The Honorable Percival

								


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THE HONORABLE PERCIVAL

THE HONORABLE PERCIVAL
BY ALICE HEGAN RICE
AUTHOR OF "MRS. WIGGS OF THE CABBAGE PATCH,"
"A ROMANCE OF BILLY-GOAT HILL," ETC.

  NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1914



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Copyright, 1914, by THE CENTURY CO.
Copyright, 1914, by MCCLURE'S MAGAZINE



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Published, October, 1914

CONTENTS

CHAPTER



     I A BLIGHTED BEING



    II A COUNTER-IRRITANT



   III CONVALESCENCE



    IV COUNTER-CURRENTS



     V STRANDED



    VI IN THE WIND-SHELTER



   VII THE DAY THAT NEVER WAS


VIII IN THE CROW'S-NEST



    IX DRAGGING ANCHOR



     X ON THE SEARCH



    XI THE GYMKHANA



   XII THE SONG OF THE SIREN


XIII PERCIVAL PROCRASTINATES



   XIV NEPTUNE TAKES A HAND



    XV PERCIVAL RISES TO AN OCCASION



   XVI IN PORT

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Their boat had sailed
"Well, did you ever! Where did you come from?"
Her hair, still damp, was hanging about her shoulders, and she carried
a bundle of bath-towels under her arm
"Mr. Hascombe!" she demanded breathlessly, "you'll take me out in the
surf-boat, won't you?"
At a break-neck speed towards the wharf
"I don't know what makes me so everlastingly silly!" she said fiercely
trying to swallow the rising sobs, "but he won't understand!"
"I like the way your mouth looks when you read it"
"Roberta!" he called sternly. "What are you doing out here?"
"You will have to join the crowd," suggested Bobby when Percival
complained of not seeing her as often as he wished
"If you want to hold my hand, Mr. Hascombe, you are welcome to it"
He sat on a table swinging his feet in unison with a lot of other young
feet, while he sipped lemonade from the same glass as Bobby Boynton
"Isn't that the prettiest thing you ever saw?" she asked, glancing at
him over her shoulder
"It's quite worth while," he said, "getting a jab in the wrist, to have
you looking after me like this"
"I'm so sorry!" whispered Bobby, putting her arm impulsively around his
heaving shoulders



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THE HONORABLE PERCIVAL

I
A BLIGHTED BEING

The Honorable Percival Hascombe came aboard the Pacific liner about
to sail from San Francisco, preceded by a fur coat, a gun-case, two
pigskin bags, a hat-box, and a valet. He was tall and slender, and
moved with an air of fastidious distinction. He wore a small mustache,
a monocle, and an expression of unutterable ennui. His costume consisted
of a smart tweed traveling-suit, with cap to match, white spats, and
a pair of binoculars swung across his shoulders. In his eyes was the
look, carefully maintained, of one who has sounded the depths of human