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George Early certainly showed some shrewdness when he took up his position as secretary to Miss Fairbrother, for his address and appearance underwent a process of swift renovation. He brushed his hair very nicely, shaved every morning, and attuned his voice to the ear that was to receive its melody during business hours.
Miss Fairbrother approved of George; he was neither uncouth nor dense like a good many other men who are clerks. He knew just when to be formal, and when his business features might relax into a smile. Nothing embarrassed him. He took over the little problems of the big office and smoothed them out comfortably—not by himself, but by the help of other men downstairs. When something puzzled Miss Fairbrother, as most business affairs did, George immediately cleared the air by affirming that Gray or Busby or Parrott could explain it, and to Gray or Busby or Parrott George went. Letters, orders, bills, complaints, came up daily to the desk of the fair employer, laying the foundation of many a thin line on the white brow; letter, order, bill, and complaint were picked up and laid down by turns, jumbled, mixed, and sighed over. Then the little bell would tinkle, and from his office adjoining in would come George, bright-eyed, confident, and submissive. Could he understand to what this letter referred? Miss Fairbrother didn't remember the matter. This complaint about stoves. Who was responsible for the delay, and was it usual to allow discount in this other case, as the customer asserted?
George didn't know; but if you think that George was fool enough ever to admit it, you have quite mistaken his character. George would attend to all these matters, and see that everything was put right. He did so too, and took upon himself a good deal of authority downstairs, which was his peculiar way.
"A man might rise to a good position here," he said to himself, flicking a speck off his fancy waistcoat. "There is nothing going downstairs; it's up here where the salary is, and the good jobs and all the rest of it. Besides, feminine society is much more in my line. Women are so much more easy to manage—in business. Who knows, some day I may be giving a rise to others: you never—— Come in!"
"Gentleman to see Miss Fairbrother."
A large man of the country builder type tramped in.
"You want," said George, with the air of one about to confer a favour, "to see Miss Fairbrother?"
"That's it, m'lad. Shall I go in?"
"If you will be so kind as to sit down," said George, with affability, "I will find out if the lady can see you. Our busiest time this; four people inside now."
"I know, I know, my lad. I have been dealing here this thirty year."
"Really?" said George.
"Yes," said the builder. "I knew your missis when she was a little 'un, two year old. They tell me she's grown a fine lass."
"She has," said George. He went inside.
Miss Fairbrother was engaged in the unbusinesslike occupation of looking over a pile of draper's patterns.
"A gentleman to see me? Joseph Brown,—I don't know the name. What does he want?"
"Wants to gossip and give a small order, I should say," said George.
"I suppose you may send him in," said Miss Fairbrother, abstractedly, feasting her eyes upon a square figured watered silk. "Is he a nice man?"
"Harmless," said George; "but probably a talker. He's been dealing here thirty years. Old acquaintance, he says."
"Oh!" said Miss Fairbrother, looking up, "what else did he say?"
The ghost of a smile lit up George's face.
"Said he knew you when you were—so high." He gave a guess at the height of a two-year-old girl.
Against her will, Miss Fairbrother's face flushed. She looked doubtfully at the door, then at the patterns, and said—
"Please say I'm very busy. Perhaps you can settle the matter yourself; I really am busy, you know," and she pulled a fresh box of patterns from under the desk, and spread them out before her.
After some trouble George convinced Joseph Brown that the four customers inside would occupy Miss Fairbrother's attention for at least two hours, and advised him to call again.
Miss Fairbrother spent the rest of the day in poring over the pages of fashion-books, leaving George to wrestle with the problems of the firm in the shape of business correspondence.
"Lucky thing she's got a good business staff," mused George. "The old man knew what he was doing when he tied those three beggars to the firm with five hundred pounds each. Not but what he might have found better men—myself, for instance. However, I mustn't grumble."
George did not grumble; on the contrary, his good humour was inexhaustible, and his temper as even as a man's temper could be, considering that he held a position of responsibility. He worked now much more than he had ever worked before; but it may safely be assumed that he was not doing it for the fun of the thing; that there was money in it, or that he did it with a purpose; in other words, that he knew what he was about.
So far as the legatees were concerned, Miss Fairbrother's secretary did not see fit to relax his vigilance. Perhaps he felt that the apathy of "Old Joe's" lawyers made it necessary in the interests of justice that a private person should take up the case, or perhaps he found it useful to have the men under his thumb; whatever his reasons were it is certain that his eyes were as watchful as ever, and equally certain that his victims strongly disapproved of his attention.
"It's my duty," he said to Gray, when that gentleman brutally asked how long he intended to intrude upon his home comforts.
"Hang your duty!" said Gray; "we don't want you."
"I'm a good lodger," said George; "ask your wife if I don't give complete satisfaction. She hasn't grumbled, that I'm aware of. You know you've always wanted a lodger, and now you've got one you're not satisfied."
Gray was certainly a long way from being satisfied. Since the advent of George Early his home had become as sanctimonious as an A.B.C. shop. He was obliged to conduct himself according to the creed of the new lodger, who held over his head the grim sword of exposure. He came home early when George willed it, and attended to his duties as secretary of the Old Friends' Society when George saw fit to grant him an evening off.
Mrs. Gray was just as pleasant with the new lodger as her husband was annoyed with him. Gray had had a partiality for Scotch whisky that had at times left much in his character to be desired as a husband. His wife confided this much to George, who promised to lead the erring husband from his wicked ways. He was as good as his word, and in due course the whisky bottle disappeared. Other bad habits of Gray's also were toned down considerably, and James Gray's wife was not slow to show her appreciation by holding up George Early as a model young man, and an excellent lodger.
"My time will come," said Gray, savagely, to George; "and when it does I shan't forget you."
"I hope not," said George, "I've been more than a brother to you."
Elated by the growing fortunes of the family, and the reformation of her husband, Mrs. Gray proceeded to lay out the extra cash that flowed into the family coffers in new strips of oil-cloth and art muslin. In her pursuit of these useful articles she kept a watchful eye on the local drapers' sales, and joined the mad rush that followed the opening doors on the first day. Fancy curtains of weird colours greeted the eyes of her husband in all parts of the house, and odd forgotten corners sprang into new life under a mantle of carpet remnants.
George Early's bedroom was not neglected, and, in order to show her gratitude for the good he had done, Mrs. Gray determined to surprise him by gracing that virtuous apartment with a brand new bookshelf, on which the dozen odd volumes of his leisure might repose with dignity.
With this object in view, she started out one morning to Stratford, hugging a catalogue wherein it was stated that among other things "bookshelves of artistic design" were to be "absolutely thrown away."
In due course Mrs. Gray reached the scene of battle, and joined the great throng of combatants all eager for the fray. It was a mighty crowd, but Mrs. Gray, who knew something of Stratford and its inhabitants, was convinced that the five-shilling mantles, skirts, and blouses would engage their attention before books and bookshelves. Her reckoning, wise as it may seem, was somewhat out; as she discovered when, hot and panting, she reached the bookshelf counter. They had sold like hot cakes. One solitary bookshelf, abashed at its loneliness, and still bearing the glaring red sale ticket, reposed on the long counter.
"Bookshelves," gasped Mrs. Gray to the nearest assistant.
"Here you are, ma'am, the last one."
"Oh! Haven't you any others?"
The crowd surged, and it was only by an effort that little Mrs. Gray got back to the counter.
"Bookshelves," she gasped again to the perspiring draper.
"Last one, better have it while you can," said the man.
"Oh, well, I——"
"How much is this bookshelf?" said a voice.
Mrs. Gray's hand grasped it convulsively. "This is sold," she cried; "I've bought it."
"I beg pardon, ma'am, I didn't hear you say——"
"I spoke first," said the other lady, laying a hand on the bookshelf; "you've no right——"
"Excuse me——"
"It's no use talking, I——"
"But I was here first, before you ever——"
"Take the money, please, one and——"
"Do nothing of the sort. I've already bought——"
"Now ladies, ladies, ladies!" cried the assistant.
"But you know——" began Mrs. Gray indignantly to the man.
"How ridiculous! You heard me say I'd have it. Why——"
"You didn't!"
"I did."
"But I was here long——"
"Mind your heads!" screamed a porter, forcing his way through.
"Here you are!" cried the assistant; "here's another one, so you'll both be satisfied."
Mrs. Gray surged out triumphantly with her bookcase, her rival following with the duplicate. Together they stood on the kerbstone waiting for the Leytonstone tram.
Mrs. Gray was a good-tempered little body, and now that she had got what she wanted she was pleased to be gracious; so when she caught her rival's eye a smile crept about her lips, which brought forth an answering smile, showing that the temper of each was but short, and that no malice was borne.
They got on the same tram, and Mrs. Gray at once held out the olive branch.
"I hope you didn't think me very rude," she said; "but I did so want this for a very special purpose, that I could have done anything rather than go without."
"So could I," said the other eagerly; "you must have thought me rude, too, but I was mad to get it."
"Really? Oh, I didn't think you rude. I'm sure I——"
"Oh, but think how I screamed. You were not so rude as——"
"I screamed too. Aren't they nice?"
"Lovely!"
Harmless chatter and apologies filled the journey, and the friendship was strengthened by both getting out at the same point.
"Do come in and have a cup of tea," said Mrs. Gray; "have you time?"
The other had heaps of time. "But I hardly like to after my rudeness," she said.
"You mean my rudeness," said Mrs. Gray, poking the key in the front door.
By the time that the tea was ready each knew a great deal of the family history of the other, and the bookshelves again came under discussion.
"I've so wanted to get a bookshelf," said Mrs. Gray. "You know, I've a lodger who's such a clever man, and so steady, that I thought he would appreciate this more than anything else."
"Really? Well, my husband's very studious; he loves books, and there's nothing he likes so much as a bookshelf, unless it's a book. He doesn't know I'm buying this; it's to be a surprise."
"So is mine."
"He will be glad. You'd never believe how fond he is of books. He spends all his spare hours in the Free Library; that will show you how studious he is. While I'm staying down here with mother, he keeps in our house all alone because it's near the library; while if he came down here he would lose an hour away from his books."
When they finally parted Mrs. Busby extracted a promise from Mrs. Gray to take tea with her on the following day, and Mrs. Gray declared it would give her the greatest pleasure to do so. Fervent kisses and exclamations of surprise at what the respective husbands would think closed the interview.
The respective husbands heard about the meeting in due course; Gray from his wife, and Busby from George Early. On the occasion of his imparting this information George took the opportunity to borrow a few pounds from Busby, which the cashier lent with some reluctance.
On the same day Mrs. Busby received a wire recalling her to Clapham.
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The constant surveillance of the irrepressible George was beginning to tell upon Gray. The golden dreams inspired by the possession of five hundred pounds a year were slowly fading, and he began to look back with some relish to the days when he could cheerfully call for a whisky-and-soda. What was the use of this wealth without the means of enjoying it? Certainly he might hoard it up for a year or two, then cast off the yoke. But could he live through the trial? Besides, the blackmailer must have his due, which considerably diminished the sum.
Gray firmly believed that George had taken infinite pains to worry him, instead of apportioning his vigilance equally among the three legatees. Why couldn't he go and live with Busby or Parrott? Gray could only suppose that these schemers had outwitted the wily George, and it made him mad to feel that he couldn't do the same. Busby especially irritated Gray, for lately he had put on airs till his manner became overbearing.
"If I could only discover what he's being paid to keep off, I'd make it warm for him," thought Gray, savagely. He pondered over the various drawbacks he had noticed in Busby previous to Old Joe's death, but couldn't call to mind any special vice among them.
"He was always a mean-spirited cuss altogether," he thought. "I suppose he's getting the money to take a Sunday School class and sing hymns."
Gray sounded George on the subject, but met with a cool reception.
"You know my principles," said George. "Do you suppose I'd tell another man's secrets?"
"No, of course not," said Gray. "You wouldn't do anything wrong; you're such a good young man."
George smiled at this subtle flattery.
"I'd like to have a go at that hound," Gray said with emphasis. "He's been putting on airs a bit too much lately, and as you don't seem to be able to keep him under, you might hand over the responsibility to somebody else."
"I might," said George; "but it wouldn't be right. You ought not to ask me such a thing."
"Of course I ought not. I'd give a sovereign to know, all the same."
This tempting offer was lost upon the secretary, who busied himself with his work.
"I believe I'd venture two," said Gray, "just to get a smack at him. What do you say to that?"
"It'd be worth it," said George.
"Well, jot it down," said Gray, "and I'll hand you the cash. You needn't be afraid of my giving the game away to any one else."
"I wonder you can ask me to do such a thing for a paltry two pounds," said George. "Now, if you'd offered five——"
"I'll see you hanged before you get a fiver out of me," said Gray, rudely.
Seeing, however, that George was indifferent as to whether he spoke or not, he presently ventured to offer him three pounds, and finally grudgingly promised five.
The secretary showed no inclination to impart the secret until the money was produced, and even then was loath to speak.
"It's a mean action," he said, fingering the note lovingly. "I'm not sure that I ought to tell."
"You're sure enough of the money, anyway," Gray pointed out.
"I'll do it for you!" said George, pocketing the money suddenly. "You're not a bad sort, Gray. And I know that you won't try to make money out of it, because that would be robbing me of my little bit. Between ourselves, I must say that there's not another man in the building I'd do a good turn to so willingly as you. You're a man, Gray, that a fellow can depend on, and I'll always stick up for you, come what may. I like you because you are honest and——"
"Hang the honesty, and stop that rot!" said Gray. "Tell me what I've paid for."
George held up his hand, then tiptoed to the door of Miss Fairbrother's room. Having satisfied himself that there were no listeners, he drew Gray out on the staircase, closing the door behind them.
When Gray returned to his seat in the lower office it was with the consciousness that he had paid a big price for a very small secret. He looked over at Busby, sitting complacently at his work, and mused on the garrulity of old age that had led Joseph Fairbrother to try to reform such a man.
"There's something solid about my failing," he thought. "Drink has ruined many men, and it's worth all the money I get to keep off it. But to allow five hundred pounds a year to a person like Busby for not swearing gets over me. Why, a man like that would be afraid to swear. It's a waste of money."
So potent is the spirit of vengeance that Gray could not wait for an opportunity, but must needs force his new-found knowledge upon the unsuspecting Busby. Avoiding his lodger at the hour of closing, Gray followed his new enemy homewards. There was a sprightliness in the foot of Busby as he tripped nimbly along on the greasy pavement, and a stubbornness in that of Gray as he followed.
Fortune favoured the man from Leytonstone before the couple had gone the whole length of the street. Busby placed his heel upon some slippery substance, and cleaved at the air with his hands. He regained his balance and uttered a most emphatic "Damn!"
A second later he was looking into the stern, relentless eye of James Gray.
"I was nearly over," said Busby, easily, recognizing his colleague. "Those fools who throw orange-peel on the pavement ought to be prosecuted. Mind you don't step on it."
Gray said nothing, but kept a piercing eye on the face of the cashier.
"Do you want me?" said Busby, "or are you coming my way? Don't stand there looking like that."
Gray took Busby's arm in a vice-like grip. "I heard it," he said, solemnly.
"Heard it?" said Busby.
"I was close behind," said Gray. "You didn't know it, but I was there."
Busby misunderstood. "I wish you'd been in front," he said, "then perhaps you'd have found the orange-peel first. I was as near as a touch going over. When you've quite done with my arm I'll have it for personal use."
"Don't try to fool me," said Gray, sternly, without relaxing his hold. "I know what I heard, and you know what I heard."
Busby's temper now began to get out of hand.
"I don't know what you heard," he said, "but I know that you're making a juggins of yourself. Leave go my arm!"
Gray complied.
"Now, what do you want?" asked Busby, offensively.
Gray lifted one finger dramatically, without appearing to notice the last remark. "I give you warning," he said, in a sepulchral voice. "Beware!"
Busby began to laugh.
"There's something wrong with you, Jimmy; you'd better see a doctor. Come and have a whisky."
"No," shouted Gray. "I refuse to have your whisky."
"Oh, all right," said Busby. "I won't force it on you. You used not to want asking twice; but I've noticed you've been off it a bit lately."
Gray winced visibly under this remark, and proceeded to turn the conversation. He drew nearer to Busby, and whispered hoarsely—
"I've warned you once, but the next time I may tell. Be careful, and remember that Gray is the man who knows."
With this melodramatic exclamation, he turned and disappeared up a side alley with appropriate mystery.
Busby stood looking after him, quite at a loss to understand.
"The man who knows? What the dickens is he talking about?"
Being satisfied that Gray was either drunk or labouring under a delusion, he continued his walk towards Fleet Street.
Gray went home alone that evening, the wounds of the past weeks soothed by this new ointment of retaliation. At the tea-table sat his loving wife, charming as only a woman can be with news on the tip of her tongue.
"Hallo!" said Gray, who saw that something had happened. "You've had some money left you."
Mrs. Gray opened her mouth, perplexed.
"You've found a purse," said her husband, "with three pounds in it, a lock of hair, and some love-letters."
"Jim!"
"You haven't? Then somebody's given you a valuable recipe for the complexion, or is it a new hair-wash?"
"What's the matter with you?"
"I know," said Gray. "You've got another lodger. If that isn't right, I give it up."
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Mrs. Gray; "but it's most ridiculous, whatever it is. I had something to tell you; but if you don't want to listen, why, of course, it doesn't matter."
"It does matter," said Gray. "I've been trying to guess."
This was not quite what Mrs. Gray expected, for who among us likes to be read? News, to be news, must burst like a thunder-clap, especially if it isn't very interesting. Seeing that she had been anticipated, the little woman was not anxious to talk; but, seeing that to hold what she had intended to divulge would have been more worrying than to tell it, she poured out the story of her meeting with Mrs. Busby, the family gossip, and, lastly, the legacy left by Mr. Fairbrother.
"It's a shame!" she cried hotly. "You ought to have got a legacy, too, Jim; you're as good as Mr. Busby, I'm sure! Why shouldn't you get a legacy for studying books?"
"I may get one yet," said the uncomfortable Jim, affecting to pass it over lightly. "These things often take a long time in the lawyers' hands. I dare say I shall get one later on."
Inwardly he was smarting from a fresh wound, which he managed to calm by a great effort. George Early had got the better of him again! He had made a fool of him, and charged five pounds for it. He waited for George to come home.
It so happened that he was doomed to disappointment, for some hours at least. George, with the five pounds chinking in his pocket, had decided to take an evening off, after the cares of a business day in the City, and was at the very moment that Gray awaited him partaking of a comfortable seven-course dinner in no less luxurious a place than the Café Royal. It was evident, too, from the negligent manner in which he ordered a coffee and benedictine, that he had no intention of hurrying home. Gray had therefore ample time in which to think out his plan of argument.
No sign of impending trouble was visible on the face of George as he emerged leisurely from the gaily lighted restaurant, and stood in contemplation for awhile on the pavement, enjoying his Havana. The fingers of his right hand were in his pocket, toying with the ample balance of Gray's fiver, and his train of thought, instead of leading him, as might have been quite natural, to dwell on the ingenuousness of his landlord, turned to the usefulness of money as an aid to the enjoyment of life.
George Early was not so young as to have never thought of this before; but who can help ruminating on the advantages of wealth amid the luxuriousness of Regent Street? On one side a jeweller's, heavy with gems, flashes its wealth insultingly upon passers-by; next door, a furrier calmly displays a two-hundred guinea wrap; lower down, half a dozen shops are surmounted by the royal arms, and only by turning into a side street can one realize the significance of any coin under a sovereign. In Regent Street, every other vehicle bears the stamp of wealth, with its spotless coachmen, and horses better groomed than half the men in the City. Languid young lords stroll by arm in arm, displaying a dazzling amount of shirt-front; elaborately coiffured ladies, fresh from some Park Lane boudoir, trip across the pavement, and dive into gorgeous restaurants. Now and again a son of toil passes, but his poverty is swamped by the surrounding glitter.
George looked on at this everyday scene with a comfortable feeling that for the time being he was one of the élite. He eyed the dress-suits with the air of a connoisseur, and approved of the toilette of every pretty woman that passed. Among his other fancies, George had a keen eye for a good figure and trim ankles, and it must be put down to his good taste in frocks and frills that he narrowly observed one young lady in particular, who stood for quite five minutes on the edge of the kerb without appearing to have made up her mind what to do next.
When a man is attracted by a feminine figure that presents a graceful and pleasing back view, he comes in time to speculate upon the looks of the owner, and, if the back view is accorded long enough, to have a natural desire to see if good looks or the reverse are her portion. This is precisely how George felt; but as the figure continued to stand on the edge of the kerb, he was forced to stroll up the street to satisfy his curiosity. As he did so, the lady made up her mind suddenly, and crossed the road at the same time as two hansom cabs came along in opposite directions. To an observer like George the moment for crossing was obviously ill-timed.
The lady hesitated, went forward, then started back. The drivers yelled, the horses slid, the lady screamed, and George dashed forward—just in time to drag her out of danger.
In less than two minutes a crowd had gathered, and George, much to his own amazement, was handing the lady into a hansom cab, and, what is more, getting in beside her. For the lady was Miss Fairbrother, head of the old-established firm of Fairbrother and Co., and employer of George himself.
It was all so odd and strange and sudden, George couldn't believe it. Even when he assisted her out and up the steps of the Fairbrother mansion; even when he paid the cab-man, and walked away, and found that he was really in Kensington, it didn't seem real. He had a faint remembrance of hearing her say "Thank you, Mr. Early," and of his having explained the occurrence to the butler; but it was all hazy and incomprehensible.
The night was still young when George again set foot in Piccadilly. He had seen fit to walk all the way back, it suited his frame of mind. From dreaming of the odd chance that should throw him into Miss Fairbrother's arms, or her into his, he had come to recalling the plain facts of the adventure, incident by incident, more minutely each time, till he stood still, metaphorically, in the middle of Regent Street, with one arm round the slender waist of his employer.
George was conscious now that it was a very slender waist, although he hadn't been aware of it at the time. He recollected, too, many other details that he had observed imperfectly in the rush of events. Her head had dropped on his shoulder, and one fair hand had clutched convulsively at his coat. He could see the red lips, the soft cheeks, the dimpled chin, the brown hair, close to his own. She wore an elaborate straw-hat creation that had grazed his forehead, the spot glowed even now as he recalled it. But what he chiefly realized now was that delicious sense of pleasure he had had in holding her in his arms for two seconds, a feeling that the exigencies of the moment had strongly necessitated his suppressing. His present leisure calling for no such harsh measure, he was at liberty to halt, in his fancy, and gaze, in his fancy, at the red lips and dimples of Miss Ellen Fairbrother.
In his present mood, and with his present faculty for handling the subject, he could have gone on from Regent Street to Brunswick Terrace, backwards and forwards, for the rest of the evening, halting each time for a considerable period in the middle of Regent Street, with cabs behind and before, and Miss Fairbrother's head on his shoulder. He could have gone on doing this, and have asked for no other amusement, if the bustling activity of Piccadilly had not led his mind away from the subject. The real truth is that George woke up from his dream in a most unpleasant fashion. In plain words, something descended very heavily on George's right foot.
To recount all that George said, and the uncomplimentary remarks he made on the other man's want of grace, together with the personal allusions to his figure, and what he would have done to himself if he had had such feet, would not be fitting in a respectable book like this. Such detail is also quite irrelevant. What has to be recorded is that in one of the intervals of vituperation the other man said suddenly—
"George!"
A look of astonishment appeared on the face of George Early, and in a moment his resentment fled. He said, "Well, I'm hanged!" and laughed. The man he was consigning to other regions was Busby.
Under the circumstances, there was nothing to do but retire to the nearest hostelry, and endeavour, by means of the flowing bowl, to re-establish amicable relations. This was done without demur on the part of either combatant; in fact, the fracture seemed likely to be the means of making a strong friendship out of what had been at best a mere business acquaintance. George toasted "his friend Busby," and paid for the drinks, whereupon Busby toasted "his pal George," and called for more.
At the third round, Busby, feeling that some explanation of his presence in that part was necessary, confided to George that he was on his way to a smoking concert, a confession that prompted George to give some information regarding himself, which he did with due caution, especially that part relating to the five-pound note.
"He's a sly dog, Gray," said Busby; "I'll bet you had a tough job to get a fiver out of him."
George agreed.
"I couldn't be close like that, Early, old chap. You know that what I give I give freely. I don't blame any man for making a bit when he gets the chance. It's nothing to me to tip you a sovereign out of a little windfall like that."
"Of course it isn't," said George, "nor two for that matter."
"No, nor two, you know well enough that I wouldn't make the slightest bother. But Gray, he's that close——"
"Close!" said George; "he worships it. He keeps every farthing."
"I couldn't be mean like that. It's a pity that he hasn't got a few more to tackle him harder than you do."
"So it is," said George.
"He ought to have me!" said Busby. "Why, if I knew—but, of course, it's no business of mine. It would be a spree to get at him. It'd be a picnic to let him see that I knew all about it. He'd have a fit."
The thought of Gray writhing under the knowledge that a second man possessed his secret pleased Busby immensely, and his merriment only subsided on his observing that George was not enjoying the joke.
"Don't you be afraid, old chap," he said. "I wouldn't ask you to tell anything that you didn't want to."
"I know you wouldn't," said George. "You're not that sort."
But the idea having entered into the head of Busby was not easy to get rid of. Perhaps, in spite of his unwillingness to draw secrets from his friend George, he had some idea of doing so when he invited that young gentleman to turn his steps towards the smoking concert, and be passed in as a friend. From what we have seen of George Early, it seems doubtful that he could be easily led into imparting knowledge that was of sterling value to himself, while he kept it to himself; but one can never tell what a man will do for friendship's sake when under the influence of alcoholic liquor.
George Early and Busby went to the concert, and encored the choruses with great gusto. At intervals they had refreshments, and in due course made their way to Charing Cross in a very friendly spirit.
Probably George had imbibed as freely as Busby, but to all appearances the cashier had surrendered himself unreservedly to the strength of what he had taken. In this mood he was inclined to refer to the subject of Gray's legacy, which he did at intervals, and at which times George, with his usual skill, let his own tongue run loose within bounds.
"You're a close dog," said Busby, at length, "nearly as close as Gray himself."
"What!" said George in astonishment. "You wouldn't have me tell——"
"Tell, be hanged!" said Busby. "He deserves it, doesn't he? Isn't he an outsider? Doesn't everybody know he is? Why, I'd tell anything about a man like that. Everybody knows he's a mean——"
"Ssh!" said George, looking behind him. "Don't shout; somebody'll hear you."
"What does it marrer? Let 'em hear. Everybody knows he's mean."
"Ssh!" said George again.
"Ssh! yourself," said Busby, giving him a playful punch. "Let 'em hear, I say. What does it marrer? What does——"
He stopped suddenly, and caught George by the arm. They looked each other steadily in the eye, and then Busby burst into a wild, silly laugh.
"It's no good, Georgie. It's no good, old man. You've done it—you've given him away. You've fairly given him away; now, haven't you? That's the secret—I've got it!"
George walked sullenly on without replying, until Busby persuasively urged him not to take it to heart.
"You're too clever for me," said George.
"Never mind, old man, I won't cut you out if I can help it."
"Look here," said George, putting on his most serious air; "don't you go borrowing all his loose cash just because he's obliged to lend it. That won't be fair, you know. You must give me a chance."
Busby magnanimously promised that George should not be made to suffer more than he could help.
Elated with his success in one direction, he next began to hazard a guess at the prominent vice of Parrott, which resulted in George's imploring him to "draw it mild" for the sake of friendship. But, being started, it was no easy matter to stop a man like Busby. The only course for George Early to take was to dexterously swap the vices of Parrott and Gray, which he did with great success. When Busby hit upon the drink question, George was seized with a trembling fit, and Busby laughed again in triumph.
"I told you you were too clever for me," said George. "All I hope is that you won't over-do it."
Busby hilariously swore at his two absent confreres, and vowed to "tickle them up a bit," just to pay off old scores.
Having embraced his friend, he rolled into a cab, and trundled off to the suburbs.
"He's too clever for me," said George, facetiously, with a smile, as the cab rolled off—"they all are. But I dare say I shall pull through. Now for a small select hotel, and bed."
Instead of seeking the small hotel straight away, he stood for a full five minutes gazing absently across Trafalgar Square. Busby and the smoking concert were entirely forgotten, and George stood again in the middle of Regent Street, with one arm round his employer's waist.
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Gray was not in a good temper when he reached the office next morning. He felt that George Early had added insult to injury by absenting himself after procuring five pounds by the meanest of tricks that man could resort to. His fierce wrath of the night before had settled down into a steady glow of bitter resentment, and at times he felt that only a swift and sudden display of physical force could compensate him for so cruel a deception.
Fuel was added to the glowing fire within every time he recalled his own insane behaviour towards Busby on the previous evening. His temper was not improved by observing that the cashier's eye roved in his direction several times during the morning, and that there sparkled in it a light of insolent familiarity. He had a great mind to show his appreciation of this attention as an office-boy would have done—by placing his thumb to his nose and extending his fingers. Such a course was, however, rendered unnecessary by the cashier coming forward to pass the time of day.
"I thought you were rather interested in me this morning," said Gray. "Perhaps I owe you something."
Busby grinned. "I don't think so, old man," he said. "I wish you did."
"If I did," said Gray, with brutal frankness, "I'd pawn my watch to pay up, sooner than be in your debt."
"Don't take it like that, old man," said Busby, affably.
"Don't 'old man' me," said Gray. "Keep your familiarity for your friends."
"Now you're getting out of temper," said the cashier, who was in a most angelic mood, and inclined to be considerate.
"I don't want to talk to you," said Gray, offensively.
"I'm sorry for that, Gray," said Busby. "I wanted you to do me a favour."
"You'll be doing me a favour," retorted Gray, "by taking yourself out of my sight—the sooner the better."
"I want," said Busby—"I want you to lend me ten bob, Jimmy."
"I'll see you shot first," said Gray.
Busby's reply to this discourteous remark was to fold his arms and assume a dramatic posture.
"You refuse?" he hissed.
It was an exciting moment.
"I don't lend money to people like you," said Gray.
"Gray," said Busby, solemnly, "I have asked you for the loan of ten shillings."
"That's half a sovereign," said Gray.
"Do you refuse to lend it?"
"I wouldn't lend you twopence," was the reply.
In spite of this plain answer, Busby kept his ground, and said in a low, severe voice, "I'll give you one more chance, Gray. Do you refuse?"
Gray now understood the situation, which had not been clear to him before. It relieved him immensely to find that he was not the only victim of the new private secretary. Assuming a proper reluctance to continue the conversation, he said in a milder tone—
"You know this is my busy day, Busby. I'll see you later on."
"Later on won't do for me," said Busby, severely, secretly delighted at the change of affairs. "You've been insolent, and you shall pay the price. I want your answer now."
Gray affected to be seized with fear, and said hoarsely, clutching the desk—
"What do you know?"
Busby was wild with delight. "Everything," he said.
Gray put one hand in his pocket, and said, in a stage whisper, "Ten shillings?"
"Ten shillings," repeated Busby.
Gray took his hand from his pocket and resumed his work.
"Go and hang yourself," he said brutally, dropping the mask. "I'm surprised at a cute chap like you allowing that cuckoo, Early, to bluff you. It's no go, old man, he's had you on a bit of toast."
This sudden change of front convinced Busby at once that Gray was speaking the truth, and a red glow of indignation overspread his features. As soon as he was able, he delivered himself of a scathing denunciation of the unlucky George, accompanied by threats of vengeance.
Misfortune having established more friendly relations between the two, Busby at once confessed to the knowledge of Parrott's drinking habits, at which Gray started, and then laughed contemptuously.
"All bluff," he said.
"It must be stopped," said Busby, fiercely. "We'll be the laughing-stock of the place if it gets about. Besides, it's dangerous."
Gray agreed; and the two entered thereupon into a dark and deadly conspiracy, which had for its initial object the abasement of George Early.
The next step was to secure Parrott's support. This was soon done, and the three conspirators now endeavoured to find some means of putting their adversary hors de combat. It was, however, much easier to discover the necessity than the means for removing such an obstacle.
"He's too artful for us," said Gray. "He's the slyest devil I've ever come across."
"I could get him the sack," said Parrott, severely; "but I don't see that that would do any good."
"More likely harm," put in Gray, quickly. "He'd never pay me any rent, and he'd be sure to blackmail me for pocket-money."
"And come to me," added Busby, "when he wanted money for clothes. My missis thinks he's 'such a nice young man,' too."
"He wouldn't be above trying to get money out of me, either," said Parrott, cautiously.
"Above it? He'd do it with all the pleasure in the world."
"We can't kidnap him and lock him in a dungeon. He's one of those slippery brutes that would wriggle out of it, and be down on us worse than ever."
Nothing short of a swift and sudden death seemed possible to repress the terrible George; but all decided that, with the present unsympathetic attitude of the law towards this means of removing troublesome persons, nothing in that direction could be thought of. Gray suggested a pleasant little scheme for taking George Early on a holiday trip, and getting him to fall over a high cliff, but it didn't sound feasible to his co-conspirators. If he would only tumble down a well, or slip in front of a steam-roller, the problem might comfortably be solved. Any such plan would, of course, need his active co-operation, which it was felt he would be disinclined to give, even to secure the peace of mind of three such good fellows as Parrott, Gray, and Busby.
At this point of the confab, when the frown of perplexity sat equally heavy on the brow of each legatee, the door of Parrott's office opened, and the trio beheld none other than the subject of their thoughts. No protecting angel had been at work warning George of the plot that was being hatched against his person, for his smile was as serene and beautiful as the morning sun that filtered in through the window panes; his manner was as easy and debonnaire as usual.
"Good morning all," he said affably. "Lovely morning, isn't it?"
Nobody answered.
"It's quite a treat," said George, looking about him, "to be alive on a morning like this, and to see all your old friends with smiling faces. Now, if I were asked——"
"What do you want?" asked Parrott, sharply.
"To be sure," said George. "What do I want?" He laughed cheerfully. "What do we all want"—looking around—"but to be comfortable and cheerful? Plenty to eat and drink; money, and the love of our friends. Eh, Busby?"
The cashier gnashed his teeth.
"In this life," began George, sitting on the edge of the table, and stretching forth one hand. "In this life——"
"That's enough," said Parrott. "Remember where you are."
"Infernal cheek!" vociferated Gray, scowling at his lodger.
"I beg your pardon," said George, contritely. "Business is business, of course. I beg your pardon. It was the glorious morning that made me feel like it; and when I came in and saw all my old friends looking so happy—there, I beg your pardon."
"Early," said Parrott, rising, and fixing a cold eye upon the secretary. "I have had to speak several times about your conduct in the firm. I have had to warn you. I shall not warn you again. Leniency is quite lost upon some people, and the only way to bring a man to his senses is to show him what he is—to put him in his place. You have had your opportunities; you have failed to make use of them, and to show proper respect to your superiors. This can go on no longer; there must be a change."
"Quite right," agreed George; "there must be a change."
"I have done what I could for you," said Parrott, with a terrible frown; "but all to no purpose. You have brought this upon yourself, and you must suffer for it. To-day I shall hold a conference with Miss Fairbrother, and settle the matter. You need not ask for mercy, either from myself or from Mr. Gray, or Mr. Busby; we are done with you. Your chances in this firm have been crushed under your own feet."
"I see," said George, coolly. "That reminds me that I have a letter for you from Miss Fairbrother. It was enclosed in one sent to myself." He handed over the note, and settled himself in Parrott's armchair while he re-read his own.
There was a painful silence as Parrott read Miss Fairbrother's letter, which in turn was perused by Gray and Busby.
In view of the recent proceedings, it was somewhat disconcerting. It ran—