dark man, "that, after all thetrouble the family took to get you what was practically a sinecurewith endless possibilities if you only behaved yourself, you havedeliberately thrown away..." A despairing gesture completed thesentence. "Good God, you're hopeless!"
The red-haired young man made no reply. He continued to gaze down thebeach. Of all outdoor sports, few are more stimulating than watchingmiddle-aged Frenchmen bathe. Drama, action, suspense, all are here. Fromthe first stealthy testing of the water with an apprehensive toe to thefinal seal-like plunge, there is never a dull moment. And apart from theexcitement of the thing, judging it from a purely aesthetic standpoint,his must be a dull soul who can fail to be uplifted by the spectacle ofa series of very stout men with whiskers, seen in tight bathing suitsagainst a background of brightest blue. Yet the young man with red hair,recently in the employment of Mr. Scrymgeour, eyed this free circuswithout any enjoyment whatever.
"It's maddening! What are you going to do? What do you expect us to do?Are we to spend our whole lives getting you positions which you won'tkeep? I can tell you we're... it's monstrous! It's sickening! Good God!"
And with these words the dark man, apparently feeling, as Sally hadsometimes felt in the society of her brother Fillmore, the futility ofmere language, turned sharply and stalked away up the beach, the dignityof his exit somewhat marred a moment later by the fact of his straw hatblowing off and being trodden on by a passing child.
He left behind him the sort of electric calm which follows the fallingof a thunderbolt; that stunned calm through which the air seems still toquiver protestingly. How long this would have lasted one cannot say:for towards the end of the first minute it was shattered by a purelyterrestrial uproar. With an abruptness heralded only by one short, lowgurgling snarl, there sprang into being the prettiest dog fight thatRoville had seen that season.
It was the terrier with the black patch who began it. That was Sally'sopinion: and such, one feels, will be the verdict of history. His bestfriend, anxious to make out a case for him, could not have denied thathe fired the first gun of the campaign. But we must be just. The faultwas really Sally's. Absorbed in the scene which had just concluded andacutely inquisitive as to why the shadowy Scrymgeour had seen fit todispense with the red-haired young man's services, she had thrice insuccession helped the poodle out of his turn. The third occasion was toomuch for the terrier.
There is about any dog fight a wild, gusty fury which affects theaverage mortal with something of the helplessness induced by some vastclashing of the elements. It seems so outside one's jurisdiction. One isoppressed with a sense of the futility of interference. And this was noordinary dog fight. It was a stunning melee, which would have excitedfavourable comment even among the blase residents of a negro quarter orthe not easily-pleased critics of a Lancashire mining-village. From allover the beach dogs of every size, breed, and colour were racing to thescene: and while some of these merely remained in the ringside seatsand barked, a considerable proportion immediately started fighting oneanother on general principles, well content to be in action withoutbothering about first causes. The terrier had got the poodle by theleft hind-leg and was restating his war-aims. The raffish mongrelwas apparently endeavouring to fletcherize a complete stranger of theSealyham family.
Sally was frankly unequal to the situation, as were the entire crowd ofspectators who had come galloping up from the water's edge. She had beenparalysed from the start. Snarling bundles bumped against her legs andbounced away again, but she made no move. Advice in fluent French rentthe air. Arms waved, and well-filled bathing suits leaped up and down.But nobody did anything practical until in the centre of the theatre ofwar there suddenly appeared the red-haired young man.
The only reason why dog fights do not go on for ever is that Providencehas decided that on each such occasion there shall always be among thosepresent one Master Mind; one wizard who, whatever his shortcomings inother battles of life, is in this single particular sphere competent anddominating. At Roville-sur-Mer it was the red-haired young man. His darkcompanion might have turned from him in disgust: his services might nothave seemed worth retaining by the haughty Scrymgeour: he might be apain in the neck to "the family"; but he did know how to stop a dogfight. From the first moment of his intervention calm began to stealover the scene. He had the same effect on the almost inextricablyentwined belligerents as, in mediaeval legend, the Holy Grail, slidingdown the sunbeam, used to have on battling knights. He did not look likea dove of peace, but the most captious could not have denied that hebrought home the goods. There was a magic in his soothing hands, aspell in his voice: and in a shorter time than one would have believedpossible dog after dog had been sorted out and calmed down; untilpresently all that was left of Armageddon was one solitary small Scotchterrier, thoughtfully licking a chewed leg. The rest of the combatants,once more in their right mind and wondering what all the fuss was about,had been captured and haled away in a whirl of recrimination by volubleowners.
Having achieved this miracle, the young man turned to Sally. Gallant,one might say reckless, as he had been a moment before, he now gaveindications of a rather pleasing shyness. He braced himself with thatpainful air of effort which announces to the world that an Englishman isabout to speak a language other than his own.
"J'espere," he said, having swallowed once or twice to brace himself upfor the journey through the jungle of a foreign tongue, "J'espere quevous n'etes pas--oh, dammit, what's the word--J'espere que vous n'etespas blessee?"
"Blessee?"
"Yes, blessee. Wounded. Hurt, don't you know. Bitten. Oh, dash it.J'espere..."
"Oh, bitten!" said Sally, dimpling. "Oh, no, thanks very much. I wasn'tbitten. And I think it was awfully brave of you to save all our lives."
The compliment seemed to pass over the young man's head. He stared atSally with horrified eyes. Over his amiable face there swept a vividblush. His jaw dropped.
"Oh, my sainted aunt!" he ejaculated.
Then, as if the situation was too much for him and flight the onlypossible solution, he spun round and disappeared at a walk so rapid thatit was almost a run. Sally watched him go and was sorry that he had tornhimself away. She still wanted to know why Scrymgeour had fired him.
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