He filled in the second form, with a determination to get as far away as possible from the winter of years ago. The ruler-like pipe was again handed to him; he took this time but a single whiff, for it occurred to him that in his first experiment he had perhaps erred on the side of extravagance. There was no need to give himself a series of shocks.
The youth went down Great Portland Street in such good humour with himself that he greatly desired to confer a benefit on somebody, to assist some one less fortunate. He looked about for an old woman selling matches, or for a boy shivering in the attempt to dispose of newspapers, and unable to find either, searched for a narrow side-street, where he might hope to have better success. Here again he received a check, for Devonshire Street and Weymouth Street and New Cavendish Street had disappeared, and in their place he found one broad, straight thoroughfare; he made inquiries and found it was called J & C. This he did not mind, and, indeed, it seemed an excellent arrangement when, anticipating that the next street would be J & D, he found this to be the case. But he still wanted to play the part of Lord Bountiful, and to satisfy his appetite for benevolence, and it pained him—although on broad grounds this should have furnished gratification—that up to the present he had discovered none who varied in apparent prosperity; not a high-level by any means, but, so far as he could perceive, an unmistakable level. Little variation existed in costume.
“I hope you will excuse me—” he began.
“What’s that?”
“You must pardon me, please, for speaking, but—”
“Whom do you want?”
“I can scarcely give the name, but if you will permit me to explain, I think I could make it clear to you, sir.”
“Don’t chatter,” interrupted the man curtly. “And don’t call me sir. You’re as good as I am.”
“I don’t know,” retorted the youth, with spirit, “why you should think it necessary to mention the fact!”
“Because you had apparently forgotten it.”
“Don’t go for a moment. I only wish to ask one question. Where are the poor?”
“Spell it!”
The young man complied; the other shook his head. They took to the edge of the broad pavement; the centre appeared to be rigidly reserved for those who were youthful and walked with a certain briskness, whilst either side was used by elderly folk, and by those whose movements were deliberate. The young man gave further details.
“I see what you mean now,” said the other. “There was a story about a man like yourself in one of the journals the other day. He, too, had been away in a distant colony for his health.”
“One of the humorous journals?”
“All of our journals are humorous. Any paragraph or column in which a pleasing strain of the ludicrous does not appear is blacked out by the censor. It isn’t always very clever, but it has to be as clever as can be reasonably expected for thirty-two and six a week.”
“One pound twelve and sixpence?”
“The rate fixed by the central governing body,” said the other. “Every man on leaving school receives a wage of thirty-two and six a week, and in this way all the old class distinctions have vanished, the yawning spaces between the clever and the foolish, the industrious and the indolent have been bridged. The sum was fixed—this may interest you—because it was found that a narrow majority existed of those earning less than that amount, and the injustice of the change was therefore lessened.”
“Not sure that I quite follow you,” he said politely, “but it’s exceedingly good of you to take so much trouble. I’m not delaying you from your work?”
“So long as I do thirty hours a week, it doesn’t matter when I do them.”
“An ideal existence!”
“Exactly!” cried the man, with triumph. “That’s what we have been aiming at! Just what we have achieved. Nothing short of perfection is good enough for us. If there’s any sensible criticism you can pass upon our present conditions, we shall be ready to consider it.”
“That reminds me!” he exclaimed. “I miss the poor, especially at this time of the year, when I feel generous. But of course it’s all to the good to have altered that. Only where are the children? I should like to see some children.”
“You’ll have to manage without them, unless you can get a special permit from the Minister of Education in Whitehall. In the old days parents were, I believe, allowed to bring up children in almost any manner they thought fit, and some of the results were exceedingly unsatisfactory. Let me see!” He considered for a few moments, detaining the other with one hand; his brow wrinkled with the effort of thought. “Pinner!” he exclaimed; “I rather think Pinner is the nearest. You’ll find about five thousand youngsters in the Infant Barracks there.”
“I can do with less,” he remarked. “What I want is about three or four, nephews and nieces if possible; just enough to play at charades, and musical chairs, and games of some one going out of the room—” The other smiled pityingly. “Going out of the room whilst the rest think of a man alive, and then the person who has been outside comes in and puts questions, and gradually guesses who it is. Surely they still play at it.”
“My dear sir, under the old scheme, a child wasted valuable years. Now we arrange that not a single opportunity shall be missed. Go to any of the barracks and you will find that every child, providing it has begun to speak, can give quite a pretty little lecture on, say, milk, with all the latest scientific facts relating to the subject. Each youngster is made to realise the value of moments. ‘Time is Flying’ are the words that form the only decoration on the walls of the dormitories.”
“I have it!” he cried. Folk going by stopped and raised eyebrows at this outbreak of irritation; a small crowd gathered. “Now I see why you make your journals amusing. You learn nearly everything in your early days, but you omit to learn how to laugh. When you are grown up, you have to adopt the most determined means in order to—” He went on with excitement as he addressed the increasing circle around him. The frowns and the murmurs did not prevent him from speaking his mind, and he commenced to whirl his arms. “I tell you what it is. I came here expecting to find happiness. The present didn’t suit me and I thought I’d try the past and the future. I declare you’re worse than anything.”
The crowd closed in. The man to whom he had been speaking tugged at his sleeve; he gave a sharp jerk and disengaged himself.
“And the conceit of you is the most unsatisfactory feature of the whole situation. What have you to be proud about? Here you are in the New Year, and not one of you is showing any special signs of amiability towards his fellow-man; you can’t look back to a cosy family gathering; you have bought no presents, and you have received none. If you knew how much you had lost, you would never rest until you had— But I suppose you are too sensible. Ah, you don’t like to be accused of that!”
They took him at a run through the straight street that in his time had been curved and called Regent, crying as they went, “To the fountain, to the fountain!” Almost dazed by the swiftness, and nearly choked by the grip at the back of his collar, he nevertheless recognised that their intentions were not friendly, and he endeavoured to struggle and make escape. He heard the sound of ice being smashed.
“Now then, boys. Altogether!”
A dozen pair of hands competed for the honour of ducking him; they seized his wrists, elbows, head, ankles.
“Can’t read this,” said the voice. “You’ve written it so badly.”
“Not my best penmanship,” he admitted tremblingly. “What it’s intended for is—” He wrote it afresh. “If I’m’ giving too much trouble, you can tear it up and let me go. I can easily find what I want, once I’m outside. How’s the time going?”
The smallest boy, overcoated and muffled to the eyes, had been dispatched to meet visitors at the station, and a good deal of anxiety existed in the household when one of his sisters mentioned a grisly fear that he would talk too much on the way, betraying facts which should be hidden and guarded as secrets. His mother declared Franky had too much common sense to make a blunder of the kind, and, giving a final look-round in the dining-room, expressed a hope that there would be room for everybody. She had no doubts concerning food supplies, and, indeed, any one who peeped into the kitchen, and saw the two noble birds there, would have been reassured on this point; the cold pies formed an excellent reserve in case the birds should be reduced, by the invaders, to ruins. The young man, looking on, without being seen, noticed the eldest girl (whom he loved) standing perilously on a high chair to give a touch with duster to a frame, and nearly screamed an urgent appeal for care; it was a relief to see her step down to the safety of the carpet. He was wondering whether he would come into the pleasant household, and found some encouragement in the circumstance that she took a particular interest in her reflection in the mirror; left alone for a moment, she selected his card from the rest which crowded the mantelpiece and kissed it. She also peeped behind the screen, and counted the crackers there; when her mother called, requesting to be done up at the back, she went immediately. A dear girl; he could scarce remember why or how he had found an excuse for quarrelling.
Voices of youngsters outside the front door, and the small brother rattling at the letter-box in his impatience. One of the two maids, answering, found herself as nearly as possible bowled over in the narrow hall, saving herself by clutching at a peg of the hat-stand and allowing the inrush to sweep by and through to the drawing-room. All the children loaded with parcels, which they dropped on the way, and all shouting: “Many happy returns, many happy returns!” and demanding the immediate production of an aunt, and several cousins, paying no regard whatever to the reminders from elders that they had formally promised to behave like little ladies and gentlemen.
The hostess came down in a stately way, pretending to be unaware of the fact that she was wearing a new dress. The visitors had experienced some amazing adventures on the journey, and they told them in chorus, with many interruptions, given in solo form and made up of urgent amendments concerning unimportant details. Such funny people they had met in the train, to be sure; somehow at this time of the year one always encountered the most extraordinary folk. And just as they started, who should come rushing along the platform, just too late to catch the train, but Mr.—
“Oh, here you are!” turning to the eldest girl, who had entered the room, to be instantly surrounded and tugged in every direction by the youngsters. “We were just telling your mother that your friend— Oh, look at her blushing!”
“We’ll put dinner back twenty minutes,” said the mother, interposing on her daughter’s behalf. “That will give him time if he catches the next.”
“Perhaps he never meant to come by that train,” said Uncle Henry. “Very likely he’s gone off somewhere else. One can never depend on these bachelors.”
“Tease away,” said the girl courageously. “To tell you the truth, I rather like it.”
“In that case,” remarked the uncle, “I decline to proceed. If I can’t give annoyance, I shall simply shut up. Supposing I have a kiss instead.”
Tragic moments for the children who were being released from the control of neck-wraps and safety-pins and rubber shoes, for, apart from the tantalising scent of cooking, they had to endure the trial of saying nothing about the parcels brought. They clustered around the eldest girl, knowing this to be the surest quarter for entertainment, and she would have found a dozen arms few enough for the embraces they required; some of their questions she answered as though her mind were absent, and she glanced now and again, when everybody was talking, at the clock on the mantelpiece. A sharp knock at the front door made smiles come again to her features; the mother gave a warning word to the kitchen and met the young man in the hall, where the boys were helping him in the task of disengaging himself from his overcoat by pulling at it in all directions. He could not express his regrets at the missing of the train, but every one knew what motor-omnibuses were, and as he shook hands formally with the eldest girl (who appeared rather surprised, remarking to him, “Oh, is that you?”) an aunt began a moving anecdote concerning one of these conveyances which she had boarded on a recent afternoon opposite St. Martin’s Church. She asked the conductor as distinctly as she could speak whether it went to the Adelaide, and she felt certain that he replied, “Yes, lady,” but, happening to glance out later, found herself whirling along Marylebone Road, whereupon she, with great presence of mind, took her umbrella, prodded the conductor in the small of his back—
“If you please, ’m, dinner is served!”
There were chairs at the long table that had the shy appearance of having been borrowed from the bedroom, but only one of the children made a remark concerning this, and she found herself told that another word from her would result in a lonely return to home forthwith. They all declared they had plenty of room, and Uncle Henry accepted with modesty a position near to the birds with the comment that he could always manage to eat a couple; perhaps the others would not mind looking on whilst he enjoyed the pleasures of the table; the children, now accustomed to Uncle Henry’s humour, declined to be appalled by this threat, and, indeed, challenged him, offering the prize of one penny if he should consume the contents of the dishes, bones and all. They stopped their ears whilst he sharpened the big knife, and when he said, “Now, has any one got any preference?” the grown-ups gave a fine lesson in behaviour by declaring that they would be content with whatever portions were sent down to them. The maid, waiting at table, exhibited evidence of mental aberration over the task of handing plates in the right order of precedence, but wireless telegraphy from her mistress, and from the eldest daughter, gave instructions and averted disaster.
“Do look after yourself, Uncle Henry!”
Uncle Henry asserted that, but for this reminder, he would have neglected to fill his own plate, and one of the children, unable to reconcile the extreme selfishness hinted at in an earlier stage with the astonishing effacement now proclaimed, stared at him open-mouthed. The same child later on, after expressing loudly his determination not to be frightened when the plum-pudding—over a month old and the last of its race—was brought, surrounded by a purple blaze, found performance a harder task than that of hypothetical daring, and, burying his little head in the lap of the eldest daughter, gave way to tears, declining to resume the appearance of serenity until the flames had been blown out; he regained complete self-possession on finding in the portion served out to him a bright silver sixpence, and announced his intention of purchasing with that sum Drury Lane Theatre, together with the pantomime for the current year. The elder children listened with tolerance and gave a nod to the grown-ups, showing that they knew the sum would be altogether insufficient.
“Well,” said Uncle Henry, after he had resolutely turned his head away from the offer of a second meringue, “if I never have a worse dinner, I shan’t complain.”
“Beautifully cooked,” agreed the young man.
“Credit to whom credit is due,” asserted the hostess generously. “If Mary there hadn’t superintended—”
“Mother, dear!” protested the eldest girl.
Great jokes in trying to induce the ladies to smoke, but the men were left alone together with the eldest son of the family, who had not yet taken to cigarettes and was strongly recommended by the others never to begin. The eldest son found his views on tobacco, on the work of borough councils, on parliamentary procedure, and other topics, listened to with great deference by the young man visitor, who declared there was a great deal in the opinions held by the son of the family with which he felt able to agree. Nevertheless, it was he who first suggested that they should rejoin the company of the ladies.
He came out wonderfully so soon as games were started, but it appeared he could do little without the assistance of the eldest daughter. Together, they gave an exhibition of thought-reading, and, after whispered consultation, he, being out of the room whilst the children selected four figures, came in when called, and standing at the doorway whilst she appealed for order, gave the exact figures. Even Uncle Henry had to admit himself flabbergasted.
“Do tell us how it’s done?”
“Please!”
“Don’t believe you know yourselves!”
They declared it a secret which could not be lightly shared, but in giving way to the general appeal, explained that if the first figure was (say) one, then she had used a sentence beginning with the first letter of the alphabet, such as:
“All quiet, please!”
If the next was two, she said:
“Be quiet, please!”
If the next was three:
“Can’t you be quiet!”
And so on. Parcels came in now and strings were cut, and presents given to the owner of the day. She thanked him very prettily for the brooch and pinned it at once near to her neck; he followed her out of the room to help in carrying the brown paper and to tell her that, when his birthday came, she could reciprocate by offering him the precious gift of herself. The quarrel had been all his fault. He was bending down to touch her lips when—
“No, thank you,” he said, tearing up the fourth slip. “The present time is good enough for me. Is this the way out?”
“Interesting to observe,” remarked the voice, as the curtain went back and showed the exit, “that our clients, however dissatisfied they may be in entering, are always perfectly content when they depart!”
IV—COUNTRY CONFEDERATES
“Let me get this yer all down on paper,” said George Hunt, searching his pockets. “I find if I trust to my memory everything goes clean out of my ’ead. Been like that since I was a boy.”
The man from London with the empty kit bag remarked that George was scarcely an octogenarian.
“I believe in eating roast meat if I can get it,” admitted the lad. “Never been what you London people call a crank. Spite of which, somehow or other, I don’t seem to make what you may call progress, and that’s the truth, Mr. Polsworthy.”
“How do you know that is my name?”
“I don’t,” he admitted. “All I know is that that’s the name you’ve give up at the ‘Unicorn’ where you be staying. Here’s something I can write on. ‘Advice to Intending Emigrants.’ I’ve got no special use for that. Now then, sir, let’s have it all over again.”
“I want you,” said the London man, drawing him away to a sheeted truck, and speaking with great distinctness, “to take a message for me up to the Vicarage.”
“Here’s a question I’ve very often considered to myself,” said George, stopping with the paper flat against the truck. “Is there a ‘k’ in it, or isn’t there a ‘k’ in it, or doesn’t it matter whether you put one or not?”
“And see Miss Thirkell, and tell her—”
“She’s the one with the reddish hair, isn’t she?”
“She’s the one with black hair.”
“Not fur out,” remarked George, complacently. “Go on, sir.” He continued to write laboriously.
“Tell her that some one from town wishes to see her on important business, and will she be at the station here at half-past eight this evening.”
“But they’ve got their party on. ’Sides which—”
“Nothing could be better.”
“’Sides which there’s no train about that time.”
“I don’t want her to go by train,” shouted the other in an irritable way. “I only want to have a talk.”
“Excuse me asking, sir, but is it love?”
“You’ve guessed it!”
“A wonderful thing, once it catches you. I never been mixed up in it to any considerable extent, but I keep my eyes open, and I noticed that once parties get affected by it, why there’s no telling.”
“That,” said the other, “is the case with me. It’s all on her account that I have come down here for a week, and I find it impossible for me to go back until I have seen her. Just a few whispered words of affection with her and October to me will seem like June.”
“Can’t promise to repeat all you say word for word,” mentioned George, “but I’ll give her the general bearing of your remarks. I shall say that you’re over head and ears.”
“I believe,” said Mr. Polsworthy, with something like enthusiasm, “I shall have to give you a present. You’re an honest, worthy fellow, and the most intelligent young man in the whole village.”
“I’ve said that to myself,” declared George, “frequent.” He folded the document. “About what time, sir, did you think of getting me to do this little job for you?”
When the Londoner had finished an address on the slothfulness of country life, he permitted himself to announce, more calmly, that he expected it to be performed now and at once. The young railway porter went across the station-yard, spoke a word to the signalman on duty, and started off up the hill at a pace that seemed too good to last. He did, indeed, return to say that if later Mr. Polsworthy observed he was wearing a white flower in his jacket, this might be taken as a hint that Miss Thirkell was willing to keep the appointment; if the flower was red, it would indicate she was unable to come. Mr. Polsworthy went to his hotel, where, with the aid of scented soap, he put good sharp points to his moustache, and ordered, seemingly to give opportunity for range and ability in criticism, certain refreshment; the landlady said that his complaint was the first she had received since the year ’92, and strongly recommended him to take his bag to the “King’s Head,” which possessed but a limited licence. Mr. Polsworthy, in apologising, remarked that he was one accustomed to the very best of everything, and the lady expressed an opinion that his looks and general appearance failed to bear out this assertion.
George Hunt, sweeping the platform, was wearing a red flower, and Mr. Polsworthy turned away regretfully, to consider some new mode of approaching the vicarage lady. A whistle recalled him, and George managed to make it clear that everything was right; he had placed the wrong flower in his jacket—a mistake, he said, that might have happened to anybody. George seemed highly interested now in the scheme, and produced a beard with wires to go over each ear; challenged, he confessed that he was not prepared to say to what use it should be put, or to declare that it was of any use, but it had been in his possession for some time, and he felt that either he or Mr. Polsworthy ought to wear it.
“By that means,” he urged, “recognition, if you understand what I mean, will be avoided.”
“But who is there to recognise us, and what does it matter if we are recognised?”
“There is that,” conceded George.
“You’re a fool,” declared Mr. Polsworthy.
“Not the first to pass that remark to me, not by a long chalk, you ain’t. Mother says it ’bout once a day.”
Miss Thirkell came up the slope of the platform, and George went back discreetly to his work with the broom, touching his cap to the young woman as she went by. She acknowledged the salutation distantly, saying, “Good evening, my man!” and gave a start of amazement on Mr. Polsworthy lifting his hat and throwing away his cigar. She said that he had the advantage over her and he expressed regret that her memory should constitute the one defect in an otherwise perfect and beautiful nature. Was it, asked Miss Thirkell, was it in Dover Street, the tenth of July of the current year, on the occasion of coming out of a dressmaker’s with her mistress? That, answered Mr. Polsworthy, was the very moment, and the precise occasion. Miss Thirkell considered this curious and interesting, since she was not in town on the date mentioned, and had never been in Dover Street.
Mr. Polsworthy, slightly taken aback, begged of her to refresh a brain that could never be relied upon implicitly; she admitted that they had met once. Miss Thirkell remembered the day well, because her master took the opportunity to make some extensive purchases at a sale in King Street, St. James’s, and the articles had crowded the compartment on the way down.
“A race special came in,” said Mr. Polsworthy, corroborating, “just before your train went out from Victoria, and whilst your people were having a few words with the guard I strolled across to see what was the matter.”
“Now,” cried Miss Thirkell, delightedly, “now I know you’re telling the truth!”
Her mistress, it appeared, was one who did not mind the expenditure of money in useful things, such as dress and hats, but entertained a strong objection to lumbering the house with a lot of old silver and other articles, neither, in her opinion, useful or decorative. Mr. Polsworthy expressed the view that in married life certain concessions had to be made; he had not hitherto considered the possibility of entering the state, but he was prepared to be generous in the direction referred to. George Hunt, each time they went by, looked up and nodded and made some reference to the weather; there was more rain about, in his opinion; what we wanted was sunshine, so that cricket bats might be once more used. The two, interested in their own conversation, scarcely gave notice to his meteorological comments.
“When can I come up and see you?” asked Mr. Polsworthy. “I’m only down here for a little while.”
“What seems so wonderful,” sighed Miss Thirkell, dreamily, “is that you should have come specially to meet me.”
“To do that I would travel to the furthermost ends of the earth.” He took her hand.
“Axcuse me interrupting,” said George, suddenly, “but in which direction do you reckon Canada is? You’re better acquainted with geography than what I am. S’posin’ now, you was going to walk there; which turning would you take?”
Miss Thirkell cried alarmingly that she had to be getting home; she had no idea the hour was so late. On Mr. Polsworthy offering to accompany her, she gave a short sharp scream and declared this impossible; he, a Londoner, little knew the appetite for scandal that existed in country villages. George, corroborating, said that if, for instance, he himself were observed escorting Miss Thirkell across the line, there were busybodies about who would assert they were as good as engaged. The visitor seemed inclined to snap fingers at public opinion, and dare it to do its worst; the young woman said this was all very well for him, but not nearly good enough for her; she had no wish to lose an excellent situation.
“Character’s everything in these parts,” confirmed George. “Up in London it probably don’t matter, but here it’s important. When I leave the line—”
“Will to-night at ten be a suitable time for me to call at the house to see you?”
“My dear, good man,” cried Miss Thirkell, “you must be off your head to think of carrying on like that! Why, the dog would make short work of any one who wasn’t in uniform. Besides, the butler has to go down to the gate and let in everybody that comes to the party. Now I must run. You send a message through George Hunt. He’s reliable. We were boy and girl together.”
With a wave of the hand she went. Mr. Polsworthy looked steadily at George for some moments.
“You’re a dull dog,” he said, slowly, “and that’s the only thing which makes me inclined to trust you. If you were a sharp lad, the idea would never come into my head.”
“I’m all for straightforwardness myself.”
“There is no use,” said the other, with a burst of recklessness, “no sense whatever in disguising the fact that I’m madly in love with that girl. And when a man’s in love, there’s nothing he’s not prepared to do. In some way I must manage to gain admission to that house this evening.”
“And in some way, you’ll have to manage to get out of it.”
“An easy matter.”
George looked in at the booking-hall to make sure that no passengers were about.
“You’re not the first, mister, that’s tried it on,” he remarked in an undertone.
“What’s that? I’m the last man in the world to do anything dishonest!”
“If you are,” said George, evenly, “that means Wormwood Scrubs will have to be took over by the White City. In any case, your best plan is to treat me fairly, and treat me generously, and I’ll do what I can, so long as my name’s not brought into it. My name must be kept out, on account of mother.”
Mr. Polsworthy declared his satisfaction, and hinted at surprise, on finding that George possessed so much acuteness. He did, in a general way, prefer to work alone, but sometimes cases were encountered—here was one—where assistance was indispensable. The great thing was to have a quiet half-hour inside the vicarage, and to catch the 10.23 p.m. for town. George nodded, and made one or two suggestions. Recommended a sailor’s bag; there were two in the cloakroom at the present time left by men home on furlough; one could be emptied. Mr. Polsworthy, having inspected these, made his selection and, arranging concerning the loan of an old uniform, shook hands. The kit-bag was presented to George, who said he might be able to make use of it.
“All I can say is,” remarked the man from London, “that I’m very much obliged to you. You shan’t be the loser.”
“Question is,” said George, “how much be I going to gain? I ain’t what you’d call mercenary, but I like to make a bit of money as well as anybody.”
Mr. Polsworthy seemed hurt by this view of the matter, and taking half a sovereign from his pocket, placed it in the other’s hand; George said he could go on. Polsworthy went on to the extent of four pounds and then stopped, declaring irascibly that rather than go beyond this amount he would take the entire sum back; George pointed out difficulties, one of which included a reference to Police-Constable Saxby. The amount reached five pounds, and the two again shook hands; the heartiness was this time on the side of George.
“If you have a chance of seeing her,” said Polsworthy, “keep up the idea that it’s simply and solely a love affair. It’ll make a good excuse in case I happen to be interrupted at my work. Mention that I seem to be able to talk of nothing else but her!”
“And that you worship the very ground she walks on.”
“Don’t overdo it. You can say it’s all because of love that I’m going to dress up and come and see her. Say that from what you know of me I’m as true as gold.”
“As true as five pound.”
“For Heaven’s sake,” urged Polsworthy, with some temper, “do try to avoid making a muddle. If the business goes wrong, I’ll dog your footsteps to the very last day of your life. If I get into trouble I shan’t be alone. Make no mistake about that. Where’s that slip of paper that you wrote down the particulars on?” It was produced, and the man from London, with a snatch, secured it. “Now,” he remarked, “now, I’ve got documentary evidence that you’re concerned in this game.”
“My mother won’t like me none the better for this,” said George, dismally. “But I’ll go up to the vicarage again, and give the young party your message.”
Polsworthy, in a uniform that had seen trouble, staggered into the station-yard at ten o’clock that night and was stopped at the gates by P.C. Saxby. The constable apologised for the act on seeing brass buttons, accepted the explanation that the other was an extra hand, and offered to give help with the sailor’s bag, but Polsworthy said that having managed so far alone, he would complete the job. In the dimly lighted booking-hall he set his load down with relief, and went to the porters’ room, where he changed into his own clothes. Ordered George to label the sack for London Bridge and, treating him as a stranger, gave him twopence for his service. The window of the office opened and he took his ticket from the stationmaster and strolled across the line in order to be out of the way should disaster arrive prematurely.
Nothing amiss happened, and when the train arrived, he climbed into an empty compartment on the off side, and ventured to glance out of the window to see George hurling a well-loaded sack into the front break van. They exchanged a congratulatory wave of the hand as the train went out, and George wished him, with great heartiness, good luck, and a pleasant journey.
Half an hour later George was ringing at the door of the vicarage, and playing with the watch-dog, who had followed him up the avenue, showing some inquisitiveness in regard to the load which George was carrying. Lights appeared; a head looked out of a window; in five minutes he was being received in the hall by the entire strength of the company in varied stages of deshabille. The restored articles of silver were taken out of the bag.
“A good deed,” announced the elderly vicar, addressing the audience, “deserves an appropriate and immediate reward. My dear, run upstairs for my pocket-book.”
“Thirkell,” said his wife, “run upstairs for your master’s pocket-book.”
“That’s right,” remarked the vicar, on the return of the lady’s-maid. “Two five-pound notes; here we are. George Hunt, I have much pleasure in presenting you with this acknowledgment of worthy services. My dear, give him some bread and cheese and beer, and say good-night and thank him.”
“Thirkell,” ordered his wife, “give him some bread and cheese and beer, and say good-night, and thank him.”
Miss Thirkell, in dressing-gown later at the side door, promised to be at the station in the morning in time for the first up train, and declared George had managed nicely from the start. She thought it a pity there was no chance of sending a letter to her married sister in Canada to let her know they were coming, but George said he could afford to despatch a telegram.
“And that reminds me,” he added. “I s’pose I shall have to leave ha’f a sovereign to pay for the other sailor’s bag what’s gone off with that London gentleman. I don’t want mother later on to get the idea that I haven’t behaved fair and perfectly above-board!”
V—SURROUNDINGS
“Come on in!” he cried sportively at the window of the compartment. “Plenty of room. Reserved for gentlemen. The more the merrier!”
They pushed him aside in a way that showed the determined excursionist, and the youth placed his bag on the rack and arranged more neatly his rug and selection of cheap weekly journals. The others, choosing seats, said he could now put his head out again, and in this way frighten off other passengers. Twice, before the train started, he found himself afflicted by a short, sharp cough when girls went by in couples, and as they looked around he lifted his cap, glancing over his shoulder to see whether the humour was recognised and appreciated by fellow-travellers.
He asked numerous questions of the harried porters, shouted “Move yourself!” to folk who ran up at the last moment, gave a loud whistle to the guard and waved his arm. The staff on the platform showed indications of relief as the train took him away; he begged them to cheer up, promising to be back in London in ten days’ time.
“When I go off for my holiday in the country,” he remarked, going back into his corner and placing one heel on the cushion opposite, “I always reckon to begin enjoying myself from the very start. Lose no time, is my motto. Anybody object to smoking?”
A middle-aged man answered that he did not exactly object, but he thought people who wanted to smoke might as well travel in a smoking-carriage. Had no desire to make any unpleasantness, but that was his view.
“My dear old University chum,” cried the youth, striking a match, “I can see what’s the matter with you. You’ve had a row with the missus. She’s been giving you a bit of her mind this morning. She’s been offering a few ’ome truths, and some of ’em still rankle. Now what you’ve got to do is to imitate me.”
“Heaven forbid!”
“You’ve got to throw off dull care and be merry and bright. Give us a yarn.”
“You give us,” retorted the middle-aged man, testily, “a little peace and quietness.”
“Then let’s have a riddle.”
“I’ll riddle you,” threatened the man, “if you can’t leave off badgering. Talk to one of the others. I’m tired of you.”
“He loves me, he loves me not.” Counting the ends of the window strap and throwing them away when the last gave a negative reply. “All my old friends seem to be deserting me since I come into a bit of money. Does any one want to borrow a five-pound note? Don’t all speak at once!”
The compartment seemed disinclined to talk; willing, indeed, to allow him to monopolise the conversation. He increased his efforts, and presently an anecdote told concerning a lady of his acquaintance goaded one into making the statement that the joke had appeared in print over and over again.
“Very well,” said the young blade, “then let somebody else have a go.” Somebody else did now accept the invitation, and ere the train was free of the last streets of town conversation became general, and he had to raise his voice in order to preserve for himself the lead.
“You can’t tell me nothing I don’t know about London,” he shouted. “I’ve lived there for the last three years, and I reckon I’m more of a Londoner than any one who was born there. Look ’ere; we can soon put it to the test. How many comic songs of the present day have any of you got in your repertoire? What about you, uncle?”
“My young friend,” protested the middle-aged man, “I have met, in my time, a good many bounders of all shapes and sorts and sizes, but you are the limit. Why don’t you behave yourself quietly when you’re in the presence of your betters?”
“I always do,” he replied. “Now then, if any one can give an imitation of George Robey, let him do it; if not, I’ll have a try to do the best I can. It’ll shorten the journey for you.”
They admitted his effort was not so bad, and two or three of his own age began to regard him enviously. Having regained command, he took care not to lose it again, and by the time the train stopped at its first junction he had secured an attentive audience; even the middle-aged man, on the train re-starting, asked how far he was going. The lad, with a glance out of the window, said he was not yet near his destination, but promised to give full warning when the time came near for them to endure the wrench of saying good-bye.
He conquered the middle-aged man, but appeared not satisfied with his victory, and, exercising the power of a tyrant, gave him a nick-name and invented a description of the domestic environments, insisting, in spite of the man’s assertion that he was a bachelor, on offering a lively account of the masterful behaviour of the man’s wife, her authority over him, his servile and penitent behaviour.
“A confounded young cad!” declared the other, heatedly, “that’s what you are. Most offensive specimen I ever encountered. Perfect curse to society.”
“Isn’t he a daisy?” asked the youth of the others. “Isn’t he a arum lily? Isn’t he a china ornament?”
“Leave him alone!” urged one of the others.
“Right you are,” he said, amiably. “I’ll give you a turn now.”
The compartment was becoming restive under his sniping, when some one caught the name of a station as the train flew past, and the lad, saying, “I didn’t know we were so near,” rose and took his bag from the rack. Letting the window down and resting his chin there, he inhaled the country air, and announced, with a change of tone, identification of certain houses and meadows. That was the place where he once knocked up thirty-eight, after making a duck’s-egg in the first innings; here was the very finest wood for nutting in the whole neighbourhood; over there, if you only went late enough and not too late, you could pick more blackberries than you cared to carry away. He begged them all to rise to catch sight of the spire of a church; they had to jump up again to see the thatched roof of a farm where lived, he declared, three of the best cousins in the whole world. He packed his cap in the bag, put on a bowler, and threw away the end of his cigarette.
“Hope I haven’t been talking too much,” he said, apologetically, “and I trust no offence has been taken where none was intended. Just look at that clump of trees over there, and notice the colours they’ve got; aren’t they simply wonderful? What were you going to say, sir?”
The middle-aged man hazarded the opinion that Nature knew something.
“Makes you realise,” admitted the youth soberly, “when you get down into the country, that some one else besides man has had to do with the making of the world. If you gentlemen don’t mind coming over here, you’ll be able to catch a glimpse of where my mother and my sister live. There!” he cried exultantly. “You just saw it, didn’t you, between the trees. Smoke coming out of the chimney. That means—” He pressed his hand against his under-lip. “That means they’re preparing. You’ve no idea what a lot they think of me. If they’re at the station, you’ll have a chance of seeing them. Goodbye all. Hope you’ll enjoy yourselves as much as I’m going to.”
He stepped out before the train ceased to move, and looked up and down the platform with eagerness and some anxiety. An elderly woman in black and a short girl waved excitedly to him from the inside of the doorway of the booking-office; he ran across, and, dropping the bag, kissed them affectionately.
“You dear, dear blessing!” cried the mother.
VI—RETIRING INSPECTOR
Inspector Richards mentioned to several of the staff that, whilst he had often taken part in the presentation of testimonials, he specially wished that no tribute of a valuable nature should be paid to him on his retirement, and the men, after private consideration, took him at his word. The night of his departure was the occasion, nevertheless, for many touching incidents. Inspector Richards made a point of shaking hands with all those inferior to him in position; a compliment they accepted shyly, after rubbing the palm down the side of trousers.
“Always been my desire,” he said benevolently, “to treat every one alike, and I trust I’ve succeeded.”
“You’ve done it, sir. No mistake about that.”
“I hope I have never shown anything in the shape of favouritism.”
“There again, sir, you’re right.”
“I am anxious to express the desire that nothing but what I may call kindly thoughts will be entertained concerning me when I leave the duties I have so long carried out,” said Inspector Richards elaborately, “and there’s no objection to you mentioning it, as freely as you like, that I shall be glad to see old friends at any hour, and any time, from half-past eight in the morning till eleven o’clock o’ night at three-two-seven, Hampstead Road.”
A few of the junior members were under the impression that the words suggested liberal and cheerful hospitality; those who knew Mr. Richards better warned them not to expect too much from old T. R. T. R., they said, had never yet given away a ha’porth of anything, and acquaintance with human nature induced them to believe that he, at his age, was not likely to begin. The one person who had known T. R. the longest found herself swiftly disillusioned. Harriet was to live with her father over the shop in Hampstead Road, and to keep house for him; her wedding was to take place when Mr. Richards found it possible to make other arrangements, and not until then.
“I shall look after the shop,” he said commandingly. “That’s my part of the work. All you’ve got to do is to see to the cooking, and the cleaning up, the washing on Mondays, the ironing later on, the boots, the garden at the back, and so on and so forth. You sweep out the shop first thing in the morning, but apart from that, you’re not to show your face there. Understand?”
“Yes, father.”
“Don’t give me the trouble of speaking twice,” he went on in his official manner. “I’ve been used to managing much bigger affairs, without any trouble, and this will be mere child’s play. I look on it more as a hobby than anything else. Worst thing that can happen to a man of my industrious nature is to have nothing to occupy his mind. Go in now, and don’t you ever dare come out ’less I call you.”
The shop opened promptly on the first morning, Mr. Richards wearing a silk hat as he took down the shutters, to indicate that shirt-sleeves did not mean inferiority. He nodded distantly to his neighbours, and when they asked him a question concerning the weather of the day shook his head reservedly to convey the idea that he had not yet decided the point. Inside, he arranged the cash-drawer neatly and prepared change, blew a speck of dust from the counter, and, replacing the silk hat with a grey tweed cap, lighted a pipe and waited for the rush of custom. A drawback of official life had consisted in the fact that one could not be seen smoking within a certain distance of the terminus; it had been his duty on many occasions to reprove the staff for indulging in a pipe at the wrong moment, or at the inappropriate place; the match which he struck on the sole of his slippers made a bright flaming signal of the inauguration of liberty. During the morning Mr. Richards struck many matches and smoked several pipes, so that at one o’clock when his daughter called out respectfully, “Dinner’s ready, father!” his appetite was not so good as, at this hour, it should have been.
“What sort of a morning has it been, father?” asked Harriet, with deference.
“Mind your own business,” he retorted. “And pull the muslin curtain aside so that I can see when any one comes in. I’ve told you before the shop’s nothing to do with you.”
“There’s a lad rapping at the counter,” she remarked, disregarding his orders.
Mr. Richards upset his chair in the anxiety to attend to his first customer, and hurried in, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“How do?” said the lad familiarly. “How you getting on at your new job? Settling down all right?”
“What can I do for you, Jenkinson?” Richards rested the tips of his fingers on the counter and beamed across. “Tobacco or cigarettes?”
“Last time me and you held conversation together,” remarked the lad—“I’m speaking now of a matter of six weeks ago, or it might be a couple of months—you distinctly told me, as far as I remember, that smoking at my time of life was playing the deuce with my health.”
“Everything’s good if taken in moderation.”
“And, furthermore, you said that if you caught me with a fag again, you’d report me to headquarters.”
“My humour is what they call dry,” urged Richards. “You have to go below the surface to see what I’m really driving at. How are they managing at the old place? What’s the new inspector like? Some of you will find a difference, if I’m not greatly mistaken.”
“We have!”
“Ah!”
“General opinion,” said the lad, with marked emphasis, “seems to be that this one is a gentleman.”
Mr. Richards eyed him across the counter; the other, almost quailing, asked whether the establishment included matches amongst its stores. A box being produced, he inquired how many it contained. Mr. Richards said he did not know. The lad, opening the box, remarked that it appeared to have been tampered with, and expressed a desire not to be swindled. The proprietor imperatively ordered him to go out of the shop, and went back to his meal. This had become cold; the circumstance that he himself was considerably heated did not compensate.
“There’s another!” mentioned Harriet.
A lamp-boy, bearing on his features evidence of occupation, wished to make an inquiry, and, accepting the reply, stayed to argue that tin-tacks were a necessity to many people at many times and should therefore be kept by those who desired to serve the public; he went on to give a brief lecture on the laws of supply and demand, and, this finished, seemed unwilling to leave without confessing something in the way of patronage, and Mr. Richards found himself called upon to give two halfpennies in exchange for a penny and to say “Thank you” to an individual whom he had not, in official days, condescended to notice.
“You must put some brains into it,” counselled the boy, before going out of the doorway. “That’s your only chance. Competition’s very keen at the present time. And don’t forget civility. Civility goes a long way with a lot of people.”
“Take your hand away from that new paint! I don’t want to identify customers by finger-marks.”
“You won’t have any if you don’t treat ’em properly.”
“Go back to the station,” roared Mr. Richards, “and give them features of yours a good wash!”
“Used soap and water just before I came away.”
“Then get them to turn the hose on you.”
The boy tried to think of a retort, but none came. He made a face and went.
That evening, at half-past six, saw the real start of business. In less than five minutes the shop filled with customers, all talking loudly, all demanding to be served at once, but, in spite of this, making no attempt to leave quickly. More than once in the flurry and bustle of taking money—it was the night of pay-day, and much change therefore required—he called upstairs to inquire whether Harriet’s young man had arrived; the last answer received was to the effect that the youth in question had been told not to come round that evening.
“Who told you to say that?”
“I thought it best, father.”
He made an appeal to the customers for sympathy on the grounds that he had a fool for a daughter. They asked what else he had a right to expect.
It was satisfactory to see the shop crowded, but he wished the deportment had been of a more careful nature. Some called him Richards, quite shortly; a porter, for whom it had been his painful duty to obtain three days’ suspension, referred to him more familiarly; and the retired inspector found, as many have discovered, that few of us in London, however important, escape a nickname. A few in sportive mood endeavoured to confuse him over the coins tendered, and when he had to beg one to go out and obtain some small silver for a sovereign, the messenger prolonged absence to such an extent that Mr. Richards became seriously alarmed, refusing to consider the bets offered concerning the possibility of the man never being heard of again. Temper was exhibited when the messenger returned with eighty threepenny-pieces, obtained from a friend connected with a chapel; and when it was pointed out that folk had a prejudice against accepting these, prompt answer came to the effect that in future Richards had better run errands for himself. A mouth-organ started a tune in a corner, and a porter solicited the favour of a labeller’s hand for a dance.
“I’m not going to have that noise.” They explained that it was not noise, but music. “Whatever it is, I’m not going to have it. Put a stop to it at once!”
“Look here, old man, you’re out of uniform now. None of your gold-braid behaviour, if you please. That’s gone and done with. All change is the motto.”
“But,” he pleaded, “I don’t want to be a nuisance to my neighbours.”
“You always have been.”
They gave up, with reluctance, the idea of frivolous entertainment, and went on to the discussion of political matters. Richards had prided himself on the definite nature of his opinions concerning affairs of the nation, and even intimate colleagues rarely ventured to disagree; he reminded himself now that a shopkeeper had to be extremely careful to show impartiality, and to be cautious not to give offence. Consequently he found that many cherished views had to go; appealed to when the debate became warm, he said there was a good deal to be said on both sides; you found good and bad in everybody; seemed to him you might say in general of politicians that they were six of one and half-dozen of the other. In preparing to go, the customers declared they would not give a brass button for a man who was unable to make up his mind.
“Look in again soon,” he said, with a determined effort at cordiality. “Come to-morrow evening, if you’re doing nothing else. Always glad to see you. No friends like the old ones.”
He relaxed the usual attitude towards his daughter, and said that if she felt certain hers was a case of genuine affection, and not a mere idle fancy, he had no objection to the young man looking in any evening, every evening in fact, at about half-past six. Harriet promised to convey the permission, although she could not be sure that Arthur would take advantage of it.
“Tell him he can stay on to supper,” recommended her father.
“That might influence him,” admitted Harriet. “Would you like me to give a hand with the shop when you’re so busy as you were to-night?”
“How many more times am I to tell you that I can manage the business myself? Besides, I don’t want a set of young men coming in just for the sake of chatting and talking with you. What do you think your poor mother would have said to such an idea?”
The young man on arriving the next night found a hearty hand-shake awaiting him, and an American cigarette. He was ordered to sit inside the counter and to have a good look around. Mr. Richards gave something like a lesson in geography, pointing out that Log Cabin was bordered on the east by Navy Cut, on the west by Honey Dew; that twopenny cigars were situated on a peninsula, and wax matches formed a range of mountains. Proceeding to the cash drawers, Arthur was instructed to observe that four separate lakes existed, each with its own duty, and one was not on any account to be confused with the rest. When he exhibited a desire to go in and see Harriet, Mr. Richards upbraided him for want of attention, and mentioned that all knowledge was worth acquiring, in that you never knew when it might prove useful; to retain him until the rush of business came many reminiscent anecdotes were told of railway life, incidents of difficulty faced by Inspector Richards at various periods, and always triumphantly overcome. Coming to more recent occurrences, a complaint was made that Harriet that morning going out to shop in High Street had been absent for no less than three-quarters of an hour.
“Don’t go in there!” said a voice at the doorway. “That’s old T. R.’s show. Let’s go on higher up. He’ll only try to boss it over us.”
When Harriet sang out an announcement concerning the meal, the proprietor of the tobacconist’s shop remarked brusquely that there was probably enough for two, but not sufficient for three, and in these circumstances he would not trouble Arthur to stay.
Mr. Richards was still watching the roadway, and wondering how it was possible for so many folk to pass by an attractive shop-window without stopping to give it the compliment of a glance, when he caught sight of one of his fellow-inspectors on the opposite side. Anxious for congenial company, he gave an invitation with a wave of the hand, and the other, after a moment of thought, crossed over. Harriet made another deferential announcement.
“Just in time!” he cried genially. “Come along inside, Wilkinson, and share pot-luck.”
“What do you call pot-luck?” inquired Wilkinson, with caution. Mr. Richards recited the brief menu, and the inspector decided to enter.
“Brought a friend,” said Richards to his daughter in the back parlour.
“Then we shall want a fourth chair, father.”
“No, we shan’t. Wilkinson, sit you down and make yourself thoroughly at home. How are you muddling on without me?”
“Do you want the truth?”
“Let’s hear the worst.”
“We’re getting on first class,” announced Wilkinson, his eyes on Harriet, but his words addressed to her father. “Some of them were saying only this evening that it just proved how much could be done by kindness. There hasn’t been a cross word since you left, and not a single member of the staff has had to be reported.”
“You’ll all have a nice job later on,” he prophesied. “Let them get slack and out of control, and it’ll take you months to get ’em well in hand again.”
“How do you like the change, Miss?” asked Wilkinson, accepting the offer of lettuce. “How does business life suit you, may I ask?”
“Nothing to do with her!” interrupted her father sharply. “All she’s responsible for is household duties. I believe in women keeping to their proper sphere. Once they come out of it—”
“The change hasn’t improved your temper, old man.”
He stopped in the act of helping himself to mustard, and stared at his late colleague. “Me?” he said, in a dazed way. “Me, got a temper? Well, upon my word, we live and learn. This is news!”
“Pretty stale to other people.”
“I venture to challenge that statement,” said Richards hotly. “I should like to have a decision on the point by some independent authority.”
“Ask her!”
Harriet, appealed to and ordered to speak without fear or favour, said she wanted to know why Arthur was sent away. The answer was to the effect if she had finished gorging herself with food, she could go upstairs and leave her father and his friend to discuss matters which her youth and sex prevented her from understanding. Harriet had not completed her share of the meal, but she obeyed at once.
“That’s the way to bring up a child,” said Richards, with a jerk of the head. “I’ve only got to give her a hint. Wonderful control I exercise. I give my orders; she carries ’em out.”
“You don’t seem overwhelmed with customers,” remarked the visitor, looking through the glass portion of the door.
“They either come with a run,” he explained, “or not at all.”
“I only go,” went on Wilkinson, “by what I’ve heard at the station. They came here once for the lark of the thing, but the notion seems to be that once is plenty.”
“And that,” ejaculated the ex-inspector bitterly, “that, I suppose, is what they call esprit de corps.”
“That’s what they call getting their own back. And I don’t want to discourage you, and I should like you to believe that I’m saying it only for your own good, but it’s pretty clear to my mind that, in regard to this tobacconist’s business, you’re going to lose your little all. The savings of a lifetime are going to vanish like smoke, or rather not like smoke, but into thin air. Unless,” added Wilkinson impressively—“unless you act wisely.”
“Don’t I always act wisely?”
Wilkinson shook his head. “The best of us are liable to make mistakes,” he said diplomatically, “and consequently you’re more liable than most.”
Mr. Richards failed in the attempt to make a knife balance on a fork, and sighed deeply.
“I’ve been here now for—how long?—and there hasn’t been a single, solitary ring of the bell,” went on Wilkinson. “You’ve got to look the facts squarely in the face.”
“If the worst comes to the worst,” announced the other grimly, “I shall sell the business and the goodwill and stock and everything, and embark on something entirely fresh—something where I shan’t be dependent on the kindness of old friends.”
“You’ll get a big price for the goodwill,” mentioned the visitor, with sarcasm. “And I suppose you’ve taken the premises on a lease?”
“Let me fetch you a cigar,” suggested Mr. Richards desperately, “and then you give me the best advice that lays in your power.”
“Pick out one that I can smoke.”
Wilkinson’s counsel, given after he had submitted the cigar to a sufficient test, was this. Competition, brisk and determined, existed in the trade on the part of large firms who opened shops all over the place. Small establishments could only exist by the possession of something in the shape of what Wilkinson called a magnet—a magnet to draw the people in.
“You mean a gramophone?”
Wilkinson meant nothing of the kind. What you had to bear in mind was, first, that all your possible customers belonged to what was known as the male persuasion; second, that by an old-established arrangement, which you might argue against but you had to accept, the male was always attracted by the female. Wilkinson added that in his opinion the daughter upstairs was a dashed good-looking girl, and, the cigar being near to its end, suggested that another might be presented to bear him company on the way home. And went.
“Harriet, my girl,” said Mr. Richards, “I’ve thought of an idea that I may as well mention at once before I forget it. No doubt you’ve heard the remark about Satan and idle hands. And as there’s no good reason why I should work my fingers to the bone, I shall want you to come into the shop of an afternoon and evening, and serve customers, and smile at ’em, and make yourself generally useful.”
“Afraid you’re too late, father,” she said. “If you had let Arthur stay to supper, we were not going to tell you anything about it. As it is, you’ve got to be told that we were married this morning at the registrar’s, and that I’m going to leave you now.”