debonair bound, that would have been satisfactory. But the hedge was
high, and I did not feel capable at the moment of achieving a debonair
bound over a footstool.

The man saved the situation. He seemed to possess that magnetic power
over his fellows which marks the born leader. Under his command we
became an organised army. The common object, the pursuit of the
elusive Aunt Elizabeth, made us friends. In the first minute of the
proceedings the Irishman was addressing me as "me dear boy," and the
man, who had introduced himself as Mr. Chase--a lieutenant, I learned
later, in His Majesty's Navy--was shouting directions to me by name. I
have never assisted at any ceremony at which formality was so
completely dispensed with. The ice was not merely broken; it was
shivered into a million fragments.

"Go in and drive her out, Garnet," shouted Mr. Chase. "In my direction
if you can. Look out on the left, Phyllis."

Even in that disturbing moment I could not help noticing his use of
the Christian name. It seemed to me more than sinister. I did not like
the idea of dashing young lieutenants in the senior service calling a
girl Phyllis whose eyes had haunted me since I had first seen them.

Nevertheless, I crawled into the bushes and administered to Aunt
Elizabeth a prod in the lower ribs--if hens have lower ribs. The more
I study hens, the more things they seem able to get along without--
which abruptly disturbed her calm detachment. She shot out at the spot
where Mr. Chase was waiting with his coat off, and was promptly
enveloped in that garment and captured.