The Rt. Hon. Mr Waterhouse must have found an admirable voice trainer somewhere. The drab girl was balancing tremulously over a plank on the dyke; the other took it at a jump; up in the air—down on her feet; perfectly business-like. And, as soon as the other girl was off the plank, she was down on her knees before it, pulling it towards her, the other girl trotting away over the vast marsh field.
The girl dropped the plank on the grass. Then she looked up and faced the men and boys who stood in a row on the road. She called in a shrill, high voice, like a young cockerel’s:
‘Seventeen to two! The usual male odds! You’ll have to go round by Camber railway bridge, and we’ll be in Folkestone by then. We’ve got bicycles!’ She was half going when she checked and, searching out Tietjens to address, exclaimed: ‘I’m sorry I said that. Because some of you didn’t want to catch us. But some of you did. And you were seventeen to two.’ She addressed Mr Waterhouse:
‘Why don’t you give women the vote?’ she said. ‘You’ll find it will interfere a good deal with your indispensable golf if you don’t. Then what becomes of the nation’s health?’
Mr Waterhouse said:
‘If you’ll come and discuss it quietly . . . ’
She said:
‘Oh, tell that to the marines,’ and turned away, the men in a row watching her figure disappear into the distance of the flat land. Not one of them was inclined to risk that jump: there was nine foot of mud in the bottom of the dyke. It was quite true that, the plank being removed, to go after the women they would have had to go several miles round. It had been a well-thought-out raid. Mr Waterhouse said that girl was a ripping girl: the others found her just ordinary. Mr Sandbach, who had only lately ceased to shout: ‘Hi!’ wanted to know what they were going to do about catching the women, but Mr Waterhouse said: ‘Oh, chuck it, Sandy,’ and went off.
Mr Sandbach refused to continue his match with Tietjens. He said that Tietjens was the sort of fellow who was the ruin of England. He said he had a good mind to issue a warrant for the arrest of Tietjens—for obstructing the course of justice. Tietjens pointed out that Sandbach wasn’t a borough magistrate and so couldn’t. And Sandbach went off, dot and carry one, and began a furious row with the two city men who had retreated to a distance. He said they were the sort of men who were the ruin of England. They bleated like rams . . .
Tietjens wandered slowly up the course, found his ball, made his shot with care and found that the ball deviated several feet less to the right of a straight line than he had expected. He tried the shot again, obtained the same result and tabulated his observations in his notebook. He sauntered slowly back towards the club-house. He was content.
He felt himself to be content for the first time in four months. His pulse beat calmly; the heat of the sun all over him appeared to be a beneficent flood. On the flanks of the older and larger sandhills he observed the minute herbage, mixed with little purple aromatic plants. To these the constant nibbling of sheep had imparted a protective tininess. He wandered, content, round the sand-hills to the small, silted harbour mouth. After reflecting for some time on the wave-curves in the sloping mud of the water sides, he had a long conversation, mostly in signs, with a Finn who hung over the side of a tarred, stump-masted, battered vessel that had a gaping, splintered hole where the anchor should have hung. She came from Archangel; was of several hundred tons burthen, was knocked together anyhow, of soft wood, for about ninety pounds, and launched, sink or swim, in the timber trade. Beside her, taut, glistening with brasswork, was a new fishing boat, just built here for the Lowestoft fleet. Ascertaining her price from a man who was finishing her painting, Tietjens reckoned that you could have built three of the Archangel timber ships for the cost of that boat, and that the Archangel vessel would earn about twice as much per hour per ton. . . .
It was in that way his mind worked when he was fit: it picked up little pieces of definite, workmanlike information. When it had enough it classified them: not for any purpose, but because to know things was agreeable and gave a feeling of strength, of having in reserve something that the other fellow would not suspect . . . He passed a long, quiet, abstracted afternoon.
In the dressing-room he found the General, among lockers, old coats and stoneware washing-basins set in scrubbed wood. The General leaned back against a row of these things.
‘You are the ruddy limit!’ he exclaimed.
Tietjens said:
‘Where’s Macmaster?’
The General said he had sent Macmaster off with Sandbach in the two-seater. Macmaster had to dress before going up to Mountby. He added: ‘The ruddy limit!’ again.
Because I knocked the bobbie over?’ Tietjens asked. ‘He liked it.’
The General said:
‘Knocked the bobble over . . . I didn’t see that.’
‘He didn’t want to catch the girls,’ Tietjens said, ‘you could see him—oh, yearning not to.’
‘I don’t want to know anything about that,’ the General said. ‘I shall hear enough about it from Paul Sandbach. Give the bobbie a quid and let’s hear no more of it. I’m a magistrate.’
‘Then what have I done?’ Tietjens said. ‘I helped those girls to get off. You didn’t want to catch them; Waterhouse didn’t, the policeman didn’t. No one did except the swine. Then what’s the matter?’
‘Damn it all!’ the General said, ‘don’t you remember that you’re a young married man?’
With the respect for the General’s superior age and achievements, Tietjens stopped himself laughing.
‘If you’re really serious, sir,’ he said, ‘I always remember it very carefully. I don’t suppose you’re suggesting that I’ve ever shown want of respect for Sylvia.’
The General shook his head.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘And, damn it all, I’m worried. I’m . . . Hang it all, I’m your father’s oldest friend.’ The General looked indeed worn and saddened in the light of the sand-drifted, ground-glass windows. He said: ‘Was that skirt a . . . a friend of yours? Had you arranged it with her?’
Tietjens said:
‘Wouldn’t it be better, sir, if you said what you had on your mind? . . . ’
The old General blushed a little.
‘I don’t like to,’ he said straightforwardly. ‘You brilliant fellow . . . I only want, my dear boy, to hint that . . . ’
Tietjens said, a little more stiffly:
‘I’d prefer you to get it out, sir . . . I acknowledge your right as my father’s oldest friend.’
‘Then,’ the General burst out, ‘who was the skirt you were lolloping up Pall Mall with? On the last day they Trooped the Colour? . . . I didn’t see her myself . . . Was it this same one? Paul said she looked like a cook maid.’
Tietjens made himself a little more rigid.
‘She was, as a matter of fact, a bookmaker’s secretary,’ Tietjens said. ‘I imagine I have the right to walk where I like, with whom I like. And no one has the right to question it . . . I don’t mean you, sir. But no one else.’
The General said puzzledly:
‘It’s you brilliant fellows . . . They all say you’re brilliant . . . ’
Tietjens said:
‘You might let your rooted distrust of intelligence . . . It’s natural of course; but you might let it allow you to be just to me. I assure you there was nothing discreditable.’
The General interrupted:
‘If you were a stupid young subaltern and told me you were showing your