"Confound you, sir! to the devil with you, sir!" said a voice that he certainly did not recognize. Then he heard a noise which was presently explained by the fact that Carteret Williams fell down the stairs, turning a crooked corner most wonderfully in company with a very large Liddell and Scott’s Dictionary of that beautiful language, Greek. "Oh, is that you, Mr. Williams?" asked Bob. Williams appeared rather confused. "Yes, Bob," he said, as he hugged the dictionary. "I—I think so." "Why have you fallen down-stairs?" asked Bob. "That damn groom threw me down," said Williams. "At least, he threw this book at me, and I came down." [Illustration: CARTERET WILLIAMS, WAR CORRESPONDENT. He wrote with a red picturesqueness which was horribly attractive] "What, is it really Bunting?" roared Bob, eagerly. "He says his name’s Bunting," replied Williams. "But he’s very difficult to handle." "Oh, Tim can box," said Bob. "But is he our Bunting?" "Whichever Bunting he is, you are welcome to him," said the enraged war correspondent. "I must go up and see," said Bob. "Do you think he threw Mr. Plant and Mr. Gordon down, too? I met ’em just now, and they looked as if he had." "I’m sure he’s capable of it," said Williams, bitterly. "Here, take this book with you. I don’t want it." And Bob climbed up, hugging several pounds’ weight of Greek with him. He stood at the door and listened, and heard a man inside snorting violently and slamming things about as if he was very much disturbed in his mind. Bob knocked at the door, and it was opened suddenly. The man who opened it was in deep shadow. "It is—it is. No, it isn’t," said Bob, quite aloud. "Are you another of ’em?" asked the occupier of the rooms. "Oh, it isn’t," said Bob. And, choking down his disappointment, his politeness returned. "Is this your Greek dictionary?" he asked, courteously. "I found it lying on Mr. Carteret Williams on the next landing, and he said he didn’t want it." The man named Bunting seized the dictionary, and then took Bob by the shoulder and led him in. Bob went like a lamb, for this Mr. Bunting was six feet high, about three feet across the chest, more or less, and had a grip like clip-hooks on a bale. "Was that man named Williams?" he asked. "Yes," said Bob. "You know him?" "Why, of course," said Bob. "I know ’em all." "All I’ve thrown down-stairs this afternoon?" "I think so," said Bob, modestly. "At least, I met Mr. Plant and Mr. Gordon, who looked very much as if they had fallen down-stairs. And I think the little gentleman you dropped out of the window on the grass must have been Mr. Austin de Vere." "Oh," said Mr. Bunting, "sit down, boy, and look at me. Do I look mad?" Bob looked at him and then at the room. "The room looks mad," he replied. And it certainly did. "That was the last one," said Mr. Bunting. "He was very troublesome." "He’s a war correspondent," said Bob. "But why is your name Bunting?"