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