OUR SERIAL STORY

Taranaki Daily News, 27 November 1926, Page 23

OUR SERIAL STORY

“ Love in the Saddle ”

(By J. C. LOCKE.)

(All Rights Reserved.)

(Chapter XI Continued.} *T was rather expecting that, sir. Don't worry; 1 can deal with the Fancourts. What I’m wondering is how you managed to get any back at all. ’ “That was perfectly simple as it chanced/’ said Mr. Riugland smoothly. **While our friend Hawkshaw was engaged in chastising Gerald Fancourt —by the way. L owe you a great debt for your gratifying thoroughness in that, my dear .boy —I rode over to Norden and interviewed his father. By means of suitable representations 1 succeeded in procuring a loan of fifty thousand from my elder partner in crime. More I could not press for without incurring suspicion, as the remaining fifteen thousand was in certain other investments as fraudulent. I have no doubt, as Carrington Drift.” The three looked at him in smiling admiration. “Did you, by any chance, send the fellow after me, sir,’’ Harry asked, with his eyes twinkling. Mr. Ringland twinkled responsively. “Forgive me, but I did,” he admitted. “But I felt well assured you would find the opportunity not unwelcome, and I had no fear for you. The swift and deadly hound of race was bound to beat what was, after* all, only a lumbering, loud-mouthed cur.” The three chuckled in. chorus. Mr. Kewley slapped his thigh. “You’re a masterpiece, Mr. Ringland, if I may take the liberty,” he spluttered. “Oh, neat, sir, neat and cool!” “Crime has its compensations, I perceive,” said Mr. Ringlnad. and he chuckled too. “So to the last act of all—restitution and renunciation.” He took a cheque book out of a drawer; filled in a cheque and signed it; then took a ®h*et of paper and wrote busily. “Here is my cheque for fifty thousand, Dawson, made payable to yourself; it will be honoured. This acknowledgment covers the fifteen thousand; will it serve.”

“Completely, sir,” Tommy answered, glancing it rapidly through. “So; now to renounce, having in part restored.” “Ah, yes. Give me the deed, Mr. Kewley. Sign, sir. and we shall have done.” “Sign, and begin payment for the pride, and faults and follies of my youth.” He signed with a steady hand. “Thank you. Witness it, Harry, and you, Mr. Kewley, please. If 1 want your help with the Fan courts, sir, I can write you here, I suppose?” “For a week only: after that I will ask you, as trustee, to take charge, for I shall be here no more.” Mr. Kewley gathered up his papers and tucked them into a breast-pocket, the two friends fidgetted; no one spoke a word. Then Harry held out his hand impulsively. A flush swept painfully over Mr. Ringland’s face as he took it. He shook hands with the other two also and turned away. Still no one spoke. They left him standing by the great fireplace with bowed head, gazing into the singing flame. The moon-faced clock had a mournful sound as it ticked away the lonely time. They went through the .snow-wrapped rose-garden. Not till they were a mile across the white swell of the downs did anyone speak. “Poor old fox’” said Harry. “Clever old fox’” said Tommy. “Gaine old fox!” said Mr. Kewley. “He went down fighting, all right!” “By Jove he did!” Tommy agreed. “The brain and grit of him! Saw just when the game was up and then handed over as cool as if he were paying a quarter’s gas-bill. You don’t find many who tan do that, do vou, Mr. Kewley?”

“You do not, sir,” ba id Mr. Kewley with emphasis. “They’ve got to argue and wrangle and dodge and make fools of themselves till you’re fair sick and sorry for ’em. Can’t see Mr. Ringland making a fool of himself ever. Re made a proper one of old Fancourt, though,” he a tided, chuckling. “My hat, yes! The neatest thing I’ve heard of for a long time. Whv so silent, Harry ?” “1 was wondering what the poor old chap would do.” “Go and tell his son who his father is, if he’s got any gumption. Mutual tenderness—great emotion —live happy ever after, and all that sort of thing.” “He’s by way of being rather a famous fellow one day. is he, the eon?” “Distinctly so.” “Glad of it; the old boy will be proud of him. Gee. how it flabbergasted me! So this is what Dobby’s had up her sleeve all this time?” • “It is; she and Sally Barter. And they can tell you about it; I’m not going to.” “Don’t want you to. dear old hoss. I want to play leap-frog! Come on. Mr. Kewley; give up the first back.” “Well, I haven’t played leap-frog since 1 was at school, but to oblige you, Mr. Bawkshaw. seeing as it’s your day ” He made a back without more ado. and they threw dignity to the astonished winds and scuttled leap-frogging through the snow’ till they were out of breath and glowing. In that state they leached Chase Cottage, ami when Dobby met them in the hall Harry clapped an arm round her ample waist and haled her protesting to the den. There, he planted a solid kiss on one plump, ruddy cheek; Tommy*joined in am! saluted the other. *Go along with yon. do!” said Dobby heatedly. pushing them off and setting her «-ap straight. “Rumplin’ me up this wax * I'd be surprised at yon. Mr. Tommy, if I wasn’t long past surprise at your goings-on. What are you grinning at. young man?” “Can’t I grin a day like this, Mrs. Tkdn-ou? There’s enough to make anybody happy, surely, and all your doing, nu:’a m.” “Get along with yon.” said Dobby, but hi r tone was mollified. “So it’s ail over, “All over and joy-bells ringing, Dobby, and it’s thenks to you. as Mr. Kewley says. But why didn’t yon tell us sooner, my dear sou], and how did yon know?” “No m’ d to go rakin’ up old sorrers. and Miss Sally she said not to toll till we must. As for knowing, why. Patience Stordy’s mother was my mother’s second cousin, an’ she was first cousin fo one o’ Miss Sally’s aunts, so it’s only in nature we’d know. I reckon. Besides, everybndv knowed about Patience and that old Ringland. Young, he about was than. Vept you. maybe. But you don’t know nothin’, nothin’ but horses

an’ Chuggo an’ such.” she ddd«d with tolerant contempt. ‘•And Mies Toozle and you, Dobby—don't forget those,” said Harry, humbly. “And Patience was the boy’s mother’” "Ain’t I been tollin' you so?” Dobby snapped. “Yes, she was; an’ a rare beauty she was an’ all, such as there ain’t been the like of in all these parts; no, not even Miss Toozle or your Miss Gloria Harvey. A too, but old Ringland he had an eye for her and a tongue as ’nd draw birds out of hedges in them days, let alone a fool of a woman an' they’re all fools about men, some way—an’ then he wouldn’t marry her, an’ she died wlien the boy was five year old. Blight on him for it. And I must see to my cookin’, if you want any lunch, ’stead o’ pesterin’ along o’ you.” Dobby’s eyes looked reddish and had a suspicion of moisture about them as she bustled abruptly out. “So that was the way of it all,” said Harry, thoughtfully. “Could you make out that relationship, Tommy? Blest if 1 could. Rum how it all works round. Ringland wrecks himself over a girl and Fancourt wrecks himself over a girl and we come and pick our profit out of the wreckage at the latter end. Thank my lucky stars I'm a one-woman man, as Aunt Matty called me.” “What about your Miss Gloria Harvey?” said Tommy, with a wicked grin. Harry grabbed, a chunky cushion and slung it at his head. CHAPTER XII. “It's a risk, Peed, no gettin’ away from it.” Mr. Barter's face was drawn with anxiety and less ruddy than usual. “Makes me sweat to think o’ the smack at’ll be to my owner if it don’t come off.” “A tough old hand like you sweatin’ over a bit of a gamble—l’m surprised at you, Bill!” said Mr. Peed severely. "I’ve knowed you plank down the double of it without turnin’ a hair.” “True enough; but ’tisn’t my own money; and it means .a lot to my owner, poor lad.” “It ain’t a lad as’ll round on you, whatever ’appens; not if I’m a judge o’ men. You stiffen up, Bill. Gleston’s just the course to suit your nippy mare, and I’ll be sending you your cheque come Monday same as ever. You’ll see.” «

“I believe it in my bones; there’s only Howship as’ll run us close. It’s the odds shortenin’ this way that rattles me.” “All the public ain’t fools all the time, Bill. Some on ’em spotted what a clipper she was last time out an’ they’re on to it like knife this time; that’s all there is to it. There’s the saddlin’ bell. You pop off. Bill, an' come back smilin’ afterwards.” Mr. Barter smoothed his face into a semblance of cheerfulness and popped off. Kata San was ramping. She squealed and flung her heels about as Harry girthed up; she danced hornpipes as he mounted, and she bucked and plunged like a Channel steamer in a south-west gale when he was in the saddle. “She’s fightin’ fit, sir,” Mr. Barter said, between plunges, “so let her go her own pace; she can stay for ever to-day. Whoa, lass! There, there; go easy, now! Just keep your eye on Mr. Howship’s mount, that’s all; lie’ll need watchin’.”

“So Night Club’s the danger, is he?‘ Right; I’ll give him no rope. Keep cheery. Barter.” Kata San did a kangaroo-bound when Mr. Barter let go, and gave a pretty good imitation of a coursed hare on her way to the starting post. Harry humoured her and gentled her and eased her out of her twisting bounds, and after her pipe-opener she lined-up in excellent shape and a merry temper. She was beautifully obedient, but on her toes all itlie time, and she got off like a flash and shot straight into the lead. Mr. Barter, in the trainers' stand, lowered his glasses with a sigh of relief. Harry took a squint at his field as he settled down to ride. There was Howship’s bull-dog face above the red-sleev-ed harlequin jacket. Night Chib was a raking bay; a bit too raking for Gleston. Harry noted that and smiled comfortably.

Gleston was a careless old course, upper-and-downer than a rough sea and full of drunken bends and cranky corners. It suited Kata San to a hair. She would have made no bad show in the Russian Ballet, so neat-footed she was, and she could about-turn in her stride, almost, without losing speed. .She fl.il the first fence with a swish. Mr. Barter’s glasses were glued to his eyes. Harry took a silky half-pull at her after the next fence and steadied her- a trifle. She was inclined to be flippant in her jumping, though sweetly crisp and clean. She took the third fence like an angel and stayed angelic after that. Mr. Barter sighed again after the fifth fence. All going well. It kept on going well. Kata San held her lead still as the field dived out of sight behind The Gorse, and Mr. Barter's face was beaming when he put- his glasses down.

"Watching your mare. Barter?” said a voice at bis elbow. ■■She’ll just about win, looks to me.” Mr. Barter looked round. “That you, Gantrey?” he said. “Yes; I expect to pinch it. Your jock’s lyingup behind, seemingly.” Mr. Gantrey winked one weasel-eye. “Oh. I ain’t out for a win. nor a place neither, this time, though my owner don't know it!” he said. "All, she's still leading.” Still leading she was, by a good length, as the drift of coloured jackets flashed into sight again at the end of the Gorse like a string of sliding beads pretty well spaced out. The spaces grew as the string slipped over the next three fences, and some of the beads dropped off. They were nasty fences at Gleston. sr. At the last turn before the stands —a cranky one—both pairs of glasses were intent on the horses. “Took her round that, mighty neat.” said Mr. Gantrey. “The only one that did; all the others running a bit wide as usual. That’s a damn corner. A rare fine horseman is your Mr. Hawkshaw. If he only handles his wife as well he'll make a master-husband;” “He’ll have one to handle soon,” said Mr. Barter, with a short rumble of laughter. “Here they come. What’s the shaping?” The shaping looked good for Kata San. She had tacked another halflength on to her lead at the bend and was flipping along easily, almost two lengths in front. Her field was badly

tailed and growing scanty. The fences had taken their toll. But the harlequin jacket was there. “Night Club’s galloping well,” said Mr. Gantrey. “Bit too long-striding for this course, though, to my mind; what say yon, Barter ?” “I say the 6ame. ,, said Mr. Barter. “Can’t gather himself enough. Keep it up second time, round, old lass!” Kata San kept it up. Listening to the rattle of hoofs behind him, Harry picked out Night Club’s long strides from the rest—they did not matter — and knew that the harlequin jacket crept up along Gleston’s casual scraps of straight. But he dropped a shade at the wavering curves, and part of a length or so at the tricky turns, and a foot or two at every fence. Kata San made no more of her fences than a high, swift stride. And then the Gorse hid them again. “Soon know now. Barter, said Mr. • Gantrey. Mr. Baiter grunted and kept his glasses ou the end of The Gorse. There they wore again—the string of bright beads, slipping along as if pulled by an invisible hand. They were scanty enough now—seven of them all told. Harlequin jacket lay second. Now for it. That last cranky turn. Harry gathered the mare gently and spun her round it close and quick: he heard the long stride slacken and run wide, as it had before, and his mouth twitched into a moment’s smile and then set hard and serious. The pinch was coming. j It, came as the hoof-beats quickened | behind him and crept up. Now a sear- « let sleeve flashed at the corner of his eye. and now Howship’s bull-dog face,