Winnie and the Tiger Man

Front matter

WINNIE AND THE TIGER MAN

By BERTRAM ATKEY

WINNIE was singing a little, soft, plaintive lullaby all to herself in the south drawing-room at Hawkshover Hall. It was late afternoon. The hunting people had not yet returned. The bridge fiends were still rapt in tense and bitter communion in the card room, and Lady Fasterton had retired temporarily into the restful seclusion of her most private holy of holies.

II II

LONG before six o'clock next morning Winnie, mounted on a good-looking hack lent to her during her visit by warm-hearted Lady Fasterton, who was really fond of the girl, was cantering through the mist towards the Harmon training stables.

She was in high spirits and breathlessly eager to see how her little lady, Lullaby, promised. She was quite alone, and none of the house party was aware that she was going to see the Fitzmedley string at work—not even Cyril. Winnie was leaving for London two days later, and quite the last thing she desired to happen while she was at Hawkshover was for the secret she shared with Cyril to leak out.

"If Lady Foxelen should hear that he has given me Lullaby, and that I've accepted her, I am sure that she and Vivien would freeze me to death," she said, smiling. "But luckily they know less about Cyril's horses so far than poor Cyril does himself, and by the time they know—if ever—it will be ancient history."

[Illustration: "Look down, Major," She Advised Kindly. "People Will Notice Your Eyes. They Will Think You are Going to Spring at Mr."]

She cantered in thoughtful silence for a little.

"If Lullaby is what I really think she might be she shall go for the Ascot New Stakes next June, the Richmond Stakes at Goodwood in July, and, if she does well, I the Middle Park Plate in October. Some of these big two-year-old sprints will be good for her."

She laughed for the sheer joy of life.

"Oh, if only poor daddy were alive! We would make them lie down and cry, as he used to say. I think Cyril Fitzmedley will never be a very ferocious wolf. I don't think he will ever snap up a little girl in one bite—unless she is a little silly in her mind! And how could anyone resist accepting a wolf's skin—a small part of it—when the wolf comes gamboling up and implores one to help oneself? If it had been Lord Fasterton, now2"

She looked more serious, for Fasterton was a wolf of different caliber from Cyril Fitzmedley. She would have been less ready to accept a near-two-year-old from Lord Fasterton, ready as that nobleman no doubt would have been to give her one, though possibly not one such as Lullaby. Acceptance of such a gift from the experienced Fasterton would have called for somewhat more complicated handling than it did from an innocent young wolfling like Cyril. Besides, Winnie felt that it was as well to keep the gay Fasterton in reserve. She might be requiring a three-year-old some day, all being well.

But however that may have been, certainly all was well with Lullaby. The veriest beginner could have seen the class of the yearling. Her breeding was stamped on her from hoofs to ear tips. High-spirited and fidgety as a happy, healthy child, with the promise of all the shapeliness, grace and sweet temper of her famous dam, Moonlady, exquisitely merged with the power and look of speed of the great Volt, her sire, Lullaby took her little owner's heart by storm.

"Oh, you darling!" went Winnie, fondling the yearling.

She purposed to possess a good many race horses in the course of time; but she knew at once that never, never would she own any horse that would ever be to her what this beautiful, fairy-footed creature was going to be.

Mr. Dan Harmon smiled at her enthusiasm as a man might smile at a child with her first kitten or a boy with his first pup. They rode out to the great Heath, watched the work of the string and returned together. Winnie tore herself away from Lullaby and breakfasted at the trainer's home. She was so happy that she was radiant. It was all very jolly, indeed, but when presently she rode away Mr. Harmon seemed faintly puzzled.

"There goes the prettiest thing in lady owners I've ever seen," quoth he. "Why, she's but a child! She talked a good deal, didn't she?" His wife agreed.

"But I don't call to mind that she said one silly thing about racing—or made one mistake. Her ideas are sound as a bell. Did you notice her rattle 'em off—Ascot New Stakes, Richmond Stakes and Middle Park Plate, please—like milk gurgling out of the jug? A young, innocent, blue-eyed thing like her! And you know, Kate, I don't quite know how it happened, but, come to think of it, I'm damned if I don't believe I've agreed to train the filly at a figure that isn't going to show me more than about a couple of cigars profit a year! Funny!"

His wife laughed.

"Why, you great baby, you're half in love with the child yourself!" she said easily. "Sure, she can tie you in knots round her fingers—the same as I can," she explained kindly. "Not that she isn't all you say," she added. "You must do well for her with the Moonlady filly.

"She's only a kiddy and I rather fancy she needs it. Can you, Dan, d'you think?"

Rig Kathleen Harmon was half Irish, still as generous, easy and emotional after twenty years of married life as on the first day.

"If only the filly trains on as she promises to," he said solemnly, "Miss O'Wynn has had a fortune given her. I tell you, Kate, Lullaby's a flyer! I wonder what he gave her to the girl for."

"Ah, get along to your horses!" said Kate. "What do you want with wonder? Did you never give me a present in the old days and you half engaged to that yellow-headed Maud MacGill? Wonder! Sure, it's the men who wonder half the fairy stories in the world!"

"And it's the women that tell them, Katie," said Dan, and escaped.

But Mr. Harmon was not the only person who believed that Lullaby was a flyer. There were others. Winnie met one of them as she rode through the flowing dawn to Hawkshover. This was Major Mountarden, who, with his extremely smart wife, was a popular member of the Fasterton house party. Winnie had had very little to do with the Mountardens so far, for they were leading lights of the more desperate bridge section; nor did she feel particularly drawn toward either of them, though she believed the major to be one of the most distinguished-looking men she had ever seen. He was very tall, broad, with a soldierly face and a rather uncommon golden mustache, which he wore drooping in the old-style cavalry-man fashion. It was tremendously effective.

He greeted Winnie with such a very careful, almost elaborate sweep of the hat and with such cordiality that all her natural instincts of caution jumped on parade at once. The major, it appeared, was riding out to the Heath. He was not surprised to meet Winnie, he said, for he had guessed that she would be going out.

"And how do you like the Moonlady filly, dear Miss Winnie?" he asked, adding casually, "Cyril told me—in strict confidence—that you had won the yearling from him."

"Won Lullaby, Major Mountarden?" echoed Winnie.

"Over your wager that he could not give you a stroke a hole at golf, wasn't it?" said the major.

Winnie thought quickly. She had played a game of golf with Cyril Fitzmedley two days before—Vivien Foxelen having a headache—and she was pleased and rather surprised that Cyril had been bright enough to find so plausible an accounting for his gift and her acceptance of Lullaby.

"Oh, that! For a moment I did not understand," she said demurely. "Yes, wasn't it lucky? Do you think it was right for me to accept the yearling, major?"

"Why, certainly, dear Miss Winnie! A wager is a wager. Oh, of course! It's rather a pity that she isn't a two-year-old, or even a three-year-old. You see, it will be a long time before she can win a race for you, and the cost of training mounts up."

"But, please, why need it be so long?" asked Winnie, her lips drooping a little.

"Why, Lullaby—what a pretty name!—is only a yearling. She can't race till she is two years old, and even then you mustn't overwork her. It is nice to have such a handsome little horse, but a good, useful three-year-old would give you far more fun and put you to far less expense."

Winnie's face shadowed with disappointment.

"I—I never thought of that," she said. "I wanted her to race at once—lots of times." The major smiled.

"Don't take it too much to heart," he advised. "There are ways and means. You might sell the filly and invest the proceeds in a useful three-year-old, for instance."

"But what can such a baby horse be worth, please, Major Mountarden?" faltered Winnie. "A yearling isn't worth so much money as an experienced three-year-old racer, is it—any more than a calf is worth as much as a cow?"

The major turned his head for a half second, his lips flickering.

But he was quite grave when he answered.

"Oh, not at all, Miss Winnie! You see, Lullaby is a little aristocrat. Her breeding makes her worth a fair, sum. In fact, you ought to be able to make a quite useful exchange, if you can find a man who is reckless enough to give you a reliable three-year-old for a speculative, well-bred yearling. Lots of men love to gamble in yearlings. They are rather foolish men, between you and me. They nearly always lose, but it's a weakness—a foible. I ought to know"—the major smiled ruefully—"for, you see, I am one of those silly fellows."

Winnie looked shyly sorry for him.

"Oh, what a pity!" she cried.

"No, no, not at all. We enjoy the gamble. But it's odd, isn't it? As I said, it's a foible. There's no accounting for it. Take myself now. I happen to own a grand three-year-old. Indeed, they say—and I am inclined to agree with them—that he is the handsomest horse on the English turf to-day—a great, slashing, magnificent red bay with white stockings and a splendid white blaze. He's called Royal Splendour! You've heard of him, perhaps. His dam was Queen of Beauty and his sire was Golden Prince. A beautiful horse—beautiful," said the major absently. Then, rousing from reverie, he went on: "And yet anybody could tempt me to exchange him for a pretty yearling. Silly, isn't it? It's just the charm of the unknown quantity, I suppose."

Winnie said nothing, but she looked very sympathetic; and the major beamed upon her, greatly pleased with his finesse. He had wanted Lullaby for some weeks. Indeed, nothing but an ingrained dislike to pay a fair price for anything had prevented him from making Cyril Fitzmedley a fair offer for her long before. Still, he was inclined to congratulate himself already on taking his early ride. Dreamily he saw himself working off that showy cur of a horse, Royal Splendour, in exchange for the most promising yearling, now practically a two-year-old, he had ever known. Nor was he encumbered by any feeling of reluctance to take advantage of this innocent, baby-sweet child, of pity for her lack of experience, of indulgence, generosity or lenience in consummating the deal. For he was a hard man—a very hard man—in spite of his straight-gazing eyes and his beautiful golden mustache.

"Royal Splendour," said Winnie softly. "It's a ringing name, isn't it?"

"Rather good, but he carries it well."

[Illustration: He Greeted Winnie With Such an Elaborate Sweep of the Hat and With Such Cordiality That All Her Natural Instincts of Caution Jumped on Parade at Once]

Winnie dropped her eyes quickly. Few people knew better than she how well Royal Splendour carried his name. Her daddy had often told her of that handsome fraud. His trouble was not how he carried his name, but where he carried it to. Usually he carried it in a position which gave his jockey an admirable view of all other runners' heels and tails.

"Well, Miss Winnie, are you going to indulge my weakness and exchange your little yearling for my big beauty?" Confidence made the major a little careless. He was not usually a careless man.

"I don't think I should like to do that, major," said Winnie. "You see, I love my little horse too well ever to give her away for another, and she is so well bred. Perhaps some day she will win the Derby. Nobody can tell, after all. But I do sympathize with you, and I quite understand about your liking yearlings, major, even though I don't know much about horse racing. I wish I could help you."

She thought for a moment. "What is an option, major Isn't it something that means first choice?"

"Something of that sort, Miss Winnie." He was watching her.

"If you like—perhaps I am only saying something silly; do forgive me if I am—if it would help you, I would sell you—doesn't that sound mercenary?—the option to buy Lullaby if ever I could bring myself to part with her. I don't think I know enough about racing to exchange for a great, handsome horse like Royal Splendour. But I've heard of options. Daddy used to buy them from a man in the city, but they were awfully unlucky ones."

"Better sell her outright, Miss Winnie. I would advise it. No end of bother, racing—for a lady. I could get you a hundred guineas for the yearling. In fact, I'd pay you that for her myself."

"What a lot of money for a baby horse!" said Winnie. "I'm sure she isn't worth it, except to me."

"Well, you are the only one that matters, you see," the major pointed out rather less confidently.

"It seems unkind, but I wouldn't sell Lullaby for five hundred pounds!" declared the girl softly.

"Pounds!" The major laughed—almost naturally—and then sighed. "All right, Miss Winnie, it's a deal. I'll pay you five hundred guineas."

"For the option, major?"

"Lord, no, my dear child! For the filly."

"Why, major, she isn't for sale—at any price. I couldn't possibly part with her."

The major scowled, carefully turning away. But he was too wolf-wise to press her.

"Very well, Miss Winnie. I'll buy the option."

Her face lighted up.

"Oh, I am so glad to be able to do that for you, major!" she cried, her blue eyes shining on him like stars. "Mr. Harmon had a friend who would have given me a hundred guineas for the option to buy her if ever I wished to sell her, but I would ever so much sooner you had it."

Major Mountarden's smile was rather wry.

"By Jove, it's a stiff price for an option on an unproved yearling!" he said. "But," he added reluctantly, "we'll make it a bargain, Miss Winnie. I'll give you a check after breakfast. Forgive me if I hurry away now. I have to see a trial on the Heath, if I am not too late already."

"Of course, major."

He rode off, and Winnie watched him as he went. It is possible that he would not have felt quite so debonair as he undoubtedly looked had he seen the expression in the blue eyes of the girl. As was her custom, she drew upon her natural-history lore to classify him.

"Felis tigris, or tiger," she said gently. "I shall never regret fining him that hundred and five pounds." She always thought of a guinea as one pound one shilling. It was instinct, but a useful one, for nothing is more easily thrown away than the odd shilling that tags onto the English guinea.

"Never! He offered me—because he thought I knew no better—that notorious brute Royal Splendour for my little lady Lullaby. And if I had not learned to take care of myself—and remembered poor daddy's advice—he would have done it. What a shame!"

For a moment Winnie felt very, very sorry for the little girl who would have been without a Lullaby if she had not been careful. Then her eyes sparkled and she laughed softly.

"How absurd!"

She turned her horse and rode on, happy as the birds that were watching her from the trees.

For himself, Felis Tigris Mountarden was somewhat less joyous. He was engaged in wondering precisely what sort of an option it was that he had bought. It seemed to him, thinking it over, that he had agreed to pay a hundred and five healthy sovereigns for an excessively nebulous, ghostlike and attenuated option indeed. But it was the best he could do—only he caught himself wishing that the child had been a little more sophisticated. He felt that he could have made a better trade with someone a little less obviously just out of the nursery.

"Damn these !" he said to his horse. "They know nothing, and they do better out of their infernal innocence than women who have spent half their lives and all their beauty in gaining experience."

Then suddenly his mood changed, as if an idea had occurred to him.

"The very thing!" he exclaimed. "By Jove, that hundred was money well spent, after all!"

He rode on, smiling.

III III

WITHIN a space of hours Winnie became aware that she appeared to have made three new conquests during the weekend—namely, Cyril Fitzmedley, tied in steel-strong though silky-looking chains to Vivien Foxelen though he was; Major F. Tigris Mountarden and his brilliant wife. Hitherto the Mountardens had not exactly fatigued themselves in their efforts at cordiality to Winnie.

The young, verdant and slightly sappy Cyril she took rather as a matter of course. He was different from whole battalions of his like only in that he possessed far more money than was good for him. And although Winnie did not precisely shoulder him roughly away, she found him absurdly easy to understand and deal with. His position—with her—was weak, very weak, and she took care to let him see that she knew it. But with the Mountardens it was different and more difficult. The major's increased cordiality she could understand.

"He does not mean to lose sight of me, and he wants to become closer friends because of Lullaby," said Winnie to herself. "But why should Mrs. Mountarden be so gushing? Especially as May Fasterton says that Cyril was prone to worship at her shrine in Vivien's absence until he transferred his spare worship to me."

She decided that the major had asked his wife to be nice to her, no reason being immediately apparent.

Certainly the Mountardens were charming to her; so much so that an invitation to stay a little while with them at their place in town was extended to the girl and accepted by her. She agreed to go on to them from Hawkshover—indeed, to leave with them in their big limousine. Winnie was young, but not so young that she disdained to consult her friend, worldly wise Lady Fasterton, about accepting the invitation.

"Oh, yes, go, my dear! They are all right—no worse than the rest of us, I think. They'll give you a good time. But don't play there."

"Play?"

"Cards—roulette—that sort of thing, child. They play very high at Mountardens', and level-headed little woman as you are, you might get bitten. I know, Winnie. I cost Fasterton lots of money there some years ago, when I was more like you than I am now, you sweet little thing. They make a flutter a very pleasant sensation at Mountardens'. You will enjoy yourself without gambling there. I'll come in there when I get back to town."

So Winnie went back to London, convinced that the major was not only after Lullaby, but that he purposed winning her in preference to paying money for her.

"That is quite, quite obvious," thought Winnie as, curled up in a luxurious corner of the big comfortable car with the Mountardens, she watched the countryside swing silently past. "Quite obvious, and yet—and yet2"

Her brain, her reason, was not satisfied.

Felis tigris is a tolerably catholic feeder. Hungry, he will eat almost anything he can bite. He is not particular as to quality, but he is something of a stickler for quantity. He likes bulk—big mouthfuls. And she did not feel mathematically sure that she and Lullaby were quite a tiger-sized mouthful. In her best ingénue manner she had learned quite a good deal about the Mountardens since she had collected the major's hundred guineas, and it seemed to her that she hardly did either Felis Tigris or his wife justice in assuming that they were not capable of a rather more adroit way of getting Lullaby than winning her with cards or a roulette wheel.

"They don't know how much I have in reserve," mused Winnie, her lovely eyes absently studying the rather heavy and bulbous jaw hinges of the major—a sign, her daddy had once told her, of ruthlessness and possibly brutality. "And they can have no reason to think that I could not pay what I lose, if I lose"—she smiled faintly—"without parting with my little race horse. It's—somehow it's clumsy, ponderous. Yes, it is taking a mountain to crush a molehill."

But it was very pleasant, very restful and lulling to be petted as the major and his wife—a dark, virile beauty in the well-known hidden-fire, passionate, or Spanish style—proceeded to pet Winnie. Before she had been a day in their big, elaborately comfortable and expensively fitted house near Eaton Square the girl realized that if she were their only and idolized daughter they could not have made more fuss over her, and it was delicately and subtly done. Neither the major nor his wife made any mistakes. There was a charming semi-motherly touch in Fay Mountarden's manner toward the girl, and the major was something between old Uncle Henry, papa, and a courtly old admirer who was much too courtly to say so.

"All for Lullaby?" asked Winnie softly of Faithful-Little-Friend-in-the-Mirror in her room that evening before dinner. She curled up on a big settle before the electric fire and thought diligently. But her reflection led her nowhere, save to a decision to question Cyril Fitzmedley, who was dining at the Mountardens' that evening with two or three other guests, on a few points concerning the major's position as a racing man. It might give her some hint that would prove useful, she fancied.

"Of course, all this attention may be due to their personal liking for me," said she, smiling. "But there was no sign that they were particularly fond of me at Hawkshover until Lullaby was mine, so I don't think it is me that is the attraction. It must be Lullaby. They want something from me, I am quite sure of that. Well, we shall see. Meantime2"

It was quite a joyous little evening. A delightful, cozy, well-put-on dinner, a little music—not too much—some bridge, and later roulette. There were eight young people there—five boys of about Cyril's type, three with their wives. The bridge illumined life for the ladies in the drawing-room—they played a tolerably tight game, Winnie observed—while as the evening drew on the men forgathered round the roulette wheel.

Winnie had plenty of opportunities for conversation with Cyril. She gathered all she wished for from the youth, who, if his affection for her was merely his left-hand affection—the right-hand variety presumably being reserved for Vivien Foxelen—it was clearly of an intensely affectionate nature.

"Did Major Mountarden tell you he wanted to buy Lullaby from me, Sir Cyril?" asked Winnie.

"Yes, rather—what? But you wouldn't sell her, Miss Winnie."

Winnie gazed kindly at him.

"I don't think I should like to sell your present to me," she said softly. "Besides, I love Lullaby, and Mr. Harmon says that she might easily win a race."

Sir Cyril nodded wisely, his face lighting up. Winnie was an agreeable addition to the major's plentiful champagne.

"Very wise, dear Miss Winnie. Lullaby is a very good, very promisin' yearling. Don't you part with her. She might turn out wonderfully well. I always believed in her."

Winnie spared him a few radiations of good fellowship, listening respectfully. She would cheerfully have staked a good deal of money against his recognizing Lullaby among a dozen of his yearlings.

"Hasn't the major any yearlings of his own?" she asked presently.

"I think so—several very promisin' ones. He doesn't need your pet so badly. He has one beauty, I know—a Projectile colt. Picked him up for a trifle too. They say that if this colt trains on he will be a sensation. But tell me about yourself, Miss Winnie. Are you enjoying yourself here? You have a flat in town, haven't you?"

But here they were interrupted. Bridge had begun in the drawing-room and the boys were going to have some roulette with the major.

Winnie watched them for a little. She was very interested in their play. She would have disclaimed any intimate knowledge of roulette, for, as she told them shyly, she had never seen a real game for what she called real money before; and that was perfectly true. But though she did not speak of it, there had been a period during her daddy's career when he had been possessed of a devil who led him to believe he had discovered a system which was fated to freeze all other systems out of existence. He and Winnie had spun no more than thirty thousand turns of a small roulette wheel before the perfectly ghastly array of paper losses discouraged the aforesaid devil, cured Captain O'Wynn and convinced his daughter that, regarded as means of livelihood, roulette belonged to the stuff that mirages are made of.

So, having watched long enough to realize that the stakes were not low, that the boys were not precisely experts, that their methods of playing were perhaps champagnely optimistic, and that one or two others were expected to drop in presently for some baccarat, though it was near midnight, Winnie unobtrusively departed to bed.

IV IV

WHEN, a few days later, Winnie said demurely at lunch that she was permitting Cyril Fitzmedley to take her to tea at the Astoritz that afternoon, nothing but smiles and quiet encouragement greeted her announcement. Everything was quite couleur de rose. The major fired off a playful reminder that he still had an eagle eye on Lullaby and must enlist Cyril's powers of persuasion in his aid, and Mrs. Mountarden had so friendly a word for Cyril that she had evidently forgiven his defection from her. It was all very jolly—so free, so homelike, so unwolfy.

"Bring Cyril back to dine, darling," said Mrs. Mountarden. "There will be one or two people in—enough for some bridge."

Winnie promised. The Mountardens, she had long ago found, were never without dinner guests who, as the evening wore on, became bridge or roulette or baccarat battlers.

That afternoon, cozily ensconced in an extremely retired corner of the Astoritz with Sir Cyril, the girl discovered that the too-wealthy youth was apparently in the mood to press right romantically his left-handed wooing. But for a little she subtly shouldered him away from the subject of hearts that beat as one.

"You know, Cyril," she said, dropping her lids for an instant, "I don't understand games very well; but surely, surely you all play a great deal and for very high stakes at the Mountardens', don't you?" Her tone was timidly chiding. Cyril looked very much the man of the world.

"Well, certainly one can always get a thrill at the major's," he confessed.

"Ah, but don't you lose a great deal? I—I—don't like to think of you losing so heavily," she sighed.

"That's simply toppin' of you, dear Miss Winnie—oh, toppin'! But don't worry. I can afford to lose what I lose, you know."

Winnie nodded.

"Yes, I know you are awfully rich. Have you lost very much during the last week at the Mountardens'? Men are so bold and reckless!"

Cyril hesitated. Then, evidently believing that it would invest him with a species of terrible glory in her blue eyes as it did in his own, he informed her that he had won heavily during the early part of Winnie's stay at the Mountarden place, but that he had lost far more heavily during the latter end of the week.

"I have dropped four thousand during the week," he said, staring at her. And so little did this lucky son of a rich father realize exactly what the sum really meant that it might have been fourpence. Winnie saw that.

"I shall take it back from Mountarden—when the luck turns," he added airily.

Winnie was suitably impressed. When she had recovered she asked another question:

"How reckless you are! Have you played long at the major's?"

"I used to play there a good deal, but I gave up goin' there a few months ago when I—I got tired of it."

He meant when he first became engaged to Vivien Foxelen.

"I only started dining there again, or calling in later, when I knew you were staying there," he added boldly. "But let's drop the Mountardens and talk of you, Winnie."

Winnie said nothing. Her silence seemed to encourage him, and quite suddenly the spoiled child and the juvenile but developing wolf flamed out in him. He put it just well enough to allow of Winnie listening, but no better than that. He made it quite clear that his matrimonial future was unalterably fixed with the comparatively poor but extremely well-connected and excessively blue-blooded Vivien Foxelen, and for whom in his fashion he reserved his right-handed love. He hinted, too, that his father's will had something to do with the Foxelen alliance. But, that understood, the left-handed portion of his devotion and income was wholly at Winnie's disposal. He spoke of allowances, he babbled of cozy flats and he burbled of motors. Upon the joys of houseboats he held forth, nor did he neglect to touch upon the charms of Monte Carlo. To Paris he referred enthusiastically also, and dwelt, too, upon millinery, silks, satins and jewels. But in his discourse—and he was young enough to look slightly sheepish throughout—he made no mention of the simple and less-complicated aids to the social fabric, such as plain golden rings. Diamonds, emeralds and rubies he spoke of, also sables; but he seemed unaware of the simpler product of the honest goldsmith's art. Deeds of gift upon parchment, in fair black and white, he did not exclude from his eloquence; but he uttered nothing concerning those plain but wholesome slips of paper called marriage certificates. Finally he ran down, gulped and was silent.