The enemy had declared "no trumps." Rupert played out his aceand king of clubs and cleared the adversary of that suit; then theSheep, whom the Fates had inflicted on him for a partner, took thethird round with the queen of clubs, and, having no other club tolead back, opened another suit. The enemy won the remainder of thetricks -- and the rubber. "I had four more clubs to play; we only wanted the odd trick towin the rubber," said Rupert. "But I hadn't another club to lead you," exclaimed the Sheep,with his ready, defensive smile. "It didn't occur to you to throw your queen away on my king andleave me with the command of the suit," said Rupert, with politebitterness. "I suppose I ought to have -- I wasn't certain what to do. I'mawfully sorry," said the Sheep. Being awfully and uselessly sorry formed a large part of hisoccupation in life. If a similar situation had arisen in asubsequent hand he would have blundered just as certainly, and hewould have been just as irritatingly apologetic. Rupert stared gloomily across at him as he sat smiling andfumbling with his cards. Many men who have good brains for businessdo not possess the rudiments of a card-brain, and Rupert would nothave judged and condemned his prospective brother-in-law on theevidence of his bridge play alone. The tragic part of it was thathe smiled and fumbled through life just as fatuously andapologetically as he did at the card-table. And behind thedefensive smile and the well-worn expressions of regret there shonea scarcely believable but quite obvious selfsatisfaction. Everysheep of the pasture probably imagines that in an emergency itcould become terrible as an army with banners -- one has only towatch how they stamp their feet and stiffen their necks when aminor object of suspicion comes into view and behaves meekly. Andprobably the majority of human sheep see themselves in imaginationtaking great parts in the world's more impressive dramas, formingswift, unerring decisions in moments of crisis, cowing mutinies,allaying panics, brave, strong, simple, but, in spite of theirnatural modesty, always slightly spectacular. "Why in the name of all that is unnecessary and perverse shouldKathleen choose this man for her future husband?" was the questionthat Rupert asked himself ruefully. There was young MalcolmAthling, as nice-looking, decent, level-headed a fellow as any onecould wish to meet, obviously her very devoted admirer, and yet shemust throw herself away on this pale-eyed, weak-mouthed embodimentof self-approving ineptitude. If it had been merely Kathleen's ownaffair Rupert would have shrugged his shoulders and philosophicallyhoped that she might make the best of an undeniably bad bargain.But Rupert had no heir; his own boy lay underground somewhere onthe Indian frontier, in goodly company. And the property would passin due curse to Kathleen and Kathleen's husband. The Sheep wouldlive there in the beloved old home, rearing up other little Sheep,fatuous and rabbit-faced and self-satisfied like himself, to dwellin the land and possess it. It was not a soothing prospect. Towards dusk on the afternoon following the bridge experienceRupert and the Sheep made their way homeward after a day's mixedshooting. The Sheep's cartridge bag was nearly empty, but his
gamebag showed no signs of over- crowding. The birds he had shot at hadseemed for the most part as impervious to death or damage as thehero of a melodrama. And for each failure to drop his bird he hadsome explanation or apology ready on his lips. Now he was stridingalong in front of his host, chattering happily over his shoulder,but obviously on the look-out for some belated rabbit or woodpigeonthat might haply be secured as an eleventh-hour addition to hisbag. As they passed the edge of a small copse a large bird rosefrom the ground and flew slowly towards the trees, offering an easyshot to the oncoming sportsmen. The Sheep banged forth with bothbarrels, and gave an exultant cry. "Horray! I've shot a thundering big hawk!" "To be exact, you've shot a honey-buzzard. That is the hen birdof one of the few pairs of honeybuzzards breeding in the UnitedKingdom. We've kept them under the strictest preservation for thelast four years; every game-keeper and village gun loafer fortwenty miles round has been warned and bribed and threatened torespect their sanctity, and egg-snatching agents have beencarefully guarded against during the breeding season. Hundreds oflovers of rare birds have delighted in seeing their snap-shottedportraits in Country Life, and now you've reduced the hen bird to alump of broken feathers." Rupert spoke quietly and evenly, but for a moment or two a gleamof positive hatred shone in his eyes. "I say, I'm so sorry," said the Sheep, with his apologeticsmile. "Of course I remember hearing about the buzzards, butsomehow I didn't connect this bird with them. And it was such aneast shot --" "Yes," said Rupert; "that was the trouble." Kathleen found him in the gun-room smoothing out the feathers ofthe dead bird. She had already been told of the catastrophe. "What a horrid misfortune," she said sympathetically. "It was my dear Robbie who first discovered them, the last timehe was home on leave. Don't you remember how excited he was aboutthem? Let's go and have some tea." Both bridge and shooting were given a rest for the next two orthree weeks. Death, who enters into no compacts with party whips,had forced a Parliamentary vacancy on the neighbourhood at theleast convenient season, and the local partisans on either sidefound themselves immersed in the discomforts of a mid- winterelection. Rupert took his politics seriously and keenly. Hebelonged to that type of strangely but rather happily constitutedindividuals which these islands seem to produce in a fair plenty;men and women who for no personal profit or gain go forth fromtheir comfortable firesides or club card-rooms to hunt to and froin the mud and rain and wind for the capture or tracking of a strayvote here and there on their party's behalf -- not because theythink they ought to, but because they want to. And his energieswere welcome enough on this occasion, for the seat was a closelydisputed possession, and its loss or retention
would count for muchin the present position of the Parliamentary game. With Kathleen tohelp him, he had worked his corner of the constituency withtireless, well-directed zeal, taking his share of the dull routinework as well as of the livelier episodes. The talking part of thecampaign wound up on the eve of the poll with a meeting in a centrewhere more undecided votes were supposed to be concentrated thananywhere else in the division. A good final meeting here would meaneverything. And the speakers, local and imported, left nothingundone to improve the occasion. Rupert was down for the unimportanttask of moving the complimentary vote to the chairman which shouldclose the proceedings. "I'm so hoarse," he protested, when the moment arrived; "I don'tbelieve I can make my voice heard beyond the platform." "Let me do it," said the Sheep; "I'm rather good at that sort ofthing." The chairman was popular with all parties, and the Sheep'sopening words of complimentary recognition received a round ofapplause. The orator smiled expansively on his listeners and seizedthe opportunity to add a few words of political wisdom on his ownaccount. People looked at the clock or began to grope for umbrellasand discarded neckwraps. Then, in the midst of a string ofmeaningless platitudes, the Sheep delivered himself of one of thoseblundering remarks which travel from one end of a constituency tothe other in half an hour, and are seized on by the other side asbeing more potent on their behalf than a ton of electionliterature. There was a general shuffling and muttering across thelength and breadth of the hall, and a few hisses made themselvesheard. The Sheep tried to whittle down his remark, and the chairmanunhesitatingly threw him over in his speech of thanks, but thedamage was done. "I'm afraid I lost touch with the audience rather over thatremark," said the Sheep afterwards, with his apologetic smileabnormally developed. "You lost us the election," said the chairman, and he proved atrue prophet. A month or so of winter sport seemed a desirable pick-me-upafter the strenuous work and crowning discomfiture of the election.Rupert and Kathleen hied them away to a small Alpine resort thatwas just coming into prominence, and thither the Sheep followedthem in due course, in his role of husband-elect. The wedding hadbeen fixed for the end of March. It was a winter of early and unseasonable thaws, and the far endof the local lake, at a spot where swift currents flowed into it,was decorated with notices, written in three languages, warningskaters not to venture over certain unsafe patches. The folly ofapproaching too near these danger spots seemed to have a naturalfascination for the Sheep. "I don't see what possible danger there can be," he protested,with his inevitable smile, when Rupert beckoned him away from theproscribed area; "the milk that I put out on my window-sill lastnight was frozen an inch deep."
"It hadn't got a strong current flowing through it," saidRupert; "in any case, there is not much sense in hovering round adoubtful piece of ice when there are acres of good ice to skateover. The secretary of the ice-committee has warned you oncealready." A few minutes later Rupert heard a loud squeal of fear, and sawa dark spot blotting the smoothness of the lake's frozen surface.The Sheep was struggling helplessly in an ice-hole of his ownmaking. Rupert gave one loud curse, and then dashed full tilt forthe shore; outside a low stable building on the lake's edge heremembered having seen a ladder. If he could slide it across theice- hole before the Sheep went under the rescue would becomparatively simple work. Other skaters were dashing up from adistance, and, with the ladder's help, they could get him out ofhis death-trap without having to trust themselves on the margin ofrotten ice. Rupert sprang on to the surface of lumpy, frozen snow,and staggered to where the ladder lay. He had already lifted itwhen the rattle of a chain and a furious outburst of growls burston his hearing, and he was dashed to the ground by a mass of whiteand tawny fur. A sturdy young yard-dog, frantic with the pleasureof performing his first piece of actice guardian service, wasramping and snarling over him, rendering the task of regaining hisfeet or securing the ladder a matter of considerable difficulty.When he had at last succeeded in both efforts he was just by ahair's-breadth too late to be of any use. The Sheep had definitelydisappeared under the ice-rift. Kathleen Athling and her husband stay the greater part of theyear with Rupert, and a small Robbie stands in some danger of beingidolised by a devoted uncle. But for twelve months of the yearRupert's most inseparable and valued companion is a sturdy tawnyand white yard-dog.