CHAPTER III

MR. SAFFRON AT HOME


To put it plainly, Sergeant Hooper--he had been a Sergeant for a brief
and precarious three weeks, but he used the title in civil life whenever
he safely could, and he could at Inkston--Sergeant Hooper was a
villainous-looking dog. Beaumaroy, fresh from the comely presences of Old
Place, unconscious of how the General had ripped up his character and
record, pleasantly nursing a little project concerning Dr. Mary Arkroyd,
had never been more forcibly struck with his protege's ill-favoredness
than when he arrived home on this same evening, and the Sergeant met him
at the door.

"By gad, Sergeant," he observed pleasantly, "I don't think anybody could
be such a rascal as you look. It's that faith that carries me through."

The Sergeant helped him off with his coat. "It's some people's
stock-in-trade," he remarked, "not to look a rascal like they really are,
sir." The "sir" stuck out of pure habit; it carried no real implication
of respect.

"Meaning me!" laughed Beaumaroy. "How's the old man to-night?"

"Quiet enough. He's in the Tower there--been there an hour or more."