A Safety Match Part 22

It came--straight from above their heads.

"Kiss her, you fool!" commanded a hoa.r.s.e and frenzied voice far up the tree.

Crackle! Cras.h.!.+ _b.u.mp!_

And Nicky, overestimating in her enthusiasm the supporting power of an outlying branch, tumbled, headlong but undamaged, a medley of arms and legs and blue pinafore, right at their feet.

A few hours later Daphne, preceded by a rather incoherent telegram, drove up to the Rectory in the station fly.

She was met at the door by Cilly, and the two, as if by one impulse, fell into each other's arms.

"Daphne, _dear_ Daph," murmured the impetuous Cilly, "I am the happiest girl in all the world."

"And I," said Daphne simply, "am the most miserable."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE COUNTERSTROKE.

The scene is the Restaurant International, a palatial house of refreshment in Regent Street; the time half-past one. At a table in the corner of the Grand Salle a Manger, set in a position calculated to extract full value from the efforts of a powerful orchestra, a waiter of majestic mien, with a powdered head, and a gold ta.s.sel on his left shoulder, stands towering over two recently arrived patrons with the _menu_.

The patrons, incredible as it may appear, are Stephen Blasius Vereker and Veronica Elizabeth Vereker. Stiffy, in the gala dress of a schoolboy of eighteen, is perspiring freely under the gaze of the overpowering menial at his elbow; Nicky, in a new hat of colossal but correct dimensions (the gift of her eldest sister), with her hair gathered into the usual _ne plus ultra_ of the "flapper,"--a constricted pigtail tied with a large black bow of ribbon,--is entirely unruffled.

How they got there will appear presently.

"Will you lunch _a la carte_ or _table d'hote_, sir?" inquired the waiter, much as an executioner might say--"Will you be drawn or quartered?"

The fl.u.s.tered Stiffy gazed helplessly at his sister.

"He means, will you pay for what you eat or eat what you pay for, dear," explained that experienced and resourceful young person. "You must excuse him," she added, turning her round and trustful orbs upon the waiter. "He is not accustomed to being given a choice of dishes."

The waiter, realising that here was a worthy opponent, maintained a countenance of wood and repeated the question.

"You had better give _me_ the _menu_," said Miss Vereker. "How much is the _table d'hote_ lunch?"

"Four s.h.i.+llings, madam."

Madam mused.

"Let me see," she said thoughtfully. "Can we run to it, dear?"

"Of course!" said Stiffy in an undertone, reddening with shame. "You know Daphne gave me----"

Nicky smiled joyfully.

"So she did. I had forgotten. Two and nine, wasn't it?"

Stiffy, with a five-pound-note crackling in his pocket, merely gaped.

"Then," continued Nicky, calculating on her fingers, "there is the three and a penny which we got out of the missionary-box. That makes five and tenpence. And there is that s.h.i.+lling that slipped down into your boot, Stiffy. You can easily get under the table and take it off.

Six and tenpence. I have elevenpence in stamps, and that, with the threepenny-bit we picked up off the floor of the bus, makes eight s.h.i.+llings. We can just do it. Thank you," she intimated to the waiter with a seraphic smile--"we will take _table d'hote_. I suppose," she added wistfully, "there would be no reduction if I took my little boy on my knee?"

"None, madam."

And the waiter, still unshaken, departed to bring the _hors d'oeuvres_.

"Nicky, don't play the goat!" urged the respectable Stephen in a low and agitated voice. "That blighter really _believes_ we are going to pay him in stamps. We shall get flung out, for a cert!"

"It's all right," said Nicky. "I am only going to try and make him laugh."

"You'll fail," said her brother with conviction.

At this moment a mighty tray, covered with such inducements to appet.i.te as anchovies, sliced tomatoes, sardines, radishes, chopped celery, Strasburg sausage, _et hoc genus omne_--all equally superfluous in the case of a schoolboy up in town on an _exeat_--was laid before him with a stately flourish. Then the waiter came stiffly and grimly to attention, and stood obviously expectant. _Hors d'oeuvres_ are rather puzzling things. Here was a chance for the tyros before him to show their mettle.

They showed it.

"One gets tired of these everlasting things," mused Nicky wearily.

"I'll just peck at one or two. You can fetch the soup, waiter: we shall be ready for it immediately."

"Thick or clear soup, madam?"

"We'll have thick to begin with, please: then clear," replied Nicky calmly. "Stiffy, I will take an anchovy."

The waiter was not more than two minutes absent, but ere he returned a lightning transformation scene had been enacted.

Certainly the Briton, with all his faults, surpa.s.ses the foreigner in the control of the emotions. What a Gaul or a Teuton would have done on witnessing the sight which met the eyes of the imperturbable Ganymede of the Restaurant International when he returned with the thick soup, it is difficult to say. The first would probably have wept, the second have sent for a policeman. For lo! the richly dight _hors d'oeuvres_ tray had become a solitude--the component parts thereof were duly discovered by the charwoman next morning amid the foliage of an adjacent palm--and the tail of the last radish was disappearing into Stiffy's mouth. Stiffy, once roused, made an excellent accomplice, though he had no initiative of his own.

The waiter's face twitched ever so slightly, and there was an undulating movement in the region of his scarlet waistcoat. But he recovered himself in time, and having served the thick soup, departed unbidden in search of the clear.

"Nicky," said Stiffy in a concerned voice, "are we really going to have everything on the _menu_?"

"You are, my son," replied Nicky. "I, being a lady, will make use of this palm-tub."

The waiter brought the clear soup, and asked for instructions with regard to the fish.

"What sort of fish have you?"

The man proffered the card.

"_Sole: Sauce Tartare._ That means sole with tartar sauce," Nicky translated glibly for the benefit of her untutored relative. "We had better not have that. Tartar sauce always makes him sick," she explained to the waiter, indicating the fermenting Stiffy. "What else is there? Let me see--ah! _Blanchailles!_--er--_Blanchailles!_ A very delicate fis.h.!.+ Quite so. You may bring us"--her brain worked desperately behind a smiling face, but fruitlessly--"a _blanchaille_, waiter."

There was an ominous silence. Then the waiter asked, in a voice tinged with polite incredulity--

"A _whole_ one each, madam?"