"James--what am I to do? Derek is coming this afternoon before he goes back to France. What shall I tell him, Henry--what _shall_ I tell him? Because I know he'll ask me again. Thank you, old man, but you're not very helpful, and I'd much sooner you kept it yourself." Disgustedly James Henry removed the carcase of a field mouse he had just procured, and resigned himself to the inevitable. "I'm fond of him; I like him--in fact at times more than like him. But is it the _real_ thing? Now what do you think, James Henry?--tell me all that is in your mind. Ought I----" It was then that he gave his celebrated rendering of a young typhoon, owing to the presence of a foreign substance--to wit, a fly--in a ticklish spot on his nose. "You think that, do you? Well, perhaps you're right. Come on, my lad, we must obtain the victim for this afternoon. I wonder if those little boys like it? To do some good and kindly action each day--that's their motto, James. And as one person to another you must admit that to be revived from drowning, resuscitated from fainting, brought to from an epileptic fit, and have two knees, an ankle, and a collarbone set at the same time is some good action even for a boy scout." * * * * * It was not until after lunch that James Henry paid his promised call on his mother. Maturer considerations had but strengthened his resolve to make allowances. After all, these things do happen in the best families. He was, indeed, prepared to be magnanimous and forgive; he was even prepared to be interested; the only thing he wasn't prepared for was the nasty bite he got on his ear. That settled it. It was then that he finally washed his hands of his undutiful parent. As he told her, he felt more sorrow than anger; he should have realised that anyone who could have dealings with a sausage-hound must be dead to all sense of decency--and that the only thing he asked was that in the future she would conceal the fact that they were related. Then he left her--and trotting round to the front of the house, found great activity in progress on the lawn. "Good Heavens! James Henry, do they often do this?" With a shout of joy he recognised the speaker. And having told him about Harriet, and blown heavily at a passing spider and then trodden on it, he sat down beside the soldier on the steps. The game on the lawn at first sight looked dull; and he only favoured it with a perfunctory glance. In fact, what on earth there was in it to make the soldier beside him shake and shake while the tears periodically rolled down his face was quite beyond Henry. The principal player seemed to be a large man--also in khaki--with a loud voice. Up to date he had said nothing but "Now then, ladies," at intervals, and in a rising crescendo. Then it all became complicated.