When William first saw him he was leaning against the wall of the White Lion, gazing at the passers-by with a moody smile upon his villainous-looking countenance.  
It was evident to any careful observer that he had not confined his attentions to the exterior of the White Lion.
 
William, at whose heels trotted his beloved mongrel (rightly named Jumble), was passing him with a casual glance, when something attracted his attention. He stopped and looked back, then, turning round, stood in front of the tall, untidy figure, gazing up at him with frank and unabashed curiosity.
 
"Who cut 'em off?" he said at last in an awed whisper.
 
The figure raised his hands and stroked the long hair down the side of his face.
 
"Now yer arskin'," he said with a grin.
 
"Well, who did?" persisted William.
 
"That 'ud be tellin'," answered his new friend, moving unsteadily from one foot to the other. "See?"
 
"You got 'em cut off in the war," said William firmly.
 
"I didn't. I bin in the wor orl right. Stroike me pink, I bin in the wor and that's the truth. But I didn't get 'em cut orf in the wor. Well, I'll stop kiddin' yer. I'll tell yer strite. I never 'ad none. Nar!"
 
William stood on tiptoe to peer under the untidy hair at the small apertures that in his strange new friend took the place of ears. Admiration shone in William's eyes.
 
"Was you born without 'em?" he said enviously.
 
His friend nodded.
 
"Nar don't yer go torkin' about it," he went on modestly, though seeming to bask in the sun of William's evident awe and respect. "I don't want all folks knowin' 'bout it. See? It kinder marks a man, this 'ere sort of thing. See? Makes 'im too easy to track, loike. That's why I grow me hair long. See? 'Ere, 'ave a drink?"
 
He put his head inside the window of the White Lion and roared out "Bottle o' lemonide fer the young gent."
 
William followed him to a small table in the little sunny porch, and his heart swelled with pride as he sat and quaffed his beverage with a manly air. His friend, who said his name was Mr. Blank, showed a most flattering interest in him. He elicited from him the whereabouts of his house and the number of his family, a description of the door and window fastenings, of the dining-room silver and his mother's jewellery.
 
William, his eyes fixed with a fascinated stare upon Mr. Blank's ears, gave the required information readily, glad to be able in any way to interest this intriguing and mysterious being.
 
"Tell me about the war," said William at last.
 
"It were orl right while it larsted," said Mr. Blank with a sigh. "It were orl right, but I s'pose, like mos' things in this 'ere world, it couldn't larst fer ever. See?"
 
William set down the empty glass of lemonade and leant across the table, almost dizzy with the romance of the moment. Had Douglas, had Henry, had Ginger, had any of those boys who sat next him at school and joined in the feeble relaxations provided by the authorities out of school, ever done this—ever sat at a real table outside a real public-house drinking lemonade and talking to a man with no ears who'd fought in the war and who looked as if he might have done anything?
 
Jumble, meanwhile, sat and snapped at flies, frankly bored.
 
"Did you"—said William in a sibilant whisper—"did you ever kill anyone?"
 
Mr. Blank laughed a laugh that made William's blood curdle.
 
"Me kill anyone? Me kill anyone? 'Ondreds!"
 
William breathed a sigh of satisfaction. Here was romance and adventure incarnate.
 
"What do you do now the war's over?"
 
Mr. Blank closed one eye.
 
"That 'ud be tellin', wudn't it?"
"I'll keep it awfully secret," pleaded William. "I'll never tell anyone."
 
Mr. Blank shook his head.
 
"What yer want ter know fer, anyway?" he said.
 
William answered eagerly, his eyes alight.
 
"'Cause I'd like to do jus' the same when I grow up."
 
Mr. Blank flung back his head and emitted guffaw after guffaw of unaffected mirth.
 
"Oh 'ell," he said, wiping his eyes. "Oh, stroike me pink! That's good, that is. You wait, young gent, you wait till you've growed up and see what yer pa says to it. Oh 'ell!"
 
He rose and pulled his cap down over his eyes.
 
"Well, I'll say good day to yer, young gent."
 
William looked at him wistfully.
 
"I'd like to see you again, Mr. Blank, I would, honest. Will you be here this afternoon?"
 
"Wot d'yer want to see me agine fer?" said Mr. Blank suspiciously.
 
"I like you," said William fervently. "I like the way you talk, and I like the things you say, and I want to know about what you do!"
 
Mr. Blank was obviously flattered.
 
"I may be round 'ere agine this arter, though I mike no promise. See? I've gotter be careful, I 'ave. I've gotter be careful 'oo sees me an' 'oo 'ears me, and where I go. That's the worst of 'aving no ears. See?"
 
William did not see, but he was thrilled to the soul by the mystery.
 
"An' you don't tell no one you seen me nor nothing abart me," went on Mr. Blank.
 
Pulling his cap still farther over his head, Mr. Blank set off unsteadily down the road, leaving William to pay for his lemonade with his last penny.
 
He walked home, his heart set firmly on a lawless career of crime. Opposition he expected from his father and mother and Robert and Ethel, but his determination was fixed. He wondered if it would be very painful to have his ears cut off.
 
He entered the dining-room with an air of intense mystery, pulling his cap over his eyes, and looking round in a threatening manner.
 
"William, what do you mean by coming into the house in your cap? Take it off at once."
 
William sighed. He wondered if Mr. Blank had a mother.
 
When he returned he sat down and began quietly to remodel his life. He would not be an explorer, after all, nor an engine-driver nor chimney-sweep. He would be a man of mystery, a murderer, fighter, forger. He fingered his ears tentatively. They seemed fixed on jolly fast. He glanced with utter contempt at his father who had just come in. His father's life of blameless respectability seemed to him at that minute utterly despicable.
 
"The Wilkinsons over at Todfoot have had their house broken into now," Mrs. Brown was saying. "All her jewellery gone. They think it's a gang. It's just the villages round here. There seems to be one every day!"
 
William expressed his surprise.
 
"Oh, 'ell!" he ejaculated, with a slightly self-conscious air.
 
Mr. Brown turned round and looked at his son.
 
"May I ask," he said politely, "where you picked up that expression?"
 
"I got it off one of my fren's," said William with quiet pride.
 
"Then I'd take it as a personal favour," went on Mr. Brown, "if you'd kindly refrain from airing your friends' vocabularies in this house."
 
"He means you're never to say it again, William," translated Mrs. Brown sternly. "Never."
 
"All right," said William. "I won't. See? I da—jolly well won't. Strike me pink. See?"
 
He departed with an air of scowling mystery and dignity combined, leaving his parents speechless with amazement.
 
That afternoon he returned to the White Lion. Mr. Blank was standing unobtrusively in the shadow of the wall.
 
"'Ello, young gent," he greeted William, "nice dorg you've got."
 
William looked proudly down at Jumble.
 
"You won't find," he said proudly and with some truth, "you won't find another dog like this—not for miles!"
 
"Will 'e be much good as a watch dog, now?" asked Mr. Blank carelessly.
 
"Good?" said William, almost indignant at the question. "There isn't any sort of dog he isn't good at!"
 
"Umph," said Mr. Blank, looking at him thoughtfully.
 
"Tell me about things you've done," said William earnestly.
 
"Yus, I will, too," said Mr. Blank. "But jus' you tell me first 'oo lives at all these 'ere nice 'ouses an' all about 'em. See?"
William readily complied, and the strange couple gradually wended their way along the road towards William's house. William stopped at the gate and considered deeply. He was torn between instincts of hospitality and a dim suspicion that his family would not afford to Mr. Blank that courtesy which is a guest's due. He looked at Mr. Blank's old green-black cap, long, untidy hair, dirty, lined, sly old face, muddy clothes and gaping boots, and decided quite finally that his mother would not allow him in her drawing-room.
 
"Will you," he said tentatively, "will you come roun' an' see our back garden? If we go behind these ole bushes and keep close along the wall, no one'll see us."
 
To William's relief Mr. Blank did not seem to resent the suggestion of secrecy. They crept along the wall in silence except for Jumble, who loudly worried Mr. Blank's trailing boot-strings as he walked. They reached a part of the back garden that was not visible from the house and sat down together under a shady tree.
 
"P'raps," began Mr. Blank politely, "you could bring a bit o' tea out to me on the quiet like."
 
"I'll ask mother——" began William.
 
"Oh, no," said Mr. Blank modestly. "I don't want ter give no one no trouble. Just a slice o' bread, if you can find it, without troublin' no one. See?"
 
William had a brilliant idea.
 
"Let's go 'cross to that window an' get in," he said eagerly. "That's the lib'ry and no one uses it 'cept father, and he's not in till later."
 
Mr. Blank insisted on tying Jumble up, then he swung himself dexterously through the window. William gave a gasp of admiration.
 
"You did that fine," he said.
 
Again Mr. Blank closed one eye.
 
"Not the first time I've got in at a winder, young gent, nor the larst, I bet. Not by a long way. See?"
 
William followed more slowly. His eye gleamed with pride. This hero of romance and adventure was now his guest, under his roof.
 
"Make yourself quite at home, Mr. Blank," he said with an air of intense politeness.
 
Mr. Blank did. He emptied Mr. Brown's cigar-box into his pocket. He drank three glasses of Mr. Brown's whiskey and soda. While William's back was turned he filled his pockets with the silver ornaments from the mantel-piece. He began to inspect the drawers in Mr. Brown's desk. Then:
"William! Come to tea!"
 
"You stay here," whispered William. "I'll bring you some."
 
But luck was against him. It was a visitors' tea in the drawing-room, and Mrs. de Vere Carter, a neighbour, there, in all her glory. She rose from her seat with an ecstatic murmur.
 
"Willie! Dear child! Sweet little soul!"
 
With one arm she crushed the infuriated William against her belt, with the other she caressed his hair. Then William in moody silence sat down in a corner and began to eat bread and butter. Every time he prepared to slip a piece into his pocket, he found his mother's or Mrs. de Vere Carter's eye fixed upon him and hastily began to eat it himself. He sat, miserable and hot, seeing only the heroic figure starving in the next room, and planned a raid on the larder as soon as he could reasonably depart. Every now and then he scowled across at Mrs. de Vere Carter and made a movement with his hands as though pulling a cap over his eyes. He invested even his eating with an air of dark mystery.
 
Then Robert, his elder brother, came in, followed by a thin, pale man with eye-glasses and long hair.
 
"This is Mr. Lewes, mother," said Robert with an air of pride and triumph. "He's editor of Fiddle Strings."
 
There was an immediate stir and sensation. Robert had often talked of his famous friend. In fact Robert's family was weary of the sound of his name, but this was the first time Robert had induced him to leave the haunts of his genius to visit the Brown household.
 
Mr. Lewes bowed with a set, stern, self-conscious expression, as though to convey to all that his celebrity was more of a weight than a pleasure to him. Mrs. de Vere Carter bridled and fluttered, for Fiddle Strings had a society column and a page of scrappy "News of the Town," and Mrs. de Vere Carter's greatest ambition was to see her name in print.
 
Mr. Lewes sat back in his chair, took his tea-cup as though it were a fresh addition to his responsibilities, and began to talk. He talked apparently without even breathing. He began on the weather, drifted on to art and music, and was just beginning a monologue on The Novel, when William rose and crept from the room like a guilty spirit. He found Mr. Blank under the library table, having heard a noise in the kitchen and fearing a visitor. A cigar and a silver snuffer had fallen from his pocket to the floor. He hastily replaced them. William went up and took another look at the wonderful ears and heaved a sigh of relief. While parted from his strange friend he had had a horrible suspicion that the whole thing was a dream.
 
"I'll go to the larder and get you sumthin'," he said. "You jus' stay here."
 
"I think, young gent," said Mr. Blank, "I think I'll just go an' look round upstairs on the quiet like, an' you needn't mention it to no one. See?"
 
Again he performed the fascinating wink.
 
They crept on tiptoe into the hall, but—the drawing-room door was ajar.
 
"William!"
 
William's heart stood still. He could hear his mother coming across the room, then—she stood in the doorway. Her face filled with horror as her eye fell upon Mr. Blank.
 
"William!" she said.
 
William's feelings were beyond description. Desperately he sought for an explanation for his friend's presence. With what pride and sang-froid had Robert announced his uninvited guest! William determined to try it, at any rate. He advanced boldly into the drawing-room.
 
"This is Mr. Blank, mother," he announced jauntily. "He hasn't got no ears."
 
Mr. Blank stood in the background, awaiting developments. Flight was now impossible.
 
The announcement fell flat. There was nothing but horror upon the five silent faces that confronted William. He made a last desperate effort.
 
"He's bin in the war," he pleaded. "He's—killed folks."
 
Then the unexpected happened.
 
Mrs. de Vere Carter rose with a smile of welcome. In her mind's eye she saw the touching story already in print—the tattered hero—the gracious lady—the age of Democracy. The stage was laid and that dark, pale young man had only to watch and listen.
 
"Ah, one of our dear heroes! My poor, brave man! A cup of tea, my dear," turning to William's thunderstruck mother. "And he may sit down, may he not?" She kept her face well turned towards the sardonic-looking Mr. Lewes. He must not miss a word or gesture. "How proud we are to do anything for our dear heroes! Wounded, perhaps? Ah, poor man!" She floated across to him with a cup of tea and plied him with bread and butter and cake. William sat down meekly on a chair, looking rather pale. Mr. Blank, whose philosophy was to take the goods the gods gave and not look to the future, began to make a hearty meal. "Are you looking for work, my poor man?" asked Mrs. de Vere Carter, leaning forward in her chair.
 
Her poor man replied with simple, manly directness that he "was dam'd if he was. See?" Mr. Lewes began to discuss The Drama with Robert. Mrs. de Vere Carter raised her voice.
 
"How you must have suffered! Yes, there is suffering ingrained in your face. A piece of shrapnel? Ten inches square? Right in at one hip and out at the other? Oh, my poor man! How I feel for you. How all class distinctions vanish at such a time. How——"
She stopped while Mr. Blank drank his tea. In fact, all conversation ceased while Mr. Blank drank his tea, just as conversation on a station ceases while a train passes through.
 
Mrs. Brown looked helplessly around her. When Mr. Blank had eaten a plate of sandwiches, a plate of bread and butter, and half a cake, he rose slowly, keeping one hand over the pocket in which reposed the silver ornaments.
 
"Well 'm," he said, touching his cap. "Thank you kindly. I've 'ad a fine tea. I 'ave. A dam' fine tea. An' I'll not forget yer kindness to a pore ole soldier." Here he winked brazenly at William. "An' good day ter you orl."
 
Mrs. de Vere Carter floated out to the front door with him, and William followed as in a dream.
 
Mrs. Brown found her voice.
 
"We'd better have the chair disinfected," she murmured to Ethel.
 
Then Mrs. de Vere Carter returned smiling to herself and eyeing the young editor surmisingly.
 
"I witnessed a pretty scene the other day in a suburban drawing-room...." It might begin like that.
 
William followed the amazing figure round the house again to the library window. Here it turned to him with a friendly grin.
 
"I'm just goin' to 'ave that look round upstairs now. See?" he said. "An' once more, yer don't need ter say nothin' to no one. See?"
 
With the familiar, beloved gesture he drew his old cap down over his eyes, and was gone.
 
William wandered upstairs a few minutes later to find his visitor standing at the landing window, his pockets bulging.
 
"I'm goin' to try this 'ere window, young gent," he said in a quick, business-like voice. "I see yer pa coming in at the front gate. Give me a shove. Quick, nar."
 
Mr. Brown entered the drawing-room.
 
"Mulroyd's had his house burgled now," he said. "Every bit of his wife's jewellery gone. They've got some clues, though. It's a gang all right, and one of them is a chap without ears. Grows his hair long to hide it. But it's a clue. The police are hunting for him."
 
He looked in amazement at the horror-stricken faces before him. Mrs. Brown sat down weakly.
 
"Ethel, my smelling salts! They're on the mantel-piece."
 
Robert grew pale.
 
"Good Lord—my silver cricket cup," he gasped, racing upstairs.
 
The landing window had been too small, and Mr. Blank too big, though William did his best.
 
There came to the astounded listeners the sound of a fierce scuffle, then Robert descended, his hair rumpled and his tie awry, holding William by the arm. William looked pale and apprehensive. "He was there," panted Robert, "just getting out of the window. He chucked the things out of his pockets and got away. I couldn't stop him. And—and William was there——"
 
William's face assumed the expression of one who is prepared for the worst.
 
"The plucky little chap! Struggling with him! Trying to pull him back from the window! All by himself!"
 
"I wasn't," cried William excitedly. "I was helping him. He's my friend. I——"
 
But they heard not a word. They crowded round him, praised him, shook hands with him, asked if he was hurt. Mrs. de Vere Carter kept up one perpetual scream of delight and congratulation.
 
"The dear boy! The little pet! How brave! What courage! What an example to us all! And the horrid, wretched man! Posing as a hero. Wangling himself into the sweet child's confidence. Are you hurt, my precious? Did the nasty man hurt you? You darling boy!"
 
When the babel had somewhat subsided, Mr. Brown came forward and laid a hand on William's shoulder.
 
"I'm very pleased with you, my boy," he said. "You can buy anything you like to-morrow up to five shillings."
 
William's bewildered countenance cleared.
 
"Thank you, father," he said meekly.