But there were compensations. As he watched his calves swell; as he looked in the glass and noticed each morning that his head was a little more on one side--sure sign of the expert Chisel-pusher; as, still surer sign, his hands became more knuckly and his mouth remained more permanently open, he knew that his devotion to duty would not be without its reward. He saw already his country triumphing, and heard the chorus of congratulation in the newspapers that England was still a nation of sportsmen.... In 1924 Pekin was crowded. There were, of course, the ordinary million inhabitants; and, in addition, people had thronged from all parts to see the great Chisel-pusher of whom so much had been heard. That they did not come in vain, we in London knew one July morning as we opened our papers. "PUSHING THE CHISEL (_Free Style_). "1. P. Riley (Great Britain), 5-3/4 in. (World's Record). 2. H. Biffpoffer (America), 5-1/2 in. A. Wafer (America) was disqualified for going outside the wood." . . . . . And so England was herself again. There was only one discordant note in her triumph. Mr. P. A. Vaile pointed out in all the papers that Peter Riley, in the usual pig-headed English way, had been employing entirely the wrong grip. Mr. Vaile's book, _How to Push the Chisel_, illustrated with 50 full plates of Mr. Vaile in knickerbockers pushing the Chisel, explained the correct method. THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT "It's my birthday to-morrow," said Mrs. Jeremy as she turned the pages of her engagement book. "Bless us, so it is," said Jeremy. "You're thirty-nine or twenty-seven or something. I must go and examine the wine-cellar. I believe there's one bottle left in the Apollinaris bin. It's the only stuff in the house that fizzes." "Jeremy! I'm only twenty-six." "You don't look it, darling; I mean you do look it, dear. What I mean--well, never mind that. Let's talk about birthday presents. Think of something absolutely tremendous for me to give you." "A rope of pearls." "I didn't mean that sort of tremendousness," said Jeremy quickly. "Anyone could give you a rope of pearls; it's simply a question of overdrawing enough from the bank. I meant something difficult that would really prove my love for you--like Lloyd George's ear or the Kaiser's cigar-holder. Something where I could kill somebody for you first. I am in a very devoted mood this morning." "Are you really?" smiled Mrs. Jeremy. "Because----" "I am. So is Baby, unfortunately. She will probably want to give you something horribly expensive. Between ourselves, dear, I shall be glad when Baby is old enough to buy her own presents for her mamma. Last Christmas her idea of a complete edition of Meredith and a pair of silver-backed brushes nearly ruined me." "You won't be ruined this time, Jeremy. I don't want you to give me anything; I want you to show that devotion of yours by _doing_ something for me."