Evening Star Newspaper, April 23, 1933, Page 74

Piggery Dene By R. W. Alexander Another of The Star Magazine’s First-Run Stories—and It Is a Dif- ferent Sort of Story, Too. EAR Sam, Aunt Margaret wrote, Now that you've returned from Timbuktu, why haven’t you been to see me? I am arranging a party jfor you. EAR Aunt, Sam wrote, There is a plague of lions in Tan- ganyika Territory. If you arrange a party jor me I certainly will shoot a few. P. S—It was Buenos Ayres, not Tim- buktu. EAR Sam, Haven’t you wandered enough? I'li give you Dene Hollow if you'll settle down and raise pigs. You and I are the last of the Wynters. Will you let the old name die out? EAR Aunt, Don’t call me a hoyg. EAR Sam, I didn’t mean to, but you will be unless you take Dene Hollow. It’s yours if you settle down. Go to sec it. There's a caretaker in charge. His name is Jen- kins. P. S—There’s a treasure there. ENE HOLLOW slumbered in the aft- ernoon sun. Sam approached it along a leafy lane. He came to a pair of massive gates, to the left of which was a lodge. He swung one gate, hammered on the door of the lodge. A fat man with a red face opened the door. “Jenkins by name?” asked Sam. *The same,” said the fat man. *“I would have the keys of the castle. *Ho!” said Jenkins. “You would, would you?” Sam eyed him with disapproval. “You and I, Jenkins,” he said, “must get to know each other better. You shall address me with all due respect, as the owner of this lordly man- sion.” Jenkins made unintelligible noises. “The keys,” Sam said. “My daughter is up at the house, sir.” *“Your daughter?” said Sam. “I didn't know you were married.” “I am a widower, sir. My daughter looks after the house.” Sam went up the drive. The house came into view. The front door was open. He went into the hall he knew so well. It seemed de-" serted. He wandered up the wide stairs. Memories of his boyhood came back to him. It was on these stairs, under a great bunch of mistletoe, that he had stolen his first kiss. He shuddered at the recollection. Down these stairs he had slid on a tray. He went up another step on to the landing and placed his large foot on a cake of soap. “Ouch!” Sam bellowed, and grasped at nething. He hit the fourth stair, the ninth, the sixteenth. Then the hall hit him on the back of the neck. “Good heavens!” said a clear volce. “What's the matter?” Sam hoisted himself upon one elbow. In the doorway of the library stood a girl. Her hatr was black and her eyes were gray. But for her nose, which turned slightly upward at the tip, she must have been besutiful. Sam, lying there, decided she was easy to look at. So this was Jenkins’ daughter. She bore no resem- blance to him. “You nearly broke my neck,” said Sam. “You're drunk!” said the girl. “Eh?” “You're so drunk you can’t walk up the stairs,” said the girl. ‘“Besides, you've no right in the house.” Sam was feeling his left knee. “You've the cheek of Old Nick. Clear out before I lose my temper. And bring your soap with you.” He pulled it off the sole of his shoe, tossed it to her. “Begone, woman.” She went into the library and slammed the dcor. “Hey!” Sam roared after her. “You've for- gotten the soap.” Through the door her voice came faintly to him. “Go to the devil!” ITHOUT any set objective, he mooched about the house. It was one of the finest Aunt Margaret owned. Sam wondered idly why she was so keen on his settling down. ‘There was, he decided, more in it than met the eye. He came to the picture gallery where long lines of Wynters, dead and gone, glowered at onz another. At the end of the gallery was = girl with a duster. “This is intolerable,” Sam muttered to him- 8elf. He raised his voice, “Ahoy! Didn’t I tell you to clear out?” She turned to him. It was a different girl. “Now who are you?” parried the girl. “I might be Napoleon,” said Sam, “but it Just didn’t happen that way. I was given to understand that this house was empty, and yet everywiere I go I stumble over females.” “Be vour age,” said the girl coolly. “I'm paid fcr keeping this shack clean.” “Youre Miss Jenking?” said Sam. She Dear Sam, Tell her yourself. Dear Miss d’Arcy, 1 must sincerely apologize for what happened on Thursday last. Need I say that I labored under a misapprehension as to your identity? I should be very grateful if you would avail yourself of the library at Dene Hollow whenever you choose. Dear Mr. Wynter, I quite understand, and accept your THE SUNDAY STAR, WAS “That’s quite all right,” she broke in quickly. “Whenever I fall down the stairs I get quite peeved myself.” She turned to look at the workmen. “What are you building here?” “Piggeries,” Sam said with a certain relish. “Piggeries—here?” Her eyes were scornful. “Don’t you think they’re rather out of place?” “I don't know;” said Sam reflectively. “I couldn’t think of any better place to put them, unless the front lawn, and that’s cluttered about with trees.” “I see,” she said coldly. “Do you mind if He went up another step and placed his large foot on a cake of soap . . . Then the hall hit him on the back of the neck. nodded. “How many daughters has that man?* “He has one daughter. I'm it.” “Then who’s the girl downstairs?” “That's Miss d’Arcy. She’s a friend of Miss Wynter’s.” “The deuce she is!” said Sam. “What's she doing here?” 7 “She’s interested in literature,” Miss Jenkins said with some contempt. “She comes here sometimes and spends the day in the library.” “By gum!” said Sam. “By the way, did you leave a cake of soap on the first landing?” “Yes,” said Miss Jenkins coldly. “You'll find it in the hall,” said Sam. “I'm supposed to take care of this place,” said Miss Jenkins. “What are you doing here, anyway?” “I'm supposed to own this place,” said Sam Miss Jenkins' pretty mouth dropped open. “You're going to live here?” “If you don’t mind,” said Sam. “What's that girl’s name again?” “Miss d’Arcy.” “Ah!” said Sam. “Thank you.” He retraced his steps to the library. It was empty.. Miss d’Arcy was gone. T was a still, quiet evening. Everywhere was peace. Only in the Jenkins lodge disquiet reigned. “Joe,” said Miss Jenkins unpleasantly, “how can we get rid of that big bum?” “Search me,” replied the laconic Mr. Jenkins. “Couldn’t you think of something?” asked the girl. “Nope,” sajd Jenkins. “Why did I pair up with you?” said the girl. Her mouth was wistful. “Why was I mug enough to think you had brains?” “Aw, cheese it!” said Mr. Jenkins, Miss Jenkins turned her blue eyes to the evening sky and prayed. Dear Sam, Aunt Margaret wrote, Why did you throw Joan d’Arcy out out of the house? Dear Aunt, Sam wrote, I didn’t. If she says I did, God for- give her. P, S—Tell her she can come any time she likes. apology. I shall be glad to avail myself of the library at Dene Hollow, and thank Yyou for your permission so to do. AM was at the back of the orchard when Aunt Margaret’s Rolls-Royce came up the avenue. “What in the name of heaven are you build- ing here,” she demanded. Sam waved his pipe. “Pigsties,” he said. “Pigsties!” Aunt Margaret’s voice was shrill with horror. “Pigsties at Dene Hollow!” “Even s0,” said Sam. “That was one of the conditions, wasn't it? In a year or two my pigs will b= famous.” “You're doing this simply to annoy me,” said Aunt Margaret. “What a bad mind you have,” said Sam, grinning. “You know you are,” said Aunt Margaret. “Because I'm trying to make you settle down and lead an ordinary-existence. Why didn’t you change the name of the house to Piggery Dene?” “That’s an idea,” Sam said thoughtfully. “I'll consider it. By the way, what's this treasure you mentioned?” “I'm not going to help you find it after this,” Aunt Margaret said. “But I'll tell you it's spoken of in the history of the house.” “And what's this Miss d’Arcy doing over here so often?” “Looking for the treasure,” Aunt .Margaret said with a certain satisfaction. “She’s com- ing over to tea this afternoon.” “I didn’t invite her,” said Sam. “I did,” said Margavet. “Don’t expect me to entertain her,” said Sam. “Still a woman hater,” said Aunt Margaret. “You'll entertain her without meaning to. I'll go in and tell Jenkins to get the tea ready.” She was still in the house when Joan d’Arcy came around the orchard wall. Sam observed her. Such impressions as he had harbored after their first meeting were banished now. She was, he decided, quite pretty. “I was looking for Miss Wynter,” she said. “She’s just gone into the house,” said Sam. “You know, I must apologize for what happened the other day.” I go into the house to look for your aunt?” “Not at all,” said Sam. “Make yourself at home.” She looked at him as if suspecting some irony in that; but Sam’s face was guileless and open as a child's. Sam, these days, was intrigued by the behav- ior of Miss Jenkins. She ogled him from door- ways; she simpered at him when she brought his food. She came to him one evening as he sat lonely at his tea. “Muffins, sir?” “Thanks,” said Sam. “I made them myself,” she said smiling. “Do you like doughnuts?” “Ummm,” said Sam around a muffin. “I'll make you some tomorrow.” Sam eyed her with suspicion. She moved closer, stooped down to brush the crumbs off the table. She turned her head, looked into his eyes. A faint perfume clung about her. Joan d’Arcy chose that moment to appear in the doorway. “I beg your pardon,” she said icily. “I didn’t know I was intruding.” She turned, was gone. Sam heard the library door slam shut. Dear Aunt, Sam wrote, Things are very monotonous down here. P. S—Why doesn’t Miss d’Arcy come over oftener? Dear Sam, Aunt Margaret wrote, How can things be so monotonous when you have your piggeries in full dlast? P. S—I don’t know. Ask her, Dear Miss d’Arcy, Sam wrote, Won’t you come over and look through the library some_evening this week? It Seems ages since you've been here, Dear Mr. Wynter, May 1 come over on Friday evening? Dear Miss d’Arcy, I should love you to. Dear Mr. Wynter, To what? Dear Miss d’Arcy, Too much for words.