THE OLD PROMETHEANS

By PHILIP HEWITT-MYRING

THE charwoman who intermittently obliged at the draughty little bungalow on the East Coast into which the war had pitchforked the Major and his young wife had faded away. In the living-room, the Major's wife contemplated the charred re- mains of sticks and paper in the grate. Once more Mrs. Higgs had failed to get the fire going—and as the Major's wife gazed at the evidence of her incompetence, and thought of the home in sunny South Carolina, with its inexhaustible supply of negro servants, that she had left not long before the war to marry the Major in a cold and unfriendly land, the tears coursed down her cheeks.

The Major, who was supposed to be asleep after long night hours on duty, heard her sobs from the bedroom. Screwing in his eyeglass, in which he was generally believed to, but did not, sleep, he got out of bed, put on his heavy camel's hair dressing-gown, gave a pat to his iron-grey moustache, and walked into the living-room. His wife looked up as he entered, nd dabbed at her eyes.

" H'm," said the Major as he stood beside her and looked down at the grate. " Gone out."

"Oh, Billy," said his wife. " I'm so sick and tired of this. I—" " Ah," said the Major. " Pity Halifax isn't here."

" What on earth are you talking about? " said his wife. " Who's Halifax? "

" Halifax," said the Major. " Lord. His Majesty's Ambassador in Washington. First-class man with fires."

" Please, Billy. Don't ramble on like that."

" Or Eden," went on the Major firmly. " Just as good as Halifax. May be better. Both first-class anyway."

" Billy! You're talking in your sleep."

"Or Huxley," said the Major. "Zoo man. Or the other one, coming to think of it. Writer fellow. Ignatius or something. Get it going in no time."

" Billy ! "

" Also the Governor of the Bank of England. Get a fire under way as soon as look at it. So can the Viceroy of India. Abso- lutely first-class. Same with the Governor-General of Australia, and the Governor-General of New Zealand. Or," went on the Major reflectively and ignoring his wife's attempts to stop him, " a duke would do. Almost any duke."

" But Billy : you don't know all of these people do you? " "Don't know ariy of them," said the Major. "Haven't seen any of them for years anyway."

" But—" " Eton," said the Major.

" What? "

" Eton. Old Etonians. Have you ever known an O.E. who wasn't first-class with fires? Don't you remember Charles at that ghastly pub in Wales? And Dick in the New Forest? "

" But do they actually teach it? "

" Making fires? No: not in class at any rate. Comes from fagging. If the fire goes out, the fag gets smacked. So it doesn't. Not after a bit anyway. School tradition, too. Wouldn't do to boast about it. Bad form. But every O.E. knows he's damned good at fires."

The Major's wife, her tears forgotten, began to giggle.

" But what a gorgeous thought, Billy. I mean, all these important people—all being better at making fires than their wives or kitchenmaids. Do you think Lord Halifax sometimes gets up early and makes all the fires in the Embassy—just to keep his hand in? Or Mr. Norman at the Bank of England? " " No need," said the Major. " Once learned never forgotten. But if—" He got no further. "Billy! " exclaimed his wife. "Look at me."

" Not an important person," said the Major hastily.

" But you said every O.E."

" Yes. Well, there is that. And it's dashed cold. But, look here, no precedents mind. Does that female come back today? "

"Oh, Billy, you know she comes back every day at lunch- time."

" Can't say I'd noticed it. Well, parade her in this room at 2.30 sharp for a preliminary instructional course. Mean- while—" The Major screwed in his monocle more firmly ; slowly rolled up the right sleeve of his dressing-gown and pyjamas ; went down on one knee before the grate ; scooped out some handfuls of charred paper and sticks and some pieces of barely singed coal; and made a clear space in the middle of the debris that he let remain.

" I'll get you some more wood and paper," said his wife.

"Plenty of wood," said the Major, indicating four or five sticks of half-charred firewood. "No paper, though. Oh, wait a moment."

He dived his hand into a waste-paper basket that stood by the side of the hearth and extracted a crumpled foolscap envelope, which he placed with apparent negligence in the middle of the grate.

" But you'll never make it go that way. It's a terrible grate." " Nothing wrong with the grate," said the Major. " Just a bit different. Case for special treatment."

While he was speaking, he had made a little pyramid of his wood fragments around the envelope. On this, he sprinkled some small coal, and, from a good foot away, threw around the pile some larger pieces with the air of not in the least caring where they fell. Within a minute, he had applied a flame with a cigarette-lighter from his dressing-gown pocket, had risen to his feet, and was making for the door.

" Call me in an hour," he said as he reached it.

" But you can't just walk off like that," wailed his wife. " It'll start going out in a second."

" Can't," said the Major. "Properly laid. Give it some more coal in twenty minutes. Don't touch it before."

He vanished.

An hour later his wife stood by his bedside.

" Wake up, Billy," she said in a voice in which affection struggled with awe. " And it's going."

" What's going? " said the Major sleepily. " Oh, the fire. Of course it's going. Why on earth shouldn't it? "

For an instant a flash of pure pride shot across his martial face. He looked—oh, an amazing anlount younger, thought his wife. Almost—like a schoolboy.