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Young Duckby, whom he mildly disliked, speedily

monopolised the general attention by an account of a



domestic bereavement.

"Had four young pigeons carried off last night by a



whacking big rat. Oh, a monster he must have been; you

could tell by the size of the hole he made breaking into



the loft."

No moderate-sized rat ever seemed to carry out any



predatory operations in these regions; they were all

enormous in their enormity.



"Pretty hard lines that," continued Duckby, seeing

that he had secured the attention and respect of the



company; "four squeakers carried off at one swoop. You'd

find it rather hard to match that in the way of unlooked-



for bad luck."

"I had six pullets out of a pen of seven killed by a



snake yesterday afternoon," said Blenkinthrope, in a

voice which he hardly recognised as his own.



"By a snake?" came in excited chorus.

"It fascinated them with its deadly, glittering



eyes, one after the other, and struck them down while

they stood helpless. A bedridden neighbour, who wasn't



able to call for assistance, witnessed it all from her

bedroom window."



"Well, I never!" broke in the chorus, with

variations.



"The interesting part of it is about the seventh

pullet, the one that didn't get killed," resumed



Blenkinthrope, slowly lighting a cigarette. His

diffidence had left him, and he was beginning to realise



how safe and easy depravity can seem once one has the

courage to begin. "The six dead birds were Minorcas; the



seventh was a Houdan with a mop of feathers all over its

eyes. It could hardly see the snake at all, so of course



it wasn't mesmerised like the others. It just could see

something wriggling on the ground, and went for it and



pecked it to death."

"Well, I'm blessed!" exclaimed the chorus.



In the course of the next few days Blenkinthrope

discovered how little the loss of one's self-respect



affects one when one has gained the esteem of the world.

His story found its way into one of the poultry papers,



and was copied thence into a daily news-sheet as a matter

of general interest. A lady wrote from the North of



Scotland recounting a similar episode which she had

witnessed as occurring between a stoat and a blind



grouse. Somehow a lie seems so much less reprehensible

when one can call it a lee.



For awhile the adapter of the Seventh Pullet story

enjoyed to the full his altered standing as a person of



consequence, one who had had some share in the strange

events of his times. Then he was thrust once again into



the cold grey background by the sudden blossoming into

importance of Smith-Paddon, a daily fellow-traveller,



whose little girl had been knocked down and nearly hurt

by a car belonging to a musical-comedy actress. The



actress was not in the car at the time, but she was in

numerous photographs which appeared in the illustrated



papers of Zoto Dobreen inquiring after the well-being of

Maisie, daughter of Edmund Smith-Paddon, Esq. With this



new human interest to absorb them the travelling

companions were almost rude when Blenkinthrope tried to



explain his contrivance for keeping vipers and peregrine

falcons out of his chicken-run.



Gorworth, to whom he unburdened himself in private,

gave him the same counsel as heretofore.



"Invent something."

"Yes, but what?"



The ready affirmative coupled with the question

betrayed a significant shifting of the ethical



standpoint.

It was a few days later that Blenkinthrope revealed



a chapter of family history to the customarygathering in

the railway carriage.



"Curious thing happened to my aunt, the one who

lives in Paris," he began. He had several aunts, but






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