"I said the best thing would be for me to come and stay with you. And that’s why I’m here. But I say, Pen, I’ll never sneak, not even if you marry Mr. de Vere. Granny’s raised my allowance ten bob a week, and I’m to have another hunter. I got too big for the pony, so I sold him to Goby; Goby looked very melancholy, but he said he wanted him badly for some reason. And he said he hoped I’d be his friend always. I like poor old Goby. I think I’ll go into the park, Pen. My things will be here by and by. Couldn’t we go to the theatre to-night? There’s a ripping farce with a fight in it at the Globe. And will you have plum pudding for dinner, and ice meringues?" He went into the park and met Williams there. "I say, Mr. Williams, where’s Mr. Carew?" he asked. "Damn Carew," said Williams. "I don’t know where he is, and I don’t want to." "I’m staying at my cousin’s," said Bob. "At Lady Penelope’s?" asked the war correspondent. "That’s it," said Bob. "Would you like to know what theatre we are going to to-night?" "Yes," said Williams, eagerly. Bob shook his head. "I don’t suppose I ought to tell you. Tell me something very exciting about some bloody war, Mr. Williams." Williams grunted. "Or an execution. Have you ever seen heads chopped off with a sword?" "Often in China, Bob." "I say, what fun!" said Bob. "Tell me all about it. Is it true they smoke cigarettes while they are being chopped? And do they mind? Could I see one if I went out? I say, if you’ll describe it, I’ll see if I can tell you about the theatre." Carteret Williams described it. "Seventeen!" said Bob. "By Jove, I’ll tell this to Penelope. She’ll be greatly interested. Do you think I could be a war correspondent, Mr. Williams? I’d like to be, because Latin wouldn’t be needed. I’m awfully sorry for war correspondents in those days when no one but the Roman chaps did any fighting. I’ve enjoyed that story of yours more than anything I’ve heard for years, Mr. Williams. When they write about these things in books, why don’t they describe the blood the way you do? It’s the Globe we’re going to; there’s a ripping farce there. I wish they would do an execution of pirates. I say, don’t tell Pen I told you; she might be waxy with me. Think of something else to tell me. Good-bye." And he went to look at the ducks. "Williams is all right," said Bob; "I wonder if it is Williams." And at home Pen began to know who it was. And Ethel Mytton began to know it was some one. And so did Chloe Cadwallader. Miss Weekes was right, there is no mistake about that. *CHAPTER IX.*