A determined young person

Published in The Idler, 1895

Jupiter took out one or two stars that required repairing, and placed them on a thick, grey cloud to be attended to in the morning. Juno, looking casually through the book of engagements—it was a large book—wrinkled her brow, and hummed softly and thoughtfully to herself.

“That’s enough of it,” said Jupiter, crossly; “I know that tune.”

“What were you thinking of?” asked Mercury, respectfully. Mercury had just seen that the mail trains were safely dispatched, and was keeping one eye on the railway system generally.

“I was thinking that it wouldn’t be a bad plan,” said Juno, “if it could be arranged, for no girl to be married more than once. Then we should get these figures something like right.”

Jupiter snorted, and moved his lips silently as one who does not care to trust himself to speech. Mercury coughed, and remarked, diplomatically, that, of course, there was something in the idea, but—

“Well,” said Juno. “But what?”

“I should like to tell a tale,” said Mercury.

And he did.

Mr. Frank Northfleet was brushing his silk hat in his office in a state of great good spirits. He had changed into evening dress at the office of the Rorty Well Mining Company, and was going by Underground, Sloane Square way, to dinner.

“After dinner,” said Mr. Frank Northfleet, “I shall go upstairs and I shall get her aunt to play, and, whilst the aunt is playing, I shall say, ‘Kate, dear, I want to ask you to be my wife. I am earning—’”

There was a knock at the door—the clerks had gone—and Mr. Northfleet went to open it.

“Nime of Northfleet,” said the telegraph boy.

“Thank you, my boy.” Mr. Northfleet took the telegram. He was slightly anxious at the prospect of to-night’s essay, and he thought it would be wise to propitiate the gods by being generous. “Just off home?”

“Rather,” said the boy. “I shall be late, too. Going to the theatre.”

“Good,” said Mr. Northfleet. “Here’s half-a-crown to pay for your seat.”

“This,” said the telegraph boy, as he took the coin and placed it with much good humour in his eye, “is a bit of all right.”

Mr. Frank Northfleet opened the envelope.

Northfleet, Lothbury, London.

Mine partly flooded. Grierson gone. Come out. Blenkinsop.

The young Secretary sat down in the chair and gasped. Half unconsciously he pulled off his dress tie. Then he rose and hurried to the telephone. The Chairman of the Company was abroad, and the Directors were quite useless. He felt that the responsibility for action rested with him alone.

“Hullo there.”

“Hullo you.”

“Is that Mr. Winstanley?”

“Yes.”

“Can you go out by to-morrow morning’s ship to our mines? There’s trouble there. The Scot goes to-morrow.”

A sound of whistling at the other end.

“I thought the water was going into the Rocky Gorge Mines. It’s gone your way instead, then?”

“That’s about it, Winstanley. Can you go?”

“Only too pleased. Two thousand pounds.”

“Two thousand what?”

“That’s my fee.”

Argument had no effect in reducing this unprepossessing figure. Northfleet knew that he had no authority to expend this sum.

“Then I suppose I must go myself,” said Northfleet with a sigh.

“Right you are. Good-night. You know where to find me if you change your mind. Russell Square.”

Mr. Northfleet was shown into the drawing-room in Cheyne Gardens, and was welcomed by Mrs. Locke Hardinge and by Mrs. Locke Hardinge’s mother. She was a very charming young person, Mrs. Hardinge; none the less charming for being just now very much in love. Mr. Frank Northfleet stated the case as briefly as possible.

“Mamma dear,” said young Mrs. Hardinge, with some hurry. “Will you just see if everything is ready in the dining-room? You know what servants are.”

She turned to Northfleet as soon as the obedient parent had disappeared.

“You are not really going, Mr. Northfleet?”

“Unfortunately I am. If I go from Waterloo to-night, I shall be able to buy a few things at Southampton to-morrow morning before I get on board to-morrow. I’m not like this expensive man, Winstanley; I want a few moments’ notice.”

“I’m—I’m very sorry you are going.”

“So am I. As a fact”—he took her hand—“I was going to ask you to-night to be my wife.”

She caught her breath for a moment, and did not answer.

“And if you care for me,” went on Northfleet, “I shan’t so much mind going. Absence will only make my heart grow fonder.”

“Yes,” she said, thoughtfully, “fonder of somebody in South Africa. Look here, Mr. Northfleet, I had money in the Rocky Gorge Mines, and that’s all right now. I’ll let you have the two thousand.”

He did not hesitate for a moment.

“I couldn’t take it, dear. It’s very good of you, but—”

“I think you are very silly,” she said, decidedly.

“Silly, perhaps,” he said, “but not mean. I could not possibly be under so great an obligation to you, dear girl.”

“Am I your dear girl?”

“Why, I hope so.”

“But I may not be when you return. Do you happen to know, sir, how old I am now?”

“You are old enough to make me a dear, delightful—”

“Question, question. Do you know how old I am? I am twenty-four.” Mr. Northfleet affected extreme surprise at the magnitude of the figure. “And when you return I shall be twenty-seven, and twenty-seven is getting on for thirty, and you will find some—some diamond merchant’s daughter, or whatever the product of the country is, and—Don’t go, I can so easily spare the money.”

“I should feel, dearest love,” said Frank Northfleet, “that I was doing a dishonourable thing, and you must please let me have my own way. My mind is quite made up. But I confess I wish I hadn’t to go.”

Mr. Frank Northfleet was at Waterloo Station at half-past nine that evening. It had been hard work to say good-bye to her, but they had managed to have a good long talk, and although he might be away for a couple of years, they were going to correspond very frequently. He took his ticket, and put his portmanteau in a first smoking.

“It wants ten minutes,” said the guard. “What might be your name, sir, may I ask?”

“It might be, and indeed is, Northfleet.”

“Would you mind stepping this way, please? Someone wants to see you.”

A veiled Sister of Mercy! She was standing in the shadow of the bridge on the opposite side of the platform. She took Frank Northfleet by the hand.

“Zere is no time to loose,” she said, in queer broken English. “Do not, if you please, say a single word.”

“Well, but—”

“Listen to me, if you please.” She led him a little aside.

“It is all goontrived ver’ well, and the stolen bonds haf been sold.”

“Oh,” said Frank Northfleet, with a puzzled air. “That’s a very good thing.”

“We all leaf England at once, but you, of course, remain here; is it not so?”

“Naturally,” he said.

It occurred to Mr. Northfleet that this would be a diverting incident for him to relate (with a little exaggeration) on the Scot to his fellow-voyagers. It also occurred to him that he would make the Sister of Mercy extremely young and handsome (which she was not, for there were lines of age on her face).

“Zey all send their best regards,” continued the Sister of Mercy, “and zey hope you will be quite happy.”

“Oh, I shall he all right,” said Mr. Northfleet, laughingly. “Tell them not to worry about me.”

“And you vill never forget me?”

“Never; I give you my word of that. But do you know somehow I almost forget the circumstances. It was rather—rather a startling affair, wasn’t it?”

“It was gapitally managed,” said the mysterious Sister of Mercy. “For my part I haf heen engaged in so excellent an affair never in all my life. I hope you von’t spoil it.”

“And the detectives?” Mr. Northfleet felt that it would make the incident more interesting if he could only get at the details, “Is there no fear from New Scotland Yard?”

“Police know nozzing,” she said, with much exultation. “It has all been managed so admirable. Yoseph—you remember Yoseph?”

“I am not likely to forget Joseph,” said Mr. Northfleet, acutely.

“He is abroad to America gone.”

“That’s a good thing. But I have a fearful memory, as you know—”

“You vas allevays forgetting somethings.”

“Well,” asked Northfleet, ingeniously, “where did the robbery take place?”

“Oh, you foony fellow,” said the Sister of Mercy. “As if you didn’t know quite well. You had no hand in it; but, of course, there is your share to gonsider.”

“Of course.”

“If you never see me again you will not forget me, eh?”

The question was put with some anxiety.

“It is not likely.”

There was no harm in being polite to so old a woman.

“And now zere is but one zing to be done.”

She felt in the bosom of her dress and looked anxiously at the clock.

“Oh,” said Northfleet. “It’s not really finished yet, then.”

“Ah,” said the Sister of Mercy, “allevays the merry one of the party. You like my disguise, eh?”

She had a small canvas bag in her hands.

“Oh, I think it capital,” said Frank Northfleet, with an amused air. “You look exceedingly well in it; but I must take my seat in the train.”

“First,” she handed him the bag, “here is your share. Two thousand fife hundred pounds in notes. Goo’-bye.”

She shook hands, turned hastily, and hurried away.

“Two thousand five hundred pounds,” repeated Northfield, mechanically.

“You’ve dropped something, sir,” said the guard. He held it up to the light. “As nice a ‘undred-pound note as anyone might wish to see. You’d better take your seat, sir.”

“Well, but—but there’s some extraordinary blunder. This money is not mine!”

“I shall be ‘appy,” said the guard, politely, “to blew as much of it, sir, as you like to leave me in your will. There’s nothing like possession in these matters.”

“Can you stop that woman?”

“There’s no stopping a woman, sir,” said the guard, with the manner of one who knows the sex. “She’s ‘ooked it. Jump in, sir.”

It was so obviously an act of Providence that it really seemed impious to hesitate further.

“I think I’d better not,” cried Frank Northfleet. “Take my portmanteau out; I’m not going. Russell Square, cabman.”

It was rather late that evening when Mrs. Locke Hardinge looked into the glass in her bedroom. The washing of her pretty face and the hard rubbing had not only removed the make-up, but had given to her cheeks—she had an excellent cheek—a glow which rouge, however well intentioned, never really attains. Her cheque-book was open on the dressing-table. On the bed lay the demure cap and white bands and gown of a Sister of Mercy.

“The trouble,” said Mrs. Locke Hardinge, as she looked at the counterfoil of the cheque that she had that evening written, “the trouble that there is in this world to get married a second time and to find someone to cash a cheque for you after banking hours is—well, something tremendous.”

Mercury, as he finished his story, moistened his lips with a passing shower.

“Now,” he said, “what are you to do when there are such determined young women as that to deal with?”

Juno thought. She looked at Jupiter (who was asleep), and she remembered her Lemprière, and the anecdotes of her own early days contained therein.

“Ah, well,” she said, tolerantly; “I suppose girls will be girls all the world over, especially young widows.”

A minor author

Published in To-day, 1895

To-night nearly everything is happening in Mile End Road that possibly can happen. Scarce four minutes since an earnest young constable arrested and took off to the police-station a vagrant, dissolute naphtha lamp which he had found sprawling with no visible means of subsistence across the pavement, H 053 and his prisoner being followed by a mob of delighted infants; infants full of words of encouragement to H 053, recommending him variously to ‘andcuff it and give it the frawg’s march. Since then a quack (with a voice that almost bruised one to listen to it) has had an argument with a dissatisfied patient which came as near to blows as either of the parties desired. And now, pour comble de joie, here in a side street, is a mysterious scarlet-faced boy standing on a chair, Scotch cap in hand, and carefully blindfolded with a blue-spotted handkerchief. By his side a thin, melancholy man, with a black wisp of a tie, his frock-coat buttoned awry, is gazing hard as one lost in thought at the placard in a shop window at the corner—

Never say Die;

Come and our Shop try.

In his hand he holds a thick sheaf of long narrow papers, and these he now and again flicks absently. The crowd increases.

“What’s the oidea, guvnor?”

The thin, melancholy man does not answer.

“Anyfing wrong with the kid, mister?”

The bandaged boy grins, and is growled at by the melancholy man.

“It’s a ‘ave of some kind, Mrs. Moriarty. You may bet your boots on that.” The woman in the crape bonnet shakes her head as she speaks. “I’ve seen too much of the world, I ‘ave.”

The melancholy man sighs. He turns to the mysterious boy, unties the knot of the handkerchief, and the boys grins without restraint.

“Now we shall see what’s up,” prophesies the crape bonnet.

She pants with excitement as the boy jumps off the chair, and the man takes his place.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” He coughs with an important air, and rubs his nose. “Ladies and gentlemen!”

“’Ear! ‘Ear!”

“Allow me, in a few words, to explain and set forth the motives of my being here to-night. I am what is termed an author, or, in other words, a writer, and I am here to-night to dispose of my works and others. Some will be sung by myself; some will be sung by my young friend— Where the dev—? Oh, there you are—whose voice is one that will at once engage, and, I think I may venture to say, enchain your kind attention. The price of the works is one penny each; only one penny, or three for twopence. Three, as I say, for twopence. Here they are!” (Producing the packet in his hands.) “Three at the price of two. Several of them have not been written by me, but these are equally good, and I wouldn’t offer you anything, ladies and gentlemen, that wasn’t, to use a common expression, strictly up to the mark. I shall first of all sing—let me see, what shall I—oh, I know! ’ The Fireman’s Doom!’”

“Stand back a bit there, please,” urges the boy, shrilly. “Don’t scrowge. And keep as quiet as you can, too.”

The author hands over a dozen of the slips to the boy. Then, looking up at the shining gilded title at the top of the grocer’s shop, he, in a gusty voice, and to a popular air, sings—

The house is burning brightly,The ruddy flame is deep, Such things, friends, happen nightly When London is asleep. But ‘ark here comes the engine; Oh!, ‘Eavens

It is long as the size of the papers which the boy offers for sale testify, and it is strong, too. The front row of the crescent-shaped crowd watches the author’s lips, and all the time moves its own in unconscious imitation. The boy has a row at the back of the crowd with another boy who has called him “Bagpipes,” and returns presently flushed with success and his Scotch cap awry.

There’s always one bright pictureThat ‘angs up in that room; It’s one that gives the drawingOf the gallant Fireman’s doom!

“My next, ladies and gentlemen, is not a song!”

Some murmurs.

“It is not a song, and” (frankly) “it’s only fair to say so at once. It is a piece now out of print, written by myself, some years ago, now; suitable for recitation by children and others. Its title—its title, I say, is ‘The Countess’s Crime.’”

Return of satisfaction. Mrs. Moriarty says prophetically to Mrs. Crape Bonnet that she wouldn’t be surprised if this turned out to be worth all the rest of um put together.

“‘The Countess’s Crime.’” (The author coughs and puts one hand between the buttons of his coat; Thomas wets a thumb, and sorts a few specimens from the other slips.)

“It was a night in June,” shouts the author, “when the Countess Desmond, reclining in her boudoir in Park Lane, saw suddenly at the window the face of—” (a pause) “—of a man. At first she saw it but indistinctly. Gradually the outline grew clearer, and she—no, it could not be—yes, it was her old lover, Ambrose Fitzgerald.”

“Ph’what name’s that?” interrupts Mrs. Moriarty swiftly. The crowd says to Mrs. Moriarty, “S—s—h can’t you.”

“Ambrose Fitzgerald! She knew him at once by his black, deceitful eyes and—”

“Oi’ve known a powerful lot of Fitzgeralds in me time.” remarks Mrs. Moriarty, “but I’ll be hanged if I iver heard of this wan! It’s probably a pack of lies from beginning to end.”

True or not the author goes on with it. There is poison in the selection, and sudden death, kidnapping, and wrongful accusations, and the Countess at the Old Bailey, everything coming right in the end by the reappearance of Ambrose Fitzgerald and full confession. Ambrose Fitzgerald acknowledges that he, and he alone, committed the crimes, and mentions, excusingly, that he did them in a moment of pique. It is a tribute to the author that nobody leaves the crowd during the delivery of this piece.

Thomas going eel-like among the group offers various copies and sells four, and coming back at the end, jingles the coppers with so encouraging an air that the author almost smiles. Thomas nearly sells five copies, but Mrs. Crape Bonnet hesitates a moment and eventually replaces the penny in her corsage and says she’ll hear the next and then see. The four coppers are paid over to the author (thus avoiding the profits of a middleman) and Thomas takes one of the sheets and asks whether he shall ‘ave a shy at this. An affirmative nod in reply. Thomas begins. He has sung but one line when his master stops him.

“This, ladies and gentlemen, is not by me, but it is called ‘The Railway Smash.’ Specially interesting to those of you who are in the ‘abit, or whose friends” are in the ‘abit, of travelling by train. Copies at usual price. Fire away, Thomas.”

Thomas sings shrilly one verse; when he reaches the refrain the crowd joins shyly:—

After the smash was over,After the wreck was done,Oh, ‘ear the screams of wounded,‘Elp to assist there was none.Many are infant children,Over the engines dash.They will ne’er more see their loved onesAf—ter the smash.

Mrs. Crape Bonnet prevents herself from buying this song only by the exercise of tremendous self-control.

“Me knowing the toon, Mrs. Moriarty, d’you see it’d be so easy to get ‘old of it. See what I mean, don’t you?”

Mrs. Moriarty asks discouragingly “Ph’what’s the use of spinding your money on annything if you can’t drink ut,” and Mrs. Crape Bonnet confesses that there certainly is something in that argument. The penny goes back once more.

Three more selections and then the little crowd tires. It is helped to this state by the fact that the author suddenly turns extremely acid of speech, because they cease buying the works he has for sale. So the crowd shifts to a stall near, to shoot dancing dolls at a halfpenny for three shots. Prize for crack shots, a packet of best patent West-end Club cough lozenges.

A successful conspiracy

Published in To-day, 1895

There were races at Kempton Park, and it seemed that all the South Western trains had backed the winner. At any rate, they were coming leisurely up to Waterloo as though they had made enough money to enable them in the future to do without hard work. The man in a brown hat that was dented, muttered something strenuous about the delay, and I cordially agreed with him.

“I’m not seeprised, though,” he said, bitterly. He found half a cigar in one of his pockets and dusted it carefully and lighted! it. “I’m not seeprised. This ain’t my day, this ain’t. Mr. Erry Bushey can’t do right to-day, somehow.”

When I asked who Mr. Harry Bushey was, he said that he was, worse luck. He further remarked that sometimes he couldn’t do right and sometimes he couldn’t do wrong. In illustration whereof he told this tale.

Mr. Henry Bushey finished some few matters of business in the early morn, in Anchor street—business not wholly unconcerned with the receipt of commissions, during the breakfast hour, for backing horses—and seeing and hearing two policemen making in his direction he walked briskly off into High Street, Shoreditch. There to reach Fleet Street, he took a seat outside a Hammersmith ‘bus. Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

“It’s never my old friend Bushey?”

“That’s my name,” said Mr. Bushey, distantly. “What might be yours?”

“It might be most anything,” said the well-dressed man, who had hit Mr. Bushey on the shoulder. “It is West. You haven’t forgot Bill West?”

It was a most fortunate meeting. There were no other passengers on the outside of the ‘bus, and the two friends were able to talk with only a slight restraint.

“I’m on the biggest business I’ve ever had to do with,” said Mr. West, confidentially. “I can’t give you particulars now, but later on——”

“Hang it, man! let’s be fair and square with one another. If I had a good thing on you’d be the first man I should come and tell. I should say, ‘West, old chap, you and me was pals long ago when we was young, and I ain’t the one,’ I should say, ‘I ain’t the one to turn me back on a chum.’ That,” remarked Mr. Bushey, frankly, “that’s how I should put it, and I don’t deceive you.”

Mr. William West was silent. Presently he looked up at the Mansion House, and whistled softly and thoughtfully.

“I get down here,” he said.

“So do I.”

“I’m going to have a walk over London Bridge.”

“That’s a funny thing,” exclaimed Bushey, with excellent humour, “I’m going over London Bridge myself. We’ll walk along together.”

“Harry,” said Mr. West, with a sudden burst of confidence, “I’ll go so far as this. I don’t mind telling you between ourselves it’s a job worth thousands.”

“Good job, too. Is it joolery!”

“I can’t deceive an old chum,” said Mr. West. “It is not jewellery. I’ll go farther, I won’t deny that it’s a parcel of bonds.”

“I always said you’d do something big some day, Bill. You’ve got a gentlemanly manner about you and a winning way with the fair sect and—”

William West seized Henry Bushev’s hand.

“Bushey, we’ll work this together. Come down this lane, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

It was a short story. The night before a flurried, young foreign lady had been brought post-haste by a shady private inquiry agent to William West. A valuable parcel of Parrambo Preference bonds had been despatched from Paris by the Chemin de fer de l’ Quest, addressed to Cerveau and Cie, of Fenchurch Street; it would arrive at the Brighton Company’s terminus the following morning. If William West could only get hold of this parcel (said the foreign young lady) he could take them, if he liked, to Herr Barnoff, at a certain hotel in Bishopsgate Street, and very likely Barnoff would pay big money for them, and get rid of them abroad. Moreover, she herself was prepared to pay a handsome sum down if he would undertake to try.

“She had rather a nice manner with her,” said Mr. West, “and I took to her from the first. She showed me how it could be done; said that the parcel was insured with the Insurance Company, in Paris, for thirty thousand pounds, and the loss wouldn’t fall on the railway, and gave me a certain hint how to do it all, which I needn’t explain to you. Stand by, Bushey, and give me a hand if I want it, and you shall have a sum that you may well call ample.”

“West,” said Mr. Bushey, as they turned up the steps to London Bridge, “you was always a gentleman so far as manner is concerned, and I believe a more honester and a more straight forwarder man don’t live. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

Mr. Bushey does not know to this day how the parcel of bonds was obtained. He only knows that William West walked into the station with a new brown portmanteau, and over his arm a rug, at the hour when the valuables arrived; that he (Bushey) hard by, was taken, at that very moment, with a violent fit, that commanded the attention of everyone, officials and passengers, within a radius of yards. Brandy was brought, and Bushey slowly revived. As he was being assisted out of the station he heard that a large parcel of bonds was missing. There was much excitement everywhere; much hurrying to and fro of officials.

“Oh dear, oh dear!” said Mr. Bushey, feebly, “what is the matter now; I do ‘ope nothing’s gone wrong?”

“Something has gone a bit wrong,” said the man who was helping him out to the cab; “but don’t you worry about it, Mister. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“I know that, but what is it that’s up?”

“If they can onlv catch the chaps that did it,” said the friendly porter, “I reckon they’ll be had up, and run into Stone’s End police station, before they know where they are. They’ve collared a parcel of bonds.”

“What a shime,” exclaimed Henry Bushey. “I ofen wonder how people can bring their minds to do such ‘orrid things. Why don’t the police keep a better look out, I wonder? ‘Ere are we paying rites and taxes to keep up the police force, and—”

“Don’t you go and upset yourself again,” said the friendly porter, apprehensively.

“I’ve got a ‘eart that feels for most everybody,” said Mr. Bushey, plaintively. “The leastest thing worries me. Tell the kebby to drive to Bishopsgate Street Station, please. And ‘ere’s a glass of something for your trouble.”

William West, silk-hatted, umbrella and brown portmanteau in hand, was at the corner of Fenchurch Street, talking to a dark young lady.

“I am ver’ pleased to meet Mr. Booshey,” she said. “Come please, quickly, to this office.”

She conducted them to the second floor, and nodded to one or two busy clerks as she unlocked the door of an inner room.

“This is my own private bureau,” she said genially. She unpinned her hat and sat down at a desk.

“Ah, you’ve got a ‘ead on you, miss, you ‘ave,” said Mr. Bushey admiringly.

“I always endeavour not to lose it. You have the packet there allright?” She lifted her hands as William West opened the brown portmanteau. “It is the correct one?”

“It is the correct one, mam’selle,” said West. “I saw the label as it came out of the—”

“Good,” she interrupted. “Now, see what you have to do. It is so easy. This packet has been lost; the insurance company pays the sender the value for which the insurance has been—how do you call it?—effected. So the poor sender is recompensed, is it not? And you, my friends, who have—what is that lovely word?”

“Pinched it?” suggested Mr. Bushey.

“Pinched it, yes.” She laughed very much, and patted her eyes with a small handkerchief. “Yes, you who have—pinched it—have a right to it. Allons, take it, my friends, to Herr Barnoff, and make with him the best bargain, and if he will not buy, drop them into the Thames. I shall not see you again, for I leave London at. once. Good-bye, and accept please this.”

Herr Barnoff was a dark-haired, dark-eyebrowed, dark-finger-nailed, dark-bearded gentleman, who, when William West, had explained the business, locked the door and spoke low and confidentially.

“It is risky pusiness,” said Herr Barnoff, with much gravity. “You say dere was dirty dousand bounds worth?”

“That’s the figure,” said William West.

Herr Barnoff shrugged his shoulders.

“Dose are not much use, I fear, but I am going to Amsterdam, and berhaps I give you few hundred bounds if they is alright”

“Few hundred be blowed,” said Mr. Bushey hotly.

“Ver well. You can dake them elsewhere, if you like.”

“You must excuse me, my friend,” interrupted William West. “He’s naturally rather hasty of temper, Don’t take any notice of him.”

“I do not brobose to do so,” said Herr Barnoff suavely. “Dell me what kind of bonds those are?”

“Perhaps I’d better open the parcel?”

“That,” said Herr Barnoff, “is a gapital idea. You English people think of every-ding.”

William West cut the black tape which encorded the large canvas parcel, and broke the big red wax seals. Meanwhile, Herr Barnoff, with affectation of entire unconcern rolled a cigarette and took up a financial paper.

“Bill,” whispered Bushey ‘to William West, “we shall ‘ave to ply a game of bluff with this lager beer toff.”

“Leave it to, me,” said William West, “I never met the foreigner yet that I couldn’t get the best of.”

“They’re a cloth-‘eaded lot,” agreed Mr. Bushey, lifting the flat folded bonds out. “They don’t seem to ‘ave no common-sense like us Englishmen.”

“Now you can just cast your eye over the little lot,” said Mr. West to Herr Barnoff mysteriously. “I rather think you’ll say it’s as good a little haul as ever you saw. They all appear to be Parrambo Preference bonds, payable to bear— What’s the matter, guvnor? “

The swarthy gentleman looked at the bonds. In a moment he kicked the portmanteau to the other side of the room. He went over to it and kicked it back again with much ferocity.

“Offside, offside,” said Mr. Bushey softly.

“Don’t act the goat,” said Mr. West, with an injured air. “There’s thirty thousand pounds’ worth—”

“Dirty dousand bounds,” repeated the dark gentleman with great annoyance. “If you vas gome here yesterday I gif you goot money for them. To-day I give you nossing whatever. Look here!”

Mr. West and Mr. Bushey together spelled out the paragraph in the Financial Chatter, which the dark gentleman thrust into their faces.

“The country of Parrambo has suddenly, to the amazement of everybody, declared itself bankrupt. The new Government has decided to decline recognition of the bonds in circulation, and the holders can console themselves with the thought that the bonds are at least worth the price of old paper.

“The news was received in Paris late yesterday afternoon.”

The two looked at each other and gasped.

“This, William, is what I call love’s libour lost,” said Bushey. “I suppose all we can do now is to drop them over the Tahr Bridge. We promised the lady we would.”

“And who is the lady?” asked the annoyed Herr Barnoff.

William West explained.

“She is agent for Cerveau,” exclaimed Barnoff, with admiration, ” and a tam clever woman, too. Tam clever. Good-bye, my friends; do not forget your barcel.”

The train slackened as it neared Vauxhall.

“Which all goes to show,” said Mr. Bushey, oracularly, “that if it ain’t your day you may do what you like, but you’ll never— Is this Vauxhall? Collect tickets ‘ere, don’t they? They won’t ‘ave mine, that’s a very sure thing.”

He opened the door on the wrong side.

“They won’t ‘ave mine,” he repeated, “because I ain’t got one. I’m going to do a bunk.”

Miss Extra-Turn

Published in To-day, 1895

There is a pause of a few minutes after the infant Charles Godfrey has finally closed his Gibus against the small shirt-front, and bowed himself off. The crowded, smoking, talking hall resents the pause. Two performances a night are given at Barling’s, and the two-penny gallery knows that as this (the first) must close at 9.15, every moment is golden. The twopenny gallery whistles the Hoxton signal; it throws nutshells; it satirises the red and blue curtain; it reproaches the management bitterly.

“Pull up the blind, mister. Let’s see wot you’re a-doin’ of.”

“Do wike up there. You’re snorin’ something friful.”

“Ply the gime, ply the gime.” (This as though it were a slow match of football.)

The attendant, in brass-buttoned frock-coat, demands silence. When he obtains it, a shrill treble in the front row speaks an encouraging word.

“Don’t you ‘urry, mister. To-morrer night will do.”

On the O.P. side a small board projects itself, and the hall groans as it reads:—

EXTRA TURN

“Thenks.” The voice belongs to Shrill Treble, and speaks bitterly. “Thenks. I’ve ‘ad some.”

The curtain goes up, and a back cloth is let down. Back cloth presents a rather noble mansion, with gravel paths encircling a flower plot of amazing richness of colour, and a waterfall and a rustic bridge, and a youthful pair, arm-in-arm, looking into each other’s eyes with much tenderness. The gallery says to the painted couple, “Nort-y! norty!” and settles down into something like quietude. A bell rings. The conductor of the band (of four) simultaneously bobs to his colleagues, draws bow across his violin, and stamps one foot. A confused prelude. It is played again, and at its fourth bar there hurries on the stage, with a flattering suggestion of having been running a long way, in order not to keep us waiting—

“Brivo!”

It is Miss Extra-Turn. Miss Extra-Turn, thin young lady in pale blue, somewhat flat as to figure, and with bare arms just a little angular and red at the elbows, but with a smile that atones for all. The hall revives at the sight of the smile. Miss Extra-Turn inclines her head genially, and coughs in a lady-like manner under cover of a blue-gloved hand. Then she sings:—

You may talk of England’s greatness in the brave old days of yore,When Lord Nelsin fought, and Wellinton also;And no doubt their ‘earts were true, boys—staunch an’ true onto the coreWhen they sallied forth to meet the foreign foe.But—

(Now with much decision, as one who is forced, against her inclination, to speak her mind.)

But I think that our brave soldiers and our silors nowadaysAre just as good as ever in a fight;For our gallant tars will show ‘em that Britannia rules the waves,And our soldier boys will all defend the right.

Miss Extra-Turn commendably spares no effort to make her argument clear. She has set out obviously to administer a stinging reproof to the pessimistic school, and she means to do it effectually. When she says “soldier,” she stands upright, and puts her hands down straight at the sides of her pale blue skirt. When she says “’earts,” she slaps herself quite hard above the pale blue bodice. When she says “sallied,” she starts so threateningly towards the conductor, that he dodges back, under the impression that his life is in peril. And when she says “defend the right,” she clasps her hands, and looks upwards reverently, and, the notes being high, makes a wry face. In a general way, Miss Extra-Turn speaks the words accompanying high notes, and thus evades exertion. The words, “Defend the right,” are, however, shrieked with a fine recklessness.

“‘Old ‘im! ‘old ‘im! ‘old ’im!”

It is Shrill Treble’s interjection. He makes the suggestion as though Miss Extra-Turn’s voice were a runaway horse.

“Don’t let me ketch you again,” begs the attendant. ‘Cos if I do—”

“I’ll look awfter that,” answers Shrill Treble.

Three verses. At the end of each a chorus so easy to secure, that at the last Miss Extra-Turn is relieved from the necessity of either singing it or speaking it. The hall chants it loudly what time Miss Extra-Turn slaps herself, and hugs herself, and sallies forth to meet the foreign foe. As the end nears she bunches up her pale blue skirts, and backs to the exit

Boys that are so ready, faithful, true, and steady;For England is good old England still.

Much enthusiasm; The gallery stamps: the front row kicks at the boarding. She returns immediately, and with beaming countenance, sends kisses to the enthusiastic gallery. Shrill Treble leans over and speaks in tones of languorous love—

“Oh, you cough-drop!”

“I shall ev to out you,” says the attendant sadly, “I know I shall afore you’ve done.”

The interval seems long without Miss Extra-Turn, but it is in effect but two minutes. Then the ring. Swift symphony. Comes Miss Extra-Turn; this time in yellow with a bunch of imitation roses at her breast.

“Si-lence there, if you please.”

The hall is hushed.

“I don’t like them flahrs,” remarks Shrill Treble.

“And I don’t like you,” says the attendant definitely, “and if you don’t—”

“Sil-ence there,” repeats Shrill Treble.

It was a song of the order dramatic:—

See the pore boy at his crossing,Working hard to get his bread,Everybody looks down on him,Both his parents dear are deadSuddenly—

(Footlights down. A green, ghostly light is flashed on Miss Extra-Turn. She raises her hands in attitude of horror, and speaks impressively.)

Suddenly a horse comes bolting,Carriage with the Lady Kate,See the pore boy flies—

(Pause with much dodging of head, as she peers into the auditorium; then triumphantly)

—he ‘olds ‘im,Saves my lady—

(Green light off. Miss Extra-Turn smiles with great relief.)

—from her fate.

If this song has a fault (and even minor poets of the music hall are not perfect), it is that it possesses no chorus. This is why, despite the fact that each verse contains a separate agony and different coloured limelight; despite, too, the fact that Miss Extra-Turn gets quite hoarse with excitement, there is less applause. When she goes off there is no recall, and consequently no envoy of kisses to the gallery.

“What ev I done?” demands Shrill Treble. He draws one arm across his eyes with much show of feeling, “She no longer loves me. She no longer loves me.”

Shrill Treble’s entourage is amused, but the attendant somehow does not seem to perceive the humour of the remark.

“For two pins,” says the attendant threateningly, “for just about two pins I’d chuck you.”

“He’s got the needle,” explains Shrill Treble to his friends (but he explains it warily, in a quieter tone), “and nah he wants pins.”

Prelude. Miss Extra-Turn once mere.

Short skirts this time, indicative of increased gaiety of manner and a less profound attention to the problems of life. She wears a big straw hat, and bites one end of a belaced handkerchief to show how artless she is. It is a merry air:

I am the shyest girl on earth,I couldn’t say boo to a goose,I’ve been quite like it from my birth,I never—

It seems that dancing is not Miss Extra-Turn’s forte. She sways gently to and fro, but it is only a movement, and there is no excuse for Shrill Treble’s prompt request of “Over, over.” Nothing, it is clear, is further from her thoughts than a somersault.

Shy, shy, dreadfully shy,I can’t help it reely,Oh my, don’t wink your eye,I’m such a little seely.

The gallery likes the chorus very much. It shouts it with amazing enthusiasm; at the third line of the refrain it winks as one man. When Miss Extra-Turn bows herself finally off there is much uproar. Above it all the voice of Shrill Treble insistently as one armed with authority—

“’Ornpipe, ‘ornpipe.”

The attendant comes heavily down the gangway. He taps Shrill Treble on the shoulder.

“You’re a bit too funny,” says the attendant critically. “Shunt!”

And takes his shoulder. Shrill Treble, resigning himself to the inevitable with excellent tact, affects to take from his pocket a non-existent watch of surpassing value.

“Grite ‘eavens!” He is much astonished at the hour. “I must be off. Noin o’clock, and I promised to meet her at the stige-door at free minutes to. So long, you swells.”

A cautious youth

Published in The Idler, 1896

Mr. George Wraight had, after great consideration, asked Miss Betterton to come up the river on the Cardinal Wolsey, and little Miss Betterton, after some coy hesitancy, and some debate with Miss Oliffe who shared her room over Oliffe & Oliffe’s, had decided to accept it. Miss Oliffe had strongly urged that the invitation should be declined, and this had settled the matter.

“You shouldn’t ask my advice, dear,” said Miss Oliffe, tartly, “if you didn’t mean to take it. Mr. Wraight’s a very nice gentleman, and he parts his hair in the middle, and always lifts his hat in a well-bred manner, but I don’t think it’s the correct thing to go out with any gentleman unless—”

“That’s just why I’m doing it, dear.”

“You’ll find out your mistake some day,” said Miss Oliffe, punching her pillow with some annoyance. “Mark my words.”

“It isn’t as though I was like some girls,” urged little Miss Betterton. “I’m not silly.”

“So you say, dear.”

“Are you fond of Mr. Wraight, Oliffe?”

“I wouldn’t accept him,” said Miss Oliffe, vehemently, “not if he went down on his bended knees. Have you said your prayers?”

There was equal tumult in the mind of Mr. Wraight in regard to the river trip. The idea had come suddenly to Mr. Wraight that being quite twenty-two the time was approaching when it would be wise to settle down, and compose himself for married life. This was partly suggested by the fact that an uncle had generously offered to set him up in business in Hackney.

“She’s the only girl I ever had the least ‘ankering after,” said Mr. Wraight to his looking-glass, “and I suppose I can’t do better than offer her my ‘and and my ‘eart. But I shall be as cautious as I can, and the leastest thing will put me off.”

It really seemed that everything promised well. At the Old Swan Pier was Miss Flora Betterton, looking much prettier in the eyes of Mr. Wraight than any young person had ever been permitted in this world hitherto to look, and a hat that was perfectly bewildering, Mr. Wraight’s hand shook as he purchased tickets at the wooden office; when, down on the pier, Miss Betterton began in her bright decided way to talk, he was forced to hold tightly, with his brown gloved hand, the iron chain, to prevent himself from falling, in consequence of dizziness, into the water.

“The oddest thing!” exclaimed Miss Betterton. “Just along in Lower Thames Street—do you mind doing up this last button of my glove, Mr. Wraight? It is so difficult, you can’t think—along in Lower Thames Street, who should I come across but Mr. Mervale.”

“Ho!” said Mr. Wraight. “This button won’t fasten. Your arm’s too plump.”

“My arm’s all right,” said Miss Betterton, “it’s the glove that’s wrong. What was I talking about?”

“You were saying—”

“Oh, I remember! About Mr. Mervale. Well, he’s just over from South Africa on a holiday, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” said George, rather gruffly. “Don’t know the man from Adam.”

“I’ll introduce you presently,” said Miss Betterton. “I expect he’s gone down to the other end of the boat. You’ll like him awfully; he’s grown so good-looking.”

“Good looks ain’t everything,” remarked George.

“We used to be in an elocution class together,” went on Miss Bettorton, beamingly. “You don’t go in for reciting do you, Mr. Wraight?”

“Singin’s my line,” said George.

“I suppose there’ll be something of the kind going on as we come back. If I’m asked— Oh, the boat’s moving!”

“I’ve got something I want to ask you presently,” said George.

“I’m the worst one you ever met for riddles,” she said. “I only know that one about ‘When is a jar not a—’ “

“It isn’t exactly a riddle,” explained George, awkwardly. “It’s more important than any riddles; perhaps, if it’s quite agreeable, I’ll mention it on the return journey.”

“Just as you like,” said Miss Betterton agreeably. “We’ve got all the afternoon before us. I’m glad there’s an orchestra on board, aren’t you? I wouldn’t give a penny for the river if it wasn’t for the music on board.”

“Music ‘ath charms,” quoted George with an effort, “to soothe the savage breast.”

“Indeed,” said Miss Betterton, coldly, a little hurt at the remark.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” said George, anxiously. “I wasn’t arguing for a single moment that you—”

“Here’s Mr. Mervale. Let me introduce you.”

Mervale, a tall, clipped-bearded man with a Kentish accent and a quiet manner, said he was pleased to meet George, and George said (but his looks did not corroborate the statement) that he was proud to make the acquaintance of Mervale.

Mervale offered George his cigar-case, and George selected two, placing one in his waistcoat pocket to smoke, as he said, some other time. It was impossible to deny that Mervale was, if a silent, yet and attentive man. Just as George was thinking over the matter of refreshments, Mervale went below and returned with lemonade and claret for Miss Betterton; when the idea of going to the side of the vessel the better to see the Houses of Parliament struck him, he found that Mervale was already conducting the lady thither.

“Seems to me,” said George, sitting back on his seat, “that I’m getting left. I shall ‘ave to set about this matter seriously.”

A sheet of letter paper lay at George’s foot. He picked it up absently, and closing his eyes thought out the form of declaration. By the time Miss Betterton had returned to her seat, George had made up his mind.

“Miss Betterton,” he said, twisting the slip of paper nervously, “that little matter that I mentioned just now. ‘Ave you ever thought about getting married?”

Miss Betterton turned her pretty head away modestly.

“I don’t know that I’ve ever paid much attention to the subject,” she said.

“Well,” urged George, “it’s just as well to look these unpleasant facts—what I mean to say, it’s no use putting everything off till the last moment.”

“There’s certainly something in that,” agreed Miss Betterton. She arranged the lace edging of her scarlet parasol with exceeding care, “My mother always used to warn us girls against procrastination.”

“Against who?” enquired George, sharply. Miss Betterton explained. “Oh, I see what you mean. But what I was speaking of, and what I wanted—what I wanted to ask you was—”

George assures me on his honour as a draper and a man, that a glass of water—nay, a mere sip of water at that moment would have saved him. His mouth seemed parched, his tongue unwilling. Nervously he unrolled the twisted sheet of note-paper and glanced at it. The writing was that of the decorous young lady beside him, and the first lines read thus:

” ‘Alfonso, dearest, why do you remain away from everyone that holds you dear? I, who desire your presence near to me, would fain lay down my life to see thine eyes. Come—’ “

George read no more. He crumpled the paper hastily, and the young lady turned to him.

“What you wanted to ask me was what?” enquired Miss Betterton.

” ‘Pon me word, I forget,” declared George, lamely, “My memory’s going like anything. I shall forget me own name presently.”

“But can’t you try to remember?”

George rubbed the top of his straw hat as one endeavouring to stimulate thought, and frowned at Blackfriars Bridge.

“It’s gone,” he said, despairingly.

“Perhaps you’ll think of it again presently,” suggested Miss Betterton, with some coyness.

“Perhaps,” answered George. He folded the sheet of note-paper. “I fancy,” he said, meaningly, “that this belongs to you.”

Miss Betterton flushed with great confusion, and, taking the sheet hastily, placed it in her pocket at the back of her white skirt.

“How careless of me,” she said, with much annoyance. “I am stupid. Have I just dropped it? I wouldn’t have you look at that for worlds.”

George went to the stern of the steamboat to smoke a cigar with the satisfied air of a man who has stopped himself on the very brink of a precipice, and Mervale from South Africa took his place.

“Pulled meself up,” said George to himself, “just in time. Another moment and I should ‘ave been let in for it.”

It was an awkward day for George, but it might have been much worse. To have ascertained the perfidy of Miss Betterton, and to have been forced to wear during the whole of the day a domino of geniality would have been intolerable. The fortunate presence on the voyage of Mervale—who really seemed a very decent, quiet, generous sort of fellow—enabled George, when he could no longer keep up the pretence of good temper, to leave Miss Betterton in the care of the man from South Africa, returning when his equanimity was temporarily restored. Such was George’s thankfulness to Mervale, that he determined to disclose to him the information concerning Miss Betterton’s foreign friend in order to place him upon his guard.

“You are dull all at once, Mr. Wraight,” complained Miss Betterton. “When we started you were quite bright. Does the river journey upset you?”

“No,” said George, curtly, “it don’t.”

“That’s Richmond Park over there, isn’t it? Be nice to go there some day, wouldn’t it? A fine afternoon it would be rather pleasant.”

“All right for them that like it.”

“I believe you’re almost a bit of a cynic, Mr. Wraight,” said Miss Betterton, with an attractive air of reproof.

“It’s enough to make anybody,” said George, gloomily.

“I wish you’d tell me what it is that’s gone wrong, I’m sure there’s something.”

“I tell you there isn’t,” said George, doggedly.

“You’re not cross—you’re not put at all because I’m speaking to Mr. Mervale? You see he’s such an old friend.”

“I don’t mind you talking to him,” declared George, honestly. “Seems a straightforward sort of chap enough.”

“Well, then,” persisted Miss Betterton, “it must be something else. Is it anything I’ve said?”

“Look ‘ere,” said George, goaded to desperation, “you let things be as they are. Nag at me too much, and I shall say something that I shall be sorry for after. Now you understand, don’t you?”

“You are a peculiar young gentleman,” said Miss Betterton. “I can’t half make you out.”

George is not prepared to offer any explanation, but he declares that on the return journey, as soon as the sun had gone down, and the insinuating twilight came, and lamps on board were lighted, he found his heart warming again with an affection for Miss Betterton. He tried to think of the compromising letter which he had read that morning, but even this document could not prevent him from admiring her. Whilst the other ladies on board were dusty and tired, with hair straight that once was wavy, and with temper fractious that once was equable, Miss Betterton looked as delightful and chattered away as good-temperedly as ever.

George went so far once as to stroke her wrist, but Miss Betterton, glancing at the silent Mervale, spoke to George reprovingly. Passing by Kew, singing commenced, and cheerful young gentlemen tipped their hats back and sang rollicking songs about meeting ladies on a ‘bus, and about having too much to drink, and of being locked up, and of other diverting incidents; and young ladies closing their eyes sang, in a shrill stolid soprano, ballads of great emotion. When Miss Betterton’s turn came, that young lady responded with alacrity (for it is not on board a steamboat that one may affect to excuse oneself; else is one incontinently passed over).

“I’m not in very good voice for singing,” explained Miss Betterton to the circle, “but I can recite a piece if you like.”

The silent Mervale moved forward, the better to hear, and there was a gallant murmur of encouragement.

“Is it long?” asked a lad.

“Depends,” answered Miss Betterton, sharply, “what you call long. It is called ‘The Spanish Maiden to her Lover,’ and it’s written in what is called blank verse.”

“Fire away,” said the lad.

Miss Betterton glanced at the admiring Mervale and rose. George, standing at the back out of sight, prepared to listen casually. It occurred to him, he tells me, at that moment, what a proud man he would be if he were to possess some day for a wife a lady so gifted in elocutionary gifts who could entertain company on early closing evenings in this refined and artistic manner.

“The Spanish Maiden to her Lover.”

Miss Betlerton coughed and looked severely round until everyone had ceased talking. Then again the title.

“The Spanish Maiden to her Lover.”

“Is that all?” asked the lad who had previously interrupted.

Miss Betterton killed him with a glance of reproof, and Mervale looked at him in a manner that caused the interrupting lad to take a serious complexion. Miss Betterton commenced her recitation in a high aggrieved tone—

Alfonso, dearest, why do you remainAway from everyone that holds you dear,I, who desire your presence near to me,Would—

George could only restrain himself from rushing forward by holding on tightly to the white painted rail at the side of the steamer. The moment that the recitation was over, he forced his way insistently through the congratulating crowd and shook hands affectionately with the flushed artiste.

“I’ve thought of what I wanted to ask you this morning,” he said softly.

“Really?”

“What I wanted to say was would you kindly go so far out of your way as to consent to become my wife? “

“Well,” said Miss Belterton, calmly, “I don’t know but what I might have done if you had asked me before. But down at Hampton Court Mr. Mervale was kind enough to make the same offer, and so—well, you’re too late.”

George Wraight, in relating to me this story, said that he is now engaged to Miss Oliffe, and wishes to remark in conclusion that what it seems to him to amount to is simply this. Some people (says George) are born lucky and some ain’t. For his part, it seems to him that he belongs to the ain’ts.

A conflict of interests

Published in English Illustrated, 1896

“Captain” Ballard, sitting opposite to me in the tea-shop in the Rue de Rivoli, sells me a copy of En Avant, and places the coins with some care in a small leather purse. I offer my St, James’s, and “Captain” Ballard reads an account of an interesting counterfeit coin case heard the previous morning at Clerkenwell Police-Court. She sighs when she reaches the finish of the report, and shakes her head and takes two more lumps of sugar.

“Ah,” she says regretfully, “kerime, kerime, kerime! You can’t stem it; you can’t stop it; you can’t retard it. On, on it goes, never ceasing, never ending. Ho, if only—”

I remark that there is presumably some attraction about the game.

“I never found it so,” says “Captain” Ballard, with some tartness, smoothing her blue serge skirt. “It was always jolly ‘ard work for me, that I do know. Before I found I’d got a soul I was as much in the thick of it as ‘ere and there a one, and I think I’m entitled to speak a word or two on the subject. There was one affair I rec’lect—” She stopped herself. “It don’t become any of us to brag onless we do it in a spirit of thenkfulness; but it does no ‘arm to look back on them bad times, if only we can prove a warning to those dear bretheren and sisters who—”

When I manage to stop “Captain” Ballard’s oration I ask her for particulars of the incident to which she has referred. “Captain” Ballard stirs the tea-pot, and leaning two elbows on the marble table, tells this tale.

On the day after Sir Benjamin bought the picture at Christie’s Miss Ballard was engaged as lady’s maid to his daughter. It was one of those strokes of luck which do not occur often (so Miss Ballard says) in one lifetime, and the excellent character produced by the new maid, together with her ability to speak colloquial French, considerably assisted her engagement. This shows the advantage of writing one’s own testimonials.

“Now look here, my dear”—Sir Benjamin never spoke to the servants; his young daughter had full control over them—“I want them all warned that just for a day or so this most valuable and delightful Velasquez—I’m sure I can get more than I gave for it if I can only hit upon the right man—this picture will remain here; and I want everybody to keep their wits about them, Maggie, and there must be no loafers downstairs, or anything of that sort. See?”

“I understand, papa. This is Ballard, the new maid.”

Sir Benjamin promptly turned his back upon Miss Ballard.

“Ask her whether she’s got a sweet-heart?”

“No, indeed, Miss,” said Miss Ballard with an indignant air. “I don’t ‘old with them for a single moment. I ‘ve got something better to do than bother my head about a pack of grinning—”

“Because if she had,” said Sir Benjamin to his daughter, “she would have had to understand that he mustn’t come hanging around here. I hope they all clearly comprehend that.”

“I think they ought, papa. We are always reminding them of it.”

“Anything else, Miss.”

“No, Ballard. Make the acquaintance of the others, and try to work as quietly as you can and avoid all disturbance.”

“You trust me, Miss, for that. I don’t suppose a more amiable person than me has ever been born on this earth; and as for quietness, why I don’t think you’d find my equal. I’m sure the last place I had—it was in the country certainly, but that don’t affect the argument—they couldn’t find words to express what they thought of me.”

“Tell her to go, Maggie,” shouted Sir Benjamin hotly.

Miss Ballard, going downstairs, immediately made inquiries in regard to this stringent, and to her possibly inconvenient, rule in regard to followers.

“It’s as much as your life is worth,” said Cook regretfully, “to try it on. It’s awk’ard I admit; but what can’t be cured must be endured.”

“It don’t show much sympathy to’rds your fellow-creatures,” remarked Miss Ballard. “I don’t see any ‘arm myself of one young man calling now and again. One isn’t like a ‘ole regiment.”

“Your young man a army man, may I ask?” inquired Cook.

“No, indeed,” said Miss Ballard proudly. “I do draw the line somewhere. My friend is in business on his own account, and doing very well. He ‘s been away on a—er—kind of ‘oliday for some months—”

“Months?”

“Oh, well,” said Miss Ballard, “if he likes to, why shouldn’t he? He gets all his exes paid.”

“I wonder whether I know his name?” said Cook.

“No,” answered the new maid shortly, “you don’t.”

“You ‘ve been in good families, I suppose, before this?”

“Good enough.”

“There’s many a worse one than this,” remarked Cook. “The young mistress knows what’s right and she knows what’s wrong, and she will have what’s right. Once she finds out you ‘re a-trying to play false with her, you get your month.”

“I’m not trying to play false with her,” declared Miss Ballard indignantly. “What do you mean by your ‘ints?”

“I wasn’t ‘inting at all,” answered Cook; “I was only just mentioning for your own private information out of the goodness of my ‘eart, as you may say, that—”

“You keep the goodness of your ‘eart to yourself, then,” said the new maid definitely. “I can look after myself right enough.”

“That’s a good thing.” Cook shivered with indignation. “I shouldn’t think anyone else would want to do it for you. There’s no need to fly all to pieces directly anyone ‘appens to open their mouth; and whilst I think of it, perhaps you ‘ll kindly step out of my kitchen and not interfere with me in my work with your silly gossip. I ‘ve got something else to do besides answering all your inquisitiveness.”

“I’m going as fast as ever I can,” said Miss Ballard, trembling, “and I bid you good afternoon.”

“‘Urry,” said Cook.

When, later, a letter marked “Ergent” arrived addressed to Miss M. Ballard, Cook directed that it should be laid on the dresser so that Miss M. Ballard could find it if she liked. “Perhaps,” added Cook, “it would learn her a lesson not to be so haughty in her manners. Civility,” added Cook, with some severity, “civility becomes us all.”

The house was late that night in retiring to rest. Several visitors called after dinner to see the Velasquez, and a South African person had offered Sir Benjamin a thousand pounds over and above the amount paid for the picture. At Sir Benjamin’s express directions, his daughter locked the door very carefully, and placed the key on her bunch, and Miss Ballard took the key off’ the bunch with the dexterity that practice brings. Her spirits revived under the prospect of success, and if it had not been so late she would have sent a telegram to Huntingdon Street, Hoxton.

“As it is,” said Miss Ballard to herself brightly, “this little trick will have to be executed by Number One. Jim will be cross at being out of it, but Jim must put up with that. It ‘ll just show him that a woman’s as capable if she only gets ‘alf a chance as any amount of men. Jim has been just a leetle bit too ‘igh and mighty once or twice of late, and though I didn’t say anything, I didn’t like the way he threw his boot at me the other night. It wasn’t what I call etiquette.”

Miss Ballard crept downstairs very carefully. She was fully dressed ready to go out as soon as she had cut the canvas from the frame. She did not mind leaving her box behind, inasmuch as it contained only sufficient lumber to make it feel heavy. The way out into the area would be the most convenient exit.

“Steady does it,” remarked Miss Ballard, softly. “Where’s that key and where’s that knife?”

There was a glimmer of gas in the library, and the Velasquez could just be seen dimly on the easel in the corner. Miss Ballard considered it wise not to turn up the gas, and taking the knife she cut the painting very closely at the edge of the old frame. The knife was very keen, and the job was nearly completed (the top only remained to be severed) when suddenly there was a grating noise of a window opening. She started back, and closing the knife, placed it in her pocket. The window opened slowly, and presently a man swung himself into the room. To Miss Ballard’s terror, he went straight to the corner where she was.

“I’m very sorry,” she pleaded in a whisper. “I’d no idea you were watching; I ‘aven’t done any particular ‘arm.”

The man turned his bull’s-eye on her and did not speak.

“I can tell you ‘re a good sort, Sergeant,” she went on, “from the kind look on your face.” As a matter of fact, it was not possible to see his face; but it seemed a diplomatic thing to say. “I’m just going out of the ‘ouse.”

“Oh,” he said, “just a-going are you? Not till I say you can go, young woman. You must kindly consider yourself my prisoner until I think fit to say otherwise. What is it? Case of going out to see your sweetheart, s’pose?”

“That was just it, Sergeant.” The suggestion seemed to revive Miss Ballard’s spirits. “You don’t suppose for a moment, I hope, that it was anything else. I ‘ve got what you may call a unspotted character, and it isn’t likely I should want to go and rob the plate, or anything of that kind. If you don’t mind, I ‘ll just step back to my room, thanking you for—”

“That’s a nice old picture that,” he said. The white shaft of light from his lantern waved round and settled on the Velasquez. “I’m a bit of a art lover myself, and—”

“Why,” interrupted Miss Ballard, “you’re not in uniform!”

“Well, I know that. Can’t a ‘tec dress in plain clothes?”

“But you don’t, somehow, look like a ‘tec.”

“That’s the cunning part of it,” he said. “There ain’t a better man at making up in all Scotland Yard than Robert Warkins.”

“And are you engaged specially to look after this picture?”

“That is my identical business at the present time. I ‘ve been waiting outside, but it’s a bit parky there, and I don’t know as I won’t stay in ‘ere for a bit. And if anybody comes in whilst I’m here, why—”

He took a neat little revolver from his trousers pocket.

“Well, you don’t mind if I say good-night to you?” asked Miss Ballard with a regretful look at the picture. It was hard to have arrived so near to success, and then to have to leave.

“Not at all, my dear. Don’t you go and lose your beauty sleep on my account. By-the-bye, is there a new girl come to-day name of Ballard?”

“I rather think there is,” said Miss Ballard, “but I haven’t met her. I daresay I shall do sooner or later.” Miss Ballard at the door seemed struck with a sudden thought, and took her long white wrap from her neck. “Good night.”

“Good night,” he said. “Don’t make a noise as you go upstairs.”

“It’s all right, Sergeant; I’ve got me boots off.”

He turned, and, holding up his small bull’s-eye lantern looked at the Velasquez and chuckled. Miss Ballard closed the door very quietly, and very softly crept up behind him. The white wrap went round thick and secure over his mouth, and was tied quickly; the revolver taken out of his pocket. The man, astounded, sank back for a moment into an arm-chair.

“Now look here. Sergeant: you just ‘ark a—a bit to me.”

She covered him with the revolver, and he made vain attempts to speak.

“You attempt to loosen that scarf that’s over your mouth or you attempt to get out of that chair until I say ‘Go,’ and as sure as I’m a living woman you ‘ll never see Scotland Yard again. Understand that.”

He looked at her appealingly but did not dare to move. A faint sound of suppressed grumbling came from his lips.

“Less noise there,” said Miss Ballard, commandingly. “That’s the worst of you detectives. You ‘re all jaw. Get up now and open that window. It isn’t easy to see quite how to manage this business, but I’m going to do it. Open the window.”

He complied with the order. He also gave a most appealing look to her, and raised his hand to undo the tight, well-tied knot at the back of his head.

“Ah,” said Miss Ballard warningly, “would you? You do that again and pop goes this little pistol. Now I ‘ll just talk to you plainly, Sergeant. Sit down in that chair again.”

He obeyed reluctantly, with one eye on his revolver, which she held steadily.

“I ‘ll tell you straightforwardly what I’m a-going to do. I’m a-going to pinch this painting and get away with it, whether you like it or not. If you don’t like it, you can lump it!”

He smiled, and would have moved his hands again towards the tight knot, only that the revolver jerked threateningly.

“I ‘ve got the upper ‘and of you now,” she said, “and if you was the chiefest inspector ever born in Scotland Yard, you shouldn’t interfere with me or stop me at the present point. This is serious business for me. Make so much as another move to untie that shawl, and your life won’t be worth a bad threepenny bit.”

With her left hand Miss Ballard cut the top line of the painting. Released, it slipped down on the floor. As it did so, the door opened behind her, and the muffled man in the chair made a swift rush for the window. The revolver dropped from the hands of the startled Miss Ballard, and went off with a loud report.

“Now, then!” cried Miss Ballard; “you’re doing what I told you not to. Why couldn’t you keep quiet instead of—”

“You good, brave Ballard!” The voice of her young mistress made Miss Ballard turn. “You have stopped that dreadful burglar from stealing the beautiful picture. My father will never be able to thank you enough.”

She was in her scarlet dressing-gown, and there was a look of mingled amazement and admiration in her eyes.

“What a smart, clever maid you are, Ballard. How did you have the courage to do it?”

“Well,” said Miss Ballard modestly, “it had to be done, and I did it.”

“But why are you wearing your bonnet?”

“I thought,” explained Miss Ballard, “that I might ‘ave to chase him.”

She went to the open window and looked down. The man had taken off the wrap, and, turning at the corner, he shook his fist at her.

“You silly Juggins,” he shouted.

When the household had complimented Miss Ballard to its full and was returning again to rest after the commotion caused by the scare. Sir Benjamin elected to stay in the library for the rest of the night, and thanked his stars that the Velasquez was going away to its new purchaser the next day. Cook relented her harshness towards the new maid, and brought her the letter.

Miss Ballard read it—

Dear Martha,

A chum of mine is going to try to get in to-night. His name is Robert Warkins. Do all you can to help him.

Jim

“I ‘ope,” said Cook graciously, “that we shall get on better than we begun. I’m a bit “asty in me temper, but if you ‘re ‘ere for a bit longer I daresay we—”

“I ‘ve had just enough of this shop,” said Miss Ballard moodily; “I shall sling my ‘ook at the very earliest opportunity.”

“Captain” Ballard drinks up her tea (which is cold) and takes a lump of sugar, to be munched on her way home to the Rue Auber. She sighs a little regretfully.

“Ah well,” she says, pulling her straw bonnet forward, “Glowry be it’s all past and forgot now. There’s a well-known ‘ymn commencing—”

I am so afraid “Captain” Ballard is going to sing that I shake hands.

“Sinful days,” says “Captain” Ballard as she grasps my hand, “Sinful days, but, my word, they was exciting.”

A model crime

Published in The Idler, 1896

The two swollen-eyed men from Bethnal Green rubbed their stubbly chins thoughtfully with the palms of their hands. They glanced at the yellow young man in the armchair, and then out of the window at Jermyn Street. The yellow young man was Mr. P. Rawlings, from San Domingo, and these were his chambers.

“Wot d’ye mike of it, Jimes?”

“It’s thick,” whispered James, hoarsely. “Vurry thick, Awlbert.”

“T’ent as though this gent wanted the other gent abslootly mide off with,” urged Albert.

“I should strongly object,” interposed young Mr. Rawlings from the armchair, in his thin high voice, “if anything of the kind were done. Understand that, once for all. There must be no great harm done to Mr. Burleigh. He is simply to be kept out of the way for a month. He proposes to start shortly for a quiet trip on the Continent, and—”

“Before his merridge,” remarked James.

Mr. P. Rawlings threw his black cigar into the fire with an impetuous exclamation.

“Be-fore his merridge,” echoed Albert.

“He must be abducted and kept quietly for a space until I give the word,” said young Mr. Rawlings.

The two men glanced at each other again.

“He’s a biggish chep,” remarked Albert.

“Chlorryfom might do it,” said James, thoughtfully. “But it’s a precious risky job. Do you ‘appen to know the lidy he’s going to merry, sir?”

It was a most unfortunate question.

“What the devil has that to do with you, man! There is your business. Mind it.”

Mr. P. Rawlings was in a great rage. He had started up from his chair, and stood glaring with his small black eyes at the two men.

“No ‘arm done, sir,” said James, in a conciliatory way, “I on’y asted the question. I wish to Gaud he wasn’t a M.P., that’s all. They’re such a fussy lot, and you see he’s a important chep. Why, I see his portraits are in the shop-windows, and he’s in Madame Tussaud’s, and—”

“I know, I know. It makes me hate him all the more.”

“Got to be done to-night, has it, sir?”

“This very night. He walks round St. James’s Park between nine and ten. What you ought to do is—”

A long detailed explanation. The two Bethnal Green gentlemen listened with great attention, nodding now and again as sign of their acceptance of the suggestions.

“If I were abroad,” said Mr, P. Rawlings at the conclusion, “this could be done as easily as the striking of a match.”

“Ah!” said James, bitterly, “that’s just where it is. You’re in ‘appy England now, the ‘ome of the free, where for the leastest little thing a man finds hisself locked up. Still, we’ll do wot we can, won’t we, Awlbert?”

He closed his left eye for a moment as he looked at his colleague.

“We will that,” responded Albert. “The best of men can do no more.”

“You understand,” said Mr. P. Rawlings, decidedly, “that I give you nothing now. Come back here this evening and take me to the place where he is, and the money is yours.”

“I could ‘ave done with a bit on account,” said James.

“Not a penny,” said Mr. Rawlings, definitely.

The two Bethnal Green gentlemen sighed a protest against the dogmatism of Capital.

“Well, if you won’t, mawster,” said Albert, philosophically, “I suppose you wont.”

The House that evening was unusually full. There was some excitement in the air, and earlier in the afternoon the Inspector had shaken up nearly a helmet full of tickets for the Strangers’ Gallery. The space dividing Ministers was littered with the strips of paper which members tear up when they are in an emotional mood, and no one was perfectly asleep. The youthful-looking member who was addressing the House came to his peroration. He glanced at a small red bonnet in the Ladies’ Gallery.

“For my part, Mr. Speaker, I can only say, that so long as life remains with me—and that period may be short, and it may be long—I shall not cease to present with all the vigour in my power the arguments to which the House has so generously listened this evening.”

Enthusiastic cheering, as Mr. Gerald Burleigh resumed his seat. Congratulators nodded from the front bench of his own side. A pleasant little note of felicitation tossed across from the opposite side. Young Mr. Burleigh, M.P., hurried round to meet the small red bonnet.

“You are going for your usual walk round St. James’s Park, I know,” said the Red Bonnet, pleasantly.

“No, I am not, dear. I’m going to stroll with you on the terrace.”

“Well,” the Red Bonnet gave a sigh as affectation of regret, “it is useless to argue with a Member of Parliament. I only hope that my cousin—Bother!”

Mr. P. Rawlings, blinking his small black eyes, said he was pretty middling. How was Mr. Burleigh? Burleigh, without answering, said that Mr. Rawlings’s cousin and he were just about to stroll on the Terrace, so that they would have to say good-bye to Mr. Rawlings.

“Burleigh,” Mr. Rawlings took the young member aside. “I want to speak to her as a member of the family about money matters. I want to do something rather handsome for her when this affair of yours comes off.”

“You’re very good,” said Mr. Burleigh. He said this unwillingly, for he usually told the truth. “But, really, I don’t know—”

“No, you don’t. I’m not so bad as you think, Burleigh. I’ve got a heart after all, although my manner is a little odd at times. Now, you go for your usual run and I’ll talk to her.”

Mr. P. Rawlings insisted on walking out of St. Stephen’s and across the yard with Gerald Burleigh. He seemed to talk rather quickly, and with a dread of anything like a pause in the conversation. Outside the gates he stopped.

“I must hurry back to my cousin,” he said. He looked across the road and took his scarlet silk handkerchief from his pocket. The two Bethnal Green gentlemen standing on the opposite side of the road saw this, and then, shading their eyes, looked up at the clock. “You won’t be more than half-an-hour?”

“Less,” said Gerald Burleigh.

And striding across the road, St. James’s Park way, he disappeared from sight.

“Nah, for this desprit deed,” said James, with much good-humour. “Is Ginger in Birdkige Walk with his keb?”

Albert nodded, and smiled the confident smile of a general who sees success.

“It’s the biggest old beano I was ever in,” he said. “I will sy this for you, Jimes. You’re a perfect mausterpiece.”

Mr. P. Rawlings did not return to his cousin. Instead he took a swift cab to his rooms in Jermyn Street, and, arriving there, walked up and down outside. He was in a great state of nervousness, and he managed, in peering anxiously towards the end of the street, to drop bis pince nez and smash the glasses.

“Well, I’m hanged!” said Mr. P. Rawlings. Which remark was, of course, premature.

A cab drove up. On the top was a long orange case, corded up. Out of the door stepped James; James, in a state of much disorder, red stains on his band, a look of extreme fright on his swollen countenance. Albert behind him trembling obviously with horror.

“Well,” said Mr. Rawlings, with an attempt at cheeriness, “you’re soon back. You’ve managed it, I hope?”

“Yus,” said James, hoarsely. His voice sounded like the voice of a blanket. “Yus, we’ve managed it. For Gaud’s sike, sir, go upstairs.”

Mr. P. Rawlings did so. He left the door open for the two men to follow, and switched on the light in his rooms. He picked out a particularly strong cigar, as though to honour the occasion, and stood the liqueur stand on the table. Then, with his back to the fire, he awaited their coming.

“Mind the corners, Jimes,” said Albert “Lift your end, cawn’t ye?”

“Aint I aliften my end?” said James, in a hoarse whisper. “It’s bloomin’ ‘eavy. Nah then, al-together! That’s it.”

They brought in the long case and placed it carefully on two chairs. Mr. P. Rawlings started forward.

“Stand back, sir,” whispered James. “Don’t touch the ‘orrid thing until you’ve ‘eard the tile. Awlbert, shet the doar.”

“What on earth have you got there?” cried Mr. Rawlings, excitedly.

“He’s not on earth,” said James, reverently, “He’s in ‘Eaven, poor chap, or ‘Ell as the kise may be. Can’t you turn the lights dahn a bit, sir?”

There was a break in the voice of the Bethnal Green gentleman. He untied the cord as the yellow Mr. Rawlings and the trembling Albert stood by. Albert poured out some port in a tumbler; James turned over the top lid of the case and lifted a handkerchief from the end.

“Great God,” cried Mr. Rawlings. “You’ve killed him!”

The two men took their caps off reverently as they looked with every sign of remorse at the placid face, Mr. Rawlings gazed at the smoothly parted hair, the neat moustache, the strong chin, the—

“Tell me what it means,” he cried, feeling for the broken pince nez. “Why have you done this? Why have you brought him here?” The two men did not answer. “Do you know who you are? You are”—he gave the word in a muffled scream—“murderers.”

The two men started as Mr. Rawlings, half white now and half yellow, hissed the word at them.

“It was an oversight, I admit,” explained James, slowly. “I s’pose we used too much chlorryfom. But if you’re going to call us nimes, mister, perhaps we can find a title or two for you.”

“What is it to do with me?”

“A prutty tidy bit,” said James, with much decision. “For one thing we’re a goin’ to leave Mr. Burleigh here, and we’re a goin’, Awlbert and me, to give ourselves up at Vine Street. There’s nothing like being perfectly strite forward in these matters. And your nime will be mentioned as ‘aving egged us on to the deed.”

Mr. Rawlings screamed. He rushed to the door and turned the key.

“You have done this purposely,” he exclaimed. “You blackguards.”

“We didn’t do it purposely,” remarked Albert, setting down the tumbler; “but we cert’ny are blaiguards. All free of us are.”

“Come on, Awlbert,” said James, “It’s no use arguing the question. Let’s get down to Vine Street and see the Inspector. How might you spell your nime, mister?”

“Look here,” young Mr. Rawlings breathed quickly. “Look here. I’m going away. I am going to leave London at once.”

“No daht,” said James, ironically. “O no daht. And leave us two gentlemen to bear the brunt of it all.”

“You have only to—to dispose of the body,” said Mr. Rawlings, appealingly. “You can easily do that.”

“Ho, yus,“said Albert. “Nothing easier I’m sure.” He laughed a short sharp laugh of derision. “It’s quite a everyday job this is.”

“Look here,” cried Mi. Rawlings. He laid a hand on James’s sleeve in an imploring manner. “If I give you”—he whispered a large sum—“will you get rid of it? I shall catch the morning mail at Charing Cross, and go right away—for good.”

James hesitated. He drew Ins colleague aside, and conferred with him.

“Look ‘ere sir. We’re lettin’ you ‘ave it all your own way, I know, but if you’ll double that figure, we’ll—well, we’ll do wot we can.”

“And you will take this—this away?”

He looked with loathing at the ghastly upturned face in the long wooden box.

“No cheques mind you,” said James, with sudden suspicion.

“Notes and gold, my good man, notes and gold.”

The transaction took but a few minutes. Then the two men lifted the long box and carried it slowly downstairs.

“Give us a ‘and, Ginger,” said James to the red-haired cabman. “The gent don’t want it awfter all.”

A yellow frightened face watched them between the curtains of the first floor window. The cab drove off slowly and solemnly St. James’s Street way. At the corner it stopped.

“There’s on’y one thing now,” remarked James. “How are you going to get rid of the body of this onfortunate young Member of Parliament.”

He laughed with the satisfied air of a man who has done a good night’s work.

Albert considered.

“Tell ye wot,” said Albert, “I’ll tell ye wot. Tike it back to the Marylebone Road where we pinched it from; stick it outside the blooming Exhibition and let old Tussaud, or wotever hisnime is, find his property there in the morning. Is that good enough?”

James slapped his colleague on the knee.

“My boy,” answered James, with much good-humor, “it’s great, I never ‘ave give back anything before as I borrowed, but just for once, I’ll do it.”

An indispensable confederate

Published in To-day, 1896

Miss Martha Coles came through the passage from the pit of the theatre into the frantic, lighted, excited, street, and stood for a moment to let the crowd pass whilst she patted her eyes with her handkerchief and sniffed. It had been a most affecting play. The misfortunes of the heroine, halting only ten minutes before the finish, had caused Miss Coles to weep unrestrainedly. She pulled her veil down over her face—it was not what fair-minded critics would call a pretty face—and hailed a ‘bus.

“Right for Knightsbridge, I s’pose?” she remarked, as the ‘bus stopped.

“Knightsbridge!” said the conductor, ringing the bell with much annoyance. “What’s the idea of stopping a Shadwell ‘bus when you want Knightsbridge? Cawn’t you read what’s on the side, or won’t you? Where d’you reely want to go to?”

“Why,” replied Miss Coles, shrilly, “a ‘undred-and-thirty-two, Lowndes Square, of course!”

“Very well, then,” shouted the conductor; “go!”

Miss Martha Coles, shivering with indignation, turned away. As she did so a short youth, in a very shiny silk hat, left the man to whom he was talking and stepped forward.

“Pardon me, miss,” he said politely, “but did I understand you to say a hundred and thirty-two, Lowndes Square—Hon. Mrs. Linton’s house?”

“I might ‘ave done,” said Miss Coles, guardedly.

“Then allow me to direct you. My friend and myself—here, captain!—are walking that way. Permit me to introduce my friend, Captain Mayhew. My name, is Bunn.”

“I’m sure you’re very kind!” began Miss Coles; “but—”

“My dear madam,” said Captain Mayhew, fencing at a lamp-post with his malacca cane, “beauty in distress never appeals to an army man in vain.”

“I ‘ave a friend in the army,” said Miss Coles, with less reserve; “name of Brown Colour-Sergeant Brown. I don’t know whether you may have heard the name before?”

“Brown,” said Captain Mayhew, with enthusiasm. “is one of the best fellows that ever wore Her Majesty’s uniform! You’ve heard me speak of him, Bunn?”

“Over and over again!” said Mr. Bunn.

“Fancy that, now!” said Miss. Coles delightedly. “It just shows how small the world is, don’t it? He’s stationed at Aldershot just now, and, if all goes well—”

“The ‘buses seem uncommonly full, captain!” said Mr. Bunn. “I wonder whether this young lady would mind if we walked on with her? It isn’t quite the thing for a young girl with an attractive style to be seen alone.”

Miss Martha Coles was no longer a young girl, and she had never been told that she possessed an attractive style. Even Corporal Brown, in his most complimentary moments, had never disguised from her his opinion that she lacked all the essentials of beauty, and that he admired her solely for her cautious and saving habits. The present testimonial was all the more welcome.

“I suppose,” said Miss Coles, giggling, “that there is something in that, although for some reason I’ve never been pestered like some girls. But I don’t want to take you out of your road.”

Captain Mayhew said with much emphasis that it was all on his way home. Mr. Bunn said that where his friend Mayhew went, he went. They had been close pals, said Mr. Bunn, off and on for a good many weeks, and a better and a more straightforward man than the captain never breathed on this earth, so far as he knew. To which Captain Mayhew replied, guiding Miss Coles across the road, and swearing at a hansom cabman for splashing her dress—that his dear old chum was distinctly one of the best, and that he did not believe another man like him existed in the whole wide world.

“It’s very nice,” said Miss Coles. “to hear gentlemen talk like that to one another. What I mean to say is, it’s so much nicer than quarrelling or calling each other names.”

They crossed the Circus and walked along Piccadilly. A closed brougham emerged from the block of traffic and drove swiftly Green Park way. The light from the gas-lamp made the diamonds on the stout, red-necked lady within flash brilliantly. The mouths of the two men seemed to water.

“My word!” said Mr. Bunn; “they’re good ones! Why, I don’t suppose, Captain, that the Hon’ble Mrs. Linton’s diamonds that they talk so much about are one-half as good as that lot. Not more than—”

“I beg your pardon, sir!” interrupted Miss Coles, with hauteur. “I ‘appen to be ‘ousemaid in the family, and I know all about my lady’s diamonds, and where they’re kept, and everything. So perhaps I may be allowed to say one word on the subject.”

“It serves you right, Bunn!” said the captain, with simulation of much annoyance. “You talk, and talk, and talk, concerning things that you know nothing whatever about, in the presence of a charming and delicately-nurtured young lady, who knows the subject. Why can’t you hold your row, and not let your tongue run on so? It isn’t the first time I’ve had to complain about you. Don’t let it happen again, mind, or else you and me will have a row!”

Miss Martha Coles, disturbed at the acerbity of the military gentleman’s manner, acted as peacemaker, and Captain Mayhew, with some reluctance, shook hands with little Mr. Bunn. Any hope, however, that Miss Coles would impart valuable information was disappointed. That plain but estimable lady chattered on, but it was chatter of the kind usual with domestic servants, and referred mainly to the deceit and cunning of one Esther, a lady’s maid, who in years gone by had intercepted a second-hand yellow silk dress destined for Miss Coles, but, by the wiles of the said Esther, diverted to a shop for cast-off clothing of all descriptions in Brompton Road.

“Well, I s’pose I must be saying good-night,” said Miss Coles, arresting her conversation as they reached Hyde Park Corner. “I’m not so very far from ‘ome now.”

Captain Mayhew coughed, and said he would pet a cigar from the nearest shop, and leave his friend Bunn to say good-night. Mr. Bunn, standing on the refuge in the centre of the road and holding her cotton-gloved hand, said hurriedly, as his friend went off, that he hoped he would have the pleasure of seeing Miss Coles again. In a general way, one girl was to Mr. Bunn (he said) very much like another; but, somehow or other, Miss Coles’s manner had attracted him. Might he see her to-morrow evening?

“Well, I scarcely know what to say!” answered Miss Coles modestly. “You see, the fact of the matter is—”

“What, no bracelet?” interrupted Mr. Bunn, looking at the space of red wrist above the one-buttoned glove. “I must bring you a nice bracelet to-morrow night. I’ve got a bit of money, and I’d rather spend it on a few nice presents for you than for anybody else.”

“I’m sure you’re awfully good!” said Miss Coles feelingly. “I will come out to-morrow evening, just for a few minutes. I sha’n’t be able to stay long, mind!”

“May I have the honour of offering you a kiss?” said Mr. Bunn, respectfully.

“No, thank you!” said Miss Coles hastily. “I never care to allow that sort of thing.”

“No offence meant, miss,” said Mr. Bunn. “Tastes differ.”

“I made up my mind long ago,” said Miss Coles firmly, “that I never would allow myself to be kissed all over the shop like some girls, and I’ve always set my face against it as far as I could.”

“Then till to-morrow evening,” said Mr. Bunn genially, “good-bye.”

And went off to meet his friend, Captain Mayhew.

Mr. Bunn did what promising lovers occasionally forget to do. He met Miss Coles as appointed, and, what was more, he brought the gold bracelet with him. Indeed, his demeanour as an admirer could scarcely he excelled. He took care to lift his hat repeatedly (as is notoriously done in the very highest circles), and he referred to his balance at the bank frequently, but always with a reluctant humility. The bracelet was followed by other presents, all calculated to make the feminine heart heat pleasantly. Miss Martha Coles accepted them, mentioning that she was not worthy of them, to which Mr. Bunn responded with much gallantry, “Nonsense!”

“I tell you what I should like, Martha, dear,” said Mr. Bunn, when his acquaintance had lasted a week. They were walking in Kensington Gardens. “I should like above all things—”

“You mustn’t call me dear,” said Miss Coles, “and it’s no use your asking again to let you kiss me. Girls can’t be too particular.”

“I’m not going to ask you to let me kiss you,” said Mr. Bunn. “Nothing was further from my mind. What I was going to say was that I should like, above all things, to come into your place at Lowndes Square one evening, and just have what you may call a look round, and see the pictures and what not.”

“I don’t know that that could be managed.”

“Oh, yes, it can. It’s the easiest thing in the world. Choose a night when she’s at the theatre, and not taken her diamonds, and when there are not too many people about, and I’ll bring you that little gold watch I spoke about—”

“I’ve never had reely a gold watch.”

“Well,” said Mr. Bunn encouragingly, “now’s your time, then. I shan’t want to stay long in the place. I only just want to roam about a bit, and see how a really good-class house is furnished, and where things are kept. It’s a hobby of mine.”

“There are ‘obbies and ‘obbies,” said Miss Coles.

“You don’t mean to say,” demanded Mr. Bunn indignantly, “that after all this time you can’t trust me.”

“Oh! no. I should be very sorry to say that. Only I couldn’t manage it to-morrow evening, because I—well, I shall be rather busy to-morrow. But I tell you what I will do. I’ll meet you at Hyde Park Corner, near the gates, at eleven to-morrow morning, and let you know definitely, and in the meantime I’ll think it over.”

“Fix it for an evening as early as you can,” urged Mr. Bunn. “I’m a bit pressed for time, and I may have to leave London soon. I’ve got my living to make, and it don’t do nowadays to let the grass grow under your feet to any great extent. Eleven o’clock to-morrow morning, mind.”

“I shall be there,” said Miss Coles.

And she was. A four-wheeled cab, with a driver who wore a large white dahlia in his coat, drew up at that hour at Hyde Park Corner, and when Miss Coles looked out, Mr. Bunn, with an expectant look, stepped briskly up to the door. He lifted his hat, and said it was a fine, bright day.

“I’m sorry that can’t be arranged to-night as you wish it,” said Miss Coles, looking out.

There was somebody else in the cab.

“That’s a devil of a nuisance,” said Mr. Bunn aggrievedly. “I particularly wanted to have a look in this evening. How is it I can’t call?”

“Well, you see, it’s like this. I’m leaving Lowndes Square to-day for good—”

“You’re leaving?” shouted Mr. Bunn.

“And so,” went on Miss Coles sweetly, “I can’t very well ask you to call if I’m not going to be there to receive you. What say?”

The words that the disappointed Mr. Bunn was saying were so strong that the other occupant of the four-wheeler stepped out on the off-side and came round.

“Look here!” said ex-Colour-Sergeant Brown definitely, “softer language there, if you please. I don’t want any unpleasantness on what I may call this my wedding morn, but if you don’t stop I shall make you. And if you don’t want a dressing down here, why, come up at any time after this week at our little gymnasium that Martha’s money has helped me to open in Osnaburgh Street, and,” ex-Colour-Sergeant Brown stepped back into the four-wheeler, “and instead of punching the ball I’ll have a go at you. See?”

Mr. Bunn looked at the fist of ex-Colour Sergeant Brown, encased in an eight and three-quarter white kid glove.

“Yes,” said Mr. Bunn, meekly, “I see.”

An ingenious pair

Published in To-day, 1896

The Lucania was within a few hours of bumping against the tender at Liverpool. Folk were on deck who had not been on deck since the start, and were guessing the time still to be occupied with some want of luck. Certain people are altogether at sea when they are on board ship.

“I must finish packing up,” said Miss Carr.

“There is no hurry,” urged Mr. Moorgate.

“There will be if I don’t begin at once. Madame Welby—she’s the contralto, you know, in our concert party—she began to pack up soon after we left New York. I thought that was a little too previous.”

“I want to say something to you before we say good-bye at Liverpool.”

“You Members of Parliament are always anxious to deliver addresses,” said Miss Carr sedately.

“I haven’t much to say. I only want—”

Two ladies were coming near. Miss Carr sprang up from her deck chair with the quickness that youth—and alas! only youth—enjoys.

“Write,” she said in a half whisper. The two American ladies were very near.

“Perhaps I shall do it better that way,” confessed young Mr. Moorgate, M.P. “It’s a subject which I have not hitherto treated.”

“Be sure to be very careful then,” she said brightly.

“I will.”

Miss Carr went quickly down the gangway, and Moorgate walked away to smoke, and to think out the wording of his letter. He was—so the newspapers said—a Member of much ability, but this task was one that tested his capabilities. He selected from his case the pleasantest-looking cigar that it contained.

“She don’t seem to give him too much encouragement, Trixy,” said Mrs. Penbether to her daughter.

Miss Trixy Penbether was a flat young lady with pince-nez that gripped her nose in a way that made everybody else’s eyes water.

“I don’t know that that ain’t the best plan,” said Miss Penbether thoughtfully. “I’m a bit afraid I’ve overdone the encouragement racket. Seems to me it ain’t a bad idea to play a little ‘stand your distance’ sort of tune.”

“All depends on the man, Trixy.”

“That’s true.” Miss Penbether sighed, and took a piece of gum from her pocket. “Pity so much should depend on the man, but it is so, and it’s no use dodgin’ the fact. Where did you say his country place was, ma?”

Ma repeated the information.

“If there was anything else now that we could think of,” went on Miss Penbether, “any way of crabbin’ the deal of this Carr girl, I’d like to give it a chance. Can you think of anything, ma?”

“Not jest for the moment, my girl.”

“I wonder now—”

“You’ve done your best, Trixy,” said her mother soothingly, “you can’t do more’n your best.”

“Some other girl can, p’raps. She’ll go right away to her mother, I reckon, won’t she? Mr. Moorgate’s going to London, because he’s due at the House.”

“That’s how it’s going to pan out, my girl. If we can only keep ‘em apart till we get on the cars so much the better for our little game.”

Mr. Moorgate strolled back, and sat down in his deck chair. He had hummed thoughtfully a line or two of a gavotte before he noticed his American friends.

“Glad to be at your journey’s end, Mrs. Penbether?”

“We’re sorry to say good-bye to our friends,” answered Miss Penbether for her mother. “It’s been a great time this last six days,” she sighed. “I don’t seem like the same girl.”

“I can assure you that you are,” said Mr. Moorgate reassuringly. “I have watched you carefully, and I should have been the first to notice any change.”

“Should have thought you’d been too much engaged with that girl in the concert company. What’s her name, ma? Carr, ain’t it?”

“I like Miss Carr very much,” said Moorgate.

“So do a lot of people I reckon. I s’pose these girls lost count of their sweethearts. There’s so many of ‘em. Which way do you go from Liverpool, Mr. Moorgate?”

“I go on to London, after I—” He stopped. “I’m not quite sure whether I shall go by the special or not.”

“We’ll come and hear one of your debates at the House of Repre—mean to say the House of Commons.”

“I thought you were over for pleasure?”

“And business combined,” interposed Mrs. Penbether.

“I suppose this Carr girl goes home to her mother from Liverpool, Mr. Moorgate?”

“I am sorry to say that I know nothing definite of Miss Carr’s future action. She is an independent young person, and she generally performs just as she likes.”

Miss Trixy Penbether looked at her mother, and her left eyelid moved.

“Only met her on this voyage, have you, Mr. Moorgate?”

“Only on this voyage.”

“Ah!”

“What do you mean by ‘ah’?” demanded Moorgate, M.P., hotly. The ejaculations of ladies are sometimes marvellously effective.

“Nothin’ much, Mr. Moorgate. By-the-bye, I want you to write your name in this book you gave me coming across on the— Got a pencil?”

Moorgate almost snatched the book from Miss Penbether. He also took the proffered pencil.

“Write ‘sincerely yours’ or ‘affectionately yours,’ Mr. Moorgate. You’re the first English senator we’ve ever struck, you know.”

He wrote his name without any endearing preface, and walked away.

“Reckon he’s mad about somethin’,” said Trixy Penbether.

“There’s no counting for these high-bred men,” explained her mother.

“If I don’t have him,” said Miss Penbether, “I’ll bet my last nickel that she shan’t.”

“’Taint likely,” said her mother, “we’ll see to that.”

The concert party was so busily engaged in packing up that Moorgate was unable to get within speaking distance of Miss Carr. Words of admiration cannot with convenience be shouted into a cabin occupied by (in addition to one’s heart’s desire) a matronly contralto and a number of bags and things. All that young Mr. Moorgate could do was to give the deck steward a letter.

Which he did.

“I’ll call for the answer in ten minutes’ time, miss,” said the deck steward.

“Make it twenty minutes,” said Miss Carr.

Her hand trembled as she opened the envelope. She opened it very carefully, as folks do who are dealing with a communication which they desire to preserve all their life.

“With great pleasure, miss.”

The civility of deck stewards is always great when the ship is within a few hours of Liverpool—it absolutely knows no bounds.

“Who is your letter from, dear?” asked Miss Welby. Miss Welby, not to be denied the pleasure of packing up, was unpacking a trunk, “What do you think of this lace trimming? Looks neat and rather smart, don’t you think?”

“Charming.”

“You didn’t say who your letter was from, dear?”

“Didn’t I, Miss Welby? It’s about an engagement.”

“What shall you sing?”

“I think I shall wait and see.”

“Have you got an accompanist?”

“Yes. I think the accompanist is pretty safe. What did you wear when you were married, Welby?”

“Haven’t I ever told you?” asked the delighted contralto.

“I daresay. But I’ve forgotten. Tell me all over again.”

“Well, dear” (with infinite relish), “I’ll tell you all about it from beginning to end. I met Mr. Welby at a dance given at—”

“I know that part. Tell me what you wore.”

“Why, you know, that rather delicate shade of grey, don’t you, that was so fashionable a few—”

Mrs. Penbether and her daughter having seen the letter delivered, and having interrogated the steward, hurriedly completed the details of their scheme. Miss Penbether went to her cabin and wrote this note:—

My dear Mr. Moorgate,

I am in receipt of your note. I feel deeply flattered by your kind offer, but it is quite impossible for me to accept it. I am pledged to someone else.

Please do not refer to the subject again. Leave the tender at Liverpool, and do not speak to me.

Yours faithfully,

Alice Carr

There was some writing of Miss Carr’s on a portrait which had been sold on the night a concert was given on deck in aid of the Sailors’ Home. Miss Penbether contrived to get a very fair imitation of the style.

“Now I’ll address it,” she said.

She did so.

“And now to catch that man,” said Miss Penbether, “and then to watch the fun.”

“That’s the ticket,” said her mother agreeably. “We’d better not keep together, though. It’ll want smart handling, this job. Your pa’ll laugh like anything when we tell him about it.”

“This is jest about pa’s size,” agreed Miss Penbether. She licked the envelope carefully and stuck it down and gave it a decisive dab. “It’s a bit rough on the singing girl, but bless my stars, if we was to consider everybody’s feelings in this world where should we be?”

“That’s what your pa often says, Trixy.”

There was the usual bustle at Liverpool. Nearly everybody very much hurried, and hot and confused, nearly everybody complaining of nearly everybody else for getting so persistently in their way. The train left Lime Street at six for Euston, and Mrs. and Miss Penbether settled down in the saloon with an air of satisfaction.

“That’s all right, Trixy, my girl.”

“Yes, ma. Dried pretty straight, didn’t it?”

“I asked him to call on us at the First Avenue Hotel, and he said he would.”

“Bully,” said Miss Penbether. “Didn’t come by this train, did he?”

“No. Said he had something to see to at Liverpool.”

“If he don’t call soon, we’ll ring him up on the tel’phone from the hotel. It don’t do to lose time in matters of this kind.”

“That’s true.”

“The whole business looks pretty prosperous, I fancy. Looks like a successful deal. Course, it’s one thing to have shunted her and another thing to get myself on the track. But if it all pans out well it’ll be jest lovely to be Mrs. Moorgate, M.P.”

“It’d make one or two of the back number girls at home sit up.”

“I’m thinking specially about Abby Furnleaf.”

They both laughed with great good humour. Mrs. Penbether, when she had wiped her eyes, turned to her daughter with an air of seriousness.

“You’ll never forget, I hope, Trixy, that you owe a great deal to your parents.”

“Can’t do without parents,” acknowledged Miss Penbether.

It’s a real satisfaction to me,” said Miss Penbether’s ma, “and it will be to your pa when I’m able to send him a cable that I’ve never stopped at doing anything that’d get you on in the world. Some parents are different.”

“Oh, I ain’t complained about you,” said the daughter tolerantly.

“And if I hadn’t managed to catch the steward at the last moment, just as he was about to go up to Mr. Moorgate—seeing you hadn’t had a chance of changing it—and if I hadn’t destroyed it for you, why—”

“Moses and Aaron!” cried Miss Trixy Penbether, starting up excitedly. “What do you mean about destroying the letter? I changed the letter, and— Surely you didn’t destroy it? ‘Cause, if you did—”

Mrs. Penbether took from her small bag with a trembling hand several fragments of note-paper. She placed them together, and Miss Penbether read aloud in her nasal tones—

“My dear Mr. Moorgate,—I am in receipt of your note. I feel deeply flattered by your kind offer, but—”

“Trixy, my girl,” said her mother solemnly, “we’ve run too fast. We must try again somewhere else, and next time we must go slow.”

The alteration in Mr. Kershaw

Published in The Idler, 1896

“I’ve knocked about a pretty tidy bit in my time—I’m as much as fifteen next birthday—and I don’t write this story from the standpoint of a man who is ignorant of the world. I’m wonderfully observant, and I take notice of little incidents sometimes in a way that surprises even myself. Incidents, I mean, that other people overlook. The junior partner called me the other evening a sharp lad, and ‘pon my word he wasn’t far wrong. I don’t wish to brag about it; I only wish to hint that what I don’t notice isn’t worth noticing. I’ve picked out a horse sometimes, and I’ve—

But I want to tell you about Mr. Kershaw.

Mr. Kershaw is one of the senior clerks in our office; he’s the one with rather rough hair, and a collar turned down low all the way round. Most of the clerks are smart and wear high collars, and they wear neckties too that make me gasp. All nice gentlemanly fellows they were when I first came here, bar Mr. Kershaw. Mr. Kershaw was what I call a terror.

“Billing, why aren’t these inkstands seen to?”

“Beg pardon, sir, but—”

“I’ve had to speak to you before about this, Billing.”

“I can’t do forty thousand things a minute, sir.”

“Another word of your confounded insolence, and I shall ask the firm to dispense with your services.”

“That ain’t insolence, sir, it’s simply a fact. If I want to be insolent I know a lot of words—”

“Go away, Billing! You’re a perfect nuisance in the place. I shall take an early opportunity of asking the firm to look out for a decent lad.”

That’s the sort of thing that went on day after day, me and Mr. Kershaw going at it hammer and tongs. I should have got really cross about it only that Mr. Kershaw was just the same with all the others, especially with the juniors. The grumpiest man, I venture to say, that ever came up to the City from Dulwich on a morning since the line’s been opened.

One July Mr, Kershaw went away for his three weeks’ holiday, and when he came back, the first news was that he was married.

“Now,” I said to Linkson, who copies the letters, “now you mark my words. Old K. ‘ll change his manner.”

“For better or for worse?” asked Linkson. “There’s something wrong with our copying-ink. This letter hasn’t come out a bit clear.”

“Whether for better or worse,” I answered, “I can’t tell you. Sometimes getting spliced has one effect; sometimes the other. But I’ll bet you as much as three’apence that we shall notice an alteration.”

“I’ve half a mind to take you,” said young Linkson, doubtfully, “only I’ve got a good deal of money out just now. I’ve backed Swiftsure for twopence, one, two, three.”

“Take it or leave it,” I said. “It’s an offer, and if you’re not sportsman enough to have a bet on, don’t.”

“She’s pretty, they say,” remarked Linkson. He gave a twist to the copying press and looked narrowly at Mr. Kershaw hanging up his hat and smoothing his rough hair. “One of the young partners said she was as neat a little figure as ever—”

“Billing,” shouted Mr. Kershaw furiously from his office, “come here at once.”

To save argument, I went.

“Will you be good enough to explain,” demanded Mr. Kershaw, hotly, “to explain, Billing, the condition of this table? Look here! I can write my name on it.”

“So could I, sir,” I said. “There’s nothing clever in that.”

“Why on earth isn’t the place dusted properly,” he shouted. “Why do I come back here—”

” ‘Eaven knows!” muttered.

“And find the place neglected in this manner? Get a duster at once.”

“Right, sir.”

“But it is not right, Billing,” he declared.

“Very good, sir,” I said, “it’s wrong. I’ll fetch the duster in ‘alf a tick. But first of all I ‘ope it won’t seem out of place if I congratulate you, sir, on what I may term a recent matrimonial event.”

“Get a duster at once. Billing,” he said, sharply, “and don’t let us have quite so much talk. It’s not business.”

I felt very glad that Linkson hadn’t booked that bet of threehalfpence, because I most certainly should have lost. So far from Mr. Kershaw’s marriage improving his temper, I’m not at all sure that it wasn’t worse. I used to say to Linkson I hoped he didn’t carry on like that at home, and Linkson—he knows a lot, Linkson, although he’s only a little bit of a chap—Linkson used to answer that men who had their tantrums in the City, were generally men who were not allowed to show them in their own homes. But, somehow, I’d an idea that this was not the case with Mr, Kershaw.

About twelve months after his marriage the alteration that I want to tell you about came. I was the first to notice it, and I passed the news round the office. There happened to be a new baby at my place, and I wanted the afternoon off to see some people my mother washes for. What does Mr. Kershaw do but look up from his table quite cheerfully and say,

“By all means. Billing.”

“Much obliged to you, sir,

“Going to take your young lady out for the day, Billing?”

I never saw Mr. Kershaw smile before, and upon my word it took my breath away for a moment.

“No, sir,” I said, “I’ve broke it all off with her.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Fact of the matter is, sir, she was a bit too fond of fourpenny ices. Turned up her nose, bless you, at twopenny ones. Would have fourpennies. And when you begin to shell out fourpence after fourpence, and see her getting less imible at each ice, why—”

“It is not with her, then, that you wish to spend the afternoon?”

I explained, and Mr. Kershaw rose from his chair and sat on the corner of the table, just as though he was the most cheerful gentleman in the City.

“Why, that’s singular!” he said, good-temperedly.

“I don’t know about that, sir,” I answered. “There’s nine of us already.”

“But what I mean to say, it’s odd. Because, do you know. Billing, I have a little arrival at home. And that’s a boy, too.”

“Fine boy, sir, may I ask?”

“As fine a little man,” said Mr. Kershaw, enthusiastically, “as ever came into this world. Bright-eyed, healthy, chubby—perfect picture of a boy. I don’t suppose, as a matter of fact, that such a perfect youngster is often seen. He’s got a way of staring fixedly at one—”

Mr. Kershaw this time absolutely laughed. I went to the door.

“I say, Billing. I should like to give your new brother something. Has he got a mug?”

“He’s got a rare funny little mug, sir,” I answered. “We all pinch his little nose for him, but unless he alters he won’t be what I call dazzlin’ ‘andsome.”

“I mean a silver christening mug,” explained Mr. Kershaw. “If not, you must let me present him with one. Good morning, Billing.”

It wasn’t believed in the office at first, but the clerks soon saw that the change was real. Linkson declared that he overheard Mr. Kershaw one evening, just before he left the office, humming a comic song; Linkson admitted that Mr. Kershaw hummed it all wrong, but still he hummed it. One of our clerks lived at Slough, and Mr. Kershaw called him in one day to ascertain his opinion of Eton as a school for a growing youth. The Slough clerk said that he had heard that Eton wasn’t half a bad place, and Mr. Kershaw thanked him, and made a note of it in his diary. On another occasion, when the managing clerk to a solicitor’s in Ely Place called at the office, Mr. Kershaw had a long conversation with him on the Bar as a profession for young men, and the chances it offered of advancement. I think that upon this point Mr. Kershaw was not quite decided, because I noticed on his blotting-pad a scribbled line.

“Bar. Query? Enquire re Church. See Canon Weste.”

And underneath.

“Is Sandhurst expensive? Query? Tenth Hussars.”

One day I posted a letter for him to a Sunday paper, and I got Linkson to persuade his father to buy a copy. In the “Answers to Correspondents” we found:

Wahsrek.—In answer to your enquiry, I do not recommend a political career for your son, unless he shows a special ability for speaking and a thorough grasp of the great questions of the day. But if he decides to enter St. Stephen’s, let him first read all John Stuart Mills’s works and my own book called Customs and Habits of the Laplanders.

Somehow the whole office seem to be infected by the alteration in Mr. Kershaw. Everybody became a little more friendly with everybody, and when Master Kershaw was six months old and a proposal was made to send a birthday present to the little baby, the suggestion was taken up like one o’clock. Mr. Pascoe took the big basket of hot-house flowers into Mr. Kershaw’s room, and presented it to Mr. Kershaw, and Mr. Kershaw came out into the office and shook hands with all of us, right down to me.

“Gentlemen,” said he, as he stood at the door of his office, “I wish I could tell you how deeply I am touched by your kind thought of my—of my son. I shall take this delightful basket of flowers home with me this evening, and I shall tell my boy that although he is only six months old to-day, yet he has—he has friends who wish him well, and look forward with interest, and I hope I may say with affection, to the—to the time when—”

And here Mr. Kershaw suddenly broke down, went hurriedly into his office, and closed the door. Later he went off radiant, with the basket of expensive flowers, carried with great care.

The next morning Mr. Kershaw was an hour late coming to the office. This had never happened before within my knowledge, and there were a good many jokes going round the office about it. I remember that I made one or two of the best of them. When he did arrive he walked straight to his office and turned the key.

“Headache after the jollification last night,” said the office.

My mother called round that morning with the baby. I don’t believe in women-folk coming into the City at all, but mother was so excited about father having got a good berth that she said (you know what women are) that she felt as though she must come straight down and tell me the news. I knocked at the door of Mr. Kershaw’s office, and he unlocked it.

“Beg pardon, sir, for troubling you, but my mother and the baby—anything the matter, sir?”

“Go on, Billing,” he said, and turned his head away.

“They’ve just called, and I thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I slipped out for a few minutes to show mother and baby the Tower Bridge.”

“Billing!”

“Sir?”

“Do you mind—do you mind bringing your baby in here for a moment?” He coughed as though there was something in his throat, “I should rather like to see him.”

“Only too proud, sir.”

I brought the baby in myself, because I was afraid mother would drop her aitches or make me look silly in some way. I sat the little beggar on the table, and I’m blest if he didn’t put out both his chubby arms to Mr. Kershaw. Fact!

“I expect he ain’t the baby yours is, sir,” I remarked respectfully. Mr. Kershaw was patting the tiny chin and whispering baby-talk to the little kid.

“No, Billing,” he said. “No.” He turned away again so that I couldn’t see his face, and kissed our baby. “My boy—er—died last night.”

What I want to add is, that Mr. Kersaw has never been the one he was in the old days. He’s as kind mannered a senior clerk as you’ll find between Temple Bar and Aldgate. And I’ve noticed that in the street sometimes, when a baby goes by and he catches sight of it, Mr. Kershaw will stop—it don’t matter who he’s with—and he will watch it until it goes right out of sight.

The results of Miss Knight’s temper

Published in The Illustrated English Magazine, 1897

The Hall was filled with a talking, noisy audience; some of the men were smoking a pungent kind of tobacco that induced the ladies on the platform, who had come from west to south-east, to cough and to pat their eyes with lace handkerchiefs. Miss Wareborough, the good-looking young woman in the chair, tapped at the desk with her ivory hammer more than once to appeal for attention to the speech of Mr. James Flanders; and Miss Wareborough, as she did this, looked like a young woman who was in the habit of being obeyed. Added to this was a thoughtful look, because she remembered that the last time she had come to the Hall someone had looked after her; someone who was now away in West Africa. The Hall watched her closely.

“Come in her broom, she did. She ‘s a toff, mind ye.”

“Don’t she do her ‘air up nicely too! I wish mind ‘d behive itself like that. Why—”

The girls who were talking received each a tap on the shoulder.

“Can’t you keep quiet when anyone ‘s makin’ a speech,” inquired Miss Emma Knight, “or won’t you?”

The girls ceased their conversation, but they told each other in a whisper that Emma Knight thought she was everybody because she had saved a few pounds and was engaged to this young man now speaking; but that Emma Knight was not everybody, and, what was more, Emma Knight never would be everybody. The loud, strident voice of the young man on the platform moderated itself slightly as, approaching the end of his speech, he turned, with an awkward attempt at courtliness, to the young woman in the chair.

“One word, friends, in conclusion. Before we finish this meeting of the Social League, there ‘s one duty we ‘ave to perform. We ‘ave to offer our ‘earty thanks to the—well, charming ladies who ‘ve sung to you this evening; they ‘aving taken the trouble to come from their comfortable mansions, and what not, to give you an entertainment that’s good enough—though I say it—for the ‘ighest of the ‘igh. (Cheers.) It don’t do to pick out names; but to you, Miss Wareborough, for occupying the chair (Loud cheers), we tender our ‘earty thanks, and we ‘ope to see you again. By your grace of manner, by your charm of disposition, by your attractive—”

Mr. James Flanders, looking round the crowded seats for a word, encountered suddenly the large eyes of Miss Emma Knight. Miss Knight’s breath was coming quickly; there was a look in her eyes that made young Mr. Flanders falter.

“What I meant to say, friends, was that we ‘re under a debt to all these ladies, and I, therefore, ask you to ‘old up both ‘ands to signify your acknowledgment. All in fiver of a vote of thanks to—? All! Carried unanimous.”

Miss Emma Knight, waiting for Mr. James Flanders in the Hall, nodded rather curtly to her friends, and seemed to have no desire to exchange conversation. This was odd, because Miss Knight was, in an ordinary way, adroit of repartee, and it is notorious that those gifted in this way are seldom reticent. She crossed over and looked through the thick diamond-shaped windows of the Hall. Outside she saw the figure, rather blurred to sight, of Mr. Flanders, in no hat, seeing the ladies into their carriages; saw Miss Wreborough turn to speak to him, and caught enough of the words to tell that it was an invitation to Eaton Square.

“Thought as much,” said Miss Emma Knight under her breath. “I ‘ll Honourable Miss Wareborough her, if she ain’t careful. Let her stick to her own spear of life, and not come interferin’.” She turned as someone approached. “Oh, you ‘ere? Thought you ‘d forgot me.”

“Course I ‘aven’t forgot you,” said Mr. Flanders, fanning his heated face with his soft hat. He was flushed with the strain of observing etiquette. “Not likely to.”

“I ‘m not so sure,” snapped Miss Knight. “Seem to be paying everybody else a lot of attention.”

“How you do talk,” complained the young man. “You see how busy I was.”

“Just what I did notice.”

“I ‘ve got a lot to look after a evening like this, and if I don’t see to it all no one else will. When ladies come down ‘ere from the West-End—”

“Pity they don’t stop at home,” said Miss Knight bitterly. “Be more to their credit. Asked you to her place for one evening, didn’t she?”

“She did so.”

“Ah,” said Miss Knight mysteriously, “I ‘eard! I don’t miss much. I ‘m not quite blind. I wasn’t born the day before yesterday. Old enough to begin to take notice, anyway. I may be a fool in many things, but—”

“You ‘re ‘aving a rare old recitation all to yourself,” said Mr. Flanders good-humouredly. “Shall I see you ‘ome?”

Miss Knight affected a kind of icy surprise.

“Me?”

“Yes, you, Emma.”

“But I don’t live in Eating Square!”

For answer Mr. Flanders, the Hall being now nearly deserted, snatched a kiss, an adventure that oftentime he had found an effective peacemaker. On this occasion it so far failed that Miss Knight rubbed her cheek laboriously and then walked out of the Hall alone.

“‘Pon me word,” said poor Mr. Flanders, “girls do take some managing.”

He made hurriedly some arrangements for closing the Hall and ran after her. Just by East Street he managed to check her hastening footsteps.

“You ain’t going like that,” said Mr. Flanders appealingly.

“How am I going then, clever?”

“Look here, Emma. You know as well as I do that I don’t care for anybody else but you. What ‘s the sense in being so jealous about nothing at all?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Miss Knight coldly. “I ‘m not in the least jealous. Quite the reverse!”

“And as regards Miss Wareborough; why, she ‘s engaged to a young Lieutenant out in West Africa.”

“Be more to the purpose if you knew his name.”

“But I do! Their coachman told me the last time he was down. Lieutenant Wyndham is his name, and the town he ‘s at is Benaro.” Miss Knight, with less acerbity, requested that the name of the town should be spelled to her, and her command was obeyed. “And rough times they ‘re going to ‘ave by all accounts. Sooner him be out there than me. Why, those blacks—”

“Never mind about the blacks,” said Miss Knight, allowing the young man to take her arm. “We needn’t trouble about them. All we ‘ve got to do is to look out for ourselves. If everybody minded their own business we should be a lump better off.”

“Can’t say I agree with those principles, Emm’a,” he said submissively; “my tenets are rather different to that. I ‘m what’s called an altruist.”

“I don’t call myself names.”

“An altruist is seeposed to be a chap—”

“‘Scuse me interrupting,” said Miss Knight. “The next is my turning. And so you ‘ll give up all idea of going, James, to see this Miss whatever-her-silly-name-is?”

“She ‘asn’t fixed a date yet,” he said evasively.

“But when she does?”

“Well,” urged Mr. Flanders apologetically, “it ‘ll give me a insight into high class life, you see, Emma. There ‘ll be a lot of swells there, and her mother, and—”

“I wish you a very good evening,” said Miss Knight icily. And turned sharply away.

It was a source of great perturbation to Mr. Flanders (who was really a very good fellow, with a habit, perhaps, of taking himself rather too seriously) to find that for some days Miss Knight studiously avoided him. One showery morning he passed by her in the turbulent crowd that attacks trams and ‘buses near the Elephant and Castle; and she nodded, and remarked cheerfully, “More weather!” and went on her way Citywards. Mr. Flanders was astonished at this behaviour, and he stood still and watched her green hat as she gradually disappeared with the crowd in the London Road. He was, indeed, so dazed by the incident that he found himself whirled in a strong stream of people upon a Tooting tram—his desired destination being Cambervell—and went some distance before he realised the error. Usually he was an expert and a careful facia writer; but that morning, over a shop facing Camberwell Green, he outlined the words “Emma Knight” instead of “Robert Henry Batten,” the name of the shop’s proprietor, and found himself the object of much badinage in consequence.

He walked home in the evening, surveying South London with a gloomy air, and was not even cheered, as was commonly the case, by the sight of his name as hon. sec. on a small printed bill in a confectioner’s shop. On the mantelpiece of his room he found a square envelope, addressed in a definite handwriting that he had seen once before.

“I wish I ‘d never run across any of these swells,” said Mr. Flanders gloomily, as he looked down the letter. “It ‘s all very well to talk about mingling of classes, but it don’t seem to be a dazzling success so far as I ‘m personally concerned. And, furthermore—”

Mr. Flanders stopped, and his countenance brightened as he read the postscript—

I think I heard that you were engaged. If this is so, will you consider this invitation to apply also to the lady? My mother and I will be pleased to make her acquaintance.

In three minutes Mr. Flanders was at the door of Miss Knight’s house. In another minute Miss Knight’s mother and Miss Knight herself were in possession of the astounding information that that young woman had been formally invited to Eaton Square.

“Seems to me, Emma,” said her mother, bewildered, “more like a bit what you read of in novelettes than anything real. It ‘ll take your cousin Jane Emily down a peg or two, at any rate.”

“I don’t know as we won’t go in a cab,” said James reflectively. “It ‘ll look better than a ‘bus.”

“Budford Street ‘ll stare,” said Mrs. Knight, with relish. “It ‘ll give the neighbours something to talk about for monce. If I was you, Emma, I should simply borrow those yellow slippers from that girl in your ware’ouse; my brown cape you ‘re welcome to, as you know. And as regards your ‘at—”

“I see by the papers,” said James, “that there’s more trouble a-brewin’ out where her young gentleman is. I expect it ‘s a rare anxious time for her. That part of Africa, mind ye—”

“We ain’t talking about Africa,” said Mrs. Knight impatiently; “we ‘re talking about ‘ats. And considerin’ that you take your ‘at off the moment you’re in the ‘ouse, what I suggest is that we should ignore the question of your ‘at and throw all our thoughts on to the question of your blouse. Now I see some in Box’s in the Camberwell Road only yesterday; a kind of an electric blue that ought to look very classy be gaslight, and they were only priced at one-and— Goo’ gracious! Why, what’s the matter with the girl?”

“Yes, what ‘s wrong, Emma? Ain’t sorry she invited you, are you?”

“I ain’t—ain’t sorry she’s invited me,” sobbed Miss Knight; “I ‘m sor—sorry for what I ‘ve been and done.”

“Why, what have you—”

“Oh, nothing!” Miss Knight rubbed her eyes and rubbed her nose and went to the mirror over the fireplace to look dolefully at her reflection. “Nothing special. Only— Oh it isn’t worth talking about now. I didn’t think she was so nice as she turns out to be. Were those blouses you speak of full in the sleeves, mother?”

It there was a prouder woman in Walworth on the evening of the visit to Eaton Square than Mrs. Knight, that prouder woman would have required a good deal of tracing. Every window within sight was occupied by a bunch of heads; a semicircle stood expectantly near the hansom and the horse as though waiting for the performance of tricks. Mrs. Knight’s moments were fully occupied in answering her daughter’s repeated inquiry as to whether she looked all right at the back; in giving Mr. Flanders in the sitting-room—sitting-room thrown open to use, bless you, just for all the world as though the day were Sunday—hints in regard to the care of her daughter and the necessity for being home not a minute later than eleven. Mrs. Knight personally conducted the young people into the cab, and with a pride that could not be measured, gave the address to the driver. She slapped an impertinent boy who attempted to interfere with her prerogatives by closing the splashboards, and reopened and closed them carefully herself; and then she leaned over to give a last message to her daughter.

“Mind you take notice of everything, Emma.”

At Eaton Square a servant was accepting a telegram from a uniformed lad, and this, as she received with correct formality the young people from Walworth, she handed at once to a young maid in the hall, and the young maid flew with the telegram up the stairs, seeming not to touch them as she went.

“Miss Knight, I think,” said the servant courteously, “and Mr. Flanders.”

“That ‘s quite right,” said Mr. Flanders. “You go first, Emma.”

There were a few people in the large room, and some of them were in a group scanning anxiously the evening papers. A tearful, white-haired, elderly lady came forward and received the confused young people.

“You are my daughter’s friends from Walworth,” said the white-haired old lady. “She will be down directly. We are all going to have a long talk about arranging bright evenings for your people, and one or two members of Parliament will come in, and we want you both to lead us.” The old lady patted her eyes with her handkerchief. “I wished Lilian to put off the engagement, but she would not hear of it.”

“Nothing wrong, I ‘ope, me lady?” said Mr. Flanders.

“You haven’t seen the evening papers? My dear Bertie!” She called to a tall lad in evening dress. “Will you bring me the St. Jameses?”

“Certainly, mother. Here it is.” The old lady tried to find her pince-nez, but her son read it for her. “‘Terrible massacre at Benaro. A British mission annihilated. English officers murdered. No survivors.’” The young fellow turned with a concerned manner to the Walworth couple. “You see, the reason this affects us so much is that Lieutenant Wyndham is stationed there.”

“I ‘eard that,” said Mr. Flanders.

“And I ‘m afraid—I ‘m very much afraid—there’s positively no hope. It ‘s a most fearful shock for my sister, and, indeed, for all of us.”

“How ‘d it be,” said Mr. Flanders nervously, “if me and my young lady friend was to retire and look in again some other evening?”

“By no means,” said the silver-haired old lady energetically. “Bertie dear! show this young lady some pictures of Benaro.”

Miss Emma Knight trembled very much as she sat down and, the youth acting as guide, inspected the photographs. There was one in the book of a square-shouldered, good-looking man in Lieutenant’s uniform.

“Is that him?” asked Miss Knight.

“That is Wyndham.”

“He’s a fine-built young man.”

“Shocking thing, don’t you know, to think that those beastly blacks have done for him. He was an awfully good sort, and my sister was very fond of him. We all were.

“Was he fond of her, Sir?”

“Why, yes. They were to have been married this autumn.”

“Been engaged long, if it isn’t a rude question?”

“Known each other all their lives.”

“When might this affair ‘ave ‘appened at the place that begins with a B?” asked Miss Knight in a low voice.

“About a week ago, I think.”

A broad, important Member of Parliament was announced, and he came in rather as though he were a hurricane. It was then that Miss Emma Knight made an astonishing remark. She delivered the pronouncement with the seriousness of one making a formal declaration on oath.

“I don’t believe,” said Miss Emma Knight recklessly, “that he ‘s been and gone and got killed at all.”

Miss Knight’s remark sounded more distinctly than she had intended, because just then a hush had come over the room. Miss Wareborough, very pale but very decided, had entered at the doorway. She gave to her mother a telegram from the Colonial Office confirming the news that had appeared in the evening papers; then she turned to greet, gravely but courteously to her guests. For young Englishwomen are still brave, and their hearts, in moments of pain, are for themselves alone.

“We ‘re sorry. Miss,” said Mr. James Flanders awkwardly, “to hear about all this painful bother, or whatever you like to call it, that’s resulted in the—”

“Thank you, Mr. Flanders.”

“In the sudden, painful, and ‘orrible death of—”

“Don’t let us talk about it please. How do you do?” (to Miss Knight) “I remember your face at Walworth quite well.”

“I remember yourn,” said Miss Knight doggedly.

“It is good of you to come to see me.”

“It passes an evening away,” said Miss Knight.

“We want to do something for the children,” went on Miss Wareborough quickly. “I hope you will be able to give us some suggestions. I—I must do something difficult to distract my mind. Anything that will shut out from my thoughts the picture of—”

“I know how you must feel,” said Miss Knight sympathetically; “but if I was you, Miss, I shouldn’t ‘arp on it. I never believe what I read in the papers.”

“I wish there was room for hope. The report says very clearly that not a single member of the mission has been saved.”

” ‘Ope on, ‘ope ever!” urged Miss Knight.

“Indeed, I wish that I could feel sanguine.” She sighed, for the tears were close to her eyes.

“The Government,” remarked her brother, “will send out a punitive expedition at once.”

“But that will not bring him back,” she said wistfully.

“If I might go so far as to express an opinion,” said Miss Knight nervously, “which I ‘m perfectly aware is a bit forward on my part—”

“Fact matter is,” said the Member of Parliament, bustling into the conversation importantly, “these niggers want managing properly. Now my idea is—”

It is all very well for the Member of Parliament to make important suggestions. The Member of Parliament may think he knows the last word about most subjects, but, as a matter of fact, the things in regard to one subject that he does not know would fill a house. For instance, he does not know that up the stairs is flying again the young maid with a letter arrived by hand; he does not know that this letter is from the Great Western Hotel at Paddington. Such is the ignorance of the M.P. on this particular subject that he is unaware that this is from Lieutenant Wyndham, reporting his arrival in England on leave of absence; leave obtained—the note explains—instantly on receipt of an unsigned telegram three weeks since at Benaro informing him in brief terms that Miss Wareborough was in serious danger, and that his presence was required in London at once. The note adds, that as soon as he has changed into the habits of civilisation he will be with them. What the M.P. does presently understand from the confused, delighted drawing-room is that everybody is very happy, and that the conference is to be postponed until the arrival of Lieutenant Wyndham. This information being conveyed by the flying maid downstairs, the cook there is so exuberantly pleased that, albeit a stout lady, she dances round the kitchen and says hysterically, as she sinks into a chair—

“Three cheers for everybody.”

Mr. James Flanders and Miss Emma Knight walked home that night because it was a fine night, and, as the young woman acutely pointed out, by walking they would be in each other’s company the longer, and, moreover, two ‘bus fares would be saved. It had been a most gratifying evening, and the young people from Walworth were content. At Budford Street Miss Knight kissed Mr. Flanders when she said good-night, careless of the fact that neighbours, were watching and that her mother, impatient for report in regard to the evening, was peeping through the Venetian blinds, one of the laths being disarranged for that purpose.

“By-the-bye!” said Mr. Flanders. “Wonder what it cost the party, whoever it was, to send that extr’ordinary telegram.”

“Thirty-three-and-six,” replied Miss Knight promptly.

“Lot of money!” said Mr. Flanders.

“I don’t seepose,” declared Miss Emma Knight emphatically, “the party begrudges a single penny of it.”

Ah Lun’s gift

Published in Windsor Magazine, 1898

I don’t reckon,” said the boy who was dusting a cigarette advertisement, “that we’ve got what you may call an exciting business, sir.”

Mr. Bourne, behind the counter, looked up from the romance that he was reading and fingered his slight moustache nervously.

“Two packets of cigarette papers,” went on the boy gloomily, “a screw of shag, and a couple of cheeky kids trying to sell us matches—that’s what we’ve done to-day. And my argument— (“Now then, Tottie.” This to an amazing young woman on a tobacco advertisement that had gone awry. “Sit up straight, can’t you, when I keep telling you)—And my argument is that we might do a lump better.”

“If I’d only got a bit more capital,” said the young proprietor wistfully to the boy.

“Kepital?” echoed the boy. “Kepital ain’t everything. What you want, sir, is push; what you want is enterprise; what you want is to fling yourself about.”

“Another fifty pound,” said Mr. Bourne thoughtfully, “and I could ‘ave got into a main thoroughfare, where a demand for a good sound twopenny goes on the whole day long.”

“People ain’t coming down this by-street to get no twopennies,” agreed Robert Henry, “sound or unsound.” He took a broom and swept the spotless floor with something of fury. “Nobody never comes ‘ere; nothing never ‘appens; no one never—Ullo!”

Robert Henry ran to the doorway. From the direction of Limehouse Causeway there was a sound of voices. The noise came nearer.

“What’s up?” asked Mr. Bourne. He went round to the door leisurely.

“Shindy of some kind,” shouted Robert Henry with excitement. “One of them sailor’s rows, I expect. Time we had anofer murder. ‘Ere comes someone!”

Someone had indeed turned the corner of the dim, narrow street. Mr. Bourne, peeping over the head of Robert Henry, saw a Chinaman slipping eel-like in the shadow of the houses. As he neared the shop, a noisy crowd appeared at the end of the street, cheering two short infuriated Japanese sailors. The pursued Chinaman looked over his shoulder and, turning swiftly, slipped between Mr. Bourne and the lad into the tobacconist’s shop. He jumped nimbly on the counter, turned out the four gas jets, and disappeared. The crowd swept past the doorway and then wavered, and some of it returned.

“Seen a Chink?” demanded a swollen-faced man, in a gasp. “There’s one come down this way. These two Japs are after him, and they’ll ‘ave his blood if they can find him.”

“He went on that way,” said Robert Henry readily. “Frough that court.”

“Sure he didn’t turn into your shop?”

The two Japanese sailors came back breathless, their entourage of interested men and women with them.

“Fink we shouldn’t know it if he had?” asked Robert Henry indignantly. “Ast the guv’nor, if you don’t believe me”

The swollen-faced man looked interrogatively at Mr. Bourne, and the two Japanese pressed forward to hear his answer. From inside the dark shop came the sound of partially repressed breathing.

“What the boy says,” declared Mr. Bourne, “is gospel.”

“Come on!” shouted the swollen-faced man, with the ardour of a true sportsman. “He’s gone up this court. We’ll ketch him there like a bloomin’ rat in a bloomin’ ‘ole.”

The two Japanese sailors rushed on, and the crowd followed, enjoying to the full the pleasures of the chase and screaming with enthusiasm. A constable of the K division stamped down the narrow street and spoke to Mr. Bourne.

“What’s up? ” asked K 052.

“’Unting a Chinaman,” said Mr. Bourne.

“I wish all the foreigners,” said K 052 strenuously, “was put in a balloon and carried away to sea and drowned.”

“Wouldn’t be a bad idea,” agreed Mr. Bourne.

“Oblige me with ‘alf an ounce of best navy cut before you go to by-bye.”

“With pleasure,” said Mr. Bourne.

Robert Henry went round to the other side of the counter, and the constable at the doorway found his pouch. Robert Henry stumbled against the escaped Chinaman, who, crouching down, kissed Robert Henry’s coat-sleeve. The lad made the tobacco into a packet and brought it it to the doorway.

“Fall over yourself?” asked the constable kindly.

“Very nigh,” replied Robert Henry.

“Never mind about the twopence ha’penny,” said Mr. Bourne.

“Very well,” remarked K. 052 agreeably, “I won’t. So long!”

“So long!” said Mr. Bourne. “Robert ‘Enry, put the shutters up.”

Mr. Bourne did not move from the doorway until this undertaking was completed, being, as a matter of fact, a young man with only the usual amount of courage, and not, under the circumstances, disinclined for the presence and support of Robert Henry. When the last shutter was fixed the two went inside and closed the door.

“Strike a match,” suggested Robert Henry.

The wax vesta illumined the shop and showed a blue linen cap beyond the counter.

“It’s all right, old chap,” said Robert Henry. “Come out.”

The blue linen cap rose slowly, and a face with high cheek bones, over which the yellow skin was tightly stretched, peeped over the counter.

“All gol away?” asked the Chinaman, in an awed whisper.

“Clean away,” replied Mr. Bourne.

The Chinaman raised himself tremblingly to his full height and stood blinking on the inside of the counter. His long, skinny hands, with tapering nails, trembled as he laid them on the glass case which contained packets of cigarettes. His long pigtail slipped from underneath his cap. He looked at the proprietor and at the boy, and then, deciding apparently that Mr. Bourne was the more important of the two, back to the proprietor again.

“You save,” he said laboriously, in his loose-tongued way, “Ah Lun. You save his life. Ah Lun much oblige.”

“You’d ‘a’ been a deader by this time,” said Robert Henry, “if we hadn’t given you a ‘and. You wouldn’t never ‘ave eaten no more bird’s nests if we hadn’t let you slip in ‘here.”

“I play you,” said Ah Lun, still addressing Mr. Bourne. “I play you.”

“Never touch cards,” said the proprietor.

“I say I play you for what you do.”

“He means he’ll pay you,” interpreted Robert Henry.

“How much?” asked Mr. Bourne. He lighted a second jet of gas.

“Got no moley,” said Ah Lun regretfully.

“Ah!” said Mr. Bourne, turning out the second jet of gas. “That’s a drawback.”

“What was the row about?” asked Robert Henry.

“I sell him,” said the Chinaman, with a grin that flickered over his bony face and disappeared, “I sell him lilee diamond. He no likee.”

“Rum chap, not to like diamonds,” said the boy. “But, ‘arking back, how do you reckon you’re going to recompense me and the guv’nor for saving your life if you ain’t got no money? “

The question was a long one and had to be repeated in an abbreviated form. Ah Lun came softly from behind the counter and went to look through the round hole in the shutters of the shop door. He started back suddenly.

“Lil Chilaman go there!” he begged, shivering with fear. He pointed to the rear of the shop.

“Look ‘ere,” said Mr. Bourne definitely—“I’ve had about enough of your nonsense! I’ve got no particular choice between Japan and China or any other country. Robert ‘Enry, open the door and out this chap!”

“You’d better out him,” said Robert Henry; “I’ll open the door!”

“No, no, no!” entreated Ah Lun on his knees. “Outside they killa Chilaman! No, no, no!”

“Get out!” commanded Mr. Bourne. “You shouldn’t come over to a respectable country like this. Move yourself!”

Ah Lun clutched at Mr. Bourne’s coat and pulled him down. Then he took something from a pocket inside his blue blouse—a small black bottle with a golden stopper—and whispered with feverish eagerness to Mr. Bourne. The tobacconist’s face took an air of incredulity.

“Who are you kiddin’ of?” he demanded.

Ah Lun whispered again with increased excitement. Mr. Bourne took the small black bottle reluctantly.

“Shut the door, Robert ‘Enry!”

“Make up your mind what you’re going to do!” grumbled the boy. “First it’s open the door, then it’s shut the door, and—”

“Shut your mouth, too,” ordered the tobacconist, “and stop ‘ere till I come back.” He turned to the trembling Chinaman. “Come on, sir,” he said; “this way. There’s a step just at the back there. Mind how you fall!”

Mr. Bourne was back in the shop in less than a minute, humming an air with the manner of cheerful unconcern. He opened his private drawer behind the counter and placed something in it, and relocked the drawer with great particularity, trying it several times to see that it was secure. He stepped up on the stool to turn down the one lighted gas jet.

“Have a cigarette to smoke on your way ‘ome, Robert ‘Enry?”

“No,” said the boy shortly.

“Don’t let me keep you,” said his master, “if you’re in a ‘urry.”

“Me time’s me own!” said the boy. “What was that he give you?”

“Don’t be late in the morning, mind,” said the tobacconist cheerfully. “Always be reg’lar in coming to work, and you’re bound to get on in life. And, by the by, that letter for Miss Vennick—”

“What of it?”

“You needn’t trouble to leave it now,” said Mr. Bourne. “Give it ‘ere and I’ll destroy it.”

He took the letter and tore it into several pieces, and went to the room at the back of the shop.

“Good night, Robert ‘Enry!”

“Goo’ night!” said the boy gloomily.

The shop-door slammed with vehemence, and Mr. Bourne peeped through the windowed door to see that the boy had left. Then he pushed the door, and coming back into the shop, unlocked his private drawer carefully, took out the black bottle, and returned to the back room. Ah Lun had gone. He took a small piece of coal from the unlighted fire and placed it on the scarlet-clothed table.

“Expect it’s all a common swindle,” he said thoughtfully. “You can never trust these foreigners; they’ll ‘umbug you as soon as look at you.”

He took a plate, and on this placed the small lump of coal; then, withdrawing very carefully the golden stopper from the black bottle, he poured some of the yellowish liquid over the piece of coal, letting it trickle and permeate. When the piece of coal had been covered, he replaced the golden stopper in the bottle, and looked at the busy, loud-ticking, little American clock on the mantelpiece.

“Two minutes to the hour,” he said. “When it strikes—”

Mr. Bourne went to the cupboard and took down a knife and fork and bread and other things with a forced unconcern, as though his nerves were in the calmest condition; but the articles jingled as he held them, and one or two slipped from his unsteady hands. The busy little clock gave a sneeze, and then, in a hurried, bustling way, struck the hour. Mr. Bourne turned to look at the plate at the end of the table. On it lay, not the piece of coal, but a glittering diamond of identical shape, scintillating and sparkling to such an extent as to make his eyes water. He looked around the room in a dazed, bewildered manner. At the windowed part of the door leading into the shop was the astonished face of Robert Henry. Somehow he felt relieved to see the boy.

“Thought—thought you’d gone ‘ome,” he said, wiping his forehead.

“Thought wrong, then,” replied the boy, coming into the room. “What’s the little game?”

“Blessed if I know,” said the tobacconist weakly. “See what’s on that plate. Looks like a diamond, don’t it?”

Robert Henry took it up and examined it with the air of one for whom precious gems have no secrets.

“It is a diamond,” he said affirmatively. He held it up so that the light danced upon it, “Worf,” added the boy after some consideration, “worf a fousand pounds, if it’s worf a penny.”

“Think so?” stammered Mr. Bourne.

“I don’t fink,” said the boy, “I know.”

“Then,” said Mr. Bourne, with an effort at gaiety, “My fortune’s made for life.”

“Your fortune,”’ said Robert Henry. “What are you gassin’ about? Our fortune, you mean.”

“I mean our fortune,” admitted Mr. Bourne. “I’m so flurried, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“What you want, in circs like this,” said Robert Henry importantly, “is a cool head. That’s where I come in.”

“We must make the most of our good fortune,” suggested the tobacconist deferentially.

“First thing for you to do,” said the managing director, “is to clear out of this ‘ole, and break off your engagement with that Vennick gel.” It was significant of Robert Henry’s new position that he should refer thus lightly to Mr. Bourne’s fiancée. “What you want is to be unfettered, un’ampered, and free.”

“She’s a nice, pleasant young lady,” said Mr. Bourne vaguely, “but I s’pose she’d never do for the wife of a man of fortune. That idea occurred to me first thing. All the same, I don’t see how I’m going to get out of—”

“Send her a ‘andsome present,” commanded the boy, taking up the large diamond again. “Send her a small one like this, and write her a letter saying that, being about to leave the neighbourhood, you feel that it is better you should part from her, much as it is against your will so to do, and you enclose a small offering and wish her every success in the dressmaking business.”

“Likely as not,” said Mr. Bourne wistfully, as he took pen, ink, and paper, and obeyed orders—“likely as not the time ‘ll come when I shall wish I ‘adn’t broke off the engagement with her, and when I shall think of—”

“Rats!” said Robert Henry contemptuously.

The letter written, a new diamond made, and both carefully enclosed in an empty cigar-case with brand, “Better than the Best” on the top, Robert Henry took charge of it, and promised to leave it at the house of Miss Vennick’s mother on his way home. Robert Henry poured out some of the precious fluid over a wooden top that he had in his pocket, but the wood only absorbed the fluid and remained a wooden top.

“You’re wastin’ it!” screamed the tobacconist. “You silly young silly. What are you doing that for? It’s only minerals that it’s good for!”

“Ain’t wood a mineral? ” asked the boy, chastened at his failure and at the deserved reproof. “I didn’t know.”

“The things you don’t know, my lad,” said Mr. Bourne, reassuming the management, “would fill a good-sized room. Get off ‘ome now, and come round early in the morning. I shall want to get off to ‘Atton Garden, and you’ll have to mind the shop. Besides, I’m a bit tired. I want my usual seven hours’ sleep.”

Mr. Bourne saw Robert Henry through the shop, and impressing upon him the necessity of taking good care of the cigar-case, yawned and closed the door on him. The yawn was an assumed one, for he was not in the least tired. Indeed, he sat up and worked hard until the dawn peeped through the Venetian blinds and Emmett Street began to arouse itself, and then, his small stock of coals being exhausted, he made a pyramid of the dazzling jewels that he had, with the aid of nearly one half of the precious liquid, manufactured, and dozed off.

Robert Henry had to kick at the door a good many times in the morning before his master came wearily and but half rested to open it. Robert Henry was just beginning to blame himself for having left the place all night when the door opened; he was relieved to find that he was still a partner in the firm, and that his dreams of a palatial house in Bow Road, a gorgeous wife, six feet four in height, and a dogcart, were still possible of realisation. Mr, Bourne washed himself and dressed in his best; he wrapped the smaller diamonds in cigarette papers and placed them all in a black, shiny bag. He also spiked his moustaches and tied his cravat in a flowing manner, the better to impersonate the character of a stranger to the country. Then he bade Robert Henry keep his eyes open, and walking up to the junction of roads near the Asiatic Home, for the first time in his life hailed a cab.

“Bit lumpy, ain’t it, guv’nor? ” said the driver, as Mr. Bourne lifted the heavy little bag into the cab.

“Oui,” replied Mr. Bourne, in the French language.

“Shall I give you a ‘and?”

“Non,” said Mr. Bourne.

“More blooming foreigners,” growled the cabman. “There won’t be an Englishman left soon to keep me company.”

At number 142 Hatton Garden he found Mr. Lewis Schenker, Diamond Merchant of Amsterdam and London. Mr. Bourne explained in laborious broken English that he had diamonds to sell, and Mr. Schenker, who was a stout man with only just enough breath for his wants, listened without wasting a word of comment. When Mr. Bourne had finished his description of the death of the favourite aunt who had left him the diamonds, Mr. Schenker winked at him and went and locked the door of the office.

“Dell me the druth,” said Mr. Schenker jovially. “Don’t give us no romances.”

“Messieur,” protested Mr. Bourne, “I no onderstand.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Schenker, chuckling. “Haf your choke then, my fellow, haf your leedle choke. I don’t gare. If you haf diamonds to sell, I buy. That is all.”

“Bon,” said Mr. Bourne.

“Show me the brecious jewels,” said Mr. Schenker. “Don’t vaste time.”

Mr. Schenker, with a powerful glass at his eye, examined very carefully the few smaller gems that Mr. Bourne placed on the table for his inspection. Presently Mr. Schenker said he would give fifty pounds for five of them, and Mr. Bourne took them back and said that he would not let them go for a penny under five hundred pounds. Mr. Schenker begged that he might look at them again; that he might take them in his hand, but the artful Mr. Bourne would not hear of this, and prepared to leave. Mr. Schenker, affected almost to tears by this stern attitude, implored Mr. Bourne not to be a hasty man, and said, two hundred and fifty pounds. Three hundred pounds. Well, three hundred and fifty pounds, and not a penny more if it meant imperilling his life, the life of Mrs. Schenker, and the lives of the Schenker family. At three hundred and fifty pounds, therefore, the diamonds, wrapped in the cigarette papers, changed hands, and Mr. Schenker wrote a cheque which Mr. Bourne accepted He made his way immediately down still holding the precious bag. Feeling that he had done enough business for a start, he had lunch in Holborn before going on to the bank. When this agreeable duty had been performed he looked at the cheque and discovered that it was made payable to order, and as shopkeepers in Emmett Street, Limehouse, do not keep banking accounts, he was compelled to go back to Hatton Garden to request Mr. Schenker to be so good as to make it payable to bearer.

“Ah! my friend,” cried Mr. Schenker, with enthusiasm. “We meet again. You want me to alder the cheque, ain’t it? “

“Si voo plait,” said Mr. Bourne.

He handed the cheque to Mr. Schenker, and that gentleman, discarding at once his general manner of hilarity, tore it into small pieces and threw them over the astonished tobacconist.

“You don’t blay bractical chokes on me,” screamed Mr. Schenker fiercely. “No, my fellow, I am too old for all those nonsense. Al—low me to kick you downstairs.”

“Not likely,” protested Mr. Bourne. “Gimme my cheque or gimme my diamonds.”

“Shall I kick you downstairs?” asked Schenker, breathlessly and frantically, “or shall I send for the bolice? Choose which!”

It occurred to Mr. Bourne that his position with a bag of diamonds in the City Detective Office in Old Jewry would be difficult of explanation.

“I’ll go downstairs,” he ssiid humbly.

“Better you go quick,” screamed Schenker. “My vord, I haf killed a man for less.”

Mr. Bourne, on the pavement in Hatton Garden, looked up at the office that he had quitted so hurriedly, and tried to think. This was the worst of having no introductions. This was the drawback of not knowing where to find an honest trader. You were liable to be swindled in this dastardly way before you—

The heated, excited face of Mr. Schenker appeared at the window, the window was thrown up, and down on the hat of Mr. Bourne were showered some small missiles.

He made his way through the busy street into Holborn and took a ‘bus home. When, near the shop, K 052 engaged him in casual conversation, Mr. Bourne’s knees trembled.

“We don’t serve sailors,” Robert Henry was saying as he entered the shop. Two Japanese were asking for cigars, and Robert Henry, seated on the counter, with lemonade and pastry by his side, was treating them in a contemptuous manner that evidently gave him much satisfaction. “Outside, if you please.”

“Two ceegar,” repeated one of the Japanese mildly.

“Get out!” shouted Robert Henry. “We’re giving up business. We’re coming down for repairs. We’re sold out.” He waved at them. “Skoot!” he said. “Now d’you understand?”

The two Japanese smiled and went amiably out of the shop. Mr. Bourne recognised them as the men who had chased Ah Lun the previous evening with a knife. He hesitated for a moment and then went after them.

“Pardon me,” he said to the first little man. “What’s your name?”

The little Japanese stopped and the question was repeated.

“Yoroshka,” he answered.

“What ship, might I ask?” Information given.

“Sail to-night?”

“Yees,” said Yoroshka. “For Yokohama.”

“I wish you bon voyage,” said Mr. Bourne, with enthusiasm, “’Ope you’ll ‘ave a ‘appy trip.” He coughed. “What ship is Ah Lun, the Chinaman, on?”

The look of smiling amiability vanished from the faces of the two little sailors.

“You know him?” demanded Yoroshka swiftly. He put his hand to the back pocket of his trousers. “You find him, I give you one pound.”

“What’s the grievance against him?”

“He sell me diamond,” hissed Yoroshka; “it no diamond at all! Bring him to me, and kill him!”

“Right,” said Mr. Bourne; “I’ll make a note of it. At present I don’t know where he is no more than the dead. So long!”

The two Japanese went off reluctantly, and Mr. Bourne returned bewildered to his shop. These were not, then, perhaps, real diamonds that the liquid in the black bottle made, in which case all his anticipations of wealth were idle. And yet, if they were not real diamonds, why had the Hatton Garden merchant found difficulty in restraining his admiration when the specimens were shown to him? He walked straight through the shop into the back room and opened the bag. There they were, shining, sparkling, scintillating.

“Don’t tell me they ain’t di’monds!” said Mr. Bourne to nobody, very fiercely. “Don’t you go ‘umbugging me!”

Robert Henry sauntered in and sat down in the one easy-chair in a negligent attitude.

“Well, ole man,” he said familiarly, “how’ve you got on? How many golden sovereigns ‘ave you got to ‘and over to Robert Henry Wall, Esquire? Tell you what I thought of doing,” went on the boy confidentially. “With my thirty thousand pound, or whatever it works out to, I thought of getting over to America and ‘aving a good old game of ‘unting Red Indians! That’s always been my mark!”

“I ain’t got on so well as I should ‘ave liked,” said the tobacconist.

“It’s your first start,” said the boy tolerantly.

“Don’t quite see how we’re going to get rid of the things.”

“Why, sell ‘em, you juggins!” said the boy, with indignation. “’Aven’t you got no sense? If you can’t sell di’monds, what can you sell?”

“Look ‘ere,” said the tobacconist, goaded—“you’re jolly clever all at once! You take one and you go and get rid of it, and come back and let me know.”

“Thought you was going to manage the show.”

“Never mind what you thought,” said the tobacconist; “you take one and do as I tell you. You sell this big one ‘ere for fifty pound, and you shall ‘ave half the money.”

“I’ll take good care of that!” said the boy, wrapping the large jewel in his handkerchief. “Expect me back in ten minutes.”

Mr. Bourne sat for some moments after Robert Henry’s departure resting his chin upon his fists and trying, with little success, to think the matter out. There was a tap on the windowed part of the door, and he looked up wearily.

“Go away, mother,” he said to the shawled figure; “we don’t want no groundsel.” The shawl went back from the dry, yellow, bony face, and he saw that it was Ah Lun. The Chinaman entered very quietly. He wore a dark woollen skirt; his pigtail was coiled up and concealed by the shawl. He looked like a worn old woman of some preposterous age.

“Ah Lun come see lil bot’l,” he said insinuatingly.

“Whaffor?” demanded Mr. Bourne.

“Not alli gone?”

“What’s it to do with you?”

“English gelman,” said Ah Lun persuasively, “he give back lil black bot’l.”

“Don’t see the force of that argument,” said the tobacconist. “What’s give to me I stick to.”

“No use to English gelman.”

“Why ain’t it any use?”

Ah Lun bent forward and whispered. As he did so, amazement, indignation, and comprehension flitted across the tobacconist’s face. He had to moisten his lips before he could speak.

“And the blooming things go back to their original state the moment they pass out of the hands of the owner of the black bottle? Well, I’m—”

“He no use to English,” said Ah Lun, nodding affirmatively; “he use to pol Chilaman.”

“Business is business,” said Mr. Bourne, “all the world over. How much did that Jap give you?”

“He not here?” said Ah Liin, looking round affrightedly.

“I’ve only got to lift my little finger,” said Mr. Bourne, “and Yoroskha will come up with his little knife and—”

“No, no,” screamed Ah Lun appealingly. “Brave English, he no give up pol Ah Lun. Look! Yoroskha give Ah Lun moley, Ah Lun give moley to you.” The Chinaman lifted his woollen skirt and found a handful of gold coins in the pocket of his blue trousers. “Take!” he cried. “No send for Yoroskha. No keep lil bot’l.”

“You’re ‘aving it all your own way,” said Mr. Bourne doubtfully, “but—” he looked at the small pile of sovereigns. They, at any rate, were genuine. “I’m not a ‘ard man,” said Mr. Bourne; “’ere”s the bottle, and ‘ere’s this bag full. They’re no use to an honest man like me. Be off now, and don’t let me see you again.”

“No flear,” said Ah Lun.

And readjusting his shawl, and pulling the little black bottle very carefully in his blouse, he slipped away.

“Nice go!” cried Robert Henry bitterly, almost falling into the shop. “Had a look at the thing on me way, and blow me if it ‘adn’t turned back to this. And coming ‘ome I met your young lady, and she give me this note.”

“More fun,” said Mr. Bourne, opening the letter with a gloomy air. “I am ‘aving a jolly time, I am.”

The opening of the letter seemed to cheer Mr. Bourne.

Dearest Johnny,

The clever dear to make up such capital jokes. When I read your letter, I thought at first you were in earnest, but when I saw the piece of coal I knew it was only some more of your nonsense. I was much pleased with the words on the cigar box, but I fear I am not worthy of them. There is such a good piece on at the Pavilion this week; shall we try and go?—Much love and kisses from your own,

Louisa

“After all,” said Mr Bourne “diamonds are dangerous things—specially when they ain’t diamonds.”

Freckles

Published in The Illustrated English Magazine, 1898

Usually the 6.32 p.m. from London stopped in a casual way at the small wooden station whose name was set out in giant letters of whitened pebbles on the bank; and the engine having sneezed while one or two passengers alighted, and the guard having told the office-boy that if he received any more cheek he would report the office-boy to the Superintendent, the train went on to pursue its journey into the heart of Kent. A July evening found commotion on the narrow platform which a sun had been baking all day, so that the shoes of the waiting villagers left imprints on its tarred and gravelled surface; the office-boy, big with importance and glad to show authority in the presence of a long-limbed, freckled-faced girl who stood back near to the bed of geraniums, ordered them to stand back and go higher up and to come lower down, all in the way of a bustling dog controlling a flock of sheep.

“All with no tickets,” shouted the office-boy presently, as the train came in sight far away on the straight lines, “get off of the platform.”

“We ‘re expectin’ of somebody,” urged one or two of the elders. The freckled-faced girl prepared to leave.

“You can stop where y’ are,” whispered the office-boy to her. She nodded and came back. “All the rest get down there by the signal-box and wait,” he ordered authoritatively.

They obeyed, and made a lump of patient heads near to the level crossing as the oncoming engine whistled at them and drew the train up to a halt. Three or four London children who had had their heads out of the window turned the brass handles and jumped out on the platform. Each bore a label, tied around the neck, and the one boy of the party was addressed to Mrs. Naylor, of Rose Cottage. The long-limbed girl stepped forward to him.

“You want Mrs. Naylor, don’t ye?” she asked shyly.

“Wha’s that to do with you?” demanded the short boy from London. He had a sharp, acute face, with his hair brought down well over his forehead; his collar was clean, but worn at the edges.

“She’s down this way.”

“Dessay I can find her,” said the short boy curtly, “without you puitin’ your spoke in.”

“Let me carry your parcel for ye.”

“Look ‘ere,” said the boy, with truculence, “when you ‘re wanted you shall be sent for. Meanwhile, keep yourself to yourself, and don’t you interfere with me. Unnerstand that, if you please.”

The train went on, and the children, giving up their tickets to the office-boy, offered themselves and their labels to the consideration of women waiting for them. A hard-faced middle-aged woman took the short boy, and, catching his hand sharply, took him over the level crossing without a word; the long-limbed girl following at a space of a few yards. They walked across the station yard with other women and children to the main road, where they separated.

“You seem to ‘ave a rare fund of lively conversation, you country people,” remarked the boy satirically, as they went down the dusty road. “Don’t you get tired sometimes of talkin’ so much?”

“Less noise from you,” said the hard-faced woman, “if you please.”

“Your name Naylor?” asked the boy.

“Mrs. Naylor,” she admitted.

“Mine’s Sizzle,” he said proudly. “Sizzle Aub’ron Tabor. Lay you don’t get eristocratic nimes like Sizzle down ere in this Gaud-forsaken place.”

“We have what chrissen names we like,” replied the woman tartly.

“What’s yours?”

“My chrissen name is Ruth. My ‘usban’s name is Saul. Both,” added Mrs. Naylor, showing in her turn something of conceit, “both took straight from the Bible.”

“Well, I’m ‘anged!” remarked the boy.

“And you’ll ‘ave to behave yourself,” went on Mrs. Naylor inconsequently, “the fortnight you ‘re stayin’ down ‘ere; and you let me find you up to any of your London tricks, and I ‘ll punish you jest the same as if you was me own boy.”

“How many kids you got?” asked Master Cecil Tabor.

” ‘Eaven,” said Mrs. Naylor, with something of a catch in her voice, ” ‘Eaven ‘an’t blessed us with no children. There’s only the two of us, Saul and me.”

“You ‘re a juggins,” remarked the boy, “to worry about that. There’s plenty of youngsters up in Red Cross Street, where I come from. I reckon anyone could buy as many as they liked there for about three a penny.”

“This is where we live,” said Mrs. Naylor. “Come round ‘ere to the back. Goo’-night, Sarerann.” The girl responded.

“Why not go in the front door?” asked the boy.

“Because it ain’t Sunday,” she replied curtly. “Give your shoes a brush with this bass-broom.”

The boy looked back at the roadway as the long-limbed girl passed, and noticed that she went on towards the next cottage, the garden of which was separated from that of Rose Cottage by a wooden barred fence. He imitated the warning sound of an approaching bicycle, and was pleased to see that the girl started affrightedly. In the garden someone who appeared to be a gentleman of colour was washing himself at a basin stood upon a wicker-bottomed chair, and he looked up, his grimy face covered with soapsuds, as the two came into view.

“Wha’ cheer, Rewth,” he said, nibbing the water from his eyes. “You ‘ve found ‘m then?”

“Can’t you see I ‘ave,” she replied tartly. “Get rid some cf that coal-dust and come in to your tea.”

” ‘Aving a bit of a sluice down, ole man?” asked Master Tabor familiarly.

“Jest gettin’ one or two coatin’s off,” replied Mr. Naylor. “Jiggered if I don’t sometimes wish I was a miller ‘stead of being in the mucky coal business.”

“It makes you a bit dark-complexioned,” agreed the boy. “You ought to treat yourself to a powder-puff.”

Mr. Naylor had dipped his face again into the basin of soap-water, but on hearing this he threw his head back and roared cheerfully, repeating the last words of the boy’s remark with great enjoyment. He came into the kitchen presently with his eyes still black and a dusky look about the rest of his face, and when his wife told him (not, it seemed, for the first time) that his hands were a disgrace to the village, he took the reproach good-temperedly. The three sat down at the white-clothed table to a bread-and-butter tea with green young lettuces tearful at having been plunged into water, and a home-made cake that the boy eyed acutely.

“A pretty character you are,” said Mrs. Naylor bitterly, “to ‘elp me look after this boy for a ‘ole fortnight. Why, to look at you, anyone would think you were a——”

“Say grace, Rewth.”

“For what we are ‘bout receive Lord make us truly thankful,” said Mrs. Naylor, bowing her head. “A low tramp!” she added, looking up.

“What made you marry him?” asked the boy from his side of the table.

“There!” she said with melancholy triumph, “even the boy asks that question. It’s a puzzle to everyone, young and old, ‘igh and low, rich and——”

“I suppose,” said the boy, eating with great appetite, “it was only because you couldn’t get no one else to.”

“Jigger me!” roared Mr. Naylor with great delight, “if the boy ain’t hit the nayul right on the head.”

“And I ‘ll hit him there too,” said the woman sharply, “if he talks with his mouth full. Pull up your chair closer, me lad, and behave, and leave off sniffin’.”

There seemed at first some probability that the advent of Master Cecil Tabor would increase the number of domestic jars at Rose Cottage, but the fact appeared to be that Mrs. Naylor had always reached a high standard of acerbity, and any change that she made could only be in the direction of amiability. Indeed, later in the evening, when the boy from the Borough, on being ordered to bed, obtained a respite by proceeding to give imitations of music-hall favourites whom he had seen at the South London Palace, he succeeded in arousing a smile from Mrs. Naylor that had been dormant so long that it seemed rather confused and awkward, but was presently followed by other smiles of more assurance. Feeling, later on, that this show of interest was undignified, she gave the boy a good shake and took him up to his small bed-room, where she delivered from the landing, as he undressed, a brief address on the sin of going to theatres, pointing out that these bordered the way to destruction, besides costing money. The boy listened to her for some time, and then, being tired, assured her that she knew nothing of what she was talking, and turning his tired young head on the pillow, went instantly to sleep. Mrs. Naylor walked downstairs and upbraided her husband for not having brought home his cash to be locked up in the usual way.

The boy was taking a first survey of the back garden the next morning, in order to ascertain the possibilities for mischief, when a head appeared over the wooden fence—a head that at this early hour of the day was so fiercely studded with curling-pins that it looked at first sight as though the young woman wore a silver helmet. She coughed, and the boy started from the white currant-bush to which he had been applying himself.

” ‘Ello!” he said, regaining his composure, “Freckles!”

“My name ain’t Freckles,” said the girl, “it’s Sarerann Francis.”

“Your nime’s Freckles,” he retorted. “Don’t you get in the ‘abit of conterdictin’. My name’s Sizzle Aub’ron.”

“I think I shall call you Suet Puddin’,” she said shyly. “You ‘re very white about the face.”

“I can see what’s the matter with you,” remarked the boy threateningly, “you want your ‘ead punched. Stay where you are, and in about two twos——”

“Don’t hit me,” begged Freckles, bobbing down on her side of the fence. “I don’t like being hit.”

“What’s my nime, then?” asked the boy threateningly.

“Sizzle something.”

“Sizzle Auberon Tabor.” The shrinking girl repeated it carefully. “Ah!” said the London boy, “don’t you ferget it, mind, or else you ‘ll be sorry you was ever born.”

“Come out and ‘ave game cricket presently, when I ‘ve finished ‘elping mother with the ‘ousework,” suggested the young woman.

“Dem fine ‘and at cricket, you.”

“I can bowl round-arm,” she said. “and chance it. ‘Ev you ever played?”

“Been at it all me life,” said the boy, with some want of exactness. “I’m the chempion in our street. We get a jacket and fold it up against the wall, and we make a ball out of anything we can get ‘old of, and a bit of wood for a bat, and——

“Sarerann!” called a voice. “Come ‘ere this minute, you good-fer-nothing young ‘ussy, you!”

“Ten o’clock,” whispered Freckles, preparing to go.

“P’raps I shall be there and p’raps I shan’t.”

As a matter of fact, the boy found himself turned out of the cottage after breakfast, Mr. Naylor having started on a round from his coal depôt with a wagon loaded with fat sacks of coal, and Mrs. Naylor, first tying a handkerchief fiercely around her head, and enveloping herself in a brown holland cover, threw herself with remarkable energy into the work of giving the place a tidy up, which appeared to consist in taking every spotless article laboriously from its place, dusting it, rubbing it, breathing on it and rubbing it again, and eventually returning it to its place in its former immaculate condition. To escape being treated in like manner, the boy went out into the roadway, and discovered presently, to his great annoyance, near a dry ditch into which he slipped, the reason why stinging nettles are so called. He was kicking the nettles and swearing at them resentfully, when a stump fell near him, followed by three more, followed also by a ball. Picking these up, he saw Freckles pointing with one long arm down the road, and he obeyed by carrying them in the direction indicated. There he found a triangle of grass with a barn at the base, which bore posters of a long-departed circus. Freckles appearing, the wickets were pitched, and Freckles said, “Dolly I first innings”; but the boy shouted, “Bags I first go!” and, seizing the bat, declared that in Red Cross Street, Borough, and in other places in London where the national game was played, men always batted first, and girls had to bowl. Anxious to comply with the rulings of town. Freckles took the ball and sent down a round-armer that missed the boy’s bat and hit his wicket; but he declined to give up the bat on the ground that the first ball was always given “for love,” and was never taken seriously. He found many other ingenious excuses afterwards for not going out, with the result that Freckles had to do most of the running in her awkward long-legged way. The London girls who had arrived with him went by in charge of one of the villagers, and he was about to holloa to them when Freckles begged him not to speak to them, and he consented, with the proviso that she should acknowledge that he could beat her at cricket—a wholly unfounded claim, to which she at once gave her cordial consent.

“What’s vour father work at for a livin’?” she asked, as they walked back for dinner.

“He don’t work at all,” replied the boy, glancing at her aggressively. “You mind yer own business, Freckles.”

“Is he independent?”

“Yes.”

“Live at ‘ome?”

“No he don’t,” snapped the boy. “He’s put away at Wormwood Scrubbs jest now, if you must know.”

“Why don’t you and your mother go with him?”

The boy looked at her curiously, as though to ascertain whether her attitude was one of ignorance or whether she was only assuming this as a cloak for impudence. He appeared satisfied.

“Silly kid!” he said disdainfully.

The other days of the first week saw him increasing in the favour of his hosts and in the admiration of Freckles. His alertness, his quaint effrontery, his comic songs, his amazing coolness—all these things were new to the couple in whose cottage he was living; when it was found that they were backed up, after a few days, by unexpected little touches of affection, then even Mrs. Naylor gave up her attitude of reproach, and her voice softened when she spoke of him. And when Mr. Naylor was engaged in the laborious work of making up his accounts in the evening and checking his cash the boy was of real use, for he could tell how much five hundredweight at twenty-five shillings a ton came to before Mr. Naylor had written the figures on the slate. Sunday came, and he was conveyed, much against his wish, to the Congregational Chapel, where he showed some signs of restlessness during the prayers, and murmured, “Time, time!” under his breath; but his interest awoke when Freckles and other muslin-dressed young women of the parish, up in the gallery near the harmonium, commenced to sing. Later in the day he so far unbent as to make a defiant offer to Freckles across the wooden fence to accompany her to evening service, and Freckles, walking with him into chapel that evening, knew the joy of pride.

Because everything in this world has an end, Cecil Auberon Tabor’s holiday finished, and the office-boy at the station was perhaps the only person in the village who was glad of this. Mrs. Naylor baked vigorously all through the day that the boy might have something to eat on his two hours’ journey to London (“He must keep body and soul together,” said Mrs. Naylor), and was thus enabled to load him up with meat pasties and cake in sufficient quantity to have kept the whole party of child visitors for a week. To her great regret, Freckles was unable to see him off at the station: the absence of her mother with a married daughter Linton way obliged her to remain in charge of her house, but the London boy kissed her, and said that likely as not they might run up against each other again. Freckles was only able to wave a tearful farewell as the train rushed Londonwards with brown faces of excited children out of the window. Mr. Naylor from the coal-wharf also sent up an adieu that might have been shouted by a fog-horn.

“Saul!” cried Mrs. Naylor that evening.

“Now begin again,” answered Mr. Naylor, from his wash-hand stand.

“Come ‘ere this minute! Come at once! We ‘ve bin robbed! There’s bin burglars! Oh, Saul, we ‘re ruined!”

“You’re makin’ a lot o’ fuss ‘bout nothin’ at all, I expect,” remarked Mr. Naylor, as he came in leisurely.

“That fi’-pun note that you locked up safe in the tea-caddy last night is gone!”

“Well I’m jiggered!” exclaimed Mr. Naylor. The two stood looking blankly at the caddy “Sims almost,” said Mr. Naylor hesitatingly, “as though our—your London boy must ‘ave bin and gone and took it.”

“Saul,” replied Mrs. Naylor, “you was a fool when I knew ye first, and a fool you ‘ll be till the end of the world. I’d trust that dear boy with untold gold.”

“But this was a fi’-pun note,” urged Mr. Naylor, thinking he had detected a flaw in the premises.

“I’m ashamed of you. Paul, for even dreamin’ of such a thing.”

“Any way,” said Mr. Naylor, “it’s gone.”

“Yes,” admitted Mrs. Naylor, “it’s clean gone. We ‘d better send for young ‘Obman.”

Young Mr. Hobman arriving, took off his peaked cap with its little rampant silvered horse and loosened his waist-belt, and said at the outset that he should have been sent for earlier. When the unreasonableness of this remark was pointed out, P.C. Hobman waved the protests aside and remarked that he had not belonged to the Kent County Constabulary for eighteen months without knowing something of the Law, and if this did not mean a case for the Assizes why then he would eat his walking-stick. Mrs. Naylor ventured to submit that it was necessary, before having a case at the Assizes, first to catch a prisoner, and P.C. Hobman, admitting the force of this rather grudgingly, applied himself to the work of investigation. He searched the back garden for footprints, and Freckles, who had heard all the foregoing talk, watched him from the fence nervously.

“You ‘ve had a bit of a boy from London staying with you,” said P.C. Hobman presently. The two nodded. “Then,” said the Constable, “it’s him what’s took it!”

“You’re a darned young idiot,” burst out Mrs. Naylor, with vehemence.

“That’s as may be,” said P.C. Hobman equably. “But, anyhow, I ‘ll borr’ a trap and drive over and see our Instructin’ Constable, and we ‘ll see what steps ought to be took.”

“Better be half go and look after them gipsies,” suggested Mrs. Naylor wildly. “Them’s the characters what do all this sort of thieving.”

Freckles, from the fence, gave a sigh of relief that was but temporary.

“The boy took it,” said P.C. Hobman doggedly. “The gipsies cleared off two days ago. I ‘ll trot up to London Bridge by the parly in the momin’ and we ‘ll nab him in rather less than no time.”

“Hi!” said a voice from the other side of the wooden fence.

“Did you call, Sarerann?”

“Yes,” said the girl, with a white face. “I can save you the trouble of sending up to London. I took your fi’-pun note.”

“And what ‘ave you done with it, you bad, wicked, good-for——”

“Burnt it,” said Freckles.

“What ever for?”

“For fun,” said Freckles.

“Call your mother this minute.”

“She won’t be ‘ome to-night,” said Freckles calmly. “There’s a new baby at sister Judith’s at Linton.”

“My girl,” said P.C. Hobman, “I shall most likely have to cart you into Maidstone first thing in the mornin’.”

“1 don’t care,” said Freckles, with a nervous effort at impudence. “I don’t of’en get an outing.”

“I ought to take you to-night.”

“I ‘ll look sharp after her to-night,” said Mrs. Naylor, “whilst you go and see your Instructing Constable about it. And I ‘ll give her such a talkin’ to——”

Poor Freckles, under lock and key in the room that had been occupied by the boy from London, had to listen to Mrs. Naylor’s hard, reproachful voice for many hours that night—the while Mr. Naylor slept peaceably. She took all the reproofs without sign of emotion, until Mrs. Naylor pictured the contempt and indignation of the new baby nephew at Linton. In the morning she prepared stolidly for the arrival of the constable. She was looking out of the window, ready dressed for the journey to Maidstone, when a whistle clipped her attention.

“Hullo!” said the office-boy. “In the wrong ‘ouse, ain’t you?”

“Shall be in a wronger one soon,” said Freckles ruefully.

“Got a parcel for Mrs. Naylor,” called the boy. “Tell her to ‘urry down and sign for it. I must get back sharply to my monthly abstract.”

The signature “R. Naylor” being written in the office-boy’s book, Mrs. Naylor took the clumsily tied little parcel. It was really more like an amateur envelope than a parcel, and it contained a letter—

I took this away by mistake in the hurry, and I send it back with comps. I am very sorry. Please forgive me. I am going to be a better boy.

Yours truly,

Cecil Auberon Tabor

Don’t tell Freckles.

The five-pound note was inside.

“Sarerann,” said Mrs. Naylor solemnly, “when he grows up, your new little nephew will be as proud as proud o’ you.”

A question of policy

Published in English Illustrated, 1899

The Climax Tea-Rooms were doing an excellent trade—the hour being six o’clock, p.m.—and young Mrs. Bell, the proprietress, bustled up and down between the two rows of oblong marble tables, hurrying the two moon-faced young women who assisted her, temporizing with waiting customers, and welcoming new arrivals. The window facing East India Dock Road bore strips of paper plastered upon it, giving the suggestion that it had been in a fight and had got rather the worst of it, closer inspection proved that these bore enticing notices. “A Fourpenny Tea for Twopence! Good Manners and Good Food! We Invite a Trial!” Waiting customers found the journals which are still called comic to inspect; others, who had been served, propped an evening paper against their metal teapot to read an alluring inquest case, the while they blew at the contents of their cup and sipped noisily. A clean-shaven brown-faced man, with an undecided chin, came in between the swing-doors and sat cautiously on a vacant seat near the window. He concealed himself in ambush behind a Star.

“Good evening, Sir!” said young Mrs. Bell. “Lovely weather for the time of the year, isn’t it?” Mrs. Bell held a plate of thick toast which she was conveying to another customer. “Cup of tea? Anything else?”

“Yes,” said the clean-shaven man in a hoarse whisper.

“What like, Sir?”

“You!” he said, glancing suddenly over the edge of the Star.

“Robert!” she exclaimed. The toast slipped from the plate to the floor. “What—what’s made you come back?”

“Fact of the matter is—” he began

“‘Ush!” she said with great concern. She stooped to pick up the pieces of toast.

“All right,” he said obediently. “I’ll ‘ush, then, Louiser.”

The two assistants came up to him at intervals when the stress of customers relaxed, and brought newspapers. Mrs. Bell, trembling, glanced frequently in his direction, and the cups and saucers that she handled rattled and chinked. The elder round-faced assistant stood by his table and, sweeping imaginary crumbs from it, inspected him curiously.

“Seafarin’ gentleman?” she asked

“Pardon?”

“I say,” repeated the waitress, “are you a seafaring”—she glanced at his hands—“person?”

“To a certain extent,” he said with reserve, “I am.”

“Must be very nice and open to be sailin’ on the ocean wave. What I mean is, it can’t be nearly so stuffy, you see, as being cooped up in a place like this with the gas going all day. The sea, now, must be so different.”

“It ‘s got its drawbacks,” said the man.

“After all, though.” remarked the waitress, “I expect you ‘re glad to get back to London again.” She smiled at him. “Nice to get back, you see, to your wife.”

“What?” roared the man.

“Ain’t you married? ” she asked.

“Look ‘ere.” he said with asperity. “D’ye know what you are talkin’ about?”

“Keroline!” called her mistress from place; the clatter and rattle and bang of the counter.

“Yes’m.”

“Come ‘ere this instant, and help wash up.”

When the tea-rooms were nearly free of patrons, Mrs. Bell came slowly down the gangway to the customer. He was still there, behind the evening paper, and she spoke to him in a low voice as she looked out at East India Dock Road and at the people hurrying homeward to Bow. The two young assistants were clearing off traces of the struggle that had just taken traffic outside helped to prevent the conversation from being heard.

“Whatever possessed you?” demanded Mrs. Bell. “If there’s anything foolish to be done, you must he at it.”

“Why,” he expostulated, “ain’t I your ‘usband? After all—”

“I told you I’d send for you when it was safe for you to come back. And ‘ere you come blunderin’ into the place—”

“I come in like a gentleman.”

“And you’d better go out like one,” she said. “Sooner you get away from here the better.”

“Better for who?”

“Better for you,” she said meaningly; “better for everybody.”

“I like the way you talk,” said Mr. Bell with satire. “Anybody’d think I hadn’t any business ‘ere.”

“More you ‘aven’t. This is my business. I bought it with the money as I wrote and told you that come to me over your insurance policy. When I’m ready to pay it back, I’ll let you know. At present you ‘re supposed to be dead.”

“Supposed to be,” he admitted: “But,” he added with spirit, “I ain’t.”

“You ‘ll look silly if you come to life now, Robert,” said his wife.

“I shall look sillier if I don’t. How long d’ you think I’m going to keep playin’ in this blooming farce, Louiser?” he asked, tapping at the marble table.

“Leave off knockin’ that table, and listen to me. Do you know what ‘ll ‘appen if you ‘re recognised?”

“Bah!” said Mr. Bell uneasily. “Who’d recognise me without me beard and mestache? Who’d be likely to come all the way from Rotherhithe and—”

“Once you’re recognised,” said Mrs. Bell solemnly, “you’ll find yourself in the ‘ands of the law. And d’you know what the law ‘ll say to you? I ‘ve made it my business to find out, Robert. For pretendin’ to be dead, and wrong information being sent ‘ome by others to your widow, and her thereby getting a matter of two ‘undred pounds out of an insurance company, the penalty is—”

She turned, and bent down to whisper.

Go on with you!” said Mr. Bell with great concern. “Who’s been filling your silly young ‘ead with that nonsense? The lor can see a joke as well as anyone. Besides, it wasn’t my fault that they thought I was done for.”

“If you don’t believe me, ask someone else. ‘Ere’s a sergeant going along outside now. Shall I call him in, and—?”

“Don’t you go being a stupid young stupid,” begged Mr. Bell, wiping his forehead with a scarlet handkerchief. “Can’t you see that you’d get into trouble as well?”

“Pardon me,” she said. “I simply acted on the letter and the certificate what come to me. And if you think I’m going to pay back the two ‘undred this week just for the sake of you—”

“Yes, but— Look ‘ere, Louiser. Try to unnerstand. You, being a fond and, I may say, affectionate wife, you naturally want your ‘usband to be here with you and give a ‘and with business Don’t you now?”

“I can manage the shop by meself,” said Mrs. Bell.

“Granted, granted,” he said anxiously. “A better business-woman never lived. All the same, you naturally want me to stay on and make meself generally useful.”

“Do I, indeed?”

“As you very properly argue, a wife has got a perfect right to expect that her ‘usband shall make his ‘ome under the same roof as her, and not to go voyaging about on a cargo-vessel that doesn’t keep in the same position for two seconds together. And, mind you, I think you ‘re right.”

“I’m gettin’ along,” declared Mrs. Bell, “very well as I am, Robert, and I don’t want no interference either from you or anyone else. I’m a widow woman with a character to keep up in Poplar, and—”

“How can you talk like that when I’m your lorful married ‘usband sitting ‘ere and drinkin’ cold coffee?”

“Ah!” said Mrs. Bell with a sigh, “it’d be different, of course, if you was still alive.”

“I’m as live as ever I was.”

“You dare to go and tell that to the insurance company!”

There was a pause. Mr. Bell rose, found his new bowler hat, and first punched a dent in it and then punched out the dent.

“For aggravatingness,” he said strenuously, “for want of logic, and for general wrong-‘eadedness, commend me to a woman.”

“Good evening, Sir,” she said loudly as she opened the door for him, “and thank you!”

Mr. Robert Bell walked home to his lodging in Pekin Street, Poplar, a moody and a solitary man. He had been back in England but twenty-four hours, and it seemed to him that although life on a sailing-vessel had many grievous drawbacks, a sailing-vessel was ahead of London for comfort. There, at any rate, he had always been able to console himself with the thought of a cordial welcome at some distant date; by endeavouring to anticipate that joy he had, it appeared, only succeeded in giving it indefinite postponement He had assumed the name of Merryweather on his return, and this name he had given to his new landlady, together with erroneous information to the effect that he had relatives in the neighbourhood whose address he had forgotten.

“I ‘ve found ‘em!” said his landlady exultantly, as he stumbled into the narrow, dimly lighted passage. She turned up the little oil-lamp standing on the bracket, and the oil-lamp, annoyed, began to smoke furiously. “I ‘ve found ‘em, Mr, Merrywealher, and glad enough I am to ‘ave been of some service to you.” She was a vivacious old lady in a beaded cap, with a lively knowledge of the affairs of other people, and just now keenly interested in the new occupant of her bed-sitting-room. “And you mustn’t thank me, because I’m only too pleased to bring friends and rel’tives together.”

“Now what are you cacklin’ about, Ma’am?” he asked politely.

“Ah,” replied the old lady cheerfully, “you ‘ll soon know. We shan’t be long now. It ‘ll be as good as a play to see you two meet.” She wept and rubbed her eyes. “People may say what they like, but there’s nothing in all this wide world to be compared to two lovin’ ‘earts.”

“Let me ‘ave my supper,” he said patiently, “and then leave me be. I want to ‘ave a smoke and a think.”

“You won’t do much thinking,” remarked the landlady knowingly, “when you ‘ear the news I ‘ve got for you. You said your name was Merryweather, didn’t you?”

“I don’t deny it.”

“And you said you’d got friends near ‘ere—you’d forgot the address.”

“I might have let fall a casual remark,” said Mr. Bell carefully, as he held the handle of his door, “or statement to that effect. Whatever I said I ‘ll slick to.”

“I knew that,” replied the old landlady. “I ‘ope I can tell a gentleman from a mere common person. Some people look down on sailors and such-like, but I’m not one of that sort. As I often say, where would Old England be without ‘em!”

“‘Urry up with that supper,” said Mr. Bell.

“Shall I lay for two, Mr. Merryweather?” asked the old lady.

“Course not! I’m only one.”

“But the lady?”

“What lady?”

“Why,” she said, “your wife!” Mr. Bell pulled the handle from the door and stood looking at her blankly. The landlady gave a gesture of self- reproval. “That’s me all over. I forget what I ‘ave said and I forget what I ‘aven’t said. What I ought to ‘ave told you before blurting it out like that was that I ‘ve discovered your wife, Mrs. Merryweather, in Grundy Street; that she’s simply overjoyed to ‘ear of you, and I ‘ve asked her to come ‘ere this evening.”

“Then,” said Mr. Bell solemnly, and shaking the white door-handle in the old lady’s face, “you jest listen to me. You ‘ve asked her to come ‘ere; you can jest jolly well ask her to go away again. I’m not goin’ to see her.”

“Well, well, well,” said the amazed landlady, “‘ere’s a pretty how-d’ye-do! And she talked so affectionate about you, too, and she says, ‘Oh!’ she says, ‘I do so long to look on my sweet one’s face again.’ I had the least drop of spirits with her, and we drank your very good ‘ealth.”

“Very kind of you,” said Mr. Bell doggedly, “but that don’t affect my position. When she comes, you get rid of her, and, in future, don’t you go potterin’ about and mixing yourself up in my affairs, because I won’t ‘ave it. See? I ‘ve got plenty to worry about,” added Mr. Bell fiercely—“more than you think for—and I don’t want no interferin’ old cat—”

“When you ‘ve quite done using language,” interrupted the old lady, bridling, “p’raps you’ll kindly put back that door-‘andle where you found it. Letting you my ground-floor front for a paltry four and six a-week don’t entitle you to walk about with bits of it in your ‘ands. So there, now!” She went towards the kitchen, soliloquising. “Interferin’ old cat, indeed. I’ll learn him!”

It was an hour later that Mr. Bell, by dint of staring hard at a model of H.M.S. Temeraire weathering a gale on a furious sea of blue linen, came to the decision chat there were no means known to civilisation by which he could compel the proprietress of the Climax Tea-Rooms to recognise his rights. He pitied himself sincerely, and, indeed, that seemed the only action that he could take without incurring some risk. She was, he knew, an obstinate young woman.

“You might as well argue,” muttered Mr. Bell disconsolately, “with a brick wall.”

He would have to find a berth and live on as a bachelor, contenting himself with an occasional cup of tea at the rooms and the opportunity of listening to her. He would have to comport himself, too, with respect, or she might forbid him to enter the doors even as a customer. Mr. Bell had returned to the table and was thoughtfully finishing the remainder of his supper when a knock came at the door. His landlady shuffled through the passage to answer. He rose quickly, and opening the door, took off the handle, closed the door again, and listened anxiously.

“Is my long-lost ‘usband in?” asked a high strident voice. “I ‘ve left me glasses at ‘ome,but no doubt I shall recognise him.”

“Come inside, Ma’am,” said the landlady in injured tones, “and let me shut the door. Your ‘usband, I’m sorry to say, has got a ‘asty temper.”

“I ‘ll temper him,” said the loud-voiced lady, “if he comes any of his cheek with me. He’s been away from me for six year, and the least he can do now he has come ‘ome is to apologise.”

“Spoke like a true woman. Ma’am,” remarked the landlady applaudingly. She tapped at the door. “Mr. Merryweather! Mr. Merryweather! Opin the door. ‘Ere’s your wife come to see you.”

“Go away,” shouted Mr. Bell, “and don’t be a silly juggins.”

“That voice!” exclaimed the new arrival ecstatically. “Oh, I could swear to it amongst a thousin’!”

“Come, Mr. Merryweather,” called the landlady in appealing tones, “open the door like a man.”

“I ain’t her ‘usband at all,” bawled Mr. Bell. “Tell her to be off ‘ome again, and leave me be.”

“Oh,” cried the lady pathetically, “he disowns me! Oh, that it should have come to this! Oh, that I should ‘ave lived lo see this day! Oh, that—oh, that—”

“She’s faintin’!” screamed the landlady. “If you are a man, and not a block of wood, opin the door, Mr. Merrywiather, and lend me a ‘and!”

Thus appealed to, Mr. Bell opened the door. His landlady was endeavouring to support a very large woman whose eyes were half closed; she carried a small shiny bag, from which a cork peeped shyly. Mr. Bell assisted to drag her into his room, and his landlady, with an adroitness that did her credit, found a flat bottle in the visitor’s shiny bag, and extracting the cork first, sampled the contents herself and then pressed them upon their owner. That lady, after taking a long sip, sat up limply on the chair and looked around vacantly.

“Where am I?” she asked feebly. “Has there bin a accident?”

“No, dear,” replied the landlady; “there ain’t bin no accident; it’s only your nerves that ‘ave give way.”

“You’ll be as right as rain,” said Mr. Bell, “when you ‘ve rested a bit.”

“That voice again,” said the lady dreamily. “Can I be awake?”

“She identities you,” remarked the landlady with a triumphant air.

“Shut up your nonsense,” begged Mr. Bell uneasily. The recovering woman’s eyes wandered round the room slowly. “You ‘re jumpin’ at conclusions, you are, and it’s only makin’ her worse.”

“Walter!” tried the lady, starting up. “Oh, Walter! Has the sea give up its dead?”

“No,” said Mr. Bell, struggling to escape from the large woman’s embrace; “it ain’t.”

“You ‘re altered, loved one,” said the large woman pathetically, “sadly altered; but I knowed you at once. Oh, how thankful we ought to be for this precious moment.”

“‘Ere!” protested Mr. Bell, “take your arms away from my neck!”

“Never, Merryweather!” she cried. “Never so long as life’s left in me!”

“Make her leggo,” cried Mr. Bell. “She’s strangling of me.”

“And who,” she said, releasing him, “who, Merrywcather, has a better right?”

“Lot of use putting on clean collars.” grumbled Mr. Bell, adjusting his necktie. “Now have a good look at me, and tell the truth, and put a end to all this misunderstanding.”

“That was always his amusing way.” explained Mrs. Merryweather to the landlady. “I don’t suppose there was ever his equal for a joke—not this side of Aldgate, at any rate.”

“Joke or no joke,” said the landlady, “I’m amply repaid for all my trouble by seeing you two brought together again. And as I daresay you ‘ve a lot to talk about, I ‘ll leave you alone for a bit.”

“If you go from this room,” declared Mr. Bell aggressively, “I shall jump out of the window.”

“He’s overcome with joy, I expect,” whispered the landlady. “He don’t know whether he’s on his ‘ead or his ‘eels. I ‘ve seen ‘em took that way before now. He ‘ll calm down presently, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“There ‘ll be precious little calm about,” cried Mr. Bell furiously, “if you two women don’t get out of my room. ‘Ere am I worried ‘alf out of me senses about another—another affair, and you come ‘ere jawin’ and cacklin’ and faintin’—”

“Merryweather!” said the large lady impressively, “look me in the face.”

“Whaffor!”

“Look me in the face and asnwer me true. I can bear it. We women are used to suffering—”

“I’m sure!” murmured the landlady, sniffing.

“And I only want to know the worst. Tell me the truth, and I ‘ll leave you in peace.”

“I ‘ll tell you anything if you ‘ll only do that.”

“‘Ave you,” asked Mrs. Merryweather formally, “‘ave you got yourself mixed up with Another?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Bell, “I ‘ave.”

“Lead me to the front door, Mrs. What-is-it,” requested the large lady in a pained voice. “My ‘eart is full of woe and bitterness against the world. To think that I ‘ave found him only to lose him again! My grief is more than I can bear. Never, never, never in this world shall I be seen to smile again! Is there anything left in the bottle?”

The landlady found the flat bottle, and Mrs. Merryweather sipped it, making a wry face, as though it contained the most repugnant and displeasing of restoratives.

“Lean on my shoulder, Mem,” said the sympathetic landlady. “Shows you what men are.”

“But don’t you fancy,” cried Mrs. Merryweather at the doorway, with a sudden outburst of fury, “don’t you imagine for one single moment, my fine fellow, that you ‘re going to get off scotfree. Don’t you let me leave you with the idea that you ‘re going to ‘ave it all your own way. I ‘ll keep my eyes on you—such as they are—and I ‘ll never let you ‘ave one moment’s peace.”

“‘Earear!” said the landlady.

“You shall never be free from me. I ‘ll track you, if needs be, to the uttermost ends of the earth. I ‘ll put the County Council on you. I ‘ll watch you and foller you, and denounce you night and day. I ‘ll give up the rest of my life to showing you up in your true colours. I ‘ll—I ‘ll—”

“Go on,” said the landlady in an encouraging way, “let him have it hot.”

“No,” said the large Mrs. Merryweather tearfully, “I can’t say no more. I’m but a poor, weak woman, and I love him in spite of all.”

“Bye-bye,” said Mr. Bell, with a fine affectation of indifference. “Mind the mat.”

Mr. Bell, after a sleepless night, rose early and succeeded in finding work at an engineer’s in Canning Town. The long sea-voyage had aided the change in his features by tanning his complexion, and when at the shop he met a man with whom he had once worked in Rotherhithe, and this man, so far from recognising, gave him a history of old acquaintances whom he called “softs”—a gallery of foolish gentlemen in which Mr. Bell was at once hurt and gratified to find that he himself figured—then he no longer feared detection. After work he went home and washed and apparelled himself with care, and slipped away quietly without another encounter with his landlady, who, however, put her head out of the first-floor window and called after him.

“‘Ound!” screamed the landlady.

At the Climax Tea-Rooms he took his seat near to the door, jerking his head carelessly in acknowledgment of his wife’s business-like smile. He ordered tea and a poached egg from the head assistant, noting the while furtively that his wife behind the counter was watching them both.

“Nice row I got into over you,” whispered Caroline, as she brought the metal teapot. “Don’t look at her, or else she ‘ll think we ‘re talking about her, you see.”

“What’s the trouble now?”

“Oh!” said the young woman confidentially, “it was all about last evenin’. After you was gone, you see, I ‘appened to say in course of conversation, you see, what a nice face you had, and— Don’t you go getting conceited, mind!”

“I ‘ll take care,” promised Mr. Bell, interested. “Go on!”

“And so I was talking about you, you see, and quite by chance, I remarked that if you come in again, you see, I should set my cap at you.”

“Very ‘armless remark.”

“Upon which,” whispered Caroline tragically, “upon which she flies into a passion, you see—calls me everything but a lady. I answers back, you see, and end of it all was I give her a week’s notice, you see.”

“I’m sorry there’s been this upset,” said Mr. Bell with a gratified air, “all on my account.”

“Oh, it’s nothing!” said Caroline lightly. “Plenty of places open for a good worker like me.”

“Do you mind doing me a great favour and earning at the same time a pair of kid gloves?”

“Seven and a half,” remarked Caroline, beaming.

“Mind talking to me in rather a friendly way while I’m ‘ere this evening?”

“Give her the needle, won’t it?” said the girl sportively.

“That’s what I mean,” said Mr. Bell. “It ‘ll learn her a lesson.”

“Keroline,” called her mistress sharply, “come ‘ere this minute.”

Caroline obeyed, but soon found an opportunity to make her way again in the direction of the doorway, where she gave Mr. Bell two violets to place in the button-hole of his coat, and made several remarks in a tone of voice that managed to reach the burning, indignant ears of young Mrs. Bell. Such as: “Oh, you are a tease!” and “If you say I’m nice-lookin’ again I shall slap your face!” and “I expect you ‘ve said all that to a lot of gels before,” and other phrases of similar import. When Mrs. Bell could endure this no longer she came from behind the counter and ordered Caroline to take her place, saying that she herself would look after the tables.

“Good evening. Ma’am,” said Mr. Bell.

“Oh!” said Mrs. Bell, “good evening.”

“Been a nice, bright day.”

“Thought it seemed rather miserable.”

There was a pause. Mr. Bell, under cover of an evening paper, reached out and touched her hand. She did not reprove him, and he pressed her hand; whereupon she seemed to realise the situation, and moved it away quickly.

“Busy, Louiser?”

“Are you comfortable where you ‘re lodging?” she asked sharply.

Mr. Bell drank deeply from his thick cup before answering.

“I don’t think,” he said, “I do not think, that I knew what comfort was before I went there. I’m waited on hand and foot; the landlady couldn’t be more attentive if I was one of the family. I think I ‘m very fortunate in ‘aving hit on such a ‘appy ‘ome.”

“Is she young?”

“Depends on what you call young,” said Mr. Bell evasively. “Anyhow, I promised her I wouldn’t be late back this evening; so, with your permission. Ma’am, I ‘ll pay up and take my departure. Will you call the good-looking gel that waited on me?”

“No!” said young Mrs. Bell. “You needn’t pay for what you ‘ve had.”

“Pardon me,” he replied with laborious politeness, “I prefer to pay as I go. There’s sixpence; and that ‘ll be a penny for Caroline.”

“If you don’t take it up at once,” she said heatedly, “I ‘ll throw it out into the road.”

“That’s your look-out, Ma’am. Where did I put my hat?”

“You needn’t be in such a hurry,” urged Mrs. Bell, fingering her pinafore-bands nervously. “I ‘ve been thinking that I could afford to pay back that money soon, and so, if you returned to England in a few years’ time—”

“My landlady’s waiting.”

“Let her wait,” cried the young woman. “What right’s she got to expect you to be at her beck and call? Why don’t you be independent?”

“How can I?” asked Mr. Bell, “when I’m dead?”

She moved her slippered foot agitatedly on the floor and bit her lips. Mr. Bell found his hat and rose. She glanced at him, but he preserved his stolid expression and commenced to hum a sea-song. From outside the swing-doors there came the sibilant whisper of women’s voices, changing to louder tones as the two doors pressed open. Large Mrs. Merryweather entered first and looked around in a short-sighted manner, as she fumbled with her spectacle-case.

“My ‘usband ‘ere?” she asked loudly.

“Your husband,” replied Mrs. Bell, “is not here.”

“A lie!” exclaimed Mr. Bell’s landlady, following in; “nothing more nor less than a low lie. There he stands, a-shrinking and a-cowering like the ‘ound he is!”

“I ain’t a-shrinking,” declared Mr. Bell valiantly, “and I ain’t a-cowerin’.”

“Merryweather!” said the large lady, “one last appeal I make to you. Before I call upon the lor to help me, give in to the promptings of the heart and return to your ‘ome. If it’s a hot supper you want, you shall ‘ave it. If it’s your pipe you want, you can smoke it now all over the ‘ouse. If ever I was ‘arsh with you in the old days, we ‘ll let bygones be bygones, and begin afresh.”

“You ‘ll excuse me,” said Mrs. Bell, trembling, “but will you kindly let me know what you ‘re jolly well talking about?”

“Come ‘ere,” said the landlady to Mrs. Bell privately. “I ‘ll explain it all in two words.”

“Don’t you interfere.”

“It’s a case,” persisted the landlady, “of man and wife meeting after what you may term years of absence, him being seeposed to be dead, and her thinkin’ she was a widow. And it’s me that’s brought ‘em together.”

“Do you mean,” said Mrs. Bell, pushing the old landlady aside, “to look me in the face and tell me that this is your ‘usband?”

“Isn’t his name Merryweather?” inquired the large lady.

“Never you mind what his name is. You put on your glasses”—here Mrs. Bell with a trembling hand turned up the gas until it whistled madly—“and look at him well, and then tell me the truth—if you can,” she added.

“I had them in me bag last night,” said Mrs. Merryweather as she fixed her spectacles, “only they’d got underneath the bottle.” Mr. Bell put on the serious air of a man about to be photographed. “Now let’s see.”

“This ‘ll prove it,” said the landlady with confidence. “This is the last act, this is.”

“Mrs. What-is-it!” exclaimed Mrs. Merryweather feebly.

“Yes, deer!”

“There ‘s some ‘orrid error. This ain’t my ‘usband at all.”

“Nonsense!” said the landlady. “Take another look.”

“I don’t want to take no more looks,” said the large lady tearfully. “My dream of joy is o’er. Take me away, take me away! How far is it to the Eastern Hotel?”

“Now,” said Mrs. Bell to the landlady, “now, perhaps, you ‘re satisfied, Ma’am!”

“Far from it,” declared the exasperated old woman as she piloted her charge to the door. “Far from it, Ma’am. He may chuckle and he may sneer and he may crow, but he’s somebody’s ‘usband, and I don’t spare trouble, breath, nor time until I find out whose.”

“I must be getting along,” said Mr. Bell.

“Wait a bit, Robert,” commanded young Mrs. Bell. “Before you two ladies go on to the public-‘ouse to have your—”

“Medicine,” moaned Mrs. Merryweather.

“Allow me to inform you that this gentleman is my ‘usband; and that anybody that goes interferin’ with him has got me to reckon with.”

“Jest my luck,” said the old landlady gloomily as she went out. “I’m always losing lodgers.”

“And I s’pose I’d better move along ‘ome, Louiser,” remarked Mr. Bell when the two ladies had gone.

“Don’t be so foolish,” said Mrs. Bell, patting his cheek. “You ‘re at ‘ome now.”

A stormy passage

Published in English Illustrated, 1899

The Mary Beatrice lay at low tide in the harbour waiting for a Paris train, which was picking its way very carefully along the rails on the Quai Chanzy above. The electric globes sent a moonlight haze over the upper deck; the captain on the bridge by their aid looked at his watch and said something about French railways that need not be printed here. A middle-aged clean-shaven, cheerful-looking man sitting on a deck-chair near the funnel glanced up. French children trying to sell mechanical dolls from the edge of the quay, watched casually the melancholy person who walked up and down in a clumsy suit of innumerable fancy baskets, articles which did not appear to be indispensable to the happiness of the evening-boat passengers. At the back, lights of the town speckled the edge of the harbour, and the bell of a tram-car rang warningly.

“Paris train late, surely,” said the clean-shaven personage.

“Everybody’s late in this country, Sir,” replied the first mate respectfully. “Give me England.”

“I rather want England myself,” said the passenger. “Haven’t seen it for ten years.” The Paris train stopped on the quay above. Passengers came down the wet stone stairs and advanced to the slanting gangway. “Anyone special on board?”

“Funny thing you should ask the question, Sir. As it ‘appens, I see by the luggage that Mr. Lewis ‘Omersham, whose name you ‘ve seen in the papers, is crossing to-night?”

“Don’t think much of him,” said the passenger, rising and going to the foot of the gangway.

“Well, but, Sir—”

“I am Mr. Lewis Homersham.”

“Dang my old eyes,” said the chief mate with Kentish strenuousness, “if I ain’t always a-putting my foot in it.”

The passengers came down the sloping gangway with more or less of trepidation. A tall lady of generous figure, in a flowing grey cloak that made her look like some large bird on the wing, called to her maid in slipping near to the deck end, and the maid, in sympathy, slipped also. Mr. Homersham put out one arm, and with some difficulty saved the opulent lady from disaster.

“Thank you ever so much,” she said gratefully. “This is such a very awkward arrangement, and—Martin, how tiresome you are! A clumsier maid I think I never saw.” The maid, having picked herself up, ran down recklessly into the arms of two sailors, who caught her and swung her round neatly. “How ‘s that, umpire?” demanded the two sailors of each other.

“Margaret,” said Mr. Homersham suddenly, pulling off his travelling-cap.

“Lewis!” ejaculated the lady.

“But for your voice,” he said, “I should not have known you.”

“Is that intended for a compliment?” she asked.

“My dear girl,” he said hastily, “you cannot, of course, help being charming whatever alterations time may bring.”

“They tell me,” she said vaguely, as one speaking of a subject of which it was not possible to have personal knowledge, “that I have grown stouter.”

“I don’t think so,” he said. This was not the truth, but it seemed more effective than the truth, for she beamed upon him pleasantly. A family of spare girls, ranging in height from six feet to about four feet two, marched past, clearing the deck and complaining bitterly of the other passengers; the last giant trunk of baggage was being swung on board.

“I have a private cabin,” she remarked, after she had sent a contemptuous look at the thin family, “but I think as I have met you, Lewis, I ‘d rather stay on deck. It only takes about an hour and a half.”

“The time,” said Mr. Homersham, “will seem too short in your company.”

“Tell my stupid maid to go down, will you, and not to stand there like a ridiculous idiot?”

Mr. Homersham obeyed, slightly modifying the wording of the order, and Martin, giving the patient sigh of one accustomed to dealing with a mistress who possessed a temper, went down the companion. The Mary Beatrice moved gingerly out into the centre of the harbour, where there was just enough water, and seemingly not a tumblerful too much, to enable her to get out into the open. Silhouetted figures lining the edge of the quay waved farewell, the captain ordered a protecting canvas to be fitted at the end of his bridge. Now this startled observant passengers.

“It is going to be a rough crossing, Margaret,” said Mr. Homersham, returning. “Are you quite sure—”

“I ‘m a good sailor,” she replied definitely. “I hope you are.”

“I hope so too.”

“We have an enormous amount to talk about,” she said, nodding her large hat in a winning manner. “It seems years since we met,. Lewis.”

“It is years,” he said.

“I was quite a girl.”

“You were,” he said, “then.”

“I saw,” she said, “that you obtained your C.B.”

“Backstair influence,” he said lightly. It seemed that Mr. Lewis Homersham was not entirely at his ease: he assumed too obviously an air of unconcern. “You have no idea how these things can be managed.”

“I think I have,” she said, touching him on the arm. “I read all about your excellent work as Consul during the outbreak.”

“Newspapers have to exaggerate.”

“Not unless they see real necessity for doing so. I thought of you a good deal at that time.” She paused. The Mary Beatrice had found her way out of the shallow harbour now, and was on the dark open Channel, a fine spray of salt-water came humorously over the first-class deck, and passengers who objected to practical jokes of this kind prepared to descend to the saloon. “I say, Lewis,” she repeated, raising her voice, “that I thought of you a good deal at that time.”

“You are very kind, Margaret.”

“I wonder whether—hadn’t you better put up your coat-collar—I wonder whether you have ever thought of me?”

“When I had time to do so.”

“Love,” quoted the stout lady pathetically, “is of a man’s life a what do you call it, ‘tis woman’s—you must really get some tarpaulins, Lewis. Do bestir yourself, please, and pay some attention to me.” A passing sailor with a Red Indian touch in his veins was hunting for palefaces, and brought a covering; the two sat nearer to each other, sharing it. “What was I saying when you interrupted?”

“I ‘ve had rather a busy time out there,” he said, without replying to her question. “I ought, I suppose, to have written to you, but the Colonial Office has received most of my letters.”

“I wonder whether men ever think,” said the lady bitterly, “how much of happiness they miss by concentrating their attentions on mere self-advancement. The day surely comes when they feel remorse.”

“One can always find something to reproach oneself about. Are you still living with your aunt in Lancaster Gate?”

“I suppose it never occurred to you, Lewis, that you treated me very badly?”

“I?” he stammered. “I—I treated you badly?”

“You!” she said with calm.

“We had a quarrel, certainly, but—”

“I needn’t remind you,” she snapped, “who was to blame there. No one can say that I ever began a dispute.” He bowed his head politely. “The next thing I heard was that you had left England to take up this appointment.”

“May I venture to remind you, Margaret, that you particularly requested that I should do so?”

“My dear Lewis!” protested the lady. “Do you mean to tell me that you don’t understand women-folk better than that?”

“I am exceedingly sorry,” he began.

“What is the use of being sorry now?” she asked indignantly. “Will that make the case any better? You might go down on your knees before me—”

“The deck is very wet,” he urged.

“And apologise for your hastiness, but it would do no earthly good now. The past is past.”

“Yes,” he said with relief; “it has that advantage.”

The Mary Beatrice dipped its head into the turbulent sea. The detachment of spare girls still marching round and around the deck fell into momentary disorder, regaining discipline as the steamer resumed its normal attitude, only to be swept down into the saloon by the next wave. The two were now alone.

“Whom did you marry, Lewis?” she asked sharply.

“I beg pardon.”

“I asked you as distinctly as I could, Whom-Did—You—Marry?”

“I have never married,” he said, with a touch of pathos in his voice. “I have never been engaged to anyone, Margaret, but you.”

“Poor Lewis!” she said. Her gloved hand traced the outline of a heart in the tarpaulin that covered her lap. “And now you are home again, and I am the first person you meet. Some,” she remarked with a sigh, “would call this fate.” He edged away slightly and seemed half inclined to suggest another name. “There is no doubt, to my mind,” she went on in the manner of one propounding a novel idea, “that everything is ordered for us in this world. We are mere puppets; we have to obey the strings that pull us. It is quite useless, Lewis, for you to contradict me because I know that it is so.”

“My dear Margaret,” he protested, “I don’t contradict you.”

“Oh yes, you do,” said the lady firmly; “you wouldn’t be a man if you didn’t. And please, please don’t pull the tarpaulin away. You can sit closer, surely!” He apologised and edged nearer to her. “I should think, Lewis,” she continued, “that when you come to the end of your life the one thing with which you will have to reproach yourself most will be the unmanly way in which you broke off our engagement.”

“To tell you the truth, I had nearly forgotten all about it.”

“Ah!” she said triumphantly, “I knew it! I knew it! That is how a woman’s heart is treated. Lifelong devotion on her part counts as nothing.”

“My dear,” he said, “do be reasonable. We were only engaged about a fortnight.”

“Cast aside like an old glove that has been plucked in the garden of life, and once its petals have commenced to fade—”

“Margaret,” he said determinedly, “I can’t allow you to talk in this way.”

“A man,” she remarked acutely, “a man never likes to hear the truth. I’ve noticed that over and over again.”

“Are you sure,” he said, after a politic silence, “that you would not prefer to go below?”

“If I did prefer it,” she replied brusquely, “I should do so.”

“The changing lights at Cape Grisnez,” he said, turning his head, “show out very clearly on a dark night like this.” She did not look round. “When one thinks of the number of vessels—”

“I suppose,” she interrupted, “it is nothing to you, Lewis, that the best years of my life have been spoilt by your inexcusable burst of ill-temper.”

“I should be sorry,” he said courteously, “to think that had been the case.”

“Do I understand you,” said the lady icily, “to doubt my word?”

“No, no. Don’t misconstrue me.”

“I think,” she said with deliberation, “that but for your wrong-headedness—but for your fatal hastiness and lack of serenity, we might have spent a lifetime of perfect happiness together.”

“Oh?” he said.

“We were young; we could have walked hand in hand through life, sharing each other’s sorrows; we should have had every taste in common— You ‘re not going to smoke a cigar?”

“Do you prefer a pipe?”

“You seriously mean—”

“I was about to ask your permission. The wind will blow it away from you.”

“I never tolerate smoke,” said the lady, tapping the wet deck with one shoe. “A most objectionable habit, and I do all that I can to put a stop to it. It is never allowed for one single moment in my house. I simply won’t tolerate it.”

“There is nobody in your house, I take it, who would care to smoke much. For my part, I owe a good deal to tobacco.”

“No husband of mine,” she said, “shall ever smoke.”

He glanced at her curiously. Could it be that she expected a renewal of the old and brief engagement? Were his prospects of a comfortable middle-aged bachelor life in the Albany endangered? Was there not some merciful Statute of Limitations which protected middle-aged men in cases like this? A wave reared its head on the starboard side and broke: the water rolled up to their feet.

“Exactly resembles my life,” said the lady, shaking her head dolefully. “Dashed at the very apex of expectation, and all ambition gone!”

“My dear Margaret,” said Mr. Lewis Homersham with anxiety, “I really beg you not to talk in this manner. I am distressed to think that you consider your life wasted, but I cannot feel that I am to blame.”

“Naturally!”

“I feel sure you have had a fair amount of happiness in your life; that it has not been all so grey as you now imagine.”

“I have tried to bear up,” she said mournfully. “Nobody knows what it has cost.”

“You are still well off, Margaret?”

“Happiness,” she said with tears, “cannot be bought.”

“Margaret,” he said impulsively, “is there anything I can do? You appear to think I behaved badly; can I—”

“Too late,” she said with pathos; “too late.”

Mr. Lewis Homersham muttered a “Pray excuse me,” and started up; before the lady could protest he had marched away aft. This was a situation that demanded insistently the smoking of a cigar; he was a man who thought best when smoking. Her last remark had touched him acutely. Perhaps without knowing it, he had not comported himself in the old days with sufficient tolerance: he might have been hasty, and a right-minded man should repair at leisure the hurried blunders that he makes.

The blustering wind consumed as much of the cigar as he himself did, but he smoked sufficiently to arrange and to make up his mind. It was a wrench to have to alter all his plans; hard on a middle-aged bachelor to have to relinquish his state of single content; but right was right. At any rate, he would renew his proposal on the way from Folkestone to London: he wished he could think there was any chance of receiving a refusal. He wished, too, she had not grown so very stout.

The lights of the Leas at Folkestone were near, and white-faced passengers came up hesitatingly from below. Lewis Homersham, about to rejoin the lady who had once excited his youthful admiration, saw that her maid was now in attendance upon her, receiving stern reproof with a placid aspect of resignation. The Mary Beatrice entered the harbour, and as he took his portmanteau and joined the queue of disembarking passengers, he managed to speak to her.

“You will allow me to travel up with you, Margaret?”

“If you wish it, Lewis.”

At the long bench where the Custom officers examined the hand-baggage there was presently commotion. The maid left her open bag and ran to her mistress, who was standing near to Mr. Homersham.

“My lady! They want to charge on those bottles of eau-de-Cologne.”

“How dare they attempt to swindle me!” said her mistress excitedly. “Tell them that I shall get my husband to write to the County Council about it.”

“You are married?” he exclaimed.

“Yes, yes, of course I am married,” she answered impatiently. “Sir Robert had to stay in Paris; it was most annoying; if I hadn’t had you to argue with I might have been ill. Which is the way to the train?”

“On reflection,” said Mr. Lewis Homersham cheerfully as they went upstairs, “I think I will travel up in a smoking compartment.”

Mr. Barling’s income

Published in English Illustrated, 1899

It had been an imperfect year for Mr. Barling, but it would be a hard year indeed that frowned continuously, and last night, for the first time, luck had smiled upon him. The smile had come in the singular form of a railway accident. Not a serious accident, but with little to do but to catch flies in his City office, it was better than nothing. Mr. Barling had wired to the company’s office, and now, well wrapped up and his face touched with artistic white, sat in his flat in Ashley Gardens and awaited the arrival of the company’s representative.

“Can you see a gentleman, Sir?”

“Who is it, James?” asked Mr. Barling.

The excellent James whispered—“I rather fancy he’s from the railway. Sir, in answer to that message that I—”

“Show him in, James, but tell him that I am very, very ill.”

Mr. Barling closed his eyes. A jovial, breezy man, in a short coat and a silk hat, advanced into the room with an air of repressed exuberance.

“My name,” said the jovial man in a forced whisper, “is Drayton. I ‘ve called to make some inquiries—”

“I know—I know,” said Mr. Bailing feebly. “This is a terrible thing, this accident.”

“Most deplorable, Sir.”

“Physically,” said Mr. Barling, speaking with a great effort, “I’m—I’m a wreck. Mentally, I’m an extinct volcano.”

“Dear, dear, dear!” said the breezy man, clicking his tongue. “Is it so bad as that?”

“It’s worse,” sighed Mr. Barling.

“And what compensation, Sir, did you think of asking, I wonder?”

“Take a cigar,” said Mr. Barling desolately. “I shall never smoke again; you’d better take both of them.”

“These smokes,” said the visitor cheerfully, as he lighted up, “weren’t bought at no five a shilling, I’ll bet my boots.”

“You were talking about compensation,” said Mr. Barling brokenly. “I daresay now”—here he had a fit of imitation coughing—“I daresay the company will want to settle it by a lump sum at once.”

“Shouldn’t wonder.”

“And to enable them—oh, my poor head!—to enable them to arrive at a figure, I suppose—” Mr. Barling stopped, and looked round the room vacantly. “Where am I?” he asked. “Where was I?”

“You were supposing, Sir.”

“Ah yes. I suppose it will be necessary to give some idea of my income during the past three or four years.”

“That’s just what I want to get at,” said the visitor, taking out his pocket-book and blinking as the smoke came into his eyes.

“Roughly speaking,” said Mr. Barling in a weak voice, “I ‘ve been making three thousand a year—perhaps more.”

“Perhaps less?”

“No less,” said the invalid, with sudden vehemence, “not a penny less.”

“Very well,” said the man cheerfully, making an entry in his pocket-book; “not a penny less, then.”

“Besides that, there have been various odd affairs that have brought in money. Suppose you say four thousand.”

“Four thousand,’ repeated the visitor, as he made the correction.

“I ‘ve also had money left me at various times,” went on Mr. Barling, with fine exaggeration, “running into, say, about five or six hundred a year. Suppose we say five thousand in all.”

“By all manner of means, Sir.”

“I dareday,” remarked Mr. Barling, “that, if anything, I ‘ve rather understated it. But I’d rather do that than appear to be trying to get the best of anybody.”

“Rather.”

“If the company likes to offer me a big lump sum down—I shall be wrong, perhaps, in accepting it; but still— Well,” continued Mr. Barling, with a burst of generosity, “one ought to be straightforward, even when one is dealing with a railway. What shall we say to five hundred pounds down and say no more about it?”

“I should reckon,” agreed the visitor, “that that would be letting them down cheap.”

“Five hundred guineas,” remarked Mr. Barling thoughtfully, “paid down at once. Not later than the end of this week. Next week I want to be off to—I mean to say next week I may be a good deal worse, and then I might want a bigger sum if the matter remained unsettled.”

“If I were you. Sir, I should get all I could out of them. See how they treated me the other day, when I happened to be in a second-class carriage with a third-class ticket! Why, charged me excess!”

“What?” cried Mr. Barling, “you don’t mean to say that they made you pay!” He laughed cheerfully, and forgetting his pained whisper, spoke in his usual loud voice. “Well, well,” he said, “if they’d do that they’d do anything. Fancy coming down on you.”

“I was very much annoyed about it, Sir. It was only a matter of threepence-halfpenny, but it’s the principle of the thing that I look at.”

“Fancy charging you,” repeated Mr. Barling amusedly. “One of their own— Well, it just shows that one needn’t be too delicate in charging them. Have the other cigar.”

“I ‘ll put it in my pocket,” said the visitor, rising, “and smoke after lunch. Meanwhile, perhaps, you won’t mind filling up this form and sending it on to me.”

“With great pleasure,” replied Mr. Barling. “You’ll tell them how bad I am, won’t you? And do you mind letting yourself out? I can’t move hand or foot, as you see.”

“Good morning. Sir!” said the visitor, backing to the door, “and thank you for the information.”

“My good fellow! ” said Mr. Barling handsomely, “don’t mention it.”

The man was but half-way down the steps when he stepped aside to allow two people, who had just arrived, to pass by him. At the same time he heard the voice of Mr. Barling from the landing above. Looking back, he saw that gentleman descending upon him furiously.

“You scoundrel!” screamed Mr. Barling. “Wait where you are!”

“Meaning me, Sir?”

“Yes, you.” Mr. Barling had flown down the stairs in his scarlet dressing-gown with remarkable activity. “What the deuce do you mean by leaving this form on my table? As sure as my name’s Barling—”

The two new arrivals stopped and looked on at the dispute.

“What’s all this fuss about, Sir? I call on you in my capacity as Income Tax collector. You very kindly give me ample information—”

“Do you mean to tell me that you didn’t say you were from the railway company?”

“Railway company?” echoed the Income Tax man indignantly. “Why, what on earth are you talking about? It was you that—”

The two new arrivals begged pardon. They were from the railway company, they said, and one of them, a doctor, expressed his great satisfaction at finding that Mr. Barling was none the worse for the regrettable accident of the night before.

“Bah!” said Mr. Barling.

Young Platitude

Published in , 0000

My friend Platitude—a tall youth of serious appearance and a voice that seems, by some ventriloquial effort, to come from the roof, is gradually obtaining a reputation for shrewd common-sense. People are telling each other that young Platitude has a lot in him, that young Platitude is deep, that the things young Platitude does not know would scarce fill a match-box. I regret to have to state formally that young Platitude is a humbug.

He is an Oxford-made youth, and I think he must have remained in the oven there a little too long, for all the Oxford characteristics have been burnt into him, and will, I fear, never be chipped off. He went straight to a Teaching Centre in the East End when he first came down, and I shall never forget the wise air with which he presided at a series of lectures on Palaentology for the Working Classes. (The place was not really in the East End being, in fact, but a hop, skip, and jump from the Bank; the working classes came to it by underground train from Sloane Square,) He had little to do but to blink warningly at the people who came in late, and to make a few announcements at the end. but these things he did with such a fine air of superiority that people held their breath when they met his eye.

“Have to ‘nouuce.’” he said once in his head voice after a lecture. “that the-er—usual Tharsday meeting will take place—”

Here he turned over table and dropped his adjusted them. Everybody craned forward with eagerness to listen to his important pronouncement.

“On Tharsday next,” he said impressively.

He tired of the Teaching Centre after awhile, and took rooms in an old Inn off Holborn. He told me that he regarded the lower classes as to a certain extent low and added that he thought journalism required a new note. He also said that newspaper writers had got into a groove, and being there—well, there they were, don’t you know.

“What the public wants,” said young Platitude, in a burst of great confidence, “is something new, Mark my words.”

He was kind enough to show me his first efforts in journalism. They included a brief article called “Town and Country”: in this it was pointed out that there were differences between town and country, in that towns invariably had a larger population and more houses; a short story entitled “A Mistaken Marriage,” that I seemed to have read before, and a four-thousand-word sketch called “Wit in the Olden Days.” This latter he thought of sending to Punch; the other two he wanted the Times to have.

“Guvnor takes them in,” he said as excuse for this weakness, “and if he likes them he ‘ll be—er—gratified. What?”

I gave young Platitude no advice, because I knew it was better that he should go through the mill of experience. Later I learned that he had called at Printing House Square with his manuscript, had insisted upon seeing a sub-editor, and the sub-editor had given a frank opinion. Platitude told us that the sub-editor was not a gentleman.

His opportunity came when a friend of his father’s, then editing a weekly review, sent him a parcel of six books to notice. I shall never forget young Platitude’s air as he sat down to undertake this work. He took three days to complete it, and called into my rooms on the third evening with the result.

“Rather think,” he said, with a faint suggestion of relaxing his wooden countenance, “rather think I ‘ve done some deuced good slates.”

It is always interesting to read acrid criticism (of other people’s books) and I took up the slips of paper with the joy of anticipation. Poor young Platitude!

“Mind you,” he urged, as I went through them, “if a man thinks a book’s bad, a man ought to say so. When a man thinks a book’s good, why then a man ought to say so too.”

But Platitude had not said so. What he had said in regard to this book was that greater pains would have improved it; in regard to this, that the good parts of the book were commendable, while the inferior parts were not commendable; of this he had said that no doubt it would meet a long-felt want, always supposing that that long-felt want did really exist.

“Rather smart, aren’t they?” said young Platitude. “What I mean to say, they’re straight from the shoulder. Nothing people like so much as hard hitting.”

He took the slips off without waiting for an answer. A few days afterwards he told me that he feared he had been too outspoken, for the weekly review had not used them; he mentioned rather bitterly that most papers were edited by their advertisement managers, and that there existed no place in journalism for a man with opinions of his own. This is the oddest thing about young Platitude. He really believes that he is a reckless iconoclast; has really convinced himself that he is a thinker of the most daring school, that he is one leading men ingeniously and without allowing them to become aware of the fact. To a meeting the other day in a Grosvenor Square drawing-room for the purpose of urging marriage reforms upon the thoughtless natives of the recently discovered country called Barala, Platitude was taken by a delightful young lady. Young Platitude found himself called upon to move a vote of thanks to the chair.

“If I may be allowed to make suggestion,” said young Platitude, in his earnest, impressive way, “it is this. That our scheme of—er—reform should not be too large and not be”—here he paused—“and not be too small.”

The noble Lord in the chair, in seizing upon this invaluable suggestion, complimented Platitude on his acumen, adding a phrase about old heads on young shoulders; the delightful young lady gave him a smile of reverence mixed with affection.

And this is where young Platitude scores.

The woman who remained

Published in Pall Mall, 1900

She appeared so very urgent in the matter, that her prayer was granted. It was unusual—almost unprecedented, in fact; but her lover had just sailed for the Crimea, and there were so many things for the gods to look after, that they decided, in order to save bother and argument, that she should, as she desired, retain her youth for ever. Miss Rawley, feeling gratified by this, longed greatly to tell her girl companions in Gordon Square of the privilege that had been accorded to her, but this was distinctly prohibited; besides, there appeared to be some fear that they might not believe her. She refrained from informing even her younger sisters; they were all so anxious—the month being November, and the year ‘54—for news from the south of Russia that they could have taken little interest in any other subject. When Sir James Rawley (who was Miss Rawley’s father) came home from the City one evening purple with news of the glorious but costly defence of the heights above Inkermann, Miss Rawley alone took the news coolly.

Said the eldest Miss Rawley, thrumming on her harp in the corner of the room a cheerful air: “My dears, we must do all we can to retain our appearance and our good looks.”

“But we shan’t,” cried the other sisters in chorus, tearfully.

“Crying,” said the eldest Miss Rawley, as she twanged a few chords of I Puritani, “crying certainly does nothing to improve them. Jane, get on with your crochet work. Miriam, that embroidery is but half finished. Louisa, dry your eyes, and if you are very good you shall write a page in my confessional album.”

Through all that grey and trying winter the lightheartedness of the eldest Miss Rawley was of the greatest use in Gordon Square. A City Sheriff’s daughter in Woburn Place did indeed hint that a certain melancholy were more seemly, expressing a fear that the eldest Miss Rawley might never become engaged again after the disappearance of Captain Finlayson; but this was a fear born of hope. The City Sheriffs daughter was herself something of a sham, for she pined in society and went out to dinners in order to decline food in a public and official manner—sitting up late into the night on her return home, and devastating the larder to assuage her appetite. So that one need have no sympathy with her. The younger sisters a year or two later accepted the counsel of Miss Rawley and did recover heart, and thereupon became engaged respectively to an indigo merchant, a middle-aged sergeant-at-law, and an army contractor, and, what was more to the purpose, married them and had started nurseries, before Miss Rawley (naturally in no great haste) began to consider the advisability of saying ‘No’ with less of decision to her occasional suitors. She read the Times to her father every evening in the drawing-room at Gordon Square, when he wanted to sleep, went to the Opera twice in the season, and stood as godmother to the open-eyed babies of her younger married sisters. She was now near to thirty, but everybody assured her that she looked but twenty-four; the ex-City-Sheriffs daughter in Woburn Place, who had now at least two chins and a rather high colour, bought Wilson (who had been Miss Rawley’s maid)—bought her at a ruinous price in order to ascertain names of bottles in the secret drawer of Miss Rawley’s dressing-table.

“My late mistress, miss,” said Wilson primly, as she held up her new mistress’s chignon, “never used no powder, never used no wash.”

“Wilson,” cried the ex-City-Sheriff’s daughter appealingly—“Wilson, be a woman and tell me the truth.”

“I am a woman, miss,” replied the maid with some pride, “and to truth I am a perfect slave. Will you take your port negus now, miss, or when you are in bed?”

“Both,” replied the aggrieved lady. “And, Wilson!”

“Yes, miss!”

“You can have my blue satin gown if you will only tell me—”

“Miss,” said the maid, “if you were to give me forty thousand blue satin gowns I couldn’t tell you a lie. I’m a Bible Christian, and—”

“Wilson,” screamed the lady, “if you don’t tell me this instant, I will box your ears.”

“So much as look at em,” replied the maid calmly, “and I give you my month’s notice. I am not a worm,” added Wilson, shivering with pride, “that I should have my ears boxed by people who take seven-and-three-quarters in gloves.”

Thus did Miss Rawley’s retention of youth commence to make tumult in the hearts of her acquaintances. To herself, as she looked each day in the mirrors of the house (and of these there were plenty), it was a source of inexhaustible delight to find that never a wrinkle came to her young cheeks, never a change arrived to her admirable complexion. Youths of twenty or less, their ambition fired by her youthfulness and gay spirits, brought flowers to Gordon Square and listened infatuatedly to her father’s anecdotes for her sake; she was forced to accept so many brooches and earrings that as the years went on she had to give them away to her nieces in order to make room for more. Her ambition rising, she secretly admired a prominent member of Lord Palmerston’s Cabinet: she had never met him, but she adored his reputation; and, time being of absolutely no account to her, it really seemed within the limits of possibility that he might, in his turn, present himself.

In an access of enthusiasm over the visit of Garibaldi, Miss Rawley’s father died, leaving her the greater part of his fortune and the house in Gordon Square. Miss Rawley was now thirty-four, and her married sisters, aggrieved at the favour shown to her in her father’s will, reported that she was thirty-seven, and that she enamelled. This caused some friction, but Miss Rawley’s only regret was that she was thus prevented from visiting the houses of her married sisters, and taking toys to her young nieces and nephews; she had a fondness for children that increased with time. As compensation, she did much useful work at the Foundling Hospital in Guilford Street, until two young officials there fell in love with her, and meeting one night at Cremorne Gardens, each being under the influence of wine called champagne, they fought, returning home by hackney coach in such a deplorable state that they were both instantly dismissed from their appointments. It was thereupon intimated to Miss Rawley that her youthful appearance made it undesirable that she should continue her visits to the Institution: similar objections were made when she endeavoured to undertake active Church work in St. Pancras. Society of an agreeable kind was denied to her, for an attractive young woman in those days could not entertain at Gordon Square without exciting remark, and alone she could not with propriety visit even the Lyceum theatre to see Fechter. The habit of proposing for her hand was discontinued by the moneyed youth of Bloomsbury, then much occupied by affairs in the City, and when the Cabinet minister ran away with an old lady, great fear came upon Miss Rawley that with all her special gifts she might remain unmarried.

“If only Finlayson were here!” she cried.

Miss Rawley was certainly a most fortunate woman. By the post at the beginning of May ‘66, she received a letter in handwriting the sight of which made her young figure tremble. Within was a letter from Captain Finlayson. He had been taken prisoner at Inkermann; by a clerical error on the part of a careless Russian clerk he had not been released at the end of the war, but had been deported to Siberia, where he had remained for near upon twelve years. He wrote from Marseilles:—

A Russian Grand Duke came to inspect the village where I had worked all these years, always, thank God, retaining my excellent health, and fortunately remembered having met me in London. The Russian Government has apologised in the most handsome manner, and my place has been taken by the clerk who made the deplorable blunder. I am now on my way back to England, a middle-aged man, but my mature heart still full of affection for my dear one. Heaven grant that she is still free—free to accept the respectful love of her Ronald.

Miss Rawley waltzed around the drawing-room with ecstatic delight, and sent out gold to some street singer in the Square. At last evening was coming right; at last all was sunshine. She drove instantly to the new station recently opened at Charing Cross, and dispatched a telegram to Ronald Finlayson at the hotel in the Rue St. Honoré mentioned in his note.

I am free, and so very happy to welcome my dearest.

That day was May 11th. It was Friday—in itself an unfortunate circumstance—and the City found itself buffeted and boxed and strained and distracted. Overend & Gurney’s Bank smashed, a number of minor firms were broken: Miss Rawley was only one of the many who awakened on the day prosperous, and retired to rest almost penniless. She sent a note the next morning to meet Finlayson on his arrival at Charing Cross, informing him of this disastrous change in her fortunes, and the same messenger brought back a hastily scribbled reply:—

I think I am almost glad of this. We meet now on equal terms. I only want my sweetheart as she was in the days of long, long ago. I shall wait upon her in two hours.

This gratified Miss Rawley extremely. She dressed herself in her most youthful attire: a white muslin frock, sandals, a flower in her hair, which hung down over her young shoulders. She pirouetted before the glass, laughing girlishly as she thought of the delighted astonishment which her Finlayson would express. When the knocker at the front door announced his arrival, she dared not look out of the window: her heart beat wildly, and she was blushing with confusion.

“Go’ bless my soul!” cried Captain Finlayson, as he hobbled across the room, “what a most remarkable likeness, to be sure! My dear, I want to see your aunt.”

“I am my aunt,” she said confusedly.

He tried to find his spectacles, but failed. “My eyesight is not what it was,” he said; “but surely—”

“Ronald,” she said, “I have, as you hoped, not changed in the least. I am still the young girl whom you left in ‘53, and—”

“Are you certain?”

“Surely,” she said, rather testily, “surely I ought to know!”

“Yes,” he said pointedly, “you ought to know. May I sit down?”

“See,” she went on, as she placed a hassock for his lame foot, “here is the coral necklace that you once gave me, Ronald.”

“I think,” he said doubtfully, “that a coral necklace is not evidence.”

“Here is the ring; here is the half of the split fourpenny-bit—”

“My dear, my dear!” he interrupted. “I’ve had a good deal to put up with during the last thirteen years, and perhaps I’m not quite so alert as I used to be. But I expected to find some one here of what I may term a comfortable age; some one who would make an appropriate partner for a man of my time of life. Instead of which—”

“I think,” she said, her young lips quivering, “that it—it is most unkind of you to complain of my youthfulness. I thought you would have been pleased.”

“So I should, so I should, my dear, if I had kept young also. But”—here he glanced in the mirror—“I’ve not.”

“You can scarcely blame me for that.”

“I blame no one. I only want to avoid making myself look damnably ridiculous.”

“Captain Finlayson! Such language—”

“My dear, pray excuse me. I have undergone so much that it is a wonder I remember any language at all.”

She took another hassock and sat near to him, stroking his hand affectionately. He patted her head in a paternal manner, and presently found his spectacles. With the aid of these he peered curiously into her attractive face.

“The very image!” he cried amusedly. “Begad! a devilish amusing comedy. My dear, how dare you impose upon a middle-aged gentleman in this manner, you little witch, you? You’re twelve or thirteen years too young. Now, if you had made up with a line or two here and a little excess of plumpness—”

“Ronald! Ronald!” she cried distractedly, “how short-sighted you are!”

“I can manage pretty well with my glasses.”

“I am, on my honour I am, the same girl to whom you said good-bye before that dreadful Crimea. I am always going to be the same. I shall never change.”

“Is that so?”

“Believe me!”

“Well,” said Finlayson thoughtfully, “if this be a trick that you are playing, it is a trick—if you will allow me to say so—in rather doubtful taste. But if be not a trick, then it is a most unfortunate piece of business and one that will require the greatest consideration. If I were to marry you, and I every day increased in age and in appearance of age whilst you remained obstinately youthful, it is clear to me that sooner or later I should become the laughing-stock of London.”

“Let them laugh!”

“But not at me,” he said firmly: “I would rather have remained in Siberia. There were many drawbacks there, but I was not—”

“I can see how it is,” she cried, with girlish impetuosity. “This is only an excuse for not renewing our engagement. It is really because of my change of fortune; because I am without a friend; because I have now but just enough to live upon—”

“Miss Rawley,” he said, standing up stiffly, “I have the honour to request your hand in marriage.”

“Captain Finlayson,” she answered, “I regret that I am unable to accept your offer.”

Miss Rawley lost no time in facing the situation caused by the loss of her fortune. She invested her small remaining capital in a boarding-house in Gower Street, near to Torrington Place, and endeavoured to distract her mind from thoughts of her middle-aged lover by setting about with great show of businesslike manners to organise an establishment where boarders could be accepted at thirty shillings per week.

Domestic work was the only occupation for which she was fitted (by this time the harp had gone out of fashion), and with the optimism of youth she decided that her future in spite of all was to have success about it. Unfortunately the gods, who had once done so much for her, appeared now to be taking no trouble in her regard. Some boarders came, attracted by her appearance, and made such fierce love to her that she was obliged to go about from one floor to another armed with a fork; others of the more desirable and reputable sort no sooner met her in the hall than they decided hastily that a young woman of her age could not possibly know even the first page of the cookery book, retiring instantly to find a plainer landlady whose appearance inspired confidence. Thus it was presently that, what with boarders whom she was obliged to eject and those who backed out into Gower Street at the sight of her, her apartments were nearly always empty and the card in the fanlight over the front door took quite a brown complexion from continued exposure. Her old maid Wilson, now near to fifty years, had come back (the ex-Sheriff’s daughter having grown so stout that Wilson could no longer stay with her), and Wilson was a woman of resource. It was Wilson who, on one desolate July evening, when all the other boarding-houses in Bloomsbury were clattering and steaming and crackling with the dinner-hour offered a suggestion to which poor young Miss Rawley lent her pretty ears.

“Miss,” said Wilson, in the front room of the first floor, “I’ve been thinking.”

“There is little else to do,” declared Miss Rawley dolefully.

“We shall have to make a change,” went on Wilson. “Me and you have known each other for near upon twenty year, and plain speaking is best. We must change places.”

“Wilson!”

“Far be it from me,” said the maid steadily, “to wish to ‘old up my ‘ead ‘aughty, but there’s a time to speak and a time to be quiet, and this is a time to speak. If I was mistress and you was the servant we should ‘ave the ‘ouse full before you could say ‘knife.’”

“Wilson! There’s something in what you say.”

“Miss,” said Wilson, “there’s more’n something: there’s everything. Let’s argue it out.”

The result of argument appeared the next day, when Miss Wilson assumed the position of landlady, and a fresh card being placed over the front door, Miss Wilson met applications with the stony demeanour which was expected; the maid appeared to be a neat and tidy girl; boarders came and stayed and sent for all their friends. A dignity of manner on the part of the young maid checked the ardour of emotional gentlemen-boarders, but gave keen annoyance to the tradesmen’s lads of the neighbourhood.

“If she was a lady born and bred,” said a youth from the grocer’s in Francis Street aggrievedly to the lady of the area next door, “she couldn’t be ‘ortier in her manners.”

“It’s silly of you gentlemen,” said the servant, “to worry yourselves about her. ‘Tisn’t as though she was the only one in Gower Street. Jest because she sounds her aitches she thinks she’s everybody.”

“She takes no more notice of any one than as though she was talking to a bit of wood,” complained the grocer’s boy. “A joking remark or a bit of lively chaff’s wasted on her.”

“Me and cook talk about her pretty loud when she’s doin’ her steps in the morning. She can’t very well be off from ‘earin’ what we say.”

“Does she ever answer you back?”

“That’s the worst of it,” said the servant wistfully. “She never takes no notice.”

“I’m told she used to be the lady of the ‘ouse.”

“That was before my time, then,” remarked the servant. “Must ‘ave been over three months ago, because I’ve been here all that. Longest time I’ve ever been at one place, it is.”

“You don’t believe in staying too long with one missis?”

“It spoils ‘em,” said the servant darkly.

The indignation of the other domestics did nothing to increase happiness in Miss Rawley’s life. Money affairs, by the ingenuity of Wilson, were righting themselves; but there was little of company for Miss Rawley until late at night, when Wilson would creep quietly to the servant’s bedroom, and discarding the manner of a dogmatic overseer, become again a respectful attendant. In vain Wilson urged with all deference that her young mistress should secure a good husband and start a comfortable married life.

“I never cared for but one man, Wilson,” was the answer, “and him I shall never see again.”

“What I thought, miss, was,” remarked Wilson hesitatingly, “if it isn’t taking too much on meself to say so, that ‘ere’s you specially endowed—to use a common expression—with the gift of perpetual youth, and yet you’re takin’ no advantage of it. You’ll excuse me if I say that it’s flying in the face of—”

“In a burst of temper I refused Captain Finlayson. I cannot forgive myself for that, and I can never think of anybody else.”

“Well, miss,” said Wilson, perturbed, “if it was anybody but you, miss, I should say that was silly talk.”

It really seemed that the permanence of youth was to be of no advantage to Miss Rawley. She looked earnestly at herself now in the glass morning and night, in the hope that she might detect some faint sign of increasing age, but turned away always with a sigh of regret. She was still twenty two: she would, it appeared, be always twenty-two. As she watched furtively her old contemporaries growing middle-aged and matronly, and driving down Gower Street with their children, she envied them with all her heart. Sometimes she dreamt that she too had been married, and that she had a daughter who was growing ludicrously older than herself: this was bad, but it was only a dream, and the realities of her life could not be dismissed in this way. No news had come of Finlayson since the day after Black Friday: he had taken his dismissal as irrevocable. She desired intensely to see him again, but she had no address, and it was not until she saw in the Daily News that he was acting as correspondent in the Franco-German war that she knew vaguely of his whereabouts; upon which she wrote a letter full of affection and respect, begging him to renew his offer, to forget her youthfulness and believe in her sincere love, and she was his “affectionate sweetheart, M. A. Rawley.” The Commune opened in Paris at about the time that the letter was due there, and a less fortunate communication would have disappeared; but this reached Finlayson, and cheered him as nothing just then but a good meal would have done.

Miss Rawley was on her knees whitening the steps on a spring morning of ‘73, an occupation shared at about every other house by similarly white-capped, blue-aproned young women; so that the street looked, at the hour of nine, rather like the resort of some new feminine sect which worshipped front doors. Miss Rawley seemed that morning the most youthful of all the kneeling girls. Glancing round as she rose to move the strip of linoleum, her quick eyes saw coming up from Bedford Square way Captain Finlayson, still slightly lame, now greyish of hair, with a general look of appropriate, reasonable middle-age. The delight of seeing him again was checked by the knowledge that his objection to her extreme juvenility would in all probability still exist. Being in a kneeling position, she suddenly bent her head. The gods had been good to her before,—would they be good to her once again? Fearfully and with little hope she looked a moment later into the pail of clear water beside her. Then with a cry of delight she rose to her feet carefully, and went in with the dignity of forty years.

“Mistress’s compliments, sir,” said Wilson, with nervous gratification, “and she’s just changing, and she’ll be down in a minute.”

“Good!” said Captain Finlayson. “You’re looking well, Wilson, but older.”

“Like most of the world, sir.”

“With the single exception of your mistress, Wilson, I know of no one who is exempt—”

“Excuse me, sir! I think you’ll find that mistress looks her age now.”

“Damme,” cried Finlayson excitedly, “if she does I’ll marry her to-morrow!”

And, being a man of his word, he did this. Wilson sold the goodwill of the boarding-house and managed house for them; the married sisters renewed their friendship, and their children welcomed presently a new playmate.

As the children’s French story-books say, “Voilà tout le monde content.”

Easy come

Published in , 0000

But thanks be!” said the middle-aged man fervently, “thanks be I’ve put all that sort of thing away from me, and now it don’t temp’ me not in the least whatsoever.”

The two men, one middle-aged and one young, stood outside the Shelter in Hanbury Street and watched children who came from the Board-school nearly opposite; the younger man did this without seeing them. He, a floury-jacketed lad, did not belong to the Shelter; he had been stopped on his way to Mile End Road by a request from the middle-aged man for a match, some tobacco, and a pipe.

“I look at them little kiddies,” went on the middle-aged man reminiscently, “and I think of the time when I was like ‘em, innercent and with no thought of crime or what not from one week’s end to the other. I see meself growing up and getting me reputation as Pug Nainby, of Bethnal Green, eight stone six, with me name in the Sporting Life sometimes as often as twice a week, and backers ready to plank down a sovereign whenever ast so to do. I was like one of the lilies of the valley at that time.”

The younger man looked at him admiringly, but with something of doubt.

“Not in regard to me appearance,” he explained, “but in so far as concerned me toiling not nor spinning. Then there came a time when, owing to a generous habit of accepting drinks whenever they was offered me, I had to look about for other means of earning a living. Then it was that—”

Mr. Nainby gave it all in an even monotone which suggested that he was accustomed to reciting it in public, but to the interested young man it had all the charm of novelty, and he listened.

“If this Surbiton job had come under my notice,” said Pug Nainby, lowering his voice, “at the time of which I am now speaking, I should have been on it like a bird—I regret to say. I should choose a Wednesday night, because the man that’s left in charge of the ‘ouse is ‘alf engaged to a lady in a shop, and they’ll be down on the riverside listening to the band. I should catch the seven-thirty down from Waterloo; I should take a large kit-bag with me—‘Eaven forgive me for thinking of all this!—a kit-bag with the name of Captain Somebody painted on it, carrying it, ye see, as though it was full and heavy, and with this yer article that I ‘old in my ‘and at the present moment—”

The younger man’s eyes became fixed on the shining key.

“This would open it as easy—ah! as easy as easy. And then—if it hadn’t been that I’d found salvation—then I should have me bag filled as full as it would chock, and I should hop out at the back, catch the nine-five ‘ome, that reaches Waterloo at nine-twenty-nine, and there I should be, a ‘underd pounds better off than when I started. See? But unfortunately—I mean to say fortunately—I’ve done with little capers of that kind; I’ve got me future life to think of, and the good opinion of kind ‘elping friends, and so forth and so on. Besides, I’m troubled with rheumatics.”

“Come and have a glass,” suggested the younger man eagerly but deferentially, “and let’s talk the matter over.”

“Not me!” said Pug Nainby; “not me! Fifteen year ago it’d be different; to-day I make answer unto you—”

“Grove Road, did you say?”

“Don’t tell me I went and let the address slip out?”

“Grove Road, wasn’t it?”

“Grove Road it was,” admitted Mr. Nainby reluctantly. “But don’t you go thinking any more of what I said about that seven-thirty on Wednesday night from Waterloo, and a kit-bag with a military name on it. Put all that out of your mind, for goodness’ sake! I should never forgive meself if I thought that I’d been the means of starting a likely young chap on the broad path that leadeth to destruction. And you, being new to the game, would only go making a mull of it. As for this key, in order to show you how easily I can avoid temptation at my time of life, why—here it goes!”

Mr. Nainby made all the preparations for sending the key into distant space, but somehow it fell short and went only into the middle of the road. He said “Good-night” curtly and went into the dark passage of the Shelter. Looking back, he saw that the younger man, after glancing around cautiously, went across and picked up the key, dropped it quietly into his pocket, and strolled on Mile End Road way, whistling a cheerful American march. Mr. Nainby, winking at a text, permitted his rheumatic limbs to convey him slowly upstairs, and later joined in a meeting with enthusiasm, showing signs of annoyance only when he failed in his endeavour to catch the leader’s eye, and other reformed characters were called upon to recount the history of their lives and crimes. This he attributed to sheer favouritism, and in order to give some definite sign of his annoyance he sang with great determination a wrong hymn at the close of the meeting, winning over by force of voice and general energy a few undecided, newly joined comrades who were prepared to go in whatever direction they were pushed. The leader afterwards remonstrated with him gently, and Mr. Nainby retorted, he was found challenging a mild man to fight in order to settle some dispute concerning a quotation from Isaiah, and the manager, being called up, had to speak clearly; whereupon Mr. Nainby showed signs of tears and remarked pitifully that it seemed as though everybody was making a dead set against him; he threatened to give it all up and go back to his old life. On this, the whole forces of the establishment were brought to bear on Mr. Nainby, and admirable men begged him fervently to reconsider this hasty pronouncement, which Mr. Nainby, after an elaborate show of determination, hesitancy, and graceful condescension, agreed to do. He went to his leather couch that night with the feeling that he had sacrificed himself for the good of the community.

On the following Wednesday he collected two shillings from his fellow lodgers on behalf of a widower with fifteen children, and took ‘bus to the City, walking thence to Waterloo Station. He had borrowed a silk hat of the fashion of the early ‘eighties.

“You wouldn’t have me go on a mission of this kind,” he had said to the owner of the silk hat, “without dressing meself up a bit.”

And in the thick stream of people flowing from the City in order to snatch hasty meals at home, make a quick change into flannels, and speed to the river, Mr. Nainby looked one of the many who loaf about Walbrook and other side streets, waiting for financial miracles to happen. He took a third return, and, to escape suspicion, went at once to the very front of the train. He did not risk a glance out of the compartment, much as he was tempted, and here he found reward, for on arriving at Surbiton he caught sight, a distance off, of the floured young man of Hanbury Street, carrying with apparent difficulty a large kit-bag, marked “Capt. Charling, R.E.” On the bridge a porter offered to help, but the young man declined assistance; outside the station a covey of boys came up insisting on being allowed, for the mere pleasure, to carry the bag: but they were driven off, and they retired giving imitation of the gait and the Cockney voice of young man man. “Oh! go aw’y, do!” they cried to each other; “I can kerry it meself!”

Mr. Nainby, his elderly silk hat well over his eyes, walked along on the other side of the way, affecting to read with great interest a leading article in an evening paper which he had bought on his way down. When necessary, he stopped, as though anxious to concentrate his mind more accurately on some knotty problem raised by the leader; sometimes he halted to apply a match to an imaginary cigarette; he kept always an eye on the kit-bag marked “Capt. Charling, R.E.” The summer was on its return, but dusk had not yet arrived, and Mr. Nainby went into a corner public-house in Maple Road, which commanded a view of the house. There he had a long and amiable talk with the landlord on the subject of rheumatism and its various ineffective remedies, bewailing to a sympathetic ear the drawbacks that it brought to a man of active habits.

“You begin to get pains in your joints,” he said dogmatically, “and you can’t get in and out of winders like what you used to.”

“Winders?” echoed the landlord.

“When I say winders,” explained Mr. Nainby, “I speak in a general sense. What I’m trying to make you understand is, that it ‘ampers you in akerabatic tricks of any kind whatever.”

“Oh! that’s your line,” said the landlord, enlightened. “I thought I wasn’t far out. Funny thing, but d’rectly you come in I said to myself: ‘Hullo!’ I said, ‘ere’s a chap that’s up to something or other.’”

“And what call have you got,” demanded Mr. Nainby with heat, “to jolly well think anything of the kind? Some of you licensed vitchlers seem to think you’ve got the earth to look after. I wonder it never occurs to you to mind your own bisness. You don’t see me interfere with other people’s affairs, do you? Very well, then!”

“Let’s change the conversation,” urged the landlord timidly. “Let’s talk about something else. Do you happen to know Wormwood Scrubbs at all?”

“Loogere!” cried Mr. Nainby, with fierceness, “when I want any insults, I’ll ask for ‘em.”

“I used to have a house up Wormwood Scrubbs way, but it never what you may call paid. Except on Saturdays.”

“What on earth have I got to do with your troubles? Haven’t I got enough on me mind, what with rheumatism and—and other affairs, without you coming worrying of me?”

“I only want to show politeness to a customer,” urged the landlord weakly. “It’s all done for the good of the ‘ouse. You needn’t talk to me as though I was a—I was a policeman.”

Mr. Nainby started so violently at this dread word that the landlord took up a Windsor chair in self-defence. The two faced each other.

“Now, then!” cried Pug Nainby, “out with it! Make a clean breast of it. Tell us what the little game is. Speak as man to man—if you are able. Who’s give me away?”

“It’s a funny thing, hut I was never so much misunderstood,” protested the landlord, “in all me blessèd life. I don’t know you any more than I know that chap over there that’s going in at the gate with a kit-bag.”

Mr. Nainby whirled round with a word of contempt for his own thoughtlessness, and another word of reproof to his knees. By this foolish row he had as nearly as possible missed the entrance; another second, and the Hanbury Street young man would have gone into the house between the protecting trees, unobserved by him. The sky had taken a darker shade of grey, and the young man, novice-like, had seized the first opportunity. Nainby, recognising his indebtedness to the landlord, apologised to that gentleman with great profuseness, remarking that he hoped he knew an honest man when he met one; that any remark he might have let slip in the heat of the moment should be debited to error of manner rather than fault of heart; that he would esteem it a high privilege, and one not easily to be forgotten, if the landlord would allow him to shake hands. This ceremony over, Mr. Nainby, now in the high state of content that comes to those who offend and make generous reparation, went out of the public-house, to the owner’s great relief, and distributing a few temperance leaflets to children in Maple Road, headed “Stop Ere It Is Too Late,” found his way to the back of the Grove Road house and waited in the increasing dusk with as much patience as he could command. His mind went back, with a touch of regret, to the time when rheumatism was unknown to him and he carried on a risky and a chequered profession alone and unaided. Mr. Nainby sighed to think that he was forced to adopt what some might think unsportsmanlike methods; but possessing a conscience that had become dulled by exposure, he had little trouble in persuading himself that he was acting for the best, in the interests of all parties.

“It’ll be a lesson to this youngster,” he said paternally, “that he’ll never forget. Likely as not it’ll prove the making of him.”

It appeared that the youngster was taking his time. Mr. Nainby became obsessed by a horrid fear that the lad might, with the daring of stupidity, have gone out with his loaded bag by the front gate, instead of obeying the suggestion; and he told himself that should this prove to be the case, there was no alternative for an honourable man but to give immediate information to the police. It would be a new character for him to play, that of “nark,” and it was one to be adopted only as a last and desperate resource; but bad as it was, it would prove to the officials in Hanbury Street that his conversion was definite and complete, and the evening papers would applaud him at the expense of New Scotland Yard. Mr. Nainby had become almost reconciled in a bitter, resentful way to this possibility, when he heard near the laurel tree behind which he was hiding the fall of a heavy package, and looking round, he saw the head of the youth coming out of a small window in the scullery.

“Come along, sergeant!” said Pug Nainby in an assumed gruff voice. “We’ll nab him as easy as catching flies.”

The youth’s head disappeared. Mr. Nainby smiled at the instant success of his ruse, and going quietly down the gravelled path, he turned the kit-bag over and found the handles. It was cruelly heavy, but this, counted a drawback for the moment, was, he knew, a prospective advantage. There was the trouble of carrying it to the station; once arrived at Waterloo, only a shilling cab to a quiet shop off Blackfriars Road would be necessary.

“Want any help?” asked a voice.

“Thanks!” replied Mr. Nainby, starting affrightedly, “I can manage. Goo’ night.”

“Don’t go like that!” begged the misty figure that he could not make out with distinctness.

“I’m in a ‘hurry.”

“Yes, I know,” said the other, giving a harsh whistle that grated on Nainby’s ears. “But I think we may as well give you a hand.”

A grasp on the shoulder seemed to take Pug Nainby back to the years of his prime. He wriggled as he had done in those golden days, but the grip became more secure.

“It’s a fair cop!” whimpered Mr. Nainby. “I’ll come quiet. Shall I carry the bag, or will you?”

“I’ll see to that, constable,” said another voice—the voice of the landlord. “Funny thing! but d’rectly he came into my place I said to myself—”

“Hold him for a moment,” ordered the constable, “whilst I turn my lamp on the inside of the bag. Got him?”

“Yes,” said the landlord prematurely. “I mean no. Catch him! He’s off! Run! Run after him and catch him! Or I will.”

It was the indecision of the landlord (so the constable said afterwards) that gave Mr. Nainby his opportunity. The constable had started, when he found the landlord running with him. It then occurred to the constable (so he said) that there might be two of them in the business, and he accordingly turned and ran back in order to make sure of the kit-bag marked “Capt. Charling, K.E.”; whereupon the landlord turned also and ran back with the constable. The landlord, a fortnight later, found excuse for this by pointing out that it was not unprecedented for a notable idea to occur to two great minds at once. The landlord further argued—and never ceased to argue—that he could pick the man out of a thousand, and this could not be contradicted, for his powers in this regard were never put to the test.

“It ‘curred to me,” said Pug Nainby to the young man as they journeyed home empty-handed by the nine-five to Waterloo, “that I might unknowingly have put ideas into your ‘ead by certain remarks that I let drop.”

“Well,” said the white-faced young man, mopping the inside of his hat, “so you did. If I hadn’t popped off out by the front door—”

“And I thinks to myself, ‘Nainby,’ I thinks, ‘this won’t do. If so be that you’ve been, the cause of starting a youngster on the path of crime, it’s you that must stop him before he gets too fur.’ It cost me two-and-three to do it, and if you’re a honest man, you’ll pay me back the sum, with a bit over for me exes.”

“Mr. Nainby,” said the other fervently, “I shan’t try this on again. The baking business is safer and there’s more money in it. I can never thank you enough. If ever I have a chance of repaying you—”

“Make it three bob,” said Mr. Nainby.

Mr. and Mrs. Ranger

Published in Windsor Magazine, 1902

“Wipe your boots well,” commanded Mrs. Ranger insistently from the “kitchen, “bring your overcoat through to the scullery, ‘ang up your hat, and walk quiet.”

A large, mild-looking man, with his face set in a frame of light whiskers, came obediently on tip-toe through the passage. Mrs. Ranger, looking up from her desperate work of ironing, frowned at her husband.

“Ah!” she said bitterly, as she took a fresh iron from the fire and placed it perilously near to her plump cheek to test its warmth, “I see what you want to do. You want to wake up baby.”

“I can’t altogether say,” replied Mr. Ranger, with the cautious air of one anxious not to irritate by direct contradiction, “as I do.”

“Oh, yes, you do,” she declared emphatically; “and don’t you go hinting that I’m a story-teller the moment you put foot inside the ‘ouse.” Mr. Ranger, in the scullery, sighed. “What’s it you say?”

“Never said nothing,” he replied soothingly.

“That’s your low artfulness,” retorted Mrs. Ranger. “If you were anything like a man, you’d answer a civil question when it was put to you.”

She ironed hard for a few minutes, not feeling sure of her argumentative ground; but when Mr. Ranger, having washed his face at the sink, reappeared, she was again ready for the attack.

“What makes you ‘ome so early to-night?” she demanded.

“Committee meeting didn’t last long,” explained her husband. “I’d got everything ready for ‘em, and they’d only got to agree with it all.”

“And the rest, I s’pose, are drinking away in public-‘ouses like anything, and never giving a thought to their poor, ‘ard-working wives at home.”

“Well, my dear,” he said genially, from the fireplace, “they ain’t ‘usbands of yours.”

“Don’t throw that in my face, John,” she said pathetically. “I know as well as you do that I could have made a better marriage than I did; but don’t, don’t—”

“What I mean to say is—”

“I know what you mean, John,” she said tearfully, “but I don’t think you ought to turn against me. It’s bad enough when I go home on Sundays and take baby, to hear my sisters talk. ‘Well, Emily,’ they say, ‘whatever you could see in the man beats me.’”

Mr. Ranger hummed a cheerful tune and opened the evening paper.

“I suppose I must have been off me ‘ead,” said Mrs. Ranger, as one anxious to find excuses for grievous error. “I can’t account for it any other way.” She turned a white garment, pressed heavily on the iron, and ran it up and down. “If you’d been good looking, I could have understood it.”

Mr. Ranger laughed.

“I was never what you’d call a pretty man,” he said jovially.

“If you’d had a pleasant manner about you,” went on Mrs. Ranger, “that would have been something. As it is,” here she touched her eyes with a corner of her apron, “as it is, I’m simply a laughin’-stock for one and all.”

“I say, my dear,” protested Mr. Ranger, “really!”

“Oh! a lot you care!” she cried fractiously, and applying herself again to her work. “I tell you, I’m getting pretty well tired of it. There’s only one good thing about it,” she said, with gloomy hopefulness, “it can’t last after I’m dead and gone.”

“Shall I read to you?” asked Mr. Ranger submissively, after a pause.

Mr. Ranger selected a column in the back page of his evening paper, a column in which unexpected aphorisms had for next-door neighbours a cookery recipe or a hint on fashions.

“‘It is stated,’” read out Mr. Ranger, “‘that black velvet will be all the rage during the ensuing season; it will not, however, be worn by—by débutantes.’”

“By what?”

“By—by débutantes,” repeated Mr. Ranger doubtfully.

“Don’t you dare refer to such creatures!” ordered Mrs. Ranger solemnly, and Mr. Ranger proceeded, in a chastened tone—

“‘An old Oriental saying is to the effect that a wife and her husband should meet but once.’”

“There’s something in that.”

“‘If all the hairpins that are lost in London during a year were placed on end, they would reach part of the way to the North Pole.’”

“Well, I never!” exclaimed Mrs. Ranger, now genuinely interested. “Is that a fact, John?”

“It’s in the paper.”

“Wonder where they pick up such things.”

“‘A useful sideboard,’” read on Mr. Ranger, greatly encouraged, “‘may be made by procuring three old orange boxes, staining them the colour of mahogany—’”

“Your mother never said anything more about that chest of drawers of hers,” said Mrs. Ranger, reminded of one of her numerous grievances. “That’s your family all over.”

“Understanding was,” he remarked gently, “that you should have ‘em when she was gone.”

“She don’t show much signs of going.”

“I’m very glad,” said Mr. Ranger slowly, “to say that she don’t.”

“Oh!” wailed Mrs. Ranger desolately, giving up work and subsiding into a chair, “oh! that it should have come to this. To have a ‘usband who sets himself amongst your enemies, who snaps your head off directly you open your mouth, who hates the very ground you walk on!”

“My dear! my dear!” he protested.

“Don’t speak to me, you—you—I don’t know what to call you. You don’t know how to treat a good wife, you don’t.”

“But I only—”

“John,” she said, with forced calm, “I can’t trust meself to talk to you. Go straight to bed at once, before I lose me temper.”

This, it is to be observed, was no special occasion in the Ranger household, but merely the usual evening performance. Mr. Ranger, out at six in the morning to the works in Camden Town, and away all day, was engaged sometimes in the evening with business concerning the benevolent society of which he was secretary, and the pent-up conversation of his wife—who declined to mix with her neighbours in Charles Street—found itself culminating by the time he reached home, and was thereupon poured down on his patient head as hot lava from a volcano. This had lasted now for a year or two, but although experience had dulled the first feeling of resentment, Mr. Ranger was still far from the point where enjoyment is situated, and the almost certain knowledge that he would be met by upbraidings made him a quiet, reticent man during the day, so that one or two of his colleagues began to doubt him, suspecting secret mismanagement of the society’s funds, the only thing in their opinion likely to make a man thoughtful and reserved. The habit of nagging should have been checked in Mrs. Ranger at the start; this remedy had been neglected, and she now comported herself, with rare exceptions, as though she were the least happy of wives—this in spite of the small baby whose efforts to amuse on Sunday afternoons would sometimes conquer her, on which occasions the Ranger household found peace under the beneficent rule of the infant autocrat. When the baby relinquished his position, and retired to his bassinette, the normal condition of affairs was resumed. Once or twice to Mr. Ranger came the thought of flight to a distant land, but he pushed this aside; he did, however, leave home suddenly one Saturday evening on the excuse that he had heard disquieting news of his mother’s health. He kissed the baby, and would have kissed his wife, but she, disappointed in her evening’s exercise of words, dared him to do so, and he sighed and went out.

Half an hour later two men called at the house in Charles Street. On Mrs. Ranger answering the door, they inquired in an important whisper whether Mr. Ranger was at home.

“Then he’s got wind of it, Bill,” said the first man, on receiving the answer.

“So long as he’s got clear away,” said Bill mysteriously, “we needn’t grumble.”

“We’re friends of your ‘usband’s, ma’am,” explained the first man.

“Pot-house friends, I suppose,” retorted Mrs. Ranger.

“Not exactly,” said the first man patiently. It seemed as though this type of wife was no stranger to him. “I wouldn’t go so far as that. Can we step inside the passage for a moment?”

The two went in and closed the door.

“Anything you’ve got to say, say it sharp,” requested Mrs. Ranger. “I’ve got work to do.”

“To break it gently to you, ma’am,” said Bill, “there’s a warrant going to be taken out against Ranger for embezzling the funds of our society.”

“Which of you is it that charges my husband with that?” demanded Mrs. Ranger.

“It isn’t either of us,” said the first man hastily. “It’s a chap named Wilks, a man that personally I can’t stand the sight of.”

“He’s too hasty, is Wilks,” corroborated the other. “He runs past himself.”

“Wilks got an idea into his head—”

“First one he ever had there.”

“That your ‘usband’s accounts were all wrong, so he goes into them with one or two other equally woollen-‘eaded members, and they report that everything’s at sixes and sevens. They goes, therefore, to-morrow, they does, to the police court, swears black’s white and white’s no colour at all, and a warrant’ll be issued. We hears of it, Bill and me—”

“I ‘eard of it first,” said Bill.

“And we puts our ‘eads together and we says, ‘Let’s give him the office,’ we says. ‘Let’s give him a chance of getting away.’ And here we are.”

Mrs. Ranger turned up the little oil lamp with an unsteady hand.

“I’m much obliged to you,” she said quietly. “I sha’n’t forget your kindness.”

The two men, who could take upbraidings with calm, showed confusion.

“Where’s he gone to, ma’am?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” she said steadily.

The two resumed their hats, and one opened the door.

“You can count on us, ma’am, if he gets caught.”

“But he sha’n’t be caught,” said Mrs. Ranger. And closed the door after them. She ran upstairs and, as a first step, had a good cry, silently, because baby was asleep. Then she felt capable of seeing everything clearly. Ranger had probably not gone to his mother’s—that announcement was part of the ruse—but there was a chance of finding him through that address, and hurrying to the telegraph office, she despatched a wire, ordering him on no account to return home. There remained other precautions to be taken. The man named Wilks had once paid some attentions to Mrs. Ranger’s sister, but an economical habit of paying for nothing had prejudiced him in the eyes of the young lady, and his dismissal had incensed him against the family. To her sister Mrs. Ranger hurried by tram, and, the safety of the small boy at home urgently in her mind, hastily arranged a scheme with her young sister by which Mr. Wilks was to be asked to join a party on Monday, at ten o’clock in the morning, to go to Chingford. As to the question of expense, Mrs. Ranger gave her sister half a sovereign, and told her to convey with the invitation the fact that the trip would not cost Mr. Wilks anything; he would be unable to resist this, and Ranger would at least have another day to make himself secure. Returning home with all speed, she found that her boy, awaking in her absence, had roused the district with his appeals for the presence of a mother; that a neighbour had left her own children, who were ill, to soothe him.

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Ranger, in the awkward way of one unused to give this form of recognition. “I’ll do as much for you some day. How’re yours?”

“Not more than middlin’,” said the neighbour dolefully; “what I hope is that it’s nothing catchin’.”

There was money in the Savings Bank, and all of this could be withdrawn in a day or two and placed somehow at her husband’s disposal. This might enable him to get abroad somewhere. She and baby could follow later. Thinking out the details on Sunday, it suddenly occurred to her that she had considered no plan which necessitated their separation; that, despite all the bitter remarks she had made to him, she was now only anxious to see him safe and be with him again. Indeed, she reproached herself already for her unkindness. This, probably, had driven him into confusion with his accounts, and a desire—say—to back horses. It was always betting that ruined secretaries. On Monday morning she received a post-card from him.

“Shall not return just yet. Thanks for telegraph message. Love to baby and you.”

Mrs. Ranger was found, to her great confusion, in the act of kissing this card, when a knock at the wall from her neighbour signified that her presence was requested in the back garden.

“It’s scarlet fever,” said the neighbour, weeping, “and they’ve all got to go away.”

“So sorry.”

“I thought,” sobbed the neighbour, “I thought I’d tell you, because—because, you see, I went in to see your little boy the other night—”

Mrs. Ranger flew away from her and closed and locked the scullery door. She ran upstairs with a confused fear of finding her baby in the last stages of illness, but that young gentleman, engaged in manœuvring a tin train, met her with cheerfulness, begging only that she would for just one moment assist him in his labours by acting as tunnel, a part that could be played by any adult prepared to go down on hands and knees. But slightly reassured by this, she undressed the baby, subjecting him to a close examination, which he, as one full of the responsibility and worry of conducting a railway, felt bound to resent. He was astonished out of powers of speech by finding himself at this hour of the morning placed in bed and evening prayers said over him with unusual fervour. Master Ranger began to have fears for the sanity of the world.

The economical Mr. Wilks had been caught by the bait thrown out by Mrs. Ranger’s sister, and the two men who had called on Saturday night called again to inform her secretly that no application had been made at the court that morning. They were extremely anxious that Mrs. Ranger should on no account tell them where her husband was, so that they might, if occasion required it, swear an affidavit of ignorance without a blush. They also comforted her to some extent by informing her that there had been a “whip round” amongst the dissentient and anti-Wilks members, and that with the money thus obtained it was proposed to procure the services of an accountant of repute, gifted with an ability to tell good figures from bad. So far as Mrs. Ranger was herself concerned, it appeared to her not very material whether her husband were guilty or innocent; her duty was to help him. Despite her worries, she could not help recognising that she now felt towards him as she had done in the old days of courtship. He possessed her thoughts as he had not done since that time. One or two wives whose husbands belonged to the society, and to whom the information had been dutifully repeated, called during the day to offer condolence.

“They’re all alike,” said one wife at the doorway, disappointed at not being asked inside, where discussion could have lasted an hour or two with comfort. “The more you ‘ear about them, the more convinced you get that there isn’t a pin to choose between ‘em.”

“I mustn’t detain you,” remarked Mrs. Ranger politely.

“Me time’s me own,” said the caller lightly. “As I was saying, this world wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for the ‘usbands.”

“I’m sorry you’re in trouble,” said Mrs. Ranger.

“I wasn’t thinking of myself. I was thinking of you.”

“Me?”

“Why, yes,” said the astonished caller. “Everyone knows how he’s treated you. I don’t wonder you used to speak your mind pretty plain. Other people used to blame you, but I—”

“My good woman,” said Mrs. Ranger impressively. “Listen to me. Me and my husband were always very fond of each other, and if we ever had any words, it was my fault.”

“Think what you’re saying,” implored the other woman.

“It was my fault, and I don’t care who knows it. He’s always been the best of husbands to me, and when this little affair is explained—”

“That’ll take a bit of doing.”

“Good morning,” said Mrs. Ranger shortly, “and thank you for calling.”

“You’ll never,” promised the caller solemnly to the next lady whom she honoured with a visit, and to whom she repeated this conversation, “you’ll never find me doing a kind action again.”

The Rangers having been at one on the question of thrift, it appeared that the amount invested in the Savings Bank exceeded the amount which Mr. Wilks had announced as the total of the defalcations. Mr. Wilks, having slightly over-eaten of gratuitous food at the Epping picnic, was indisposed for a day or two, and in his continued absence progress in the matter of police court proceedings was stopped. Mrs. Ranger contrived an elaborate scheme whereby her husband could proceed from his mother’s house to Milford Haven and take thence a steamer for America; she wrote to him briefly, giving these directions and ordering him on no account to reply, but to act instantly in accordance with her instructions. Master Ranger showed continuous interest in his railway business and, for a baby expected to sicken with a grievous complaint, exhibited considerable sprightliness, expressing now and again a keen anxiety to see his father, thus causing tears to come very near to his mother’s eyes. She waited anxiously and without much hope for the accountant’s report, and when news came that Mr. Wilks had recovered from his severe attack of indigestion, she braced herself for the worst. The ship by this time would have left South Wales, and she thought continuously of her husband making his lonely way to a strange land. A single knock that came to her door on Thursday evening made her leave the doctor, who had called to see the baby, and hurry downstairs.

“John!” she whispered affrightedly.

“I ought not to have called,” admitted Mr. Ranger humbly.

“You should have been on your way to America,” she cried, pulling him in and closing the door.

“You told me to go, I know.”

“Then why didn’t you go? Why are you here now?”

And the lamp being out in the passage, Mr. Ranger, to his intense astonishment, received a hug and a kiss.

“I say,” said the surprised Mr. Ranger, “do you know who I am?”

“You’re my dear husband,” whispered Mrs. Ranger. “But they sha’n’t catch you.”

“Well,” he said good-humouredly, “we should look a bit silly if they caught us like this. All the same, give us another kiss.”

Another knock came, and Mrs. Ranger, pushing her husband into the front room, locked the door and, holding the key behind her, went to answer it.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Ranger, ma’am,” said the two men.

“That there Wilks,” added one of them, “is nothing more nor less than a—” He refrained from a description.

“The accounts are not wrong, then?” cried Mrs. Ranger.

“Come out right to a penny.”

“‘Ere,” said the voice of Mr. Ranger from the front room, “who’s saying anything about accounts? Let me out!”

“There’s been a little misunderstanding, old man,” explained one of the men, as Mr. Ranger reappeared.

“I’ll misunderstand you,” he threatened, “if you suggest there’s anything wrong with my accounts!”

“It was Wilks.”

“Well,” said Mr. Ranger, “I’ll Wilks him! And as I guess from what you say that there’s been a lot of trouble over it whilst I’ve been away attending to my old mother, I’ll resign.”

“But we’re going to subscribe and give you a silver teapot.”

Mr. Ranger wavered and looked at his wife. She replied with a glance of appeal.

“Very well, then,” he said. “Under the circs, I agree. But, mind you, no more Wilksing.”

When the deputation had returned thanks and withdrawn, and the doctor had assured them that Master Ranger had been much too artful to catch the dreaded epidemic, an idea suddenly occurred to Mr. Ranger.

“Let me see,” he said thoughtfully, “did I have that second kiss or did I not?”

“I really forget, John,” answered Mrs. Ranger demurely. “But as I owe you a good lot, perhaps I’d better—”

“Pay up,” suggested Mr. Ranger.

Merry springtime

Published in Windsor Magazine, 1921

He was not (said Mrs. Bosnell) what you would call an attractive-looking gentleman, but, so far as I am aware, there is no law to prevent anyone from having a sturdy figure and rather prominent ears, if they care to do so. He had an agitated way with him on the occasion when he called to ask if I’d got a room to let, and I suppose it was partly this which made me say “Yes!” without thinking. On the moment, he stepped inside, hung up his soft hat, and murmured to himself “Sanctuary, sanctuary!” I have heard people say grace in a less thankful manner.

“Your name, sir, please,” I asked, glancing at the blank label on his suit-case.

“Darling,” he ejaculated.

I told him pretty sharply he was not to talk to a woman of my age in that way. He answered that he shared the surname with a well-known judge. I mentioned the inclusive terms per week, and he agreed to them so promptly that I half wished— But I shall know what to ask another time.

My two daughters came home from business that evening at the usual hour, and their young gentlemen called in at their usual hour. Your girls of to-day can always find fault in anything their mothers do, and mine declared I ought not to have taken Mr. Darling without references. They appealed to the gentlemen, who, very wisely, declined to take sides, and some argument followed, and went on until a knock came at the door.

“Mrs. Bosnell!” called Mr. Darling.

“Yes, sir?” I said.

“Would you mind asking your visitors to make less noise. I can’t get on with my writing.”

“I’ll give them a hint, sir.”

My daughters quietened down. They admitted Mr. Darling had a pleasant way of speaking, and this was in his favour; the great point was the discovery that he wrote. Both Muriel and Queenie are gone on books, and it has always been a desire with them to meet an author. They wondered whether he chanced to be a bachelor. The young gentlemen believed that, in a general way, authors were married men, but, on being challenged, were unable to give any reason for this view; one said that most of them gave way, sooner or later, to drink, and Queenie remarked that genius was entitled to certain peculiarities. We laid the table for supper, and Queenie went up to tell Mr. Darling the meal was ready. She returned with her eyes nearly bolting out of her head.

“He’s evidently,” she announced in a whisper, “in what is called the throes of composition.” I suggested the cough mixture that I always pin my faith to; Queenie and Muriel exclaimed, “Oh, mother, you are, really!” and I held my tongue. Mr. Darling, it appeared, did not want supper, but wished for an evening newspaper. Queenie’s young gentleman took a penny from the mantelpiece and went along to the newsagent shop; when he came back he mentioned that cricket was opening well. Queenie snatched the journal from him and glanced at the headlines. We all looked over her shoulder.

“There you are!” she cried, pointing to one of the columns. “What did I tell you?” It was headed “Strange Disappearance of a Novelist.” I took the newspaper upstairs when we had had a read and a good look at the portrait; it was a snapshot, rather blurred, and conveyed nothing in particular. Over supper we discussed the matter. Muriel’s young gentleman said, “Wait. Do nothing until a reward is offered,” and this was carried, as they say at committee meetings, verb. sap.

I felt somewhat worried about it all, but interested, too. Mr. Darling (to keep to the name he had first offered) gave little or no trouble, and a more considerate lodger I could not wish for. He kept to the house all day, and strolled out only in the evenings, and on these occasions muffled himself up around his neck, and pulled his soft hat well over the eyes. Whilst he was out, the girls and myself went through the contents of his suit-case, more out of curiosity than anything else, and Queenie pointed out that he owned no less than two fountain pens. The foolscap sheets on which he had been writing were torn up; Muriel said it was a shame to think a masterpiece had thus been lost to the world. The suit-case contained a photograph, and my girls said that the lady seemed to have a will of her own.

Something else of importance happened in London, and the newspapers, after the early burst of information, made no further comment on the disappeared novelist. But the matter became talked about in our road; it is just likely I threw out a hint to the party next door when we were setting the washing on the clothes lines. Folk began to call who had never called before, and eventually Mr. Challin barged in. Mr. Challin, having retired from the Post Office Savings Bank, had nothing to do but to interfere in matters which did not concern him, and he told me, in his brusque way, that he was going to have the mystery cleared up.

“For all we know,” he said resolutely, “the chap may have a wife and children, all broken down in health, owing to his departure from home. They may be at death’s door. They may be on the edge of going out of their mind.”

“He’s unmarried. The newspaper said so.”

“That makes it worse,” declared Mr. Challin, “because it deprives him of any excuse for vanishing. Anyway, I’m going to have a talk to him.”

“Not on my premises,” I said.

“Is he in at the present moment?”

“At the present moment he is not in.”

“Then he must be out,” said Mr. Challin. “Consequently, I shall take up position near to yonder gate, and stay there until he returns. I must bring all my persuasive powers to bear on the man, and, if necessary, I shall use force.”

“Mr. Challin,” I said, “you are nothing more nor less than an old meddler.”

“Mrs. Bosnell,” said he, “take care you don’t bring yourself within the law of libel.”

I watched from the ground floor window, and sure enough when Mr. Darling returned, carrying his evening journal under his arm, the fusser engaged him in conversation. Mr. Darling appeared to be nervous, but he stood his ground and shook his head definitely. Mr. Challin called to a policeman who was going by. The three argued. Mr. Darling suddenly opened his newspaper and indicated a paragraph. The constable said something to Mr. Challin, who lifted his hat apologetically to Mr. Darling.

“Tell me,” said Mr. Darling, coming in, “who is that extraordinary person who has been talking to me? Do you know, Mrs. Bosnell, who he thought me to be? He had the impression that I was the well-known novelist who has apparently been missing for some days. Very complimentary, no doubt, but I had to show him the news that the party in question had returned home, after a brief and quiet holiday in the Isle of Wight.”

“People about here, sir,” I remarked, “are fond of getting strange ideas into their heads. My advice to you is to take no notice.”

My two girls were terribly disappointed. It seemed they had given private hints to other young ladies in the warehouse, and obtained a good deal of esteem and respect in consequence; they had to face the necessity of offering some explanation. Queenie felt certain, in spite of the discovery of the writer person, that Mr. Darling was, in some way or other, connected with a mystery. Queenie’s young gentleman agreed with her view, and said we all ought to form ourselves into a committee for the purpose of keeping an eye on our first-floor back, and thus giving assistance to the law. I said that if I found myself attending a police court, I should, in all probability, expire of the shock before starting out. Meanwhile Mr. Darling paid his bill for the week and told me he was well satisfied.

Mr. Challin, when I caught sight of him from the window, looked very sorry for himself, and I hoped the blunder would be a lesson to him. He was everything a retired Government official could be; what I mean to say is, he had been elected on the borough council, and he was a guardian and a school manager, but he still had the leisure to attend to other people’s business, and to write notes to the local paper about every blessed subject he could think of, and to attend public meetings and call out “Question!” It was on the Wednesday afternoon of Mr. Darling’s second week with us that Mr. Challin, in going by, beckoned to show that he wanted to talk. I had some idea of turning one of the rooms out, but the charwoman had not arrived, and I was glad of an excuse for postponing a start. I went to the gate.

“I have solved the riddle, Mrs. Bosnell,” he said pompously.

“Which one? The one about why does a sheep—”

“I have discovered the explanation,” he went on, “of your so-called Mr. Darling’s real identity. The particulars came to my knowledge quite by chance, and the description given to me absolutely tallies.”

The charwoman was coming along from the tram-lines, and I told him to cut a long story short. Put in a few words, Mr. Challin’s news was that a boxing man who had arranged to fight another boxing man at a place in Holborn was missing. Nothing had yet appeared in the newspapers, but folk who were in the know had acquaintance with the facts, and private inquiries were being made.

“Well,” I interrupted, to put the charwoman off the scent, “all I can say is, Mr. Challin, that if the rates go up much higher, some of us will know how to vote when the next election comes round. Good morning!”

I was certainly under the impression that my woman had not caught anything of the matter we had talked about, but she very soon put me right on this. Her husband, it seemed, took an interest in boxing, and, in fact, did nothing else for a living. The running away, she said, of the pugilist in question was a serious affair for his backers, and they were hunting high and low to discover him, and to induce him to face his opponent. Mr. Darling, at this moment, was out on what my daughters call the lawn, at the back of the house, and he appeared to be going through some kind of gymnastic exercises.

“That proves it!” said the charwoman. I ordered her not to jump at conclusions, and to refrain from saying a word on the subject outside my house.

The two girls, that evening, were naturally astonished, but when we had debated the matter thoroughly, they agreed Mr. Darling did look more like a fighting man than anything else. They spoke about his ears; they now understood why his hair was cut so short. There came a ring at the door, and Muriel went to answer it, because it was just the time for her young gentleman to make a call. A scream from her called me and Queenie, and we rushed out to find a mob—nothing less, I give you my word—a mob trying to force a way in. I flung one of the shortest down the steps, and a man, edging forward, announced they had come on a peaceful mission. He instructed the others to keep quiet and remain outside, and we gave him permission to enter the house.

“A friend of mine, ladies,” he said respectfully, “has took up his abode in this ‘ere domicile. All I ask is to be allowed to favour him with one minute’s conversation. That over, I guarantee you won’t, be further disturbed, or worried, or incommoded.”

He marched up the staircase. He came down in less than the minute.

“Lads,” he said to the crowd, “we’ve made a bloomer. He’s no more like Bat Jenkins than I am like the Prince of Wales. Bunk off!”

You would have thought that Mr. Challin, as a busybody, had been sufficiently discouraged to leave us and our first-floor back alone. Not him! The girls had gone to bed, and I was locking up, when I heard the flap of the letter-box give a clip. Outside I heard Mr. Challin’s cough as he tiptoed away, and something assured me more trouble was afoot. In the letter-box I found a copy of a police notice headed “Murder.” It gave a description of a man who was wanted for a crime at Shepherd’s Bush, and finished by announcing a reward of a hundred pounds.

Mr. Darling came down to the kitchen in the morning, whilst I was still in my disables, and said, with a cheerful manner, that he would have his egg poached. I had scarcely slept a wink all night, and my nerves were not what you would call first-class.

“Tell me,” he said at the doorway, and glancing back at the pictures which had been taken down in the passage, “this horrible and exasperating business of turning out rooms in a house—how long does it generally last? I happen to be new to it.”

“A week, sir. Or ten days at the utmost.”

“Mrs. Bosnell,” he said, “in that case, I am going home to-day. Going home to my wife. Her spring domestic industries are, or should be, over, and if you can give me a written document to prove that I have stayed here all the time of my absence, I think she will understand and forgive. By the by, I see in this morning’s newspaper they have caught that Shepherd’s Bush man. Our London detectives are pretty smart, aren’t they?”

The test

Published in Windsor Magazine, 1922

“And now,” said Miss Hazlewood, glancing at her reflection in a shop window, as the omnibus went down King’s Road, “suppose we leave off talking nonsense, and take a serious view of matters. Would you care to be introduced to my people?”

“In answer to your esteemed favour,” said young Mr. Manners, “I beg to state that few of the remarks exchanged between us can be correctly described as nonsense. Sentiment, yes. Romance, yes. Love, yes. But nonsense, certainly no. Regarding the second paragraph of your communication, I am willing to take any view proposed by you. As to the third, I have never before heard any allusions to your relatives.”

“There is a reason for that.” She checked a sigh and gazed ahead thoughtfully. “But we have known each other now for over six weeks—”

“Seems more like six minutes.”

“And I think it would be as well for you to brace yourself up to meet them.”

“You talk,” remarked the young man, “as though it were going to be in the nature of a trying ordeal.”

“Some people find them a little difficult,” said Miss Hazlewood. “We’ll get down at the Town Hall.”

“It occurs to me it might be a shrewd and commendable act to give our patronage, instead, to the first house over the way. And if on this occasion you will allow me, my affluent and wage-earning sweetheart, to pay for the two tickets—”

“We have discussed that already,” she interrupted. “I earn very good money in Oxford Street—more than you do Westminster way. There is no reason why I should be an expense to you. Apart from that, we are not going to the Chelsea Palace this evening. We are going to a different sort of entertainment. We shall see whether you find it equally amusing.”

“My warmest thanks,” he said, “for the pains you are taking on my behalf. I have sometimes read of this sort of experience, but I have not hitherto had to undergo it.”

She looked at him affectionately and, for a moment only, hesitated.

“You’ve got to go through with the job, my lad,” she declared, “sooner or later, and I have decided that it is to be sooner. Come along!”

They walked along the south side of King’s Road, crossed Oakley Street, and presently found themselves in Poulton Street. On the way Miss Hazlewood explained, with something less than her usual business-like self-possession, that her folk were plain folk, and, being plain folk, made no attempt to put on the veneer of courtesy towards strangers. The mind was sound, but, in the general opinion, the deportment scarcely reached perfection. Miss Hazlewood admitted she had, on occasions, taken friends to the house, and they had come away announcing to her a definite intention not to repeat the visit even if offered all the gold held by the Bank of England.

“Didn’t you say they lived in Poulton Street?” he asked suddenly.

“Danvers Street,” she said, “and I have not hitherto mentioned the address. What made you think of Poulton Street?”

Her companion was about to make an urgent plea for exemption, when a hand gave salutation from a window in Danvers Street, and the owner disappeared quickly in order to open the front door. From that moment Mr. Manners offered no protests.

“Well, Gertie,” said the thin woman, in mournful tones, “got another young chap at last, then. Hasn’t been for the want of trying that you ain’t caught one before. Bring him in and let’s have a look.”

“This is Fred, mother,” said the girl. “Fred, this is mother.”

The lady of the house rubbed palm on apron as a preliminary to a hearty and determined shake of the hands. She assured the young man that he was as welcome as the flowers in May, but cautioned him not to expect too much hospitality, for if he did, then he was bound to know disappointment. Times, she said, leading the way to the front room, were not what times had been. The years when the family kept a good table, and took beer with supper every night of their lives, were now gone, and she saw no prospect that they would ever return. Her husband, she hinted, felt the deprivation less acutely, because he was able to get his drink at licensed premises where, owing to the fact that he had once been prominent in boxing circles, he rarely found himself called on to pay for his own refreshment.

“You’ll find my husband very entertaining,” she went on, “—set down, both of you, if you can find chairs you can trust—when he comes in, but if I was you, young man, I wouldn’t contradict him. Gertie’s father can’t bear being contradicted. If he’s unable to find words to answer you, he doubles his fist, and then everybody has to look out for ‘emselves. He don’t stop to think, mind you. He jest lets fly.”

“I make no doubt,” said Mr. Manners pleasantly, “that he and I will get along well enough together. One has to make allowances.”

“I’d rather,” she urged, “that you didn’t give him anything, mister. If you want to make a loan of any kind, hand it over to me. Don’t give to him, whatever you do, or else—”

“Mother, mother!” pleaded the girl anxiously.

“Gertie,” ordered the elder woman, with solemnity, “be respectful to your parents. Don’t you know what the Bible says about honouring your father and mother? Very well, then. Take care I don’t have to speak to you twice; otherwise, you’ll know it! Go into the kitchen and see if you can’t do some washing up.”

In the girl’s absence the hostess spoke loudly and more freely. She informed the caller that the circumstance of her daughter sharing rooms with a young lady friend, instead of living under the control and superintendence of a good mother, was one of the most regrettable incidents in a life not free from mental anguish. She declared a serpent’s tooth was nothing to it. Not, mind you, that Gertie, in herself, could be reckoned as altogether to blame. Oh, no. Any girl who progressed in the world felt naturally eager to mix with her betters, and in this desire the existence of home was forgotten. As a matter of accuracy, Gertie had not called, before the present moment, for three months—close upon three months ago that she paid a visit.

“Alone?” asked Mr. Manners politely.

The door of the sitting-room was open, and it appeared the door of the kitchen had not been closed. Consequently the young man received nothing more than a wink in reply to his question; the wink conveyed a suggestion that it would be well not to show extravagant inquisitiveness. The lady of the house proceeded to qualify some of the information communicated, and declared that Gertie was a dutiful child, as children went in these days, and perhaps, when she married, the old friendly relations might be taken up afresh. Certainly there would always be a knife and fork for her at Danvers Street, and a knife and fork for her husband; whether in addition there would be anything to eat was a detail in regard to which no guarantee could be made. It depended on office work.

“Are you,” asked Mr. Manners, with elaborate surprise, “engaged in an office?”

“I am,” she answered.

“Responsible position?”

“If I’m not there to sweep up after the clerks have gone, who else would be likely to do it? As a matter o’ fact, I haven’t been long back from my work this evening,” she went on. “Just at present I’m engaged in a building in Victoria Street.”

“Oddly enough, I, too, am engaged in a building in Victoria Street.”

“Bless my soul!” she exclaimed, in tones of exaggerated amazement. A thundering single knock came at the front door. “Gertie,” she cried, “I’ll let your poor father in. Go”—to Mr. Manners—“into the kitchen and have a little ‘eart to ‘eart talk with her, whilst I have a word with my old lad.”

It seemed to Mr. Manners that the girl was not engaged with anything like violent industry on domestic occupations; she welcomed his arrival with a wan smile. The kitchen had two Windsor chairs, and from one he evicted a grey cat. From the other he removed a jug and a thick tumbler.

“And,” asked Miss Hazlewood, with an effort at cheerfulness, “what do you think of mother?”

“She strikes me,” he answered carefully, “as somewhat—how shall I say it?— somewhat unusual. Perhaps the most unusual person I ever encountered.”

“Wait until you see father.”

“Is he—”

“He is,” she said definitely.

“I suppose,” he remarked, “it would not be necessary, when we are married, to see a great deal of them?”

“They would scarcely be daily visitors, but, of course, filial respect has to be thought of. You don’t, I hope, ask me to ignore them altogether?”

“We can discuss that later.”

“No!” declared Miss Hazlewood, with resolution. “We must discuss it now. I might have kept the two in concealment, but I preferred you should know them, and ascertain for yourself whether or not it affected your proposal to me. It’s not too late to back out.”

“Gertrude mine,” he said, “you are now talking as they talk at Colney Hatch. All the same, I am bound to admit that your maternal parent is not exactly my ideal of a mother-in-law. I can imagine we should not be too well pleased if, when we were entertaining friends, she suddenly barged in.”

“Take time to consider it,” begged the girl. “I don’t want you to do anything you will be sorry for afterwards.”

“What I can’t quite understand is why, earning the excellent salary you do, you fail to make them adequate grants that would permit—”

The lady of the house apologised for interrupting, and announced that her husband was now ready to give an interview to the young gentleman. “I’ve told him all about you,” she said elatedly, “and you’ll find him, sir, as nice as nice can be.”

The large man offered to Mr. Manners an enormous hand, saying, “Put it there!” and inflicted a grip which made the visitor wish that less cordiality had been shown. They sat opposite each other, and the large man rested an elbow on an irresponsible round table that leaned over at his pressure. Mr. Manners tendered a cigarette case.

“I’ve smoked shag all my life,” declared the other firmly, “and shag I shall continue to smoke so long as I have the ‘ealth and the strength to dror at a pipe. After you with that match, gov’nor.” He lighted up. “Now, then”—leaning more heavily on the table—“we don’t want no quarrelling, we don’t want no disputatingness, we don’t want no upset of any description whatsoever. All we want is to know whether you’re a-going to act fair and square towards our Gladys.”

“Gertrude,” corrected the young man.

“If I like to call her Gladys for short”—he spoke with grim deliberation—“do you fancy you’re the chap to stop me? Bo you think, for a single moment, I’m going to allow a mere whipper-snapper like you—”

“Keep a civil tongue,” ordered young Manners sharply.

“What else am I doing?”

“Being as grossly offensive,” he explained, “as you can be.”

“You ain’t seen me at my best, gov’nor,” said the large man, rather taken aback, “or you wouldn’t say that. When I make up my mind to be what you call grossly offensive, I’m in the ‘abit of using language that turns the air blue for miles. I rec’lect once, when a ‘chap was brought ‘ere as you are being brought now—” He stopped abruptly.

“Try to comprehend this,” directed Manners. “Arouse your sluggish brain and—”

“Now, who’s being grossly offensive?”

“And realise that I am not going to allow you to talk to me as you have talked to others. You will speak respectfully, and you will speak decently.”

“But see how you’re ‘andicapping me!” pleaded the man. “All very well for parties of education like yourself to do without what is termed language, but I’ve got no other way of expressing myself.”

“Then remain silent,” ordered Manners.

“Sooner than do that, I’d offer to fight you, ‘ere and now.”

“I’m ready,” said the young man.

He took off his jacket. The large man watched intently as links were undone and a sleeve rolled back.

“There’s something about you, gov’nor,” he said deferentially, “that I admire. You’ve got pluck, you have. On the other ‘and, I’ve got the science. That’s where I should have you, once we cleared the room for a set-to.”

“You are over-fat,” said Manners, “and over-flabby. It must be years since you put the gloves on.”

“I had to give it up,” he said, “owing to a weak ‘eart.”

“Your heart may be weak, but I’ll bet it’s sounder than your intelligence.”

“Is that,” asked the man, puzzled, “intended for a compliment? If so, I accept it, and I assure you, gov’nor, that my one desire is that we may become the best of friends. And now put your jacket on and set down, and let me ‘ear all about you and this girl of ours. If I went over the mark in anything I said, you must put it down to a father’s anxiety. She’s our one ewe lamb, and if anything amiss occurred to her—” He found a grubby handkerchief, and in rubbing eyes expressed regret that he had no drink to tender either to his guest or to himself.

He amended this defect later by borrowing a shilling. As he went, he conveyed to Manners his good wishes, and spoke with relish of the treatment he intended to serve out to any beverages provided at the wedding breakfast.

“I like them,” announced young Manners to his companion, as they waited for the omnibus later opposite the Town Hall. “A trifle crude, perhaps, but I like them.”

“So glad, dear.”

“In these times,” continued Manners, “when affectation is discovered almost everywhere, it is refreshing to encounter folk who say what they mean and mean what they say.”

“And you don’t care for me the less because—”

“My love,” he cried, “I can honestly say this—what has happened this evening has not in any way diminished my affection for you!”

At the offices in Victoria Street the following night, the charwoman looked in at the draughtsmen’s room where Manners was working at a desk. She coughed to obtain his attention.

“Oh, yes!“—detaching himself from the task. “Of course. Settling day. Now, in the course of our previous discussion here, when I noticed that you gave Miss Hazlewood’s name as a reference, you mentioned the sum she paid you for pretending, on occasions, to be her mother.”

“Seven-and-six, sir. But with everything going up in price—”

“You gave me the wrong address. I had the fright of my life when I discovered we had gone through Poulton Street.”

“We moved in a ‘urry, sir,” she explained, “owing to circumstances. But I managed to let the young lady know. You see, as I told you, she wanted to be loved, sir, not for the money she’s earning, but for herself alone, and heretofore the visit has always put the gentleman off. And seeing that, by chance, I ‘appened to be able to give you previous information, and seeing that we shan’t get the job again—”

He handed over a Treasury note. “Don’t bother about a receipt!” he said.

A son of the state

A son of the state was published in 1902 by Methuen and Co.

One

The round white September moon lighted up Pitfield Street from end to end, making the gas lights in the shop windows look abashed and unnecessary; out in the Old Street triangle, men on the wooden seats who had good eyesight read halfpenny evening papers as though it were day, able without trouble to make record in knowing-looking pocket-books of the running of Ormonde At the Hoxton Theatre of Varieties, the early crowd streamed out into Pitfield Street flushed with two hours of joy for twopence, and the late crowd which had been waiting patiently for some time at the doors, flowed in When these two crowds had disappeared, the Old Street end of Pitfield Street belonged once more to the men and women who were shopping, and at the obtrusive fruiterer’s (with a shop that bulged almost to the kerb and a wife whose size was really beyond all reason), even there one could just pass without stepping into the road Further up the street, outside a public-house, was, however, another crowd blocking the pathway, and this crowd overflowed into the dim passage by the side of the public-house, where it looked up at a lighted room on the first floor with an interest ungenerously repaid by the back view of a few heads A grown-up crowd, mainly of middle-aged women Children had given up efforts to belong to it, and down the passage, which was as the neck of a bottle leading into a court quite six feet wide, youngsters shouted and sang and quarrelled and played at games From the direction of the other end came a short acute-faced boy with a peakless cap, a worn red scarf tied very tightly around his neck He had both hands in the pockets of a jacket which was too large for him; he smoked the fag-end of a cigar with the frowning air of a connoisseur who is not altogether well pleased with the brand He stopped, signalled with a jerk of his head to a slip of a girl who was disputing for the possession of an empty lobster can, with the vigour that could not have been exceeded if the lobster can had been a jewel case of priceless value; she retired at once from the struggle, and, pulling at her stocking, ran towards him.

“Where’s all the chaps?” he asked, removing the cigar stump from his lips.

“Where’ve you bin, Bobbie Lancaster?” she asked, without replying to his question.

“You ’eard what I asted you, Trix,” he said, steadily “I asted you where all the chaps was.”

“Some of ’em have gone over ’Ackney way,” said the slip of a girl “Where’ve you bin?”

He flicked the black ash from the fag end in the manner of one five times his age.

“’Opping!” he said.

“You’re a liar!” retorted the small girl, sharply.

“Ho!” said the boy “Shows what you know about it.”

“No, but,” she said, admiringly, “’ave you though, straight?”

“I’ve bin at Yaldin’,” he said, with immeasurable importance,—“at Yaldin’ down in Kent for ite days Me and another chap.”

“Bin ’ome?” asked the girl, with interest.

“Not yet,” he said “When I do I shall ’ave to take a drop of something in for the old gel I went off wifout letting her know and I expect she’s been wonderin’ what’s become of me.”

“Then if you ain’t bin ’ome,” said the little girl, breathlessly, “p’raps you don’t—”

A strong voice called from a doorway.

“Trixie Bell! Trixie Bell! You come in this minute and look after the shop, you good-for-nothing little terror.”

“I must be off,” said the small girl, going hurriedly “Wait ’ere till I come out again and I’ll tell you somefing.”

“I don’t waste my time loafin’ about for gels,” said Master Lancaster, as the girl disappeared in a doorway “Ketch me!”

He sauntered down the court towards Pitfield Street and, noting the crowd, slightly increased his pace Taking a shilling from his coat pocket he tied it in a blue handkerchief and stuffed the handkerchief inside his waistcoat, being aware apparently that it is in a London crowd that property sometimes changes hands in the most astonishing manner.

“Very well then,” said a fiery faced woman, who, getting the worst of an argument, was looking around for another subject, “if you did ’ave an uncle who was drowned, that’s no reason why you should step on this little kid’s toes.”

“Born clumsy!” agreed Master Lancaster, resentfully rubbing his boot.

“Stand a bit aside, can’t you, and let the youngster pass ’Aving a uncle who was in the navy don’t entitle you to take up all the room.

“Likely as not the little beggar’s a witness and wants to go upstairs.” The fiery faced woman looked down at the boy “Are you a witness, dear?”

“Course I’m a witness,” he said, readily.

“What did I tell you?” exclaimed the beefy faced woman with triumph “Constable, ’ere ’s a witness that ’s got to be got upstairs Make way for him, else he’ll get hisself in a row for being late.”

Whereupon, to his great amazement and satisfaction, Master Bobbie Lancaster found himself passed along through the thick crowd of matrons to the swing doors of the public-house; the importance of his mission being added to by every lady, so that when at last he reached the two policemen guarding the stairs he was introduced to them as a boy who saw the accident; could identify the driver, could, in short, clear up everything Bobbie, accordingly, after being cuffed by the two policemen (more from force of habit than any desire to treat him harshly), was shot up the staircase past a window where, glancing aside, he saw the bunches of excited interested faces below; past a landing, and, the door being left momentarily unattended, he slipped into the room He gave up instantly his newly gained character and crouched modestly in a corner behind the thirty members of the general public and kept his head well down.

“Now, now, now! Do let ’s proceed in order Is there any other witness who can throw any light on the affair? What?”

The club room of the public-house, with cider and whiskey advertisements on its brown papered walls, was long and narrow, and the stout genial man seated at the end of the table had command of the room from his position He gave his orders to a bare-headed sergeant who hunted for witnesses and submitted the results at the other end of the long table; he smiled when he turned to the twelve moody gentlemen at the side of the table; to one, at the extreme end, who had a carpenter’s rule in his breast pocket he was especially courteous The carpenter made laborious notes with a flat lead pencil on a slip of blue paper, a proceeding at which the other members of the jury grunted disdainfully Bobbie Lancaster, between the arms of two men in front of him, caught sight momentarily of the woman whom the sergeant had caught and who was now kissing the Testament He recognised her as a neighbour.

“What does she say her name is, sergeant?”

“Mary Jane Rastin, sir.”

“Mary Jane Rastin.” The coroner wrote the name “Very good! Now, Mrs. Rastin—”

“’Alf a minute,” interrupted the carpenter “Let me get this down right W—r—a—”

“W be blowed,” said the blowsy woman at the end of the table indignantly “Don’t you know how to spell a simple name like Rastin? Very clear you was before the days of the School Board.”

“I have it down,” said the coroner, suavely, “R—a—s—t—i—n.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Rastin, in complimentary tones, “you’re a gentleman, sir You’ve had an education You ain’t been dragged up like—”

“Be careful what you’re saying of,” begged the carpenter, fiercely “Don’t you go aspersing my character, if you please I’m setting ’ere now to represent the for and—”

“Now, now, my dear sir,” said the coroner, “don’t quarrel with the witness.” He smiled cheerfully at the other members of the jury and almost winked “That’s my prerogative, you know.” He turned to the trembling lady at the end of the table “Now, Mrs. Rastin, you live in Pimlico Walk, and you are, I believe, a widow?” Mrs. Rastin bowed severely, and then looked at the carpenter as who should say, What do you make of that, my fine fellow? The coroner went on “And you knew the deceased?”

“Intimate, sir!”

“Was she a woman with—er, inebriate tendencies?”

“Pardon, sir?”

“I say was she a woman who had a weakness for alcohol?”

The sergeant interpreted, “Did she booze?”

“She liked her glass now and again, sir,” said Mrs. Rastin, carefully.

“That is rather vague,” remarked the coroner “What does ’now and again’ mean?”

“Well, sir,” said Mrs. Rastin, tying the ribbons of her rusty bonnet into a desperate knot, “what I mean to say is whenever she had the chance.”

“You were with her before the accident?”

“I were!”

“You had been drinking together?”

“Well, sir,” said Mrs. Rastin, impartially, and untying her bonnet-strings, “scarcely what you’d call drinking It was like this It were the anniversary of my weddin’ day, and, brute as Rastin always was, and shameful as he treated all my rel’tives in the way of borrowin’, still it’s an occasion that comes, as I say, only once a year, and it seems wicked not to take a little something special, if it’s only a drop of—”

“And after you had been together some time, you walked along Haberdasher Street to East Street.”

“With the view, sir,” explained Mrs. Rastin, “of ’aving a breath of fresh air before turning in.”

“Was the deceased the worse for drink?”

“Oh, no, sir! No, nothing of the kind.” Mrs. Rastin was quite emphatic “She felt much the better for it She said so.”

A corroborative murmur came from the crowd behind which Bobbie was hiding; one of the endorsements sounded so much like the tones of his mother that he edged a little further away He had become interested in the proceedings, and after the great good fortune of getting into the room, he did not want to be expelled by an indignant parent.

“How was it you did not see the omnibus coming along?”

“Just one query I should like to ask first,” interposed the carpenter, holding up his left hand with a dim remembrance of school etiquette “What time was all this?”

“Six o’clock, as near as I can remember,” snapped Mrs. Rastin.

“Six o’clock in the morning?” asked the carpenter, writing.

“No, pudden head,” said Mrs. Rastin, contemptuously “Six o’clock in the evening Why don’t you buy a new pair of ears and give another twopence this time and get a good—All right, sir.” To the coroner “I’ll answer your question with pleasure I know when I’m speaking to gentlemen, and I know when I’m talking to pigs.” Mrs. Rastin glanced triumphantly at the carpenter, and the carpenter looked appealingly at his unsympathetic colleagues in search of support “We was standing on the kerb as I might be ’ere Over there, as it might be, where the young man in glasses is that’s connected with the newspaper, was a barrer with sweetstuff ‘Oh!’ she says all at once, ‘I must get some toffee,’ she says, ‘for my little boy ’gainst he comes ’ome,’ she says With that, and before I could so much as open me mouth to say ‘Mind out!’ the poor deer was ’alf way across the road; the ’bus was on her and down she went I cuts across to her”—Mrs. Rastin wept, and Bobbie could hear responsive sobs from the women near him—“I cuts across to her, and she says ‘I—I never got the sweets for him,’ she says Thinking of her—of her little boy right at the last; you understand me, sir! And the constable off with his cape and put it under her ’ead, and she just turned, and,” Mrs. Rastin wept bitterly, “and it was all over.” Mrs. Rastin patted her eyes with a deplorable handkerchief “‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I never got them sweets—’”

“Pardon me!” said the carpenter “Did you make a note of them words at the time? What I mean to say is, did you write ’em down on paper?”

“Not being,” said Mrs. Rastin, swallowing, her head shivering with contempt, and speaking with great elaboration, “not being a clever juggins with a miserable twopenny ’apenny business as joiner and carpenter in ’Oxton Street, and paying about a penny in the pound, if that, I did not write them words down on paper.”

“Ho!” said the carpenter, defiantly “Then you ought to ’ave.”

Mrs. Rastin was allowed to back from the end of the table and to take a privileged seat on a form where she had for company the witnesses who had already given evidence These were an anxious ’bus driver, a constable of the G Division, and a young doctor from the hospital The sergeant went hunting again in the crowd, and this time captured what appeared to be a small girl, but proved to be a tiny specimen of a mature woman Bobbie Lancaster, dodging to get a sight of her, chuckled as he recognized Miss Threepenny (so called from some fancied resemblance to that miniature coin), a little person whom he had not infrequently derided and chased.

“I really don’t know that we want any more evidence, sergeant,” remarked the coroner “What do you say, gentlemen?”

Eleven of the gentlemen replied that they had had ample; the carpenter waited until they had stated this, and then decided that the little woman’s evidence should be heard Miss Threepenny, stepping on tiptoe, her hands folded on the handle of a rib-broken umbrella that was for her absurdly long, explained that she saw the accident, being then on her way home from her work at a theatrical costumier’s in Tabernacle Street.

“I was on the point of crossing the road, your worship,” said the tiny woman in her shrill voice, “jest ’esitatin’ on the kerb, when I see the ’bus coming along, and I says to myself, ‘I’ll wait till this great ’ulking thing goes by,’ I says, ‘and then I’ll pop across.’ The thought,” said Miss Threepenny, dramatically, “had no sooner entered my mind than across the road runs the poor creature, under the ’orses’ ’eels she goes, and I,—well, I went off into a dead faint.”

The mite of a creature looked round the room as though anticipating commendation for her appropriate behaviour.

“And you agree with the other witnesses, my good little girl, that—”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Miss Threepenny, with great dignity, “I’m not a good little girl; I’m a grown-up woman of thirty-three.”

“Thirty what?” asked the carpenter, his pencil ready to record facts.

“Thirty-three,” she repeated, sharply.

A confirmatory murmur came from the crowd of women at the back of the room The sergeant told the women to be quiet.

“My mistake,” said the coroner, politely, and waving aside the incredulous carpenter “The point is—you think it was an accident, don’t you, madam?”

“It were an accident,” said Miss Threepenny, looking round and fixing the nervous ’bus driver with her bright, black little eyes, “that would never have happened if drivers on ’busses was to attend to their business instead of having their heads turned and carrying on conversation with long silly overgrown gels riding on the front seat.”

The little woman, having made this statement, kissed the Testament again as though to make doubly sure, and, with an air of dignity that no full-grown woman would ever have dared to assume, trotted off to take her seat next the ’bus driver On the ’bus driver whispering something viciously behind his hand, Miss Threepenny replied with perfect calm in an audible voice that it was no use the ’bus driver flirting with her, for she was a strict Wesleyan.

The carpenter’s obstinacy necessitated the clearing of the court now that the time had arrived for the jury to consider their verdict, and Master Lancaster, much to his annoyance, found himself borne out of the room in the middle of the crowd of women He doubted the probability of getting back into the room to hear the verdict, because it seemed scarce likely that he would again have the good luck to slip in unobserved by the policeman at the door He went to the first landing and looked out on the upturned faces in the court below A long youth with pince-nez, who had been taking notes upstairs, came down, and, in opening an evening paper, brushed unintentionally against Bobbie’s face.

“That’s my dial,” said the boy, truculently, “when you’ve done with it.”

“I’m sorry,” said the young reporter.

“You’re clumsy,” said Bobbie.

“What are you doing at an affair of this kind?”

“Answerin’ silly questions what are put to me.” The reporter laughed, and, striking a match, lighted a cigarette “After you,” said Bobbie, producing another fag-end of a cigar, “after you with the match.”

“Like smoking?” asked the young man.

“Perfect slive to it,” said the boy, puffing the smoke well away in a manner that belied the assertion.

“Queer little beggar!” said the young man “Where d’you live?”

“’Ome!” said the boy, promptly “Where d’you think, cloth-head?”

“Strictly speaking,” remarked the youth, with good humour, “my name is not cloth-head My name is Myddleton West.”

“Can you sleep a-nights?” asked the boy, “with a name like that?”

“Myddleton West, journalist, of 39, Fetter Lane, Holborn Now tell me yours.”

The boy complied reluctantly With decreasing hesitation he gave further particulars.

“I’ll do a sketch about you,” said Myddleton West, looking down at the boy “‘The Infant of Hoxton’ I think I’ll call it.”

“Going to put some’ing about me in the paper?” asked the boy, with undisguised interest, and discarding entirely his attitude of defiance.

“If they’ll take it There is at times a certain coyness on the part of editors—”

The boy suddenly started He touched the brass rod, and flew downstairs with so much swiftness that he reached the court before Myddleton West had discovered his absence West looked up and saw the constable descending to call him back to the room; the reason for Bobbie Lancaster’s flight became obvious.

The boy slipped eel-like through the crowd of women at the doorway, and presently reached moonlight and Hoxton Street, where he drifted intuitively to the outside of the theatre It gratified him exceedingly as he felt the shilling in his knotted handkerchief, to think that he might, if he were so minded—the hour being now half-past eight—go in at half price, and seating himself in the stage box, witness the last three acts of “Foiled by a Woman.” He laughed outright as, standing near the lamps, he looked in at the swing doors of the principal entrance and imagined the astonishment of those in the three-penny gallery, high up on the top of the mountain of faces within, were they to see him enter importantly the box at the right of the stage and survey with lordly air the crowded, heated, interested house How they would roar at him if he were to stick a penny in his eye and, carefully stroking an imaginary moustache, say, “Bai Jove! What people!” It would not be the first time that he had amused a crowd; once at a fire in Shoreditch he had put on a paper helmet, pretending to be chief of the fire brigade, and a matron in the crowd, watching him, had been so exceptionally amused at his antics that she had had to be unlaced and dragged home by solicitous lady friends The boy resisted the temptations of the enticing placards, for he had already decided on the manner in which the shilling was to be expended; the recollection of this made him think of home There would be some argument, he knew, with his mother concerning his long absence, but, once the first storm was over, sunshine would come, and a small flask and sausages would make her content.

He stepped in at the dark open doorway of his home, and went upstairs At the end of the passage on the ground floor a smelly oil lamp diffused scent, but not light; it served only to accentuate the blackness The boy knew the stairs well, and dodging the hole on the fifth stair and stepping over the eighth—the eighth was a practical joke stair, and if you stepped on its edge it instantly stood up and knocked your leg—he piloted himself adroitly on the landing There were voices in the back room.

“Comp’ny!” said Bobbie “So much the better.”

He pushed the door and entered Two women in a corner, examining the contents of a crippled chest of drawers by the aid of a candle, looked affrightedly over their shoulders.

“Ullo!” said Bobbie “What’s your little game?”

“You give us quite a turn, Bobbie,” said Mrs. Rastin nervously, “coming in so quiet Where ’ave you bin all this time, deer?”

“Where’s the old gel?” asked Bobbie, taking his parcels from his pocket “Where’s she got to?”

“’Eaven,” said Mrs. Rastin’s friend, trying to close the drawer.

“Don’t try to be funny,” advised the boy, “you can’t do it well, and you’d better be ’alf leave it alone How long ’fore she’ll be in?”

“You ’aven’t ’eard, deer,” said Mrs. Rastin, coming forward and taking the flask from him absently “Your poor mother’s bin run over and we’ve jest bin ’olding her inquest.”

Bobbie Lancaster sat down on the wooden chair and blinked stupidly at the two women.

“And was that—was that my old gel that you give evidence about jest now up at the—”

“Yes, Bobbie That was your poor dear mother, and a lovinger heart never breathed Not in this world at any rate.” Mrs. Rastin uncorked the flask and sniffed at it “But you must cheer up, you know, because it was to be, and all flesh is grass, and we shall meet, please God—” Mrs. Rastin took a sip.

“And there’s many a kid,” chimed in the other neighbour, “that’s just as bad off as you, my lad, losing both their parents, and you mustn’t think you’re the only one, ye know You want a glass, Mrs. Rastin.”

The boy did not cry His mouth twitched slightly, and he frowned as though endeavouring to understand clearly the position of affairs.

“Old man died,” he said slowly, “soon after I was born, and now the old gel’s gone.”

“Yes, Bobby! Run and get a lump of sugar, Mrs. What-is-it, out of my caddy.”

“So,” said the boy, “it ’mounts to this I ain’t got no fawther and I ain’t got no mother.”

“That’s about it, Bobbie.”

The boy jerked his chin and commenced to unlace his boots rather fiercely.

“Dem bright look out for me,” he said.

Two

The boy’s sense of injury gave way, and became, indeed, utterly routed the next morning by a feeling of importance Mrs. Rastin bustled in and prepared a breakfast that filled the room with a most entrancing scent of frying fish; to show her sympathy she sat down with him to the meal, and ate with excellent appetite, beguiling the time with cheery accounts of sudden deaths and murders and suicides that she, in the past, had had the rare good fortune to encounter Mrs. Rastin took charge of the keys belonging to the chest of drawers, remarking that so far as regarded any little thing that Bobbie’s poor dear mother might have left, she would see that right was done just the same as though it were her own Holidays being on at the Board School which Bobbie intermittently attended, Mrs. Rastin said how would it be if he were to take a turn in Hoxton Street for a few hours whilst she turned to and tidied up?

“Jest as you like,” said Bobbie agreeably.

“Don’t you go and get into no mischief, mind,” counselled Mr. Rastin.

“Trust me,” said the boy.

“Keep away from that Shoreditch set, and take good care of yourself You’re all alone in the world now,” said Mrs. Rastin, pouring the last drop from the teapot into her cup, “and you’ll ’ave to look out You ’ain’t got no mother to ’elp you.”

“By-the-bye,” said Bobbie, “who’s going to cash up for putting the old woman away?”

“Me and a few neighbours are going to see to it,” remarked the lady with reserve “Don’t you bother your ’ead about that Run off and—Just a minute, I’ll sew this black band round the sleeve of your coat.”

“Whaffor?” asked the boy.

“Why, bless my soul!” exclaimed Mrs. Rastin “As a sign that you’re sorry, of course.’

“That’s the idea, is it?”

“Some one’ll ’ave to buy you a collar, too, for Tuesday.”

“Me in a collar?” he said gratified “My word, I shall be a reg’lar toff, if I ain’t careful.”

“What size—I think that’ll hold—what size do you take, I wonder?”

“Lord knows,” said the boy “I don’t I’ve never wore one yet.”

If in Hoxton that day a more conceited boy than Robert Lancaster had been in request, the discovery would have been difficult He strolled up and down Hoxton Street, where the second-hand furniture dealers place bedsteads brazenly in the roadway, and when shop people, standing at their doors, glanced at the crape band on his sleeve he stood still for a while in order that they might have a good view.

A good-natured Jewess in charge of a fruit stall called to him and inquired the nature of his loss, and on Bobbie supplying the facts (adding to the interest by various details suggested by his imagination) the Jewess gave an enormous sigh and, as token of sympathy, presented him with two doubtful pears and a broken stick of chocolate Bobbie went up towards New North Road inventing further details of a gruesome nature, in the hope of finding other shopkeepers similarly curious and appreciative, but no one else called to him, and at a confectioner’s shop, where he waited for a long time, a girl with her hair screwed by violent twists of paper came out and said that if he did not leave off breathing on their window she would wring his neck for him; upon Bobbie giving her a brief criticism in regard to the arrangement of her features, she repeated her threat with increased emphasis, and as there was obviously nothing to be gained by further debate, he strolled off with dignity through Fanshaw Street, arriving presently at Drysdale Street The boys here were boys with an intolerably good opinion of themselves, because they lived in a street over which the railway passed; this made them hold themselves aloof from the other youths of Hoxton, and go through life with the austerity of men who knew the last word about engines It seemed to Bobbie Lancaster that a chance had now arisen to humiliate Drysdale Street and to lower its pride.

“Cheer!” he said casually.

“Cheer!” said the two boys They were marking out squares on the pavement for a game of hop-scotch “Got any more chalk in your pocket, Nose?”

The boy called Nose searched, and shook his head negatively “Daresay I can oblige you,” remarked Bobbie.

“Look ’ere,” said the first boy with heated courtesy, “did anyone ast you come ’ere standin’ on our pavement?”

“No,” acknowledged Bobbie.

“Very well, then! You trot off ’fore you get ’urt.

“Who you going to get to ’urt me?” asked Bobbie.

“Going to get no one,” said the first boy aggressively “Going to do it meself.”

“I should advise you to go into training a bit first,” said Bobbie kindly “Them arms and wrists of yours I should sell for matches; your boots you might get rid of as sailin’ vessels.”

“’Old my jacket, Nose,” said the boy furiously “I’ll knock the stuffin’ out of him ’fore I’m many minutes older.”

“With a shirt like yourn,” said Bobbie, edging back a little, “I should keep me jacket on You’ll frighten all the birds.”

“You’d better be off,” said Nose, feeling it safe now to offer a remark “Come down ’ere temorrer, and we’ll spoil your face for you.”

“Take a bit o’ doin’ to spoil yourn,” shouted Bobbie.

“Come down temorrer,” repeated Nose defiantly, “and I’ll give you what for.”

“Make it the next day,” called Bobbie “I shall be at the cimetry temorrer.”

“Cimetry?” said the two boys with a change of voice.

“Cimetry!” repeated Master Lancaster with pride.

“Who is it?”

“Mother,” said Bobbie.

“Come ’ere,” said the first boy putting on his jacket “Tell us all about it.”

“Fen punchin’,” requested Bobbie cautiously.

“Fen punchin’,” agreed the two Drysdale Street boys.

Such was the respect Bobbie exacted from the two boys during the truce and after his recital, that they not only allowed him to lose a game of hop-scotch with them, but at his urgent request they took him to the railway arch, and permitted him to climb to a place where, when a train presently went shrieking overhead, a thunderous noise came to his ears that deafened him The thin boy’s name was George Libbis; the other boy’s name it appeared was not really Nose but Niedermann; called Nose for brevity, and because that feature was unusually prominent With Master Libbis, Bobbie presently found himself on good terms; with Nose he had, before saying good-bye, a brief tussle over the possession of a piece of string, and went off with a truculent remark concerning German Jews.

He felt so much advanced in society by reason of this entrance into Drysdale Street circles that he declined games with boys of Pimlico Walk, and affected not to see Trixie Bell dancing a neighbour’s baby that was not quite so large as herself, but more muscular Trixie called after him peremptorily, but he went by with his head well up and eyes alert for signs of interest In Charles Square his reserve was broken by sudden encounter with Ted Sullivan Master Sullivan, in possession of a toy pistol with small paper caps that snapped quite loudly, told Bobbie in confidence that he had half made up his mind to get a mask and go out somewhere and stop the mail coach, shoot the driver, and take all the gold and bank-notes that it carried Upon Bobbie inquiring where he proposed to find this mail coach, shoot the driver, and take the bullion, Master Sullivan declared that there were plenty about if you only knew where to find them, and in confirmation exhibited the coloured paper cover of a well thumbed book, called “Dashing Dick Dare-devil, or the Highwayman and the Faithful Indian Girl,” confronted with which evidence Bobbie Lancaster relinquished his argument and acknowledged that Ted Sullivan had reason Because these adventures are not to be entered upon without rehearsal and taking thought, the two had a brief game round the tipsy railings of the old square; Bobbie starting from the county court was a restive steed conveying a stage coach which bore untold gold, and just as he galloped round by the untidy public-house at the north-west corner, who should rush out upon him but Master Sullivan with black dirt upon his face so that he should not be recognized, and presenting the toy pistol with a stern warning.

“Stir but a single step and I fire.”

Upon which, the restive steed tried to gallop over the highwayman and to gallop round him, and eventually to turn and gallop back; the highwayman was just on the point of snapping his last cap and rendering the noble horse senseless when, most inopportunely, the highwayman’s mother appeared at the corner.

“Teddy Sullivin! Come here, ye mis’rable little hound, and let me knock the head off of ye, ye onholy son of a good parint that ye are.”

This interruption left the struggle at a highly interesting point, but Master Sullivan before leaving said that he proposed to get a proper revolver, some day, and then there would be larks of the rarest and most exciting kind Meanwhile, added Master Sullivan as he went off, the watchword was “Death to Injuns!”

Bobbie, after a highly enjoyable morning, went home, where, thanks to Mrs. Rastin, the house reeked with a perfectly entrancing odour of frying steak and onions To this meal Mrs. Rastin invited a lady from downstairs, called the Duchess, who wore several cheap rings and spoke with a tone of acquired refinement that had always impressed Bobbie very much He remembered, though, that his mother had warned him never to speak to this lady from downstairs, and when that vivacious lady addressed him at his meal, he refused at first to answer her, thus forcing the conversation to be shared exclusively by the two ladies They talked of rare tavern nights, the lady from downstairs shaking her head reminiscently as she re-called diverting incidents of the past, declaring that the world was no longer what it had been.

“Why, there’s no Cremorne, now,” argued the Duchess affectedly.

“True, true!” agreed Mrs. Rastin.

“Argyll Rooms, and the rest of it, all swept away,” complained the Duchess.

“It’s sickenin’,” said Mrs. Rastin “I s’pose they was rare times if the truth was known.”

“You’d never believe?”

“Onfortunately,” said Mrs. Rastin humbly, “I was country-bred meself I wasted all the best years of my life in service down in Essex.”

“Why, in my day,” remarked the Duchess, smoothing the torn lace at her sleeves, “in my day I’ve sat at the same table with people that you couldn’t tell from gentlefolk, thinking no more of champagne than we do of water.”

“Goodness.”

“Nobody never thought of walking,” declared the Duchess ecstatically “It was cabs here, cabs there, cabs everywhere.”

“That’s the way,” said the interested Mrs. Rastin.

“Talk about sparkling conversation,” said the Duchess with enthusiasm “They can’t talk like it now, that’s a very sure thing.”

“I don’t know what’s come over London,” remarked Mrs. Rastin despairingly “It’s more like a bloomin’ church than anything else I s’pose you was a fine-looking young woman in those days, ma’am.”

“I don’t suppose,” said the Duchess, “there was ever a finer.”

The night of that day became so extended by reason of a generous supply of drink, that Bobbie went to bed in the corner of the room and left the two women still reviewing the days and nights that were He understood their conversation imperfectly (although God knows there was little in the way of worldly knowledge hidden from him), but he decided that the Duchess was worthy of some respect as one who had moved in society, and when she stumbled over to him and kissed him, crooning a comic song as lullaby, he felt gratified He remembered that his mother had kissed him once It was when he was quite a child; at about the time that his father died For the first time he found himself thinking of her, and his mouth twitched, but he bent his mind determinedly to the ride that he was to enjoy in the morning, and having persuaded himself that everything had happened for the best, went presently to sleep, content.

The journey the next morning proved indeed to be all that imagination had suggested, with a high wind added, with the manners of a hurricane There was a new peaked cap for him to wear; the white collar was fixed with difficulty, being by accident some two sizes too large and bulging accordingly Mrs. Rastin, swollen eyed partly with tears, assisted him to dress; herself costumed in black garments borrowed from opulent neighbours in the Walk.

A man appeared whom Bobbie recognized as the boy Nose’s father, and he, glancing round the room, said depreciatingly that there was nothing there worth carting away, but Mrs. Rastin told him to look at the chest of drawers; to look at the bedstead; to look at the mirror Mr. Niedermann, still contemptuous, said that if he gave fifteen bob for the lot he should look down on himself for being an adjective idiot; Mrs. Rastin reasoned strongly against this attitude, saying that she was quite sure that two pounds five would not hurt him Mr. Niedermann intimated, with much emphasis, that, on the contrary, two pound five would do him very grievous injury, apart from the fact that, by offering that sum, he would be making himself the laughing-stock of all Hoxton.

A neighbour here looked in to announce that the carriage was waiting, and after a sharp argument, conducted with great asperity on both sides, Mrs. Rastin climbed down from two pounds five to one pound two-and-six, and Mr. Niedermann, with a generous flow of language that was in an inverse ratio to his manner of disbursing money, climbed up to that amount, and Mr. Niedermann’s men came in and took everything away, leaving the room empty and bare Mr. Niedermann paid over the amount, assuring Mrs. Rastin and Bobbie that a few jobs of similar character would bankrupt him, and departed, Mrs. Rastin acutely placing a small bag containing money under a loose plank of the flooring where, as she said to the Duchess, it would be, if anything, safer than in the Bank of England The work completed, Mrs. Rastin showed them out and locked the door, placing the key under the mat In Hoxton Street the carriage waited; the gloomy horses, standing with feet extended to avoid being blown away, turned round as the two came up through admiring rows of people as who should say, “Oh, you have come at last, then.” The scarlet-faced driver and his colleague were rubbing marks of mud off the black carriage; Trixie Bell was there, and slipped a clammy piece of sweetstuff into Bobbie’s hand as he was about to be lifted into the coach, which piece of sweetstuff he instantly threw away, to the regret of Trixie Bell and the joy of an infant at whose feet it was thrown, and who apparently thought the age of miracles had come again The wind took off Bobbie’s new cap, carrying it sportively into a puddle Fifty people ran to recover it, and the cap came back with enough of the puddle to give it age Mrs. Rastin occupied the journey, as the two gloomy horses trotted to the mortuary, with wise precepts, to the effect that boys who couldn’t keep their new caps on, never by any dexterity or luck or artfulness went to Heaven Bobbie did not mind this; he was too much interested in looking out of the window of the carriage It seemed to him that it was like belonging to the royal family.

“’Ere we are, at the gates,” said Mrs. Rastin, finding her handkerchief “Now mind you cry and behave yourself properly like a good boy, or else, when I get you ’ome, I’ll give you the best shakin’ you ever had in all your born days.”

“Don’t upset yourself,” said the boy.

“I’ll upset you, me lord,” retorted Mrs. Rastin “You’ll have to be knocked into shape a bit before you’ll be good for anything; ’itherto you’ve been allowed to do too much jest as you bloomin’ well pleased.”

“Now who’s behavin’?” asked Bobbie satirically The carriage went slowly through the opened iron gates and up the broad gravelled walk “Nice language to use in a churchyard, I don’t think.”

“It’s your fault,” said Mrs. Rastin.

“It’s you that’ll get punished for it,” said the boy, “anyway.”

“Another word,” declared Mrs. Rastin strenuously, “and you don’t get out of the kerrige.”

“Try it on,” said Bobbie, “if you dare.”

As they had to wait some few minutes outside the chapel the purple-faced driver came round to the window and, holding his ruffled silk hat on, engaged Mrs. Rastin in conversation, mentioning casually that he knew a place where presently as good a glass of beer could be obtained as the heart desired Mrs. Rastin, promising to remember this, mentioned that for the price, she thought it—meaning the coach and horses—by no means a bad turn-out The purple-faced coachman took this compliment placidly, remarking that it was cutting it pretty adjective fine to do the thing for two pun two, and if it were his show he should decline to put the harness on the horses under two pun twelve If people liked to go and die, said the coachman firmly, let them pay for it On Mrs. Rastin remarking that she supposed it was what we must all come to, the coachman replied that Mrs. Rastin would be perfectly safe in laying all the money she had got on that.

“Now they’re ready for us,” said the coachman And whistled to his colleague.

Bobbie, following the draped case, which was borne on the shoulders of the two men, felt full of regret that he had no audience; Mrs. Rastin, blown about distractedly by the tempestuous wind, appeared too much occupied to cry The young curate, in his white surplice, wore a skull cap and looked resentfully at the elements as he spoke the opening words The liturgy came to Bobbie’s ears in detachments when the wind rested for a moment.

“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord, he that believeth on me, though he were dead, yet… .”

“Lord, let me know mine end, and the number of my days… .”

“Oh spare me a little that I may recover my strength before I go hence and be no more seen… .”

The small procession moved to a shallow opening in the clay earth The driver and his stolid companion let the long draped case down to the side of this opening, the driver complaining in an undertone of the other’s clumsiness; as lief have a plank of wood to help him, growled the driver The straps were placed round the long case; the boy watching had difficulty in preventing himself from offering a word of advice.

“Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live… .”

“Suffer us not in our last hour from any pains of death to fall from Thee… .”

The stolid man picked up a lump of dry clay and crumbled it.

“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear sister here departed… .”

Presently a prayer that Bobbie knew He muttered it by rote and without the least desire to consider the meaning of the words “Our Fa’r, chart in ’Eaven, ’allowed be—” The curate closed the book and controlled his white surplice from the vagaries of the gusty irreverent wind.

“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all evermore Amen.”

“This the poor creature’s son?” asked the young curate briskly and cheerfully.

“Her only boy, sir.”

“And you are his aunt, eh?”

“No, sir! Only a well-meanin’ neighbour; he ain’t got any rel’tives, worse luck.”

“So you’re all alone in the world, my boy? (Bother the wind!) Now you must make up your mind to be a good lad, because there are plenty of people ready to help good lads, and very few who will waste their time over bad ones.”

“That’s what I tell him, sir,” remarked Mrs. Rastin ingratiatingly.

“And don’t forget—” The curate stopped and sneezed “Enough to give anybody a cold,” said he “Good-bye, my lad.”

“Say good-bye to the kind gentleman, Bobbie.”

“So long,” said Bobbie, resenting the interference of Mrs. Rastin “Look after that cold of yourn.”

“Nice thing to say, upon my word,” declared Mrs. Rastin, manoeuvring the wind “You’ve got no more idea of etiquette than a ’og If it wasn’t that your poor mother was lying down there, poor thing, I’d give you a jolly good ’iding.”

“Let me ketch you trying at it,” said Bobbie defiantly.

Thus, without a tear, the boy left the edge of the oblong hole in clay earth, and was blown back to the carriage Though his eyes were dry and his manner aggressive, there came a regretful feeling now all the excitement was over, that he had to resume his position of an ordinary boy with no longer any special claims to respect in Hoxton He wondered vaguely what the next few days would be like He was not capable of looking beyond that At the gate Mrs. Rastin alighted to patronise the house of refreshment so urgently recommended by the driver, and whilst that purple-faced gentleman conducted her to the private bar, Bobbie remained in the carriage, and the other man came round and looked stolidly in through the window without saying a word, as though Bobbie were a new arrival at the Zoo.

When Mrs. Rastin, in excellent humour, returned, she brought a seed biscuit for Bobbie, told him that he was a model boy, and that she wished there were six of him for her to look after.

“You run ’ome to your room,” said Mrs. Rastin, when the carriage stopped in Hoxton Street, “the key’s under the mat, and I shan’t be many minutes ’fore I’m with you Wait for me, there’s a deer I must have a drop of something short.”

In the walk he was hailed.

“I say, Bobbie Lancaster.”

“Now, what is it?”

“My mother says,” began Trixie Bell, panting, “that you—.”

“I don’t talk to gels,” said the boy, marching on.

“Says that you ain’t in—.”

“Be off, I tell you Don’t let me ’ave to speak twice.”

“That you ain’t in good ’ands where you are now.”

“Ain’t what?”

Miss Bell, persistent, repeated the statement.

“You’ll pardon me,” said the boy laboriously, “if I ast a rude question Is your mother still kerryin’ on her business?”

“She is,” said Trixie.

“Very well, then,” he said, going on, “tell her to jolly well mind it.”

“She says they’re a bad lot,” shouted the girl, “and she says they won’t do you no good.”

“Don’t make me come back and pull your ’air for you,” entreated Bobbie.

“Cow—werd!” bawled Miss Trixie Bell.

“Cat!” shouted Mr. Robert Lancaster.

Looking back as be pressed open the black door, he saw the youth called Nose talking to the small girl, and he felt tempted to return and punish both of them, but it occurred to him that a man with a collar could not afford to appear undignified He went upstairs The key not being under the mat, he sat astride the rickety banisters and waited He had found that morning a half emptied box of fusees, and the time did not seem long.

“Don’t tell me the key ain’t under the mat,” said Mrs. Rastin truculently, as she came up the stairs “You’re too lazy to look for it; that’s about the truth; you little—.”

“Find it yourself, then.”

“Why ’ere it is in the door,” said Mrs. Rastin, “in the door all the time.” She unlocked it “Ain’t you got no eyes, you good-for-nothing?” Mrs. Rastin stumbled over the mat and went into the dark room “Light a match when I keep telling you.”

In the room, Bobbie held up one of the flaming fusees Mrs. Rastin blinked, looked round, and screamed shrilly.

“Murder!” she wailed “Murder! Police! Fire! Thieves!” She gasped and recovered her breath “Every penny gone of the money that was to keep the young—.”

“What money?” asked the boy The question seemed to goad Mrs. Rastin to fury.

“Out you go, you little devil,” she cried furiously She took him by the back of his neck.

“Mind my collar,” he shouted.

“Out of it,” she screamed “I was goin’ to be good-natured enough to keep you whilst the bloomin’ money lasted, but now I’ve had enough of it.” She lugged him out, despite his kicks, to the landing “Now then, out you go.”

Bobbie fell down the staircase to the bottom The commotion had excited the house; doors were open.

“Come in ’ere,” said the Duchess kindly She wore an old, old satin gown, her lean, rope-like throat uncovered “You come and live long of us I’ve of’en wanted a child of me own.”

Three

On the Duchess and Mr. Leigh, her husband, leaving Pimlico Walk somewhat hurriedly the next morning with two barrow-loads of furniture and Bobbie Lancaster, Pimlico Walk, led by Mrs. Rastin, did not hesitate to give them verbal testimonials as to character The husband, Mrs. Rastin suggested, had robbed her of someone else’s hard-earned savings; the Duchess was condemned severely by those to whom she had in effusive moments given her confidence The Duchess’s husband was a quiet, resigned-looking man, with a fringe of whiskers that met underneath his chin; his behaviour conveyed the impression that he only desired to be let alone in order that he might do good in a quiet, unobtrusive way He seemed, in regard to conversation, curt; he never used superfluous words, and before he spoke he always drew in a whistling breath looking around cautiously, as one anxious above all things not to incriminate himself He for his part took the attacks of the neighbours quite calmly, and when the Duchess, so indignant that she dropped a glass candlestick with lusters, essayed to reply, he begged her to hold her tongue and to come on.

“Least said,” remarked the Duchess’s husband, “soonest mended Give us a pound with this barrer.”

“And I ’ope,” screamed Mrs. Rastin, “that the money’ll prove a curse to you if so be that you’re the party as took it What’ll become of the poor kid don’t bear thinking of.”

“You thought you was going to have a ’igh old time,” retorted the Duchess, “and you’re disappointed Moment the money was spent you were going to turn the poor boy out neck and crop.”

“Don’t you measure other ladies by yourself, ma’am,” shouted Mrs. Rastin “You’re nothing more nor less than—”

“Come on,” said the Duchess’s husband.

“But,” urged the trembling Duchess, “did you ’ear what she called me?”

“What’s it matter?” remarked the man.

Bobbie, helping to push one of the barrows through the Walk, had the happy feeling that he had really been the cause of the disturbance, and that he was engaged in making history very fast Trixie Bell’s mother, standing at the door of her small bonnet shop, shook her head dolefully as she saw him; Bobbie make a grimace at her that checked the excellent woman’s sympathy Behind the shop window Trixie Bell herself looked out between the ostrich-feathered hats with round, astonished eyes.

“What’s the number, Leigh?”

Mr. Leigh gave the information as the two barrows turned from Hoxton Street into Ely Place Ely Place had more breadth than Pimlico Walk, but it was a grim, mysterious thoroughfare, it had none of the shops which served to make Pimlico Walk interesting; certainly a few of the cottages had a plot in front with a slate-coloured lawn, but these were in every case flagged with imperfect drying linen that destroyed any pretence of rusticity Before one of these the barrows stopped.

A long young woman with sleeves folded back high above her elbow, her red hair in a single knot, swept the step casually with a bald broom.

“’Ullo,” she said, “you’ve arrived, then?”

Mr. Leigh seemed about to reply in the affirmative, but stopped himself leaving the confession to the Duchess.

“Bat’s gone out in the Kingsland Road,” went on the red-haired young woman.

“What for?” asked the Duchess, unloading the barrows.

“To get change,” said the young woman.

This reply amused the Duchess so much that, casting away resentment against the world in general and Pimlico Walk in particular, she rested a chair-bedstead in the dim passage and sat down upon it to enjoy the laugh Bobbie, anxious to show himself as one of the family, laughed too, and Mr. Leigh almost smiled.

“You are a caution,” said the Duchess exhaustedly.

“What ’ave I said now?” asked the young woman, with all a humorist’s assumption of gravity.

“It isn’t so much what you say as your manner.”

“This your tenth?” asked the girl, resting her chin on the broom and nodding her head in the direction of Bobbie.

“He’s a little chap,” explained the amused Duchess, “that’s left without a parent, and we’re going to look after him Ain’t we, Leigh?”

“Don’t ast me,” begged Mr. Leigh.

“He’ll come in useful,” whispered the Duchess.

“Bat don’t care for kids about the place.”

“He’s as knowing,” urged the Duchess, “as a grown-up.”

“This is only our town ’ouse,” explained the red-haired young woman to Bobbie “Rather ’andsome, palatial sort of mansion, don’t you think?”

“Tell better,” said Bobbie, looking round, “when someone’s give it a good clean down What’s in the room at the back?”

“You ask my ’usband that question when he comes ’ome,” said the young woman with sudden acerbity, “and he’ll strap you till he’s tired.”

“Shan’t ask him, then,” said Bobbie.

“Never pry, Bobbie,” counselled the Duchess warningly “Little boys that go prying never come to no good Carry that lamp upright, and don’t upset the oil, or I’ll upset you.”

Bobbie, submitted to Mr. Bat Miller upon that gentleman’s return from obtaining change in Kingsland Road, was so fortunate as to obtain favour, and Bat Miller after telling the young woman, who seemed of a jealous disposition, exactly how his time had been occupied, ruffled the boy’s head of hair, telling him that if he behaved himself he should learn in that house everything worth knowing But none of your tricks mind, said Mr. Bat Miller As a first test Mr. Miller took a bright two shilling-piece from an inside pocket of his waistcoat, and, spite of the protests of the two women, dispatched him with it to a certain shop in Hackney Road to purchase one ounce of shag When Bobbie returned, panting, with the tobacco in a screw of paper and the change safely in his fist, Bat Miller first tested the coins by trying them with his teeth, and then gave Bobbie for himself a penny, some of the tobacco, and commendation in congratulatory but lurid terms The two men went out together, and the Duchess and young Mrs. Bat Miller exchanged grievances, Mrs. Miller complaining a good deal of her husband’s irregular behaviour, and presently they too, finding themselves in agreement on several questions, went out, locking the boy in that he might look after the house They promised to be absent for not more than two seconds, but by some error they made it two hours, and during that time Bobbie prowled over the house and went into every room, excepting only the locked-up room at the back of the ground floor.

At the door of this locked-up room he listened very carefully The keyhole being plugged, he could see nothing, but he kept his ear to the door for some time It seemed to him that a sound of heavy breathing came from within.

The two couples came home in admirable temper Even Mr. Leigh’s attitude to the world seemed less guarded, and several times he appeared inclined to sing with the rest They brought in with them fried potatoes, fish, and a large bottle; Bobbie, to his astonishment and great satisfaction, being allowed to help himself The Duchess repeated the anecdotes of high life in the sixties that Bobbie had heard before, Mr. Leigh watching her with pride as she assumed her accent of refinement, and ordering her to tell more than one account of a past evening twice over Later, young Mrs. Miller let down her knot of red hair, and recited a touching poem about a Russian mother who being torn from her family to endure punishment in Siberia, apparently objected to it very much and pleaded with the soldiers, but with no avail until presently her youngest born argued with them, and then the officer in charge relenting, kissed the babe and said, “Your mother’s safe, my darling child To you she owes her life; For I, too, have an infant mild, Also a loving wife.” At which pleasing point the recital finished, leaving the hearers content, with perhaps a slight fear that the tender-hearted officer might have had some trouble in explaining his conduct to his superior officers Then Mr. Bat Miller, a little sleepy, sang a long, long song, relating vaguely to the sea, with a refrain of “What ho for the rolling wave, me boys, And a life on the vasty deep,” and when he had finished, the Duchess consented, after a good deal of pressing, to give her imitation of a well-known serio-comic lady whose star had been high some twenty-five years previously, a performance requiring a hiccough that the Duchess had no difficulty in repeating Bobbie had seldom enjoyed an afternoon so much.

“Time for the Fright’s ’alf pint, ain’t it?” said Mr. Leigh.

The wooden clock on the mantel-piece had just struck twelve, as notification that it was six o’clock.

“Enough left in the jug, ain’t there?” asked Mrs. Miller.

“Bit flat.”

“He don’t care whether its flat or round,” said the humorous young woman “It’s all one to the Fright Bat, wake up and look after your lodger.”

Bat Miller awakened, took the large bottle, and went out into the passage.

“Come back, Bobbie,” cried the Duchess, sharply The boy did not obey, being indeed accustomed to persist in doing anything that he was told not to do Mr. Leigh rushed out, and catching him, swung him back into the room The two women boxed his ears.

“Stiddy,” said the boy resentfully “Three to one’s plenty.”

“I’ve told you before not to pry,” said the Duchess.

“Who was prying?”

“Look ’ere,” said Mr. Leigh, as peacemaker, “come out ’long o’ me.”

“Where you goin’, Leigh?”

“Station,” he said.

“Ain’t you reported yourself yet?”

“I ain’t,” said Mr. Leigh, finding his cap.

“You’ll get yourself into trouble some day,” remarked the Duchess.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” interposed young Mrs. Miller.

“Got the ticket with you?”

“Course I ’ave.”

Mr. Leigh took from his inside pocket a sheet of paper about the size of an ordinary letter; he replaced it in an envelope and led Bobbie out of the house In Kingsland Road they turned to the right Opposite were the low almshouses standing in their own grounds and protected by a low iron spiked wall The two went towards Shoreditch.

“Where are we going to book to?” asked Bobbie, “when we get to the station?” Mr. Leigh did not answer “Going for ride in the train, ain’t we?”

“No!”

“What station are we going to, then?”

“Police station.”

“’Ere,” said the boy, stopping “None of your ’alf larks.’

“You’re all right, kiddy.”

“What’s the row, then?”

“No row,” said Mr. Leigh “Slight fermality, that’s all.”

Bobbie’s fears proved groundless Mr. Leigh went up the steps of the police station, where one or two uniformed men and a few men in plain clothes stood under the blue lamp, and these nodded to Mr. Leigh Bobbie waited in the hall in order that, necessity arising, he might make swift escape, and Mr. Leigh, taking off his cap respectfully, tapped at a wooden window The window opened; the face of an inspector appeared.

“Evenin’, sir,” said Mr. Leigh.

“Well, me man?”

“Nice bright, cold autumn weather, sir,” said Mr. Leigh, holding his cap between his teeth and finding the sheet of paper “Soon be ’aving winter on us now.”

“I thought it had turned warmer,” said the inspector, taking a book down.

“P’raps you’re right, sir,” said Mr. Leigh obsequiously.

“I ought to remember your name,” said the inspector, turning over the pages of the book “Begins with an L, don’t it?”

“You’re right again, sir Name of Leigh—Abraham Leigh.”

“I’ve found it,” said the inspector, who had been running his finger down the page “Got the ticket?”

Mr. Leigh passed in the sheet of letter paper, and the inspector, comparing it with the entry in the book, endorsed it.

“Seems all right,” said the inspector.

“Slight alteration of address,” remarked Mr. Leigh humbly “Now residing at 112, Ely Place.”

“Rum quarter,” said the inspector, as he made a note.

“Must live somewhere, sir,” submitted Mr. Leigh.

“Going on straight now?” asked the inspector, as he handed the note back.

“Rather,” answered Mr. Leigh complacently “Turned over a new leaf, I ’ave.”

“Good!”

“Other bisness don’t pay, sir,” said Mr. Leigh, replacing the folded sheet of paper in his pocket “It’s a mug’s game, that’s what I call it Good day, sir.”

“Good day, me man.” Shutting the window to with a decisive snap.

Mr. Leigh, coming down the steps with Bobbie, was spoken to casually by one of the plain clothes men, who in an uninterested way asked Mr. Leigh some questions concerning (it appeared to the boy) mutual acquaintances, but Mr. Leigh seemed unable to give the plain clothes man any of the information desired, complaining as excuse of decaying powers of memory.

“I think it must be I’m getting old, Mr. Thorpe, sir.”

“That’ll grow on you,” said the plain clothes man, “if you aren’t careful.”

“I can’t remember names,” declared Mr. Leigh, complainingly; “I can’t remember faces; I can’t remember any mortal thing.”

“Ah,” said the detective, “pity!”

To Bobbie, as they walked home to Ely Place, Mr. Leigh appeared slightly more communicative, counselling the boy to behave decorously if ever he should find himself in trouble.

“Inside or outside,” declared Mr. Leigh, “it pays in the long run.”

At Ely Place everything was in train, the day being special and the evening also out of the ordinary, for a visit to the theatre Some question arose in regard to the wisdom of leaving the house alone, but young Mrs. Miller said that she wasn’t going to be left out of it if Bat were going, the Duchess said it wasn’t often she got the chance, Mr. Leigh said he didn’t see no particular harm in going to the play, Bat Miller said that too much work told on a man; that the Fright would be safe enough, and it would make a nice change for all of them So they all went Bat Miller locked the door with great care, and in five minutes they were finding their way up the broad stone stairs of the Britannia with a struggling, anxious, noisy, good-tempered crowd.

“Right sort,” suggested Mr. Leigh, in a whisper to Bat Miller, as they forced their way to the pay box.

“I’m sure,” agreed Bat Miller “Don’t want no fuss ’ere.” He pinched the ear of a dark young woman in front of him.

“I’ll have your black eyes,” he said admiringly.

“You’ll get two of your own if you ain’t careful,” retorted the girl, not displeased.

“Shouldn’t mind being punched by you,” said Bat Miller “Let me keep these others from scrouging you.”

“Bat,” cried a voice behind him.

“Now begin agin.”

“Leave off talkin’ to that nigger gel,” commanded young Mrs. Miller.

“Who are you callin’ a nigger gel,” inquired the dark young woman across the heads of the surging crowd, “carrots?”

“You,” replied Mrs. Miller frankly, “Miss Tar Brush.”

“Don’t answer her,” begged Mr. Bat Miller to his new acquaintance “She’s so jealous she can’t see straight.”

“I pity you,” said the dark young woman.

“So do I,” said Mr. Miller softly “Lemme get your ticket for you.”

A roaring noisy crowded gallery, like the side of a mountain going from the base with strong iron rods protecting up to the topmost point, where patrons had to bend their backs to escape the ceiling General discardment of coats by men and boys, universal doffing of hats and bonnets, and loosening of blouses by ladies Bobbie, perched on the rolled-up coats of the two men, saw at a distance of what seemed at first to be several miles below, the tightly-wedged people on the floor of the theatre packed closely to the very footlights, and leaving just sufficient room for a small orchestra Mrs. Bat Miller, still trembling with annoyance, bought oranges, and selecting one over ripe, stood up and threw it, and more by luck than skill, managed to hit the dark young woman, seated below, well on the side of the face, where it burst shell-like and caused annoyance Having done this, young Mrs. Miller seemed more content, and twisting up her rope of red hair, settled down to unrestrained enjoyment of the evening.

“I wouldn’t ’ave your dispisition,” said Mr. Bat Miller to her, wistfully, “for a bloomin’ pension.”

Bobbie felt pleased to see the two boys from Drysdale Street far above him; they would require all the austerity that a railway arch could give to prevent them from feeling envious of him He held up a piece of apple and shouted above the babel of voices, “’Ave ’alf?” and when they screamed back “Yus!” he ate it all calmly; thus goading them to a state of speechless vexation Everybody called to everybody else; the enormous theatre filled with appeals for recognition Presently through the uproar could be heard the discordant tuning up of the violins, and, holding the Duchess’s thin arm, he looked down again and saw that the orchestra had come in.

The footlights being turned up, the violins began to play The Duchess said it was nothing to the Alhambra in the old days, but Bobbie felt this could not be true When the curtain ascended and the uniformed men posted in various quarters of the large theatre bawled for silence, Bobbie held tightly to the Duchess for fear that he might be tempted to jump over.

It was not easy to discover at first the true intent of the play, because the gallery did not at once become quiet; two fights and a faint were necessary before quietude could be obtained When the words from the far-off stage came up more distinctly to Bobbie’s quick ears, he realized that a plot was being arranged by two gentlemanly men in evening dress to rob the bank of the sum of fifty thousand pounds, and it seemed that they wished to do this unobtrusively, and indeed desired that any credit for its success should be placed to the account not of themselves, but of the manager of the bank The manager came on just then to a majestic air from the orchestra; the audience seemed to know him, for they cheered, and he stood in the centre of the stage bowing condescendingly before he commenced to interest himself in the drama He was rather a noble-looking young man, a little stout perhaps, with a decided way of speaking; you could hear every word he said, and when he had to make any movement the orchestra played briskly, as though to intimate that whatever misfortune might cross his path, he had always the support of four fiddlers, two bass viols, a cornet, a pianist, and a trombone The two villains intimated their desire to open an account at the bank The manager asked for references The two villains, first looking cautiously off at the wings to make sure that no one observed them, suddenly flung themselves on the bank manager They were engaged in binding him with ropes, when a ragged boy (who the Duchess said was not a boy but a girl) jumped in at the window, and said,—

“What price me!”

Upon which the two villains instantly decamped; the ragged boy summoned the clerks (who, reasonably speaking, should have heard the struggle, but apparently did not), and the manager ordered that the ragged boy should he offered a highly responsible post in the bank, for, said the manager to the gallery, of what use is sterling honesty in this world if it be not liberally rewarded? a sentiment with which the gallery found itself able to express cordial agreement In the next scene the two gentlemanly villains, undeterred by their rebuff, were seen in a vague light, drilling with caution the cardboard door of an immense safe of the bank They had but just succeeded when voices were heard Plaintive music and entrance of heroine Dressed in white, she had come to bring a posy of flowers to the manager, whom, it appeared, she was to marry on the morrow This visit seemed unnecessary, and it was certainly indiscreet; after the manager had surprised her and had given to the gallery a few choice opinions on the eternal power of Love, which made Mrs. Bat Miller so agitated that her rope of red hair became untied, the heroine went, after an affectionate farewell, leaving a note on the floor.

“You’ve dropped something, Miss,” shouted Bobbie.

“’Ush,” warned the Duchess “That’s done a purpose.”

This note the villains found, after a struggle with the girl boy, who, demanding of them, “What price me?” was clubbed on the head, and left insensible The note only required a slight alteration with the tearing off of one page to be construed into evidence of complicity in the crime; so that when, in the next scene, a cheerful wedding party in secondhand clothes came out of the church door, bells ringing, villagers strewing flowers, and wedding march from the orchestra, two constables suddenly pushed their way through the crowd and placed hands on the shoulders of the astonished bride, causing so much consternation that the bells stopped, the wedding march changed into a hurried frantic movement, what time the bride clutched at her bodice, and assured the gallery (but this they knew full well) that she was innocent A boy inspector, with a piping voice, stepped forward and proceeded to act in accordance with stage law Woman, I arrest you Oh, sir, explain This letter (said the inspector) in your handwriting was found in the bank after the robbery Sir, said the tearful bride, ’tis true I wrote that letter, but— Woman (said the stern boy inspector), prevarication is useless; who were your accomplices? You decline to answer? Good! Officers, do your duty Scoundrels (shouted the bridegroom bank manager), unhand her, before God she is innocent as the driven snow, I swear it Ho, ho (remarked the boy inspector, acutely putting two and two together), then this can only mean—here the orchestra became quite hysterical—that you yourself are guilty Officers, arrest him also! May Heaven, begged the bride emotionally, addressing the gallery, may Heaven in its great mercy, protect the innocent and the pure It seemed that Heaven proved somewhat tardy in responding to the heroine’s appeal, for from a quarter to eight until a quarter to eleven, she and the hero found themselves in a succession of the direst straits, which, apportioned with justice, would have been more than enough for fifty young couples It did seem that they could not by any dexterity do the right thing; whereas, the two villains, on the contrary, prospered exceedingly, to the special annoyance of Mr. Bat Miller, who, constituting himself leader of a kind of vigilance committee in the hot perspiring gallery, led off the hisses whenever either or both appeared, and at certain moments—as, for instance, when in the hospital ward they lighted their cigarettes, and discussed cynically the prospect of the injured boy’s speedy departure from life—hurling down at them appropriate and forcible words of reproof, that did credit alike to his invention and to the honesty of his feelings.

It is only fair to add that the gallery gave to Mr. Miller ready and unanimous assistance How they yelled with delight when the boy (who was a girl) defied one of the villains, and bade him do his worst! How they shivered when the villain, producing a steel dagger, crept furtively up to the boy, whose back was turned, and how they shouted with rapture as the boy, swinging round at exactly the right moment, presented a revolver at the villain’s forehead, causing that despicable person to drop the dagger and go weak at the knees How they held their breath when, on the boy incautiously laying down the revolver and going to look at the wings, the villain obtained possession of the deadly weapon, and covered the boy with it And then when the boy had affected to cower and to beg for mercy (which, it need hardly be said, the villain flatly declined to grant), how they screamed with mad ecstasy on the boy saying with sudden calm,—

“By-the-bye! Hadn’t you better make sure that that little pop-gun’s loaded?”

Causing the villain to curse his fate and to snap the trigger ineffectually, thus giving the boy a cue for saying once more,—

“What price me!”

Bobbie in support whistled and hissed and howled so much, that after a while he became exhausted, and to his regret found himself unable to express opinions with vigour; this did not, however, prevent him from weeping bitter tears over the hospital scene It was in the hospital scene, as a matter of fact, that the luck of the hero and heroine turned The injured youngster suddenly recovered sight and reason; denounced the two villains, now cringing beneath the triumphant, hysterical theatre; called upon the boy inspector, fortunately at the wings, to arrest them, which the boy inspector instantly did, thus retrieving his position in the esteem of the audience; amid an increasing hum of approval from the mountain of heads in front, the youngster arranged from his couch for the future happiness of the hero and heroine, capping it all and extracting a roar from the house by remarking,—

“Now, what price me!”

Which might have been the pure essence distilled from all the best jokes of all time, judging from its instantaneous and admirable effect Then the hero and heroine, at the centre of the stage, managed to intimate that sunshine had broken through the clouds; that trustful and loving, they would now proceed to live a life of absolute peace and perfect happiness; the orchestra feeling itself rewarded at last for all its faithful attention, broke out into a triumphant march, and—rideau.

In Hoxton Street it was drizzling, and the crowd surging out of the doorway turned up its coat collars and tied handkerchiefs over its bonnets, and set off for home Bobbie, dazed with excitement, clutched the Duchess’s yellow skirt and trotted along, after a minute’s rest at a whelk stall, the two men and Mrs. Miller following closely behind At the corner of Essex Street they waited to allow a four-wheeler to go by The elderly horse, checked by the driver, slipped, and nearly fell, recovered itself, and slipped again, made vain efforts to get a secure footing, and upon the driver standing up to use his whip and saying bitterly, “Why don’t you fall down and ’ave done with it,” did fall down, and remained there A small crowd formed without a moment’s delay; Mr. Bat Miller went to the stout old gentleman inside the cab, now trying without success to let down the window, and opening the door, assured him with great courtesy that he had no cause for fear Having done this, Mr. Miller re-closed the door and stepped back He passed something furtively to red-haired Mrs. Miller, who slipped the something into Bobbie’s pocket, telling him in a commanding whisper to cut off home like mad Bobbie, feeling that he was helping in some proceeding of an imperial nature, complied, noting as he darted away the very stout gentleman hammering with his fists at the closed window of the four-wheeler Mr. Miller sauntered off Kingsland Road way; the two women and Mr. Leigh went unconcernedly to a public-house.

Bobbie was shivering when five minutes later the company rejoined him at the street door of the house in Ely Place Mr. Miller found his key and let them in The smelly lamp in the passage burned low; in the closed back room a quavering voice sang a hymn.

Dare to be a Daniyul,Dare to stand alone,Dare to ’ave a purpose firm,And dare—

“Shut it!” commanded Bat Miller, knocking at the door of the back room sharply “Get off to sleep, can’t you?” He turned to the others “And now,” he said with a change of manner, “let’s see what kind of a little present this young genelman’s bin and brought ’ome for us.”

“I b’lieve he pinched it for me,” said young Mrs. Miller cheerfully, “’cause to-day isn’t my birthday.”

Bobbie, with something of majesty, brought from his pocket a heavy gold watch and part of a gold chain, and laid them on the table The four put their heads together and examined the property Then they beamed round upon the small boy.

“I foresee, Bobbie,” said the Duchess, in complimentary tones, “that you’re a goin’ to grow up a bright, smart, useful young chep.”

“He’ll want trainin’,” suggested Mr. Bat Miller.

“And watchin’,” growled Mr. Leigh.

“And when he gets to be a man,” said young Mrs. Miller facetiously, as she pulled off her boots, “all the gels in the neighbourhood ’ll be after him.”

With these praises clanging and resounding in his heated little brain, Bobbie went upstairs to bed.

Four

For nearly a year Bobbie Lancaster lived his young life in Ely Place Although every day was not so full of incident as the first, he could not charge dulness against his existence; the standard of happiness set up in Ely Place not being a high one, was therefore easily reached; monotony at any rate came rarely When other plans failed, quarrels could always be relied upon, and these gave such joy, not only to the chief actors and actresses, but also to the audience, that it seemed small wonder so successful a performance should be frequently repeated Now and again events occurred which flattered Bobbie, and gave him the dearest satisfaction a small boy can experience—that of being treated as though he were grown up It had not taken Mr. Leigh and Mr. Bat Miller long to recognize that in Bobbie they had a promising apprentice; one so obstinately honest as to be of great assistance to them in their dishonest profession They exercised due caution in taking him into their confidence For instance, he was still at the end of the year not sure why it was that the back room on the ground floor remained always locked; why its windows, facing a yard, and overlooked by the huge straggling workhouse, were closely shuttered He knew that a man worked there; he knew that this man was called The Fright, and Mrs. Miller, on one expansive evening when in admirable humour, told him that The Fright was by trade a silver chaser Presuming on some additional knowledge acquired at a time when supposed to be asleep, he demanded of the two men further particulars; Mr. Bat Miller replied fiercely that spare the rod and spoil the child had never been his motto, and thereupon gave Bobbie the worst thrashing that the boy had ever dreamed of Following this, the boy found himself for some days treated with great coldness by the adult members of the household, and made to feel that he was no longer in the movement When either of the men went out in the evening, the boy was not permitted to go also; he found himself deprived of adventurous excursions into the suburbs; the casual loafing about at busy railway stations was denied to him So keenly did he feel this ostracism that he had tumultuous thoughts of giving himself up to the School Board inspector whom he had hitherto dodged, and of devoting his time to the acquirement of useful knowledge; it is right to add that the idea of betraying any of the secrets which he had learnt concerning the habits of the two men never for a moment occurred to him An alternative was to buy a revolver similar to the one possessed by Teddy Sullivan, and to go out somewhere and shoot someone; the latter faintly-sketched plan was rubbed out because Master Sullivan, his friend, encountered disaster one evening in Union Street In the course of a strenuous hand-to-hand fight between Hackney Road boys and Hoxton boys, a point arrived where the Hoxton boys found themselves badly worsted, whereupon Master Sullivan, with a sentence plagiarized from a penny romance which he knew almost by heart, “Ten thousand furies take you, you dastardly scoundrels,” whipped out his revolver, and closing his eyes, fired, injuring two or three promising juveniles from the tributary streets of Hackney Road, and, as a last consequence of this act, finding himself exposed to the glory of police court proceedings, and to the indignity of a birching.

Tension was snapped by a quarrel between Mr. Bat Miller and his young wife There were times when Mrs. Bat Miller was obtrusively affectionate with her husband; as compensation, occasions flew in when she became half mad with jealousy The Duchess and Mr. Leigh at these crises acted as peacemakers, a task at times not easy; in this particular case they failed entirely The young woman tore her red hair with fury; she screamed so loudly that, common as such exhibitions were in Ely Place, neighbours began to show some interest in the front door In this difficulty Mr. Bat Miller, pained and distressed, appealed to Bobbie to state whether so far from having been walking with the sister of Nose, the boy of Drysdale Street, between the hours of nine and ten that evening, he had not as a matter of fact been in the company of Bobbie at Liverpool Street Station To this question Bobbie (who at the hours mentioned had been having a gloomy and quite solitary game of hop-scotch at the Kingsland Road end of Ely Place) answered promptly, “Yus!” and Mrs. Bat Miller confronted with this proof of alibi burst into regretful tears and reproached herself for a silly woman, one who allowed herself to be taken in by the gossip of any spiteful cat of a neighbour Mr. Miller, grateful to Bobbie for this timely assistance, persuaded the quiet Leigh to allow the boy to resume his position in their confidence After some hesitation Mr. Leigh agreed, adding, however, that he hoped Bobbie would see that the first duty of little boys was to be seen and not heard; the second, not to go about interfering with what did not concern them These Mr. Leigh declared to be ever golden rules, not to be broken without danger Bobbie promised to bear the advice carefully in mind, and re-assumed his position in the house with satisfaction.

The two women were nearly always kind to him, and to them he became indebted for cheerful hours The proudest memory of the Duchess’s was that of her one appearance on the music hall stage It seemed that another young lady and herself, having, in the late sixties, saved their money, had made their bow from the small stage of a small hall attached to a small public-house in Banner Street, St. Luke’s They called themselves the Sisters Montmorency (on the urgent recommendation of the agent), and sang a song which still remained her favourite air When in very good temper and when Bobbie had been a very good boy, she would go out of the room, and re-enter with a fine swish of the skirts singing in a thin, quavering voice this verse:—

You should see us in our landor when we’re drivin’ in the Row,You should ’ear us chaff the dukes and belted earls;We’re daughters of nobility, so they treat us with ceevility,For of well-bred, high-class damsels we’re the pearls.

It appeared that the two débutantes quarrelled with each other after the first performance over some point of etiquette and fought in Banner Street, St. Luke’s; as a consequence the partnership had thereupon been dissolved, and the Duchess’s career as an artiste of the music halls found itself checked and stopped.

Proud in the ownership of a new bowler hat; magnificent in the possession of a four-bladed knife with a corkscrew, which had come to him as his share of the contents of a portmanteau labelled from Scarborough to King’s Cross, and taken possession of at the latter station by Mr. Miller before the owner had time to claim it, Bobbie strolled along Old Street one evening, smoking a cigarette, and pushing small girls off the pavement into the roadway Behind him walked Miss Trixie Bell, feathered hatted and a skirt furtively let out after departure from her mother’s shop in Pimlico Walk; Miss Bell, in crossing lakes on the pavement, felt justified in lifting her skirt carefully to avoid contact with the ground, which it cleared by about twelve inches At a junction of the City Road the boy stopped to allow the confused trams to untie themselves, and looking round saw her.

“Cheer!” said Miss Bell with defiant shyness “How’s the world using you?” Bobbie did not answer “You ain’t seen me for a long time.”

“Ain’t wanted,” replied the boy.

“I’ve been away in the country,” said the young woman, in no way disconcerted “’Mongst medders and pigs and farm yards and nuts, and I don’t know what all.”

“Well,” he said, “what of it?”

“You still living in Ely Place?”

“P’raps I am; p’raps I ain’t.”

“I wouldn’t live there for something,” remarked the girl, shrugging her shoulders.

“They wouldn’t let you,” replied the boy “They’re very particular about the kerricter of people they ’ave there.”

“Must they all ’ave a bad kerricter?” asked Miss Bell innocently.

The trams at the junction of roads extricated themselves from the tangle, and people who had been waiting on the kerb went across the roadway Trixie Bell followed Bobbie, and they walked on opposite sides of the dimly-lighted pavement near St. Luke’s Asylum, continuing their conversation with breaks occasioned by intervening passers-by.

“You’ve no call,” shouted the boy, “to come follering me about I don’t want no truck with gels.”

“I s’pose you’ve bought the street, ain’t you?” asked Miss Bell loudly “Seem to think you’re everybody ’cause you’ve got a bowler ’at on Be wearing a chimney-pot next, I lay.”

“Shan’t ask your permission.”

“All the boys down in the country,” called out the girl, “wash ’emselves twice a day.”

“More fools them,” said Bobbie.

“They wouldn’t dare be seen going about with a dirty face and neck like what you’ve got.”

“Look ’ere,” said the boy savagely He moved nearer to her “You leave my face and neck alone.”

“Sorry to do otherwise,” she remarked pertly.

“When I want any remarks from you ’bout my face and neck I’ll ast for ’em Till then you keep your mouth shut ’r I’ll shut it for you.”

“You’d do a lot.”

Bobbie lifted his arm, but the small girl did not flinch He made another threatening gesture; instantly his new bowler hat went spinning into the middle of the road in imminent danger of being run over by a railway van Bobbie rescued it adroitly, and returning chased Miss Bell as far as Goswell Road.

“Don’t hit me,” she begged, panting; “I won’t do it again.”

“Time’s come,” said the boy hotly, “when I’ve got to punch your bloomin’ ’ead for you.”

“Lemme off this time,” craved Miss Bell, crouching against a shop window, “and I’ll stand you a ride back by tram.”

“You ain’t got no tuppence,” said Bobbie, relenting.

“I’ve got thruppence,” she said.

They walked on as far as Bloomsbury in order that they might have full money’s worth When they boarded a departing tram, and the conductor shouted to them to get off, it delighted Bobbie very much to be able to confound the man by declaring themselves as passengers To do honour to the occasion the boy rolled a cigarette, and, turning to a tall spectacled young man on the seat behind them, borrowed a match.

“Take two,” said the tall young man.

As the tram sailed past the lighted shops in Theobald’s Road, Trixie passed the twopence furtively to her companion, who paid the conductor with a lordly air, offering at the same time a few criticisms on the conductor’s appearance Presently the girl touched very lightly his hand and moved nearer to him.

“Keep your ’ead off my shoulder,” he remarked brusquely.

“I want to tell you something,” said Trixie.

“Needn’t get so close.”

“My mother says—”

“What,” said Bobbie, “is the old cat still alive?”

“My mother says that if you like to leave those people what you’re with now and come and work at our shop as a errand boy—”

“A errand boy,” echoed Bobbie amazedly “Work at that bloomin’ ’ole in the wall?’

“She’ll give you eighteen-pence a week and see that you ’ave good schooling, and arrange so that you grow up respectable.”

Bobbie, recovering from his astonishment, placed his cigarette on the seat in order that he might laugh without restraint.

“Of all the dam bits of cheek!” he declared exhaustedly.

“Make a lot of difference to you,” said the wise young woman “If you don’t grow up respectable you’ll simply—”

“Me, respectable,” said the amused boy “Why, you silly little ijiot, d’you think I don’t know a trick worth fifty of that I ain’t going to work for my bloomin’ livin’.”

“Won’t ’ave a chance to if the police get ’old of you.”

“Is that another one of your Mar’s remarks? ’Cause, if so, you tell her from me, that she’s a—”

“Let’s get down ’ere,” said Trixie Bell She interrupted the string of adjectives by rising; there were tears in her eyes “This is ’Oxton Street.”

“You can,” said the boy “I’m goin’ on to Shoreditch.”

“Wish I—I hadn’t met you now,” she said, with a catch in her voice.

“Don’t let it ’appen again.”

“I’ll never speak to you,” sobbed Trixie Bell, “never no more in all my life.”

“Best bit of news I’ve ’eard for a age.”

“Don’t you expect—don’t you expect me ever to take notice of you in future, mind.”

“If you do,” said Bobbie, “I shall be under the pineful necessity of knocking your ’ead clean off.”

“Goo’-bye,” said the girl hesitatingly.

“Be slippy,” said Bobbie.

The tall young man on the seat behind leaned forward as Trixie Bell disappeared down the steps of the tram He tapped Bobbie on the shoulder.

“You behaved rather discourteously, sir, to your fair companion,” he said.

“Go on!” said Bobbie, recklessly “All of you manage my affairs! Don’t mind me! I’ll sit back and not do nothing.”

“My excuse must be that we have met before My name is Myddleton West, and I was at an inquest once—”

“I remember,” said the boy.

“Is the lady who has just gone engaged to you, may I ask?”

“No fear,” said Bobbie, disdainfully “She’s a bit gone on me, that’s all Perfect nuisance it is, if you ask me.”

“This,” said Myddleton West, “shows how awkward Providence is With some of us the case is exactly the reverse.”

“You’re a lump better off without ’em,” said the boy sagely.

“I only want one.”

“And one,” said Bobbie, “is sometimes one too many What are you doing in this quarter? Thought you lived ’Olborn way.”

“I want the police station in Kingsland Road,” said the journalist “I have to see the inspector about something Do you know it?”

“Do I not?” said Bobbie confidently.

They descended at the turbulent junction of roads near Shoreditch Station, and the boy conducted Myddleton West along the noisy crowded pavement of Kingsland Road, under the railway arch towards the police station Glancing down Drysdale Street as he passed, Bobbie noticed Bat Miller near the gas-lamp talking to Nose’s sister; observed also in the shadow of the arch Mrs. Bat Miller watching the scene, her face white and her lips moving As soon as he had shown Myddleton West the entrance to the police station, and had received sixpence for his pains, he hurried through to Hoxton Street, coming back into Drysdale Street from that end His intention had been to witness the comedy that he assumed to be impending; to his great regret, just as Mr. Bat Miller began to punch the dark young woman affectionately, the young men who guarded Drysdale Street from the ruthless invader suddenly appeared, led by Nose and by Libbis, and the odds being about eight to one, drove him off with furious threats He went back to the police station in order to complete the earning of his sixpence by reconducting Myddleton West to the tram for Bloomsbury Approaching the station, on the steps of which plain clothes men were as usual lounging, he saw Mrs. Bat Miller on the opposite side of the roadway, her white apron over her head, beckoning to one of the plain clothes men Then she walked carelessly into Union Street The detective followed her Bobbie slipped across and stood in a doorway.

“Well, my dear,” said the detective “What’s your little game?”

“Mr. Thorpe,” said Mrs. Bat Miller, panting She pressed one hand against her bodice and gasped for breath “Do you want—want to do a fair cop?”

“A fair cop,” said Mr. Thorpe, cheerfully, “would just now come in very handy Who are the parties?”

“He’s behaved like a wretch,” said the young woman breathlessly, “or I’d never ’are turned on him I’m as striteforward a gel as ever breathed in all ’Oxton, ain’t I, Mr. Thorpe?”

“No one more so,” agreed the detective “What’s the name of—”

“Anything else I could ’ave forgive him,” she said, trembling with passion “When we’ve been ’ard up and he’s come ’ome with not a penny in his pocket and me gone without dinner, did I complain?”

“Course you didn’t Who—”

“When he was put away for six months three year ago, didn’t I slave and keep myself to myself, and go and meet him down at Wandsworth when he came out?”

“No lady,” conceded Mr. Thorpe, “could have done more What is—”

“When he was laid up in the orsepital,” she went on fiercely, “didn’t I go to see him every visiting day and take him nuts and oranges and goodness knows what all, and sit be his bedside for the hour together?”

“I really don’t know,” said the detective impartially, “what men are coming to Where are—”

“And then to go paying his attentions to a—”

“Not so loud!”

She checked herself and looked round Then she took the lapel of Mr. Thorpe’s coat and whispered Bobbie could not hear the words.

“Good!” exclaimed the detective “Are they both indoors now?”

“If they ain’t you can wait for ’em,” she replied.

“Will six men be enough d’you think?”

“Six ’ll be ample, Mr. Thorpe,” she said “And if Miller shows fight, tell them not to be afraid of knocking him about It’ll do him good, the—”

“I’ll make a note of it,” said Mr. Thorpe “You don’t want to come with us, I s’pose? You’d better not be seen p’raps?”

“You leave me to look after meself,” she answered.

“Come over and ’ave a cup of tea along with our female searcher,” suggested Mr. Thorpe.

“Tea be ’anged,” she said “I shall want something stronger than tea when my paddy’s over.”

“Daresay we shall be able to get you a sovereign or two for this job if you keep yourself quiet.”

“Keep your money,” she cried angrily “All I want is to be at the Sessions when he comes up and to watch her face.”

Bobbie crept from his doorway Once in Kingsland Road, he flew along swiftly, slipping in and out of the crowd, and jumping a linen basket, to the astonishment of the two women who were carrying it He scuttled through the dwarf posts and down Ely Place, knocking over one or two children toddling about in the way, and reaching the house so exhausted that he could only just give the usual whistle at the key-hole Mr. Leigh opened the door, and seeing him took off the chain The boy, staggering into the dimly-lighted passage leaned against the wall.

“Bat Miller in?” he panted.

“What’s the row?” demanded Mr. Leigh concernedly Bobbie explained in a hurried, detached, spasmodic way Mr. Leigh took a pair of scissors from his pocket, and, glancing at a slip of looking-glass, cut off the whiskers which fringed his face.

“Tell the wife,” said Mr. Leigh, quietly snipping, “to meet me at Brenchley, if she gets clear Tell her not to make no fuss.” He took his overcoat from the peg, and a cloth cap with ear flaps “Come straight here ’ave you?” he asked.

“Like a bloomin’ arrer.”

“Look outside and see if they’ve come up yet,” requested Mr. Leigh, tying the flaps of his cap under his chin “We don’t want no bother or nothing.”

Ely Place being clear at the Hoxton Street end, Mr. Leigh, his head well down, went out of the doorway He shook hands with Bobbie.

“You’re a capital boy,” whispered Mr. Leigh, approvingly “If I’d got anything smaller than a tanner about me I’d give it you Be good!”

Bobbie closed the door, and his heart fluttering, went upstairs to the front bedroom The Duchess was asleep, dressed, on her bed; her high-heeled boots ludicrously obtrusive Bobbie aroused her and gave her the news.

“My old man’s safe, then? What about Bat Miller?” she asked, sitting up, affrightedly.

“We must watch out of the winder,” ordered Bobbie “If he comes first we’ll wave him to be off; if he comes after they’re ’ere he’ll be nabbed.”

“You’ve got a ’ead on you,” said the Duchess, trembling, “that would be a credit to a Prime Minister Come to the winder and—Let me ’old your ’and, I’m all of a shake.”

“They can’t touch us, can they?” asked Bobbie, stroking the woman’s thin trembling wrist.

“Hope not,” said the Duchess, nervously “But there, you never know what the law can do Fancy her turning nark jest through a fit of jealousy Is that Miller talking to one of the neighbours?”

Mr. Miller it was Mr. Miller, chatting amiably with one of the lady neighbours on the subject of flowers and how to rear them; the lady neighbour being something of a horticulturist in her way, possessing, as she did, in her garden plot, one sooty shrub, a limp sunflower, and several dandelions Mr. Miller had just said something to the lady neighbour which had made her laugh uproariously, when, chancing to look up, he saw the signals of the Duchess and of Bobbie His face took a note of interrogation; they motioned to him to go away with all despatch Mr. Bat Miller crammed his hat over his head and ran off blindly; so blindly indeed that, at the Kingsland Road end of the place, he jumped into the arms of three overcoated men led by Mr. Thorpe; escaping these, he was caught neatly by uniformed policemen who were close behind At the same moment a similar force appeared at the Hoxton Street end of the place Bobbie and the Duchess held each other’s hands and went downstairs The faint sound of a hymn came from the closed door.

Three loud raps at the front door Bobbie went along the passage and opened it Mr. Thorpe, with the other men; out in the court a small interested crowd, the noise of windows being thrown up.

“Come about the white-washin’?” asked Bobbie, innocently.

“Take the chain off, me lad,” said Mr. Thorpe, with his foot inside.

“Right you are, sir.”

The men came into the dark passage and one of them flashed a bull’s-eye lantern around.

“Father in?” asked Mr. Thorpe.

“Well, no,” answered the boy, “he isn’t exactly in, sir.”

“Won’t be long, I daresay.”

“I wouldn’t wait, sir,” said Bobbie respectfully, “if I was you Fact is he’s been dead some years.”

The man with the bull’s-eye made the circle of light dance to the bottom stair and discovered the Duchess Another went to the closed door of the back room and put his shoulder against it.

“Now then, ma’am,” said Mr. Thorpe, turning from the boy impatiently “Where’s your good gentleman?”

“Pray don’t ask me, fellow,” replied the Duchess, endeavouring to assume her accent of refinement with some want of success “If you want him, I really think the best thing you can do is to find him.”

“Go upstairs, two of you,” commanded Mr. Thorpe “Two others give Baker a help with that door Someone look after this woman and the kid.”

Bobbie, his shoulder gripped by a broad hand, watched with interest The door groaned complainingly for a moment or two; then it gave way with so much suddenness that the two men stumbled into the room Between the figures of the men Bobbie could see the room crowded in the manner of a workshop of limited accommodation A wooden bench stood against the shuttered windows; the flare of a fire out of sight reddened the untidy floor On a table some circular moulds of plaster of Paris; near, some coins with a tail of metal attached that gave them an unconvincing appearance Three pewter pots, half melted on the edge of an iron sink A small battery in the corner, and at this seated the figure of a young man The figure looked round casually as’ the men entered, and Bobbie caught sight of a face not pleasant to look upon.

“Is that the Fright?” whispered Bobbie to the Duchess The Duchess nodded and touched her forehead.

“Tile loose!” she said.

The figure turned back to his work of plating, crooning his hymn as though the interruption was not worthy of any special notice Then the door partially closed.

“Mind my shoulder, please,” said the Duchess affectedly.

“I am minding it,” said the detective cheerfully.

“You’re no gentleman,” declared the Duchess, “or you wouldn’t behave to a lady in this way.”

“I was never what you may call a society man,” said the detective “You seem to have got a rare old little snide factory here all to yourself.”

“I beg your pardon!” said the Duchess icily.

“Carried on nice and quiet too, apparently No show, no display, no what you may call arrogance about it.”

“What is this person talking about, Bobbie, my dear?”

“Ast him,” said Bobbie, his eyes fixed on the partially-closed door.

“This your boy, ma’am?”

“Are you addressing your conversation to me, sir?”

“Who does the kid belong to?”

“This lad,” said the Duchess, precisely, “is, I regret to say, an orphan I took some interest in his case, and my husband and myself have, so to speak, adopted him.”

“Then you’ll probably have to unadopt him,” said the detective “If he’s got no relatives the State will take him in hand.”

“Who’s she?” asked Bobbie, detaching his interest from the back room.

“The State’s got a pretty decent-sized family as it is,” went on the man, “and one extra won’t make much difference.” His two colleagues came downstairs “Anybody?” he asked The two men replied not a soul.

“Then one of ’em’s nipped off,” said the detective “Go and tell the sergeant.”

The door re-opened as the men proceeded to obey Between two of Mr. Thorpe’s assistants came the demented man, his terrible face down; Bobbie was pulled back to allow them to conduct him through the passage Finding himself going at a regular pace, he commenced to sing huskily a Moody and Sankey hymn with a marching rhythm.

Hold the gospel banner high,On to victory grand,Satan and his hosts defy,And shout for Danyul’s band.

“Bring the woman and the boy,” ordered Mr. Thorpe “And keep close round them There’s an awkward crowd outside.”

The awkward crowd of Ely Place was not apparently ready to carry its awkwardness to the point of interference with the police On the contrary, the crowd seemed anxious to show some friendliness towards the plain clothes men, saying, Good evening, Mr. Thorpe, sir; more work for you, I see And how are you, Mr. Baker? and how’s that cold of yours getting on, I wonder? Some of the men of Mr. Thorpe’s regiment remained in charge of the house; the others assisted in conducting the three arrested people to the police station.

“Hullo, young man,” said Myddleton West, at the entrance The crowd in Kingsland Road had swelled to the number of hundreds, and West had to wait for their departure “You in this affair?”

“Looks like it,” said Bobbie.

“Can I do anything?” asked the long young journalist.

“Yes!”

“Tell me!”

“Keep your head shut,” said the boy gruffly “I don’t want no one interfering with my affairs.”

“Deplorable thing,” remarked Myddleton West aside to the sergeant, “for a child like that.”

“Not at all, sir,” said Mr. Thorpe, “not at all We’ve nabbed him just in time.”

Five

Events occurred with a rapidity that, in view of their importance, seemed to Bobbie frankly indecorous No sooner had he been placed between parallel iron bars in a police court than he was whisked from the iron bars, on the direction of a magistrate, who had a kindly manner with children; after a brief week at the workhouse, looked after by a burly inmate (known to colleagues by the satirical name of the Slogger), Bobbie found himself again carried off swiftly to the court, where, when a number of cases had been heard in which foreign gentlemen and foreign ladies told everything but the truth, Bobbie was hurried in and directed to stand by the side of the dock, an order that annoyed him because this was clearly an attempt to treat him as though he were not a grown up and a perfect criminal In the rooms adjoining the court he had seen Bat Miller, and Bat Miller had had opportunity of mentioning that he was the only one who would get put away, and that when he came out it would be his pleasurable duty to see that Mrs. Bat Miller found herself repaid for all her trouble.

Scarce had the boy taken up an attitude of “don’t care” at the side of the dock, and scarce had he commenced to prepare a short remark of defiance for the benefit of Master Ted Sullivan, the shooting youth (whom he saw at the back of the court), when he found himself hustled out of the court by the public door; on kicking the gaoler protestingly in leaving, the gaoler boxed his ears, telling him that he would find somebody outside to teach him manners Outside, indeed, was an official from the workhouse, who re-conducted him to the huge building that threw out its wings in various directions at the back of Ely Place, and there they had no sooner arrived than Bobbie, being now the charge and ward of the guardians, found himself added to a party of children made up of six boys and seven girls (nearly all of them younger than himself), who were carried away in charge of the Slogger and a grim, silent comrade of the Slogger, to a London station that Bobbie knew, there to take train for the parish schools which Wisdom, looking in some years before at a meeting of the Guardians, had suggested All this rapidity of action made the boy extremely sulky; when the Slogger, in workhouse uniform, offered him a few choice flowers of advice culled from the spacious gardens of experience, in the shape of hints on the way of living in the world at the minimum of labour to yourself and the maximum of expense to other people, Bobbie growled at the Slogger’s well-meant counsel, and would have found the journey away into Essex tedious but for the fact that he heard a woman in the next compartment remark that he possessed a bright little face The compliment saved him from depression, and made him put his cap straight.

Arrived at a country station, the small band of thin-faced children marched out into the roadway in charge of the two men One of the youngest baby girls had just decided the moment to be opportune for wailing, when they happened on a scene that changed the attitude of everybody from the Slogger down to the smallest boy in petticoats The sight being new to Bobbie, his interest and delight increased accordingly The Slogger seemed to have exercised enough energy at some period of his life to have obtained certain information, and was in consequence able to give the scene a title.

“A cirkiss!” said the Slogger authoritatively.

A circus it was! Not one of your cheap affairs, mind, of amateur monkeys and two dogs and a goat, but a real, complete, elaborate, efficient circus, with just now its best artistes out to give to the town bold advertisement of its coming performance that afternoon Four huge lumbering elephants strode along deliberately, men on their backs directing them with the touch of a stick; when an elephant lifted its trunk as though about to play something, the girls in the crowd that lined the village street shouted, “Oh—ah!” affrightedly, and stepped back on the toes of people behind them Came, too, dainty white miniature horses, decorated with trappings and bells, and led by pages in such admirable costumes that it seemed almost a pity the wearers had not bethought themselves of shaving; handsome, proud, capering black horses ridden by sedate matrons in riding habits, who, being applauded by the lookers on, bowed graciously and touched their hats with their whips, but who, on the suggestion being loudly offered by Bobbie (now scarlet with excitement) that they should turn a somersault, frowned and looked at the crowd with the air of offended empresses Piebald ponies, brown ponies, chestnut ponies and grey ponies, and, when you were tired of ponies, a gorgeous car with uniformed footmen walking soberly at its side, and high up in this car a lady with a trident and golden helmet and white robes, who gazed straight before her and sniffed a little, and once unfortunately gave a sneeze that sent the golden helmet a little awry, but who, despite these drawbacks (which, of course, were no reflection on her moral worth), looked a very fine and dignified figure of a woman.

“Who’s she supposed to be?” asked Bobbie.

“Britannier,” said the Slogger.

“I know what you mean,” said Bobbie.

The small girl who had attempted to cry, and now beamed, asked if the lady was related to the Britannia, Camden Town, and found herself for her ignorance derided by the rest of the party.

“Course not, you silly young silly,” replied Bobbie “Britannia represents the country, and she’s the kind of mother of us all Ain’t she, Slogger?”

“But s’pose you ain’t got a muvver?” said the small girl, thinking she had detected a flaw in the argument.

“Why, that’s jest where she comes in useful,” declared Bobbie “Ain’t it, Slogger?”

“In a manner of speaking,” acknowledged the Slogger, cautiously, “yes.”

The two camels went by awkwardly, and Bobbie told the other children an amazing anecdote concerning them, invented on the spur of the moment; the performing dogs passed with ridiculous frills round their necks and an appealing look in their eyes that begged people not to laugh at them; more horses, with more haughty ladies; at the end of all the crowd fell in and followed the procession to the large canvas tent away on a triangle of spare land As the party from Hoxton continued their march along the road to their destination, they seemed altogether different from those children who had come down Bobbie sang When they were clear of the town, two long pieces of string were seen far away in the broad dusty road Coming near, the first piece of string proved to be a long procession of scarlet Tam o’ Shanter capped girls; the second was found to be made up of bright round-faced expectant boys in serviceable suits, chosen in order to evade any appearance of a uniform.

“Stop,” said the Slogger once more, “and watch.”

“Where are they going?” asked Bobbie.

“Why, to the cirkiss,” answered the Slogger “These are only the best of ’em, though The others ’ave to stay behind.”

“They’d no business,” said the boy darkly, “to make no distinction.”

“Take off your cap to the ladies in charge.”

“Not me,” said Bobbie.

“Take it off, when I keep telling you,” ordered the Slogger anxiously “You’ll only get me and yourself into a row.”

“Only this once, then,” said the boy.

The Tam o’ Shanter capped little women, as they marched by the new arrivals, seemed much amused at the odd appearance of certain of the new recruits.

“For two pins,” said Bobbie threateningly, as he noted this attitude, “I’d punch all their bloomin’ ’eads.”

When the string of boys came the interest appeared more pronounced, and Bobbie, too, looked anxiously to see the kind of men with whom he would in future live He felt bound to confess that they were rather a smart set of youngsters marching along with a swing; good temper (for which the afternoon’s treat was partly responsible) written large on everyone’s face One boy of the marching detachment, being distant from the two or three teachers who were in charge, asked the Slogger satirically whether he would take a bit of slate pencil for the whole fourteen, and the Slogger having no reply, Bobbie threw a stone that hit the satirical boy on the leg, causing him to cry “Wah!” The boys having passed, the small detachment from Hoxton marched on again, and presently they saw away at the side of the road a long row of red-tiled houses going into fields and nursery gardens, and giving to the flat country a look of bright importance The Slogger spoke.

“There you are,” said the Slogger, pointing “There’s ’ome sweet ’ome for all you kiddies.”

The Slogger pulled a bell at the closed gateway, and on the gate opening obediently, the Slogger, with his silent colleague, entered the covered passage at the head of the fourteen youngsters Near the end of the covered passage, a genial uniformed man met them, and saying, “Hullo! hullo! hullo!” took from the Slogger a blue form, which appeared to be a kind of bill of lading, and checked the goods carefully; then a stout motherly woman bustled out of the house, which was the first, it seemed, of the many red-tiled houses that strolled away into the meadows, and asked, “Have you wiped your boots, me dears?” and when they answered in a shy chorus, “Yus!” bade them wipe them again, a precaution justified in view of the spotless floors and well-swept passages which they presently found inside The Slogger and his colleague had a glass of beer and some bread and cheese, and then the Slogger said “Good-bye and good luck!” his silent companion whispered with a mysterious air to Bobbie, “Long live Enarchy!” and they went.

“And now,” said the uniformed gate-keeper, taking off his jacket, “now to bath one or two of you biggest boys S’phia, pick out yours.”

The wife of the uniformed man selected the girls and three of the tiniest boys, and led them away to a separate bath-room.

“’Alf a sec.,” said Bobbie, protestingly “I’ve had a good wash once this week.”

“Once isn’t often,” remarked the uniformed man, opening the door of the bath-room “You’ll find that you’ll not only have to wash regular, but you’ll get a proper bath twice a week, besides learning to swim.”

“It’s carrying a ’obby to an excess,” growled Bobby.

“Go in!” ordered the man “We’ll see to you first.”

“That be ’anged for a tale,” remarked the boy, doggedly.

For answer, Bobby found himself shot swiftly into the bath-room.

“You begin to argue,” said the man, not unkindly, “and you’ll get into trouble: you do what you’re told, and you’ll find yourself as right as rain.”

This was the lesson that Bobbie at first obstinately declined to learn The cottage was the probationary cottage where all new comers stayed in quarantine for fourteen days, with every day a visit from the doctor; the restraint and the regularity and the cleanliness and the general order of the place were foes against which Bobbie warred fiercely He would have been more antagonistic at this stage, only that the doorkeeper’s wife was a good, burly soul, with a heart as large as her hand (both were easily moved), and when one day of the fortnight she saw Bobbie comforting the small crying girl who had arrived with the detachment, by standing on his head and clapping his heels to a martial rhythm, in order that the child might be induced to change tears for laughter, and when on charging Bobbie with being a good boy to thus divert the weeping young lady, he furiously denied the imputation, then the good woman determined that there was good in Bobbie, and rewarded him with a special meat pasty that the boy could not, in justice to his appetite, refuse Furtively, too, he made admirable dolls from young turnips which had been brought in with others from the large gardens at the back, and had been cast aside; one of these—a staring damsel, with two peas for eyes, and a broad bean for a nose—so much endeared itself to the heart of the lachrymose little girl that, one evening, in an excess of emotion, she ate it, afterwards crying her little heart out with remorse.

“And now, young Lancaster,” said the doorkeeper, looking in the bathroom at the end of a fortnight that seemed about two years, “now you’ll on with your clothes and come along o’ me to Collingwood Cottage.”

“Very near time, too,” said Bobbie, rubbing himself with the towel “I’ve had enough of this blooming bath nonsense.”

“Oh, no, you haven’t, my lad.”

“I feel,” grumbled the boy, “as though I never want to wash again Where’s my weskit, boss?”

“Where’s your manners?” demanded the doorkeeper sharply.

“I don’t trouble about manners,” said Bobbie; “people ’ave to take me as they find me If they don’t like it, they can jolly well lump it.”

“They’ll lump you if you are not careful,” warned the doorkeeper “Rub your head again with the towel, and look sharp about it.”

“They’ll look silly if they come interferin’ ’long o’ me,” said Bobbie, with the towel over his head “I ain’t like a kid.”

“Yes, you are,” said the man sagely “Not only have you got a great deal to learn, but, moreover, you’ve got a great deal to forget And touching this bath business, that you seem to kick against so, p’raps you’ll be interested to hear that in Collingwood you’ll have to wash just as regular as you’ve washed here, and you’ll get your two baths a week without fail.”

“Go on!” said the boy, uneasily.

“I’m telling you the truth, my lad Your foster-parents ’ll see to that Your new father works in the carpenter’s shop, and he’s what you may call a hard man.”

“If he comes the hard business with me,” muttered the boy, truculently, “I’ll dam well show him.”

He was presently, after a kiss from the wife, which he received shamefacedly, conducted out into the broad, gravelled roadway dividing the two rows of red-roofed cottages; stop made at a clematis-covered house which bore its title over the doorway There his new foster-mother appeared and eyed him critically, looked with great care at his head and eyes, and the hour being in school-time and the cottage therefore without family, she took him over the rooms, showing him with pride the prints from Christmas numbers on the walls, the white-floored, white-tabled dining-room, the comfortable sitting-room with its illustrated weekly papers, and the kitchen and scullery, where everything shone so that mirrors would have been a superfluity; afterwards up the broad staircase to the dormitories, each with seven red-counterpaned beds, and a floor that gave promise of some day disappearing entirely under the attacks of scrubbing from two long boys on their knees.

“And some day,” said the foster-mother, generously, “if you grow up a good boy and become a half-timer, you shall be one of the two lads to stay at home and help me with the ’ouse work.”

“No great catch,” remarked Bobbie, grimly.

“Ah!” said the foster-mother, “you think so now; but you wait.”

“It’s gels’ work, not men’s.”

“We don’t ’ave girls in Collingwood,” said his foster-mother.

“Good job too.”

“And so I expect my boys to give me all the help about the house that they can, you see They’ll be back from school and the workshops presently, and then you’ll meet ’em all.”

“That’ll be a treat,” said the boy, satirically “What’s your name?”

“You’ll call me ‘mother,’ and you’ll call my ’usband ’father.’”

“Got some brawsted silly notions down ’ere,” he said.

“Use a word like that again, my boy,” said his foster-mother, with severity, “and you’ll ’ave rice instead of meat for dinner.”

“Like what?” asked the boy, astonished The foster-mother spelt the word “Not say brawsted,” echoed Bobbie, amazedly “Why, what can you say?”

Limitations of speech afflicted Bobbie sorely when the thirty boys trooped into Collingwood from school and from work, jostling him as they took their places at the dinner-table He had become so accustomed to the use of expressive words, here tabooed, that it was not easy for him to find effective substitutes The boys aggravated him, too, by the excellence of their spirits; to look at them and to hear them talk, one would imagine this to be the brightest and cheeriest spot on earth; Bobbie made up his mind to correct this want of balance by surly and (when opportunity should offer) aggressive behaviour He sat at the table gloomily, and when the foster-father, who brought to the dining-room a scent of shavings, rallied him, making a mild joke upon his Christian name (affecting to mistake Bobbie for a City policeman), the boy declined to join in the laugh, and scowled persistently.

Later, at the large school-house over the way, he found himself exposed to another ordeal, one that he decided in his small brain to be nothing more nor less than a studied insult, and this was an examination in spelling, reading, and arithmetic, from which he emerged with a self-abasement equalled by indignation against the young assistant teacher who had had to put questions to him Thanks to the care that he had always taken to evade education offered by the State, he found himself placed in a class at the end of the large school-room amongst boys who were all some years his junior; found himself, too, failing to jump difficulties which they cleared with comparative ease, and becoming in consequence the recipient of much satire After a few weeks of consideration, he decided one morning, as he put his head under the shower-tap in the washing-room at Collingwood—he had begun to conquer his disinclination for cleanliness—that he would show everybody he was not of the stuff that butts were made; that he would apply himself seriously to the acquirement of knowledge This fact being made apparent, the young assistant found another target for his shafts of satire, and when one afternoon the question of 7 times 7 minus 9 was put to Bobbie, and the class prepared to be exceedingly diverted at Bobbie’s answer and was so diverted, not recognizing the fact that his answer proved absolutely correct, then the class had to be admonished for inappropriate hilarity, in terms that made Bobbie’s little head swell with content Being advanced to the next of the three classes in the large school-room, he had maps to wrestle with, and felt for a time a grievance against his country because it had possessions in so many quarters of the globe.

Late afternoon brought relief in the shape of drill on the large square space at the end of all the cottages and near to meadows; drill conducted by an upright ex-army man in braided uniform, who doubled the parts of a stern disciplinarian of a drill-master, and a genial distributor of goods as a storekeeper On parade the drill-master was like a commander-in-chief (but less hampered than that official by Secretaries of State for War and people); there came exercise with Indian clubs to the music of a band of boys in uniform of blue with scarlet facings, so that at a distance you might think they belonged to the service, and who were sometimes so proud of their ability that they could scarcely play the brass instruments; real military drill with small wooden rifles, and once the awkwardness of the first few drillings passed, and once you became used to the drillmaster’s voice, it was capital sport, because you had only to give imagination rein and you were a grown-up lifeguardsman with an admirable chest, chin well up, six feet two inches in your boots, and all the ladies who lived downstairs in West End houses hard at work worshipping you Later, at five o’clock (the time being late autumn), you met the drill-sergeant again in the gymnasium, which was the swimming bath boarded over, and there you had the rarest games with parallel bars and the vaulting horse and horizontal bars, and goodness alone knew what When all this had gone on for a few months Bobbie found to his great satisfaction that in stretching out his right arm and then bringing his fist back towards the shoulder there appeared above the elbow a distinct, palpable, unmistakable, not to be denied, sign of thick muscle Saying his prayers that night on the reminder of the monitor of his room, he omitted the formula that he had been obliged to learn, and substituted special thanks for this development, asking that he might become a strong man, so that he could knock anybody down whenever that act should appear appropriate and desirable.

Thus Robert Lancaster grew.

Six

The days in general resembled each other at the Cottage Homes, but there were exceptions For instance, Bank Holidays On the first Bank Holiday after the winter, came to the homes long, awkward young men who had been boys, caught years since in the streets of Shoreditch, and transferred (as Bobbie had been transferred) and educated and trained, and who being now plutocrats in the enjoyment of twenty-five shillings a week, or bandsmen capable of blowing agreeable airs in military bands, or wide-trousered sailors with a roll in their walk and brown open throats; these came to re-visit the place that had made men of them, and to salute respectfully admiring foster-parents, saying, Yes, thank you, mother, I’m getting along middling, thanks, mustn’t grumble, I s’pose, and how are you, and how’s father? And I’ve took the liberty, mother, which I trust you’ll excuse, of bringing you my photograph, which I hope you’ll accept with my best compliments The foster-mother having been duly ecstatic over the photograph, (“Your nose has come out so well, boy, that’s what I like about it”), there would be tea in the dining-room with some of the present boarders standing around open-eyed and open-mouthed, whilst the young man told mother amusing anecdotes of his present occupation, and fenced mother’s delicate inquiries concerning the whereabouts of his heart It was a proud young man who, the boys being ordered from the room, could bring from the breast pocket of his coat a cabinet-sized picture of an elegant young woman standing by a rustic gate with an open book in her hand (this to show that in her, literature had a friend) and an unconscious but slightly anxious look on her face as who should say, “Oh dear, dear, dear, I do hope nobody is photographing me,” and to announce that this was his own, his very own young lady The cottage having been visited, there were nurses to call upon in the detached houses in fields beyond the gate, and the masters of the school, and (with great respect) the superintendent and his wife in their house, and the doorkeeper and his wife in their cottage (“My word, I shall never forget the day I come here first”), and finally to light cigars in full view of the admiring boys and depart Also came friends of the boys or their more or less unfortunate parents; and these, the way from Hoxton being long and places of refreshment by the way numerous, sometimes arrived at the gates in such extravagant spirits that, to the bitter sorrow of some expectant youngster within, they could not be admitted Bobbie on a certain Easter Monday was feeling sick at the throat upon seeing other boys with friends around them, when to him were announced two ladies—Mrs. Bell and Miss Trixie Bell!

“Hello, Bobbie,” cried Mrs. Bell, “don’t you look a treat!”

Mrs. Bell was costumed in a manner which reflected credit not only upon herself and her dressmaker, but also in some way upon the boarder at the Cottage Homes whom she was visiting Beneath a heavy fur-bordered cloak Bobbie could not help noting that Mrs. Bell was in blue satin; a broad band sparkling with beads went around her ample waist Her face, it is true, had become scarlet from the exercise of walking, but this only lent a further variety of colour to her general appearance; her black bonnet escaped the charge of monotony by the presence of deftly placed yellow roses in full bloom Her daughter, growing and already several years older in manner than her mother, was more demurely apparelled, and as she stood near her mother she drew careful diagrams on the gravel with the end of her parasol Glancing at her, it occurred to Bobbie for the first time that Trixie Bell would become rather a fine young woman when Time had lent further aid; she was neatly gloved, her shoes were beyond criticism One of the duties that had come with years was, it appeared, to pilot her mother, and to warn her when natural exuberance caused that good woman to approach those rocks which, in speech, cause disaster.

“I never saw such a difference in all my life,” declared Mrs. Bell “Why, you ’aven’t been here a couple of years and your hands are as clean as clean.”

“How are you getting on, ma’am?” he asked civilly “Still in that little place in Pimlico Walk?”

“Me and mother,” interposed Miss Bell, “think of taking a business now in the Kingsland Road.”

“Ho, ho!” said Bobbie, “mixing with the upper ten, aye?”

“I ’aven’t got reely used to the idea yet,” confessed Mrs. Bell “I shall miss the smell of the fried fish shop at the end dreadfully When the wind is in the east it is quite a ’earty meal merely to look out of the doorway and sniff.”

“You’d better find somewhere to sit down, mother,” said her daughter, severely.

“I could do with a chair.”

“Come into my cottage,” said Bobbie, with pride “This way! I’ll introduce you to mother.”

“I must say,” remarked Mrs. Bell, as they walked along the broad space between the lines of cottages, “that I’d no idea you were so comfortable I thought they was always thrashing of you at these schools.”

“Not always,” said Bobbie.

“And fed you on brimstone and treacle.”

“You’re thinking of the old days, mother,” said Trixie “It’s all been altered since your time.”

“Not, mind you,” said Mrs. Bell, “that I was a charity gel Such education as I had was got at a very high-class school off the ’Ackney Road, where you had to pay your threepence a week, and where the head-mistress—unfortunately she’d no roof to her mouth—had once upon a time been lady’s maid in a very good family indeed I don’t say I’m perfect,” argued the lady, “but the stigmer of being a charity—”

“Look where you’re going, mother.”

“Here we are,” said Bobbie “I’ll just go first and see if you can come in.”

Not only could they go in, but they did go in, and Mrs. Bell’s astonishment at the cleanliness of the place was so frank and so genuine that the Collingwood mother instantly unbent from a rigid attitude of defence and took Mrs. Bell into the sitting-room, where over a strong cup of tea that extorted from Mrs. Bell (her be-rosed bonnet untied and the cloak loosened) further compliments, the two ladies discussed new soaps as opposed to what they called elbow grease, and found common ground in applauding the manners of thirty years ago Bobbie and Miss Trixie Bell, thus released from attendance, strolled round the gardens, where Bobbie showed the young woman his special plot, and gave her, comme souvenir, a potato, which owed its existence and growth to his efforts He took her to see the small room near the school, where the band practised, and confided to her his aspirations in regard to the cornet On Trixie desiring, with some diffidence, to know what Bobbie proposed to be when he should arrive at manhood, he replied, “A sailor, very like,” and Miss Bell instantly expressed her disapproval on the ground that occupation at sea took a man from his home to an extent that was scarcely convenient Bobbie acknowledged that he had not at present made up his mind definitely, and that perhaps after all he should come back to Hoxton and dodge about and pick up a living somehow, but this plan also found disfavor in the young woman’s eyes, and she argued against it with much force and eloquence until Bobbie felt bound to interfere.

“Tell you what,” he said brusquely, “I shall do jest what I jolly well like.”

Returning to Collingwood after this heated debate, the two appeared rather silent, and when a long red-haired girl nodded from the other side of the way to Bobbie, Miss Bell inquired curtly concerning her, to which Bobbie replied frivolously and incorrectly that her name was Montmorency, speaking of her as the lady to whom he was engaged to be married; the facts being that her name was Nutler, and that he and the ruddy-haired young lady had not yet exchanged a word with each other Mrs. Bell found herself borne off by her perturbed daughter in the middle of an interesting description of the manner in which she lost Mr. Bell, and at the gates the good soul kissed Bobbie and gave him a shilling; the while Miss Bell walked off and assumed a languid interest in a mail cart belonging to an infant boarder Bobbie touched his cap.

“It’s my belief, Trixie,” declared Mrs. Bell, before she was out of hearing, “that he’ll grow up a perfect gentleman.”

“Oh, will he?” said Bobbie to himself, with great artfulness “Shows how much she knows about it.”

Seven

Occasions when the boy allowed himself an outburst of rebellion became more rare as he felt his way slowly up the school-room to the height of the third standard; the Collingwood mother found herself able one day to congratulate him on the fact that for two months he had not imperilled his right to a meat dinner Excellence of table proved, indeed, with all the boys in the Cottage Homes a powerful incentive to good behaviour The bill of fare changed every day; boiled beef and carrots on (say) Thursday were followed by roast mutton on Friday and by Irish stew on Saturday, with a precise allowance to each cottage (a restriction which did not apply to vegetables), so that meals had, by reason of this variety, a charm of unexpectedness which pleased the boys greatly In their own homes in Hoxton most of them had only been sure of two things in regard to dinner—either that there would not be enough, or that there would be none at all Thus it was that when appeals to a boy’s sense of honour or his sense of decorum failed, an appeal to his appetite proved effective With Bobbie, moreover, there was ever, as a high goal to be strived for, the band With the assistance of a good-natured euphonium who lived in Collingwood, and after much wrestling with obstinate difficulties, the knowledge that F.A.C.E. spelt the open spaces became his proud possession; other musical facts capitulated on seeing his determination Whenever tempted to punch another boy’s head, and roll that boy on the asphalted space where they played during the ten minutes’ relief from school, and to tear that boy’s pocket, and to do him grievous damage, the thought of himself marching in the band uniform and blowing the cornet part of the “Turkish Patrol” arrested his hand; the same thought did him the same good service when, on being sent to the store-keeper’s room, he found himself near to an open drawer containing sugar and chocolate At times, however, temper burst so suddenly that there was no time for the thought of cornet to intervene, and then the possibility of being allowed to join the band went away so far as to be nearly out of sight, and Bobbie mourned On one of these grey days he happened to be despatched to the bandmaster with a note The bandmaster was rehearsing the overture to “Zampa” in the small room overfilled with noise by twenty lads, who had become scarlet-faced from the tension of watching the slips of music before them, of watching, also, the bandmaster’s beat.

“’Pon my word,” cried the bandmaster explosively, rapping the stand before him with his stick, and stopping the brazen blasts that had made windows shake, “if you cornets aren’t enough to make a saint forget himself What do you think you’re doing?”

Cornets, with respect, replied that they thought they were playing a tune.

“I should never have guessed that,” retorted the bandmaster caustically Bobbie delivered his note “What you’ll be like if you go out anywhere to play this summer don’t bear thinking about.”

One of the cornets offered the remark that he was doing his best.

“And bad’s your best,” cried the bandmaster explosively “Why, I’d guarantee to take a piece of wood and make it play the cornet better than you do, Nutler.” The cornet player, Nutler, here chuckled under the impression that the bandmaster required laughter in recognition of the humour of the remark “Don’t laugh at me, sir,” ordered the bandmaster violently “I won’t have it.” Nutler, the cornet-player, assumed a look of abject woe “And don’t look like that, either.”

Master Nutler, goaded, inquired resentfully how he was to look, then.

“You’re to look smart, sir,” said the bandmaster, “if you want to continue in the band There’s plenty of others, mind you, ready to take your place.”

Master Nutler muttered the disastrous remark that they would take a bit of finding.

“Oh!” said the bandmaster, “would they take a bit of finding?” He called to Bobbie, now leaving the room “Boy,” he cried out, “come here.”

Bobbie returned and saluted.

“Have you any ear for music?”

“How d’you mean ear, sir?” asked Bobbie anxiously.

“Can you sing?”

“What’ll you ’ave, sir?” said Bobbie.

“Anything.”

The boy, round-eyed with eagerness, sang a few lines of an amiable glee which Collingwood boarders were accustomed to chant.

We’re gowing to the woodlands, to the woodlands gay and free.Now, who will be my comrade and come along with me?For I—

“That’ll do,” said the bandmaster “Do you think you could play a musical instrument?”

“I think I could try, sir.”

“Good! You come to elementary practice this evening.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Bobbie, flushing delightedly.

“Now, Mr. Clever Nutler,” remarked the bandmaster acutely to the cornet boy, “we’ll see who’s right—you or me Come along Let’s try this second part again.”

Master Nutler whispered to Bobbie as he went by that for two pins he would wring Bobbie’s something neck, but the two pins not being forthcoming Master Nutler did not carry his threat into effect Bobbie went out of the room, and as he walked by the side of the garden could not help noticing how much brighter the sun appeared, and how very excellent was the world He grew so ecstatic over the prospect of becoming a man of importance that he wrote in the evening to the Duchess at the address given to him two years before, a letter which seemed to him to err, if anything, on the side of modesty.

My dear Duches,

I am writing a few lines to hope that you and Mr. Leigh are quite well and getting on fine I have not seen you for a long pereod.

I am pleased to tell you that I am principle player in the band here, and much esteemed by my masters and by my fellow scholars Everybody says I shall make one of the finest music players in the world if I only go on and succeed Dear Duches, I think sometimes of the old days, but not often, because I am so busy with my music I am an accomplished scholar and a credit to the schools.

If you ever come to London you can come and see me, but dress nice, and do not say nothing about Ely Place and Mr. Miller I am in compond division Remember me to Mr. Leigh, and I remain,—Yours truly,

Robert Lancaster.

I shall probably play at the Flower Show in Augst They all say the band will be nothing without me I am now twelve years next birthday, which will be also in Augst.

Robert Lancaster took so much care in regard to behaviour after his first lesson on the cornet, and walked about with such a detached important air that the Collingwood mother insisted on giving him medicine under the impression that his health could not be perfect An outburst of temper reassured the good lady, but general improvement was a passport that enabled Bobbie to enter the gates of her matronly reserve, and she singled him out for favour by telling him about her youth in Devonshire; memories that helped to revive Bobbie’s thoughts of his one gay spell of hop-picking years ago in Kent The Collingwood mother, having been away from her native county for twenty years, gave idealistic descriptions of Torrington, and Milton Damerel, and Brandis Corner, so that the country generally became pictured in his mind as a land of fair delight When Collingwood’s mother shook her head in despair at being unable to describe the joys more fully, Bobbie would brag about Hoxton and the Haberdashers’ School at the end of Pitfield Street, with its statue of Aske and its tall iron railings Somehow the more he talked of the place the less inclined be felt to return there.

“Don’t speak to me about your Hoxtons,” begged the Collingwood mother “Give me decent people to mix with that know how to wash ’emselves.”

“They’re pretty smart up there,” urged Bobbie, with deference “They know a thing or two.”

“They know a thing or two too many,” declared the Collingwood mother, severely “I don’t suppose you’ve ever come across the worst of ’em, but I’m told there are thieves and coiners, and goodness knows what all about the place.”

“Think it’s a fact, mother?” inquired Bobbie with innocence.

“Bless you, yes The lowest of the low Didn’t you never come across any of them?”

“Me?” echoed the boy “Goo’ gracious! What a question to ask.”

“Perhaps you were too young to take notice.”

“That might have been it,” he conceded “Fact of the matter is my real mother was very careful who she mixed with, and there might ’a been railway snatchers or anything around us for all I knew.”

“Don’t talk about them,” interrupted the Collingwood mother, shivering “Let me tell you some more about Devonshire.”

Summer came to the Cottage Homes and brought with it cricket matches to be played against the boys of the private school a few meadows off, where the two different grades of young men met on common ground that the best of games offers, and where Bobbie developed an ability for bowling slows of a peculiarly artful and delusive character, insomuch that they came from his hand in a way that made the batter (confident of hitting a six-er) run out to strike, with the result that he not infrequently found himself bowled or stumped These games with boys of happier circumstances did much to refine the lads of the Cottage Homes; even Bobbie, whilst he ridiculed and burlesqued some of the private school youths who had a languid way of talking and a courteous behaviour, found himself selecting some of the tricks of manner that seemed to him worthy and commendable, and these improved him The cornet helped.

Rehearsals of the band became more furious as the day of the Flower Show approached Master Nutler by dint of successful experiments in insubordination found his engagement for the event in peril, and Master Nutler had more than once pressed Bobbie to decide the question of their musical ability by a stand-up fight Quite a large family of Nutlers lived in the Homes, ranging from the lanky, red-haired girl of fifteen to a baby of two; the father and mother of the family having, on retirement to an unknown quarter, generously presented their entire quiver-full to the guardians as souvenir of indebtedness to their native parish, so that a sample of the Nutler family could he found in nearly every cottage and in the ophthalmic hospital beyond the gates The gauge of combat being thrown down repeatedly in the presence of witnesses, Bobbie felt bound at last to take it up, and arrangements being effected by a mature boy, the fight took place furtively in the kitchen garden one evening at twilight; Bobbie punishing Master Nutler so effectively that he had to give that weeping indignant young gentleman two glass alleys, a china apple, and a copy of a book from the Index Expurgatorius, in order to prevent him from saying anything about it Master Nutler, thus bribed, generously agreed not to report the circumstance to the authorities, but he gave information to the other members of his family, and commanded a vendetta against Robert Lancaster The Nutler family had its private differences; indeed, its members seldom met without quarrelling, but in the presence of an opportunity for spite against a common enemy they united, and conferred amicably on a course of action The eldest Miss Nutler favoured scratching of the enemy’s face; after debate the others induced her to withdraw this resolution, and to agree to a plan of more elaborate strategy.

Gay expectation scented the air on the morning of the Flower Show For the band especially, it meant occupying on a sunlit lawn a position of conspicuous importance, to be followed by admirable feeding and iced lemonade that had no limits except those fixed by the band’s own capacity It was an occasion, too, when fair ladies came from mansions of the neighbourhood and paid graceful compliments to the band, sometimes giving to members bright, alluring pieces of silver Master Nutler, who had received intimation that, owing to his want of care at rehearsals, his services would not be required, when about muttering to himself in a gruff undertone, as men will when they are suffering from repressed grievances At twelve o’clock, after morning school, the conscientious bandmaster took the boys through the devious ways of the “Il Trovatore” selection, and piloted them with the solo parts of “H.M.S. Pinafore.” Bobbie’s playing of his solo extorted from the bandmaster a rare word of approval.

“You’ve got on wonderfully well, Lancaster,” said the bandmaster.

“Thanks to you, sir,” said the boy politely.

“You aren’t quite so steady as I could wish, but I think you’ll pull through.”

“You leave it to me,” said Bobbie, rubbing the cornet affectionately with his handkerchief.

“At two o’clock, boys, we start Take care that none of you get into a mischief between now and then.” A chorus of assurances “Ah!” sighed the bandmaster, “I know what boys are Lancaster, can you take a note to the superintendent for me?”

“Like a shot, sir.”

Bobbie, flying out into the asphalted playground to take the note in the promised manner, found himself tripped up by Master Nutler, who, having done this, demanded, with great indignation, to know where Bobbie was a-coming to Bobbie replied that some day, when he could afford it, he proposed to enjoy the pleasure of again wiping the floor with Nutler, whereupon that young gentleman requested that the task should not be postponed, but should be effected at once Bobbie forced himself into composure, and hurried on, followed by a parting remark from Nutler, “Sneak!”

Trotting along by the fringe of flower beds on the right-hand side of the broad walk, in great good-humour, the scream of a girl near to one of the red-roofed houses made him stop Lanky Miss Nutler, having seen him approach, had twisted the arm of the small girl who, two years previously, had arrived at the Homes with Bobbie, and who, having long since given up tears, had become one of the brightest little maids in the place At present, however, she appeared terrified out of her usual cheerfulness because of superfluous attention paid to her by Miss Nutler.

“Now will you be good?” inquired Miss Nutler, suavely, as she gave the small girl’s arm another twist.

“I am good,” cried the small girl piteously “Leave off twistin’ my wrist, or else I shall have to scream.”

“Promise not to call me Miss Camel again,” ordered the lanky young woman.

“I never did.”

“I shall punish you,” said Miss Nutler, with regret, “more for telling a lie than for calling me out of my proper name.” The small girl screamed with pain “Ah! you may ’oller.”

“Leave the girl alone,” shouted Bobbie from the fence of the garden.

“Beg your pardon?” said Miss Nutler, with studied courtesy “I didn’t quite catch what you said.”

“Leave that little girl alone,” he repeated sharply “If she’s done anything wrong, it’s for others to punish her, not you.”

“I don’t wish to ’old any conversation with you,” said the young woman sedately “Kindly mind your own business.”

“Leggo my wrist,” cried the small girl agonizedly “Come and make her, Bobbie Lancaster She’ll—she’ll break my arm.”

Master Lancaster darted through the gates The small girl’s face was white with pain; Miss Nutler’s face yellow with defiance He released the small girl quickly, and she ran off Miss Nutler staggered hack, and fell, an ungraceful heap, on the ground.

“’Elp! ’Elp! Murder!” yelled Miss Nutler “Fi—yer!”

“Now what are you kicking up a row for?” demanded Bobbie.

“He’s killed me,” declared Miss Nutler, panting, to the mother of her cottage, who had hastened out to ascertain the cause of disturbance “Oh, the villain! Oh, fetch a doctor! Oh, don’t let him make his escape!”

“I’m not going to make no escape,” said the boy sturdily “I never knocked her down; she fell down.”

“Oh!” cried Miss Nutler “To think that he should tell a untruth Oh, I wonder he ain’t struck down before my very eyes! Oh, I’m going into ’sterricks!”

And she went off into what, it must be admitted, was, for a young amateur, a very fair imitation of a hysterical fit.

The mother, much concerned, told Bobbie that he would have to be taken at once to the Superintendent The father of a cottage opposite appeared Interference by boys with girls, said the father, was just the one thing that had to be punished for more than anything Could not be permitted for a single moment—not for a single moment.

“Why, what’s anyone to do,” stammered the boy, indignantly, “when they see a big girl like her ill-using another ’alf her size?”

The father said that it was not for Bobbie to interfere.

“I simply separated of ’em,” pleaded the boy “She was using the little girl something crool, and—”

“Perjerer!” interrupted Miss Nutler, reviving for this purpose She closed her eyes again, and hammered at the ground with her heels.

“And I particular don’t want to get into no trouble just now I’ll explain it all to-morrow.”

The father said that to-morrow would not do Bobbie must go along with him now to the Superintendent’s house, the while the mother would use her best endeavours to restore Miss Nutler The latter task proved to be one of no difficulty, for the young woman, on the palms of her hands being slapped, re-opened her eyes, and said, faintly,—

“Where am I? Tell me, someone! Is it all a ’orrible dream?”

The Superintendent, ordinarily a cheery man, whistled gravely as he listened to the report against the boy standing at the other end of the table.

“Thought you were a good lad, Lancaster.”

“Not much use being good, sir,” growled Bobbie, “when your luck’s against you.”

The father, an old policeman, enjoying this echo of the old days, repeated and added to his report of Miss Nutler’s condition, remarking sagely that extreme violence must have been used.

“We’ll investigate it fully to-morrow,” commanded the Superintendent “No time now Meanwhile you’ll stay at home, my lad.”

“What?” said Bobbie, amazedly “And not play at the show?”

“And not play at the show Some one else must be found to take your place I’m sorry.”

The boy swallowed something in his throat, and his under lip twitched He looked round at the framed list of rules on the wall, at the papers on the table, and at everything in the room with a dazed air.

“I’m a—a bit sorry about it, too,” he said gloomily.

“Rules are rules,” mentioned the Superintendent.

“Someone shall suffer for it,” declared the boy, with sudden fierceness “I ain’t going to be jumped on just because—”

“Take him down to Collingwood,” ordered the Superintendent.

“Can’t you give me a good wolloping, sir, and have done with it?”

“Take him away, please.”

It was a fierce and an aggrieved and a revengeful lad who looked out of the window of Collingwood that afternoon and watched the band marching out towards the gates, uniformed in its best, and carrying its instruments proudly The rays of the bright sun reflected in the shining brass, and Robert Lancaster blinked as he looked at them, but he did not cry, because, when he saw Nutler marching with cornet in hand, his hot little brain racked with a burning sense of injustice He went upstairs and watched the short line of boys until trees intervened He had some vague idea of breaking everything in the cottage that could be broken, but a moment’s consideration informed him that this as a remedy would be imperfect The mother called to him, offering some work in cleaning the grate, and Bobbie, setting to this with great strenuousness, produced such excellent results that the mother gave him her sympathy for his present situation, and joined him in denouncing Miss Nutler in good set terms Nevertheless, the grievance remained, and the mother went so far in her cordial agreement that, after a while, the grievance appeared to have grown enormously, and he felt himself to be the very worst used man in the whole world Somebody’s head should be punched for this; if he had Teddy Sullivan’s revolver, a more convincing action could be adopted It would be rather fine and dramatic to go out when the band returned and, covering them with a six-shooter, force them to hold up their hands and give him full apology for the wrong that had been done to him Failing the presence of an arm of warfare, it seemed not easy to see what he could do All that he could decide in his aggrieved, blazing, infuriated mind was that he would do something.

When a post letter came at about four o’clock addressed to him in a strange old-fashioned writing, he did not at first open it, because, rare as letters were, he felt gloomily that nothing like good fortune could come to him on that day He tore the envelope after a while, and prepared himself for another shaft of ill-luck A postal order dropped out, and his anticipations whirled round.

My dear Bobbie,

I were glad to hear from you, and to know that you was getting on so well in the world My husband were also greatly pleased He is now what is called a landoner, and is much occupied during the day looking after the men that is employed under him.

Dear Bobbie, you must know that we live in an immense hotel, and that I ride to the hounds every day of my life We also intertain the gentry of the neighbourhood, who treat us as their equals or more We are not proud of our good fortune, for we know that pride cometh before a fall I enclose a trifle to buy yourself something; I could easily send more, as we are, so to speak, roling in money, but I am in a hurry to catch the post.

My husband sends his best respects, and hopes you will continue to grow up a good boy and respect your elders.—Yours affect’ly,

L. Leigh.

Fond love and kisses.

Bobbie read this friendly and agreeable letter from the Duchess three times Then, looking at the address carefully, he started up with a sudden inspiration.

“I know what I’ll do,” he said to himself excitedly “I’ll bunk off.”

He made his preparations with haste, having a vague fear that something might happen to induce him to change his mind The mother of Collingwood Cottage was dozing in her kitchen as he came downstairs, and he had a good mind to kiss the good soul; but he knew that doing this might twist his determination, and he set his mouth hard He stuffed his small bundle under his waistcoat, and went across to the band-room with the stolid face of a man obeying orders.

“Please, I’ve got to take my cornet and get down to the Flower Show as sharp as I possibly can.”

The same story contented the gate-keeper, who gave him the correct time, and Bobbie started along the white road at a quick pace At the first turning he branched off, and, skirting the fields belonging to the Cottage Homes, returned to the town, where a post-office was to be found There he changed the postal order In five minutes he was speeding away Londonwards, with defiant head well out of the carriage windows, a cigarette between his lips, the cornet and his handkerchiefed bundle in his hand.

“This,” said the boy truculently to the distant red-roofed homes, “this’ll let you see what a man can do when he’s put upon.”

Eight

The confusing eddy of people outside Liverpool Street Station startled him, so that he stood back to let them go by, until he remembered that they did not cease to flow before midnight, and then he laughed at himself and made his way out into Bishopsgate He had a fine sense of freedom in the consciousness that he was his own master; within wide limitations he could go where he pleased and do as he pleased, and no one had the right to say him nay It seemed like getting rid of a suit of armour He gave himself the luxury of swearing softly as he walked along, in order to prove conclusively that he was no longer trammelled by the code of rules that obtained at the Cottage Homes Walking up towards Shoreditch Church it appeared to the boy that he was as fine a fellow as any in the crowd of men hurrying along the pavement, that his daring and his independence were sufficient for about six ordinary men; he felt very much inclined to stop one or two in order to tell them so The better to live up to his new character of a regular blade, he turned into the saloon bar of a gorgeous, over-mirrored, over-painted, over-furnished public-house, and addressing a superb young lady who behind the bar read a pamphlet called “An Amusing Way to Pick up Biology,” asked in a deep, effective voice for a sherry and bitters The superb young lady, seemingly dazed with study, gave him instead a small bottle of lemonade and a hard biscuit; Bobbie, awed by her appearance, did not dare to complain of the mistake He endeavoured, however, to entice the large young woman into manly conversation by asking her how long it was since she had left the old place, but she only answered absently, without looking up from her hook, “Outside with those bootlaces, please,” and Bobbie refrained from repeating his question.

At the corner of Drysdale Street he met a first friend in the person of Niedermann, otherwise Nose, grown ridiculously tall, and garbed in a frock coat queerly short at the sleeves Niedermann did not know him at first, but when recognition came he became at once interested, and asked a number of questions, some of which Bobbie answered truthfully.

“What you ought to go and do, ole man,” said Niedermann, acutely, “is to disguise yourself.”

“How d’you mean disguise myself?”

“Why, put on a false beard,” said the frock-coated lad, “and blue spectacles, and what not You’ll get copped else.”

“They won’t trouble,” said the boy uneasily.

“Take my advice or not, jest as you like But I know what I should do.”

“Very likely they’re glad to get rid of me,” argued Bobbie “It’ll be a saving to them of pounds a year, and besides—”

“Tell you what you could do,” said Master Niedermann, looking at him thoughtfully, “and that too without no trouble You see this coat and weskit of mine.”

“I see what there’s left of ’em.”

“Swop!” said the long youth walking with Bobbie down towards the railway arch “These what I’ve got are a bit short for me, because I’m a grown lad, as you may see But they’ll suit you a treat, and, besides, if they circulate your description, no one in these togs ’ll recognize you for a moment.”

“Wouldn’t see me if I was to get inside of ’em.”

“I think you’re wrong,” said Niedermann patiently “What did you say the address was that you’ve run away from?” Bobbie gave the information “I shall remember.”

“You’ve no call to remember,” said the boy sharply.

“I carry it all ’ere,” said Master Niedermann darkly, tapping his unwashed forehead; “regular store’ouse of information my brain is.”

“What makes you call it a brain?” asked Bobbie.

“Do you particularly want your ’ead punched?” asked Master Niedermann fiercely “Because, if so, you’ve only got to say the word, and—” He recovered himself with an effort “But putting all argument a one side,” he said genially, “you try on my coat and see how it fits.”

On Bobbie complying, Master Niedermann took no pains to conceal his approval of the change.

“My word!” he said, “you might a been measured for it by a West-End tailor.”

“Ain’t it a bit long in the tails?” asked Bobbie.

“All the better for that,” declared the long youth with enthusiasm “They’re wearing ’em long.”

“Now give me back my jacket,” said Bobbie.

“That be ’anged for a tale,” answered Niedermann, with an injured expression “A bargain’s a bargain.”

“But this isn’t a bargain,” expostulated the boy in the frock-coat “I never said—”

“Look here,” said the long youth threateningly “Do you want me to give you up to the police?”

After the interview with Master Niedermann Bobbie determined to avoid friends for the rest of that evening He therefore walked about the streets of Hoxton, his cornet wrapped in a newspaper under his arm, dodging when he saw a face known to him He glanced at himself on passing shop windows, and tried to believe that the frayed frock-coat gave him an increased air of manliness Strolling cautiously into Pimlico Walk, and inspecting the little bonnet shop kept by Eliza Bell, he saw Trixie at the counter; her black hair rolled up and arranged carefully above her pretty neck, she wore a pink blouse with neat collar and cuffs, her face had a touch of colour, and Bobbie for the first time felt that he would like to kiss her He knew, however, that to enter the shop of Mrs. Bell would necessitate listening to reproof and good advice, neither of which things was that evening desired by him The same motive stopped him from taking a ’bus to Fetter Lane to call upon Myddleton West, whose address he remembered; he told himself that he enjoyed liberty too much to allow it to be checked by sage counsels Going up to Ely Place and turning, with some idea of going through in order to see the house where he had spent some of his life, he had but passed the dwarf posts at the entrance when at least six separate and offensive odours rushed furiously at him He coughed and turned back.

But in the Theatre of Varieties he found joy He paid a shilling to the old lady in the pay box up the sawdust-covered steps, and on the old lady shouting, “Jimes,” James in uniform just inside the swing doors of the crowded, heated music hall, said, “Yessir This way, sir Stand a one side, please, and let the genelman pass,” and conducted Bobbie ceremoniously past the folk who were standing at the back of the first balcony; unlocked the door, showed him into the box; fetched a programme, accepted twopence with a military salute, called Bobbie “Me lord,” evidently mistaking him for a member of the aristocracy Then the boy settled down on the front bench in the box, preparing to enjoy himself Fine to see the upturned faces from the twopenny pit—they sat down in the pit now, he observed; in his day you had to stand—the rows and rows of interested faces in the twopenny gallery, and to note that many of them were watching him, the only occupant of the shilling boxes He felt confused at first with this attention Shielding himself behind the dusty curtains, he gazed at Mlle. Printemps, who, with paper rose in her hair, bare arms, bare shoulders, and scarlet tights, kept her footing on a large white marble globe, juggling the while with plates and knives and bottles Once or twice Mlle. Printemps, who was a little thin, perhaps, and red at the elbows, but an agreeable person for all that, came over on the great white globe quite close to the box in which Bobbie was seated, whereupon he said softly (being a desperate sort of rattle out for the evening), “I’ll ’ave your flower, miss,” and felt relieved to find that the thin lady on the globe had not overheard him Then came Bray and Wilkins, described on the yellow slip as Irish-American duettists, the finest humorists of two hemispheres, whose humour was not, perhaps, so much fine as broad, being conducted somewhat in this way: Bray, facing the audience, shouted, “Oi say; have you heard about me wife?” and Wilkins, also facing the audience, shouted back, “Oi have not heard about your wife;” after a whispered communication, Wilkins assumed incredulity, and said, “Oi don’t believe it, sorr,” and Bray, indignant, said, “It’s the truth I’m giving ye; a fine bouncing boy at eighteen minutes past five.” “Oi’ll not believe it,” persisted Wilkins, “it’s all your kid,” to which Bray replied indignantly, “It’s not my kid, sorr,” and Wilkins retorted at once, “Who’s kid is it, then?” Followed, tremendous personal chastisement, which made Bobbie laugh until tears came After the American duettists, Mr. Tom Somebody came shyly on the stage, affecting to be astonished at finding himself there and rather wishful to go off again, but, on being humorously appealed to by the conductor, deciding to stay Mr. Tom Somebody had been jilted by the lady of his heart, and it seemed to the judicial observer that the lady might have found excuse for her conduct in the singular manner of apparel the gentleman wore, for he had no hat, but only the brim of a hat, his jacket was very short, and his trousers very baggy; a paper front stuck out ludicrously at his chest, and—this made Bobbie shriek with delight—he had in the hurry of dressing placed his collar around his waist.

For she’s a daisy,She sends me crazy,No wonder people say I’m getting pline;She only flouts me,And sometimes outs me,I’m goin’ simply barmy on account of Emmer-jine.

At half-past eight the band played the National Anthem; the attendants shouted the order for dispersal, and Bobbie, giving up the private box with a sigh, followed the crowd down the stone staircase Outside, the patrons of the second performance waited impatiently in a line at the edge of the pavement Bobbie recognized one or two faces in the crowd; they looked older, he thought, and slightly dirtier; those whom he remembered as boys of about his own age were accompanied by young ladies, whose bare heads shone with oil, and who wore, for the most part, maroon-coloured dresses, partly shielded by aprons; they seemed in excellent spirits, and shouted defiant badinage to friends at a distance To Bobbie walking down towards Old Street, it occurred that the true touch of manliness would not he achieved until he secured the company of a member of the opposite sex He went into a tobacconist’s shop and bought a twopenny cigar, with a paper belt, which he selected from a box labelled “The Rothschild Brand,” and smoking this, he, with the cornet placed in the capacious tail pocket of the frock-coat, strolled through Shoreditch to Hackney Road He winked at one or two young women hurrying home with hot suppers laid on pieces of paper, but they only sneered at him, one lady of about thirteen declaring indignantly that, were her hands not full, she would fetch him a clip side the ear.

“It’s this blooming coat,” said Bobbie ruefully.

These repulses brought disappointment, but happily there existed other ways of proving to the world that he was now thoroughly grown up He went into a quiet public-house, where, in the private bar, some bemused men were talking politics, and on the invitation of the anxious young proprietor, who appeared to be new to the business and desirous of obtaining custom, Bobbie gave his opinion on the question of increasing the strength of the Navy, and, encouraged by beer, found himself quite eloquent So eloquent, indeed, that presently he insisted upon contradicting everybody, and some unpleasantness ensued.

“You’ll ’scuse me, my boy,” said a white-faced, sleepy-eyed baker, pointing unsteadily at Bobbie with the stem of his pipe, “you’ll ’scuse me if I take the lib’ty of tellin’ you—or rather I sh’ say, informing you—that you’re a liar.”

“You repeat that,” said Bobbie, flushed and aggressive “Go on! Say that again and see what ’appens.”

“It was only meant as a pleasant joke, I expect,” urged the young proprietor nervously from the other side of the counter “Shake ’ands and make it up.”

“Let him call me that again,” said the boy fiercely “That’s all I’ll learn him, the—”

“What’d I call you?” inquired the tipsy baker “Best of my rec’lection I called you hon’ble young genleman Do you deny, sir, that you’re hon’ble young genleman? Because, if so,” added the baker with great solemnity, “if so, I shall have great pleasure in—hic—drinkin’ your ’ealth.”

“I’ve been insulted!” shouted the scarlet-faced boy violently, “in the presence of gentlemen! I want this put right! I want an apology! I’m as good a man—”

“Look ’ere,” interrupted the anxious young publican “’Ave a ceegar at my expense, and let bygones be bygones.”

“My young friend,” said the baker, balancing to and fro as he rested one hand on the zinc counter, “if I’ve ’pologized to you in any way, I can only say that it’s purely cler’cal error on my part, and I’m prepared to most humbly insult—”

“You mean,” corrected the young publican, “that if you’ve insulted him you’re prepared to apologize.”

“Dammit,” cried the baker, turning explosively on the young proprietor, “can’t two genlemen settle their pers’nal disputes without a blooming pot’ouse keeper dictatin’ to ’em? What?”

“Yes,” said Bobbie, not to be outdone, “what th’ ’ell do you—”

“You mistook my meanin’, gentlemen,” said the young publican penitently “All I want is peace and quietness.”

“Precious rum way you’ve got of going about it,” said Bobbie truculently “You take my advice, Mr. Public-house, and don’t you interfere with whatever matters there may be in this world that don’t in no wise whatsoever tend to concern you.”

“Spoke,” declared the tipsy baker, offering his hand to Bobbie; “spoke like a norator Give us a song, ole man.”

“Gentlemen, I do hope—”

“Can’t give you a song,” said the flushed boy; “but I can give you a tune on the cornet.”

“Please, gentlemen, do not—”

“Music of the cornet,” declared the bemused baker, “is like gen’le dew of ’eaven You blow up, my boy.”

To the terror of the young publican, Bobbie produced his cornet and played a verse of “Tom Bowling,” causing the baker to become maudlin, and to declare tearfully that he wished he had been a sailor instead of an adjective baker, trampled on by most and scorned by all On Bobbie playing the prelude to the first set of some quadrilles, the private bar, standing up tipsily, set to partners and went through the evolutions with intense gravity, excepting the baker, who, acting as M.C., stumbled in and out crying loudly, “La’ies’ chain!” The agitated young publican, fearful of consequences, felt constrained at last to send for a policeman, and when one came and touched the boy cornet player on the shoulder, saying, “Outside with that instrument of torture, if you please,” then Bobbie stepped out of the swing doors and through a small crowd with the proud consciousness that, having been ejected from a public-house, real manhood was now his, and could never be taken from him He stumbled along Hackney Road with his cornet, a slip of a crowd following To escape them he jumped clumsily on a tram.

“’O’ tight,” said the conductor.

The boy rode in a confused state of mind to the end of the journey at Lea Bridge Road, and then, partly sobered by the night air, returned by the tram He felt quite happy; other passengers found themselves afire with curiosity to know what he was laughing about Watching the lighted shops and the cheerful folk on the pavement below, Bobbie decided hilariously that this was better than the Cottage Homes This was good This was enjoyment This was independence This was freedom This was life.

At Cambridge Heath Station he descended, because be saw outside a large public-house a line of brakes decorated with branches of trees and with Chinese lanterns; joyous men and women danced on the square space to no music This seemed the kind of movement in which he desired to be The men and women had been out into the country for the day; they appeared to have brought a good deal of the country back with them, for their hats and bonnets and clothes were decorated with bunches of flowers and oak leaves The appearance of the boy with his cornet was welcomed with enthusiasm Hoisted up on a huge empty cask, he, by command, played gustily a waltz that made the couples lay heads on their partners’ shoulders and move slowly, dreamily around Of all the moments of pure delight that Bobbie, as a boy, was to experience, this ever stood in his memory high and high above all the rest Presently the whirling crowd stopped exhaustedly.

“Ask the little boy,” suggested one of the panting women, “to play a what’s-a-name tune.”

“A comic?”

“No, no, no! Not a comic You know what I mean, only you’re so stupid.”

“A love tune?”

“Bah!” said the lady, “you’re like all the men; you’ve got no sense What I mean is a patriotic song.”

Therefore, “Rule Britannia” from the cornet to the great content of the beanfeasters and of the two or three constables, looking on at the scene good-naturedly A hat went round before the party re-ascended the brakes, and Bobbie found himself in possession of a load of coppers that weighed him down on one side until he bethought himself of the ingenious plan of dividing them and placing one half in each pocket of his trousers He saw the brakes depart, and was about to leave when he found his arm seized violently.

“I’ve got him,” shrieked Master Niedermann fiercely “I thought I should find him Evil doers never succeed for long I was sure—”

“Leggo my arm,” said Bobbie.

“Likely thing,” screamed the long youth satirically, “after I’ve took all this trouble to find you Gimme back my frock coat! Gimme back my frock-coat, that you pinched from me! Gimme back—”

One of the constables stepped forward What was all this about?

“Sergeant,” cried Master Niedermann flatteringly, “thank goodness you’re ’ere You’ll see that right’s done He’s robbed me of my best frock-coat, and I want it back.”

“It’s a lie,” declared Bobbie “Fact of the matter is—”

“Accuses me now,” said the estimable youth, with a pained air, “of telling a falsehood Why, I couldn’t tell a falsehood, and well you know it, inspector.”

Constable begged to say that he knew nothing of the kind Let the boy tell his tale.

“We changed coats, sir,” said Bobbie, “against my wish, and—”

“There’s alf a dollar sewed in the corner of it,” interrupted Nose, “and he must ’ave known it, or else he’d never ’ave thrown me down on the ground and clutched my neck with both his hands—like so—and then pulled the coat bodily off of me.”

Constable, his legal mind detecting an error in the statement, asked, in view of the fact that the boy had but two hands, how this was done.

“Ast him!” said Master Niedermann “He knows! He did it And make him gimme back my coat and my ’alf dollar.”

Constable requested to be informed how the half dollar had been earned or obtained.

“Be the sweat of me brow,” declared the long youth “How d’ye think? I’d forgot where I put it for the moment, or else he should never have had it And if he don’t give it me, I give him in charge.”

“’Ang me if I give it back,” said Bobbie, with sudden asperity “You said a bargain’s a bargain, and so it’ll ’ave to be I shan’t change again.”

“Then,” said Master Niedermann, oracularly, “I ’ereby beg to give him into custody.”

The constable seemed undecided Bobbie watched his face, and trembled as he observed a slight increase in gravity The police station meant at least an ignominious return to the Homes, and to the precise and dogmatically ordered life there A crowd had gathered round close to the disputant parties, and Bobbie, withdrawing his anxious glance from the policeman for a moment to look around, saw a very little woman, whose face he remembered Miss Threepenny Her queer head came to about the waists of the people standing near to her.

“I suppose I’d better,” said the constable.

“Twenty-five, Barton Buildings,” whispered little Miss Threepenny Then, with a quick change of voice and manner, “Who’s got my purse? Who’s stole my purse? Police! Stop thief! ’Elp—’elp—’elp!”

The constable hurried quickly from the doubtful case on which he was engaged to this that appeared more definite In the commotion, Bobbie, holding his cornet tightly, made swift escape; he had reached Bethnal Green Road before Miss Threepenny—having discovered that her purse had, after all, not been stolen—had apologized to the constable for the unnecessary trouble that she had given Bobbie was still recovering breath at the entrance to the giant block of model dwellings to which Miss Threepenny had hurriedly directed him, when that excellent little woman trotted up.

“You’re a nice young man,” said Miss Threepenny severely, “I don’t think Going and getting yourself mixed up in a common street row, and forgetting what you owe to your poor dead mother and—”

Bobbie explained truthfully, and little Miss Threepenny relented.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked, looking up at him with less acerbity.

“Get a bed in a coffee shop, I s’pose,” said the boy “To-morrow I shall get off to the country to see—to see some friends This bloomin’ London makes my nut ache.”

The small woman stood on the third step of the stone stairs, so that she came thus face to face with Bobbie She swung her key round her finger, reflectively.

“You’ll only get into more trouble,” she said.

“Likely as not,” replied the boy recklessly “I can’t do right, somehow.”

“I’ve nearly ’alf a mind,” said the little woman, “to make you up a bed in my sitting-room.”

“Got two rooms now, Miss?”

“Rather,” said the little woman proudly.

He followed Miss Threepenny upstairs, through passages, and up more stairs to her rooms There the diminutive woman took off her bonnet and set to work, as she said, to put the place to rights, which, seeing that everything was perfectly neat and in order, seemed a superfluous act, and indeed consisted mainly in moving the furniture from it’s proper place and setting it back again Bobbie felt confused and very tired, but the little woman appeared so obviously glad to have someone to talk to that he listened politely to her good-tempered chatters They had supper together, and then Miss Threepenny did something to an elderly easy chair in the manner of an expert conjuror, whereupon it instantly changed into a middle-aged couch She bustled in and out of her own room, bringing a pillow and some sheets; presently Bobbie found that he could no longer look at the couch without yawning desperately.

“In the morning,” said the tiny woman, lighting a candle, “you sleep on, because I shall be out and about early And I shall be ’ome midday to give you your dinner.”

“Goo’ night,” said the boy sleepily, taking his coat off.

“Dear, dear!” cried the little woman with a comic affectation of bashfulness “Do wait till I’m out of the room You forget that I’m an old maid Some of you young men nowadays are enough to shock a saint.”

“Don’t you wish you’d got a son of your own, miss?” asked Bobbie, “to live here and look after you?”

“Stuff and nonsense!” she answered quickly “What should I want with a great big slab of a boy knocking about the place? There’s a ridiculous idea to be sure! Wonder what put that into your head, for goodness’ sake.”

“Nothing special,” said the boy, yawning “Goo’ ni’.”

“All the same,” said the little woman hesitatingly, “if you like, Bobbie, you can do this Jest for fun, you know You can give me a kiss on the forehead and say, ‘Good night, mother.’” She laughed awkwardly “Only for the lark of the thing, you know.”

“Good night, mother,” said the boy obediently, bending down and kissing her above the eyes The little woman gasped and ran quickly to her room.

In the morning Bobbie awoke, when at six o’clock Miss Threepenny was at work still setting the place to rights, and arranging, as he quietly noticed, his breakfast As she came over to him, before going off, and looked down at him, he kept his eyes half-closed When presently he had risen, and had eaten his breakfast, he made out an account on the back of an envelope thus, and laid the money upon it:—

Bread

1d.

2 saussages

2d.

Tea

1d.

Lodgings

3d.

Tot.

7d.

With thanks.

R. L.

He took his cornet and went out, down the stone stairs very quietly.

Nine

The boy discovered in London that day how much possession of a little money helps enjoyment One does not want very much in London, but one does want some, and Bobbie, with four or five shillings in his pocket, found delights that London millionaires can never encounter Two shillings and threepence of his fortune went to the purchase in City Road of a hard felt hat The proprietor of the shop urged him to purchase a silk hat, and the boy tried one on, laughing very much at his own reflection in the mirror, but there were several good reasons why he should not agree with the proprietor (“A silk hat,” argued the proprietor, “tells me that a man’s a gentleman”), of which one was that he remembered reading a reply to a correspondent in one of the newspapers at Collingwood Cottage, which stated that a silk hat was not “de rigueur” for the country or the seaside; a second that he did not possess more than half the amount required for the cheapest specimen The bowler hat, however, brought great content Later in the day, finding himself in Hyde Park, he fastened his long frock-coat as well as the existing buttons would permit, and strolled down the Row, lifting his hat now and again to no one with great courtesy He became exceedingly wishful to find some person with whom he might talk He was getting on rather well with a little six-year-old maid, and had made for her fair-haired doll a couch of grass near the Achilles statue, and the little girl had told him that she had such a booful mamma and such a horrid large nurse and such a fearfully hard piano and such oceans of toys, when she and her doll were whisked away magically by the large nurse referred to, and Bobbie spent two whole hours in searching for them with no success Out in Knightsbridge a string of sandwich men walked along gloomily, bearing advertisements of a new piece at one of the West End theatres; it occurred to the boy that it would be rather a fine, lordly act to pay his shilling and go to a first-class play, just for all the world as though he lived in Belgravia The idea clipped his fancy, and despite the fact that after dinner at a cheap restaurant, whose proud boast was, “Come in here, and you will never go anywhere else,” he found that he would only have just enough left to pay his fare to the nearest railway station to Brenchley, he made up his mind to go to the theatre He had a good wash at the cheap restaurant, and parted his hair in the middle, looking very closely to see if there existed a suspicion of down upon his upper lip It was magnificent, this life of independence, but, obviously, there were drawbacks For instance, you had not only to arrange for your meals, but you had also to pay them; this done, the fact remained that neither the quantity nor the quality proved so good as in the Cottage Homes The boy foresaw (without troubling himself very much about it) that herein might be found a source of inconvenience He packed the cornet very carefully in a borrowed newspaper; the cornet was slightly in the way, but he remembered that it belonged to the Cottage Homes, and he meant to return it there eventually It was wrong to steal.

At the gallery door of the theatre that evening he found himself in a short queue, side by side with a thoughtful-looking youth, who carried on his arm an aged travelling rug This youth talked very learnedly to Bobbie about the new phases of the drama, Bobbie listening with respect because it was a subject on which he felt himself to be not completely informed.

“Convention,” said the thoughtful young man, covering both of his arms with the old travelling rug and edging nearer to the two ladies in front, “convention, my dear sir, is the curse of the modern drama The drama is enwrapped with iron shackles, and it screams aloud—excuse me, madam, they’re pushing at the back—and it screams aloud, ‘Release my bonds and give me liberty.’”

“I see,” said Bobbie.

“What we want is to see the realities of life placed upon the stage,” went on the thoughtful youth, “not a transparent imitation We require the stage to give up its great services to the threshing out of some of the world’s trying problems, and to—”

“Best piece I ever see was at the Britannia, ’Oxton,” interrupted Bobbie, “when I was a kid There was a man in it and a woman, and you must understand—”

“Got change for half a sovereign?” interrupted the thoughtful youth “Small silver will do.”

“This is all I ’ave,” said Bobbie, showing the coins which were left to him, “besides the bob I’ve got in me hand.”

“Ah,” said the youth regretfully “That’s no use to me Put it back in your breast pocket—so Allow me If you place your handkerchief over it in this way, you’ll find yourself quite safe from thieves.”

“I s’pose there are some about still.”

“Town’s full of ’em,” said the other regretfully.

The narrow crowd made a movement, and the pairs closed up A facetious man in the very front rapped twice at the doors, affecting to be the post.

“What’s to-night?” asked the youth suddenly Bobbie gave the information “Heavens!” exclaimed the youth, with great concern “Here am I wasting my time hanging about when I’ve got an engagement with a lady of title at a reunion.”

“Say you forgot all about it,” suggested Bobbie.

“I would,” said the troubled youth confidentially, “only Lady B.’s such a jealous woman It’s as much as she’ll do to let me out of her sight.”

“Well,” remarked Bobbie, chaffingly, “if you will get mixed up with the fair sex, you must put up with the consequences.” The youth went off as the doors opened, and the short, eel-like crowd slipping in demurely, went up the stairs.

When they were all seated it appeared that there was plenty of room for everybody; indeed only the two front rows secured any patrons, and the programme girl at the back, looking down at the scantily filled benches, said something so bitter and satirical to the policeman on duty, that one of her hairpins fell out, and tripped down the steps of the silent gallery, quite startling the few demure people The patrons spoke in whispers; when Bobbie commenced to whistle, with a view of cheering them, they said “Hush!” and frowned at him.

A few people strayed into the dress circle and into the stalls below; the gentlemen declining to buy programmes, and the ladies pinning their tweed caps to their petticoats Bobbie called out very loudly, “Orders!” and the constable up at the back interrupted his conversation with the satirical programme girl to whisper a reproof An important-looking gentleman in white waistcoat came into a box, and surveyed through his opera glasses the gallery with contemptuous air; Bobbie, chafing under this deliberate inspection, and disregarding the indignant looks of his neighbours, said distinctly and repeatedly,—

“Take off that—white—weskit Take off—that—white—weskit Take off—that—white—”

Until the important gentleman had to retire defeated behind the hangings of the box Presently a small orchestra stumbled shyly in, with a conductor, who, having looked round and yawned openly at the house, led them through a sleepy waltz, that eventually induced Bobbie to kick loudly at the wooden front of the gallery The curtain went up to a few bars of a comic song, and then Bobbie, hopeful of enjoyment, took off his frock-coat, and leaned forward expectantly.

The bills described the play as a highly diverting original comedy fantasy, which was so long a title that it might well have included some of the elements of truth; but, as it proved, did not A smart young maid and a mild footman were discovered on the stage, and these dusting at nothing in the elaborate breakfast-room with great energy, explained to each other that master had not been home the previous night, that mistress had gone to meet her aunt at Southampton, that this was a rum household, upon their word, and that they would be glad when they should have made enough money to take that little public-house on which they had set their hearts Nevertheless, the maid boxed the ears of the mild footman soundly when he attempted to kiss her, at which moment one of the many doors in the room opened, and a wild-eyed young man appeared in evening dress, his necktie awry, and a hunted, affrighted look on his face The two servants having taken his hoarsely-whispered commands for breakfast and disappeared, the distraught-looking master, advancing to the footlights, told the nearly empty house the story of his trouble Taking advantage, it seemed, of his wife’s absence, he had been to a fancy dress ball the night before There he had met an exceedingly handsome, opulent lady of South American extraction, who comported herself with great hauteur and coldness until a sudden alarm of “Fire” took place; on the instant he had clung to her from sheer nervousness and she had dragged him safely from the place Arrived outside, the lady, to his amazement, declared him to be her preserver, disclosed her Christian name as Evangeline; swore never to leave him, but to confer upon him her hand in marriage, and when he attempted to fly, ran after him The smart maid here interrupted, announcing, “A lady to see you, sir, and please mistress has arrived.” Entrance of a veiled lady, who, as the young master took refuge under a table, went across and through a doorway; entrance at that instant of young wife; ingenious but inexact explanation of his appearance by the husband; sudden return of the strange lady, who, giving up the veil, cried, “My preserver!” the young husband cried, “My Evangeline!” the young wife cried, “My aunt!” and—curtain on the first act.

“Well,” said Bobbie, looking around, “of all the dam silly plays—Ello! Ello! Who’s pinched my oof?”

“What say, little boy?”

“Who’s took my money,” demanded the boy, his face white He looked under the seat, but it had not fallen out of the pocket “Three or four bob I had and every penny’s gone.”

He turned savagely to the lady next him, “Have you got it?”

So far from having Bobbie’s money, it appeared that the lady herself had lost a purse which she had carried, for the better convenience of the thoughtful young man outside with the travelling rug, in a back pocket which everybody could get at but herself Bobbie, sick and depressed at his loss, sat through the rest of the play trying to think out a plan of action, arriving just before eleven at a decision The husband of the lady who had been robbed of her purse became so elated and triumphant over the event (having, it seemed, always prophesied that this would happen, and being one not often successful in forecasts) that he gave Bobbie sixpence, and Bobbie, after groaning in an unearthly way at the close of the piece, went out and down the stairs into the bright, crowded, busy street, with this coin for only monetary possession.

Charing Cross Station was filled with theatre patrons who, judging from their pleased faces, had been more fortunate than Bobbie, and were now hastening to suburban homes Ladies in gossamer cloaks flew about excitedly in search of their platform; men in evening dress imperilled the catching of their last train by making frantic rushes to the refreshment bar Bobbie discovered that the last train to Paddock Wood had gone; discovered also the platform from which the Tonbridge train (Tonbridge being the next convenient station) started, and, taking advantage of a sudden rush at the barrier, slipped in between the people and was borne by them along the platform There he found the train waiting; found the guard’s van of the train; found a corner in the van, and whilst the young guard collected the offertory from third-class passengers for whom he had found room in another class of carriage, Bobbie secreted himself behind a big square wicker basket The young guard whistled; the engine whistled, the doors banged to, the young guard jumped neatly into his brake, shouting good-night to the officials on the platform; the train went out across the bridge, and presently, after one or two stops, away into the dark country The boy, crouching uncomfortably in ambuscade, consoled himself with anticipation Once in the Duchess’s hotel comfort and he would not again separate Perhaps they would put him in a uniform and make him General Commanding of the Hall; he could see the hall lined with giant palms; polite waiters at the far end guarding entrance to an elaborately-furnished dining-room There would be mirrors with (he felt sure of this) roses painted upon them He could imagine all this; what he could not adequately picture was the elaborate hot breakfast which the Duchess would cause to be prepared for him.

“And now,” said the young guard, entering the van from his compartment, “now for a struggle.”

Bobbie, hiding low behind the square basket, trembled He had some thought of giving himself up and throwing himself upon the mercy of the guard, but he decided to wait He could hear the rustling of pages as the young guard standing under the roof lamp commenced in a loud voice to recite:—

A signalman sat in his signal-boxA thinking of this and that,When the eight-ten mail went rushing by,And he started, for—

The young guard made his way steadily through the verses, then closing the book, tried to recite them without assistance, and partly succeeded, partly failed.

“I shall be no more better perfect by Thursday,” said the young guard hopelessly, “than my old lamp.”

At Tonbridge, when the train stopped—the hour being now near upon one—Bobbie, who had been dozing under the effects of the guard’s recital, warily bestirred himself He waited until the guard had stepped out, and then, by rushing into the centre compartment of the van, he just managed to elude the porters who had thrown open the doors to clear out parcels Bobbie jumped down from the off side of the brake on to the ballast, and intuitively made his way down the line He had to reach the next station, Paddock Wood, and then the course would be clear; in all he guessed there was about a ten miles walk before him, and, by refraining from hurry, this ought to take him through the night He walked carefully away from the station into the black night by the side of the lines, but not so carefully as to avoid an occasional stumble over iron rods connecting the points By good chance he chose the line which would take him to Paddock Wood, and he made his way stolidly in the darkness along the straight rails, the cornet in his tail pocket knocking at his ankles Looking back he saw the red and green lights of the junction that he had left; looking forward he saw nothing Now and again he struck a match for the sake of company, and then for a moment he caught sight of the four shining rails and the tall gaunt telegraph posts; resting at one or two of these posts, he had a talk with them, and listened to their ceaseless humming He was not afraid yet, because a spirit of adventure was in the air; he knew several boys at the Homes who would have shrieked with terror to find themselves alone like this on a black night in a lonely country with which they were not acquainted The dead silence was just beginning to terrify him when far ahead he saw two small white eyes They came nearer and nearer and larger and larger The boy became nervous He stopped and stumbled down into the dry ditch that ran along by the side of the railway; the two white eyes came upon him with a hissing sound, Bobbie put his hands over his face and held his breath A fierce tumultuous rush past; a flash of light Bobbie venturing to remove his hands after a full minute, saw that the engine, out alone at a time of night when all respectable engines should have been abed, was a distance off, its rear light showing redly.

He felt shaken by this, but he made his way doggedly along the loose ballasted walk, through the dark, still night, trying not to think of what he was doing; nevertheless, he still counted the gaunt telegraph posts, and told each of them its number He had been walking, he thought, about an hour and a half, when he saw specks of coloured lights in the distance, and he knew that he was nearing a station From thence he would have to branch off to the right.

“I’m getting on a fair treat,” he said, cheerfully.

At Paddock Wood, noise and commotion that were grateful after the silence of the walk Goods trains blundering about in sidings and excited men with lamps begging them to be reasonable, but the trucks of goods trains declining to listen to advice, and quarrelling and nudging and punching and shoving each other in a great state of ill-temper Engines, on the earnest appeal of the men with lamps, hurried to restore order, and the occasion being one demanding drastic remedy, half a dozen specially quarrelsome trucks were selected for punishment, a masterful engine drew them out on a middle line, and when one of the men with lamps had uncoupled them, the engine made a sudden rush and sent them all flying away into a distant siding where they could no longer interfere with the general order Something of quiet ensuing upon this, the engine-drivers drank hot tea out of tin cans, and the shunters with lamps made a hasty meal of thick bread and thick bacon—a meal interrupted by the arrival of a long, overgrown goods train, which insisted upon ridding itself of a dozen trucks, and went after a while with an exultant shriek at having got the best of somebody Bobbie stood away from all this, watching it with great delight He had begun to feel sleepy This awakened him.

He went out through the flat, silent, straggling village, and found, by climbing a finger-post and striking a match, the direction that he had to take for Brenchley There was a vague touch of lightness now in the starless sky; passing by the quick-set hedge, bordering a churchyard, he could see upright tombstones, dimly white, and the sight depressed the boy, for he knew that here were those whose memory to some was dear The boy came to cross roads, and then found that his box of matches had disappeared through a hole in his frock-coat pocket He sat down with his back against the post fixed in the grass triangle at the centre of the roads; before he had time to warn himself to keep awake, his eyes closed He slept.

“Now, then!” said a voice “Time all boys was out of bed.”

“It’s all right, mother,” said the boy sleepily “I was just getting—”

He rubbed his eyes and looked around Instead of the neat room with its red-counterpaned beds, and the mother of Collingwood Cottage shaking his shoulder—broad daylight and the open country The person who had awakened him was a uniformed man, with a straight-peaked cap which bore the figure of a horse.

“Know where you are?” asked the uniformed man.

“Just beginning to guess,” said the boy blinking.

“Where you bound for?”

“What’s it got to do with you?” asked Bobbie, yawning.

“It’s got all to do with me, as it happens I’m the constable in charge of this district.”

“Ho, yes!” said the boy incredulously “Where’s your ’elmet?”

“Ah!” remarked the constable, with tolerance “You’re town bred, I can see What you got in your tail pocket?”

“Cornet.”

“Whose?”

“Mine,” said the boy defiantly “Who’s did you think?”

“One minute,” said the constable sharply “Haven’t done with you yet, my lad If that’s your cornet, and you’ve come by it honest, you can no doubt play a tune on it.”

“Why should I play a tune to an amateur, ’alf-baked copper like you?”

“I’ve got you,” said the constable gleefully “I’ve got you, my lad, on a piece of string Wandering about with no vis’ble means of subsistence; also in possession of property that he is unable to account for I’ll borrow a dog-cart, and take you off to Tonbridge.”

“Give it a name, then,” said the boy sulkily.

“‘Dreamt I dwelt in marble ’alls,’” suggested the constable.

Bobbie played this, and the constable, much delighted, not only gave up all idea of the dog-cart and Tonbridge, but asked for another verse.

“What time do you make it?” asked Bobbie, wiping his lips.

He felt hungry; the thought of hot coffee and hot rolls, and broiled ham and eggs, waiting for him at the Duchess’s magnificent hotel, made him anxious The constable lifted a huge watch from his trousers pocket “Wants a quarter to six,” he said.

“’Appen to know a place up at Brenchley called ‘The Happy Retreat’?”

“Do I not.”

“Rather fine hotel, isn’t it? One of the most important places of its kind in the district, eh?”

“Of its kind,” said the constable, “yes.”

“Do an extr’ordinary business there, don’t they?”

“Most extr’ordinary.”

“Which road do I take to get to it quickest?” The constable pointed with his stick “I know the landlord and the landlady, and I want to get there for breakfast.”

“I could see you was well connected,” remarked the constable pleasantly, “by the fit of your coat Give my regards to ’em, and tell ’em from me that ten o’clock’s their time for closing, not ’alf-past.”

“Right,” said Bobbie.

“Give us another verse of ‘Dreamt I dwelt,’” begged the constable, “’fore you go.”

The country was already rousing itself, being a country that went to bed early, and able, therefore, to rise betimes Smoke puffed straight out of the chimneys stuck atop of the infrequent cottages; a grateful scent of boiling tea came from the open doors across the gardens of flowers to the roadway Conceited poultry strutted out to the gate and crowed; birds up in the trees whistled and chirruped ceaselessly; rooks flew about near a row of tall poplars trying their voices, voices which seemed rather hoarse and out of practice At one place by the side of the roadway where the green border was spacious, gipsies in their yellow-painted van were bestirring themselves, and scantily-clothed, brown-skinned children affected to wash at the brook whilst their parents quarrelled loudly The male parent broke off to call to Bobbie, asking him if he wanted a lift to London Bobbie shook his head, and hurried on up the hill A postman went by on his tricycle, reading the postcards entrusted to him as he went; at the diamond-patterned windows on the top floor of cottages, apple-cheeked, white-shouldered girls were doing their hair, holding a rope of it between their teeth and plaiting the rest A tramp who had been sleeping in a barn slouched along, picking straws from his deplorable clothes and swearing softly to himself Men in thick, earth-covered boots came out of their houses to go to their work in the fields, and small babies waved hands to them from the protected doorways Bobbie noticed, away from the road, a small, dilapidated house with a vague, unintelligible sign-post, and anxious to arrive at the Duchess’s hotel without error, he went to inquire He pushed open the door; stepped in on the floor of uneven bricks A lazy smell of stale beer pervaded the low-ceilinged passage; to the right was a room with a dirty table, dirtier by reason of sticky rings made by pots of beer At the end of the table, smooth spaces caused by practice of the game of shove-halfpenny.

“Shop!” called Bobbie.

No answer! He went through the passage It was a beer-house evidently; a few casks stood about and unwashed earthenware mugs lined the counter Dirt and untidiness everywhere Upstairs he heard a voice crooning, and he listened anxiously, for the song seemed familiar.

You should see us in our landor when we’re drivin’ in the Row,You should ’ear us chaff the dukes and belted earls.We’re daughters of nobility—

“The Duchess!” cried the boy.

The song stopped A window of the room above opened and the Duchess’s voice could be heard upbraiding Mr. Leigh.

“Fat lot of good you do pottering about in the garden and pretendin’ you was born and bred in the country Wish to goodness we was back in Ely Place again.”

Mr. Leigh begged that the Duchess would hold her row and let him get on with his scarlet runners in peace.

“Peace?” cried the Duchess, scornfully “There’s a jolly sight too much peace about this dead and alive ’ole I’m a woman used to a certain amount of seeciety.”

Mr. Leigh advised her to go downstairs and have a drop of beer and then get back to bed again.

“Beer and bed,” complained the Duchess with great contempt “That’s about all there is in this place I’d rather be Bat Miller and—”

“For goodness sake,” begged Mr. Leigh, “’ush.”

“Shan’t ’ush,” declared the Duchess, preparing to slam the window “I shall tell everybody why we’re come ’ere and what you—”

Mr. Leigh, speaking for once with decision, said imperatively, “Shut that winder and shut your mouth, or else I’ll come and do both.”

The Duchess obeyed, and Bobbie stood back as he heard her coming in slippered feet down the stairs Few of us look our best at six o’clock in the morning, and the Duchess formed no exception It was not easy to glance at her without a shudder.

The boy turned and hurried out He ran swiftly, crying as he went, down the hill to the gipsies’ van.

Ten

Myddleton West still lived in the rooms over a fancy wool shop in Fetter Lane, which he had rented when he first came to London At times he had thought of going into one of the Inns close by, and had inspected chambers there, but he found so many ghosts on every landing that, although a man of fair courage, he became affrighted Over the fancy wool shop in Fetter Lane, no shadows interfered The Misses Langley kept his rooms carefully dusted, seeing that the panel photograph of an attractive young nurse, with a thoughtful face, never moved from its position of honour on the mantelpiece Myddleton West was getting on in the world and earning agreeable cheques every month; like many young men in this position, he found it difficult to increase his expenses without taking inordinate pains Consequently he gave up attempts in this direction, and remained in Fetter Lane, writing early and late on any subject that the world offered, finding this the only way to keep his mind from the thoughtful young woman of the panel portrait Rarely she took brief holiday from the ward of which she was sister, and they met by appointment at an aerated bread shop, where, over chocolate, she knitted her pretty forehead and talked with the concentrated wisdom of at least three hundred young women, on Myddleton West becoming urgent in his protestations of love, reproving him with a quaint air of austerity that at once annoyed and delighted him He found no argument in favour of their marriage that she did not instantly defeat by a proud reference to the work which Fate had assigned to her This was their only contentious subject; once free of it they were on excellent terms, and West took her on from the tea-rooms to private views and to afternoon performances at the theatre, and to concerts, and was an enchanted man until the moment came for her to fly back in her grey silk cloak to the hospital.

“Hullo!” said Myddleton West.

“Excuse me interrupting, sir, in your writing work.”

“Doesn’t matter, Miss Langley.”

“As I often say to my sister,” persisted the thin lady at the doorway, “no one can possibly write sense if they’re to be continually broken in on—if I may use the expression—and—”

“Somebody called to see me?” asked West, patiently.

“And badgered out of their life,” concluded the lady “I’m sure writing must be quite sufficient a tax on the brains without—”

“Miss Langley.”

“Sir to you.”

“Do I understand that some one has called to see me?”

“Mr. West,” confessed Miss Langley, with a burst of frankness, “some one has called to see you.”

“Then,” said Myddleton West, definitely, “show them up.”

“It isn’t a them, sir, it’s only a bit of a lad.”

“Very well, show him up.”

West finished the sentence which he had commenced, and then, hearing a slipping footstep, swung round in his chair again A boy in a long worn frock-coat, his bowler hat dented, stood at the doorway, white of face, his under lip not quite under control.

“Wha’ cheer?” said the boy with an effort to appear at ease “How goes it with you?”

“Wait a bit,” said Myddleton West, rising and standing in front of the fireplace “Let me see now if I can remember you Take off your hat.” West dropped his pince-nez and peered across the room at the boy “I’ll have three shots,” he said presently “Your name is Cumberland.”

“Not a bit like it.”

“I met you—let me see—at an inquest in Hoxton some years ago; I saw you later at the police station.”

“You’re getting warmer Now try the letter L.”

“And your name is Lincoln.”

“Bit more to the left.”

“Lancaster!”

“A bull’s-eye!” said the white-faced boy approvingly “What’ll you ’ave, cigar or a cokernut?” He staggered a little and caught the back of the chair.

“Hungry?” asked West sharply.

“You are a good guesser,” replied Bobbie, slipping to the chair “I ’aven’t had a thing to eat for—for a day and a half.”

Myddleton West snatched a serviette from the drawer and spread it on the table in front of the boy In another moment half a loaf of bread, a knuckle of ham, and cheese were on the serviette; in much less than another moment Bobbie had commenced.

“Excuse me wolfin’ me food,” said the boy with his mouth full “Don’t suppose you know what it is to be famishing I’ve had rather rough times the last few days.”

“But you went to the Poor Law schools surely Did you run away?”

“Yes,” said Bobbie ruefully “And I wish now I hadn’t Can I trouble you for a glass of water, sir?”

“Like some lemonade?” asked Myddleton West.

“So long as it’s moist, sir, and there’s plenty of it, I don’t mind what it is.”

“And you’re not getting on well as an independent man?”

“I’m getting on,” said Bobbie, holding up the glass with a trembling hand, “pretty awful.” He drank and smacked his lips appreciatively, “Ah!” he said, “that’s something like!”

“Eat slowly.”

“Does it matter if I finish the bread, sir?”

“I shall be disappointed if you don’t.”

“Then rather’n cause you any annoyance,” said Bobbie with reviving spirits, “I’ll undertake to clear it all up.”

The meal finished, the boy asked for a cigarette, and, smoking this with great enjoyment, told Myddleton West his adventures The journey back from Brenchley had not been without drawbacks At Orpington, Bobbie had interfered on behalf of the gipsy’s wife, with the perfectly natural result that she had turned on him indignantly, and both man and wife had, in turns, thrashed him, and had then started him adrift without his cornet From Orpington to London he had walked.

“And now,” said Bobbie—“and now my difficulty is how to get back to the ’omes without looking a silly fool What would you advise, sir?”

“I should send a wire,” counselled Myddleton West promptly “Apologize for your absence, and say that you will be there in a few hours.”

“It’d pave the way a bit,” acknowledged the boy.

“Here’s a form Write the address of the Superintendent.”

“You must tell us what else to say.”

The telegram drawn up on the dictation of the newspaper man, seemed to Bobbie an admirable document; one calculated to remove difficulties Miss Langley being summoned, the boy was conveyed to the kitchen downstairs, where, furnished with a cake of yellow soap, he remained under the tap for about ten minutes This so much improved his appearance that when Myddleton West started with him to take train at Blackfriars, the two sisters forced upon his acceptance a triangular chunk of seed cake and a gay almanack with a portrait of the Princess of Wales, which Bobbie decided to take as a propitiatory offering to the mother of Collingwood Cottage The telegram was despatched from an office in Fleet Street after Bobbie had read it through once more with increased satisfaction.

“It ain’t too humble,” he said approvingly, “and it ain’t too much the other way Seems to me to hit the ’appy medium.”

The fares from Temple Station to Bishopsgate and from Liverpool Street to the destination being ascertained from a railway time book, Bobbie agreed to accept from Myddleton West the precise amount and no more He showed gratitude with less reserve than he would have exhibited in the years before he entered the Homes, and, as he trotted beside the long-legged journalist, he endeavoured politely to find a subject for conversation that would be pleasing to his companion.

“How are you getting along with your young lady, sir?” he asked with interest.

“No progress,” replied West.

“You don’t go the right way to work,” said Bobbie knowingly “Women folk can be managed if you only exercise a bit of what I call ingenuity.”

“I am always willing, Master Lancaster, to listen to the voice of experience.”

“What you want to do,” said the young sage, changing step as they went down Arundel Street, “is to be artful without lettin’ ’em see that you’re artful.”

“I know of no plan,” said West, “by which, under modern conditions, you can force a lady to marry you if she has decided not to do so.”

“Pretend there’s another lady,” suggested Bobbie;

“Always a risk that the announcement may be received with undisguised satisfaction.”

“Can but give it a trial,” urged Bobbie “If she’s an ordinary sort of young lady, strikes me she’ll marry you like a shot Is this my station?”

“This is the Temple Station,” said West “Buy your ticket and be careful not to get out of the train before you get to Bishopsgate.”

“All right,” said Bobbie “I’m old enough to take care of meself.”

“Let me know that you get down safely.”

“I shall be as right as rain now I feel like twenty shillings in the pound since I saw you, sir.”

“Good-bye,” said Myddleton West, holding out his hand, “and good luck to you.”

“Good-bye,” said Bobbie, taking the hand awkwardly, “and good luck to you, sir You know what I mean And I’m—I’m very much obliged for all your—”

“There’s a train coming,” interrupted West “Down you go.”

Bobbie, seated near the window of the impetuous underground train, held tightly the large card intender for the mother of Collingwood Cottage, and as he read advertisements in the compartment congratulated himself on the change of circumstances that had come to him within the last hour He felt grateful for this, and decided that once safely back in the homes and enjoying the sunshine of favour again, he would comport himself in a manner that would be gratifying to those who wished him well The bitter days of the journey up from Brenchley had proved to him that the world was full of unforeseen and highly inconvenient rocks for a boy who had no one to pilot him; he must wait until he became older before he courted the responsibility of taking charge of himself In less than an hour he would be through the gates of the Homes; the delicate matter of his return would be all over, and the past few days could be sponged from memory So far as concerned the underground railway there could be no complaint of delay, for the train seemed in a great hurry to get round the circle, stopping momentarily at one or two stations in a breathless, panting manner, as who should say, Oh, for goodness sake, don’t stop me, I’m behind-hand as it is, some other time I’ll come round and stay, but just now really—

Other passengers in the compartment went out at one of the stations, and Bobbie stood up at the open window as the train hurried through the black smoky tunnel The train pulled up, gasping, at another station, starting again immediately with a rough jerk that knocked the card out of Bobbie’s hand on to the platform He jumped out, picked up the portrait and attempted to re-enter the compartment The porters shouted,—

“Stan’ away from the train there!”

“Stan’ away, can’t you, stan’ away!”

“Whoa! Stop! You’ll break the door!”

The train pulled up suddenly in a great state of annoyance At the end of the platform, where the black tunnel began, the boy had been flung and lay a mere bundle on the platform The carriage door closed; the train went on into the tunnel ill-temperedly The entire staff and a few stray passengers surrounded the senseless bundle on the platform.

“Here,” said the inspector to one of the porters, “you’re a ‘first aid’ man See if you can tell what the damage is.”

“He’s ’urt,” said the “first aid” man, with a professional air.

“Yes, yes,” remarked the inspector, “we could have all guessed that.”

“It’s a case for the ’ospital,” said the “first aid” man cautiously “I don’t feel justified in trying my ’and at it.”

“Then,” said the inspector, “fetch the ambulance cart, someone, for the poor little beggar, and let’s get him there as quick as possible We can’t have passengers dying about here.”

Eleven

Into a long broad ward with scarlet counterpaned cots, headed against the wall on either side, and a shining floor between, Bobbie Lancaster, after being with ever so much tenderness bathed and combed in a small room, was conveyed, and there he relinquished for a few weeks his identity and became Number Twenty The young doctor whom he saw when first brought into the hospital had whistled softly, and had murmured the words “compound fracture”; the damaged boy felt glad that the injury was of some importance and likely to attract attention He woke the morning following his arrival on tea being brought round at five o’clock, to find that his arm, accurately bound up with two small boards, gave him less pain than be had expected There was an acceptable scent of cleanliness in the ward, helped sternly by the universal scent of carbolic, receiving more joyful volunteer assistance from the bowl of heliotrope on the Sister’s table at the centre Turning his head, Bobbie saw a comfortable fire blazing away not far from him; a fire that made all polished things reflect its flames; saw, too, that some of his neighbours were unable to rise, and had to be fed by the white-aproned nurses going softly to each cot One or two of the numbers had arched protectors under the bedclothes to keep the sheets from touching their small bodies; Number Twenty-one had a head so fully bandaged that there was not much of his face to be seen but the eyes and the tip of a nose; wherefore he was called by the others “Fifth of November.” Bobbie’s other immediate neighbour, Number Nineteen, a white-faced boy, lost no time in bragging to the new-comer that he possessed hips about as bad as hips could manage to be.

“Well, Twenty,” said the nurse to Bobbie cheerfully “You going to stay at our hotel for a few weeks?” The nurse was a pleasing round-faced young woman, who signalled the approach of an ironical remark by winking; in the absence of this intimation the ward understood Nurse Crowther to be serious “All the nobility come here,” said Nurse Crowther, deflecting her eyelid, “seem to have given up Homburg and Wiesbaden and places, and to have made up their mind to come to Margaret Ward Here’s Lord Bailey, otherwise known as Nineteen, for instance.” The white-faced boy laughed at this personal allusion “He’s given up everything,” declared Nurse Crowther “Dances, receptions, partridge shooting, and I don’t know what all, just in order that he should come and spend a few months here with us Isn’t that right, Nineteen?”

“Gawspel!” affirmed little Nineteen, in a whisper.

“It must affect some of the other fashionable resorts,” said Nurse Crowther, pursuing the facetious vein “I’m told that there’s nobody at Trouville this year, and as for Switzerland—”

“All the time you’re trying to be funny,” complained Master Lancaster, “you’re letting my milk get cold Why don’t you attend to bisness first?”

“Hope you’re not going to be a tiresome boy,” said the nurse.

“Wait and see.”

“I must bring the Sister to see you presently You’ve got a nice open face.”

“If I’ve got an open face I can keep me mouth shut,” said Twenty, drinking his milk “That’s more than some of you can.”

“Arm pretty comfortable this morning?” asked the nurse, good-temperedly, as she smoothed the scarlet counterpane “Had a good night’s rest? Weren’t disturbed by the noise of the traffic, were you? What—”

“One at a time, one at a time,” said Twenty crossly “I can’t answer forty thousand blooming questions at once.”

“Sit back now, there’s a dear, and keep as quiet as you can till the doctors come round.”

“What time do they put in an appearance?”

“That, dear duke,” said the nurse winking, “entirely depends upon you You have but to say the word.”

“If there’s one thing I can’t stand more’n another,” said the boy, settling himself down cautiously, “it is gels trying to be comic.”

The young doctor with three or four men still younger, and all of them endeavouring to look an incalculable age, paid their visit to Margaret Ward in due course, and Bobbie felt indignant because whereas they stayed at the end of his bed but a couple of minutes writing some casual marks on the blue form pinned on the board above his head, at the next bed they ordered a screen to be placed, and behind this they remained in consultation over the white-faced little Nineteen for quite a long time When they had gone, Bobbie salved his jealousy by telling Nineteen at once that Nineteen need not think himself everybody, giving a long list of imaginary complaints that he (Bobbie) had in the past suffered from, ranging in character from a wart on the knuckles to complete paralysis of the right side This seemed to restrain any idea that Nineteen might have had of exhibiting conceit, and that little chap contented himself by offering to bet two to one in halfpennies that he would he the next in the Margaret Ward to go Bobbie forced the odds to three to one, and then closed with the wager.

“I shan’t be sorry,” said white-faced Nineteen, “’pon me word I shan’t It can’t be much worse than this.”

“You be careful how you talk,” advised Bobbie “A man that’s getting near to kicking the bucket can’t be too cautious of what he says.”

“Likely as not,” said Nineteen, “it’ll he a jolly sight better than this.”

“How can you tell?”

“Anyway,” said Nineteen, “it’ll he a rare old lark to watch and see what ’appens I ’eard a man arguin’ once in Victoria Park that those what put up with a lot in this world, got it all their own way in the next, and vicer verser.”

“How did he get to know?”

“Of course,” admitted Nineteen, “it’s all speculation.” Little Nineteen yawned “I feel bit tired.”

“You take jolly good care what you’re about, old man,” recommended Bobbie “You’ll look jolly silly if you find yourself all at once in ’ell.”

“Even that’d be interesting.”

“And hot,” said Bobbie.

“I shouldn’t mind chancing it a bit,” said Nineteen, “only there’s the old woman She worries about me a good deal, she does.”

“Your mother?”

“She’d he upset if she thought I hadn’t gone to ’Eaven.” Nineteen gave the skeleton of a laugh “You know what Primitive Methodists are,” he added excusingly.

“Tell you what,” said Bobbie “If anything ’appens to you and you pop off the hooks, I’ll tell her that you were going there all right, and I’ll make up something about angels, and say they was your last words See!”

“I shall take it very kind of you,” said little Nineteen thankfully.

“You leave it me And touchin’ that bet Just occurs to me If you lose you mayn’t be able to pay.”

“If I win I shan’t be able to dror it off of you.”

“Never mind,” said Bobbie, “we’ll see what ’appens.”

“I’ve never stole nothin’,” urged Nineteen, after a pause.

“You’re all right.” With some awkwardness.

“I’ve never had a copper even speak to me.”

“You’re as right as ninepence There’s lots of cheps worse than you.”

“I’ve got to ’ave port wine and jellies,” remarked Nineteen after a pause.

“Some of you get all the luck,” said Bobbie At which Nineteen dozed off contentedly.

When, later in the morning, the tall young Sister came up to Bobbie’s cot and introduced herself, he permitted her to talk for some time, and watched her quiet, attractive face Dressed in her plain gown, she looked, the boy thought, perfect, and he touched the white hand that rested on the coverlet of his bed with shy respect Sister Margaret talked of his accident; chatted about the other numbers of the ward Leaving him for a moment to give white-faced Nineteen a kiss, she was called back by Bobbie.

“I say, Miss.”

“Well, Twenty.”

“Something to ask you Bend down.”

As the tall young woman obeyed, Bobbie put one hand to his mouth in order that his confidential inquiry might not be heard by the other boys “How’s your young man?” he whispered.

Sister Margaret flushed and stood upright.

“What do you mean, Twenty?” she answered, severely “You must understand that here we don’t allow boys to be impudent.”

“It’s all right, Miss,” whispered Bobbie “Don’t fly all to pieces I’m not chaffing of you I mean Mr. West—Mr. Myddleton West.”

“You know Mr. West?” she said, bending down again.

“Rather!” said the boy “Saw your photograph in his place yesterday Only one in the room.”

She sat down beside the bed, her eyes taking a light of interest Bobbie looking round the ward to see that this special honour was being noted, and observed that the numbers on the opposite side scowled jealously at him.

“I’ve known him off and on,” said Bobbie, “these two or three years Good sort, he is.”

“Mr. West is indeed a very good fellow,” said the Sister earnestly “But you—you are wrong, Twenty, in assuming that we are engaged Nothing, in point of fact, is further from the truth We are very good friends, and that is all.”

“You don’t kid me,” said the boy knowingly.

“Twenty! I shall be extremely annoyed if, whilst you are in the ward, you couple my name with Mr. West’s.”

“Shouldn’t think of doing so, Sister,” he said seriously “If there’s one thing I can do better than another it is keeping a secret Once I make up my mind to shut my mouth, wild ’orses wouldn’t open it.”

“I like him,” she went on (it appeared that the Sister was not averse to speaking of Myddleton West), “I like him very much, but it is possible to like a person, Twenty, without going so far as to become engaged.”

“Depends!”

“There are several courses open nowadays to women,” she said half to herself, and with something of enthusiasm “It is no longer marriage or nothing for them There are certain duties in the world—public duties—that a woman can take upon herself, and marriage would only interfere with their performance The old idea of woman’s place in the world was, to my mind, not quite decent We are getting away from all that, and we are coming to see that the possibilities—”

“Don’t he mind your taking up with this nonsense?” asked Bobbie The boy’s interruption stopped the argumentative young woman She laughed brightly at finding herself lecturing to Twenty on this subject, and, smoothing his pillow before she went, asked him with a smile whether he did not agree with her.

“I call it a silly ass of an idea,” he said frankly.

This was not the last talk that he had with the tall young Sister of the ward, and for some days in that week the ward inclined to mutiny on account of the disproportionate time that she gave to Twenty and to little Nineteen It almost seemed that Nineteen showed signs of improvement under the combined influence of her visits and the companionship of Bobbie his neighbour; Bobbie’s predecessor had been a gloomy boy, with his own views in regard to details of eternal torments, and Bobbie’s optimism cheered the white-faced boy so much that when his tearful mother came to see him, being by special permission admitted at any time, she found herself debating with him on his walk in life when he should grow up, and discussing the relative advantages of the position of engine-driver as compared with that of policeman Nineteen introducing his neighbour, Nineteen’s mother gave Bobbie two oranges and an illuminated card bearing minatory texts Bobbie enjoyed the oranges.

“I think he’s better, nurse,” said Nineteen’s mother respectfully “Seems to have got more colour, and—”

“It’s my belief,” answered Nurse Crowther at the foot of the bed, “that there’s nothing whatever the matter with his lordship I believe it’s all his nonsense I tell him that he’ll have to take me to the theatre some evening, soon as ever he gives up playing this game of lying in bed.”

Little Nineteen smiled faintly The good-humoured nurse went and placed her cool hand on his forehead.

“I don’t hold with theatres, nurse,” said Nineteen’s mother precisely “To my mind chapel is a great deal better than all these devil’s playhouses.”

“Dam sight duller,” remarked Bobbie.

“Twenty! I’m surprised.”

“Well, nurse,” said Bobbie excusingly, “she said ‘devil.’”

“Anyway,” remarked Nurse Crowther, “we’re going to dodge off somewhere, the very first day he gets well, aren’t we, Nineteen?”

Happy nod of acquiescence from the tired boy.

“And we shan’t say anything to anybody else about it, shall we, Nineteen?”

Not a word, signalled poor Nineteen.

“And, goodness! how people will stare when they see us on the steamer together off to Rosherville.”

“I’ll come with you,” interposed Bobbie from the next bed.

“Not likely,” declared Nurse Crowther, with another wink “Two’s company, three’s a crowd Aye, Nineteen?”

“Most decidedly,” intimated the delighted boy.

“And now it’s time for your little pick-me-up Say good-bye to your mother.”

Nineteen’s mother, having said good-bye, drew the nurse aside, whispering a question, and Bobbie heard the answer, “No hope!” This startled Bobbie, and made him think; presently he worked so hard in the endeavour to cheer little Nineteen that Sister Margaret had to command silence, because Nineteen required rest That night, when the ward was silent, Bobbie watched him as he lay with eyes closed, his breathing short and irregular, and for almost the first time in his life, Bobbie thought seriously of the desirability—taking everything into consideration—of becoming religious.

He could see the red fire, and watching it he considered this entirely new suggestion He lifted the bed-clothes to shield himself from the sight of the distant fireplace, for he was becoming heated It required much determination to put gloomy thoughts from him; when he had partly succeeded in doing this he looked again at the fire, and then he knew that there were tears in his eyes, because the light of the fire became starry and confused in appearance He sniffed and rubbed his eyes It seemed that he could see another fire, a small one, near to the grate, and this he assumed to be an optical delusion until it crept along a black rug and commenced to blaze, whereupon he slipped cautiously out of bed; his bandaged arm paining, despite his care, and called for the nurse An answer did not come immediately, and the boy hurried bare-footed, in his scarlet gown only, across the floor to the burning rug Afterwards, he remembered rolling it up awkwardly with one hand and stamping upon it; the night nurse hurrying up with a scream, forty heads up in forty cots—it was then for the first and last time in his life that Bobbie fainted.

“We shall have to send you to a home, Twenty.” Sister Margaret looked on a day or two later, whilst Nurse Crowther re-bound the lint and wool “A convalescent home down by the sea-side, upon a hill, where you can watch the shipping, and—”

“That’ll suit me down to the ground, Sister.”

“I believe he got burnt purposely, Sister,” declared Nurse Crowther, “so that he should have a nice long holiday Wish to goodness I was half as artful as Twenty is.”

“I’m sure,” said Sister Margaret sedately, “that Twenty is a very brave boy If it hadn’t been for his courage there might have been quite a serious fire.”

Twenty blushed.

“Twenty has qualities,” went on the tall Sister, “that if properly directed—I should bring it twice over the knee, nurse, I think—will make him a fine young fellow, and a credit to his country.” Sister Margaret had raised her voice in order that her words might be heard The ward listened alertly; little Nineteen, whose eyelids were now very tired, moving his head in order to hear “Wrongly directed,” she said, lowering her voice, “they will only make him dangerous.”

“I should rather like to grow up and—and be brave,” said little Nineteen from the next bed.

“So you shall,” declared Nurse Crowther, cheerily, “so you shall, Nineteen If you don’t get the Victoria Cross some day, Nineteen, never believe me again.” Little Nineteen consoled, closed his eyes wearily “As for you, Marquis,” went on Nurse Crowther, pinning the end of the roll with which Bobbie’s limb had been enveloped, “I believe that what Sister says is perfectly true If you can only keep on the main line you’ll make a capital journey Only don’t get branching off.”

“If I don’t get along in the world,” said Bobbie, with a touch of his old impudence, “it won’t he for the want of telling.”

“You ought to be grateful, my Lord Bishop,” said Nurse Crowther, adjusting the bed-clothes carefully, “that you’ve got so many friends.”

“Me!” echoed the boy “Why, I ain’t got a friend in the world.”

“Twenty!” said Sister Margaret reprovingly “And Mr. West is coming all the way down here next visiting day specially to see you.”

“To see me?”

“Yes,” said Sister Margaret, a little unsteadily, “to see you.”

“Reckon,” said the boy, looking up, “he’s going to kill two birds with one stone What he’s really coming for is to see—”

“Twenty,” she commanded, “silence!”

“Is to-morrow visiting day?” asked the thin voice of Nineteen, sleepily.

“To-morrow,” replied Nurse Crowther “And mind you’re nice and bright, Saucy Face, by three o’clock against your mother comes.”

In the ward the next day occurred the usual excitement that preceded an afternoon for visitors Little Nineteen alone uninterested; it almost seemed that he had ceased to take concern in worldly matters such as the arrival of apples and other contraband, and to be content, when not asleep, with staring very hard at the ceiling Bobbie himself, cheered by receipt of a kindly note from Collingwood Cottage, gave his best endeavours to the task of enlivening Nineteen (“Sop me goodness,” said Bobbie, reproachfully to himself, “if I ain’t getting fond of the little beggar”), but with no result Elsewhere in the ward movement and expectation; Sister Margaret and the nurses had trouble to preserve sanity amongst the boy patients Thirty-five declared privately his opinion that all the clocks were slow; that someone had put them back on purpose; Thirty-five added darkly that if he could find the person responsible for the deed he would make it a County Court job Nevertheless, the hour presently struck, and two minutes afterwards came the sound of many footsteps in the passage; the swing doors opened, and the visitors marched in under the narrow inspection of every scarlet-gowned occupant of every scarlet-counterpaned bed There were sounds of kissing in different parts of the ward Bobbie ordered Nineteen to wake up and look sharp about it, but little Nineteen did not answer.

“If you please, Miss, is there a boy named Robert Lancaster in this ward?”

Bobbie’s head came up Nurse Crowther pointed him out to a young girl, dressed quietly, her hair rolled up into a neat bunch, and wearing brown gloves fiercely new She carried a small paper bag, and looked casually at her silver watch as she advanced to the bedside of Twenty.

“What ho!” said Bobbie, not unkindly “Who sent for you?”

“Mother told me I might come,” said Miss Trixie Bell, breathlessly, “and mother sent this bunch of the best grapes she could get in Spitalfields Market, and mother said I was to give you her kind regards, and tell you to get well as soon as you could.”

“Left to meself,” said Bobbie, “I should never ’ave thought of that They ain’t so dusty them grapes, though, are they?” he added, admiringly.

“I should rather think not,” said Trixie “They cost money How’s your arm? You look nice and neat in your scarlet—” Miss Bell checked herself and bit her lips “I nearly said bed-gown,” she remarked, apologetically, taking out her watch again.

“You’ve altered,” said Bobbie, “since you came to see me last.”

“Mother says I’m going to grow up tall.”

“Take care you don’t grow up silly the same time Where’d you get your watch from?”

“Fancy your noticing,” said Trixie Bell, delightedly “That’s new to-day Mother gave it me because it was my birthday, and I’d helped nicely with the shop.”

“Many ’appy returns,” he said, gruffly.

“Thank you, Bobbie.”

“Ever see anything of them Drysdale Street bounders? I mean Nose and Libbis and—”

“I never take no notice of nobody,” said the young lady, precisely “Mother says its best to ignore them altogether Mother says its unwise even to pass the time of day So when they call out after me, I simply walk on as though I hadn’t ’eard.”

“That’s right,” said Bobbie, approvingly.

“Your neighbour’s asleep.”

“Little beggar’s always at it He’ll wake up directly when his mother comes.”

A scent of flowers and a familiar deep voice Trixie, who had been resting one elbow on the pillow, drew back, as Myddleton West came up.

“Well, young man,” said Myddleton West, cheerily, “how are we getting on? Sister Margaret has been telling me of your fire brigade exploit.”

“That was nothing.”

“It might have been, apparently, if you had not acted as you did This a friend of yours?” Miss Bell stood up and bowed “Why, I’ve met you two together before On a tram going Shoreditch way on the night when—”

“Let bygones be bygones,” said Bobbie, uneasily “That was ages ago.”

“When you were mere boy and girl?”

“Jesso!”

“Sister Margaret thinks of getting you away to a convalescent home,” said Myddleton West.

“You seem to have had a rare old chat with her,” said the boy, pointedly “Give her them flowers, instead of leaving them here They’ll please her.”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Trixie, “don’t you think you ought to call the nurse for this little chap in the next bed? I’ve just touched his hand, and somehow—”

Nurse Crowther and another nurse come quickly to the bed of Nineteen Nurse Crowther flies for the screen; when this is fixed around the bed, a doctor is sent for The doctor hurries in, goes away directly, but the screen remains Nineteen’s mother arriving tardily with oranges for her boy, is admitted behind the screen, and there comes presently the sound of weeping.

“Ain’t he woke up, Nurse?” asks Bobbie, anxiously.

“Nearly time for visitors to go,” says Nurse Crowther “You’ll soon have to say good-bye Nice bright day outside, they tell me.”

“Ain’t he woke up yet, Nurse?”

“Who, your Highness?”

“Why, Nineteen.”

For once Nurse Crowther’s wink declines to respond to her summons Her lips move, and she puts her hand up to control them.

“My chick,” she says, “Nineteen won’t wake again in this world.” The bed clothes go quickly over Bobbie’s head, and remain there for some few minutes When Sister Margaret’s voice is heard warning visitors of the approach of half-past four, his head reappears rather shamefacedly.

“Trixie.”

“Yes, Bobbie.”

“Anybody looking?”

“Not a soul.”

“Well,” whispers Bobbie, “if you like to bend down, you can give me a kiss.”

Miss Bell takes sedate advantage of this offer, and, readjusting her hat, when she has done so, finds her bright brown gloves.

“Thank you, Bobbie,” says Miss Bell Then she adds very softly, “Dear.”

“Not so much of the ‘dear,’” orders Bobbie.

Twelve

The seaside institution to which Bobbie, with an attention that could not have been exceeded if he had been paying money recklessly to everybody around him, found himself conveyed, exactly fitted his desires The cool, calm order of the place, the quiet service of serene women attendants in their dark gowns and white aprons, the well-chosen table, the pure white linen in spotless bedrooms—all these things, that might have irritated the boy had he been perfectly well, were, in his convalescent state, precisely what he required The days had become warmer, and it was possible to spend a good deal of time on the wooden balconies of the Swiss-like building From these balconies he could look away across the green waters, with their patches of dark purple; could watch the Channel steamer puffing its way across, presently to enter the harbour below The harbour itself never ceased to delight him There it was that steamers rested in a dignified manner when off duty, submitting themselves to an energetic washing of decks and rubbing of brasswork; near them, brown-sailed fishing vessels for ever going out to sea or coming back from sea, manned by limited crews, who shouted in the dialect of the Kentish coast, and whose aim in life it appeared to be not so much to do work themselves as to tell others to do it The scent of the sea came up to the balconies, and most of the boys in varying stages of repair who inhaled it, declared their intention, once they had regained possession of that health which for the moment eluded them, of becoming admirals in her Majesty’s navy Bobbie Lancaster on this subject said nothing, which was his way when engaged in making up his mind.

Stages marked the progress of improvement One of the earliest came on permission being granted to walk about the green-grassed lawn around the Home, with its summer-houses, where, over the fence in the evenings, you could observe sons of mariners wooing, with economic speech, daughters of other mariners, and kissing them, under the impression that no one but a Martello tower looked on.

Here Bobbie himself fell in love.

A breezy curate attached to the church close by, for ever flying in and out of the Home with no hat, and an appearance of having another engagement of a highly urgent character for which he was a little late, hurried in one day to look round the sitting-room where the guests played dominoes, and found Bobbie well enough to go out; so well, indeed, that he had arranged to go down the long road towards the white cliffs in company with an adult patient, who, being in ordinary times a stoker on a London Bridge and Greenwich steamboat, posed as authority on all matters concerning the navy, and arbitrator in disputes concerning that branch of the service Breezy Curate, in less than no time at all, found other work for the naval authority, gained the necessary permission from the Lady Superintendent, and was away with Bobbie, walking so fast that he had to run back now and then in the manner of a frisky terrier, in order that Bobbie should keep up with him Ere the boy had time or breath to ask questions they arrived at the door of a round squat Martello tower (called by elderly acquaintances Billy Pitt’s Mansion), where he was lugged in and introduced to the coastguardsman who lived there; introduced also to coastguardsman’s immense niece, who appeared to Bobbie, panting on a chair, like a very large angel, only better dressed and much better looking, and who, it appeared, came in daily to make tidy her uncle’s tower Breezy Curate, before hastening off for a fly along the cliffs, made the boy a friend of Coastguard and Coastguard’s niece, and promised to call back for him in an hour.

“Reckon you’ve been ’avin’ games, young man, ain’t you?” said Coastguard sternly “What made you fall down and step on yerself in that manner for, eh?”

Bobbie explained When he described the fire in Margaret Ward, the large angel, making tea and toasting bread that filled the small room with most appetizing odours, looked up.

“Bravo,” said the young woman “Come here and I’ll give ye a kiss for that.”

Bobbie hesitated.

“Go on, lad,” counselled her uncle; “there’s them that wouldn’t want to be asked twice to do that, jigger me if they would.”

“Uncle!” said the large angel reprovingly “Do give over.”

Bobbie considered it proof of the young woman’s angelic nature that, seeing he did not stir, she came to him, toasting-fork in hand, gave him a hug and then went back to her work at the fire Coastguard, enormously amused at this, slapped his knee, saying that seeing kisses were cheap, jigger him if he wouldn’t have one, and a kiss he therefore took, and the three sat down to tea in great good-humour By an effort, Bobbie determined to retain the correct behaviour that he had learnt in the Cottage Homes and at Margaret Ward; Coastguard, delighted with the boy’s respectful manner, declared that an earl could not comport himself better From this, Coastguard passed, by easy transition, to a review of the Royal Family of his country, a review that became a glowing eulogy The angel, too, preparing to cut cake, expressed so much affection for the younger members of the family, portraits of whom were on the walls of the little room of the Martello tower, that the boy found himself impressed, and convinced by views in regard to Royalty that were novel to him.

“Old Lady,” declared Coastguard, blowing at his tea, “will have the best She don’t mind what she pays for her Navy, but she will ’ave it good.”

“I see what you mean,” said Bobbie.

“Do you like the outside or the inside?” asked the angel at the cake.

“Both, Miss,” said Bobbie.

“None of your ne’er-do-wells for her,” went on Coastguard “None of your thieving—”

“You’ve dropped your knife on the floor, little boy,” said the angel “That’s a sign you’re not careful.”

“‘None of your bad characters, none of your criminals for my Navy,’ she ses, ‘if you please.’ And jigger me,” said Coastguard explosively, “jigger me if the old Lady ain’t right.”

“You ought to call her ‘Her Majesty,’ uncle You’d look silly if she happened to be listening.”

“Go’ bless my soul,” said Coastguard with enthusiasm, “she wouldn’t mind it from me She knows my way of talking.”

“And,” stammered Bobbie, “is it—is it true then that you can’t get into the Navy if you’ve done anything wrong?”

“Devil a bit,” answered Coastguard “Old Lady’d think it was a piece of impudence to try it on Looey, my gell, whilst I’m havin’ my pipe jest give us a toon on the old harmonium.”

The large niece, seated at the harmonium, seemed, to the thoughtful Bobbie, more like an angel than ever; the music she produced helped to distract his troubled thoughts Presently, however, the angel found a Moody and Sankey book and, having propped it on the ledge before her, picked out on the keys as with her foot she moved the pedals, a hymn that gave the boy memories The Coastguard rolled his head to the rhythm; now and again taking his pipe from his mouth to growl a note or two and thus give his niece encouragement.

Dare to be a Daniel,Dare to stand alone,Dare to—

Bobbie sat forward in his chair, his eyes fixed on the broad bending back of the young lady at the harmonium, and thought of Ely Place What a long way off Ely Place seemed now; Bat Miller, and Mrs. Bat Miller, and the Fright; all these were misty figures that for years had visited his memory infrequently Bat Miller’s time would be up in a year or two Bobbie shivered to think what he should do were Bat Miller’s face to appear suddenly at the window For a few moments he dared not glance at the window, fearful that this impossible event might happen; when at the end of the hymn he nerved himself to look in that direction he felt almost surprised to find no face peering in.

“Gi’ us,” said the Coastguard cheerfully, “Gi’ us ‘Old the Fort.’ That’s the one I’m gone on There’s a swing about ‘Old the Fort.’”

It seemed to the boy that already he had lived two lives; that the first had been broken off short on the day he turned out of Worship Street Police Court He could not help feeling a vague admiration for that first boy because the first boy had been a fine young dare-devil, never trammelled by rules of behaviour; at the same time it was as well, perhaps, that the first boy had ceased to live, for he was not the kind of lad Bobbie could have introduced to the angel.

“And now,” said the Coastguard, “jigger my eyes if I mustn’t on with my jacket and find my spy-glass and see what’s going on outside Where’s that young curate got to, I wonder?”

The Coastguard went presently, after telling Bobbie that he might call again at the Martello tower, and that if he behaved he should one day go out to the Coastguard Station and see, by aid of the telescope, the coast of France Bobbie, alone with the angel, and allowed to seat himself at the end of the harmonium, behaved with a preciseness and a decorum that in any other lad would have been held by Bobbie as good justification for punching that boy’s head The angel’s right hand remaining on the higher keys for a space in order to give full effect to a final chord, he bent and kissed it The scent of brown Windsor soap ever afterwards reminded him of this first essay in affection.

“What ye up to?” demanded the angel.

“Only kissin’ your ’and,” said Bobbie confusedly.

“We don’t kiss hands down in these parts,” said the large young lady “That ain’t Kentish fashion.”

“I like you,” remarked the boy shyly.

“My goodness!” said the angel with affectation of much concern, “this won’t do I mustn’t be catched alone with a young man what says things like that I’d better be seeing about taking you back to the home, I reckon.”

The curate not returning (having, as it proved, flown away to a neighbouring parish and forgotten all about the boy), this course had to be adopted, and the two walked back along the road on the edge of the white cliffs—Bobbie in a state of proud ecstasy, which reached its highest point, when a boy, in passing them, called out to him, “Why doan’ you marry the girl?” The angel herself spoke of the amount that the starting of a household cost; of the relative advantages of a house with folding doors but no bay windows, compared with a house having bay windows, but no folding doors; all in a manner that seemed to the boy, strutting by her side, highly encouraging, and, under the circumstances, as much as on such brief acquaintance a man could reasonably expect At the home, any trouble that might have arisen by reason of the boy’s extended absence was removed by the fact that the angel had once been a highly-esteemed servant at the Institution; the Lady Superintendent met them without a frown The large young lady found herself lugged into the kitchen by two of the white-aproned maids for a chat, and when presently she looked in to say good night, at the reading-room where Bobbie was finishing a sea story, she kissed him, to the great envy of the other convalescent young students.

“Serve us all alike, Miss,” begged a lad with crutches.

“You be quiet,” ordered Bobbie, “unless you want your head punched.”

“Give me ’alf a one,” urged the lad with crutches.

“No fear,” said the angel cheerfully She nodded her head to Bobbie “He’s my young man.”

“Should have thought you’d got better taste, Miss.”

“You leave off talking to that lady,” growled Bobbie, “or I’ll spoil your features for you.” The large young lady waved her hand and disappeared through the swing doors “If you ain’t a gentleman, do, for goodness sake, try to ’ide the fact.”

In the few weeks of Bobbie’s residence, the Coastguard became his very good friend The boy learned the secrets of flags, listened with an interest that he had never felt at school to the accounts of British victories by sea in the past, absorbing with great appetite the Coastguard’s figures illustrating the current state of the Navy In his young heart patriotism was born.

Permitted to see through the telescope the coast of France, he commenced to realize actualities that he had never gained from maps In the school of the Cottage Homes the general impression amongst incredulous small boys had been that no such places as foreign countries really existed; that these were fictions invented by adults for the more complete annoyance and trouble of children Now the line of cliffs where on bright days tiny black specks could be seen moving, brought conviction; the boy found that he had much to learn, and something to forget One Sunday afternoon, being allowed to go down to the sleeping harbour, and over the line, and along the quay by the Customs House, he met, by happy chance, the angel, in white, with green sunshade, who, it appeared, waited for some one who would be free as soon as the baggage had been cleared; together they watched the Channel steamer bustle in and wake up the harbour, saw ropes thrown, gangways fixed, and presently heard the arriving passengers chattering in a language which the angel told him was French.

“Ignorant set, ain’t they?” asked Bobbie.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said the large young lady tolerantly.

“I ’aven’t got much opinion of foreigners,” said the boy “For one thing, why don’t they learn a decent language like ourn?”

“I s’pose they get on all right without it.”

“Do you know any French?”

“A bit,” said the angel modestly.

“Tell us some!”

“Je vous aime,” said the angel On Bobbie demanding a translation, the large young lady, shading her face with the green parasol, furnished this.

“Who learnt it you?” demanded Bobbie jealously.

“Ah,” said the angel acutely, “that’s tellings.”

It galled him considerably on the last occasion that the breezy young curate took him under his wing to fly away with him along the cliff and look in at the Martello tower for a picture of a ship which the Coastguard had promised to him, to find the small room almost wholly occupied by a tall bashful young Customs officer, with limbs so long that when he sat down his knees came up in a manner which Bobbie considered eminently ridiculous The angel had not arrived, but was expected; when the curate insisted upon Bobbie coming away with him, his picture of the ship under his arm, in order that they might skirt the cliffs swallow-like once more, Bobbie complied with hesitation, being thus denied the joy of seeing the lady of his heart.

“I’d like to stay ’ere all me bloomin’ lifetime,” said Bobbie to the Lady Superintendent that night.

Nevertheless, the next day he had to listen to the voice of reasonableness, to pack up the books that had been given him by the curate, the picture that Coastguard had presented, and a marvellous four-bladed knife from the angel, for which he had paid to that young lady the sum of one halfpenny, in order that the knife might not, in its keenness, sever friendship He said good-bye to the Lady Superintendent, remembering (just in time) to say, “Thank you,” a phrase with which he had become on intimate terms, and walked stolidly down to the station, where a train would take him back to London and the Homes As he looked at the contents of the bookstall (he had begun in those days to feel an appetite for reading, and a strange craving when not furnished with something in the form of printed words) to him appeared:—

First, the angel! Bobbie had felt confident that the large young lady would not allow him to depart without giving him an opportunity of formally declaring his love; he had already decided on the form of his address.

Second, the curate! Curate flying in through the booking office, skimming restlessly up and down the platform, chatting with porters, chucking babies under the chin, and telling the station-master how a railway ought to be managed.

Third, Coastguard Jiggering everything at frequent intervals; handing over to Bobbie as final gifts a parcel of huge ham sandwiches and a model clockwork steamer.

Fourth, as the train signalled from the preceding station, an entirely unnecessary person in the shape of the tall Customs officer, rather shy, but taking up, as it seemed to Bobbie, the unwarrantable attitude of being a friend of the family, and brushing from the angel’s brown cape a few specks of dust with a calmness for which Bobbie, circumstances willing, could have felled him to the platform.

“I say,” said Bobbie, leaning out of the carriage window, when he had been helped into the train, “I want to speak to you.”

“Me?” asked the Customs.

“You?” said Bobbie, with infinite scorn “Good ’Eavens, no I mean her.” The angel stepped forward “I want to ask you something,” he said rather unsteadily.

“I know what it is,” declared the angel gaily “You want me to remember to send you some of the cake.”

“What cake?”

“Oh, as if you didn’t know,” said the angel reproachfully “Why, my weddin’ cake, of course Don’t say you haven’t heard that me and him,” indicating the tall Customs officer, “are going to be married next month at— Now you’re off Good-bye, dear.”

“Be a good lad,” cried Coastguard, as the train moved.

“Be sure to get out at Cannon Street,” called the curate, flying along the platform, “and don’t forget to say your prayers at night.”

When, two hours later, the train ran into the London terminus, porters surveyed with critical eye each compartment, and having made hurried selections, staked out their claim by seizing a carriage handle as they trotted along till the train stopped Bobbie, rather ill-tempered on the journey because his affairs of the heart had been so brutally checked, had his head out of the window as the train slowed up.

“Any luggage?” asked the porter breathlessly.

Bobbie shook his head, and the porter hurried on in search of a more encumbered traveller Bobbie, walking down the crowded platform to the barrier, found the word luggage remaining in his mind It recalled evenings with Bat Miller at stations on the other side of the City, followed sometimes by an interesting review of the contents of a portmanteau or a lady’s dressing-case in Ely Place Around the guard’s van, now disgorging its contents hurriedly and confusedly, passengers stood as though at an auction, and when they saw an article of luggage in tune with their desires, held up a hand, and the article being knocked down to them, they bore it off without further question In the centre, one of the busy porters acting as auctioneer held up a bright brown portmanteau with initials painted boldly.

“Anybody claim this?” demanded the harried porter “Anybody claim a bag with— A bundle of rugs, lady? I’ll look after it in ’alf a moment, if you’ll only leave off prodding me in the back with that gamp of yours.”

“I want,” said Bobbie’s voice, “a bag marked L. C. E.”

“Why,” grumbled the porter, handing it over to Bobbie, “’ere ’ave I been the last five minutes trying to find a owner for it? Want a cab?”

“No,” said Bobbie, “I’ll carry it.”

“It’s a bit lumpy,” remarked the porter warningly.

“I know,” said the boy.

He gave up his ticket at the barrier and lugged the heavy bag across to a departure platform.

It was, as the porter had said, a heavy bag, and anxious as the boy felt to get away with it, he found himself obliged to rest for a moment when he had reached the platform Then he started on again, the heavy portmanteau bumping against his knee Through his alert little head a scheme had already danced; a scheme necessitating an empty compartment to permit of a selection from the articles which the bag contained, and the disposal of the bag itself This would have the advantage of deferring the awkward duty of returning to the Cottage Homes that day A nurse walked by on the platform, with flowing cloak and white bands; Bobbie’s mind was recalled to Sister Margaret From Sister Margaret his thoughts went to his other friends He sat down on the portmanteau; his breath came quickly.

“They’d all look pretty straight,” he said to himself, “if they knew.” He rose slowly, and gripped the stout leather handles of the bag “’Owever, I ain’t going to be copped There’s plenty that do a thing like this quietly and never so much as—”

He stopped Across the line on the wall a large portrait in an advertisement frame had—a cloud of engine smoke disappearing—come into view Bobbie stared at it.

“The old Lady,” he muttered.

The portrait of her Majesty the Queen of England and Great Britain looked across at Bobbie with, as it seemed to him, a look of surprise, mingled with reproof A train whistled, a ticket collector shouted, “North Kent train to Blackheath,” but the boy did not move When the train had started, and the smoke had cleared away, Bobbie found his attention still held by the portrait on the other platform.

“The old Lady,” he quoted, under his breath, “will ’ave the best She don’t mind what she pays for her navy, but she will ’ave it good None of your criminals for her navy, if you please.”

He started up, his face white and perspiring Lugging the weighty portmanteau back to the arrival barrier, he staggered determinedly through.

“Tell you what,” a young officer lad was saying fiercely “If you porters don’t find that fearful bag of mine I’ll—”

“’Scuse me,” interrupted Bobbie, placing the portmanteau at the feet of its owner “My mistake Took it off in the hurry, instead of me own.”

“I’m really most fearfully obliged,” declared the officer lad effusively “It has my dress suit, don’t you know, and I should have looked such a fearfully silly fool this evening without it.”

“You’re saved from that now, sir,” said the inspector, pointedly.

“What I mean to say is, I’m so fearfully indebted to you that really—”

“Don’t name it,” said Bobbie “Glad I brought it back in time.”

“Good-bye, old chap,” said the officer lad, shaking hands with the boy “I’m most fearfully glad to have met you Can’t give you a lift, I suppose, anywhere, can I, what?”

“Thanks, fearfully,” said Bobbie “My brougham’s waiting outside for me Ta-ta!”

Thirteen

Roses at Collingwood upon his return; and thorns Thorns supplied, not by the foster-father or the foster-mother, but by the boys, who, once they had extracted full particulars of Bobbie’s adventure, made from these facts ammunition for gay badinage that, well aimed, gave them great content In school, the game was played furtively A slip of paper would be passed along the forms of the fourth standard class bearing the inquiry of a seeker after knowledge, “Who pinched the cornet?” this would be varied by rough sketches executed by Master Nutler of a lad running, with the words underneath, “Hold him!” When Bobbie strolled out of school at dinner time there would come an affected cry of alarm, “He’s off again!” Robert Lancaster took all of this with stolidity and in a manner differing from that which he would have exhibited a month previously It seemed that the failure of his expedition had tamed him; certainly his stay in the hospital and at the convalescent home had given him reticence He applied himself to his lessons After a few weeks the other boys declined to be led any longer by Master Nutler, because there seemed little sport in rallying a man who showed no signs of annoyance, and Bobbie Lancaster presently found—excepting for an occasional reminder—that the Brenchley escapade had gone out of memory Miss Nutler on one of the rare occasions when they met, expressed her regret at the consequences of their disagreement, hinting that, so far as she was concerned, the past could be shut out from memory.

“It was my eldest brother put me up to it,” said Miss Nutler apologetically “You know what a one he is.”

“I do,” remarked Master Lancaster.

“I should never ’ave thought of it if it hadn’t been for him,” declared Miss Nutler “A better hearted girl than me you wouldn’t find in a day’s march.”

“Dessay!”

“In fact,” went on the young person, waxing enthusiastic, “I’m too good-hearted for this world I’m a fool to meself And that’s why I gave way when he told me to pretend you’d hurt me See?”

“I see.”

“And so long as you say there’s no ill-will and so long as you agree to forgive and forget, so to speak, why there’s no reason, as you remarked just now, why we shouldn’t be capital friends.”

“I never said no such thing,” said the boy.

“Didn’t you?” said Miss Nutler wonderingly “Words to that effect, then.”

“No! Not words to that effect, neither.”

“You’re back in the band, aren’t you?”

“I am back in the band.”

“All the girls in our cottage rave about your cornet playing.”

“Straight?” He could not help smiling at this generous compliment.

“As if I should tell a lie,” said Miss Nutler “Why, they’re always talking about you How you’ve growed and how you’ve improved in your manner and—there! I tell you I get quite jealous sometimes.”

“What call have you to be jealous?”

“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” said the young woman self-reproachfully “Now I’ve been and let the cat out of the bag That’s me all the world over I never meant you to see that I was—hem—fond of you.”

“Put all ideas of that out of your red young crumpet,” he advised steadily, “as soon as ever you like.”

“Is there somebody else?” asked Miss Nutler, flushing.

“Since you ask the question—yes.”

“Does she live ’ere at the Homes?”

“She does not live ’ere at the Homes.”

“If she did,” said Miss Nutler fiercely, “I’d pay her out, the cat And you’re a double-faced boy, you are I wouldn’t be seen talking to you for fifty thousand pounds.”

“I guessed that was the amount.”

Miss Nutler walked off aflame with annoyance, turning as she reached the gate and making a face not pretty, in order that Bobbie might understand the true state of her feelings That evening one of the Nutler family handed Bobbie a note on which was written, “Dear sir, referring to our meeting, I beg to inform you that all is over between us Yours obed’tly, Louisa Nutler.—P.S A reply by bearer will oblige.” Bobbie tore the note into many pieces, threw them over the messenger, and going indoors penned a careful note to Mrs. Bell, of Pimlico Walk This contained an account of his progress; contained also five words, “Give my love to Trixie,” which note, reaching the Walk the next morning, made so much sunshine for the industrious young lady that she proceeded to scrub the stairs from top to basement in order to prevent herself from becoming light-headed.

There was indeed progress to report The Fourth Standard being carried by assault, his brain had now to wrestle in the large schoolroom with dogged enemies of youth.

By the help of an assistant master, whose stock of enthusiasm had not been quite exhausted by lads of the Nutler brand, Bobbie showed excellent fight, and if it sometimes happened that he was worsted, the defeats were but temporary Winter came, and with it football matches An eminent three-quarter (who was also a trombone) having retired from the team during the off season in order to take up duties at Kneller Hall, Bobbie, in games with private schools, found himself selected for the position The drill-sergeant took interest in the lad, and on the boarded-over swimming-bath, instructed him carefully at five o’clock each evening in the art of vaulting All this helped to make a solid youth of Robert Lancaster, and he found himself wishful for manhood.

The Sister at the infirmary beyond the western gates, having to take a month’s holiday, a friend of hers came to act as substitute, and this friend proving to be Sister Margaret, Bobbie found an additional incentive for correct behaviour because Sister Margaret, when going down at any time the broad gravelled road between the cottages, always selected him for one of her cheerful bows, causing Bobbie’s cap to fly off in acknowledgment and making him flush with gratification Sister Margaret told him that Myddleton West had gone to Ireland for one of the daily journals, and together they read his letters in that journal It seemed clear that Sister Margaret continued to have no objection to talking about Myddleton West, for she made the boy describe several times over the morning when he had called at his rooms in Fetter Lane; at each repetition Bobbie managed to find (or to invent) some additional incident that made the young woman’s bright eyes become brighter with interest When the regular Sister returned, Sister Margaret had to leave, and Bobbie walked with her to the station to carry her portmanteau, giving much good advice on the way with view of doing a good turn for his friend Apparently his arguments made some impression on Sister Margaret, for when, as the train went off, he shouted, “Give my kind respects to him, Miss, when you write And tell him he ain’t forgotten,” it looked as though the young woman’s bright eyes became suddenly wet.

The seasons passed The fourteenth birthday came so near that it was quite possible to reckon the interval by number of days For some months Robert Lancaster had been a half-timer; he desired now to say good-bye definitely to school, and to go into the workshops, because this would be a conspicuous milestone marking his journey The Coastguard and the Coastguard’s daughter, and the long Customs’ officer came to see him on one of the later days, and he showed them with pride the tailor’s shop, the bootmaker’s shop, the carpenter’s shop, and the engineer’s shop, and Coastguard and himself (whilst the tall daughter went with the representative of her Majesty’s Customs to take tea at the hotel opposite the gates) talked over questions of trades, and their various advantages They weighed them separately; when the young couple returned, Coastguard with a look of wisdom that judges of Appeal try to assume and cannot, delivered his decision Bobbie, interested in this, saw the long Customs’ officer snatch a kiss from Coastguard’s daughter with no feeling of jealousy, and, indeed, with diversion.

“Nothing like helping yourself,” remarked Bobbie, amused.

“Do give over, John,” said Coastguard’s daughter reprovingly “You never know when to stop.”

“These youngsters,” said Bobbie to Coastguard paternally, “they will carry on, won’t they? Same now as it was in our young day.”

“Dang the boy’s eyes,” said Coastguard, “if he don’t notice everything.”

“It makes anyone,” said Bobbie, “when you see a couple young enough to know better a kissin’ each other.”

“You’re supposed not to notice such things at your age,” said the angel reprovingly.

“Ah,” said the boy, acutely, “supposed not.”

“Reckon you’ll be the next one we shall hear of getting engaged.”

“Many a true word spoke in jest,” said the boy “And you think,” turning with seriousness to the Coastguard, “you think I can’t do better than go in for learning that?”

“Sure of it, my boy.”

Therefore to the engineer’s shop went Bobbie, because the Coastguard had pointed out to him that some of the knowledge to be gained there could not fail some day to be valuable Not that he intended to become an engineer Decision as to his first occupation on leaving the Home had already been taken, being preserved as a secret which he proposed not to disclose until the appropriate moment came At the tables in the engineer’s shop he worked, and learned under direction, after some failures, how to use a lathe without pinching his fingers The lads worked in extra garments of aprons and paper caps; their task made them so grimy that they felt sure no one could tell them from adults; the wash that came after a day in the workshop seemed to put them back ten years An increased feeling of maturity came to Bobbie when, on being selected to play “The Lost Chord,” as a cornet solo at a concert in the neighbourhood which the Home’s band attended, a local paper called him by a fascinating misprint Mister Robert Lancaster, intending to say Master, but allowing the i’s to have it He walked rigidly upright for several weeks after this and spoke to no boy under the age of thirteen.

“You fancy yourself,” remarked sarcastically the boys whom he ignored.

“I do,” he replied, frankly.

It became his keen endeavour at this period to reach at least four feet six in height He had special reasons for this ambition, and days occurred when, in his impatience, he measured himself three times during the twenty-four hours The last inch seemed as though it would never arrive; other lads in the engineer’s shop, to encourage him, expressed the cheerful opinion that he had stopped growing Finding in a newspaper an advertisement specially addressed “To the Short,” he wrote privately to Trixie Bell to obtain for him the golden remedy that the advertisers promised to send on receipt of two shillings and ninepence, and when Trixie, glad of an opportunity for being useful, obeyed, sending him the result as a birthday present, “With kind regards,” Bobbie found that the remedy was but a pair of thick list soles to be worn inside the boots; he perceived hopelessly that nothing could be done to encourage Nature The last pencil mark on the wall of his dormitory denoting his height remained as a record for months; depression enveloped him when he gazed at it But there came a spring season when he found to his intense delight that he had, within a brief period, not only shot up to the necessary inches, but just beyond them, and the mother of Collingwood Cottage had to lengthen the arms of his jackets and the legs of his trousers On being measured anew in the tailor’s shop, he laughed with sheer delight.

The day of all days came.

“Father wants to see you, Lancaster,” announced one of the other lads.

“What’s up?”

“Committee day,” said the other lad.

Robert Lancaster ran off to find the Collingwood father, and came up to him breathless The Collingwood father was a serious man, made more serious by his family of other people’s children; his face took now an aspect of importance, and he laid his hand on the lad’s shoulder.

“Time’s come,” he said.

“Three cheers,” said Bobbie.

“Keep cool, my lad.”

“I am cool,” said Bobbie, trembling with eagerness.

“Don’t forget that the gentlemen, what you are going now to have an interview with, represent so to speak your benefactors what have looked after you and clothed you and fed you and generally speaking kept you flourishing.”

“I know what you mean.”

“You’ll go before the Committee,” said the father of Collingwood Cottage, solemnly, “and what I want to impress upon you, my boy, is the necessity of putting on your very best manners A little bad behaviour on your part will go a long way.”

“I’ll watch out, father.”

“You can’t be too civil,” urged the father of Collingwood, anxiously “I tell you that, Bobbie, because, naturally, you ain’t what I call the humblest chap going, and if you want these nobs to agree to what you want, you must show ’em any amount of what I may venture to call deference.”

“I’ll lick all the bloomin’ blackin’ off their bloomin’ boots,” promised Bobbie.

“Give your ’ands another wash,” recommended the father, “and then go up.”

The Superintendent stood at the side of the table; seated there were half-a-dozen men who looked like, and indeed were, retired tradesmen In one of them the lad recognized the carpenter (now in white waistcoat and with other signs of prosperity) who had been on the jury which had investigated, years ago, the death of his mother A cheery red-faced man sat in the large arm-chair.

“Robert Lancaster, gentlemen, fourteen years of age and a good lad with a fairly good record, has passed the Fourth Standard, and is one of the best of our bandsmen.”

“Now, my lad!” The jovial-looking chairman pointed the ruler at him “What would you like to be? We’ve fed you and educated you and brought you up, and we don’t want to see all the trouble wasted.”

“Moreover,” said the carpenter, as Bobbie prepared to speak, “it’s a question on which, by rights, you ought to take our advice We’re men of the world, and as such we know what’s good for you a jolly sight better than you do My argument has always been that pauper children—”

The chairman coughed.

“Or whatever you like to call ’em ought not to be allowed to pick and choose It pampers ’em,” said the carpenter, gloomily, sending his penholder, nib downwards, into the table, “I don’t care what you say; it pampers ’em.”

“I should like, sir, please,” said Bobbie, “to—”

“Choose a honest trade,” suggested the carpenter.

“Let the boy speak,” urged one of the other members.

“I should like to be a sailor,” said the lad.

“Ah!” said the carpenter, triumphantly “What did I tell you?”

“Our band boys don’t often go into the navy,” said the Superintendent “Most of them go in for the other branch of the service.”

“Jolly good thing,” said the gloomy carpenter, with his fingers in the pockets of his white waistcoat, “if all your armies and all your navies was done away with and abolished.”

“Talk sense!” advised his neighbour.

“What are they,” asked the carpenter, “but a tax on the respectable tradesmen of this country? What good are they? What do they do? That’s what I want to know.” He looked round at his colleagues with the confident air of one propounding a riddle of which none knew the answer “Will someone kindly tell me what good the navy does? What benefit does it do me or any of us seated at this table? If all our ships was to disappear this very morning before twelve o’clock struck, should I be any the worse off?”

“Why, you silly old silly,” broke in the lad on the other side of the table, impetuously, “if that was to ’appen some foreign power would be down on us before you could wink, and you’d find yourself—”

“Silence!” ordered the Superintendent.

“Find yourself,” persisted Bobbie, “turned into a bloomin’ Russian very like, and sent to Siberia.”

“You have your answer,” remarked the chairman, jovially.

“Kids’ talk,” growled the carpenter.

“Why,” declared Bobbie, “it’s the only protection you’ve got to enable you to carry on your business peaceably and successfully, and without interference.”

“I never felt the want of no navy in carryin’ on my business in Shoreditch.”

“Course you didn’t,” said Bobbie “But if there hadn’t been a navy you would.”

It was all very irregular; the Superintendent felt this, but the members of the committee showed so much gratification in seeing their colleague routed that it scarce seemed right for him to interfere The chairman rapped gently on the table as a mild reminder that order appeared to be temporarily absent.

“Fact of it is,” said the carpenter, resentfully, “you youngsters get so pampered—”

“Come, come!” said the chairman, “let us get along You think you’ll like the navy, my lad?”

“Sure of it, sir.”

“It’s a hard life, mind you Especially at first.”

“Shan’t mind that, sir.”

“You’ll undergo pretty severe preparation; we shall have to find out from the doctor whether you can stand it or not Her Majesty doesn’t want half and half sort of lads in her navy.”

“I think I shall be all right, sir I’ve improved wonderful in the years I’ve been here.”

“Made a man of you, have we?”

“You have that, sir,” said Bobbie.

“Well, then—”

“Something was said,” interrupted the carpenter, still smarting, “about this lad having a fairly good record I should like to be kindly informed what his record actually is If there’s anything against him it’s only right and fair and honest and just that we should know about it now.”

The Superintendent explained, and Robert Lancaster went white at the lips as he heard the account—by no means a harsh account—of his escape from the Homes.

“Since which time,” added the Superintendent, “his conduct has been most exemplary.”

“Thank you, sir,” burst out the lad.

“And this is the lad,” argued the carpenter, “that you’re going to spend more of the ratepayers’ money on This is the lad that’s cost us a matter of thirty pound a year for the last four years, and now we’re going to send him off to a training ship, where he’ll cost us a matter of thirty-two pound a year Is that so, or is it not so?”

“It is so,” said the chairman.

“It’s enough,” declared the retired carpenter, gloomily, “to make a man give up public life altogether What was he when we begun to have to do with him? Answer me, somebody.”

The Superintendent asked if the information was really necessary.

“Pardon me, sir,” said Robert Lancaster, from the other side of the table “I can give the information what’s required I was left without parents, I was, and I become the ’sociate of bad characters My coming down ’ere put me on the straight, and I tell you I ain’t particular anxious to get off of it.”

“My lad!” said the jovial chairman, “we’ll see that you don’t You’ll have a couple of years on the training ship, and when you leave there I hope you’ll make up your mind to be a credit to your parish, to your country, and your Queen.”

“Hooray!” said Robert Lancaster, softly.

“And we shall look to you to see that all this money which has been spent on you is not wasted We shall expect you to become a good citizen, one who will help in some small way to improve the estimate in which his great country is held.”

“Bah!” said the carpenter But the other members of the committee said, “Hear, hear.”

“Come back and see the Homes when you get an opportunity,” said the jovial chairman, a little moved by his own eloquence; “remember that we shall watch your career with interest and—God bless you!”

The chairman leaned across the table and shook hands with Robert The lad bowed awkwardly to the other members of the committee, and would have spoken, but something in his throat prevented him He punched at his cap, and on a signal from the Superintendent went out at the doorway.

“Pampering of ’em,” said the retired carpenter, darkly, “pampering of ’em as fast as ever you can.”

Fourteen

The vessel to which Bobbie went had been in its gallant youth a battleship and possessed an eventful and a creditable record Moored in the Thames off the flat coast of Essex, and painted black, it was a huge, solid, responsible three-decker, doing excellent work in the autumn of its life, and giving temporary residence to some five or six hundred boys Mainly, the youngsters were metropolitan, but sometimes the guardians of distant towns in the North would arrange with the Board for one of their lads to be consigned to the training ship, who, being arrived, spoke a language that seemed to the London boys almost foreign A long, low jetty ran from the shore as far as it dared into the water; where it stopped, a gig rowed by eight of the boys, under the command of an officer, took you off to the big black ship, on the starboard side of which a dozen small boats rocked and nudged each other in the ribs, and a barge dozed stolidly (In case of alarm the whole of the boys could be cleared out of the ship and carried away by these to safety.) Away down the river a smart brigantine berthed generally in view, and this the boys who intended to join the Royal Navy gazed at hopefully, because it was the brigantine which taught them seamanship, with assistance from a master mariner and two mates; it was the brigantine, too, which now and again skimmed the cream of the Westmouth in the shape of some forty boys whom it conveyed out of the river into the open, and presently down Channel to one of the training vessels which acted as the last refining process before entrance was made into the service To the Essex shore came, nearly every week, from various poor-law schools, boys who, after inspection, were conveyed out to the Westmouth, where the captain looked at the doctor’s report, giving their heights, chest measurements, and other particulars forming the foundation of their dossier This over, the new boys went back to shore to be clothed in sailor uniform, and re-appeared in blue serge trousers and jacket and cap, trying to look as though the navy had for them no secrets, and the Westmouth nothing in the way of information to impart They came in and went out of the training vessel at the rate of about three hundred year, so that the numbered white cases down on the lower deck containing kits were always in use, and every hammock on the three decks contained at night a tired-out lad.

For Robert Lancaster soon discovered that the note of the Westmouth was to keep moving If you worked, you worked hard; if you played, you played hard School had no great demands upon him now, for being out of the Fourth Standard, it was required of him that he should attend but two hours on the Friday of every week; a boy might have assumed that with this dispensation one could look forward to a life of ease and content Not so on board the Westmouth Robert Lancaster was never allowed to be lazy The life formed an exact opposite to those old days at Hoxton (several centuries ago it seemed to him), when the delight of life was to “mouch,” which, translated, is to wander through the years aimlessly Robert made some vague suggestions of reform to his comrades, with the result that a boy from Poplar made up his mind to state a complaint formally on the first opportunity The Poplar boy (numbered 290) had already written a brief account, which he had shown to Robert, entitled “The Mutiny on the Westmouth,” a forecast of a somewhat bloodthirsty character, where gore flowed readily, and exclamations of a melodramatic character were used, such as “Die, you dog!” and “At last we meet face to face!” but Robert criticized this with some acidity, because in the course of it Number Two Ninety himself performed all the deeds of surpassing valor, using six Martini-Henry rifles and a field gun, at the same time doing desperate action with two cutlasses: the end of the account gave a gruesome description of the upper deck strewn with the bodies of officers, and of Number Two Ninety-being unanimously elected captain by his fellow mutineers Robert said he thought the picture overdrawn Opportunity, however, occurred on some of the guardians from Poplar visiting the ship; one, a sharp clergyman, demanded to know of the Poplar boys whether they had any complaint to make.

“No, sir,” sang most of the Poplar boys The mutineer’s arm went up.

“Ah!” said the clergyman gratified “Here’s a lad now who has something to say.”

“Step forward, Two Ninety,” ordered the old captain “Tell this gentleman what it is you wish to complain of Is it the food?”

“Grub’s all right, sir,” growled the Poplar boy.

“Is it the uniform?” asked the sharp clergyman.

“No fault to find with the clothes, sir.”

“Is it the ship?”

“Ship’s good enough, sir.”

Robert Lancaster, passing with a pail, half stopped to hear what the Poplar boy would say under this process of exhaustion.

“Well, well, what is the complaint you wish to make?”

Two Ninety from Poplar twisted his sailor’s cap nervously, and looked with some interest at his shoes.

“Well, sir,” he burst out, “it’s like this They always keep on making you keep on.”

Robert Lancaster, finding after a few weeks that his disinclination to continuous work and exercise had vanished, detached himself therefore from the small set on the Westmouth, called “The Born-Tireds.” After the fifth week privileges came to him; he was allowed to go ashore with the other boys on Sunday afternoon; he joined in the drill, and this he liked so much that he concealed from the officers the fact that the cornet and he were close acquaintances, fearing that membership of the band, which practised far away down in the hold, would interfere He found books in the library with a sea flavour, and read Stevenson and Henty, and Clark Russell He liked Clark Russell’s books, because they had always one admirable young lady in a distressful predicament, and this young lady he always thought of as being Trixie Bell—Trixie who had sent him her photograph, taken by an eminent artist of Hackney Road, and presenting her as in a snowstorm, with no hat, a basket of choice roses on her arm At prayers one night, Robert found himself, somewhat to his surprise, introducing a special silent reference to Trixie, and, pleased with his daring originality, he continued it, feeling in a shy, half-ashamed way, that he had now assumed a responsible position in regard to the young lady For the rest, there was not much time on the Westmouth to think of outside affairs.

He found his average day made up in this manner At six o’clock in the morning, the lower deck, where he and some three hundred other boys slept, became suddenly filled with the blaring of a bugle; on the instant Robert slipped out of his hammock The chief petty officers (important lads of about fifteen or sixteen) issued orders, the boys dressed swiftly, hammocks were rolled up and stowed away at the sides, and then the busy working day began Robert Lancaster, despatched with other gallant sailors of his division, scrubbed the upper deck (protected by a canvas awning in summer, and an awning and curtains in winter), the while two divisions saw to the main deck Then the upper deck had to be swabbed, under the superintendence of the ship’s officers, and, this done, breakfast-time had arrived Robert Lancaster always felt the better for his breakfast, being, indeed, of the growing age when appetite is nearly ever acute and demanding to be satisfied The watch on the mess deck cleared away, and at half-past eight one bell sounded At nine o’clock two bells sounded, with the singers’ call for prayers and also for punishments, at which hour a few boys with correction looming close to them, wished that they had chosen the life of a landsman The excellent old captain’s theory was that you should either pat a boy on the back or cane him on the back, and this system worked out very well in practice; the most severe punishment consisted of a few hours’ solitude in the dark cell at the foc’sle end of the ship—an extreme remedy resorted to but once or twice a year Prayers and punishment being over, there occurred work again Sail-making, painting the sides of the Westmouth, seamanship instruction; in the tailors’ shop, manufacture of flags, repairing of oilskins and sou’westers, lengthening of trousers for their growing owners, making of seamanship stripes, re-covering of life-belts; the biggest boys in the Rigger’s class called upon to strip and serve afresh the lower rigging of the ship Relaxation came to Robert when sent out with others in one of the small boats which clustered at the side of the Westmouth, on which occasions he learnt the arts of boat-pulling and boat-sailing, under the guidance of a giant-voiced officer, who roared advice and frank criticism Signalling had to be learnt, and this demanded of Robert that his intelligence should be livened; the lad being on his mettle, and having made up his mind to extort the secrets from this cryptic procedure, earned commendation There were classes in gunnery, too, where knowledge was gained in using the rifle and cutlass, as well as the management of field guns; the rifles full-sized, and, indeed, a little out of proportion to the height of the smaller boys, so that it sometimes seemed that it would have been easier for the Martini-Henry to manage the boy than for the boy to manage the Martini-Henry And about mid-day, after half an hour’s rest, when Robert bowled boys out on the upper deck, or being at the wickets set in a wooden socket, sent the ball flying away to the Essex shore, came dinner Now dinner on the Westmouth, mind you, was dinner.

A bugle call brought the boys scurrying down the broad hatchway on to the mess deck, where a harmonium had been placed in position, and, as they hurried down, adjusting their red handkerchiefs bib-fashion, the cook’s assistants dragged young lorries around by the long wooden tables, one waggon loaded with roast beef, another waggon carrying potatoes, another bearing vegetables and another bread The boys on sharp days when appetite had become keen found it difficult to sing the grace to which the harmonium played a prelude, because their mouths watered The scent from the roast beef was to them the most entrancing perfume, and ranged in companies they could not prevent their eyes from wandering to their table where portions were being served out in the deep tin plates A bugle call—everything on board the Westmouth was done by bugle calls; and none was so effective as the call for silence—and grace.

Be present at our table, Lord,Be ’ere and everywhere adored;These creatures bless, and grant that weMay feast in Paradise with Thee.

On ordinary days, work re-commenced in the afternoon with occasional brief rests for play, and after tea if there still remained work to do it had to be done Strict orders had to be observed in the way of behaviour, and Robert slipped into these with greater ease because of his experience in the Cottage Homes He learnt that an order being given, obedience had to follow instantly and without question; the saluting of the officers was, he knew, but a respectful sign of his willingness to comply with this rule In this way Robert Lancaster learnt discipline.

“It’s easy enough,” argued Robert to the Poplar boy when he had been on the ship for nearly a year and was looking forward to the position of Chief Petty Officer with three stripes on his arm and a salary of penny a week, “once you get into the swing of it If you do have to put up with a bit of rough, you’ve always got your Wednesdays to look forward to.”

Wednesday, indeed, represented the golden day of the week for the Westmouth Friends came then on permission of the Captain, and when one evening a letter from Trixie Bell was brought over to the ship by the post boy, a letter which asked her dear Robert to obtain a permit for two, the lad procured this and sent it off with bashful anticipation of seeing the young lady and her large mother The afternoon came, and he watched each arrival of the gig from the shore for the first sight of Trixie; wondering amusedly how Mrs. Bell would endure the brief passage and how she would be hauled out of the boat But Trixie did not arrive nor did her mother come to endanger the safety of the gig; instead Number Three Thirty-Three (who was Robert) found himself called to receive a mite of a woman in a sailor hat bearing the inscription H.M.S. Magnificent in large gold letters, who having come up the ladder at the side of the ship one step at a time, now stood with a net full of oranges and cakes beside her; her hands at her waist as though doubtful whether she ought not to dance a hornpipe, and looking up at Robert with her bead-like eyes full of astonishment.

“Why,” cried little Miss Threepenny, “if he hasn’t grown up to be a reg’lar what’s a name.”

“I was expecting two others,” remarked Robert, bending shyly to shake hands.

“They couldn’t come and they sent me instead,” said the little woman, mopping her forehead with her handkerchief “Poor Mrs. Bell is as bad as bad, and Trixie—bless her ’eart—wouldn’t think of leaving her So I says, ‘Sposin’ I go?’ And Trixie says, ‘You, Miss Threepenny?’ and I says, ‘Yes, me It’s my annual ’oliday from Tabernacle Street Wednesday next, and—’”

“And here you are.”

“‘Why,’ says Trixie,” went on the small woman, declining to anticipate the end of her story, “‘you’ll go and get lost.’ And I says, ‘Stuff and nonsense; if a grown-up woman of forty can’t take care of herself, who can? Besides,’ I says, ‘I want to see the dear boy.’ And Trixie says, ‘So did I.’”

“Oh, she said that, did she?” remarked Robert gratified Other boys crowded round, preparing to invent humorous badinage.

“Ah!” said Miss Threepenny acutely, “and what’s more, she meant it.”

It required some courage for a boy of Robert’s age to escort the amazing little woman over the ship; urgent whispers from the other lads to be introduced to the new missis did not assist him The Chief Officer nodded approvingly, and this gave encouragement.

“Booking clerk at Fenchurch Street,” chattered on the little woman, “gave me ’alf a ticket, and I gave him a bit of my mind People think because I ain’t so tall as I might be that I ’aren’t got a tongue in me ’ead They find out their mistake.”

“Is Mrs. Bell very ill?”

“She ain’t much longer for this world,” answered Miss Threepenny “She may linger on for a year or two, but that good young gel of hers will be left all alone in the world before she’s very much older Fortunately she’s got a wise ’ead on young shoulders and—What low ceilings they are ’ere.” The little woman bent her small body from an entirely unfounded fear of touching the roof with her sailor hat “What’s this part of the ship called, Bobbie?”

“This,” explained the lad, “is called the foc’sle.”

“Why?”

“Ah!” said Robert, “‘why’ is the one word you mustn’t use on board ship.”

Little Miss Threepenny trotted round, breathless with the endeavour to keep up with the lad’s stride, presently thanking her stars in earnest terms when, the hour being two, she was allowed to sit on the foc’sle steps of the upper deck in company with a few mothers and sisters to watch the afternoon’s entertainment.

“I shall ’ave to take notice of everything,” she chirruped, “and go through it all when I get back to Pimlico Walk Trixie will want to ’ear about it.”

“Don’t you go and get frightened,” urged Robert.

“Me frightened?”

“There’ll be some desperate deeds performed during the next hour,” said Robert importantly.

“So long as there’s no firing of guns,” said the little woman, adjusting her skirts precisely, “I shan’t so much as wink Once they begin to bang away—”

Two of the women visitors who had been looking curiously at the small creature, hastened to remark with the knowledge born of experience that there would be firing, one adding that for her part she always shut her eyes and put her hands over her ears when it came to that part; an ingenious plan which happy Miss Threepenny promised to adopt Robert ran off and disappeared.

The alarming clang, clang, clang of a bell! Upon the instant, a swift rushing to and fro; a throwing open of the door leading to the captain’s room; boys with buckets of water hurrying up and forming in line; more boys dragging long boa constrictors of leathern hose up to the doorway; still more boys ready with brass nozzles to fix on; more boys again in a tremendous state of excitement bearing scarlet extincteurs on their backs; a white-capped, white-aproned cook up from below and assisting; sharp commands from the officers; the old captain watching all with his watch open “Good,” says the captain of the Westmouth presently, “very good indeed Who was the first bucket up, Mr. Waltham?” “Number Three Fifty-Two, sir,” says the chief officer “Three Fifty-Two,” thereupon says the captain, “catch this sixpence.”

Band now at a corner of the upper deck, with a stout drum placed upon trestles, to be whacked presently as though it had committed some gross breach of discipline Music-stands up; brass instruments tested; the bandmaster taps his wooden stand sharply Three hundred boys in detachments on either side of the deck; first officer, with a voice accustomed to open-air speaking, with the captain on the poop A brief drill, and then,—

“Form divisions!”

“Right about face!”

“March!”

The band plays; the two broad, close, moving detachments go steadily around A roar from the chief officer, and at once the broad masses become a number of thin strands with a serpentine movement to a new and more cheerful march from the band, and doing it with absolute accuracy for several minutes “Halt!” Music stops.

“Boys,” shouts the old captain from the poop, “very fair, very fair indeed! Eh, Mr. Waltham?”

“Very fair indeed, sir.”

A selection made from the crowd; the rest jump up on the sides of the ship, and become an audience The selected boys stiffly in line, jackets off, accept from a chief petty officer with a sack, pairs of wooden dumb-bells Order given, they face round, watching the instructor narrowly and with seriousness A signal from him and band having started a gentle waltz, the two hundred sailor boys go through a movement of thrusting the arms forward, withdrawing them sharply, keeping time ever to the music A change of air on the part of the band, and each pair of arms swings from side to side Another, and with clockwork preciseness the bells are up high, return to touch breast, go down to toes A whole dozen of these changes, and amongst the later ones, movements with definite stamp of the right foot on the deck to the music of a Scotch reel Pantomime rally from the band; a bugle call, and the deck is clear.

“If I hadn’t seen it,” says astounded little Miss Threepenny to her two neighbours, and standing now on the topmost stair of the foc’sle steps, “I should never ’ave believed it true!”

“That’s nothing,” remarks one of the women, lightly “You watch out now, Miss My Jimmy’s in the next.”

To a march from the obliging band, enter forty serious boys, brown-legginged, belted, and bearing rifles At the words of command, these go through a number of offensive and defensive movements, forming squares, performing cutlass drill, making lunges with their bayonetted rifles at a supposititious enemy; killing this supposititious enemy and withdrawing the bayonet neatly from his lifeless body A good quarter of an hour of hard drill this, for which they are more than repaid by applause from the younger boys seated on the sides of the vessel, and a word of approval from the captain:

“’Ere comes Bobbie,” cries Miss Threepenny, excitedly “Oh, dear! oh, dear! what will they be up to next?”

Mothers seated on the steps may well start and clutch each other’s arms, for field guns are being dragged on now by straw-hatted detachments, and, to a brisk air from the band, tugged by long ropes around and around the deck.

“There he is,” cries Miss Threepenny, excitedly “There he is again And there he is once more.”

No time for Robert to take notice of the little woman’s shrill comments, even if the bustle allowed him to hear, for field guns are things that demand attention jealously An order pulls them up short; Robert with eight other lads stopping their gun on the starboard side Every boy panting; every boy with his flushed face directed towards the chief officer on the poop A shrill whistle.

“Dismount!” shouts the chief officer.

Fierce attack on the guns, wheels off, axles unpinned, guns lifted, remainder of carriage pulled to pieces, all down flat on the deck, boy seated on them and looking up at the poop for comment.

“Fifteen seconds, Mr. Waltham.”

“Fifteen, sir,” says the chief officer respectfully; “fifteen as near as a toucher.”

“They did it in less time last week, Mr. Waltham.”

“They did it in less time last week, sir,” replies the chief officer.

The old captain shakes his head first at the scarlet-faced lads seated on the portions of their gun carriages and then at his watch, as though inclined to blame the watch as much as the boys The instructor goes from one set of lads to another growling a word of advice.

“Re-mount!”

Every boy to his feet; the parts of the carriage seized; wheels held in place and fixed; the heavy gun lifted and slung, carriage pushed forward to catch it in position Robert’s detachment, to their great annoyance and confusion, find all their quick efforts retarded by the clumsiness of Number Eight, who, having mistaken his duties, has come into collision with another boy, and seems inclined to argue the matter out and prove himself thoroughly in the wrong before anything further is done At least six seconds lost by this action on the part of Number Eight in Robert Lancaster’s gun, so that the other five guns are all perfect and their boys standing cool and serene, whilst the final struggle is being concluded on the starboard side.

“I rather want that movement concluded to-day,” says the old captain, leaning over and speaking ironically.

“What’s your number?” asks the instructor of the offending boy.

“Eight, sir.”

“Ah,” remarks the instructor, “it might as well be nought Isn’t your place there? Very well, then.”

“Try that again, boys,” cries the chief officer “Do it sharper this time Think what you’re about.”

Thought and celerity and earnestness are all brought to bear on the next dismounting, and Number Eight of Robert’s set, reserving justification for his previous conduct, proves himself as able a seaman as the rest The remounting is performed with similar swiftness, and the old captain lets the case of his watch close with a snap and says, leaning over the rails again and addressing the boys on deck, “Very good, very good indeed Eh, Mr. Waltham?” “Very good indeed, sir,” agrees the chief officer.

Fierce business coming now! The white-headed mops go down the nozzles of the guns, come out again, the gunners stand clear, one lad jerks a string, and—bang! White mop down again head first and withdrawn, gun sighted, and again—bang! It being unusual for an attacking force to do this dangerous work without casualty, half a dozen boys affect to receive the fire of the unseen enemy and fall on deck screaming with great anguish, “Oh, oh, oh!” and “’Elp, ’elp, ’elp!” to the great consternation of one mother up near the foc’sle, who is with difficulty restrained from rushing down the steps Ambulance corps hurries forward; one wounded boy has his trousers pulled up, his bared leg set between two pieces of wood and tied up, a stretcher brought, and he is taken, now giving agonizing groans, which have a fine suggestion of pathos, to the port side deck Other boys who have fallen victims to the non-existent enemy have their arms placed in slings or their heads bandaged, and are led away by sympathetic ambulance men.

“Sound for the march past, bugler.”

Band, which has been interested in this scene of carnage, snatches up its instruments and starts a cheerful, brisk, trotting air; the boys take the ropes and tug the guns on the field carriages once around the deck, the wounded following in the rear and still giving realistic groans at every other step, all disappearing at last through the large doors of the foc’sle to the applause of boys seated on the sides and fluttering of handkerchiefs from the foc’sle steps.

“Bray’vo, Bobbie,” cries little Miss Threepenny She turns and whispers apprehensively to the two women “They’re none of ’em reelly ’urt, are they?”

“’Urt?” echoes one of the two women “They know better than go and get ’urt, bless you.”

“All the same,” says the little woman, “I wouldn’t join in it for forty thousand million pound.”

The rifle lads again, faces set determinedly, marching up the deck with steady and definite stride Four movements, and they are down on one knee preparing to receive the enemy This time the enemy is no fictitious enemy, for the doors of the foc’sle being thrown open, out rush shrieking noisy warriors who from their language and the fact that they are carrying long poles instead of firearms are clearly negro aborigines of the district, and these shout “Alla-bulla-wulla” in a very desperate way, throwing themselves on their opponents under the foolish impression that something can be done to a solid square of British sailors A bugle call and the square rises, moves, and taking the offensive, presses the mistaken aborigines back, but these still cry “Alla-bulla-walla” (being apparently of a race with limited conversational powers), and break up the detachment, so that a hand-to-hand struggle ensues where every man carries his life in peril, and every man remembers the country that gave him birth The British are pulled together again; they form by command into two lines, these two lines stretching well across the field of operations press the enemy slowly but determinedly back Changing its tactics the enemy now shout, “Wulla-bulla-alla,” but even this reversal of the original battle cry proves useless, and the final struggle is stopped (because in point of fact, one or two sets are beginning to fight in real earnest) by the bugle call to retreat Victory gained, the British sailors re-form, and singing exultant music to—

A life on the ocean wave,A life on the stormy deep,Where the billowy waters wave,And the stars their vigil keep,

they march round and pass the saluting point.

“Not at all bad,” says the captain “Eh, Mr. Waltham? Considering.”

“Not at all bad, sir,” replies the chief officer, “considering.”

Robert escorted his little visitor down to tea, a few of his intimate chums forming a circle around her in order to prevent the incursion of mere curiosity Miss Threepenny, finding herself the object and centre of all this consideration, chattered away over her tea and bread and butter, telling the circle a few of her best repartees, with many a “Oh, I says,” and “What! she says”; each recital finishing triumphantly with the sentence, “And that’s all they get for trying to score off me.” The small woman being swung down to the lower deck, professed herself much shocked at seeing the slung-up hammocks, declaring that eviction from her model dwellings would ensue if this were known, and covering her face with her tiny hands in a way that amused the lads very much Before leaving she ascertained the whereabouts of Robert’s locker, and finding the white box with Robert’s number painted atop, slipped inside an envelope containing a silver coin of enormous proportions On the upper deck again, Robert Lancaster feeling it politic to do everything possible in order to give Miss Threepenny subject-matter for conversation on her return to Trixie, went up to the foc’sle rigging to the foretop and was down again before she had time to beg of him to be careful, following this up by acts of a similarly perilous nature.

“How in the world I shall find breath enough to tell ’em all about you,” she said distractedly, “goodness only knows.”

“Don’t forget to mention,” said Robert, “that I’m going to be made a chief petty officer next week.”

“And how long did you say it’d be before you left?”

“I shan’t stay long,” he said importantly “They want chaps in the Royal Navy, and I’m five foot one already.”

“They ’ave made a man of you, Bobbie,” declared the little woman, looking up at him admiringly “Nobody’d think to look at you now that it was only a few years ago you was nothing more or less than—”

“Just put your ’and on my arm,” interrupted Robert rather hastily “Above the elbow, I mean Now then!” He drew his arm up slowly, and the muscles stood out hard and rigid.

“You’re nothing more nor less,” said Miss Threepenny, “than what they call in books a Herkools And—and you’ve quite made up your mind to be a sailor, Bobbie.”

“Of Her Majesty’s Navy,” said Bobbie proudly “There’s the signal for you to be off.”

The little woman having found her fishing net, now empty but for the current number of “The Upper Ten Novelette,” went carefully Her sailor hat was slightly awry, and detecting this by a casual glance at some polished brass, she adjusted it, and pulled her cape straight The circle of defending boys conducted her to the side of the ship; saw her safely down the slippery gangway ladder to the gig.

“I shan’t kiss you, me dear,” she whispered to Robert, “because they’d only guy you about it afterwards.”

“Give my love to ’em in Pimlico Walk,” said Robert shyly, as he lifted her into the boat.

“I shall keep some of it for meself,” said the little woman archly She spoke to the officer at the stern of the boat “Which side of the boat shall I sit, mister?” The officer replied that it could not possibly matter “Oh, well,” she said resignedly, “if it overbalances don’t blame me Goo’ bye, Bobbie.”

“Goo’ bye,” cried Bobbie.

“Be a good boy,” called out the little woman in the rocking gig.

“A good what?”

“A good man, I mean,” she shouted apologetically.

“That’s better.”

“Don’t forget,” cried the little woman, putting one hand to the side of her mouth—“oh, dear! how this boat does bob about—don’t forget that we mean to be proud of you.”

“I shan’t forget,” he promised.

And, indeed, Robert Lancaster kept this in his memory.

Fifteen

Life on the Westmouth being too exacting to permit one to count the hours, Robert Lancaster came to the end of his training there with a sudden jerk that almost astonished him Fifty lads were taken off the books, of whom he found himself to be one; some of them deciding for the merchant service, were despatched to the Home at Limehouse for that purpose; others, qualified in regard to measurement and desires, only waited for the brigantine to arrive for their names to be taken off the Watch Bill, and to resign their numbers to other lads The old captain, meeting Robert on the upper deck, honoured him with five minutes’ conversation, giving him a word of counsel, and directing him to give the old ship a call whenever the chance to do so offered.

“Don’t forget, my lad, that now your opportunity is coming to show us all that the trouble and money you have cost have been well laid out.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Keep yourself straight; be obedient to your officers, remember that the Navy has a fine, a glorious reputation, which you must help to keep up.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Above all, be a credit to the Westmouth, and see that we have good news of you That will do.”

“Pardon, sir Any objection to my having a day in London ’fore I join the—”

“To visit friends?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you please,” said the old captain with his sharp air of courtesy.

See Robert Lancaster clearing his locker down on the lower deck and distributing souvenirs to his colleagues; a part of the inside of a watch to one; a copy of “Kidnapped” to another; several pieces of rare old string to the boy from Poplar, now, under the stress of Westmouth discipline, a contented, optimistic lad See Robert Lancaster going off in the gig with six shillings tied in his handkerchief, being part of the prize for swimming gained by him at the last competition, and taking train at the small station for Fenchurch Street See him arriving near the old neighbourhood and walking with a fine, sailor-like roll in his wide trousers and open-necked jacket towards Pimlico Walk, in which thoroughfare, now it seemed to him more preposterously narrow than ever, children stopped the playing of tipcat to stare at him open-mouthed, and women going into miniature shops arrested themselves in order to ascertain, from feelings of vague curiosity, his destination.

“No one about?” he asked in the doorway of Mrs. Bell’s millinery establishment The small window was still set out with magnificent feathered hats, but there appeared to be a suggestion of good taste in the arrangement that had in the old days been absent.

“Yes,” said a little girl sitting on a high chair behind the counter, “there’s me.”

“No one else?”

“Who else d’you want?” asked the girl cautiously.

“Isn’t Mrs. Bell about?”

“She’s been bedridden for the last six months, if that’s what you call being about.”

“And Trixie?”

“You mean Miss Bell?”

“Miss Bell, then.”

The girl stepped from the stool, and went to the foot of the stairs.

“Shawp!” she cried She returned at once to the counter with a manner slightly less defensive “She sits upstairs and reads to the old gel in the middle of the day, and I’m in charge down ’ere When she comes down I go up, see? It don’t do to leave the place without someone.”

There was a rustle on the lower stairs.

“Bobbie!” A delighted exclamation.

“’Ullo, Trix,” he said nervously “How’s the world using you?”

“’Aven’t you grown?”

“You’ve been at that game, too I s’pose I was about the last person that was in your mind.”

“Yes,” said Trixie Bell, “the very last Me and mother were just then talking about you upstairs Isn’t your face brown, too?”

“Yours isn’t brown,” said Robert, with a clumsy attempt at compliment, “but it’s got every other good quality.”

“’Tilderann,” commanded Trixie Bell, insistently, “go upstairs and sit with mother at once, and tell her that Mr. Lancaster has called.” The little girl slid from the high stool again and disappeared reluctantly “Up the stairs, I said,” remarked Trixie, looking round the corner after her, “I didn’t ask you to wait on the second step listening.”

Miss Bell returned demurely to the inner side of the counter.

“Girls,” she said, with an air of maturity, “want a lot of looking after.”

“Who looks after you?” asked Bobbie, leaning over the counter.

“Oh, I can take care of myself.”

“For one day, at any rate, I’m going to take care of you Give me a kiss.”

“Bobbie! People can see through the shop window.”

“You won’t give me a kiss?”

“There’s a time,” said the pleasant-faced young woman, with great preciseness, “and a place for everything, and this is neither the time nor—”

One advantage of being trained as a British sailor is that you can vault over a counter and jump back again before anyone has time to protest.

“You’ll make me cross,” said Trixie, with great confusion and delight.

“Give it back to me, then,” suggested Robert.

“I fancy I see myself doing that,” said Trixie, ironically.

“I’ve fancied it a lot of times,” remarked Robert “Now it seems to me we’ve arrived at what you may call reality.”

“Of course,” said Trixie, leaning on the counter and keeping one eye on the window, “it isn’t exactly as though we were strangers, is it? What I mean to say is, we’ve known each other, Bobbie, for a long time, and you’ll be seventeen next birthday—”

“Don’t argue,” said Robert “Do what I ask you.”

“It’ll ’ave to be a very little one,” said Miss Bell, seriously And leaned forward.

“Thanks,” said Robert “That’s what I’ve been looking forward to.”

“Now, you must give up all this nonsense,” declared Trixie, with a sage air, and glancing at herself in the panel looking-glass, “and behave Will you come upstairs and see mother?”

“I thought p’raps you and me might go out this afternoon for a bit of a outing I’ve got to rejoin my ship this evening, and I shan’t have many chances of seeing you when I’m down at Plymouth.”

“There’s something in that,” admitted Trixie “I’ll see if I can get a lady friend of mine from Pitfield Street to look in for a few hours.” She raised her voice and called at the foot of the stairs “’Tilderann! Come down this minute.”

The girl obeyed, remarking in a grumbling undertone that the place was a perfect treadmill, and that for her part she envied the folk in Pentonville; she went to the doorway and reproved two infants outside for breathing on the glass, in good, well-chosen, and effective terms.

“Don’t put your arm round my waist, Bobbie,” whispered Trixie as they went up the dim, narrow staircase “Besides, there’s a buckle on my belt Mother, ’ere’s a gentleman come to call on you.”

Mrs. Bell, raising her head from the white pillow, gave a chuckle of recognition Robert, with his cap off, made his way round the bedstead, which seemed nearly to fill the room, but not quite, and shook hands with the large invalid.

“My poor old ’ead,” she remarked, jovially, “gets in such a fluster, sometimes, that I can’t remember nothing, and when the gel said Mr. Lancaster was in the shop it took me minutes to think who she meant D’you think Trixie’s growed?”

“Growed up and growed ’andsome,” said Robert Mrs. Bell gave a sigh of content, closing her eyes for a moment “And how are you, ma’am? On the mend, I ’ope.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Bell, opening her eyes and speaking loudly, “I’ve got nothing to complain of.” She lowered her voice, and added confidentially, so that Trixie should not hear, “May pop off at any moment.”

Trixie having explained the proposal that Robert had made, suggested that she should go round now to engage the services of the millinery friend in Pitfield Street Her mother agreed cheerfully.

“Of course,” said the old lady in a very loud tone, “I’ve been used to a active life, and naturally enough it goes somewhat against the grain for me to be kep’ in one room for monce and monce Otherwise I feel as well—” Trixie went out of the room, closing the door, and Mrs. Bell stopped and winked solemnly “It’d never do to let her know the truth,” she whispered “I always like to pretend before her I’m getting better It’s a rare game sometimes the dodges I ’ave to get up to so that she shouldn’t know how bad I am.”

“Trixie isn’t a bad sort,” remarked Robert.

“She’s my daughter,” said Mrs. Bell.

Before that excellent young lady returned poor Mrs. Bell and Robert had a long, confidential talk The cheerful old lady regretted that her time had arrived before Trixie had become a grown woman, but this regret was tempered by confidence in her daughter, and by a promise which had been given by Miss Threepenny to come and live with Trixie when all was over There breathed pride in the statement that her doctor from New North Road could find no English name for her illness, and had been compelled to fall back on the Latin tongue to give it title; Mrs. Bell’s old head trembled with gratification as she told Robert of this.

“D’you mind ’olding my ’and, Bobbie?” she asked, interrupting herself “I feel so much more contented somehow when someone’s ’olding me ’and Thanks! As I was telling you—”

The doctor had some time since recommended that she should be taken away to the seaside, a procedure which might prolong her life for a few months, but the old lady congratulated herself upon having had the shrewdness to reply that Hoxton was as good a place to die in as any other, and that she had not been saving money all her life in order to spend it foolishly on herself at the end The good soul seemed quite happy; everybody, she said, was very kind to her, and Trixie, who in former days had been somewhat masterful towards her, now waited on her “hand and foot.” Mrs. Bell declared that she only wished everybody could be looked after at the end of all as effectively Trixie, returning with her substitute, came upstairs in a hat which Robert, on being appealed to for an opinion, declared looked like ten thousand a year, and they said good-bye to Mrs. Bell, Trixie promising to send up ’Tilderann and to return herself at the earliest possible hour.

“Don’t ’urry,” said the old lady “And, Bobbie! Come back one moment Trixie, you go down.” Robert obeyed “I shan’t be seeing you again,” said the old lady brightly “If so be as I should meet your poor mother, I shall tell her what a fine lad you’ve growed to.” Robert bent and kissed the large white face “Be good, won’t you,” she whispered brokenly, “to her?”

“You can make yourself quite sure about that, ma’am,” said Robert.

Before going west on this sunny afternoon, the young lady insisted that Robert should accompany her for a short tour through certain streets in Hoxton, where her lady acquaintances resided, which same young women told each other afterwards that they had not realized what the word pride really meant until seeing Trixie with her young man They looked at Ely Place from the dwarf posts at the Kingsland Road end, where towzled-hair, half-dressed, grubby babies played games with mud and swore at one another, but the two agreed that they had no desire to go through the Place One more girl acquaintance in a Hoxton street shop in whose sight Robert had to be paraded, and then the two young people, walking down into Old Street, took a tram for Bloomsbury.

“You pay for yourself,” said Trixie Bell definitely, “I’ll pay for myself.”

“No fear,” protested Robert, “I pay for both to-day This is my beanfeast.”

“Then I go no further,” declared the young woman “Agree to that, Bobbie, or down the steps I go.”

“You are obstinate,” said Robert “I never saw such a one for ’aving her own way.”

“Not much use having anybody else’s way,” she said “Bloomsbury, one,” she said to the conductor.

The principle thus definitely laid down being adhered to during the afternoon, Robert found himself unable in consequence to assume the air of condescension and patronage that he had promised to wear; indeed, Miss Bell took the entire management of the afternoon into her own hands, with a quaint air of decision which surprised Robert and interested him, so that when at the end of the tram line she said, “Regent’s Park,” it was to Regent’s Park they went; on Robert in his reckless way suggesting a ’bus, she said, “Walk, it’s no distance,” and that was the mode of transport adopted In Regent’s Park they sat on chairs near to sweet-smelling oval bouquets of flowers, watching the white-sashed nursemaids and the children, and whilst Robert (to Trixie’s content) smoked a large, important cigar, she chattered away about her plans for the future Trixie revived the old ambition of a milliner’s establishment, with French words in white letters on the window, in some position not too far distant from Pimlico Walk, so that old customers should be preserved, whilst new ones were being caught; Robert watched her admiringly as she sketched this magnificent project, noting the decision of her chin and the flush of interest on her attractive face The cigar finished, or nearly finished (for Robert was not yet a confirmed smoker), they walked arm-in-arm through the gates to the upper portion of the park, where there were sheep to be looked at, and near to the fountain, small debating societies, that seemed to grow on the grass in the style of mushrooms, and were made up of grubby men, arguing, as it seemed, on every topic of which they were ignorant, with here a reference to John Stuart Mill, and there satire at the expense of Apostles Near to one of these groups Robert and Trixie stopped.

“As for your so-galled Queen, my goot Anglish friends,” a foreign gentleman with no collar shouted in the centre of the mushroom, “it don’t dake me long times to gif you my obinion about her and all her plooming Gofernment.”

“Now you’re beggin’ the question,” said his opponent “Let’s keep to the point at issue If you’ve ever read Plito, you would have been aware that—”

“I’m not dalkin’ about Blato,” said the foreigner, with excited gesture “I’m dalkin’ about the bresent day and the stupid, foolish idea that you Anglish are a free nation My obinion of your Queen, my fellow, is simply these She’s—”

Not quite clear what the foreign gentleman wanted to say, and impossible to hear what he did say, for at that moment a sailor lad edged his way through the crowd, two brown hands seized the neck of his collarless shirt, and at once the two—Robert and the foreign critic—were running away pell-mell to Gloucester Gate, the foreigner forced to go at a good pace despite his struggles, and being thrown eventually well into the roadway outside the park Robert returned to Trixie a little heated with the run; Trixie’s blue dotted blouse danced with delight and admiration.

“That’ll learn him,” said Robert, darkly.

In the Zoological Gardens they walked through the long house where lions and tigers lodge, and Robert kissed Trixie in full sight of a very sulky old lion, who had a bed-sitting room near to the end, making the lion use an exclamation of annoyance and envy that cannot well be printed Then they went out into the gardens to see long, thin, ridiculous legs with birds perched riskily atop, and had a long conversation with one of the highly-coloured parrots, who were all talking at once, and seemed, like the debaters outside, to be denouncing somebody, and in similarly raucous voices.

“At tea, Bobbie,” said Trixie, with a touch of her decisive manner, “I want to talk to you.”

“You’ve been doing that the last hour or two,” he said, good temperedly.

“Ah, but I mean seriously,” she said.

At tea on the gravelled space near to the sleepy owls Robert encountered friends whose presence deferred the weighty talk, friends in the person of the angel from Folkestone, now clearly Mrs. Customs Officer, her husband and a large-eyed astonished baby in a white beef-eater hat The angel came over from her table on recognizing Robert and declared that the news of this meeting would do poor uncle more good than all the embrocation in the world.

“Allow me,” said Robert with importance, “to introduce my”—he coughed—“fiancée.”

Trixie on this introduction assumed a distant manner, and sat alone with a reticent air, while Robert went over to speak to long Mr. Customs, and to dance the amazed infant high into the air The angel had grown very matronly; the Customs seemed to be well under her control, insomuch that he never commenced a sentence without finding himself instantly arrested and brushed aside by his wife On Robert rallying the angel on this, the angel laughed good-humouredly, declaring that it was well for one or the other to be master, and prophesying that some day Robert would find this out for himself, whereupon Robert insisted that women must not be too tyrannical, and endeavoured to enlist the Customs on his side in the argument, but the Customs shook his head vaguely (being it seemed with no grievance to complain of), and begged not to be dragged into the discussion.

“What name was it you called me just now?” demanded Trixie, when he had returned to her Robert explained, and Trixie’s young forehead cleared “That reminds me,” she said, resting one small shoe on the bar of Robert’s chair, “I want to talk sense now.”

“Why?”

“I want you,” she said slowly and carefully, “to promise me—”

“I’ll promise anything you like.”

“To promise me that you’ll give up all idea of being a sailor, and take up some occupation on land.”

Robert shifted his chair and Trixie’s foot slipped to the gravel He re-tied his lanyard with great particularity, humming a tune Trixie, fearful of the reply, drew a heart with the ferrule of her parasol on the gravel.

“Not me!” he said decidedly.

The heart on the gravel found itself rubbed out sharply and rendered illegible.

“You think it over, dear,” said Trixie Bell.

“I shan’t think it over,” replied Robert Lancaster sturdily “It’d be a mean trick to do after all they’ve spent on my training.”

“I don’t see how it would affect them.”

“I’m not going to do it, Trixie.”

“So long as you earn a honest living—”

“Look ’ere,” burst out Robert impetuously, “I can’t argue with girls My mind’s quite made up, and I’m not going to alter it.”

“That means, then,” said Miss Bell, swallowing something, “that you don’t care for me.”

“It don’t mean anything of the kind,” protested Robert “It’s a question of duty.”

“You’d easily get a good berth on shore,” she argued, “and earn good money, and then we could see each other pretty of’en As it is, I may not see you from one year’s end to the other.”

“Absence makes the ’eart grow fonder.”

“Yes,” said the young woman pointedly, “in books.”

“Well,” remarked Robert, after a pause, “now that we’ve cleared up this argument, ’ave some more tea.”

“No, thank you,” said Trixie with reserve “I think I must be getting along ’ome Looks as though we shall ’ave a shower presently, I think.”

“Trixie,” he said, trying to take her hand, “don’t be a young silly.”

“After that complimentary remark,” she said rising, “it’s most certainly time for me to be off To be told in the Zoo above all places in the world that I’m a silly—”

“I didn’t say you was a silly,” urged Robert with great perturbation, “I asked you not to go and be one Do stop, and let’s be good friends the same like—”

He was following the indignant young woman when the waiter interposed, offering a delicate hint to the effect that his services were usually deemed worthy of reward; by the time Robert had found threepence Trixie had disappeared in the direction of the camels Other visitors watched the hurried distracted efforts of the scarlet-faced sailor lad on his erratic voyage of discovery with as much interest as though he had been an escaped resident of the Gardens.

A gloomy young man strode down Great Portland Street an hour later, and, losing his way more than once, because he was too much annoyed to speak to policemen, found himself at last in Holborn and eventually in Fetter Lane On the two middle-aged ladies in the shop saying that Mr. Myddleton West was not in, and had indeed removed, Robert, muttering that this was just like his luck, turned away with a decision to return to Grays some two hours earlier than he had intended On board the Westmouth one was at any rate free from illogical young women; free also from the irritating risk of taking wrong turnings A swift hysterical shower of rain started.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said gruffly.

“My fault,” remarked the man with whom he had come in collision “I ought not to hold my open umbrella in front of me.”

“Mr. West, I believe, sir.”

“Young Hoxton!”

“That’s me, sir.”

“You look quite a man,” said Myddleton West genially “Come back to my office, and talk.”

“You look ten years younger, sir, than when I see you last.”

“I am ten years younger,” said West “On second thoughts we might eat Do you feel like a good square meal?”

“I’m off me feed just for the present Had rather a whack in the eye this afternoon.”

“That’s only a prelude to good luck,” said Myddleton West, with new optimism He seemed to be taking cheerful views of the world; appeared brighter than in the old days, and the lad felt inclined to resent it “Providence is very fair in a general way.”

Turning into a dim, insignificant passage off Fleet Street, they found a doorway, as if by accident, which led them (also, as it seemed, by a series of misadventures) to a square old-fashioned dining-room of the early Victorian type Several men were seated at the wooden tables eating; two or three Americans with note-books were being supplied by one of the old waiters with a quantity of new and incorrect information about the old eating-house, enlivened by rare anecdotes of celebrities In five minutes there was set before West and Robert Lancaster a small mountain made up of admirable strata of pigeons, of oysters, and of steak Robert began by gazing absently at the dish before him, and thinking about Trixie; the smell of appetizing food changed his thoughts, and he presently set to with admirable appetite.

“My great news can easily be told,” said Myddleton West across the table “I was married last week.”

“Good business!” remarked Robert “Who is the lady, sir?”

“There is but one.”

“But I thought she’d decided—”

“They never do that,” remarked West.

“She used to like talking about you, sir, to me when I was in the hospital I always thought it would ’appen some day.”

“I’m ordered out to some God-forsaken place in Siberia,” said Myddleton West “They are making a new railway, and there’s a lot of excitement, I believe Miss Margaret was good enough to insist upon marrying me, before I went When I come back my wife will give up her nursing business and we are going to settle down and enjoy life.”

“Good deal to be said for the old fashions,” said Robert wisely “Independence is all very well, but I don’t like to see it carried too far Not with the ladies at any rate,” he added.

“Tell me all about yourself,” urged Myddleton West “My wife will be anxious to hear My wife,” West seemed proud to repeat these two words, “was always interested in you.”

Robert felt distinctly better when he had come out into Fleet Street and had said a respectful good-bye to Myddleton West; this partly because of the excellent meal and partly because of the friendly chat The shower had finished and he walked East Not until he had nearly reached Fenchurch Street, with only five minutes to wait for his train, did he remember that he had a high important grievance which careful attention would, as he knew, nurture into lasting remorse He went slowly up the stairs of the station, and thinking with a desolate sigh of women in general and of Miss Beatrice Bell in particular At the top of the staircase he caught sight (his look being downcast) of Miss Threepenny.

“Well, you’re a nice young gentleman,” said the little woman, satirically, “I don’t think Fancy coming to London and not waiting to see me This,” added the mite, with a twinkle in her bright bead-like eyes, “is what you call constancy, I s’pose.”

“There’s no such thing as constancy,” growled Robert “Not in this world, at any rate.”

“Shows what you know about it,” declared the little woman “Come over ’ere; I’ve a friend I want to interduce you to.”

“I’ve only got five minutes before my train goes.”

“Five minutes is ample Come along.”

To the side of the bookstall Miss Threepenny convoyed Robert; once in harbour there bade him on no account to stir, and puffing off like a busy little tug to the waiting-room, returned immediately with that trim yacht Trixie Bell in tow, whom she also brought to anchor at the side of the bookstall.

“I’ll go and see what platform your train starts from,” then cried the little tug.

“Bobbie,” said the well-appointed yacht, penitently, to the man-of-war, “I’m—I’m so sorry if I went and made myself look like a stupid this afternoon.”

“Trixie,” said the man-of-war, coming dangerously close to the side of the neat craft, “if anybody’s to blame, it’s me Only—”

“We shall quarrel again, dear,” said Trixie Bell, sedately, “if you talk like that You’re quite right in what you’ve made up your mind to do, and I respect you all the more for it, and if you’re away ten seconds, or if you’re away ten years, I shall always be the same and—”

The man-of-war saluted with so much promptitude that a newspaper boy in the bookstall, safe in ambush behind an illustrated journal, made ventriloquial comment Miss Threepenny hurried up.

“Now run, Bobbie,” said the tiny woman, breathlessly “You’ll just catch it, and—good luck to you!”

He caught the train as it moved out of the station and jumped into a third-class compartment When he had regained his breath he leaned his bare head delightedly out of the window to enjoy the cool air that had come after the shower.

“Upon my word,” he said, to Stepney Station, with some astonishment, “I begin to think that I don’t half understand women.”

From this remark it will be seen that Robert Lancaster, formerly child of the State, and shortly to enter the service of his great parent, was now no longer very young Wherefore it is here that one may prepare to take leave of him.

Sixteen

The new shop which bore the name of Miss Beatrice Bell stood so far up the Kingsland Road, beyond the canal, that you might have said it was in Dalston, and none would have dared offer contradiction A happy situation, in that the shop found itself able to at once keep touch with the superior classes of Hoxton and with the middle classes of Dalston; a distinction being made in the two windows, so that Hoxton lady clients on entering turned instinctively to the left counter, whilst those from Dalston turned to the right Beatrice Bell, grown to a tall, self-possessed young woman, still in slight mourning for her mother, had the nightly companionship of little Miss Threepenny, and assistance by day from the perky ’Tilderann, whose enthusiasm for the business was equalled by her intolerance of anything likely to interfere with achievement of these ends; her mistress’s habit of buying evening newspapers whenever the placards shouted anything about the Delar expedition, of making customers wait while she read the telegraphic accounts nervously, constituted a weakness that made ’Tilderann groan But for these occasional lapses Beatrice Bell had become a shrewd, business-like woman, not only reaching the high standard set by her assistant, but sometimes exceeding it, and extorting from that young woman gracious compliment It was indeed worth watching to see and hear Miss Bell deal with some lady of Hoxton who having ideas of her own in regard to a new hat, insisted upon explaining them in detail The young proprietress of the establishment would listen with perfect calm whilst the client described the kind of hat which represented her heart’s desire; when she had finished, Miss Bell would say icily, “I quite understand what you mean, but,” here a slight shrug of the shoulders, “they are no longer worn.” Upon which the lady customer could only ejaculate a confused and abashed “Ho!” and request that something that was being worn should be taken from the window and exhibited to her.

Beatrice Bell, her hands clasped behind her, taking the air at the doorway of her shop, and bowing to acquaintances in the swift crowd of young women hurrying northward to their tea, glanced up and down the busy road with its sailing trams and jerking ’buses The hour was seven; the sky still light with a juvenile moon that seemed, with the impatience of youth, to have come out too early Dashing young blades of shopkeepers also taking the air at their doorways, caught sight of the white-speckled blouse, and bowed to her, and noting with pain her distant acknowledgment, declared to each other that Miss Bell would stand an infinitely better chance of getting married were she less reserved in manner, a drawback which had already cheated her of more than one invitation to Epping Forest on early-closing day “For,” said Mr. Libbis, the tobacconist, to his friend at the second-hand shop, “she may be as ’aughty as she likes, but after all, mind you, she’s only a girl.”

Opposite, a boy pasted on the boards outside the newspaper shop a new placard: “Brave conduct at Delar.” She ran across the road to buy a copy of the newspaper; before she returned a customer came to the Hoxton side of the shop demanding something stylish at one-and-eleven ’Tilderann fenced with her pending the return of her mistress.

“It occurred to me, looking in the glass,” said the woman confidentially, “that I wanted smartenin’ up It may be only me fancy, but it struck me I was beginning to look old What d’you think?”

“Depends what you call old,” replied ’Tilderann “Sure you can’t run to more than one-and-eleven?”

“Eight year ago, or a trifle more,” said the woman, reminiscently, “I was as light-’earted a young woman as you’d ’ave found in all ’Oxton, if you’d searched for a month I was really the rarest one for making jokes that you ever ’eard of before my ’usband, Bat Miller, had to go away.”

“Emigrated?” asked ’Tilderann, glancing between the hats and bonnets for her mistress.

“He were away,” said Mrs. Miller, evasively, “for a matter of four or five year And when I went to meet him, believe me or not, he was as stand-offish in his manner as he could he.”

“That’s like ’em,” said ’Tilderann “These bonnets at four-and-three are all the go just now.”

“Quite ’igh and mighty if you please,” went on Mrs. Miller aggrievedly “And I firmly believe that if I hadn’t had on my best mantle he’d have gone off again, goodness knows where As it was, I persuaded him to settle down, and we’ve got on as well as can be expected; only that now and again, when we have a few words, he says something very satirical about the old days in Ely Place.”

“Here she is!” said ’Tilderann “Come on, Miss! ’Ere’s a customer been waiting for howers.”

“Sorry,” remarked Beatrice Bell, panting Her pretty face was crimson with excitement; she hugged a pink halfpenny journal to her breast.

“Something at about one-and-eleven, Miss,” said Mrs. Miller respectfully “Not too quiet and not too loud, and something that’ll suit my features.”

Miss Bell, trembling oddly, went up the wooden steps and brought down a box containing black hats.

“Anything special, Miss, in the evening paper?” asked Mrs. Bat Miller ingratiatingly.

“Yes,” said Beatrice, panting.

“I of’en ’ave a look at the playcards,” said Mrs. Miller; “they give me about as much information as I want Are these the newest shape in this box?”

“Look at the corner of the box,” said Miss Bell, endeavouring to regain her usual composure “That’ll tell you, ‘Chapeaux de Paris.’”

“Sounds all right,” agreed Mrs. Miller “I was saying to your young lady here that I’ve been making up my mind to take more trouble about me personal appearance Otherwise, it’s likely enough Miller’ll be getting tired of me again, and then there’ll be more trouble How would you advise me to have this trimmed, Miss, if it isn’t troubling you too much?”

Beatrice Bell gave advice in a hurried way as though pressed with more urgent affairs, and anxious to see her customer depart Mrs. Miller did go, after reciting some more of her personal history; when she had gone Miss Bell took the evening paper from her waistbelt and sat down behind the counter She had scarcely done so when the bell of the door rang and a tall young woman came in, dressed in a tailor-made costume, which caused ’Tilderann to gasp with admiration.

“Will you,” she said pleasantly to that amazed girl, “give the driver this half-crown and tell him not to wait?” She turned brightly to the young proprietress “You are Miss Bell, are you not? My name is Mrs. Myddleton West.”

“One moment,” said Miss Bell trembling, “till the girl comes back, and we’ll go into the shop parlour.”

“You have read the evening paper I see.”

“I’ve got it certainly, ma’am,” replied the agitated young woman, “but as to reading it, why my eyes get so full the moment I begin that I can’t get on with it very fast.”

“I have a letter from my dear husband,” said Mrs. Myddleton West proudly, “from my dear husband giving fuller particulars.”

“And you’ve come straight here?”

’Tilderann returning, flushed with victory because she had compounded with the cabman for two shillings and two pence, and therefore able to refund the sum of fourpence, was commanded to look after the shop, and Miss Bell conducted her visitor into the small room at the back ’Tilderann, noting with regret that the door closed carefully, found compensation in serving across the counter imaginary bonnets to imaginary wives of society millionaires at the price of fifty guineas per bonnet.

“Is this Robert Lancaster?” asked Mrs. West in her pleasant way She took up a photograph of a brown-faced sailor lad, clean shaven, with a humorous mouth and bare neck.

“That’s my Bobbie,” said Beatrice Bell with pride “Won’t you take the easy chair, ma’am? It’s been quite a lovely summer, hasn’t it? I suppose we shall soon have autumn upon us if we’re not careful, and—Oh,” she cried, interrupting herself “What is the use of me pretending to be calm when I’m all of a tremble!”

“Now you must sit down,” this with a kindly authoritativeness, “sit down here close to me, and I am going to read to you the letter from my husband, which arrived only this evening.”

“From Delar?” asked the girl, seating herself obediently on a hassock.

“From Delar.”

“How could you let your husband go away, ma’am?”

“I don’t think I can,” said Mrs. West, “again.” She found the letter and took the thin sheets carefully from the envelope “But I felt that I ought not to be selfish all through my life.”

“Weren’t you the sister who looked after Bobbie in the hospital, ma’am?” Mrs. West nodded and smoothed out the sheets of note paper “I wasn’t quite sure whether Mr. West wouldn’t go and marry some one else, considering—I s’pose I’ve no business to say so—but considering the way you kept putting him off.”

“I took care,” said Mrs. Myddleton West quickly, “that he should not do anything so absurd Shall I begin the letter?”

“If you please, ma’am,” said Beatrice Bell, looking up respectfully Mrs. Myddleton West commenced.

“My dearest, ever dearest,” she stopped “I don’t think I need trouble you with the first page at all,” she said with some confusion.

“I know what you mean, ma’am Start where he begins to speak of Bobbie.”

It appeared that Bobbie came in about the middle of the second sheet The war correspondent out at Delar had intuitively written on one side of the paper only, and Trixie Bell noted this deplorable want of economy, but West’s small handwriting managed to convey a good long letter.

“You remember our young friend Bobbie Lancaster The lad, now a sailor attached to H.M.S. Pompous, is on the launch where I am writing, and he did this afternoon an act of quiet bravery which ought, I think, to make his country feel that the trouble it took to make a man of him was not wasted I am sending an account of the incident to my journal by the post which takes this letter to you, but you will care to have fuller particulars How I wish that the mail were also taking me to the arms—”

“That,” said Mrs. West, “is, of course, merely by the way.”

“Skip a few lines,” suggested Trixie, her chin resting upon her hands, “but don’t leave out more than you’re obliged.”

The trail of the story was re-discovered.

“But touching Lancaster! We left H.M.S. Pompous and steamed up a broad smelly river, bordered by mangrove trees with long weeping branches, and approached the town of Delar Delar is nothing like a town, but a mere collection of whitewashed huts around a large circular hut, where that genial person, the king of Delar, has hitherto lived It was in this central hut that he caused to be massacred the Englishmen who, at his request, came some months since to confer with him on the subject of trade; our expedition is, as you know, intended to prove to him that such tactics are not only unbusinesslike, but positively rude This lesson will be taught him by our marines when they land to-morrow, and I have little doubt but that they will do it effectively I was talking to the Intelligence Officer when Lancaster came up hurriedly, and, saluting, said that the Admiral wished to see the other officer at once The Intelligence man hurried below, and Lancaster and I had two minutes’ chat He has grown a fine strong fellow, with honesty in both eyes, and muscular arms tattooed with the word ‘Trix.’”

“The dear boy!” burst out Miss Bell.

“We talked of the old days, and he said that he only cared to think of Hoxton now because his sweetheart lived there.”

“You might read that part again, ma’am.”

“He talked of the old days, and he said that he only cared to think of Hoxton now because his sweetheart lived there.”

The girl gasped.

“Fancy his talking about me,” she said delightedly, “all that distance off Go on, ma’am.”

“Whilst we were talking, commotion began on shore Men were running up and down; boats were launched, the Intelligence Officer and the Admiral, escorted by four marines and four sailors, prepared to leave Some whistling and giving of orders; the steamer slowed and stopped The Admiral, I may tell you, is a big-bearded fellow, daring, and very popular with the officers and the men, but on board the Pompous, just before we left, there had been general agreement that he had done a risky and almost a foolhardy thing in agreeing to a palaver with some of the king’s supporters The officers knew that his idea was to punish the king and the king only; whereas the officers desired to punish everybody If you had seen the mutilated body of an English gentleman bound upon what is called a crucifixion tree near the king’s hut, I think, dear, you would have agreed with the officers.

“Not being allowed to go on shore, I give most of the rest as recounted to me by my friend the Intelligence Officer The Admiral and his escort descended into the boats and were rowed ashore by the natives; Robert Lancaster was one of the bluejackets At the shore they were received with great courtesy by the king’s chief ministers; the king, as we knew, had scuttled off inland on receiving news of our approach With exceeding ceremony the Admiral and his escort found themselves conducted to the king’s compound, the while on the launch our Maxim stood ready to rake the town on the least sign of treachery At each door of the king’s house lay a woman’s dead body This, it was explained, had been done to prevent the arrival of the English; a precaution on the part of the king that had proved singularly unsuccessful In the palaver house, a long half-roofed building with a bronze serpent at the entrance, and inside, seats of dry red mud, the Admiral took up position, and through the interpreter addressed the chiefs; Robert Lancaster being, as I am told, one of the men stationed behind the Admiral and his officers Standing at a rough table the Admiral said that the great White Queen was angry because of the infamous massacre of her children; as a good mother she had determined to avenge their murder But though the great White Queen was powerful, she was also just, she wished to punish only those responsible Wherefore the king was to be pursued and captured and dealt with severely, but those of the natives who were friendly would not be hurt, and would, indeed, be under British protection.”

“I am now,” said young Mrs. Myddleton West gravely, “coming to the very serious part of the letter.”

“May I hold your ’and, ma’am?” asked the girl For answer she found her right hand taken instantly with a quiet matronly manner that gave her confidence.

“As the Admiral spoke and the interpreter repeated each sentence, the ministers listened with attention and with plain signs of agreement The younger men rose from the red mud seats and pressed forward They began to speak confusedly; the Admiral held up his hand for order One of the younger men smashed a square of looking-glass on the floor; at the same moment Robert Lancaster flung himself suddenly on a muscular black youth who had risen from the ground close to the Admiral, unseen by others of the escort The blade intended for the Admiral’s back caught in the fleshy part of Lancaster’s arm; a swift struggle ensued between the two before the others realized what was happening A sharp revolver shot from one of the officers settled the murderous young black; Lancaster sucked at his own wound, spat, stepped calmly back to his place.”

“Now, now!” protested the wife of Myddleton West, breaking off tearfully, “you mustn’t cry, dear.”

“I know,” sobbed Miss Bell.

“The others shared his composure; the Admiral himself never lost self-possession for a moment He concluded the palaver as though nothing of moment had happened; went out of the house with his escort and down to the shore and re-embarked Arrived here on the launch, the Admiral sent for Bobbie.

“‘What is your name, my lad?’

“‘Robert Lancaster, sir, of the Pompous.’

“‘Are you hurt, much?’

“‘Nothing to brag about, sir.’

“‘Do you know that you saved my life?’

“‘Well, sir,’ said Bobbie with great respect, ‘I’m not sorry to have paid back a bit of what I owe.’

“‘Mr. West,’ remarked the Admiral, turning to me, ‘let the English people know something about this I will look after the lad, but you, too, can do something.’

“The doctor tells me that the blade was poisoned at the tip—”

Beatrice Bell’s hand tightened her hold, and the white speckled blouse stilled for a moment.

“And that Lancaster’s smartness and resource alone saved the wound from becoming dangerous Lancaster wants you to call on his sweetheart and tell her all about it, because for a few weeks he will not be able to write I shall be home, my dearest, in less than a month, and when I see you—”

“That is all about Bobbie,” said Mrs. Myddleton West, stopping “What do you think of it all, dear?”

“I could no more,” declared Miss Bell, “explain to you what I think, ma’am, than I could fly I’m too thankful to talk much.” The girl looked wistfully at the sheets of rustling note paper “You’d think I’d got impudence,” she said hesitatingly, “if I told you, though, what I’ve got in my mind.”

“Tell me!”

“Why, I was just thinkin’ how annoyed you’d be if I was to ask you to give me the part that concerns—that concerns my Bobbie.”

Far from showing annoyance, Mrs. West cheerfully ordered the production of scissors; ’Tilderann being called, responded so promptly that suspicious persons might have guessed she had become tired of serving imaginary customers, and had been trying to listen at the doorway Having brought the scissors, ’Tilderann was sent back again to look after the shop Then the two women bent their heads near to each other, and dividing the letter carefully, judiciously, and very lovingly, the shares were allotted.

“My dear,” said Mrs. West rising, “come and see me at the address on this envelope to-morrow evening, and let us talk it all over quietly Come to dinner.”

“Me?” asked the astonished girl “Me at dinner in Kensington?”

“I insist upon it.”

“I’m a good talker,” stammered Miss Bell, “in—in an ord’nary way, but just now—I only wish my friend Miss Threepenny was here.”

A call from ’Tilderann.

“But some day me and Bobbie will be able to tell you how much—” She bent her head to her friend’s hand impulsively Young Mrs. West kissed her on the cheek.

“Lot of use anybody bawling ‘Shop,’” said ’Tilderann at the doorway ironically, “when no one don’t take no notice Why, you’re crying! Whatever’s the matter, Miss?”

“Matter?” repeated Miss Beatrice Bell with indignation “Do you think I should cry if there was anything really the matter?”

E R B

E R B was published in 1902 by D. Appleton and Company

One

“But I am reminded,” shouted the scarlet-faced man on the chair, still keeping his voice to the high note on which he had started, “I am reminded that my time is exhausted. Another talented speaker is ’ere to address you. I refer to our friend Barnes—better known per’aps to all of you as Erb.”

The crescent-shaped crowd, growling applause, gave signs of movement, and a round-faced young man, standing at the side of the chair, looked up modestly at the sky.

“He, as you all know, ’ails from the district of Berminsey, where he exercises a certain amount of influence, and, in spite of his youth, is recognised as a positive power in the labour world. He is accustomed to hit straight from the shoulder, and he fears neether friend nor foe. I am going to tell you some’ing you very like don’t know, and there’s no necessity for it to go any further; that is that he stands a vurry good chance of being made the secretary of a new society. Friends! without further remarks from me, I call upon Comrade Barnes, better known as Erb, to address you. Thanks.”

The man stepped down from the chair. “Where’s my hat been and gone?” he asked. “Someone’s shifted it.”

The hour being half past twelve, the crowd had no business of an urgent nature for thirty minutes. A few strolled away to join other groups, and Herbert Barnes, as he took off his bowler hat and stepped upon the green chair, watched these sternly. Southwark Park was being wooed by the morning sun of spring-time, the green fresh grass covered a space that was here and there protected by warning boards; the trees, after a shivering winter, were clothing themselves with a suit of new leaves. Away to the right, masts of shipping in the Surrey Commercial Docks showed high and gaunt above the middle-aged trees that fringed the park: on the other side rows of small houses pressed closely. A few light-haired Scandinavian sailors looked on amiably; timber-carrying men, who showed a horny skin at the back of their necks, as badges of their labour, made up, with railway men in unaccustomed mufti, the rest of the group. The new speaker’s features relaxed slightly as he saw two girls, conspicuous in the presence of so many men, join his audience, to resume his earlier manner when one exclaimed disappointedly, “Oh, it’s only joring!” and both strolled away towards a bed of flaming tulips. A tall young woman, slightly lame, took their place.

“Friends,” said Erb, very quietly, “I was not altogether prepared to be called upon for an address this morning, but—All right, my lad,” this in reply to an appeal from the outside of the crescent, “I’ll speak up presently. I’ll speak up when I’m ready, in a way that’ll make even you understand me.” The line of speakers near the chair smiled, and the interjector’s friends remarked gleefully that this was one in the eye for him. “I say that I came ’ere to this park this morning,” he went on, raising his voice defiantly, and smoothing his obstinate hair with one hand, “more as a listener than a teacher, more ready to learn from others than to learn them anything myself.” The tall young person on the edge of the crowd winced. “But as I have been called upon, I shall take the liberty of askin’ you one or two very straight questions. My friend from Camberwell, who preceded, referred to me as one accustomed to hit straight from the shoulder; that’s the way I’m going to play the game this morning. I stand up ’ere,” he said, commencing to finger the buttons of his waistcoat, “as a working man addressing his fellow working men. Prouder titles there can never be, and if they was to offer to make me Lord Mayor of London at this present moment I should make answer to the effect that I preferred to be a working man.” A voice on the outside asked where he worked? “I am a parcels carman on a railway I am, and I earn twenty-three shillings and sixpence a week.” A voice said it was a shame to pay a van-boy the money earned by grown men; Herbert Barnes flushed at this and went on. The voice, deluded, threw at him another remark. “Was he” (asked the voice), “was he a half-timer?”

“I’m going to spare one minute with this chap,” said Erb, turning suddenly. “Bring him forward! Stand back from him then, if he’s too shy for that, and let’s see who we’re dealing with. Oh, it’s you, is it?”

“Yus,” admitted the owner of the voice resentfully, “it is me.”

“You don’t look ’appy,” said Erb.

“I’ve been listening to you,” explained the man.

“Take your ’ands out of your pockets and let’s ’ave a look at them.” The man turned to go, but the circle declined to permit this. “Take a sight at his little hansy-pansy.” Order complied with. “What d’you make of ’em?” “Soft,” retorted the expert. “I knew he was a loafer,” said Erb. “Let him go now and prop up his favourite pubs; I want to talk to genuine working men, not to bits of touch-wood. My first question is,” here he referred to the notes on the back of an envelope which he held in his hand, “my first question is, what is it we working men most keenly desire at the present moment?”

“Tankard of bitter,” said someone.

“Ah!” Herbert Barnes whirled round, and pointed a forefinger at the humorist and his friends. “There’s a man who speaks the truth. There’s a man what says jest the thing he really thinks. There’s a man who utters that which is uppermost in his mind. There’s a man,” he leaned forward as though about to give one last applauding compliment, “whose ’ighest ambition, whose most elevated thought, whose one supreme anxiety is for a tankard of bitter. Friends,” with a whirl of both arms, “we talk about the tyranny and what not of capital; the enmity of the upper circles, but there, jest over there, is the class of man that is our greatest opponent, the man from whom we have most to fear. A ten-kard of bit-ter!” he repeated deliberately.

“Well, but,” said the humorist in an injured tone, “I suppose a chep can open his mouth?”

“You can open your mouth, and when you do, apparently, it’s generally for the purpose of em’tying down it a—”

He hesitated. The crowd, glad to find personalities introduced, gave the words in a muffled chorus.

“Makin’ a bloomin’ song of it,” grumbled the humorist, going off. “Some people can’t take a joke.”

“’Aving finished with our friend,” said Herbert Barnes, loudly, “we will now resume our attention to our original argument. What is it that the working man—”

His voice grew so much in volume that people at Christadelphian and other crowds near the iron gates deserted these, and came across in the hope of better sport. One of his arguments created some dissension, and two men, detaching themselves from the crescent, went off to debate it, and an interested circle formed around these, listening with almost pained interest, and seemingly (from the nodding of their heads) convinced by each argument in turn. The round-faced young man on the Windsor chair, now aiming the fist of one hand into the palm of the other as he laboured at an argument, and giving a tremendous and convincing thump as he made his point, noted the new crowd with approval: it was good to have said the stimulating thing. There were no interrupters now, but occasionally a voice would throw an approving sentence, caught neatly by Herbert Barnes, and used if he thought it wise or necessary; his best retorts were given with a glance at the one young woman of the crowd. He was in the middle of a long sentence decked out with many a paraphrase, and whole regiments of adjectives hurrying to the support of a noun, when the hem of his jacket was pulled, and he stopped. “Surely,” he said, in an undertone, “the time ain’t up?” The man next him replied, “Oh, ain’t it though?” rather caustically.

“Friends,” said Herbert resuming his quiet voice, “I’m afraid I’ve kept you rather long. We’ve had opportunities before of meetin’ each other; we shall ’ave opportunities again. I ’ave only to add one word.” The man next to him frowned up at him on hearing this ominous phrase. “It’s my firm and steadfast opinion that we shall increase our power and magnify our strength only by sticking close, quite close, shoulder to shoulder, in what I may call the march of progress. Not otherwise shall we see the risin’ sun salute the dawn—” (a momentary frown from the lame young woman had disconcerted him)—“of labour’s triumph: not otherwise shall we—shall we—”

“Gain,” prompted the young man next to him, sulkily.

“Gain—thank you—gain the respect of future ages and the admiration of posterity; not otherwise shall we lead others on in that battle which, to use the language of metaphor—”

“I say, old man,” whispered his neighbour, “really! Play the game.”

“I will not pursue the train of thought,” said Erb, “on which I had, in a manner of speakin’, embarked. One an’ all, friends—thank you—kind ’tention—I now give way!”

“Feriends!” shouted the next man, stepping quickly on the chair, “our comrade from Berminsey has been so far carried away by his own eloquence as to overstep his time. In these circs, I will abstain from all preliminary remarks and come to the point at once. First of all, ’owever—”

The bowler-hatted men, who had spoken, seemed bored now with the proceedings, and tried to make out the exact time by the clock on the great biscuit factory; unable to do this, they appealed to Erb, who, heated with his oratorical efforts, and gratified to notice that the tall young woman had limped away directly that he had finished, produced a smart silver watch and gave the required information. They spoke in an undertone of the evening’s engagements: one proud man was to turn on the gas, as he cheerfully expressed it, at Victoria Park in the afternoon, another had had a long talk with a member of Parliament, and the member had shaken hands with him, “Quite ’omely and affable”; they all presented to the crowd a very serious and thoughtful and statesmanlike appearance as they whispered to each other. Flakes of the crowd began to fall away. The last speaker finished, hoarse and panting.

“Whose turn is it to carry the chair?”

“Erb’s!” said the others, quickly.

“But I thought—” he began.

“You thought wrong,” said the others. “Besides you’re going straight ’ome.”

They walked across the grass to the gates near the station, where men and children, and men with babies perched on their shoulders, were making way back to the homes from which they had been temporarily expelled in order to give wives and mothers opportunity for concentrating minds on the preparation for dinner.

“No use trying to blister you for ’alf a pint, Erb?”

“Waste of time,” said Erb.

“What d’you do with all your money?”

“I don’t find no difficulty,” he replied, “in getting rid of it. Any spare cash goes in books. I’ve got a reg’lar little library at ’ome. John Stuart Mill and Professor Wallace and Robert Owen, and goodness knows what all.”

“The only reely sensible thing you’ve done, Erb,” remarked one, “is not getting married.”

“That’s one of ’em,” he admitted.

“You don’t know what it is to be always buying boots for the kiddies.”

“Don’t want.”

“You single men get it all your own way. Same time, it’s a selfish life in my opinion. You don’t live for the sake of anybody.”

“I live for the sake of a good many people,” said Erb, dodging into the road to evade a square of girls carrying hymn books, and returning with his chair to the pavement. “What I’m anxious to do is to see the world better and brighter, to organise either by word of mouth or otherwise—”

“Old man!” protested the others indignantly, “give us a rest. You ain’t in the park now.”

He gave up the wooden chair to one of the men, who took it inside the passage of a house in Upper Grange Road. The others stepped across to a public-house; he nodded and went on.

“Won’t change your mind and ’ave one, Erb?”

“My mind,” he called back, “is the one thing I never ’ardly change.”

He did not relax his seriousness of demeanour until he had passed the high-walled enclosure of Bricklayers’ Arms Goods Station and had turned into Page’s Walk. There the fact was borne on the air that dinner-time was near, for attractive scents of cooking issued out of every doorway; he moved his lips appreciatively and hurried on with a more cheerful air. Women slipped along with their aprons hiding plates of well-baked joints and potatoes: children waited anxiously in doorways for the signal to approach the one gay, over-satisfying meal of the week, at which there was always an unusual exhibition of geniality and good temper that would eventually conciliate the worried mother, who had devoted the morning to providing the meal. Men returned from a morning at their clubs, where the hours had been chased by a third-rate music-hall entertainment; these walked slowly and hummed or whistled some enticing air with which they desired better acquaintance. Erb scraped his boots carefully on the edge of the pavement, and went up the stone steps of some model dwellings. From No. 17 came a broad hint of rabbit pie: a veiled suggestion of pickled pork.

“Well, young six foot,” he said cheerfully, “is the banquet prepared, and are all our honoured guests assembled?”

“Wouldn’t be you,” remarked his short sister, quickly, “if you didn’t come ’ome long before you were wanted.” She stood on tiptoe and glanced at herself in the glass over the mantelpiece, and rolled up her sleeves again; her head was covered with steel hair-curlers, which had held it fiercely since the previous morning. “And me in me disables.”

“You look all right,” said Erb.

“I shall ’ave to be this afternoon.”

“What’s going to ’appen this afternoon?

“I told you!” remonstrated his sister. “My new young man’s going to drop in for a cup of tea.”

“Which?”

“I never have more than one at a time.”

“You mean the one in the hat place in Southwark Street.”

“Bah!” said his young sister contemptuously. “I gave him the sack weeks ago.”

“You’re always a choppin’ and a changin’,” said Erb tolerantly.

“If you weren’t such a great gawk,” remarked his sister, bending to peep into the oven, “you’d put the knives and forks, and not sit there like a—like a—I don’t know what.”

Erb pulled a drawer underneath the table and complied.

“The other way about, stupid,” said the short girl wrathfully. “You don’t take your knife in your left hand, do you? ’Pon me word, I often wonder that men was ever invented. I s’pose you’ve been talkin’ yourself ’ungry, as usual?”

“I addressed a large meeting,” said Erb, with a touch of his important manner, “for upwards of eleven minutes.”

“Did they aim straight?”

“They were very appreciative,” said Erb. “One chap that interrupted I went for with ’orse, foot, and artillery.”

“Did you, though?” asked his short sister with reluctant admiration. “Make him squirm, eh, Erb? Did ye call him names, or did you say something about his nose?”

“I treated him with satire!”

“Weren’t there ladies present, then?”

“There was one, as it happened.”

“She’d been better off at ’ome,” remarked the girl severely. “The minx.”

“She looked all right.”

“You can’t go by looks nowadays.”

“A tremendous weapon satire in the ’ands of a clever man,” said Erb exultantly, “takes the starch out of ’em like drenching with a fire ’ose. Am I supposed to stay on ’ere whilst this new chap of yours mops up his tea?”

“Unless me lady comes down from Eaton Square to lord it over us all.”

“Nice occupation for a man of my—a man of my—”

“Don’t say ‘intellect,’” begged his sister. “Spoils me appetite if I laugh much before dinner.”

A pleasure to watch the sister, her sleeves rolled up to the elbow, setting right the things on the table, placing, with the aid of an exact pair of eyes, the china cruet-stand at the very centre, fabricating some mustard in a teacup, and pouring it cleanly and carefully into the mustard-pot, glancing at the oven with an encouraging, “’Urry up there!” to the pie, and ever a wary look-out on the lid of the saucepan on the fire; the intervals she filled by complaining of the price of coals, by dusting the mantelpiece, by asking questions about the morning’s speeches, and by explaining with great interest the trouble that came to a girl in her workshop consequent on accepting engagement rings from two young men at the same time. Presently the one right moment arrived, and out came the rabbit pie, with a crust not to be equalled for lightness and flakiness in Page’s Walk, where, indeed, experiments in the higher walks of cookery usually proved so disastrous as to lead to domestic contention and a review of all the varied grievances that had accumulated throughout the ages. Erb, at the head of the table, cut the pie, and his young sister sat at the side, with one foot on the insecure support, so that the table scarcely wobbled under this trying operation; there ensued some argument because Erb wanted to place both of the kidneys on her plate, and his sister would not hear of this, but a compromise was effected by sharing these dainties fairly and equally. His sister said grace.

“For what we are ’bout ’ceive, Lord make us truly thankful for.”

“Well?” she asked, rather nervously, as Erb took his first mouthful. Erb tasted with the air of a connoisseur.

“I’ve tasted worse,” he said.

“I was afraid how it was going to turn out,” confessed his sister with relief. “It’s long since I tried my ’and at a pie.”

“There’s nothing anyone can’t do in this so-called life of ours,” said Erb oracularly, “providin’ that we put our best into it. We’ve all been endowed—”

“Pickle pork all right?”

“The pickle pork isn’t nearly so bad as it might be,” said Erb. “They couldn’t beat it in Eaton Square. As I was saying, the human brain—”

“If Alice comes down from Eaton Square this afternoon in anything new,” said his young sister definitely, “I shall simply ignore it. In fact, I shall say, ‘Oh, you havn’t got anything new for the spring then yet?’ That,” said the girl gleefully, “that’ll make her aspirate her aitches.”

“We mustn’t forget that she’s our sister.”

“She’d like to get it out of her memory. Being parlourmaid in Eaton Square, and about five foot ten from top to toe, don’t entitle anybody to come down ’ere to Page’s Walk and act about as though Bricklayers’ Arms Station belonged to them. After all, she’s only a servant, Erb; there’s no getting away from that. She doesn’t get her evenings to herself like I do. Compared with her, I’m almost independent, mind you. I may ’ave to work ’ard in the day, I don’t deny it, but after seven o’clock at night I’m me own mistress, and I can go out and about jest as I jolly well like. Tip up the dish, and take some more gravy.”

“As a matter of fact you come ’ome ’ere, and you work about and get the place ready against me coming ’ome.”

“And why shouldn’t I?” demanded his young sister warmly, “if I like to? Can’t I please meself? I’d a jolly sight rather do that than go and wait at table on a lot of over-dressed or under-dressed people, and obliged to keep a straight face whatever silly things you might ’ear them say. Is there a little bit more of the crust you can spare me?”

“I quite admit,” said Erb, supplying her offered plate, “that to me there is something distasteful—”

“I only put the leastest bit of onion in.”

“I’m referrin’ now to the arrangement by which those who possess riches are able to call upon the working portion of the population to enable them to live idle, slothful lives. I may be wrong, but it seems to me—”

“I don’t blame them,” remarked his sister quickly, with her involuntary twitching of the head. “I should do the same if I was in their place. Tapioca pudding, Erb, for after. How does that strike you?”

“A tapioca and me,” said Erb genially, “have always been on speaking terms. I can always do with a tapioca. A tapioca and me are good chums. Don’t forget your stout.”

“Wish I was.”

“What I mean is, don’t forget to drink it. My friend Payne, by the way, may call with a message.”

“I’d as lief take doctor’s stuff,” said his sister with a wry face. “What’s Payne calling about?”

“Orgenisation,” answered Erb mysteriously.

“Oh,” she said casually, “that rot.”

“You’ll have a lay down after dinner.”

“I shall be busy,” answered his sister, “making meself good-looking.”

“You’ll have a lay down,” Erb repeated firmly. “Besides, you look all right. Your face is a bit white, but,” with a burst of compliment, “you’d pass in a crowd. No cheese for me. You ’ave some.”

“I’ve done, thanks.” She bowed her head and spoke rapidly in an undertone “F,” “What we have received the Lord make us—”

The fact that the tall sister from Eaton Square called before Louisa had changed and taken her hair out of curlers was attributed by Louisa to the tall sister’s unvarying desire to see Page’s Walk at its worst, to find thus excuse for showering upon it her contempt. Alice, from a lofty height added to by an astonishing hat from which Louisa could not, in spite of herself, keep her eyes, complained bitterly to her sister of the state of Old Kent Road, upbraided Erb for the impudence of a ’bus conductor who, because she had talked a little on the way, offered to carry her on to the Deaf and Dumb Asylum without extra charge. “The vulgar humour of these poor men,” said Alice, unnecessarily dusting a chair before sitting down, “appals one.” She mentioned that the Eaton Square coachman had offered to drive her anywhere she wanted to go, but that, for various reasons, into which she preferred not to enter, she had declined.

“I’ve brought you a bottle of Burgundy, Louisa. You’ll find it in my muff.”

“To put on me ’andkerchief?” asked Louisa satirically.

The tall sister glanced appealingly first at the stolid Erb, then at the ceiling.

“I am on good terms with the housekeeper,” she explained, “for the moment, and there is no difficulty in obtaining any little thing of this kind. And you’re not looking well. You want picking up.”

“Your idea seems to be to give me a set down,” said Louisa. “Going to take your things off?”

“I’ll just loosen my jacket. I won’t take it off, thank you.”

“You know the state of the lining better than I do. Erb, you’re silent all at once.”

“I was thinking,” said Erb, going across the room and taking the bottle from its resting place. “How much does a bottle of Burgundy wine like this run into, Alice?”

An exclamation came from the short girl as the tall sister took a pair of pince-nez from her breast, and, with great care, put on these new decorations in order to assist her in giving the answer.

“A bottle like that would ‘run into,’” she explained with a short laugh as she quoted Erb, “about, what shall I say, six or seven shillings.”

“You can take it back,” he said shortly.

“Bra-vo, Erb,” whispered Louisa.

“I’m not going to be indebted,” said Erb, leaning his fists on the deal table, “to Eaton Square or any other haunt of the aristocracy for philanthropy of any kind or description whatever, not even when they are not aware that they’re giving anything away. I should be stultifying meself if I did. If Louisa or me wants Burgundy we can buy it at the grocer’s, and, if necessary, go as far as to drink it, with the satisfied feeling that we’re not beholden to any one. Eh, Louisa?”

“You’ve hit it in once,” agreed the short sister. “Cigar or coker-nut?”

“Therefore, whilst thankin’ you, one and all, for your doubtless well-meant kindness, perhaps, Alice, you’ll understand that my principles—”

“You needn’t bang the table about,” interrupted the tall sister.

“It’s ours,” retorted Louisa. “We can bang it if we like.”

“My principles,” repeated Erb with relish, “prevent me from accepting anything whatsoever concerning which I have reason to believe that it had not been acquired, or bought, or paid for by the party at whose hands—at whose hands—”

“That’s right, Erb,” said Louisa encouragingly.

“At whose hands that gift is, so to speak, attempted to be bestowed.”

“I shall look pretty,” protested Alice, “carrying that about all the evening.”

“If it has that effect,” said her short sister, “I don’t see how you can grumble. Come in the bedroom and show me how you manage this new way of doing up the hair.”

Erb read a chapter from Herbert Spencer whilst the girls were out of the room, well repaid if here and there he understood a sentence, or now and again caught sight of a view that soon eluded him. The book had been recommended by a speaker at the Liberal and Radical Club a few Sundays before, an Honourable Somebody, whose proud boast it was that he had unsuccessfully contested more seats at general and at bye-elections than any man belonging to his party, and who was, indeed, such an uncompromising bore, that he might well and appropriately have been subsidized by his very grateful opponents. The Honourable Somebody had also strongly recommended a book by Ruskin, and this, too, Erb had procured from the Free Library, but had given it up after a brief struggle, confessing that it was a bit too thick even for him. Erb made notes on the back of parcels’ waybills when he came on something that seemed to him lucid: smiled to think of the start his companions would give when they heard him say in a speech, “I am inclined to go with our friend Spencer and say with him—” conveying in this way an impression that his acquaintance with literature was so complete that he had but to pick and choose from the treasures of his memory in order to give an illuminating quotation. He had made a bag of five when his sisters returned to the front room; Louisa without her fierce hair curlers, her head decked out in a new fashion, and more amiable in her attitude towards her sister, and, indeed, holding her arm affectionately. Alice, with her hat off, slightly less austere, took up Erb’s book with a word of apology and remarked, “Oh, yes!” in the manner of one recognising an old companion.

“Read it?”

“Well,” said the tall sister, “I have not exactly read it, but I have heard of it. Two of our young ladies talk about it sometimes at meals: Lady Frances declares she can’t understand half of it.”

“It’s easy enough,” said Erb, “once you get the hang of the thing.”

“What are the young ladies like, Alice, at your new place?” asked the short sister at the looking-glass.

“I’ve often been going to tell you, but you’d never listen,” complained Alice.

“Tell us now!”

They all became much interested in this subject, and even Erb put some elucidating questions. Louisa looked admiringly at her tall sister as Alice went from this to the subject of visitors to Eaton Square: young Lady Frances, it seemed, occasionally gave mixed dinners, where no one knew anybody else, and even Lady Frances herself did not insist on previous acquaintance: the passport to these was notoriety. From this subject to the servants’ coming party of the following Thursday week was an easy stage. Thursday had been selected to fit the convenience of certain visitors whose establishments on that day closed early.

“Another foot or so,” said Louisa gazing up at her sister, “and I might ’ave been in your shoes.”

“Height isn’t the only thing required. We shall be rather short of gentlemen, by the bye.”

“I can quite understand that.”

“I suppose, Erb,” said Alice to her brother doubtfully, “you wouldn’t care to come if I got you an invite? If you did, you’d have to remember that I told them you were an inspector: you mustn’t make me look like a story-teller.”

“Not much in my line,” growled Erb. “Besides, I’ve got a big job coming on that I mustn’t tell you anything further about jest now.”

“I’d get you asked, Louisa,” she said candidly to her short sister, “if you looked better than you do. I don’t think your work does you any good.”

“I’m not in it for me health,” retorted the other, her head giving its involuntary shake.

“I’ve advised her to try something else,” agreed Erb, walking up and down the room. “She’s only a bit of a girl, and the circumstances under which our female workers are compelled to carry on their duties amount to a species of white slavery which would not be tolerated in Russia.”

“Loud cheers!” commented Louisa. “It’s about time my young man was ’ere. If he can’t keep his appointments I shall have to talk to him straight.”

As though in answer to this threat a loud single knock came at the door.

“Let him wait a bit,” said Louisa. “Do him good.”

Another knock came and the girl went to the door to upbraid the caller for unmannerly impatience. She withdrew her head quickly.

“It’s Payne,” she announced to her brother.

“Deuce it is!” said Erb with excitement.

In the passage stood a man with a stiff, short, red beard, his upper lip shaven; near to him, a newer arrival, a nervous youth, with a wired flower in his coat, who asked shyly whether Miss Barnes happened by any chance to be at home.

“Trot in,” said Erb, jerking his head. The nervous youth took off his hat and obeyed. “Well, Payne, old man,” said Erb to the other.

“I’ve won the three old ’uns over,” whispered the man with the red beard.

“Good on you!”

“They’ll sign to-morrow.”

“And if the answer ain’t satisfactory?”

“Then,” said Payne in an undertone, with his hand guarding the words at his mouth, “then they’ll follow our lead.”

“And strike?”

“And strike!” said Payne.

Two

London starts its day as freshly as the country, and in the early hours of a spring morning, before the scent of the tanning-yards is awake, even Bermondsey seems pure and bright. The loads of vegetables strolling up Old Kent Road, the belated pockets of last year’s hops coming, roped sky high, out of the gates of the goods station; the rapid barrows returning from Covent Garden with supplies of flowers and fruit for suburban shops—all these help. At half-past seven comes a transition period. The day’s work has begun and it has not begun. Every five minutes increases the haste of those who come out of the giant model dwellings, and up from the tributary roads; girls, as they run, stab at their hats; men, at a trot, endeavour in vain to light their pipes, but continue trying as they go, because matches are cheap and time is priceless. The law of compensation asserts itself: those who were merry last night and stayed out until half-past twelve to sing their way joyously home are, in the morning, thoughtful or surly, whilst those who eluded the attractions of the club or public-house rally them with much enjoyment on their obvious depression.

Erb, after the exaltation of Sunday night’s meeting in St. George’s Road, where his unreasonable hope to see again the tall, lame girl had been disappointed, but where he had received from one of the leading men in the labour world, grown white-haired in the service, a gracious compliment (“I was like my enthusiastic friend Barnes, here, when I was a lad,” the white-haired man had said), Erb experienced a slight reaction to find that here was the old matter-of-fact world and—Monday morning! An independent set, because of the fact that for so many hours of the day they were their own masters, with a horse and van to take them about, and a vanboy for slave or despot, on Monday mornings carmen were specially curt of speech and unreliable of temper. In the stables was contentious dispute about horses, about the condition of the empty vans, about tardily arriving boys, about anything, in fact, that lent itself to disapproval. Erb’s boy, William Henry, was prompt as ever, but Erb found annoyance in the circumstance that his friend Payne, instead of taking up conversation in regard to an important matter where it had been left the previous afternoon, now treated this as a subject of secondary importance, and as they drove up in the direction of town and the Borough, insisted, with the interruptions that came when traffic parted their vans, on giving to Erb details of a domestic quarrel, in which his wife, Payne said, had been wrong and he had been right; Payne seemed anxious, however, to obtain confirmation of this view from some impartial outsider. The boy on each van left his rope at the back to listen.

“Shall we have time to do that,” asked Erb at St. George’s Church, where there was a stop of traffic, “before we start out on our first rounds? I should like to see it under weigh.”

“It isn’t,” said Payne from his van, still absorbed with his own affairs, “it isn’t as though I was always nagging. I don’t seepose I’ve lifted me ’and at her half-a-dozen times this year, and then only when she’s aggravated me.”

“It ought to have an effect if we can get every name signed to it.”

“Question is, has a legally married wife got any right to go throwing a man’s rel’tives in his face jest because they don’t come to see her? I ain’t responsible for my Uncle Richard, am I? If he’s gone and got himself into trouble in his time it ain’t me that’s got to be punished, is it? Very well, then, what’s the use of talkin’?”

William Henry, in Erb’s van, made a note. Never have an Uncle Richard.

“It must be unanimous,” remarked Erb, speaking in fragments, and endeavouring to entice Payne’s mind to imperial subjects as the policeman’s hand allowed them to go on, “or else it might as well not be done at all. It’s a case of all of us sticking together like glue. If it don’t have no effect, what I’ve been thinking of is a deputation to the General Manager.”

“She’s not a going to manage me,” returned Payne, catching something of the last sentence. “If I’m treated with proper respect I’m a lamb, but if anyone attempts to lord it over me, I’m simply a—”

William Henry, ordered back to the tail of his van, made note number two. Trouble brewing, and, in the case of wholesale discharges, a fair chance of honest lads gaining promotion.

The van foreman waited at the entrance to the railway arch where the up parcels office, after many experiments in other places, had decided to settle; he looked on narrowly as the vans drove up the side street. The van foreman had been a carman in his day (to say nothing of a more lowly start in boyhood), and he openly flattered himself that he knew the whole bag of tricks: he also sometimes remarked acutely that anyone who had the best of him had only one other person to get over, and that other person did not live on this earth. The van foreman was not really so clever as he judged himself to be (but his case was neither unprecedented nor without imitators), and his maxim—which was that in dealing with men you had to keep hammering away at them—was one that in practice had at times defective results.

“Yes,” said the van foreman gloomily, as though replying to a question, “of course, you two are not the first to arrive. Barnes and Payne—Payne and Barnes. There ain’t a pin to choose between you. What’s your excuse?”

“Wh-oh!” said Erb to his horse, assuming that it had shied. “Wo—ho! my beauty. Don’t be frightened at him. He ain’t pretty, but he’s quite harmless.”

“I want no sauce,” snapped the van foreman. “Good manners cost nothing.”

“You might as well replenish your stock, then,” retorted Erb.

“Re-plenish!” echoed the other disgustedly. “Why don’t you talk the Queen’s English like what I do? What’s all this I ’ear about a round robin to the guy’nor?”

“Fond of game, isn’t he?”

“Look ’ere,” said the van foreman seriously, “I’m not going to demean meself by talking to you. I’ve spoken to some of the others, and I’ve told them there’s the sack for every man jack of ’em that signs it. I give no such warning to you, mind: I simply turn me back on you, like this.”

“Your back view’s bad enough,” called Erb as the other went off; “but your front view’s something awful.”

“I was a better lookin’ chap than you,” called the van foreman hotly, “once.”

“Once ain’t often,” said Erb.

He backed his van into position, and was about to cry, “Chain on!” but William Henry had anticipated the order, and had, moreover, fetched from the booking-up desk the long white delivery sheet, with its entries of names and addresses.

William Henry also assisted in loading up the parcels with more than usual alacrity, that he might have a few minutes in which to saunter about with an air of unconcern and pick up news concerning possible vacancies. The carmen who had finished their work of loading, went up to the further end of the arch, waiting for the hour of twenty to nine, and snatching the opportunity for discussing a matter of public interest. Erb followed, watched keenly by the van foreman.

“Got the document, Erb?”

“’Ere it is,” said Erb importantly, drawing a long envelope from the inside pocket of his uniform jacket. “All drawn up in due order, I think.”

“What we’ve got to be careful about,” said a cautious, elderly carman preparing to listen, “is not to pitch it too strong, and not to pitch it too weak.”

“The same first-class idea occurred to me,” remarked Erb.

“Read it out to ’em, Erb,” suggested Payne.

Pride and a suggestion of Southwark Park was in the young man’s tones, as, unfolding the sheet of foolscap paper, he proceeded to recite the terms of the memorial. The style was, perhaps, slightly too elaborate for the occasion, but this appeared to be no defect in the eyes and ears of the listening men.

“‘And your petitioners respectfully submit, therefore, these facts to your notice, viz.,’—”

“What does ‘viz.’ mean?” asked the cautious, elderly carman.

“‘Viz,’” explained Erb, “is quite a well-known phrase, always used in official communications. ‘To your notice, viz., the long hours which we work, the paucity of pay, and the mediocre prospects of advancement. Whilst your petitioners are unwilling to resort to extreme measures, they trust it will be understood that there exists a general and a unanimous determination to improve or ameliorate’—”

“He’ll never understand words like that,” said the elderly carman despairingly. “Why, I can only guess at their meaning.”

“‘Or ameliorate the present environments under which they are forced to carry on their duties. Asking the favour of an early answer, We are, sir, your obedient servants—’”

“That,” concluded Erb, “that is where we all sign.”

“Your respectful and obedient servants, I should say,” suggested the elderly carman.

“Hark!” said Erb authoritatively. “The terms of this have all been very carefully considered, and once you begin to interfere with them, you’ll mar the unity of the whole thing. Payne, got your pen?”

Payne seemed to feel that he was adjusting his quarrel with domestic events by dipping his penholder into an inkstand and signing his name fiercely. Erb followed, and the other men contributed to the irregular circle of names. The elderly carman hesitated, but one of his colleagues remarked that one might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, and the elderly carman appeared to derive great encouragement from this, signing his name carefully and legibly, and looking at it when done with something like affection.

“I sha’n’t ask you to get away with your loads many more times,” shouted the van foreman from the other end of the arch. “Yes, it’s you I’m talkin’ to. You’re all champion mikers, every one of you. I wouldn’t give three ’apence a dozen for you, not if I was allowed to pick and choose.”

The men flushed.

“Chaps,” said Erb quickly, “there’s only one thing we might add. Shall we recommend that this old nuisance be done away with? I can easily work it in.”

“I beg to second that,” growled Payne.

“Thought you wasn’t taking any suggestions?” remarked the elderly carman.

“This is more than a suggestion,” said Erb masterfully. “Are we all agreed?” The men held up their hands, shoulder high. “Much obliged! Payne, after you with that pen.”

Many of the van boys had snatched the opportunity to have a furtive game of banker with picture cards, but William Henry stood precisely at the tail of his mate’s van, responding in no way to the raillery of his young comrades, who, in their efforts to move him from the path of good behaviour, exhausted a limited stock of adjectives, and a generous supply of nouns. To William Henry, as a safe lad, was entrusted the duty of taking the long envelope to the Chief’s office, and his quick ears having gained something of the nature of the communication, he ran, and meeting the Chief at the door of the private office, gave it up with the message, “Answer wanted sharp, sir!” a gratuitous remark, ill-calculated to secure for it an amiable reception.

The labour member who had given to Erb a golden compliment on the previous evening had many proud titles; he was accustomed to say that the one he prized highest was that of “a manager of men,” and, indeed, the labour member had lost the colour of his hair and added lines to his face by piloting many a strike, guiding warily many a lock-out, but he had been rewarded by the universal acknowledgment that he could induce the men to do as he wished them to do; having gained this position, any idea of revolt against his command appeared, on the face of it, preposterous. It pleased Erb, as he drove his soberly-behaved horse and his van through the City to commence deliveries in the Pimlico district, to think that he, too, at the very outset, had impressed the colleagues with a confident manner. It was fine to see the wavering minds pin themselves to his superior direction, and give to him the duty of leading. He rehearsed to himself, as he drove along the Embankment, the speech which he would make when they held a meeting consequent on a refusal of the application; one sentence that came to his mind made him glow with delight, and he felt sure it had occurred to no one before. “United we must succeed; divided we most certainly shall fail!” He talked himself into such a state of ecstasy (William Henry, the while, swinging out by the rope, and repelling the impertinent action of boys driving shop cycles, who desired to economise labour by holding on at the rear of the van), that when he drove his thoughtful horse round by the Houses of Parliament it seemed to him that if the House were sitting he had almost achieved the right to get down and go in there and vote. At his first delivery to a contumacious butler, ill-tempered from an impudent attempt on the part of his master to cut down expenses, recalled Erb to his actual position in life, and as he went on Grosvenor Road way he was again a carman at twenty-three shillings and sixpence a week. Later, at a coffee shop which proclaimed itself “A Good Pull-up for Carmen,” and added proudly, “Others Compete, Few Equal, None Excel,” he stopped for lunch, having by that time nearly finished his first round of deliveries.

He shouted an order of “Bag on!” to William Henry, and, stepping down, went inside. Other drivers from other companies were in the coffee-house, and Erb, taking a seat in one of the pews, listened with tolerant interest to their confused arguments. All the variously uniformed men had a grievance, and all were quite certain that something ought to be done. The least vague of all the preferred solutions came from a North Western man, who said that “We must be up and doing.”

“The great thing is,” went on the North Western man, encouraged by the absence of contradiction, “to keep on pegging away.”

“Which way?” asked the carman at the end of the room.

“That,” said the North Western man modestly, “that it is not for me to decide. I leave that to wiser men than me. I candidly confess that I’m not one of your busybodies.”

“Seems to me,” remarked a Great Western man, cutting the thick bacon on his bread gloomily, “that every other department’s getting a look in excepting the drivers. We’re out of sight part of the day, and out of mind all the day. Take my own case. I’ve got children growing up, and I find,” here the Great Western man rapped the handle end of his knife on the table, “I find they all want boots.”

“What can I get for you?” said the matronly waitress, coming down the aisle.

“I didn’t call you, my dear. I was only arguin’.”

“Man-like!” said the waitress, going back to the kitchen.

“I find ’em in boots,” went on the man, “but do I ever ’ave a chance of seeing the kids ’cept Sunday?” A murmur of anticipatory agreement with the coming answer went round. “My youngest is about a year old, and takes notice in a manner that’s simply wonderful—my wife says so, everybody says so, but he forgets me from one Sunday to another, and screams like anything when he catches sight of me.”

“P’raps you smile at him, old man?”

“And that’s why I agree,” concluded the Great Western man earnestly, “that some’ing ought to be done. Has anybody got ’alf a pipe of ’bacca to spare?”

“What we want,” remarked the North Western man, “is a chap that’ll persuade us to—”

“Yes, but—after you with the metch, old sort—but where is he?”

Erb closed the black shiny bag which his sister Louisa had packed and stood out in the gangway between the pews. He held his peaked cap in his hand, and fingered at the brass buttons of his waistcoat.

“I’ve took the liberty of listening,” he said, speaking slowly, “to the remarks you chaps have been making, and if there’s two minutes to spare, I should like to offer my views. I sha’n’t take more’n two minutes.”

“Fire away,” said the others, leaning out of their pews.

“Let me first of all preface my observations by telling you what we have done only this morning at my place. We have simply—” Erb described the procedure; the men listened interestedly. “And now let me tell you, friends, what we propose to do when this round robin of ours gets the usual sort of answer. We shall fix on a certain morning—this is in confidence, mind. We shall resolve upon a certain, definite, and final course of action. Then it’ll be war, and we shall find out who’s master.”

“And s’posing they are?”

“They would stand no chance,” cried Erb, “if we could but preserve a united front. But you’re too nervous, all of you, to do that. You’ve been tied up, hand and foot, too long to know how to move. It will be for us at our place to show you a lead, and I can only ’ope for your sakes that when we prove successful you will ’ave the common-sense, the energy, and the intelligence to go and do likewise. Meanwhile, so long!”

He punched at the inside of his peaked cap and strode out of the doorway, an exit that would have been dignified had not the stout waitress hurried down after him with a demand for fourpence-halfpenny. Even in these circumstances, he had the gratification of hearing inquiries, “Who is he, who is he?” And one commendatory remark from the North Western man, “Got his ’ead screwed on the right way.”

“Now, why ain’t you lookin’ after the van, William Henry?” asked Erb appealingly.

“I’m very sorry, mate,” said the boy, “but I never can resist the temptation of listening to you.”

Erb accepted the explanation. He climbed up to his seat, and, awakening the well-fed horse, induced him to finish the deliveries. Eventually he drove back to the station. There he heard the latest news. The Chief had sent for the Van Foreman, a cabinet council had been held, the Chief had gone now to consult the General Manager. So far, good; the dovecotes had been fluttered. He met five or six of the carmen as he waited for his second deliveries, and criticised the writing of the clerk at the booking-up desk; they were nervous now that the arrow had been shot, and they impressed upon Erb the fact that it was he who really pulled the bow. He accepted this implication of responsibility, his attitude slightly reassured the nervous. A young horse was brought up from the stables to take the place of the solemn animal, and its eccentric and sportive behaviour served to occupy Erb’s thoughts during the afternoon. He had occasion to deliver a hamper of vegetables at a house in Eaton Square, and to collect a basket of laundry, and as he waited he saw his sister Alice on the steps of her house whistling for a hansom; he would have offered assistance, only that he remembered that in the eyes of that house he was an Inspector; when a cab answered the appeal a very tall, neatly-dressed young woman came down the steps, preceded by Alice, who ran to guard the muddy wheel with a basket protector. An attractive face the tall young woman had. Erb would have thought more of it, but for the fact that at this period of his career he had determined to wave from his purview all members of the fair sex, excepting only his sisters; the work before him would not permit of the interference that women sometimes gave. He resented the fact that the lame young woman of Southwark Park would not go from his memory. Erb reproved him sharply, and ordered him to mind his own business.

“Carman Barnes. To see me here, on to-day, certain.”

This was the endorsement in red ink on the sheet of blue foolscap which had set out the grievances of the carmen, and Erb flushed with pride to find that he, and he alone, had been selected to argue the grievances of his colleagues with the Chief of the department. The men appeared not to grudge him the honour, and the van foreman held himself austerely in a corner, declining to open his mouth, as though fearful of disclosing an important state secret. Erb thought it diplomatic to ask the others whether they had any suggestions to offer for the coming debate (this without any intention of accepting advice); they all declared moodily that it was he who had led them into trouble, and his, therefore, should be the task of getting them out. Payne wished him good luck, but appeared to have no great confidence in his own powers of prophecy. Erb washed in a zinc pail, parted his obstinate hair carefully with the doubtful assistance given by a cheap pocket mirror which William Henry always carried, and, watched by the carmen and chaffed by the casually interested porters and clerks, he went to endure that experience of an interview with the Chief, known as “going on the carpet.” The Chief was engaged for the moment; would Carman Barnes please wait for a few moments? It happened that Erb himself was boiling for the consultation, and this enforced delay of a few moments, which grew into ten minutes, disconcerted him; when at last a shorthand clerk came out, and he was admitted into the presence, some of his warm confidence had cooled. The Chief, a big, polite, good-tempered man, sat at the table signing letters.

“Shan’t keep you half a second,” he remarked, looking up.

“Very good, sir.”

“Beautiful weather,” said the Chief absently, as he read, “for the time of the year.”

“We can’t complain, sir,” said Erb meaningly, “of the weather.” The clock up high on the wall of the office ticked on, and Erb endeavoured to marshal his arguments in his mind afresh.

“That little job is finished,” said the Chief, dabbing the blotting paper on his last signature. “I wonder how many times I sign my name in the course of a day; if only I had as many sovereigns. Let me see, what was it we wanted to talk to each other about?” Erb produced the memorial, and stood cap in hand as the Chief read it with an air that suggested no previous knowledge of the communication. “Oh, yes,” said the Chief, “of course. I remember now. Something about the hours of duty.”

“And wages,” said Erb, “et cetera.”

“I get so much to think of,” went on the Chief, autobiographically, “that unless I put it all down on a memo I forget about it. Now when I was your age. What are you, Barnes?”

“Twenty-one next birthday, sir.”

“Ah,” sighed the Chief, “a fine thing to be one and twenty, you’ve got all the world before you. You ought to be as happy as a lord at your age.”

“The ’appiness that a lord would extract from twenty-three and six a week would go in a waistcoat pocket.”

“There’s something in that,” admitted the other, cheerfully. “But, bless my soul, there are plenty worse off. A man can grub along very well on it so long as he is not ambitious.”

“And why shouldn’t a man be ambitious?” demanded Erb. “Some people raise themselves up from small beginnings”—the Chief took up his paper cutter—“and all honour to them for it.” The Chief laid down the paper cutter. “It must be a great satisfaction to look back when they are getting their three or four ’undred a year and think of the time when they were getting only a quid a week. It must make ’em proud of themselves, and their wife and their women folk must be proud of ’em too.”

“Married, Barnes?”

“No, sir. Live with my sister.”

“Engaged perhaps?”

“Not on twenty-three and six.”

Difficult to use the well-rehearsed arguments and the violent phrases to a courteous man, who showed so much personal interest. If he would but raise his voice or show defiant want of sympathy.

“But some of us are married, sir,” Erb went on, “and some of us have children, and I tell you straight, when the rent is paid, and when the children’s clothes are bought and just the necessaries of life are purchased, there’s precious little left over. You can’t realise perhaps, sir, what it means to look at every penny, and look at it hard, before it’s paid away.”

“Pick up a bit, don’t you, you carmen?”

“An occasional twopence,” cried Erb, “and think what a degrading thing it is for some of us to accept voluntary contributions from those placed in a more fortunate position in life?”

“Never knew a railway man object to it before,” mused the Chief.

“You’re thinking of the old school, sir. Men are beginning to recognise that capital can’t do without them, and capital must therefore fork out accordingly. This memorial which you hold at the present time in your ’and, sir, contains a moderate appeal. If that moderate appeal is refused, I won’t be answerable for the consequences.”

“And yet, I take it, you know more about the consequences than anyone else?”

“Be that as it may, sir,” said Erb, flattered, “we needn’t go into hypo—hypo—”

“Hypothetical?”

“Thank you, sir. We needn’t go into that part of the question at present. But it’s only fair to warn you that when I go back to the men and tell them that their very reasonable applications have been one and all refused, and refused, if I may say so, with ignominy, then there’ll be such an outbreak. Mind you, sir, I’m not blaming you; I only talk to you in this way, because ’ere’s me representing labour on this side of the table, and there’s you on the other side of the table representing capital.”

“Labour,” remarked the Chief, trying to make a tent of three pen holders, “is to be congratulated.”

“Therefore, not wishing to take up your time any longer, I should like to conclude by remarking in the language of one of our poets of old, who remarks—”

“No, no,” protested the Chief gently, “don’t let us drag in the poets. They were all very well in their way, but really you know, not railway men. Not one of them. What I want you to tell the others is that if I had the power of deciding on this matter, likely enough I should give them everything they ask. But above me, Barnes, above me is the Superintendent, above the Superintendent is the General Manager, above the General Manager are the Directors, and above the Directors are the Shareholders.”

“And all of you a stamping down on poor us.”

“To a certain extent,” admitted the Chief, in his friendly way, “but only to a certain extent. What they want, what I want, is that everything should go on smoothly.”

“To come to the point,” suggested Erb. “I take it that you answer this application, sir, in the negative. I take it that I’m to go back to the men and say to them, ‘All my efforts on your behalf have been fruitless.’”

“Your efforts?”

“My efforts,” said Erb proudly.

“You are mainly responsible then?”

“I don’t deny it.”

“I see,” said the Chief, slowly pulling the feathers from a quill pen. “My information was to that effect, but it is well to have it confirmed by you. Now look here, Barnes.” He took up the sheet of blue foolscap, with a change of manner. “The men ask for the removal of the van foreman. That suggestion will not be acted upon. If we were all to be allowed to choose our own masters we should be playing a nice topsy-turvy game. You understand?”

“I’ve taken a note of it,” remarked Erb darkly. He wrote something with a short pencil on the back of an envelope. “Negative answer also, I s’pose, to the question of hours?”

“Not so fast. In regard to the question of hours some concession will be made. They have increased of late without my knowledge. The men will take it in turns, in batches of three or four, to go off duty at six o’clock one week in the month. This will necessitate a couple of extra carmen.”

“Good!” approved Erb, making a fresh note. “We now approach the question of wages.”

“The men who have been in the service for five years will receive an additional two shillings a week.”

“That’s a fair offer.”

“The men who have been with us for more than a year will, with one exception, receive an increase of one and six.”

Erb wrote the figures on the back of the envelope. Already he was composing in his mind the elaborate sentences by which he would make the satisfactory announcement to his colleagues. A telephone bell in the corner of the office stung the ear; the Chief rose, and bidding Erb wait outside for a few minutes, went to answer it. Erb closed the door after him in order to avoid any suspicion of overhearing, and, big with the important news, could not resist the temptation to hurry through into the arch where the men in a group were waiting; the van foreman sat on a high stool in the corner, in an attitude that suggested contrition.

“Well, chaps,” said Payne, when Erb, in one long, ornate sentence had given the information, “this is a little bit of all right. I think I’m speaking the general opinion when I say we’re very much indebted to Erb for all the trouble he’s took.”

“Hear, hear!” said the men cheerfully.

“I could see from the first,” remarked the eldest carman, “that he meant to pull it off for us.”

“The occasion being special,” said Payne, bunching his short, red beard in one hand, “I think we might all of us treat ourselves to a tonic.”

“Not me,” said Erb. “I’ve got to get back just to say a few words to the gov’nor. But don’t let me stop you chaps from ’aving one.”

“You won’t!” remarked Payne with candour.

The conversation at the telephone was still going on when Erb returned to the Chief’s office; some time having been occupied, apparently, with the usual preliminaries of one party begging the other to speak up, and the other urging on the first the advisability of seeking some remedy for increasing deafness. The Chief rang off presently, and came to the door and opened it.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Barnes.”

“Was there anything else you wanted to say, sir?”

“Only this. I told you there was one exception in this scheme of increases.”

“Everitt is a bit too fond of the glass, sir, but p’raps a word of warning from you—”

“Everitt drinks, but Everitt does his work quietly, and he doesn’t disturb the other men. The one exception, Barnes, is yourself.”

“Me?” exclaimed Erb.

“It’s like this,” said the Chief, going on with the work of plucking a quill pen. “You’re a restless organiser, and no doubt somewhere in the world there is a place for you. But not here, Barnes, not here! Of course, we don’t want to sack you, but if you don’t mind looking out for another berth—No hurry, you know, next week will do—why—”

The Chief threw down the stark quill pen; intimation that the conference was at an end.

“I’m not the first martyr that’s suffered in the cause of right and justice,” said Erb, his face white, “and I’m probably not the last. I take this as a distinct encouragement, sir, to go on in the path that Fate has mapped out for me, ever striving, I trust, not so much to improve my own personal position, as to better—”

“Shut the door after you,” said the Chief, “and close it quietly, there’s a good chap.”

Three

Turmoil of the mind that followed in the next few days was increased by the worry of a Society engagement. To the servants’ party in Eaton Square, Erb, having been formally invited, sent answer that he was busy with meetings of one sort and another, and begged, therefore, to be excused: this to his sister Louisa’s great content. Arrived another post card from Alice, saying that if this meant that he would not come unless Louisa were invited, then she supposed there was nothing to do but to ask them both; she would send a few things down by Carter Paterson the day before the party, that Louisa might adorn herself with something like distinction, and do as little harm as possible to the repute of Alice. To this, after an enthusiastic discussion, that was not a discussion, in that Louisa did all the talking, a reply was sent, stating that Louisa and himself would arrive by a series of ’buses on the night mentioned, and that Louisa begged her sister would not deprive herself of articles of attire, “me having,” said Louisa’s note, “ample.” The incident had its fortunate side, insomuch that it absorbed the whole mind of the delighted young sister, and prevented her from giving much attention to the matter of Erb’s forced resignation. Lady experts called every evening at the model dwellings to give advice in regard to costume, and, in the workshop, other white-faced girls pushed aside the relation of their love affairs in order to give their minds to this subject: Louisa’s current young man received stern orders not so much as dare show his face in Page’s Walk for a good fortnight. It was only on the evening of the party, when Louisa, gorgeously apparelled, sat in the living-room, ready a full hour before the time for starting, and Erb in his bedroom about to start on the work of changing from a parcels carman to a private gentleman, that the short girl found leisure and opportunity to review Erb’s affairs.

“And all the rest,” said Louisa severely in conclusion, “all the rest of these ’umbugs reaping the fruits of your labours, and you thrown out neck and crop. I can’t think how you come to be such a idiot. You don’t see me doing such silly things. What do you think your poor mother would say if she were ’ere?”

“You haven’t seen the evening paper, I s’pose?” asked the voice of Erb, muffled by soap-suds.

“Evening paper,” echoed the short sister, fractiously. “Is this a time for bothering about evening papers? The question is what are you going to do next, Erb? Been round to any of the other stations?” A grunt from the bedroom intimated a negative answer. “You’ll come to rack and ruin, Erb, that’s what you’ll come to if I don’t look after you.”

“Catch hold.” A bare arm held out from the bedroom doorway a pink evening paper.

“What d’you want me to read now? I don’t want to go botherin’ my ’ead about murders when I’m full of this party.”

“Where my thumb is,” said Erb’s voice. A damp mark guided her attention, and she read it, her lips moving silently as she went through the paragraph, her head giving its uncontrollable shake.

“We understand that a Society of Railway Carmen has been formed, and that the first meeting will be held at the Druid’s Arms, Southwark, on Saturday evening, at half-past nine o’clock, a late hour fixed in order to secure the attendance of the men. There are two candidates for the position of secretary—Messrs. Herbert Barnes and James Spanswick. The former is losing his situation for taking part in a labour movement, and his case has excited a great deal of interest.”

“I say,” cried Louisa, in an awed voice, “that’s never meant for you, Erb?”

“It ain’t meant for anyone else,” called Erb. “Seen anything of my stud?”

“Where did you put it last? But, just fancy, in print too. And underneath is something about Royalty.” Louisa clicked her tongue amazedly. “You never said anything about it, either.”

“No use talking too much. Why, here’s the collar stud in the shirt all the time. No use talking too much beforehand. Besides, it isn’t what you may call definitely settled yet. Spanswick’s got very strong support, and he hates me as much as he likes beer. I said something rather caustic on one occasion about his grammar.”

“I shall snip this out,” said Louisa, as Erb appeared struggling into his coat, “and I shall show it privately to everybody I come across in Eaton Square to-night.”

“I don’t know that that’s worth while,” he said doubtfully.

“It’ll let ’em see,” said Louisa, with decision, “that they ain’t everybody. When you’ve done trimming your cuffs with the scissors—”

No further word of disparagement came from the short girl as she trotted along proudly by the side of her brother to the junction where New Kent Road starts for Walworth and town. Indeed, outside the tram she expressed some surprise at the fact that so many people were not acquainted with her brother; she consoled herself by the assurance that once Erb obtained a start the whole world would join her in an attitude of respect; she also enjoyed, in anticipation, the reflected glory that would be hers in the workshop the following morning. Being as outspoken in praise as in blame, it resulted, as they walked over Westminster Bridge and took an omnibus, that not only Louisa, but Erb himself, had attained a glowing state of content, and when they arrived eventually at the house in Eaton Square (lighted recklessly below and sparsely illuminated above) they felt that the world might possibly contain their equals, but they were certainly not prepared to look on anybody as a superior.

“Jackson,” said the buttoned boy who opened the door as they descended the area, “this looks like your lot.”

“They call her Jackson,” whispered Louisa to her brother, interrupting his protest. “Parlour-maid here is always called Jackson.”

Alice came forward. A spray of wild flowers meandered from the waist of her pale blue dress to her neck; she took her brother’s hand up high in the air before shaking it. A few tightly-collared young men stood about the entrance to the cleared kitchen, encouraging white gloves to cover their hands; they also had bunches of flowers in buttonholes, and one of them wore an open dress waistcoat. A Japanese screen masked the big range; nails in the walls had been relieved of their duties, a white cloth’d table with refreshments stood at the end near a pianoforte.

“You’re early,” said Alice, kissing her sister casually. Louisa took the brown paper parcel from Erb’s arm.

“Thought you’d like the evening to start well,” she said. “Any gentlemen coming?”

“Haven’t you got eyes?” asked Alice, leading the way upstairs and waving a hand in the direction of the shy youths.

“Gentlemen, I said,” remarked Louisa.

“I shall begin to wish I hadn’t asked you,” said Alice pettishly, “if you’re going on like that all the evening. I believe you only do it to annoy me.”

“What else could I do it for?” asked the short sister.

“Erb,” ordered the tall sister from the stairs, “you leave your hat and coat in that room. Thank goodness I’ve got a brother who knows how to behave. Good mind now not to titivate your hair for you.”

“You mustn’t mind me,” said Louisa, relenting at this threat. “It’s only me manner.”

They were received on returning downstairs by the housekeeper, a large important lady in black silk and with so many chains that she might have been a contented inmate of some amazingly gorgeous and generous prison; the housekeeper having been informed that Erb was an official on a South of England railway begged him to explain why, in travelling through Ireland during the winter, it was so difficult to obtain foot-warmers, and seemed not altogether satisfied with the reply that it was probably because the Irish railways did not keep them in sufficient quantities. The cook, also stout but short, engaged Erb for the first two dances, assuring him (this proved indeed to be a fact) that she was, in spite of appearances, very light on her toes, and quoting a compliment that had been paid to her by a perfect stranger, and therefore unbiased, at Holborn Town Hall in the early eighties.

“And this, Erb, is Jessie,” said Alice, introducing a large-eyed young woman in pale green. “Jessie is my very great friend.” She added, “Just at present.”

“I think you speak, Mr. Barnes?” said the large-eyed young woman earnestly.

“I open my mouth now and again,” admitted Erb, “just for the sake of exercising my face.”

“Ah!” she sighed, looking at him in a rapt, absorbed way. “Somehow you put it all in a nutshell. I should simply love to be able to say the true, the right, the inevitable thing. I could almost—perhaps, I ought not to say it—but I could almost worship a clever man.”

Erb, reddening, said that there were precious few of them about.

“Talk to me, please!” she said appealingly. “Button this glove of mine, and then tell me all about yourself. I shall be frightfully interested.”

“You don’t want to hear about me,” said Erb, essaying the task set him.

“If you only knew!” she said.

This was really very gratifying. Erb had wondered whether the evening would interfere for a time with consideration of his great crisis: he soon found that the evening was to put that subject entirely out of his thoughts. This was in itself a relief, for, despite confidence in himself, he felt nervous about the result of the forthcoming meeting; to-night he could dismiss worry and give his mind a holiday. He found that Jessie’s surname was Luker, and the house called her Masters; the tall young woman declared that she positively hated the name of Luker, and confessed to a special admiration for the name of Barnes, strongly contesting Erb’s suggestion that Barnes was a second-class sort of name, and worthy of but little esteem. Near the cottage pianoforte that had been fixed in the corner of the kitchen, a sombre young person in black sat on a chair that had to be improved and made suitable by an enormous dictionary, fetched by the pageboy from upstairs, and, receiving orders to play just what she liked for the first, this lady struck violently into the prelude of a waltz, choosing a square in the pattern of the wall-paper before her at which she could yawn. Couples, standing up, waited impatiently for the real waltz to commence; young women moving a smartly-slippered foot; Louisa formulating her first protest against convention by saying aloud to her partner, a precise footman, “Oh, let me and you make a start!” The others said, “S-s-s-h!” and watched the butler. The butler gave a pull at his yellow waistcoat and advanced solemnly to the housekeeper.

“Mrs. Margetson,” he said, “I’m not so handy on me feet as I used to be, but I trust I may have the honour of opening the dance with you?”

“Mr. Rackham,” replied the housekeeper with a slight bow, “thank you very much for asking, but, as you know, the leastest excitement makes my head a torture. Would you mind,” with a wave of the fan, “asking Mamselle to take my place?”

“I shall have much plaisure,” said the French lady’s maid, promptly. “A deux temps or a trois temps, Meestair R-rackham?”

“Leave it to you, Mamselle,” replied the butler.

The two went half way round the kitchen before the other couples ventured to move: a nod from the housekeeper then gave permission. Erb found himself rather unfortunate at first, and this was his own fault, for, with his usual manner of taking charge, he endeavoured to pilot the agreeable Miss Luker and ran her into rocks and whirlpools and on to the quicksands of ladies’ trains; it was only after the fourth disaster, when the fiancé of the upper-housemaid (who was one of the tightly-collared men and wore his short hair brushed forward in the manner of grooms) said to him audibly, “Not accustomed to drive, apparently!” that he permitted Miss Luker to take up the duty of guidance, and thereafter they went in and out the swinging dancers with no accident. Miss Luker was quite a marvellous young woman, for she could dance and talk calmly at the same time, a trick so impossible to Erb that, when he attempted it, he found he could only stammer acquiescence to some contestable theory advanced by his partner, or ejaculate some words in acceptance of an undeserved compliment.

“It seems like fate,” sighed Miss Luker, as she saved Erb from sweeping the pianiste from her dictionary and chair, “but do you know you have exactly my step? It seems like fate,” repeated Miss Luker, as the music stopped and couples began to walk around the room, “and it is fate.”

“I don’t quite follow you,” said Erb, trying to regain his breath and dodging the long train of Mamselle. “To my mind, most things depend on us, and if we want anything to happen we can generally make it happen. Otherwise, where would ambition, and energy, and what not come in?”

“You mustn’t talk above my head,” said Miss Luker, winningly. “You forget how stupid we poor women are.” An accidental lull came in the clatter of conversation.

“You’re an exception,” declared Erb.

His sister looked over their shoulders at him with surprise, and the footman giggled. The others, with an elaborate show of tact, began to speak hurriedly on the first subject that occurred to them, and the lady at the pianoforte, checked half way through a yawn, was ordered by the housekeeper to play a set of Lancers. Erb, in his life, had many trying moments, but none seemed so acute as this, when he had been caught paying a compliment to a lady. It was the first time he had ever done it, and when his self-control returned, and, taking sides, he and cook went through the devious ways of the set dance, he warned himself to use more care in future. Nevertheless, some excuse could be urged: whenever he glanced at Miss Luker, now with the gloomy young man for partner, he found that her large eyes were looking at him, and she turned away quickly with great show of confusion. When the Lancers had, by gracious permission of the housekeeper, repeated its last figure, cook, beckoned aside by the footman, introduced her partner with due formality. Mr. Danks—the footman bowed.

“We—er—know each other by reputation, Mr. Barnes.”

“Very kind of you to say so,” said Erb.

“When you feel inclined for a cigarette,” said the footman, “give me the tip. What I mean to say is—tip me the wink! They won’t let us smoke here, but we can go into the pantry, or we can take a whiff round the square if you prefer it.” Here the footman giggled, “I often wonder whether ’round the square’ is a correct expression. Find any trouble, may I ask, in choosin’ your language?”

“It comes to me pretty free,” said Erb, “if I’m at all ’eated.”

“Heated,” corrected Mr. Danks, “heated! Before I went to my uncle’s in Southampton Street, Camberwell, to take lessons, I used to drop ’em like—like anything.”

“Never trouble about trifles meself.”

“For public men like me and you,” said Mr. Danks. He stopped a giggle, perceiving that what he had thought to be a humorous remark did not, judging from Erb’s expression, really bear that character. “Like me and you,” he went on, “the letter aitch is one of the toughest difficulties that we have to encounter. In my profession, at one time, it was looked on, to use your words, as a trifle. Those times, Mr. Barnes, are gone and done with. The ability to aspirate the letter aitch in the right place—in the right place, mind you—has done more to break down the barriers that separated class from class than any other mortal thing in this blessed world.”

“I wonder, now,” said Erb, with some interest, “whether you’re talking rot, or whether there’s something in what you say?”

“If you think anything more of it,” said Mr. Danks, feeling in his waistcoat pocket, “take my uncle’s card, and go on and chat it over with him.”

“‘Professor of Elocution. Declamation Taught!’” read Erb.

“His daughter knows you; heard you speak in Southwark Park.”

“Not a lame girl?”

“If I hadn’t gone to him,” said Mr. Danks nodding affirmatively, “I should never have known how to recite.”

“Nice drawback that would have been. So her name’s Danks?”

“Rosalind Danks.”

“Rosalind,” repeated Erb thoughtfully.

“As it is,” said the other with a giggle of satisfaction, “my ‘King Robert of Sicily’ gets me more invites out than I know what to do with. I suppose your sister has told you all about it.”

“Talks of nothing else,” declared Erb inventively.

To his surprise, Mr. Danks shook him very warmly by the hand, giggling the while with satisfaction, and, with the remark that he must now do the amiable to the remaining member of the family, left Erb and went across to Louisa—Louisa, flushed and almost attractive looking from the excitement of dancing. Erb calculated the distance between himself and the fair Miss Luker, and, with an attempt to imitate the easy manner of Mr. Danks, lounged across in her direction, but before he reached her three of the young men had formed up defensively, and Erb had to lean clumsily against the wall near to his short sister and her new companion. Mr. Danks had placed a footstool for Louisa.

“You are rather short,” explained the excellently mannered footman.

“I stopped growin’ a purpose,” said Louisa, kicking the footstool aside.

“You don’t resemble your sister at all.”

“Mustn’t let her hear you say that,” remarked Louisa, “else she’ll be mad.”

“It’s been a very dull season in town,” said Mr. Danks regretfully.

“Have you been away, then?”

“I suppose you get a good many engagements, Miss Barnes? What I mean to say is, don’t you find it a great tax? The demands of society seem to increase year by year.”

“It’s some’ing awful,” agreed Louisa. “I shall be out again—let me see—”

“To-morrow night?”

“In about six weeks’ time, to a cantata at Maze Pond Chapel. Scarcely gives you time to breathe, does it?”

Alice perceived that her brother was growing moody in his solitude, and brought up to him the French lady’s maid, who, discovering that he had once spent a day at Boulogne—conveyed to and fro by a free pass—talked to him vivaciously on the superiority of her native country over all others. The young woman at the pianoforte, aroused from a brief nap, was ordered to play a schottische.

At this point the evening suffered a check. It was Cook’s fault. Cook, fearing that the hours were not moving with enough rapidity, suggested games; suggested also one called the Stool of Repentance. Necessary for one person to leave the room, and Mr. Danks being selected for this honour, went out, and the others thereupon selected libellous statements, of which Erb took charge.

“Come in, King Robert of Sicily,” called Erb. Mr. Danks entered, and was ordered by Cook (hugging herself with enjoyment) to take a chair in the centre of the kitchen. “Someone says you’re conceited.”

“That’s you,” said Mr. Danks pointing to Alice.

“Wrong!” remarked Erb. “Someone says all the gels laugh at you.”

“That’s you,” decided Mr. Danks, pointing at Cook. Cook now convulsed with amusement.

“Wrong again! Someone says you can’t recite for nuts.”

“I say,” urged Mr. Danks, wriggling on the chair, “I’m as fond of a joke as anyone, but really— That sounds like you, miss.” Louisa shook her head negatively.

“You’re not lucky, old man. Someone says you’ll never get married in all your life for the simple reason that no one wants you.”

“That’s you this time, at any rate,” cried Mr. Danks, with melancholy triumph. And, as Louisa it was, the short young woman had to go out.

“Come in!” cried Erb, when the accusations had been decided upon. “Some of ’em have been making it warm for you, Louiser.”

“I’ll make it hot for them, Erb.”

“Someone says you’d be a fine looking gel if you were twice as broad and three times as long.”

“Cook!” exclaimed Louisa.

Cook, slightly disappointed at this swift identification, made her way out with a large sigh of regret at enforced exercise. It was determined now to show more ingenuity, and Cook had to knock two or three times ere permission could be given for her return.

“Someone says,” remarked Erb, “that you’re the finest woman in Eaton Square, bar none.”

Cook laughed coquettishly. “That sounds like you, Mr. Barnes.”

“No fear,” said Erb. “Someone says that you’ll get engaged some day—”

“What nonsense!” interrupted Cook delightedly.

“If you only wear a thick veil over your face.”

“Look here!” said Cook definitely. “That’s enough of it. If I find out who said that I shall make no bones about it, but I shall go straight upstairs and complain to Lady Frances, so there now.”

“Someone says,” Erb went on, “that you’ve got such an uncommon size mouth that it would take three men and a boy to kiss you.”

“I don’t want to lose me temper,” said Cook heatedly, and speaking with no stops, “and I’m not going to but once I know who dared say that and I’ll go to the County Court first thing to-morrow morning and take out a summons against them people shan’t go saying just what they like about me behind me back without having to prove every single— No, no, I’m not getting cross nothing of the kind but once I know who so much as dared— It’s a silly stupid game and I can’t think why it was ever suggested.”

They were going back to dancing after this unsuccessful essay, when a quiet tap came at the door of the kitchen; and the couples, standing up to begin, suddenly released each other, the French lady’s maid crying humorously, “Ciel! c’est mon mari!” Conversation ceased, and Cook bustled forward and opened the door.

“May I come in, Cook, I wonder?”

“Why,” cried Cook; hysterical with delight, “as though you need ask, my dear, I mean, m’lady!”

It seemed to Erb that the West End possessed some exceptional forcing properties that made all of its young women grow tall. He stood upright, as though on parade, unconsciously following the lead given by the tightly collared men and by Mr. Danks. As the very tall young woman went across the silent room to the housekeeper his gaze followed her; he would have given half his savings to have been permitted to assume a light, unconcerned, and, if possible, a defiant manner.

“Do you know,” she said brightly, “that I have not been down here since I was ten years old?”

“That’s twelve years ago, Lady Frances,” said the housekeeper. The housekeeper adjusted a bow at the white shoulders of the new arrival with an air of privilege.

“You sometimes used to let me bake things, didn’t you, Cook?”

“I had to take care you didn’t eat ’em,” said Cook, admiring her from the opposite side of the room. The strain on severe countenances around the kitchen relaxed slightly. “The others,” added Cook proudly, “don’t remember. It was before their time, Lady Frances.”

“And now that I am here,” said Lady Frances, “it seems that I am to spoil your party.” The servants and their visitors murmured, “Oh, no!” in an unconvincing way.

“What I thought was,” she went on brightly, “that I might play to you.”

“We have taken the liberty,” said the housekeeper, “of hiring a musical person.”

“But you will be glad of a rest,” said Lady Frances, touching the pianiste on the hand and stopping her in a yawn. “When I was at school at Cheltenham I used to be rather good at dance music.” She turned suddenly and looked down at Louisa. “Perhaps you play?”

“Me?” echoed Louisa confusedly. Louisa’s sister Alice lifted her eyes in silent appeal to the fates. “I draw the line at a mouth organ.” Her sister frowned at the ceiling. “And even that I’m out of practice with.” Louisa found her handkerchief in a back pocket, and with some idea of hiding her confusion, rubbed her little nose vigorously.

“I think you have dropped this,” said Lady Frances, stooping.

“Oh, that’s only a bit out of this evening’s newspaper. About my brother,” added the girl.

“Really! May I read it, I wonder.”

“Spell the words you can’t pronounce,” said Louisa. The room waited. Erb shifted his feet and endeavoured to look unconcerned.

“Are you— Are you Miss Spanswick, then?” pleasantly and encouragingly.

“Am I Miss Spanswick?” echoed Louisa with despair in her voice. “Give it ’old! This is my brother’s name—Herbert Barnes—and, consequently, my name is Barnes. Not Spanswick.”

“I see! tell me what can I play?”

“Play something you know,” advised Louisa.

“Rackham! please suggest something.”

“If it wasn’t troubling your ladyship,” said Mr. Rackham, taking off the dictionary, “and putting you to a great amount of ill-convenience, I should venture to suggest—hem!—a set of quadrilles.”

Something in the playing, once the couples had persuaded themselves to make up sets and to dance to such an august musician, that had escaped the art of the hired pianiste. An emphasis at the right place; a marvellous ability for bringing the music of each figure to an end just as the dancing ceased, so that there was no longer necessity for clapping of hands to intimate that further melody was useless, or to go on dancing with no music at all. For the next, Lady Frances played a well-marked air for a new dance that had possessed town, and in this Miss Luker gave up her partner and undertook to teach Erb, who was not fully informed on the subject. It occurred to Erb, as he tried to lift his foot at the appointed moment, and prepared immediately afterwards to swing the agreeable upper housemaid round by the waist, that although his partner had modelled her style on that of the young woman seated at the pianoforte, there existed between them a long interval. Both had the same interested way of speaking, the same attention in listening, but, with Miss Luker, there seemed to be nothing at the back of the eyes. Erb, finding himself possessed with a hope that Lady Frances might presently speak to him, tried to compensate for this weakness by telling Miss Luker, when they were lifting one foot and swinging round at the far end of the kitchen, that the title meant nothing to him, and that, for his part, he preferred to mix with everybody on a common platform, to which Miss Luker replied, “Ah! that’s because you’re a railway man.” Presently, in one of those sudden blanks of general talk that surprise the unwary, his raised voice was heard to say,—

“—Consequence is that the few revel in luxury, while the many—” He hesitated, and went on floundering through the silence. “Whilst the many ’ave not the wherewithal to buy their daily bread.”

The awkward silence continued, broken only by the music from the pianoforte and the swishing of skirts.

“Erb,” said his sister Alice, frowning over Mr. Danks’s shoulder, “remember where you are.”

“Exercise tack, my dear sir,” recommended the butler. “Exercise tack.”

“Even visitors,” remarked the housekeeper severely, so that the young woman at the pianoforte should hear, “even visitors ought to draw the line somewhere. We can’t help our opinions, but we can all stop ourselves from expressing them.”

The music stopped, and the household looked rather nervously towards the chair, with an endeavour to ascertain whether the occupant had overheard the discordant remarks. To their relief, she leaned engagingly back, and beckoned to Louisa. Louisa, her head twitching with pride and agitation, went across the floor, and stood swinging her programme round and round.

“You can play!” admitted Louisa. “Where did you pick it up?”

“I want you to bring your brother over to me,” said Lady Frances.

Quite useless for the kitchen to pretend that it was giving its entire mind to the subject of refreshments. The situation demanded their eyes and ears; they ate oblong pieces of cake in a detached way, rather as though they were feeding someone else; the housekeeper looked at Alice, and shook her head desolately.

“I have been reading about you,” said Lady Frances in her alert, interested way.

“Licker to me how these things get into the papers,” he mumbled.

“I should be tremendously interested in life,” said the girl, “if I occupied your position. There’s something sporting about it.” She looked at him intently, and he rubbed his nose under a vague impression that it bore some defect. “I wish you the best of good luck.”

“Then I shall have it,” said Erb. Alice looked round the room triumphantly, as who should say, Now we are scoring. “Not acquainted much with the working-classes, p’raps, me lady?”

“To my regret, no!”

“They’re made up of all sorts,” went on Erb, wishing that he dared to look at her white shoulders as she looked at his face, “and for the most part they are very easily led. It’s only now and again that you find one step out of the common ruck.” He hesitated, seeing no way out of the sentence except by a self-congratulatory exit.

“If I should ever want to see through Bermondsey,” she said, clasping her knee, her head up attractively, “will you be my guide?”

“It would be a proud moment,” said Erb. He added, hastily, “For me, I mean.”

“Cook, shall I play one more, and then go back upstairs and leave off bothering you?”

“The idea,” said Cook reproachfully; “the idea, m’lady, of calling it botherin’ us.”

The others murmured polite sympathy with Cook’s view, but when Lady Frances had played the four figures in a manner that seemed to Erb quite without flaw, she said good-night, giving a special word to Louisa that made the short girl redden with delight; coming back to the doorway after Cook had seen her out to say to Erb:

“Won’t forget your promise, will you?”

The dance finished at half-past eleven, and the yawning pianiste went off to another engagement in Eccleston Street that began at midnight and was to last until the hour of four. The servants came up the steps of the area to see their visitors go, Alice now so proud of her brother that she declined to acknowledge the compliments of Mr. Danks, ignoring that gentleman’s fervent assurance that she had been, as he expressed it, the belle of the evening.

“Good-bye, Mr. Barnes,” said Miss Luker fervently. She walked on a few steps with him. “This evening will always, always remain in my mind as a precious memory.”

“I shan’t forget it in a hurry.”

“Oh, thank you for those words,” whispered Miss Luker.

“Don’t mention it.”

“But promise. You won’t think harshly of me, will you?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t suppose I shall ’ave time to think of you at all, ’arshly or otherwise. To-morrow night there’s an important meeting on, and—”

“But if you should want to write to me,” went on Miss Luker, undeterred and looking back at the gossiping bunch of visitors near the area entrance, “let me know and I’ll send you some addressed envelopes. We live in a censorious world, Mr. Barnes, and— Here comes your young sister. Think of me at four o’clock every afternoon, and I’ll promise to think of you.”

“Well, but,” protested Erb, “what’s the use?”

“Bah!” said Miss Luker, with a sudden burst of undisguised contempt, “I wouldn’t be a dunderheaded man for anything.”

Four

The third round of deliveries was finished, and, arrived at his last evening, Erb, coat and collar off, washed away the traces of work in the stable pail with the aid of some aggressive soft soap that seemed to have its own way in everything. He had brought with him that morning a parcel of private clothes, and just before going out with the six o’clock turn, he had changed, and had handed in the corduroy uniform. A relief to feel that he no longer wore the brass buttons of servitude; of late they had seemed to reproach him. He had driven round the Surrey side with the air of a sporting gentleman taking out his own horse and trap; the private clothes helped him to say his good-byes with dignity to all, and especially to his old enemy, the van foreman.

“You would go on in your own tin-pot way,” said the van foreman regretfully, “no matter what I said. Your case ought to act as a warnin’.”

“To you?”

“I should ’ave thought,” said the van foreman, with a wistful air, “after all that’s passed between us we might as well part good friends, at any rate.”

“Look here, old chap,” said Erb good-temperedly, “I tried to out you, and you tried to out me; and you’ve got the best of it. I don’t complain, but I’m not going to pretend I’m on friendly terms with a man when I ain’t.”

“That’s what I say,” retorted the van foreman argumentatively. “You’ve got no discretion.”

The manners of William Henry had about them a fine blend of condescension; the lad came forward from the tail of the van and sat on a hamper, big with news. He had been approached that afternoon and informed that, consequent on the departure of Erb, there would be some changes, and would he, William Henry, accept the position of junior porter at fourteen shillings a week.

“I shall probably work on from that,” said William Henry, “to some even higher position, and then on again. See? And if ever you want a friend, Erb—”

“I don’t let boys call me Erb. Mr. Barnes, if you please.”

“If I’m a boy,” said William Henry thoughtfully, “I don’t quite see where you’re going to find your men. As I was a sayin’, if ever you should be down in the gutter—and, mind you, there’s unlikelier things than that—you come to me. It may be in my power to ’elp you. And I tell you what you can do for me in exchange. You might take the van ’ome to the stables by yourself, so that I can run round to Rotherhithe New Road and tell my young lady.”

“Your young lady!”

“And why not?” demanded William Henry with some indignation. “We ain’t all like you.”

It gratified Erb, as he parted his hair with an imperfect pocket comb, and tried to make the obstinate wisp at the back of his head remain flat, to think that he had the reputation of one who exhibited no sort of weakness in regard to women; this came in well with his profound attitude towards the world. He had had a letter from the tall upper housemaid at Eaton Square, to which he had sent no reply; indeed, the communication scarcely demanded an answer, for it furnished only information in regard to the weather, and a fervent hope that his health had not been impaired by his presence at the dance; it would not have remained in his memory but for one sentence, “Her young ladyship has spoken of you once or twice.” An incomplete way of conveying a fact: something, of course, to know that she had referred to him, but it would have been more interesting to know the precise terms. He flushed at the appalling thought that she might have made some humorous comment on his behaviour.

Men balanced themselves on the edge of the kerb outside the “Druid’s Arms,” and whilst a swollen-faced cornet blared patriotic tunes at them from the opposite side in a ferocious way that permitted of no argument, some of the youngest tried to do a few steps of a dance. Two butchers, affecting to be rivals, chaffed each other derisively in raucous voices, one demanding to know how the widow was, and, on the second man replying incautiously, “What widder?” the first explained that he referred to the widow of the man who bought a joint at the second man’s shop last Saturday week. A hoarse-voiced man sold cough tablets for the voice; a mild, sightless old man, with bootlaces, had an eager little girl with him, who cried shrilly and commandingly and unceasingly, “Petronise the belind, petronise the belind, petronise the—” Boys and girls thrust bunches of flowers against the noses of passers by; a depressed woman cried, “Twenty-four comic papers for a punny,” with a catch in her voice that expressed regret at the small demand for humour. Erb nodded to the uniformed men whom he recognised, and, going into the bar, found his competitor Spanswick. Always a short, stout man, Spanswick to-night had every sign of his insufficient neck covered with white collar; Erb was pleased to see that Spanswick’s tie had rucked up at the back.

Spanswick stopped suddenly in the remarks he was making to an interested group who stood leaning over him in the manner of palm trees, and, coming away, shook hands publicly and elaborately with Erb, as men in the boxing ring salute their opponents.

“Feeling fit?”

“Never better,” said Erb. “How’s yourself?”

“Bit of a cold,” said Spanswick with important reserve; “but otherwise—”

If there is time, one would like to explain here Spanswick’s position amongst the men. It was of that assured kind that newcomers do not dare to question, and contemporaries have agreed to respect. If this ever exhibited signs of waning, Spanswick would gather an audience together and beat the bounds of the incident that had made him a man to be treated with consideration, and the story had been re-told so many times, and so many improvements and additions had been made to it, that for the sake of true history the real facts may as well be set down.

Spanswick had given way to drink. To say this meant much, for at the time the limits set upon the consumption of beer by many of the carmen was only that fixed by their own capabilities. Spanswick’s case must have been exceptional, and, indeed, he was so inclined, not so much to the bottle, perhaps, as to the quart, that his appearance on the morning following these carousals was truly deplorable: his strong-minded wife taking these opportunities to damage his face, with the eventual result that his van boy and his horse sneered at him openly. Wherefore Payne and a man named Kirby and another called Old Jim, decided, in the best interests of mankind at large, and of Spanswick in particular, that some steps should be taken, that it was for them to take these steps, and that the following Friday evening (being pay day) was the time to be selected. Payne’s idea was this. They would run Spanswick to earth in one of his resorts, they would form a ring (or as much of a ring as three could make) around him, and by wise counsel and urgent illustration force upon him a recognition of the downward career that was his, and its inevitable end. It took some time to arrive at this decision, because Old Jim, who was not abreast of the times and of modern methods, had a remedy that included the dropping of the patient in the canal; whilst Kirby had another proposal. “Let us set the teetotal chaps on him,” urged Kirby. Payne’s scheme was adopted, and, the Friday night arriving, the three, after they had finished work, had a shave and a wash, and put on their best clothes (Payne himself wore a silk hat of adequate age, but of insufficient size), and they set out solemnly to take up their self-appointed duties.

“Now,” said Old Jim, “the likeliest place is ‘The World Turned Upside Down.’”

“Pardon me,” said Kirby, with the politeness that comes with the wearing of Sunday clothes, “pardon me, but ‘The Chequers’ is his ’ouse.”

“I thought,” remarked Payne, “the ‘Dun Cow’ was.”

“I’m prutty sure I’m right,” said Old Jim.

“I’m jolly well certain you’re both wrong,” declared Kirby with emphasis.

“Standing here all night arguin’,” decided Payne, “won’t settle the matter. Let’s make a start at one of them.”

Spanswick was not in “The World Turned Upside Down,” but the three had a drink there, because it would be notoriously a gross breach of etiquette to go from a public-house without ordering refreshment; to do this were to deride the landlord openly, and insinuate libels on his stock. At the next place the three went into each bar to make sure, and, having money in their pockets, it seemed like doing the thing well and completely to have a drink here in every bar, still discussing the painful case of poor old Spanny, regretting deeply the curse that liquor brought upon men who could not use it with discretion.

“It’s good servant,” said Old Jim, raising his glass and shutting one eye in order to see it clearly, “but bad mas’er. That’s what I always says about it. It’s a good mas’r, but— What I mean to say is it’s a bad servant—”

“Every man,” declared Kirby, attempting to slap the counter, but missing it, “ought to know where to draw line.”

“The chap who don’t,” agreed Payne, “(You’re upsetting your glass, Jim, old man)—the chap who don’t is like the beas’s of field.”

“Worse!” said Old Jim.

“No, not worse!” urged Payne obstinately.

“Fight you for it,” offered Old Jim.

Kirby interfered and made peace, and throughout the evening, wherever they went in search of Spanswick, it happened that some two of the three were always quarrelling, whilst the third endeavoured to appease and conciliate. They were on the very edge of a triangular dispute in the last house of call when Payne, sobering himself for a moment, pointed out to the others that it was closing time, and they must not go to bed without feeling that something accomplished, something done, had earned a night’s repose; necessary that they should proceed now with as much directness as possible to Spanswick’s house, and (if they found him) there deliver the calculated words of warning, the prepared sentences of advice.

“’Ullo, old man,” said Payne, as the door of Spanswick’s house opened. “Many ’appy returns day.”

“What’s all this?” demanded Spanswick coldly. “Brought anything with you in a bottle?”

“We’ve brought good ’dvice,” said Old Jim, seating himself on the sill. “How is it we didn’t see you at any of the places?”

“The wife locked up me boots,” replied Spanswick surlily. “That’s why. But surely one of you’s got a bottle about him somewheres. Search!”

“We want you, old chap,” said Payne, steadying himself with a hand on either side of the doorway, “to give up the drink. ‘Oh that man should put an en’my into his mouth to steal out his brains.’ Chuck it, my friend, chuck it, before it is too late. Shun the flowing bowl, and save your money to buy harmonium with.”

“I’ll harmonium you,” said Spanswick threateningly, “if you don’t all three of you make yourselves precious scarce. How dare you come round here in this disgraceful condition to annoy a sober, honest man? Go to your ’omes and take an example by me. I never saw such a painful exhibition in all me life.”

“How was we to know you’d be sober?” asked Kirby, swaying.

Spanswick emphasised the situation by remaining comparatively sober for a week; a busy week in other ways, for he lost no opportunity of reciting the incident of his own pure and heroic action, establishing thus a concrete foundation for the building up of a character that had never entirely disappeared.

(This is the story of carman Spanswick.)

One or two men standing at the zinc bar called on Erb to have a drink, but Erb replied, “Afterwards,” and went up the wooden staircase to the club room. There, on the landing, men were consulting in undertones, which they changed for much louder speech on seeing Erb, commencing to talk noisily of contests with superiors whom they had, it appeared, worsted in argument; of fresh young horses that required a somewhat similar treatment; of trouble in regard to Shuts-up, to water allowances, to Brought-backs, and other technical matters. A late colleague of Erb’s introduced him to those who were strangers, and Erb made quite a considerable effort to exhibit friendly manners, until a South Western man, mistaking him for Spanswick, told him some of the things that were being said about young Barnes, whereupon Erb left and went into the club room. In the club room tables had been arranged in something of the shape of a capital U, and at the base a wooden hammer had been placed and a decanter and tumbler; sheets of blue foolscap and scarlet blotting paper gave the room an official, business-like appearance. Payne was there in mufti as to coat, in uniform as to waistcoat and corduroy trousers; he was to be proposed as Chairman, and he stood now with his face to a Scotch whisky advertisement, his lips moving silently; he nodded to Erb, and went on with his rehearsal. Spanswick coming up with his entourage, took one of the sheets of paper and, with the stump of a pencil, began to make calculations which were audited, as he went on, by his friends. A few of the men marked the special nature of the proceedings by smoking cigars. The alert clock on the mantelpiece struck the half-hour in a sharp, energetic way and hurried on.

“I beg to move that Jack Payne do take the chair.”

“I beg to second.”

“All in favour,” said the first voice. “On the contrary? Carried unanimously and nem. con. Jack” (turning to Mr. Payne), “in you go.”

“In ordinary circs,” said Payne, after he had taken the chair and had risen to some applause, “I’m perfectly well aware that the proper course to pursue at an affair like this is for the chair to call on the secretary to read the minutes of the last meeting. I know that without any of you telling me. But we’re in the position to-night of not ’aving no secretary and not ’aving no previous meetin’.”

The heads around the table nodded agreement. A gloomy man seated in the position that a vice-chairman might have occupied half rose and said, “Mr. Chairman, sir,” and was at once pulled back into his chair by those near him.

“I was never a man,” went on the Chairman, his forehead damp with nervousness, “to what you may call force me opinions on any body of men. ’Cepting once, and that was at New Cross in ’89. I forget exactly what it was about, and I forget who was there, and I forget what I said, but the entire incident is quite fresh in my memory, and, as I say, that was the only occasion on which—”

“Question, question,” cried the gloomy man at the other end of the room. His neighbours hushed him into silence.

“I’m coming to the question as fast as ever I can. Few know better than me how to conduct a meeting of this kind, although I say it p’raps as shouldn’t, because it sounds like flattery, but it ain’t flattery, it’s only the truth. I’ve had it said to me over and over again, not once or twice, but many times—”

“Mr. Chairman, reely,” said the gloomy man, “I must call you to order. We shall never get the business done this side of Chris’mas if—”

“Kindly sed down,” ordered Mr. Payne, in tones of command, “or else resume your seat; one or the other. It’s me,” tapping his waistcoat, “me, sir, that calls people to order, not you.”

The gloomy man argued in a loud whisper with his neighbours, and, on these counselling that he should simmer down, sat back in his chair, surveying the ceiling, his lips closed determinedly.

“First thing is shall we, being all of a trade, form a separate society, or shall we jolly well do the other thing? That’s the point. Now then, who’s going to give us a start? You, my friend, of the Great Eastern, down at the bottom of this left ’and table, you seem to have a lot to say, p’raps we might give you ten minutes and see whether or not there’s any sense in you.”

The gloomy man affected deafness until this had been explained to him by those sitting near, on which he told them rather haughtily that he spoke when he liked, and not when he was called upon.

“Then we must throw the ’andkerchief to somebody else. Spanswick, you might set the ball a-rolling. Don’t be longer than you can ’elp.”

Erb watched. The impression that his rival made now would affect the later decision, and Erb could not help wishing that Spanswick might prove halting in utterance and clumsy of speech. Cheers greeted Spanswick; some of the men looked at Erb, as they slapped the table with the palms of their hands to see how he took it, and Erb remembered, just in time, to join in the compliment. He recovered his hopefulness as soon as Spanswick spoke, for he noted that his opponent started with great rapidity of utterance, speaking also overloudly—encouraging facts both. Spanswick was, of course, urging that they should form a separate society, but he had no arguments, only hurried expressions of his own opinion. Erb, with his eyes on a sheet of foolscap paper, noticed that the room relaxed its attention; the gloomy man had his watch out, and was clearly preparing to shout at the appropriate moment, “Time, time!” Spanswick halted and went over one sentence twice, word for word. Then he stopped altogether, and the silent room saw him endeavour to recall his fleeting memory, saw him take from the inside pocket of his coat the entire speech and laboriously find the place.

“Beg pardon,” cried the gloomy man, starting up, “but is a member entitled to read—”

Spanswick, with now and again an anxious glance at Erb, read the remainder of his speech in a shamed undertone. There was but little cheering when he finished; he was called up again because he had forgotten to move the resolution. Four men competed for the honour of seconding this.

“Now then!” said the Chairman, with relish, “let’s go on in a orderly manner. First thing is, any amendment? No amendment? Vurry well, then! Now, is there any further remarks? The subject hasn’t been, if I may say so, thor’ly threshed out yet, and if— Thank you! Friend Barnes will now address the meeting.”

Erb rose with the slight nervousness that he always felt in commencing a speech. He began slowly and quietly: the Great Eastern man saw his chance for an interruption, and shouted, “Let’s ’ear you,” but Erb took no notice. They were there, he said, to inaugurate a great work, a work to which some of them had given a considerable amount of care, and the scheme was so far advanced that he thought he could place a few details before them for consideration. There had been the grave question whether they should join the general society of London carmen, or whether they should form an independent society of their own.

“On a point of order, sir—” began the gloomy man.

“If there is one man,” said Erb, raising his voice, “in this room who is absolutely ignorant of order it is our Great Eastern friend at the other end of the room. A yelping little terrier that runs after a van doesn’t make the van go faster.”

The room, now very crowded with uniformed men, especially near the doorway, approved this, and the Great Eastern man first looked round for support from his own colleagues, and, obtaining none, began to take desperate notes as Erb went on.

“I can’t waste time over a man who can only interrupt: I address myself to you. First, let me put my friend Spanswick right on a small detail. He urged that we should work quietly and secretly”—(cheers from Spanswick’s supporters)—“I disagree! I fail to see the usefulness of that. I think that all we do should be fair and above board, and I say this because if you combine, and let the railway companies see that you are combining, you will be treated with greater respect. See what’s happened in the case of my own late fellow carmen! It’s true I was sacrificed, but let that pass; see what advantages they got, just for the asking. They got—”

Payne’s watch must have been suddenly affected, for he allowed Erb to speak for more than the period of ten minutes; no one complained; they were all too much interested. When Erb, in a fiery peroration, appealed to them to extend the recent action and make it general, with a strong reference to individualism, which they did not understand, and about which Erb himself was not quite sure, then the supporters of Spanswick forgot their reticence and cheered with the rest.

“And I trust,” added Erb modestly and finally, “that I ’aven’t took up too much of your time.”

The resolution was carried.

“Now,” said the Chair, “if any of you thought of standing me a drink, or even of ’aving one yourself, p’raps you’ll seize the opportunity whilst the waiters are in the room, and then we can shut them out whilst we go on to the next bisness.”

“Erb!” cried Spanswick along the table, “what’s yours?”

It was felt that this was a great piece of strategy on Spanswick’s part, and Erb’s refusal counted nothing for righteousness; one or two of Erb’s supporters shook their heads to intimate that this was not diplomacy. The waiters brought in japanned trays of glasses on their high, outstretched palms, carrying change everywhere, in their pockets, in their tweed caps, in a knot in their handkerchiefs, in their mouths. They completed their work in a few minutes and went, obeying leisurely the Chairman’s imperious wave of the hammer.

“We come, now,” said Payne loudly, “to what I venture to term the principal item on the agender. That is, the appointment of seceretary.” Both Erb and Spanswick showed signs of puzzled astonishment. “There’s no less than two suggestions that have been ’anded up: one is that we should ’ave a honery seceretary, which I may explain for the benefit of some, means one who will perform his services in a honery way: the other is that we should ’ave a paid seceretary, which means that we should have to plank down about a ’undred a year, otherwise, two quid a week, and that’d cover his slight travelling expenses. There’s a good deal,” added the Chair impartially, “to be said on both sides, and, at this stage of the proceedings, I don’t attempt to dictate. This room’s a bit warmish, and if you don’t mind me taking off my coat, why, I shall be more comfortable than what I am at the present moment.”

The men around the table imitated example, and, hanging their jackets on the backs of the chairs, addressed themselves to the new subject.

“What?” said the Chair. “You woke up again?”

“I should like to ask,” said the gloomy Great Eastern man, ignoring this remark, “whether there’s any sense in paying a ’undred pounds a year for a article that we can get for nothing? That’s all I want to know.”

“Argue the point, my good sir,” urged the Chair, “argue in a speech.”

“I’ve said my say,” retorted the other stubbornly.

“If it was the self-same article,” said the Chair, shaking his hammer in a friendly way towards the Great Eastern man, “then I should be with you. But is it?” The shirt sleeves rested on the tables; the men began to show renewed interest.

“I asked a plain question, I want a plain answer!”

“Oh!” said the Chair, disgustedly, “you go to—well, I won’t say where. You’ve got no more idea of conducting a meeting than this ’ammer. Why don’t someone prepose a resolution?”

“Beg—propose,” said a young man desperately, “my friend Spanswick—honery sec’tary—new society.”

“Beg second that,” jerked another youth.

“In view of the fac’,” said a South Eastern man, half rising, “that if you want a thing done well you ought to pay for it, I think we ought to ’ave a man who’ll devote his whole energies to the work. Therefore, I beg to suggest Erb Barnes as—as—”

“Organisin’ secretary!” whispered a neighbour.

“I second that vote—mean to say, resolution.”

“Any other names?” asked the Chair. “Very good then! Now, I shall ask these two chaps to kindly retire, in other words, to leave the room, so as to leave us free to discuss—”

“Point of order occurs to me,” interrupted the gloomy Great Eastern man acutely, “Can they leave the room?”

The room watched Erb and Spanswick as the two made their way behind the chairs to the doorway. Erb opened the door, and motioned to Spanswick to go first, but Spanswick, not to be outdone in politeness, declined absolutely, insisting that Erb should take precedence, and when they decided to stop the display of courtesy, both blundered out at the same moment. As they closed the door behind them they heard several voices addressing the chair.

“Ever gone in for scarlet runners?” asked Spanswick. “I’ve only got a little bit of a garden, but I suppose there isn’t another man in Rotherhithe that grows the scarlet runners I do; people come from far and near to see ’em. There’s a good deal of art, mind you, in the stickin’ of ’em. Sunflowers, too! I’ve had tremendous luck with my sunflowers. I believe I could grow most anything in my little back place if it wasn’t for the cats. Vurry good plan of dealin’ with cats—”

Erb allowed his rival to make conversation whilst he himself considered the importance of these moments that were passing. He looked hard at a picture on the walls of the landing, a picture representing a cheerful Swiss valley and advertising Somebody’s Ginger Beer; the villagers held goblets containing (presumably) this beverage, and toasted the snow-topped mountains at the back. He forced himself to recognise that his chances were small; unless he had made a particularly good impression by his speech he had no chance at all; he would have to commence to-morrow morning a round of calls on master carmen and on contracting firms with the obsequious inquiry, “You don’t ’appen to want a hand, I s’pose?” and receiving the negative reply. He had obtained a clean character from the Railway Company, and the Chief had wished him good-luck, but the information that he was a stirabout would fly round in advance of him, and all the best places would be on the defensive. It might come to driving a cheap coal van, otherwise known as working in the slate business. There was an alternative even less agreeable to think of. He knew one or two men who had just missed being leaders of labour, who sometimes opened debates at Clubs, and were paid fairly liberal expenses, who were sometimes approached by the capitalists to stump through London in an endeavour to lash working men into a state of indignation in regard to Foreign Competition, Sugar Bounties, or the tyranny of Trades Unions, or some other subject for which the capitalists had affection: these men at times coalesced and, urged by a common jealousy, denounced some prominent men of their own party, and found their names mentioned in the opposition journals, the reporters of which bribed them in order to obtain exclusive information of semi-public meetings. Erb told the Swiss valley that it would be long ere he came down to that.

“You take a spade,” exclaimed his companion, “an ornery spade will do, and you dig it in the garden like so, and what do you find? Why you find—”

Young Louisa would be disappointed too. Louisa had been less successful since the servants’ dance at Eaton Square in cloaking her admiration for her brother, and the last young man had been dismissed with ignominy because he showed hesitation in sacrificing his own views on political subjects and accepting those held by Erb. If he had not already passed from the memory of Lady Frances, she might perhaps inquire of Alice the result of the meeting, and, hearing it, would smile agreeably and push him away from her thoughts. To be shown through Bermondsey by an official in the labour world would be one thing; to be conducted by a grimy-faced carman was another. And there was Rosalind—Rosalind—what was her other name?

“Now, in regard to meenure,” said Spanswick dogmatically, “the long and short of the matter is simply this.”

He had found in Southampton Street, Camberwell, on the previous day (being on the Surrey side round), a painted board on a house announcing here, “Elocution and Public Speaking Taught! Pupils prepared for the Dramatic Stage! Apply within to Professor Danks!” and it then occurred to him that this was the address given him by the footman in Eaton Square. The front garden was filled with monumental statues belonging to an undertaker next door, and engraved with names and dates, tombstones which for some inexplicable reason had not been used. He had gone up the uneven pavement from the front gate to the door and had knocked there, but the door being opened by the tall, bright-eyed girl, plainly and economically dressed, and with a suggestion of care near to her bright eyes, he had for some extraordinary reason, muttered “Beg pardon. Wrong number!” and had stumbled back to the gate, hot-faced with confusion. He knew that his powers of speech lacked refinement, and one or two finishing lessons would work miracles: he might perhaps learn how to aspirate without the show of pain and anxiety that he exhibited now when he endeavoured to observe the trying rule. The bright-eyed girl, he remembered, had stood at the doorway looking after him rather reproachfully.

“Of course,” said the injured voice of Spanswick, “if it’s too much trouble for you to listen, why it isn’t any use me talking.”

“Sorry,” he said absently. “Fact is, I don’t take very much interest in gardening.”

“I was talking about poultry.”

“They both come under the same head,” remarked Erb.

“I suppose, as a matter of fact, you’re pretty keen on this ’ere job?”

“They’re a long time deciding,” said Erb.

“I’ve been expectin’,” Spanswick made circles on the landing with his right foot in a hesitating way, “I’ve been expectin’ that you’d approach me and ask me to withdraw from the contest.”

“What’d be the use of that?”

“Well,” said Spanswick in a mysterious whisper, “you know what Shakespeare says?”

“He said a lot.”

“You’re a mere kid in these matters,” remarked the other contemptuously, walking away to the other end of the landing. “Haven’t you never ’eard of buying off the opposition? In the present case, suppose you was to say, ‘Spanny, old man, is twen’y-five bob any use to you?’ and I should answer ‘Well, I could do with it,’ and you paid the money over ’ere.” Spanswick held out one hand. “And I said, ‘Well, now, come to think of it, what’s the good of this job to me? I shan’t make nothing out of it, unless it is a silver teapot for the missus; I’ll withdraw my nomination and leave you a clear field.’ See?”

“Upon my word,” exclaimed Erb indignantly, “upon my word if you ain’t the biggest—”

“Mind you,” interrupted the other, “I was only putting a suppositious case.” The door of the club room opened, and a voice said importantly, “Spanswick and Barnes, this way, please.” They turned to obey. “There y’are,” said Spanswick reproachfully, “you’ve left it too late.”

Looking over the banisters, Erb saw that women-folk had arrived, charged with the double duty of listening to the coming concert and of conveying their male relatives home at a reasonable hour. Louisa’s white young face glanced up at him with a twitch, and asked anxiously whether it was all over; Erb replied that, on the contrary, it was just about to begin.

“Kindly take your former seats,” said the Chairman importantly. The chattering room became quiet as the two men entered, and Payne rapped with his hammer for silence. “The voting has come out,” he went on, looking at some figures on the sheet of foolscap before him, “the voting has come out 29 on one side and 14 on the other.”

The rattle of conversation recommenced.

“Less noise there, less noise!” cried the Chair urgently. “I can’t ’ear meself talk.”

“Wish we couldn’t,” remarked the Great Eastern man from his end of the table.

“Be careful, my friend,” said the Chair warningly. “Be careful, or else I shall rule you out of order. I have the pleasure now of calling on my friend Erb Barnes.” The room cheered. “Order, please, for Erb Barnes.”

“What have I got to talk about?” demanded Erb.

“Talk about?” echoed the Chair amazedly. “Talk about? Why, you’ve got to acknowledge in a few appropriate words your appointment as paid organisin’ secretary of the Railway Carmen’s Society.”

Five

Erb entered upon his duties with appetite. The single office of the new society was a spare room over a coffee tavern in Grange Road, and the first disbursement was for the painting on the window in bold white letters the full title of the society, with the added words, “Herbert Barnes, secretary.” (Young Louisa went five minutes out of her way, morning and evening, in order to see this proclamation of her brother’s name.) To the office came Erb promptly every morning at an hour when the attendants at the coffee-room were on their knees scrubbing, chairs set high on tables, and forms on end against the walls, and the young women were a good deal annoyed by the fact that Erb, in these circumstances, bestowed on them none of the chaff and badinage which were as necessary to their existence as the very air. When he had gone through the post letters—the more there were of these the more contented he was—and had answered them on post-cards, he went out, fixing a notice on the door, “Back Shortly. Any messages leave at Bar,” and hurried to some railway depot, or some point where railway carmen were likely to congregate, hurrying non-members into becoming members, passing the word round in regard to public meetings, hunting for grievances, and listening always, even when some, with erroneous ideas of his duties, requested advice in regard to some domestic trouble with lodgers, or insubordination on the part of babes. All this meant visits to Paddington, to Willesden, to Dalston, to Poplar, to Nine Elms: it gave to him a fine sensation of ruling London and, in some way, the thought that he was repairing errors made by the Creator of the world. He came in contact with the white-haired Labour member of Parliament, and watched his manner closely; the Labour member invited Erb one evening to the House of Commons, and Erb found that the Labour member had for the House a style differing entirely from that which he used in other places, measuring words with care, speaking with deliberation, and avoiding all the colloquialisms and the jagged sentences that made him popular when he addressed outdoor meetings. And as all young men starting the journey through life model themselves on some one who has arrived, Erb determined to acquire this admirable alternative manner.

Thus it was that one Thursday evening he took courage by the hand, and went Camberwell way to call again at the house where on his previous visit he had made undignified departure because of a pair of rather bright eyes. He thought of her with some nervousness as he went down Camberwell New Road, and, putting aside for a moment the serious matters, gave himself the joy of reviewing his female acquaintances. He had just come to the sage decision that different women exacted entirely different tributes, some demanding reverence, others admiration, and others something more fervent, when he found himself at the gate and the uneven path between the monumental statuary that led to the door of Professor Danks’s house. The street was one affecting to make a short cut to Queen’s Road, Peckham, but it did not really make a short cut; within its crescent form it included new model dwellings of a violent red, elderly houses with red verandahs, a Liberal Club, and a chapel. A part of the road had undergone the process of being shopped, which is to say that the long useless front gardens had been utilised, and anxious, empty, unsuccessful young establishments came out to the pavement, expending all their profits on gas, and making determined efforts either by placard or minatory signs to persuade the passers-by that business was enormous, and that it was with difficulty that customers could be checked in their desire to patronise. One had started with the proud boast, “Everything at Sixpence-halfpenny,” and had later altered the six to five, and the five to four; only necessary to allow time, and there seemed some good prospect that the reckless shop would eventually give its contents free. Erb pulled at the bell handle, and it came out obligingly.

“Now you ’ave gone and done it,” said the small servant who opened the door. “That’s clever, that is. I suppose you get medals for doing tricks like that? Well, well,” she continued fractiously, as Erb made no reply, “don’t stand there like a great gawk with the knob in your ’and. What d’you want?”

“Might Professor Danks be in?” asked Erb.

“He might and he might not,” explained the small servant. “He’s jest sleepin’ it off a bit on the sofa.”

“Can I see anyone else?”

“Come in,” said the girl with a burst of friendliness. “Never mind about wipin’ your boots; it’s getting to the end of the week. You could see her if you didn’t mind waiting till she’s finished giving a lesson.”

“Shall I wait here in the passage?”

“Don’t disturb him,” whispered the girl, “if I let you rest your weary bones in the back room.” She opened the door of the back room quietly. “She’s as right as rain,” whispered the girl confidently, “but he—” The girl gave an expressive wave of the hand, signifying that the Professor was not indispensable to the world’s happiness. Erb went in. “I’d stay and chat to you,” she said through the doorway, “only there’s my ironin’. I’ve got the ’ole ’ouse to look after, mind you, besides answering the front door.”

“Takes a bit of doing, no doubt.”

“You never said a truer word,” whispered the short servant. “There’s pictures in that magazine you can look at. If you want me, ’oller ‘Lizer!’ over the banisters.”

Professor Danks, asleep on the sofa, had the Era over his face for better detachment from a wakeful world: the paper was slipping gradually, and Erb, watching him over the top of the book, knew that the eclipse would be over and the features fully visible in a few minutes. Meanwhile, he noticed that the Professor was a large, heavy man, with snowy hair at one end, and slippers which had walked along muddy pavements at the other; not a man, apparently, of active habits.

“I fear I shall never make anything of you,” her decided voice came from the front room. “You don’t pay attention. You don’t seem to remember what I tell you.”

“Mustn’t be too harsh with my husband, miss,” said a voice with the South London whine. “We all have to make a beginning, don’t forget that.”

“Now, sir. Once more, please, we’ll go through this piece of poetry. And when you say the first lines, ‘Give others the flags of foreign states,’ show some animation; don’t say the words casually, as though you were talking of the weather.”

“You understand, miss,” interposed the pupil’s wife, “that he’s made up the words out of his own head.”

“I am sure of that,” with a touch of sarcasm.

“But, whilst he’s very clever in putting poetry together, he is not so good—I’m speaking, Albert dear, for your own benefit—he is not so good in reciting of them. And we go out into Society a great deal (there’s two parties on at New Cross only next month that we’re asked to), and what I thought was that it would be so nice any time when an evening began to go a bit slow for me to say casually, ye know, ‘Albert, what about that piece you made up yourself?’ Then for him to get up and recite it in a gentlemanly way.”

“Come now,” said the instructress, “‘Give others the flags of foreign states, I care not for them a jot.’”

“Of course,” interposed the wife again, “his high-pitched voice is against him, but that’s his misfortune, not his fault. Also you may think that he’s left it rather late to take up with elocution. If we’d ever had any children of our own—”

“I really think,” said the girl, “that we must get on with the lesson. Now, sir, if you please. ‘Give others the flags.’”

The Era had slipped from the Professor’s red face, and the swollen, poached-egg eyes moved, the heavy eyelids made one or two reluctant efforts to unclose. The room, Erb thought, looked as though it were troubled by opposing forces, one anxious to keep it neat and keep it comfortable, the other with entirely different views, and baulking these efforts with some success. Erb saw the household clearly and felt a desire to range himself on the side of order.

“Good evening,” he said, when the leaden eyelids had decided to open. “Having your little nap, sir?”

The Professor sat up, kneading his eyes and then rubbing his white hair violently.

“I have been,” he said, in a voice that would have sounded important if it had not been hoarse, “making a brief excursion into the land of dreams.” He clicked his tongue. “And a devil of a mouth I’ve got on me, too.” He rose heavily and went to a bamboo table where two syphons were standing, tried them, and found they were empty. “A curse,” he said, “on both your houses.”

“I’ve called about some lessons.”

“Lessons!” repeated the Professor moodily. “That I, Reginald Danks, should be reduced to this! I, who might have been at the Lyceum at the present moment but for fate and Irving. How many lessons,” he asked with a change of manner, “do you require, laddie?”

“I thought about six,” said Erb.

“Make it a dozen. We offer thirteen for the price of twelve.”

“What would that number run me into? I want them more for public speaking than anything else.”

“We shall do the whole bag of tricks for you,” said the Professor, placing an enormous hand on Erb’s shoulder, “for a mere trifle.”

“Who is ‘we?’”

“Rather should you say, ‘To whom is it that you refer?’ In this self-appointed task of imparting the principles of voice production and elocution to the—to the masses,” the Professor seemed to restrain himself forcibly from using a contumelious adjective, “I have the advantage of valuable assistance from my daughter. Her system is my system, her methods are my methods, her rules are my rules. If at any time I should be called away on professional business,” here the Professor passed his hand over his lip, “my daughter, Rosalind, takes my place. What is your age?”

Erb gave the information.

“Ah,” the Professor sighed deeply, “in ’74 I was with Barry Sullivan doing the principal towns in a repertoire. No, I’m telling you a lie. It was not in ’74. It was in the autumn of ’73. I played Rosencrantz and the First Grave-digger—an enormous success.”

“Which?”

“I went from Barry Sullivan to join the ‘Murderous Moment’ Company, and that,” said the Professor, striking his waistcoat, “was perhaps one of the biggest triumphs ever witnessed on the dramatic stage. From that hour, sir, from that hour I never looked back.”

The high-voiced pupil in the front room finished his lesson, and his wife took him off with the congratulatory remark that he promised well to make her relatives at forthcoming parties sit up with astonishment. The Professor’s daughter, seeing them both to the front door, remarked that her pupil would be able to find his way alone the next time, whereupon the pupil’s wife answered darkly, “Do you really think I should let him go out?”

“Shall I settle with you?” asked Erb.

“My daughter Rosalind,” said the Professor regretfully, “insists, as a general rule, on taking charge of the business side, but on this occasion—”

“If that’s the rule,” interrupted Erb, “don’t let’s break it. I don’t want any misunderstanding about matters of cash.”

“There have been times in my life, sir, when money has been as nothing to me. Will you believe that there was a time in my professional career when I earnt twenty guineas—twenty of the best—per week?”

“Since you ask me, my answer is ‘No.’”

“You are quite right,” said the Professor, and in no way disconcerted. “Let us be exact in our statements or perish. Not twenty guineas, twenty pounds. But that,” he went on rather hurriedly, “that was at a time when real acting, sir, was appreciated. Nowadays they walk in from the streets. Ee-locution is a lost art; acting, real acting, is not to be seen on the London boards. If you have a cigarette about you, I can get a light from the fireplace.”

Erb acted upon this hint, and listened for the girl’s voice.

“Her mother,” went on the Professor, puffing at the cigarette, and then looking at it disparagingly, “her mother before she fell ill—mind, I’m not complaining—was perhaps, without exception, the most diversified arteest that ever graced the dramatic stage. Ingénue, old woman, soubrette, nothing came amiss to her. That was the difference between us—she liked work. And when, just before the end, when I’d been out of engagement for some time, she had an offer for the pair of us, two pounds ten the couple, such was her indomitable spirit that she actually wanted to accept it. But I said ‘No.’ I put my foot down. I admit,” said the Professor genially, “that I lost my temper with her. I told her pretty definitely that I had made up my mind—”

“Your what?” inquired Erb.

“That poverty I could face, dee-privation I could endure, hunger and thirst I could welcome with o-pen arms, but a contemptuous proposition such as this I could not, should not, and would not tolerate. I repeated this,” added the Professor with a fine roll and a sweep of the left hand, “at the inquest.”

“You’re a nice one, I don’t think,” said Erb critically. “How is it they let you live on?”

“Laddie,” said the Professor, tearfully, “my life is not an enviable one even now. My own daughter—Soft!—she comes.”

It occurred to Erb later that in his anxiety to show himself a careless, self-possessed fellow, he rather overdid it, presenting himself in the light of one slightly demented. He nodded his head on formal introduction by the Professor, hummed a cheerful air, and, taking out a packet of cigarette papers, blew at one, and recollecting, twisted the detached slip into a butterfly shape and puffed it to the ceiling. The girl looked at him, at her father, then again at Erb. She had a pencil resting between the buttons of her pink blouse, and but for a slight contraction of the forehead that is the public sign of private worry, would have been a very happy-looking young person indeed.

“A would-be student,” said her father with a proud wave of the hand towards Erb, as though he had just made him, “a would-be student, my love: one anxious to gain at our hands the principles of voice pro-duction and ee-locution.”

“When do you propose to begin, sir?” she asked, limping slightly as she went to a desk.

“Soon as your father’s ready, miss.”

“I have heard you speak in the park.”

“Most people have!” replied Erb, with a fine assumption of indifference.

“I’ll just register your name, please.”

“Our sys-tem,” said the Professor oracularly, as Erb bent over her and gave the information (there was a pleasant warm scent from her hair), “is to conduct everything in a perfectly businesslike manner. I remember on one occasion Mr. Phelps said to me, ‘Danks, my dear young friend, never, never—’ My dear Rosalind, give me the word. What was it,” the Professor tapped his large forehead reprovingly, “what was it I was talking about?”

“I don’t think it matters, father. You pay in advance, please,” she said to Erb. “Thank you. I’m not sure that I have sufficient change in the house.”

“I will step down the road,” suggested the Professor with a slight excess of eagerness, “and obtain the necessary—”

“No, father.”

“Think I’ve got just enough silver,” said Erb.

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.”

Good to be called Mister, better still to find it accompanied by a smile of gratitude that somehow also intimated comradeship and a defensive alliance against the ingenious Professor. The Professor, affecting to examine a pimple on his chin at the mirror, looked at his daughter’s reflection in an appealing way; but she shook her head quickly. The Professor sighed and, turning back the cuffs of his shirt, put on an elderly velvet jacket.

“I have some work to do downstairs,” she said, with a curt little bow to Erb. “You will excuse me.”

“Only too pleased, miss,” he said blunderingly.

“Father, you will give Mr. Barnes an hour, please, in the front room. I will come up when the time is—”

“Then I needn’t say good-bye,” remarked Erb gallantly.

The Professor in the front room declaimed to the new pupil a passage from the “Merchant of Venice,” from the centre of the carpet, and then invited him to repeat it, which Erb did, the Professor arresting him at every line, correcting the accent with acerbity and calling attention to the aspirates with something like tears. “Why don’t you speak naturally, sir?” demanded the Professor, hitting his own chest with his fist, “as I dew?” At the end of twenty minutes, when the Professor had furnished some really valuable rules in regard to the artifices of voice production, he gave a sudden dramatic start, and begged Erb for pity’s sake not to tell him that the day was Thursday and the hour half-past seven. On Erb admitting his inability to give him other information without stepping beyond the confines of truth, the Professor strode up and down the worn carpet in a state of great agitation, declaring that unless he were in the Strand by eight fifteen, or, at the very latest, eight twenty that evening, he would, in all probability, lose the chance of a lifetime.

“What am I to do?” he asked imploringly. “I appeal to you, laddie? Show me where duty calls?”

On Erb suggesting that perhaps Miss Rosalind would finish the lesson, the Professor shook him warmly by both hands and ordered heaven in a dictatorial way to rain down blessings on the head of his pupil. One difficulty remained. Time pressed, and every moment was (in all probability) golden. Could Mr. Barnes, as an old friend, oblige with half a—no, not half a crown, two shillings. The Professor, in the goodness of his heart, did not mind four sixpences, and hurrying out into the passage, struggled into a long brown overcoat of the old Newmarket shape, took his soft hat, and, having called over the banisters to his daughter to favour him with a moment’s conversation, bustled through the passage whispering to Erb, “You can explain better than I,” and going out, closed the door quietly. There were signs of flour on the girl’s plump arms as she came up; she rolled down the sleeves of the pink blouse as she entered the front room. Her forehead contracted as she listened.

“How much did he borrow?” she asked, checking a sigh.

“Nothing,” replied Erb boldly.

“Two shillings or a half a crown?”

“But I couldn’t possibly think for a moment—” he began protestingly.

“I wish you had,” she said. “Take it, please. I don’t want father to run into debt if I can help it.”

“Makes me feel as though I’m robbing you.”

“Do you know,” said Miss Rosalind, with not quite half a smile, “it makes me feel as though I were being robbed. Let us get on with the lesson, please; I have another pupil coming at half-past eight.” Erb, for a hot moment, was consumed with unreasonable jealousy of the next pupil. “She is always punctual,” added Rosalind, and Erb became cooler. “Take this book, please, and read aloud the passage I have marked.”

There were faded photographs on the mantelpiece of ladies with exuberant smiles, calculated to disarm any criticism in regard to their eccentric attire, their signatures sprawled across the lower right hand corner, “Ever yours most affectionate!” A frame that had seen stormy days outside provincial theatres hung on the wall with the address of its last exhibition half rubbed off. Erb as he listened to the girl’s serious corrections and warning, guessed that the half-dozen portraits it contained were all of Rosalind’s mother; they ranged from one as Robinson Crusoe with a white muff to a more matronly representation of (judging from her hat) a designing Frenchwoman holding a revolver in one hand, and clearly prepared to use this. In another she was fondling a child, whose head and face were almost covered by a stage wig, and the child bore some far-away resemblance to the present instructress. On Rosalind limping across the room to place on the fire an economical lump of coal, Erb framed an expression of sympathy; common-sense most fortunately gagged him.

“You left school when you were very young?” said the girl, looking over her shoulder from the fireplace.

“Pawsed the sixth standard when I was—”

“Oh, please, please! Don’t say pawsed.”

“I passed the sixth standard when I was twelve, because I had to. Father was Kentish born, mother wasn’t. Both died in the”—Rosalind put her hands apprehensively to her ears—“in the hospital in one week, both in one week, and I had to set to and get shot of the Board School and go out.”

“As?” she asked curiously.

“As chief of the Transport Department to the principal railway companies,” said Erb glibly, “and personal friend, and, I may say, adviser to his Royal—”

“We will proceed,” said Rosalind, haughty on the receipt of sarcasm, “with the lesson, please. There is much to be done in the way of eradicating errors in your speech.”

The reliable lady pupil due at eight thirty spoilt her record by arriving half an hour late. Thus, when Erb’s lesson was finished and the clock on the mantelpiece gave the hour in a hurried asthmatic way, there was still time for polite conversation on a variety of topics; the house, Erb discovered, was not theirs, they only occupied furnished apartments; they had lived in many parts of London, because, said Rosalind cautiously, the Professor liked a change now and again. Erb backed slowly towards the door as each subject was discussed, anxious to stay as long as possible, but more anxious still to make his exit with some clever impressive final remark. He found her book of notices, and insisted politely on reading the neatly pasted slips cut from the “Hornsey Express,” the “South London Journal,” the “Paddington Magpie,” and other newspapers of repute, which said “Miss Rosalind Danks in her recitals made the hit of the evening, and the same may be said of all the other artists on the programme.” That “Miss R. Danks, as our advertisement column shows, is to give An Evening with the Poets and Humorists at our Town Hall on Thursday evening. We wish her a bumper.” That “Miss Rosalind Danks’s naïveté of manner and general chic enabled her in an American contribution to score a terrific ‘succés d’estime.’ She narrowly escaped an enthusiastic encore.” That “Miss Danks lacks some of the charms necessary for a good platform appearance—”

“I’d like to argue the point with the man who wrote that,” said Erb.

“They have to fill the paper with something,” remarked Miss Rosalind.

“For a good platform appearance, but she has a remarkably distinct enunciation, and some of her lines could be heard almost distinctly at the back of the hall.” That “Miss Danks comes of a theatrical stock, and her father is none other than the celebrated Mr. Reginald Danks, whose Antonio still remains in the memory of the few privileged to witness it. Mr. Reginald Danks informs us that he has had several offers from West End theatres, but that he has some idea of going in for management himself as soon as a convenient playhouse can be secured. Of this, more anon.”

It was natural when Erb had looked through these notices that he should find in his pocket two or three copies of a small poster advertising a lecture by him on the forthcoming Sunday evening, at a hall in Walworth Road. “Mr. Herbert Barnes,” said the poster loudly, adding in a lower voice, “Organising Secretary Railway Carmen’s Union, will speak on The Working Man: What Will Become of Him? No collection. Discussion invited.” Erb gave Miss Rosalind one of these as a present, and then said, “Well now, I must be off,” as though he had been detained greatly against his will.

And here it was that Erb made one of those mistakes of commission which the most reliable of us effect at uncertain intervals. He took up the photograph of a fur-coated young man, clean-shaven face, thin lips, and not quite enough of chin.

“And who,” asked Erb pityingly, “who might this young toff be?”

“He is stage manager,” she said rather proudly, “to a company touring in the provinces. Plays too.”

“Relation?”

“Not yet,” said Rosalind.

As Erb blundered through the passage Rosalind warned him to attend to the home-work she had given him to do, and to come promptly to his next lesson; she held the door open until Erb went out of the gate, a new politeness which he acknowledged by lifting his hat. He had never lifted his hat to a lady before, and had always smiled contemptuously when he had seen gallant youths performing this act of respect. To atone for this retrograde movement he ran against the tardily-arriving lady pupil, and went on without apology. The lady pupil ejaculated, “Clown!” and Erb felt that he had righted himself in his own estimation.

He looked about him as he walked up the crowded pavement towards the Elephant and Castle, because it was always one of his duties to recognise the railway vans. Disappointment clouded his eyes: he blamed himself for so far forgetting the principal duty of his life as to waste time on unremunerative investments. This was why he missed a Brighton goods van standing with its pair of horses near a large shop in Newington Causeway; the van boy reported Erb’s negligence to his mate when he returned, and this coming on the top of other annoying circumstances, the Brighton man said to himself, “This shall be chalked up against you, young Erb.”

Erb reached Page’s Walk, having tried ineffectually to walk himself into a good humour, and found Louisa with a round spot of colour high up on either cheek, looking out of the window of the model dwellings and hailing him excitedly.

“Put that ’ead of yours in,” he counselled. “You’ll go and catch cold.”

“You won’t catch much,” retorted Louisa, “if you don’t arrange to be on ’and when wanted. ’Urry upstairs, I’ve got something to tell you that can’t be bawled.”

Erb ran up the stone stairs, and Louisa met him at the door of the sitting-room, her eyes bigger than ever with the importance. The room had a slight perfume of violets.

“Who d’you think’s been ’ere?”

“Tell us,” said Erb.

“But guess,” begged Louisa, enjoying the power that was hers.

“Can’t guess.”

“Lady Frances,” said Louisa, in an impressive whisper.

“Well,” remarked Erb curtly, “what of it?”

“What of it? Why, she wanted you to show her over Bermondsey, and she waited here upwards of a hower, chatting away to me like anything.”

“Any other news?”

“Yes,” said Louisa reluctantly, “but nothing of much importance. Letter from Aunt Emma; she’s coming up soon. Oh, and a man called to say there was trouble brewin’ at Willer Walk, and would you see about it as soon as possible.”

“Now,” remarked Erb elatedly, “now you’re talking.”

Six

The particular blend of trouble which Willow Walk was occupied in brewing proved highly attractive to Erb, and one that gave to all the men concerned a taste of the joys that must have come in the French Revolution. A few impetuous young spirits who had been brooding on grievances since the days when they were van boys were responsible. Erb recognised that here was the first opportunity of justifying his appointment. Warned, however, by the example of other organisers within memory, who had sometimes in similar experiments shown a tendency to excess, Erb took care. He wrote letters to the General Manager, letters for which he received a printed form of acknowledgment and no other, he wrote to the Directors, and received a brief reply to the effect that they could not recognise Mr. Herbert Barnes in the matter, and that the grievances of the staff concerned only the staff and themselves; the men were bitterly annoyed at this, but Erb, because he had anticipated the reply, showed no concern. He worked from dawn near to dawn again, sending letters to members of Parliament, going round to the depots of other railways, attending meetings, and in many ways devoting himself to the work of what he called directing public opinion. In point of fact, he had first to create it. For a good fortnight he gave up everything to devote himself to this one object, gave up everything but his lessons in Camberwell. One of the halfpenny evening papers said, amongst other things, “Mr. Herbert Barnes made an impassioned but logical and excellently delivered speech.” Erb knew the deplorable looking man with a silk hat of the early seventies who had reported this, but that did not prevent him from being highly gratified on seeing the words in print; Louisa spent eighteenpence on a well-bound manuscript book, and in it commenced to paste these notices. The point at issue being that the men demanded better payment of overtime, Erb found here a subject that lent itself to oratorical argument; the story of the man who was so seldom at home that one Sunday his little girl asked the other parent, “Mother, who’s this strange man?” never failed to prove effective, and Erb felt justified in leaving out the fact that the carman in question was one accustomed, when his work finished at night, to go straight from the stables to a house in Old Kent Road, where he usually remained until the potman cried “Time! gentlemen, time!”

The men had sent in their ultimatum to the head office, and had held their last meeting. The Directors had remained adamant on the question of receiving Erb as spokesman, and the men, not having an orator of equal power in their ranks, and fearful of being worsted in a private interview, had insisted either that Erb should accompany the deputation or that there should be no deputation at all, but only a strike on the following Monday morning. (The advanced party protested against the idea of giving this formal notice of an unlikely event but Erb insisted and the moderates supported him. “If we can get what we want,” argued the moderates, “by showing a certain amount of what you may call bluff, by all means let us stop at that.”)

It gave Erb a sensation of power to find that not one of these uniformed men in their brass-bound caps was strong-minded enough or sufficiently clear of intellect to carry out any big scheme by himself; they could only keep of one mind by shoring each other up, and he felt that he himself was the one steady, upright person who prevented them all from slipping. He not only kept them together, but he guided them. A suggestion from him on some minor point of detail, and they followed as a ship obeys the helm; if any began a remark with doubting preface of “Ah, but—” the others hushed them down and begged them to have some sense. Erb had made all his plans for the possible stop of work; the other stations and depots were willing to contribute something infinitesimal every week with much the same spirit that they would have paid to see a wrestling match. All the same, Erb showed more confidence than he felt, and when he left the men, declining their invitation to drink success to the movement (clear to them that Fortune was a goddess only to be appeased and gained over by the pouring out of libations of mild and bitter), he took cheerfulness from his face, and walked, his collar up, along Bermondsey New Road to call for his young sister at her workshop. The sellers on the kerb appealed to him in vain, a shrill-voiced little girl thrust groundsel in his face, and he took no notice. Gay bunches of flowers were flourished in front of his eyes, and he waved them aside. If the men went weak at the knees at the last moment it would be deplorable, but it would be an incident for which he could not blame himself; if he himself were to make some blunder in the conduct of the negotiations it would be fatal to his career, and all other secretaries of all other organisations would whisper about it complacently.

“Anxious times, my girl,” said Erb to Louisa. “Anxious times. We’ll have a tram-ride down to Greenwich and back, and blow dull care away.”

“I’ve just finished,” said Louisa in a whisper. “I’ll pop on me hat, Erb, and be with you in ’alf a moment.”

“What’s become of your voice?”

“Mislaid it somewhere,” said his young sister lightly. “Can’t think for the life of me where I put it last.”

“This work’s beginning to affect your chest,” said Erb.

“Funny thing,” remarked Louisa, with great good temper, halfway up the wooden stairs of the workshop, “but my medical man ordered me carriage exercise. Shan’t be two ticks.”

When Louisa returned, stabbing her hat in one or two places before gaining what seemed to be a satisfactory hold, she was accompanied by giggling young women who had been sent by the rest as a commission to ascertain whether it was Louisa’s own brother or some other girl’s brother who had called for her; Louisa’s own statement appearing too absurd to have any relationship to truth. Moreover, presuming it were Louisa’s young man who had called for her, it was something of a breach of etiquette, as understood by the girls of the workshop, for one young couple to go out alone, the minimum number for such an expedition being four, in which case they talked not so much to their immediate companion as to the other half of the square party, with whom they communicated by shouting. Having ascertained, to their surprise, that Louisa had spoken the exact and literal truth, they saw the brother and sister off from the doorway, warning Louisa to wrap up her neck, and begging Erb to smile and think of something pleasant.

“Never mind their chaff,” said Louisa, in her deep whisper. “I’d a jolly sight rather be going out a bit of an excursion with you than I would with—well, you know.”

“Wish you hadn’t lost your voice,” said Erb, with concern. “I don’t like the sound of it, at all.”

“There’s some girls in our place never get it back, and after about four or five years of it—Don’t cross over here.”

“Why not?”

“He makes my ’ead ache,” said Louisa promptly. “I’ve only been going out with him for a fortnight, and I know all what he’s going to say as though I’d read it in a printed book. He talks about the weather first, then about his aunt’s rheumatics, then about the day he had at Brighton when he was a kid, then about where he thinks of spendin’ his ’oliday next year, then about how much his ’oliday cost him last year—” A mild gust of wind came and struck Louisa on the mouth; she stopped to cough, holding her hand the while flat on her blouse.

“Keep your mouth shut, youngster,” advised Erb kindly, “until you’ve got used to the fresh air.”

Because both brother and sister felt that in sailing down to New Cross Gate on the top of a tram, and then along by a line less straight and decided to Greenwich they were escaping from worry, they enjoyed the evening’s trip. Going through Hatcham, Louisa declared that one might be in the country, and thereupon, in her own way, declared that they were in the country, that she and her brother had been left a bit of money, which enabled her to give up work at the factory and wear a fresh set of cuffs and collars every day: this sudden stroke of good fortune also permitted Erb to give up his agitating rigmarole (the phrase was Louisa’s own, and Erb accepted it without protest), and they had both settled down somewhere near Epping Forest; Erb, as lord of the manor, with the vicar of the parish church for slave, and Louisa as the generous Lady Bountiful, giving blankets and home-made jam to all those willing to subscribe to Conservative principles. They had a stroll up the hill to Greenwich Park, Lady Louisa forced to go slowly on account of some aristocratic paucity of breath, and Sir Herbert, her brother, playing imaginary games of golf with a stick and some pebbles, and going round the links in eighty-two. At the Chalet near the Blackheath side of the park they had tea, Louisa’s insistence on addressing her brother by a full title astonishing the demure people at other wooden tables, puzzling them greatly, and causing, after departure, acrimonious debate between husbands and wives, some deciding that Erb and Louisa were really superior people and others making reference to escapes from Colney Hatch. Louisa, delighted with the game of fooling people, darted down the hill, with Erb following at a sedate trot; she stopped three parts of the way down, and Erb found her leaning against a tree panting with tears in her eyes. These tears she brushed away, declaring that something had come to her mind that had made her laugh exhaustedly, and the two went on more sedately through the open way at the side of the tall iron gates, happier in each other’s company than in the company of anyone else, and showing this in the defiant way with which some people hide real emotions.

“You’re a bright companion,” said Louisa satirically, as the tram turned with a jerk at the foot of Blackheath Hill. “You ’aven’t made me laugh for quite five minutes.”

“I’ve been thinking, White Face.”

“My face isn’t white,” protested his sister, leaning back to get a reflection of herself in a draper’s window. “I’ve got quite a colour. Besides, why don’t you give up thinking for a bit? You’re always at it. I wonder your brain—or whatever you like to call it—stands the tax you put on it.”

“You’d be a rare old nagger,” said Erb, hooking the tarpaulin covering carefully and affectionately around his sister, “if ever anybody had the misfortune to marry you. It’d be jor, jor, jor, from morning, noon, till night.”

“And if ever you was silly enough to get engaged, Erb. That’s Deptford Station down there,” said Louisa, as the tram stopped for a moment’s rest. “I used to know a boy who’s ticket collector now. He got so confused the other day when I come down here to go to a lecture that he forgot to take my ticket.” She laughed out of sheer exultation at the terrifying powers of her sex. “Take my advice, Erb, don’t you never get married, even if you are asked to. Not even if it was young Lady Frances.”

“Young idiot,” said Erb. “Think I ever bother my head about such matters? I’ve got much more important work in life. This business that I’ve got on now—”

“Our girls are always asking about you,” said Louisa musingly. “It’s all, ‘Is he engaged?’ ‘Does he walk out with anybody?’ ‘Is he a woman ’ater?’ and all such rot.”

Erb looked down at the traffic that was speeding at the side of the leisurely tram and gave himself up for a while to the luxury of feeling that he had been the subject of this discussion. He thought of his young elocution teacher, and wondered whether he had any right to accept this position of a misogynist when he knew so well that it was made by adverse circumstances and the existence of a good-looking youth with an unreliable chin and his hair in waves. The driver below whistled aggrievedly at a high load of hops that was coolly occupying the tram lines; the load of hops seemed to be asleep, and the tram driver had to pull up and whistle again. In a side road banners were stretched across with the word “Welcome,” signifying thus that a church bazaar was being held, where articles could be bought at quite six times the amount of their real value. A landau, drawn by a pair of conceited greys, came out of the side street, with a few children following and crying, “Ipipooray!” the proud horses snorted indignantly to find that they were checked by a bucolic waggon and a plebeian tram. A young woman with a scarlet parasol in the landau looked out over the door rather anxiously.

“It’s her ladyship,” cried Louisa, clutching Erb’s arm.

“Good shot,” agreed Erb.

“If only she’d look up and recognise us,” said Louisa. The other people on the tram began to take an interest in the encounter, and Louisa’s head already trembled with pride.

“She wouldn’t recognise us.”

“Go on with you,” contradicted his sister.

Louisa was afflicted with a sudden cough of such eccentric timbre that some might have declared it to be forced. People on the pavement looked up at her surprisedly, and Lady Frances just then closing her scarlet parasol, for the use of which, indeed, the evening gave but little reason, also glanced upwards. Erb took off his hat and jerked a bow, and Louisa noticed that the closed scarlet parasol was being waved invitingly. She unhooked the tarpaulin cover at once, and, despite Erb’s protestation that they had paid fares to the Elephant, hurried him down the steps. To Louisa’s great delight, the tram, with its absorbedly interested passengers, did not move until the two had reached the open landau, and Lady Frances’s neatly-gloved hand had offered itself in the most friendly way. Louisa declared later that she would have given all that she had in the Post Office Savings Bank to have heard the comments of the passengers.

“This,” said Lady Frances pleasantly, “is the long arm of coincidence. Step in both of you, please, and let me take you home to your place.”

“If you don’t mind excusing us—” began Erb.

(“Oh you—you man,” said his sister to herself. “I can’t call you anything else.”)

“Please, please,” begged Lady Frances. They stepped in. By a great piece of good luck,’ Erb remembered that amongst the recipes and axioms and words of advice on the back page of an evening paper he had a night or two previously read that gentlemen should always ride with their backs to the horses, and he took his seat opposite to Lady Frances: that young woman, with a touch on Louisa’s arm, directed the short girl to be seated at her side.

“Bricklayers’ Arms Station, Old Kent Road,” said Lady Frances. Mr. Danks, in livery, and his hair prematurely whitened, had jumped down to close the door. Mr. Danks touched his hat, and, without emotion, resumed his seat at the side of the coachman. “You are keeping well, I hope?” To Louisa.

“I have been feeling a bit chippy,” said Erb’s sister, trying to loll back in the seat, but fearful of losing her foothold.

“So sorry,” said Lady Frances. “And you?”

“Thank you,” said Erb, “middlin’. Can’t say more than that. Been somewhat occupied of late with various matters.”

“I know, I know,” she remarked briskly. “It is that that makes it providential I should have met you. My uncle is a director on one of the railways, and he was talking about you only last night at dinner.”

“Very kind of the gentleman. What name, may I ask?” Lady Frances gave the information, gave also an address, and Erb nodded. “Me and him are somewhat in opposite camps at the present time.”

“My uncle was anxious to meet you,” said young Lady Frances, in her agreeable way.

“Just at this moment I scarcely think—”

“Under a flag of truce,” she suggested. “I was going to write to you, but this will save me from troubling you with a note.”

“No trouble.”

“I’ve been opening a bazaar down here,” went on Lady Frances with a determined air of vivacity. “The oddest thing. Do you ever go to bazaars?”

“Can’t say,” said Erb cautiously, “that I make a practice of frequenting them.”

“Then let me tell you about this. When you open a bazaar you have first to fill your purse with gold, empty it, and then—”

Louisa sat, bolt upright, her feet just touching the floor of the carriage, and feeling, as she afterwards intimated, disinclined to call the Prince of Wales her brother. Her ears listened to Lady Frances’s conversation, and she made incoherent replies when an opinion was demanded, but her eyes were alert on one side of the carriage or the other, sparkling with anxiety to encounter someone whom she knew. Nearly everybody turned to look at them, but it was not until they reached the Dun Cow at the corner of Rotherhithe New Road (the hour being now eight o’clock), at a moment when Louisa had begun to tell herself regretfully no one would believe her account of this gratifying and epoch-making event, that into Old Kent Road, chasing each other, came two girls belonging to her factory. The foremost dodged behind a piano-organ that made a fruitless effort to make its insistent jangle heard above the roar and the murmur of traffic; seeing her pursuer stand transfixed, with a cheerful scream of vengeance half finished, she turned her head. At the sight of Louisa bowing with a genteel air of half recognition the first girl staggered back and sat down helplessly on the handles of the piano-organ, jerking that instrument of music and causing the Italian lady with open bodice to remonstrate in the true accents of Clerkenwell. When near to Bricklayers’ Arms Station Louisa saw again her current young man morbid with the thought of a wasted evening, but still waiting hopefully for his fiancée, now three hours behind time; the young gentleman’s eyesight being dimmed with resentfulness, it became necessary for her to wave a handkerchief that might, she knew, have been cleaner, and thus engage his attention. At the very last possible moment he signalled astonished acknowledgment.

For Erb, on the other hand, the journey had something less of exultation. From the moment of starting from St. James’s Road, Hatcham, the fear possessed him that he might be seen by some member of his society, who would thereupon communicate facts to colleagues. Thus would his character for independence find itself bruised: thus would the jealousy of the men be aroused; thus would the Spanswick party be able to whisper round the damaging report that Erb had been nobbled by the capitalists. Wherefore Erb, anxious for none of these eventualities, tipped his hat well over his forehead, and, leaning forward, with his face down, listened to Lady Frances’s conversation. The carriage had a scent of refinement; the young woman opposite in her perfect costume was something to be worshipped respectfully, and he scarce wondered when, at one point of the journey up the straight Old Kent Road, he heard one loafer say to another, “Where’s there an election on to-day?” Lady Frances, having completed her account of the bazaar, had information of great importance to communicate, and this she gave in a confidential undertone that was pleasant and flattering.

“From what my uncle says, it appears there is a strike threatening, and—you know all about it perhaps?”

“Heard rumours,” said Erb guardedly.

“He is anxious that you should call upon him at the earliest possible moment to discuss the affair privately, but he is most anxious that it should not appear that he has sought the meeting. You quite see, don’t you? It’s a question of amour propre.”

“Ho!” said Erb darkly.

“And I should be so glad,” she went on, with the excitement of a young diplomatist, “if I could bring you two together. It would be doing so much good.”

“To him?”

“I could drive you on now,” she suggested hesitatingly, “and we should catch my uncle just after his dinner; an excellent time.”

“I think,” said Erb stolidly, “that we’d better let events work out their natural course.”

“You’re wrong, quite wrong, believe me. Events left alone work out very clumsily at times.” Lady Frances touched him lightly on the knee. “Please do me this very small favour.”

“Since you put it like that then, I don’t mind going up to see him to-night. Not that anything will come from it, mind you. Don’t let’s delude ourselves into thinking that.”

“This,” cried Lady Frances, clapping her hands, “is excellent. This is just what I like to be doing.” Erb, still watching fearfully for acquaintances, glanced at her excited young face, with respectful admiration. “Now, I shall drive you straight on—”

“If you don’t mind,” said Erb, “no; we’ll hop out at the corner of Page’s Walk.”

“And not drive up to the dwellings?” asked Louisa disappointed.

“And not drive up to the dwellings,” said Erb firmly. “I’ll get on somehow to see your uncle to-night.”

“You won’t break your word?”

“I should break a lot of other things before I did that.”

Thus it was. Lady Frances shook hands; Erb stepped out, looking narrowly through the open gateway of the goods station, and offering assistance to Louisa absently. As he did so, he saw William Henry, his old van boy, marching out of the gates in a violently new suit of corduroys, and with the responsible air of one controlling all the railways in the world.

“Get better soon,” said Lady Frances to Louisa. “Mr. Barnes, to-night.” Mr. Danks, down from his seat and closing the door (Erb and his sister standing on the pavement, Erb wondering whether he ought to give the footman threepence for himself, and Louisa coming down slowly from heaven to earth), Mr. Danks received the order, “Home, please.”

Erb went half an hour later by tram to Westminster Bridge and walked across. He perceived the necessity for extreme caution; reading and natural wisdom told him that many important schemes had been ruined by the interference of woman. He looked at the lights that starred the borders of the wide river, saw the Terrace where a member of Parliament walked up and down, following the red glow of a cigar, and he knew that if he were ever to get there it would only be by leaping successfully over many obstacles similar to the one which at present confronted him; to allow himself to be distracted from the straight road of progress would be to court disaster.

“Boy,” said the porter at the Mansions, “show No. 124A.” In a lift that darted to the skies Erb was conveyed and ordered to wait in a corridor whilst Boy, who wore as many buttons as could be crowded on his tight jacket, went and hunted for Lady Frances’s uncle and presently ran him to earth in the smoking room, bringing him out triumphantly to the corridor. Erb found himself greeted with considerable heartiness, invited to come into the smoking room that looked down at a height suggesting vertigo at St. James’s Park, taken to a corner, and furnished with a big cigar. Men in evening dress, with the self-confidence that comes after an adequate meal, were telling each other what they would do were they Prime Minister, and Erb was surprised to hear the drastic measures proposed for stamping out opposition; some of these seemed to be scarcely within the limits of reason. And what had Erb to say? A plain man, said Lady Frances’s uncle of himself (which, in one respect at any rate, was a statement bearing the indelible stamp of truth), always of opinion that it was well to plunge in medias res. On Erb replying that at present he had no remark to offer, the purple-faced Director seemed taken aback, and diverted the conversation for a time to Trichinopolies and how best to keep them, a subject on which Erb was unable to speak with any pretence of authority.

“A little whiskey?” suggested the Director, with his thumb on the electric bell, “just to keep one alive.”

Lady Frances’s uncle sighed on receiving Erb’s reply, and proceeded to relate a long and not very interesting anecdote concerning an attempt that had once been made to swindle him by an hotel proprietor at Cairo, and the courageous way in which he had resisted the overcharge. On Erb looking at his silver watch, the colour of the Director’s face, from sheer anxiety deepened, and he waved into the discussion with a “Pall Mall Gazette” a silent friend who had been sitting in a low easy chair, with hands clasped over his capacious dress waistcoat, gazing at the room with the fixed stare of repletion. The silent friend craned himself into an upright position and lumbered across the room to the window. The Director, thus usefully reinforced, proceeded to open the affair of the impending strike, and, having done this, urged that there never was a difficulty yet that had not a way out, and demanded that Erb should show this way out instantly. Erb suggested that the Director’s colleagues should receive him and the men, listen to their arguments, and concede their requests, or some of them. Director, appealing for the support of the silent man, but receiving none, replied explosively, “That be hanged for a tale!” On which Erb remarked that he had some distance to go, and if the Director would excuse him— Director said, fervently, “For goodness gracious’ sake, let us sit down, and let us thresh this matter out.” Giving up now his original idea of an exit, he remarked that a golden bridge must be built. Why should not Erb simply stand aside, and let the men alone seek consultation with the Directors? Erb declared that he would do this like one o’clock (intimating thus prompt and definite action), providing there was good likelihood of the men’s requests being complied with. Director, looking at silent friend, and trying to catch that gentleman’s lack lustre eye, inquired how on earth he could pledge his colleagues. Erb, now interested in the game, suggested that Lady Frances’s uncle probably had some idea of the feelings entertained by his fellow directors, and the host, giving up all efforts to get help from his silent friend, admitted that there was something in this. Pressed by Erb to speak as man to man, Director gave the limits of concession that had been decided upon—limits which would not, however, come within sight unless the men came alone, and quite alone, to plead their cause. Erb thought for a few moments, the glare of the silent friend now directed upon him, and then said that he would take Director’s word as the word of a gentleman; the men should send a deputation the following day in their luncheon hour, and he (Erb) would stand aside to watch the result. Director offered a hand, and Erb, instinctively rubbing his palm on his trousers, took it, and the silent friend thereupon suddenly burst into speech (which was the last thing of which one would have thought him capable) saying huskily, and with pompous modesty, that he was very pleased to think that any poor efforts of his should have brought about such a happy agreement; that it was not the first time, and probably would not be the last, that he had presided over a meeting of reconciliation, and that his methods were always—if he might say so—tact, impartiality, and a desire to hear both sides.

“Quite glad to have met you,” said the Director, also gratified in having accomplished something that would give him the halo of notoriety at to-morrow’s Board meeting. “You’ll go far. Your head is screwed on the right way, my man. Not a liqueur?”

“I take partic’lar care it ain’t screwed in any other fashion,” said Erb.

“Good-bye,” said the Director.

“Be good,” said Erb.

Seven

Erb admitted, at an elocution lesson in Camberwell, that the settlement of the Willow Walk affair had given him a good jerk forward. There was always now a quarter of an hour between the close of his time and the appearance of the next pupil—a quarter of an hour generally occupied by a soliloquy from Erb, prefaced by the cue from Rosalind. “Well now, tell me what you’ve been doing this week.” She had some of the important security that comes to an engaged young woman, and Erb, who looked forward to this weekly exchange of confidences, forced himself to ask politely after Mr. Lawrence Railton, of the “Sin’s Reward” Company, and when Rosalind answered (as she usually did) with a sigh that Mr. Railton had not written for some time, Erb made excuses for him on various grounds, such as that he was probably over-occupied with the work of his profession, that a man in Mr. Railton’s place had to be here, there and everywhere, that it being sometimes the gentleman’s affectionate habit to scribble a hurried postcard to his fiancée on the Sunday journeys, likely enough there would be a letter next Monday. On this Rosalind would brighten very much, and sing cheerful words of praise of Mr. Railton, who occupied, it seemed, a unique and delicate position, in that he was much too good for the provinces and not quite good enough for town; nevertheless, “Sin’s Reward” had booked a week for the Surrey, and the young woman’s bright eyes danced at the thought of seeing him again. Mr. Railton’s real name was Botts, which was held to be unattractive as a name on the bills; his father was a silver chaser in Clerkenwell, and it was generally understood that Mr. Railton had had to cut off his parents with a shilling on the grounds that they insisted on calling him Sammy.

Walking home after this fifteen minutes of happiness, Erb found himself continuing the talk, and affecting that Rosalind was tripping along at his side: it was in these silent talks that he dared to call her “dear,” thereupon colouring so much that passers-by glanced at him curiously; plain-faced ladies went on gay with the thought that their features had the power to confuse a stranger. When, in these circumstances, he encountered men of the society they were sometimes greatly diverted, and cried, “’Ullo, Erb. Going over a speech, eh, Erb?”

No doubt at this period of Erb’s popularity. His unselfish reticence in the Willow Walk affair, the commonsense he exhibited in one or two minor troubles, the increased polish of the spoken word: all these things increased the men’s respect. Also they knew that he worked for them day and night: he had not developed the swollen head of importance that in secretaries of other societies was nearly always a prominent feature. He organised a system of benefits on three scales, by which, if you paid in twopence a week, you received fifteen shillings a week in the case of unjust dismissal; twelve shillings a week for unjust suspension; and ten shillings a week for strike pay. He arranged with a pushful solicitor in Camberwell to give legal advice. He had written one or two articles concerning the society in weekly penny papers, and in these he had taken care not to obtrude his own name or his own work. Even Spanswick admitted now that Erb was turning out better than he had expected, but Spanswick’s views might have been brightened by the fact that Erb was organising a ticket benefit at the Surrey on Spanswick’s behalf: this not so much on account of any personal misfortune, but because Mrs. Spanswick, always a thoughtless, inconsiderate woman, had mistakenly chosen a time when Spanswick was temporarily suspended from duty for insobriety, to present him with twin babies. “Three,” grumbled Spanswick, “three, I could have understood. There’d been a bit of money about three. But two—” Spanswick’s friends had promised to rally round him, a feat they performed in theory only, and Erb had to go elsewhere to find buyers of the tickets. Lady Frances had taken a box—a fact which modified and chastened Spanswick’s very extreme views in regard to what he usually called the slave-owning upper classes. Lady Frances had done a kinder thing than this. On one of her visits to Bermondsey she had met Louisa, white-faced and twitching as a result of her work, had gone to Louisa’s employer, and had made him shake in his very shoes by denouncing him and all his works, had demanded for Louisa a fortnight’s holiday, which the employer, anxious enough to conciliate this emphatic young titled person, and fearful of being sent to the Tower, at once conceded; sent Louisa, with sister Alice for company, away to the country house at Penshurst where the better side of Alice’s nature detached itself, and she became an attentive nurse. Erb’s Aunt Emma lived at Penshurst: the old lady went up high in the estimation of the other villagers by reason of her nieces’ visit to the Court.

The month being July, work well in demand and overtime to be had without asking, Erb was able to obtain consent to almost any project that he liked to submit to his committee. The society was new enough to feel the enthusiasm of youth; the men were pleased with the sensation of power that it gave to them, and they assumed there were no limits to its possibilities. From which causes Erb had several irons heating in the fire, of which one was a new paper to be called “The Carman,” to be issued twice a month, and to cost one halfpenny per copy. The expense of production would be something more than this, but when Erb, who was to be managing editor, used that blessed word “propaganda,” there was nothing more to be said, and the last doubter gave in.

It was at this time that Erb gave up whistling in the streets.

The white-haired labour member had taken him to the House on two occasions, and in the smoking room had introduced him to some wealthy members of the party; and, whilst the board at the side showed the names of unattractive speakers, the members chatted so agreeably that Erb forgot himself occasionally and addressed one who was in evening dress, and had so much money that he wore several coins on his watch chain, as “Sir;” lifting of eyebrows on the part of the labour member told him he had blundered. Members asked questions of Erb, questions which betrayed the fact that their knowledge of the real feelings of the working men was superficial, and thenceforth Erb felt more at his ease. They gave their names as patrons of the Spanswick benefit, and the member who wore coins offered Erb a cigarette, and, seeing him through the outer lobby, begged him to drop a line should anything important occur; this in a way that suggested later to Erb, as he crossed Westminster, that the coin member wanted to find opportunity of becoming attached to some creditable grievance, not so much for the sake of the grievance as for the sake of himself.

“Now,” said Erb definitely to the fringe of lights near St. Thomas’s Hospital, “I’m not going to be made a cat’s paw, mind you.”

Interest came with the arrangements for Spanswick’s benefit. This necessitated calls at the theatre near the Obelisk in the evenings, and speech with excited men who went about behind the scenes with their hats at the backs of their heads: men who were for ever mislaying letters and documents, and complaining of everybody else’s carelessness, and eventually finding the letters or documents in their own hands; the while on the stage some lady in black, with her face whitened, was bewailing to a keenly interested house the perfidy of man, and assuring the gallery of her determination to track down one particular individual, though he should have made his way to the uttermost ends of the earth. The Spanswick night was to be a ticket benefit (which, being interpreted, meant that only the tickets sold outside the theatre would add to Spanswick’s income and assuage his present distress), and the night selected was a Friday in the week booked by the “Sin’s Reward” Company—Friday, because that was near to the men’s pay day, and would hook them at the fleeting moment when spare cash was on the very point of burning a hole in their pockets. Because Lawrence Railton was of the company, and because Erb was responsible for the success of the evening, Rosalind communicated to the scheme the keen interest that became her so well; her father, with ponderous generosity, had promised to ensure a triumphant evening by giving what he termed the considerable advantage of a somewhat long and not altogether undistinguished experience. Erb was anxious to see Lawrence Railton, desirous of seeing what manner of youth had succeeded where he had desired to do so. Matters being as they were, there was no alternative but to play the friend of the family, to meet Mr. Railton with the outstretched hand of amity, to congratulate him, and to save up presently for a wedding present which should represent nicely a genial interest in the welfare of the young couple. A plated cruet-stand he thought, as at present advised, but there were arguments in favour of an inkstand that looked like a lawn-tennis set—an inkstand had a suggestion of literary tastes that appealed to the prospective editor of “The Carman;” it suggested also a compliment to Rosalind that a cruet-stand with the best intentions could never convey. He did not quite know how he would endure it all. Perhaps it would best be remedied by increased application to the work of the society, and if ever the day should come when he found himself elected to a seat in that House at Westminster (the outside of which he went to see very often, just for self-encouragement), Rosalind would feel that she might have done better than marry Mr. Lawrence Railton.

“But I don’t quite see,” admitted Erb, as he wrestled with all this, “I don’t quite see what sort of help I shall get out of that.”

Eight

At the Obelisk streets radiate, and the trams going to London have to make their choice. The theatre in the road that leads to Blackfriars Bridge is a theatre of middle age, with its own opinion of the many juvenile competitors that have sprung up during recent years in near and in distant suburbs: it endeavours to preserve the semblance of youth and modernity by putting on four white globes of electric light, but its age is betrayed by a dozen women with aprons full of oranges, “Two a punny, a punny for two” (oranges are not eaten in the new theatres), and a tray on high trestles loaded with pigs’ trotters, which no one ever buys. Some steps go up to the shilling and the sixpenny seats; early doors, which exact from the over-anxious an additional threepence, are in a dark alley at the side, at the end of which is a door that leads to the box-office by day and the stage entrance by night. The outside of the house has coloured posters of grisly scenes that make the passer-by chill with fear: a yellow woman hurled down a blue precipice; the same lady bound by cords to a grandfather’s clock, which shows the hour as three minutes to twelve, and facing her two crape masked men with pistols; underneath the horrid words, “At midnight, my lady, you die.” A pleasanter note in the frames of photographs that hang slightly askew. Here, Mr. Lawrence Railton as a wicked Italian (at any rate, his moustache turns upwards, as Gratiano in a third-hand costume of the Louis the Fifteenth period, as Inspector Beagle in “Tracking the Criminal,” and in as many more characters as the frame will carry). In the centre, Mr. Lawrence Railton as the art of the photographer would have him be in real life, evening dress, insufficient chin, contemptuous smile—the portrait which occupied the position of honour on Rosalind’s mantelpiece.

A conspicuous evening for Erb, by reason of the circumstance that he had the honour of conveying Rosalind to the theatre; this because her father, having borrowed individual shillings on individual days from her on the promise of accompanying her had, at the last moment, come into a windfall of two and threepence, and had thereupon remembered an urgent appointment with a dramatist of note at a public-house just off the Strand. “Should the fates be kind,” said Rosalind’s father, “I shall endeavour to honour the performance with my presence later on.” Louisa, interested in everything that interested Erb, had organised a raffle at her factory for a circle ticket, and a chapel-going girl, who had picked the highest number out of a straw hat accompanied her, with the full anticipation—this being her first visit to the play—that she was about to witness scenes that might well imperil her future existence; unwilling, all the same, to give her prize away or to sell. Erb, confronted with the responsibility of transporting three ladies, had vague ideas of a four-wheeler, but remembered in time that this would excite criticism from members ever anxious to detect and crush any effort he might make to commit the unpardonable sin of “putting on side;” compensation came in being allowed to walk by the side of Rosalind, who, near Camberwell Gate, seemed to be dressed prettily but with restraint, but who, as they approached the Elephant and Castle, increased in smartness by contrast with the surroundings of Walworth Road. There were crossings to be managed, and Erb, in the most artful way, assisted her here by insinuating his arm underneath her cape, wondering at his own courage, and rather astonished to find that he was not reproved. Rosalind’s manner differed from that of other young women of the district in that she dispensed with the defiant attitude which they assumed, never to be varied from the first introduction to the last farewell.

“And now the question is,” said Louisa’s colleague, “ought I to go in or ought I to stay outside?”

“Considering you’ve got a ticket,” replied little Louisa satirically, “it seems a pity to go in. Why not stay outside and ’ave an orange instead?”

“Oh,” said the chapel-goer recklessly, “now I’m here I may jest as well go on with it. In for a penny in for a pound. If the worst comes to the worst, I can shut me eyes and— Who’s that lifting his cap to you?”

“’Ullo,” remarked Louisa, “you alive still?”

The lad threw away the end of his cigarette, and, advancing, remarked in a bass voice that he had thought it as well to come up on the off chance of meeting Louisa.

“My present young man,” said Louisa, introducing the lad.

“Well,” said the chapel young woman resignedly, “this is the beginning of it.”

Erb, again assisting, took Rosalind up the broad stone staircase; swing doors permitted them to go into the warm, talkative theatre. A few shouts of recognition were raised from various quarters as Erb went in, and he nodded his head in return, but he looked sternly at the direction whence a cry came of “Is that the missus, Erb?” and the chaffing question was not repeated. Down near the stage the orchestra made discordant sounds, the cornet blew a few notes of a frivolous air for practice. Erb bought a programme for Rosalind, and asked if anything else was required; but Rosalind, from a satin bag which hung from her wrist, produced a pair of early Victorian opera glasses, bearing an inscription addressed to her mother, “From a few Gallery Boys,” and said, “No, thank you,” with a smile that made his head spin round.

“But would you mind,” she flushed as she leaned forward to whisper this, “would you mind telling Mr. Railton that I—I should very much like to see him after the show?”

At the stage door a postman had just called, and Erb, waiting for permission to go in whilst the door-keeper sorted the letters, could not help noticing that a violet envelope, in a feminine handwriting, was placed under the clip marked R; it was addressed to Lawrence Railton, Esquire. The doorkeeper gave permission with a jerk of the head, as though preferring not to compromise himself by speech, and Erb went up through the narrow corridor where the office and the dressing-rooms were situated. Cards were pinned on the door of the latter, and one of them bore, in eccentric type, the name of the gentleman for whom Rosalind had given him the message. A lady’s head came out cautiously from one of the other rooms and called in a shrill voice, “Mag-gie!” A middle-aged woman flew from somewhere in reply with a pair of shoes. Below, the orchestra started the overture of an elderly comic opera; a boy, in a cap, came along the corridor shouting, “Beginners, please!”

“She got in everything for the entire week,” said a triumphant voice inside the room, “settled for my washing, cashed up for every blessed thing, and I’ve never paid the old girl a sou from that day to this. Hullo! what’s blown this in?”

Two young men in the small room, and each making-up in front of a looking-glass; before them open tin cases, powder puffs, sticks of grease paint; bits of linen of many colours. On the walls previous occupiers had drawn rough caricatures: here and there someone had stuck an applauding newspaper notice, or a butterfly advertisement. Neither of the young men looked round as Erb came in, but each viewed his reflection in the looking-glass.

“Name of Railton?” said Erb, inquiringly.

“That’s me,” replied one of the two, still gazing into his looking-glass.

“My name’s Barnes. I’m secretary to the R.C.A.S.”

“Any connection with the press?” asked Mr. Railton, fixing a white whisker at the side of his floridly made-up face.

“Not at present!”

“Then what the devil do you mean,” demanded the other hotly, “by forcing your way into the room of two professional men? What—”

“Yes,” said the man at the other glass, taking up a hand-mirror to examine the back of his head, “what the deuce next, I wonder? For two pins I’d take him by the scruff of his neck and pitch him downstairs.” He glanced at Erb, and added rather hastily to Mr. Railton: “If I were you.”

“I shall most certainly complain to the management,” went on Mr. Railton. “It isn’t the first time.”

“I don’t know,” said his companion, “what they think the profession’s made of. Because we allow ourselves to be treated like a flock of sheep they seem to think they can do just what they damn well please.”

“I’ve a precious good mind,” said Mr. Railton, vehemently, “to hand in my notice. Would, too, if it wasn’t for the sake of the rest of the crowd.”

He ceased for a second, whilst he made lines down either side of his mouth, falling back from the mirror to consider the effect.

“Quite finished?” asked Erb, good humouredly. “If so, I should like to tell you, my fiery-tempered warriors, that I have only called with a message from Miss Danks—Miss Rosalind Danks.”

“That’s one of yours, Lorrie!”

“You mean,” said Mr. Railton casually, as he toned down a line with the powder-puff, “a dot and carry one girl?”

“Miss Danks,” said Erb, “is the leastest bit lame.” He repeated precisely the message which Rosalind had given him, and Mr. Railton clicked his tongue to intimate impatience. “I’ll call in again later on,” said Erb, “when you’ve finished your little bit, and then I can take you round to where she’s sitting.”

“Now, why in the world,” cried Mr. Railton, throwing a hairbrush on the floor violently, “why in the world can’t people mind their own business? There’s a class of persons going about on this earth, my dear Chippy—”

“I know what you are going to say,” remarked the other approvingly.

“And if I had my will I’d hang the whole shoot of them. I would, honestly.”

“I quite believe you would,” said Chippy.

“And I’d draw and quarter them afterwards.”

“And then burn ’em,” suggested Chippy.

“And then burn ’em.”

“Would you amiable gentlemen like to have the door closed?” asked Erb.

“Put yourself outside first,” recommended Mr. Railton.

The stage and its eccentricities attracted Erb as they attract everyone, and, a licensed person for the evening, he went about through the feverish atmosphere, meeting people who appeared ridiculous as they stood at the side of the stage waiting to go on, but who, as he knew, would look more life-like than life with the footlights intervening. Pimple-faced men, in tweed caps, hidden from the audience, held up unreliable trees; kept a hand on a ladder, which enabled the leading lady to go up and speak to her lover from the casemented upper window of a cottage; ran against each other at every fair opportunity, complaining in hoarse whispers of clumsiness. A boy came holding clusters of shining pewter cans by the handles, and peace was restored amongst the stage hands, but for the folk in evening dress, with unnatural eyes and amazing faces, who stood about ready to go on, there remained the strain of excitement; some of them soliloquised in a corner, whilst others talked in extravagant terms of dispraise concerning the new leading lady, hinting that no doubt she was a very good girl and kind to her mother, but that she could not act, my dear old boy, for nuts, or for toffee, or for apples, or other rewards of a moderate nature. These seemed to be only their private views, for they were discarded when the leading lady came down the ladder, and they then gathered round her and told her that she was playing for all she was worth, that she had managed to extract more from that one scene than her predecessor had obtained from the entire play, and hinting quite plainly that it was a dear and a precious privilege to be playing in the same company with her. Mr. Lawrence Railton brought for the leading lady a wooden chair; a middle-aged bird (who was her dresser) hopped forward bringing a woollen shawl, that had started by being white and still showed some traces of its original intention, to place around her shoulders.

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Railton, stretching his arms, when, having been ousted from attendance by others, he had strolled up towards Erb, “I don’t feel much like acting to-night!”

“Do you ever?” asked Erb.

“It’s wonderful,” went on the young man, “simply and absolutely wonderful the different moods that one goes through, and the effect they have on one’s performance. I go on giving much the same rendering of a part for several nights on end, and, suddenly, I seem to get a flash of inspiration.”

“Better language!” recommended Erb.

“A flash of inspiration,” said the white whiskered young man with perfect confidence, and keeping his eye on the stage. “It all comes in a moment as it were. And then, by Jove! one can fairly electrify an audience. One sees the house absolutely rise.”

“And go out?” asked Erb.

On the stage the leading man (who was an honest gentleman farmer, showing the gentleman by wearing patent boots, and the farmer by carrying a hunting crop), cried aloud demanding of misfortune whether she had finished her fell conspiracy against him, and this, it appeared, was the cue for Lawrence Railton in his white whiskers and frock-coated suit and a brown hand-bag to go on with the announcement that he had come to foreclose a mortgage, information which the house, knowing vaguely that it boded no good to the hero, received with groans and hisses. Erb, watching from the side, prepared for an exhibition of superior acting on the part of Mr. Railton, and was somewhat astonished to find that, instead of playing a part that forwarded the action of the piece, he was a mere butt sent on in order to be kicked off, treatment served out to him by an honest labourer, faithful to his master and with considerable humour in his disposition. Any expectations that Railton would take a more serious part in the melodrama were set aside, in a later scene of Act I., when the hero and the faithful young labourer had both enlisted in a crack cavalry regiment, he came on with his brown bag to find them and give information of importance, and was at once, to the great joy of the pit and gallery, again kicked off, whilst the regiment, consisting of eight men and a girl officer, marched round the stage several times to a military air, and, after the girl officer had delivered a few sentences of admirable patriotism, went off to the Royal Albert Docks to take ship for South Africa. Indeed, throughout the piece it was Mr. Railton’s privilege to follow the leading man and his low comedy friend, and whether he encountered them on the quay at Cape Town, out on the veldt near Modder River, or at the Rhodes Club at Kimberley, he was ever hailed by the entire theatre with joyous cries of “Kick him, kick him!” advice upon which the low comedy man always acted.

“D’you like your job?” asked Erb at the end of Act II., as he prepared to go round to the front and collect the men of his committee.

“Someone must hold the piece together,” said young Railton, wearily making a cigarette. “Take me away, and the entire show falls to pieces. Even you must have noticed that.”

“Upon my word,” said Erb, looking at him wonderingly, “you are a perfect marvel. I never saw anything like you.”

“Thanks, old chap,” replied the other gratefully, and shaking his hand. “Meet me after the show and we’ll have a drink together. I was afraid at first you were a bit of a bounder. Don’t mind me saying so now, do you?”

“Not at all,” replied Erb. “You gave me much the same impression.”

“That’s most extr’ordinary. There’s an idea for a curtain-raiser in that. Two men beginning by hating each other, and later on—”

“Any message for your young lady?”

“Which?” asked Mr. Railton.

“You know very well who I mean,” said Erb with some annoyance.

“Oh,” with sudden enlightenment, “you mean the Danks person. Oh, tell her I’m all right.”

Erb looked at him rather dangerously, but the young man, secure in the mailed armour of self-content, did not observe this. Erb, placing his doubled fists well down into the pockets of his coat, turned and went off.

“By the bye,” called Mr. Railton, in his affected voice.

Erb did not trust himself to answer, but went down the narrow stone passage, and drew a deep breath when he reached the doorway and the dimly lighted alley; he had work to do, and this, as always, enabled him to forget his personal grievances. In the saloon bar of a neighbouring public-house he found two members of his committee: because they wore their Sunday clothes they smoked cigars, extinguishing them carefully, and placing the ends in their waistcoat pockets; they came out on Erb’s orders to take up position at the stage door. The others were in front of the house, and Erb, going in and standing by the swing door of the circle, discovered them one by one and gave them signal to come out, which they did with great importance, stepping on toes of mere ordinary people in a lordly way.

“Did he send any message?” asked Rosalind anxiously.

“Sent his love.” Worth saying this to see the quick look of relief and happiness that danced across her face. “Said he was looking forward to seeing you.”

“Ah!”

Three minutes later, when the leading man had done something noble that in the proclaimed opinion of the heroine (there, oddly enough, as a nurse) foreshadowed the inevitable Victoria Cross, and Mr. Railton had come on in a kilt to be kicked off once more, and there remained only the affairs of England, home, and beauty to be arranged in the last act; the curtain went down, and two minutes later still, the orchestra having disappeared in search of refreshment and the audience occupied in cracking nuts and hailing acquaintances with great trouble at distant points, the curtain went up again on a flapping scene, behind which the tweed-capped men, it appeared, were setting an elaborate set for Act IV., doing it with some audible argument and no little open condemnation of each other’s want of dexterity. Chairs on the stage stood in a semicircle, and marching on from the left came the dozen members of the committee in their suits of black, twirling bowler hats, and glancing nervously across the footlights in response to the ejaculatory shouting of names. Spanswick, wearing a look of pained resignation, received a special shout, but the loudest cheers were reserved for the secretary, and those in front who did not know him soon took up the cry.

“Erberberberb—”

It became certain at once that Payne was not to give an epoch-making speech. Confused perhaps by the footlights, uncertain of the attitude of this great crowded theatre, Payne’s memory ran its head against a brick wall and stayed there: he made three repetitions of one sentence, and then, having reversed the positions of the tumbler and the decanter, started afresh, the audience encouraging him by cries of “Fetch him out, Towser, fetch him out,” as though Mr. Payne were an unwilling dog, but the same brick wall stood in his way, and, concluding weakly with the remark, “Well, you all know what I mean,” he called upon Erb, and sat down glancing nervously across to the pit stalls, where was Mrs. Payne, her head shaking desolately, her lips moving with unspoken words of derision.

“I’m going to take five minutes,” said Erb, in his distinct and deliberate way. He took out his watch and laid it on the table. “Even if I’m in the middle of a sentence when that time is up, I promise I’ll go down like a shot. I suppose you know the story of the man who—”

Good temper smiled and laughed from the front row of the pit stalls and up to the very topmost row of the gallery at Erb’s anecdote, and, hoping for another story, they sat forward and listened. He knew that he held them now, knew they would cheer anything he liked to say, providing he said it with enough of emphasis. He went on quickly that this advantage might not be lost, pounding the palm of one hand with the fist of the other, so that the dullest might know by this gesture when a point was intended; spoke of the good feeling that was aroused by the presence of a fellow-man’s misfortune; mentioned the work of his own society, urged that so long as this feeling of comradeship existed, so long would their condition improve, not perhaps by a leap or a bound, but by steady, cautious, and gradual progression. Up in the circle his young elocution teacher nodded approvingly, flushing with pride at her pupil’s careful enunciation, giving a start of pain at a superfluous aspirate that cleaved the air.

“He can talk,” admitted a man behind her.

“If I’d had the gift of the gab,” said the man’s neighbour, “I could have made a fortune.”

Erb stepped out near to the footlights and gave his peroration in an impassioned manner that had the useful note of sincerity. Those in the theatre, who were sympathisers, rose and cheered like a hurricane; the rest, not to be left out of a gratifying show of emotion, joined in, and Spanswick, the hero of the evening, as he rose from his chair to say a few words, might have been a leading politician, a general who had rescued his country from difficulties, or an exceptionally popular member of the Royal Family, instead of a railway carman of third-rate excellence with a notable wife.

Spanswick said this was the proudest moment of his life. Spanswick would never forget that night: useless for anybody to ask him to do so. If people should come to Spanswick and invite him to erase that evening from his recollection, he would answer definitely and decidedly, “Never!” So long as memory lasted and held its sway, so long would he guarantee to keep that evening in mind, and carry remembrance with him. Thus Spanswick, in a generous way that suggested he was doing a noble and spontaneous act, and one for which the audience should be everlastingly grateful. Payne, as Chairman, rose, and ignoring a suggestion from the gallery that he should dance a hornpipe, led the group off, the members looking shyly across at the audience, and the audience howling indignantly at one of the men who replaced his hat before getting off.

“Were you nervous, Erb?” asked Louisa excitedly. “I was. Nearly fainted, didn’t I?”

“Oh, don’t talk,” whispered her lady-companion, enchanted by the commencement of Act Four. “Don’t talk, please, when there’s such beautiful things going on.”

Mr. Railton had nothing to do in the last act, the dramatist having apparently felt that the thin vein of humour which had been struck in the character was by this time exhausted, and Rosalind looked with anxiety at the curtained doorway of the circle, but Mr. Railton did not appear during the last act, and he was not in the vestibule below when the audience poured out into Blackfriars Road. She was very silent on this, and when Erb saw her into a tram she shook hands without a word. Going back to assist Louisa’s young man in the task of escorting the two other ladies, he found himself intercepted by Mr. Lawrence Railton—Railton, in an astrachan bordered coat, and well wrapped around the throat, giving altogether the impression that here was some rare and valuable product of nature that had to be specially protected.

“I want you!” said the young man.

“You’ll have to want,” said Erb brusquely, and going on.

“But it concerns the girl you were speaking of.”

“Where can we go?” asked Erb, stopping.

“Come round to the bar at the back of the circle,” said Railton, “and you can give me a drink,” he added generously.

A few members of the company were near the bar, and Railton, to compensate for the presence of such an ordinary-looking companion, began to talk loudly and condescendingly. Never drank till after the show, he explained, some drank during the performance, but none of the best men did so. One could not give a good reading of the part unless one observed the principles of strict abstemiousness. He flattered himself that he was not one likely to make mistakes, and he held his future, as it were, well and securely in both hands. If Erb would promise not to let the matter go any further, he would show him, in the strictest confidence, a letter from a West End manager, that would prove how near one could be to conspicuous success.

“Not that one,” he said, opening a violet envelope. “That’s from a dear thing at Skipton. Worships the very ground I walk on.”

The letter in question fell on the floor. Erb picked it up and, in doing so, could not help noticing that it began: “Sir, unless you forward two and eight by return, the parcel of laundry will be sold without—”

“Here it is,” cried Railton. “‘Mr. So-and-so thanks Mr. Lawrence Railton for his note, and regrets that the arrangements for the forthcoming production are complete.’” “Regrets, you see, mark that! A post earlier, and evidently he would have—don’t drown it, my dear chap!”

“In regard,” said Erb, putting down the water-bottle, “to Miss Rosalind Danks.”

“I hadn’t finished what I was saying.”

“Didn’t mean you should. Let’s drop your personal grievances for a bit. Why didn’t you come round and see her before she left?”

“Now that,” said Railton, leaning an elbow on the counter, “goes straight to the very crux of the question. That’s just where I wanted to carry you. I hate a man who wastes time on preliminaries. My idea always is that if you’ve got a thing to say, say it!”

“Well then, say it!”

“My position,” said Railton, importantly, “is this. I have, as I think I said, the artistic temperament. I am all emotion, all sentiment, all heart! It may be a virtue, it may be a defect; I won’t go into that. The point is that little Rosie is the exact opposite. I confess that I thought at one time that we might be well suited to each other, but I see now that I made a mistake. Doesn’t often happen, but I did make a mistake there, and the unfortunate part of the business is that I—in a kind of way, don’t you know—promised to marry her.”

“So I understood. When does the affair come off?”

“My dear old chap,” said Railton, with effusive confidence, “the affair is off. But you know what women are, and I find it rather difficult—for, mind you, I am above all things a man of honour—I find it rather difficult to write to her and tell her so. Some men wouldn’t hesitate for a moment. Some men have no delicacy. But what I thought was this: Do you want to earn a couple of pounds?”

“Go on!” said Erb, quietly.

“Assuming that you do want to earn a couple of pounds, this is where you come in. You, I gain, have a certain admiration for her. Now, if you can take her off my hands so that I can get out of the engagement with dignity, I am prepared to give you, in writing mind, a promise to pay—”

Mr. Railton went down swiftly on the floor. The other people hurried up.

“You dare strike me!” he cried complainingly, as he rose his handkerchief to his face. “Do it again, that’s all.”

He went down again with the same unexpectedness as before. Three men stood round Erb, who looked quietly at his own clenched fist; the knuckles had a slight abrasion.

“Want any more?” he asked.

Mr. Railton made one or two efforts from his crumpled position to speak; the three men suggested police, but he waved his hand negatively.

“Do you want any more, you scoundrel you?” repeated Erb.

“No,” answered Mr. Lawrence Railton, weakly, from the linoleum, “I don’t want any more. I always know my limit.”

Nine

This being a period of his life when Erb could do nothing wrong, the unpremeditated experiment with fists had a result that seldom attends efforts of the kind. Railton sent to Erb by post the following day an elaborate letter of apology, in which he argued that Erb, by a quite excusable error, had misunderstood what he (Railton) had intended to convey; that he honoured Mr. Barnes for the attitude he had taken up (which, under similar circumstances, would have been his own), that he should of course carry out his engagement with the young lady whose name it was unnecessary to mention, that he should ever retain an agreeable memory of Mr. Barnes (to whose efforts in the cause of labour he begged in passing to offer his best wishes), he trusted very sincerely that their friendship would not be impaired by the unfortunate incident of the preceding night. Thus Mr. Railton, with many an emphasising underline and note of exclamation, and a flourish under the signature, intended to convey the impression that here was a document of value to be preserved for all time. On Erb discovering his elocution teacher—whose lessons he now scarce required, but whose services as instructress in the art of public oratory he continued for the sheer pleasure of listening to her private speech—on Erb discovering her at his next visit with traces of recent tears he insisted on knowing the cause, and was told, first, that father had been borrowing seventeen shillings and sixpence, which she would have to pay back, amount required in order, the Professor had explained to the credulous lender, to enable him to purchase a comedy which had a part that would fit the Professor like a glove (“I can see myself in it,” the Professor declared); and on Erb dismissing this incident as too common for tears, Rosalind reluctantly showed him a letter from the admirable Railton, written by that young gentleman at the same time apparently as the communication he had sent to Erb: in this he regretted time had not permitted him to call at Camberwell Gate, the loss was his; but what he particularly wanted to say was that the farce of their engagement need no longer be allowed to run. On neither side, wrote Mr. Railton, had there been any real affection, and he was sure that this formal intimation would be as great a relief to Rosalind as to himself; he trusted she would find another good fiancé, and he was, with all regards, her friend and well-wisher, Lawrence Railton. Erb, greatly concerned for Rosalind, told her nothing of the incident of the benefit performance, but tried to comfort her with the suggestion that Railton had probably written without thought.

“I am beginning to see,” said Rosalind presently, “I am beginning to see that I have at least one real friend in the world.”

“One’s ample,” replied Erb stolidly.

With the men of the society the occurrence gave to Erb distinct promotion. Something to have a quick mind with figures, something to be ready of speech, something to be always at hand wherever in London a railway carman was in trouble, but better than all these things was it to be able to think of their secretary as one able to put up his fists. Wherever he went, for a time, congratulations were shouted from the hood of parcels carts or the high seat of pair-horse goods vans; boys hanging by ropes at the tail boards giving a cheer as they went by. There is nothing quite so dear and precious as the world’s applause, and if here and there a man should announce his distaste for it, the world may be quite sure that this is said only to extort an additional and an undue share. At the next committee meeting Erb was requested, with a good deal of importance, by Payne, as chairman, to be good enough to leave the room for ten minutes: on his return it was announced to him that, moved by G. Spanswick, and seconded by H. R. Bates, a resolution had been carried, according to Herbert Barnes, secretary, an increase in salary of twenty pounds per annum. Erb announced this to his young white-faced sister, and added to the announcement an order directing her to leave her factory and look after the home in Page’s Walk; but Louisa would not hear of this, declaring that a humdrum life would never suit her, that she should mope herself into a state of lunacy if Erb insisted, and that the money could be laid out much more usefully on, first, a pianoforte; second, a new suite of chairs for the sitting room in place of furniture which had been in the Barnes family for two generations; third, in articles of costume for Erb, and—if any sum remained—in something for herself. They argued the point with desperate good humour from either side of the table, until Erb found that she was really in earnest, and then he gave in.

“You always have your own way, Louisa.”

“Precious little use having anybody else’s,” she retorted sharply.

“You’ve got a knack of deciding questions,” complained her brother, good-temperedly, “that makes you a little debating society in yourself.”

“There’s something in connection with your society,” went on Louisa, encouraged, “that you might arrange if you’d got any gumption.”

“Let us assume, for the sake of argument, that I have.”

“It’s this. When one of your single chaps gets engaged let him begin paying into a wedding fund. You’ve got your strike funds and what not, but you ain’t got no wedding fund.”

“We haven’t any wedding fund,” corrected Erb.

“Oh, never mind about grammar,” said his young sister impetuously, “I’m talking sense. Let them all pay a bob or so a week, and the one that draws a good number gets his ten pound and goes off and gets married like a shot. See what an interest it’d make the girls take in your society. See how it’d make your young carmen sought after. See how fine it’d be for them to start life on their own, instead of having to go on paying so much a week for ’ire to the furniture shops. See how—”

“A reg’lar little orator,” said Erb approvingly. “It must run in the blood, I think. Besides, there’s an idea in what you say.”

“I never speak,” said his sister with confidence, “without I say something.” She paused for a moment. “I suppose, Erb, that—that with all this money coming in, you’ll begin to think about getting—”

He put his knife and fork down and rose from his chair.

The marriage club was only one of the new features that Erb introduced to the society, but it was the one which had a tinge of melancholy, in that it appeared to him that he was almost alone in not having in hand a successful affair of the heart. Lady Frances came frequently to Bermondsey, where she threw herself with great earnestness into the excellent work of providing amusing hours for children—children who had never been taught games, and knew no other sport than that of imperilling their little lives in the street. Erb, being seen with her one evening as she returned from a Board School, there ensued at the next committee meeting considerable badinage of a lumbering type; Payne declared that Erb should join the wedding club in order that the happy pair should be in a position to set up a house in Portman Square together; Spanswick remarked with less of good temper, that some people’s heads were getting too big for their hats; whilst other members, ever ready to take part in the fine old London sport of chipping, offered gibes. Erb retorted with his usual readiness, and laughed at the suggestion; but afterwards found himself fearing whether Lady Frances was, in point of fact, lavishing upon him a hopeless affection. He had almost persuaded himself to admit that this was the case, when his sister Alice made one of her condescending calls at Page’s Walk and gave, with other information, the fact that the sweetheart of Lady Frances, a lieutenant, the Honourable Somebody, had some time since been ordered away on a mission to the North-West Coast of Africa; her young ladyship was, by this desperate interest in the juveniles of Bermondsey, endeavouring to distract her mind from thoughts of her absent lover. Erb breathed again and gave assistance in managing the most trying boys at the “Happy Evenings.” One night, as he performed the duty of seeing Lady Frances through the dimly-lighted streets to Spa Road Station, they met Rosalind and her father. Rosalind flushed hotly, and Erb wondered why. He demanded of her the reason at the next elocution lesson, and Rosalind said calmly, that it was because at that moment she had given her second-best ankle a twist.

Lady Frances brought to Erb an invitation that flattered him. Her uncle, of Queen Anne’s Mansions, a man in most of the money-making schemes of London, but one never anxious to obtrude his own name or his own personality, felt desirous of starting a movement for (to give the full Christian names) “The Anglicising of Foreign Manufactures.”

This Lady Frances explained to him, with her usual vivacity, the while both kept an eye on some noisy Bermondsey infants, who were playing in the hall of the Board School.

“Other countries are getting ahead of us, my uncle says, and unless something is done at once, British trade (Now, children, do play without quarrelling, please, to oblige me!), British trade will go down, and down, and down, and there will be nothing left.”

“Are things really so bad?”

“Oh, they’re terrible,” declared Lady Frances, with great cheerfulness. “Apparently the bed-rock has almost been reached, and it is only by a great and a unanimous effort that Great Britain will ever again be enabled to get its head above water. So, at any rate, my uncle tells me.”

“I don’t know—(Young Tommy Gibbons, if I catch you at that again you know what will happen)—I don’t know that I’ve ever studied the subject in the large. My own society takes up nearly all my time, and other work I leave to other people.”

“Exactly, Mr. Barnes, exactly! I quite understand your position. But I have such faith in my uncle. Do you know that nearly everything he touches turns into money.”

“Very agreeable gift.”

“But the point is this, that nothing can be done unless capital and labour work in unison for a common end. One is affected quite as much as the other, and alone neither can do anything. British trades are being snapped up by America, by France, by Germany, even by Belgium, the only remedy, my uncle says, is for us to take some of their manufactures and plant them here.—(I was sure you’d fall down and hurt your knee, little boy. Come here and let me kiss the place and make it well)—I don’t know whether I make myself quite plain to you, Mr. Barnes?”

“In one sense you do,” said Erb. “Only thing I can’t see is, where your uncle imagines that I come in.”

A dispute between two children over a doll necessitated interference, based on the judgment of Solomon.

“Obviously,” replied the girl, delighted at the importance of her task, “obviously, your work will be to organise.”

“Organise what?”

“Meetings of working men to take up the idea, discussion in the halfpenny papers, argument in workshops. In this way,” she said, with her engaging frankness, “in this way, you see, you could strengthen my uncle’s hands.”

“Not sure that that is the one desire of my life.”

“I am so clumsy,” deplored Lady Frances.

“Not more than most people.”

“If you would only see my uncle and argue it out! He, I am sure, would succeed where I,” with a sigh, “where I so horribly fail.”

“Look here,” said Erb, hastily, “if it’s any satisfaction to you, I’ll say at once that I’m with the movement, heart, body, and soul.”

Lady Frances took his big hand and patted it thankfully.

“Can’t tell you how pleased I am,” she declared. “I’ll send on all the circulars and figures and things when I reach Eaton Square to-night—(Children, children, you are tiresome, really)—and then you can start work directly, can’t you?”

A busy man always has time to spare; it is only your lazy person who can never place a minute at anyone’s disposal. Thus it was that Erb tacked on to his other duties, the work of making known the Society for Anglicising Foreign Manufactures, pressing into the service all the young orators of his acquaintance, and furnishing them with short and easy arguments. Our import trade was so many millions in excess of our outgoing trade: why should this be so? Our villages were becoming deserted, and country manufactories dwindled day by day: this must be stopped. Vague talk about technical education; praise for the English working man, and adulation of his extraordinary, but sometimes dormant brain power; necessity of providing tasks for the rising generation that they might not push men of forty out of berths. An agreeable programme, one that could be promulgated without those submissive inquiries addressed to the labour leaders in the House, which always had a suggestion of servility. Erb, the following Sunday, spoke at Southwark Park in the morning, at Peckham Rye in the afternoon, and Deptford Broadway in the evening, and, the subject being new, he found himself invited to address several working men’s clubs during the week. Paragraphs, slipped into the newspapers, sometimes contained his name: Lady Frances wrote that her uncle was delighted, and had asked to be especially remembered. A later note mentioned that it was intended to hold a mass meeting at St. James’s Hall, to bring the subject well before the people of London: her uncle would not be able to be present, but he had begged her to request Mr. Barnes to speak on this occasion: there would be a Duchess of philanthropic tendencies in the chair, and several members of Parliament had promised to speak. “Don’t disappoint us!” said the postscript appealingly. Erb sent an agreeable postcard in reply, and a friend of his, an assistant-librarian in the Free Library, promised to devote himself to work of research and ascertain how one addressed a lady of such distinguished rank as the wife of a Duke. The assistant-librarian urged that evening-dress was the correct thing, and offered to lend a suit which he and his brother wore when they went out into society, patronising dances at the Surrey Masonic Hall but here Erb’s commonsense interfered. The meeting was advertised in the daily papers and on hoardings, his name given as Herbert Barnes, Esquire, with full qualifications set out: he never saw one of the posters without stopping to enjoy the sight, and it pained him extremely to find that on one or two in the neighbourhood of home some friend had erased the affix. Louisa went boldly one evening to the offices of the new society, in College Street, Westminster, and obtained a copy of the poster; this she would have exhibited in the front window, but compromised by sticking it at its four corners on the wall of the sitting room.

St. James’s Hall was not over-crowded on the evening, and a wealthy member of the committee went about telling everybody that a smaller room would have been cheaper, but it was full enough to please Erb as he took a view of it from the stairs leading to the platform. The platform was fringed with palms; on the walls were hung banners, with quotations from Shakespeare down to the newest poet; quotations, that appeared to give vague support to the movement. Lady Frances, hovering about in the manner of an anxious butterfly, introduced Erb to the Duchess, and the Duchess, without using her lorgnon, said beamingly that she had read all of Mr. Barnes’s works, and felt quite too delighted to meet the author; Erb protested nervously that he had never written a book, but the Duchess waved this aside as ineffective badinage, and went on talking the while she looked away through her glasses at arriving people. So delighted, said the Duchess absently, to mingle with men of talent; it took one into another atmosphere. The Duchess, for her part, claimed to have powers of observation, and trusted piously that she was not altogether without a sense of humour, but these exceptional qualities, she said, had never availed her when she took pen in hand. Erb, perceiving the futility of contradiction, suggested that she should one day, when a spare moment arrived, have another dash at it, and the Duchess, bringing her gaze by a process of exhaustion round to him, stared at him wonderingly for a moment, and then promised to act upon his advice. A shy little man of letters being submitted just then to her consideration, the Duchess dropped Erb, and engaged in animated monologue on the subject of labour and how to conciliate it: her own method seemed to be to treat it as an elephant and give it buns. Erb stood about the room, whilst well-dressed people flew one to the other with every sign of gratification; he felt all his usual difficulty of not knowing what to do with his hands. The people had a manner of speech that he could understand with difficulty, they talked of things that for him were a sealed book. Three clergymen who came in a bunch and seemed similarly out of the movement, gave him a feeling of companionship. When they all formed in a line and marched up on the platform to a mild, whispered cheering from the Hall, Erb’s interest quickened, and the slight feeling of nervousness came which always affected him when he was going to speak.

“And I do think,” said the Duchess, with shrill endeavour to make her voice reach the back of the hall, “I do think that the more we consider such matters the more likely we are to understand them and to realise what they mean, and to gain a better and a wider and a truer knowledge.” The three clergymen said, “Good, good,” in a burst of respectful approbation, as men suddenly illuminated by a new thought. “I am tempted to go further,” said the Duchess, waving her notes threateningly at the audience, “to go further, and express myself, if I may so say, that having put our hands to the plough—” She looked round at the straight line of folk behind her, and they endeavoured to convey by their looks that if a Duchess could not be allowed the use of daring metaphor, then it would have to be denied to everybody. “Having put our hands to the plough, we shall not turn back—(slight cheering)—we shall not falter—(renewed slight cheering)—we shall not loiter by the roadside, but we shall go steadily on, knowing well that—that—” Here the Duchess found her notes and read the last words of her peroration carefully, “knowing well that our goal is none other than the rising sun, which symbolises so happily the renaissance—” Here she looked down at the reporters’ table, and seemed about to spell the word, but refraining contented herself by saying it again with great distinctness. “The renaissance of British Trade and British Supremacy!”

A service member of Parliament proposed the first resolution, and did so in a speech that would have suited any and every occasion on sea or land, in that it was made up entirely of platitudes, and included not one argument that could be seized by the most contentious; the whole brightened by what the member of Parliament himself described as a most amusing discussion which he had held with a man of the labouring classes not many years since (on which occasion the member had travelled second, this being notoriously the only way of discovering the true aspirations of the lower classes), and the member had subjected the man to a rigid cross-examination of the most preposterous and useless nature which he now repeated with many an “Ah, but I said—” and “Now listen to me, my good fellow—” and “Permit me to explain what I mean in simple words so that even you can understand,” the labouring man eventually giving in (so, at any rate, the Member declared), admitting that the gallant Member had won the game at every point—the probability being that the poor fellow, bullied and harried by a talkative bore, had done so in the interests of peace and with a desire to be let alone and allowed to read his evening paper. The service Member clearly prided himself not only on the acuteness which he had displayed in the argument, but also on the wonderful imitative faculty which enabled him to reproduce the dialect of his opponent, a dialect which seemed to have been somewhat mixed, for in one instance he spoke Lancashire with, “Aye, ah niver thowt o’ that,” and the next broad Somerset, “There be zummat in what yew zay, zir,” and anon in a strange blend of Irish and Scotch.

“‘That this meeting calls upon the working classes to put aside all differences and to contribute their indispensable assistance to the new movement, from which they themselves have so much to gain.’ Will Mr. Herbert Barnes please second?”

This was written on the slip of paper, and passed along to Erb at a moment when the grisly fear had begun to possess him that he might not be called upon at all. He nodded to the secretary, and felt that the audience, now tired of listening to spoken words, looked at him doubtfully. One of the three clergymen being selected to move the resolution, the other two looked at their shoes with a pained interest, and presently tugged at their black watch-guards, ascertained the time, and, just before the chosen man arose, slipped quietly out. Fortunately for Erb, the remaining clergyman started on a line of reasoning excellently calculated to annoy and to stimulate. Began by pointing out that everybody nowadays worked excepting the working man, doubted whether it was of much use offering to him help, but declaring himself, in doleful tones, an optimist, congratulated the new movement on its courage, its altruism, its high nobility of purpose, and managed, before sitting down, to intimate very defiantly that unless labour seized this unique opportunity, then labour must be left to shift for itself and could no longer expect any assistance from him.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” said Erb distinctly. The promise of listening to a voice that could be heard without difficulty aroused the Hall. “I should be glad if the gentleman who spoke last could spare just three minutes of his time, and refrain for that space from making a hurried and somewhat undignified departure from the Hall.” The clergyman who had adopted the crouching attitude of those who desire to escape furtively from close confinement, returned and sat, his back straightened. “He has spoke—I should say, he has spoken—in a patronising way of labour, and I want to tell him that we resent very strongly his condescending and almost contemptuous words.”

His predecessor rose and said, “May it please your—”

“No, no, no!” said Erb, with but a slight modification of his Southwark Park manner, “I didn’t interrupt the reverend gentleman, and I’m not going to allow him to interrupt me. Or to assume the duties, your Grace,” with a nod to the chair, “which you perform with such conspicuous charm and ability.”

The Duchess, who, fearing a row, had been anxiously consulting those around her in order to gain hints as to procedure, recovered confidence on receiving this compliment, and gave a smile of relief. Men at the table below adjusted their black leaves of carbonic paper and began to write.

“Now, I’ve been into the details almost as carefully as the reverend gentleman has, and what I want to say, in order that this audience should not consider that we are absolutely silly fools, is, that so far from this movement having been arranged in order to benefit the workers exclusively, it is very clear to me that there’s a few behind the scenes who are going to make a bit out of it.”

One cry of approval came from the distant gallery, but this scarcely counted, for it was a voice that had applauded contrary statements with the same decision. Erb knew the owner of the voice, a queer old crank, who went about to public meetings, his pockets bursting with newspapers, more than content if in the Free Library the next day he should find but one of his solitary cries of “Hear, hear,” reported in the daily press.

“I’ve no doubt they feel pretty certain of a safe eight or ten per cent.; if they didn’t, this meeting would never have been held, and we should have been denied the pleasure of listening to that lucid and illuminating speech with which your Grace has favoured us. I say this that the previous speaker may see and that you all may recognise the fact that if those I represent give the cause any assistance, we do so with our eyes wide open, and that we are not blindfolded by the cheap flannel sort of arguments to which we have just listened. But let me go on. Because this is going to be a soft thing for the capitalists, it by no means follows that it is going to be a hard thing for the worker. On the contrary! I can see—or I think I can see—that this is likely to benefit both of us. (Cheers.) And whilst I repudiate the attitude and the arguments of the last speaker, I promise you that I am prepared to do all that I can for the scheme—(cheers)—not in the interests of capital, for capital can look after itself, but in the interests of labour, which sometimes wants a lot of looking after. Your Grace, I beg to second the resolution.”

Not a great speech by any means, but one with the golden virtue of brevity, and one spoken with obvious earnestness. The Hall liked it; the subsequent speakers made genial references to it, and the Duchess, in acknowledging a vote of thanks, repaid Erb for his compliment to herself by prophesying that Mr. Barnes would prove a pillar of strength to the cause, declaring graciously that she should watch his career with interest, and gave him a fierce smile that seemed to hint that this in itself was sufficient to ensure success. (Later, when he said goodbye, the Duchess called him Mr. Blenkinsop, and begged him to convey her kindest regards to his dear wife.)

“I wonder,” said a gentleman with concave spectacles, “I wonder, now, whether you have a card about you?”

“Going to do a trick?” asked Erb.

“Here’s mine. Have you ever thought of entering the House?”

“Someone would have to provide me with a latch-key.”

“I take you!” remarked the spectacled gentleman adroitly. “Don’t happen to be Welsh, I suppose, by any chance? Ah! a pity!”

For a moment it occurred to Erb that this might be a sample of aristocratic chaff; he stopped his retort on seeing that the other was talking with perfect seriousness. “But something else may happen at any moment. We live in strange times.”

“We always do,” said Erb.

“I shall keep you in my mind.”

Lady Frances eluded some dowagers who were bearing down upon her, and came to him; she took an envelope from a pretty hiding place.

“My uncle particularly begged me to give you this. You were so good, Mr. Barnes. (Don’t open it until you get home.) Your speech was just what one wanted. You quite cleared the air.”

“Afraid I should clear the ’All.” Lady Frances seemed not to comprehend, and the knowledge came to Erb that he had missed an aspirate.

“My uncle will be so pleased. I shall be down at Bermondsey next week, and I can bring any message my uncle wishes to send. I don’t bother you, Mr. Barnes?”

“Need you ask?” replied Erb.

“You’re not going?” with her gloved hand held out.

Erb took the hint and made his exit with difficulty, because several ladies buzzed around him, humming pleasant words. The spectacled man walked with him along Piccadilly, talking busily, and expressed a desire to take Erb into the club for coffee. “Only that my place is so deucedly uncivil to visitors.” He contented himself with a threat that Erb should most certainly hear from him again.

“I shan’t lose your address,” said the spectacled person.

It was not until the Committee Meeting of the R.C.S. had nearly finished one evening that Erb, in searching for a letter which some members desired to see, found the note from Lady Frances’s uncle. He tore the flap casually, and, recognising it, placed the opened envelope aside, and pursued his searches for the required document. Spanswick, with a busy air of giving assistance, looked through the letters, and opened the communication which Lady Frances had brought.

“Pardon, old man,” whispered Spanswick confidentially. “Didn’t know I was interfering with money matters.”

Ten

It is the ingenious habit of Kentish railways directly that hop-picking is over and pay-day is done, to advertise excursions to London at a fare so cheap that not to take advantage of it were to discourage Providence in its attempts to make the world pleasant. Country folk, who make but one visit a year to town, seize this September opportunity; some avail themselves not only of this but of the Cattle Show trip later on; a few also take the pantomime excursion in February, and these are counted in quiet villages as being, by frequent contact with town, blades of the finest temper, to whom (if they would but be candid) no mysteries of the great town are unknown. Erb’s Aunt Emma, giving herself reward for a month’s hard work in the hop-garden, came up every year by the September excursion. It happened on this occasion that the day could not have made a more awkward attempt to fit in with Erb’s convenience.

“Well,” said Aunt Emma, in the ’bus, desolately, “I’m not surprised! It’s what comes of looking forward to anything. When I heerd as you may say, you’d left the railway, I said to the party that comes in on Mondays to help me do my week’s washing, ‘I don’t know,’ I says, ‘what to think ’bout all this.’”

“Any other day, almost,” urged her nephew, “I could have arranged for the day off, but I’ve got important work to do that’ll take me up to nine o’clock.”

“Whenever I find a bit of a lad giving up a honest living, I always say to Mrs. Turley, I say, ‘Dang it all, this won’t do!’ And when it ’appened to my brother’s own boy I turned round at once, I did, and I said, ‘I don’t know what to—’”

“If Louisa had been quite herself, why, of course, she—”

“I’ll get back to Lonnon Bridge,” said Aunt Emma grimly. “Reckon I shall be some’ing like Mrs. Turley’s eldest. He come up one November, he did—first time he’d been to Lonnon—and it were a bit foggy, so he kep’ in the station all day; when he come home, he says, ‘Mother,’ he says, ‘it’s a fine big place, Lonnon is, but it dedn’t quite come up to my expectations.’” The parchment-faced old lady was pleased by Erb’s reception of this anecdote, and, gratified also to get a smile from other passengers, she relaxed in manner; Erb saw the opportunity.

“Tell you what we’ve arranged, Aunt Emma. Louisa and me talked it over as soon’s ever we made out your letter—”

“I don’t perfess,” remarked the old lady, “to be first-class in me spellin’. ’Sides, I got someone else to write it.”

“And we decided that we’d get a friend of mine—a friend of ours to look after you for the day.”

“What’s he like?” asked the old lady, with reluctant show of interest.

“It’s a she!”

“Your young woman?”

“I don’t go in for anything of that kind,” said Erb, looking round the ’bus apprehensively. “Too busy for such nonsense.”

“Never knew the man yet,” said Aunt Emma, “that couldn’t make time to get fond of somebody.”

Arrived at the office at Grange Road, Erb was showing the aunt some of his newspaper notices, when he heard on the stairs the swish of skirts. He lost the remaining half of his remark.

“And you’ve been fairly walking out, then, as you may say, with our Lady Frances?”

“You can’t call it that, Aunt. I’ve only just been paying her polite attention.”

“I know what you mean,” remarked the old lady acutely. “Her grandmother—I’m speaking now of forty year ago, mind you—her grandmother ran off with a—let me see! Forget me own name next.”

Erb answered the quiet tap at the open door.

“Good girl!” he cried cheerfully. “Welcome to our baronial hall! Aunt Emma, this is the young lady that’s going to pilot you round. Almost makes you seem,” he said to Rosalind, “like one of the family.”

“I only had to put off three pupils,” said Rosalind quickly. “How do you do?”

“I’m going downstairs to fetch coffee and scones for you two,” announced Erb. “Try not to come to blows whilst I’m away.”

“My sciatica is just beginning to wake up, as you may say,” replied Aunt Emma.

“So sorry,” said Rosalind sympathetically. “It must interfere with getting about.”

“Thank you,” replied Aunt Emma coldly. “I’m able to set up and take nourishment.”

“I expect your nephew has a lot of callers,” she said with determination. “He knows a good many people.”

“Are you acquainted with our Lady Frances,” asked the aunt in a mysterious whisper.

“I have just seen her,” flushing a little for some reason.

“These upper classes, they don’t stand at nothing, as you may say, when—” Erb returned, and the aunt, with the wink of a diplomatist, raised her voice. “They paid eight to the shillin’ this year it ought to’ve been seven. I said so straight, all through the hopping, I did, to Mrs. Turley.”

The doors were to open at two for the afternoon’s entertainment, and the aunt’s idea was that it were well to get there by noon, and thus ensure the best value in seats for a shilling; Rosalind gently over-ruled this, and they went first to Westminster Abbey, at which the aunt sneered, saying it was not her idea of a place of worship, and to the National Gallery, in regard to the contents of which the old lady hinted that they compared badly with a rare set of illuminated almanacks which she had at home, issued yearly by Deane, the grocer; the almanacks, it appeared, had the advantage of giving the date of jolly nigh every month you could think of. Trafalgar Square, looked on as a square, the aunt thought not much better than middling; the Embankment, in her opinion, lacked many of the attractions that she remembered once to have found at Ramsgate. But when, later, they were seated in the front row of the gallery in a small hall, and the curtain went up disclosing a crescent of black-faced men, with instrumentalists behind them, and similarly coloured gentlemen, with be-frilled shirtfronts, at either end asked riddles of the gentlemanly man at the centre, riddles of which the gentlemanly man almost alone in the Hall knew not the answer, able only to repeat the question in a sonorous manner, then Aunt Emma relinquished all attempt at criticism, and gave herself up to pure delight. “Can you tole me, Mithter Johnthon, how a woman differth from an umbrella?”

“Can I tell you,” repeated the gentlemanly man very distinctly, “how a woman differs from an umbrella?”

“Now ’ark for the answer!” whispered Aunt Emma, nudging her young companion gleefully.

“No, sir,” said the gentlemanly man, “I cannot tell you how a woman differs from an umbrella.”

“You can’t tole me how a woman differth from an umbrella? Why,” explained the corner-man, “you can shut an umbrella up!”

“How in the world they think of all these things!” said Aunt Emma exhaustedly. “Dang my old eyes if it ’ent a miracle!”

Aunt Emma wept when a thin-voiced youth sang, “Don’t neglect your mother ’cause her hair is getting grey,” became hysterical with amusement over, “I’m a gay old bachelor widow.” Rosalind found herself enjoying the enjoyment of the old lady, and when they came out into daylight, and went across the way to a noble establishment, where they had high tea, the two were on excellent terms with each other, and information regarding small scandals of Penshurst was placed freely at Rosalind’s disposal. The old lady spoke in an awed whisper when she came to the people at the Court, and arrested a slice of ham on her fork, as though sensible of the demands of etiquette when dealing with the upper classes.

“You’re not married, my dear,” said Aunt Emma, loosening the strings of her bonnet and allowing it to fall to the back of her head in an elegant way, “or else I could speak more free, as you may say, on the subject. That grandmother of hers—” The old lady pursed her lips, and glanced at her reflection in the mirrored walls with a pained shake of the head.

“But,” urged Rosalind, perturbed by the aunt’s confident manner of prophecy, “Lady Frances, I understand, is engaged to a lieutenant out in North Africa.”

“Then sooner he comes back,” shaking a spoon threateningly, “sooner he comes back the better. I don’t want to go opening my old mouth too wide, or else like enough I shall go and put my foot in it. I’ve said all I want to say, and I don’t want folk to turn round arterwards and say to me, ‘Why didn’t you give us warnin’?’ Strikes me, my dear, we might have drop more hot water with this yere tea.”

“Do you know her uncle at all?”

“I know of him. I used to be upper housemaid at the Court.”

“And what—”

“I don’t think no worse of him,” said Aunt Emma in a slow, careful, and judicial manner, “I don’t think no worse of him than what he’s thought worse of.”

“I see,” said Rosalind doubtfully. The girl was silent for a few moments. She looked at the walnut face of Erb’s aunt, at the elderly dimple beside the mouth, she watched the old lady’s cautious way of munching food.

“What you thinking of, my dear?”

“Nothing, nothing,” said Rosalind, arousing herself.

“You won’t ’spect me to finish up these yere bits I hope,” said Aunt Emma, looking at the crusts by the side of her plate. “My teeth ain’t what they was when I was your age. Ah,” with a sigh, “that seems long time ago.”

“You have never been married, have you?”

“Could ha’ been,” said the old lady shortly. “’Twarnt for want of being asked.”

“Why, of course not.”

“Only chap I ever wanted,” she said reminiscently, “I let him go and get snapped up by someone else; silly bit of a gel that I was. I tell ye what ’tis!”

People at the neighbouring tables were listening, and Rosalind touched her wrinkled hand gently to call her attention to the fact.

“Once you’ve made up your mind, as you may say, about a young man, you’ve got to be jeggerin’ well careful you don’t go and lose him. Makes all the difference whether you get the right man or the wrong man, or no man at all. Now what about this Drury Lane? We’d bedder be too soon than too late.”

A wonderful old person for her age, and Rosalind, made rather thoughtful for some reason by the conversation, had much ado to keep up with her as they walked through Leicester Square and Long Acre in the direction of Autumn Melodrama. When the doors opened, Erb’s aunt fought her way in with the best of them, securing two seats in the second row, and keeping strong men and insurgent women at bay until Rosalind came up; she ordered a very tall man in the front row to sit down, and when he replied that he was a sitting down Aunt Emma suggested that he should lie down. Then the old lady loosened her elastic-sided boots slightly, and prepared to meet enjoyment.

A great evening. Aunt Emma confessed to Rosalind, as they came out, that, say what you liked, there was no place like London, and, but for the fact that she wanted to save the bit of money she had put away, she would willingly bid good-bye to Penshurst and come up to town, spending every afternoon at Moore and Burgess’, and every evening at Drury Lane. Outside the theatre was Erb.

“Nice young woman, if ever there was one,” whispered Emma to her nephew. “Superior manner, and all that.”

“Thought you’d get along all right with her,” remarked Erb.

“I’ve been giving her advice.”

“Trust you.”

“Wonnerful to see such qualities of people about,” said the old lady, hailing Rosalind into the discussion as they walked along the crowded Strand. “Nothin like this down where I live.”

“Have you far to walk at the other end?” asked the girl solicitously.

“Not fur,” replied the wonderful old lady. “Ony ’bout four mile and h’af.”

The excursion train was nearly ready to start, and Erb, finding an old acquaintance in the guard, arranged for appropriate finish to a great day by placing his aunt in a first-class compartment. She remarked gleefully that this would be something to tell Mrs. Turley.

“God bless ye, my dear,” she said, kissing Rosalind. “And don’t forget what I told you. Erb, take care of her.”

Rosalind wanted to go into the Strand telegraph office opposite the station for a moment, if Erb did not mind. Erb did not mind, and he waited.

“As much as that?” said Rosalind to the clerk. “Seems a lot of money.”

“Well, you see, miss,” replied the clerk, apologetically, “people don’t telegraph to these distant parts unless it’s about something important.”

Eleven

“My dear Mr. Barnes,” wrote Lady Frances’ uncle in a genial note, dated from a Pall Mall club, “I am sorry my niece did not make my intention more apparent; possibly the mistake was my own. I never dreamt of offering you, as you assume, anything in the shape of a bribe. What I thought was that, as one who had the interests both of capital and labour at heart, I might be allowed to make a small contribution towards any movement in which you were interested. You mentioned once an idea of starting a small paper; let my small cheque assist in this excellent effort.

“I was glad to see your admirable speech so fully reported in the newspapers. The new movement owes much to your influential voice. I think we shall want you to run down to Birmingham next week, but the secretary will write you, and he also will see to the expenses. If you will not accept payment for your services, at any rate there is no reason why you should be out of pocket over the business.—Yours with great regard.”

“Reads fair enough,” commented Erb. “I may have worded my letter a bit too harsh.”

From Birmingham the party went to Stafford and to Coventry, all somewhat in the manner of a travelling theatrical company, the party including, indeed, some eccentrics which emphasised the resemblance. There was an Irish barrister, who had hitherto pleaded mainly at Cogers’ Hall, and had a change in temperament for every glass of whiskey that he drank, going up and up the hill of cheerfulness until a certain number was reached, whereupon each succeeding glass made him descend slowly to the tableland of contempt for the world; a young Oxford man eager to make some alteration in the world without delay; and one or two safe men, who could always be relied upon to say a few appropriate words. Erb sent to Rosalind from each town press notices, with crosses near to the references to himself, until it suddenly occurred to him that these signs might have two meanings; afterwards he drew a rather clumsy hand to draw attention to the only item in the papers worthy of Rosalind’s notice.

Erb was now so much in the movement of life that he experienced a kind of restless fever unless he had some new project in hand. He felt ashamed to confess himself hurt on his journey back to town when he found names of other labour leaders endowed with the importance of print, and a newspaper which did not contain his name appeared to him to have been scarce worth the trouble of setting up; this was emphasised by the fact that the Irish barrister, on seeing him off, had given him a generous compliment; patting him on the back, he had assured Erb that the name of Barnes was one that would be engraven in imperishable letters of gold on the temple of Fame, and that he, for his part, would never, never forget him. Small wonder, with this feeling of self-importance, that Erb should give but little attention to the fact that Louisa was at home in Page’s Walk, looking paler than usual. Louisa remarked that she was really only playing truant, having made up her mind not to work so hard in future. “They think all the more of you,” said Louisa acutely.

A storm seldom occurs without some premonitory signs, and it was on the tramcar that took him to Camberwell—no reason why he should go to Camberwell other than his desire to see Rosalind, and this would make him late for the committee meeting—it was on the tramcar that the first warnings appeared. Erb was seated at the back reading the manuscript, an article commencing, “Brother Workers!” when two men in railway uniform came up the steps, so keenly engaged in conversation that they stopped half-way to settle some disputed point, barring the descent of passengers who wished to alight. When, at the strenuously-worded request of the delayed passengers, and the mild appeal of a tame conductor, they were induced to move, they scampered up, and taking seats immediately in front of Erb, recommenced their argument. One was a member of Erb’s society; the other, a man who had obstinately kept outside. Erb would have spoken to them, but that he was just then in a state of ecstatic admiration over what seemed to him a well-turned sentence in the article.

“Tell you what it is, old man,” said the non-member, slapping his corduroyed knee emphatically. “You’ve been makin’ a little tin god of the chap, and, naturally enough, he’s taken advantage of it. You pass him votes of thanks, and what not, and fill him up with soft soap, and consequence is, he goes swelling about, and—”

“He wasn’t far wrong about that South Western business,” remarked the other with meek determination, “and chance it.”

“You can’t expect a man not to do right sometimes. I ain’t arguin’, mind you, that Erb’s a fool. Far from it! My view of the matter is, if you must know—”

“I never ast for your opinion!”

“Never mind whether you ast for it or not. My view of the whole matter is that he’s the only clever man amongst you. He’s got you all on a bit o’ string. He goes away, as you mentioned, for a week or ten days together, and never thinks of communicatin’ with you; he gets his name in the papers; for all you know he may be playin’ a double game—”

The conductor came up for fares, and the argumentative man fortified his position by paying for both.

“A double game. No, no! let me finish! And all the time laughing in his sleeve at the lot of you. I’ve known that sort before. I’ve met ’em. I’ve come across ’em. I say no more,” he added mysteriously, and sat back, glaring at the sky.

“Well, but—” The member seemed ill-qualified for debate, and Erb was greatly tempted to prompt him. “What I mean is— What I was about to say was—”

“He’s a having you,” said the other, smiling thoughtfully at the sky, “he’s a having you on toast!”

“But what’s it to do with you?” demanded the other, not finding the argument for which he had searched.

“Nothing!” retorted the other.

The member, taken aback by this unexpected reply, could not speak for a few moments. He looked appealingly at the names on the shops by which they were passing for a suggestion, and appeared to find one in the word Goodenough.

“After all,” he began, “for our purpose—”

“Don’t forget this!” interrupted the other. “Don’t let this fact slip out of your memory. It was you began this argument. I never seeked for it. We was having a glass in the Old Kent Road, and you, or one of the others, began by saying that Erb was growing a great deal too big for his boots.”

“I never said it,” growled the other sulkily.

“Did someone pass a remark to that effect, or did someone not pass a remark to that effect? Am I speaking the truth, or am I a bloomin’ liar?”

“It’s one or the other,” said the member cautiously.

“That won’t do for me,” said the non-member, now in the sheer enjoyment of cross-examination. “I ast you a straightforward question, and if you can’t give me a straightforward answer, why, I must draw me own conclusions. That’s all.” And smiled again mysteriously at the sky.

“Well,” replied the other, goaded, “I don’t mind going so far as this. Certain things have been said of late at certain depots that I needn’t name, and it’s all going to be brought up at the meeting to-night. Mind you, it mustn’t go any further.” The other man gave a nod intended to signify that he had guessed all this. “And being meself on Erb’s side, and not wanting to be mixed up in anything like a shindy, why, I’m giving it a miss, and I’m off down to meet the wife’s brother at his club in Peckham and spend a nice, quiet, sociable evening. See?”

“And you,” remarked the other thoughtfully, “you call yourself a man? Well, well, well!” with a sigh, “the longer we live the older we get.”

“What are you snacking at me about now?” demanded the member heatedly.

Erb slipped down the steps, disturbed by the news which he had heard, but with also a feeling of elation at the prospect of a fight. He found the Professor alone in the house in Southampton Street; Rosalind was out giving lessons at a school for superior young ladies at Brixton. Professor full of a kind of stale enthusiasm concerning a new project, which was to take a theatre or a town hall or a room or something and give costume recitals, grave and gay, and to keep on at it night after night until people found themselves forced to come in their thousands; the Professor seemed to have worked this out as though it were a scheme for winning gold at Monte Carlo, and he had already decided what he should do with the enormous profits. Difficulty was to select from the many suburbs of London one place which should be favoured with the experiment; another difficulty (but this he seemed to think of less importance) consisted in the fact that, from inquiries he had caused to be made, it appeared that those who controlled the letting of public premises had a distrustful habit of requiring the rent in advance. Erb, in answer to a question, declared that he had no sort of influence in the City, a place with which the Professor seemed imperfectly acquainted in that he regarded it as a storehouse of valuables, the door of which flew open if you but knew the one, the indispensable word; the Professor considered the matter for a while with one hand twirling his hair, and then, illuminated, announced his intention of taking off his coat to the work. As a first step, he proposed to take a cab to Throgmorton Street, and have a thoroughly good look round. Erb suggested a ’bus and the Professor replied that undertakings of this kind had to be carried through with a certain amount of dash and spirit which could not be done under one and six, or, at the very least, one and three. For this sum Erb compounded, and the Professor made a note of the amount on the back of an envelope that a treacherous memory should not play tricks; the message for Rosalind he could trust to his mind. He was working like a bonded slave, he added, on behalf of his little girl: she was fortunate, indeed, in having a father who could keep accounts. Erb restrained an obvious repartee, and the old gentleman, in his slippers, walked with him out to Camberwell Gate, where, in the interests of economy, he proposed to look in at a bar which had in its window a card bearing the ambiguous announcement, “The ‘Stage’ Taken In.”

Erb found that he had allowed the garrulous old gentleman to detain him longer than he should have done; when, on reaching the coffee-shop in Grange Road he ran upstairs to the committee rooms, he could hear voices raised, and he knew that not only had the meeting already commenced, but that a contentious subject was being debated. The rapping of Payne’s hammer failed to arrest tumultuous speech, and it was only when Erb opened the door that the argumentative voices stopped.

“Fact of the matter is,” said Payne, in the chair, rather hurriedly—“good evening, Erb, you’re lateish—the fact of the matter is this is one of them very peculiar subjects where there’s something, no doubt, to be said on both sides. Let’s get on to the next business.”

Erb went to his chair by the side of Payne and took some papers from his pocket. He looked up and down the table nodding; his salutation was not in every case returned, and some of the men glared sternly at the advertisements; Spanswick waved his hand in the friendliest manner.

“There’s the matter,” said Payne, “the matter of starting a paper or a organ or something of a sim’lar nature. I call upon the secretary to make a statement.”

“I object,” said a voice.

“That you, Lindsay?”

“Yes, Mr. Chairman,” announced a hot-faced youth, rising from his seat, “it is me.”

“Sed down,” advised Spanswick audibly at his side. “Don’t make a silly young laughing-stock of yourself.”

This was sufficient for the fiery-faced Mr. Lindsay. He was from St. Pancras, and an engagement with a lady who kept a small laundry at Child’s Hill had recently been annulled at her particular request (a circumstance he had related in confidence to everybody), the Midland man having been driving about London for some days boiling up his thoughts, had decided that the world was managed on some erroneous system; it behoved him to put it right. Lindsay had come to the meeting with the vague desire to get satisfaction by opposing something; here in the discussion concerning Erb appeared a subject which exactly fitted his requirements.

“I should like to say a few brief words on the matter which we ’ave jest been discussing.”

“Question!” cried Spanswick.

“I’ll question you,” retorted Lindsay heatedly, “if you can’t leave off interruptin’. I appeal to the Midland men present, and I ask whether they’re going to allow themselves to be sat upon?”

“You’ll be jumped on if you don’t look out,” said Spanswick. The room began to take sides.

“You do it,” shouted the other, goaded. “You do it, that’s all! Try it on! Have a dash at it, my friend, and see what ’appens. You talk a lot, but I vurry much doubt whether you can do anything else.”

Payne in the chair made his hammer heard above the din of contending voices, and then, standing up, shook the hammer threateningly. If they did not at once stop their row, said Payne, he, as Chairman, would have to consider the advisability of jolly well doing something; having given this vague threat Payne conferred with Erb in a whisper.

“Tell you what occurs to me,” said Payne, with a weak pretence of proclaiming an idea of his own. “Let’s hear what friend Lindsay has to say, and if there’s anything in it, why no doubt our friend the secretary will reply.”

“On a point of order—” said Spanswick, rising.

“I should like to point out—” began a Great Western man in the corner.

“Seems to me that the proper course to pursue—” said another.

The Chair hammered away noisily. A half-minute of strenuous tumult, and the noise subsided. Lindsay, of St. Pancras, rose, buttoning his jacket; this done he unbuttoned it again, continuing this eccentric action during the whole of his speech. He had some difficulty in finding words at first, but irritating comments from Spanswick served to encourage him, and he succeeded in recapitulating charges which it seemed had been made by certain members, now coy and reserved, against the secretary during the previous half-hour; these Lindsay emphasised by a suggestion that friend Barnes was using the society only for his own personal advancement (at this there was a shout of protest from most of the members that made Erb, his gaze fixed on the blank sheet of white foolscap before him, tingle with satisfaction). When having made his fiercest rush, Lindsay, of St. Pancras, showed signs of wavering, it was Spanswick who pricked him again into fury with a banderillo question to another neighbour: “But what was the real reason why the gel wouldn’t have him?” asked Spanswick.

Lindsay from St. Pancras, waving his arms excitedly, cried now in a scream that they were paying a princely salary to a man who thought he could twist the society round his little finger; who went about mixing with the nobs and getting his name into the papers; who lorded it over everybody, or tried to; who, to put it briefly, and to put it finally, was trying to push everybody else off the earth. Lindsay begged to move that the secretary, Herbert Barnes, be requested to hand in his resignation without delay.

Lindsay, of St. Pancras, sat down, grumbling to himself in an undertone, his head still shaking with excitement. There was more applause than one would have expected, applause being a thing that can be created furtively by the stamping of feet hidden under the table. Erb rose. As he did so, Spanswick, with his right arm raised, a reminiscence of Board School manners, rose also, and claimed the attention of Payne in the chair.

“I consider it an insult,” said Spanswick loudly, “to allow our friend the secretary to answer the ridic’lous attack that has been made upon him. I claim the right to reply on his behalf.” Erb sat down. “It’s all very well for men to talk who’ve never been tempted either by the attractions of ’igh society, or—what shall I say—the allurements and what not that titled parties, be they gentlemen or be they ladies, can offer, but put them in our friend Erb’s position, and wouldn’t they make mistakes the same as he has? Course they would! Besides, there’s this to be said—”

Spanswick, going on with elaborate replies to attacks that had never been made, did not look at Erb, preferring to direct his argument to the contumacious Lindsay and his friends: the cheers from Erb’s supporters which greeted Spanswick’s start diminished in volume as he went on.

“Drop it!” whispered somebody to him. “Drop it, old man, before you spile it.”

When Spanswick came to a finish of his ingenious Mark Antony speech the room was left with the impression that charges of a very serious nature had been brought against Erb, and that the principal defence to be urged was the fact of Erb’s youth and inexperience. Erb, recognising the damage that Spanswick’s advocacy had effected, started up to argue the case from his own point of view, but he was again anticipated by a supporter, this time by a man on whose loyalty he could depend, although his stock of discretion had limits.

“I claim the right to say a few words!” shouted the new man. The room cried, “Erb, Erb, Erb!” being, it seemed, anxious to see if the case could possibly be readjusted, and wishful, at any rate, to see the effort made.

“Take five minutes,” ordered the Chair.

“I can do it in under that,” said the other generously. “If it’s a case of argument by words, I think I’m equal to it: if it’s case of argument by fists, I jolly well know I am. Understand that, my fine friend!” he added, addressing Lindsay.

Lindsay of St. Pancras, at a loss for a good repartee, suggested rather wearily that the speaker should go home and fry his face. The room looked on this as wanting in finish, and to Lindsay’s confusion gave it no applause.

“You come from St. Pancras, I believe? Very well; I’ll St. Pancras you before I’ve done with you.”

“Do it!” cried Lindsay, annoyed by the failure of his retort. “You do it, that’s all!”

Lindsay slipped from his seat, and, evading the efforts made by neighbours to detain him, went quickly to the side of the speaker. The Chair half rose, his hammer uplifted. Erb stood up with a pained look.

“Here I am,” said Lindsay, offering his scarlet face to Erb’s supporter. “Now show us what you can do.”

The invitation was one not to be declined. The loud smack on the scarlet face made Lindsay stagger; the next moment he had seized a wooden chair, and the speaker had similarly armed himself. Voices in the room shouted, Payne hammered on the table before him, everybody, in an excited way, begged everybody else to keep calm. Erb made his way, thrusting aside the intervening arm, to the quarter of the room where the two men were facing each other. Lindsay swung his chair, and the other guarded; the two chairs broke noisily, and left the two disputants holding a single wooden leg. Spanswick remarked that Lindsay seemed about as successful in undertakings of this kind as in his love affairs, and the St. Pancras youth, goaded by this, brought the leg of the chair viciously down on the head of his opponent. A red line matted the hair; the room filled with uproar.

“Stop ’em! Keep ’em apart!”

“Let ’em fight it out! Stand back and let ’em finish it!”

“Leave off shoving me then! I’ve got as good a right to look on as you have. For two pins—”

“The other one began it. He asked for it.”

“I beg your pardon, he did nothing of the kind whatsoever. Keep your elbows out of the way, or else I’ll serve you like he served him. Yes, and quick about it, too!”

The sight of blood excited all to the point of ill-temper. Two, with the best intentions, held Erb firmly, screaming to him urgent recommendations to keep cool, and as Erb was the only man in the room capable of exercising any control over the members, there seemed no reason why the disturbance should not go on for all time; the arrival of the landlord with a threat of police caused the two men to loosen their hold of Erb, and he, with a fierce remark condemning the stupidity of all, freed himself, and took charge of the proceedings. Ordered Payne to turn the landlord out and lock the door. Directed his supporters to resume their seats. Found the decanter, the contents of which had been only partly upset, and, pouring water into the palm of his hand, bathed the damaged man’s head. Commanded Lindsay to stand away at the end of the room by himself, which that young man did, to his own astonishment, in the manner of a penitent schoolboy. Gave orders to members of one or two disputant groups, causing them to separate and occupy themselves with other duties. Whispered to Payne. Payne went back to his chair and his hammer.

“Friends,” cried Payne, mopping his forehead, “this meeting’s going to be adjourned for ’alf a hower so as to get cool.”

Most of the men went downstairs, and in the bar discussed the tumultuous event with hushed voices, that outsiders might not share the knowledge; they were not quite certain whether to be proud of the incident or ashamed. Erb told off two men to take his damaged advocate to a chemist’s, and, giving no answer to inquiries concerning his intentions, went out, and walked up and down Grange Road alone. He saw the whole case clearly; admitted that his popularity had received a shock; recognised the true inwardness of Spanswick’s intervention, and foresaw the difficulties that would obstruct his path if he should lose his position. Not seeing Rosalind this evening was, he now felt, an augury of bad luck; he would be glad when the night was over and done with.

“This ain’t my birthday,” said Erb grimly.

All the same, something had to be done. Individual men one could deal with, but with men in a lump you could only safely count on their unreliability. Erb stopped at a furniture shop and tried to guess the identity of a young man with hat tipped back and forehead creased with thought; the face looked familiar, and it was only on approaching that he discovered it was his own reflection in a long mirror marked in chalk, “A Rare Bargain. Late the Property of a Club.” He laughed and went back.

“I don’t want to make a speech,” he said quietly. The room had refilled, members conducting themselves with a studied decorum almost painful to behold; the smoke had escaped by the open windows, and it was possible to see everything clearly. “It appears that there’s some dissatisfaction.”

“No, no!” said voices.

“There’s some dissatisfaction,” repeated Erb determinedly, “and it doesn’t really matter much whether it’s grounded or not. No society can go on like this with success under these circumstances. I started this society—”

“Earear!”

“And I tell you candidly, I feel much more interested in the prosperity of this society than I do in the prosperity of myself. I’m a single man, I regret to— I mean to say I’m a single man, and as a single man, I can find something else to do.”

Members looked at each other with concern.

“That is why, Mr. Chairman, I address myself to you, because you’re an old friend and a—and a good sort.” Payne blinked at the compliment. “And I hand to you, old chum, this letter that I’ve just written out, which contains—”

The room leaned forward to listen.

“Contains my resignation.” Erb sat down.

A murmur started slowly near the Chairman and went down the table, increased its pace and its volume, and came back to Erb in the condition of an angry remonstrance. Half a dozen men rose.

“I give notice,” said Spanswick, “that at the next meeting I shall move the appointment of a new secretary.”

“At the next meeting,” said a Cannon Street man, who had never heard his own voice raised in public speech before, and seemed himself astonished by the novelty, “at the next meeting you’ll damn well do nothing of the kind.” The room roared its approval. “We don’t want a new secretary, because we ain’t a going to get rid of the old one. The position isn’t vacant. I move, Mr. Chairman, or second, or whatever you call it, that that letter what you’ve got in your hand be given back to our friend Erb, and that he be asked or invited or requested—I don’t know how you put these things—to tear it up and forget all about it; I will now conclude my few remarks by asking you to join me in a well-known song.”

F—or he’s a jolly good faillow, For he’s—

The room sang the refrain with enthusiasm; the man with the broken head came, bandaged, and joined in. Spanswick, recognising that the game for the present was over, beat time.

“That’s all right, then,” said Payne, when the hurrahing stopped. “Now, let’s get on to the next business. ‘Proposed starting of a new paper to be called “The Carman.”’”

Twelve

The incident revealed to Erb the fact that the men’s support and confidence had something of a tidal nature. He had watched, sometimes with amusement, always with interest, the state of other leaders—from high water, when they could swim luxuriously, to low water, when they were left stranded ludicrously on the beach; it had not before occurred to him that he himself might encounter a similar experience; he determined now to make his position as secure as possible. In this effort he relied a good deal on the new journal he was preparing, the first number of which was to bear on the front page the words, “Edited by Herbert C. Barnes.” Lady Frances had written on the subject of labour—

Oh horny-handed sons of toil,

Who spin and weave and dig in mines.

Erb, summoned to Eaton Square to take charge of this (the risk of loss in the post being too great to endure), had ventured to point out to the poetess, with, of course, great respect, that it would have been more appropriate to introduce something about kindness to horses and the difficulties occasioned by the stress and turmoil of traffic; Lady Frances, listening with a slight frown on her young forehead, answered that she was much obliged, that she thought she saw her way to another poem to be called “Sturm and Drang,” but she felt it would be unwise to touch the first effort; good poetry was always dashed off on the impulse of the moment.

“I didn’t know that,” remarked Erb, with deference.

So poem Number One was to go in, please, exactly as she had written it, and on the day the paper came out would Erb oblige her very much by coming to dinner at Eaton Square.

“Dinner?” echoed Erb amazedly.

Coming to dinner at Eaton Square, and bringing with him one, or perhaps more, copies.

“What about an evening suit, Lady Frances?”

The managerial young woman had thought of that; her uncle and a few more men would be present, and, to make the dinner quite informal, they would wear morning dress. No, no, please, no excuses of any kind. Lady Frances was going to see her tailor in Maddox Street, and she could give Erb a lift so far. The tall maid (who was Miss Luker of the dance) being rung for, brought in hat and cloak, and helped her young mistress with them, giving no glance towards Erb, and the two went downstairs together. Seated at the side of Lady Frances, he was watched curiously by the drivers of one or two railway vans, who, in their anxiety to verify what appeared to be a dream, looked round by the side, allowing thus their blinkered horses to peer into omnibuses and nibble at conductors’ hats, necessitating a swift exchange of the kind of repartee in which the London driver is a past master. When Erb stepped out at Maddox Street and raising his hat started back to a point whence he could walk to his office at Bermondsey, Erb noticed that Lady Frances had a look on her face that might come to one who advanced the cause of millions and, by an act of her own, had made a whole world glad. It would be quite unfair to suggest that at this period Erb was by way of becoming a snob, but it would be untrue to say that he had any objection to the soft, pleasant scent, the well-bred air, the gracious manner that he found with Lady Frances. It is also right to say that directly he had left her he began to think of Rosalind and of his work. At this period sometimes one came first, sometimes the other.

“Dinner!” he said to himself.

“Me at dinner at Eaton Square. ’Pon my life, this is the funniest world I ever saw.”

He retained his old habit of talking as he went along the London streets, and people in a hurry stopped on noticing this, and delivered themselves of an opinion in regard to his sanity. In this way he often had long talks with Rosalind of an extremely fervent nature; Rosalind helping him with a few coy questions, all in a way that had never yet found realisation; his fluency in these rehearsals astonished him sometimes as much as his inexcusable awkwardness when he called at Camberwell.

“I’m a bit of a muddler,” he confessed in Waterloo Place, “where women are concerned. In other matters, now— Look where you’re coming, stupid!”

Spanswick, red faced, short necked, and pimpled, addressed in this way, was walking backwards in the inconvenient manner adopted by some on crowded pavements who wish to review scenes that have passed; it was a silken ankle stepping into a carriage that had clipped Spanswick’s attention.

“What ho!” cried Spanswick. “Still a lordin’ it, Erb, old man? Kind of a amphibious animal, ain’t you?”

“I can swim!” said Erb.

“The best swimmers get drownded sometimes.”

“Not more than once.”

“Talking of which,” said Spanswick cheerily, “are you going to stand us a drink?”

“No,” replied Erb.

“Ah, well,” said Spanswick with an effort, “me and you can’t afford to quarrel. We’ve both got our axes to grind. Whereabouts is Pall Mall?”

“You’re in it now. It runs up that way to the bottom of St. James’s Street.”

“That’s the best of ’aving been a parcels carman,” sighed Spanswick enviously. “I was never anything but a goods man, and I never had no chances of getting amongst the aristocracy as you have. Otherwise I should meet you on equal terms. How’s the young woman?”

“What young woman?”

“Are there so many of ’em as all that? Seems to me,” remarked Spanswick thoughtfully, “that some of you lead a double life. You’ll come a cropper over it some day, mark my words.”

“I’ll mark your face,” retorted Erb with a sudden burst of annoyance. “I’ve put up with just about enough from you. I may be your secretary, but I’m not your slave.”

“Old man, don’t let’s go kicking up a common fracass here. You don’t understand my style of humour. This newspaper, or journal, or organ, or whatever you like to call it—how’s it going?”

“Well,” said Erb, returning to good temper. “I find I’m having to do it pretty nigh all myself. There’s another column to do now before the first number’s ready.”

“I’m pretty ’andy with me pen,” remarked the other. “I don’t prefess to be a literary man, of course, but— I’ll send you in a few items of news.”

“I shall be ever so much obliged to you. Make ’em smart and readable, mind.”

“I’ll make ’em smart,” said Spanswick.

It seemed to Erb, on the day “The Carman” was to appear, that something special of a less selfish character than the dinner in Eaton Square should be arranged to mark the event. What he vaguely desired was to give an outing to Louisa—the short sister had become too weak to take public promenade, and the current young man had to shout to her of an evening, gripping the railings in Page’s Walk. Erb had some daring thought of inviting Rosalind, and taking them both up the river. This detail of the plan he accepted and rejected, and accepted and rejected again; meeting Rosalind herself one evening in the strenuous fight for trams on the Surrey side of Blackfriars Bridge, he, after protecting her in the struggle up the steps, and allowing himself in the carrying out of his duty to press the plump arm above the elbow, found himself in the mood of accepting the detail, and he submitted the proposal in a way meant to be deferential, which, however, came out quite brusque and defiant. “Ever been to Battersea Park?” he asked gruffly. Rosalind had never been to Battersea Park. “Care to go?” Rosalind was so busy that she feared— “I’m going to take Louisa.” In that case (with a flush that went partly over her face and then ran away), in that case Rosalind would be very pleased. “Must be Wednesday next,” said Erb shortly. Wednesday was rather an awkward day, because there was a pupil at half-past one, who came in her dinner hour, and another at three. “Put her off,” commanded Erb. Very well, then, the three o’clock pupil should be off; Rosalind declared she would be thinking of the afternoon every hour of the day until it arrived. “So shall I,” said Erb shortly. Had Erb seen Lady Frances lately? “We can’t bear to be apart,” said Erb, in a tone meant to be jocular.

There were times when the one thing certain seemed to be that by no possible chance could the first number of “The Carman” come out on the day appointed. The printers did not place the importance of the undertaking so high as Erb did; difficult to make them understand the importance of producing it on the day fixed; the foreman of the noisy, rattling printing establishment in Southwark said frankly that the world having done without the journal for so long, no great hurt could be occasioned if it should be a day or two late.

But on the day, their van drove up to the doorway of the office where Erb and some of the committee were waiting, and a minute later each man had a copy in his hands, his eyes fixed on the gratifying place where his own name appeared. Erb had taken ingenious care to mention as many names as possible, and, because of this, railway vans sent, say, from Paddington to Haverstock Hill, made a slight detour and called at Bermondsey for copies. There were some misprints, and one man, whose Christian name was given as John instead of James, cancelled his subscription instantly, and prophesied a gloomy future for the paper. Erb demanded opinions, and discovered to his regret, that nearly every line in the small paper received condemnation from somebody (personal paragraphs about high officials in the railway world alone excepted), the fact being that the readers of “The Carman” misapprehended the question, and assumed, when asked for an opinion, that they were invited to give adverse judgment; a thing that has happened with other critics in other circumstances.

But the particular copies presented to Louisa and to Rosalind extorted from these young women, on their way slowly to Cherry Garden Pier, unqualified approval. On the pier, where they waited for the steamer coming up from Greenwich, the two ladies read again the printed references to themselves.

“Yours,” said Erb importantly, fanning himself with his straw hat, “yours is what we newspaper people call a dummy ad.”

“I can pay for mine,” said Rosalind quickly.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” retorted Erb. “Read it out!”

She read it with a flush of gratification on her young face, Erb looking over her shoulder. The scent of brown Windsor came to him.

“‘Miss Rosalind Danks,’” she read, “‘Professor of Elocution, Declamation, Gesture, et cetera, et cetera. Number so-and-so Southampton Street, Camberwell, S.E. Schools attended. Private lessons given. Assisted by Mr. Reginald C. Danks, formerly of the principal West End theatres. “We shall never forget his Montgiron.”—Vide Press.’”

“Now yours, Louisa.”

A break in his short sister’s voice betokened uncontrollable pride.

“‘We are glad to say that Miss L. Barnes, younger sister of our secretary, is slowly recovering from a rather serious illness.’ First time,” said Louisa, waving the journal in the air, “the very first time my name’s ever been in print.”

“May I suggest, Mr. Editor,” said Rosalind, leading him to the iron chain that protected the edge of the pier, “that it is a little clumsy to express satisfaction at slow recovery? It wasn’t what you meant.”

“Don’t let on to her about it,” urged Erb distressed. “I haven’t got quite the hang of writing. Is there anything else you noticed?”

“Nothing of importance.”

“Tell us,” begged the anxious editor, “and get it over.”

“These personal paragraphs, headed ‘What we Want to Know.’”

“The men all liked them.”

“A little spiteful,” she said quietly. “Calculated to hurt somebody. I shouldn’t, if I were you. This one, for instance.”

“We’ll drop ’em in number two. Here’s our boat coming.”

Some particular people complain of the river steamers, but the “Flying Arrow” that took charge of the three at London Bridge, and conveyed them up under railway bridges, and past embankments, and by the terrace of the House of Commons—Erb waved his straw hat to his friend the white-haired labour member, and the labour member waved in return in such a friendly manner that other passengers became at once interested in Erb, and whispered (to Louisa’s great satisfaction), “Who is he? Who is he, eh?”—by the Tate Gallery, and between unattractive stores, Nine Elms way, the “Flying Arrow,” I say, for these three young people might have been a gaily caparisoned barge lent by Cleopatra; the gramophone that squeaked out songs in a ghostly, unnatural tone of voice, a selected troupe from the Royal Italian Opera; and the changes that the atmosphere took from inexpensive cigars and cheap tobaccos, the choicest perfumes from Old Bond Street. The top note of satisfaction was reached when Erb, invited to political debate by the self-confident captain, worsted that uniformed official with the greatest possible ease, and sent him back limp to the bridge, to resume a profession for which he was qualified. Disappointing, perhaps, to find that people on the steamboat who studied literature were not applying themselves to “The Carman,” devoting their minds, instead, to cheap journals, which offered German pictures (second-hand), with American jokes underneath, not absolutely new. Erb left two copies of “The Carman,” one aft and one at the other end, and the girls watched results; a lad with a bulgy forehead took up a copy and read it with languid interest; he presently dropped it on the deck, and a waiter in a bowler hat who came along at that moment threw it into the river, where it drifted away helplessly. The other copy seemed likely to taste more of success, for a woman seized it with every sign of delight; when she proceeded to wrap up a pair of boots in the new journal Erb felt annoyed. But it was not easy to remain in this state with a cheerful young woman like Louisa, or with a more sedate but equally agreeable person like Rosalind, and they presently had a great game of pretending that they were royalty on a tour round the world, so that Nine Elms pier became Gibraltar, and a few minutes later they were going through the Suez Canal, which others called Battersea Bridge. On reaching Sydney (which had no harbour to speak of, but possessed a wobbling pier marked Battersea Park) they disembarked with most of the other voyagers, some of whom had decided that the three were either theatrical people or not quite right in their heads. As they went up the wooden gangway and entered the Park, Louisa had colour in her white cheeks, and, declining assistance of her companions, ordered them to give each other their arms. Which they did for a moment only.

“Shan’t go to that dinner this evening,” said Erb.

“I think you will,” remarked Rosalind.

“Catch you,” said Louisa satirically, “catch you missing a chance like that.”

“I shan’t go. I don’t want anything better’n this.”

“You’ll have to,” decided Louisa. “And come back and tell us all about it. I’d give anything to see Alice’s face when she hears you’ve been upstairs.”

“I’d forgot about Alice.”

“She’s forgot about us,” retorted Louisa. “That’s the worst of tall people, they always look down on you. How’d it be if I sat down here for a bit and let you two walk on and come back for me?”

“And leave you alone?” asked Rosalind.

“I can set here and laugh at the foreigners,” she remarked.

Erb and Rosalind made Louisa comfortable on a chair, and left her applying herself once more to the intellectual delight of again reading through “The Carman,” with special attention to the paragraph that concerned herself. Just before they went out of sight of her, in going round the circle where bicycles were swishing along, they turned and waved their hands: she unpinned her straw hat and lifted it in a gentlemanly way.

“I wonder,” said Erb thoughtfully, “whether she’s going to make old bones.”

“I shouldn’t let her go again to that work of hers.”

“If anything serious happened,” he said slowly, “I’d make such a stir about the business that they’d have to shut up the factory.”

“That wouldn’t bring her back,” remarked Rosalind.

“Back?” Erb stopped affrighted. “Why you don’t think—you don’t fancy for a moment, do you, that she’s going to—” They walked on quickly for a while. “My goodness,” he cried excitedly, “I’d tear the place down for them! There shouldn’t be a stone left! I’d get questions asked about the business in Parliament! I’d organise meetings. I’d make London get white hot about it! I’d never let ’em rest. I’d set every society at ’em. We’d get up demonstrations in the streets. We’d—”

“Don’t let’s get cross about anything,” said Rosalind. “I want to look back on to-day when I get into my dull moments.”

“You never get dull.”

“I suppose nobody’s life is perfectly happy.”

“I say,” said Erb, walking nearer to her and speaking in an undertone. “You never worry about that chap Railton, do you?”

“Not—not very often.”

“That’s right,” he said. “You know there’s no man in this world that is worth a single tear from your eyes.”

“Don’t talk about me as though I were perfect.”

“You wouldn’t be perfect,” said Erb, “if it wasn’t for your faults.”

They talked of Louisa, and reckoned up amusedly her long list of engagements. From this Erb went on to a short lecture on the time that some wasted over affairs of the heart, urging that there were other matters of equal or greater interest in life, such as the joy of getting on better than other people, and thus extorting the open envy, the cloaked admiration of colleagues. He succeeded at last in minimising the value of love to such a small amount that his companion ceased to give any consenting words, and, noticing her silence, he recognised that he was outrunning her approval; he had to hark back to the point where her silence had commenced to hint at want of agreement. They read the wooden labels on preposterous-looking trees, and invented names of like manner for themselves: Erb delivered a brief address from the banks of the lake to the swans on the water, urging them to form a society of their own and to fight to the last feather for their rights: they found a long broad avenue under trees that leaned across at the top, and a perfectly new Rosalind offered, in a sportive way that amazed Erb and gratified him, to race him as far as a mail-cart, and Erb starting, took no trouble over what appeared an easy task, with the result that he reached the winning-post badly beaten by the limping girl by several yards, and forced to endure from the baby occupant of a mail-cart a sneer of contempt. They rested after this, and, whilst Erb fanned her with his copy of “The Carman,” Rosalind talked of her father, and, instead of becoming serious as usual when the old Professor occupied her thoughts, told with great enjoyment the story of a great week once at Littlehampton when they were playing “East Lynne” with a fit-up company to such imperfectly filled houses that it became certain there would be not only no money with which to pay the excellent landlady on Sunday morning, but scarce a penny to buy food on Saturday. Of aforesaid excellent landlady coming in on the Saturday night and making one of eight people in the pit, and being so affected by the performance by Rosalind as little Willy, and moved to such anguish of tears by the scene, that she bustled out between the last acts, purchased a sheep’s head at the butcher’s, had a fragrant, gorgeous supper ready for the Professor and Rosalind on their hungry return, and came in after the meal, when the two had searched once more for an emergency exit from the situation, with formal announcement to the effect that she knew quite well that they hadn’t a shilling to bless themselves with, that her native town in regard to appreciation of the dramatic art was past praying for; that Rosalind was a little dear, and that, for her part, if she touched a copper of their non-existent money she would never again know a moment’s peace: the landlady begged two favours, and two favours only—first, that she might give the little girl a good hug; second, that she might be permitted to stay up and bake them a meat and potato pie that would keep their bodies and souls together on to-morrow’s journey.

They remembered Louisa presently, and went back to the white-faced girl, who had found company in a penny novelette left on the seat by someone tired of literature, and who made them go away again until she ascertained whether the young woman in the story married the brilliant young journalist or the middle-aged Peer. When justice had been done by presentation of the prize to brains, and the House of Lords, resigning itself without a murmur, had given its blessing and a cheque, she called them back, and the three held council in regard to the dinner in Eaton Square. Erb was still inclined to be obstinate, but the two young women were equally determined, and they took him across the bridge into King’s Road, where the committee purchased for him a new neck-tie, the while they sent him away to wash his face and hands. They left him presently at Sloane Square, and went home to Bermondsey, because Louisa was now forced to confess that she had become tired; Rosalind having the evening free, and being anxious to hear the report of Erb’s experience in Eaton Square, offered to read to her in Page’s Walk.

Events progressed in Page’s Walk to the point of a cozy chat, where Louisa defied sleep in order to recite to Rosalind in their due order the circumstances of the many engagements from the respective starts to the individual finishes, with imitations of the voice of each suitor, and occasionally a parody of the gait. It was in the middle of a diverting account of Number Five—who had at least one defect in that he had no roof to his mouth—that Erb returned. The two surrounded him, firing questions.

“One at a time,” said Erb, good humoured, because of the unexpected joy of seeing Rosalind again. “One at a time. There were small things first, sardines and what not—”

“Hors d’œuvres,” said Rosalind.

“I daresay. Anyhow, after that, soup.”

“Can’t stand soup,” remarked Louisa. “There’s no stay in soup. Go on, Erb.”

“Now comes what I may term,” said Erb, “the gist or point of this anecdote. The lady with the shoulders next to me—”

“I should faint if I found myself going out like that,” declared Louisa, interrupting again. “How anyone can do it beats me. It’s like being caught in your disables.”

“The lady with the shoulders next to me turned and asked me something that I didn’t exactly catch, and I turned round rather suddenly and said, ‘Beg pardon?’ Knocked the arm of the girl who was serving the fish, and as near upset the plate that she held in her hand as didn’t matter. I jumps up, and then for the first time I recognised it was Alice.”

“Wasn’t she took aback?”

“Not half so much as I was,” said Erb. “I suppose being rather a large dinner party they’d laid her on extra. Of course, I shook hands with her and said, ‘Hullo, Alice, how’s the world using you?’”

“Well, you are,” said Louisa with horror, “absolutely the biggest juggins I ever come across.”

“But what was I to do?”

“Do?” echoed the short sister. “Do? I could have soon shown you what to do. All you’d got to do was to take no notice of her. Ignore her! Look past her! Pretend she wasn’t there! You’ll never get asked again, that’s a very sure thing.”

“I don’t care,” answered Erb. “I’m an awkward chap in these West End circles. When I’m not in ’em I want to be there, and once I’m there I look round directly for an open door to slip out of.”

“And what did Miss Alice have to say for herself?” asked Louisa, coming back to the incident with relish.

“Oh, she kept very cool, and she just whispered, ‘Sit down, Erb, and behave.’”

“That’s her all over.”

“They stared at me naturally enough, and young Lady Frances seemed a bit upset just for a moment, and nobody spoke for a bit, but after a while they were all chatting away again, and the party with the shoulders next to me began asking me what I thought of the new woman at Covent Garden. Then I put me foot in it again,” said Erb amusedly. “I thought she meant the market.”

“How they’d pull you to pieces after you left,” remarked Louisa sighing. “I can ’ear ’em saying things.”

“I can’t,” said Erb contentedly. “And if I did I shouldn’t care. What would you have done,” he appealed to Rosalind, “what would you have done, now, in similar circumstances?”

Rosalind, as she put on her gloves, considered for a moment before replying. Then she leaned towards him and touched Erb’s knee lightly.

“I should have done,” she said, “exactly as you did.”

There were several reasons why Erb should not take her by the arms; all these reasons jumped up before him as he rose and made a step forward. He stopped himself with an effort, and preceded her to the door. They went downstairs, and he walked bareheaded as far as the “Lord Nelson.”

“You were never nearer being kissed,” he said to her ear, “in all your life.”

“Please, please,” she said reprovingly.

Erb went back to Page’s Walk checked and cooled by this reproof. The prospect that he had had momentarily in his mind of the small house close to Wandsworth Common, with a billiard table lawn at the back, at a time when he, perhaps, would be in the House, unique among all labour members by reason of having a wife who could be introduced with confidence, was dismissed with a caution.

“Letter for you, Erb, on the mantel,” cried Louisa from her room. “It’s just been sent over. Good-night!”

A portentous envelope, addressed to the Editor of “The Carman.” Erb sliced it with his penknife. The large letter paper was folded in three.

Sir,

We have been consulted by our client, Sir William Durmin, with reference to the libellous statement which appears in No. I of ‘The Carman.’

Our client cannot allow such statements to be made, and our instructions are to issue a writ without further notice.

If you wish to avoid personal service, please supply us by return of post with the name of your solicitor who will accept service on your behalf.

Yours faithfully.

“Now,” said Erb, “the band’s beginning to play.”

Thirteen

If publicity at any cost be a good thing for a new journal, then “The Carman” had no right whatever to complain. The men belonging to the Society felt exultant at references to the impending action. It seemed that they were defying Capital as Capital had never been defied before. They told each other, when they met at receiving offices and railway stations, that Capital was going to have a nasty show up. Erb looked forward to the struggle with eagerness, until he had a meeting with Spanswick, the writer of the paragraph; that amateur journalist admitted, at the end of a keen cross-examination, that he had, perhaps, erred in stating that he knew the statement as a fact of his own knowledge: he remembered now that it had been related to him by a chap of his acquaintance, who was either on the Great Eastern or the South Western, he would not swear which, and he confessed to the indignant Erb that he could no more place his hand on this man’s shoulders and produce him at the Law Courts “than the dead.” Erb told Spanswick exactly what he thought of him, and Spanswick, penitent, declared that it would be a warning for the future: he would not have had this happen for forty thousand pounds. If Erb required him to go into a witness-box he would guarantee to say on oath just whatever Erb wished him to say. This sporting offer being declined, Spanswick went with downcast head, and examined the lining of his cap, as though hopeful that some solution of the difficulty would be found there. Once clear of the place he gave on the wooden flags of a cellar in Grange Road a few steps of a dance, which seemed to intimate that his regret was but a cloak that could be discarded without much difficulty.

No easy thing to keep up an attitude of hopefulness before the men whilst searching uselessly for facts to justify the Spanswick paragraph; but this was a mere diversion compared with the trouble that came to him the following week. Louisa was at home again after a few days of work at the factory, and Erb, going one afternoon to Page’s Walk for some correspondence, encountered the doctor who had called for a minute to see her. The doctor was a breathless, energetic man, whose fees were so small that, added up, they only made a living wage by reason of the number of his patients.

“Going on all right, doctor?”

“Yes, thanks,” replied the medical man, walking rapidly through the passage, and brushing his hat the while. “Busy though! Up to my eyes in work.”

“I was referring more particularly to my young sister.”

“Oh! she! Oh! it’s what might be expected. Hideous occupation, I call it. One of those manufactures that might well be left to foreigners. Good day!”

“One moment,” said Erb, placing a hand on the doctor’s arm, and speaking with great anxiety. “Tell us exactly what you mean in plain language. Ought she to be sent away again?”

“You don’t want to waste money,” said the doctor, glancing at his watch.

“If it’s necessary for her health, I’d spend the last penny I’ve got.”

“Would you really?” The doctor seemed genuinely surprised. “Well, then, perhaps she might get away to the country or the seaside or somewhere.”

“May be the means of saving her life?”

“Oh, no,” said the doctor cheerfully. “I wouldn’t go so far as that.”

Erb shook him violently.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before? You—”

“Thought you had the sense to see,” said the doctor curtly. “Credited you with more intelligence apparently than you possess. Good day!”

Louisa resting upstairs in the one armchair declared that she had never felt better. It was only that she was tired, and had no appetite; but, then, see what a good thing it was to feel tired, and just imagine what a saving was effected by the absence of a craving for unlimited food! Erb did not tell his sister what the doctor had said, but his grave appearance hinted something, and Louisa declared not only that all doctors were fools, but went further, and asserted that most of them were born fools. All the same, she consented with some reluctance to go away. Erb went down to Camberwell, to see Rosalind and talk it over. At Camberwell, Rosalind, ready dressed for public promenade, came halfway down the uneven pavement and met him, with both hands outstretched, just by Minerva. She had only that moment been speaking of him to the Professor, and the Professor had said that he, for his part, felt a keen desire to see Erb again.

“But we won’t see him,” she said, in a confidential way that was very pleasing, “because he will only want to borrow, and I am used to his borrowing from most people; but it hurts when he borrows from you.”

“We’ll talk in the hall,” suggested Erb.

“In a whisper,” said Rosalind.

The rare good point of talking in a whisper was that they were obliged to place their heads closely together. Erb explained the difficulty, and Rosalind, after considering for a moment, announced the decision in her emphatic way. School holidays would soon be on. She wanted to take a fortnight’s holiday herself: she would take Louisa away with her, either to Aunt Emma’s, at Penshurst, or, if the seaside was ordered, to Worthing.

“Spoiling your own holiday!”

“Not at all, not at all!” she answered decidedly. “It’s going to be, any way.”

“But why should you trouble? I could get Lady Frances—she’d do anything for me.”

“No doubt! Find my umbrella there in the corner—the one with the silver knob—and walk down with me to the school.”

It was certainly very pleasant to see how the young woman, after a few moments of reserve, and in the presence of Erb’s depression, became brighter than usual, pushing away all her own trouble, and talking of the Professor’s last escapade as though it were the best joke in the world. The Professor, still declining in the service of the profession, had recently been offered the post of baggage man in a newly-starting provincial company, with the added duty of acting as understudies to the man who played the old City man in Act I., and the Chief of Police in Russia in Act IV. Professor, with many protestations and frequent appeals to the shades of Barry Sullivan and John Ryder and others, had accepted the offer, and, securing on the Saturday night the sum of ten shillings in advance for the purpose of obtaining fine linen, appeared at St. Pancras station the next afternoon on the starting of the special, and denounced “The Banker’s Blood” Company, individually and generally, called upon Heaven to punish them for the attempt to degrade one who had trod the boards long before many of them had been allowed, mistakenly, to see the light of day, and altogether making such a furious scene on the platform, that the manager, consulting hastily with other members of the company in the labelled compartments, gave Rosalind’s father another half-sovereign to refrain from accompanying the party. All of which Rosalind told in such a merry way that Erb found himself for a time half wooed from melancholy.

“That blessed paper,” he said, going back to trouble ruefully, “has got me in a corner the very first start off.”

“It wants fifteen minutes to the hour,” said Rosalind, looking up at the clock at the corner. “Let’s walk round the Green and hear all about it.”

Rosalind’s hopeful view of the matter was that it might be only what was called a “try on,” and the statement of Erb that he felt he hadn’t a leg to stand on, she declared to be unworthy of him.

Erb walked back to his office feeling that the talk had done good. It was certainly a great thing to find himself more hopeful in regard to Louisa. But he composed on the way a bitter, bitter paragraph concerning the firm in Neckinger Road and its occupation. This seemed so excellent, that he had half a mind to turn it into poetry, but there proved to be some difficulty in finding rhymes for “murder” and for “dastardly,” and he allowed himself on arrival to write it in prose. The copy for number three being made up, he deleted a humorous paragraph about a Bricklayers’ Arms man, whose wife had run away, and this made room. There was much in the lines themselves; more to be read by those who could fill up the blank spaces intervening. Erb looked at it when he had crossed the t’s and dotted the i’s with the pride of a man who, with a mere dip of ink, could force monied folk to tremble. A fine thing to have control in this way over the printed word.

All the more satisfactory to get on a grievance, which appeared to be solid, in that he eventually found that he had to step out apologetically from the corner into which Spanswick’s ingenuity had thrust him. There were, it appeared, no grounds whatever for the statement made, and in Featherstone Buildings, Holborn, in a dim office with one light, under which he had to sit, whilst the two partners of the legal firm remained at the other end of the table in the shadow, he underwent, perhaps, the very worst quarter of an hour that he had endured since the time of schooldays. He had had to wait some time whilst one partner was sent for by the other.

“Then we may take it, Mr. Barnes, that you withdraw unreservedly every word of the paragraph in question?”

“That is so.”

“And you are prepared to offer every apology and every recompense that is in your power?” asked the other partner.

“I don’t know,” said Erb, “about recompense.”

“Well, then, every apology?”

“I suppose I shall have to taste blacking,” he said.

The two partners conferred for a long time in an undertone, the while Erb played nervously with a paper-knife. When one of them spoke he held his breath.

“If the paragraph had been copied into other journals, if it had had a wider circulation than that given by your little paper, Mr. Barnes, our client would have instructed us to go on with the legal proceedings, and we should have asked for and obtained heavy damages. If the journal itself was not below contempt—”

“Look here!” interrupted Erb sharply, “don’t you go rubbing it in too thick.”

“Sir William is a man with a large heart,” said the other partner, taking up a more conciliatory tone, “and we shall advise him in the circumstances to do the generous thing. You will print in the next issue of your paper an apology?”

“A most humble apology,” remarked the other partner, “terms of which you will permit us to dictate to you. He will not ask you to pay the costs already incurred, and you must think yourself confoundedly—”

“He understands,” remarked the second partner. “I am sure Mr. Barnes quite understands. Now let us see about drafting the apology.”

“I think I’d better see to that.”

“Now, my dear old friend,” urged the conciliatory partner.

A most abject apology it was, and the only encouragement for Erb came from the severe partner, who recommended several additions intended to make it of a more cringing nature. Erb signed it after a moment’s hesitation, and gave a great sigh of relief when he found himself in Holborn again; he knew that there would be some trouble in convincing his Committee that he had acted throughout with wisdom, but he had so much assurance in his own powers of speech, he had so often taken difficult positions by reason of his own generous ammunition of words, and of their short supply, that he felt confident of success. All the same, the incident would do him no good, and a repetition would undoubtedly weaken his power.

Number Three of “The Carman” came out rather opportunely, for he was able to present a copy to Rosalind and to Louisa on the day he saw them off from London Bridge. They were going to Worthing. Aunt Emma, who had not viewed the sea since childhood’s days, was going there from Penshurst in order to ascertain whether it had changed much. Louisa had to be taken to the station in a four-wheeler, and as she was helped along by her two companions through a rush of arriving City men, the girl seemed proud of the notice that her white face attracted. Erb recited the stinging paragraph that concerned Louisa’s late employers through the open carriage window, when Rosalind had made her patient comfortable with cushions. Two of Louisa’s sweethearts, friends in the presence of disaster, stood away against a lamp-post, and toyed with automatic machines.

“That’s one up against them,” said Louisa with relish. She smiled, but the look soon faded.

“If this don’t have any effect,” declared Erb, “I shall follow it up with something stronger. I’ll never let go of ’em.”

“Shouldn’t like the other gels to lose their shops,” remarked Louisa apprehensively.

“But you wouldn’t see ’em all get ill like you are?”

“I’m not reely ill,” said Louisa. “I’m only pretendin’. Besides, some gels can stand the work and some can’t.”

“Make her get better,” said Erb to Rosalind. “Don’t let her have her own way too much.”

“Not much use having anyone else’s,” remarked Louisa, with an effort at the old pertness.

“If she gets up to any of her nonsense send me a telegram.”

“I’ll write to you very often,” said Rosalind quietly. “Let me know—let me know if you see Lady Frances.”

The guard cried, “Stand away!” and gave the signal to start. Erb put his head in and kissed his sister’s face.

“Might as well serve both alike,” suggested Louisa sportively. She rubbed her eyes with her glove.

“Don’t dare,” said Erb.

One of the infatuated youths walked along with the train, and when Erb, with a wistful look in his eyes, fell back, the youth aimed a packet of chocolate, but either from nervousness or want of practice, missed the compartment and sent it into the next, where four children pounced upon it with a high scream of delight.

The violence of the paragraph concerning the Neckinger Road firm helped to appease those on the Committee who showed uneasiness in regard to what they called the “climb down.” True, some of them remarked that the attacks on the Neckinger Road firm had nothing to do with the objects of the society, and Erb, reckoning up, found that he had lost the confidence of three, but a carman who had been discharged by the firm for slight inebriety—“I’m a man that varies,” said the ex-carman. “Sometimes I may ’ave twenty pints, sometimes I may ’ave thirty pints, and then other days I may ’ave quite a lot,”—came and begged permission to thank them for the public service that the journal was doing, and assured the Committee, with the air of one having exclusive information, that they would get their reward, in this world or in the next, or in both. As the reports from Rosalind at Worthing became less satisfactory, so the fierceness of the attacks in “The Carman” increased; but it was not until a paragraph appeared headed “Wilful Murder!” that Neckinger Road, after taking the previous outbursts with a calm that suggested it was either deaf or asleep, suddenly started up and took action in the most decided and emphatic manner.

Information has been laid this day by for that you, within the district aforesaid, did unlawfully and maliciously publish a certain defamatory libel of and concerning the said well knowing the same defamatory libel to be false, contrary to the statute in such case made and provided. You are therefore hereby summoned to appear before the Court of Summary Jurisdiction sitting at the Southwark Police Court on the twentieth day of October, at the hour of ten in the forenoon, to answer to the said information. Signed with an indistinct signature, one of the magistrates of the police-court of the metropolis.

This, on a blue-coloured form, which a friendly policeman left one evening, when Erb was wrestling with his brief leading article, and unable to decide whether to give a touch of brightness to the column by the two lines of poetry from William Morris, and risk offending a few subscribers who looked on rhymes as frivolous, or to remain on the safer ground of prose. Erb, in his attacks on the Neckinger Road firm, had begun to feel as a fencer does who makes ingenious passes at the air, and he was so much gratified now to find that he had at last struck something, that he gave the warrant-officer something with which to purchase a drink, and had a very friendly chat with him concerning points of law. Erb had to confess he had not hitherto understood—being a man whose mind was occupied with other matters—that one had to appear at a police-court in regard to a charge of libel: the warrant-officer increased Erb’s knowledge by informing him that not only was this the case where no damages were claimed, but that the publication had only to be proved and you were at once committed to the Central Criminal Court to take your trial.

“There,” said the officer with relish, “there the Grand Jury has the first go at you, see?”

“They can throw out the Bill?”

“They can,” admitted the other grudgingly, “but bless my soul,” with a return to cheerfulness, “they won’t in your case. Then, in what you may term due course, on comes your case. See? You can either defend yourself—”

“I shall.”

“You know the old saying, I s’pose?”

“Never mind the old saying,” replied Erb. “Get on!”

“Then, of course, if you’re fool enough to conduct your own case, you’ll be fool enough to cross-examine the witnesses for the other side.”

“I shall,” said Erb.

“And a fine old mess you’ll make of it,” remarked the warrant-officer, laughing uproariously. “Lord! I’d give an ounce of shag to be in court when it comes off.”

“I’ll see that it comes off.”

“I’ve seen some of the biggest larks when chaps have been trying to do this sort of thing on their own, that ever you can imagine. Sometimes when I’m a bit down-hearted over anything, or if the wife’s a bit aggravatin’, I just cast my mind back and—”

The warrant-officer laughed again, and, taking off his helmet, mopped the inside of it with his handkerchief.

“Never, I suppose,” said Erb, a little nettled by this ill-timed hilarity, “seen a man in the witness box turned thoroughly inside out?”

“Not by an amateur.”

“Never seen him pinned down to certain facts, never watched him being led on and on and on, until he finds that he hasn’t got a shred of a reputation, a remnant of a character, not a single white spot of innocence or—”

“I like your talk, old man,” interrupted the warrant-officer, fixing on his helmet, “and I wish I could stay to hear more of it. But take care you don’t wear your face out. So long!”

The police of London are not infallible, but the first prophecies of the warrant-officer seemed likely to prove correct. Erb, determined not to fetter himself by legal knowledge, nevertheless found information thrust upon him, and this confirmed the statement that the police-court proceedings would be of a simple and formal nature. He regretted the delay, for he was eager to get to close quarters with the firm, and he spent his days in collecting evidence, he walked about at night, always taking in Camberwell in the tour that he might look up at her window, rehearsing the questions that he would put to the firm, imagining contests of words with counsel on the other side, contests from which he always emerged victorious. Spanswick had at last given up all pretence of being a railway carman, and had resigned his membership (this to the relief of Payne and of Erb); it made Erb stop and think for a few minutes, when one afternoon, looking out of his office window he saw Spanswick driving a single-horse van belonging to the Neckinger Road firm.

Nothing could be more gratifying than the notice accorded by the evening papers to the hearing at the police-court. It happened on a day when little else of importance occurred, so that two journals had the item on their placards—

ALLEGED NEWSPAPER LIBEL

and one of them gave an astonishing portrait of Erb, “Sketched by our Artist in Court,” declared the legend underneath, as though this were any excuse. Railway carmen from all quarters somehow managed to include Southwark Police Court in their rounds at the precise hour of the hearing of the case, and when Payne and another householder gave their names in for the purpose of bail they cheered, and the magistrate threatening to have them expelled, they cheered again and filed out at the door.

“Let’s have a bloomin’ meeting,” cried one.

The suggestion clipped their fancy. Erb, coming out quietly, found himself seized by two of the strongest men, carried triumphantly to an empty South Western van standing in Marshalsea Road, and hoisted up to the seat of this, whence, to the obvious surprise of the two roan horses, he made a speech.

“We’ll stick to you, Erb,” cried some of the crowd.

“Through thick and thin,” cried the rest. “Three cheers for Erb. Hip! hip—”

Fourteen

The weeks had hurried rapidly, more rapidly than usual, for they were pressed with business. The trial at the Central Criminal Court was over, after a hearing that struck Erb as being surprisingly brief, in view of the importance of the case; immediately on the conclusion of the evidence, and the speeches of counsel, the Recorder, from his scarlet-cushioned seat, where he had a robed Alderman and a knee-breeched Under Sheriff for company, had fined him, courteously and pleasantly, the sum of fifty pounds, or in default two months’ imprisonment. The shortness of the trial rendered an organised demonstration of little value in that the men arrived outside the Old Bailey some three hours after the case had been disposed of. Now there is nothing more galling to the Londoner than to be disappointed in his anticipations of a show, and it had required all Erb’s tact and more than his usual amiability to appease them.

Erb had expressed a desire to go to prison to purge the offence (a short purgatory in jail was no bad prelude to political life), but the men would not hear of this: they could not manage without him, he was indispensable, they must have someone to look after the society, there was none to take his place, and he had given up this idea with less of reluctance because a disquieting tone had come into the letters of Rosalind from Worthing. But, determined to do something heroic, he insisted that his household goods in Page’s Walk should be sold up, and a scene thus contrived that should attract public attention. Wherefore there was an auction room in New Kent Road, to which all the furniture (with the single exception of the bedding) had been removed “For Convenience of Sale,” and here were as many of the railway carmen of London as could spare themselves conveniently from their duties, and here also were a few alert-eyed youths with note books and sharpened pencils eager to record some incident so amusing that not even a sub-editor’s pencil should venture to delete. A fusty smell of cocoanut wrappings in the long room, bran new furniture gave an odour of polish, retained and preserved because there was no ventilation except that afforded by the entrance from the street; a good-tempered auctioneer at the end of the room, high up and leaning on a rostrum, with a flaring, whistling, naked gas jet that compelled attention, because every now and then it exhibited a humorous desire to singe the top of the auctioneer’s shining silk hat. Erb stood by the wall, rather proud of being in the position of a martyr, his men formed a body-guard around him. Close up by the auctioneer stood half a dozen decrepit old men, the habitués of the place, ready to snatch up a bargain, to become the intermediaries between buyers and auctioneer, to knock out a sale, or, in short, to do anything and everything except serious labour.

“We have here,” said the auctioneer, leaning over his high desk and pointing with his hammer, “a very fine lot—show No. 13, George, and don’t be all day about it—a very fine lot, consisting of a pianoforte. Music hath charms, gentlemen, as you know, to soothe the savage breast, and it’s always a good investment from that point of view alone. George, jest run over the keys to show these gentlemen what a first-class musician you are.” The attendant, first rubbing the palm of his hand on his green baize apron, stroked the keys from first note to last. “There!” cried the auctioneer, “there’s execution for you! Many a man’s been ’anged for less. Now then, what shall we say for this magnificent instrument? Don’t all speak at once. Did you say twenty pounds, mister?” This to one of the regulars at the side.

“Not being a blank fool,” replied the musty old gentleman, “I did not say twen’y pounds.”

“Well! won’t anyone say twenty pounds jest for a start? Come now. You’ve all learnt some language or other.”

“Four and six,” said one of the carmen chaffingly.

“No, no!” said the auctioneer rather coldly. “I enjoy a joke as well as anyone, but ’pon my word—”

“Five bob!”

“I’m very good tempered,” went on the auctioneer, getting red in the face, “and I can stand as much as most men. But—”

“Five and six!”

“Well,” with resignation, “have your own way about it. Five and six is offered; five and six in two places; six shillings. I thank you, sir! Who’ll say ’alf a sov’, eh? Seven shillings! Very well then. But do let’s go on a shilling at a time; I can’t take sixpenny advances. You know the old story of the girl—”

Erb, looking round with a determined smile on his features, saw Spanswick entering from the pavement; with him a gentleman whose eyes were watery and whose gait was uncertain. Spanswick gave a casual nod to the clump of men, and beckoned to Erb in such an authoritative way that Erb crossed the room when the pianoforte—poor Louisa’s pianoforte, that she would allow no one to play—had been knocked down for twenty-five shillings. The auctioneer ordered his man to show the horsehair sofa and chairs.

“My friend Doubleday,” said Spanswick, introducing his companion. Mr. Doubleday removed his silk hat with care, for the brims seemed rather weak, and in a husky voice declared himself honoured. “One of the cleverest men in South London,” whispered Spanswick to Erb, “only he won’t recognise the fact. Educated, too!”

“This is a noble action of yours, sir,” said Mr. Doubleday, trying to clear his voice. “Reflects the highest credit on what I may venture to term the manhood of South London.” Spanswick looked at Erb proudly, as though to say, “He can talk, can’t he?” “The newspapers will ring with your praises, sir. Capital will sneak away, abashed and ashamed in the presence of such a brilliant example of self-sacrifice and whole-hearted devotion. I suppose you haven’t got such a thing as a pipe full of tobacco about you? I’ve come out without my pouch.”

“Always comes out without his pouch,” remarked Spanswick admiringly.

“No, no!” said Mr. Doubleday, refusing with something of haughtiness Erb’s further offer. “I have a match, thank you. I have no desire to be indebted for anything,” he drew hard at his pipe, “for anything which I myself possess.”

“Independent old beggar, ain’t he?” whispered Spanswick.

“My friend here gives me to understand—and I have no doubt that his information is per-fectly correct—that you have adopted this attitude because a female relative—a sister, if I mistake not—”

“A sister,” admitted Erb.

“Has suffered grievously. Assuming that to be the case, I can only say that I am proud to grasp your hand, sir, and that I desire your acquaintance.”

“It ain’t many that he’d say that to,” whispered Spanswick.

“I want all the friends I’ve got just now,” said Erb.

“The lines of Longfellow,” said Mr. Doubleday condescendingly, “spring readily to one’s mind.” The hammer of the auctioneer went down with a startling crack; something that he said made the group of men laugh, and Erb was called by them to hear it. “We can make our lives sublime, and um-tee, umpty, umpty, umpty—footsteps on the sands of time,” quoted Mr. Doubleday.

“I must hop off,” said Spanswick. “Hasn’t he got a marvellous memory?”

“You’ll take your friend with you?” said Erb.

“No,” said Spanswick, rather awkwardly, “I’ll leave him. Fancy he’s got something to say to you.”

When the sale was over, it occurred to Erb that he had not eaten that day, and as the men had to hurry off to their duties, he would have been left alone but for Mr. Doubleday’s presence. Erb was glad to leave the gas-scented auction rooms, and would have been content with no other company but his own; he had been acting in a hot, tempestuous way of late, and he was anxious, now that this business was over, to review it all calmly. Anxious, also, think of Louisa, and— But Mr. Doubleday stuck to him, and when Erb entered the Enterprise Dining Rooms, in New Kent Road, Doubleday followed him to the pew, and sat down opposite. Erb gave his order to the girl, who rested the palms of her red hands on the table; when she turned to the other, Doubleday said, assuming the manner of a complaisant guest, that he would have the same.

“Fate,” he said, hanging the deplorable silk hat on a wooden peg, “Fate has thrown us together, sir, in a most remarkable way.”

“Thought it was Spanswick,” said Erb.

“Most inscrutable, the workings of Providence. Stagger even me at times.”

“You don’t mean that?” said Erb.

“Positive truth!” declared Mr. Doubleday. “Now this meeting with you, for instance. If it had been planned it couldn’t have happened more fortunately. Because I have information to give you of the very highest possible value. It means, my dear sir, an absolute epoch-making event in your life, and— Ah! roast beef and Yorkshire pudding! Reminds me of my young days. I recollect when I was a bit of a boy—”

Mr. Doubleday, with heavy jest and leaden-footed reminiscence, took the duty of conversation upon himself, evidently feeling that he was a bright, diverting companion, one who just for his exceptional powers as a raconteur well deserved to be asked out to dine. His stories were so long, and the telling of them so complicated, that Erb was able to allow his mind to concentrate itself on his own affairs. He had taken a definite, a desperate step; the reaction was setting in, and he began to wonder whether he had been precisely right. Something to feel that whatever he did, right or wrong, he had the solid, obstinate, unreasoning support of the men; one could, of course, count upon this; the greater the misfortune he encountered, the more faithful and obedient would they become. There could be no doubt about that. Besides, they had no one else to guide them. He was, as they had admitted, the one, the necessary man. Any signs of rebellion in the past he had always been able to quell with very little trouble; as a last resource, there was always the threat of resignation. So that was satisfactory enough. Less grateful to remember that the revenge he had tried to take on the Neckinger Road firm had done his sister’s health no good whatever. He would run down to Worthing soon to see her and to cheer her.

“Joking apart,” said Mr. Doubleday, snapping his finger and thumb to secure the attention of the waitress, “let’s come to business. (Cabinet pudding, my dear! I daresay my genial host will take the same.) You must understand, please, that what I am about to submit to you is, as we say in the law, entirely without prejudice.”

“Are you a lawyer?”

“I used to be in a secondhand bookseller’s. Now, I suppose I’m right in assuming that you could, if necessary, place your hands on a certain sum of money?”

“I could.”

“About how much shall we say?” asked Mr. Doubleday engagingly.

Erb counted the money in his pocket.

“Twelve shillings and ninepence.”

“I appreciate the humour of that remark,” said Mr. Doubleday in his husky voice, “but I want to talk business. I’m a plain, straightforward man, and what I want to know is simply this. Is there a five-pound note flying about?”

“If there was,” said Erb, “I should catch it.”

“There’s the benefit money,” said the other, looking at himself curiously in the hollow of a spoon, “the benefit money to borrow from, and Yes, yes! I know what you are going to say and I quite agree with you. I think you’re most decidedly in the right. Far be it from me to suggest for a single moment—”

“I’m getting tired of you,” interrupted Erb suddenly. “I wish you’d take your hook and go away. Your face worries me, and your talk makes my head ache.”

“Then it’s time I came to close quarters. Listen to me!” Mr. Doubleday leaned his elbows on the table, and, bending forward, shielded his mouth with his hand that words might not go astray. “This is the situation. A man, a young man, takes up a certain high-minded attitude in regard to a certain firm; gets hauled up for libel; gets fined. His society comes to his rescue. Newspapers have paragraphs applauding him. So far, so good! Fine thing to show up, as far as he can, dangerous trades. But he forgets or he pretends to forget, doesn’t matter which—that not so long ago he, this same young man, went all over the country, making speeches in favour of a syndicate that called itself something or other—”

“I don’t ask your permission before I open my mouth,” cried Erb heatedly.

“True, my lad, true! You can go further than that. You can say that you didn’t do so without being adequately bribed to do it.”

“Bribed!” Erb rose at the table and clenched his fist.

“Keep cool!” said Mr. Doubleday, making a military tent of his two hands. “There’s no extra charge for sitting down.”

“Let me know what you mean by saying that I’ve been bribed.”

“I should have thought that you would have known the meaning of the term by this time. B-r-i-b-e is a word meaning the sum accepted for doing work that you had no business to do. We can easily verify it.” He snapped his fingers. “Got a dictionary, my dear?”

“To eat?” asked the waitress.

“A dictionary,” he repeated with impatience.

“We’ve got an old London directory.”

“Never mind about the exact definition of the word,” said Erb steadily. “Tell me at once what you mean by your accusation.”

“Have you ever in all your life seen a cheque for twenty pounds?”

“Yes!”

“Made payable to yourself?”

“Yes!”

“And signed by—”

“Yes, yes, go on.”

“Nothing more to say,” remarked Mr. Doubleday. “There’s an end of the matter. Only it’s rather a pretty circumstance altogether, don’t you think? This self-sacrificing chap who has allowed himself to be sold up publicly as a protest against harmful trades, is the same man who earlier in the year was speaking throughout the length and breadth of the land in support of trade infinitely more harmful than the one carried on in Neckinger Road. And,” here Mr. Doubleday took down his elderly silk hat and made elaborate pretence of smoothing the nap, “getting uncommonly well paid for it, too. Pretty situation, isn’t it?”

“There’s a very good answer to the charge you bring against me,” said Erb, trying to keep his temper, “but there’s no earthly reason why I should give it. I’m not responsible to you; I am responsible to my society.”

“Ah,” cried Mr. Doubleday, putting his hat on jauntily, “glad you recognise that.”

“I do recognise it.”

“And having recognised it, you see that it would be very much to your interest that the unfortunate transaction should be kept dark.”

“Not at all!”

“In which case,” here he stood up ready to go, and slapped his foot with his bamboo cane, “in which case you’d better come, my lad, to this place”—he placed a worn and travelled card with two addresses ruled out and a third written in, “before six o’clock to-night. Before six o’clock, mind. A minute past will be too late. And—er—bring that five-pound note along with you.”

He walked jauntily up the aisle of the dining rooms to the street door; when the waitress flew after him, he whispered a few words and pointed back at Erb with his cane.

“Is that right?” demanded the waitress breathlessly of Erb, “is that right that you pay?”

“Looks like it!” replied Erb moodily.

The threat did good in one way in that it aroused all his fighting instincts and that it diverted his mind from Worthing. Going down Walworth Road to look at Rosalind’s house, he rehearsed the expected scene, striking the palm of one hand with the fist the other, and scoring with great neatness over Spanswick and other opponents. Women at the stalls stopped in their loud declaration of the admirable character of their goods, to watch the excited young man as he went by, and remarked to each other that he was evidently in love; an excuse that in their eyes justified any and every sign of eccentric behaviour. On the way back (after walking up and down near the garden of monumental statuary and glancing shyly each time at her window), he met the Professor, and for the sheer pleasure of talking of her engaged him in conversation. The Professor deplored the fact that after you had given the best years of your life to the education of an only child, she should go off to the seaside for a holiday without so much as thinking for a moment of taking you with her, and asked Erb whether he had half a crown about him in exchange for two separate shillings and a sixpence. On Erb producing this coin the Professor found, with many expressions of deep regret, that he had left the smaller pieces in a waistcoat at home.

“But I shan’t forget, my dear chap,” said the Professor, raising his hand for a stage clasp. “I am one of those who never permit a kindness to escape from their memory. But I hate to be badgered. That ungrateful young scamp Railton, for instance.”

“Ah!”

“What have I not done, or rather what have I not promised to do, for him.”

“Daresay! But—”

“Engaged at one time to my accomplished daughter.”

“But what about him?”

“I am not romancing,” said the other impressively. “I am simply giving you the downright, honest, blunt, straightforward truth when I tell you that he wrote this morning asking me for two pounds on the plea that he had become married at the beginning of the week to a publican’s daughter at Oldham.”

“Did you send it?” asked Erb, with great cheerfulness.

“I wrote and I told him that if, as he said, he had in the past lent me sums amounting in the aggregate to this total, why I could only say that the fact had escaped my memory. I would, however, take an opportunity of looking through my memoranda in order to see whether I had made any record of such transactions. Could I say anything fairer?”

“And he’s actually married?”

“There is a piece of what is termed wedding cake at home, awaiting my daughter’s return.”

“Will it—will it upset her do you think?” asked Erb nervously.

“I shall warn her not to eat it,” said the Professor.

Erb did an extraordinary thing. Delighted by the news which the Professor had brought he set out upon a walk down through Camberwell into Surrey, a walk that he determined should last until he was tired out, a walk that had some vague advantage of going in the direction of Worthing. He was not used to heroic physical exercise, but on this unique occasion there seemed nothing else to do that would have been appropriate, and he mingled with the evening tide of people receding from London, beating it easily, and finally arriving beyond Dulwich, and well out into the country, where the rare gas lamps were being lighted and a mist came like a decorous veil and protected the face of the roadway modestly. Easier to think here than in the hurry and turmoil and clatter of town. After all, what did public life matter, what did the cause of labour or anything else matter so long as one was personally happy? That had ever been the aim of wise men; in future it should be his. There could always come the superadded amusement of playing with lesser minds, directing them and making them perform, exercising control in the manner of the unseen director of a Punch and Judy show. Erb argued this in a quiet road, with gesture and excitement; a sparrow hopped along for some distance with him in a companionable way, twittering approval, and hinting that if there should be such a thing in the corner of a pocket as a few bread crumbs—

It was late when Erb returned by train from Croydon to South Bermondsey station, and in the nearly empty rooms of Page’s Walk he found Payne awaiting him. Payne, with something more than his usual gravity of countenance, seated on the one remaining chair and smoking an empty pipe in a desolate, absent-minded way.

“Well,” said Payne lugubriously, “you’ve done for yourself now.”

“That so,” remarked Erb. “What’s the latest?”

“One of the worst crisisises,” said Payne solemnly, and taking some gloomy enjoyment in making the word as long and as important as possible, “that ever you encountered in all your puff.”

“I’m ready for it,” said Erb.

“They’ve sacked you,” said Payne.

“Is that all?”

“They’ve shown you the door. They’ve helped you downstairs with their foot. They’ve kicked you out, old man.”

“This a joke?” asked Erb.

“Never made a joke in me life,” declared Payne, “and well you know it.”

Erb went over to the window and rested on the window sill.

“Spanswick?” he asked briefly.

“Him,” answered Payne, “and no other.”

“And they settled it all without hearing my account of the case?”

“Old chum! there didn’t seem to be no room for any other account. He’d got chapter and verse for everything he said. All about a twenty pound cheque, all about—”

“And it never occurred to this—this flock of sheep,” shouted Erb excitedly, “that I destroyed that cheque and never cashed it?”

“I don’t think they understand much about cheques,” said Payne. “The fact that you took it was what impressed them.”

Neither spoke for a few minutes.

“Who’s going to take my place?”

“Friend of Spanswick’s.”

“Name Doubleday?”

“Name of Doubleday,” said Payne affirmatively. “Clever sort of sweat, so far as I could judge. What are you going to do about it, old man? Going to organise, I trust. Open-air meeting, say.”

“Did any of the others stick up for my side?”

“Only me!”

A pause again.

“Well, you’re going to do something?”

“You’ve got another guess,” said Erb.

Fifteen

If Erb’s experience of life had been greater, if his knowledge of the trend of events had been more extensive, he would have been helped by the assurance that in this world, mist and sunshine alternate, and that rarely a fog descends on the life of an energetic man and remains there always. But had Erb known this, there would still have remained the undeniable fact that, for the time at any rate, the atmosphere was murky. He showed a certain amount of temper. He sent in his keys addressed to the acting secretary, and, knowing that the accounts were all in order, declined the request that he should attend to explain money matters to his successor; he decided to leave London (having indeed very little there to leave) and to go down to Worthing, giving no one but Payne his address.

“Looks as though you had turned sulky,” remonstrated Payne.

“I have!” said Erb.

The new number of “The Carman,” which he himself had made up, contained a brief paragraph, to make room for which a quotation from Ruskin had been deleted.

“We beg to state that Herbert Barnes has no longer any connection with the Society, and that the position of Secretary will be filled up at the next meeting of the committee. At present everything points to Friend Doubleday, who is in a position to devote the whole of his time to the work, and can be relied on not to have dealings with the representatives of capital.”

More stings came on the way up the Boro’ to London Bridge station. Four railway carmen he met, driving their vans, instead of the “Hello!” and the mystic twist of the whip, there was first a glance of cautious recognition, then a steady look ahead, with an air of absorbed interest, as though realising for the first time the horse’s presence. At the station itself, men of his old Society, on seeing him, hurried round to the tails of their vans, and commenced sorting parcels there with amazing industry. All this sent Erb into the deeper depths, and it was not until he reached Worthing, and found on the platform Rosalind and Aunt Emma and his sister, Louisa, Louisa’s white face becoming pink with excitement, that he forgot his worries.

“Well,” said Aunt Emma, “what’s the best news?”

“There isn’t any best news,” replied Erb.

They went, arm in arm, down the long road to the sea front, and in a shelter there, Erb sat between them, and for the first time since the downfall found the luxury of detailed description and frank avowal. When the account came of the worst Rosalind touched his sleeve sympathetically.

“And there you are!” said Erb when he had finished. He found himself now inclined to look on the disasters as though they had occurred to someone else with whom he had nothing in common. “And here I am, in about as awkward a situation as I’ve ever been in in all my life.”

“Complimentary to us,” said Rosalind brightly.

He took her hand and patted it.

“You know what I mean,” he whispered.

“They’d no right to sell up the ’ome,” said Louisa fiercely.

“Yes they had,” said Erb. “By the law.”

“But that Spanswick’s the one that should have suffered.”

“An oven in a oast house,” suggested Aunt Emma, “would finish him off. That’s how he’ll be treated in the next world, anyway.”

“I ought to have verified the information he gave me about the first affair.”

“And in the second affair you were perfectly right.”

“That don’t make any difference to the law of libel. Besides, I was in a temper when I wrote it. I let my feelings get the better of me.”

“What do you propose—”

“Haven’t a single idea,” declared Erb exultantly. “Go back on me hands and knees and get a berth as carman again, I s’pose.”

“That you never shall,” said the two young women emphatically. “You have some long walks whilst you’re down here,” counselled Rosalind, “and think it over by yourself.”

“If a bit of money’s wanted—” began Aunt Emma.

“All this time,” he said, turning to Louisa and pinching her white cheek, “all this time I haven’t inquired how you are pulling along.”

“I’m as right as rain, Erb.”

“Ah!” he remarked doubtfully, “so you’ve always said. Heard anything of Alice?”

“Not a word from the overgrown minx,” said Louisa with wrath. “If she was here I’d speak my mind to her, and pretty quick about it, too. Oh, yes, I know,” Louisa went on, not to be deterred by an interruption from the rare luxury of an access of temper, “she may have a lot to think of; she takes jolly good care not to think of us.”

“Has anyone written to tell her?” asked Rosalind quietly.

“Why should we?” demanded Erb’s young sister with illogical heat. “It’s her business to find out! But, of course, she wouldn’t care if we was both in the workhouse.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as that.”

“I shouldn’t let you,” said Aunt Emma.

“Meanwhile,” interrupted Rosalind, “we’re not giving your brother anything to eat. Let me run off to our rooms and get something ready.”

The opportunity came here for Louisa to tell her brother how good Rosalind had been, what a first-class nurse she had proved herself, how bright and attentive. “I should have kicked the bucket, I think,” said Louisa looking out across the sea rather thoughtfully, “if it hadn’t been for her. And such a manager! Isn’t she, Aunt Emma?” Erb listening, began to feel that the world was not such a bad world after all. He talked hopefully, but vaguely, of either going to Canada, where he believed a man with a handful of capital was welcomed, and estates presented to him by a hospitable Government, or to New South Wales, where, so far as he could ascertain, labour leaders were in demand, and treated with proper amount of trustfulness. On Aunt Emma asking whether these places were not in point of fact a long way off, Erb was forced to admit that they were a pretty tidy step, and that, everything else being equal, he would prefer to stay in the London where he had been born—the London that he knew, the London that he liked.

“I haven’t played the game well,” admitted Erb candidly. “I’ve tried to be fair and straightforward with both sides, and I’ve managed to fall down in between them. And I’ve hurt myself!”

They had nearly finished their steak at dinner, and Louisa, breaking from new and fiercer condemnation of Alice, was about to inquire of Rosalind whether there was anything for after, when a miniature telegraph boy passed the window in Portland Street, and gave a double knock, altogether out of proportion to his size, at the front door. The landlady’s daughter brought in a telegram, and “Please,” said the landlady’s daughter (inspecting Erb with curiosity, in order to give a report to her mother), “Please is there any answer?”

Just heard of trouble. Lady Frances wishes to see you this evening. Most important.

Alice.

“Take no notice of it,” said Louisa, not yet restored to coolness. “Ignore it!”

Rosalind offered no counsel. Aunt Emma watched her narrowly. Erb considered for a moment, looking from one to another.

“Thought you were going to stay with us a few days?” remarked his sister.

“I ought to go back if it’s really important,” he said. “And Lady Frances is a young lady who doesn’t like being disappointed.”

“Please yourself,” said Aunt Emma shortly. “But take care, that’s all!”

He found news, on his return after this very brief visit, in a letter at the emptied rooms in Page’s Walk that at once encouraged him and gave him perturbation. The white-haired Labour Member wrote in cautious terms that a certain bye-election in a London constituency was imminent. It had been decided to run a Labour candidate; the other two sides were pretty evenly matched, and if the game were played well, and played out, there was good chance of the Labour man making a fair show; there was another chance, less probable, but possible, that the Liberal candidate, if he found he had no prospect of winning, might retire before the election. The point was (wrote the Labour M.P.), would Erb consent to stand if he were selected? All the expenses would be paid, and all the help that the party could give would be willingly afforded. It would be better to put up a man like Erb, who had never before submitted to the suffrages of a constituency, than a man who had elsewhere undergone the experience of rejection. A reply to the House of Commons would oblige, and, meanwhile, this communication was to be regarded as strictly private.

“He hasn’t heard,” said Erb thoughtfully, “of my come down.”

There were many courses, Erb felt, to pursue which were not straightforward, but only one that was honest. He went into a stationer’s in Willow Walk, and, borrowing pen and ink, and purchasing paper and envelope, wrote a frank letter, giving all the necessary details of recent events, and just caught the five-thirty post as the pillar box was being deprived of its contents. Then he made his way on foot—a desperate spirit of economy possessing him—to Eaton Square.

“Ages since I saw you,” said Mr. Danks the footman, receiving him on the area steps with something like enthusiasm, “but I’ve heard of you over and over again.”

“How are you getting on with your aitches?” asked Erb.

“Very complimentary remarks, too,” said Mr. Danks, ignoring the inquiry. “My cousin Rosie seems to think of nobody else, so far as I can judge. I’d no idea you were a favourite with the fair sex!”

“Ah!” remarked Erb. “It’s brain that tells in the long run.”

“If I thought there was anything in that remark,” said the footman, interested, “I’d go in for literature or something of the kind myself. I’m expecting to be thrown over by a young lady in Lowndes Square by every post, and—but I’m keeping you waiting.”

“I noticed that,” said Erb.

“Jackson,” said cook, now stouter and apparently shorter than ever, “would be down directly.” Would Erb let her cut for him a sandwich or a snack of—well, Erb could please himself, cook’s own motto in the matter of feeding was, “Little and often,” but it had never been her way to force her opinions on other people, in which particular her motto was “Interfere with nobody, and nobody will interfere with you.” Cook had many other aphorisms to impart, and seemed a little hurt when Alice came into the kitchen and claimed her brother with a kiss that had about it unexpected affection.

“I’ve been worrying about you day and night,” declared Alice. “I never thought anything would upset me so much.”

“Wonder you don’t ask after Jessie,” interrupted cook.

“Jessie who?” demanded Erb.

“Just Jessie! Thought you was rather struck on her. She’s with a family travelling abroad now. Tall girl with eyes.”

“I’d forgotten all about her.”

“Ah!” sighed the cook. “That’s a man all over. It’s the old saying over again—”

“And I told Lady Frances,” continued Alice, leaving cook to mutter to a large joint of beef turning before a desperately fierce fire, “and you’re to see her, Erb, directly after dinner.”

“What’s in the wind?”

“That’s more than I can tell you. But I’m very glad you’ve cut your connection with all those common working men.”

“They’ve cut their connection with me,” said Erb.

“Comes to the same thing,” said his sister, equably.

“Last time you was here, Mr. Barnes,” said cook, over her shoulder from the fire, “you came as a friend of the family. Funny world isn’t it? Upstairs one day, downstairs the next.”

“You must be short of money, Erb,” whispered his sister, in an undertone. “I’ve got quite a tidy bit put away in the savings bank. If ten or twenty pounds—”

“Upon my word,” cried Erb, “it’s worth while having a touch of misfortune now and again, if it’s only just to find how much kindness there is about. But I shall find my feet somehow, Alice. Don’t you worry about me.”

“Can’t help doing so.”

“You might do what you can for Louisa, though. If it hadn’t been for—for a friend of mine, I don’t know where she’d have been.”

“We’ve never quite got on together in the past,” said Alice regretfully. “The difference in our heights seem to have led to other differences. But I’ll see that it all dries straight. She’ll pull through, of course.”

“I think she’ll just pull through,” said Erb, thoughtfully, “and that’s about all. Doctor says that if there was unlimited money about she’d be herself in a few months. But there you are, you see! Just when it’s wanted particularly, it goes and hides.”

Mr. Danks knocked and came in with a reverential air that differed from the one with which he had greeted Erb in the area. Lady Frances’ compliments, and she would be pleased to see Mr. Barnes in the drawing-room now.

“Let me put your tie straight,” said Alice.

Lady Frances, looking taller and more charming than ever in her dinner dress, was delighted to see Mr. Barnes again. Quite a long time since they had met. She herself had been very busy—would not Mr. Barnes sit down?—very busy, and that must be taken as her excuse, rather worried, too. There was trouble out in North Africa, and when one had friends there— But the point was this: Lady Frances had heard all about the disastrous events in the Barnes household. In regard to Louisa, she must go to the Riviera with Lady Frances this winter. No, no! It was entirely a selfish proposition, and Louisa would be a most amusing companion; Lady Frances never tired of Cockney humour.

“In return for which,” said Erb, fervently, “I’ll do any blessed thing you like to ask me.”

“So far, good!” said Lady Frances, with a gesture of applause with her fan. “Now to get on a little further. Her uncle—Mr. Barnes remembered her uncle?”

“I remember him well!”

“Now, this was a great secret, and must not be mentioned to a soul. Her uncle was going to stand for the coming bye-election at— Ah! Mr. Barnes had heard of the probable vacancy. Strange how information flew about—and in this constituency” (here Lady Frances tried to wrinkle her smooth young forehead, and to look extremely wise), “there was, it appeared, a large working class element. Mr. Barnes had been useful in a somewhat similar way before. Why should not he again be of assistance? The money that he would thus earn would enable him to do almost anything. Go abroad to one of the Colonies, or stay here and marry and settle down, or—”

“There’s just this about it that I ought to tell you,” said Erb. “I’ve been asked to have a dash at the same event as an Independent Labour Candidate.”

That, Lady Frances admitted with another effort to look aged, that certainly did complicate matters. Was there probability of Mr. Barnes accepting the offer?

“Not the least probability in the world.”

Capital, capital! The young diplomatist again signified approval with her fan and leaned forward from her chair in a most attractive way. All that now remained to do was for Mr. Barnes to say “yes,” and the whole matter would be arranged satisfactorily.

“Upon my word,” declared Erb, after a few moments’ thought, “to say ‘yes’ would be far and away the easiest thing to do. I owe precious little to my men after the way they’ve treated me, and it would just let them see—”

Mr. Barnes would excuse Lady Frances for interrupting, but a really most supremely brilliant idea had just occurred to her, and it was indispensable that she should communicate it without an instant’s delay. (The young woman panted with surprise and enthusiasm, and Erb watched her reverently.) Why should not Mr. Barnes—this was absolutely the greatest notion that had ever occurred to anybody since the world began—why should not Mr. Barnes do everything he could to forward his candidature as an Independent, and then, just at the last moment retire in favour of—

“No!” said Erb suddenly.

The young woman did not conceal her disappointment at Erb’s unreasonable attitude. No ambassador rebuffed in a mission on which future promotion depended, could have felt greater annoyance. But she recovered her usual amiability, and, leaving the discussion where it was, spoke further of her intentions in regard to Louisa and the trip to the South of France, on which subject she showed such real kindness that when Erb was presently shown out into Eaton Square by Mr. Danks (“Good evening, sir,” said Mr. Danks respectfully), he felt something like contempt for himself for having declined so abruptly to accept her suggestion and advice. He went off to Payne’s house, where something was done to a magic piece of furniture that pretended ordinarily to be a chair, whereupon it became a bedstead, and afforded comfortable rest for the night.

The next morning Erb, for about the first time in his life, found himself with nothing to do but to count the hours. He envied the easy carelessness of men able to loaf outside the public-houses in Dover Street; in some public gardens near there were able-bodied youths smoking cigarettes and sunning themselves luxuriously, content apparently to feel that there, at any rate, work could never force itself upon their attention, and no danger existed of encountering a job. Whatever happened, Erb knew that he would never slide down to this. It might well be that he would not find himself now in a position to ask Rosalind to become his wife, but he would never become a loafer. He walked up through the increasingly busy crowd of High Street, Borough, and comparison between their state and his forced him to recognise the fact that in no place, under certain conditions, can one be so lonely as in London.

“The very man!” cried a voice. The hook of a walking-stick caught his arm.

“That you?” said Erb. “Get my letter?”

“Got your letter,” said the white-haired Labour M.P. in his swift, energetic way, “and I’m going down now to put everything straight for you.”

“That’ll take a bit of doing.”

“I’ve had more twisted things to deal with than this. Which way were you going?”

“I scarcely know.”

“Then you’re coming down with me.”

“Shan’t I be rather in the way?”

“I hope so,” said the Labour M.P.

A swift walker, the Labour M.P., and one with whom it was not easy to keep pace; he talked at a corresponding rate, so that by the time they reached the office of the London Railway Carmen’s Society, he was showing signs of exhaustion, and the duty of talking to Spanswick, who was perched on the window-sill on the landing, devolved upon Erb. Spanswick wore a look of perturbation and showed some desire not to look at Erb in speaking to him; he puffed at a ragged cigar, at which he glanced now and again with deep regret.

“I can’t make ’ead or tail of it,” said Spanswick, despondently. “It’s a mystery, that’s what it is. Why I should have trusted that man with untold gold.”

“What’s happened?” asked Erb.

“After all I’ve done for him, too,” went on Spanswick. “I’ve treated him like a brother, I have; I might go so far as to say I’ve treated him more like a friend than a brother. It was only last night that we were ’aving a few friendly glasses together—I paid for the last, worse luck!—and he was talking about what he was going to do for the Society, and all the time he must have had this letter in his pocket, ready to pop in the post.”

“Where’s the key to this door?” asked the Labour M.P. sharply.

“He might well call himself Mister Doubleday,” went on Spanswick, finding the key in his pocket, “I’ve never been more deceived in anybody in all my life. Him and me has been pals for over six weeks, and this is how he turns round and treats me.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“I’ve seen him home when it’s been necessary after the places were closed, and sometimes,” Spanswick admitted this grudgingly, “sometimes of course, he’s seen me ’ome when it’s been necessary. He’s told me things about his early boyhood; I’ve told him things about my early boyhood. If I’ve had more tobacco in me pouch than he has, he’s always been welcome to a pipeful. I got him the best berth he ever had in all his born days—”

“And outed me from it,” remarked Erb. “What—?”

“But don’t it jest shew you,” demanded Spanswick eagerly, “how the very best of us can sometimes be taken in? I’m looked on as a man who knows enough to come in when it rains, and I certainly pride myself more on taking in others than being took in meself. And here am I, in me fortysecond year—”

“Barnes!” called the voice of the Labour M.P. from the office, “come here!”

Spanswick went on growling to himself as Erb left him and entered the office.

“The books do not appear to have been touched since you left,” said the white-haired man. “Not a figure, not a letter.”

“Then he can’t be accused of tampering with ’em.”

“How much cash did you leave in the safe?” Erb showed the sum at the foot of a page in the accounts book. “I’ve half a mind,” said the Labour M.P., in a determined way, that suggested he was making an understatement, “I have half a mind to break it open!”

“Wouldn’t it be better to give him a chance of coming back?”

“Read that letter!”

Erb read a slip of paper that Doubleday had left on the desk. Doubleday had addressed it to the committee, and it told them that, finding his health was giving way under the stress of the few days’ work, he had decided to take a holiday. If there should be any little trifle short in the cash accounts, that would be replaced as soon as he could make it convenient to do so. He added that he had drawn the sum standing to the Society’s credit, because there was not enough money in the safe to enable him to take the somewhat lengthened holiday which he felt was necessary. Thanking them for all past favours, regretting their acquaintance had been so brief, and wishing the Society every success, he remained, Theirs faithfully, Edward H. Doubleday.

“I’d like to know the worst,” said the Labour M.P. “I suppose you’ve no experience in forcing looks?”

“It’s a branch of my education,” replied Erb, “that’s been sadly neg— Why, the blessed thing’s open!”

The safe was, indeed, unlocked, and this mattered the less, because the safe was quite empty. Erb struck a match and searched the corners; there was nothing to be seen but an envelope bearing the words, “I.O.U.,” a certain large amount, and Doubleday’s portentous signature.

“What’s the next step, sir?” asked Erb.

“Set the police on his track.”

“And the next?”

“Call the committee together at the earliest possible moment. Make them do what I should have induced them to do even though this had not happened—reinstate you as secretary.”

“Anything else?”

“After that you and I can talk over this bye-election business. I think we shall get you in the House, Barnes, before you’re very much older.” The M.P. looked at his large silver watch, “I must be moving. Deputation to the Home Secretary at one. Fine life ours, Barnes; always something doing. Always difficulties to be cleared away. You’ll enjoy it when you’re in the midst of it.”

“Think so?”

The Labour M.P. hurried off, pushing Spanswick aside as that desolate man made an effort to impart some further details of his acute grievance. Spanswick went to the door of the office, but found it shut in his face.

“Now, if I’d been in his place,” cried Spanswick, through the keyhole, “the least I should have thought of saying would have been ‘’Alves!’”

Sixteen

The bustle, the hurry, the excitement were again here; the grievance that a day contained, only twenty-four hours reconstituted itself; the feeling came once more that one was a person of some importance. But Erb, spite the old environments, found himself wanting in enthusiasm. He could not deny this, although for a time he tried to do so. Face to face with a situation that a month earlier would have aroused all his most aggressive instincts, he found he was quite unable to feel any excitement in the matter. The rebuff the men had given him he could not forget; the empty space that the dispute had made could not be easily bridged. Moreover, there were other matters which seemed larger and much more important than this to occupy his consideration. Rosalind brought Louisa back to town, the vacation being over, and Camberwell desiring to go on with its lessons in voice production, and Lady Frances, hearing of this from Alice, antedated her trip to the Continent, and, in her generous way, prepared to fly off with Louisa and Jessie, the maid; Louisa, dazed by the rapidity of events, said goodbye with apparent calm to her brother and her three most recent fiancés.

“Likely as not,” said Louisa casually, “I shall marry one of you when I come back!”

“Which?” inquired the three youths eagerly.

“The one that’s got the most money.”

“Ah!” said the young baker from Rotherhithe New Road contentedly.

“And the most sense.”

“Good!” remarked the assistant from the Free Library.

“And the best temper.”

“Right-o!” said the booking clerk from Walworth Road station.

Lady Frances asked Erb to get an evening paper, and he went to the small bookstall on the platform. The train was on the point of starting, and he took up a Conservative evening paper. As he did so, he glanced at the placard that was being pinned to the stall, and observed a line “Massacre of English Commission in Morocco.” He quickly bought another journal of an earlier edition. Later, when the train had gone, he found in the “fudge” of the first journal a brief message, printed unevenly, with a similar heading:—

“The Foreign Office has received news of the massacre of the English Commission recently sent out to Morocco. No particulars are to hand, but the Commission included the Lieutenant the Hon.—”

“Her young man!” cried Erb distressedly. “Thought as much! This’ll be a fearful upset for her.”

He had some idea of going at once to Eaton Square, but this seemed of little use, and he had become so much accustomed to consulting Rosalind that he decided instead to go down to Southampton Street. Arrived there, he found commotion of such importance that this trouble concerning Lady Frances took a second place.

An ambulance stood inside the gate, near to the specimens of graveyard statuary, and on the steps of the house, a constable.

“Are you,” asks C 243, barring the way, “any relation to the deceased? By deceased,” explains the constable, giving additional information with great wariness, “he doesn’t, of course, mean deceased exactly, but nearly as good as that; he means old gentleman—white-haired old gentleman—that was knocked down by a cab in the Strand not half an hour ago, as he stooped down in the middle of the roadway to pick up a halfpenny he dropped. Happened just at the corner of Wellington Street, it did. Knew the old chap by sight. One of what C 243 ventures to call the regulars. See them every day between Bedford Street and Wellington Street. You don’t know their names, of course,” says constable argumentatively, “but, bless your soul, you know their faces so well that, when one of them drops out, it makes you feel as though you’ve lost a personal friend. Every one of them on the cadge, so C 243 understands, and apparently manage to live on by borrowing from each other. A rum life, if ever there was one; no two ways about that.”

“Is he still able to recognise—?”

“Old chap’s first words were ‘Not a hospital; take me home.’ Constable inquired where was home, and old chap managed to give the address. Whereupon constable, after deliberation with a colleague, decided to take four-wheeler and see old chap home as desired. Thought, perhaps, he was only a bit stunned. Or, perhaps, dazed. Instead of which, coming past the Obelisk, old chap suddenly lurched forward, and—”

The small servant came out and beckoned. The voice of Rosalind called gently.

“I am here,” replies Erb.

“Want you just one moment.”

A boy doctor who stood inside the room, endeavouring to wear a look of uncountable years, nodded curtly, and went to the foot of the sofa. On the sofa lay the Professor, with a rug thrown over him, the rug close up to his chin, one hand free, and travelling restlessly over the pattern.

“That bourne,” whispered the Professor, “from which no traveller— You are a good lad, and you will look after her.”

“If she’ll let me,” says Erb. “How are you feeling, sir, by this time?”

“Look after her better than I have done. See that when you arrive at my state, laddie, you—you can glance back on your life with content.”

Erb, with a kindly touch, pushed the Professor’s hair from his eyes, and the old man looked up gratefully. Erb touched his hand, and the hand gripped his as though with desire to attach itself to something reliable.

“I’m slipping,” said the Professor simply. He closed his eyes, and presently reopened them as with difficulty. “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. Give me the word, sir, give me the word. What in Heaven’s name,” with sudden indignation, “is the use of having a prompter if—”

Rosalind, keeping her tears back, came with the heavy volume, opening it quickly at the place where a ringletted youth in a steel engraving was addressing soldiers.

Erb discovering the lines with the aid of Rosalind’s finger, gave the cue. “For he to-day—” The old Professor goes on.

“‘For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my be-rother! be he ne’er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition, And gentlemen in England, And gentlemen in England.’ No use,” said the Professor weakly, “my study’s gone.”

“Don’t bother about it, sir.”

“Laddie,” said the Professor, “you—you think me a thriftless, miserable wastrel.”

“No, no,” answered Erb. “Not that exactly. But we’re none of us perfect.”

“I’ve reached me last hour, and the time has come for plain speech. I’ve been—” a smile dared to creep halfway across the Professor’s face. “I’ve been a fraud.”

“Father,” said Rosalind brokenly. “You’ve always been the dearest, dearest—”

The boy doctor, snatching the opportunity to whisper to Erb, who could not lose the Professor’s hand, said that he had administered a sleeping draught: if the Professor desired to say anything it would be better to allow him to speak without interruption.

“I have been a fraud,” repeated the Professor, with something of relish. “I have been a—’Neither a borrower or a lender be. For borrowing oft—’”

“You’ve always been welcome, sir.”

“I have been the most fraudulent of all frauds. There is a note in my desk to send to the ‘Era.’ I have often, in my salad days, advertised in the ‘Era.’ I think they will put it in.”

“I’ll pay them to, if necessary.”

The Professor gave a faint echo of a chuckle. “How they will talk about it in the Strand! I’d give the remainder of my life to hear them.”

The old, old mouth, twisted in the effort to display amusement, and remained twisted; one eyelid nearly closed. The boy doctor looked anxiously from the foot of the sofa: Rosalind knelt.

“You’re going to have a nice long sleep, sir,” said Erb, bending down. “And you’ll wake up a different man, bless you.”

“I shall wake up,” repeated the Professor slowly, “wake up a different man.”

Both eyelids closing now, he turned his white head a little towards the wall. Presently his grip of Erb’s hand relaxed, and Erb, disengaging himself, went with the others to the window, where the three spoke in an undertone, Erb holding Rosalind’s elbows supportingly. A slight groan from the sofa called the doctor.

“All over,” announced the boy doctor, with a desperate effort to assume the air of one used to making such announcements, and rendered callous by long centuries of habit. “I’ll let the Coroner’s officer know. Don’t mind my running off, do you? Fearfully busy, just now.”

The Professor’s words were counted as the mere wandering of speech, and dismissed from memory until, when the inquest was over, and some days later the journey to Honor Oak cemetery and back at an end, Erb took upon himself the duty of examining the locked drawers of the desk. Then it was found that tardily in his life, the Professor had hinted at truth, for books entitled Post Office Savings Bank were discovered there, and it was realised that this old spendthrift, this most careless member of a careless profession, had hoarded carefully throughout his life, engaging stray half-crowns, only to add them instantly to his store, and the five brown covered books announced that to his credit stood what seemed to Erb and to Rosalind the extravagant fortune of nearly four hundred pounds. A will, drawn up in commendable order, directed that all this was left to “my dear daughter Rosalind, and may she forgive her father for many shortcomings, and think of him if she can, with affection and regard.”

“This,” said Erb, when he had reckoned up the amounts on a slip of paper, “this is very satisfactory for you, but it makes all the difference to me.”

“It’s going to make no sort of difference whatever,” said Rosalind emphatically.

“Money matters always do.”

“Depends on the people who have the money. Money in itself doesn’t bring happiness, but it doesn’t follow that it destroys it. Your Lady Frances, for instance—”

“What makes you call her my Lady Frances?”

“She looks upon you as her property,” said Rosalind, turning away.

“If I hadn’t got such a stiff collar on I’d laugh,” declared Erb. “By the bye, I’m very glad to see by to-day’s papers that her sweetheart was on his way back before that nasty affair took place out near Tetuan; mysterious thing, rather. Been telegraphed for apparently, by somebody.”

“I know.”

“You saw about it in the paper?”

“No,” said Rosalind.

“Well, but how—”

“I sent the telegram,” she said quietly. “I thought it better he should be back here. I didn’t want her to get you.”

Erb took her hands. She tried to keep her lips from his, but she tried for a moment only.

“This simplifies matters,” he said. “I never could tell whether you liked me or not.”

“You never asked!”

“People will say I married you for your money,” he said half jokingly.

“And I shall know,” replied Rosalind, patting his face, “that you married me because—because you liked me.”

Seventeen

Silk hatted men were hurrying to and fro in the lobby, each with an air of bearing the responsibilities of the Empire on his shoulders; cards were being sent in by the attendants: a few country visitors stood about near to the statue of Mr. Gladstone waiting awkwardly for the arrival of their member. Swing-doors moved unceasingly: now and again two members would encounter each other and consult furtively with wrinkled foreheads, and visitors stood back from the round space at the centre with awe and respect, giving them room. Erb, in a morning coat and a necktie of such gaiety, that alone it betrayed the fact of his wedding-day, was an event not yet forgotten, strolled about, less appalled by the surroundings than most, so that provincials came to him now and again and made inquiries. Whenever he had been to the House before he had always felt wistful, and had looked through corridor to the inner lobby with anticipation; this evening the feeling was absent.

“Haven’t kept you waiting I hope, Barnes?” The white-haired Labour member bustling out was conspicuous by reason of his bowler hat. “Rather a lot of things to do one way and another. When you get here you’ll find—I can’t see him now,” answering a messenger. “Tell him I’m going down to Bermondsey to put something straight that has got crooked, and I shall not be back till ten. Tell him that!”

“Cab or ’bus?” inquired Erb, as they went down the broad steps.

“’Bus,” said the Labour member, promptly. “Somebody might see us if we took a hansom. You’ll find that you can’t be too careful. And there’s another thing, too. Flower in your coat, you know—”

With axiom and words of counsel, the white-haired member shortened the journey from Westminster to the rooms in Grange Road; Erb listening with a proper deference, and refraining from all but appropriate and well-chosen interruptions. The member appeared stimulated by the task before him, and Erb felt quite mature in remembering the time when he, too, would have found his blood run quicker at the prospect of argument. His companion hurried up the corkscrew staircase of the coffee-house, Erb following slowly, nodding to a few of the men who, with anxious expression of countenance stood about on the landing. He went into a room at the side, where he hoped to be alone. Spanswick, however, had seen him, and Spanswick, following in, took a wooden chair on the opposite side of the table. But Erb’s old van boy interposed, big with a message. The chief had sent him (said William Henry) to mention in confidence that, if Erb cared to come back to his former position—“Extraordinary thing,” said Erb, “how much the world wants you when you show that you don’t want the world. No answer, William Henry, only thanks.”

“I’ve been telling a lot of ’em,” said Spanswick, jerking his hand in the direction of the other room as the young diplomatist went, “that if they take my advice, Erb, they’ll ask you to come back.”

“I see!”

“I’ve pointed out to ’em that they’ve blundered all along. That matter of the cheque, for instance—it’s proved that it’s never been cashed and, therefore, as I say, the money could never have come into your pocket. On the top of that,” said Spanswick, with something like indignation, “they go and select a bounder like old Doubleday. Why I could see what the man was like from the very start. I took his measure the first time I came across him. A talkative, interfering, muddle-headed gas-bag—I told some of ’em that it was a wonder they got men to take the trouble to lead them at all.”

“It is a wonder!”

“And here they are now,” said Spanswick, rising to go and join in the deliberations of the next room, “here they are now down on their ’ands and knees without a single penny in the cash-box, worse off than they’ve ever been ever since the Society started, and not one amongst ’em capable of taking what you may call the reins of government in hand. It all comes,” concluded Spanswick, tapping at his nose with his forefinger, “it all comes through people not listening to the advice of the few of us,” here he struck his waistcoat impressively, “the few of us, either me and you, that know.”

Through the partition Erb could hear the voice of the Labour member. Impossible to distinguish the words, but clearly there was reproof in the tones at first; this gave place later to the quieter key of counsel. The men who had hitherto been silent began to applaud; fists struck the table with approval, and presently there came the sound of emphatic cheering that had often made Erb warm with pleasure.

“You’re wanted, old man,” said Payne, opening the door importantly. “Foller me into the next room, will you?”

The old scent of gas and cheap tobacco and corduroys. The old faces looking round as he entered, elbows resting on the table, some of the men with tumblers before them, others, wearing the stern look of sobriety, had been making notes of the speech to which they had just listened. Circular stains on the long wooden T-shaped tables; the impaled advertisements on the wall awry as though affected by the perfumes coming up from the bar downstairs. The dulled mirrors at the end reflected the room mistily with its frame protected eternally by tissue paper. The barman waiting for orders at the doorway gave Erb a tap of encouragement as he went in.

“Bravo! vo! vo! vo!” murmured the room.

“Order! order!” said the Chairman. “I call on our old and trusted friend—I forget his blessed name—from Paddington Parcels, at any rate, to address the meeting.”

The Paddington Parcels member cleared his throat and rose. He had been one of the first to go over, and this he frankly admitted. “Gives me all the more title,” said Paddington Parcels determinedly, “to undertake what I’m undertaking of now.”

Paddington Parcels handsomely offered to cut a long story short, and the room gave encouragement to this proposal, whereupon he proceeded to speak at intolerable length with ever, “Just one word and I’ve done,” and “Let me add a couple of words more,” and “Finally, I should like to remark,” and other phrases all suggesting an immediate finish, anticipation not justified by results.

Summarised, the argument was that the society had made a grievous blunder; that when a chap made a mistake he should apologise for it and set it right; that a society was like a chap, and should behave as a chap would, and that in the present deplorable state of the society there was only one thing they could do, namely, to ask Erb Barnes to let byegones be byegones, and to come back and resume the secretaryship. When, after many feints of sitting down, thus arousing the oratorical desires of those anxious to second the resolution, and always thinking of more words that retained him in a standing position, Paddington Parcels did unexpectedly resume his seat, there was great competition for the honour of speaking next, and twenty faces looked gloomy and disappointed when Payne was selected. Payne spoke briefly. Every society had its ups and downs: this society was just now all in the downs, as the song had it. But it was well worth while to have such an experience, if only to see his old chum, his good old chum Erb, righted in the eyes of everybody and restored to a position that he ought never to have quitted.

The Labour member begged leave (his tones intimating nothing of humility) to say a few words before this was put to the vote. The society had been compared to a man, but the society, as a society, was, so to speak, a mere child, and it had recently behaved in the impulsive wrong-headed manner of a child. That might be overlooked once; it would not be overlooked a second time. Mind that! Brains had been served out to one and all, but some hadn’t quite got their proper share with the result that others had more than the average supply, and if the man who had come out rather short in the matter had not sufficient sense, when in a position of difficulty, to ask advice from those fully equipped, why the men with the short supply would have to put up with the consequences of their own blundering. And there was another thing. The success of the labour movement as a whole depended on the loyalty of the men to those who were doing brain work on their behalf; let that loyalty once exhibit anything of doubt and the whole scheme, the whole business, the whole movement—the Labour member struck the wooden table emphatically at each variant of the phrase—the whole show would go to pot. All the same, he congratulated them on the wise decision at which they were about to arrive, and he strongly urged his friend Erb Barnes, “in consideration of certain prospective events,” said the white-haired member, lowering his voice mysteriously, “of which he is aware, but cannot at the present time be made public,” to accept good-temperedly the invitation of the men.

The men had kept silent whilst receiving criticism; at these last words they rose from the Windsor chairs and shouted approval. The shirt sleeved waiter went up and down the tables, culling empty glasses and making them into a bouquet. Erb went to the mantelpiece, and resting one hand there, spoke quietly. Every face turned in his direction. “I think,” said the Chairman importantly, “I think I may say carried per se—I mean nem. con.”

“I’m not going to occupy your time for long,” said Erb from the fireplace when the renewed cheering had ceased. “You’ll have other business to do—(No, no)—and, contrary to my usual practice I’m going to be very brief indeed. There have been times when you’ve heard me speak at a considerable length, and for all your kindness to me under those circumstances I give you my thanks. I shan’t ever trouble you again to that extent. A month or so ago you met here—you, just the same men that you are now—and you gave me the sack. You never gave me a chance of defending myself or explaining my actions; you just pushed me off.”

The room murmured an unintelligible protest.

“You just pushed me off. You jilted me. You broke off the engagement. Chaps, that broken engagement can’t be mended. We’re all constituted differently, I suppose, but I’m like this: if anybody’s faithful to me I should be glad of the opportunity of going through fire and water for them, if they’re not, then fire and water are things they can go through for themselves. I reckon I’ve been in love with this society for the last year, and I’ve been loyal to it; now I’m in love with somebody else.”

“Who?” demanded the room.

“I’m in love,” said Erb, turning to glance at himself contentedly in the clouded mirror, “in love with my wife.”

“In love with his wife!” said the members to each other amazedly.

“Some people possess a stock of enthusiasm that’s got no limits; mine all vanished, I find, directly you treated me unfairly. My friend who’s kindly come down from Westminster to talk to you knows that I’m giving up prospects that would tempt a good many; it’s only honest to tell you that those prospects, which a month since would have made my head swell, at this moment don’t allure me in the slightest degree. I think—I don’t know, mind—I think I’m seeing things clearer than I did. I thought all the right and all the justice and all the everything was on our side; I’ve come to see that, as a matter of fact, it’s about fairly divided. I’m going to take up a little business on my own account down in Wandsworth as a master carman, and I should be very glad, chaps, if you could manage to—to wish me luck. I’m going now. I’m going to leave you to go on with the business of appointing a secretary. There’s plenty of capable men in the world, and the opportunity always finds them. So I wish you every prosperity, and I wish we may always keep friends, because some day we might find ourselves shoulder to shoulder again. And I wish you—” Erb hesitated for a moment in order to steady his voice, “I wish you good-bye.”

The men crowded towards the doorway as Erb went in that direction.

“Come back to us, old man,” they cried. “We want you. Can’t you see that—”

On the opposite side of the roadway below, warmly jacketed in view of the coolness of an autumn evening, a pleasant figure walked to and fro. Regardless of the circumstances that faces looked down from the windows, Erb hurried across and kissed her.

Up the street they walked, arm-in-arm with each other, and arm-in-arm with happiness.

Table d’Hôte

Table d’Hôte was published in 1911 by Hodder and Stoughton

Change of government

“Boots!” he roared, for the second time. His wife, opening the kitchen door, looked in, and surveyed him.

“If I have to order you,” said Mr. Baynes, speaking with great distinctness, “to come and take off my boots again, I shall dock half a crown off your weekly allowance to-morrow.”

She did not answer.

“My best plan,” he went on, “will be to draw it all up in black and white, so that we can have a clear and proper understandin’ one with the other. We must have a proper system of fines, same as they do in every well-regulated business. Fetch the pen and ink and paper.”

“How would it be to fetch it for yourself?”

He stared at her amazedly. Searching his pockets, he found there a small memorandum-book and a short piece of pencil.

“I’m going to keep calm with you,” he said deliberately, “because, so far as I can see, you’ve taken leave, for the present, of your senses. You’ll be sorry for it when you come back to ’em. Now then, let’s make out a list. ‘For not answering when called, one shilling.’”

He wrote this carefully on a page, regarding it with satisfaction at the finish. “See what that means? That means, for every time you pretend to be deaf when I shout at you, you’ll be docked a bob at the end of the week.”

“I see.”

“Just as well you do,” remarked Baynes threateningly. “We will now proceed to the next item: ‘Food not cooked to W. B.’s satisfaction, one-and-six.’ How many t’s in ‘satisfaction’?”

“Many as you like.”

“Impudence,” he continued, writing as he spoke, “one-and-three. Wait a bit; I haven’t finished yet. ‘Clean collar not ready when required, sixpence.’”

“There won’t be anything left,” mentioned his wife, “if you put many more down.”

“Rests with you,” giving a careless gesture. “All you’ve got to do is to see that none of these rules are broken. I shall take the trouble presently of copying out the list, and you’ll do well to stick it up on the wall in some prominent position, so that you can be reminded of it several times in the course of the day.”

“And when any of my relatives look in they can see it too?”

“Reminds me,” he said, taking his pencil again. “‘Relations, two a month. All in excess of this number, fourpence per relation.’ Take the list and read it out to me, and then kneel down and take off my boots as I ordered you to do some considerable time ago.”

Mrs. Baynes accepted the list, inspected it; then tore the page into several pieces and threw these into the fireplace. In the pocket of an underskirt she found a purse, and from this brought four new banknotes.

“Have a good look at them, William,” she said. “You won’t get a chance of seeing them again. I’m just going along to the Post Office to put them away before it closes.”

“How—how did you come by them?”

“I’m not bound to answer you,” remarked Mrs. Baynes, “but perhaps I may as well. The money has come to me from poor Uncle Ernest, who popped off last month. He’s left a sim’lar amount to my two sisters.”

“You was his favourite,” said Baynes, “and if he’d got money to leave—and this is the first I’ve heard of it—he ought to have left it all to you. I must have a glance at his will and see whether we can’t dispute it.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind.”

“In any case,” he went on, “there is, I’m bound to admit, a very decent little nest-egg for us.”

“Not for us. For me,” corrected Mrs. Baynes. “It belongs to me and only to me. You haven’t anything to do with it.”

“I’ve heard,” he remarked, “of sudden riches affecting the brain, but this is the first time I’ve actually come across such an instance.” He bent and started to unlace his boots. “We’ll talk the matter over again later on. By the by,” relacing his boots, “there’s no reason why you should go out on a wet night like this and catch your death of cold. I’ll trot along to the Post Office for you. I’m more used to handling money than what you are.”

“That’s been the case hitherto,” she admitted, “but I must learn how to do it now. You stay here and enjoy your pipe, and when I come back I’ll tell you how you’ve got to behave to me in the future.”

“I suppose,” he inquired with some bitterness, “I’ve got your precious sisters to thank for all this?”

“No,” she answered, “poor Uncle Ernest.”

Baynes, on the following morning, before proceeding to work, denied himself the luxury of issuing commands to his wife from the front gate in a tone of voice that could be heard by neighbours; instead he blew a kiss in her direction and walked off, whistling in a thoughtful way. Later in the day he brought home the proportion of his weekly wage and placed it on the mantelpiece, announcing no deductions and giving no warning to make it last out. He tried to assist his wife in the performance of domestic duties, persisting in this until she begged him to go out into the park and give her a chance of finishing the work. On the next day he accompanied her to chapel in the evening, and borrowed threepence from her to put into the plate. Meeting two or three friends on the way back, he declined their invitations and went home with his wife, discussing the sermon and the singing. In response to her appeal he agreed to abstain on future occasions from joining in the hymns. The Sunday paper was still on the hat-stand, and on entering the house he asked whether she would mind if he had a look at it during supper, his general habit being to secure the journal and keep it for his own use throughout the day.

“This is very nice and comfortable,” he said, after the meal. “Somehow, that little legacy of yours, if you’ll pardon the expression, my dear, seems to me likely to prove a blessing in disguise.”

“No disguise about it.”

“You don’t quite follow me,” he remarked patiently. “What I mean is that it’s going to have bigger results than I at first anticipated. Of course, it’s a pity there isn’t more of it.”

“Seeing that I never expected nothing—”

“Quite so, quite so. Only that the Post Office pays such a trifling rate of interest.”

“The money’s safe there,” she interrupted, “that’s the great thing.”

“I should be the last to recommend anything that wasn’t perfectly and absolutely sound,” declared Baynes. “We’re on good terms with each other now, and your interests are my interests. We two are one, so to speak. Only that, getting about as I do, I keep my ears open—”

“Listeners never hear any good of themselves.”

“But sometimes they hear good about other matters. Two chaps were talking on the tramcar last week, and I was sitting just at the back. Jockeys from the look of ’em. They didn’t know I was taking in all they were saying, and they talked quite freely to each other, just as I might to you in this room. Vinolia was what they were chatting about.”

“Old Brown Windsor is as good as anything.”

“Vinolia, it appears,” he continued, “is being kept very dark, but the owner’s made an arrangement, so far as I could gather, for it to win the race it’s running in next week, and no one except those that are in the stable— Why, bless my soul, if this isn’t the rummiest coincidence I ever come across in all my born days. I’m talking to you about Vinolia, and here my eye lights on the very name. Thirty-three to one. Let’s see what it says about it. ‘Vinolia appears to stand no earthly chance, and we are at a loss to comprehend why the owner should take the trouble to run him.’”

“What does thirty-three to one mean, William?”

“Thirty-three to one means,” he explained, “that if you handed me your money and I placed it for you, and Vinolia came in first, you’d get thirty-three times the amount, together with your original money, back. But the risk is a jolly sight too great, and I recommend you, speaking as a friend, to have nothing whatever to do with it. Besides, with me, it’s a matter of principle. I object to gambling in toto. I look on gambling as one of the curses of the country. People win money at it, and it thor’ly demoralizes ’em. They bring off something successful that means they’ve cleared as much as they could earn by honest labour in six or seven weeks, perhaps more; consequence is that they get altogether unhinged. Upsets ’em. Knocks ’em off the main line. So my advice to you, old girl, is to put what I’ve been saying clean out of your head, and not trouble any further about it. After all, supposing you had thirty-three times as much as you’ve got at present, it doesn’t by any means follow you’d be thirty-three times as happy. That’s the way you’ve got to look at it!”

“But supposing—”

“My dear,” he said, putting down the newspaper, “we’ve been getting on particular well together this last forty-eight hours or so; don’t let us begin arguing and spoil it. I’ve been into the law of the matter, and I find I’ve got no right to touch your money in any way whatsoever, but it’s my positive duty to see that you don’t do anything silly and stupid with it.”

“It’s mine to do what I like with.”

“Let’s change the subject,” urged Baynes, “and have a nice talk over old times. When do you reckon it was you first felt drawn towards me?”

Mrs. Baynes brought downstairs an hour later her Post Office book, and announced that she had been giving five minutes of serious thought to the matter. Seemed to her that here was a chance of a lifetime, and to neglect it would only mean perpetual remorse. He pointed out once more the serious risks run by those who backed horses, and submitted a large number of objections. These she brushed aside. On asking how she proposed to set about backing Vinolia, it was admitted that here his help would be required. Baynes declared he intended to take no share or part in the undertaking.

“Very well, then,” she said, “I shall have to make inquiries and see about doing it myself.”

“Rather than you should be taken in by a set of rogues,” he conceded, “I’ll do as you wish. But, mind you, I’m acting in entire opposition to my better judgment!”

Baynes, back from work on the day of the race, found his wife waiting at the front gate, tapping at it impatiently; as he came within six houses of his home, he shook his head. She took up the hem of her apron, and with this to her eyes ran indoors. From the kitchen he roared a command to her to come down and leave off snivelling and make herself useful. Obtaining no reply, he took the trouble to go to the foot of the stairs and make the formal announcement that, unless she descended at once, he would break every bone in her body. She came, red-eyed, and, kneeling, unlaced his boots.

“You can’t say I didn’t warn you,” he remarked sternly. “Every word I uttered has proved to be true. All your money gone, and your poor Uncle Ernest, if he’s looking down, or up, as the case may be, must feel sorry—”

“Don’t, William, don’t!”

“Oh, but I’m going to tell you the truth,” he said with determination. “I’m not the man to mince my words. You get no sympathy out of me. There’s only yourself to blame, and you’ve got to recognise the fact. I’m not going to have you going about saying that you was recommended to back the horse by other people. What you did, you did with your eyes open.”

“Where did it come in?”

“Don’t interrupt me,” shouted Baynes, “when I’m talking! Been and lost the thread of my argument now. Besides, what does it matter where it came in? You asked me to back the horse to win; there was nothing said about backing it for a place. As I told you, I couldn’t get thirty-three to one; but I did, after a lot of trouble, manage to put your money on at twenty-five. I’ve behaved straightforward throughout the entire business, and, now it’s over, all I ask is that nothing more shall be said about it. I’m sick and tired of the whole affair. Perhaps another time you’ll listen to me when I give you good advice.”

“I shall never back a horse again,” she declared tearfully.

“You’ll never get the chance. Take the jug, and hurry off, and mind you’re back here sharp. I shall give you five minutes; if you’re a second later, there’ll be a fine of sixpence. That’s an item to be added to the list. ‘Loitering and gossiping when sent on errands, six d.’ Go!” he ordered, placing his watch on the table.

He was pinning the sheet of notepaper to the wall at the side of the looking-glass when his wife returned. Glancing at the watch, he waited grimly for her explanation.

“Had to wait,” she said, “and find a boy selling evening newspapers.”

“And what might you want, pray, with evening newspapers? Furthermore, where’s the jug?”

“If you want beer, fetch it!” she replied. “That was a good joke of yours about the horse, but you’d better not let me catch you being quite so funny again. It upset me, and I don’t like being upset.”

He snatched the journal from her. She compelled him to give it back and to take it properly. In the stop-press space he read out: “Vinolia, one; Gay Lothario, two; Messenger Boy, three.”

Baynes stood gazing at the fire, making the clicking noises with his tongue which folk adopt when, in disconcerting circumstances, speech fails.

“I’ve been figuring it out in my head,” she went on, “but I can’t make it come twice alike. Tear down that bit of paper and sit yourself there and reckon it up for me. Twenty-five times—”

“I can’t do it. I can’t do it.”

“Don’t you start being stupid,” commanded Mrs. Baynes. “Do as I tell you.”

Baynes had written the figures, and was about to enter on the task of multiplication, with one hand gripping the top of his head, when he suddenly threw away the pencil.

“My dear,” he said, “I want you to be so kind as to listen to me, and I must ask you not to be madder than you can possibly help. I admit the case is somewhat trying; but you have to remember that we all have our cross to bear. I never backed that horse!”

A pause of some moments in length.

“You mean,” said his wife slowly, “to look me in the face and to tell me that, after what you overheard on the tramcar—”

“I never overheard nothing of the kind on the tramcar.”

“Perhaps, William, you’ll kindly tell me what horse you did put the money on?”

“I never,” he answered, “put no money on any horse whatsoever.”

“Then where is the money?”

“In the inside pocket of the jacket I’m wearing at the present moment,” he said sulkily.

“But what did you intend to do with it?”

“Hadn’t quite made up my mind about that. Idea was to prevent you from lording it over me. You see, my dear, I’d got accustomed to being master, and the sudden change was a bit trying. And in picking out what I thought was the unlikeliest gee-gee, I acted from the purest of motives, and for what I reckoned the best for all parties concerned. If I made a mistake, I’m sorry for it.”

“Do you realise, William, that if you’d obeyed my orders we should have been in a position to buy a nice little house of our own here in Old Ford, and never had to pay a week’s rent again? Do you understand how much you owe me? Do you comprehend—”

“My dear,” he appealed, putting his hands together, “let me off as light as you can. I won’t go lording it about the place any more. In future, I’ll only lord it over myself.”

The target

The woman stepped on so many toes in making her way to the far end that the passengers were only willing to give partial forgiveness when, as the motor-omnibus started, she gave a violent jerk.

“First time I’ve ever been in one of these new-fangled contrivances.”

“It’ll be the last, if you ain’t careful,” said the conductor, punching a penny ticket.

“But I made up my mind to do it,” addressing the others. “Down in the country where I live, they’ve been throwing it up agenst me for some time past. And so I determined, next time I come up to see my sister, I’d take a trip by one of them, jest in order to see what happened, and—here I are.”

A youth next to her, with a girl companion, mentioned that it was a pity they so often exploded, and blew up in the air; the girl jerked with her elbow and begged him not to make her laugh in public.

“You think there’s any likelihood?” asked the country lady tremulously. “I don’t want to get mixed up in no fatal accident, and see my name in the London papers. Shan’t never hear the end of it if that happens. Do they make any warning before they go off pop?”

The passengers gave up all attempt to read, and offered her their complete attention. “So painful for friends,” said a woman opposite, winking at the rest. “Understand what I mean. Having to come and sort out the bits, and say, ‘That looks like Uncle James’s ear; if I could only find the other one, I should be able to start piecing him together.’ You see, they don’t allow compensation unless you can produce the complete individual.”

“That don’t seem exactly fair.”

“It isn’t fair,” agreed the humorous woman. “But there’s lots of things like that here in London. For instance, if the inspector came in now, and found you sitting up in the first-class part of the car, he’d want to charge you excess.”

“In that case,” she said affrightedly, taking a grip of her parcel, “I’d better move down nearer towards the door.”

They made room for her in the newly selected position; the folk there not disguising their satisfaction with the change. The string of the parcel came undone, and they assisted her in recovering the contents. “Giving everybody a lot of trouble,” she remarked penitently; “and that ain’t my usual plan, not by no manner of means. Can I temp’ you with a apple, sir? I don’t know you, and I hope you’ll excuse what looks like a liberty, but if you’re a judge of a Ribston pippin, you’ll enjoy that one.”

“I recollect,” said the man, “what ’appened in the Garden of Eden.”

“That were before my time,” she said, putting it back into her pocket. “But I always like to reward kindness wherever I come across it. And I must say you London folk are partic’lar nice to strangers. Nothing you won’t do for them. When I get back home, I shall tell my neighbours how pleasant you’ve been to me. What’s that building supposed to be, may I ask?” Pointing through the window at Bayswater Road.

“That,” answered the man, “is a monument put up to Julius Cæsar. The chap, you know, who was in the Battle of Trafalgar.”

“I remember. At least, I say I remember; but that’s a lie. I recollect reading about it when I was at school. And isn’t this a nice open part here, too! Trees, and goodness knows what all!”

“Richmon’ Park,” explained her informant readily. “That’s the proper name of it.”

“Thought that was situated a long way out.”

“It’s been moved.”

“Ah, well,” she said resignedly, “I find the best plan in London is to take everything as it comes. What I’ve always been hoping— But there, it’s no use talking about what isn’t likely to happen.” They pressed for details. “It would be too much like luck for it to occur to me. But what I’ve always wished for was that I might catch sight, just for once in my life, of the new King and Queen—”

Two passengers called her attention eagerly to a couple walking along by the railings, arm-in-arm; gave a fervid assurance.

“Well, well, well!” fanning herself with an ungloved hand. “To think of him strolling along with a pipe in his mouth, for all the world like an ordinary individual! And not over-dressed neither. That’s something more for me to tell ’em when I get home. Wouldn’t have missed the sight for anything. But I were always under the impression that he was a gentleman with a beard.”

“Shaves it off, just about this time, every year.”

“I see,” she remarked contentedly. “More for the sake of change, I suppose, than anything. Talking of that, I suppose there’s nobody here could oblige me with silver for a sovereign?”

Out of sheer gratitude to an admirable target, they found the coins she required, and in giving her thanks she mentioned that the sooner now that she reached Notting Hill the better she would be pleased. They seemed to have a desire to conceal the truth, but the conductor happened to overhear the statement; he rang the bell sharply and informed her she was going in the wrong direction. She asked him to explain, pointing out that his conveyance certainly bore the words Notting Hill, and suggesting that he was possibly making a mistake; the delay to the motor-omnibus induced her fellow-travellers to declare that the conductor was telling the truth, and she bade them separately and collectively goodbye, expressing a hope that she might be so fortunate as to meet them again on some future visit to town.

“And which way do I go now, young man?”

“You get off the step,” replied the irritated conductor. “You cross the roadway. You take a ’bus going West.”

“Which do you call West?”

The motor-omnibus restarted. Passengers gazed amusedly at her, craning necks in the hope of witnessing one more diverting incident; as she vanished they became quite friendly, wondering whether she would ever reach her destination, and speaking of the simplicity and foolishness of country folk.

“What do you make of this sovereign, conductor?”

The conductor, testing it with the aid of his teeth, announced he was able to make nothing of it; he doubted whether the owner would succeed. Alarmed, the rest of the passengers searched muffs and pockets; three purses were missing, and some articles of less value. Frantic inquiries for the nearest police-station. A man who had lost nothing said he suspected the country lady all along.

“What we ought to be uncommon thankful for,” said the conductor, stopping near Edgware Road, “is that she didn’t pinch the blooming ’bus!”

Moving pictures

“I should never have come to you,” he said, making a furious dash under his signature, “only that I’ve been rather annoyed and upset.”

“She was clearly in the wrong, I suppose?”

“Absolutely!” he declared, with emphasis. “It’s made me feel that I want to get away for a time from everything and everybody. And yours is the only establishment of its kind. Cheque’s all right, I hope?”

“I hope so, too,” said the voice. And called out, “Pass one!” A curtain pulled aside and the young man, his chin out determinedly, moved. “Take the four slips, please. You’ll have to fill them in.”

A reading candlestick with a reflector stood in the corner of the dark room, which had a faint scent of burnt hay, and he went across to it carefully, but not so carefully as to escape collision, in which a hassock appeared to be the less injured party. An extended easy-chair permitted itself to be seen within reach of the shaded light, and he sat upon this and read the instructions printed at the head of slip Number One. “Please Write Distinctly” prefaced the three or four precise and dogmatically worded rules. He took a pencil, wrote out his desire, and settled back in the long chair. A hand presented to him a pipe that looked a ruler, and he took two short whiffs.

His feeling of accumulated annoyance vanished on realising the instant result. Here he was, in the very centre of the old-fashioned winter he had ordered, stamping up and down in the snow that powdered the courtyard; through the archway he identified the main thoroughfare as Holborn. A cheerful cloud and an agreeable scent of coffee came from the doorway, and through the doorway came also at intervals apprehensive travellers, who gave a look of relief on discovering that the stage coach had not set off without them. Ostlers brought sturdy horses from the stables, horses that seemed anxious to do right, but somehow failed at every point to conciliate the men, who on their side did not attempt to hide opinions. The youth advanced across the cobble-stones and inquired at what hour the stage coach was supposed to start; the ostler gave an answer almost identical in terms with the fierce denunciation used to the animals. The coarseness staggered him until he remembered the year, and the absence of education in the lives of the class to which the ostler belonged. He turned to speak to the driver.

“Not what I call cold,” answered the driver, snatching a piece of straw from a truss and starting to chew it. “Remember January in ’27?”

“Can’t say I do.”

“That was a teaser,” said the coachman. He gave four slaps to each shoulder. “Snowed up jest afore we got to Reading. No chance of escape. Not a bit of food after the third day. Fortunately, the guard was a plumpish man; Tom Bates his name was; the chap who’s with us to-day is thin, I’m sorry to say. Bates’s widow took it very well, considerin’ how onreasonable some women are. Course, the passengers made a collection for her. Tottled up poor Tom, they did, and paid for him at the rate of eightpence a pound. As she very properly remarked, it isn’t every widow that can say of her late husband that he was worth his weight in copper.”

The young man offered his cigar-case, and the driver, with a dexterous scoop, took the whole of the contents and dropped them into one of his enormous pockets.

“It’s the outside passengers that suffer most,” the driver went on. “You recollect that case of a gen’leman on the box-seat a year ago this very day? Don’t say you never ’eerd tell of him! He belonged to a banking firm in Lombard Street, and he started, just as you might, from this very spot, cheerful and warm and as pleased with himself as anybody could wish to be. Talked a bit at first, but before we were ten miles out he had left off, and when we got twenty miles out I gave him a jerk with the butt end of my whip like this, and— What do you think?”

“I should imagine that he resented the impertinence.”

“He might have done all that you say,” remarked the driver, slapping one of the horses, “only he was froze. Froze stiff.”

“Bless my soul!” cried the young man. “What a shocking end!”

“That wasn’t the end, bless you. Tried all we knew to bring back his circulation, but nothing seemed any use, and it wasn’t until we got to a oast-house and got the hop-driers to put him in the oven—”

“Hops in December?”

“It was a late year,” said the driver calmly. “Everything were behindhand. But what I was going to say was this. You’ve got a box-seat. There’s a gen’leman in there drinking his second cup, with something in it, and he’s a good-natured chap, and he’s willing to change his inside seat for yours. Say the word, and it’s done!”

The youth congratulated himself upon his acuteness in seeing through the device, but later, when he ducked his head on the stage coach going through the archway and adjusting his muffler, made a polite reference to the weather and its possibilities, the driver, who was smoking one of the cigars, responded only with a grunt. He tried again as they took a corner rather narrowly, and this time the driver made no response of any kind. Later, when a hackney coach called out something derisive, he ventured to suggest a retort, and then the driver hinted plainly that he was not in the mood for conversation, that if he should change his views he would make intimation of the circumstance; in the meantime the young man had better talk quietly to himself, or address his remarks to one of the other passengers. The youth, giving up with regret the impression that all stagecoach drivers were communicative, cheery, and dispensers of merry anecdotes, turned to a fellow-traveller seated behind.

“Seasonable weather.”

“What you say?”

“I said,” mentioned the young man deferentially, “it was seasonable weather.”

“When?” asked the passenger behind.

“Now. At the present time. I mean that, whether you agree with me or not, the weather to-day is weather that—”

“Do you know what you do mean?”

“I know what I’m driving at,” he asserted, becoming somewhat nettled; “but apparently I don’t make sufficient allowance for lack of intelligence on your part.”

“If it didn’t mean taking my hands out of my pocket,” said the passenger behind, “I’d knock your head clean off your shoulders. That’s what I’d do to you. Clean off your shoulders!”

They pulled up at a roadside inn, and the young man, thoughtful and slightly moody after these rebuffs, brightened as he swung himself down with assistance from the axle and, stamping to and fro, endeavoured to restore circulation. Two ladies, one old and one young, stepped from the interior of the coach and looked around distractedly. He went forward and asked whether he could be of any service.

“Lunch?” he echoed. “Why, of course! I declare I had nearly forgotten lunch. Pray follow me. The others have preceded us, but doubtless—”

“We are greatly indebted to you, sir,” declared the elder lady. “My niece is unused to any but the most delicate refinements of life, and it is on her account rather than my own that I ventured to appeal to you.”

“I could wish for no greater honour,” he said, bowing, “than to render assistance to beauty.” The girl blushed, and looked very properly at the ground.

“We had a most objectionable travelling companion, so different from the class my niece and myself mix with. Her grandfather, you will be interested, perhaps, to hear, was no less a person than—”

“Aunt, dear?”

“Yes, my love.”

“Food!”

In the largest room (which seemed too small for its sudden rush of custom) male passengers were feeding themselves noisily and screaming, with mouths full, to the dazed serving-maids and to the apoplectic landlady; they gave a casual glance at the two ladies and their escort, and made no effort to give space at the one table. The young man appealed; they jerked him off impatiently. One continued an anecdote after the interruption.

“If there are any gentlemen present,” said the youth, in a loud voice, “will they be so good as to note that here are two ladies, desirous of obtaining some refreshment before proceeding on the journey.”

There was a pause, and the sulky passenger who had travelled in the second seat looked up from his tankard, which he had nearly finished.

“Did you say ‘if’?”

“That was the first word of my remark, sir.”

“Then here’s my answer to you!”

The ladies shrieked and fainted. The youth, wiping from his face the contents of the sulky man’s tankard, demanded whether any one possessed a brace of pistols. Willing hands pressed forward, showing an eagerness to assist that had hitherto been absent. As the serving-maids brought burnt feathers to the two lady passengers, he strode out to a snow-covered field at the back, the conductor in attendance, the rest tossing coins on the way to decide who should have the honour of supporting the sulky man. The coachman, restored to cheerfulness, paced the ground with laborious exactitude.

“Are you ready, gentlemen? Then at the word ‘Three.’ One, two—”

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!”

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!”

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.

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.”

The shop is doing very well, and when you happen to pass that way, you might step in and buy something. You will find Harriet at the counter serving goods of excellent quality at current prices; in the evening her husband is also there. Glancing through the windowed door of the shop parlour, you may catch sight of ex-Inspector Richards, looking after the baby.

The usurper

He told some friends whom he caught up on the way that his was a position of pretty middling tidy responsibility, and when he spoke more freely on the topic they gave a whistle which conveyed an amount of astonishment that proved gratifying. The lad explained to each in turn that his mother was an uncommonly good manager, able to make a penny go as far as some could use a shilling; each made the identical reply before selecting a turning on the right of Kingsland Road, that it must nevertheless be a close fit, and added, “Stick to it, old man; wish you better luck,” with all the solemnity and earnestness of boys who have but recently started work. One or two acquaintances shouted to him from the tops of electric trams, flying Stamford Hill way, indicating by signs the existence of a vacant seat; he shook his head and marched on. Three girls, making their way home by a series of spasmodic rushes, with at intervals hysterical appeals to each other not to act the silly (being, in fact, so delighted at release from work that they scarcely knew how to make proclamation of their happiness)—these snatched at his cap and, a few yards off, threw it back to him, taking at once to their heels, and later becoming extremely indignant because he had not respected the rules of the game by chasing them and administering punishment in the shape of a blow on the shoulder. Their annoyance at his reticent manner was so great that they presently waited, demanding of him when he arrived whether he thought himself everybody. Failing to obtain an answer, they furnished estimates on their own account, asserting (by happy choice of words) that he was deaf, dumb, or dotty; he did not trouble to contradict, and they gave him up. Nearing home, he increased his frown of importance.

“’Ullo, Tommy!”

“‘Thomas,’ if you please,” he said, bending to kiss the child; “and don’t let me catch you again swinging on this gate. You’ll have the whole row of palings down, that’s what you’ll be doing. Big, clumsy girl like you.”

The youngster, gratified by this compliment, took his hand, and led him to the front door, where she cried “Mother!” with a strong accent on the second syllable; on gaining a reply of “Now begin your nonsense again,” she announced the arrival. The boy hung his cap behind the door, and threw himself into an easy chair.

“No,” he answered, with an exhausted air, “I can’t play games with you this evening. Yes, yes, I know I used to; but them times are all past and gone. You’re too young to understand, my girl, and it’s as well you are, but life’s a serious matter. Tell me, how’ve you been getting on at school to-day?”

“Teacher give me a rap over the knuckles.”

“I don’t like that.”

“I didn’t like it, neither.”

“What I mean is,” he went on, “that a little girl like you ought to do her best to learn all she can whilst she’s got the opportunities. If you don’t, why, later on, when it’s too late, you’ll be sorry. In the meantime, you want to do all you can to pick up everything at school, and not give your teachers opportunity for being cross with you in any shape or form whatsoever. You hear what I’m telling you. What’s mother singing for?”

“Put this top somewhere,” suggested the child, “whilst I turn my face to the wall—I won’t look, truth and honour—and then you tell me when I’m getting warm and when I’m getting cold.”

“Let’s hear you spell it!”

The little person, found guilty of spelling top with two p’s, not only had to accept a severe reprimand, but was called upon to spell pot, and pop, and one or two other words; when she had gone through the examination the boy agreed to conceal the article, and she set about with great enthusiasm on the task of finding it, but the game was so frequently interfered with by his admonitions concerning present behaviour, by warnings regarding future conduct, that she did not hide her satisfaction when the mother brought in his tea. The child was allowed to stand by and receive the top of the egg.

“Yes,” admitted the mother, in answer to his challenge, “I am in rather good spirits. Would you like a second cup, Tommy, or another slice of bread and butter? You’ve only to say the word.”

“These are not times,” he decided, “for a man to make a hog of himself. You must arrange for the money to last as long as it possibly can, mother. Watch every penny. Don’t let there be nothing in the shape of waste.”

“I managed, my dear,” she retorted, with spirit, “when your father was in work, and earning 35s. a week, and I’ve somehow managed during the last six weeks on your money alone. It’s took a bit of doing,” she sighed, “but I’ve done it.”

“Set down and rest for a moment,” recommended the boy. “Expect you’re like me—you’ve had a hard day of it.”

The little girl was expelled from the room for the reason that her mother, in sitting, found the concealed wooden top. The two were left to converse together; the boy found a crumpled cigarette in his pocket, and his mother, hunting for matches, sang the first lines of a song that belonged to her early youth.

“I’ve got no objection,” he said, speaking with deliberation, between the puffs, “to you being light-’earted, but I hope you realise, mother, that I’m having to stint myself pretty considerably in order that you should make both ends meet.”

“You’re a good lad,” she agreed, “as lads go nowadays!”

“I deny myself several luxuries, such as the first ’ouse at the local Empire, something extra for lunch, a new necktie for Sundays. This fag that I’m smoking at the present moment was given to me. I bring ’ome every penny I earn, and if I ’appen by any chance to make a bit extra, why, I bring that ’ome as well. I don’t begrudge it in the least; shouldn’t like you to think that of me, mother; all I want you to do is to recognise it. And if you care to mention the fact to neighbours, or friends, or even to relatives, why, there’s no objection on my part.”

“I’ve never made no secret of it, my dear,” she declared, reassuringly. “Your Aunt Mary was in only this afternoon, and you know what an inquisitive one she is. She brings a small pot of jam, and always expects about a ton of information in exchange. Wanted to know how I managed, and whether we was running into debt, and how long it was likely to last, and I don’t know what all. I didn’t tell her everything, but I did mention that if it hadn’t been for you I don’t know where we should have found ourselves.”

“And what did she say?”

“Said I ought to be proud of you. Said she wished she had a son like you.” He nodded approvingly, and continued to listen. “Said that, considering you only left school seven months ago—”

“Eight months.”

“—you might reckon yourself a credit to the family.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s all she said about you.”

He stretched himself, enjoying luxuriously the end of his cigarette.

“But,” going on with relish, “I was able to take her down a peg before she went. Never said nothing about it until just as she was going, and then I told her, what I’m now going to tell you, my dear, and that is this: your father’s been taken back by his old firm, and he started earning good money this very day. Wherever are you off to in such a hurry?”

The boy snatched his cap from the wooden peg. He strode out by the front door, and walked away towards Dalston Junction, frowning.

Jules Zwinger

The probability is that, if you arrive by train and see first the Restaurant of the Station, you will stay at Zwinger’s; if you come into the town by road, crossing the bridge that spans the harbour, and see first the Restaurant of Zwinger, you will put up at the Restaurant of the Station.

Assuming that you stay at Zwinger’s, this is what happens. The carrier of your bag (who looks like a fisherman, and walks as a fisherman, but is not a fisherman) throws it down outside the restaurant, and, sinking on one of the green iron chairs, groans aloud a protest against the scheme by which one has to work ere one can gain five pence; he rolls a cigarette of black tobacco, and strikes a match which makes other customers choke and cough. Then comes, leisurely, one of the Misses Zwinger, accepting salutations with the austere air of a lady bored by deference. Miss Zwinger, without asking the desires or wishes of the new arrival, engages in swift and shrill altercation with a dog, hitherto inoffensive, and occupied with the duties of explorer at the kerb; the dog goes, but, at a safe distance, expresses an opinion by four sharp barks, that bring from every corner of the triangular market-place, and especially from the Town Hall at the base, several dogs, to whom he explains the grievance.

“You require?”

Miss Zwinger calls her sister from the sanded floor interior to help with the task of fending off an insurgent boarder. The restaurant is full; you may be able to engage a furnished room opposite; why not go to the hotel out in the forest? It is preferred, at this season, to take only those who wish to stay for a month; would a double-bedded room suit? Finally, having finished the duet, they leave, with a twirl of skirts, giving the centre of the stage, so to speak, to a short, grim, black-capped man who, hands deep in trousers pockets, talks as one giving an imitation of distant thunder. Outside clients rise from their chairs, inside customers put down ribald journals with pictures intended to be amusing, and stroll out to enjoy themselves. Here comes the final test of the novice.

I have seen young couples, husbands and wives, or brothers and sisters, come from the narrow lane and, recognising Zwinger’s, say instantly:

“Oh, my goodness! This will never do!”

Others (and these especially when ladies have been of the party) retire after the contest with the Misses Zwinger. Some, enduring this encounter, turn and run, trembling and affrighted, on being faced by the uncompromising host himself. A few (mostly artists) survive all of the dangers, and are grudgingly permitted to carry their bags up a narrow wooden staircase, and find a room, the number of which has been screamed at them: in the room they discover a milk jug nearly half-full of water, and a small damp piece of linen riding on the clothes-horse. Apart from these defects, I will say that Zwinger’s, once conquered, gives in, so far as bedroom and meals are concerned, with a fairly good grace.

Dinner in the large room at the back (entrance gained by way of the kitchen) is a good, sufficient meal, to which it is only necessary to bring the appetite to be gained by wandering in the woods, or a brisk ride in tramcars from the sea. Framed paintings on the wall, and paintings on the wall with no frames, some a trifle obscured by age, and possessing the signatures of men no longer youthful. Four tables up and down the room; the table on the right reserved for a set of young women who, at the beginning of the evening meal, talk so persistently of the contributions they have made during the day to the art of England and America, that one’s French neighbour, with serviette tucked in at throat, can, I fear, scarcely hear himself eat his soup.

“Most awfully pleased with what I’ve done to-day. If the light hadn’t begun to go off—”

“I’m like that, too. Sometimes I simply can’t do anything, and then, another time—”

“My dear, the model was too comic for words. Talking all the time. If I’d only understood what he was saying, I could write a book about him, and that’s a fact!”

“Absolutely in love with the place. Could stay here for a whole week, only I must be getting along.”

The serving of the meal has a touch of over-emphasis that sometimes startles those who possess nerves; after a while, one becomes accustomed to the method of banging each dish on the table with a clatter. It is no exaggeration, but the mere truth to say that, a request being made for more bread, a chunk is cut from the yard-long loaves and thrown at the diner; with practice, a certain dexterity can be gained, especially by those expert in the cricket-field. Five courses to the meal, and now and again between two, a considerable interval, whilst the Zwinger family and its dependents have a row in the kitchen, the guests sitting back patiently until the last word is uttered. The nice question of allotting this last word is not easy to decide, for when the rumbling bass of Zwinger has fired what appears to be a parting shot, and the girls return to the dining-room with plates, and guests pull chairs forward, one of the young women may think of another argument, and the two go back to the kitchen, where the dispute recommences. The quarrel finally at an end, the Zwinger ladies come in, scarlet as a result of animated discussion, and they serve the next course with more than usual truculence. Boarders go outside to take their coffee and to smoke, eyed narrowly, as they pass through, by Zwinger, to be joined at tables on the pavement by wonderful youths in corduroy suits, which suggest that they are either artists with a definite aim in life, or porters belonging to the railway of the North.

You can always tell at Zwinger’s a new arrival by the circumstance that, after taking some thought in regard to the arrangement and wording of the phrase, he advances to the counter, where Zwinger scowls in a manner that excuses the acidity of contents of some of the bottles ranged there.

“It makes good weather,” remarks the new arrival, cheerily.

Zwinger replies with an ejaculated grunt.

“Many of the world here?”

Zwinger—a most difficult speaker to report with accuracy—says something like “S-s-t!”

“If you will have the kindness to give me a good cigar.”

Zwinger pushes a box forward, and the perplexed new arrival, tempted, I am sure, to fall back on Ollendorf, and to ask for the new inkstand of his great-uncle, refrains from further speech, and tempts the fates by making selection from the compartment marked 15 c. Outside he, on explaining his grievance, ascertains that there is no need to feel specially dishonoured by the gruffness accorded to him. Zwinger must not be considered with the eye that one gives to, say, the manager of the Carlton away in London. Zwinger (declare the hopeful) may be right enough once you get to know him. Zwinger (admit the candid) is certainly trying, but you have to put up with something in coming to a quiet place of this kind. The tramcars clang, and hoot, and screw across the market-place, and provide a more pleasing subject for conversation.

Disappearance of the curfew bell might have been coincident with the entry of Zwinger into public life. At a quarter past ten, he shows signs of restlessness, jerking commands to the long man-servant, keeping at the doorway a keen eye on the round tables. As each becomes free, Zwinger orders it, with its chairs, to be taken inside, and, although he permits himself to exhibit no signs of gratification, I am certain he feels secretly pleased when small parties of young men come across, and, finding no place, give up their original intention. If they endeavour to pass through the doorway, Zwinger, taking no notice of them, remains there so stolidly that they are compelled to take notice of him. I have seen him snatch newspapers from the hands of those who appeared disinclined to observe the face of the clock: I have observed him give a hint to an occupied chair by kicking it. He turns down the lights, one by one. In desperate cases, where a couple of young Englishmen, with the conventional ideas of the licence enjoyed at restaurants abroad, fill a fresh pipe, I have seen him take a broom, and, with a few resolute strokes, send them choking and half-blinded from the restaurant. When a late-stayer, with an idea of making a good and amiable exit, says, in departing, “Good-night to the company!” Zwinger responds with one of those grunts not to be found in any French or English dictionary. Every one gone, he takes a black cigar from the case, orders the girls to go to bed, and, at the doorway, stands a good half-hour in order to enjoy the satisfaction of saying, when any one arrives, “Closed!”

Bad luck for any resident who returns so late that Zwinger has retired to rest. For him, the restaurant presents no light, and, if he cares to be well-advised, he will give up the attempt at once and spend the hours on the bridge, smelling the tide, and watching the flashlight that sweeps round from a point on the coast. Should he prove obstinate, and persist in knocking, he is engaged on a lengthy sport; the worst thing that can happen is that Zwinger himself, and not the long man-servant, should come down presently to give admission. Cheerful blades have, ere this, on the door being opened, tried to meet Zwinger with a pleasantry, affecting to have brought the milk, or giving an imitation of the crowing of a cock, but a look from Zwinger arrests. Others, less daring and more diplomatic, rush past, snatch their candlestick from the counter, and vanish with the celerity easy to those possessed by sudden fear; the next morning they go out by the side door, take a roundabout route to gain the other side of the market-place, cross the bridge, and hide in the forest. There is a report (which some credit, but I do not) of one young man, leaving after a stay of six weeks, during which time the proprietor exchanged no word with him; in going, he suddenly dropped his kit bag, seized Zwinger by the hand, wrung the hand with enthusiasm for the space of nearly a minute, thanking the astonished Zwinger the while for great amiability and kindness, and genial behaviour; expressing a fervent hope that Zwinger, when visiting Chelsea, would not fail to call at the Art Club in Church Street. The statement is that this was done for a bet. Those who assume it to be true are forced to admit that France, with all its stirring history, has rarely seen a braver act.

Yet I, who write these words, have seen the proprietor for one whole day change his outlook, reverse his manner, alter his deportment. The day came rather late in the season, and nearly every one had left, but corroborative evidence can be called if necessary. The night before, a hint, broad without being deep, was given by the Misses Zwinger to the effect that no guarantee existed that meals would be provided on the day: they pointed out the example which would be adopted by some other boarders, of catching the 10.23 in the morning to a neighbouring town, returning in the evening by the 9.48. Throughout the night, from half-past ten until an hour I am unable to fix, the noise of sawing, the thud of hammer and nails, went on in the restaurant, with all the usual arguments that arise when carpentry has to be done. Clatter and contention, bustle and loud voices; Zwinger, himself, growling now and again to express dissatisfaction with everything. I remember that, by the device of making sympathetic inquiries after rheumatism, it was possible in the morning to get from cook a roll and a cup of coffee, and to escape from the din, which had recommenced, through the convenient side door, and jump on the last carriage of a tram-train that went out to the sea. At one o’clock, the return.

A crowd outside Zwinger’s. A crowd made up of frock-coated men, with red ribbon in buttonhole; men in full evening dress, silk hats (some of which appeared, from their shapes, to be the results of investments in the ’eighties), a few bowler hats coming well down to the ears; boots, in certain instances, shining and pointed, in others more substantial, with dust collected from high-roads. Much lifting of these silk hats and these bowlers, with extraordinary deference on the part of many, beaming condescension on the part of the rest; an evident desire with the prosperous to set the remainder at their ease. Inside the restaurant, long tables set on trestles, that accounted for the turbulent proceedings which had broken the night, flowers in every spare mug, vase, or glass: flags dependent from the ceiling; the Misses Zwinger, costumed as though about to run on in musical comedy. Through the kitchen came, pulling his white tie, and pushing in one side of a shirt-front that immediately bulged out on the other side, Zwinger himself. A new Zwinger, a Zwinger I had never seen before, a smile in every crease of his features, saluting me with a light, friendly touch on the shoulder.

“What magnificent weather! Ah, how fortunate we are! Monsieur will do us the honour to sit down with us? But yes. I count upon you! Marie, Jeannette!”

He gave sprightly orders to his girls, and passed out to be received with something that resembled long-continued cheers. All came in ten minutes later, Zwinger leading the way, and escorting a prosperous man with the figure of an American desk, who, in acknowledging my bow, gave to himself a third chin. Zwinger, having placed him at the top of one of the long tables, bustled around, urging the rest to take their seats, giving a shout of welcome to late comers, and presently taking a chair at the lower end of the second long table with myself on his right, a Mr. Honoré on his left.

“Much flattered!” said Mr. Honoré, accepting the introduction.

“Seated,” declared Zwinger of himself, jovially, “seated between two good friends.”

Red wine stood on the white-clothed tables, and this gave me a moment of depression, until Zwinger, on soup being cleared, whispered to me a reassuring word, and I found that, despite similarity of labels, the contents of the bottles had no resemblance or likeness to the beverage usually supplied. Talk up and down the tables was mainly of births, marriages, and deaths, with, now and again, a description of recent illness. Also, the state of trade and the condition of agriculture, and a few references to politics, so guarded that I knew it could not be a lunch given in the interests of any political party. I asked a question.

“Wait!” said Zwinger, mysteriously.

I give you my word of honour that he winked.

At the end of the meal—a good meal, well-cooked, and served in a way that had nothing of the slap-dash-bang to which one was accustomed in the dining-room—Zwinger went around with cigars, pressing the best and longest upon the acceptance of the company, detained frequently in the course of his tour by affectionate greetings, by honest congratulations on the meal. He spoke in the ear of the Chairman—a Sub-Prefect, so Mr. Honoré assured me, nothing less—and scuttled back to his seat just in time to assume an attitude of listening as the Chairman rose.

We were assembled, said the Chairman, to honour and acclaim once more the day of September, that was ever in our hearts. (Very good.) We were assembled to do honour to those who fought with us on that great day, and fell beside us for the honour and glory of France. (Very good, very good.) We were here— The Chairman called gesture to the aid of eloquence, swinging his left arm with a backward movement; guests leaned forward to miss nothing, their faces becoming flushed as he proceeded, eyes filling as he recited the names of those who had gone from this world since the last meeting. His rapidity of utterance increased: the guests panted as they followed eagerly: one man rose in his excitement, and neighbours pulled him down. At the door of the kitchen, the two girls, bearing trays of coffee, waited, trembling with excitement so that the cups rattled. A perfect cascade of phrases; glory, country, honour, comrades, revenge, every word rushing past the others, and then Zwinger sprang to his feet, echoed the toast wildly, and, holding his glass, clinked it with mine, clinked it with Mr. Honoré’s, saluted the company, drank, and sat down.

The carpenters were early at work the following morning, joining thus to their duties the functions of an alarum clock. As I went out for a stroll at eight, intending to go so far as the fringe of the woods and back, I saw Zwinger walking up and down outside the restaurant, his hands deep in jacket pockets.

“My felicitations,” I said, cheerily, “on the enormous success of—”

Zwinger gave one of his monosyllables that express disinclination for speech, disinclination to listen to speech from other people. Turning, he slippered away.

The leading lady

To tell the truth, I was not feeling in my best form. Just before entering the tramcar I had a brief dispute with my mother in regard to the contents of a fruit-shop at the beginning of Gray’s Inn Road. There are many subjects on which the two of us fail to see eye to eye, and frequently a somewhat acrimonious debate ends in triumph on her side. At times, we get along admirably together; at others a recommendation from her that I should not exhibit temper goads me into something like fury. The storm over, I am sorry that it happened. My mother has often remarked that I can be a perfect lady when I like.

“Not a one to nurse a grievance,” she adds. “A couple of minutes and it’s all past and forgotten.”

Our entry into the car was scarcely auspicious, partly because the question of cherries had not vanished from my thoughts, partly because I wanted to go up the steps and my mother was resolved to go inside; the conductor spoke sharply, and my mother resented his tones. He expressed satisfaction in the knowledge that all passengers did not closely resemble us, and my mother retorted that if there were many conductors of his style people would prefer to walk. He said he supposed that she, being a woman, would insist on having the final word, and my mother suggested it must give him a nasty shock to find himself correct for the first time in his life; she added something about his features which struck me as being not in quite the best taste. I tugged at her arm.

“You be quiet!” she said to me sharply. “Perfect worry, that’s what you are. Catch me ever letting you come out again to look at the shops!”

The car started from Holborn on its twopenny journey to Stamford Hill in these circumstances. The conductor, in collecting fares, scowled at me, and I frowned back at him; before going up the steps he looked in again to say ironically that we were a pretty pair. A young man with his sweetheart seated next to us thought the remark was addressed to him, and there ensued a fresh wrangle, at the end of which the youth took the conductor’s number, and half the passengers said the conductor had not gone outside the bounds of common civility; the other half referred to him as a Jack-in-office. The young woman spoke to me and made some complimentary allusion to my looks and general appearance.

“Keep still!” ordered my mother. “I won’t have you talking to Tom, Dick, and Harry.”

I knew that argument was useless; it would have been a waste of time to point out that these names could not be rightly applied to my new friend. She, an amiable person, showed me the Holborn Town Hall, and remarked that she sometimes went to concerts there; the reference must have suggested something to me, for, despite my mother’s efforts to restrain, I lifted up my voice and sang. It was but a simple melody, but the earnestness I put into it seemed to touch the hearts of other passengers, and when I finished they had ceased the dispute regarding the conductor and were nodding to me pleasantly.

“Less noise inside there!” commanded the conductor, returned from upstairs.

“Let her sing if she wants to,” said a matronly woman near the door.

“I’m not a-going to have this tramcar turned into a Queen’s Hall,” he declared, “and you ought to know yourself better than encourage her.”

“I was young myself once.”

“That wasn’t yesterday,” he suggested.

The song had received so much favour that I considered the wisdom of giving them either another or diversifying the entertainment by offering some of my celebrated imitations. These have always been highly successful at home and at the houses of relatives; an uncle of mine remarked on one occasion that they were far and away superior to the originals. I had not, however, previously attempted them before an audience of strangers, and this, for the moment, made me shy and nervous. The moment of hesitation over, I started.

“Now, that’s what I call clever,” said the young man near to us. “Milly, if you could only do something like that I might get reelly fond of you!”

My first idea was to make eyes at him; reflection told me that the love of a man who was so easily influenced could never be worth having, and I reassured the girl with a smile. Glancing up and down the car, I could see that I had now secured complete attention. Men had folded up evening newspapers, and were waiting to see what I would do next; women beamed in my direction and one opposite offered me chocolates. I took the box, but my mother, whose knowledge of the rules of etiquette forms the subject of one of her proudest boasts, said it would be more genteel to select only one of the sweets. I accepted the hint, and my mother—now in good temper, and making no attempt to conceal the fact—remarked to the others that I had always been noted for excellence of behaviour.

I gave next a recitation—one of my own composition—a short but telling piece, with somewhat humorous references to the incident of a cat who found its saucer of milk empty. This went only fairly well; I think I must give more care to voice-production. The matronly lady near the door asked what it was supposed to be all about, and my mother readily furnished a sort of synopsis. Some one begged I would sing again, but, discouraged by the cool acceptance of the recital, I declined, until my mother begged and entreated me not to sing. At the conclusion there was that genuine and hearty applause which every public performer recognises and welcomes.

“Bless my soul!” cried some of the passengers, “Shoreditch Church, already!” They said goodbye to me, and I endeavoured to thank them for their kindness in listening to my poor efforts. One offered me a coin, which I flung upon the floor. I am an amateur, not a professional.

It was as the car went up Stoke Newington Road that I introduced my most diverting item. It has always pleased, but I was not certain that here it would be appreciated. The idea is to begin with a smile, to allow the smile to broaden and become more pronounced; this is followed by a chuckle, and then comes a peal of laughter. My mother identified the early stages, and, trembling with pride, warned the rest to pay special and particular notice. I am not exaggerating when I say that in less than a minute I had the whole car with me—every one amused, some roaring. The conductor put his hand over his face, but was compelled to give way, and he went so far as to admit, very handsomely, that it was the funniest thing he had witnessed outside the Dalston Hippodrome.

“Don’t tire yourself, darling,” begged my mother solicitously, and speaking in aristocratic tones. “Be careful not to overdo it. You know what you’re like when you’ve been excited.”

I pushed her advice aside, and when the car slowed up near the station I do believe all who were going on to the terminus felt honestly sorry to see me preparing to leave. As we stood on the pavement—the conductor had given us a hand, and he apologised for brusqueness of behaviour at the start, explaining that there had been an awkward passenger on the previous journey, and they had come to words—as we stood, I say, on the pavement, every one in the car waved hands, and the young man, I was gratified to notice, blew a kiss.

“Hullo, Ernest!” said my mother. “Here we are at last. Been waiting long?”

“Months and months and months,” replied my father. “What sort of a girl has she been? Baby,” he went on, addressing me, and taking me in his arms, “you may be as clever as your mother tries to make out, but I take me oath you don’t get none the lighter as time goes on!”

Time’s method

“Train rather late, surely,” remarked Mr. Chelsfield deferentially to the Inspector.

“What do you expect?” demanded the official, turning upon him suddenly. “What do you look for at a time like this?”

“My son!” replied the other, with pride. “Me and his mother have give him six months at a boarding-school in Kent, and he’s coming home this afternoon.”

“I don’t mean what you mean.” The Inspector became more calm as he essayed the task known to railway men as knocking sense into the heads of the public. “What I intended to say was that at this time of the year, and with all these specials about, it’s only reasonable to assume that the ordinary trains— See what I’m driving at, don’t you? Steam’s a wonderful invention, but we can’t do impossibilities. Think of the old coaching-days; what must it have been like then?”

“His mother’s waiting at home, else I shouldn’t be so eager.”

“Ah!” said the Inspector, with a touch of either sentiment or condescension. “We all know what women are.”

Mr. Chelsfield, walking along the platform with the Inspector for the sake of company and the encouragement of warmth, had to admit that he felt equally anxious, and offered the present of a cigar which he described as harmless; the official accepted it graciously, and promised to make it the subject of an experiment on the following Sunday afternoon. In return he gave the latest news from Chislehurst, and guaranteed to eat his silk hat if the Emperor recovered. He felt sorry for Napoleon, and expressed the view that it was a pity there was only one son in the family. Nice enough young fellow, it was true; he had shaken hands with the Inspector once, but if anything happened to the Prince Imperial, where would they be? The Inspector’s estimate of the right number in a family coincided with the number in his own.

“This,” said Mr. Chelsfield, with a nod in the direction of the down line—“this is the only one we’ve got. Only one we ever had.”

“Take care not to spoil him. That’s always the risk when there’s only one. Now my six— Here’s the train signalled. Get to the other end of the platform, and then you can’t miss him.”

The platform was long under its wooden roof, and Mr. Chelsfield could not move with the celerity he had shown in the early ’sixties; some of his colleagues at the warehouse said it was rheumatism, but he declared it to be only a slight stiffness of the joints. Passengers were going through the barrier, and, flushed by anxiety, he looked about; presently made a dash through the crowd, seized a lad who wore a mortar-board, and pinched his ear affectionately. On the lad turning and demanding an explanation, Mr. Chelsfield apologised for his error, and hurried off to continue his search.

“Three hours and a half,” said the friendly Inspector later. “That’s what it is before the next. It isn’t worth while waiting if you only live up in Holborn. Hop into a ’bus outside the station.”

“I must,” Mr. Chelsfield admitted concernedly. “I’m bound to go back and tell his mother. She’ll be out of her mind else.”

“Just my argument,” claimed the Inspector. “Now, if you’d got six, like I have—”

Mr. Chelsfield stepped out of the omnibus at Chancery Lane, and, paying the conductor, went along to Bedford Row with some wisps of the straw belonging to the conveyance attached to his boots. He felt himself to be on the edge of a painful scene, and wondered where he should find the sal volatile if it happened to be wanted. The front door of the offices, with its elaborate knocker, was open, and he went slowly downstairs to the living-rooms.

“Well?” said his wife. He shook his head. “Speak up!” she commanded; “I can’t hear when you turn your face to the wall and mumble like that.”

He gave the explanation and waited for signs of collapse.

“You’re a pretty one to send to a railway-station, and no mistake!” she remarked, taking off the tea-cosy. “Another time I must go myself.”

“None for me, mother,” he said desolately. “I couldn’t drink it even if you poured it out. Wonder what’s happened to the boy?”

“How should I know?”

He walked up and down the room, looked through the window at the iron grating, and rubbed his head furiously with a red pocket-handkerchief, the wife watching him with an amused expression. As she took the knife in order to cut the home-made cake, still warm from the oven, he raised his hand as a feeble protest against asking him to taste food.

“Can we have the winder open?” he asked submissively. “This room seems stuffy to me, or else it is that I’m upset. I feel—I feel as though I can’t sit down at this table.”

“Suppose,” said his wife, with a wink—“suppose you have a look underneath it.”

The boy crawled out, smoothed his hair, and submitted a forehead to his parent; the mother came near to choking with delight at the success of her elaborate scheme, and presently leaned head exhaustedly against the antimacassar which protected the back of the horsehair easy-chair. How on earth had they missed each other?—that was what the delighted father wanted to know. Henry must have jumped out of the train and cut away uncommonly sharp. Henry, permitted under the special circumstances to discard convention and begin with cake, working back through the toast to the bread and butter, confessed that he had lost no time.

“But, my lad,” urged his father more seriously, “you knowed that I was coming to meet you.”

“Had another fellow with me,” replied the boy.

“Oh!”—arresting a doubled piece of bread and butter on its way from the plate—“and didn’t you want him to see me?”

“Don’t be silly, father!” interposed the mother. “Henry, my child, ask if you want a second piece.”

“It wasn’t exactly that,” said the boy.

“Then, perhaps, you’ll kindly tell me what was the reason. Come on, now; out with it! I want an answer.”

“Thought perhaps you might kiss me, father. And Watherston standing by.”

“Very natural on the boy’s part,” declared the mother. “You forget that Henry’s growing up. He doesn’t mind it in private, but there comes a time when a boy doesn’t want all this fuss in public.”

“If that was the only reason—” said the father.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full!” ordered his wife. “You never see Henry do it. And one arm off the table, if you please.” Her husband obeyed, taking up an attitude of greater precision and obvious discomfort. “That sounds like Gleeson & Co. going out; I shall have to see about my pail and flannel, and get up there and do their floor.”

“I thought—” began the boy sharply.

“We decided otherwise, my dear,” she said. “We didn’t settle it in a hurry by any means; your father and me talked it over night after night, and eventually we came to a definite conclusion.”

“You see, my lad”—the father took up the explanation—“there was money going out for your schooling, and provisions don’t get no cheaper, and we was both anxious not to touch the little nest-egg we’ve put by. Besides”—with spirit, on noting the crimson look of annoyance on his son’s face—“besides, it’s purely a matter for us to settle. If your mother doesn’t mind going on with the housekeeper work, and if I don’t object to her doing it, why, there’s nothing more to be said.”

The tea-table endured a silence of nearly a minute. The two parents examined the pattern of the oilcloth that covered it.

“Pardon me,” said the boy, with the new manner acquired at the boarding-school, “but am I to understand that my feelings are not to be considered in the matter?”

The mother put out her hand quickly and patted her husband’s arm, upraised to give a gesture that would emphasise his reply. He dropped it, and took a long, loud drink from a saucer that trembled.

“We can talk about this,” she said hurriedly, “another time. We shall have a clear fortnight, Henry, before you start work. Say grace!” They bowed their heads, and joined in the Amen. “Did you make some nice new friends at the boarding-school, my dear? We’ve arranged all about your party for the fifteenth, and I think, by a little scrounging and a hand-round supper, we ought to be able to manage twelve. Including us three, that is. If we go over that, there’s always the risk of having the unlucky number, and that spoils everybody’s pleasure. Come along with me, and we can have a good talk over the arrangements whilst I’m tying on my apern. What I was wondering was whether we should have all boys, old friends of yours about the neighbourhood, or whether to invite a few girls. There’s your friend Jessie,” she bustled on waggishly. “We mustn’t let her feel neglected. Always asks after you, Jessie does.” She lowered her voice. “Your father’s got the idea into his head that the boarding-school may have induced you to be high and mighty, and make you look down on them and us. But of course, my dear, I know better.”

The boy was leaning against the stout oak door later, as his mother cleaned and hearthstoned the steps; two minutes, she remarked, and her work would be over. In reply to his urgent appeal, she gave a promise that so soon as he began to earn money the work should be finished for good. A lad in a mortar-board came through from the direction of Holborn, and strolled up on the other side, examining the numbers. Attracted by the sound of voices, he crossed over and spoke.

“I say, my good woman,” he said, with cheerful condescension, to the kneeling figure, “Number thirty-five, I want. These figures are so confoundedly indistinct. Name, Chelsfield—Henry Chelsfield. Can you tell me where I shall find him?”

“You haven’t fur to go,” she remarked, and beckoned with her handful of flannel. “I must apologise for being caught in my disables,” she went on, levering herself up with the aid of the pail. “Shan’t hear the last of this for a long time. Still, as I say, we’ve all got to live.”

Her son came forward, and, waiting for the introduction, she smoothed her grey hair with the back of a wet hand. The boy’s father came out, too, wearing a tasselled smoking-cap rakishly; to honour the occasion he had lighted the fellow to the cigar given away to the friendly Inspector.

“Hullo, Chelsfield!”

The boy glanced at his mother, looked over a shoulder at his father. He hesitated for a moment, then cleared the damp steps at a single jump, and taking his friend’s arm, led him across the roadway.

“Called round, Chelsfield,” the mortar-board lad said, “called round at once to tell you that I find I’m engaged two deep for the evening you’ve fixed for Drury Lane. Now, what I want to suggest is this. How about you changing your date?”

The father and mother stood just outside the doorway, speaking no word, but listening and waiting. The visitor made a movement to re-cross, but Henry detained him. The mother coughed in order to give a reminder of her presence. The visitor, breaking off in the discussion, recommended that Henry should fetch a cap and stroll with him as far as Gray’s Inn Road and see him into a Favorite omnibus for the return to Islington. Henry ran in, with a mumbled explanation to his parents.

“Quite an old-fashioned bit of London here,” remarked the polite boy.

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Chelsfield, coming forward eagerly. “Oh, yes, sir. People often notice that. Years ago, I b’lieve, quite aristocrats used to live here. London’s changing.”

“Improving,” suggested the lad.

“I reckon the next thirty years will show a lot of difference. Me and the wife,” he continued, with a jerk of the head towards her, “me and her, we recollect ’Olborn, of course, long before the Viaduct was opened. Previous to that—”

Their boy came out between them with a rush.

“Ready, Chelsfield?”

“Quite ready, Watherston,” he replied, nervously and briskly.

“Sorry to have missed seeing your people,” remarked the polite lad, as they went off arm-in-arm. “Perhaps some other time I may have the pleasure.”

“Perhaps!” he said.

The space of time mentioned by old Chelsfield elapsed, but he prevented himself from enjoying the content of a successful prophet by commencing rather absurdly to break up in health almost immediately after venturing upon the tolerably safe anticipation. Amongst the changes of thirty years was the fact that Chelsfield, as a name, had become better known; even the folk who flew through the main streets of London on motor omnibuses, and had to give nearly all their attention to the holding on of hats, could not evade recognition of the hoardings; the Chelsfield posters declined to be ignored. If you closed your eyes to these, you were nearly sure to encounter the name in your daily paper. If you missed it in your daily paper, it came into the letter-box, marked “Very Important.” If you dodged it there, it confronted you on your theatre programme at night. Leaving the theatre and endeavouring to forget the name, you saw it at a popular corner, being written with great deliberation in illuminated letters, as though some invisible giant had made up his mind to grasp the rudiments of education.

Henry Chelsfield himself was not insensible to the determined appeals, and, going home in his electric brougham, he counted them. Thus one evening he found a dreary gap between the Cobden statue and the Britannia, and immediately made memorandum of the circumstance in his note-book, in order that the deplorable omission might be attended to on the following day. All very well for the advertising agents to send him a box for the theatre, but these people had to be kept up to the mark.

“I can be amiable enough,” he said to the clock inside the brougham, “in private affairs, but I’m very different where money matters are concerned.”

Chelsfield might be flattering himself, or he might be telling the truth; anyhow he was a Londoner, with a Londoner’s weakness for orders for the play. That was why he had left his offices early; that was why he proposed to eat at an unusual hour; that was why, on arriving at Hampstead, he ordered the man to bring the brougham round again at half-past seven. He dined alone, with a portrait of a good-looking woman, painted by Herkomer, facing him; at her side a lad, with small eyes rather close to each other. Chelsfield lifted his glass when the two maids had left the room and said:

“Jessie!”

He did not drink a toast to the boy.

Watherston, from a house nearer the Heath, came in as Chelsfield pretended to smoke a cigarette—he had been thinking that one man in a private box would present a lonely figure to the audience; the gallery would say that he had no friends—and Watherston asked to be excused for once from joining in a game of billiards.

“Nothing could have happened better!” cried Chelsfield, arousing himself. “You have only to run home and jump into evening dress, and—”

“My boy wants me to take him to see the conjuring people at St. George’s Hall.”

“You’re not spoiling that lad of yours, I hope, Watherston?”

“I’m not spoiling my lad,” retorted Watherston, speaking with emphasis. The two men gazed at each other with the sudden acerbity of manner that comes at times to the closest friends. Chelsfield’s eyes went presently to the fruit on the table. “Ever hear anything of yours?” demanded Watherston, following up his advantage.

“There’s no doubt whatever,” replied Chelsfield testily, “that he disappeared in South Africa. I don’t want to discuss the matter again. He was older than your boy. And you know as well as I do that after his mother died he went to the bad.”

“You told him to stay there?”

“I can give you and your lad a lift as far as Kingsway,” said Chelsfield, “if that’s of any use.”

“It won’t be much help to us,” replied his friend candidly; “but we shall be company for you.”

The Watherston boy was enthusiastic about the swift ride, enthusiastic about the performance he was about to see, enthusiastic at being with his father, enthusiastic over everything. Chelsfield, watching him on the way, thought that no man desired any better company than that of a cheerful son. Arrived at Holborn, he suddenly announced that he had decided to take the complimentary step of giving up the theatre-box and of joining them in their visit to St. George’s Hall. As he lowered the window and put his head out to speak to his man, the boy and father conferred in a whisper.

“Chelsfield!” said the friend, touching his sleeve.

“What now?”

“Let us get out. I want to speak to you privately. Fact is”—on the pavement—“fact is—you know what boys are, and I’m sure you won’t mind—but he tells me that he would rather go with me alone; and, to tell you the truth, I don’t want to share him this evening. You see, he goes back to Rugby to-morrow.”

Chelsfield dismissed his brougham and decided to walk the remainder of the way. He went with head down, and so deep in thought that it startled him when, in a turning from the new highway, he was accosted by one of a long file of men, waiting to march into the shelter for the night. There were about a hundred of them—old, young, middle-aged, all imperfectly shod, hands in pockets. He glanced along the line before replying. The light from a lamp showed the face of one, the youngest of all.

“Right you are,” said the man who had spoken to him, in an amiable tone of voice, “if you ’aven’t got any tobacker, you can’t give us none.”

“I’ll—I’ll go and get some,” he remarked with agitation.

“Good iron!” said the man approvingly.

Chelsfield returned from the Strand breathless, a parcel under his arm, and, removing the string with trembling fingers, began the work of distribution. Some of the men received the ounce gratefully, some mentioned that it was all done for the sake of advertisement, some demanded why he had not also brought pipes, some accepted with a snatch. Chelsfield had not regained full control of his breathing powers when he reached the lamp.

“No, thanks!”

“You—you are not a smoker?”

“I am a smoker; but I don’t accept anything from you.”

Chelsfield took his son’s hand and tried to pull him from his place. “I want to speak to you, dear boy. I’ve something important to say.”

“You said something important to me once,” retorted the other doggedly, “and you don’t have a chance of saying anything important to me again. Be off, before I set the others on to you.” His attitude expressed determination.

Chelsfield’s housekeeper, at breakfast the next morning, asked in her respectful manner what he thought of the comedy he had seen the previous night. Chelsfield told her that he considered it extremely far-fetched.

Scotter’s luck

His opponent, after a good look at the table, adjusted his cue, and, disregarding the murmur of “Whitechapel!” sent spot white into a pocket. Many of the spectators volunteered advice, the while Scotter stood back and glanced self-commiseratingly at the scoring-board.

“That all I am, marker?” he inquired.

“That’s your total figure, my lad.”

Scatter’s opponent took time in aiming at the red, and the suggestion that he had gone to sleep did not induce him to hurry. Striking his own ball gently and rather high up, the two travelled slowly into baulk. Scotter remarked dismally that this was just his luck, and found spot white; he was about to make a wild shot up and down the table when he changed his mind, and, considering angles, drew back his cue and prepared to send his ball at a particular point of the cushion.

“This ought to do it,” he said, “but whether it will or not is more than I can—”

A bell rang. On the instant the men were out of the billiard-room; Scotter the last, because his first neat and orderly idea was to replace his cue in the stand, the second, a time-saving notion, was to leave it resting against the table, and in this confusion of thought a few moments were wasted. As the two horses plunged and reared in the yard, and made a dash through the short avenue of people outside the gates, one or two of his helmeted colleagues expressed the opinion that when the last trump sounded Scotter would be the last to respond, bringing with him an assortment of about ten good and sufficient excuses. Above the clanging and the noise, he was asked whether he had ever been really in time for anything but his meals; he blushed when they declared that girls were probably waiting for him at altars in various churches of London, growing old and cross and tired.

“Where are we bound for?” he asked, to change the subject.

“We’re going to a fire, Scotty, my lad,” it was explained. “Didn’t you know? You thought we were off to an evening party, to have a game of postman’s knock. But no; we’re going to a fire, and we’ve got to put it out soon as we possibly can. Remember that, won’t you? Not to make it burn brighter, but to put it out. It’s done with the aid of a syphon of soda. You take the syphon like this, and you remark to the fire, ‘Say when!’ and then—”

Southampton Row, at the narrow part, blocked with confused traffic; the wild horses had to pretend to be tamed whilst a passage was made. Fire-engines were also coming along Hart Street and from Kingsway; tramcars bobbing up from the tunnel waited politely. The engine managed to reach the street, and a stout superintendent, glancing at his watch, told the men they stood an excellent chance of winning the booby prize.

“For that pretty compliment,” they said, dropping from the engine, “we have to thank you, Mister Sleepy Scotter, Esquire.”

Police keeping the people back; the street already a river, streams of water being sent high up at two houses, neighbours’ faces out with the nearest wearing an expression of anxiety, whilst those a few doors off and opposite showed nothing more than interest. Furniture hurled out of windows, with now and again a smash. The firemen went about their work alertly and swiftly; when an order was given half a dozen hurried to obey. More engines arriving and two ladders. On the second floor of one of the houses a burst of flame that cracked the windows.

“Is everybody out?” demanded an official.

“All out, sir.”

“Sure?”

Mrs. Mather was called. Mrs. Mather, found in tears on the kerb, with children around her, was asked sharply whether these represented her entire family; replied that if they did but stand still she would count them. One, two, three, four, five; yes, sir; we’re all here. Mather himself away on a job at Silvertown. All the dear, blessed youngsters safe, thanks be; might have been a good deal worse. Mrs. Mather had never been in a fire before, but an aunt of hers living up at Sadler’s Wells way once had the misfortune to overturn a lamp—What was that? Six? No, no; the neighbour must be confusing her with another lady. Bless Mrs. Mather’s soul; a parent ought surely to be allowed to know how many children she possessed. There was Tommy, the eldest, next Ethel, next Walter, next Gracie, and then Hubert, then Mrs. Mather, with a gesture of self-reproof, begged to apologise. The neighbour was correct. Mrs. Mather admitted she had overlooked the baby, and, whilst she thought of it, there was the little girl from Forty-eight who came in to mind the kid.

“You’re a light weight, Scotter,” said the Superintendent. “Up you go, and do your very best.”

Scotter went up the escape, bending his head to dodge flames that were darting out from the second floor; up again, and disappeared. There was a crash there of something falling in; the helmeted men below gave a low whistle. That settled poor Scotter’s game of billiards. That relieved him of any difficulty of knowing what to do with plain white and the red left in baulk. That meant a rare old scene later on, with Scotty’s sweetheart coming round to the station.

“Another man up!” ordered the Superintendent.

The second was half-way up, and had been drenched by error, when Scotter reappeared at the top window. He had the baby in a shawl that was tied at his neck; in the left arm he carried a limp little girl; the crowd in the street roared “Hip-pip—hooray!” and Mrs. Mather cried warningly, “Don’t stay up there; come down!”

“That makes your little lot complete, then,” remarked the Superintendent.

“They’re all here now,” conceded the lady. “How I come to overlook the fact that there was one short is more than I can tell you. I’m sure it’s very kind of this gentleman. When baby’s old enough he must thank him.”

“You all right, Scotter?”

“Yes, thank you, sir. Bit singed, but nothing to brag about.”

The crowd lost all its good spirits so soon as the first engine was sent home, and folk told each other regretfully that there were no fires now as in the old days. The waiting horses had recovered breath and began to caper about to impress the crowd with a sense of their importance. People to whom news had come tardily ran up from Clerkenwell Road demanding to know the whereabouts of the fire, and, being told it was out, censured the County Council, their informants, and themselves. Two firemen were selected to remain in charge; the others, dusting knees and rubbing knuckles into eyes, waited for orders.

“Get off back, you lot. Scotter, you did uncommonly well. Just given your name to some newspaper men. Married man? Not yet? I was going to say, if you were, your missus would be proud of you.”

The pace was good on the return journey, but not frantic, and Scotter was told by a dozen experts what to do to the burn on his left wrist. At the station they assisted him in the task of washing, and made a neat bandage; over cups of tea they went through the details of the fire, and extinguished it again. A move was made to the billiard-room.

“Spot white’s turn,” announced one, taking up position at the marking-board. “Plain white and the red both in baulk.” Glancing at the pegs, “Twenty-three plays forty-eight.”

“You’ve got to buck up, Scotter.”

He took careful aim. Sent his ball against the right-hand cushion; it went from this to the top of the table, across to the left, travelled down, and dropped gently into the right-hand lower pocket. Three deducted from his score.

“Don’t know what’s the matter with me,” said Scotter despairingly. “Somehow or other, I can’t do anything right to-day.”

Means of transport

The indignation meeting occurred without any of the printed entreaties usually found needful in order to induce the public to arouse. It seems less strange that only ladies attended, for the sex is notoriously beginning to take an interest in public questions.

Mr. Woods, driving one of his own wagonettes, was talking to the two passengers secured at the railway station four miles off and giving them a short autobiography—“Begun to work, I did, afore I were twelve, I did!”—when he caught sight of the gathering and broke off to express amazement; he gave at once an emphatic but scarcely original declaration that if women secured the vote they would not know what to do with it. The passengers differed from this view, and Mr. Woods, anxious to secure their patronage for the return journey, hastened to admit that he had not had the time to study the question thoroughly. A lady detached herself from the group and, holding her tweed cap on her head, ran across.

“Whatever’s amiss, Jane?”

“It’s a missis,” she added, robbed of breath by indignation and hurry. “That Mrs. Jarrett, as she calls herself. She’s been and opened some Tea Gardens.”

“News to me,” he remarked alarmedly.

“News to all of us. She ain’t been here more than three months, and this morning there’s playcards all over her place.”

“Thought she seemed a nicely spoken person.”

“You wait,” said Jane threateningly, “until we begin to talk to her. She’ll get what I call some home truths if she don’t look out.”

The passengers suggested mildly that their time was limited, and Woods, rendered silent by the extraordinary nature of the information, drove on to the edge of the forest, contenting himself by indicating on the way the cottage where his sister-in-law Jane resided. In the clouded diamond panes it exhibited shyly, as did most of the other cottages, a small card that whispered the word “Teas”; a few bottles of ginger-beer rested on the sill to suggest that the establishment had further resources. After the passengers alighted he drove around by the road that skirted the wood, checking the horse slightly on approaching the house and lawn occupied by the new-comer. Tables had been placed, with striped cloths held by shining clips; a small marquee was being fixed in the corner. The neatly-painted board at the gate gave the title, “Forest Tea Gardens,” adding sentences to the effect that refreshments of the best quality could be obtained at any hour—“Large Parties and Small Parties catered for; proprietress, Clara Jarrett.” As Mr. Woods, unwilling to display curiosity, allowed his horse to go on, an automatic pianoforte started, with great vivacity, a waltz.

“Great thing is,” announced Mr. Woods, speaking from his conveyance to the meeting as though he were a candidate for Parliament—“is not to lose your heads. Keep perfectly calm and cool, and everything’ll come right in the long run.”

“Question is, how long a run is it going to be?” demanded one.

“Provided,” he went on, “provided that we all stick together, she can’t last half-way through the summer.”

“And meanwhile—”

“Meanwhile,” interrupted Woods irritably, “you’ve got to make the best of it. Competition’s bound to exist in this world.”

“How would you like it, Mr. Woods, if somebody—”

“One matter at a time. Let’s keep to the question. What I want you to recognise is that you’ve got a true friend in me. I’ve no partic’lar objection to her; as I said just now to my sister-in-law, she always seemed a nicely spoken person, and I don’t wish to do her any harm whatsoever. But there’s no doubt at all in my mind that so far as we are concerned she’s a interloper.”

The women appeared to find the description too lenient. One announced vehemently that, before Mr. Woods came along, they had almost decided to go in a body and pull down the signboard, demolish the marquee, and in other ways convey the fact that they looked upon the new Tea Gardens with disapproval. Goodness knew, there had never been much profit made out of sixpenny teas; it seemed likely that in the future it would be scarcely worth while to make cakes and keep the kettle boiling. Woods, again begging for moderation, urged they should cease talking for the space of two seconds and listen to him. He, with his cabs and wagonettes, had full control over all the traffic from the station, excepting that small part which took the (as he thought) mistaken course of deciding to walk. Nearly all of these passengers put one inquiry to him or to his men.

“Now do keep quiet until I’ve finished,” prayed Woods. “Only got half a dozen more words to say, and I’m done.”

He, on his side, was prepared to guarantee that the new Tea Gardens should never, by speech or hint, be recommended. If any passenger, having heard of them, mentioned the name, then Mr. Woods or his men could be relied upon to cast discredit ingeniously without bringing themselves within the domain of the laws of libel. On their side, they must be prepared for some special efforts; must make a greater show; endeavour to engage the passing visitor by welcome smiles; take care to keep windows open. He feared they did not always realise the Londoner’s partiality for fresh air.

“And,” asked his sister-in-law defiantly, “are we supposed to keep on friendly terms with her whilst all this is going on?”

“Please yourselves,” replied Mr. Woods generously. “So far as I’m concerned, I shall continue to pass the time of day.”

“And go on bringing her illustrated newspapers, I suppose, from the station?”

“You’ll allow me, Jane, to be the best judge of my own affairs.”

“But you’re setting out to be the best judge of ours as well!”

“I’ve given you good advice,” said Mr. Woods, gathering the reins, “but it’s beyond human power to compel you to take it.”

Confidence in himself was shaken by information conveyed by the two passengers on the return journey. Having forgotten the exact whereabouts of his sister-in-law’s house they had gone into the new Tea Gardens, and their content and satisfaction with the treatment received made subject of conversation throughout the journey. The excellence of the watercress, the surprising freshness of the eggs, the admirable quality of the home-made jam—all these impressed them favourably, and they talked of arranging with friends a picnic on a large scale and without the inconvenience of heavy baskets. Mr. Woods, not being asked for an opinion, gave several; one was in favour of splitting the party up amongst the cottages. He declared this plan would encourage sociability and give an insight into country life. For almost the first time in his professional career Woods found himself told to mind his own business. He invented some compensation by speaking sharply to one of his men whom he charged with the offence of keeping hands in pockets.

The members of the home syndicate received such a quick succession of blows from the new Tea Gardens that they began to experience a kind of dazed resignation, and it became the duty of Mr. Woods to order them to awake. The automatic pianoforte was followed by engagement from town of two young nieces, who were not content with demure costume and long blue pinafore, but must needs, if you please, wear a rather attractive lace cap. After this came a large rocking-horse for the pleasure of children, or, failing children, the content of grown-ups who fancied equestrian exercise and wished to promote digestion. After this, a giant’s stride. After this, a skittle-alley which drew away of an evening many of the best and most regular customers from “The Running Stag.” After this, a lawn-tennis court, with rackets and balls provided without charge to those who had taken the shilling tea. It was in regard to the shilling tea that Woods’s sister-in-law, ignoring him, went direct to the vicar, from whom she received the disappointing information that the words “ad lib.” were not, in themselves, offensive, or calculated to undermine the morality of the village; he added some trenchant remarks concerning the duties of parents, which Jane assumed to refer to other ladies. Jane assured the vicar that she did all that was possible in the distribution of good counsel, and he remarked that it would make a useful change for her to vary the method by accepting it. So far as Mrs. Jarrett and Sundays were concerned, she and her nieces came to church in the mornings; they worked hard in the afternoon, and they rested in the evening. The vicar, admitting that he might be considered either very old-fashioned or very new-fashioned, declared this a good manner of spending the day, and gave a short account of Sundays in the early part of the seventeenth century. Woods, to whom this was reported, said, guardedly, that the events referred to occurred before he came to town.

The fly-master had, at this period, troubles of his own which decreased his interest in regard to the rivalry in the tea trade. The first news came from one of the nieces back from a visit to town on an occasion when Woods, at the foot of the hill, stepped down to walk and encourage his horse. The detached position which he had assumed since the beginning of the dispute had been modified because Jane’s daughter told one of his young men (and the young man told Mr. Woods) that Jane had announced an opinion to the effect that her brother-in-law found the money to finance the Tea Gardens, a suggestion so unfair and so preposterous that he declared his intention of allowing them to fight their battles without further assistance from him; henceforth, he proposed to take up a strictly impartial attitude. Consequently, he had recommenced the bringing of illustrated newspapers, and more than once he and Mrs. Jarrett discussed impending marriages in high life, conduct of the German Emperor, accidents caused by motor-cars, and other topical subjects. The niece, taking charge of the roll of journals, had distributed amongst the passengers some of Mrs. Jarrett’s neatly printed cards, had pointed out to them a notable church and conspicuous dwellings. Leaning over the side of the conveyance, she gave the information already referred to.

“You Londoners will have your lark,” he commented. “Your aunt’s just the same.”

“But I’m serious.”

“You don’t take me in. When you say you’re serious is jest when you’re trying to chaff.”

“They told me so up at Paddington, at any, rate,” she declared. “Friend of mine is in one of the head offices, and he assured me it was a positive fact.”

The two held further conversation as the horse, arrived on the level, jogged on again; she held the reins whilst he noted in his pocket-book some names and addresses which remained in her memory. Woods, greatly disturbed, had to be reminded by her, when the destination was reached, of the formality of collecting fares.

Within the space of a fortnight confirmation came. Down at the railway station small posters were exhibited, and quite a crowd assembled to read them and to chaff Woods on the disaster awaiting him, it being a notorious fact that nothing so much cheers A, B, C, and D as to discover that E is on the edge of calamity. On blank walls along the route the bills appeared. At Mrs. Jarrett’s Tea Gardens—this proved the most stinging smack—a new board was erected bearing the words:

Terminus for Motor Omnibuses

Woods, with a set face, ordered the full strength of his stables to assemble at the station on the first morning to meet the train due just before eleven. The flies and wagonettes took up position; the large new omnibus, on rushing up with uniformed driver and boy conductor, found itself obliged to be satisfied with a place near the cloakroom entrance. As passengers came out Woods and his men attacked them much in the way that highwaymen would have behaved a hundred years before.

“Sixpence all the way!” they shouted. “Here you are, lady! Cheaper than the motor! Here you are, lady, sixpence all the way!”

Perhaps the fierce onslaught was an error in tactics. Perhaps it would have been wiser not to draw attention to the presence of a swifter mode of conveyance. Perhaps the natural independence of Londoners induced them to consider before coming to a decision. A messenger sent to the new omnibus returned with the news that the fare was eightpence—fourpence cheaper than the old fare, but obviously twopence dearer than Mr. Woods’s new tariff.

“Oh, it’s worth it!” cried young ladies. “Do let’s go by motor. We shall get there ever so much quicker.”

Woods likened them, rather bitterly, to sheep. On the two first passengers clambering up to the outside seats the others made a quick rush to secure the remaining places; the inside was filled by those who did not wish to separate from friends, and the new omnibus, after half a minute of irresolution that almost induced Woods to believe in the efficacy of prayer, flew away through the station gates and up the main street of the village, and away out of sight. His men gathered around Mr. Woods and prophesied a breakdown; made recommendations. He ordered them to do nothing but obey orders, and went off to sulk in the smoke-room of the Railway Hotel.

From which tent he was summoned an hour and a half later by a constable of the town, who said definitely:

“Mr. Woods, sir, this won’t do.”

“Go away!” commanded the fly proprietor irritably; “I don’t want your sympathy.”

“It isn’t sympathy I’m giving, it’s a warning. If you don’t call your men off, we shall end in a riot.”

Woods delivered an address after the second motor-omnibus had been allowed to leave the yard with its passengers. The early part of the speech was of an intimate nature and described the treatment to be served out in the case of the staff again disregarding instructions; the punishments ranged from skinning alive to instant dismissal. In the second part, he ordered one to run up to the signwriter in the village. Later, the procession of flies and wagonettes left the station bearing notices, “Ruined by Unfair Competition,” and Woods had the satisfaction of noting that shopkeepers on the line of route came out to inspect; this would have proved more comforting if they had given any additional signs of interest. The procession went at a gallop on noting that away in the distance the second omnibus had stopped, with driver and conductor busy at the front, passengers looking over anxiously. Mr. Woods counted it as part of his luck that as the first wagonette arrived the new conveyance re-started. When, farther on, a man walking shouted an inquiry regarding cats’ meat, he found it difficult not to make use of the whip.

The Tea Gardens had flags waving at the entrance and along by the hedge in honour of the occasion; a photographer was giving considerable attention to the task of securing a good picture of the motor-omnibus with Mrs. Jarrett and her nieces at the side. The artist said, “Now, please!” and at that moment the horse driven by Mr. Woods became unmanageable, causing the ladies to cry, “O—ah!”

When the animal regained self-control, Woods mentioned that it was no doubt wise to obtain the photograph ere anything amiss happened to the new conveyances. The motor-man demanded to know what was meant by this. Woods replied that he always meant what he said. Motor-man, temper already acutely tried, declared it would be a keen pleasure to punch Mr. Woods’s nose. Woods retorted that this job required the complete abilities of a man, and was not therefore within the power of the omnibus-driver. The other took off his reefer jacket, ordering the conductor, to take charge of the garment; Woods, forgetting his recent disapproval of militant tactics, laid his hat on the grass at the side of the road. At the first blow, Mrs. Jarrett ran forward crying:

“Oh, you mustn’t hurt him! You please mustn’t hurt him!”

“I’m not going to hurt him, ma’am,” said the flushed and excited Mr. Woods; “I’m only going to kill him.”

“It isn’t him I’m nervous about,” she wailed; “it’s you!”

Woods put on his hat, looked around in a dazed, sheepish way, and, with a jerk of his head, ordered his men to follow him back to the stables.

“No,” she said appealingly; “I don’t want you to do that.”

“Well, but,” he argued, “what else is there to do? I’m prepared to listen to anything reasonable. Especially,” he added, “coming from you.”

They consulted apart, the nieces and the men and a few villagers looking on eagerly, and evidently wishing that their powers of hearing were finer. Woods, pinching his under-lip, said he doubted whether there was anything in the idea, but he felt willing to give it a trial. And did she—lowering his voice—did she really mean what she said just now? Mrs. Jarrett, pleating her apron, urged it was unfair to make any one responsible for a remark made on the spur of the moment, and re-stated her suggestion. One of the nieces fetched an inkstand, and, the cards being reversed, with a sharpened piece of wood she wrote upon them:

An Hour’s Excursion through the
Forest.
One Shilling.

“Put the nosebags on!” he commanded.

It was on the evening of that day that the earthquake, faintly hinted at near the railway station, broke out in another place. The wagonettes had been fairly well patronised. A few couples, down with the announced intention of enjoying a good long walk through the forest, changed their minds and accepted carriage exercise as a substitute. Woods, before going home, shook hands with the ladies, and pointed out that everything in this world dried straight if you only gave it time and fair weather. The motor-driver on his last journey brought, as a peace offering, two cigars presented by a grateful passenger. One of these Mr. Woods was smoking near the stables as he waited for his housekeeper’s summons to the evening meal: she was a good woman, honest and religious, but apparently had never learned to tell the time by the clock. He was, I say, smoking; he was also thinking—a frequent conjunction.

When a tremendous clatter and hubbub came, arousing him, and causing him to say distractedly:

“Whatever fresh is a ’appening of now?”

Out in the roadway a set of a dozen women, including the most notable female inhabitants of the village, marched, his sister-in-law at the head, banging as they went on dustpans, old teatrays, saucepans, and other instruments of music rarely to be discovered in a first-class orchestra. The aim seemed to be discord, and that end was certainly being achieved. Some children followed, making a cloud of dust as they slouched along. The marchers disappeared. Woods, regarding them as they went, knew the incident to represent a violent outbreak of moral indignation, and reckoned it a good answer to the complaint made by an American that day to the effect that English country life appeared dull. His housekeeper came, announcing, with a severe air of promptitude, the readiness of a meal that was three-quarters of an hour late, and appeared willing for conversation; but he told her he had enjoyed enough of talk. What he desired now was peace and quietness.

Consequently, news only came to him at six in the morning when his men arrived at the stables. Having gathered the fact that Jane had locked her daughter out the previous evening, he left them at once and ran across to his sister-in-law’s cottage: there the dogged, sulky, half-dressed woman refused to share responsibility for her actions with any one, and he expressed, not for the first time, an earnest wish that his brother had been spared. He hurried agitatedly down to the Tea Gardens, where Mrs. Jarrett was whitening, at this early hour, the steps.

“It’s all right,” she said, rising. “Fancy you catching me like this, with my hair in curlers! The girl came here last night, and we hadn’t gone to bed because of the noise.”

“The noise going by?”

She swallowed something. “No, stopping here.”

Woods expressed a desire to engage in the wholesale trade of breaking necks.

“And I let her come in, and if her mother doesn’t want her back, why, she can stay here.”

He glanced up at the signboard.

“Clara Jarrett, proprietress,” he said deliberately, “you’re the best little woman I’ve ever come across as yet, and if you think I shall make a pretty fair sort of a husband I wish you’d just say the word.”

“It’s a pity, dear, about the motor-omnibuses,” she remarked later.

“Wrote off last night,” said Mr. Woods, with the wink of a business man, “to buy some shares in the concern!”

Irene Mercer

The general feeling was that Jane would be more convenient, that Mary made less demand on the brain, that Ellen had the advantage of having been the title of her immediate predecessor, but she proved stern and adamant in regard to the detail, and the graceful thing to do was to give in for the moment with a secret promise to make an alteration later on. When the time came for revision, it was found that no other title but that of Irene could possibly be given. The name fitted as though she had been measured for it. An impression that it could only belong to stately and slightly offended young women on the pages of sixpenny fashion journals, vanished.

“Previous to me coming here,” Irene sometimes explained in the minute and a half given to conversation whilst clearing breakfast, “I was in a business establishment. Two year I put in there, I did, and then my ’ealth give way. Otherwise I should never have dreamt of going into domestic service. I’ve been used to ’aving my evenings to myself!”

By chance, it was ascertained that the time which elapsed after leaving school had been devoted to a mineral water manufactory: this discovery reflected no credit upon any of the boarders, being indeed the result of a chance remark made by her on seeing a two-horse cart belonging to the firm go through the square. A closer reticence was shown in regard to her family; Irene did, however, convey, at times, a hint that the members had seen better and more prosperous days, and that distinguished ancestors would betray signs of restlessness did they become aware that she occupied a position that brought in but £12 a year, giving freedom only on Thursday evening and alternate Sunday afternoons. “But we never know what’s in store for us,” she remarked, with a touch of fatalism. “It’s all ordained, I suppose. What I mean to say is, everything’s planned out, only that we don’t know it. Just as well, perhaps.”

Her appearance in the earlier days gave no signal of noble birth. She wore the corkscrew curls fashionable in her neighbourhood, and her efforts in hairdressing ceased at about half-way to the back of her head; the rest being a casual knot insecurely tied. Many things go awry in this world, but few were so unlucky as Irene’s apron, which appeared to be the sport and play of chance, going to various points of the compass, sometimes becoming fixed due west. She seemed to have a prejudice against safety pins. With her, hooks and eyes lived indiscriminately, and never as precise, well-ordered couples. On first assuming the white cap (against the use of which she made desperate opposition), she wore it rakishly over one eye, and being reproved, answered lightly that this was one of those matters which would be forgotten a hundred years hence. A girl more completely furnished with the easy platitudes that turn away wrath surely never existed. In generous mood, she gave them away by the dozen.

“One ’alf of the world doesn’t know how the other ’alf lives; it’s a poor ’eart that never rejoices; there’s none so blind as them that won’t see; a bird in the ’and’s worth two in the bush; and that’s all about it!”

You must not assume that Irene gave up a large amount of her time to conversation. She started work at twenty to seven in the morning, and if half-past four in the afternoon found her ready (in her own phrase) to pop upstairs and change, she counted she had scored a victory. After tea came duties of a more leisurely nature such as ironing, and later still—if luck favoured—a brief opportunity for the study of literature, from which she came in such a dazed, confused state of mind, that for the subsequent twenty minutes she could only give answers that possessed a conspicuous amount of incoherence. Those who have seen her with a number of “The Belgravia Novelette” report that her lips moved silently as she read the lines, that her features indicated, unconsciously, the emotions affecting each character: when a lady had to reject the advances of some unwelcome suitor (a frequent occurrence in the world of fiction where Mr. A., liking Miss B., finds this converted into ardent love when she announces she hates him with a hate that can never die), then Irene’s face showed stern and uncompromising decision: when a landscape artist proclaimed an affection he had hitherto concealed, her eyes half closed, and her head went gently to and fro.

It is likely the pictures which accompanied these agreeable stories had some influence, although the fact that the people always wore evening dress prevented Irene from imitating every detail. The corkscrew curls, brought forward at each side of the face from a definite and decided parting, were brushed back. Irene was observed one night at about eight, on her return from commissariat duties in connection with next morning’s breakfast, staring earnestly at the head which, in a window, revolved slowly, vanishing and re-appearing with a fixed, haughty smile. A youth came up and made some remarks.

“Don’t you address conversation to any one what you haven’t been introduced to,” she ordered, warmly.

“Carry your parcel for you?”

“Thanks,” replied Irene, “but I don’t want to lose it.”

The youth, declining to take this as a repulse, followed, and Irene’s mistress reproved her for entering the house at the front door when the area gate was open. The very next day a fresh and daring experiment was made by fixing a white collar around the neck, and this was succeeded in the evening by a pair of cuffs. She seemed pleased with the general effect, and hastened to answer some knocks and rings at the front door instead of compelling every caller to repeat the summons. One of these she received with great curtness.

“No, the name don’t live here.”

“Beg pardon!” said a youth’s deep voice. “Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.”

“Quite likely. Judging from your appearance.”

“Doing any shopping to-night, miss?”

Her mistress appealed to her by name, and she closed the door, explaining a few minutes later that she could not help feeling sorry for the poor fellows who had to sell combs and hair-brushes; at the same time, they had no right to annoy people who had work to do beside answering knocks. Later, her mistress asked her to refrain from singing. Irene’s voice would never have taken her to the concert platform, but her theory of music was so excellent that it may be worth while to give some particulars here. When affairs of the world went crooked, with her mistress temporarily short in temper, streets becoming muddy directly that the front step had been whitened, disaster on the stairs with a breakfast tray, then Irene selected airs of the cheeriest description, bursting into:

When Jones, my friend, came round to me, He said, ‘Will you go on the spree?’ I answered ‘Yes, of course I will, That is, if you will pay the bill.’

and other songs of a rollicking nature. On the other hand, when the world went smoothly and nothing happened of a contrary nature and her mistress had given her an egg with her tea, then Irene’s voice came lugubriously up from the basement:

Oh I ne’er shall see my loved one any mower, For I’m leaving her and Britain’s gallant shower, Though my tears are gently falling, yet I hear her voice a-calling, But I ne’er shall see my loved one any mower.

Changes had, as mentioned, been coming over the girl, but they proved more obvious at the period when the young man referred to adopted the procedure of waiting outside the house of an evening, sometimes offering three stamps with the foot, sometimes giving a whistle, sometimes playing on the railings a mandoline solo, sometimes, after a wait of three-quarters of an hour, affecting in an ostentatious way to leave—when all other plans had failed—and bringing Irene up the steps of the area at a run, and with a call of “Hi!”

The interesting detail about the acquaintance was the perfect and complete decision arrived at without delay, by Irene. Other girls, in like case, would probably have assumed an attitude of indifference in speaking of their young man; might have suggested that they would require much persuasion before consenting to give their hand; would certainly have conveyed the impression that the capture of their heart was a task not easily effected. Irene, from a fortnight after the meeting outside the hairdresser’s shop, made no attempt to hide the fact that she fully intended to marry Mr. Easter. I have often wondered whether he made a formal proposal, or whether it was assumed on both sides that this could be taken for granted: there are some matters on which one cannot interrogate a lady, and, if she does not give the information spontaneously, the particulars have to be guessed. In other respects, there seemed no reason to complain of want of candour. Irene chaffed herself quite openly. If she forgot to furnish a cup and saucer with a spoon:

“That’s the worst of being in love!”

If she omitted to place the toast-rack on the breakfast table:

“Sooner I get married and settled down the better for all parties!”

Irene, on the Sunday afternoon when he proposed to take her for the first time to see his people, started out looking like a composite photograph, for every lady in the boarding-house, from her mistress in the basement upward, had made some loan or gift, and many of the adornments had a familiar appearance. No one could blame her for opening the striped parasol, although the sun was absent; a muff carried by the other hand and wrist showed that no weather would find her unprepared. Young Easter stood at the corner of the first turning, and, in his case, a necktie showed a vivacious spirit of adventure. A row of white caps watched from area railings as they met, noted that a bowler hat was lifted, polite offer to carry the muff, consultation regarding the method of conveyance. They went off arm-in-arm, Irene tripping in the effort to keep step, and any one, starting out five minutes later, could have followed the scent, and tracked both to the destination by the combined odour of lavender-water and eau de cologne.

“Oh yes,” reported Irene, the next day, “I can always make myself at ’ome with strangers. The old lady—his mother—seemed inclined to be a bit stand-offish at the start, but I said something pleasant about the jam and after that—well, you can generally get over ’em with a little artfulness. Tact is everything in this world. Besides, civility costs nothing. At any, rate, he seemed satisfied.”

A new independence of manner appeared, but only on Friday mornings, and this was probably due to the increased conceit effected by young Easter’s compliments of the night before. Her curtness towards messengers from shops on these occasions was painful to regard: postmen offering remarks as she knelt at the steps in the early hours went on with the abashed air of those who have incurred severe reproof.

A dramatic shock came when the month’s notice had nearly expired, that must have reinforced the girl’s confidence in “The Belgravia Novelette,” and its amazing habit of altering the situation by the wave of a fairy wand. She made a slight blunder by reading the letter without any exhibition of an agonised mind, but a moment’s consideration remedied this, and, if all I heard was true, she eventually overdid the tragic intensity required.

“Oh heavens!” she murmured brokenly. “Oh my! Oh dear! Has it come to this? What is there to live for now? Oh! I think I shall go out of my mind!”

“Be quiet, child!” ordered her mistress, sharply. “You’ll make yourself ill if you go on like this.”

“Oh, go away and leave me to die. Oh, only leave me alone! Frank, Frank!”

“If you carry on in this fashion,” declared her mistress, “I shall simply take you by the shoulders and give you a thorough good shaking. That’s what I shall give to you, miss!”

“Read it, ma’am, read it, read it!”

Her mistress, having complied with this request, assured her that, so far as she could understand, the letter contained important news, but nothing to justify the hysterical outburst. Irene, recovering partial serenity of manner, explained, and the other, reading the letter again, admitted there was something in the girl’s view, and that the fact of young Easter being taken into partnership by an uncle whose health was failing, might well result in the breaking off of the engagement; the two found common ground in condemning the variability of man, and the pernicious influence of success upon some minds. The girl gave a brief rehearsal of her share in the interview that was to take place that evening, from which it appeared that young Easter would have little to do but listen, to mumble ineffective excuses, to retire finally carrying the knowledge that Irene would not now consent to marry him, though he should come to her on hands and knees.

“Let him ’ave it straight, I will!” cried Irene. “They can’t play about and make a fool of me. May think they can, but I’ll jolly soon let ’em know they’ve made a mistake. Shan’t talk much, mind you, but what I do say will go right ’ome. Least said, soonest mended!”

It was expected she would return within twenty minutes after leaving the house; instead, ten o’clock struck as her knock came, and this was not her usual single knock, but represented the music of a triumphant dance. The fault for imagining disaster she imputed to her mistress, who seemed to lack the gift of comprehending a well and clearly expressed letter. Mr. Easter had no idea of backing out of the engagement; on the contrary, he wished her, in the new circumstances, to make some more elaborate investments at certain of the best shops in the neighbourhood, and this represented his uncle’s desire as well as his own.

Irene’s mistress tells me she had given up all thoughts and hopes of seeing her again when, being away in the north of London, and desiring to return with all despatch, she managed by standing in front of a conveyance to stop it. Passengers on the left reluctantly made room: the young woman next to whom she sat begged pardon coldly, and carefully shielded skirts. Recognition came.

“What a very small world it is!” said Irene, in a high voice. “How most extraordinary you and I should run across each other again! And tell me,” condescendingly, “you are getting on pretty well? So glad! What a great convenience these motor omnibuses must be to poor people; I suppose you often travel in them. Do you know, I couldn’t get a taxi when I wanted one just now, couldn’t get one for love or money. My husband will be so annoyed when I tell him about it. I get out here. Three At Homes to go to. Goodbye!”

Young nuisances

The three had done nearly everything forbidden by the company’s notices, and as the train slowed in order to stop at a junction, they expressed a fierce determination to reserve the compartment for the rest of the journey. If any one touched the handle they would fetch him (or her) such a rap across the knuckles as wouldn’t make him (or her) half scream. They were still discussing plans of defence when the train came to a crowded platform; the three rushed to the door and side windows, shouting an assurance that there was no room, that the door was locked, that the compartment had been specially reserved. A short struggle, and determined travellers made their way in.

“Young hussies!” exclaimed a brown-faced woman wrathfully. “Never saw such impudence in all my life before.”

“They come down,” said another, “these yer London schoolchildren, and they kick up such a deuce and all of a shindy that everybody in the village begs and prays they’ll never be allowed to come again.”

“And the manners they learn our youngsters!” remarked a third. “The expressions! The sayings! The tunes!”

“The country’s no fit place for ’em,” declared the brown-faced woman emphatically. “I’m strongly in favour of every one keeping themselves to themselves. I’ve never so much as thought of going up to London myself. Sooner see myself dead and in my grave and buried, I would.”

One admitted she went up twice a year, but pleaded, in extenuation, that she had a sister in service at Highbury, and invariably brought home enough small suits and dresses to enable her eight children to attract a fair amount of attention at the Congregational Chapel. Conversation went on to safer grounds.

“All finished?” asked the shortest of the three London children presently. The ladies sniffed and declined to answer. “’Cos if so, perhaps you won’t mind if we say a word. We don’t come here for a week’s ’oliday to please ourselves; we don’t come down here for the benefit of our ’ealth; we come down so as to brighten you up a bit, and give you a chance of—”

“Mixing with intelligent people.”

“Be quiet!” she ordered to her companions. “Leave it to me.” She addressed the women again. “To give you a chance of seeing what a lot of pudden-headed fools you are.”

The passengers, trembling with annoyance, whispered a recommendation that no notice should be taken of these remarks; the brown-faced woman could not, however, refrain from hinting at a course of procedure which would be adopted were the child one of hers.

“The idea is this,” went on the short girl, with the patient air of endeavouring to make a complicated matter clear to defective intellects. “You dawdle about every day of your lives, seeing nothing, ’earing nothing, doing nothing. You very seldom speak, and when you do you talk in such a peculiar style that you can’t possibly understand one another. So the County Council comes to us and it says, ‘Miss Parkes,’ or whatever our name happens to be, ‘sorry to trouble, but you’ll shortly be taking your ’olidays, and will you be so kind and so obliging as to go down to such-and-such a place, and do all you can to liven it up. It’s asking you a great deal,’ says the County Council, ‘but the Fund is very keen about it, and if you can spare the time, and if you’ve got the willingness, why,’ says the County Council, ‘we shall look on it as a great favour!’”

“‘And make it worth your while,’” suggested her companions.

“I’ll biff you two,” she threatened, “if you can’t keep quiet when I’m talking!”

“The daringness of the child!” exclaimed the rest of the compartment, amazedly and heatedly. “Don’t believe there’s a single word of truth in what she says! The trollops!”

“Facts are facts,” she said, smoothing her brief skirt, “and it’s very little use pretending you can get away from them. It’s no pleasure to me to have to tell you all this, but it’s only right you should know. As for us finding any satisfaction coming to these ’eaven-forsaken places—”

She laughed scornfully, and because her two companions did not join in this ordered them to wake up and sing something.

“If you do,” threatened the brown-faced woman solemnly, “I shall most certainly report you to the guard at the next station. It’s agenst the by-laws, and you can be punished for doing it. Punished well. My eldest boy is going on the line when he leaves school, and it stands to reason I know what I’m talking about. So you just dare, that’s all!”

They allowed one station to go before beginning, and during the half-minute of rest there chaffed an official until he became scarlet with confusion. On the train re-starting, the three lifted their voices to shrill music, singing a satirical melody with, for last line of the refrain, “Oh, what a jolly place is Engeland.” This was followed by a song that caused the other passengers to gaze steadily at the roof of the compartment; the girls did not conceal their diversion at the sensitive nature of the country mind.

“What shall we give ’em next?” asked the eldest girl.

“Wait a bit and let me think,” answered the youngest.

The women said that by rights Parliament ought to step in. If Parliament once decided that these common, vulgar children were not to be allowed, even once a year, to come down into the country and make themselves a nuisance, then it would be stopped. It only needed that Parliament should say the word. Parliament would have to be spoken to about it. Parliament busied its head concerning a lot of things which did not matter; but here was a subject Parliament might well tackle, and thus earn the grateful thanks of a nation.

“Let’s give ’em,” said the youngest, “one of them songs we’ve been learnin’ at school lately. There isn’t room, or else we’d do one of the Morris dances. That’d make ’em open their eyes!”

At the first verse the brown-faced woman put down her basket and gave all her attention. As the refrain began she unconsciously nodded her bonnet to the rhythm.

‘Where are you going to, my pretty maid?Where are you going, my honey?’ ‘Going over the hills, kind sir,’ she said,‘To my father a-mowing the barley!’

“Why, do you know,” she cried, “I ’ent heard that not since—”

“Order, there!” commanded the girl imperatively. “Some of you’ll get chucked out if you don’t keep quiet.”

The last verse came to the deeply interested compartment:

And now she is the lawyer’s wife,And dearly the lawyer loves her; They live in a happy content of lifeAnd well in the station above her.

The women clapped hands. One remembered her grandmother singing it years and years and years ago; another had heard it once and only once, at a Foresters’ fête; a third had always recollected the air, but the words she could not have recalled though you offered her a pension. The London children, touched by the genuine enthusiasm, sang “Blow Away the Morning Dew” and “The Two Magicians.” The audience pressed apples upon them.

“You’re never getting out here, my dears?” protested the brown-faced woman. They assured her this was their destination. “Well, then,” taking up her heavy basket, “dang it all—it only means a extra fowermile walk for me—if I don’t get out with you, just for the pleasure of your company!”

My brother Edward

The case of my brother Edward is typical of many, and I set the facts down here, partly as reminder to myself, mainly for the information of the public. I said once, when in the company of some other bright spirits, that the pupils of yesterday are the teachers of to-morrow, by which remark I meant to convey that we learn in our youth, and in our middle age become, in turn, the instructors. Poor Edward had the same advantages that came to me in school days, the very same advantages. Our mother consulted us in turn; I, the elder, decided, without hesitation, to go into the City; Edward, a year later, suggested that he should go into an engineering place at Wandsworth, on the other side of the river.

“No, no,” I said when I reached home that night. “This won’t do at all. Choose a refined occupation. We don’t want all Fulham to think that the sweeps are continually coming in and going out of the house. We may have our faults, but no one can say that we haven’t always worn a clean collar.”

“I’ll keep mine for Sundays,” remarked Edward.

“Mother,” I went on, “please let it be understood that this is a matter which concerns me to some extent. Supposing I wished to bring home a friend from Bucklersbury, and supposing that just as I opened the front gate Edward came along. How should I be able to explain—”

“Say,” suggested Edward, “that I was going in for Christy Minstrel business in my spare time. Say I was just off to St. James’s Hall.”

“I place my veto on the scheme.”

“You can place whatever you like,” he retorted, “and it won’t make any difference.”

“Very well,” I said, “very well. In that case I consider myself relieved of all responsibility. I’ve done with it. Only, mind this, don’t come to me in after years—”

“I promise that.”

“And complain that I omitted to give you advice. Mother, you’re a witness.”

I put my silk hat on and went out of the house. I have always been willing to give people the benefit of my counsel, but the moment I find they cease to be receptive I—to use a vulgarism—dry up.

I discovered a certain amount of satisfaction in observing that events shaped somewhat in accordance with my prophecy. So soon as my voice settled down I was asked to join a Choral Union in Walham Green; and on the second evening, as I escorted two ladies in the direction of their home, I met Edward—Edward on the way from work, and presenting the appearance of a half-caste nigger. He raised his cap, and I had to explain to my companions that he was a lad to whom my people had been able to show some kindness, taking him in hand when he was quite young. Unfortunately, one of the ladies knew him, and knew his name, and I found it advisable not to go to any more rehearsals of “The Wreck of the Hesperus.” Months afterwards, when I had left home and was living in lodgings owing to a dispute with mother about coming home late at night, he and some of his fellow-workmen arrived at the offices in Bucklersbury to fit up the electric light, which had then just come in, and I had to take an early opportunity of mentioning to him, privately, that if he claimed relationship with me he would be doing the very worst turn that a man could do to another.

“See you hanged first!” said Edward, taking his coat off to begin work. I turned cold at the sight of his shirt-sleeves of flannel.

“That makes it necessary that I should appeal to your better instincts. I implore you, Edward, to remember that the ties of relationship can exist, but need not—”

“I mean,” he explained, “that I’ll see you hanged first before I confess to any one here that you are a brother of mine. Providing, of course”—here he threw back his head and laughed in a loud, common way—“providing the Governor of Newgate allows me to be present at the ceremony.”

I felt greatly relieved at this, but now and again, while the work was going on in the office, Edward gave me a start by talking in an audible voice to the other workmen about his relatives, and I knew he did this purposely. What I feared was that his companions might speak to him by his surname; it proved reassuring to find that they called him Teddy. On the night they finished the work, I happened to be staying overtime, and, taking him aside, I tried to talk pleasantly to him, asking how he progressed in the new business to which he had transferred himself, and pointing out that a rolling stone gathered no moss, but he seemed quite off-hand in his manner. I offered him sixpence that he might go out and get a drink. He said that I had better keep it and buy something to put in my face; he added that I appeared to be spending all my money on clothes, and expressed doubts whether I had enough to eat.

“Pardon me, Edward,” I said, “you are now trespassing on grounds that do not belong to you.”

“A family weakness,” he remarked. “Good-night, old man! Good luck to you!”

“Edward,” I said, “it is not luck which counts in this world, but rather a steady, dogged determination to do one’s duty; a persistent effort to keep one’s position in society; to mingle, so far as possible, with those of a superior station in life.”

“Do you know what I think of you?” he interrupted sharply. “You’re nothing more nor less than— Perhaps I’d better not say what I was going to say. After all, we’re brothers.”

“That, Edward,” I said, in my quiet way, turning to go, so that it might finish the discussion—“that is a fact which I sometimes find it difficult to realise.”

“You needn’t try,” he retorted.

On reflection, I perceived that, disturbing as this argument had been, there was no reason to allow it to cause regret, for it meant a final breaking up of friendship, and enabled me to find good plea for not acknowledging his existence should we ever meet again. Moreover, increases had been stopped in the office, and it appeared likely that I might remain at £110 a year for a time. Unless I could find some one of a fairly attractive appearance, with a little money of her own, it would inconvenience me greatly to contribute anything towards the support of my mother. This difference of opinion with Edward provided me with a good answer if ever the application should be made. “After what Edward remarked to me some time ago,” I should say, “I must decline to have anything to do with domestic expenses. He is living in the house: let him provide the sums necessary for the upkeep of the establishment.” As it proved, no necessity existed for this statement, because they very wisely refrained from making any appeal.

I heard of Edward occasionally by the medium of Miss Charlesworth; she also brought me news of my mother. I was living then in Jubilee Place, and Miss Charlesworth’s people kept a large dairy in King’s Road, Chelsea. I called in sometimes on my way home for a couple of fresh eggs. Eggs can be carried in the pocket without observation, and, if folk are careful not to crowd, without damage, whilst other eatables have to be conveyed in a parcel. I had strong objections to be seen carrying a package of any kind.

Miss Charlesworth took music-lessons from my mother in the old days when there was not much money about, and I always spoke pleasantly when I called at the dairy, answering her when she asked whether there was anything special in the evening papers; I talked to her across the milk-pans, if I could spare the time, about Gilbert and Sullivan’s new play at the “Savoy.” Her mother beamed through the glass half of the door at the back, and on one occasion asked me to step in and have a bite of supper. I declined the first invitation, and this caused Miss Charlesworth’s mother to become exceedingly anxious that I should honour them with my company.

“Fix your own evening,” urged the old lady: “we’re plain people, but we always keep a good table.”

I found that, in the interests of economy, the plan, once started, answered very well. At first, when Miss Charlesworth’s mother found that I walked into the shop-parlour nearly every night at supper-time, she exhibited signs of impatience, putting an extra plate down with a bang, and throwing a thick tumbler towards me with the word:

“Catch!”

But the attentions I paid to her plump daughter mollified her, and she always cried when I sang “The Anchor’s Weighed.” From Lily—one could but smile at the ludicrous inappropriateness of the name—I heard that my brother Edward had been foolhardy enough to start an electric light business on his own account; and, in spite of the differences that had taken place between us, I could not help feeling annoyed that he had omitted to ask my advice before taking such a step. It would be of no advantage to me for people to find the name of my brother in the list of bankruptcies.

I can never understand how it was that I allowed myself to be imposed upon by the Charlesworths. In the City at that time I had the reputation of being as keen as any one in the office, where my own interests were concerned; there were complaints that I shirked some of my duties, and that I often shifted responsibility from my own shoulders, but no one ever accused me of being a fool. These two women at the dairy-shop in King’s Road, as nearly as possible, took me in. It hurt me very much afterwards to think of the time I had wasted. If I took Lily Charlesworth to one place of interest, I took her to a dozen; the National Gallery on a free day, the Tower, the outside of the Lyceum Theatre, the South Kensington Museum—any man, young at the time, and in receipt of a stationary income can fill in the list. Now and again she wanted to talk about my brother Edward; I changed the subject adroitly, for I could not trust my temper where he was concerned. It was near the Albert Memorial one evening (she had seen it before, but, as I said, it could do her no harm to see it again) that I directed conversation to the subject of profits made on milk and cream; the discussion began at a quarter past seven, and the information I obtained was satisfactory enough to induce me, at twenty minutes to eight, to make a definitely worded offer.

“Very kind of you to ask me,” she said nervously, “but I think my answer must be ‘No.’”

“Come, come,” I said pleasantly, “there’s no occasion for all this coyness. We’re friends.”

“Yes,” she said rapidly, “friends. That’s just it. And there’s no reason why we shouldn’t go on being friends. But nothing more, please.”

“That,” I remarked, “if you will allow me to say so, Lily, verges on stupidity. I dare say you feel that you are not worthy of me.”

“It isn’t that.”

“May, I ask what other reason can possibly exist?”

“There are several.”

“Give me one,” I insisted.

“I think,” she said deliberately—“I rather think I am going to marry your brother Edward.”

I threw up my hands with a gesture of sympathy.

“You poor, silly girl!” I said. “What ever has induced you to think that?”

“Your brother Edward.”

I turned away from her.

“It was because he asked us to be kind to you,” she went on, “that me and mother took the trouble to look after you of an evening. It’s kept you out of mischief.”

“I suppose you’re aware that he’s marrying you for the sake of your money.”

“Don’t think he is,” she replied. “I haven’t got any.”

“But you will have?”

“No!”

I must say this for myself: that I kept wonderfully calm, considering the trying nature of the circumstances. It appeared that, although her mother’s name showed over the dairy, she was only the manager, working at a salary. I pointed out that this should have been mentioned to me before. She answered that Edward was acquainted with the fact, and there existed no reason why the information should be communicated to me.

I saw the uselessness of arguing the point, and left her to make her way home alone, congratulating myself on a narrow escape.

That night I wrote a rather clever letter to my brother Edward, the wording of which gave me trouble, but brought satisfaction; my only fear was that he might not have the intelligence to read between the lines. I said that I felt sure Lily Charlesworth would grow up to be the woman her mother was; he would no doubt be as happy as he deserved to be; I trusted it would be many weeks ere he discovered the mistake he had made. For myself, I had long since decided to remain a bachelor; I hinted that the courage of the family appeared to have centred itself in him. Begged him to convey my best regards to my mother, and to express my regret that, on his marriage, I could not see my way to offering her a home.

Edward sent no answer to this, and he forwarded no invitation to the wedding. I should not have accepted it; indeed, I had drafted out a satirical reply, but I do think he might have sent me a card. I transferred my custom to a dairy in Brompton Road; and, at about that period, I spoke to a young lady in Hyde Park, mentioning that it was a fine evening, and that the days were drawing in.

I may say at once this lady became my wife. It is unnecessary also that I should delay the information that her account of relatives, of her position in society, and of herself, given to me during the days of courtship, differed to a considerable extent from the details proffered during our honeymoon at Littlehampton, and this made it easy for me to explain that one or two exaggerations had somehow crept into the particulars which I had furnished concerning myself. For one day, after this, we exchanged no word with each other; and I have since been inclined to wish that she, at any rate, had continued this policy of silence, for, later on, she made remarks which (as I believe I pointed out at the time) proved her to be wanting in that fine and glorious attribute of women—the ability to forgive and forget.

“Suppose we must make the best of it,” she said, “but I can foresee that the best won’t be very good. And if ever I allow a day to go by without reminding you of what a bounder you are, then you can assume that I am going off my head.”

She must have begun at once, for I remember that when I had struck some items off the bill, and settled with the Littlehampton boarding-house, the landlady told me that she had never found herself making such a mistake in the whole course of her existence: when we first arrived in the cab, she could have sworn we had not been married long; on retrospection she perceived that we had been man and wife for at least ten years. I told her we should never by any chance patronise her boarding-house again, and she said this assurance robbed the future of half its terrors. No doubt she thought she had had the last word, but she little knew the kind of man she was dealing with; I got the better of her later by recommending some of my economical friends to go there.

I mention all this because the incident is typical of others which happened at about this time. At office I detected a disposition on the part of the firm to promote younger men over my head, and, when I insisted on knowing the reason, they fenced with me for some time.

“Fact is,” said one of the partners at last, “you show no interest in your work.”

“Make it worth my while, sir.”

“We’re paying you your full value. You wouldn’t get more for your services anywhere else.”

“I doubt that, sir.”

“Quite easy for you to test the truth of the statement,” snapped the partner.

“I suppose,” I retorted, “that means you can do without me!”

“It means we are ready to try.”

I told the wife when I reached home, and, after she had expressed some opinions concerning my conduct, she said that my best plan would be to write to my brother Edward, and ask him to use his influence in obtaining for me a new berth. I told her plainly that I would rather cease work for ever than feel myself under any obligation to him. When, after replying to several advertisements, it became clear that some exceptional step would have to be taken, I submitted an alternative for her consideration. To show what a difficult woman she was to deal with (and to throw a light on much that happened afterwards), I wish to record that she went into one of her fits of temper, calling me everything but my proper name. Using diplomacy, I went away for a day or two, and on my return she told me she had decided to act upon my suggestion.

“Very well,” I said; “but why not have agreed to it at first? However, it’s satisfactory to see that you have come to your senses. Perhaps another time that we have a difference of opinion—”

“It won’t happen again.”

“I can’t trust you,” I said severely. “These promises of yours mean nothing.”

“I assure you it won’t happen again.”

“We will leave it at that,” I said. “What it all amounts to is this: that you are willing to go back to your former occupation as lady’s-maid in a family.”

“That’s it!”

“In which capacity you will be able to earn enough to keep the home going.”

“What home?”

“This home.”

“Oh, no!” said my wife. “Oh, dear me, no! I shall earn enough to keep myself going, but I shan’t bother about you. Understand that, once for all.”

“Do you mean to look me in the face—”

“Sha’n’t allow you a penny,” she declared. “And if you find out where I’m engaged, and call round and begin kicking up a row—”

“What then?”

“I shall simply come back again,” she announced deliberately, “and make you keep me.”

It must have been in consequence of this blow, administered by one who had sworn to love, honour, and obey me, that I began to lose heart. I went into a single room, on the other side of the water, and for a time became interested in political life, devoting myself more particularly to the Sugar Bounty Question. To my astonishment, I found that my brother Edward was paying some attention to a constituency in South London; as I remarked, rather cleverly, he appeared to have succeeded in the world as much as I deserved to do. It became my duty at one of his meetings to put a few searching questions to him. Some of his supporters objected, and cried out to me: “Who are you; who are you?” I shouted back that the candidate could give the information if he cared to do so.

“Oh, yes,” said Edward; “he is my brother.”

I spoke to him after the meeting, and he introduced me to a slim, good-looking woman—his wife. I remarked, in her presence, that he appeared to have found out Miss Charlesworth, as I had done; he replied that he had not only found her out, but that he had married her. My amazed look caused Mrs. Edward to declare she had rarely received such a genuine compliment, and that it more than repaid her for the course of persistent exercise on which she had engaged. She added they had made efforts to discover me—I knew how much to believe of that—and exhibited surprise on hearing that I was married.

“We particularly wanted to find you,” remarked my brother Edward, “about six months ago.”

“Let me see,” I said. “Where was I six months ago? Busy, I expect. What did you want me for?”

“Mother died.”

“Wish I’d known,” I said. “I would have sent a wreath. Got a cigarette?”

He turned away rather sharply, and then turned to me again. “She wanted to see you,” he remarked. And they both gave their attention to some one else.

It occurred to me afterwards that they perhaps expected me to show more signs of distress; if I had thought this at the time I could have obliged them. But that trifling detail makes no excuse whatever for Edward’s subsequent conduct towards me, conduct which has compelled me to write this account of his behaviour. I put it briefly, and I wish to add that I put it truthfully; there may have been times in my career when it has been necessary to step with care beyond the confines of exactitude, but, in regard to this matter, I am telling you nothing that can be contradicted.

I wrote to him, you must know, immediately after the meeting, and offered to stop my opposition to his candidature, and to help him, heart, body, and soul, if he would allow me—say, two pounds a week. He replied curtly. I did not apply to him again for quite ten days, and then I wrote saying that, although he could not see his way to accepting my first proposition, perhaps he could let me have a loan. I said I was temporarily out of a situation, and that several excellent offers were being made to me.

To keep myself to the truth, I am bound to say that I obtained from him, at various times, amounts which, totted up, would come to a respectable figure.

Mark what follows.

This morning—this very morning—I receive a letter. Headed “House of Commons.”

“I find,” he writes, “that for some years past you have done no work of a creditable nature. I am always willing to help those who are making some effort to earn a living, but I do nothing for the indolent. I can give you no further assistance until you obtain work and show some clear intention of sticking to it.”

Apart from the wording of the letter—inexcusable in one who had equal educational advantages with myself—I desire to point out the callousness of its tone; the disregard of family ties. I leave the matter for the world to judge. In the meanwhile, if you know of any one who can be persuaded to assist by spontaneous gifts, I shall not only be saved the necessity of looking for employment, but I shall be enabled to write a sharp, stinging note to my brother Edward.

Savoir faire

“Aunt kept on saying I ought to bring her up to London with me.” The perturbed lad examined closely the peak of his cap. “What the others seeggested was that I should get you to go down to Railway Terrace and argy it all out with my late landlady. One of the ticket collectors said there wasn’t nobody on the station who could make himself so unpleasant as you, Mr. Swan, when you felt so inclined.”

“I do my best,” admitted Porter Swan.

“’Nother one recommended you should go down there and knock at the door and pretend to have had a drop or two too much.”

“Why pretend?”

The new porter had endured a hard week; all the tricks of an inventive staff had been played upon him, and Porter Swan took a lively interest in these, prompting colleagues to further efforts. Now that young Mannering arrived with his troubles and appealed for help, games were set aside.

“She’s evidently a terror,” admitted Porter Swan presently. “If you’d only come and asked me at the outset I might have told you where to go. ’Pon me word, I don’t know quite now what to be up to!”

“If you don’t,” said young Mannering hopelessly, “then no one does.”

“Why not go back and make the best of it for a while?”

“Mr. Swan,” declared the youth tearfully, “I do assure you her chops are worse than her vegetables, and her vegetables worse than her chops. I was bound to leave.”

“And you want your property, then, without paying too much?”

“I’d rayther get it without paying nothing at all.”

Porter Swan went off duty at seven, having first washed with unusual vigour and changed his official headgear for the bowler hat of private life. Near the suburban station he bought a cigar, and, lighting it, strode towards Railway Terrace, rehearsing the coming debate on the way. At the door of No. 17 he gave a sharp, definite knock and frowned at some children who ran up to watch the course of events. He had to knock again, and this time also rattled the flap of the letter-box to express impatience.

“Well?” asked the trim, determined woman at the open doorway. “What are you kicking up all this row for?”

“I don’t want to make any unpleasantness, or any un-anything else,” he began truculently, “but you’ve got a tin box belonging to one of our young men, and I have to request, ma’am, that you hand it over to me at your early convenience.”

“Pay me his week’s board and lodging, and you can take not only the tin box, but all that’s in it.”

“Goes against the grain,” he said loudly, “to argue with a lady, but I ask you one simple question. Have you, since you’ve taken to letting, ever had a lodger that stayed so long as a month?”

“The last two,” she replied calmly, “stayed until they got married.”

“They must have had iron constitutions,” he argued.

“Martha!” she called, turning her head.

“Yes, mother.”

“Did you hear what this gentleman said?”

“Yes, mother.”

“It’s as well,” she remarked to him, “to have a witness. Makes all the difference in a court of law.” She found her handkerchief. “I’ve always made it a special boast that I never had to tell a lodger to go, and I do think it’s hard—”

“Look here, ma’am,” said Porter Swan, still in aggressive tones, “we don’t want to quarrel. We want to arrange this trifling affair in a nice, sensible, amicable way.”

“If you’re going to settle it,” she said, “I’ll go and make out the bill.”

“Let me understand first of all,” repressing annoyance. “What does your claim actually amount to?”

She mentioned the sum.

“And you’ve got the assurance to stand there and demand all that for keeping this young country lad for three days! Why, it’s my opinion you’re nothing more nor less than a female swindler.”

“Martha!” she called. “Are you still listening, dear?”

Porter Swan went on to the house of his own landlady, where he complained with bitterness of the absence of a mat and the condition of the wallpaper; she soothed him with a cup of tea so excellent that it stood outside the pale of criticism. In his room he used the hair-brush with considerable fierceness, a process that seemed to arouse ideas, for after a few moments’ consideration he changed his collar and fixed a necktie hitherto reserved for Sundays, Good Friday, and Christmas Day. Then he set out, whistling as he went, announcing cheerfully to his landlady that he would return in less than half an hour. If her husband came in, she was to beg him to stay up: Porter Swan would have something to relate to him. In Douglas Street he purchased a threepenny bunch of chrysanthemums—all white.

At the door of the house in Railway Terrace he gave this time a deferential knock. The child answered it, crying to her mother that the man with the red face had called again. Swan asked the little girl whether she cared for flowers, and made a genial presentation.

“Sorry to trouble you once more, ma’am,” he said, taking off his hat and throwing away the end of the cigar, “but I’ve come round to apologise. In the heat of argument I used one or two remarks I’d no business to use to any lady, and if you’ll kindly dismiss them from your mind I shall esteem it a favour.”

“Look what he’s give me, mother,” said the child.

“A sweet-faced little thing,” mentioned Swan, gazing down at the youngster sentimentally. “I’ve often thought that if ever I did get married— Only”—with a regretful shrug of the right shoulder—“I’ve never been lucky enough to find any one that cared for me. That accounts for my want of good manners.”

“It is a bit noticeable,” she agreed.

“It’s partly, too,” he contended, “the result of good nature. This young chap, he appealed to me to help him, and I, foolish like, consented to do my best. Never occurred to me that I should be no use at all when I set myself against the sharpness of a woman. When a woman’s got a clear head and a certain amount of good looks, no man has the leastest chance.” He looked around the passage for a new subject. “Is this the late lamented, may I ask, ma’am?”

“That’s Lord Kitchener,” she answered, not displeased. “Would you care to come in and sit down for a bit? I expect you’re tired, running about all over the place. Martha dear, you come in, too, and let us see how nicely you can arrange the flowers. That,” entering the front room and pointing to a large, tinted photograph, “that was Mr. Rickards.”

“Sensible sort of forehead,” said Porter Swan guardedly.

“More than could be said of what was inside it. He was always talking about what he’d put by in the Railway Savings Bank, and every pay day he used to come home and say, ‘It’s adding up rapidly,’ and ‘You won’t want for nothing, my love, if I should be took away.’ And,” with acerbity, “when he did go off, I found that instead of having about forty pounds there—enough to give me the chance of opening a little business—he hadn’t put by as many shillings. Not as many pence.”

“Some men are like that.”

“All men are like that,” she insisted.

“No, no, no!” protested Swan. “We’ve got our faults, but we haven’t got the same kind of faults. Most of us are straightforward. How do you manage to rub along, ma’am, if it isn’t a rude question?”

“It is a rude question; but I do dressmaking, and I take lodgers.”

“You take in lodgers?”

She smiled, and Swan could not help thinking that only trouble interfered with her good looks. She sent the child to the scullery for a jug of water.

“Not for me,” he insisted. “I shall have something with my supper, later on.”

“It’s for the flowers,” as the child obeyed. “And I didn’t want her to hear what I was about to tell you,” she went on confidentially. “The fact is— As you say, it has been an extraordinary autumn. The sun to-day was enough to make people’s eyes ache.”

“Ain’t spilt a drop,” announced the child, who had returned swiftly.

Swan moved his chair nearer.

“You’ve got eyes,” he said, lowering his voice, “eyes like the head-lights on an engine.”

She tried to frown, and gave a meaning glance in the direction of the occupied little girl.

“I shall be dreamin’ of ’em for weeks,” he whispered earnestly. “I’m not one to take much notice of females in a general way—a woman hater; that’s what they call me in the porters’ room—but as I was going to say, I can quite well imagine a chap like myself, going on for years just racketing about and then coming across a pair of eyes like yours and saying to himself, ‘Swan, old man, it’s time you began to take matters seriously!’”

“Martha, my dear, go on with your work. Me and Mr. Swan are only talking business!”

“You must have been a decent-looking girl in your day,” Swan went on. “Of course, time doesn’t stand still with any of us, and very few can weather the storm, as you may say, without showing some signs of wear and tear.”

“I’ve had more of a struggle than most,” she said, glancing at the mirror.

“You want somebody to take you out for walks, and now and again an evening at the theatre. Sometimes I get pit orders for two, and I tear ’em up, because,” said Swan, with a touch of melancholy, “simply because I can’t get no one to go with.”

“That is a shame!” she cried. “Surely your landlady—”

“You know what landladies are,” he interposed. “Always on the make. So long as they can over-charge you, that’s all they want. I don’t mean anything personal,” he added quickly, and rose from the easy chair. “It’s a fine moonlight night,” he went on; “I shall just take a turn round and get a mouthful of fresh air.”

“I haven’t been outside the front door to-day.”

“I’ll wait for you,” he whispered, “a few houses off.”

“Martha,” she cried severely, “do you see what the time is? Pack off to bed this minute, and I’ll come up and hear you say your prayers. Bid ‘Good-night’ to Mr. Swan, and thank him prettily for what he gave you.”

“Bring a bigger bunch next time,” said the child shrilly.

Swan, walking up and down on the pavement, was hailed by one or two colleagues on their way home, who asked to be informed whether he had succeeded in recovering young Mannering’s box: he contented himself by replying to the effect that negotiations were in progress, and that a full report would be made in the morning. They predicted that he had for once bitten off more than he could chew.

“This takes me back,” she remarked brightly, as she came up, “I shouldn’t like to say how long. Wonder whether I can get your step?”

“You’ll get accustomed to it,” he replied. “Any objection to me smoking?”

“I love a pipe! Oh, but,” with sudden agitation, “I didn’t say you could take my arm! Whatever will the neighbours think?”

“They’ll think what a lucky one I am.”

“Mr. Swan, you seem to have an answer ready for everything!”

She announced half an hour later that she did not feel in the least tired, adding a belief that she could go on walking for ever; but Swan, who needed his supper, was firm, and at her door mentioned that he was early duty all the current week. She offered her hand and thanked him for his kindness; he held it and asked determinedly where and when could he see her again. Surely, she retorted, surely once was enough! Once, Swan announced, was by no means enough—twenty thousand times would not, in his opinion, be reckoned sufficient.

“You must think I’m simple to believe that!” she said.

“What about to-morrow?” he asked, ignoring the assertion.

“Would you care to come in the evening and have something to eat before the child goes to bed?”

Porter Swan, in a moment of inspiration, kissed her hand, thus striking the exactly right note, and she declared she seemed to have known him for years. Would Mr. Swan do her one favour?

“Command me!” he begged.

Would he mind taking that lad’s box away with him, and leaving it at the station or somewhere? The sight of it on the morrow would recall bitter words that she wished to drive from her memory.

“I don’t mind obliging you,” said Swan, feigning reluctance, “to that extent.”

It had cost a deal of thought and of trouble, but good repayment came the next morning. He conducted Mannering to the Up Parcels Office, and there formally presented him with the tin box, sent free from the suburban station as “Luggage Left Behind.” The staff of the Up Parcels Office cheered Swan, and, clustering around, begged to be informed how the feat had been accomplished, and had to interpret a wink given as reply. Porter Swan waved aside the lad’s thanks, declined the grateful offer of refreshments, and walked out with the air of a successful diplomatist leaving the Guildhall after receiving in a gold casket the freedom of the City. During the day he found a new regard paid to him; colleagues came for private conference on knotty points of law, ranging from difficulties with a neighbour concerning cats to the regaining of engagement rings held by lady bailees. It was all very pleasant and gratifying, and, in order to enjoy it to the full, he gave less than his usual energy to the collection of tips, actually leaving one leisurely passenger without allowing her time to find her purse.

Not until a client, searching for sound legal advice, and finding it impossible to state his case amidst the puffing and whistling of engines, inquired: “What are you doing with yourself this evening, old man?”—not until then did he recall the circumstance that he had promised to eat a meal on the occasion of his ensuing visit. He wanted to see her again—just once more, at any rate—and he knew domestic authorities were not too well pleased when disappointed in regard to a guest. To arrive after the supper hour would mar the warmth and geniality of his reception.

“Mannering!”

“Yes, Mr. Swan. Anything I can do for you?”

“Want a little more information out of you, my lad. You gave me a vague sort of description of the food that was given you at that last place; just let me have a few more details—the exact truth about, say, the last meal you had there.”

As the lad complied Swan’s forehead took an extra crease; young Mannering spoke with the fluency of one dealing with a subject on which he felt deeply.

“Steady on!” protested Swan. “It couldn’t possibly have been so awful as all that.”

“It was worse!” declared the other. “A jolly sight worse! At first it seemed all right; but the third day— You ought to have been there! If you ’appen to have a taste for tough meat—they say there’s nothing like leather; but that’s a mistake—overdone and all black at the edges, why, you would have enjoyed yourself!”

“She doesn’t look like a woman who can’t cook.”

“She’s a very nice person,” agreed the lad judicially, “and I’ve got no other fault to find whatsoever. Horrible particular, though, about late hours. Old-fashioned and out of date, I call her.”

“What do you mean,” roared Swan impetuously, “by talking in that way about a lady? Keep a civil tongue in your head, will you? Who are you, I should like to know, to find fault?”

The lad begged for pardon.

“What do you know about food?” he raved on. “Accustomed to nothing but raw turnips hitherto, how can you possibly tell whether cooking is good or not? Be off and see about your work, or else I’ll get you shifted back to that toad-in-the-hole station in the country. Coming up here,” continued Swan aggrievedly, “and dictating to Londoners about food—I never heard of such impudence!”

He strode to the porters’ room’, and, flinging off his jacket, sat at the desk and took a penholder, assuming the attitude of mental stress common to those who start upon literary efforts. Like many others in similar position, he found himself baulked at the very start. Should he, in writing to excuse himself from paying his call until after the hour of supper, begin, “My dear Madam” or “Dear Friend,” or, his memory going back to the days of youth, dare to write “Sweetest”? He tried all of these, and others, and could not persuade himself to feel satisfied with any. The old remedy of shining boots gave him an idea that brought back contentment to his features, and he went about his tasks for the remainder of the day humming cheerfully. At six o’clock he ran around to the eating-house near to the station and ordered a special eightpenny steak, with chipped potatoes.

“That’ll save me!” remarked Porter Swan.

In marching down towards Railway Terrace he could not help thinking of his soldier days when there was never a dearth of housemaids, and never a one who did not, sooner or later, betray some defect which led to cessation of amiabilities. Here, again, was a case of a trim little woman who, if she but knew how to cook, might well be either highly commended or, perhaps, awarded the prize of second marriage. He had enjoyed his meal at the eating-house, and felt willing to look on the world with an indulgent air; nevertheless, he could not help seeing the drawback was serious.

“Hullo, my dear!” as the child opened the door. “How are we this time?”

“Brought me anythink?”

“What do you say to a few chocolates?”

“Mr. Swan,” called a pleasant voice from the kitchen, “don’t you go spoiling her. She’s not been behaving nicely.”

“Hand ’em over!” ordered the youngster.

The mother came through the passage, slightly flushed by the fire or from confusion, reproved her daughter for want of manners, gave a welcome to Mr. Swan, and expressed a hope that he had a good appetite.

“Don’t know what’s the matter with me,” he replied anxiously. “If I don’t get better I shall have to see a chemist. I could no more touch food at the present moment than I could swim the Channel. I’m very sorry, but you must excuse me, reelly.”

“It’s a pity,” she said with distress. “You don’t mind sitting down and watching us eat, I hope.”

“That’ll suit me,” declared Swan, entering the room.

The table was neatly set out for three, with glasses, shining knives and forks, an attractive roll of bread at each plate. She went to the kitchen.

“We’ve got a fowel,” whispered the child importantly. “Roast fowel!”

“You’re welcome to my share,” he answered.

This, repeated with some extravagance, caused the child’s mother to stop as she came in with the dish. She said “Oh!” in such a pained way that he hastened to assure her no reflection upon her culinary skill was intended; the internal complaint from which he was suffering had to take the responsibility. The child said grace.

“You’re a first-rate carver,” he said interestedly.

“It’s a tender bird,” she remarked.

“Looks to me as though it’s beautifully done,” declared the astonished Swan, his mouth watering.

“I was cook in a good family before I married my first,” she explained. “If you’ve once learnt, you never forget. When I get a lodger who keeps good hours I take a pride in preparing his meals. When he doesn’t, I know enough about cooking to cook so that he doesn’t want to stop.”

The staff subscribed threepences, and bought a fish knife and fork. Porter Swan sent in an application for leave, and for passes—passes for two: self and wife.

Magnificent remedies

“Don’t want to bother you,” remarked the toddling baby, catching the hem of the other’s overcoat; “but if you could spare a minute!”

“Now, let me see,” said the Deep Thinker, looking down sideways at the small child and giving the pull-up of the cuffs preparatory to the making of an arch with two hands. “Let me see, now. Where are we?”

“In Notting Dale.”

“I mean, how far have we advanced? At what stage have we arrived?”

“Haven’t arrived at all,” answered the baby shortly. “I’m just starting, and it seems to me I’m starting in rather unfortunate circumstances. I’m not going to say anything against my father and mother; but, really, unless some one else steps in and—”

“Not so fast!” interrupted the Deep Thinker, taking off pince-nez and shaking it reprovingly at the child. “Let us consider this case of yours fully, in all its various aspects. We must hasten slowly. I’m fully prepared to help you in every possible manner, and you can safely leave the case in my hands.”

“Fire away, then!” said the infant.

The Deep Thinker, turning up the collar of his overcoat, found a sheltered space near the Sirdar Road schools, and opened the discussion, picking phrases so carefully that sometimes when the right word came first he rejected it, substituting one which represented second thoughts. The question to be decided—this he offered truculently as his humble opinion—was that nothing could be done for the Notting Dale baby until a large, momentous, important point received satisfactory settlement.

“Now, the Act of 1870, you will remember—”

The child protested that it knew nothing of events happening so long ago; the Deep Thinker lifted a warning forefinger as insistent demand for silence. Warming to the arguments, he began to wave arms, to adopt emphatic forms of gesture; the boy stood clear, watching, and endeavouring to follow the involved and tortuous reasoning. “Shall we,” said the Deep Thinker, “or shall we not reimpose tests?” The youngster gave the sigh of one struggling to understand and unable to see light. “Ought we or ought we not to oppose with all the force and strength we possess undenominational religion; and, if so, why?” The other muttered, “Because it’s ajar!” and, turning, found a little pack of grubby cards in his pocket.

“We proceed now to consider the point of full popular control, and here is a subject on which I shall take the liberty of speaking at some length. It is a difficult point, and I beg you to give me your complete and absolute attention.”

“That I jolly well sha’n’t!” replied the other definitely.

It appeared an audience was not indispensable so long as the Deep Thinker could be permitted to talk without interruption; he found so much pleasure in the task that he gave a high giggle of satisfaction when, having set up a limp argument made of straw with the preface “But then my opponents will say—,” he knocked it down and jumped exultantly upon it with “I rather think that answers the other side!” As time went on, he became slightly hoarse, and the other standing near (whose manners really seemed to be getting worse and worse) warned him that his throat would presently resemble a nutmeg-grater; the Deep Thinker took a voice lozenge, gaining from this enough refreshment to enable him to proceed. Public speakers can be divided into two sets—one not knowing where to begin, and the other not knowing where to leave off; it was evident to which party the Deep Thinker belonged, for whenever it seemed he was approaching finality and nothing remained but to take definite action, he always managed to discover a new and another branch on which he could perch himself and twitter.

“For each individual, after due consideration of the convictions of others, the final authority as to the right or wrong of any opinion or action should be his own conscientious and well-reasoned judgment.”

Policemen came up and interfered between the lad and the girl who was suffering from his blows; the Deep Thinker, his attention distracted by the incident, begged the constables not to arrest the youth until the arguments that were being delivered should come to an end; and the two members of the F Division, touching helmets, went off reluctantly, taking good note of the features of the combative parties. The young man now made no pretence of listening. As quiet folk went by he made a snatch at their watches or at their purses, or at both, and when success attended his efforts he was absent for a time, returning with a slight hiccough and a flushed countenance.

He had developed during the discussion from a round-eyed, attractive infant to a bulgy, sullen youth with a shifting expression that never escaped aggressiveness. As the Deep Thinker announced that only a few brief words remained to be said, the youth temporarily gave up the task of incommoding his fellows, and offered a look of hopefulness.

“I am warned,” said the Deep Thinker, blinking around, “that time does not stand still, and I propose therefore to put my remaining arguments into the briefest possible space. I flatter myself I am a man of action, rather than a man of words. The time has come to be up and doing. We must gird on our sword for the fray. The trumpet call is sounding, and it is the hour for coming to close quarters. First of all, however, I should like to run over the various heads of the arguments I have used, and freshen them, if I may say so—freshen them in your memory.”

What the Deep Thinker meant by this proved to be that he should give himself an encore and accept it, for he went through the whole of his exhaustive address again, adding to it considerably here and there, and whenever he became involved in a thick undergrowth of words, laboriously retraced his footsteps and recommenced the journey. The lad, become a man, short and defiant, with a stubbly beard, made a very satisfactory haul from two well-dressed people, returning later with a revolver, that gave him a great amount of interest; the Deep Thinker broke off to urge him to be careful.

“The crux of the whole question,” said the Deep Thinker, resuming, “put shortly is simply this. The moral life involves neither acceptance nor rejection of belief in any deity, personal or impersonal, or in a life after death!”

Possibly the bearded man did not fully comprehend the intention of this remark; probable, too, that, having been talked to for a considerable length of time, his sense of appreciation had become dulled. At any rate, a City gentleman, hurrying home, found himself at his last destination sooner than he expected. The police wanted the Deep Thinker to come along to the station; his evidence as witness would be required, but the Deep Thinker assured them earnestly that, absorbed by a particular topic, he had seen nothing of the affair.

“Thus we see,” went on the Deep Thinker, when they had disappeared, “that, whilst on the one side it may be fairly argued that—”

He had not finished when there occurred a shock that genuinely pained and annoyed him. The rate-collector presented a demand for payment of the Deep Thinker’s share of the cost of keeping the Sirdar Road criminal in prison for the remainder of what was termed his natural life.

“Almost enough,” cried the Deep Thinker aggrievedly, “to make a man threaten to give up completely his interest in public questions!”

Mixed grill

Mixed grill was published in 1913 by Hodder and Stoughton

Third person singular

I met him when I was in town at a party, where he and I were about the only grownups; he took a good deal of trouble over the youngsters, doing conjuring tricks to amuse them, and singing songs at the pianoforte that made them laugh. Later in the evening, when some of the kids had been fetched, he and I became friendly, and we had a most interesting chat. He agreed with my views regarding the Australian team of the previous summer; he was in full sympathy concerning the difficulty of making one pair of white gloves do for two evenings. I asked for his name and address.

“Don’t think I have a card to spare, old chap,” he said, in his easy way. “Daresay we shall meet again.”

“I’d awfully like to make sure of it,” I said. “My mother may want you to run down to our place.”

“That’s a different matter. Here’s a pencil; write it on something. Or allow me. I’m coming back here at ten,” he went on. “You won’t be gone before that, I hope?”

“I must,” I replied. “My governess will call at half-past nine to take me home.”

“What an existence we men about town do live, to be sure. Always hurrying from one place to another.”

“If my mother writes to you, Mr. Cartwright,” I said, offering my hand, “you won’t fail to come along.”

My mater is peculiar; she has a fixed and permanent idea that any suggestion coming from me must necessarily be overruled and treated as of no serious importance; I fancy this comes from the feeling, often expressed by her, that she has to be both father and mother. It is rather a lonely life for her, with only my governess and the servants for company. I have heard the maids saying more than once to each other that they wondered mistress did not marry again. “She could well afford to,” remarked cook.

I do think I showed cleverness and tact—something very like high diplomacy. I reminded my mother of the parties I had attended, and said I felt glad there was no necessity for us to have our house turned upside down and to give an evening in return. At lunch time I referred to the matter again. Later I said good-night to her, and once more made similar allusion to the subject.

Cards of invitation went out the next day, and my governess started on the preparation of a charade. My governess is not, if I may say so, possessed of incredible cleverness, and after writing out the charade and starting rehearsals, she found she had forgotten the word, and as no one could guess it, and she appeared unable to think of another, it became evident that we could not rely upon this as a source of entertainment. It was then I announced to my mother that I had already sent a note to a friend of mine, a man whose equal for entertaining a party was rarely encountered, and that I expected a reply from him in the course of a post or two. She blamed me for taking the step without asking permission, and praised me for coming to the rescue with such an excellent idea.

“Did you say Cartwright—Mr. Cartwright, dear?”

“Yes, mother. Do you know him?”

“I don’t think I have met the name.”

When Mr. Cartwright’s postcard arrived, and the maid put it by the side of my plate, my mother, glancing down the table before opening her own letters, asked quickly from whom it had come, and when I told her she contradicted me, quoting, rather excitedly, the usual Biblical and historical cases where severe punishment had been given for the telling of lies, or commendation awarded for the statement of exact truth. I ventured to repeat the information, and passed the card to her as a document in support; she looked at it, cried a little, and asked me to forgive her for being so cross. I begged her not to mention it.

“Just for the moment,” she explained, “it took me back about twelve years.”

“Before my time, mother?”

“Yes. You were not thought of then. Does your friend sign himself Cartwright?”

“My dear mother, how else could he sign himself?”

“Send him another line, and say that your mother is looking forward to the pleasure of making his acquaintance.”

“You must tell me how to spell some of the words,” I said.

The carriage was to meet some of the guests who came from London, and I went down to the station myself and arranged with one of the cabmen there, so that Mr. Cartwright should be brought up alone and without being crowded by the children. My mother said I could ask him to stay the night, and ordered a room at the hotel; but he wrote to say he had another engagement in town, and he desired to catch the seven fifty-four back. I remarked that this showed how popular he was in society; my mother gave a word approving businesslike habits. It seemed exactly like Mr. Cartwright that he should arrive in the cab at the precise hour arranged.

“Had a good journey?” I cried, running to him in the hall as he was getting out of his thick overcoat. “I was afraid, somehow, that you’d back out of it at the last moment.”

“Never disappoint the public,” he replied cheerfully. “Sometimes I disappoint myself, but that is another matter.”

I asked what he had in his large bag.

“Brought down a figure; thought perhaps a little ventriloquism would be a novelty.”

“Anything you do will be sure to be appreciated. I’ve been thinking ever since I met you of the perfectly splendid way you entertained at that party.”

“Good man!”

“And I do feel it’s most awfully kind of you to come all this distance just to oblige me. Let’s go upstairs, shall we, Mr. Cartwright? I’ll take you to the room that used to be called the nursery.”

He got rid of his overcoat there, and, asking me for a pair of scissors, went carefully with them around the edge of his shirt cuffs. I inquired whether he had been going out to many parties since I last saw him: he replied that he had no right to complain; there were plenty of exceedingly clever people about and he could only regard himself as cleverish. I exhibited the soldiers that mother had given me for my birthday. He took the blue men, I took the red, and he was Napoleon and I Wellington. We sat upon the floor, and he was so very good as to show me exactly what happened at the battle of Waterloo, an incident of peculiar interest to me, because it occurred on one of the few dates I am able to retain in my memory.

“But, Mr. Cartwright, how is it you know so much about this?” He was moving some dominoes up from the right to represent the approach of Blucher and the German troops.

“Used to be a soldier man,” he replied.

“Why ever didn’t you stay in the army, and become a Field Marshal?”

“By Jove!” he cried, “that would have been a rattling good idea. Wonder I didn’t think of it at the time.”

“Is it too late now?”

“Surely not,” he answered promptly, “for such an exceptionally fortunate person as I am. Anyway, so far as 1815 is concerned, Blucher, you see, had Grouchy to compete with—this double-six is Grouchy, with thirty-five thousand men—but Blucher outmarched him, came up, and—” He swept the rest of his blue men down with a wave of the hand, and hummed “Rule, Britannia.”

I expressed a wish that he had selected the reds, so that he might have won; but he remarked in a change of mood that anything like success in any game would, by reason of its novelty, have given him serious alarm. I asked how the time was going.

“Lent my watch to a relative,” he mentioned. “A rather distant relative; but I see a good deal of him, from the waist upwards.”

And he went to the mantelpiece to inspect the clock.

“Little man,” in a sharp voice, “who is this?”

“That? Oh, that’s dear mother.”

He looked at it closely, whistled a tune softly.

“I shall have to catch an earlier train,” he announced suddenly. “I’m sorry. You make my apologies to every one, and say the muddle was entirely mine.”

“But you can’t, Mr. Cartwright. There’s nothing before the six minutes to eight.”

My governess came in, and he replaced the frame quickly. My governess has sometimes complained that the house is lacking in male society; she took advantage of this opportunity to talk with great vivacity, and, in tones very different from those she uses in addressing me, inquired with affectation concerning the theatres in town, and entertainments generally. Fearing she would try Mr. Cartwright’s patience, as she has often tried mine, I endeavoured to detach her; but the task proved one beyond my abilities, and she went on to submit, with deference, that what was required was an increase of merriment in life, a view that, coming from her, amazed me into silence. Mr. Cartwright answered that in his opinion life was full of rollicking fun, completely furnished with joy.

“What a gift,” cried my governess, “to be able always to see the cheerful side! It means, of course, that you have been singularly free from anything like disaster. Tell me, now, what is the nearest to a sad experience that you ever had?”

“I expect we ought to be getting downstairs,” he remarked.

In the hall I introduced Mr. Cartwright, with pride, to my mother.

“Charmed to meet you,” she said, offering her hand. My mother can be very pleasant, and if, at the moment, she gave signs of agitation, it was not to be wondered at; I myself felt nervous. “My boy tells me that you are going to be so very kind—” She appeared unable to go on with the sentence.

“I was glad,” he said, “to find he had not forgotten me. It isn’t everybody who has a good memory.”

“It isn’t everybody who cares to possess one,” she said, with some spirit. “I have heard of cases where men forget their real names.”

“I have heard of cases,” he remarked, “where women have been in a great hurry to change theirs.”

It struck me they were not hitting it off, as one might say, and I took his hand and led him into the drawing-room, where the children were having refreshment between the dances. He made himself at home with them at once, danced a quadrille with the smallest girl, consulted with my governess about the playing of some accompaniments, and amused her by a remark which he made. A man who could make my governess laugh was a man capable of anything. Going to the end of the room, he took a figure of a boy in a Tam o’ Shanter cap out of his bag, and, setting it upon his knee, started absolutely the best entertainment I have seen in the whole course of my existence. We all rested on the floor; my mother stood near the doorway, but I was too much interested in Mr. Cartwright’s performance to pay attention to her. When I did look around once, to get her to join in the applause, I found she was looking hard at my friend, trying, I suppose, to find out how he did it. He began to sing, with the figure making absurd interruptions that sent us all into fits of laughter; my mother, still serious, took a chair. Mr. Cartwright had a good voice; I don’t know whether you would call it a baritone or a tenor, but it was so pleasant to listen to that I half agreed with a sensible girl sitting just in front of me, who said she wished the figure would cease interfering.

“Lor’ bless my soul,” said the figure, “thought you’d never get that note, Mr. Cartwright. Only just managed it.” And, in a confidential way, “Aren’t you a rotten singer, though? Don’t you think so, strictly between ourselves? Have you ever tried selling coke? That would be about your mark, you know!”

We clapped hands and stamped feet when he finished, and even the girls declared they would rather hear something more from him than go on with the dances. He looked at his watch, and I called out to him that he was all right for his train; he had a quarter of an hour to spare. He came back to the pianoforte. There he touched the keys, making a selection in his mind.

“No, no!” cried my mother, as the prelude to a song began. “Please, not that one!”

He changed the air at once, and went off into an Irish song. You know the kind of tune—one that makes you keep on the move all the time you are listening. About a ball given by Mrs. O’Flaherty, where the fiddler, once started, declined to stop, and the couples kept on with the hop, hop, hop, so that the dance lasted for I forget how long—three weeks, I think. The couples gradually became tired, the tune went slower and slower.

“Mr. Cartwright,” cried my governess, in her high voice, “you ought to be a professional.”

“I am a professional,” he replied.

I rushed like mad out into the hall. I wanted to get the opportunity of thinking as hard and as swiftly as possible. There was no time to lose; the station cab stood outside the door, waiting for him I went up, three stairs at a time, and opened the door of my room; it had been used as a temporary cloak-room, and jackets and hats were littered all over the place. As I threw these about—everything had been moved by the servants with some idea of making elaborate preparations—it struck me it was not unlike a nightmare; one of those nightmares where you are in a most terrific hurry, and everything slips away and eludes you. I could have cried with annoyance at the thought that Mr. Cartwright was now preparing to leave, asking for me, perhaps, and certainly wondering when and how he was to receive his fee for making the special visit from town. In my excitement I took the pillow and threw it into the air; underneath I found my money-box, and some other articles which had been shifted from the dressing-table. I seized one of my dumb-bells, smashed the box, counted out the money with trembling fingers.

“Four and three,” I said to myself. “I shall give him four shillings, and tell him I’ll send the rest on.”

I slid down two flights. As I neared the landing above the hall I could hear that music had started afresh and dancing had recommenced. I was engaged to a rather sensible girl—already referred to—for the polka, and she would be looking out for me; but for the moment I was too full of troubles of my own to consider those of other people. The front door was open, and my mother was waving her hand.

“Mr. Cartwright!” I called out, running past her. “Mr. Cartwright! Oh, do let me speak to you for a minute.”

“Can’t stop, old boy,” he said from the cab. He seemed rather quiet.

“But I must speak to you. Mother, may I go down to the station with him? Oh, you are a good sort,” as she nodded her consent. I jumped in, and the cab started.

I felt so thankful when I saw in his hand an envelope with some pieces of gold, and I felt proud of her. I might have guessed mother would know how to do the right thing.

“Little man!” He was looking at a slip of paper with some pencilled words which the envelope also contained. “Do you ever take advice, I wonder?”

“Do you, Mr. Cartwright?”

“I find it easier to give. People have been filling me up with it ever since I was about your age, and some of it has been good, but I have always done exactly as I pleased.”

“I suppose that’s the best plan.”

“No!” he replied. “It has some advantages, but not many.”

“But aren’t you”—I scarcely knew how to phrase it—“aren’t you exactly what you want to be, Mr. Cartwright? You’re so good-humoured and jolly.”

He gave a gasp and looked at the window.

“I don’t lose my temper now,” he said. “I used to, and the last time I lost with it everything that was worth having. Here’s the advice I want to give you. Forget me, but try to remember this. Quarrel, if you must quarrel, with the people who don’t matter. Never quarrel with your friends. I had fierce words once with the best friend a man ever had.”

“What was his name?”

“It has taken her twelve years to forgive me, and in that time I’ve gone to pieces. All just for the luxury of five minutes of wild talk. Here’s the station; my wife will be waiting for me at the other end, to take the money I’ve earned.” He laughed in a peculiar way. “Goodbye, old chap. Not too big for this, are you?” He placed his hands on either side of my face. “I wish—oh, I wish you were my boy!”

My mother asked me, when I got back and told her, to show her exactly where he had kissed me, and she pressed her lips for some moments to the place on my forehead. Then we went in and brightened up the party.

A benevolent character

A youth came into the small tobacconist’s and inquired, across the counter, whether there happened to be in the neighbourhood a branch establishment of a well-known firm (mentioned by name) dealing in similar goods and guaranteeing to save the consumer thirty-three per cent. He required the information, it appeared, because he contemplated buying a packet of cigarettes.

No, said the proprietor (after he finished his speech and the youth had gone), not quite the limit. Near to the edge, I admit; but remembering my friend, Mr. Ardwick, I can’t say it’s what you’d call the highest possible. It was a privilege to know Ardwick; he was, without any doubt whatsoever, a masterpiece. I’ve give up all hopes of ever finding his equal.

He was a customer here at the time Mrs. Ingram had the shop—and when I say customer, of course I don’t mean that he ever handed over a single halfpenny. Mrs. Ingram had only been a widow for about a twelvemonth, and naturally enough she liked gentlemen’s society; and Ardwick, after he got his compensation out of the County Council—that, by the by, was one of his triumphs—he had nothing else to do, and he became very much attached to that chair what you’re sitting on now. He’d call in to have a look at the morning paper, and read it through from start to finish; later in the day he’d call to see the evening paper, and keep tight hold of it till he’d come to the name of the printers at the foot of the last page. Between whiles he’d pretend to make himself handy at dusting the counter, and help himself to a pipe of tobacco, out of the shag-jar. It was a pretty sight to see old Ardwick, before he left of an evening, talk, as he filled a pocket with matches out of the stand, about the way the rich robbed the poor.

Having caught sight of Mrs. Ingram’s pass-book that she was sending to the bank—he offered to post it, and walked all the way to Lombard Street and stuck to the twopence—Ardwick makes up his mind to take the somewhat desperate step of proposing to Mrs. I.

“Very kind of you,” she says, “but I fancy, Mr. Ardwick, you’re a shade too stingy to run in double harness with me. Poor Ingram,” she says, “was always freehanded with his money, and if I should ever get married again it will have to be to some one of a similar disposition. But thank you all the same,” she says, “for asking!”

Ardwick ran across his friend Kimball in Downham Road that evening and lent him a match, and said Kimball was the very party he wanted to meet. They had a long, confidential sort of talk together outside the fire-station, and they came to such high words that a uniformed man, who was talking to one of his girls, threatened to turn the hose on them. The two strolled down Kingsland Road in a cooler frame of mind, and when they said “Good-night” at the canal bridge Kimball promised to do the best for Mr. Ardwick that lay in his power. Kimball explained that he was not going to do it out of friendship, but mainly because his wife had recently docked his allowance, and, in consequence, he felt a grudge against the sex in general.

“I promise you,” said Mr. Ardwick, still shaking his hand, “that you won’t lose over the transaction.”

“Knowing you as I do,” remarked Kimball, “I quite recognise that it’ll take a bit of doing to make anything out of it.”

Mr. Ardwick was in the shop, here, the following afternoon. Mrs. Ingram felt surprised to see him at that hour, and she locks up the till pretty smartly and moves the box of World-Famed Twopenny Cheroots.

“Something you said, Mrs. Ingram,” he began, “has been worryin’ of me, and I’ve called round to talk it over. You seem to have got the impression in your mind that I’m, if anything, a trifle close with my money. I should like to convince you, ma’am, that you are doing me an injustice, and to prove it I’m going to adopt a very simple plan.”

“Have you brought back that watch of mine I gave you to get mended?”

“One topic at a time,” urged Mr. Ardwick. “My idea of benevolence is something wider and broader than that of most people.” He glanced at the clock. “What I propose to do is this. To the first customer what enters this shop after half-past three I shall present the sum of five pound.”

“Five what?”

“Five quid,” he said, in a resolute sort of manner. “The first one, mind you, after half-past three. It wants two minutes to the half-hour now. All you’ve got to do, ma’am, is to stand where you are, and to judge whether I’m a man of a generous disposition or whether I’m the opposite.”

As the clock turned the half-hour an old woman came in and put down four farthings for snuff; when she had gone Mr. Ardwick mentioned that he knew for a fact that the clock was a trifle fast. An elderly gentleman in workhouse clothes came for a screw of tobacco; Mr. Ardwick pointed out to Mrs. Ingram that he never proposed to extend his offer to those supported by the State. Kimball arrived at twenty-five minutes to, and Mr. Ardwick glared at him privately for not keeping the appointment. Kimball bought a box of wooden matches, and was leaving the shop when Mr. Ardwick called him.

“My man,” he said, “your face and your general appearance suggest you are not one of those who are termed favourites of fortune. Tell me, now, have you ever been the recipient, so to speak, of a stroke of luck?”

“Not to my knowledge, sir,” said Kimball, answering very respectfully.

“Never had a windfall of any kind? No sudden descent of manna from above? Very well, then.” Mr. Ardwick took out his cheque-book and asked Mrs. I. for pen and ink. “Be so kind as to give me your full name, and it will be my pleasure to hand you over a handsome gift. I hope you will lay out the sum to the best advantage, and I trust it may prove a turning-point, a junction as it were, in your life!”

Mr. Ardwick was talking across the counter to Mrs. Ingram about the pleasures of exercising charity, and the duty of those who possessed riches towards them who had none, when a most horrible idea seemed to occur to him, and he darted out of the shop like a streak of lightning. In Kingsland Road he just caught a motor-omnibus that was going towards the City, and on the way through Shoreditch he complained, whilst he mopped his forehead, because the conductor did not make the bus go quicker. Near Cornhill there was a block of traffic, and he slipped down and ran for his life. As he came near the bank he caught sight of Kimball descending the steps. Mr. Ardwick threw himself, exhausted, across a dustbin on the edge of the pavement, and burst into tears.

He mentioned to me afterwards that it was not so much the loss of the money that affected him as the knowledge that a fellow man had broke his word. That was what upset Mr. Ardwick. He tried to explain all this at the time to a City constable.

“You get away home,” advised the City constable, “and try to sleep it off. That’s your best plan. Unless you want me to take you down to Cloak Lane for the night.”

Mr. Ardwick felt very much hurt at this insinuation on his character, because, partly on account of his principles and partly because he hated giving money away, he was strict teetotal; but the remark furnished him with an idea, and he acted on it without a moment’s delay. He returned to Dalston Junction, and there, by great good luck, he found Kimball—Kimball smoking a big cigar and trying to persuade a railway-porter to accept one. Mr. Ardwick went up to him and took the cigar.

“I congratulate you ’eartily,” he said, slapping Kimball on the shoulder in a jolly sort of way. “There isn’t many that could brag of having done Samuel Ardwick in the eye, but I always admit it when I come across my superior. There’s only one favour I want you to grant.”

“You gave me the cheque, and I’ve got a perfect right to it. What we may have agreed upon beforehand has nothing whatever to do with the matter.”

“All I ask you to do,” went on Mr. Ardwick, “is to allow me to celebrate the occasion by inviting you to have a little snack at a restaurant close by. A meal, I mean. A proper dinner. Food, and a bottle of something with it.”

“This don’t sound like you,” remarked Kimball.

“I shan’t make the offer twice,” warned Mr. Ardwick.

Kimball strolled along with him rather reluctantly and somewhat suspiciously up Stoke Newington Road. Mr. Ardwick stopped outside an Italian eating-place, had a good look at the prices of everything in a brass frame near the doorway, gave a deep sigh, and led the way in.

It was here that, in my opinion, Mr. A. made a blunder; he admitted himself to me later that he was not acquainted with the quality of the wine or the capacity of his friend Kimball. The foreign waiter, being told confidentially that price was an object, recommended a quarter-bottle of what he called Vin Ordinaire at sevenpence. It was only when Kimball was starting on the fourth of these that Mr. Ardwick discovered he could have sent out for a full bottle at the cost of one-and-nine. He himself took no food and no beverage of any description, but just sat back, smoking the cigar, totting up the expenses, and keeping a watchful eye on his guest.

“Is it a fruity wine?” asked Mr. Ardwick, when the last quarter-bottle was opened. Kimball lifted up his glass.

“I shouldn’t like to say there was much of that about it,” he answered. “As a matter of fact, it doesn’t taste of anything.”

“But surely it goes to your head!”

“It goes to my head,” agreed Kimball, “because I put it there; but it don’t seem to have any effect on the brain. Sheer waste of my time, so far as I can gather.”

“Look here!” said Mr. Ardwick, with a determined effort. “I want to have a quiet talk with you. I’ve stood this very excellent meal, and it’s only right you should do something for me in return.”

“Anything within reason.”

“I’m not the man to ask you to do anything else. You’ve had your little joke at my expense and now my suggestion is that you hand across the five pounds, and we’ll both have a good laugh over the transaction. I admit you played your part uncommonly well. You ran it rather close, and if you’d been a minute or so later, my lad, you’d have found the bank closed, and then I could have stopped payment.”

“I got there,” said Kimball, “at one minute past four, and the doors were shut!”

Mr. Ardwick settled up, and told Kimball exactly what he thought of him.

“Imposing on generosity,” he said heatedly—“that’s your game!”

He went off home to write a letter to the bank, and to recognise that matters had, after all, turned out better than he might have expected. In the evening he made his usual call here, dressed up special, and evidently anxious to find out what sort of an effect his display of benevolence had made on Mrs. I.

“I can’t help seeing,” she said confidentially, taking the evening paper from another customer and handing it to Mr. Ardwick, “that I’ve, all along, done you an injustice. I liked your conversation, and I had no fault to find with your general behaviour; but somehow I had an idea that you rather over-did the economical.”

“If I come across a really deserving case,” remarked Mr. Ardwick modestly, “I’m prepared to give away my last penny. I don’t say I scatter my money broadcast, but when I do give I give liberally and with both hands.”

“I was telling the poor man,” said Mrs. Ingram, “that he ought to feel very much indebted to you. You’ve stood him on his feet, so to speak, and, whatever it may lead to, he’s only got you to thank.”

“Don’t make too much of a mere trifle.”

“I advised him to put half of it away in the Post Office, and use the other half to rig himself out in a new suit and look respectable.”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Mr. Ardwick, rather anxiously, “but when did you say all this to him?”

“About a hour or so ago,” she replied, “when he came in and asked me to change the cheque for him. Knowing all the circumstances, of course I didn’t hesitate a single moment!”

I was doing a bit of debt-collecting at the time, said the proprietor of the tobacconist’s shop, and that was how I became acquainted with Mrs. Ingram. She felt grateful over my success with what was undoubtedly a tough job, and one word led to another, and eventually I consented to propose to her. She’ll be down directly. Wait and have a glance at her, and tell me if you think I acted wisely.

The wonderful start

Dazed by sudden introduction to a distinguished company, he glanced eagerly and confusedly around in the hope of finding some one who would give him a smile of encouragement. The most distinguished of all, seated opposite to him, acknowledged his bow and gave the order that a chair should be offered, and this was accepted.

Conversation did not immediately turn upon his affairs, and the delay enabled him to lean back and compose his mind; presently, no doubt, the others would switch discussion to the subject which excused his presence in this magnificent building. It had a strong scent of newness, a suggestion of the slate pencils used for the purpose of calculations in his early youth, calculations which were so often incorrect that he remembered how frequently in setting down a total he instinctively rubbed it out, under the impression that whatever he had written must be wrong. He did not become really clever in the management of figures until his London life began in Tooley Street, and that seemed a good many centuries ago. What was it, ’80 or ’81? February of ’80 it must have been; early part of February. Thirty-two years, that made him forty-six. He could remember the start quite clearly.

As he stepped out into a wooden shed that was called London Bridge Station, a matronly woman, to whom he gave assistance in finding an outside porter for her deal box, referred to him in a sentence of thanks as a smart little nipper, and this, an auspicious compliment, sent him to the barrier and out into Railway Approach with a good conceit of himself. In the telegraph-office he wrote on a form in a confident way, as though he had been used all his life to the dispatching of telegrams:

“Arrived safely. Good journey. Best love.—Ben.”

The clerk on the other side of the counter mentioned that it would stand a better chance of reaching its destination if the name and address of the recipient were filled in. This constituted something in the nature of a check, and in the adjoining parcels-office he endeavoured to apply a remedy by knocking peremptorily with twopence and demanding instant attention.

“In a hurry?” asked the porter, nettled. “Because, if so, you’d better wait till your hurry’s over. Bad enough to be ordered about by grown-ups; I’m certainly not going to be dictated to by slips of boys. D’you hear?”

He urged that no harm had been intended.

“What you intend,” said the porter, giving a snatch at the parcel, “and what you do are very different things. Now then, don’t stand there all day gazing! What d’you want me to do with this? Boil it, or what?”

The lad answered, with respect, that he desired it should be sent by Parcels Delivery to the Peckham address given on the label; the man inspected very carefully, in the evident hope of discovering some flaw or defect that would enable him to decline the commission. He had to be content with throwing it, with a whirl, through the air into a corner, snatching at the twopence and giving a curt order, “Now be off with you!” To the question concerning the whereabouts of Tooley Street, he replied that if the lad could fly, he might reach it in two seconds; assuming him not to be so exceptionally gifted, the time could be given as two minutes.

“Thank you, very much indeed, sir, for all your kindness.”

The man looked at him narrowly, to make certain that this remark was not intended as chaff, and, reassured on the point, came out of the office and walked with him down the slope, where they faced a large corner public-house plastered over with orange bills and, above, a banner which said imperatively “Vote for Clarke.”

The porter explained the meaning of all this, and made two prophecies: first, that Dizzy would, as a result of the day’s election, get a valentine; second, that Gladstone might be taken down a notch. Returning confidence for confidence, the lad told him this was his first day in London, and his father had urged him to be honest and straight. They parted on excellent terms.

The incident proved a faithful sample of the happenings of a wonderful day. On the first floor of the number which he held in his memory, the surroundings were so much at variance with early anticipations that he feared he had made some disastrous blunder, until Mr. Cruttwell, head of the firm, slapped him joyously on the shoulder, declaring he had arrived just in time to see the fun. The office was rather dark, because the windows were covered with election bills, but gas flared generously. Everybody, from the head down to a clerk only slightly older than the new lad, smoked pipes or cigars; some appeared inclined to smoke both at once. The head, raising his voice that it might be heard above the clatter, introduced him, and six men came over at once, saying:

“How do, young Stansfield? Wish you could manage this for me.”

And the lad found himself in the very thick of it, so to speak, without a moment’s delay. Cheering from the street below came now and again, startling him and causing him to rush to the windows in the endeavour to ascertain the cause; gentlemen with silk hats at the backs of their heads ran up two stairs at a time to ask how things were going, or to give news of how things were going, bringing tasks or appealing for them, roaring suggestions or shouting advice, talking privately in one corner and illustrating their arguments by pencilling figures on the wallpaper.

At eleven o’clock Mr. Cruttwell took him out, and, carrying a square brown-paper parcel of cards, he made the acquaintance of Southwark under lively circumstances. Mr. Cruttwell did not seem to know exactly what to be doing, but his plan was never to cease doing something, and he constantly appealed to the lad.

“Come along, come along, come along! Don’t lag, my boy, don’t lag!” or, “Now then, slowcoach! Have you gone to sleep again? Keep your eyes open, for goodness’ sake, or we shall never win!”

A most unfair suggestion, for the only founded charge against young Stansfield was that he stared at everything going on; shops arrested him, sandwichmen proved an effective bar to progress. In waiting outside a leather merchant’s in St. Thomas’s Street, a detachment of Borough youths of about his own age came up with a threatening air.

“Who you for?” they demanded menacingly.

“Find out!” he answered.

“Want your ’ead punched?”

“Yes!” he said.

Disinclined to comply with any request, they conferred amongst themselves.

“What’s inside that parcel? What’s inside that parcel? Going to tell us, or ain’t you?”

He began to feel terrified, and looked around for assistance. The people who were standing by did not seem to have any prejudices on one side or the other, and he was preparing to use his left arm as a guard and the parcel in his right hand as a weapon, when Mr. Cruttwell fortunately reappeared. The lads scampered off.

“You’re a plucky little chap,” said Mr. Cruttwell, in good humour after his call and slightly more rosy in complexion. “Some country youngsters would have been afraid.”

He proceeded to give a short political lecture as they strolled back under the arches to Tooley Street, asserting that the manner in which Stansfield had tackled the Borough lads should be the method adopted by Great Britain in dealing with Russia. Prince Gortschakoff might have counted himself clever, and was, no doubt, uncommonly wily, but we, too, had men just as ingenious, and this Gortschy had discovered, and others would discover to their cost. Mr. Cruttwell began to use oratorical gesture, and in one fine sweep of the arm sent the lad’s bowler hat into the roadway, restoring it with an apology that made the owner feel on a manly level with the best.

“Don’t go out to lunch,” said Mr. Cruttwell, “in case anything crops up. Send for it, and charge it to the office!”

He awoke from these thoughts on hearing his name mentioned, but some one interrupted with a deferential, “Will you excuse me, my lord, if I—” Leaning back, he went on with the glance over his shoulder at the past.

Easy to recall everything that stood on the table at the lunch in Tooley Street, partly because he assisted at the preparation. Acting under orders, he spread the sheets of a financial paper and, still obeying commands, accepted a sovereign, and, scurrying across the roadway, went up the steps, bolted over the Approach (with a dreadful fear that he might be run down by twenty omnibuses), and at the hotel made cautious purchases, rejecting so many cold fowls that the lady who served him called the manageress, demanding whether, as she had always understood, the birds were to be sold in chronological order, or whether a customer was to be permitted to make selection. The manageress decided that both parties to the contest were right, and encouraged the young woman with the reminder that, in view of the pressure of the day, everything that could be called eatable would probably be sold out before closing time.

So young Stansfield, taking the parcels and dear life in his hands, made once more the risky journey across the Approach. This over, the skating horses on the descent of Tooley Street gave him no terrors.

“No, no, no!” whispered one of the other juniors. “You mustn’t sit down with them, my rustic friend. We shall have to wait on them, and what they leave we—” He gave the remainder of the sentence in pantomime.

“Then I hope they won’t overdo it,” remarked the lad. “I begin to feel peckish.”

As lunch proceeded, the juniors cutting bread and filling glasses, men wearing favours who looked in at the doorway, crying, “Hallo, hallo! Feeding-time at the Zoo, eh?” were immediately invited to take knife and fork and help themselves, which they did with such enthusiasm that the juniors were near to the edge of tears, when Mr. Cruttwell stood up and said:

“Now, then, let’s bustle about, or we shan’t get our man in!”

The three clerks under twenty appeared to have some idea of compelling young Stansfield to attend upon them, but he pointed out that this arrangement would leave nobody to wait upon him, and he expressed a strong and decided preference for the principle of share and share alike. They gave in, robbing the act of some of its grace by pointing out that this must on no account be taken as a precedent, and that his good fortune in beginning London life on such a wonderful day did not mean that his business career would consist entirely of a beanfeast.

They also introduced him, rather severely, to certain table manners which he had not hitherto met, and he found himself greatly obstructed by a rule which prevented one from holding the leg of a fowl and dispensing with the assistance of a knife. The remains of a very fine old Stilton struck him as possessing a flavour entirely different from the American or Dutch to which he had been accustomed at home; the drawback was that you could not eat much of it.

“Do you smoke, Stansfield?”

“I’m not a slave to it!”

“You soon will be,” they prophesied. “Find the matches for us.”

As they puffed at their pipes, he read the financial journal spread upon the table, beginning with a casual attention, presently becoming interested. One or two points were dim to him, and he asked questions, but the others were either not completely informed, or they preferred to reserve the knowledge for private use, and they failed to explain to him why, if the newspaper people were aware that certain investments could not fail to be remunerative, the newspaper people gave the valuable tip away, instead of reserving it for their own personal benefit.

The three appeared more at home on another question, and he, having once drawn Silvio in a Derby sweepstake, could contribute something to this discussion. They told him a useful man was always to be found near the cab-rank in front of the Brighton Company’s station, to whom a shilling or more could be safely confided.

The talk on this subject became animated; they gave the new lad some absolutely safe and certain news concerning a horse running in the next month, news which had come to them in a roundabout way, but starting, so they declared, from the brother of a jockey whose name they mentioned with bated breath. Young Stansfield suggested it would look well if they were to affect some engagement on business affairs; but the rest said, “Not for Joe!” They, however, agreed, very handsomely, that he could do as he pleased.

He cleared the table, filled waste-paper baskets with remnants, set desks in order, placed empty bottles out of the way. Thus he proved the only one who was giving any signs of work when Mr. Cruttwell returned, in a state of some disturbance because of news he had received concerning the prospects of one of the two opposition candidates. Mr. Cruttwell distributed blame on the others by praising young Stansfield.

“This lad is going to get on in the world!” he asserted emphatically. “I flatter myself I’m a judge of character, and I don’t have to look twice at anybody. Simply disgraceful the way you youngsters loaf about and take no interest in anything but how to avoid work. Now then, set to, all of you, and follow his example. No wonder trade’s so bad. I shall be in again directly, and if I find any of you lolling about I shall simply—”.

They reproved the lad severely for marring an otherwise perfect day, and he hastened to inform them he had no more considerable taste for labour than that which they possessed; his only idea had been to avoid, by use of ingenuity, the disaster that had fallen upon them. He knew as well as they that nothing was to be gained by a too persistent attention to the desk, and he hoped time would succeed in persuading them he was worthy of their companionship.

They gave in reluctantly, and before the seniors returned had given him some useful hints, which he stored carefully in the recesses of his brain.

The arrangement made by his mother was that he should reach Peckham by seven o’clock, and he felt anxious to do this, for Aunt Mabel was a cheery, irresponsible person who, on her rare visits to the country, always brought a budget of amusing songs and some excellent riddles; there seemed good reason to hope that life at Peckham would be free from the close and rigid supervision exercised at home. But the others said the announcement of the election result would be the event of a lifetime, something that might never happen again, and he stayed on till a late hour, enjoying the noisy crowds and the turbulent rushes, and responding to shouted appeals for three cheers. When the poll was declared, he joined in the exultant shrieks of triumph, and a stout old lady from Long Lane insisted upon teaching him an Irish jig. Mr. Cruttwell found him, shook hands heartily, and told him the nation was perfectly sound at heart.

As he went in the direction of Peckham he found in his pocket the change given at the International Hotel. It had not been asked for, it would probably not now be asked for. Before reaching Bricklayers’ Arms he came to the decision to invest a part, and to back Vendetta. A wonderful beginning!

His name was again mentioned. He stood up, gripping the bar in front of him.

“Benjamin Stansfield,” recited the clerk, seated below the judge, “you are charged for that you—feloniously and fraudulently—” A rumble of words. “How say you, Benjamin Stansfield: are you guilty, or not guilty?”

“Guilty!” he replied.

Slow recovery

Mrs. Marchant offered a pointed remark concerning the indolent habits of London folk as compared with the early rising and the continuous industry shown by people living in the country. Called by a boy who required a weekly journal, she, without leaving the pavement, instructed him to look over the contents of the counter and help himself, adding a warning that sweets were not to be touched.

“I don’t want to miss nothin’,” she remarked.

Her neighbour, absorbed in the subject previously under discussion, replied to the effect that there was not so much going on in Hayford that one could afford to evade incident.

“I see her blind move,” screamed a small child excitedly. “I did! I see it move, quite plain.”

Her elders were giving reproof, and pointing out the risks incurred by children who told stories, when the green venetians of the first-floor room at the Windmill Inn went up. Interest in the one street of the village at once reawakened. A message was sent to the forge, and Sprules, the blacksmith, strolled out, drinking tea from a saucer. A tall girl stepped from the porch of the inn and whistled several times, called the word “Fuzzy!” in varying tones of insistence and appeal. Banks, the young grocer and draper, peered through his window over columns of flannel, and then came to the doorway, where, acknowledging her salutation, he bowed and blushed.

“Morning, everybody,” she said. “Any news? Has any one—”

“He’s been seen again, miss,” remarked Sprules, setting down his saucer on a windowsill, and advancing with respect. “Old Joe Baldwin were up at four this morning, and he caught sight of your dog; somewheres, so far as I understand him, away in that direction.” Sprules gave a vague flourish of his bare arm. “Consequently, you can take it from me that he ent left the neighbourhood up to the present.”

The others nodded.

“Unless I find him to-day,” announced the girl definitely, “I shall have to continue my journey.”

They made way for Mrs. Marchant. That lady gave up her broom to gain more freedom in argument, and stepped forward.

“My dear,” she said, in a motherly way, “I’m a tidy bit older than what you are, and it stands to reason I know more of the world. People come from far and wide to get my advice, they do, and none can’t ever complain that I sent ’em empty away.”

The rest gave a murmur that sounded like confirmation.

“Moreover, you’re only a Londoner, and that sort of hampers you. My experience, my dear, tells me that it don’t do to expect everything to ’appen all at once. Your dog—or rather the dog belonging to a gentleman military friend that you was taking charge of—slips his collar three days ago, whilst your train was stoppin’ at the station, and makes off. You, being tur’bly upset, you gives up your journey, and you offers ten shillin’ reeward. On my suggestion, you next day makes it two pound. Still acting on my racommendation, you, the foll’ing day, increases it to five.”

“That is more than I can really afford.”

“Never you mind ’bout that,” said the other, with a touch of impatience. “I’m only tellin’ you what happened. I’m a business woman, and I like to have everything straightfor’ard, and above board. I know all that occurs in Hayford, and if you leave yourself in my hands, you won’t go fur wrong. Your dog’s been seen, and that ought to be enough for you, to go on with.”

“If he could only catch sight of me, he’d come directly. Fuzzy is as fond of me as he is of his master.”

“But not near so fond, miss, I lay a pint,” interposed Sprules, with a wink to the others, “as what his master is of you.”

She regarded him with a steady gaze; the blacksmith tried to hum a tune, and failing in this, mentioned it was high time he went back to finish his breakfast.

“I have been walking around the neighbourhood,” the girl went on, “every day in the hope of finding him, and I haven’t succeeded. To-night, by the 6.37, I must go on, and—” with a break in her voice,—“I shall have to face Captain Stamford.”

“My dear,” said Mrs. Marchant encouragingly, “you make it ten, and some’ing seems to tell me you’ll get your dog back.”

“That would mean giving up my holiday,” she answered doubtfully. Young Banks, draper and grocer, stepped forward: some one pulled at his apron. “But if you think it will increase the efforts of the villagers, I’ll do as you suggest.”

“Ten pound,” announced Mrs. Marchant, addressing the others in tones of authority, “to any one what brings this lady’s dog back here to The Windmill afore six o’clock this very evening.”

The small crowd broke up. Children were sent off to school, and instructed in audible voices to keep a wary look-out for Fuzzy. The constable came from his headquarters at a neighbouring village, and was told of the increase in the reward; he went on to communicate the information, far and near. Mrs. Marchant took the cork from a bottle of red ink and made a correction in the handwritten bill headed “Lost, Stolen or Strayed” that rested on a box of caramels in her window. At half-past nine the London girl in a brown costume with a conveniently short skirt and carrying a walking-stick, left The Windmill and strode off in a northerly direction, the landlord wishing her, with great heartiness, good luck in her search; she sang out that she would return for tea. Ten minutes’ grace, and a meeting was held near to the porch of the tavern, with Mrs. Marchant in a standing position, but obviously in the chair. She glanced around at the four men present.

“Some one go for Mr. Banks,” she ordered.

Sprules took charge of the task, and returned with the message that the young draper and grocer was making up his books; Banks had suggested the deliberation should go on as though he were present.

“I don’t want to complain of nobody,” commented Mrs. Marchant, “but Mr. Banks don’t seem to take the interest in public affairs like what he ought to do. Howsomever,” dismissing this point, “what we’ve got to consider now is whether we’ve come to what they call in the newspapers the crucial moment, or whether we ought to go on a bit further.”

“Young party seems fairly bent on getting away this evening,” remarked the owner of The Windmill. “In fact, I may tell you all she’s settled up her bill.”

“My idea is,” said Sprules, “that we’ve arrived at the limit. Enough is as good as a feast.”

“Is the dog all right?” asked Mrs. Marchant.

“Safe and sound,” replied the blacksmith, “where it’s been since it first slipped the collar. And I hope you won’t none of you forget that I’ve had to bear the axpense of feeding it.”

“That amounts to a mere trifle,” commented Mrs. Marchant curtly. “From what I know of you, Mr. Sprules, I’ll be bound you ent overdone it.”

“What might you mean by that, ma’am?”

“I mean what I say.”

“A civil question,” persisted Sprules, “requires a civil answer.”

“You’ve come to the wrong shop for that,” retorted the lady, with increasing heat. “When I speak, I speak plain, I do. If you must know what I was driving at it was that, ’cording to all reports, you’re the only one in your ’ouse who enjoys a hearty meal. What you can’t eat, you give to your wife and the children.”

The proprietor of The Windmill, an experienced man in the settlement of disputes by arbitration, and one frequently called upon to decide knotty points (such as the exact height of the late Lord Randolph Churchill, or the winner of the Oaks in ’94) found some trouble in bringing the discussion back to the item on the agenda. Before he succeeded in effecting this, Sprules had managed to tell Mrs. Marchant what he thought of her, and Mrs. Marchant told Sprules what she thought of him. Even when the original topic was again approached, the two eyed each other from opposite sides of the pavement; their lips continued to move without producing words.

“No occasion to quarrel,” said the innkeeper soothingly. “The amount ent large enough to justify that. When it’s all divided out equally—”

The tumult recommenced, and Mr. Banks, leaving his books, came to his doorway, a pen over each ear; he seemed tempted to give up business for pleasure, but, with an effort, returned to his shop. This time Mrs. Marchant and Sprules found themselves, by the sport of circumstances, in agreement; the rest, with the exception of the proprietor of The Windmill, nodded approval of their contention. The Windmill, they argued, had made a good profit out of the young lady; The Windmill must take this fact into consideration in formulating its claim. Fair was fair, all the world over. Similarly, right was right, no matter where you lived. The proprietor of The Windmill, almost in tears, declared that his habit was to charge customers the merest trifle over cost price; an error in addition had, he told them, been detected by the young lady in settling the account. Perceiving that the general sense of the meeting was against him, he mentioned that he had no desire to become unpopular, and he therefore left himself in their hands.

“By the by,” remarked some one, “didn’t the young party buy a couple of old brass candlesticks from Mr. Banks’s mother?”

The fact had escaped memory, but only this hint was necessary to recall it. It was not known how much had been paid for the articles, but the village felt justified in assuming they were not given away, and the question was how much ought to be deducted. Foreheads took additional wrinkles at the prospect of mental arithmetic, and Sprules had found, in his pocket, a short stump of wood which was once a pencil, when Mrs. Marchant, lowering her voice, made a proposition which instantly met with a chorus of approval. Young Banks had taken little or no share in the whole business; he was evidently entitled to no share in the profits. Young Banks, a strict Wesleyan, had, in the hearing of one, characterised the affair as shady, and he could scarcely object to being left out. It was agreed that nothing should be said to young Banks for the present, and the meeting broke up with smiles, expressions of mutual regard, warning fingers that urged secrecy. A small sub-committee went to inspect the captive dog at the back of Sprules’s forge.

Mr. Banks was noticed to be giving instructions at two o’clock that afternoon to his assistant: a few minutes later shutters went up and Banks, straw-hatted, and carrying a light cane, went off, at a good pace, as one determined to enjoy a long walk. The assistant, answering inquiries, said the procedure was in the nature of an experiment, and could be taken as part and parcel of the Early Closing scheme. At four o’clock Sprules brought out Fuzzy, and tied the defiant-looking Irish terrier to the anvil; in the forge, Sprules rehearsed to a smoked portrait of Mr. Gladstone, tacked on the wall, an account of the capture of Fuzzy, to be given to the young woman upon her return. Sprules was in the third repetition of this (for improvements occurred to him) when his name was called. He unfastened the dog and took it out, shading eyes with the disengaged hand from the afternoon sun.

“I’m oncommon glad to inform you, miss, that our efforts have at last— Oh, it’s you, Mr. Banks!”

“Yes,” said the young draper and grocer, “it’s me. I happened to meet the lady up near Watbury, and she asked me to come back here, to save her the walk, and to see about sending on her portmanteau. She’s found her dog.”

“She’s done what?”

“You know them nut trees as you go down the hill, on the left-hand side? Just beyond the bridge I mean. Extraordinary pleased about it, she is, naturally. And Fuzzy, of course, half off his head at seeing her again.”

“Mr. Banks,” said the blacksmith, distressedly, “let’s get this all clear. Do I onderstand from you that the dog I’ve got here, at the end of this piece of string, isn’t the animal the reeward was offered for?”

“The lady only lost one.”

Sprules rubbed the top of his head. Mr. Banks patted the dog, and tried to induce it to stand on its hind legs.

“Then what’s to be done with this yer animal? I’ve got no use for him. ’Sides which, he tried all he knew just now to bite me.”

“I’ve got an aunt living down the line,” said young Banks, regarding the dog critically, “and I owe her a birthday present. I had intended to give about five shilling for something.”

“The dog’s yourn!” said the blacksmith promptly.

Mr. Banks carried the portmanteau off in good time for the 6.37, and the dog, with a label bearing the address of his relative, went with him. At the station, he made an alteration in the wording of the label, and took the ticket for it that is furnished when a dog accompanies a passenger. There were no other customers for the train, and he and the one porter had an animated discussion concerning the new minister whose name was on the plan to take up duties shortly. The train came in; the porter went to the brake van to see to arriving luggage.

“You dear old Fuzzy!” cried the girl delightedly, as the dog with a single bound jumped into her compartment. “Mr. Banks, how can I thank you, and how much do I owe you?” She took charge of the portmanteau, and opened her purse.

“You don’t owe me nothing,” replied young Banks, reddening. The engine whistled. “But if you want to pay me, and you think your friend Captain Stamford wouldn’t object, you might—you might jest blow me a kiss as the train goes out!”

Loose cash

A Prince of Wales was born, and Mr. Rollinson re-christened a row of houses which he had acquired. The original builder had gone incautiously on a certain evening in the early part of ’41 to inspect his property—an act nobody else thought of performing—and stumbled into one of the numerous holes that lined the approach. His widow found herself unable to carry on the building operations, and Mr. Rollinson, who, owing to popular prejudice, had just given up a career on the turf and some profitable transactions near the prize ring, offered her two hundred pounds ready cash for the lot.

“Could you make it two fifty, Mr. Rollin-son?”

“I’ll make it three hundred, because I like your manner.”

“Oh, you dear good generous soul!” she cried.

He paid in rather greasy-looking banknotes, and, later on, married her, and thus secured a return of the amount.

The Albert Edward estate was announced as specially suitable for newly married people, and these came, in pairs, attracted by the title and by the health statistics of the neighbourhood; a few carping critics pointed out that the agreeable figures were due to the sparsity of the population, but no one troubled to follow the argument. Meanwhile Mr. Rollinson ordered that building should go on with haste to meet the demands of would-be tenants, who, by an ingenious scheme of payments, became in a term of years responsible owners of the property, and he only relinquished the task when children began to arrive and the dwellings, in consequence, showed signs of wear and tear. He then went to Finsbury Park, and laid out the Princess Alice estate; later he proceeded to Hammersmith, and planned and carried out the Duke of Edinburgh estate. These houses might be exhibited at the present day, a tribute to Rollinson’s loyalty and industry, but for the interference of borough officials. By the time these steps were taken, Mr. Rollinson had disengaged himself from interest in the various properties, but one can understand the pain given by the action of the authorities to a man whose official letter paper bore the heading, “Not for an Age, but for all Time.”

Ernest Napoleon, the son, was born in ’43, and the event is registered at the church in Hart Street, Bloomsbury; his father, despite activities concerning new dwellings, preferred to reside in an older quarter of town. Mr. Rollinson found time to take a part in public life, and I have ascertained that he was one of 170,000 special constables sworn in at the time of the threatened Chartist riots; unfortunately, on the day of the meeting at Kennington Common, he was suffering from a slight headache, and he advised his neighbour, Dr. Fennell, to order him to stay in bed. Friendship between himself and his medical man increased as Mr. Rollinson spoke of his fortunate investments.

“Want you to do me a great favour, George,” asked Dr. Fennell, meeting him one day near the Museum. “My idea is that I ought very soon to be able to retire, and cultivate a garden in the country. But progress in my profession is slow.”

“You’re as safe as ’ouses,” remarked Mr. Rollinson,—“safe as some ’ouses, I mean—providing you’re not fool enough to go in for speculation.”

“Speculation,” declared the doctor warmly, “is the last vice I should indulge in. All I want you to do, the next time you see a good thing in prospect, is just to let me come in with you. I’ve five thousand pounds put by, and—call me ambitious, or what you will—I should like to make it ten. Promise me you’ll do your best.”

“Can’t guarantee success, mind you!”

“My dear George,” protested the other, “give me credit for a fair amount of common sense.”

The Great Exhibition was a year or two distant, but preparations were already being made, and Mr. Rollinson heard of several investments in regard to it that promised well; a scheme for obtaining all the printing work sounded so excellent that he brought it to the notice of his friend; the drawback was that only five thousand pounds appeared to be required. On Fennell’s earnest appeal he agreed to stand aside, and allow the doctor to take full advantage of the opportunity.

“But don’t you go forgetting that I warned you there was a risk.”

“Nothing venture, George,” said Fennell contentedly, “nothing have!”

When the auction took place in Bloomsbury Square, Mr. Rollinson acting, so it was rumoured, from motives of generosity towards an old and valued friend overtaken by misfortune, made arrangements with dealers, and purchased nearly all of Dr. Fennell’s furniture. He also bought the remainder of the lease. The goodwill he obtained at a fair price, and sold at another, and the ground floor was let to a new man who was told to keep the practice going for sixteen or eighteen years.

“What’s the idea of arranging that, Mr. R.?” asked his wife respectfully.

“Don’t you ask questions,” he retorted. “I’m looking well ahead!”

“If it’s something in store for our boy, I’m quite satisfied.”

“It is something for my boy, but I don’t care a hang whether you are satisfied or not.”

“Do you think we ought to get a governess in for him, Mr. R.?”

“I shall take charge of his education, and I don’t want no one interferin’. I’m a going to have him brought up proper, so as he’ll turn out to be a credit to me, later on. And, although it’s got nothing to do with you, I don’t mind mentioning that trouble will be no object. No object, whatsoever. I’ve got along pretty well without much beyond readin’ and writin’ and figurin’, and it stands to reason he’ll have a better chance than what I did, if he’s fitted out more complete. But don’t you go putting your spoke in, or else me and you’ll have words. Quite enough for you that he’s going to be brought up to be a doctor and a gentleman. Especially a gentleman!”

Although the printing scheme had ended in disaster, owing to the action of a mysterious gentleman in the City, there were others of a more solid nature in connection with the Hyde Park show, and it was said at this time that it was only necessary for Mr. Rollinson to be mixed up in any transaction to ensure success, so far as he was concerned. Some might endure stabs at the hand of Fortune, but Rollinson always came through safely. Oftentimes his name did not appear, and knowing folk therefore multiplied his gains by twenty to make sure they were well within the mark.

We are now at ’51.

It was during this year that the boy Ernest first gained special attention, and caused his father’s pride to increase. Mrs. Rollinson, with the improvement in income, and aided by a dressmaker of Theobald’s Road, cultivated a definite note in apparel, and her favourite costume was one of a tartan pattern, full in the flounces and so tightly stayed at the waist that the poor lady’s complexion was sometimes scarlet, sometimes purple. At the start, she had, for motives of economy, herself made the child’s clothes, but the boy reported to his father that these, by reason of their amplitude—

“You must allow for growing,” urged his mother.

—These caused him to become the object of ridicule, and his father at once put a stop to home manufactures. Ernest, thereafter, during Exhibition year, wore suits of velvet with frilled knickerbockers, and a stiffly carded cap with a blue tassel dependent, and his appearance extorted nothing but admiration as he walked, hand-in-hand with his father, along the transept of Mr. Joseph Paxton’s great building of glass. The boy had been furnished with several facts and arguments in connection with the place, and these he recited in a clear, distinct voice.

“Looking around, dear papa, at this striking scene, it seems impossible to think that war will again occur in our time.”

And,

“I believe this immense building covers twenty acres of ground, and is no less than two thousand feet long. Please correct me, papa, if I am in error.”

Quite distinguished-looking ladies and gentlemen took notice of the boy’s intelligence, and some gave him fourpenny pieces, patting him on the cap, and telling him he was a fine little fellow; a well-known politician prophesied of him, on one occasion, that he would grow up to be an Englishman in the best sense of the word. You can imagine Mr. Rollinson’s delight at these compliments, and the satisfaction in finding his own views confirmed from responsible quarters. It was his method, in regard to domestic affairs, to ascertain Mrs. Rollinson’s wishes and then to give instructions that the exact opposite should be adopted, but, returning home after one of these gratifying afternoons in Hyde Park, he took the unusual course of inviting her to his study, where, in smoking-cap and dressing-gown (a change from the restraint of out-door clothes) he bade her take the easy-chair, whilst he himself stood near the empty fireplace and leaned an elbow on the mantelpiece, in an attitude imposed by more than one artist upon the Prince Consort.

“You will no doubt say, Mrs. Rollinson,” he remarked, “that making money as I do now, and not doing much work for it, we ought to go on a steppin’ up the ladder. Allow me to remind you that sometimes I don’t retain all the cash I receive. Sounds peculiar, but it’s a fact. I find the money that takes the most trouble to get is the money that stays with me longest. Putting that all aside, your view, womanlike, is that we’ve only got one life to live in this world, whatever ’appens to us in the next, and that we’re entitled to make the most of it. You’ll tell me that we both of us had a hard time in the early days, and we’re justified in claiming our reward. And mind you, there’s something in your argument.”

Mrs. Rollinson, much astonished at this commendation of her presumed opinions, could find no words either to protest or to agree. She smoothed her crimped hair and bowed.

“But perhaps,” he went on in the same amazing tones of deference, “perhaps you won’t mind if I point out that we’re living now in a very fair state of comfort. We have roast meat every other day; if you feel inclined to go now and again to see Mr. Wigan at the St. James’s, why, you’ve only got to say so. And this brings me to the point of what I’m talking about. Why shouldn’t we go on as we’re going now, not wasting money specially, not ’oarding it to any special degree, but going a reg’lar buster in regard to the boy? Giving him chances that his father never had, seeing that he has every opportunity of growing up so that he can take his place amongst the ’ighest of the land? Now then, Mrs. R.! If you’ve got anything further to remark on the subject, here’s the time to say it, or ever after hold your peace.”

“Sometimes,” she ventured to remark, “you’ve pitched into me and told me I was spoiling him.”

“There’s a right way of doing it,” he retorted, “and a wrong way of doing it.”

“And you’ve said, more than once, that to make a man of him he ought to go through the mill, same as what you did.”

“There again, there’s two ways open.”

“If you can find the right way, Mr. R., I’m perfectly agreeable.”

“You’re a wise woman,” he declared, “although very often you manage to conceal the fact. And I promise you faithfully that if you leave it all to me, you won’t have no reason to be sorry!”

Ernest grew up tall, slim, good-looking, and with fair, curly hair; it was therefore reckoned impossible to make him a doctor. Apart from this, he showed no special intelligence, and at the new military college at Sandhurst the masters said caustically it was a pity the lad had not been born in America, for then the Civil War there would have been of very short duration. Discouraged by these comments, Ernest, of his own accord, left the College, thus depriving the British army of his services, and, coming back to town, took rooms in Jermyn Street, and mentioned to his father and mother that he proposed to look about him, a task which it is well known cannot be done in a hurry. Money was supplied from Bloomsbury Square, and it appeared to have some peculiar quality, for it all slipped through Ernest’s fingers with the greatest possible ease. Having, in spite of his defects, an amiable disposition, he soon found acquaintances, mainly amongst other men who were also looking about, and when they discovered he had money at his command, and that his cheques were always—after sometimes a brief delay—honoured, their admiration of his qualities knew no bounds.

“You’ve got a simple manner,” they said, “but, by gad, underneath that there’s any amount of cunning and cleverness.”

“Really think so?” inquired Ernest, pleased.

“Enough for ten ordinary people,” they declared. “Got a fi’pun note about you?”

Also, they gave him sound advice in regard to keeping well in with the governor: a dinner was arranged at a club to which one of them belonged, and, at the expense of Ernest, Mr. Rollinson was entertained, and made much of; Wilner (who had been twice through the Bankruptcy Court, using up several pails of whitewash and coming out not quite clean)—Wilner made a speech, proposing old Rollinson’s health, declaring that their guest was one of the bulwarks of the nation, and that his well-equipped son would, later on, when he had finished looking about, become one of the foremost men in the State. Privately, Wilner told Mr. Rollinson that all our best politicians had sown their wild oats in early days, and gave an amusing and little-known anecdote concerning a member of the Cabinet.

“What he wants,” said old Rollinson, glancing at his son, “is concentration, if you know what it means, sir.”

“That will grow on him,” remarked the other lightly. “All he has to do just now is to make plenty of friends. And it isn’t for a mere amateur like myself to give advice to an experienced man of the world like George Rollinson—”

Oddly enough, the term had never before been applied to him. Old Rollinson fixed his cigar at a more rakish angle.

“But if I were you, I should see that, for a year or two at any rate, he was not stinted of money.” Wilner gazed reflectively at his glass of claret. “I’ve seen so many youngsters, fine, promising, delightful lads, go to the deuce just for want of a few paltry hundreds. And you needn’t begrudge it, you know. By all accounts you make it easily enough.”

The rest of the dinner-party, once they had, as Wilner neatly phrased it, put off the old man, went to the Argyll Rooms, and later to Bob Croft’s in the Haymarket (no use in going to Croft’s until midnight), where Ernest insisted upon playing the harp, with the aid of his walking-stick; when the police came to make their usual nightly round, Ernest demanded the company of the Inspector in the Varsoviana. Wilner and the others were satisfied with the efforts of their pupil and allowed him, at his special request, to pay for everything. This was the occasion when Ernest lighted a cigar with one of the notes given to him by his father, and found some difficulty in making the paper burn.

There were times when Ernest, troubled with remorse and a severe headache, spoke of giving it all up, and returning to Bloomsbury Square; the bodyguard had to use their best powers of derision. An accusation of want of pluck generally proved effective; later, a slip of the pen on the part of Ernest gave them a better hold, and they had only to draw his attention to the punishment awarded by the law for forgery. Old Rollinson fell ill, in consequence of a chill sustained on the steamboat returning from Greenwich after his new doctor had ordered him a sea voyage, and the remittances stopped. A new and promising-looking pigeon flew into the district of the Circus; Wilner and his colleagues dropped the acquaintance of Ernest, who could find no better companion than a wise young housemaid at Jermyn Street. The girl gave him good advice and went with him to Bloomsbury Square, waiting at the railings whilst he entered to see his father, to make frank avowals, and to impersonate the prodigal son. He came out in less than half an hour, and it seemed at once evident that the fatted calf was still alive.

“Says I’ve disappointed him,” reported Ernest tearfully, “and that he never wants to see me again. Declares he did his best for me, and all I’ve done has been to spend nearly every penny he gained, and there’s nothing to show for it, excepting a good-for-nothing, broken-down young man. And mother agreed with him.”

“Appears to me,” remarked Helen, “some one is going to have the responsibility of looking after you.”

“I wish you’d marry me.”

“That will be about the best plan,” she agreed.

Ernest Rollinson died in ’64, and soon after the old people went. Young Mrs. Rollinson, putting her baby boy away with some working people in Clerkenwell, entered service again.

A Home for Indigent Bookmakers found itself benefited by the terms of the Bloomsbury Square will; nothing was left to the son’s family, in spite of the device used in christening the baby. Helen worked hard in her good situation and saved money, paying the folk in Corporation Lane weekly, and now and again snatching an hour off to see her boy. She was there one afternoon in December watching with amusement his celebrated impersonation of a policeman on the track of a Fenian (he had some new piece of cleverness each time she paid her furtive visits) when a tremendous clatter came from the wall of the prison opposite, the house trembled, plaster of the ceiling fell in a thick white shower, and then the place collapsed. Helen Rollinson found herself pulled out of the débris and screamed loudly for her George; they brought to her a maimed child, and she, almost demented, was nursing the poor thing in the confusion of the street, and begging it not to die, when Master George himself trotted up, safe and sound, demanding of his mother whether she had noticed the splendid fireworks. She placed the injured child in the hands of one of the doctors, heard that the woman of the house was not expected to recover, and rushed away with her boy from the disastrous scene.

“Well for you, Helen,” said her excellent mistress, “that you are able to show me your marriage lines, otherwise it would be my duty, as a strict Churchwoman, to turn you out of the house, neck and crop. As it is, you have practised deceit on me, and I am afraid we must look upon this dreadful affair at Clerkenwell as a judgment for your sin.”

“They seemed to suspect some Irish people, ma’am.”

“Heaven has its own way of punishing evil-doers,” declared the lady, “and it isn’t for us to question its methods. You cannot stay here any longer.”

“I must find another situation, I s’pose, ma’am. But I shan’t get such a good one as this.”

“Deceit,” insisted the other, “is one of the things that must, on no account, be encouraged. What is your boy like?”

The child, brought from the kitchen, repeated for the benefit of Helen’s mistress his account of the explosion, a performance that had been well received downstairs. The lady was impressed.

“A clever boy,” she said. “Would you like me to adopt him, Helen, and thus leave you free?”

“I’d rather starve than let him go away from me again.”

“Supposing, then,” said the lady, getting over her surprise at this attitude, “supposing I set you up in a small business of some kind; will you promise me never to be deceitful again?” Helen gave the required guarantee, and her mistress put the small boy through a viva-voce examination; his replies concerning the award meted out to naughty people fortunately coincided exactly with the lady’s own views.

Helen Rollinson, widow of Ernest Rollinson, and mother of George Rollinson, saw her name painted over a shop in Southampton Row, with the words added, on either side of the main inscription, “Newsagent” and “Tobacconist”; she let the rooms above, giving some personal attendance, used the apartment at the back of the shop as a living-room whence she could see when a customer entered, occupied spare moments by making clothes for George, preparing necessary meals, and telling him to be a good lad. She slept for about six hours every night, giving the remaining eighteen to hard work, and to the considerable task of minding her own business. Mr. Forster carried his Education Act just in time to enable George to take advantage of it, and the boy was one of the earliest to pay sixpence a week and become a pupil of the State at a superior school; in his spare time he delivered newspapers and ran errands, sometimes going so far as the City and making use of the new Viaduct at Holborn; he was at first terrified by these important missions, but overhearing his mother speak of him to a customer as a boy who knew his way about, he determined to keep his fears to himself, and to overcome them. Moreover, there was the knowledge that undertakings of the kind, perilous as they might be, saved expense. Mrs. Rollinson watched every penny, every halfpenny, and spoke with genuine regret when disbursements had to be made to the Parcels Delivery Company.

“Throwing away good money!” she declared.

She explained to George, in answer to his question, a theory she held in regard to the coinage of the United Kingdom, and he embodied these views in an essay at school the following morning. His teacher, greatly diverted, read the paper aloud to the class, and the boys followed the lead, glad of an excuse for boisterous amusement. George flushed, and kept his head down. It gives some notion of the difficulties experienced by the State in its early days of keeping school when I mention that George ranged himself on the side of his parent, and declined to accept the opinions of educational authorities; the teacher, noting his attitude, spoke to him later in the playground, and assured him again that his argument was based upon error. Money, said the teacher, was manufactured at a place called the Mint situated east of the City; the gold coins were actual value, whilst the rest were called tokens, representing a value only by agreement. Notes were made on special paper, and printed under the supervision of the Bank of England. To write, as George Rollinson had done, that there were two kinds of money, one dry and the other slippery, one easy to retain and the other impossible to keep, was to make an assertion that, in the light of facts, could not possibly be supported.

“So get that nonsensical idea out of your head, my lad,” advised his teacher earnestly, “as soon as you possibly can. You have a good deal to learn yet, remember.”

On most subjects George accepted the instructions of the representatives of the State, bringing home to Southampton Row items of geographical information and snips of historical news; his mother nodded approvingly and hinted that all the particulars had once been learnt by her, but, owing to pressure of other matters, forgotten. When the boy asked about his father she constructed for his encouragement, and her own content, an ideal man, dogged, wise, and industrious, never wasting a moment of valuable time, always thrifty. Upon George inquiring why, in these circumstances, they had not been left more comfortably off, she fell back on her old theory regarding cash, and told him in conclusion that little boys who did not ask too many questions would find their appropriate reward in not being told too many lies.

The profits of the business were small, but they were sure. The newspaper and magazine side increased slightly year by year with nothing in the nature of a set-back, excepting the occasional defalcation of some customer with a poor memory, and lightly furnished in the way of luggage. Mrs. Rollinson, when the lad was of a sufficient age, showed him the results of the business, and George said they ought to sell letter paper at the tobacco counter, seeing that the figures there were stationary. Mrs. Rollinson gave this remark as “George’s latest” to a customer, a short, clean-shaven man, who patronised the shop for lucifer matches, and the customer pronounced it good; later, in calling, he mentioned he had worked it into a burlesque at the Strand Theatre where he was playing, and that it went fairly well. He added that he had never yet found the perfect tobacco, and now almost despaired of doing so; described the different flavours which he desired. George, listening from the shop parlour, asked permission of his mother to make a few experiments; she gave her consent, on the understanding that there should be no waste. The results, tried in the celebrated actor’s pipe, gained emphatic approval, and George suggested a letter should be written from the Theatre embodying these compliments and bearing a signature. The letter was framed, set in the window. Within a week Mrs. Rollinson found herself compelled to engage the services of an assistant on the tobacco side, a worthy, well-favoured man who thenceforth for many years, in accepting his wages on Saturday nights, made a proposal of marriage to her. Mrs. Rollinson declined, in set form, on the grounds that she wished to look after George.

“Very well then,” he would say resignedly. “Then I s’pose I must wait.”

On a Saturday when George brought a young lady from High Street, Marylebone, to the shop, and introduced her to his mother with the remark, “I want you two to be friends!” Mrs. Rollinson, greatly upset, perturbed the assistant by giving in reply to the usual question an unusual answer. He went out of the shop in a dazed condition, and on the Monday morning a letter came from him, stating that, on reflection, he decided he was unworthy of the great honour, and he hoped Mrs. Rollinson would not mind if, instead, he sailed for Canada.

“It’s all for the best!” said Mrs. Rollinson. After going to chapel twice on the intervening Sunday, she was regarding the possibility of the engagement of her son with greater calm. “George will have to work harder, and I’m good for several years yet. We shall rub along all right. He needn’t get married until he’s thirty. It’s quite fashionable nowadays for gentlemen to wait until they’re getting on in life.”

She told him that her first criticism of the girl had been made on the impulse of the moment: she now begged to withdraw the word “minx” and to substitute a more flattering noun.

“Very glad to hear you say that, mother. She’s a girl with most wonderful ideas in her head.”

“That doesn’t matter,” replied Mrs. Rollinson tolerantly, “so long as she leaves them there.”

“What I mean is, extraordinarily ambitious.”

“I’m like that, too,” she remarked. “I’ve set my ’eart on having the front of the shop done up this spring. Me and her will get on capitally together. Make your mind quite easy. She can come here every Christmas day and now and again on Sundays—but not too often—and when eventually you get married, why, if all goes well, I’ll retire and I’ll leave you the business. Can’t say fairer than that, can I?”

“Mother,” the lad blurted out, “she wanted it to be a secret for a time, but I can’t keep it back from you. We’re married already!”

“No, George, my boy. That isn’t true, surely!”

“I take all the responsibility,” he went on, “but she said it was no use letting the grass grow under our feet.”

“I wish,” said Mrs. Rollinson aside, to the negro figure in the corner, “that grass was growing over her head!”

This was the final word of a vehement nature that George’s mother used in regard to her daughter-in-law. When she took some of the furniture, and rode away on the tail of the van to Chalk Farm, she told the middle-aged man with the green baize apron that there was nothing like retiring from business whilst one was still capable of enjoying life: to the lady who owned the house where the furniture was unloaded she mentioned, in taking possession of the two rooms on the ground floor, that her only visitors would be her son and her son’s wife; she hoped they would be in and out of the place frequently. Mrs. Rollinson gave a short, enthusiastic description of the bride and remarked that she already looked upon the girl as her own daughter.

“It’ll be a comfort to me, ma’am,” said the landlady mournfully, “to have a merry party about the house. The only thing is—I don’t mean anything personal—but I’ve generally found that when parties were cheerful, they turned out to be rather bad payers.”

Mrs. Rollinson produced her pass-book; exhibited figures showing the balance to her credit.

“That’s good enough,” said the other, with something like rapture. She was leaving the room, but curiosity detained her at the edge of the carpet. “You must have had some rare strokes of luck, in your day, ma’am!”

Mrs. Rollinson shook her head resolutely. “It’s all been saved out of hard work,” she declared.

“I was half hoping,” remarked the landlady, relapsing into gloom, “it was a case of easy come, easy go!”

The expected callers did not arrive on the first Sunday afternoon, although tea was prepared, crumpets ready, and Mrs. Rollinson had rehearsed several amiable speeches to be addressed to her daughter-in-law. So soon as it became dusk she walked down to Southampton Row, and from the opposite side of the roadway took a view. The shop was shuttered, and, alarmed by this—Sunday evening was one of the best times for receipts—she crossed, and read the notice. Retail Department Closed, said the bills. Central Office of the English Tobacco Syndicate. Branches all over the Country. Capital—and here so many figures (mainly noughts) that Mrs. Rollinson could not reckon them.

“Slippery money,” she said, on the way home. She paid the cabman in threepenny pieces, and he remarked that she might as well also hand over the offertory bag.

Young Mrs. George Rollinson delayed her call for nearly two years, and then she had no occasion to pay a fare; her manner when, on leaving Chalk Farm, she said to the coachman—

“Home, Watson!”

—Was, in itself, proof of the ease with which cultured habits can be acquired by those who set their minds to the task. Before going she, prefacing by the remark that she had called for a quiet chat, spoke at length and with great rapidity. They were living, George and herself, up West; Mrs. Rollinson observed that the exact address was not tendered, and a return call was evidently unnecessary. The present scheme was going on remarkably well, astonishingly well, amazingly well, and young Mrs. Rollinson had special cause for gratification in that it originated with her. For various reasons that her mother-in-law would not understand, if explained, the present scheme had taken the place of the old one, and a still newer one was in contemplation. George and his City friends knew how to manage these affairs to the best advantage. Unfortunately, it seemed likely the public might exhibit a certain reticence when the new idea was submitted to them, and investors would only become eager when they discovered that the shares, or most of them, had been privately subscribed. Just as many people only wanted to go to theatres where the notice “House Full” was exhibited, so some did not apply for shares unless they anticipated difficulty in procuring them.

“And George,” said young Mrs. Rollinson, refastening her fur coat, “is anxious to show he had not forgotten you, and he asked me to say that, for the sake of old times, he is quite willing to let you take up—”

“You tell George,” interrupted his mother, “that whenever the time arrives that he wants to be kept out of the workhouse, he can come along to me!”

I think I said something in approval of young Mrs. Rollinson’s manner of giving instructions to her coachman. To be exact, it ought to be mentioned that there was a distinct trace of asperity in her tones.

Young Mrs. Rollinson said “Home, Watson!” on a good many occasions, and at various places, before the one evening when she gave to the coachman a different destination; the two well-matched horses broke down the austere behaviour of a life-time by winking at each other. George arrived at Chalk Farm by yellow omnibus, that night, after his mother had gone to rest in the back room; she came out with no indication of surprise, and started at once to make up a bed for him on the sofa. He seemed inclined to retain possession of his silk hat, partly that he might gaze into it as he gave halting explanations, but his mother wrested this from him, and ordered him to make himself at home.

“I never heard for certain,” she said, when he had come to an end of the list of disasters, “but are there any children?”

George shook his head negatively.

“That’s just as well,” she remarked, with cheerfulness. “Now promise me, George, before we settle anything else: don’t divorce her.”

“I’m willing to give you my word, mother.”

“Good!” she said. “That means the trouble is over. No more Rollinsons will have to undergo the test. Other people will, but not a Rollinson. Something seems to tell me that I shall out-live you, and I shall make it my business to see that you earn honestly every penny you require.”

The single worry that came later was when Merry Hampton won the Derby. Mrs. Rollinson allowed George one speculation a year in the form of a half-crown ticket for a sweep-stake; prospects of success appeared sufficiently remote. George, on the canal bridge in High Street, was exhibiting to a friend his winnings when the sovereigns slipped through his fingers, and disappeared in the water below. The friend, taking the situation with great good-humour, remarked that it looked like a case of felo s. d.

Price of James Mcwinter

They came separately, and rather stealthily, to the restaurant in Little Compton Street, giving a cautious look up and down the street before entering. Many folk in Soho wear the brims of soft hats flattened down over eyes, carry hands deep in overcoat pockets, and walk close to shop windows, hesitating slightly before turning a corner. The restaurant patrons did not belong to this type. Some of the early-comers spoke to a constable, and said, exhibiting an envelope, because they mistrusted their French accent:

“Which do you reckon now is my best way to get to this address?”

The policeman, pointing a gloved hand to the large window that had muslin curtains of the previous summer, replied:

“If you ain’t careful, sir, it’ll bite you.”

The constable, after the first inquiries, was able to recognise the type and, interrupting the question, indicated the doorway silently with a nod of his helmet without interrupting the task of slapping his shoulder; he mentioned to an anxious younger colleague who came up and put an inquiry that they were not in his opinion so much Anarchists as country gents out on the spree. Inside the Restaurant Chicot the head waiter had also gained experience, and, as the visitors arrived, he said, “Mr. Aumairst, yes?” and with a bow led the way to a long table, that had originally been three, at the end of the large room. Chairs leaned forward in the attitude of saying grace, and these were pulled back by the head waiter, whilst a short page-boy stood on tiptoe to assist the guests in removing overcoats, mufflers, and hats. Guarded salutations—“Hullo, Burnham, old man! What sort of an east wind blew you in here?”—and newcomers examined the menu card with a puzzled air, giving it all up after a cursory examination excepting the plum-pudding item, and joined the rest in taking a seat and in looking over the shoulder.

“I’d no notion we were to be all of us invited. What’s the idea?”

“H. A.” was the reply, in confident tones. “H. A. knows what he’s up to.”

“I quite feel that about him. Apart from liking to show off, and not being able to afford to do it, old Amherst is no fool. But whilst I know that he knows what he’s up to, I can’t say that I always know what he knows about knowing— See what I mean, don’t you? Is this him, in the Russian-bear costume?”

Mr. Amherst, in a brand-new fur-lined overcoat, was scarcely the man to deprive the public of a full view of it, and he resisted the page-boy’s attempt to take possession at the door. Diners at other tables glanced up. Two matronly ladies at the corner said something in a foreign language and suspended the rule which orders that one should not laugh at one’s own jokes. Men gave their closer attention to the trim young figure in a small sealskin cap and warm costume who followed so soon as Mr. Amherst’s whirling arms made it safe to do so.

“Gentlemen,” he said, advancing to the long table, with the air of making a speech, “I have to apologise for being somewhat late on the Rialto, so to speak, but— You’ve met my daughter. Waiter, another chair!” They rose, and she nodded pleasantly, giving to one her muff, another her cloak, a third her gloves. “I particularly wanted her to come along, and it occupied some little time to induce her to obey my request. She’s all I’ve got now, you see.” He sat down heavily at the top of the table. “Now then, my lad,” to the attendant, in a pained manner, “we all seem to be waiting, except you. How much longer before the soup comes?”

Miss Amherst, at the other end of the table, explained to neighbours that her father’s account was inexact in certain particulars. What had really happened was that she found he intended her to stop at the hotel and dine alone.

“He generally gets his own way,” remarked one.

“Not if it happens to differ from mine,” she said.

“Did he tell you, by any chance,” lowering voices, and speaking confidentially, “what the motive was for asking us all here this evening?”

“I understood it was that you should eat a dinner.” They shook their heads to convey that the information was not complete, and followed her lead in the management of the whitebait.

Near Mr. Amherst, the talk, managed and directed by him, was devoted to the political situation. The host submitted a practical method of solving the difficulty of which he spoke as one owning the patent rights; put more briefly than he explained it, it was to convey the principal members of the party with which he was not in agreement to Newgate on a convenient Monday morning, and hang them, one after the other. Near Miss Amherst conversation was on a less remote subject, and her admirable acquaintance with details enabled them to speak freely. Once she disputed a question concerning the Tottenham Hotspurs, and, obtaining silence by rapping a spoon, submitted it for decision to her father.

“My dear,” he answered deferentially, “we don’t want to talk shop. Not just yet awhile, at any rate.”

His guests glanced meaningly at each other.

“Good gracious!” he cried, to a good-looking waiter with a large black moustache and a head of hair like a clothes brush, “what are you standing there gazing at me in such a melancholy way for?”

“Ver’ sorry,” said the young waiter.

“You look it!”

His nearest guests applauded the wit and readiness of the retort. Other tables cleared; folk hurried off to theatres. The head waiter ordered the moustached youth to turn off some of the lights.

“Now, gentlemen!” Mr. Amherst, leaning elbows on the table as coffee and liqueurs were served, cleared his throat, and sent a commanding glance up and down. “My dear”—to his daughter, who was looking at the waiter—“have I your attention?”

“Not yet, father.”

“The presence of a lady,” he said to the others, “need not interfere with the flow of conversation. I want you to make yourselves thoroughly at home, and do just as you please. We can wish each other a happy New Year later on in the evening. But first of all there’s one small matter I wish to bring before your notice.” They put hands to ears, in the attitude of men anxious to gain every word. He leaned back in his chair and came forward once more; his chin went out and he fired a name down the table. They twisted chairs promptly in his direction.

“Yes,” gratified by their astonishment, “big game, I admit, but it’s what I’m after. Other clubs may be on the same track, and therefore what we want first of all is absolute secrecy. If you’re prepared to back me up I’ll promise to see it through, but there must be no cackle, no chatterboxing, no talking to wives, or what not. Not a single word uttered away from this table.”

“They won’t let him go.”

“Who said that?” The others, much in the manner of schoolboys, indicated Burnham.

“I believe,” said Mr. Amherst—“set me right if I’m wrong—but I believe I’m Chairman. Unless I’m woefully mistaken, I was made Chairman about four years ago, at a time when the club was right out on the rocks. It had got a past, but no present. If my memory serves me right, I made it a small present. I bought shares when no one else was prepared to do so. And since that time, what has the club done?” He put out the fingers of one hand and prepared to recite the successes. His daughter coughed.

“I was only going to run through the list, my dear.”

“You can save yourself the trouble,” she said.

“Now, having arrived at this point,” addressing the table, “I ask myself the question, where are we weak? Where are we deficient? Where are we—”

He was so much annoyed at their impatience in anticipating him by giving the answer, that he found himself obliged to apply a match to his cigar, which was still alight.

“Very well, then,” reluctantly. “Discovering this, I look around and I endeavour to find out the best man available.”

“Mr. Pangbourne,” said Burnham, taking heart, “would no more think—”

Mr. Amherst snapped finger and thumb.

“That for Master Willie Pangbourne,” he shouted. “No, no,” irritably, to the moustached waiter, “I didn’t call you. Go away and catch flies. I think, gentlemen,” turning to the others, “that when I tell you I’ve known young Pangbourne since he was so high, and that not long ago I had to order him out of my house—”

“Did he go?” asked the quiet voice at the other end.

“In point of fact he didn’t go, Mary, my dear; but I distinctly ordered him to go. I don’t mind a young man differing from me about politics, but there’s a way of doing it. What I want to say is that Pangbourne isn’t everybody. I can bring influence to bear on his directors. I’ve been accustomed to opposition all my life, and I’m not afraid of it. The only question is,”—he took a pear from the glass dish and shook it threateningly—“how to raise the money.”

The guests glanced at each other and became intent upon cigars. One or two wetted fingers and adjusted an unbroken leaf, thus escaping the inquiring look sent by Mr. Amherst.

“Tell you what,” he cried, “I’ll put down a trifle to make a start.” He called to the waiter and said in a loud, distinct voice, “Onker.” The other seemed puzzled, and the girl translated. The waiter brought ink, and on it being pointed out, somewhat bitterly, that this, by itself, was of little use, found pen and paper.

“There you are,” said Mr. Amherst jovially. “Now pass it down this side and up the other. This is a tiled meeting, remember.” He sat back and gazed at some cupids painted high up on the walls; the models apparently engaged after they had dined at the restaurant. A nudge presently at his elbow told him the list had returned. He put on his pince-nez and inspected it. “Henry Amherst, £50,” was the first item; the only other entry was in pencil, “Mary Amherst, threepence.”

“And this,” he said bitterly, “is, I suppose, what you call backing up the Chairman. Well, you’re the best judges of your own actions. I never dictate to other people.”

A murmur indicated doubt.

“Idea seems to be, sir,” mentioned Burnham, “that we ought to leave well alone.” A few shy “Hear hears.” “We’re very much obliged to you, Mr. Amherst, for your kind hospitality, and we’ve enjoyed meeting at your festive board—if I may be allowed to use such an expression at this time of the year—but you must understand we’ve none of us got money to throw away. We’re devoted to footer, same as you are, and we’ve planked down as much as we could afford. We’re pretty safe to cut a very fair figure this year, and—”

“Burnham,” interrupted Mr. Amherst, “you’ll excuse me, but perhaps you don’t mind if I just say one syllable.” He appeared to be under the impression that his voice had not hitherto been heard. “I’ve a great respect for you. You’ve got a shop in the borough that you’ve worked up from small beginnings, and, so far as I know, you’ve always paid your way.”

“Come on,” said Burnham desperately. “Let’s hear what you are going to say on the other side.”

“What I’m going to say on the other side is simply this. That, with all your estimable qualities, I’ve never, for a single, solitary moment, looked on you as anything but a fool.”

“Father,” reminded the girl, “these gentlemen are your guests.”

“If you are so jolly keen on it,” said Burnham, with spirit, “and if you particularly want to strengthen our team next season, why don’t you put all the money down, and buy James McWinter for us?”

Mr. Amherst struck the table with the side of his large fist.

“Just,” he declared emphatically, “just exactly what I intend to do.”

The waiter came forward in the character of a hat-stand, and Mr. Amherst, grabbing at the nearest, found his irritation in no way lessened on discovering that it was headgear of insufficient size. Mary Amherst, turning to the waiter who stood now arms filled with overcoats, remarked pleasantly that a night like this must surely make him think of the clear blue skies and the dazzling sunshine of his native country; the waiter appeared to have acquired some of the useful idioms of the country, for he said in appealing undertones, “Half-time, half-time!” The head waiter came with the bill, which Mr. Amherst, in his annoyance, had forgotten. Miss Amherst was called upon to check the addition, and it became her duty to point out that the head waiter had by an excusable oversight in making a total reckoned the date at the top. This remedied, with profuse apologies, the party was conducted to the doorway.

“Also I don’t mind telling you,” said her father, speaking outside as though no interval had occurred since his last decisive remark, “exactly how much I’m prepared to go up to.” He named a figure. “Not a farthing more,” he declared resolutely. “What’s that, my dear?”

“Only saying, father, that I was quite sure you couldn’t afford it.”

“That is my business, Mary.”

“It was the business I was thinking about.”

Mr. Amherst, never one to allow pasture land to flourish extensively under his boots, wrote a letter that night, posted it at the corner of Trafalgar Square, and walked three times around the pedestal of the Nelson Statue, partly because he had a great belief in the value of exercise, partly to enjoy the thought that he had, in sending the note, started the ball a-rolling. Coming into the hotel he was told by the porter that Miss Amherst had retired to rest, and he went upstairs humming cheerfully. The porter, it would seem, had been misinformed, for later the girl was leaning over the low balcony chatting with a youth who carried a kit bag. You would have said he was the young waiter at the Soho Restaurant, only that he wore no moustache and she called him Willie, which, as one knows, is rarely counted an Italian name.

“It’s all right, dear girl,” he said. “Now that I know his limit, I can easily arrange.”

“I don’t want him to waste his money,” she explained.

“Leave everything to me,” he begged. “Don’t forget the match to-morrow. By the by, just go in and borrow a lucifer for me. My box is empty.”

She returned with a supply taken from the smoking-room, and leaning over the balcony struck one and just managed to reach his cigar. No one was about, excepting the driver of a four-wheeler on the rank opposite; the cabman remarked confidentially to his horse: “Romeo and Juliet. Played nightly all over the blooming world.” The horse waggled his nose-bag to show that he, too, was acquainted with standard literature.

Mr. Amherst had announced the intention of taking his daughter home by the eight-thirty the following morning, and she was to knock at the wall not later than half-past seven; Miss Amherst was able at nine o’clock breakfast to exhibit her watch and blame it for her omission. She read from a morning paper the fixtures of the day, repeating the announcement concerning the match, whereupon her father announced that he was as ready to be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, and gave her permission to catch the ten-five, and to travel alone. Miss Amherst agreed, but finding in another part of the journal an account of a deplorable case of a communication cord refusing to act, became suddenly terrified and begged her father to accompany her. He said “No!” There was reason in all things. Devoted as he was to his daughter, and ready as he might be to make sacrifices, this was asking too much. He had decided to see James McWinter play once more, before advancing a further stage in the negotiations, and the opportunity was one not to be missed.

“But I tell you what, Mary,” he said firmly; “you do some shopping, buy presents for relatives, and we can both go back together this evening.”

“The best places in London close on Saturday afternoons.”

“Then come to the match with me.”

“I suppose I’d better,” she said.

In London you see no such spectacle as can be witnessed in Midland and Northern towns, with the entire male population walking solidly in one direction, returning later in less regular order, and excited or depressed according to the fate of the home team. All the same, the compartments of the suburban train were well filled, and Mr. Amherst, fearful of being delayed, shouted on the crowded platform an instruction to his daughter.

“Look after yourself!”

An instruction she complied with the more readily because a hand waved to her from a carriage next to the engine. Half a dozen young men sprang up and offered places; she thanked them, and, apparently anxious not to be accused of favouritism, decided to hold by the rack and talk to young Pangbourne. As the train took a curve he had to hold her by the arm, but this she did not seem to mind. Pangbourne’s directors were, of course, to be present at the game. A hurried conference had taken place that morning in the waiting-room of a London terminal station, and the price of James McWinter, on Mr. Pangbourne’s urgent suggestion, had been fixed at a price that far exceeded the limit mentioned by Miss Amherst’s father.

“That’s capital!” she declared gratefully—“capital in more senses than one. You see, Willie, I can remember the time when we were hard up at home, and I recollect how my mother had to scheme and contrive. I don’t want to find myself going back. And the sum represents such an awful lot of money. Football’s a good sport, but there are other games.”

“Marriage, for instance?”

“We can talk of that,” she said composedly, “later on. Let’s settle one matter first. We mustn’t be seen talking to each other, mind.”

Mr. Amherst apologised to his daughter, as they made their way to the entrance to the ground, for his apparent neglect, and she accepted his excuses so readily that he felt bound to point out that, in a general way, he did look after her very carefully, adding that there was no one else to do this. Everything, said Mr. Amherst, with a touch of importance and a hint at real affection, devolved upon him, and he was not the man to flinch responsibilities. She inquired, deferentially, whether he considered it wise to pay out such a large sum of money for James McWinter. He replied that James was worth the figure mentioned the previous night, but not a penny, not a halfpenny more. If the other club began to haggle and bargain and huckster, he, Mr. Amherst, would instantly withdraw.

“And what I say,” he declared, “as you very well know, is what I stick to. My first word is my last word. Is that so, my dear, or isn’t it?”

“You’re an extraordinary man, father.” He appeared content with this vague admission.

Quite a good number had taken advantage of the hospitable offer to ladies, and Mr. Amherst, in spite of his recent declaration, showed relief on encountering the wife of another director, willing and ready to take charge of his daughter. Silk hat at back of head, he hurried off. “Highly important business!” he explained. Mrs. Burnham, a matronly person, confessed that she knew nothing and cared nothing for the game, but had to affect an interest in order to make opportunity of keeping an eye on her husband. Husbands required a lot of watching. Husbands were kittle cattle, if the truth was known. Husbands being what they were, the wonder was that any married lady remained in possession of her senses; she herself foresaw clearly the time when she would be taken away to the County Asylum. Having said all this, and having mentioned that she counted herself among the few who could respect and keep a secret, Mrs. Burnham lowered her voice that folk around might not hear, and urged it was high time Miss Amherst thought of getting married. Mrs. Burnham’s advice was that Miss Amherst should pick out some desirable young gentleman of good birth and excellent prospects.

“And then go for him,” recommended the matronly lady, with earnestness. “Go for him, for all you know. Takes a bit of doing, of course, but it’s worth while.”

The commencement of the game did not interrupt Mrs. Burnham’s counsel, but it interfered with the girl’s power of giving attention. Standing on a chair she watched eagerly, describing the progress in brief ejaculatory sentences to her chaperon; joined in the appeals of a few members of the crowd addressed to the visiting team; refrained from giving assistance to the majority in cheering and encouraging the home side. Privately, she criticised James McWinter, who, a large young man, appeared to be doing as little as possible, the while the rest scurried about on the slightly frosted turfed ground, doing everything in a strenuous manner with no result. What a football crowd likes is the scoring of goals, and when at half-time it proved that not one had been recorded on either side, the two teams, exhausted and limp (with the exception of James McWinter) were followed by regretful looks; men described what they themselves would have done, if they were but a few years younger or older, and less occupied with other affairs. Mr. Amherst bustled around, fanning himself with his silk hat, and looking greatly perturbed. He mentioned to his daughter that they (meaning Pangbourne’s directors) had the cheek to ask so much—quoting the large figure—that he would see them further before planking down that amount; he went so far as to hint at the well-warmed direction they could select.

The teams took up their new positions. The whistle sounded. Before Miss Amherst had disengaged herself from her companion’s inquiries and counsel, the outside left, amidst erroneous cries of “Off-side!” centred across to the inside right, who centred again, and James McWinter trapped the ball, dodged the two backs and shot hard; the goalkeeper fumbled it, and even supporters of the home side could scarce restrain a cheer. The other team prepared for a change of tactics, and in exactly four minutes precisely the same thing happened, and the goalkeeper dealt with the ball in almost the same manner; tears stood in his eyes; he glanced with reproach at his gloves, and bowed his head penitently to the observations of colleagues. Miss Amherst had to apologise more than once when crying “Shoot!” for kicking the back of a stout gentleman standing just in front of her. When at the end of the ninety minutes’ traffic the visiting side had scored five to none, and four of these goals were to be credited to James McWinter, she turned to her companion. Her father was in a kind of scrum not far off; she recognised the light in his eyes of one to whom money was of no consequence, and into her eyes came the light of one resolved to act promptly. Under cover of the cheering, she made an enthusiastic and apparently genuine declaration.

“Oh, but, my dear,” cried Mrs. Burnham alarmedly, “you mustn’t talk like this. This is dreadful. When I said what I did just now, I never meant you should go and throw yourself away on a great clumsy hulk like that, earning not more than £4 a week. Besides, his people are meat salesmen.”

“I’m not a vegetarian.”

Mr. Amherst, scarlet, almost blue with eagerness, was hurrying by.

“Not a word, please,” begged the girl, with extravagant signs of distress, “not a syllable to my father. Promise me you won’t tell him. My mind’s made up; but I don’t want him to know.”

Mrs. Burnham put out the hooked handle of her umbrella and caught Mr. Amherst neatly.

“Very sorry,” he panted, “can’t spare a moment.”

“You just come here first,” ordered the lady resolutely. “There’s something you’ve got to know, and I mean to tell it to you before I go and look after my husband. I’m not going to be blamed afterwards, and have you say it was my fault.”

“Do hurry up,” begged Mr. Amherst piteously. “If you knew how urgent it all was, you wouldn’t chatter on like this. I’m going to give them whatever they ask for him. He’s a bachelor, and he won’t mind where he lives.”

“Your daughter,” said Mrs. Burnham, speaking with tragic emphasis, “tells me—that she’s fallen in love—at first sight—with that six foot three—called James McSomething—who’s been kicking the ball—like a young demon—between the two posts. And my advice to you is—keep ’em well apart—keep ’em hundreds of miles apart from each other!”

Mr. Pangbourne’s club, with the aid of James and the rest, made its way later into the Second League, and he himself secured three well-paid official appointments from the Corporation and other bodies, who were probably actuated by feelings of gratitude; the entire town joined in giving him and Miss Amherst a notable wedding present. Mr. Amherst, now honorary secretary of the Bowling Club, has married a lady of forty-five, hitherto interested only in deep-sea fishermen. And all intend to live more or less happily ever afterwards.

A case of suspicion

It was pleasant to get about the square of the station—where luggage had to be labelled and heated passengers stormed at porters and a rather stout brass bell was rung, and where at moments of pressure it did seem that the world had suddenly gone mad—pleasant to stroll there and to feel you were one of the few who recognised the identity of the quiet man smoking a briar pipe and carrying an umbrella, over near the label case. He was middle-aged, with an unobtrusive manner; in the summer he wore a straw hat sedately; he seemed to be always waiting for a train that never arrived. If a loiterer made his way into the station and stood about the bookstall longer than seemed necessary, the quiet man would go near to him, moving when he moved, stopping when he stopped, and losing no sight of him until he went off. The quiet man had apparently no friends, and the staff addressed him rarely.

Now the Station Master’s boy knew that this man was a retired member of the police force, the plain-clothes detective attached to the terminus. And in connection with a predecessor of this mysterious official they told him, in the Up Parcels Office, an incident.

Sergeant Bellchambers had not succeeded in gaining the popularity that most men, in this world, desire, but one or two of his first investigations received favourable comment from the General Manager, and this repaid him for lack of sympathy from others. It was said that in the M division they had been glad to see him take his pension and go, the opinion of the Inspector’s desk being that Bellchambers was a born muddler. This might have been the invention of the station staff; what was quite certain was that in his reports on blue paper in the early cases referred to he fixed blame on men whom the station considered innocent, and these men were, in consequence, fined or reduced. Moreover, he had not been content with singling out individuals and recommending them for the stocks, but he condemned an entire department; for which reason the station said darkly:

“We shall ’ave to get our own back.”

This was the state of things when the cigar robberies began. Parcels of cigars came up regularly from a certain firm and from a certain local station, sometimes for delivery in London, sometimes for transfer to another railway; one parcel in four reached its destination in good appearance outwardly, but with part of the contents abstracted. The firm made heavy claims, wrote furious letters, and at last managed to get a communication into the public press in which bitter reference was made to the supineness and slothful behaviour of the railway company. The Superintendent of the Line sent for Bellchambers, withdrawing him from easy duties on the station square.

“The only question is—” said the high official.

“Where do these robberies take place?” suggested Bellchambers. “That’s the point,” he added sagely, “that’s what we’ve got to get at.”

“What is your opinion, Sergeant?”

Sergeant Bellchambers made a fine pretence of taking thought before he answered. Then with red-ink pen he wrote on an envelope and passed it across the table.

“Up Office,” read the Superintendent.

“’Ush,” said Bellchambers warningly.

“Do you think you can find the thieves?”

“If I’m given a free hand,” said Bellchambers, “and no quibble raised, sir, about my petty disbursements.”

“Go in and win,” said the Superintendent. “When do you start?”

“This very night, sir?”

“Let me have a report in the morning.”

That evening the head of the department sent to the Up Office a new hand to assist the late-duty men. He was black-bearded with a very ruddy face, and he wore a uniform that had apparently belonged to a shorter and a slimmer person. His name, he said, was Edward Jones, but the Up Office seemed not contented with this and decided on the suggestion of a junior clerk to call him by the title of “Sunset.” He settled to the work with moderate determination, calling off parcels and sorting them into bins for delivery with perhaps more intelligence than the raw amateur usually showed: he spoke in a hoarse voice, and this he accounted for by confessing himself a slave to tobacco; he discussed the matter with the other men, between the arrival of trains, and seemed, not unnaturally, more interested in those who smoked than in the one or two who limited themselves to a cigarette a week, consumed after dinner on Sundays. The Up Office always had a composite scent, in which fruit, game, cheese, and other things mixed, with sometimes one gaining ascendancy, sometimes another; a new flavour of a more pleasant and a vaguer character was contributed presently by a small brown-paper-covered box, brought in from an arrival platform, bearing a proud label:—

VALUABLE CIGARS

KEEP DRY

“’Ere’s a chance for some one,” said the porter, as he called it off. “Sunset, old chum, these’d do your palate good.”

“Silly thing to mark ’em like that,” remarked the new man. “It’s throwing temptation in anybody’s way. I should say they’re likely enough worth about fifteen pence to one-and-six a-piece.”

“How d’you know?”

“I don’t profess to know,” said the new man hurriedly. “I’m only giving a rough estimate. But bless my soul,” he went on after a pause, “what a refining influence a cigar has.”

“If it’s a good one,” suggested a boy porter.

“They’re all good,” declared the new man with enthusiasm. “They’re like the ladies in that respect. Some are better’n others, but they’re all good.”

“Not a married man, then?” asked a foreman.

“I’m a bloomin’ bachelor,” said the new chum. “And what a thing it is on your Sunday off, when you’re waiting at the end of her road, to light up a cigar with a fine aroma to it. It not only gives you an air of belonging to the ’igher aristocracy, but it also carries away any suspicion of corduroy that might be ’anging about.”

“I’ve never give less than twopence,” remarked the boy porter.

“I’m sorry for you,” said the new man. “I should have thought a chap with your fore’ead had got more ambition. Why, when I was a lad of your height—”

“Pardon me,” interrupted the foreman, “you seem to ’ave a most extr’ordinary flow of conversation.”

“I’m celebrated for it.”

“I wonder,” said the foreman curiously, “whether you’d mind stopping it for a moment and doing a bit of work instead. Reason I suggest it is that the Company pays you for what you do and not for what you talk.”

“I can take a ’int,” said the new man coldly.

There seemed a desire on the part of the others that night to make Porter Jones work as hard as it is possible for a man to work. The heaviest hampers were confided to his care; the slimiest cases of fish were placed upon his shoulder; he it was who was told off to see to some consignments of rather advanced venison. The parcel of valuable cigars remained in the Number Five bin to be transferred to another Company by the first delivery in the morning, and it was observed that whenever Porter Jones came into the office he glanced in that direction. Now the Up Office, as I have hinted, had been perturbed over the recent complaints, and the mere fact that they had to fill up memoranda in regard to the various investigations, to the effect that, “I beg to say in reference to the attached papers that I know nothing whatever of the matter, I am, sir, your obedient servant,” this in itself was enough to put a keener edge on observation. Wherefore, a secret meeting was held near the gas-stove by the booking-up desk, and it was decided that the new man should be watched closely; it was felt it would be a proud and estimable thing for the office, the character of which was at this period slurred, if it could itself detect a wrong-doer and take him to justice. And should it happen that the detected one proved to be a new man with no friends in the department to lament his fall, then the most doubtful would have to revert to old beliefs in a wise and thoughtful Providence. Their suspicions were increased by the fact that whenever Porter Jones, in the brief intervals between work from nine o’clock onwards, resumed conversation, he invariably bent its direction towards the subject of cigars.

“Take no notice,” whispered the foreman to his colleagues. “At least when I say take no notice, I mean take all the notice you can, but keep your little heads shut as tight as possible.”

“Shall one of us lay up for him?”

“Who’s the smallest?” asked the foreman, with an air of having already thought of this device.

“I are,” said the boy porter.

“Evidently,” remarked the foreman, looking down at him, “evidently a chap of superior education. Country born, ain’t you?”

“I were.”

“Then,” said the foreman, “up you jump behind them ‘books off’ and you watch, my lad, watch Sunset for all you are worth.”

The Up Office closed at midnight in order to sleep for a few hours. Before that time the men had made preparations for departure, packing shining hand-bags and exchanging the official cap for a bowler hat, and brushing their boots; this last act is one of which the railway man never tires. Porter Jones alone seemed to be taking no preliminary steps, and when asked where he lived replied lightly and evasively that he should probably finish up at the Carlton Club. The gas lights were turned down one by one and darkness increased its possession of the office. Porter Jones went up to the end where Bin Number Five was situated; the others hummed to give a suggestion of unconcern. Suddenly there was commotion at the darkened end of the office, and seizing hand lamps, they hurried forward.

“’Old him, ’old him,” cried the boy porter. The counsel seemed unnecessary, for he gripped Porter Jones most effectively by the collar of the corduroy jacket. “Set on his ’ead. Lam him one.”

“What’s all this fuss about?” demanded the foreman.

“He’s got it,” screamed the boy porter. “Sunset’s got it hid under his jacket.”

“Got what hid?” asked the foreman. “Let’s ’ave the facts first of all.”

“I can easily explain,” gasped the new man. “I only wanted to see if— Make him leave go. He’s—he’s throttling me.”

“He’s a-trying to,” admitted the boy porter.

“Let him loose,” ordered the foreman. “Men, stand around him so as he can’t make his escape. What’s that bulging under your arm, matey?”

The new man gave an awkward laugh, as he withdrew the labelled parcel.

“I can explain it all to you,” he said, addressing the foreman and trying to rebutton his torn collar, “if you will favour me with two minutes alone outside.”

“Don’t you do it,” advised the others. “See him ’anged first.”

“Whatsoever you ’ave to say,” declared the foreman steadily, “you’d better say it here and now.”

“Well, it’s like this. I’m the detective.”

“Ho!” said the foreman satirically. “Detective and thief in one, eh? Vurry ’appy combination, I must say.”

“See here,” said the other, annoyed at the incredulous tone, “I’ll take off this beard and then you can some of you identify me.”

As he did so the foreman held up his hand lamp, examining the features carefully.

“Do any of you chaps recognise him?”

The staff replied at once that to the best of their belief they had never before in this world set eyes on him.

“Don’t play the goat,” he urged anxiously. “We’ve all got our duties to perform.”

“That’s true; we shall ’ave to lock you up for the night.”

“Right you are,” said the other gleefully. “Take me round to the nearest police station and then—”

“That would mean losing our last train ’ome,” pointed out the foreman.

“I s’pose,” said the boy porter respectfully, “it wouldn’t do to put him in the lamp room?”

“Chaps,” said the foreman, “my idea is we’d better, I think, put him in the lamp room. Get Porter Swan to lend you the keys, my lad. As for you, you scoundrel—”

“If you so much as dare to lock me up there I’ll see that you regret it every day of your lives.” He argued vehemently.

“Look ’ere, me man,” said the boy porter, returning with the keys, “we want none of your empty threats. If you think we’re going to be bluffed by a chap of your calibre—”

“My what?” shouted the indignant man, struggling to get at the lad.

“Go on, my child,” said the foreman approvingly. “Let him have some of your long ones.” The foreman turned to the others.

“This is where your school teaching comes in ’andy,” he whispered.

“A chap of your calibre,” repeated the boy porter, encouraged; “you’re labouring under the very worst misapprehension—”

“Good!” said the others.

“Worst misapprehension that you ever suffered from or endured or tolerated or submitted to or underwent or—”

“That’s enough for him,” interrupted the foreman, “we’d best not overdo it. Got his arms tied, lads?”

“You’ll suffer for this,” he cried.

“I’ll take me oath you will,” said the foreman. “Now then, two of you at each arm and—march! Boy, blow out the gas and lock up.”

No one was encountered on the way to the lamp room who had authority to interfere with the plans of the Up Office, and the unfortunate man was conducted at a sharp walk to that gloomy, sooty, greasy haven. The place reeked with oily waste, and some appeared to have been smoldering, giving a result that nice people would call displeasing. The uneven flooring was laid out with lakes of dirty water; zinc counters did not permit themselves to be touched. The foreman turned out the one glimmer of light as though by accident.

“Got a match on you?” he asked the prisoner in a kindly tone.

“Only one box.”

“Hand it over,” ordered the foreman, “for a moment. Thanks,” slipping it into his pocket. “Now we can catch our twelve-fifteen. Good night, old sort.”

“’Appy dreams,” cried the others.

“Don’t be late in the morning,” called out the boy porter.

The imprisoned man, not daring to trust himself to reply, heard the door close, heard the lock shoot. He groaned, and began to reckon the black hours that he would have to endure in the place; at the least, the number would be six; he did not care to think what it might be at the most. Throughout the whole of the time he was unable to close his eyes, and his only relief to the length of the hours came by thinking of the report that he would indite the following morning. He polished up in his mind some of the references to the boy porter, and to the man who gripped his arm in bringing him from the Up Office; it seemed that his suspicions in regard to the pilferages were centred, for some reason, on those who had most aggrieved him. Before daylight began to grin at him through the barred window of the lamp room he had mentally completed his report, and the last paragraph he felt was especially good.

I am able to speak with absolute certainty, and I can go so far as to say the men who are undoubtedly responsible for the recent pilferages are those I have named, and I beg to suggest respectfully that steps be taken to relieve them of their present duties at the earliest possible moment. The only alternative is a clean sweep of the whole of the Up Office staff, and this, sir, I hesitate to recommend. But for reasons that I have stated, and for others which I think it wise not to place upon paper, I earnestly hope that the recommendation I have made will be acted upon without delay.

W. Bellchambers.

P.S. Especially the foreman and the junior.

“Can’t make it hotter for them,” said Sergeant Bellchambers to himself regretfully, “without it looking as though I’d got some personal spite.”

The night seemed endless, but it proved to have a finish, and Bellchambers, when the lamp-man opened the door in the morning, went out, a tired, oil-scented, yawning, but a determined official. A wash and a shave increased the last quality, and when the Superintendent arrived at nine o’clock, morning paper under his arm, Sergeant Bellchambers was waiting for him in the lobby of the office with confidence written all over his face in large letters.

“Evening, sir.”

“Good-morning, Sergeant.”

“I mean morning,” corrected Bellchambers. “I’ve been up all night over that little affair you spoke about.”

“Ah!” said the Superintendent, sitting down in his arm-chair, “with no result?”

“On the contrary, sir,” said Sergeant Bellchambers importantly. “If it isn’t troubling you too much I’ll trouble you to cast your eyes over this report of mine.”

The Superintendent let his glasses flick open and adjusted them on his nose. The Sergeant, leaning one arm on the mantelpiece, watched his superior officer, waiting for the sign of gratified approval. This, to his great astonishment, did not come, and the Superintendent’s face remained unchanged when he had thrown the report on the shining table.

“Do you mean to say that you want me to get rid of these men?”

“That was the impression,” said the Sergeant, with a touch of acidity, “I intended to convey.”

“And you think they’re guilty?”

“I’ll stake my reputation on it, sir,” said Sergeant Bellchambers.

“That is not much of a bet,” remarked the other.

“You can take it from me that these pilferages will never cease until the men I’ve referred to are turned out.”

“I’m very anxious to do something,” said the Superintendent, taking up a ruler thoughtfully.

“Like myself, sir,” said Bellchambers. “That’s me all over.”

“But not,” said the Superintendent, hitting the table, “not in the direction you suggest. Read this!”

He handed over the morning paper to Sergeant Bellchambers, pointing to a letter headed “Recent Complaints of Pilferages.”

“Ah!” said the Sergeant exultingly, “they’re going for us again, then. ‘Dear Sir,’ he read. ‘With reference to our letters to you complaining of abstraction from our parcels of cigars sent by railway, we think it only right to inform you that we have discovered these pilferages were made by one of our own men. It appears that after delivering the parcels at the station here, and after they were weighed, he was in the habit of offering to take them to the train, and whilst doing this effected the robberies to which reference has been made. We need scarcely point out that if the station had been wisely managed these lamentable occurrences would in all probability never have taken place; the only question is, who is responsible? We are, dear sir, yours faithfully—’”

“A paltry trick to play on anybody,” said the Sergeant. “At the same time, sir, I think there’ll be no harm in making a change in the staff.”

“I intend to do so. Will you keep your eyes open, Sergeant—”

“Ain’t they always?”

“And,” said the Superintendent, “look out for another berth. Shut the door quietly after you.”

Question of temperature

L.O.M. caught sight of M.R. two or three times on the journey, and M.R. made more than one effort to obtain completer details by inspection of the blue card label on L.O.M.’s bag. A certain coolness on M.R.’s side marked their first meeting, but this was the fault of the English Channel; it certainly looked like a practical joke, not quite in good taste, when a sudden lurch of the steamer sent him against her on the upper deck; despite his apologies, there was about the incident a suggestion of Holloway Road on Sunday evenings. M.R. told her married sister that she considered him a bounder; the married sister replied that this description could be applied to men in general, with one single exception.

“Be very careful, Margaret,” she added, “how you make acquaintances. We shall run up against all sorts.”

“All sorts,” complained the girl, “seem to be running up against me.”

At the Paris Station of the Lyons railway, L.O.M. appeared in a more favourable light, rescuing the married sister’s coat which had been taken from a peg in the buffet by a Frenchwoman who was either short-sighted or deficient in honesty. At Vallorbes, it was he who came to the window of their compartment—the hour being five a.m., and snow on the ground—and gave the welcome news that their registered luggage was not amongst the packages selected for examination at the Swiss frontier.

“Do you think I might get you some coffee?” he asked.

“Certainly not!” answered the married sister promptly.

The incident constituted a subject for discussion, the younger girl contending that the obliging male should never be curtly repulsed; the other arguing that a difficulty would have been found in persuading the youth to accept cash for refreshments supplied, and, consequent on this, the trouble in preventing him from becoming intrusive could scarcely be measured. At Lausanne, where passengers took breakfast, he very properly kept his distance. At Bex, in the tram-cars, which were to make the climb with the aid of motive power at the back, he gave up his place to the elder of the two and sat side by side with the girl in the crowded luggage van.

“Yes,” she replied, “I skate, and I should like to learn to ski. Do you?”

“Moderately good at it,” replied L.O.M. “Did some in Norway.”

“Then, perhaps—”

“You will find an instructor up there,” he said.

She turned away huffily.

It was not, however, easy to avoid joining in the general conversation. Everybody had projects for the filling up of the winter holiday; the conductor, as the car went slowly up the hill, was appealed to for information concerning weather, and being a man of cheerful temperament, gave exactly the particulars that were hoped and desired, without allowing truth to mar the effect. Thus an atmosphere of hopefulness pervaded the luggage van, and even retiring military men perched upon trunks became vivacious, talking of desperate deeds already accomplished in other places on toboggans, and speaking with relish of the appetite that came after these exercises. The two were soon again in conversation, and the girl mentioned that her sister’s maiden name was Rodgers, a fact which enabled him to perceive acutely that this must be also the girl’s name. Turning the label on his valise, he introduced himself.

“Masterson,” he said.

“I like names of three syllables,” she remarked.

The hour and a half occupied by the journey was lessened by all this, and by the increasingly snowy aspect of the mountains on either side of the track; the conductor derided this as trifling, and endeavoured to give some idea of the downfall that had taken place up near the summit. At Gryon the steep part finished, and the cars went on with the assistance of overhead wires.

“You play and sing, I suppose?”

“I perform no parlour tricks of any description,” said Miss Rodgers definitely. “I leave these accomplishments to others.”

“Really?” Rather taken back, and the movement of his forehead slightly lifting his cap. “I had an idea—I’d got the notion that every girl did. My sisters—”

“I am the exception,” with pride. “Outdoor sports constitute my strong point. I could live for ever in the open air.”

“What about the bad weather?” inquired Masterson.

“How can you talk of bad weather at a time like this? Look back and see that dear, white, delightful little village. Tell me, do you think there will be a carnival on the ice rink? I’ve brought the sweetest fancy dress you ever saw. You won’t find me staying indoors, excepting for meals.”

When the cars reached the destination, the two alone out of the whole party exhibited scarcely any signs of the twenty-five hours’ journey from Charing Cross and London; the married sister compensated by showing every symptom of collapse, and he very courteously assisted her up the wooden steps and over the bridge to the hotel. There the flurried manager checked names as they entered; assigned the double room on the first floor to Mr. Masterson, and the single room on the third floor to Miss Rodgers and her exhausted sister; they united forces in protesting against this, and became more friendly in the presence of a common grievance. Despite the warmth of arguments used by visitors, the thermometer near the pile of brushes and toboggans registered four degrees of frost.

Lunch was served at once, and immediately after the meal the married sister, discovering that she had eaten veal under the impression it was mutton, announced her intention of resting indoors during the afternoon. The other two came down in jerseys and white caps, and the married sister gave Masterson gracious permission to escort Miss Rodgers to the rink.

“Mind you bring her back safely,” she commanded.

“I’ll do my best,” he said.

“Quite capable of taking care of myself,” remarked the girl. “Just lace up my boots for me, please.” They left the lady in the vestibule perusing a Cardiff journal bearing date of a Tuesday in the previous month.

One could see on their return that the afternoon on the rink had reached highest expectations; their animation caused some compression of the eyebrows on the part of sedater folk taking tea. Everything had happened as the flushed, excited girl wanted it to happen. Her ability had excited favourable comment from other skaters; one of the professionals gave a compliment; the band played delightfully, and she—not caring for indoor dancing—completely and thoroughly enjoyed a waltz. Sun shining all the time.

“After tea,” she explained, “we are going out to do some ski-ing.”

“Who is meant, pray,” asked her sister carefully, “by the word ‘we’?”

“Mr. Masterson and myself, of course!”

“Oh!” commented her sister, giving an inflection which the printed word cannot convey.

“What’s your objection, Ellen?”

“It would be useless for me to offer any. I shall stay in and write. Does he know that you neither play nor sing?”

“I’ve told him,” snapped the girl.

Folk at the hotel attended meals with regularity, but their impatience towards the finish was something not easily concealed. A tall woman seated opposite at dinner, and possessing a complexion which looked almost natural, hinted that she was arranging some amateur theatricals, and Mr. Masterson gave to the announcement an interest which Miss Rodgers considered so excessive that she turned from him and listened with attention intended to be equally extravagant to her sister’s talk concerning Henry. The lady with the complexion had been searching the hotels for some one who could sing and act; up to the present, she had found three able to sing, but not greatly desirous of doing so; they were more definite in their replies to her invitation in regard to acting. Also, she required some one who could play the pianoforte readily.

“Please help me if you can,” she begged, passing the French mustard across to Mr. Masterson, and assuming an ingratiating smile. “I shall be so grateful.”

“There’s a good deal to do out-of-doors,” he mentioned.

“Then,” said the lady, with resolution, “I must pray for mild weather!”

The concierge announced in the vestibule, as folk returned who had been out for moonlight tobogganing after dinner, that the frost was hard, the thermometer promising well; bridge players ordered him to close the doors, and keep them closed, but Masterson and Miss Rodgers coming in, flushed with exercise on the snow run, congratulated each other on the good news, and in the corridor, before saying good-night, made full and complete plans for the following day.

Masterson slept the sleep of a well-tired man until six o’clock, when the bell rang to arouse servants. He heard a drip, drip, drip from the roofs, and turning over dreamt of an amazing leap on skis from the top of Mont Blanc to the Dent du Midi, an exploit that created in his mind, not surprise, but genuine satisfaction. When he awoke again, it was to find the hour late, and in dressing hastily, to avoid the fifty centimes fine inflicted on those who took breakfast after ten, he shared the blame between himself and the heating apparatus which kept the room at a too comfortable temperature.

“Really very sorry,” he cried, entering the dining-room. Severe faces looked up from the tables; young Miss Rodgers helped her sister to honey and sighed. “You can’t think how full of regret I am.”

“It is a pity,” she said.

“I was awake early, mind you,” he went on eagerly. “Wide awake as I am now. And then I dozed off, and when I—”

The waiting maid brought his coffee and he poured it into the cup with the air of a man not deserving refreshment.

“You have been out alone, I suppose?” he remarked.

“Apparently,” interposed the married sister, “you are not aware that there has been a most wonderful thaw during the night, and that there is now a thick mist.”

The weather was not the only thing affected by the change. After breakfast, folk stood about in the corridor examining the notices there with a doleful expression. “Rink Closed” stood out in definite capital letters, and eyes turned from the stern announcement to gain some comfort from the slips which recorded loss of decorative articles. A few proclaimed intention of devoting the morning to sending postcards, and to the clearing off of arrears in correspondence, and stalked resolutely up to the drawing-room; others went to see if they could induce the concierge to make a cheerful prophecy concerning the weather, returning with the news that the official, discouraged by failure, refused to hold out anything that looked like hope. One or two inspected time tables and talked of going back to Lausanne.

“Why don’t you suggest something, Mr. Masterson?”

“Wish I had the necessary intelligence, Miss Rodgers. Is there anything we can arrange indoors, I wonder, to make the time go quickly whilst the weather is sorting itself? Think of something that you’re good at!”

“If you possessed a memory,” retorted the girl warmly, “you would recollect that I distinctly told you—”

The lady with the very fresh complexion interposed, with an apology. Would Mr. Masterson give her three minutes of his time in a corner of the vestibule? Masterson looked at the girl for directions, but she turned away, and he followed the other obediently.

Great mystery surrounded the ball-room, and especially the stage of the ball-room, that day, with janitors at doors, asking those who arrived: “Excuse me, but are you taking part?” and when a negative answer was given, adding: “Then will you kindly stay outside, please?” The pianoforte could be heard being played with the soft pedal down, and a sound came of choruses; occasionally, the voice of the made-up lady crying: “Oh, that’s not a bit like it!” and “We must try the first act all over again!” and “Do take up your cues smartly, please!”

At lunch she escorted Masterson into the dining-room, conveying him past the chairs occupied by Miss Rodgers and the married sister, and induced him to sit beside her during the meal. The doyen of the guests rapped three times on the table between the veal and the chicken course, and made an announcement. Volunteers were required to sing in the church choir. A bracelet had been found on the billiard table. To-morrow evening there would be a theatrical entertainment in the ball-room under the joint superintendence of Miss Ellicott and Mr. Masterson. Ladies willing to sing in the chorus were requested to communicate immediately with Mr. Masterson. The doyen sat down; the buzz of conversation recommenced.

Masterson, note-book in hand, stood at the doorway when the meal was over, taking names. As Miss Rodgers and her sister came near, he looked up inquiringly, but the girl stared at him in a distant manner, and went past, ignoring the half-completed question which he put to her; Masterson gazed after them with the abashed look of one who has discovered that he does not fully understand women, and to the next offer replied, rather brusquely, that the list was now complete. He proceeded to the ball-room and gave up the afternoon to rehearsal, interspersed with gusty arguments with the leading lady. Outside, the rain came down in a quiet, orderly manner, as though it were doing exactly what was required, and the concierge went about assuring visitors that the fault was not his.

Young Miss Rodgers, wearing defiance as a cloak to nervousness, knocked at the door of the ball-room and asked to see Mr. Masterson. The amateur door-keeper replied that the gentleman was busy. Miss Rodgers, with a smile that would have persuaded even a professional, induced the door-keeper to go and make further inquiries, and immediately that he had started on this errand, not only slipped inside the room, but at once slipped up on the polished floor. Now, she was a sure-footed girl, not accustomed to tumble, and it was fortunate, in view of her record, that no one happened to witness the incident. She had resumed an upright position when the doorkeeper returned.

“You go across to the drawing-room,” he whispered importantly, “and in about ten minutes he’ll see you! Quarter of an hour at the outside.”

The entire strength of the company was on the stage, and as she walked up and down the carpeted room, snatches of the dialogue came to her ears. The leading lady, and Masterson were about to go through once again the scene which had startled the girl on entering the ball-room; the lady suggested improvements. “When I rush into your arms,” she said, “how would it be for you to catch me like this—” here evidently followed an illustration—“and I’ll lean my hand on your shoulder like this”—another illustration—“and then we can start the duet.” Masterman’s voice said he was ready to try this plan. “That’s better,” remarked the lady presently, “but I think we may as well do it again. Give me the word, somebody.”

The girl peered through the cracks of the set scenery on the stage, and, her hand at her throat, watched and listened.

“That’s about right. Now for the duet. Play the symphony, please, Miss Jenner.” After this, “Thank you. Just once more.”

Masterson’s voice, a strong baritone, started:

As I look into eyes that gaze up into mine,I know that your dear heart is beating for me.I know you’re as true as the stars that do shine,As the sun and the moon and the earth and the sea.Yet I ask for one word—

Miss Rodgers, fearful of being discovered and unable to endure contemplation of the scene any longer, crept away to the other end of the drawing-room, where, regarding herself in the mirror, she found an extremely cross-looking face with a line or two on the forehead. As the lady’s reply rang out, the girl took up an illustrated journal from the table and endeavoured to divert her thoughts by concentrating on fashion, only to find that she could not be quite sure whether she was inspecting a page of drawings or a page of letterpress.

For I love thee, I love thee, ’tis all I can say.

The chorus, standing around with a strange want of delicacy during this affectionate argument, now threw off all restraint, and acknowledged the interest they had taken in the proceedings by singing confidentially to each other:

She loves him, she loves him, ’tis all he can say,He loves her, he loves for a year and a day.Pray see how affection has come their direction,Oh, thrice happy twain to be wedded in May.

“Hullo!” cried Masterson, astonished, coming off, “you here?”

The question seemed to be one of those not requiring a reply, and Miss Rodgers ignored it.

“I wanted to know whether there was a chance of being able to help,” she said.

“Rather!” he declared readily. “We’ll soon see about that. I’ll go and arrange.”

He went at a good rate; returned with leaden footsteps.

“I’m sorry!” she said, receiving his message.

“If you had only offered earlier,” he remarked apologetically. “You see, I’m not in charge of the affair, or else I’d manage it like a shot. And I thought you said—”

“It occurred to me,” explained Miss Rodgers, her voice faltering slightly, “that I’d like to try. But it doesn’t really matter in the least.”

Her sister was in a convalescent state, ready to talk of subjects other than Henry, and when the girl burst into the room which they jointly occupied, and throwing herself on the red couch, gave way to tears, comfort was close at hand. The sister wisely refrained at first from putting questions, allowed the girl to have her cry out, and only said soothingly, “It’s all right, dearie. Don’t worry more than you can help.” When composure returned, the solace of the confessional was utilised and the married sister listened, interjecting now and again, “Yes, I understand,” and “I quite see what you mean.”

“You don’t mind, I hope, if I point out,” she remarked, when the last word had been said, “that mother and I have always been persuading you to take up music or singing or some accomplishment of the kind.”

“I know,” admitted the girl penitently.

“And you have always said there were plenty of girls who could do these things, and that you were not going to bother about them. Now you see how important it is that you should keep them level with others. You must make hay whilst the sun shines,” quoted the married sister.

“I shall have to make a start.”

“And when we get back to London, you are going to set to work at once and learn some of these useful accomplishments?”

“I promise,” declared Miss Rodgers resolutely. “And I think, too, I should like to take up cooking. One never knows when it may come in handy.”

The performance went well, and nothing could have exceeded the graciousness of young Miss Rodgers towards the leading lady; few of the later compliments exceeded hers. Indeed, when, on the following day, the frost returned succeeded by a pleasant sprinkling of snow, she offered to take the leading lady out on the rink and charge herself with the responsibility of teaching the art of skating.

“No, dear,” replied the other. “Thank you very much, but no. As a matter of fact, although I try my best not to look it, I’m too old. Look after Mr. Masterson, instead. He admires you, and you mustn’t lose any chance of persuading him to continue to do so, indoors or out. I know what men are!”

Foreign affairs

We parted from Mr. Peter A. Chasemore at Bologna owing to a slight difference of opinion. Carolyn Stokes and myself had the notion that we should find Venice damp and possibly cold; Mr. Chasemore declared that to go home without seeing a gondola would give him a pain compared with which rheumatism might be considered a sensation of acute delight. There is no use denying the fact that we two women missed Mr. Chasemore a good deal. Confusion took place on the journey, for which I blamed Carolyn Stokes, and she blamed me. When with the assistance of luck we did reach the Belvedere our tempers were not improved by the fact that a young man and an elderly lady occupied, for the moment, the attention of the hotel people.

“Norman,” she said to him, as the proprietor eventually came to us, “you can consider yourself free for the remainder of the day.” He bowed. “Give me that; I will take charge of it.” Both Carolyn Stokes and myself noticed the name on the label as the leather case was being transferred.

I suppose the fact that there are no such titles where we come from caused the encounter to make an impression upon us; we watched her as she went up in the elevator, and noticed the special consideration paid by attendants. At home we reckon everybody to be equal, with a few exceptions, but here it was evident that to be called Lady Mirrible counted for something, and we naturally fell in with the local view. When you are in Rome you should do as the Romans do; the remark applies equally well to Florence. The young man gave way to us at the desk of the concierge, and Carolyn Stokes offered him a large smile.

“Have you come far?” she asked.

“Fairly good distance.”

“Are you going soon?”

“That doesn’t quite depend upon me,” he replied.

I mentioned when we were in our room that a considerable amount of information had not been extracted, and Carolyn Stokes said no doubt I should prove more successful in the game. I replied that this seemed highly probable, and we did not speak to each other again until the gong sounded in the corridor announcing that the meal was almost ready. Downstairs in the reading-room we encountered a nasty jar in the discovery that none of the rest of the people had dressed specially for dinner. This was one of the small difficulties caused by the absence of a man capable of making inquiries beforehand.

“I beg your pardon,” he remarked. He had taken the Herald from the table just as my hand went out; he replaced it and selected a London journal. I was determined to let Carolyn Stokes see that I could manage the situation better than she had done.

“You are not an American?” I asked.

“I am only English.”

“We have met several very pleasant folk from your country in the course of our travels.”

“How extremely fortunate.”

“What startles us amongst you is your class distinctions. You should, I think, make an endeavour to break down the barriers.”

“Something ought certainly to be done,” he agreed. And went off with his newspaper.

Carolyn Stokes mentioned—not for the first time—that she was old enough to be my mother, and went on to argue that whereas it was quite permissible for a woman of her age to speak at an hotel to a stranger, the case was entirely different where a girl of twenty was concerned. All the same when she found him seated at the next table in the dining-room she allowed me to take the chair which enabled me to speak across to him without twisting my neck. From what I heard him say to the waiter I gained that her ladyship was taking the meal in her own room.

Carolyn Stokes has many estimable qualities, but I have more than once had to point out to her that she does not exercise a sufficient amount of restraint over her conversational powers. Also she pitches her voice somewhat high, rather as though she, being at Liverpool, were addressing a public meeting in New York. I am myself a good and fluent talker, but my chances are small if I enter into competition with Carolyn. It was difficult, however, to overlook the fact that he preferred listening to me, and when we both spoke at once it was I who secured his attention. I asked him what there was to be seen in Florence of an evening when the picture galleries were closed, and he said we could not do better than stroll down the Lung ’Arno, see the Vecchio bridge, returning by way of the Piazza Vittore Emmanuele.

“We should scarcely dare to go out alone,” I remarked.

He crumbled his bread for a moment.

“I think,” he said, “it will be possible for me to place myself at your disposal.”

“That is perfectly sweet of you,” cried Carolyn Stokes. We arranged to meet at nine o’clock in the entrance hall.

Taking our coffee in the drawing-room Carolyn and myself came to the conclusion that there was more in the wisdom of Providence than some people care to admit. If Mr. Chasemore had decided to come on with us to Florence the likelihood was that we should have had no opportunity of making this very fortunate and delightful acquaintance; there would have been less to record in our diaries under the heading of that day. Carolyn’s impression was that the son of a titled lady was a viscount, but she could not be certain; she had on some far-distant occasion studied the matter thoroughly, but most of the information then acquired seemed to have been erased from her mind. Anyway the chance was too good to lose, and Carolyn Stokes said the great thing was to exhibit not too much eagerness, but to allow friendship to ripen, so to speak, in the course of the next twenty-four hours. Carolyn has a distinct streak of sentimentality in her character, and she spoke of the influence of blue Italian skies and the moon shining on the water, and Dante and Beatrice, and the new hat I had purchased in the Via Condotti at Rome. We went upstairs to put on some wraps.

In the passage her ladyship’s head was out of her door, and she was calling in an imperative kind of way.

“Norman, Norman! Where on earth has he got to again? Never here somehow when he’s wanted.” One of the hotel maids came along and she gave her a message. “The lad really,” she said, taking her head in, “is perfectly useless.”

Carolyn Stokes was occupying a few minutes later a central position at the mirror in our room when she suddenly gave a shriek; I assumed it was only the presence of a moth in the room. As she did not shriek again I considered the hideous danger was past and done with, and I requested her to permit me to share the mirror for a moment.

“Child,” she announced in a subdued sort of voice and still gazing into the glass, “I have seen it all in a flash. You are under the impression that he is some sort of a nobleman. He is nothing of the kind. He is merely a footman or a courier, paid a moderate amount per week to attend on this Lady Somebody. That’s what he is,” she said, striking the dressing table, “and I am more thankful than I can express that I have discovered it in time.”

“The question can be easily decided,” I mentioned. “We have only to glance in the book kept at the desk below.”

“I did that, but they have not yet registered.”

“Then a question must be put to the people of the hotel.”

“That I also did,” replied Carolyn Stokes, “and their acquaintance with the American language made them assume that I required a postcard with a view of the cathedral. They have no right,” she went on vehemently, “in these foreign hotels to allow a footman to dine with the other guests. I know it is done, but no one will persuade me that it is right or fair to respectable visitors. It ought to be stopped.”

I sat on the rocking chair and took some violent exercise for a few minutes in order to collect my thoughts. It seemed we were in a somewhat difficult corner. To stay in our room only meant that he would come and knock at the door; the wisest plan appeared to be to effect an escape. Carolyn Stokes, for once, agreed with me.

“I wish Mr. Chasemore were here,” she said.

We went along the corridor very quietly and crept down the staircase. From the last landing we could see him waiting near the desk of the concierge. There was no means of slipping past without being seen.

“I tell you what to do!” I whispered. “You must go and inform him that I have been taken suddenly ill.”

“A good idea,” she said, “but I would so much rather you went and told him that I was ill.”

He tapped with his walking-stick impatiently on the floor, moved to examine letters in the rack. I pulled at Carolyn Stokes’s arm in order to persuade her to make a run for it; before I could arouse her dormant intelligence he had returned to his former position. He glanced at the clock and at his watch; Carolyn Stokes sat on the stairs.

“Meanwhile,” I grumbled, “we are missing valuable moments in a most interesting and historical city.”

“Think,” she said impressively, “think of the fate from which I have saved you.”

The call of “Norman!” came again, but apparently it did not reach his ears. I am a creature of impulse and, without thinking, I imitated the call. He whipped off his cap at once, laid down his walking-stick and started up, taking two steps at a time and coming near to us.

Carolyn Stokes and myself will never be able to decide which of us took the initiative, which gripped at the other and used some amount of force. We discovered ourselves in the nearest room, where an elderly gentleman was about to retire to rest; I had never thought the time would come when I should be thankful for not understanding a foreign language. The young man rushed by; we made our escape just as the aged person was about to throw a hair brush.

We tried to persuade ourselves, in walking along the side of the river, that all was well that ended well. Carolyn Stokes said the experience was one she wished never to undergo again, and for some reason reproached me. We walked as far as the Trinity Bridge, turned to the left, found ourselves in the Via del Moro, came later to the Piazza de St. Maria Novello, took what we thought would be a short cut for the hotel, and lost ourselves. Carolyn Stokes asked the way of two or three people in tones quite loud enough to enable them to understand, but success did not crown her efforts.

“Why, here you are!” cried an English voice. We turned, and for the moment we both forgot how anxious we had been not to meet him. “Now, how in the world did I manage to miss you? My fault, I’m sure.”

“It would be kind of you,” said Carolyn Stokes with reserve, “to put us in the right direction for our hotel.”

“But, of course, I’ll see you back there with the greatest pleasure. Unless you like to allow me, even now, to show you round the town. As a matter of fact, the hotel is just round the corner. There’s the Garibaldi statue.”

“I am somewhat fatigued,” she said, “and I would prefer to return.”

“And you?” he said, turning to me.

“There has been a mistake made,” I answered resolutely. “We took you for somebody else. You must allow us to close the acquaintance here and now.”

“No idea I had a double,” he remarked. “This matter must be looked into or complications may ensue.”

“We jumped to the conclusion that you were the son of the lady you are travelling with.”

“I am,” he answered. Carolyn Stokes and I began to talk together; he appeared to do his best to understand us, but presently gave up the attempt and led the way to the hotel. There in the entrance hall he spoke again.

“So it was because I showed some attention to my dear mother that you thought I was a courier.”

We interrupted, and endeavoured once more to explain.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Had an idea this was going to be quite a pleasant friendship. Goodbye.”

I kept awake half that night making my plans. But in the morning fresh English visitors—more titles—had arrived, and some of them knew him, and they surrounded him, and the girls made a fuss of him, and there was no chance of my getting near. A letter came for me from Venice saying that the writer would be in Milan on Wednesday. “Yours with affectionate regards, P. A. C.”

I have now to rely upon my tact and my industry and my own bright, intelligent young mind to assist me in marrying Mr. Peter A. Chasemore.

Before lunch

Other travellers were becoming jammed in the corridor of the train, their tempers taking the tone of acerbity easy to those about to start on a railway journey. A determined young woman came up the step, and supported the conductor in an appeal for order, addressing herself more particularly to the English passengers; quiet obtained, she took the first advantage of it by presenting her ticket. The conductor showed gratitude by escorting her at once to her place.

“You don’t mean to say—” stammered the occupant of seat Number Twenty. “It can’t be! I shall begin to think I’m losing my senses.”

“If you’re Mr. Chiswell,” she replied briskly, “there’s no reason to be afraid of that.”

“A remark,” protested Mr. Chiswell, “so unkind that I can tell it comes from nobody but Miss Everitt.” She lifted her bag to the rack, and when she had succeeded in placing it there, he made a gesture of assistance. Glancing at herself in the mirror below the rack, she remarked that she looked a perfect bird frightener.

“I don’t agree with you,” he said.

“So far as I remember,” she said, “you seldom did.”

“We won’t exaggerate,” urged Mr. Chiswell. “For my part, I’m very glad that we’re to be fellow travellers, and I trust we shall have a pleasant journey. It’s clear enough to me, Miss Everitt, that fate has brought us together again.”

“Then I wish to goodness fate would mind its own business.”

The last passenger came into the saloon; the conductor’s forehead cleared of wrinkles, and he hung up his brown peaked cap with a sigh of relief. The train moved out from the Gare de Lyon in a casual way, as though it were going for a short stroll, and giving no indication that it intended to occupy the day by racing down the map of France. Folk on the low platform of the station waved handkerchiefs, blew kisses, cried.

“Is Freddy with you?” asked Miss Everitt.

“Need you ask! Is Emily with you?”

“Course she is.”

“Neither of ’em married?”

“Neither of them married,” agreed Miss Everitt. “Just as well perhaps. There are people who, so long as they remain single, can keep up a certain style and position; once they get spliced, first thing they do is to cut down expenses.”

“Exactly the view I took of it,” he cried eagerly. He leaned forward, and gave a glance around the saloon to make certain that no one listened. “Just the way I looked at the matter. Between ourselves, it was because of that I acted as I did.”

The attendant from the dining-car came to inquire whether the passengers wished to lunch in the first series, or in the second series; the two, after consultation, settled to take the meal together at the later hour. They found new grounds for agreement in the view that coffee and rolls at half-past seven in the morning, at a Paris hotel, formed but a mere imitation of a breakfast.

“I know perfectly well that what I’m going to tell you,” said Chiswell confidentially, “won’t go any further. I recollect how in the old days when we were—well, friends—you always knew when to keep your mouth shut. A great quality, that, in a girl, and I don’t want to flatter you when I say that one very seldom comes across it. What I’m about to tell you refers to—”

He jerked his head, and she nodded.

“They might meet,” she said.

“It wouldn’t matter,” he replied confidently. “They’re not on speaking terms now.”

“Fire away with what you were going to tell me.”

“As a Member of Parliament,” began Mr. Chiswell, “Freddy was not what the world might call a roaring success. Used to take a lot of trouble, and the Duke, his old father, was always getting at him, and asking when he was going to be asked to join the Cabinet. As a matter of fact, his speeches sounded all right when he said ’em off to me in Curzon Street, but apparently when he tried ’em in the House they didn’t go for nuts. I never went down there to hear him—got too much respect for myself to go near the place—but I always read the Parliamentary reports, and there, when he did get the chance of speaking, the papers mentioned his name amongst the ‘Also spokes,’ and that was about all. Whatever faults he may have had as a Member of Parliament, he was, and he is, a first-class chap to valet, and I don’t care”—Mr. Chiswell gave a resolute gesture—“I don’t care where the next comes from. I’ve only to say one word against a suit of clothes, and that suit of clothes is virtually handed over to me on the spot. I know to a penny what his income is, and I know to a penny what his expenses amount to. A peculiar chap, mind you, in some ways; never able, for instance, to bear the idea of being in debt. Most extraordinary, with people of his class.”

Chiswell dismissed this problem.

“Now you must understand—you know me well enough to realise it—that I’m not one of those who want to be always chopping and changing. If I’m in a nice comfortable easy-chair like this, I’m not the kind of chap to give it up, and go and sit out there in the corridor on a tip-up wooden seat. I’m the sort that—”

“Leave off bragging as soon as you’re tired,” suggested Miss Everitt, “and get on with your story.”

The young man, an elbow resting on the ledge of the window, and giving no attention to the scenery which flew past, with a straight road curling up like a length of white ribbon, applied himself to the task of describing the course of procedure adopted. The girl gave now and again a cough of criticism, here and there a slightly astonished lift of the eyebrows. Occasionally she sniffed at a bottle of Eau de Cologne with the air—obviously copied from some superior model—the air of having temporarily lost interest in the subject. Stated with a brevity that Chiswell, the day before him and personal exultation behind, could not be induced to show, the particulars might be fairly stated thus. Chiswell—

“Mind you,” he said firmly, “no one can call me a Paul Pryer. I look after myself; I don’t profess to look after others.”

—Chiswell happened, by chance, to come across a note addressed to his master which, so far as he could judge, had no reference to his master’s Parliamentary duties, or to any scheme for improvement of the masses; he founded his opinion on the fact that it commenced “My dearest.” Chiswell, a man of the world, would have been prepared to exercise tolerance and to pass it by with a wink, but for the fact that the communication was dated from an exclusive ladies’ club; the fact that the writer adopted a pen name baffled him and aroused his curiosity. He left the letter on the table, and concealed inquisitiveness until he should be entrusted with letters for the post. Looking through the bundle handed to him at four o’clock he felt pained and grieved to find that his master had not trusted him fully and entirely; the envelopes were addressed either to Esquires or to ladies known to the world as seriously interested in the work of the party. He particularly asked whether there were any other communications to be placed in the pillar box for despatch, and his master, on the point of running off to the House, distinctly and formally answered:

“No, Chiswell. That’s the lot. Don’t forget to post them.”

“Quite sure, sir?”

The reply to this polite and deferential question came in the form of a request, first that Chiswell should not be a fool, second that if he could not help being a fool, he would at any rate take steps to hide and to mask the circumstance. Chiswell was affected by these remarks as a duck is concerned by water running over its back; what did perturb him was the want of confidence shown between master and man after an acquaintance that had lasted for years. Chiswell, pondering on this, was placing the letters singly in the pillar box and giving to each a final examination when he discovered that one, addressed to—

“I know!” said Miss Everitt, much interested.

—Bore a special sign on the flap of the envelope. Mr. Chiswell, scarce hoping that he had struck the trail, retained this and kept it back for further consideration.

The custom of placing scarlet wax on the flap of an envelope and impressing the wax with a seal is probably an old-fashioned tradition dating from the days when gum could not be trusted. In the case of an envelope fastened in the ordinary way, Chiswell would have had to take the trouble of placing a kettle on the gas stove; in the present instance his work was rendered easy by the help of a penknife and, later, the use of a stick of wax and the seal. The matter appeared to be serious. A passing flirtation Chiswell might have permitted, although that he would have held undignified in a Member of the House of Commons, but within the few lines of the letter before him there seemed a plain hint of marriage. He was about to tear up the letter in the hope of thus giving a start to a misunderstanding when it suddenly occurred to him—

“An inspiration,” said Chiswell contentedly. “That’s what you may call it.”

—It suddenly occurred to him that the insertion of two words in the brief note, just two words in a space that seemed to have been left temptingly for them, would entirely alter the meaning: changing it from a hurried message of affection into a hasty intimation of dislike. “Do not” were the two words, and Chiswell took the pen and wrote them as quickly as he now, in the Cote d’Azur express, spoke them.

“You’re not blaming me,” urged Mr. Chiswell apprehensively.

“Go on,” she ordered.

Little else to go on about. The letter, resealed, went to its destination; the General Election came, and that meant a quick departure for the country. Freddy, greatly worried with one matter and another, seemed, so far as his valet could judge, to enter upon the contest in anything but a whole-hearted fashion; Chiswell managed to intercept and cancel a telegram sent to the same young party, urgently begging her to come and help. The meetings were noisy, and the candidate, who but a few years before made retorts which became classical, and delivered speeches the reports of which had to be decorated by reporters with “Loud laughter” and “Long and continued cheering,” gave no signs of alertness, falling back on dreary statistics which he himself could not understand, and his audiences declined to accept. Now that it was all over, they were on their way to Nice, where Chiswell hoped to meet no one but other defeated candidates and attendants who, it might be hoped, would, in their own interests, abstain from the vulgar chaff to which he and his master had been subjected in town.

“But what I want to point out to you, my dear—beg pardon—what I want to say is that I managed to stop him from entering upon marriage, and in doing so, I reckon I did a good turn for myself, and that I did a good turn for you.”

“She was very much worried and upset.”

Chiswell stretched himself luxuriously.

“It don’t do to share other people’s anxieties,” he said. “Great thing in this world is to keep trouble off your own shoulders. Do that, and you may reckon you’ve done pretty well. How have you been getting along since—since—”

“Since you dropped me?”

“Mutual consent,” he argued, rather uneasily, “mutual consent.” Both looked out of the window for a time. “By the by, do you ever see anything of that chap Miller? You don’t remember him perhaps; he was in Grosvenor Gardens when last I heard of him.”

“I believe he’s there still,” she answered, examining the tips of her boots.

“When did you—”

“Oh, don’t bother me!” cried Miss Everitt sharply. “You’re always wanting to know everything about everybody. A nuisance, that’s what you are.”

“I’ve got no grievance against Miller,” contended Chiswell. “You’re doing me an injustice. Me and Miller are good friends enough. Last time I met him he gave me some information, and we parted on what I may call the most amicable terms. I shouldn’t at all mind,” he went on generously, “I shouldn’t object in the least to running across poor Miller again.”

“You needn’t call him ‘poor.’”

“I’m not using the term,” said Mr. Chiswell, “in a monetary sense.”

“The monetary sense, as you call it, is about the only one you possess.”

Noting that she tapped the side of her easy-chair and that her head trembled, he decided to say nothing more on the subject, reverting instead to the matter already discussed. In going over some of the circumstances he found excuse for increased content; the swiftness of his action, and the general dexterity he had displayed made his eyes grow round and bulgy. The dining-car attendant came through to announce that the first series for lunch was ready, and Chiswell said he would smoke one cigarette and then go along and see whether his services were required by Freddy. Miss Everitt rose, remarking that it would be well, perhaps, for her to ascertain, at once, whether she could be of any use to Emily.

They returned to their chairs in less than five minutes: one perturbed, the other calm.

“Well, of all the—” he spluttered. “What I mean to say is, what in the world is going to happen next, I wonder?”

“That’s more than either of us can tell,” remarked Miss Everitt composedly. “What I know is that I do want my lunch. Sight of food in the dining-car has made me feel hungry.”

“The two of them! The two of them sitting there at a small table opposite each other!”

“I caught sight through the glass door of the bill of fare,” said Miss Everitt. “The name of the fish I couldn’t quite make out, but there were côtes de boeuf rôtis, and poularde, and haricots verts—”

“They were sharing a bottle of Chablis together. And he—he’d placed his hand on the top of her hand. Did you notice?”

“Wonder whether they’ll give us an ice?”

Chiswell found a handkerchief and rubbed his forehead.

“All very well for you to sit there and talk about food; how do you know that now they’ve met and made it up, that she won’t get rid of you in the same way that he’s jolly well certain to manage without me?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied, with calm. “I’ve saved!”

“The amount you’ve saved, my girl,” he declared, “will last you for just about five weeks.”

“What do you know about how much I’ve put by?” she demanded.

“I can tell you the sum to within a pound. I can write it down now, if you’ll lend me a lead pencil.”

He scribbled some figures on the margin of his newspaper, and handed it across to her.

“Guess again!” she said.

“It isn’t a question of guessing,” he said. “I happen to know. Unless you’ve made a considerable sum within the last three months, that’s the exact amount.”

“You really believed, then, what Mr. Miller told you?”

The conductor came, and returned to each the green cardboard covers enclosing their tickets. Under the impression that Chiswell was still a blade, a chum, a jovial companion, the conductor aimed at him a cheerful blow on the shoulder, and the train giving at this moment a lurch, the action took something of a more aggressive nature. Chiswell blazed up, trying to disengage himself from his coat. Other passengers in the saloon looked around interestedly; Miss Everitt interposed and ordered Chiswell to behave himself, to remember that he was in the presence of ladies. The conductor apologised and went on; the French passengers remarked to each other that the English formed an excitable nation.

“Pardon me,” said Chiswell to his companion, “but I should like to know your facts. I should be very glad indeed if you’ll kindly place me in possession of the true circumstances. To put it plainly—here’s your pencil—how much have you actually got in the bank on deposit, or on current account at the present moment? That’s all I want to know.”

She struck out his figures and wrote underneath. Leaning over he gave a whistle of astonishment.

“My dear,” he said deferentially. “There’s been a misunderstanding, due to the interference of outsiders. It’s not too late to put it all smooth and right again, but at the same time I’m bound to say such conduct is altogether inexcusable. When I come across Miller, I shall tell him so to his face. Who asked him to come to me, and give me wrong information, I should like to know?”

“I did!” she remarked. “But I’ve just made up for it by giving correct information on another subject to my young mistress.”

Chiswell threw himself back in his chair, and gazed severely at the roof of the saloon carriage.

“All I can say is,” he declared, “it’s absolutely ruined my lunch.”

Counter attractions

Half the time I don’t trouble to look up at them, especially when I happen to be busy. They put their money underneath the brass wire; they ask for what they want; it’s given to them, and off they go. If any other plan was adopted we should never get through the work at our office, and there would be complaints to answer, and the superintendent might send some one along to kick up a row. As Miss Maitland says, when all the customers are made on one pattern everything will be much easier to manage; meanwhile we can’t do better than to do the best we can, and to recognise that some are in a hurry, some are just the reverse.

“Above all,” mentioned Miss Maitland, when I first came here, “no carrying on across the counter with young gentlemen.”

“When you’ve known me longer, Miss Maitland,” I said, “you’ll see how unnecessary it is to make a remark like that.”

“I’m only warning you for your own good.”

“I can behave myself,” I said, “as well as most girls. The fact that I’m a bit above the average in regard to looks—”

“Is that really a fact?” inquired Miss Maitland.

The very queer thing about it all was that he came in on the afternoon of the very second day I was there. I was having an argument about a halfpenny with a lady sending a telegram, and she said that she always understood we were well paid, and if that was true we ought not to try to make anything extra. I kept my temper, but I daresay I managed to say what I wanted to say—I generally do—and eventually she took the telegram back and decided to take a cab to Charing Cross and send it from there.

“Shilling’sworth of your best stamps,” he requested; “I want them to match my necktie.”

“Pennies or halfpennies?” I asked. You can understand I wasn’t in the mood for nonsense just then.

“Which are most fashionable just now, miss? I don’t want to look odd or conspicuous.”

“You’ll do that in any case. Kindly say what you want.”

“Perhaps I’ll try sixpennyworth of each,” he said.

I tore them off and pushed them underneath the trellis.

“Are these absolutely fresh? I may not be cooking them at once, you see. They’ll be all right, I suppose, if I keep them on ice?”

“You may as well put your head there at the same time,” I said.

The other girls on my side of the counter looked around, and Miss Maitland gave a cough.

“Heavens!” he said, putting on a deep voice, “how I adore the fair creature! Ere yonder sun sinks to its rest she must, she shall, be mine.”

I glanced up at him, prepared to give him such a haughty look, but I found he was a good-tempered-looking young fellow with his straw hat tipped to the back of his head, and somehow I couldn’t manage my cold stare quite so well as usual. Two or three people entered through the swing doors at that moment and came straight to my part of the counter.

“Very well then,” he said loudly, “that’s arranged. Outside the British Museum Tube Station half-past eight to-night. Mind, I shan’t wait more than ten minutes.”

The fuss Miss Maitland made just because I’d answered him back! I had a good mind to say something about old maids, but I stopped it just in time; instead I thought it the best plan to say he was a great friend of my brother’s and that he was one of those peculiar young gentlemen who had the impression that he ought to keep up his reputation for being comic.

“If he comes in again,” said Miss Maitland, “call me, and I’ll show you how to deal with him.”

The next day at about the same time I noticed out of the corner of my eye his lordship at the doors. He came in and I knew he was looking for me; to please Miss Maitland I went along to deal with some registered letters; she left her stool and took my place. “Now,” I said to myself, “now he’ll get his head bitten off.” I was engaged with work for about five minutes, and to my surprise, when I had finished, there was Miss Maitland chatting away with him as amiably as possible. “I like to go somewhere fresh every year,” she was saying. “That’s why I went to Windermere last summer.” He said, “Not in July by any chance?” and she said, “Yes, the middle of July.” It appeared he had been there at that date; not exactly Windermere but at Bowness, and he remarked—talking to her in a very different way from the one he had adopted with me—that it would have greatly improved his holiday if he had been so fortunate as to meet her. Maity gave a sort of smile and was about to make some further remark when he took out his watch, lifted his straw hat, hurried away.

“Really,” she said to me, still flushed with the conversation and looking quite young, “really a very well-spoken gentleman. Depends a good deal on how we approach them. If they think we want silly talk, why naturally enough they give it. In a general way,” concluded Maity, as though she possessed a wide and considerable experience, “in a general way men treat us as we deserve to be treated.”

He came in again that afternoon to use the telephone; the box was occupied and he had to wait. We were all watching to see how he would behave this time; lo and behold if he didn’t take a big book from underneath his arm called The Horse and his Health and read carefully, taking no notice of any of us. Maity looked disappointed, and one of the girls said the great drawback about men was that they were never twice alike.

That was the evening I found him waiting outside. It always rains when I leave my umbrella at home, and I couldn’t very well refuse his offer to see me into the motor omnibus, and it was certainly kind of him to suggest that I should take his gamp. I told him that the bus took me within a minute and a half of mother’s house.

At the time I was in the habit of telling mother everything, and she decided—not often she praised me—that I had behaved in a ladylike manner, and mentioned it would be a good thing if every mother brought up children as she had treated me. Mother told me about one or two half-engagements that occurred before she married poor father, and gave me one piece of advice which she said was worth its weight in gold, namely, that the moment you saw a young man getting fond of you the best plan was to pretend to be indifferent and in this way to make him see that there was a lot of hard work in front of him. Mother said this three times to impress it on my memory.

How in the world he found out the name it was not easy to see, but, as every one is aware, people spare themselves no trouble when they become fond of anybody. However that may be, the fact remains that a letter came, signed W. J. C., saying the writer would be at the statue on a certain day and at a certain hour, and, just for fun, I kept the appointment. Maity was very nice about giving me leave, and I waited there ten minutes. For a full ten minutes nothing happened, and I had to look at the omnibuses as they stopped in order to pretend I wanted to catch one of them. Presently I caught sight of him looking in a newspaper shop, and taking his time over it too. I became so mad that if there had been a pebble about I think I should have picked it up and thrown it at him. He turned, and I had to wave my muff in order to gain his attention.

“Hullo,” he said, coming across. “Taking up express messenger-boy work? Where’s your parcel?”

“I came here,” I said coldly, “because I was asked to do so, and for no other reason. I’ve no desire to be made to look like an idiot.”

“Plenty of easier tasks than that,” he mentioned. “I should reckon you were one of the most sensible girls going.”

“People say that about a lady when they can’t think of any other compliment to pay her.”

“Are you waiting for anybody, I wonder?”

“I wish you wouldn’t try to make jokes.”

“My dear girl,” he cried, and he seemed greatly concerned, “please forgive me. And now that we’re here, what shall we do?” He looked around, glanced at his watch, and sighed. “Come along and see a bioscope show.”

We caught a bus and went to one of the swell places in Oxford Street; I couldn’t help feeling pleased when I noticed that he paid eighteenpence each for seats. You can say what you like, and you can talk about the joys of being independent, but there’s something very gratifying in discovering for the first time that a gentleman is willing to take your ticket for you. Of course the place was all darkened whilst the pictures were going on, and I thought perhaps he would try to take my hand, and I was prepared to give him a pretty sharp remark if he did; but nothing happened, and I couldn’t make it out at all. It was nothing like what I’d read in books; nothing like what other girls had told me.

“You seem a very comfortable set in your office,” he said when the lights went up. “All on good terms with each other, aren’t you?”

“I suppose so,” I answered. “It’s my first experience, you see. What age do you think I am?”

“I should say that you are young enough to be pleased if I guessed you to be older than you really are. Shall we say nineteen?”

“Eighteen next birthday, and that’s on Tuesday of next week.” (There’s nothing like giving a hint.)

“What have you been doing all these eighteen years?”

“Improving myself,” I said.

“You can give that up now you are perfect.”

The lights went down again, and there was set of pictures about a girl who was being loved by two gentlemen—one rather plain with plenty of money and the other much better-looking but apparently only a clerk. I thought over his last remark and tried to discover whether he was still joking or whether he really meant it—if he did mean it it was a very gratifying thing to be said, especially in view of the fact that mother is generally finding fault with me. She has often said that I’m the worst girl in the world for leaving my shoes about and not putting a book away when I have done with it, and all this going on day after day, week after week, had given me a kind of a lurking suspicion that I wasn’t quite up to the mark. When the pictures showed that the plain man’s money really belonged to the good-looking chap he began to talk again and went back once more to the subject of the post office. I would rather he had spoken of something else; I wanted to forget Maity and the rest of them for awhile.

“Are many of them engaged?” he asked.

“Two of them say they are,” I replied. “I should feel inclined to guess it was only a half-and-half affair in either case.”

“Wonder what their names are?” I told him and he seemed relieved. “It’s very strange,” he went on, speaking in a more serious way than usual, “how these affairs happen. Looks as though some one who exercises control jumbles all the names into two hats and picks out one from each at random and decides that they shall meet each other and fall in love.”

“A good deal of it is mere luck,” I agreed. “Mother met father at a dance at the Athenæum up at the end of Camden Road. Of course a steward introduced them, but to all intents and purposes they were strangers.”

“A man goes on,” he said, still thoughtfully, “fighting pretty hard and not giving much attention to the other sex and all at once he catches sight of a face, through, say, brass trelliswork, and instantly he decides ‘That’s the girl for me.’ And he thinks of nothing else, can’t keep away from the neighbourhood of her, and—” He put his hands over his eyes and bent down.

I felt sorry and I felt pleased if you understand that; sorry for him, pleased for myself—seemed as though I had done him an injustice. It showed that you could not reckon any one up correctly by their outside manner. At the first I had no idea he was anything but the ordinary chaffing sort of young gentleman, and here he was obviously upset. All very well for mother to say that you ought to keep them at arm’s length when they are fond of you, but I simply couldn’t help patting his sleeve gently.

“Thanks very much,” he said gratefully. “You’re a good little girl and I’m really obliged to you.”

There was a funny set after this, with a short-sighted old gentleman blundering over everything he did, getting mixed up with motor cars, carried up by a balloon, tumbling down the funnel of a ship, and finally being rolled out flat by a steam roller, and pulling himself together and walking off.

“Always feel sorry for people who have to wear glasses,” I remarked.

“It improves some people.”

“I don’t agree with you. See how peculiar our old joker looks at the office.”

He stared at me.

“Surely you don’t mean that Miss Maitland?” he said.

“Of course I mean that Miss Maitland. Who else should I be referring to?”

He pressed the palm of a hand against his forehead.

“Let us get this straight,” he urged. “We seem to be in a muddle. Your name is Maitland, isn’t it?”

“My name is Barnes. Up to the present.”

“Then that confounded new messenger boy took my shilling and mixed up the information, and”—he stopped and fanned himself—“and you received the letter I intended for her.”

“I wish to goodness,” I said forcibly, “that some of you men had got a little more common sense.”

Mother says everything in this world happens for the best, and in all probability there’s some one else waiting for me somewhere. Mother says I have plenty of time in front of me; mother herself was twenty-eight before she married. Mother says there is no need for me to feel nervous until I get past that age.

Hero of Hammerton Street

He had been away so long that few people remembered him, but his last exploit before leaving ensured that in the minds of those few he remained clear and definite. His wife, when she set out to meet him, was accompanied by a Reception Committee of three, and as they waited outside the large building where he had been staying for the last few months (his hosts kept several important establishments in various parts of the country and he had spent part of the time at one, part at others), as they waited, I say, under the avenue of trees well away from the front door—having, as a point of delicacy, no desire to be seen by the servants about the place—they speculated on the probable improvement in his personal appearance. Members of the Committee recalled precedents where So-and-so went away stout and unhealthy on a vacation of similar length, and came back so trim and brown that his own sweetheart would not have known him had she remained in the neighbourhood.

“Here he is!” cried the wife suddenly. “I could tell him, bless ’is heart, in a thousan’.”

“That ain’t him!”

“He’s got a short beard, at any rate,” urged the wife, admitting her error grudgingly as the visitor was claimed and marched off by another lady.

“They all ’ave. Try to use your intelligence, why don’t you!”

“Well,” said the wife, pointing her umbrella at a sharp-eyed man, who, coming out of the large doorway, glanced around suspiciously, “well, at least that’s not my Jim.” The sharp-eyed man came across the open space towards them, still keeping a look-out on either side. “He’s mistaking us for his own people. My Jim’s a better-looking man than him.”

“If you say that again, Meria,” remarked the arriving man in tones that could not be mistaken, “I shall have to— Now then, now then! I don’t want no kissing!”

He was dressed in a suit for which he had not been measured, and his boots were scarcely a precise fit; he shambled along with his friends, responding gruffly to their polite inquiries and complaining bitterly—first, that they should have come to meet him; second, that so many friends were absent. Informed that some of these were no longer alive, he declined to accept this as a sufficient excuse, describing them as a cantankerous lot, ever thoughtless where the feelings of others were concerned. They stopped quite naturally at the first place of refreshment, and he criticised the beverage set before him, declaring that had he known beer could be so bad, he would not have worried his thoughts so much about it during recent years. He was equally dissatisfied with his first pipe of tobacco, which he had some trouble to light, and when he heard that his sister had married a respectable fruiterer, off Bethnal Green Road, he made no attempt to conceal his annoyance with the way the world had been managed during his absence.

“Once I turn my back for a moment—” he said disgustedly. “Who’s got the pub at the corner of our street?”

“I’ve moved, James,” explained his wife apologetically.

“Moved? Who told you to move?”

“The landlord, dear.”

“Don’t you begin ‘dearing’ of me,” he retorted threateningly. “Why wasn’t I asked?”

“There was no opportunity, James.”

“Bah!” he said, in the manner of one who can find no other repartee. He turned to the men. “What ’ave you three come all the way down ere’ for? On the make, I s’pose?”

“We are not on the make,” said the leader precisely. “Recollecting what you was put away for, we have come down ’ere to offer you, as something in the nature of a hero, a ’earty welcome on your return to what we may venture to term your ’earth and ’ome.” James relaxed the sternness of his demeanour, and took another sip from his glass, this time without making a wry face. “We’re a-going to make a fuss of you, old man.”

“Don’t go overdoing it,” he said grudgingly.

They reached Hoxton at about noon, not because the way was long, but because the Committee, possessing funds, desired to do the thing well. A neighbour had taken charge of the arrangements for dinner, and the three men, arrived at the door in Hammerton Street, mentioned gracefully that the reunited pair would in all probability like to be left alone for a few hours, and withdrew; first, however, warning James that he would be expected at the Green Man that evening at eight o’clock precisely, at which hour a few select friends would be present to wish him success in his future career.

“Whad ye mean by my future career?” he demanded. “What are you three a-getting at now?”

“It’s all right, old chap,” they answered soothingly. “Only a form of speech, you know.”

“Be a bit more careful how you pick your words,” he retorted threateningly. “I ’aven’t come back to be ragged by such as you.”

He was still rather surly that evening when he made his appearance at the Green Man; he explained to one who was formerly his closest friend that he had been enjoying a bit of a talk with the wife. Surroundings in the clubroom were, however, so congenial that before long he showed guarded signs of amiability, albeit he found grounds for annoyance in the fact that some of his old companions had prospered, and had given up what was referred to as the old game to engage on sport that, relatively speaking, was of an honest, law-abiding character. His best friend indeed owned a large gold chain and a watch at the end of it; he was now a bookmaker by profession, not, of course, a literary person, but one who made money. On James suggesting they might perhaps go into partnership together in the racecourse business, the closest friend said, with some reserve, that it was an occupation requiring years of patient study, and the fact of James having been out of the movement so long barred him both from participating in the profits or sharing the losses.

“See what I mean, don’t you?” asked the bookmaker. “Chuck that what you’re smoking away, and have a real cigar!”

“I shan’t give you another opportunity,” said James curtly. “Should have thought you would have been glad of a pretty sharp man for your right ’and.”

“But you’ve been rusting,” pointed out the bookmaker. (“Now you’ve been and bitten off the wrong end.”)

Nothing, however, could exceed the geniality of the hosts. Thick crusty sandwiches rested on the deal tables; there was no stint, so far as the guest of the evening was concerned, in regard to liquids. Everybody crowded around him in a flattering way and everybody shook him by the hand several times; a few promising younger men, who were brought up and introduced, showed themselves highly sensible of the honour, and asked eagerly what adventure he thought of going in for next.

“’Aven’t quite made up me mind,” he replied cautiously.

The younger men winked knowingly at each other, saying that James was a deep one and no mistake, adding that an ability to keep one’s head shut was a gift to be envied. They had singing later. Songs were given which for James (who had no musical tastes) should at least have possessed the charm of novelty; the slang contained in them and in the public speech of many of those present was to him quite incomprehensible. They repeated unceasingly that they wished him well, and the bookmaker made a speech just before closing time in which he pointed out that every man-jack present was prepared to give James a helping hand. Never should it be said of them that they had refused a helping hand to one of the best. A helping hand was due to such a hero and a helping hand he should have.

“Friends, one and all,” said James. (He refused for some minutes to make a speech, but gave in to encouragement.) “Friends, one and all.”

A cry of “So you said!” and reproving shouts of “Order!”

“I’ve been away from you fer a few year owin’ to—owin’ to circs not altogether under my control” (the room laughed uproariously), “but I’m back in the midst of you once more, and I can tell you one thing, and that ain’t two, I’m jolly glad of it! I’ve had quite enough penal to last me my time. I’m full up of it! I’ve reached me limit! It’s no catch, I tell you!” (Murmurs of sympathy.) “If there’s any one ’ere that’s acquired a taste for it, they’re welcome to my share. I don’t know that I have much more to say. I ’aven’t had much practice at public speaking of late. Once you begin to ’old forth in there” (here he gave a vague jerk of the head), “why, they let you know it. Anyway, it’s no use ’arping on the past, and in regard to the promise of a ’elping ’and to which you, Mr. Chairman, have so kindly referred, and to me being a hero, there’s only one thing I want to say, and that is this: I shall keep you to it!”

The club-room seemed to think the last sentence had an ungracious sound, and there would have been an inclination to hedge only that the white-sleeved potman arrived at that moment with a dictatorial shout of “Now you cheps! Time!” and the party had to break up. Out in the street, James’s arm was again in request, and his hand was shaken so often with so many assurances of admiration and enthusiastic comradeship, that he went off towards Hammerton Street quite dazed and not sure whether he had won a battle, or saved lives from drowning. The men cheered him as he left and began to chant an appropriate song, but a policeman came up, and the crowd, not wishful for argument with the force, said respectfully, “It’s all right, Mr. Langley, sir; we’re just on the move,” and disappeared.

Womenfolk came round to Hammerton Street the next day asking to be permitted to see him, and James’s wife would have taken another day off, but James said there had been quite enough gadding about for her already, and insisted she should go to work. He sunned himself at the front door with a fine pretence of not knowing that he was being observed, the while women on the opposite side of the pavement held up their babies to see him and whispered admiring comments.

“You’d never think it to look at him, would you, now?”

“I recollect his case as well as anything. It was before I was married to my present ’usband, but I can recollect it all just as though it was only yesterday. I remember so well saying to my young sister—I was on speaking terms with her just then—I remember saying, ‘Ah, well!’ I said. Just like that!”

“She’s kept herself to herself, mind you, all the time he’s been away. I will say that for her!”

“Wonder what he’ll be up to now. He’s turning something over in his mind, I lay!”

The hero could not help being pleased with all this attention, and after he had taken his dinner at a coffee-shop, where the waitress, informed of his distinguished reputation, stood back and watched him over an illustrated paper, he put on a collar and again lounged at the doorway. The crowd was not so great now, and consisted for the greater part of children who played tip-cat, and gave no notice to him excepting when his presence interfered with the game. Disappointed with his audience, James went indoors and, taking off his collar, indulged in the unaccustomed luxury of an afternoon nap. When his wife returned from work it struck him that she was slightly more argumentative in manner than she had been on the first day; in the course of debate she threw out a most disconcerting hint in regard to a job of work, news of which had come to her ears.

“Look ’ere, my gel!” said James definitely. “You may as well understand me fust as last. A man with so many friends as I’ve got won’t want to work for many a long day yet.”

Nevertheless the idea gave him perturbation and he went round to the Green Man to meet the friends referred to and receive from them reinforcement of his hopes and views. There were only two or three in sight, and these were outside the house; they hailed him with a casual cry of, “’Ullo, James! Your turn to stand drinks, ain’t it?” and having brought some money out, the savings of his compulsory retreat, he found himself compelled to entertain them.

“And what you think of doing now, James?” they asked. (“Here’s luck!”)

“Well,” he said slowly, “I s’pose eventually I shall ’ave to find, as the missis says, something or other. But not yet for a month or two.”

“You’ll probably discover a chance of—”

“No,” said James with emphasis. “Not me! No more jobs on the cross for this child. Risks are too great.”

“But you don’t mean to say that you’re going to chuck it?” The men were so much amazed that their glasses remained in mid-air.

“If you guess again,” said James stolidly, “you’ll be wrong.”

He looked about in Hoxton the rest of the evening for friends, and looked about in vain. The next day he called on his closest friend, the bookmaker; the bookmaker was just off to Kempton Park and in peril of losing a train at Waterloo. He had heard, it seemed, of James’s decision, and James could trace no sign of the generous friendship previously expressed. To James’s suggestion that he should accompany the bookmaker to Kempton Park, and enjoy a day at the other’s expense, the reply came prompt and definite. “That be ’anged for a tale!” said the bookmaker.

On the following Monday James went to ask about the job of work to which his wife had referred; all his worst fears were confirmed when he found himself successful in obtaining it.

“Drawback of being an ’ero is,” said James gloomily, “that it don’t last much more than about five minutes.”

Damages for libel

“A rare rush whilst it lasts,” mentioned Mrs. Crowther, assisting in the task of clearing tables. “My dear husband used to reckon up how much we should be making profit in a year if, instead of being from twelve to two, it went on from what he called early morn to dewy eve.” She sighed. “Mr. Crowther had a lot of poetry in his disposition—much more so than most eating-house keepers in Millwall.”

“Did he make bits up out of his own ’ead?” asked the girl deferentially.

“Ethel,” said the proprietress, nursing a column of plates and speaking with resolution, “you’re new to the place, and you’re not full acquainted with the rules. Understand, once for all, please, that I don’t allow a word to be said against my late husband—nor whispered.”

“Here’s a stray customer coming in, ma’am,” remarked the assistant. “Give me that armful, and you see to him.”

A stout man, after examining the day’s announcement outside, entered and sat down with the relieved air common to those who have walked a great distance and to those who find in any form of exercise a source of trouble; he took off his hat, hung up his overcoat, and said, with relish, “Here comes the busy part of my day!”

Mrs. Crowther rested one palm on the table and gazed at the reversed notice on the window: “The Best of Everything and Everything of the Best,” giving him the space to make up his mind.

“You’ve got a nice little show here.”

“Not bad, sir,” she replied briefly. “What can I get for you?”

“Been all done up recently, too, if I mistake not. If it hadn’t been that I remembered it was exactly opposite the entrance to the works I shouldn’t have recognised it. Spent some of the ’appiest hours of my life, I did, over the way.”

“The steak and kidney pudding is off,” she said, glancing over his shoulder. She took the bill of fare from his hand and deleted the entry, returning the pencil to its position in the fastening of her blouse. Frowning at the impetuosity exhibited, he gave an order. She left, and returned with the liver and bacon and a basket containing squares of household bread.

“Any idea where my old friend Crowther is at the present moment?” he asked jovially. “Him and me were great chums in the old days that are past and done with.”

“He’s gone.”

“Where to?”

She pointed upward reverently.

“That isn’t exactly the place where I should have thought of looking for him.”

“What do you mean by that?” she demanded sharply.

“Oh, nothing,” he said, beginning to eat. “Only very few of us in this world, ma’am, if you don’t mind putting yourself out of the question, can be looked upon as perfect. My name’s Hards,” he went on, his mouth full. “Hards, with an aitch. Daresay you’ve heard him mention me. I’m speaking now of—what shall I say?—four, or it might be the early part of five. We were what they call inseparable, him and me, at that period.”

“Crowther gave up all his former companions when I married him.”

“He used to complain that you ruled him with a rod of iron.”

“I only wish,” she declared vehemently, “that the dear man was here to contradict you.”

“Crowther was the sort of chap,” said the other, with deliberation, “who’d contradict anything. Never better pleased than when he was arguing that black was white. I’ve known Crowther say one thing to a girl one minute, and another the—”

The customer found his plate snatched away, the remainder of his chunk of bread swept to the floor.

“Go off out of my dining-rooms,” she ordered. “Don’t you stay here another minute, or else I may use language that I shall be sorry for afterwards, and that you’ll be sorry for afterwards. There’s your hat, hanging up just behind you. Now move, sharp!”

The sleeves of his overcoat, owing to some defect in the lining, were difficult to manage, and this gave him time to protest. He had come, he declared, with no other intention than that of giving patronage to an establishment which he remembered, with affection, in the time of Crowther’s mother, and to enjoy a talk over the past; if, in the course of conversation, he had over-stepped the mark, no one regretted it more acutely than himself. A plain man, accustomed to speaking his mind, he often found that he gave offence where none was intended.

“Jack Blunt they used to call me over at the works,” he added penitently. “Owing to me having the awk’ard trick of always telling the truth!”

Mrs. Crowther so far relented as to call the new girl; she instructed her to attend to the customer the while she herself retired to the back to wash up dishes. Mr. Hards said in a whisper to the attendant: “Don’t seem to have quite pulled it off, first go!” and Ethel, also in an undertone, replied: “Mustn’t get discouraged, uncle. Mother always says it’s your one fault. Unsettle her mind about him, that’s what you’ve got to do.”

He read a newspaper after the meal, and sent to the proprietress a deferential inquiry, asking whether he might be allowed to smoke, and presently hit upon a device for securing another interview.

“Your memory seems not quite what it ought to be,” said Mrs. Crowther, following him to the doorway. “If I were you I’d see a chemist about it.”

“I should have recollected that I hadn’t settled up,” he declared, “just about as I was coming up from the subway at Greenwich.” He found coins. “No,” gazing at a shilling reverently, “mustn’t let you have that one with the hole through it. I was told it would bring me luck. Crowther was wrong for once, but he meant well.”

“Did that really once belong to my dear husband?” she asked, with eagerness. “Oh, do let me look. I’d give almost anything to be allowed to keep it.”

“Kindly accept it, ma’am, as a present from me, and as a kind of apology for the blunder I made just now.”

“I treasure everything he left behind,” said Mrs. Crowther tearfully, “since he went, last December, and I don’t know in the least how to thank you. Drop in any day you’re passing by, and let’s have another quiet chat; I’m never ’appier than when I’m talking about him.”

“My time’s practically my own,” answered Mr. Hards. “Since I retired from over opposite, owing to a slight disagreement years ago, I’ve done a bit of work, book-canvassing, but that don’t take up the entire day. So long!”

A few of the men came into the restaurant, after leaving the works; these were folk who had no expectations of finding tea or supper waiting at home, and they would have stayed on in comfort, gazing admiringly at the young proprietress, only that Mrs. Crowther offered a broad hint by instructing Ethel to find the shutters. They were drifting off, reluctantly, and one was saying to the rest that he would certainly make a dash for it (implying by this that he would make a proposal of marriage) if the lady were not so obviously devoted to a memory, when Mr. Hards appeared at the doorway, heated and exhausted by the effort to arrive before closing-time. With him a shy-looking companion, who had to be taken by the arm because he exhibited inclination to refrain, at the last moment, from entering. “Be a sport,” urged Mr. Hards. The other intimated by his manner that the task was, for him, considerable.

“Looking younger than ever,” declared Mr. Hards effusively. “How are you, ma’am, by this time? Still keeping well? Allow me to introduce you to my friend Ashton.”

“Very pleased,” said Mrs. Crowther with a nod. “What will you gentlemen take—tea or coffee?”

“Don’t suppose,” he remarked still in complimentary tones, “that we shall be able to tell any difference. Ashton, you decide.”

Ashton, looking around, inquired whether the place did not possess a licence; Mrs. Crowther gave the answer, and he said that perhaps coffee would do him as little harm as anything.

“Happened to run across him,” explained Mr. Hards, “and mentioned that I’d met you by chance, ma’am, and he says ‘Not the widow of silly old Millwall Crowther?’ he says. Just like that. Didn’t you, Ashton?”

Mrs. Crowther turned abruptly, and went to furnish the order. “Mind you say ‘yes’ to everything,” ordered Hards privately and strenuously, “or else I’ll make it hot for you.”

The two greeted Mrs. Crowther with frank and open countenances.

“The late lamented,” went on Mr. Hards, with a confidential air, “as you may or may not be aware, used to be in the ’abit of paying attentions to my friend Ashton’s sister.”

“I know all about that,” she remarked curtly. “It was before he met me.”

“And, realising how anxious you was to get hold of everything that once belonged to him, I persuaded him to hop off home and have a search. And lo and behold,” producing a small paper parcel from the inside pocket of his overcoat, “he found this.” Mr. Hards untied the string with deliberation. “There you are!” triumphantly. “Pearls from the Poets. And inside, his handwriting.”

“Not sure that I want anything that he gave away to another lady at a time when him and me were not acquainted.”

“The date’ll settle that,” said Hards. “Ashton, your eyes are younger than mine; what do you make of it?”

Ashton recited the entry with an emphasis on the date; Mrs. Crowther grabbed at the book, glanced at the writing, and sat down on the nearest chair, gazing steadily at a ginger-ale advertisement.

“Don’t tell me,” begged Hards distressedly, “that I’ve put my foot into it again. ’Pon my word, if I ain’t the most unlucky chap alive. If I’d had the leastest idea that I was going to be the means of disclosing to you the circumstance that Crowther gave away presents of this kind, and with this sort of remark, after he was married to you, why, I’d sooner—”

She started up with the book, and, selecting the fly-page, placed this between her eyes and the gas-light.

“Some one’s been altering the date,” she said quietly. She threw the volume across. “You gentlemen have got just two minutes and a half before we close for the night. And, as the business is doing pretty well, perhaps you don’t mind if I suggest you never show your faces inside here again.” She went.

“Any objection to me offering you a word of advice, old man?” asked Ashton, on the pavement. “You’re on the wrong tack. When a woman’s made up her mind, the best plan is to agree with her. What you ought to do—”

“Keep quiet,” ordered the other exasperatedly. “Can’t you see I’m thinking?”

They crossed, and walked beside the blank wall of the works.

Ashton was again invited, in plain language, to preserve silence by putting his head in a bag. The lights went out in the restaurant opposite; on the first floor a match was struck and applied to the gas globes; the music of a pianoforte was heard.

“It’s a shame,” declared Hards, throwing out his arms emphatically, “a right-down shame for a nice-looking young woman of her sort to be left alone and neglected. Here she is, able to cook, able to play, very good to look at, and she’s no business to be left by herself.”

“Evidently she don’t want to be left with you.”

“You hop off home,” ordered Hards, “soon as ever you like, and take that book with you, and don’t you ever attempt to interfere again with matters you’ve got no concern in. Otherwise—”

His friend hurried away without taking the opportunity to hear the alternative.

Mr. Hards waited until his niece came out with a letter for the post. A whistle brought her to him from the pillar-box.

“Who was it addressed to?” he demanded. The girl replied that she had omitted to look.

“’Pon my word,” he cried, “I seem to be surrounded by lunatics. Nobody’s got a particle of sense, so far as I can ascertain, excepting myself. No wonder I can’t manage matters as I should like. But, putting all that on one side, what I want now is another interview with her.”

“Judging by what she said after you left, you’re not likely to get it.”

“Look here, my girl. It was your own mother’s suggestion at the start, and she won’t be best pleased if you make yourself a stumbling-block. She, for some reason, seems to have got tired of me living in her house at Greenwich, and it was her idea I should marry well, and settle down somewhere else. Apart from which, I’ve arrived at a time of life when I need a woman’s care and good feeding, and enough money in my pocket to stand treat to friends after they’ve stood treat to me.” He spoke distinctly. “I’m going to knock at that door over there presently, and you’ve got to let me in, and you can stand by and listen whilst I say a few words, and put it all on a proper footing.”

“But she hates the very sight of you.”

“The sort of sensation,” he declared, “that can soon be turned to love.”

Mr. Hards thought it wiser, on finding himself outside the door of the restaurant, to give a sharp double knock. He smiled contentedly on hearing young Mrs. Crowther’s voice call out: “It’s all right, Ethel. Only the postman. I’ll answer him!” She opened the door, and faced him with a look of expectancy that at once vanished.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, taking off his hat, “but I’ve been speaking my mind to that young fellow, and he asked me to call back and apologise on his behalf. I never noticed what he’d been up to, altering that date; it wanted a lady’s sharpness and a lady’s intelligence to detect that. What he wants me to say is he acted on the impulse of the moment.”

“He’d better give up acting altogether,” she remarked. “Did you really know my husband well, or was it all gas?”

“Didn’t I never tell you about that affair poor Crowther and me had with a bobby down near the London Docks one night in November? A fine chap,” went on Hards reminiscently, “if ever there was one. The way he could put up his dooks whenever there was trouble about! I seldom met a fellow who was his equal. He was what I call a manly man. When they told me he’d gone and left you a widow I cried like a child, I did.”

“I was upset at the time,” remarked Mrs. Crowther, “but it soon wore off.”

“It’s often struck me,” he went on, surprised, “that perhaps you didn’t appreciate him at his true value whilst he was alive. Very likely you don’t know, as I know, the way he used to talk about you behind your back.”

“If it was anything like the way he talked in front of my face, I’d rather not hear.”

“Anyway, I daresay, ma’am, you often find yourself looking about for his successor?”

“To tell you the truth, I do.”

He tried to take her hand, but failed.

“I can see him now,” he remarked sentimentally. “We was walking together in Stratford Broadway, and suddenly he turned to me and he says, ‘Ernest,’ he says, ‘something seems to tell me I’m not long for this world. I want you to make me a promise,’ he says. ‘If anything amiss happens to me, I look to you to be a friend to the wife. And if so be,’ he says, with a sort of a kind of a break in his voice, ‘if so be as you should take a fancy to her, and she should take a fancy to you, nothing would give me more pleasure looking down on you both,’ he says, ‘than to—’”

“Bequeathed me to you, did he?”

“It amounts to that, ma’am.”

“All this is news to me,” she remarked. “About what date was it?”

“About what date?” echoed Hards, rubbing his chin. “I can give it you within a very little. It was the night before I met William Humphries, and him and me had a few friendly words about football, and I was in the horspital for three weeks. That was the early part of December. I think it was December you said that poor Crowther drew his last breath. Must have been only a few days—three at the utmost—that he had his talk with me.”

“That seems strange.”

“Strange things do occur in this world.”

“Because Crowther was laid up in his last illness for four months inside this house, and never went outside until the undertaker’s man carried him. And a pretty tidy nuisance he was, too, then, and, in fact, all the time I was married to him. Is that a constable-coming along, or a postman?”

Hards, having ascertained that the approaching man did not represent the law, remained, searching his mind busily. The postman stopped, gave Mrs. Crowther a letter with a foreign postmark, and remarked that the evening was fine.

“His ship will be home here within a fortnight,” she cried excitedly, glancing at the first words of the communication. “Two weeks from to-day.”

“Who?”

“Nobody you know,” said Mrs. Crowther. “And then we shall be married, and I shan’t have to keep the men at the works off by pretending to be so fond of my first. It’s taken a bit of doing. Let me think, now. You want to see Ethel, I expect, don’t you?”

“I don’t want to see no one,” he declared with an emphatic gesture, “no one on this side of the river ever again, so long as I jolly well live!”

The rest cure

“Knew you’d like it, dear,” said Mr. Gleeson confidently. “I declared the moment I saw the place, ‘Now this,’ I said to myself, ‘this will suit the dear wife down to the ground.’ Just look at that bit over there. (Wait a moment, driver.) Isn’t that simply—”

He gave a gesture which meant that the English language provided no adequate words. His wife, with one hand upon his shoulder, offered an “Ah!” of content.

“You must paint this,” he went on, recovering powers of speech. “You must bring your easel and your white umbrella some morning when I’m busy, and try to get this effect. See the top of the church spire above the trees?”

“That there’s a oast house,” interrupted the driver.

“You will not forget that I shall have my duties in the village,” she reminded him. “We are going to make life brighter, you know, for everybody.”

“True!” he admitted. “It will require discretion.”

“And diplomacy.”

“Still, we’re not exactly amateurs. We bring something like a ripe experience to the task. This will be child’s play after London. Think of the difference in numbers. Driver, how many inhabitants are there in Murford Green?”

“Can’t say as I ever counted ’em.”

“But speaking approximately.”

“Well,” said the driver, with deliberation, “speaking approximately, I should say they was no better than they ought to be. And you’ll excuse me, but I’ve got to get back to meet the five-eight, and if you and your lady could give me what you may call permission to go on now without any more pulling up, I shall jest do it. Otherwise I shan’t, and then Miss Bulwer won’t let me never hear the last of it. That’s what she won’t!”

“Who is Miss Bulwer?”

“Look ’ere,” argued the driver, half turning in his seat. “I’ve answered a pretty tidy number of questions sence we started from the railway station, and I’m beginning to lose my voice, and I’m not far off from losing my temper. But in reference to your question concerning, or regarding, or affecting Miss Bulwer, my answer is, you’ll jolly soon find out! Is that good enough for you, or isn’t it?”

“Merely a surface manner,” explained Mr. Gleeson, as the open fly trundled on again. “You don’t know these people, my dear. A certain veneer of brusqueness, but underneath that good pure gold. Simple natures, I admit, but as honest and straightforward—Wonder,” dropping his voice, “wonder how much he expects for this journey?”

“Pay him well,” suggested young Mrs. Gleeson, also in a whisper. “We must make a good impression at the start. Say eighteen-pence.”

“Fortunately,” resuming ordinary tones, “both you and I will be protected and saved by our keen sense of humour.” He smiled. “I expect our arrival will flutter Murford Green pretty considerably. On an even surface the slightest ripple shows.”

Both stood up in the open carriage on finding that the prophecy seemed to receive full justification. Twenty or thirty men and lads were rushing across the triangle of green, shouting wildly; in their hands they carried stout hammers and long-handled axes; women cheered from doorways of cottages. A few were distracted temporarily by sight of the station fly, but, reproved by the others, they went on, atoning for the slight delay by shrieking more loudly than the rest.

“Anything on, driver?”

“Something coming off,” answered the man. “I said what’d ’appen when people began to lock up gates that’d been open for gen’rations and gen’rations. I warned ’em, but they wouldn’t take no notice. And I ain’t of’en wrong, neither,” concluded the driver.

“Don’t be frightened, dear,” urged Mr. Gleeson. “I’ll go out presently and set it to rights. One wise word from an impartial person, and it will all be over.”

The driver said at the destination that, times without number, he had received three and six for the service, paid willingly; if the gentleman had no more silver he supposed he would have to be content with three shillings. In reply to contentions, the driver asked whether Mr. Gleeson was aware of the price being asked, at the present moment, for oats, and Mr. Gleeson having to admit that his knowledge on this subject was incomplete, the driver retorted, “Very well then, what’s the use of arguing? Why not pay up and look pleasant over it?” The fare obeyed the first part of this recommendation. The two maids (sent on in advance from Kensington) stood inside the gate, and caught the driver’s farewell remark.

“Really, ma’am,” said the elder primly, “the manners of these people! I thought I knew something about language, but I’ve learnt something the three days we’ve been down here. Had a pleasant journey? Me and Sarah have both been feeling humpish. I told her it would be all right soon as ever you and the master came.”

Mr. Gleeson set out, immediately after a meal, to arrange the question that was troubling Murford Green. He had changed into a Norfolk suit, and as a further concession smoked a briar pipe; with a thick walking-stick he prodded at dock-leaves on the green. Near one corner of the triangle a meeting was being held, with a large-faced man shouting excitedly from a Windsor chair. Mr. Gleeson, crossing over, added himself to the audience.

“Well spoke,” sang the crowd, as the large man appeared to finish. “Very well putt!”

“There’s my shop ’cross there,” shouted the orator, pointing to windows that had “Crutchley, Butcher,” in marble letters overhead. “If any one thinks I’ve broke the law, that’s where they can serve a summons.”

The crowd looked around at the village constable. The constable frowned with the air of a man who had not entirely succeeded in making up his mind.

“We’ve got our rights,” the butcher went on, “and I defy any one to say the contrairy. If there’s anybody here who don’t agree with me, now’s the time for him to step up and express his opinion. Free speech is our motto and— What name, please?”

“My name is Gleeson,” announced the newcomer, “and I should like to say a few words.”

“For the agitation, may I ask, or against?”

“My attitude,” said Mr. Gleeson, “is that of a peace-maker.”

The crowd grumbled; the butcher called for order. Mr. Gleeson ascended the chair.

When, at the end of ten minutes, he stepped down, only the constable was there to give him a hand. The constable accounted for the dispersal of the crowd by pointing out that supper time was near, and on Mr. Gleeson asking whether he thought the words spoken had produced any effect, replied, cautiously, that it was difficult to say. The constable, as one who had looked on at many struggles, gave the opinion that you could not do better than let the parties fight it out and, this done, then possibly, but not certainly, came the moment for you to interfere. Mr. Gleeson felt bound, in reply, to mention that he had in his time been called to the bar; intimated that, in circumstances such as these, it seemed more fitting that he should give advice than take it.

“Now,” admitted the constable, “now you’re putting a different light, sir, on the matter. To tell the truth, I wasn’t quite aweer who I was talking to. I look on your arrival here, sir, as particular fortunate, because you can back me up in any action I see fit to take.”

“Any correct action.”

“That’s the only way I’ve got of doing things. I’ve never yet made a blunder, and I don’t suppose now I ever shall.”

“We are all of us liable to err,” pointed out Mr. Gleeson.

“Being liable to do a thing,” retorted the constable judicially, “and actually doing it, is two entirely different matters. Shall I tell you, sir, what idea has just come into my head?”

Permission given.

“This is the way I get ’old of notions,” went on the other self-exultantly. “I may be walking along a quiet lane, or standing here, as I am now, and all at once they come into my noddle like a—well, more like a flash of lightning than anything else. It’s won’erful. Gives me quite a turn for the moment. Guess what the notion is that I’ve just thought of.”

The gentleman from London excused himself from making the attempt, and found his arm hooked confidentially by the handle of the policeman’s stick.

“I’ll bring over to your ’ouse this very evening two of the leaders of this movement, or agitation, or whatever you like to call it. You take down their evidence and to-morrow you go and call on Miss Bulwer. She’s the lady who’s been trying to stop up this path. You talk it over with her, you do, and settle it, and then announce your decision. As easy,” concluded the policeman, detecting hesitation, “as easy as saying the A.B.C.”

Two days later the constable, on receiving news from Crutchley, Butcher, that the affair had been amicably settled, was able to state that the village could reckon itself once more in debt to him, and mentioned the case of a colleague at Middlesham who had recently been presented by grateful inhabitants with a bicycle. Later came information that Miss Bulwer had discharged her housemaid, with a month’s wages in lieu of notice; the driver of the station fly, in the course of a chat with his fare, ascertained the cause for her dismissal was that Miss Bulwer had understood her (the housemaid) to say, before the Londoner’s call, that she believed Mr. Gleeson was a bachelor, whereas the departing housemaid declared she had only mentioned that he was clean-shaven. All the same the decision of the arbitrator stood; Miss Bulwer was declared to be the owner of the right of way, but graciously permitted the inhabitants to use it. Few of the villagers had walked along the path before the locked gate was placed there, and no one showed any anxiety to do so now that it was thrown open.

“A most satisfactory beginning,” said Mr. Gleeson to his young wife. “Nothing could be more auspicious. Now, we are about to take up the task of breaking down some barriers on our own account. Your help, dear, will be specially needed.”

“I haven’t your tact.”

“You have something better, my love,” he replied gallantly. “You have charm. Together we ought to do a great work.”

“The place is beautifully quiet now,” she remarked.

“‘If there’s peace to be found in the world,’” quoted Mr. Gleeson, “‘a heart that is humble may hope for it here.’”

“The girls are complaining.”

“They will soon become accustomed to the village and its surroundings. It takes time for a Londoner to settle down. The silence,” he went on, going to the window, “is to me most impressive.”

“It appears to strike them as being dull.”

That evening, when the two were consulting the local directory, taking down names and perfecting arrangements, a sudden uproar started near the open windows, and the servants came hurrying in to make protest against the noise; Mary and Emma urged that the master ought to go out and see what was happening. Looking through the open window the group could see that every man, every lad, every woman carried articles capable of producing clamour: some bore dustpans, some toy drums, some fire-irons. Mr. Gleeson felt able to give an explanation to the affrighted woman. It had, he believed, to do with bees; not quite certain about details, he felt sure it concerned bees—swarming or something of the kind.

“I don’t want to be stung,” said cook nervously. “Wasps always make straight for me!”

The crowd stopped at a house facing the green, and there the hullabaloo increased to such an extent that Mr. Gleeson, finding his cap, announced an intention of putting a stop to the row without further delay. The women expected the turmoil would cease directly he reached the scene; they observed that he spoke to one or two, remonstrating with them; the folk seemed to be making an explanation, and he again used argumentative gestures; they appeared to order him to go away and, after one or two further efforts, he retired. The uproar continued.

“Not bees,” he announced, entering the room. “No! My dear, just send the maids to the kitchen.”

The girls went.

“A primitive custom,” he explained, “with which I was not previously acquainted. It seems a retired farmer living at the house in question lost his wife three months ago.”

“Surely a strange way of expressing sympathy.”

“That is not exactly the idea. The retired farmer has married again—married the nurse, and the village thinks it not quite right.”

“It isn’t right,” she declared warmly. “I consider the villagers are quite justified in their action.”

“I don’t agree with you, dear.”

“If I died,” she contended, “and you married again in such a short time, I should be very much gratified in looking down to find that people—”

“Why do you say ‘down’?” The contention in the Gleesons’ house rivalled the demonstration in the roadway.

Mutual apologies having been made the next morning—

“I spoke without thinking of what I was saying, my love.”

“I suppose, dear, I am too sensitive.”

—The great task came up before them to be tackled. Mr. Gleeson made a short speech to his wife on the subject, calling it a scheme for welding the village into one harmonious whole, and they were both gratified by this neat way of putting the case. One harmonious whole, echoed Mrs. Gleeson. One harmonious whole, he repeated firmly.

So the two set out, furnished with cards, to call upon residents; an undertaking the more necessary and excusable because residents had made no attempt to call upon them. They divided the task, arranging to meet two hours later and report progress of affairs, and meanwhile said farewell in an affectionate style outside the house; two little girls, looking on with a scandalised air, prepared to run off to tell their respective mothers.

“Good luck, dear,” said Mrs. Gleeson.

“Bon voyage, ma cherie,” he replied. They kissed again.

At the time appointed she returned with satisfaction and triumph announced on her attractive young features. Her husband had not arrived, and she strolled across to some children who were fixing wickets for a game; they drew the stumps and retired to another corner of the green.

“Shy little things,” remarked Mrs. Gleeson.

She flag-signalled with a lace handkerchief to her husband, who could be seen walking slowly in the distance, but he was gazing at the dusty road in a thoughtful manner and did not respond; she ran to meet him and to take his arm.

“Well?” he asked shortly.

Everybody had said yes, she answered with enthusiasm. No sooner had she given the invitation than they accepted. The vicar, the Congregationalist minister, the auctioneer (who was also insurance agent, and local representative for Chipley’s Celebrated Guanos), the schoolmaster, Crutchley, the postman, two labourers, and the man who usually stood outside the Three Bells with a wisp of straw between his teeth—every one of these and others she had secured, every one had made careful note of the date.

“And you?” she asked.

Mr. Gleeson confessed his record was not so excellent. Miss Bulwer delayed him for thirty-five minutes, and, a grievance still rankling, managed in that time to intimate that she bossed the village.

“Her own phrase,” he said excusingly.

Miss Bulwer flattered herself she performed the task well, and certainly did not propose to allow new-comers to interfere. Miss Bulwer agreed that the barriers of class should be broken down; she came of a Liberal stock, and her father sat in Parliament once for nearly a year, but rather than meet Crutchley or any of his set on friendly terms, she would willingly be burnt at the stake.

“But surely, dear, it was an error, if you don’t mind my saying so, to tell her that we had invited anybody else.”

“Thought it fairer,” he replied.

“I said nothing of the kind to some of mine.”

“You should have done.”

“Pardon me,” said Mrs. Gleeson, “but perhaps you will admit that my plan proved more successful.”

“Those two sisters, the dressmakers, are coming,” he went on, declining to argue the point, “and three other women accepted and promised to be with us providing nothing better turned up in the meantime. Singularly frank and open in their speech,” he remarked, with a sigh. “They went so far as to ask me what we expected to make out of it.”

“I like people to be genuine.”

“There are limits,” he said, “which should not be exceeded. Let us go in and reckon up the number of guests.”

The two small girls who had seen them kiss each other took up a position near the fence, watching with undisguised curiosity as Mr. and Mrs. Gleeson sat at the window completing arrangements. As these proceeded Mr. Gleeson regained something of his early enthusiasm. He intended to make a speech to the company, once the visitors were assembled, and his wife suggested that if his mind was made up in this regard, he had better rehearse; he walked up and down the room, using appropriate gestures, the while the two little spectators held on to the fence in their anxiety to miss nothing.

“Did you remember to telegraph to the Stores?” he demanded, breaking off.

“I did.”

“And have the things arrived?”

“Not yet. But they never fail.”

“Find a man,” he ordered, “the one outside the Three Bells, and send him off at once. Unless I see to everything, there is always a muddle!”

Full justification for the issuing of this command was found when the man returned with the case; it had duly arrived by the mid-day train and would, he reported, have remained at the station until goodness knew when if he had not been sent to fetch it. The man offered to prise open the lid, and on seeing the contents made the announcement that the two shops of the village would not be best pleased to hear that goods similar to those which might have been purchased at their establishments had been imported from town. Asked by the anxious young hostess to give his own opinion, the man said he was all for liberty and freedom, and letting people do as they liked, but he felt bound to say that home industries ought to be patronised. He had often argued this in the Three Bells, and felt he ought not to say behind people’s backs anything he did not dare to speak in front of their faces.

“All the same,” he added, accepting the shilling, “I shall pop round in good time this evening. You can rely upon me. My word’s as good as me bond.”

Now the two maids began to fly to and fro. Now Mr. Gleeson set out chairs on the lawn at the back in preparation for an overflow meeting. Now furniture was moved and the pianoforte opened. Now one of the maids ran across to hire twenty cups and saucers, and returned from the shop with the message that only regular customers were obliged in this way; the cups and saucers could be purchased, or they could be let alone, but no third alternative existed. Mr. Gleeson went over his speech once more and, on the suggestion of his wife, introduced a more pronounced tone of geniality, leaving out some of the sterner views concerning the value of friendship. Mrs. Gleeson’s sketches were set in a good position. Mr. Gleeson tried “I am a Jolly Mariner,” and decided he had found himself in worse voice. At seven o’clock they were ready for the thirty-five guests, and Mr. Gleeson snatched a few moments to practise a smile of welcome, one that would indicate gratification without degenerating into a broad grin.

“We shall find them rather difficult at first,” he mentioned. “I must get you to help me, my dear, to make them feel thoroughly at home from the very outset. Wish you had thought to order some crackers.”

“Sorry!”

“In Stepney, if you remember, the pulling of these and the wearing of paper caps at once put everybody at their ease. What’s the time now?”

She exhibited her watch.

“Mary asked the constable just now whether anything of the kind had ever been arranged before and he said ‘No.’”

“Did he say anything else?” asked Mr. Gleeson.

“He added ‘And never won’t again, neither.’”

“The ability of peering into the future,” he remarked, nettled, “is a gift denied even to the village policeman. He seems to have the idea that no one can do right excepting himself.”

“There’s a knock.”

Please, ma’am (announced Mary), Mr. Crutchley, the butcher, has sent over to know whether we want a joint for Sunday, because if so we had better say so in good time. Ask the messenger (replied Mrs. Gleeson) to tell Crutchley that we shall only trouble him in the case of chops and steaks; the larger orders have been placed in town. Very well, ma’am. Mary, returning three minutes later, apologised for the message she had now to deliver; Crutchley sent word that where the Gleesons procured their joints there they could procure their chops and steaks; Crutchley told the messenger to add that he was not in the habit of being under an obligation to any one.

“I disliked the man,” declared Mr. Gleeson warmly, “from the very first. Understand, my dear, please, that not another penny of mine is to be spent in his shop—not another halfpenny.”

Another ring, and Mary, with a look of greater satisfaction, announced the vicar.

“Ah,” said the visitor, entering breezily, “Liberty Hall, Liberty Hall. This is extremely satisfactory. How are we this evening? Settling down to country life? That’s good. Before I forget it, there are two or three funds under my control, the finances of which are in rather—what shall I say?”

“Low water.”

“Capital!” declared the vicar, with enthusiasm. “The very phrase! Now I’m not going to bother you, and hate above all things any suspicion of begging, but if you have your cheque-book handy— How very, very kind of you! A great day, for Murford Green—here’s a fountain pen—for Murford Green when you two delightful people decided to take up your residence here. Thank you so much: I’ll blot it. Equally divided, shall we say? A thousand obligations. I have a number of letters to write; will you forgive me if I run off? Pray give my sincere regards to all the dear people. All the dear people. The dear people. Dear people. People.” The voice disappeared in the manner of a ventriloquist’s entertainment.

A note from the schoolmaster. The schoolmaster was sorry, but he had only just ascertained that the Rev. Mr. Barton, Congregationalist minister, had been asked, and in these circumstances the schoolmaster begged to be excused. A note from Mr. Barton. Mr. Barton, having ascertained that the schoolmaster had been invited, felt it impossible to meet that gentleman until he had withdrawn certain remarks concerning Passive Resisters, and hoped Mrs. Gleeson would permit him to defer his visit. The postman called at the back door to say that he could have spared an hour, and would have spared an hour, but talk was going on in the village, and until this received contradiction it was more than his position, as a Government official, was worth to set foot inside the house. Mary, answering her master’s impatient reprimand, declared she had asked for further particulars; the postman, with a deep blush, assured her it was not a subject he could discuss with a single young woman; on Mary insisting, he referred her to a Mrs. Larch, living in one of a row of cottages not far away. The Gleesons, greatly disturbed, requested the maid to fly in that direction and obtain details. As Mary went out of the front gate they noticed the two invited labourers, dressed in black suits.

“Beg pardon, missy,” they heard one of them say, “but if it ent a rude question, is there going to be any beer purvided at this affair what’s to come off this evening?” The maid gave an answer and ran on. “Not?” they echoed amazedly. “Very well then! No bloomin’ beer; no bloomin’ us!”

Other excuses came. The odd man of the Three Bells alone remained unaccounted for, and he arrived, pulling at the garden gate, which he should have pushed, and solving the difficulty by climbing over. Approaching the open window, he lurched across the flower-bed, took off his hat to Mr. Gleeson, blew a clumsy kiss to Mrs. Gleeson.

“Not coming in,” he said, with a wink. “No fear! Not me! Got my rep’tation to consider. I sh’d never ’old up my ’ead again. Warm lot, you Londoners. Thank goodness I was born ’n bred in the country. Honest man, that’s what I am, and I don’t care who says I’m not. You never catch me ’ugging a girl in middle of the roadway. Not me!”

A council was held so soon as the maid came back. Mary had assured Mrs. Larch that her master and her mistress were married, for she herself was present at the wedding, and the lady offered two suggestions: one that Mary’s eyesight was defective, the other that people only used a foreign language when they desired to say something that could not be spoken in decent English. Mary, having delivered the news, stood back and waited.

“Have you no suggestion to make, my dear?” asked the worried Mr. Gleeson. His wife shook her head despondently.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the maid, with respect, “but me and Emma have been talking it over, and as she says the doctor ordered you quiet, and you haven’t yet succeeded in letting the house at Kensington, what’s to prevent us from—”

“Get the A.B.C.,” he ordered. “We’ll find out what time there’s a train back to town in the morning.”

Reward for courage

The Committee gave Mr. Mayor the time to put on, with the aid of his man, the official garments. One member asked who was looking after Enderby, and the agitated young secretary ran into the largest room in the Town Hall, returned with the satisfactory assurance that the man was seated in the front row, well guarded by friends.

“These brave chaps,” remarked the member who had put the alarming inquiry, “often have a peculiar strain of—er—modesty in their disposition. You can never quite depend upon them as you would on ordinary people. Mr. Secretary, what’s the programme for the afternoon? Have you drawn up an agenda? Don’t call on me, if you can help it, but if it’s absolutely necessary, of course—”

Mr. Secretary exhibited the sheet of foolscap paper; members of the Committee whose names figured there expressed approval; the rest mentioned a fear that they might not be able to stay until the end.

“Mr. Mayor!”

His Worship came forward to be greeted by those acquainted with him, to be introduced to others. Everybody said it was good of the Mayor to give up so much of his time, and he declared it was good of them to do so.

“But some one,” he went on, with determination, “some one must give me a sort of a notion of an idea of what I’m supposed to talk about. I want a few facts pencilled down, just to go on with, as it were.” The secretary produced a type-written document, tendered a case containing a medal. “I see!” nodding as he glanced at the sheet. “Jumped in at risk of life. Brought child to bank. Persuaded with difficulty to give name and address. Very fine, indeed. Capital. First-rate. Now, how long shall I take? Thirty minutes?”

“Less than that, Mr. Mayor, if you like.”

“As you please,” said his Worship, rather nettled. “I’m never a believer in long speechifying. Time we made a start, isn’t it? Look in, and tell them I’m coming, and they’ll be ready to applaud. What’s the chap’s name again? Enderby. George Enderby. Right you are!”

A good audience had assembled, and several ladies, subscribers to the gift, were present. Two were talking deferentially to a puffed-faced man in the front row; they scuttled off to their seats as the platform people arrived. The man inspected his boots, shifting them uneasily. Mr. Mayor rapped the table with an ebony hammer, and said, in his most genial manner, that of all the duties imposed upon him during his year of office not one had given so much pleasure as this. They were probably acquainted with the facts and he would give them briefly. George Enderby, residing at 42, William Street, by occupation a house decorator, but at present out of work, was walking near the canal on the evening of Friday, the seventeenth of June. Some children were playing near the bank, and, in the endeavour to reach a piece of wood that was floating on the water, one little girl of six years of age suddenly slipped and—. Mr. Mayor read the type-written sheet to the end, took off his pince-nez.

“Let George Enderby,” he ordered, “be kind enough to step up on the platform.”

The friends of the puffed-faced man took him by the elbows; he resisted their efforts and was heard to say that he would see everybody hanged before he made a public exhibition of himself. An awkward delay occurred; the Mayor repeated his directions. The secretary hurried down from the platform, and induced George Enderby to consider afresh his decision. He went up the steps with every sign of reluctance, and stood there, turning cap in hands.

“Enderby,” said the Mayor, with an air of heavy benevolence, “kindly answer one or two questions. In what condition of mind were you when you performed this gallant act?”

“I wasn’t boozed,” replied the man defensively, “if that’s what you’re driving at. I’d had a glass or two, but I wasn’t abs’lutely oiled!”

“That is not quite what I mean. What I want to find out is, were you thinking at the time of the value of human life, and how necessary it is that it should be preserved at all costs?”

“If you must know, I waddent thinking nothing of the kind. Don’t worry myself about such matters.”

“I see!” said the Mayor, slightly taken aback. “And—forgive my curiosity—but what were your sensations when you brought the child ashore? What was uppermost, so to speak, in your thoughts?”

“I was wondering whether I sh’d catch a nasty cold!”

“No, no!” said the Mayor, reproving the audience. “This worthy fellow is answering my questions to the best of his ability. Tell me, now,” turning again to the man on the platform, “have you performed many gallant actions of this kind in your life before?”

“I ain’t.”

“Never, perhaps, had the opportunity?”

“Plenty of opportunities,” retorted Enderby, “but not fool enough to take advantage of ’em!”

It was so clear he was becoming nettled that the secretary whispered to Mr. Mayor; his Worship proceeded to speak, at some length, on the subject of bravery, making allusions to the boy who stood on the burning deck, to Grace Darling, and to others. Eventually, and to the obvious relief of Enderby, he presented the purse, handed over the medal, and allowed the man to return to the front row. There Enderby and his friends made no attempt to conceal restiveness during the remainder of the speeches. The occupants of seats at the reporters’ table sent a note to the young secretary, reminding him that the recipient had not acknowledged the rewards.

“No,” replied Enderby, with resolution, “I jolly well won’t. Made myself quite conspicuous enough as it is, and if I tried to talk from the platform I sh’d only make myself more conspicuouser than before. I may also add it’s dry work listening to all this cackle.”

“Don’t lose the medal.”

“You take charge of it for me,” he requested. “May overlook it somewhere if I take it with me now!”

It was the secretary’s first essay in management of public affairs and he congratulated himself, in leaving the Town Hall, on the fact that everything had gone well; the Mayor had said at the end, “Very smooth and satisfactory!” The case with the medal bulged the inside pocket of his coat, and this would not have mattered only that he was going, later, to see a young woman whom he loved, and give to her a full report. Wherefore he stepped on a tram-car and was conveyed to William Street.

“May be back at any moment,” said the neighbours. “What’s to-day? Tuesday? Well, she has to be at Willesden by seven in the morning, and she usually gets home, comparatively speaking, early. Other days its quite late before she— Here she is!”

Mrs. Enderby was grateful to the secretary for bringing the medal, and said so. She wished he had also brought the money that had been collected, but this, she knew, was an extravagant aspiration. Mrs. Enderby admitted it was difficult, at times, to make ends meet; thanks be, she had fair health and strength. Six children, all living, and no one could say they ever wanted for food. Yes, it did seem a pity Enderby was out of a job, but, after all (cheerfully), it made very little difference at home, because if he earnt money he spent it all himself. How long? Oh, a matter of eleven years or so. Good afternoon, sir, and thank you.

“Now, I wonder,” remarked the young secretary to himself, “I wonder if they were right in putting his name on that medal!”

Table of Contents

1. A determined young person

2. A minor author

3. A successful conspiracy

4. Miss Extra-Turn

5. A cautious youth

6. A conflict of interests

7. A model crime

8. An indispensable confederate

9. An ingenious pair

10. The alteration in Mr. Kershaw

11. The results of Miss Knight’s temper

12. Ah Lun’s gift

13. Freckles

14. A question of policy

15. A stormy passage

16. Mr. Barling’s income

17. Young Platitude

18. The woman who remained

19. Easy come

20. Mr. and Mrs. Ranger

21. Merry springtime

22. The test

23. A son of the state (1902)

1. One

2. Two

3. Three

4. Four

5. Five

6. Six

7. Seven

8. Eight

9. Nine

10. Ten

11. Eleven

12. Twelve

13. Thirteen

14. Fourteen

15. Fifteen

16. Sixteen

24. E R B (1902)

1. One

2. Two

3. Three

4. Four

5. Five

6. Six

7. Seven

8. Eight

9. Nine

10. Ten

11. Eleven

12. Twelve

13. Thirteen

14. Fourteen

15. Fifteen

16. Sixteen

17. Seventeen

25. Table d’Hôte (1911)

1. Change of government

2. The target

3. Moving pictures

4. Country confederates

5. Surroundings

6. Retiring inspector

7. The usurper

8. Jules Zwinger

9. The leading lady

10. Time’s method

11. Scotter’s luck

12. Means of transport

13. Irene Mercer

14. Young nuisances

15. My brother Edward

16. Savoir faire

17. Magnificent remedies

26. Mixed grill (1913)

1. Third person singular

2. A benevolent character

3. The wonderful start

4. Slow recovery

5. Loose cash

6. Price of James Mcwinter

7. A case of suspicion

8. Question of temperature

9. Foreign affairs

10. Before lunch

11. Counter attractions

12. Hero of Hammerton Street

13. Damages for libel

14. The rest cure

15. Reward for courage