Nestley bowed somewhat stiffly, as he thought Beaumont was taking an unwarrantable liberty in acting as he was doing, but Pemberton, with the ingenuousness of youth, caught the doctor's hand and shook it heartily. "Glad to see you," he said looking at Nestley, "you will be a perfect God-send in this dull place." His manner was so cordial that without being positively rude Nestley could not refuse to be gracious so seeing that he had attained his object of introducing Nestley as his friend, Mr. Beaumont sauntered out of the room with a cynical smile on his thin lips. "You'll measure swords with me, will you?" he said to himself with a short laugh. "I wouldn't advise you to try that game, my friend." Meanwhile Pemberton caught hold of Muffins, who was making frantic attempts to seize his feline enemy, whereupon the cat, seeing the coast clear, sprang down and dashed out of the room, but the wary Muffins, wriggling himself free, raced after her, nose on ground, with an occasional sharp yelp. "There," said Pemberton gaily, "Muffins is provided with an amusing evening, for he'll never leave the cat till he runs her down." "I'm sorry for the cat." "You'll be sorry for Muffins when you see him return scratched all over," retorted the lad, whereupon they both laughed. "Staying here long?" asked Pemberton eyeing the doctor in a friendly manner. "Only to-night--I'm on a walking tour," replied Nestley carelessly. "Lucky devil," said the other, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "I've got to stay here." "Is it your home." "In a sort of way, yes--pupil at the vicarage and all that shoot, don't you know--it's a five-act funeral of a place, but we manage to get some tra-la-la out of it." "Who are we?" asked the doctor, mightily amused at Mr. Pemberton's colloquialisms. "Oh! I forgot you're a stranger here--why, Reggy Blake, myself, and Priggs." "Priggs?" "One of the pupils," explained the communicative Richard, "a jolly ass--writes poetry--lines to Chloe, and all that sort of thing--hasn't got an idea beyond the Muses as he calls 'em--beastly old frumps--Reggy's a good sort of chappie--he's in the taproom now--come and see the fun--we often stand beer to the rustics and they sing us songs--twenty verses long and no stops." "Do you know Beaumont well?" asked Nestley, following his youthful guide to the taproom. "Not very, he's only been here a fortnight, but the vicar knows him; he's a native of these parts, not a bad sort of chap but awfully stand off the grass; gets up on his hind legs pretty freely. Do you know him?" "To my cost," replied the doctor bitterly. Pemberton stared and was about to ask the meaning of this strange remark, when a burst of laughter sounded from the taproom, so postponing his inquiry until a more favourable period, he opened the door and entered, followed by Duncan Nestley.