d
telling my jolly old father-in-law that? It'll be a bit of news for
him!"

CHAPTER XXIII. MOTHER'S KNEE

Archie Moffam's connection with that devastatingly popular ballad,
"Mother's Knee," was one to which he always looked back later with a
certain pride. "Mother's Knee," it will be remembered, went through the
world like a pestilence. Scots elders hummed it on their way to kirk;
cannibals crooned it to their offspring in the jungles of Borneo; it was
a best-seller among the Bolshevists. In the United States alone three
million copies were disposed of. For a man who has not accomplished
anything outstandingly great in his life, it is something to have been
in a sense responsible for a song like that; and, though there were
moments when Archie experienced some of the emotions of a man who has
punched a hole in the dam of one of the larger reservoirs, he never
really regretted his share in the launching of the thing.

It seems almost bizarre now to think that there was a time when even one
person in the world had not heard "Mother's Knee"; but it came fresh to
Archie one afternoon some weeks after the episode of Washy, in his suite
at the Hotel Cosmopolis, where he was cementing with cigarettes and
pleasant conversation his renewed friendship with Wilson Hymack, whom he
had first met in the neighbourhood of Armentieres during the war.

"What are you doing these days?" enquired Wilson Hymack.

"Me?" said Archie. "Well, as a matter of fact, there is what you might
call a sort of species of lull in my activities at the moment. But my
jolly old father-in-law is bustling about, running up a new hotel a
bit farther down-town, and the scheme is for me to be manager when it's
finished. From what I have seen in this place, it's a simple sort of
job, and I fancy I shall be somewhat hot stuff. How are you filling in
the long hours?"

"I'm in my uncle's office, darn it!"

"Starting at the bottom and learning the business and all that? A noble
pursuit, no doubt, but I'm bound to say it would give me the pip in no
uncertain manner."

"It gives me," said Wilson Hymack, "a pain in the thorax. I want to be a
composer."

"A composer, eh?"

Archie felt that he should have guessed this. The chappie had a
distinctly artistic look. He wore a bow-tie and all that sort of thing.
His trousers bagged at the knees, and his hair, which during the martial
epoch of his career had been pruned to the roots, fell about his ears in