“Let the stable chap be in your room at ten, Patsy,” said Mr Fanshawe, as he went up the front steps, “to help to fix up the fixings for this burglar chap, but mind you tell him not to say a word to any one. I’ll come down at ten to help you—twelve o’clock the gentleman said he’d call, didn’t he?” “Yes, sir,” said Patsy. “And, Mr Fanshawe!” “Yes?” “I forgot to tell you, sir, you needn’t be afear’d of Mr Boxall for the next few days.” “How’s that?” “When Bob Mahony hit him the skelp on the head wid the sut bag, his eye popped out of his head on the road.” “His what?—Oh, I remember——” “Finders is keepers, sir,” said Patsy, with a grin. “Why, good heavens—you don’t mean to say——” “I’ve got his eye in me pocket, sir,” said Patsy in a hoarse whisper. “He’s sint a telegram for another wan, but till it comes he’s tethered to his bed like a horse to a——” “That’s enough—that’s enough,” said Mr Fanshawe. “Here’s half a crown for you, Patsy, for—carrying my cartridges.” “Now, if Patsy was in Parliament instead of Boxall,” thought Mr Fanshawe, as he went to his room, “he’d be Prime Minister before Boxall had learned to wash glasses and carry dishes if he was suddenly turned into a page-boy like Patsy. Patsy, if he did nothing else, would be pretty sure to catch the Speaker’s eye. We’ll take Patsy with us, begad, when we levant. Patsy is far, far too valuable an article to be left wasting his fragrance here. With Violet as a wife, and Patsy as a servant, a man ought to go to the top of the apple tree. Decidedly I’m in luck.” He was in the act of lighting a cigarette when a tap came to the door, followed by little Lord Gawdor’s voice. “Mr Fanshawe!” “Hullo!” “We’re decoratin’ the nursery for Christmas; come and help.” “Like a rocket!” replied Dicky; “I’ll be there in two minutes, when I’ve finished this cigarette.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXIV NAILING UP THE HOLLY There is nothing an old-time woman enjoyed so much as having her mind made up for her—by a man—some women do still. This faculty varies in proportion to the “strength of mind” of the woman. It was the fainting, ballad-singing, salt-snuffing girl who, in the old days, did the desperate things; and the reason why the roads are not strewn nowadays with post-chaises _en route_ to Gretna Green, is partly because Gretna Green and post-chaises have vanished, partly because girls have changed. They have become stronger-minded; they no longer run away, they advance. But here and there you will find a girl, a modification of the old type—a girl who seems to have strayed out of some old rose garden, a girl who would not look foolish playing a harp, a girl one might serenade without the fear of covering oneself with ridicule, or being covered by the contents of a slop-jar.