"Have your teas; and _don't_ any more of you get lost, and don't sit up if we're late," Father howled to them as we rushed away. How glad then the thoughtful Oswald was that he was the eldest. It was very cold in the dusk on the bicycle, but Oswald did not complain. At the Cedars my father explained in a few manly but well-chosen words, and the apartment of the dear departed bride was searched. "Because," said my father, "if H.O. really was little ass enough to get into that basket, he must have turned out something to make room for himself." Sure enough, when they came to look, there was a great bundle rolled in a sheet under the bed--all lace things and petticoats and ribbons and dressing-gowns and ladies' flummery. "If you will put the things in something else, I'll catch the express to Dover and take it with me," Father said to Mrs. Ashleigh; and while she packed the things he explained to some of the crying old ladies who had been unable to leave off, how sorry he was that a son of his--but you know the sort of thing. Oswald said: "Father, I wish you'd let me come too. I won't be a bit of trouble." Perhaps it was partly because my Father didn't want to let me walk home in the dark, and he didn't want to worry the Ashleighs any more by asking them to send me home. He said this was why, but I hope it was his loving wish to have his prompt son, so like himself in his decisiveness, with him. We went. It was an anxious journey. We knew how far from pleased the bride would be to find no dressing-gowns and ribbons, but only H.O. crying and cross and dirty, as likely as not, when she opened the basket at the hotel at Dover. Father smoked to pass the time, but Oswald had not so much as a peppermint or a bit of Spanish liquorice to help him through the journey. Yet he bore up. When we got out at Dover there were Mr. and Mrs. Albert's uncle on the platform. "Hullo," said Albert's uncle. "What's up? Nothing wrong at home, I hope." "We've only lost H.O.," said my father. "You don't happen to have him with you?" "No; but you're joking," said the bride. "We've lost a dress-basket." _Lost a dress-basket!_ The words struck us dumb, but my father recovered speech and explained. The bride was very glad when we said we had brought her ribbons and things, but we stood in anxious gloom, for now H.O. was indeed lost. The dress-basket might be on its way to Liverpool, or rocking on the Channel, and H.O. might never be found again. Oswald did not say these things. It is best to hold your jaw when you want to see a thing out, and are liable to be sent to bed at a strange hotel if any one happens to remember you. Then suddenly the station master came with a telegram. It said: "A dress-basket without label at Cannon Street detained for identification suspicious sounds from inside detain inquirers dynamite machine suspected."