“Yes, it’s mine,” said Mr. Russell.

“Drink it up, then,” commanded Miss Vickers, sternly.

Both men started, and then Mr. Russell, bestowing a look of infinite compassion upon his unfortunate friend, raised the mug obediently to his sensitive lips.  Always a kind-hearted man, he was glad when the gradual tilting necessary to the occasion had blotted out the picture of indignation which raged helplessly before him.

“I ’ope you’re satisfied now,” he said severely to the girl, as he turned a triumphant glance on Mr. Vickers, which that gentleman met with a cold stare.

Miss Vickers paid no heed.  “You get off home,” she said to her father;
“I’ll see to the Horse and Groom to-morrow.”

Mr. Vickers muttered something under his breath, and then, with a forlorn attempt at dignity, departed.

Miss Vickers, ignoring the remarks of one or two fathers of families who were volunteering information as to what they would do if she were their daughter, watched him out of sight and resumed her walk.  She turned once or twice as though to make sure that she was not observed, and then, making her way in the direction of Mr. Chalk’s house, approached it cautiously from the back.

Mr. Chalk, who was in the garden engaged in the useful and healthful occupation of digging, became aware after a time of a low whistle proceeding from the farther end.  He glanced almost mechanically in that direction, and then nearly dropped his spade as he made out a girl’s head surmounted by a large hat.  The light was getting dim, but the hat had an odd appearance of familiarity.  A stealthy glance in the other direction showed him the figure of Mrs. Chalk standing to attention just inside the open French windows of the drawing-room.

[Illustration:  “He made out a girl’s head surmounted by a large hat.”]

The whistle came again, slightly increased in volume.  Mr. Chalk, pausing merely to wipe his brow, which had suddenly become very damp, bent to his work with renewed vigour.  It is an old idea that whistling aids manual labour; Mr. Chalk, moistening his lips with a tongue grown all too feverish for the task, began to whistle a popular air with much liveliness.

The idea was ingenious, but hopeless from the start.  The whistle at the end of the garden became piercing in its endeavour to attract attention, and, what was worse, developed an odd note of entreaty.  Mr. Chalk, pale with apprehension, could bear no more.

“Well, I think I’ve done enough for one night,” he observed, cheerfully and loudly, as he thrust his spade into the ground and took his coat from a neighbouring bush.

He turned to go indoors and, knowing his wife’s objection to dirty boots, made for the door near the kitchen.  As he passed the drawing-room window, however, a low but imperative voice pronounced his name.

“Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Chalk.

“There’s a friend of yours whistling for you,” said his wife, with forced calmness.