Date: 1927-10-31T15:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Humor; family life; Social Life and Customs
Description: “Mr. Barry Pain excels in the delineation of humourous types, and ‘Dumphry’ is in his best manner. Mr. Ernest Dumphry is a worthy citizen, who is in business as a chartered accountant in the City, and dwells in a pleasant London suburban village. He firmly believes that he is master in the home, but Mrs. Dumphry and his daughters could — although they do not — tell him a different story. He is not one to be driven, but can be led with a minimum of guile. Mr. Dumphry is a man of wide, if sometimes misdirected, interests. […] Many of his enterprises lead to disillusionment, but he bears it with
Publisher: MobileRead.com
Rights: Public domain where copyright is “Life+90” or less, and in the USA

DUMPHRY

BARRY PAIN

MobileRead Edition
2023

“Mr. Barry Pain excels in the delineation of humourous types, and ‘Dumphry’ is in his best manner. Mr. Ernest Dumphry is a worthy citizen, who is in business as a chartered accountant in the City, and dwells in a pleasant London suburban village. He firmly believes that he is master in the home, but Mrs. Dumphry and his daughters could — although they do not — tell him a different story. He is not one to be driven, but can be led with a minimum of guile. Mr. Dumphry is a man of wide, if sometimes misdirected, interests. […] Many of his enterprises lead to disillusionment, but he bears it with philosophic resignation, and the story of them makes capital reading.”
(—Sydney Morning Herald, 5 Nov 1927)

•   •   •

Luckily enough, quite a number of Dumphry’s ventures, although not ending as he had planned, fall into the “all’s well that ends well” category, so that he becomes the hero of the hour.

Barry Eric Odell Pain (28 Sep. 1864 – 05 May 1928) was an English journalist, poet, humorist and writer. During his lifetime, he was perhaps best known as a writer of parody and lightly humorous stories, but now is also noted for his tales touched with fantasy, horror, and the supernatural. He also wrote stories of mystery and suspense. His humor has been characterized by some modern critics as “a surreal forerunner to Monty Python.”

The Dumphry stories by Barry Pain (1864–1928) were first published in the Windsor Magazine, Apr. 1926 – Aug. 1927, produced in hardback in 1927. Illustrations by Warwick William Lendon (1883–1971) have been omitted due to copyright restrictions. This book is in the public domain where copyright is “Life+90” or less, and in the USA.

CONTENTS:

1. Mr. Dumphry and Quandary’s Pure Confectionery Ltd.

2. What Mr. Dumphry Did for William Shakespeare

3. How Mr. Dumphry Investigated Crime

4. Mr. Ernest Dumphry, Mrs. Edna Wilter, Mr. Foote, and the Late Napoleon Buonaparte

5. Mr. Dumphry’s Caravan Holiday

6. Why Mr. Dumphry Was Not Charged With Manslaughter

7. Why Mr. Dumphry Was So Well Informed
8. The Speaker: Mr. Dumphry
9. Mr. Dumphry’s Secret Mission
10. Commander Dumphry and the Monumento Trap
11. How Mr. Dumphry Built a House
12. Mr. Dumphry Plays the Endless Game
13. That Gambler Dumphry

14. Mr. Sturge, Mr. Copshaw, and Mr. Dumphry’s Boots

15. Mr. Dumphry Does Not Live by Schedule

16. Mr Dumphry, Mr. Matchem, and Mrs. Tresser’s Dog

17. The Dumphry Partnerships

DUMPHRY

1

MR. DUMPHRY
AND
QUANDARY’S
PURE CONFECTIONERY LTD.

Early in 1914 Mr. Ernest Dumphry acquired a seven, fourteen, or twenty-one years’ lease of The Rest House (or, as the Post Office maintained, number 51), Tessel Road. He paid an annual rental of £45. Ten years later the owner of The Cairn (or, as you might say, number 68), which is not really quite as good as The Rest House and has several square yards less of garden, decided to let it, asked £120, and got it immediately. He got it so soon that for weeks afterwards he suffered from depression, thinking he might have asked more; his name was Angus McClachlan, and he does not otherwise concern this story.

It is to Mr. Dumphry’s credit that he did not assign his good luck in the housing question to his intelligent anticipation of the Great War and its result. The utmost he ever said was that at the beginning of 1914 he had an instinctive feeling that the spirit of unrest was abroad and that things might possibly develop. The feeling was not sufficiently certain and precise for him to mention it to anybody at the time — not even to Mrs. Dumphry and the girls — but Ernest had no doubt that it had influenced him in his decision to take the lease of The Rest House.

His friend, the architect, Pierce Eveleigh, might possibly have disputed this. Years before 1914 Eveleigh had bought a whole acre of ground in Tessel Road, and had himself designed the house which he built upon it for his own residence. It was the most important house in Tessel Road, and it looked as if it knew it. Nothing humdrum about it. It included several features which could only have occurred to the mind of an architect and — for which perhaps we may be thankful — not to the mind of every architect. Now, Mr. Pierce Eveleigh could have produced documentary evidence that not only did he write to Ernest, pointing out that The Rest House was a good opportunity and saying that he would be glad to have him as a neighbour, but also that it took a good deal of correspondence to bring ‘Ernest up to signing-point. Pierce Eveleigh had called his own house “The Shanty” — which was equivalent to saying: “See how proud I am of my modesty.”

Mr. Pierce Eveleigh was also generally proud of Tessel Road, and so was Mr. Ernest Dumphry. Had they not reason? House-agents may be prone to enthusiasm, but it must be supposed that they really know, and they described Tessel Road on more than one occasion as “exclusively residential and of the highest class” and every house in it was ipso facto “replete with every modern convenience.”

The road was certainly modern. Fifty years ago there had been only two houses in Tessel Road, and now with the exception of one large building plot, which still waited, Tessel Road was full. There was not one shop in it, and very few of the houses were semi-detached. Three of the detached houses had been designed by Pierce Eveleigh and showed his gift for the unexpected. His reputation reached its zenith locally.

Really, the most charming thing about Tessel Road was that in nearly every front garden flowering trees and shrubs had been planted — almond, lilac, and laburnurn — scarlet thorn and chestnut — guelder rose and rowan — while in the autumn, on the walls the creepers gave their change of colour. In winter, when the leaves were off, the Pierce-Eveleighness of the road became apparent. But often in other seasons the road had the pleasant effect of a garden. This appealed especially to the poetical mind of Mr. Ernest Dumphry. Mr. Dumphry might be, and in fact was, by profession, a chartered accountant. He might be, and in fact was, suffering from waistcoat enlargement. But in his leisure time Mr. Dumphry had strong poetical feeling.

“Yes,” he would say, as he lingered with the departing guest at his gates on a May evening. “Yes, this is merely a suburban road, but look at it. I ask you, look at it. Look at the sweeping glory of colour all the way down. No other road is like it. I do not know why. Here, possibly by chance, we seem to have recaptured something of the old Greek ideal.”

What Mr. Dumphry really knew about the old Greek ideal could have been written on a threepenny-piece, and it would not have taken a magnifying-glass to read it. When he talked like this he embarrassed his visitors.

“Quite so,” the visitor would say. “Very nice. If I’m to catch the 8.20, I want to be hurrying on.”

Now it happened on one of these flower-strewn evenings that Mr. Dumphry, about six o’clock, strolled down the Tessel Road and came to that large vacant building plot. He noticed that two men, working late, were taking down the agents’ board. He felt a chill creep over him. He went up to them at once. “What’s this?” he said. “This been taken at last?”

“Shouldn’t be taking the board down if it wasn’t,” said one of the men.

Mr. Dumphry concluded that the work would require oiling. He produced a shilling and slipped it into the man’s palm as he said:

“Thank you. I only wanted to know. I wonder if you can tell me who’s bought it?”

“Quandary’s bought it.”

“Ah! Now what Quandary’s would that be?”

“Quandary’s Pure Confectionery. Putting up a big factory here, so they tell me.”

Ernest returned to his own house. He was obviously distraught. Mrs. Dumphry noticed it. So did Queenie, the youngest girl.

“Why, whatever’s the matter?” said Mrs. Dumphry cheerily.

“The matter is that that vacant piece of land in this road has been taken for a factory. Not only that. It has been taken for the factory of Quandary’s Pure Confectionery Ltd.”

“How perfectly ripping!” said Queenie. “Quandary’s things are always much the best. And I’ll be able to deal direct and save a lot of money.”

“Hush, my dear,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “your father’s speaking.”

“Immediately after dinner,” said the tragic Ernest, “I shall step across to see Eveleigh. We may be able to do something. We may not. But if that factory goes up, then the value of this property here drops by — well, by hundreds.”

“Well, in that case,” said Queenie, “why go to Mr. Eveleigh? Why not ask Quandary’s to stick their old factory up somewhere else?”

“Hush, dear,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “your father’s thinking.”

After dinner Ernest went across to The Shanty. He found Mr. Eveleigh in his garden looking for slugs. Mrs. Eveleigh, who was much younger and considerably prettier than her husband, had gone off to a dance.

When he heard the sad news Mr. Eveleigh put down his jar of salt and water and said definitely:

“People may think they can do a thing and then find they can’t. We shall see, Ernest, we shall see. Just come along into my study and we’ll talk the matter over.”

Mr. Eveleigh reserved the whole of his preciosity for his profession. His dress was sporting. At the present moment he wore plus fours and a Norfolk jacket with the belt loosely dependent behind him. He showed an interest in sport and had been known to watch cricket. He had never been known to take any active part in any sport whatever.

“Well now,” he said when they had lit their pipes and the maid had placed the whisky and soda conveniently, “I’ll put my cards on the table, Ernest. This thing has got to be stopped. If it came off it would ruin the character of the whole road. Just think of it! If you opened your window a stench of hot chocolate and treacle would blow in.”

“Then again, the wasps,” said Ernest seriously.

“Quite so. The wasps. We should have every wasp for miles round making that factory in Tessel Road its meeting-place. During the wasp season I doubt if it would be safe for anybody to walk down the road at all.”

“And there’s the depreciation of my property,” said Ernest.

“Oh, that. Well, you’re only leasehold. Still, if you want to sell your lease, which you don’t, it might take a hundred or so off what you’d get for it. I, being freehold, should be far worse off. You see, a beastly sweet factory destroys the whole social amenities of the place. Think of the position of the Thomsons who live next door to that vacant block. I designed the house and they are proud of it. They say to their friends, so I’m told, ‘This is a Pierce Eveleigh house.’ How will they feel when they get a great ugly barrack shoved in on the top of them? If the laws were worth anything at all, it would be impossible for one of these limited companies to come bullocking in like this, spoiling the whole character of a road and practically stealing money from everybody who has a penny invested in it.”

Then they got back to the wasps again. Then they had some whisky. Then Mr. Dumphry asked what, if anything, could be done.

“There might be some defect in the title to the property,” suggested Mr. Dumphry. “Would it be worth while to look into that?”

Mr. Eveleigh shook his gaunt, grey, and artistic head.

“No, no, Ernest. These are business people. They won’t be making any childish mistakes. And even if the title had got a hole in it, I don’t see how it would help us. No, I’m for looking ahead. Let them stick up their factory and begin to run it. Give them enough rope.”

“But how are we to get them to hang themselves?”

“Well, well, you can’t expect a cut-and-dried scheme, with all the details complete at a moment’s notice. But I can give you the general outline as it has occurred to me. Their machinery is noisy, and starts at six in the morning. Their work-people shout and sing in the road, and cause further annoyance. The nature of their business attracts swarms of wasps and these become an actual danger — a child is badly stung and dies. It is shown that the smell arising from the manufacture is not only nauseous but positively unhealthy. It is shown further that the value of property in the neighbourhood has fallen in consequence.”

“Well?”

“Then we start. The law may be defective! it is. But at least!” — and here Mr. Pierce Eveleigh tapped the table impressively with his forefinger — “it does not permit a limited company to run its business in such a way that it is a dangerous public nuisance. It does not permit torture. It does not permit murder.”

“And — er — what do we do next?”

“We form a syndicate of the residents in Tessel Road, each contributing according to his means, and get a solicitor to represent us. He goes to Quandary’s and he lays out the case and says, though not in so many words: ‘You’re going. If you choose to contest it in the Courts, we’re ready, and I have no doubt what the result will be. We are sorry, but you should not have put up a factory in so unsuitable a locality. If on the other hand you go voluntarily, without wasting your money and ours in legal proceedings, then we are willing to buy back your site at very little less than you paid for it.’”

Mr. Pierce Eveleigh sat back in his chair and waited for the applause.

“You have a wonderful mind, Pierce,” said Mr. Dumphry, a little dazed by the Napoleonic plan. “I wish I could see into the future like that.”

“Have you any criticism to offer?”

“I shall have to think it over. I suppose we shall have to wait until the wasp has actually bitten the child.”

“Not bitten — stung. Other end. Why do you ask?”

“It was merely a thought that flashed across my mind. I may be wrong. It is a question of identity. How could we show that the wasp which stit — I mean, bung — well, anyway, killed the child, was really one of Quandary’s wasps and not a wasp that was just there on — er — its ordinary business? Probability is not proof, Pierce.”

“Be reasonable, Ernest, do be reasonable,” said the architect. “The wasp and the child are merely ornamental details. No doubt if the wasp did kill the child, that would be all to the good. But we do not depend on it. It is enough for us to show that the plague of wasps has definitely increased, with increased damage to our fruit. And that we shall be able to do.”

“I see, I see,” said Ernest. “The only other point is that it looks as if it would be a year or two before your scheme came into action.”

“No doubt,” Mr. Eveleigh admitted, with a shrug of his shoulders. “You can’t suppress a nuisance until it is actually there. Still, what I’ve told you is on the spur of the minute. I might on reflection modify or change the plan. The one thing which I can tell you definitely and finally is that so long as I hold the stake in Tessel Road which I do hold, the character of that road will not be allowed to deteriorate. Any firm, Quandary’s or another, will find that they have me to deal with. You can sleep in peace, Ernest.”

In order to do this Ernest shortly afterwards returned home. He found his wife extremely anxious to know what Pierce Eveleigh had to say about it.

“Well, my dear, we talked over the whole matter. There are some very difficult and delicate legal problems involved. But, strictly between ourselves, I may tell you this — Quandary’s Pure Confectionery may possibly come into Tessel Road, but it will not be permitted to stop there.”

“So that’s all right,” said Mrs. Dumphry.

On the following day shortly before one it chanced that Mr. Dumphry met on the Embankment Mr. Harker. Mr. Harker, as his custom was, was on his way to lunch in the grill-room of the Savoy, and being in a genial mood he took Ernest Dumphry along with him as his guest.

Mr. Harker had been the solicitor and personal friend of Ernest’s Uncle James up to the time of his decease, and was now one of his executors and trustees. Uncle James, a childless widower, left an equal life-interest in the residue of his estate to each of his twenty-three nephews and nieces, of whom Ernest was one. On the death of the last survivor of the twenty-three the property went absolutely to his old college at Oxford. Nor could the death of any one of the twenty-three offer to the others the melancholy satisfaction that their own shares would be automatically increased. A lapsed share benefited only the college.

The attempt to please everybody, including yourself, is foredoomed to failure. Not one of the nephews and nieces considered Uncle James’s will to be just, though no two of them in all probability would have suggested precisely the same alteration.

“By the way, Ernest, by the way,” said Harker, after he had with his customary care commanded the luncheon, “we shall be sending you a cheque in a day or two for what’s due to you under your uncle’s will, and I think you’ll be pleased.”

“Well, the amount has not varied by very much so far. You mean there will be an increase?”

“I do. As you probably know, your uncle specially empowered his trustees to leave any of his existing investments at the time of his death undisturbed. Well, he had a considerable holding — about half his fortune — in Quandary’s ordinary.”

Ernest said carelessly — or as carelessly as he could: “Quandary’s Pure Confectionery?”

“That’s it. Now my partner, Hesseltine, who was the other trustee, said we should sell, and his arguments were good. We could sell Quandary’s at par, and they were only paying four. We could put the money into a sound trust security which would give us a better yield. That was all true so far as it went. But then Quandary’s could have paid more than four if they had wished; their expenditure on advertising had been very heavy — it was criticized at the general meeting — and they were building up a big reserve. Then, again, I knew Mr. James Dumphry to be a very shrewd man. He would never have put all that money into Quandary’s if there had not been a reason. There was — as I found when I went through his papers. What he didn’t know about that business didn’t matter. He could have been a director if he’d wished. He’d been at school with old Quandary. He was godfather to his son, Henry Quandary, the present managing director. He knew the general policy of the firm — which I should describe as clever conservative, the best and rarest. We kept that holding. I don’t mind admitting that I also bought a hundred ordinary on my own account, and that I wish now I’d bought a thousand. This year the shareholders get their reward for three years of patience.”

Mr. Harker lowered his voice and whispered figures of a most gratifying character into Ernest’s earhole. On returning to his office Ernest sat back in his chair and considered. Temporary slackness of business permitted him time for this, and he was grateful. He had lunched extremely well, and he was grateful. He was about to experience a quite unexpected windfall, and he was grateful. But behind it all there lurked a haunting dark shadow.

Obviously now he could not kick Quandary’s Pure Confectionery without also kicking himself and his twenty-two cousins and ultimately St. Cecilia’s College, Oxford. Now for the cousins and the college Ernest entertained no sentimental affection. But he had the greatest possible objection to kicking himself.

How then was he to face his old friend, Mr. Pierce Eveleigh, with what might at first sight seem to be a treacherous change of mind? He recalled the grim look of determination in Eveleigh’s stem blue eyes. He recalled the way in which he had stretched out his open hand and then slowly closed it as though he was squeezing the blood and entrails out of Quandary’s Pure Confectionery. Eveleigh, he was convinced, would take it badly. He would impute selfishness. It might mean the break up of their long friendship. What, from a purely material point of view, seemed to him worse was that he might be unable to stop Eveleigh in the execution of his plan. He pictured Eveleigh as a fierce determined old hound running its quarry to its death. It was perfectly awful.

When he got back home that evening his brow was overcast with thought. He said frankly that he had been into all this business of Quandary’s and he thought it quite possible that Pierce Eveleigh might be making a mistake. After all, Quandary’s had done nothing more than they were entitled to. The freehold was for sale: they had bought it. Had anybody a right to take proceedings that would in consequence involve Quandary’s in grave financial loss? It was a matter of conscience. Personally he would not think it right. And even if it shattered a friendship of twenty years’ standing he would have to tell Eveleigh as much. As a matter of fact—

And here there came a rippling knock at the door which was recognized and Mr. and Mrs. Pierce Eveleigh were introduced. The first thing apparent was that Pierce Eveleigh was in his most genial and expansive mood. He was also in his purple velvet smoking-jacket. He addressed his wife as “Mouse,” which alone was a convincing sign of good humour. As a rule he called her Emma, which happened to be her name.

Mouse also seemed to be pleased. She was beautifully dressed as usual. She had learned a quite new way of telling fortunes by cards and was proposing to instruct Mrs. Dumphry and Queenie in the mysteries of it. She had also brought with her a box of Quandary’s Chocolate Pastilles which, she asserted with some confidence, seemed to bring heaven nearer.

“And while Mouse is bothering you, Mrs. Dumphry, with her fortune-telling, I’m going to carry Ernest off to his study. I’ve got a bone to pick with him.”

“Why, whatever’s poor Ernest done?” said Mrs. Dumphry archly.

“Came along and frightened the life out of me last night, jabbering about corrugated-tin sheds and babies biting wasps and a smell of treacle and all manner of nonsense. Come along, Ernest, you’ve got to go through it.”

And Ernest, not understanding, but still with some sense of relief, carried Pierce Eveleigh off to his study and proffered hospitality. Pierce said it was really earlier in the evening than he generally did, but consented to make an exception.

“Now look here, Ernest,” said Pierce, after testing the contents of his glass. “I’m going to give you a warning. Don’t you attach too much importance to silly stories that you pick up from labourers. Tessel Road’s all right. Tessel Road will be better than ever it was. And, what’s more, you and I ought to thank Quandary’s for it.”

“I was putting in a few inquiries about that firm today,” said Ernest. “It appears that they are very sound people. Very sound. I should describe their policy,” he added, without a blush, “as clever conservative, which, as I need not remind you, is the best policy, though we may find it the rarest.”

“Well, well,” said Pierce, “I’ve been to the fountain-head itself. This morning I got a telephone message from Henry Quandary — he’s the managing director — saying he was coming down this morning to see the site and asking if he could call on me on business. I gave the usual polite reply and at eleven he arrived. I must say, Ernest, that you gave me an absolute misconception of the whole thing. Of course I don’t blame you, for you’d had no time to look into the position. Henry Quandary is a man of education and refinement. He’s a gentleman. He might be described as one of our merchant princes. And the very first thing that he impressed upon me was that so far from injuring the amenities of Tessel Road, he was anxious to preserve them in every way possible.”

“Very nice,” said Mr. Dumphry feebly.

“I think so. As he said to me only this afternoon—”

“I thought he was there this morning.”

“Yes, yes. I kept him to lunch. There was really a great deal of business to settle. As he said, Quandary’s are out to make friends, not enemies. I’ll tell you what’s going to be done. Quandary’s site runs straight through from Tessel Road to Lemon Street. Beginning from Tessel Road we shall first have a rose-garden. Mr. Quandary is an enthusiast on roses and much appreciates the gardens in this road. Behind that there will be a two-storey building, dignified in character, containing boarding-room, offices, and caretaker’s apartments. Over the entrance to that block, carved on the stone, will be the simple word ‘Quandary’s.’ Pure Confectionery will not even be mentioned. At the back of that, but screened by it from Tessel Road, will lie the factory buildings. The entrance for the work-people — and Quandary’s employ only the very highest class — will be from Lemon Street. They will never come into Tessel Road at all. Every modern device in ventilation will be used, and I doubt if we shall ever know that a factory is there. You made a lot of fuss about the wasps last night. Doesn’t it occur to you that the vespae, with their wonderful instinct, will not waste their time in Tessel Road when the whole of the attraction lies behind it in the direction of Lemon Street?”

“I see it,” said Mr. Dumphry eagerly. “I was wrong, and I am prepared to admit it. Of course I did not know then what I know now.’ What you tell me puts an entirely different complexion on the matter. Who’s their architect?”

“Well,” said Pierce Eveleigh, “they thought that I was largely responsible for the general character of Tessel Road, and they wanted the whole thing to be in keeping as far as possible. As a matter of fact, I’m their architect. It’s the biggest job I’ve ever had yet. There are restrictions. They don’t seem to care for too much originality. I shall have to go carefully, but there it is.”

And Mr. Dumphry offered his fervent congratulations.

2

WHAT MR. DUMPHRY DID
FOR
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

It has already been admitted that there were serni-detached houses in Tessel Road. They were few in number. Owing to the trees and shrubs in their front-gardens a careless passer-by might never have suspected that they were only semi-detached. But it is just as well to face the facts. Most of the houses in Tessel Road were detached, standing in what might with a little generosity be called their own grounds. But it did actually contain semi-detached houses, and one of them, “Myholme,” was bought by Donald Fayre, the painter.

He was almost solely a painter. He had probably less practical sense than some dogs. He knew nothing about money, cared nothing about it, and hated to think about it. He was very fond of his wife, who had been his model, and of his three charming children. Apart from that nothing existed except painting.

I cannot tell you why he bought Myholme, nor in all probability could he. He had just sold three pictures, which was at that time rather unusual. He felt that he could buy something. With the expensive assistance of a building society he purchased Myholme. He hated the name as he had seldom hated anything. Its facetiousness made him see red. As soon as he obtained possession of the house he wiped out that name. He did it with crude and unnecessary violence, the principal tool being the kitchen poker. The name had appeared in “Almosta” stained-glass in the fanlight over the front-door. He smashed the fanlight. The name was also painted on the gate. He smashed the gate. And these wild and irrational acts constituted about the only pleasure that he ever got from his possession of the house.

It was really quite unsuitable for him. It had no studio and he had to purchase something superior with an oak floor and put it up in his garden. The children in the next house were learning the piano and took it earnestly. In eight months he did not sell another picture, was heavily in debt, and loathed the whole concern. He sold the house and contents and the studio in the garden by auction without reserve, paid everybody, and trekked for Chelsea. Three months later the newspapers were full of him and he is now perhaps the most fashionable portrait painter in London. But that does not concern this story.

The auction sale at Myholme on a Saturday morning was not well attended. Dealers had not considered it to be worth their notice. But Mr. and Mrs. Dumphry were both there.

Mr. Dumphry’s first purchase was a couple of paintings by Donald Fayre which he secured for rather less than the cost of their frames. Those two paintings now occupy places of honour in the Rest House, and Mr. Dumphry will tell you how he was one of the first to recognize the genius. of Donald Fayre. He would hardly be human if he kept off it. Then Mrs. Dumphry came into action. She bought in one lot two saucepans, three mouse-traps, and a toasting-fork. She did not want any of them, but on the other hand she got them for very little. It was now Mr. Dumphry’s turn to play, and as a matter of fact he had not intended to play at all. The studio in the garden was put up. The auctioneer dwelt on the beauties of the oak floor and the felted roof. This was no vulgar contraption in corrugated iron. The auctioneer then invited somebody to give him a start. A humorist in the back benches suggested ten shillings. Mr. Dumphry did not approve of this at all. “Five pounds,” he said firmly and resonantly. He did not get it for five pounds, but he got it for very little more, in fact for about one-twentieth of its original cost.

He had bought it in reality by accident, but he was quick to show Mrs. Dumphry that that was the purchase which had really caused him to attend the sale. It could be put up at the end of his garden and would serve as a pavilion to sit out in after dinner in the summertime.

And that might have been its ultimate fate but for the fact that Mr. Pierce Eveleigh, the celebrated architect, carried Mr. Dumphry off for a night at the Old Vic. Mr. Dumphry had seen Shakespeare played by Beerbohm Tree. He had seen Shakespeare played with a projecting stage and ladies with green wigs and gilded faces. He had learned and hated Shakespeare at school. But this was the first time that he had been to the Old Vic.

It made a profound impression. He felt that this was the way that Shakespeare meant his work to be played. Shakespeare had no sympathy with scholastic dust or the fripperies of affectation. Here it was played heartily as if the players enjoyed it.

Thus far thus good. But the impressionable Mr. Dumphry became instantly convinced that this was the way in which he personally had always wished to see Shakespeare played. It also looked to him quite easy to play it that way — sufficient proof that the actors were artists. Before the final curtain was down he felt that his lifelong enthusiasm for the work of Shakespeare could be stifled no longer.

“That,” he said to Pierce Eveleigh with conviction, “is the real Shakespeare. That is Shakespeare as I have always understood it. And if this kind of thing can be done about three doors from Waterloo Station, why is it that in Tessel Road we’re doing nothing for Shakespeare at all? Nothing whatever,” he repeated bitterly.

“I don’t know about that,” said Pierce Eveleigh. “I’ve gone without my dinner tonight.”

“You had an egg with your tea,” said Dumphry, intellectual and contemptuous.

“I had two — if you’d been a wise man you’d have done the same — and I shall have supper when I get back. But it means a change in my habits. It means a reasonable amount of self-sacrifice. I journey up to London in the evening in a slow and dismal train, I pay a few shillings for my seat, I travel back by a train which is just as slow and dismal, and also overcrowded. I have done this not once but many times because of my enjoyment of Shakespeare’s work. I shall probably do it many times more. But you, who made your first visit to the old Vic tonight, you turn round and reproach me.”

“Oh, no, no,” protested Mr. Dumphry. “That would be the last thing that would occur to me. Nobody could appreciate your artistic and general culture more than I do. I was not speaking of individuals — I was speaking of Tessel Road generally. And I still say — what has Tessel Road done for Shakespeare?”

“For that matter,” said Pierce Eveleigh, who had common sense except where his professional work was concerned, “what has Upper Hamilton Terrace done for Shakespeare — or Southampton Row — or Park Lane — or any other old street?”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Dumphry, “I know. But Tessel Road is in a special position. I doubt if you will find a more genuinely beautiful road in any of the London suburbs. But if we are to have the — er — the Greek ideal, it must be an interior as well as an external beauty. I’ve been thinking of Shakespeare for many years past, and my experience tonight has simply brought the thing to a head. Tessel Road has definitely got to do something for our greatest national bard.”

“All right. But what? If you like to buy the site of two of those semi-detached houses, I should be quite willing to pull down the houses and put up a Tessel Theatre which might do us credit. But these things mean money. What are you proposing to do for Shakespeare yourself?”

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Dumphry with dignity, “it would be better to ask what I have already done. I have purchased a large studio and I have had it erected in my garden. It is not a theatre. I admit it. But it would be quite possible to put a stage at one end of it and to produce from time to time in the right spirit certain scenes from the works of Shakespeare. And that might lead up to the Tessel Theatre in the end.”

“There might be difficulties,” said Pierce Eveleigh.

“No doubt,” said Dumphry. “To what particular difficulties do you refer?”

“Well, I was told the other day by a man who’s had a lot to do with amateur shows that it’s very easy to find the actresses and not too difficult to find the actors, but that it’s the dickens of a job to find the audience.” “No doubt an audience for Shakespeare has to be trained. I have always realized that. So I should begin slowly.”

“How?”

“No stage at all, no scenery, no costume. A few friends in Tessel Road and elsewhere would be asked to come in after dinner one night. We should adjourn to the studio for a little music. Copies of Shakespeare would be lying about. I might suggest that we should read a scene from, say, ‘Twelfth Night.’ And after that there might be light refreshments. Don’t you think that kind of thing might become popular?”

“Light refreshments are always popular,” said Pierce Eveleigh gloomily.

“And so we should go on slowly, with the general interest in Shakespeare increasing at each step until we were acting complete plays. It might — I don’t say it would — but it might in the end lead to the erection of that Tessel Theatre, dedicated to the work of Shakespeare.”

And this started Mr. Pierce Eveleigh on the subject of theatre architecture. Some of the London theatres, he generously admitted, were better than others. But not one of them — not one in the whole of our vast metropolis — was quite what it would have been if Pierce Eveleigh had been the architect. And with this we may — indeed, we must — agree wholeheartedly.

Mr. Ernest Dumphry appeared to listen, but by now he was not thinking much about theatres. It is a nasty thing to say, but he was not even thinking about Shakespeare. He had not supplemented his tea with eggs or any other form of baseness. He had had no dinner. He was ravenously hungry, and unable to think about anything except cold steak-and-kidney pie and the fact that he would very soon now be enjoying its society.

He found Mrs. Dumphry and supper both awaiting him when he got home, and so far as common politeness would permit, for the first fifteen minutes he gave his attention almost entirely to the latter. Then, when the first fierceness of his appetite was diminished, he became conscious that his wife was saying:

“Oh yes, and both Queenie and Barbara said that I must on no account forget to say that they think you’re a perfect darling to have bought that studio for them, and that it’s miles the best dancing-room in Tessel Road.”

“Dancing-room?” said Mr. Dumphry, perplexed, as he refilled his glass. “I didn’t buy that studio to be a dancing-room.”

“I know. I told them so. I said that the real reason why you had bought it was in order that we might use it as a pavilion to sit out in on summer nights after dinner.”

“That was not the only reason,” said Mr. Dumphry darkly.

“Well, it was the only one you told me. And, as the girls said, the one thing wouldn’t interfere with the other in the very least.”

“And I understand they have already tried it as a dancing-room.”

“Yes. I was telling you about it. The electric light was connected up to it this afternoon. Some of their young friends happened to come in after dinner and we went over to see if the light was all right. Then, I think it was Barbara who suggested it, we carried the gramophone over and started. I must say the place seems absolutely made for it.” Ernest reflected. Dancing would no doubt come in for the purpose of some of the plays. There was “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” for instance, and he had no wish to discourage dancing. His benignity had increased considerably during the last thirty minutes.

“Well, well,” he said, “I have other ideas, but I don’t think they need shut out dancing altogether, not by any means. I’ll speak about it tomorrow at breakfast.”

II.

Mr. Dumphry, at breakfast on the following morning, expressed his great desire to do something for Shakespeare, and described his plans. Of course, he added, he did not want to interfere with the dancing at all. “You’ll be putting up a stage?” asked Barbara.

“Not immediately. But ultimately, perhaps. Why’?”

“Oh, Dad, you see the whole studio is only about thirty foot by twenty, so when you stick up a stage there isn’t very much room for anything else.”

“And,” added Queenie, “if we’re going to do ‘Hamlet,’ who’s to play Hamlet?”

“I should not think of doing ‘Hamlet’ for some time to come,” said Mr. Dumphry. “When the time came I should probably offer the part to Pierce Eveleigh, as being the most important resident in the road.”

“That doesn’t seem to be any reason why he should be able to play Hamlet,” said Queenie.

“No, no. That is so undoubtedly. It is merely a reason why he should be asked to play Hamlet.”

For the moment the girls did not pursue the subject further. They were wise virgins. They had seen their father’s enthusiasm swell up and subsequently subside before.

So later in the morning Barbara and Queenie took counsel with their dearest friend, Eileen Thompson. Now Eileen was young and pretty, but she had other qualities. She had more tact than all the serpents of the field — her enemies said she had more cunning than a cartload of monkeys, which is perhaps a coarse way of expressing the same thing. A plan of campaign was evolved. It was perfectly simple and based on the well-known scientific fact that one method by which a rabbit may be removed from its hole is to insert a ferret. In this case the rabbit, I grieve to say, was William Shakespeare, and that excellent wife and mother, Mrs. Dumphry, was more or less lured into the conspiracy.

When Mr. Dumphry returned from business that evening he found his daughter Barbara, on her way home, had stayed to meet him at the station — a somewhat unusual but welcome attention. His other daughter was in the drawing-room. Queenie was prone to eccentric — not to say indelicate — sprawling on couches or even on the hearthrug, whereof her father disapproved. Tonight she sat, demurely correct, in a chair. She put down the volume of Shakespeare which she had been (or might have been) reading, and rose to greet her father affectionately. Queenie admitted that her school-teaching had rather put her off Shakespeare, and both then and at dinner he delivered his scathing indictment of the academic treatment of Shakespeare. He was heard with respect and avid interest.

“I see it all now,” said Queenie. “Not even Shakespeare can be forced and plugged into people. I’m certain you’re right.”

Previous to dinner Mrs. Dumphry had maintained that Ernest looked tired with his hard day and that if only he would be guided by her he would take a small bottle at dinner. After a decent display of reluctance, he consented to be guided by her, and dinner consisted of those dishes which struck the deepest chords in Mr. Dumphry’s — let us say Mr. Dumphry’s being. These are sordid matters. They should make no difference. But they do.

By the end of dinner Mr. Dumphry’s temper was at its sweetest and his pleasure with things as they are was at its height. A child of three could have played with him. What chance then had he against so accomplished an operator as Eileen Thompson?

Eileen was most apologetic when she called. Her big brown eyes looked appealing. She said she was really so sorry to be troubling them again so soon, but she thought she had dropped a little green pendant of hers on the floor of that delightful dancing-room. Might she go over and have a look for it?

“Of course,” said Queenie and Barbara. “We’ll come over and help you.”

“We’ll all come,” said Mr. Dumphry. “Why not? It will be the first time I’ve seen the inside of this wonderful dancing-room by night.”

So they all went over to the studio. Eileen found her pendant with surprising quickness. But it is always easier to find a thing when you have not really lost it. Mr. Dumphry, still enjoying the end of his cigar, wandered over to the gramophone and started it. In an instant Queenie and Barbara were dancing together, and a very charming couple they made. And then, to Mr. Dumphry’s amazement, his wife began to dance with Eileen. It was more than twenty years since he had last seen his wife dance with anybody.

As the music stopped Eileen came up to Mr. Dumphry.

“Might we have just one more?” she said. “Because I should love to have one dance with you.”

Mr. Dumphry protested. He maintained that he was old and fat. He knew nothing whatever of this modern dancing.

It availed him nothing. Eileen had danced in London the week before with a man at least ten years older than Mr. Dumphry, and he had been just about the best man dancer in the room. Nobody took any notice of age nowadays. She certainly would never have called Mr. Dumphry fat, though fat men were notoriously light on their feet. But if he did not want to become fat, what could possibly be better than dancing? As for learning it, there was really nothing to learn. It was just like walking. First this, then this, and again.

Mr. Dumphry let himself be persuaded. He made one round of the studio and came back to his seat amid universal applause.

His daughters laughingly accused him of having taken secret lessons. Eileen said that she knew a boy of eighteen who had taken six lessons from a professional and could not do it as well as that if his life depended on it. Mr. Dumphry was pleased. Said he supposed it was a fluke. They might as well try another. At half-past eleven that night they were still dancing.

The name of William Shakespeare was not mentioned in the Rest House on the following day. But Mr. Dumphry mentioned that the Greeks thought much of dancing. He also said that he rather thought he might put up a small musicians’ gallery at one end of the studio. The victory of the conspiracy was overwhelming. It was about a month later that Mr. Dumphry was taken to task by Mr. Pierce Eveleigh.

“This dancing’s all very well, Ernest,” said Pierce. “But what about Shakespeare?”

“Well, I’ve thought it over,” said Mr. Dumphry. “There is the insuperable difficulty that it would be necessary, when we came to a complete performance, to charge for admission, and that would mean that every Tom, Dick and Harry in the neighbourhood would have a right to come tramping down my private garden to the studio. It couldn’t be put up with. No doubt I should have thought of it before. I’m inclined to think, Pierce, that you’re right. I’m taking my wife and the girls up to the Old Vic next week. We shall have to give up our dinner, but what does that matter?”

“You can always have an egg with your tea,” said Pierce Eveleigh.

“I might,” said Mr. Dumphry.

He did. He had three.

3

HOW MR. DUMPHRY
INVESTIGATED CRIME

Mr. Ernest Dumphry, returning from his avocation rather earlier than usual, found his household somewhat excited.

“Been a burglary,” called his young daughter Queenie.

The law and the dictionary would not have called it burglary, but we all speak inaccurately.

“I’ve never known such a thing to happen in Tessel Road since we’ve been here,” added Mrs. Dumphry, breathless. “In broad daylight too. The sheer impertinence of it. At least fifty pounds’ worth, they say.”

“You telephoned for the police at once?” asked Mr. Dumphry.

“Oh no! Why should we? The burglary wasn’t here.”

“I think you might have mentioned that before,” said Ernest mildly. “You gave me quite a shock, talking in that way. Now do sit down, my dear, and tell me the whole thing quietly. First, where was the burglary?”

“Why, at the Pierce Eveleighs’,” called Queenie.

“It was your mother I was asking. But, however. And the second point is, what—”

Here Mrs. Dumphry broke in: “Such old friends of ours. It does seem rather inconsiderate, Ernest, don’t you think? Poor Mouse is taking it splendidly, but she’s lost such a lot of her pretty things. There was that lovely old watch of hers, with the enamel back—”

“With the green scriggly things on it,” added Queenie hastily. “And the man must have been an expert, for he never took the pearls, though they were exactly like—”

“And four rings,” continued Mrs. Dumphry, “including the one with ‘Mizpah’ on it which had been her aunt’s.”

Mr. Dumphry waited patiently till the rain of details ceased, and some of the main facts emerged clearly from the mist.

That afternoon Mr. Pierce Eveleigh in his profession as an architect was over at the offices which were being erected for Quandary’s. Mrs. Eveleigh was also out, having been bidden to a hen luncheon-party with bridge to follow. The cook was in the kitchen. The house — parlourer had obligingly run down to the far end of the garden to tell the gardener that gooseberries would be wanted. And the glass doors from Pierce Eveleigh’s library into the garden stood wide open, as usual, the weather being mild.

These doors, being at the back of the house, were not visible from the road. But a curious person could enter from the road and walk round to the back of the house, and that was what the thief did. He entered the library, passed through into the hall, nipped up the stairs into Mrs. Eveleigh’s room, and found his booty in the unlocked drawer of her dressing-table. He need not have been in the house for more than a couple of minutes.

He was seen by one person only, and that was the house-parlourer. She had but one swift glimpse of him, as he was leaving and she was returning from the gooseberry expedition.

“I saw him and I did not see him, if you understand me,” she explained, “for he was round the corner and out of sight almost before I knew he was there, but I should say he was dressed darkish.”

“Well,” said Mr. Dumphry, when he had heard the story, “all I can say is that this does not surprise me.”

“Doesn’t surprise you?” said his wife.

“No,” said Ernest. “In looking into a problem of this kind the first thing to do is to place yourself in imagination in the position of the burglar. You have to realize what his thoughts would be. This burglar thought to himself: ‘I will break into some house in Tessel Road.’ ”

“Why?” asked Queenie.

“Now, Queenie,” said her mother, “please do not interrupt your father until he has finished.” (The problem of how to interrupt a man who has stopped talking passed through Queenie’s mind.)

“The burglar,” Ernest continued, “then asks himself which house it is to be. Naturally he chooses Pierce Eveleigh’s, as being the largest and most imposing and likely to offer the most loot. That being so, he keeps close observation on the house and its occupants perhaps for some weeks. He makes a note of Eveleigh’s passion for open windows and of the jewellery that Mrs. Eveleigh wears. The thing is obvious. Not only is it certain that if any house is burgled in Tessel Road it will be Pierce’s, but it is certain that the burglary will be carried out precisely as it has been.”

“The way you seem to be able to reconstruct things is wonderful,” said Mrs. Dumphry.

“Perfectly simple. I think it would be a friendly act if I just stepped across and saw Pierce.”

“I’m not sure,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “Mouse only left here five minutes before you came in, and she gave us to understand that Pierce was very much upset. He’s almost more annoyed with the police than he is with the burglar.”

“Well, well, I can make allowances,” said Ernest. “Irritating thing to happen to anybody.”

Pierce Eveleigh was certainly very upset. He was gaunt, grim, and terribly sarcastic.

“Insured?” he said, in reply to Ernest’s kind inquiry. “Oh yes, we’re insured. Against fire. This is not a fire. Can you tell me what we pay our iniquitous rates and taxes for? I’ve been here a good many years, and this is the first day I’ve seen a live policeman in Tessel Road. They might as well put a notice to burglars in the local paper, inviting them to Tessel Road and promising there will be no police interference. Mind you, there’s enough of them when it’s too late to do anything. I’ve had about half the force here this afternoon, one time and another, including a fat-headed fool in plain clothes who seemed to think he was some kind of detective. He wanted to examine my servants. ‘Why?’ I said. ‘They’ve been here five years, and if they’d been dishonest I should have noticed it in that time.’ That won’t do for His Highness. He’s going to try to get a better description out of Ellen of the man she saw. All she can tell him is what she told me — that the man was ‘dressed darkish.’ ‘Hat or cap?’ asks the genius. ‘But I don’t know whether he had a hap or a cat,’ says Ellen, and goes into hysterics. So of course both the maids have given notice.”

“And have the police found any clue?”

“No. They’re making inquiries. In six weeks’ time they’ll still be making inquiries. And that will be the end of it. Not one of them, from the top-boss to the common cop, has got the intelligence of a blow-fly.”

“Do they think it’s a chance theft or the work of a regular professional?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. What they think or don’t think is of no importance to anybody. What’s quite clear to my mind is that if you live in Tessel Road you needn’t expect any protection from the police — we’ve got to look after ourselves.”

Thus unintentionally did Pierce Eveleigh, speaking inaccurately, without wisdom, and in a very bad temper, sow the desire to be a sleuth in the warmly receptive and dangerously fertile mind of Mr. Ernest Dumphry.

“Presumably,” said Mr. Dumphry, his brow indicating deep thought, “presumably the thief used the front staircase.”

“Seeing that he would have had to walk through the kitchen, where the cook was, to get to the other — very presumably.”

Ernest asked a few more equally pertinent questions, renewed his condolences, and went home with his mind much occupied. Here was a problem — could he solve it?

At dinner his wife asked what he made of it.

“Well, I was called in too late.”

“Called in? You weren’t exactly called in, Ernest, were you?”

“That,” Ernest admitted, “is in a sense true. But Pierce has no confidence in the local police, and he seemed to me rather to imply that he would like my assistance. What I meant is that a crowd of policemen had already been all over the place, and they may unwittingly have destroyed clues which I should have found useful. Still, I have made a few observations and notes. After dinner I shall see what can be done with them. Possibly nothing,” he added humbly. “However, don’t let me be disturbed while I am working in the library.”

“Oh, we shan’t disturb you. We shall be dancing in the studio, you know.”

Mr. Dumphry had forgotten that, and looked rather wistful. He had taken to dancing somewhat late in life, but he had become very fond of it.

“Well,” he said, “I might be able to come over to the studio later. I will if I can.”

In the library Ernest began methodically by taking the different persons in Pierce Eveleigh’s household, and putting down in writing the case, if any, against them. Thus he began with Mrs. Eveleigh as follows:

“Eveleigh, Emma. Also known as ‘Mouse.’ Rather frivolous character. Plays bridge. Incurs large debt of honour. Afraid to tell husband. So sells part of her jewellery, and arranges bogus burglary to cover its disappearance.”

But brilliant and convincing though this theory looked at first, it had to be abandoned. To say that Mrs. Eveleigh played bridge somewhat flattered her game. She did play what she believed to be bridge, but she played it about once a fortnight in her own circle for points that never exceeded sixpence a hundred. That seemed to dispose of the “large debt of honour.” Also, although Ernest had known Pierce to be definitely afraid of Mouse, he had never known Mouse to be in the faintest degree afraid of her husband. Brilliant but a wash-out.

He tore the sheet from the writing-block and carefully destroyed it. He was about to begin on his second theory when through the open window from the studio came the sound of piano and violin. The violin indicated that a married daughter of Mr. Dumphry’s had arrived, as she not infrequently did, with her husband. Good tune. Very catching. Mr. Dumphry, holding an imaginary partner, gyrated three times round the library table before it suddenly dawned on him that this was not conduct befitting the head of the Criminal Investigation Department.

He returned to meditation and his writing-block. The second theory he formed was more elaborate. He wrote it as follows:

Conspiracy between Cook and Gardener. Suspicious points are (1) Orders to Gardener usually given in morning. Why gooseberries forgotten? (2) Why does not Cook go herself to ask gooseberries, instead of sending Ellen? (3) Gooseberry bushes being out of sight of library entrance to garden, presumably library entrance out of sight of gooseberry bushes.

What happens then is that gooseberries are intentionally forgotten. Ellen is sent for them in order to get her out of the way and out of sight of garden entrance to library. Cook then gives sign that all is clear to thief waiting in road by tapping window or some such. Gardener detains Ellen but not quite long enough. Hence glimpse.

Ernest read this through carefully. Good, but not quite perfect. There were holes in it. The cook had a reputation for honesty many years long. She was known to be on the worst possible terms with the gardener, as the cook generally is. Also, why did she tap at the window when it would have been so much simpler to push it open two inches at the bottom and hand out a small parcel of jewellery already prepared by her?

Still, Mr. Dumphry felt he had done as much as criminal investigation could expect of him for one night. Besides, it would be unkind not to go over to the studio to see his son-in-law and his daughter Elsa. Very catchy tune, that. Wonderful rhythm.

As a rule these almost impromptu and quite informal dances stopped at ten o’clock. Tonight, with the connivance — and even at the direct instigation — of Mr. Dumphry himself, they danced till after eleven, and then proceeded to raid the house for light refreshments. Mr. Dumphry was very popular that night. On the subject of his investigations he was reticent; said that some rather promising lines had opened up but it would be premature to say more at the moment.

During the next two days Mr. Pierce Eveleigh, who had no faith in the police, inquired of them diligently and frequently what results they had obtained. Mr. Dumphry continued his theories but perhaps with a diminished enthusiasm, and on the night of the second day another burglary took place in Tessel Road.

This time the burglary was at “Myosotis,” the residence of the Wilkinsons. The burglar’s prize was very small, for he was interrupted. Mr. Dumphry was annoyed, for he did not know the Wilkinsons — had made a special point of not knowing them — and in consequence he was in no position to call in at “Myosotis” and pursue his investigation. Thus, he had no doubt, he missed many valuable clues. Mrs. Dumphry said that if these things did have to be it was at any rate more satisfactory that they should happen at night as being far more what one expected. ‘Mr. Pierce Eveleigh became quiet, amused, and more deadly bitter than ever.

“I am writing to The Times about this,” he told Ernest. “It will be quite a temperate letter, but I rather think it will bring about some drastic changes in our local police force.”

Possibly it might have done if the letter had ever appeared. It ran to six bitter typewritten pages and definitely libelled by name about half a dozen people of local prominence, and even then The Times did not print it.

And then on a Saturday afternoon it chanced that Mr. Dumphry, wandering down Tessel Road, espied a young man leaning against a lamp-post. The young man wore a darkish suit. He was reading a newspaper, but kept constantly looking up from it. As Mr. Dumphry passed him, the young man gave a whistle — obviously a signal of some kind. Mr. Dumphry was much impressed.

When he returned home he said to his wife:

“As a result of observations I have made, it seems to me definitely certain that there will be a third burglary in Tessel Road tonight. If there is not it will simply mean that something has happened to prevent it. Say nothing about it to Queenie. I don’t want to make her nervous.”

As a matter of fact, Queenie was not a nervous young lady. As for the burglary, something must have happened to prevent it. It did not take place. For several evenings in succession Mr. Dumphry would leave the house and patrol Tessel Road in search of suspicious circumstances. He found none. On each occasion Tessel Road seemed to be looking very much as usual.

“It’s rather hard lines,” he said to his wife. “Had we but known the Wilkinsons, had I but been able to call there and put the questions which occurred to me — questions which apparently have not been put by the police at all — I have very little doubt that by this time I should have been able to put my hand on the thief. As it is, you must see for yourself that I am working under tremendous disadvantages.”

“Tremendous,” said the docile Mrs. Dumphry.

When the next Saturday came round it suddenly occurred to Mr. Dumphry in the afternoon that he might go out and see if that young man in the darkish suit was still loitering about the place. Not having his latchkey with him, and expecting to be back in a minute or two, he pulled the front door to behind him, but did not actually shut it.

And there was the man — the same young man, in the same darkish suit, leaning against the same lamp-post, making the same pretence of reading a newspaper. Mr. Dumphry’s heart leapt with joy — the joy of the sleuth who feels that he is at last penetrating the heart of the mystery. Had there been a policeman in sight, there is no doubt that Mr. Dumphry would have asked him to detain the young man on the ground of suspicious loitering. But there was no policeman.

Mr. Dumphry decided to walk slowly on to the end of the road and back. If he met a policeman, he would instruct him. If not, he would return and telephone the police-station.

He met no policeman. As he was returning he noticed some way ahead of him the young man still in situ. And then suddenly things happened. The young man folded his paper hurriedly, thrust it into his pocket, flicked a little cigarette-ash from his coat, and straightened himself up. At the same time a brightly dressed young person emerged from the tradesman’s entrance to “Stratford” on the other side of the road, drawing on her gloves. They met in the middle of the road, where the young man gave her a perfectly good kiss, and they walked off together, she clinging affectionately to his arm.

And Mr. Dumphry realized the cold, pungent, and quite unsatisfactory truth that he had merely witnessed a customary assignation between the maid from “Stratford” and her young man on the occasion of her Saturday afternoon off.

Mr. Dumphry was not quite at his sunniest when he reached his house. He found the door shut, and this annoyed him further, for he had to ring. Probably West, the house-parlourmaid, had shut that door. “Always officious,” said Mr. Dumphry savagely under his breath.

The door was opened to him immediately by West, and just behind him was Mrs. Dumphry in what might have been described as a highly emotional condition.

“Oh dear me, Ernest!” she cried. “Such a dreadful thing has happened. The thief has been here.”

“Impossible,” said Mr. Dumphry. “I’ve scarcely been out of the house five minutes.”

“I know. Those were the five. Either somebody left the front door ajar, or the man had a skeleton key.”

This gave Mr. Dumphry rather a nasty jab in the conscience, but he pulled himself together.

“An ordinary front door,” he said judicially, “presents no difficulty to the professed burglar. What has the man taken?”

“We’re not sure yet. There’s a lot of table-silver from the dining-room, and your presentation umbrella, with the gold band round it, from the hall. He must have been very quick indeed.”

“We’ve lost nothing,” said Mr. Dumphry proudly. “Pierce Eveleigh was not insured. I am. There is such a thing as foresight. Have you phoned the police?”

“We may not have lost the money value,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “But the image of a thief — a man whom we don’t even know personally — standing calmly there in my dining-room, will haunt me for months. And West feels just the same, don’t you?”

“Yessurn, indeed,” said the obedient West.

“I was asking,” said Mr. Dumphry — still calm, mark you — “if you had phoned the police.”

“Well, no. Naturally not. We waited, of course, to see what you would advise.”

“It seems,” said Mr. Dumphry, a little pained perhaps but not angry, “as if all women lose their heads in a crisis. I will go to the telephone at once.”

But he never did. At that moment the front bell rang furiously twice, and this was followed immediately by a curious syncopated knock which was the special prerogative of Queenie.

Queenie entered in such a state of excitement that she was unable to remain still or to speak. As she waltzed round the table she sang the following:

“Oh, joy!

Oh, bliss!

We’ve caught the dirty dog,

We’ve caught the thief.”

Regarded as vers libre, nothing could have been better. But it did not satisfy Mr. Dumphry.

“Control yourself, Queenie,” he said, “Please control yourself. What has happened? What do you mean by we?”

“Me and the two policemen.”

But the rest of her story may be told perhaps in a slightly less incoherent form than that in which she delivered it.

She was returning from lunch with her married sister Elsa. As she approached the house she saw a small man with a brown bag and an umbrella that was too tall for him emerge from the front door. This struck Queenie at once. The gas and the water always used the back door. The small elderly man looked up and down the road once or twice. Queenie bent down, undid a shoelace, and proceeded laboriously and slowly to do it up again. When the man left the house she followed him. He walked quickly, but she could recognize the presentation umbrella. So when he got into the main road she shouted to the policeman: “Stop thief! Stop that man I ”

The man began to run. The policeman did his best, missed him, and blew his whistle. A little further on a second policeman mixed himself up with the man and they both fell to the earth together, the first policeman and Queenie arriving shortly afterwards, blown but triumphant. The brown bag, when opened, proved very incriminatory.

“And,” said Queenie, “will you go down to the police-station to identify the stuff, or shall they send it up here?”

“I will go down,” said Mr. Dumphry. “I may add that I think that on the whole you acted sensibly. You did exactly what I should have done.”

•   •   •

Some months afterwards Mr. Biggs told Mr. Dumphry that he really felt rather anxious — there had been so many burglaries in his neighbourhood lately.

“What you’ve got to do,” said Mr. Dumphry, “is to remember that a thief or burglar is just a human being like yourself. We had a burglary epidemic in my part of the world. Everybody was arranging special burglar alarms and seeing that all the windows and doors were shut and locked. What I did was to go out and leave the door ajar. The burglar came in as I knew he would and — let’s see, today’s the twenty-first, isn’t it? — he’s doing time now.”

4

MR. ERNEST DUMPHRY,
MRS. EDNA WILTER,
MR. FOOTE,
AND THE LATE
NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE

As a chartered accountant Mr. Dumphry was concerned with absolute facts and the absolutely correct presentation of facts. In this he was expert and inflexible. He had all the cold certainty of death and the taxes.

But on his way back to his residence “The Rest House,” Tessel Road, he perceptibly thawed and expanded. He became capable of an optimistic view or even of a slight exaggeration. His interests were wide, and included the arts so far as he understood them or a shade further. In his leisure hours his enthusiasm was highly inflammable. He was ready to go into any subject and quite likely to go in off the deep end. On a Saturday afternoon after luncheon, Mr. Dumphry picked up the local newspaper and carried it off to his study for perusal. An hour later he opened his eyes, straightened himself up in his chair, flicked the tobacco-ash from his waistcoat, and picked up from the floor his pipe, his eye-glasses, and the aforesaid newspaper.

And an advertisement in the newspaper chanced to attract his attention. It stated that the world-famous medium, Edna Wilter, would be in the neighbourhood for the ensuing fortnight, and on every day except Sunday would be ready to hold séances between the hours of two and six and eight and eleven. Edna was specially controlled by Napoleon Buonaparte, Sir Walter Scott, and Sambo, the negro revivalist. Edna was kindly permitted to offer references to well-known people. Descending to comparatively sordid matters, the advertisement stated that the charge for a single admission was ten shillings. By a generous concession the charge for two members of a family or two friends coming together was only seventeen-and-six.

No sooner had he read this than it was quite certain that Ernest Dumphry would be one of Edna’s patrons. It was also probable that (some afterglow of the chartered accountant remaining) he would take advantage of the reduced terms.

But Ernest himself did not yet know this. As with many others, his unconscious mind might come to a decision, but his conscious mind was sent out on a quest — predestined to success — for adequate reasons for accepting the decision.

The adequate reasons were in this case soon forthcoming. Mr. Dumphry had never been present at any séances, though he had read reports of them. In the past he had spoken slightingly and even contemptuously of spiritualism. Yet he had never personally investigated the matter. Was such conduct on his part right? Was it fair? Was it, so to speak, British? It was not. And from that moment Edna Wilter, could she have known it, might have been quite certain of at least eight-and-ninepence of Mr. Dumphry’s best money.

Mr. Dumphry accordingly proceeded to inquire whether any member of his family would care to accompany him in his investigation. He drew blank.

“Really, Ernest,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “I am surprised that you should ask me. I am not superstitious nor nervous. But bells and tambourines going off suddenly in the darkness, with icy breaths, and blue flashes, and quite possibly spirits hovering, are more than I could undertake or should be asked to undertake. You know what I’m like next day when I’ve not had a proper night’s rest.”

Mr. Dumphry’s daughter, Queenie, a practical and up-to-date young lady, was also opposed to the project.

“Eight-and-nine’s rather a lot,” she said. “And I don’t know of anything I wouldn’t sooner spend it on. It’s simply devastating — bores you sick and stiff. It’s not a game for the young. Now Mr. Pierce Eveleigh might like it.”

Mr. Dumphry’s friend and neighbour, Pierce Eveleigh, was not immediately available, as he was a spectator of a football match. He took an interest in sport, and could comment unfavourably on any selection of any cricket eleven or football team. He was not, and never had been, a player. In his profession he was terribly artistic, and in private life he was not without common sense, though he preferred to be thought cynical.

Ernest calculated that at six he would be able to secure Pierce Eveleigh. He crossed the road and found Pierce at home. He submitted to a good deal of talk about that football match with every simulation of interest. He submitted also to a certain amount of chaff from Mrs. Eveleigh. But in the end Ernest gained his point.

“What I think,” said Pierce, “is that the results obtained by spiritualism up to date are not commensurate with its pretensions, nor even consistent with them. I also think that we could get a better show for less money at the Picture Palace. Still, I’ve never been to a séance and may as well go. Saturday’s no use — the football’s rather special that day. But if you’ll take Wednesday afternoon off for this spirit game next week, I’ll do the same.”

And Mr. Dumphry joyfully assented.

So on Wednesday about half-past two Mr. Dumphry and the eminent architect arrived at the address given in the advertisement. It was not a brilliant address. The street was poor. The house, which was semi-detached, seemed as if it might be in the habit of letting furnished apartments. Many houses in the street seemed like that, and even proclaimed the fact by notices in the windows.

A maid answered the door, not too clean, frightened, fish-eyed, and thick in the ankles. But she was almost immediately supplanted by a short and quite nicely dressed man who emerged from an adjoining room. He looked as if he might be rather older than he looked.

“Come in, gentlemen,” he said. “You have called for a séance? You are fortunate. Madame is disengaged at the moment. We have had a great rush of work here since our arrival. However, kindly step this way.”

He took them into the room from which he had just come out. It was furnished very much as a ground-floor sitting-room generally is in houses of the type. There was the usual aspidistra in the front window. It looked as if it were dying. But it had looked like that ever since the house was built, and had never died, and probably never would. Behind the aspidistra was a writing-table which did not look as if it belonged to the rest of the furniture. It was cumbered with papers and notebooks and there was also on it a cone of tin about one foot in height.

The little man selected one of the notebooks. “I should perhaps explain,” he said, “that I am Mr. James Wilter, the husband of Edna, but unfortunately not sharing in any way her marvellous gifts. I merely act as her business manager. The first thing for you to do, gentlemen, is to sign your names in our visitors’ book.”

He presented the notebook opened with the date written at the top of a page. Mr. Pierce Eveleigh inscribed his name first in his characteristic and very angular handwriting, and Mr. Dumphry followed in round, simple, legible letters.

“Good,” said Mr. Wilter. “Now the next step is the payment of the fees, which we always have in advance. Ten shillings each, I think.”

“Seventeen-and-six for two friends,” said Mr. Ernest Dumphry (with the chartered accountant well alight in him), and he put down a ten-shilling note and three half-crowns.

“Quite so. Quite so,” Mr. Wilter agreed. “I did not know whether you had come together or not. Now before We begin there are just one or two points to mention. Firstly, we do not profess to tell the future, and if at any point Mrs. Wilter should seem to indicate it, no charge is made for that part of the entertainment, if I may use the word. Secondly, we expect you to act as gentlemen. The medium is my wife, and I must respect her health. Any sudden use of electric torches during the dark séance would be most prejudicial to it. And if we are fortunate enough this afternoon to obtain any materialisation of the great Emperor or one of the other spirits controlling Mrs. Wilter, I must beg you most earnestly not to make any attempt whatever to touch the materialisation. It is a well-known scientific fact that such materialisations are formed from a substance called ectoplasm, emanating from the body of the medium. Subsequently to the materialisation this ectoplasm is re-absorbed. Any interference whatever with this process exposes the medium to the greatest possible risk. It has been known, though the case was not allowed to get into the papers, to cause death.”

Mr. Dumphry shuddered. Clearly he would have to go very carefully.

“And now,” said Mr. Wilter more lightly. “For the first experiment, will each of you write down on these slips of paper the name of some lady in whom you are interested? Do not of course show it to me, but when you have written it drop the slip into that tin cone and close the base of it.” He walked away to the other end of the room.

The two investigators wrote the names they had selected with their respective fountain-pens on the thin slips.

Under directions from Mr. Wilter, still at the further end of the room, Mr. Dumphry placed those slips in the tin cone, closed the base, and secured it with a seal from his own signet ring. The base was not of tin like the rest of the cone. It was composed of closely-woven wire. Mr. Dumphry satisfied himself that the slips could not be extracted through the very small orifice at the top of the cone. Nor, when he looked through that orifice, could he even see them — much less read them.

“Well,” said Mr. Wilter, “I think we are now ready to begin.”

He rang the bell and asked the maid with the thick ankles to tell Madame that two gentlemen were waiting for a séance. He hardly had time to add one or two pungent and searching remarks on the weather before the door opened and Edna herself entered.

She was rather a large woman. She wore a loose and flowing robe of black. She had two rings of bronze on her fingers and certain bracelets of green jade, or thereabouts, on her arms. Her face was pale, her eyes were very small, and the colour of her hair a warm chestnut that did not look quite real. Nor, as a matter of fact, was it.

“Let me introduce these two gentlemen, my dear,” said Mr. Wilter. “They are — bless my soul, I saw their names in the book and I’ve forgotten them.”

“That does not matter,” said Edna. “Perhaps I may be able to find them for myself. Shall we get ready to begin?”

Mr. Wilter became busy, placing chairs round the table, opening a small harmonium in the corner of the room, and talking rapidly the whole time.

“I think that’s all,” said Mr. Wilter.

“Very well,” said Edna, and seated herself at the table. “Mr. Dumphry, will you sit on my right — and you, Mr. Eveleigh, on my left? Place your hands on the table before you, please.”

Was it not marvellous? Edna had never been near the closed book in which the two men had written their names. James had definitely stated that he had forgotten them. Yet Edna now knew what their names were.

“You have our names quite correctly,” said Mr. Dumphry. “Very remarkable.”

“They just came to me,” said Edna, smiling faintly. “James, will you darken the room now, please, and give us a little music.”

James drew a double curtain over the window, and groped his way to the harmonium, knocking against Mr. Eveleigh and apologising. He played a lugubrious tune, with errors for which the darkness may have been responsible, though it can hardly have been the darkness that made the instrument so fiendishly out of tune.

James now took his place in the circle, and instantly momentary sparks of light — red, blue and green — showed themselves on the writing-table against the window.

“The spirit lights,” said James in an awestruck and audible whisper.

The lights ceased. There was a minute or two of absolute silence, broken suddenly by a shriek of loud, wild, negro laughter. It startled Mr. Dumphry considerably.

“Sambo, the revivalist,” said James, explanatory but still awestruck. “He is often here. Listen. Good afternoon, Sambo.”

“My respec’s to de company. I’se gwine ter tell yo’ something,” said Sambo, speaking, as it were, via Mrs. Wilter.

And Sambo went on speaking for some time. It was a semi-religious discourse, delivered at great speed and frequently unintelligible, containing a few very aged jokes. Mr. Dumphry became deadly weary of it, and suddenly the discourse ceased — snapped off in the middle of a sentence.

“Another spirit is present,” the awestruck James whispered. “And Sambo is jealous. He is often like that. You must excuse him.”

“Who is the other spirit?” whispered Mr. Dumphry hoarsely.

“Sire! Emperor! Napoleon!” said Edna in an approximation to her natural voice.

“‘Ssh,” said James warningly. And Mr. Dumphry ’sshed.

“There may be a materialisation,” whispered James. “Keep your eyes fixed on the medium.”

They did. A faint glow, hardly a light, appeared some two yards behind Mrs. Wilter’s chair. As the glow increased they became conscious of a figure. It was beyond mistake the Napoleon of the portraits. It wore a black cloak and its hat was correctly period. They could see that just below it the medium leaned back in her chair with her mouth wide open. For one moment it increased in clearness and intensity and then died out suddenly into the darkness again.

“If either of you two gentlemen would like to put a question to the great Emperor, he will probably respond through the medium by automatic writing.”

Now this was all very well, but neither Mr. Pierce Eveleigh nor Mr. Dumphry had come there prepared with any question whatever which they could put to the Emperor Napoleon. They offered apologies which were well received and Mr. James Wilter announced that this concluded the séance.

The curtains were drawn back and the light restored. Edna gave a realistic representation of a person recovered from a heavy sleep, but Mr. Dumphry was not to be done.

“Just one point,” said Mr. Dumphry. “My friend and I each deposited the name of a lady in that tin cone over there on the writing-table. There was some suggestion that you might be able to tell us—”

“Oh, that,” said Edna. “Yes, that’s all right. You wrote the name Queenie, Mr. Dumphry. Your friend, Mr. Eveleigh, wrote the name Monica — at least it was a pet name for Monica. The actual word written was Monse. Am I correct?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Dumphry.

“No,” said Mr. Eveleigh.

Outside in the street Mr. Dumphry asked Mr. Eveleigh: “What do you make of it, Pierce?”

“Mighty little for eight-and-nine. And I should say the whole thing was a fraud. What do you think yourself?”

“Well, I suspend judgement. Of course you do make your u’s very like your n’s, Pierce.”

“What’s that got to do with it? We were told that those slips were sealed up and invisible to the human eye. Spirits should be able to see what you mean just as much as what you write. I don’t pretend to explain everything, but the thing leaves me with an impression of fraud. Isn’t that so?”

“I shall deliver no opinion as yet,” said Mr. Dumphry. “It will be necessary to witness one more performance. I shall be there on Saturday, and I hope you will come with me.”

“Come, come,” said Mr. Eveleigh. “I told you about the football on Saturday.”

On Saturday afternoon Mr. Dumphry, as he approached the doorstep of the spirits, encountered a young man approaching it from the opposite direction. The young man wore a light suit and tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles. His hair was very smooth, his lips were very thin, and he apparently possessed character.

“Hullo,” said the young man, “you here as a believer?”

“Merely an investigator,” said Mr. Dumphry. “And yourself?”

“Well, I’m just putting in a weekend with my family and I thought I’d push in here on the off chance that there might be something I could use for my show. You may know my name.”

The card which he handed to Mr. Dumphry bore the name “Mr. Morning Foote, Illusionist.”

“I’m extremely glad to have met you,” said Mr. Dumphry. “I have been here before, and I am by no means satisfied about the show myself. You may be able to help me to a decision.”

“I shall be,” said Mr. Foote. “Let’s push the push and get them moving.”

Mr. Foote rang the bell in a loud and prolonged way which seemed to Mr. Dumphry slightly irreverent. Asked if he had called for a séance, Mr. Foote said lightly that what he really wanted was half a dozen absolutely new-laid, but he would take a séance to be going on with.

The programme was almost exactly the same as before. Mr. Foote wrote down his name as Richard Smith, and was thus addressed by Edna. He seemed to take the whole thing light-heartedly. When James began to play on the harmonium Mr. Foote inquired if they couldn’t cut out that imitation of a cat with the stomach-ache. Mr. Dumphry felt that such an attitude was all wrong, and yet he noted that during the whole thing Mr. and Mrs. Wilter seemed to be a shade afraid of Mr. Foote.

The only variation of the programme was that Sir Walter Scott obliged with a few words in a Glasgow accent. The address by Sambo, the revivalist, was, so far as Mr. Dumphry could recall it, precisely the same as on the last occasion. Mr. Foote made no comment or remark until he was asked if there was any question which he wished to put to the Emperor Napoleon.

“Yes,” said Mr. Foote. “There’s a well-known saying of his that he addressed to Hudson Lowe on the island of St. Helena, and I’ve often wondered what he meant by it. He said that the English had but eaten the outer husks of victory and that the kernel might yet poison them.”

The light was admitted, and Edna was provided with a writing-pad and pencil. What she wrote was: “I meant that the English had conquered me, but that this very fact might prove dangerous to them. It might produce a spirit of aggrandisement and imperialism, of recklessness without any feeling for the poor and oppressed, of very wide and dangerous ambitions.”

“There is your answer,” said James, handing the block to Mr. Foote. “Are you satisfied?”

“Quite,” said Mr. Foote, without reading the writing. “Shall we be going, Mr. Dumphry?”

“One moment,” said Edna. “You each of you deposited in the tin cone, sealed with Mr. Dumphry’s seal, the name of a lady. You, Mr. Dumphry, wrote the name Jane.”

“Correct,” said Mr. Dumphry.

“And you, Mr. Smith,” Edna proceeded, “wrote the words: ‘Little Fanny Foxface.’ I may add that I think you are hardly approaching so serious an occasion as the present in the right spirit.”

“Very likely,” said Mr. Foote cheerily. “But don’t let it depress you. Good-bye, Mrs. Wilter. Good-bye, James.”

“It was almost worth while to pay the money,” said Mr. Foote cheerfully, when they were walking away together, “to see how rotten a show can be. Thirty-ninth-rate conjuring.”

“But these people have the highest references.”

“Have they? You didn’t write to them. If you had, you might have heard a different story. In any case, the only reference from a medium that I should think worth notice would be a reference to a first-class illusionist.”

“How then do they get their results?”

“Easy as kiss. James does most of the work. Pretends to forget the names entered in the book. While he’s messing about with the chairs he gives the names to Edna by position code — and he’s not very smart at it. The dummy top-half of Napoleon is kept in the top of the harmonium, and James gets it out. While Edna is trying to talk negro dialect, James goes over to the writing-table, slips the cone over an electric light, which has been hidden by the litter, glues his eye to the top of the cone, and switches on — quite enough light comes through that wire-woven base to show the names on the slips He writes them down on another slip, comes back, and puts that slip in dear Edna’s handkerchief which has conveniently fallen to the ground. He’s kneeling behind her while he manipulates the Napoleon dummy.”

“But how do you know it was a dummy?”

“Eyes never moved. And a painted and varnished mask lights up differently from a real face. The lighting’s done by an electric torch with the bulb slightly darkened at first.”

“But that great saying of Napoleon to Sir Hudson Lowe — I noticed you never even read the explanation of it.”

“Because Napoleon never said it. I made that up on the spur of the moment. I had James under observation. When the room was first dark he pretended to grope clammily — really he has his guiding points and moves as easily in the dark as in the light. He wore squeaky shoes — but he kicks those off after the séance has begun, and moves without noise in his socks. I had only to stretch my hand out to find if he was still in his chair — I did so. Clumsy and childish — the whole thing.”

“Why didn’t you expose them?” asked Mr. Dumphry. “Why should I?” said Mr. Foote good-naturedly. “The poor duffers have got a living to get. Besides, they knew I knew.”

“I rather think they did,” Mr. Dumphry agreed.

On his return to Tessel Road, Mr. Dumphry called on Pierce Eveleigh and announced that he was now in a position to expose the whole of Edna Wilter’s tricks, and to show how they were done. But Pierce Eveleigh was not in the mood at the moment for being impressed.

“Of course, Ernest,” he said, “it’s very clever and ingenious of you. But I understood you were out to investigate spiritualists — all you’ve done is to show that these people are not spiritualists but common frauds.”

“And is that my fault?” asked Mr. Dumphry coldly.

5

MR. DUMPHRY’S
CARAVAN HOLIDAY

“Why is it,” asked Mr. Dumphry almost imperiously, as he filled his glass with port after the Sunday midday meal, “why is it that we do not eat more nuts?”

“I do,” said Queenie, “lots more than you do.”

“Admitted,” said Mr. Dumphry with magnanimity. “I am not defending myself. When I was your age I also was fond of nuts. As we reach middle-life we neglect them. We are omitting a very valuable article of diet. And I ask myself why.”

“Teeth mostly,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “I never touch a nut. Couldn’t digest it if I did.”

“We don’t try to digest them.”

“But, Ernest dear, digestion is not a matter of trying. I once read a statement — I cannot remember where it was, or when it was, but to the best of my belief it was by a medical man — that digestion depends to a great extent on the digestive juices.”

“Yes, yes. No doubt. But that difficulty has already been met. For a small sum you can purchase a nut-mill. You grind up the nuts, mix them with honey, and make sandwiches with brown bread. Sustaining and appetising.”

“Poof!” said Queenie. “Sounds perfectly filthy.”

“Too strong in your language, Queenie,” said her mother. “At the same time I am not sure that I could fancy a nut-sandwich myself.”

“Take the chestnut,” continued the lecturer. “The chestnut is a perfect food. One of the national dishes of Italy, polenta, is composed of chestnut flour and milk.”

“Best roasted,” said Queenie, “and a wood-fire for choice. And you want a boy or two to peel them for you, as they get too hot to touch. The smell’s the best part of them.”

“And again,” said Mr. Dumphry, “there’s the question of economy. I suppose that the price of nuts compared with the price of meat is — well, pence compared with shillings, isn’t it?”

“I couldn’t say, dear,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “You have to consider which goes furthest and how much of a thing is waste. I do know that good nuts cost much more now than they did in my young days.”

“And besides,” said Queenie, with the air of one who clinches the argument, “nuts have no gravy.”

“Really now, Queenie,” said her father, “that is beside the point. It was the economic side of which I was speaking. I am aware that nuts do not yield gravy. I never in my wildest moments supposed that they did. I never said that they did. However, I put no compulsion on anybody. I shall probably make a few experiments on myself. If successful, you may care to join me.”

Barbara was away. Elsa, her married sister, was weekending. So Queenie took counsel with her best friend — that very wise and quite pretty serpent, Eileen Thompson. As they walked out together, Queenie said:

“I don’t get much peace. Either somebody has been talking to father or he’s read something in a book.”

“But what difference does it make?”

“To start with, he’s going to eat nuts.”

“Why shouldn’t he if he likes them?”

“He don’t. I think he hates them. But you know what he is — he’d eat bricks if it were a question of principle with him. Nuts are only the beginning — but they’re the beginning of the end.”

“Still don’t see,” said Eileen.

“Don’t you? Well, I do. I’ve seen cases before. It starts, say, with fruitarian diet, but it don’t stop there. There are lots of other things tied on to it. Next week he’ll stop wearing hats, and that will ruin his business. He’ll start a long beard, which will be perfectly hateful. He’ll make us do folk-dances in the studio and perhaps put up a May-pole. He’ll buy an old-world copper door-knocker, representing a scorpion with the spasms, and make the very postman laugh. He’ll buy mother a jibbeh hand-embroidered by Russian peasants, and he’ll cut down my heels by two inches. He’ll become a. socialist and lose every friend he’s got. And we shall end by chicken-farming in a Garden City with no drains and attending lectures on Poushkin and Gogol.”

Eileen laughed joyously.

“It’s exaggeration and it won’t happen, of course. But I see what you’re getting at — there may be developments. Suppose there are. If you don’t like them, then welcome every one of them with enthusiasm.”

“What for?”

“Silly! To show you’re not prejudiced. Then when the development begins to take practical form, put every spoke into the wheel that you can think of. Mr. Dumphry may sometimes think a thing will work when it won’t, but he never thinks a thing is working when it ain’t.”

“No,” said Queenie definitely. “That line’s shut off. Too sub rosa and sotto voce. I can tell him what I think, even to the point when I’m squashed for cheek. Can’t tell him I think what I don’t. Even if I tried it, I should muck it.”

“There’s no question of any deceit,” said Eileen, “because it could all be explained afterwards.”

“I know,” said Queenie. “Still things are like that. And if I go plugging through the mud of the Garden City in sandals in search of the new-laid, well then, I plug. But it may not come to that. This simple life is a terribly complicated business, and you never know which way the cat’s going to jump.”

On the following evening Mr. Dumphry brought home with him in his dispatch-case one nut-mill, one jar of alleged honey, and one large bag of nuts, some with kernels to them.

On Tuesday morning the nut-sandwiches were prepared. There might have been more of them if there had been more time. At I p.m. Mr. Dumphry lunched in his office on nut-sandwiches and a glass of water. He found the sandwiches were pleasing, and was delighted to observe that he had saved at least thirty minutes of valuable time. At 2 p.m. he discovered that either there should have been more sandwiches or some suitable supplement should have been provided. At 3 p.m. he was eating cold beef and pickles, with beer and enjoyment, in a neighbouring restaurant.

He admitted as much in his own special way when he returned home.

“The sandwiches were excellent,” he said. “No doubt they required some small supplement, as I expected they would. But that can be arranged for the future. No, I won’t have them tomorrow. At my time of life in breaking through a confirmed habit it is far better to do it gradually.”

And in the following week the second development took place. The weather was distinctly warm and Mr. Dumphry became an advocate for fresh air.

“Well,” said Queenie, “I have all my windows open every night.”

“That’s nothing,” said Mr. Dumphry. “Tonight I shall have the camp-bed put out on the lawn and I shall sleep on it.”

In spite of remonstrances from Mrs. Dumphry he did so. He retired to rest at 10.30. At or about 11.30, as he was just getting off, a stray cat jumped on his face, spat, and retired quickly. This was upsetting. It was not until an hour later that the cat, being apparently a creature of habit, returned and repeated the process. It was not until one o’clock that the storm actually broke. It was a good storm with plenty of rain in it. It woke Queenie and she was kind enough to come down in her dressing-gown and help her father to get the soaked camp-bed through the library window. Mr. Dumphry was grateful. It was just a stroke of bad luck, he explained. It did not affect the main argument.

On the following morning he said that our climate was so versatile and our cats were so frequent that it would probably be better to construct some kind of a shed, the front of the shed being entirely open except for wire netting to exclude cats.

“That’s just about the same as if you slept in your room with the windows open,” said Queenie, and was immediately told by her mother to hush.

On the two next days nut-sandwiches were demanded with certain necessary supplements. Otherwise for about a week there was no symptom whatever of the simple life. Mr. Dumphry appeared to have forgotten his idea of a sleeping-shed and nobody ever reminded him. It was not till the next week that the yearning towards the simple life reappeared, perhaps in its very fiercest form.

“I have decided,” said Mr. Dumphry in his simple manly way one evening, “that this year we will make a change in the August holiday. For years past we have been down to Helmstone always. The hotel is comfortable, friends of ours are also staying at Helmstone. Very good. Very nice. But where is the change? The whole point of a holiday lies in the change. At Helmstone I am waited on as I am here. Very pleasant no doubt, but at the same time radically wrong. We have to break away from all that. We have to learn to do things for ourselves. Out in the forest, away from the haunts of man, living as the primitive man lived. That is health. That is invigoration.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Dumphry doubtfully. “I don’t think I quite understood, dear, what it was you were going to suggest.”

“We will have a caravan holiday. We will roam through the New Forest. We shall be absolutely free, with no restriction of any kind. We can stay when we like, we can move on again when we like.”

“Unless the caravan wheels get up to the axles in the mud, which happens sometimes, I’m told,” said Queenie.

“It may be. We have only to use our discretion. What is mud? We see it, we know that it is there, we merely avoid putting our caravan into it. What could be more simple? The fact is that we have become the slaves of custom. We do the same thing every year. Every year we go to the same hotel at the same seaside place and meet much the same people. So narrow. So soul-destroying. We want to break away — to use our originality. Roaming in the wilds of the New Forest we shall see flowers, and birds, and beasts that are not to be found at Helmstone. We shall get in closer touch with nature.”

“Some ways it might be rather a lark,” Queenie admitted. “We shan’t see any of our friends though.”

“We shall enjoy their society the more on our return.”

Mrs. Dumphry’s brow had become overcast with thought.

“There is just one point, Ernest,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “Of course if your mind is set on a caravan holiday, then we must all join in and make the best of it. But for a caravan holiday it is surely necessary to have a caravan, and we have not got one.”

“Well, I might hire one. But these things are expensive to hire and it would probably be more practical to buy one outright. At the end of the holiday I could probably sell it again for about as much as I gave for it. Or if you become fascinated with the life, as is very probable, I should keep it and let it when we were not using it ourselves. Only yesterday I heard of a man who bought a caravan in that way, and in three years he had got back what he paid for it by letting it when he did not want it himself. I have said nothing about it, and it is not the first consideration with me, but as a matter of fact the economy of a caravan holiday as compared with a hotel holiday is enormous. I might,” he added humorously, “almost be tempted to declare a dividend at the end of it.”

The discussion which followed left Mrs. Dumphry disquieted. Ernest asserted that he himself would do all the rough work of the caravan. But, so far as she knew, Ernest had never done any rough work; and when, in seasons of domestic crisis, a chance came for him to do some, he invariably shirked it. To Mrs. Dumphry herself the cooking had been assigned. And, given the usual range or gas-stove, she could cook. But of the oil-stove she had a profound distrust. She had never cooked with one. And she had a deep-seated conviction that in the first five minutes one invariably turned the wrong tap, and the whole thing blew up and wrecked the surrounding neighbourhood. They were to take it in turns to drive the caravan, and Mrs. Dumphry knew that all horses — even the gentlest — had a spite against her. Ernest wished it, and with Mrs. Dumphry that was conclusive. But she viewed her approaching holiday with depression.

Queenie was more hopeful. In many ways she would have preferred to be with her friends at Helmstone. But with a caravan there was always the possibility of a lark. Every caravan was rich in its possibility of a humorous breakdown. And at any rate it had for her the charm of novelty. She greeted the unseen cheerfully.

“The only trouble,” said Mr. Dumphry in his final peroration, “is that I may have left it too late. I should have started to secure my caravan a month or two ago. I am told that at this time of the year for every caravan that becomes available there are at least twenty people waiting. However, I shall keep my eyes open and do my best.”

On the following Friday he returned home a little earlier than usual, interested even to the point of excitement.

“I have found,” he said proudly, “what seems from the advertisement to be exactly what we want. It is the caravan, ‘Ixion,’ standing at present in the yard of the Rose Inn at Little Perribrook, all ready to take the road. I have sent word that I may be expected down tomorrow.”

He had already made researches in the timetables. And it was necessary for him to leave the house not later than 7.15 a.m. on Saturday morning. His sandwiches and flask were prepared in advance. They were ham sandwiches, which was a little curious seeing that there were still so many nuts in the house. Everything went well with him. He had had a moment’s doubt as to whether he would be able to catch the local train at the junction. He got it handsomely. He also found on inquiry that the local train always waited for the main line. It was just about noon that Mr. Dumphry walked into the yard of the Rose Inn and saw immediately before him the caravan “Ixion.”

It looked very neat and smart. It was painted yellow, and every piece of metal of it shone brightly. It was from the outside exactly Mr. Dumphry’s conception of what a caravan should be. He went up the steps and knocked at the front door.

The door was opened by a rather nice-looking young man of about twenty. He wore a well-cut grey flannel suit, white shoes, and a white canvas shirt open at the neck. His face was tanned, his very fair hair was a little too long, his blue eyes looked plaintive.

“Good morning,” said Mr. Dumphry cheerfully. “I think you’ve had a letter from me — my name is Dumphry.”

“Yes, yes. That’s right. Come in, Mr. Dumphry. By the way, my name is Kidd — it’s not given in the advertisement. It is really an extraordinary thing. The advertisement went in only on Friday morning and you’re the third man who’s been down to see the little box.”

“You’ve not sold it yet?” asked Mr. Dumphry with a shade of anxiety.

The young man shrugged his shoulders. “I can hardly say,” he said. “It depends whether I accept one of the two offers that have already been made. However, let me show you round.”

And for half an hour he exhibited to Mr. Dumphry the numerous clever contrivances with which the caravan was stocked. It had no appearance of being crowded, and yet there was not an inch of waste space in it. All glass and china were so well secured that even the jolting on a bad road could not injure them. The three bunks looked most comfortable, and there was a sleeping-tent which would accommodate Mr. Dumphry outside. It seemed to be exactly the caravan of which Mr. Dumphry had dreamed, but he was too wily to say so just yet.

“Well now,” he said, “we come to the business side. Suppose you come and lunch with me in the inn here, and we talk things over.”

“Delighted,” said the young man. “Thank you very much. The landlord of the inn doesn’t love me exactly.”

“Indeed? Why is that?”

“Well,” said the young man, “I don’t take one of his bedrooms. And as a rule I cook my own meals in the caravan. Yes, it’s quite natural.”

Certainly the landlord, who greeted Mr. Dumphry with the utmost politeness, had only a short grunt in return for Mr. Kidd’s salutation. The luncheon was of the simplest kind, but Mr. Kidd seemed to enjoy it. He also said that he liked the beer, and gave one no reason whatever to disbelieve him.

When it came to business Mr. Kidd said that he was asking £120 for the caravan with its fittings, and it was worth more. Mr. Dumphry found himself unable to offer more than £90.

“Oh, very well,” said the young man, in his youthful impulsive way. “Call it £90. After all, you’re a sport, and the other two men who wanted it weren’t. Give me £90 for it and it’s yours right now.”

“No,” said Mr. Dumphry, “I shall want first of all to test it on the road to see if the springs are all right and so on. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll pay you a 10 per cent. deposit now, for which you will give me a proper acknowledgement, and I’ll complete next Wednesday if I find the caravan satisfactory on the road. Will that suit you?”

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Kidd. “I’d sooner finish today because I want to get over to France. But Wednesday’s not such a very long time to wait.”

And, this business being concluded, Mr. Dumphry caught his train home. He had a very bright and joyous story to tell his family on his arrival. He maintained that if he had seen a hundred caravans the “Ixion” was the one which he would undoubtedly have picked.

On Wednesday Mr Dumphry arrived at the Rose Inn at the same time as before. He did not see the caravan in the yard and went to the inn to inquire of the landlord.

“Kidd?” said the landlord meditatively. “Kidd. Might you be meaning the young man that had lunch with you here last week?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Dumphry. “I’ve got £81 for him here. I bought his caravan, you know.”

“Did you?” said the landlord slowly. “That’s a pity. His real name’s Jameson. He left here early Sunday morning. It never was his caravan. He hired it for a month from Captain Egremont, and never paid a penny of rent for it either, so I’m told. I never took to him myself. Captain Egremont was down here on Monday and took the caravan away with him. Lots of swindlers about nowadays, aren’t there?”

Mr. Dumphry tried to look cheerful. “There are, indeed,” he said, tapping his pocket-book. “And I’m glad to say that Mr. William Kidd, or Jameson, or whatever his name is, hasn’t got my money.”

“Yes, indeed, sir,” said the landlord. “It’s a let-off for you. £81, that’s a lot to lose.”

And Mr. Dumphry reflected that even £9 was more than he had absolutely wanted to give away. It is hardly necessary to say that Mr. Dumphry’s story was quite perfect by the time that he reached home. He said there seemed to be some dispute as to the ownership of the caravan, and in the circumstances he felt it would not be safe for him to buy it.

“Then I suppose,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “you’ll have to begin all over again? By the way, I had a letter from the Grand Hotel at Helmstone this morning asking if they should reserve our rooms for us as usual.”

“Well,” said Mr. Dumphry, “I think on the whole you’d better write and tell them to do so. The time left is so short now that I couldn’t depend on finding another caravan to suit us. We shall do better next year.”

And while Mrs. Dumphry conveyed the glad news to the rest of her household, Ernest went into the library and took down a volume of the Encyclopaedia. He had a vague idea that he remembered that name. He found that Captain William Kidd had been hanged for piracy in the year 1701.

6

WHY MR. DUMPHRY
WAS NOT CHARGED
WITH MANSLAUGHTER

Mr. Crittle had a shop in the High Street. He bought and sold antique furniture. He employed men skilled in the repair, not to say the creation, of antique furniture. He also possessed a pantechnicon and did removals as a side line. He generally got the first prize for sweet peas at the local Horticultural Show, but such were the product of his leisure hours.

Mr. Dumphry was a customer of Crittle’s. It was Crittle and his men who had erected the musicians’ gallery in Mr. Dumphry’s studio. If there was any important sale in the neighbourhood, Mr. Crittle attended it, and generally speaking it was better and more healthy to get Mr. Crittle to bid for you than to bid for yourself.

Now it chanced that there was an auction sale at a great house in the neighbourhood, and Mr. Dumphry procured for himself a catalogue. There was one item which struck him particularly The catalogue devoted special enthusiasm and an illustration to it. This was a large bow-fronted Sheraton sideboard, unusually elaborate and declared to be a perfect period piece. It was also Lot 102. Mr. Dumphry was innocent of any knowledge of Sheraton or of the prices that such things would be likely to fetch, but he thought he might take a chance. So on his way to the station one morning he looked in at Mr. Crittle’s shop.

“Going to the sale tomorrow?” asked Mr. Dumphry.

“I am, sir. Though I’m afraid most of it will be over my head. Can I do anything for you there, sir?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Dumphry. “I’d like you to buy me Lot 201 for £5 or less if possible. The usual commission of course.”

“Very good, sir,” said Crittle, and read out the entry that he made in his notebook. “‘Lot 201 for Mr. Dumphry. Limit £5.’ That right, sir?”

“Quite right,” said Mr. Dumphry, which of course it wasn’t.

On his return from town on the following day Mr. Dumphry again called in at Crittle’s shop.

“Well, Crittle,” he said, “did you manage to get that thing for me?”

“I did, sir,” said Crittle, “and I got it cheap. Nobody seemed to want it. Four-and-six was all I had to pay.”

For a moment Mr. Dumphry’s brain reeled. There had clearly been a mistake somewhere. Suddenly he recalled that he had said Lot 201, and of course it was Lot 102. There was no great harm done. It was not necessary for him to give himself away.

“Good,” he said. “Have you got the thing here?”

“No, sir,” said Crittle. “Shan’t get it till tomorrow. But I can tell you all about it. It’s white wood, and I should think was made about 1850. Quite nicely made, too, but the paint’s perished and of course none of the bottles are there. And some of the fittings will want repairing. Underneath the stand for the bottles are the two drawers — the top one I take it for pills and such, and the lower one for lint and bandages and so on.”

And thus did Mr. Dumphry become aware that he had unwittingly bought an early Victorian medicine-chest.

“It’s not a big thing, I suppose?”

“Oh, no. You could tuck it under one arm and carry it easy. If you find you’d care to have it done up I could make a job of it. I might even be able to replace the bottles — I’ve got a lot of old stuff in that line.”

“Well,” said Mr. Dumphry, “I’ll look in tomorrow and fetch the thing. I don’t quite know what I’m going to do with it. By the way, how did that Sheraton sideboard go?”

“Eighty-four pounds, and the man who got it was lucky. He’ll make more than that when he comes to sell it. If I could have afforded to tie up as much money as that myself, I’d have bought it. Beautiful thing, that was. Beautiful.”

When Mr. Dumphry came to inspect the treasure which he had inadvertently acquired he was disappointed. It was dusty, dirty, and dilapidated. And Mr. Dumphry detested dust, dirt, and dilapidation;

“It doesn’t look up to much,” he said.

“Well, sir,” said Crittle cheerfully, “if it had have done you wouldn’t have got it for four-and-six. It wants doing up, of course. A pound or so spent on it would make all the difference in the world. It’s good work. Look at the way them two drawers nm. They used to make things fit in those days.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Dumphry, “wrap it up and I’ll take it back with me I’ve not yet quite made up my mind how I shall use it. I might knock the stand for the bottles off the top of it, have it repainted, reline those two drawers, and use it for a collection of some kind.”

“And very suitable,” said the indulgent Crittle. “No doubt you’ll let me know, sir, when you’ve made up your mind. I could do a lot with a thing like that. I could give it quite a handsome appearance, and make it worth twice as much as you laid out on it.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Dumphry, “I’ll think it over. If I decide to have anything done to it I shall let you know.”

“Thank you very much, sir,” said Crittle.

Mr. Dumphry carried the little chest home and without even taking the paper from it, deposited it in the box-room. At present there was nothing about it which fired his imagination in the least.

On Saturday afternoon Mr. Dumphry clasped his new pair of sécators and went out to prune the La France roses. This is not a thing that you can safely leave to a jobbing gardener. No, indeed.

The first thing that Mr. Dumphry pruned was the little finger of his left hand. He wrapped his handkerchief round it and returned to the house demanding sticking-plaster. Mrs. Dumphry had at one time possessed sticking-plaster, but it was her belief that somebody must have borrowed it. Queenie had none. Barbara had none. Finally an appeal was made to the kitchen, and the cook was able to oblige.

“I must say,” said Mr. Dumphry, “that I think this is something of a scandal. We ought really to be provided with simple remedies in case of such an emergency as this. In the old days the practice was almost universal. About, say, 1850. Every decent household maintained its medicine-chest, constructed very often with a stand on top of it for bottles and the two drawers underneath for pills and lint and so on. They were quite simply made of course, but there was workmanship in those days. They were well made. The drawers were beautifully fitted. You could open and shut them with a touch of one finger. I must see if I can’t arrange something of the kind. Suppose the cook had had no sticking-plaster. For all I know I might have bled to death.”

“Oh, no,” said Queenie. “I went through the First Aid thing, you know. I should have stuck a tourniquet on your arm and you would have been as right as rain.”

“But that does not alter my contention. We should be prepared. Accidents happen every day. A few useful drugs should be kept in readiness. I shall see what I can do about it.”

That night in the solitude of his study he took down the Encyclopaedia and looked up the article headed “Digestion.” It took him some time to get through it because whenever he came upon a word which he did not understand — and this occurred frequently — he got out another volume of the Encyclopaedia and looked up that word. By the time that he had finished he felt that science had little more which it could teach him, and regretted that he had not embraced the medical profession in his youth.

On the following day Mr. Dumphry carried back the medicine-chest to Mr. Crittle’s shop.

“Well, Crittle,” said Mr. Dumphry, “I have made up my mind. I intend to use this medicine-chest simply as a medicine-chest.”

“Not for me to comment,” said Crittle, “but that seems to me a very wise decision. What more convenient than a medicine-chest? You blow your hand off through a gas explosion, or you dip your foot in boiling water, and if there is not a medicine-chest handy, then where are you? Ah, where indeed? Of course you can phone for the doctor, but phoning him and getting him aren’t the same thing. But, however.”

“I must of course have the chest done up. What would you propose to do to it?”

Crittle took it and examined it with care.

“I’ll tell you what I should do, sir. I should make good the fittings for the bottles on top and replace bottles. I should remove all the paint and stain a dark colour with a Jacobean finish. I should line the bottom of the drawers with a dark shade of Leatheroid, the light being unsuitable to the subject. And I think I can guarantee that when I’d finished it you’d find it a pleasant object to the eye and a very useful piece of furniture.”

“And what would you charge?” asked Mr. Dumphry.

“I can’t say,” said Mr. Crittle. “Dealing with these tender antiques you may come on trouble that you never suspected, and that means outlay. All I can tell you is that I shan’t charge you more than I can possibly help.”

“Very good,” said Mr. Dumphry. “Get it finished as soon as possible.”

Mr. Crittle did not long delay. When the thing was completed it seemed to have just that quality that Mr. Dumphry (and many others) demanded in an antique — that is to say, it appeared to possess all the advantages of old age and none of the disadvantages. Queenie was especially pleased with it.

“I could use that,” she said. “Those eight dinky little bottles would hold all the things you really want, and you could put your manicure set in one of the drawers underneath, and — well, if you’re not going to use it yourself, I wouldn’t a bit mind having it.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Dumphry, “Crittle has done his work well. At present it is an excellent specimen of an early Victorian medicine-chest, and it is as a medicine-chest that I propose to use it. Tomorrow I shall go to the chemist’s and procure the requisite drugs and other fittings.”

“You know, Ernest,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “you really are a very remarkable man. It was only the other day that you were describing a chest almost exactly like this. They cannot be easy to pick up. I do not think I have ever seen one before. But you seem to be able to find it as soon as you want it.”

“And I hope it will be useful,” said Ernest.

“I hope so,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “Of course, for death or anything in that way it is more regular and satisfactory to be in the hands of the medical profession. But for a scratch on the finger or anything of that sort I have no doubt it will work admirably.”

Mr. Dumphry paid his visit to the chemist next day, and a very satisfactory visit it was. The chemist took the deepest interest in the subject and suggested many things which might never have occurred to Mr. Dumphry’s unaided mind. The chemist was selling things the whole time, which was what he was there for and may to some extent have accounted for his enthusiasm. But Mr. Dumphry, who was merely purchasing, was not less enthusiastic. In addition to lint and roller bandages in three different sizes, the bottom drawer contained sticking-plaster, a clinical thermometer, and a small forceps for use in extracting thorns or splinters. In the drawer above it Mr. Dumphry kept drugs in tabloid form. He had no less than thirty-two distinct and different phials, all very neat and attractive. When it came to the bottles, choice was more restricted. There were only eight bottles. Mr. Dumphry could have done with forty-eight. But even with his restricted opportunities the chemist found him to be easily the best customer he had had for six weeks.

And then Fate frowned and a flat period set in. The medicine-chest, beautifully equipped, was all ready to hand, but there was nothing whatever on which it could put in useful work. Mrs. Dumphry was well, Queenie and Barbara met with no accidents; even the domestic servants who, so far as Mr. Dumphry’s recollection served, sprained their ankles or scalded their hands every other day of their lives, now seemed to have abandoned the practice altogether. Mr. Dumphry himself was well. He took two doses of a tonic to prevent the medicine-chest from feeling discouraged, but he was well aware that he did not in the least require it.

In the meantime he went on reading medical articles in the Encyclopaedia and amassing knowledge. He liked sometimes to imagine fancy pictures in which that knowledge showed up very well indeed. For instance, in one of these pictures the cook was to sprain her ankle badly. Mr. Dumphry instantly produced the roller bandage and applied it with perfect correctness. The regular doctor was summoned and witnessed what had been done.

“But,” said the regular doctor, “you must already have a regular man in attendance. Bandaging like that could not have been done by a layman.”

“Pardon me,” replied Mr. Dumphry, “but I have some knowledge of the subject. I put that bandage on myself.”

And then this glorious scene vanished in smoke. And nobody was ill and there was nothing doing. And what did it avail Mr. Dumphry to know so much when he had no object on which he could expend it?

The intervention of Mr. Porpingham became therefore very welcome. Mr. Porpingham was a tobacconist, described on his bill-heads as Henry S. Porpingham. Mr. Dumphry on his way to the station passed Porpingham’s shop and not infrequently purchased cigarettes there, occasionally if time served adding a few words on politics or the weather. Porpingham was an obese man of middle age, who never fastened the top four buttons of his waistcoat and but seldom the others. From this we may deduce a certain want of reticence in Mr. Porpingham as to his private affairs, for those who habitually wear their Waistcoats open unbosom themselves to the world.

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Porpingham, “we have my uncle with us now. He’s eighty-six, and it’ll be a deliverance when the time comes. And that can’t be so very long.”

“What’s the matter with him?” asked Mr. Dumphry.

“Matter with him? Well, what isn’t the matter with him? Blood pressure’s all over the place, so the doctors tell me. Arteries something shocking. Can’t do anything for himself that he can get anybody else to do for him. Hasn’t fastened a bootlace these last three years. But it’s the rheumatism that punishes him most.”

“Rheumatism?” said Mr. Dumphry. “Ah, I happen to know something about rheumatism. I might be able to help him.”

“At eighty-six, sir? I doubt it. You can’t cure anything at that age. All you can do is to pray for a happy release as soon as may be.”

“I didn’t say cure,” said Mr. Dumphry. “I may not be able to effect a cure, though as to that I could not speak positively without seeing the patient. What we can do is to provide a palliative — something which will lessen the pain and make things easier for him. I’ll send a bottle to your house tomorrow morning, Mr. Porpingham.”

“And very kind of you, I’m sure,” said Mr. Porpingham.

So Mr. Dumphry went home with enthusiasm and joy in his heart, and that evening he compounded the liniment for Mr. Porpingham’s elderly uncle. It would be untrue to say that he put into that liniment every drug which his medicine-chest could boast. But his selection from them was wide and representative, and it was supplemented by one or two things for which he sent out. All the volumes of the Encyclopaedia were brought into requisition. Late in the evening came the finished product, somewhat treacly in consistency and dark brown in colour. Mr. Dumphry fastened up the bottle of liniment with white paper and red sealing-wax. He addressed it: “Mr. Porpingham senior, uncle to Mr. Henry S. Porpingham. With Mr. Ernest Dumphry’s compliments.” He gave the bottle to the house-parlourmaid with instructions that she was to take it round to the tobacconist’s in the early morning. And after that Mr. Dumphry slept soundly, just as though no grisly fate were hanging over him.

The next day was Saturday. Various friends, including Mr. Pierce Eveleigh, were coming in to dance that evening. And in the morning Mr. Dumphry took a short but intensive Tango lesson under the direction of his daughter Queenie. It was not till he had lunched — not, to be accurate, till he had snoozed for forty minutes after lunch — that the bright idea came to him that he might saunter round to Mr. Porpingham’s, buy cigarettes, and inquire as to the effect of the liniment. The liniment was original, distinctly and strongly original. He might find that it had effected an immediate cure. In that case it might very well be that the secret of that liniment had a distinct commercial value. It could be put on the market. It might have an enormous success. Mr Dumphry’s imagination soared, and he pictured himself living and dying in circumstances of extreme affluence.

When Mr. Dumphry reached Porpingham’s shop he found the shutters up and the blinds drawn in the upstairs windows. As Mr. Dumphry stood and gazed upon the portent the proprietor stepped out from the next shop. He was a taxidermist and apparently never had anything to do, but seemed to thrive on it.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said to Mr. Dumphry. “Trying to get into Porpingham’s? You can’t do it. His uncle’s dead. It’s been expected a long time. Tried some new medicine or other this morning, dropped back in his chair, and it was all over. Funeral’s on Monday.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Dumphry, and turned on his heel abruptly.

He now pictured himself in Court. The coroner said: “Are you a doctor, Mr. Dumphry?” And Mr. Dumphry was compelled to reply that he was not, but was interested. The coroner asked why Mr. Dumphry had not marked his medicine as unsuitable for internal application. Mr. Dumphry replied that he was under the impression that he had done so, and was told that it was no use to be under impressions. The coroner referred to the dangerous vanity of this absurd quack, and the jury in their verdict censured him horribly. And then came the trial when he was charged with manslaughter, and Mrs. Dumphry died from the shock, and the lives of his daughters were ruined, and his own business was trodden down into the dust, and he was given seven years’ penal servitude.

The whole of this Mr. Dumphry pictured very realistically in about fifteen seconds, and his mental agony was extreme. He could even picture the elder Porpingham (whom, by the way, he had never seen) lying back in his chair with the bottle of Mr. Dumphry’s special liniment still clasped in his left hand. It was terrible. It was perhaps the most horrible moment of Mr. Dumphry’s life.

He sighed deeply and turned homeward. There was nothing else he could do. Only that morning he had been practising the Tango. The tragic irony of it! And here he was now already preparing to take his trial for manslaughter.

And there, as a matter of fact, actually and on the pavement, and coming towards him, was his own parlourmaid, holding in her hand a medicine bottle encased in white paper and secured with red sealing-wax. “I’m sorry, sir,” said the parlourmaid. “I fully meant to take it this morning, and how it slipped my memory I simply don’t know.”

Mr. Dumphry came to life again.

“It’s too late now, Agnes,” he said. “The poor man for whom the medicine was intended has passed away. I do not think you need reproach yourself. He was very old and very ill, and it was probably too late for any human skill to save him. Just take the bottle back again and put it down in my study.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the girl brightly, and moved off briskly with it.

Mr. Dumphry lit a cigarette and followed slowly. He appeared happy. He even hummed to himself the tune of that Tango. On examining the bottle he found that he had marked it in three separate places as for external application only, and on no account to be taken internally.

It was a very jolly dance that evening. But, unless it is a case of the direst emergency, do not apply for help from Mr. Dumphry’s medicine-chest. He will probably refer you to your ordinary medical attendant.

7

WHY MR. DUMPHRY
WAS SO WELL INFORMED

Mr. Pierce Eveleigh had occasion to go to London one morning in order to talk somewhat severely to a man about bricks. This being so, he had arranged subsequently to call at Mr. Dumphry’s office in order that they might take luncheon together. Ushered into Mr. Dumphry’s private room, Mr. Pierce Eveleigh looked a little like Don Quixote in a morning coat and top-hat. He was smoking a cigarette in a tube of amber and gold, and for this he apologized.

“I’m smoking, Dumphry, you see. Hope you don’t mind. It’s not against the rules of your sacred office, is it?”

“My dear fellow,” said Dumphry, “it doesn’t matter in the least. We shall be going out in two minutes, anyhow. I admit that I never smoke here myself.”

“Never?” said Mr. Pierce Eveleigh searchingly.

“Very, very rarely. I have sometimes broken my own rule when I thought the occasion justified it.”

“Why make any silly rule? I don’t say it would do for you to smoke that filthy old pipe of yours here. But cigarettes are permitted in lots of offices. You’ve got to grasp that everybody smokes — man, woman and child. Smoking is no longer prohibited in the tube lifts. I can quite imagine that the offer of a cigarette might be of distinct help in a business interview. Just you think it over.”

“I will,” said Mr. Dumphry. “I will. I admit the same idea had occasionally occurred to me. But it takes a good deal to make me upset a long-established custom. And besides, I don’t know that I care very much about cigarettes.”

“Mere question of habit,” said Eveleigh. “If you smoked them for a fortnight you’d be quite willing to give that old pipe of yours a rest. And I should think it’s earned it.”

The most judicious method — and Mr. Dumphry was judicious — in embarking on any new adventure, is to begin by modest experiment. After luncheon that day Mr. Dumphry purchased ten Virginia cigarettes for sixpence and bore them off to his office.

That afternoon Mr. Stetson came in and accepted a cigarette. He brought in some very satisfactory business.

At tea-time Mr. Phipps came in, and Mr. Phipps partook of a cup of tea and a cigarette afterwards. And he also brought in satisfactory business. Neither Mr. Phipps nor Mr. Stetson seemed to think that Mr. Dumphry was transgressing in any way. And when the time came for him to leave the office Mr. Dumphry, who never on any account smoked a pipe in the street, saw no reason why he should not smoke a cigarette. By this time, what with one thing and another, only two of the original ten survived.

Mr. Dumphry slightly revised his rules. Smoking would not be permitted in his room until after luncheon. It would give a wrong impression. It would suggest that business was not being taken seriously. But after luncheon, unless anything should occur to change his mind, Mr. Dumphry proposed to permit cigarettes in moderation.

A week later he paid six guineas for a small tortoiseshell cigarette-case. By this time his secretary was instructed to bring in a small packet of cigarettes every day. In theory he limited himself strictly to the ten, but if there happened to be in his case a few which he had brought from home, it would have been silly to be pedantic about it. He was not.

And gradually the cigarettes claimed him. True, he never smoked in his office before luncheon. But he smoked cigarettes in the train on his way to the office and again on the return journey. He smoked cigarettes after dinner. He even smoked one or two occasionally in his dressing-room before breakfast. He no longer went through the farce of carrying his pipe and pouch in his pocket. These old friends were deposited in a drawer of his writing-table; and the rubber pouch went hard and stiff with bitterness at such neglect.

Pierce Eveleigh felt called upon to remonstrate.

“You know, Ernest,” said Pierce, “I’m feeling rather uneasy about having recommended cigarettes to you. It needs a strong man to hold out against the habit. You must be smoking over forty a day now.”

And at this Mr. Dumphry was quite justly incensed. He was a man who liked to try something new once a week and generally did try it about once a month. That type may be open to criticism, but it does not become enslaved to habit.

“You’re talking nonsense,” said Mr. Dumphry.

“It’s not once a month that I exceed twenty-five in a day, and many days I am under that number. You must remember that for nearly four hours in the morning of every working day I do not smoke at all. I smoked far stronger tobacco in my pipe than I ever get in a cigarette. Taking that into consideration, I am really smoking less now than I have done for years.”

“I’m glad you can believe it. Then why do you give yourself the needless trouble of buying your cigarettes in those measly little packets? I buy five hundred at a time and—”

“I know you do, and it’s surprising that you’ve not learned better. The last four hundred cannot be in the best condition. They get dry and fall to dust. I buy ten at a time, wrapped in silver foil, and all ten are good — equal to freshly-made cigarettes. Also I can change the brand frequently. You always smoke the same kind. You might just as well have mutton for dinner every night of your life.”

And thus, as not infrequently happens, did the disciple confound the teacher.

The change in Mr. Dumphry’s habits did not pass unnoticed in his family. Mrs. Dumphry approved of it, but then she would have approved of anything that Ernest did. Had Ernest chosen to smoke chopped straw in a hookah, the vase of which was filled with blue-black ink, it is probable that she would have said it only showed how original Ernest was — never a man to get into a narrow groove, as too many did.

So she found the cigarette much more distinguished than the pipe — in the old days she had agreed that the pipe was much more healthy than the cigarette.

“The only thing,” she said to her daughter Barbara, “is that a great deal more tobacco-ash seems to be spilled about the house. But that of course is not your father’s fault. That is entirely due to the way in which a cigarette has to be constructed.”

Queenie observed the change not without self-interest. Nearly a year before she had asked permission to smoke, and Mr. Dumphry, not because of her sex but because of her age, had come as near as he ever got in his parental position to a point-blank refusal.

“I should very much prefer,” he said, “that you waited until you were older.”

Once Queenie had attempted a surreptitious cigarette, and had thrown it away almost as soon as she lit it. The pleasure of the cigarette did not compensate for the agony of the conscience. She regarded surreptitiousness as dirty, and she liked nothing dirty. But of late on certain special occasions Mr. Dumphry had of his own volition authorized the consumption by Queenie of one cigarette only, greatly to her enjoyment.

But now the time of emancipation seemed to be nigh. For one thing nearly a year had elapsed, and that seems a long time to anybody as young as Queenie. Also, had not her father by his example now directly approved of cigarettes? Her emancipation seemed to be rising like a white star above the horizon.

And these hopes Queenie mentioned to her married sister, Elsa.

“Maybe,” said Elsa. “You’re not much younger than I was when he let me start. But,” she added with the mature wisdom of twenty-four, “I’ve noticed that men do lots of things themselves that they don’t want anybody else to do. However, I’ll give you all the help I can.”

Mr. Dumphry was really very interesting at dinner that night. Detaching his gold watch from the chain, he passed it round the table with the request that he might be told if any of them could detect any mistake on the dial. To his satisfaction nobody detected any mistake at all.

“Look,” said Mr. Dumphry, “at the number four. It is not written in the correct Roman notation. The number four is represented by four straight strokes. Now how do you think that happened?”

Nobody knew. The excitement became intense.

“Well,” said Mr. Dumphry, “that mistake, which has lasted for hundreds and hundreds of years, is really due to snobbery. In the year 1370 King Charles V of France was presented with a clock and was extremely anxious to find some fault with it. The only thing he could think of was to say that the number four, which was correctly inscribed, was a mistake, and that it must be replaced by the four straight strokes.”

“Rather a silly old bean, that Charlie,” said Queenie.

“I think,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “that is hardly the way to speak of a king. Of course he was not an English king, and he has been dead quite a long time now, but still I do like respect to be shown.”

“In this case,” said Mr. Dumphry, “respect was carried too far. The king’s blunder was repeated on every other clock and watch, and that blunder has remained to the present day.”

Later in the evening Mrs. Dumphry was saying that the great characteristic of the female was gentleness.

“I suppose,” she said, “we see that all through nature.”

“I’m sorry to correct you,” said Mr. Dumphry, “but that is by no means the case. Among the birds of prey the female is always larger and fiercer than the male. Sometimes it is three times as big as the male.”

“Is that so?” said Mrs. Dumphry. “Well, I’ve noticed, you know, that whenever I look round and seem to observe something it is quite likely to turn out otherwise.”

Another instance occurred later in the evening when worm-holes were discovered in an antique piece of furniture.

“That must be some worm,” said Queenie, “to be able to bore holes in wood like that.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Mr. Dumphry, “it is not a worm. It is a beetle. The Latin name for it, if you care to hear it, is Anobium Punctatum.”

“It’s always been a puzzle to me,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “how you come to know all the things you know. For I’m sure I don’t, and never shall.”

On the next Saturday a great event occurred. Once a year on a Saturday in June the Pierce Eveleighs gave a magnificent garden-party. It was not only annual, it was almost monumental. It included a band, and tennis on not less than two courts, and iced coffee and strawberries, and in fact about everything that can be stuffed into a garden-party. Every single member of the Dumphry family was always invited, and not once did one of them fail to go. Moreover, Pierce Eveleigh seemed to have some arrangement with the Clerk of the Weather. There might be rain on every other day in June, but there was never rain on the day of that garden-party.

On that day Mr. Pierce Eveleigh, usually grey, gaunt, and grim, with a mind somewhat occupied with cricket statistics, became bland, urbane, and stocked with amusing conversation. Mrs. Eveleigh — Mouse, as she was called — was always an excellent hostess, and as she always had a new dress for the garden-party, on this occasion she excelled herself.

Mr. Dumphry was presented to Mrs. Budd. Mrs. Budd was a lady of great enthusiasm and middle age. Mr. Dumphry took her off to the refreshment-tent, provided her with tea and cakes, and, lest she should feel lonely, took a little champagne cup himself.

“I wonder,” said Mrs. Budd, “if you can help me. A friend of mine has written to offer me an elk-hound puppy. I’ve never even heard of them, and I’m sure I’ve never seen one. Can you tell me if they really do catch elks? Because, of course, we have none here.”

“I believe they hunt them in their native country, which happens to be Norway,” said Mr. Dumphry.

“Then they must be perfectly enormous brutes.”

“Oh, no. They stand about a foot and a half or perhaps twenty inches high. Sharp heads and curly tails. The colour is a sort of greyish brown. They’ve only recently become popular in this country, you know.”

“I suppose they’re very fierce? The name sounds so fierce.”

“I don’t think so,” said Mr. Dumphry. “I’ve never had one myself, but I’m told they’re naturally good-tempered. Of course they have to be carefully handled.”

“I am lucky to have found somebody who knows all about them. And — oh, I say, what is that perfectly charming little butterfly?”

“He is one of the Lycanidae,” said Mr. Dumphry, who was certainly in luck that afternoon. “He’s more generally known as the Common Blue.”

“I notice you say ‘he’.”

“I do. Because as it happens in this kind, the female is very unlike the male.”

“But how interesting. What is the female like?”

“Well, it’s a dark brown with red marks near the outside of the wings and some blue at the base of them. You may find them anywhere in England practically all through the summer; That one probably came in from the grass field beyond the garden. They’re mostly to be found where there’s grass. As a matter of fact, grass is what their caterpillars live on.”

“How refreshing to meet a man who really does know things. You know, my husband is a most learned man, yet he never seems to know anything about anything. By the way, I wonder if you could surreptitiously tell me the time.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Dumphry, taking out his watch. “It’s just half-past four. Curious, isn’t it, the way the four is written on the face of clocks and watches?”

And he proceeded to convey some more curious information with which, however, we are already familiar.

Mr. Dumphry got one more wonderful chance before they parted. As they approached the tennis-courts, Mrs. Budd noticed Mr. Eveleigh’s heavy garden-roller, and also that the roller itself was in two parts, and asked if Mr. Dumphry could tell her the reason why. He could. He explained why this facilitated the turning of the roller. He spoke, almost reverentially, of the differential.

And Mrs. Budd sought out Mouse. “Tell me,” she said fervently, “who is that perfectly miraculous man whom you introduced to me this afternoon?” It may be admitted that the last man or woman whom Mrs. Budd had met was quite likely to be “miraculous” — till disillusionment set in.

“That?” said Mouse. “That’s Mr. Dumphry. He’s an accountant and a very old friend of ours. Very nice man, too, and I like him, but I shouldn’t call him miraculous. What makes you think so?”

“Well, my dear, he’s simply the best-informed man I ever met. He’s a profound student of nature, and can give you not only the name of any butterfly he sees, but its life-history. He seems to have just as good a knowledge of history and mechanics. And,” she added as an after-thought, “elk-hounds.”

And that led to a brief discussion as to whether Mrs. Budd should, or should not, accept the proffered puppy.

Two days later Mr. Dumphry had a letter from Mr. Budd, whom he had met only once in his life. Mr. Budd was the proprietor and head master of a successful preparatory school in the neighbourhood.

“My wife, who had the pleasure of meeting you the other day,” wrote Mr. Budd, “tells me that you are a great student of nature. I’ve been wondering if I could persuade you to come up here one afternoon to give my boys a brief informal lecture (4.30 to 5) on one of your many topics — say, for example, the Life-history of the Common Frog. I can promise you an appreciative audience.”

Mr. Dumphry was badly frightened. The only three things he knew about the frog was that it started as part of something that had, by its resemblance, given him a distaste for sago pudding, and that it then became a tadpole, and finished as a frog. He wrote a most polite refusal and a modest disclaimer of any special knowledge.

At dinner that night Barbara suddenly asked him: “What is a Grandsire Triple?”

He replied that it was a technical term used by bell-ringers. Barbara, who knew as much as that before she asked, seemed to find the answer meagre. And although Mr. Dumphry hastened to tell her how the milling on the edge of coins had been designed to prevent a certain form of theft, both he and she felt that this had no special bearing on Grandsire Triples. And Mr. Dumphry reflected sadly that the path of the well-informed man was beset with gins and snares. At first people flattered you that because you knew some things you knew everything, and then because you did not know everything they came to the unjust conclusion that you knew nothing. What a life!

Next day it happened that Queenie played tennis and subsequently had tea with that beautiful vampire, Eileen Thompson. And afterwards Eileen said:

“I’ll show you my cigarette-card collection. I’ve only started it three days and I’ve already got eighty-two different cards. I’ve put two of my boys on to it, and I’ll get the rest of them at work soon.”

The collection was housed temporarily in a cardboard box that had originally contained notepaper. Queenie opened the box and began to turn over the cards.

Suddenly she gave what Mrs. Dumphry would have told her was an unladylike exclamation.

“What are you swearing at?” asked Eileen.

“Wasn’t. It was only something struck me.”

What had struck her was a brief but lucid statement on the back of a cigarette-card, dealing with the number four on the dial of a clock or watch.

On her return Queenie found her father in the garden, seated in a deck-chair with a cigarette. He had gone out to do a little gardening before dinner, but had not yet made up his mind when he would start the gardening.

In reply to inquiry Queenie stated what she had been doing that afternoon.

“Yes,” she said, “and Eileen showed me her collection of cigarette-cards. She’s been at it only three days, and she’s got eighty-two already. There are lots of interesting things on the back of cigarette-cards, aren’t there?”

“Quite so,” said her father without hesitation — so well did he understand the art of retreat. “I have come upon many cigarette-cards that have suggested points to me which have previously escaped my notice. Sometimes I confirm or amplify them by opening the encyclopedia or some reference book, and sometimes not. I often wonder whether when one of these points turns up in conversation I ought to explain that my information — in the first instance, at any rate — was derived from a cigarette-card.”

“Certainly not,” said Queenie decisively. “Why should you? — If you know something, that’s all to your credit, and nobody’s got the slightest right to ask how you know it. Why, you might as well expect a conjuror to tell everybody how he did his tricks.”

“I think you may be right,” said Mr. Dumphry judicially. “That analogy of the conjuror is not by any means inept — not by any means.”

•   •   •

That night after dinner in the drawing-room Mr Dumphry made a portentous announcement.

“Queenie,” said Mr. Dumphry, “I’ve been discussing a certain matter that affects you with your mother, and she is entirely in agreement with me.”

So far there was nothing novel. On any subject on earth Mrs. Dumphry could be trusted to be entirely in agreement with Ernest.

“We do not feel that, considering your age, we should yet give you any indefinite and unlimited permission to smoke. But if you can content yourself with an average of three cigarettes per day in any week we are quite willing to allow it.”

“Of course I can,” said Queenie with enthusiasm. “And I do thank you most awfully. Joy and bliss! ”

She embraced both her parents with fervour.

And then, comparatively prosaically, she said:

“Now that I’ve got permission to begin, there doesn’t seem to be any reason why I shouldn’t start now, does there?”

Mr. Dumphry smiled benignly, drew from his pocket that very expensive tortoiseshell case, and proffered its contents.

8

THE SPEAKER:
MR. DUMPHRY

Occasionally on a fine Sunday morning in summer Mr. Ernest Dumphry, accompanied by his friend, Mr. Pierce Eveleigh, would start at eleven in the morning and walk six miles to the Red Lion. There they would lunch and afterwards drink a glass of port. They would leave at three, and walk back again, when tea, hot-baths, and other restoratives would be administered to the weary athletes.

Why did they do it? The dining-room at the Red Lion was always crowded on Sunday. The luncheon was never good, and both men would have fared much better at home. The port was simply wicked.

They did it, imprimis, for the exercise. Mr. Pierce Eveleigh, who was interested in most games and played none, was yet able to propel himself under his own power. Mr. Dumphry’s figure had improved, since he had taken to dancing, by rather over than under half an inch, but he was still a little anxious about it. Then again, he possessed plus fours, and though he could not wear them in the City he was by no means disposed to hide them, so to speak, under a bushel. The colour-scheme of his necktie, handkerchief, and stockings on these occasions was simply insolent, and Mr. Dumphry thoroughly enjoyed it.

So on an appointed Sunday Mr. Pierce Eveleigh walked across the road to the Rest House, the residence of Mr. Dumphry. Mr. Eveleigh brought his wife with him, for on such days the deserted wives lunched together. Eveleigh wore no covering whatever on his gaunt and Don-Quixotic head. His grey flannel shirt was open at the neck. He wore grey flannel trousers, and the reason why he avoided the more abbreviated garment is no business of yours.

He found Mr. Dumphry quite ready, with his flask nestling comfortably in his hip-pocket, for wise precautions should be taken. It was still ten minutes to eleven, but when two middle-aged gentlemen start forth on strenuous exercise, slogging it for miles and miles, a preliminary glass of sherry and a biscuit are indicated. These being indicated, produced, and consumed, Mrs. Eveleigh, Mrs. Dumphry, and the two girls lined up at the front gate and watched the start of the procession.

And it was not till half the distance had been covered — a full three miles — that they paused for five minutes’ rest and a slight reference to the flask. And suddenly Mr. Dumphry said:

“What would you do, Pierce, if you were elected a Member of Parliament?”

Nothing had been said to lead up to the subject, but in the mind of Mr. Dumphry great ideas germinated and came to maturity with extraordinary rapidity.

“I’m not going to be,” said Eveleigh. “And if I were I should resign.”

“You can’t say that. We cannot tell the future. Circumstances might make you, or me, or any other resident of Tessel Road, a Member of Parliament. And if you were, what do you know of Parliamentary form and procedure?”

“Not a thing,” said Pierce frankly.

“Nor do I, and I say it to my shame. We are governed and we do not know how those who govern us set about it. Mind, if I succeed as I hope in establishing the Tessel Road Parliament, I shall make it my business to know. There are books on the subject and I should make them my study. I should pay frequent visits to the House of Commons. I should absorb—”

“One minute, my dear Ernest, one minute. This comes on me rather suddenly. I’ve never even heard of the Tessel Road Parliament. What is it?”

“At present, it isn’t. You, in fact, are the first person to whom I have spoken about it. The Tessel Road Parliament will be practically a debating society of perhaps twenty-four or twenty-five members. It will include women, and it will not necessarily be restricted to actual residents in Tessel Road. The meetings will be held in the studio in my garden once a week. The whole point is that not only will the debates be conducted absolutely in accordance with the rules of Parliament, but it will also take cognizance of every detail of the etiquette of Parliament. It will, in fact, be a miniature Parliament. And as such I should think it to be absolutely certain of public recognition. It would not even surprise me if we had one or two flattering allusions to it in the House of Commons itself. You see, the idea is new.”

“No, not new. It’s been done. One reason why we can’t do it is that nobody except yourself would take the trouble to mug up the rules and etiquette and so on.”

“There would be no reason why they should. So long as I, in the position of Speaker, knew the subject thoroughly, the rest would learn in the ordinary course of debate.”

“And how would the members be elected?”

“I had the idea. I elect you. The two of us elect a third. Then the three elect a fourth, the four a fifth, and so on till the numbers are complete.”

“And suppose I didn’t want to be elected.”

“That would kill the whole scheme. There would be nothing more to be said about it.”

“I don’t see why.”

“Then I’ll tell you. I consider it essential that our Prime Minister should not only be able to speak well, but he would have to look the part. He would have to be a man of natural dignity and good presence. If we made some miserable-looking little squirt Prime Minister, the whole thing would become ridiculous and we should be laughed at. You are the only man I know who is suitable for the position. If you refuse I lay the whole scheme aside.”

“I don’t say I refuse. I shall have to think it over. We’ll speak of it again,” said Mr. Pierce Eveleigh. He was by no means displeased to be called a man of natural dignity and good presence; the same idea had occasionally occurred to himself.

The two walkers did not reach their objective until somewhat later than usual. To be exact it was 1.20 p.m. when they walked into the dining-room of the Red Lion. They were only just in time. There were just two vacancies at a table laid for four in the window. Mr. Dumphry and Mr. Eveleigh swiftly annexed those vacancies. The other two places were already taken by a thick-set, short, bald-headed man with tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses and a taller and younger man, rather smartly dressed, with his fair hair brushed smoothly back.

The atmosphere seemed supercharged with steam, beer, and cabbage. Three frantic waitresses rushed about, trying to do more than they could in less time than was possible. One of them was shedding hairpins, another had already dropped most of the powder from her face into the custard. How could they think of personal appearances when all round the six tables the wail of Sunday lunchers went up? “I’ve asked four times for a small Bass” — “Do see if you can’t get me another potato, dearie” — “You may call it roly-poly, but do try to get me a little jam with it” — “Cheddar, and don’t keep me waiting quite so long this time” — “Stout-and-bitter was what I said. Why don’t you listen?” — “What about those biscuits?” — “Am I supposed to wait here all night for my change?” And so forth and so on.

Messrs. Eveleigh and Dumphry became strenuous. In five minutes they secured tankards of bitter. In eight minutes a flying Fury slapped two laden plates before them, said “Soupzorf-sorry” and was with difficulty detained long enough for an order to refill the aforesaid tankards.

On each plate there was a portion of integument and cartilage, anointed with a little grey and watery fluid. To this a rectangle of elderly cabbage had been added, and a large boiled potato looked up at them with black melancholy eyes. The two men simply did not care. They had walked six unaccustomed miles, and could have eaten decomposed camel without criticism. In fact, Mr. Dumphry was half-way through his portion before he remembered to help himself to mustard.

Afterwards things got better. Early lunchers drifted away and the tension was lessened. Mr. Dumphry rescued the waitress who usually attended to him on these occasions, and she had time to say that she had known it to be a rush before, but never such an unholy rush as it had been that day. Like as if everybody wanted everything at once, it was. However, she procured them grossly preferential treatment in the matter of the roly-poly.

“Now that we can hear ourselves speak,” said Eveleigh, “what about this miniature Parliament of yours? If you are to be the Speaker and I am to be the Prime Minister, who is to be the Leader of the Opposition?”

“Well,” said Dumphry, “you know that house ‘Catswood’ in Tessel Road?”

“I should do. I designed it.”

“Of course you did. Those little turrets and things. Naturally. Well, I’m told it’s been bought by a man called Johnson. Strong Labour man with Communist sympathies. They say he’s a bit of a bounder, but at any rate he’ll be interested in politics, and he might serve our turn.”

At this point the bald-headed gentleman seated at the table and his younger friend exchanged somewhat meaning glances.

“And,” continued Eveleigh, “what are you going to do about reporting? Are the proceedings to be reported?”

“I hope so,” said Mr. Dumphry. “At any rate, I shall put it to our local paper, The County Record. There is the offer of the exclusive use of a column of what can hardly fail to be very interesting matter, for nothing. I don’t think the editor is likely to refuse.”

“Who’s the editor?”

“A man called Topham. Quite a common man, I’m told, but not unkindly.”

And then the bald-headed gentleman with the tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses leaned across the table.

“Before you go any further, gentlemen,” he said, “perhaps it would be just as well to tell you that I am Mr. Topham, that common man, the editor of The County Record. I may as well introduce to you at the same time my young friend here, Mr. Johnson, the bounder who has recently purchased Catswood.”

Then did the world seem to swim around Mr. Dumphry and his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. It was Pierce Eveleigh who first recovered his self-possession.

“Well, Mr. Topham,” said Eveleigh, “of course we regret this very much. We were not aware that we were speaking in such a way that we could be overheard, and if we had known the identity of yourself and your friend we should certainly not have said what we did. I can only offer you our apologies.”

“Quite so,” said Mr. Topham almost genially. “Quite so.”

“And,” said Mr. Dumphry, who had now recovered himself, “let me point out, Mr. Topham, that we ourselves used no expression in any way derogatory to you. I merely quoted what had been said to me. Had I ever met you before I should no doubt have known that what was told me was untrue. I hope you accept the apology.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Topham.

“Quite so,” said Mr. Johnson.

“In that case,” said Mr. Dumphry, “my friend here and I were just about to take a glass of port. I hope that you and Mr. Johnson will join us as a sign that there is no ill feeling.”

“I think,” said Mr. Topham, “you should be a little more careful how you repeat these hearsay opinions. But I have already accepted the apology and it will give me much pleasure to take a glass of wine with you.”

“Quite so,” said Mr. Johnson.

The waitress was then called, and a decanter of the most special cat-poison was duly placed on the table and made its round.

“Well,” said Mr. Topham as he sipped his wine, “there is one thing that I ought to tell you. There is not the faintest chance that The County Record would do what you suggest. There is a very great pressure on our space. Only last week we were two columns overset. The most I can say is that if you cared to pay for the shorthand note and to give us a regular order for the insertion of the stuff as advertising matter, I would do the best I could to get our manager to take it at something a little under the usual rates.”

“It’s very good of you, I’m sure,” said Mr. Dumphry. “We should have to think about it. Of course, we had no idea of putting the report of our — er — proceedings in as an advertisement. Still, all things considered, it’s very kind of you.”

“Not at all,” said Mr. Topham, “not at all. After all, this meeting gives me a capital funny story to begin our column of light notes in the next issue.”

“You will remember, perhaps,” said Mr. Eveleigh gravely, “that there is such a thing as the law of libel.”

“Remember it, Mr. Prime Minister? I’ve been dodging it for years and it’s not got me yet. I’m sure you must both of you see how intensely funny it is. You and the Speaker are talking freely at an hotel about what you are going to do with The County Record and how you are going to make my young friend here the Leader of the Opposition, and you suddenly find that the two men seated at your table are actually the two men about whom you’ve been talking. I should get a perfect scream out of it. I dare say it might run to two paragraphs.”

“I do hope,” said Mr. Dumphry, “you will reconsider that. It might be very prejudicial to my friend here and myself.”

“Not more prejudicial,” said the young Communist, “than it is for us to have you describing us as bounders and cads in a public restaurant. If you ask me, I think Mr. Topham lets you off too easily.”

“Mere misapprehension,” said Mr. Dumphry. “You must remember that we had never had the pleasure and honour of meeting you personally and that we had simply been misled by talk we had heard. If you will promise me, Mr. Topham, that this story shall not appear in your paper, I will promise you to seek out the people from whom I heard those reports and to give them the warmest contradiction.”

As a mollifying influence he circulated the decanter once more.

“Well, I’m sorry,” said Mr. Topham. “I think I’ve already shown you that I bear no malice. At the same time I have my duty to do. If I find, as I have found today, ample material for two or three good funny paragraphs, am I justified in cutting them out to oblige absolute strangers? I have a duty towards my proprietors. I must give them the best that I have, and this chance meeting with yourself and the Prime Minister is as funny a thing as I’ve come on for years.”

“It seems funny to you,” said Mr. Dumphry, “but I doubt if it would seem funny to anybody else. I think you could quite safely give us an undertaking not to mention it.”

“Quite impossible,” said the editor. “All I can say is that I’ll do what I can. Other topics may occur and it may not be necessary to relate the circumstances of our meeting. On the other hand, other topics may not, and I am sure, Mr. Speaker, that you’ll see that in this case I have no choice. Mr. Johnson and I must be getting on. Many thanks for your hospitality, and I will do what I can. But I should warn you not to hope too much.”

The editor and Mr. Johnson left.

“I feel,” said Mr. Dumphry, “that we have made a very serious mistake.”

“Nothing of the kind,” said Pierce Eveleigh. “The man’s a mere braggart. If he produces anything in his paper which could be taken as a description of either of us, I shall immediately phone my solicitors. We shall have an injunction next day and the laugh will be on the other side altogether.”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Dumphry dolefully. “He said he understood all about the law of libel. He might get in something which would be quite nasty for us but which we simply couldn’t stop. Of course, if his report were in any way untrue, I should contradict it. I should be justified. But you know what people are. However much you contradict, this kind of thing seems to stick to one. Long afterwards people make humorous references to it. I’m not happy about it, Pierce, and I don’t pretend to be happy. Bill, waitress.”

They made several final decisions on the way home, and as they changed from time to time it is perhaps not worth while to recall them. But, speaking generally, it was agreed that if their identity were not disclosed they would ignore the whole thing, and if suspected would laugh it away as a coincidence. If, on the other hand, these paragraphs made them distinctly recognizable, Mr. Pierce Eveleigh would phone his solicitors at once. There would be an injunction, the entire issue of The County Record would be pulped, and Mr. Topham would be thrown out on to the dust-bin.

So far all seemed satisfactory. And yet the men were a little bit distraught when they reached home. Mr. Dumphry, for instance, inquired if he could have his bath in his tea, meaning that he would like to take his tea in the bathroom. It kept his daughter Queenie amused for quite a long time.

And then came the awful days of waiting. The County Record could not be procured from the news-agent before the hour of 4.30 on Friday afternoon. At 4.31 on that afternoon both Mr. Pierce Eveleigh and Mr. Dumphry possessed a copy.

Mr. Dumphry searched the column of light notes. He searched the paper throughout. He found no reference to himself or to Eveleigh at all.

“After all,” he said to himself, “that man Topham’s a gentleman, and if I ever get an opportunity to say so, I shall say so.”

But while Mr. Dumphry with his mind fully relieved, allowed it to turn once more to the organization of the Tessel Road Parliament, Mr Pierce Eveleigh was announced. He also had a copy of the paper in his hand.

“You see what they say about us?” he said.

“They don’t say anything,” said Dumphry.

“That’s where you go wrong, my friend. Just turn to the personal advertisements on the front page.” Mr. Dumphry turned and he read as follows:

“R. L. Inn Sunday lunch. Strangers not as represented. In reality Speaker and Prime Minister of the Royal Legpullers’ League.”

“Dear me!” said Mr. Dumphry.

“Of course,” said Mr. Eveleigh, “a possibility of this kind was always in the back of my mind. Somehow the thing didn’t seem probable. One or two of the phrases used weren’t quite what I should have expected.”

“For that matter,” said Mr. Dumphry, “I was pretty certain of it. But I thought I’d just wait and see. I take life easily. Have a cigarette, Pierce.”

9

MR. DUMPHRY’S
SECRET MISSION

One evening after dinner Mr. Dumphry put down on the couch beside him the historical novel which he had just finished reading and observed aloud, “Ah! Those were the days.”

“How do you mean, Ernest?” asked Mrs. Dumphry.

“How do I mean? Well, in between the two covers of this book there is more life than I shall ever see, more adventure, more spirit, more of the things that a man really needs.”

“Dunno,” said Queenie. “I’ve always found that there’s fun to be had if you really go out and look for it.”

“I don’t think fun is exactly what your father meant,” said Mrs. Dumphry.

“No, not entirely,” said Mr. Dumphry. “Certainly not only that. But these are humdrum days. If in London tomorrow I even attempted to do one half of the things that the hero of this book does frequently I should simply be arrested. No, we’ve lost the art of living. These are not days for the adventurous.”

“What is it you want to do exactly?” asked Queenie.

“Oh, well, I shouldn’t care to define it exactly, but there is very little in the professional life of a chartered accountant that could be called excitement. Nor is there much more in my home life here in Tessel Road. Mind you, I don’t say it isn’t all for the best. It may be. But there is such a thing as feeling your temperament stifled.”

Mr. Dumphry extended his arms once or twice to indicate the struggles of the adventurous temperament to get free of the chains of civilization.

“I must take up something fresh,” he said. “I require more room for my energies and activities. It may quite possibly be gardening.”

“Well,” said Queenie, “I watched our jobbing gardener on Saturday morning and it doesn’t seem to make any particular demand on his energies and activities, anyhow.”

“You can’t say. Everything depends on the spirit in which it is approached. Only yesterday evening I got a catalogue from a Dutch bulb-grower and seeds-man. It was illustrated. And when I compared those illustrations with anything my own garden had to show I was fairly ashamed. I felt like taking my coat off and starting in on the work at once.”

“Gardening is healthy,” said Mrs. Dumphry.

“But not exciting,” added Queenie. “More excitement is what father wants.”

“I shouldn’t necessarily say that,” said Mr. Dumphry. “All I do say is that I should like something that would make life rather fuller and richer than it is at present.”

And the very next day he got it.

Mr. Dumphry had finished dealing with the morning mail when Miss Stetson brought him the card of Mr. John Ranley. The card was remarkable only in that it bore no address.

“What’s this? Who’s this?” said Mr. Dumphry. “Never heard of the man. What’s he want? What’s his business?”

“‘Well,” said Miss Stetson, “I asked him what his business was and he said it was of an extremely confidential nature but of the utmost importance. He said if you could spare him five minutes he was quite sure you would not regret it.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Dumphry with patient resignation. “Show him in.”

The man who entered was a small man, elderly, clean-shaven, white-haired, monocled, and extremely well dressed.

“Good morning, Mr. Dumphry,” he said.

“’Morning. What can I do for you?”

Mr. Ranley smiled. “That,” he said, “may take rather a long time to explain. Today we can do no more than go into the preliminaries. Let me inquire first if you have anybody here who could take your place in the event of your absence for about a month in the autumn.”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because I was wondering if you would be willing to take a little holiday in Russia during the next September.”

“If the inducements were sufficient I might be.”

“Financially, perhaps they are not very great. The offer I am empowered to make is this. You would state what your business was worth to you for September last year and you would be paid three times that amount in cash, half before you left England and half on your return, if you did return. But you would also earn an important, though foreign, decoration.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Dumphry, “leaving all that for the moment, what am I supposed to do when I go to Russia? My business connection there is very slight at present.”

“No doubt. Perhaps it would be as well to be frank and to tell you at once that though your business might form a very useful cloak, it is by no means in your business capacity that you will be required.”

“How do you come to me at all? Outside accountancy, I am a practically unknown man.”

“That is one of our principal reasons. It is to the good that nobody has never heard of you. If you go to Moscow with some reasonable business plea and are careful to conform with all rules and regulations, it is extremely unlikely that the authorities will take any notice of you. Also, it is important for us to have a business man, and a business man of known and tried probity. I have not come to you Without inquiries, Mr. Dumphry. And, as you will see before this interview is over, I am reposing absolute confidence in you.”

“Well, Mr. Ranley, this proposal seems to me quite outside my line. I have never had anything of the sort brought before me. I don’t say that I refuse, but I should have to go into it very carefully before I consented. Now, to come back to the beginning of things, you speak of we and us. What does that mean?”

“The we means a small committee — we can call it that. I am a member of that committee and in this case I am its accredited emissary.”

“Good. What references do you offer?”

“None whatever. It is most important that we and you who represent us should have as few connections as possible.”

“I don’t quite like that,” said Mr. Dumphry.

“I didn’t suppose you would. But this is not any ordinary business and we cannot proceed on any ordinary business lines. I will do the best I can to satisfy you that everything is genuine and above-board. Possibly if I am subsequently permitted to give you the names of some of the other members of the committee, you will be satisfied. My own name, by the way, is not Ranley, but please call me that for the present.”.

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Dumphry. “This may not be ordinary business, but I do not profess to be more than an ordinary business man. You offer me a fee equal, roughly speaking, to a quarter of my annual income. How am I to be sure — if I may say so without being offensive — that you can and will pay it? You see, Mr. Ranley, you are an absolute stranger to me.”

“I have already told you, Mr. Dumphry, that half the fee will be paid before you leave the country. To this will be added a considerable sum on account of expenses. If this money is not forthcoming, you will refuse to go. But I have thought of another way to reassure you.”

He had already removed the loose wash-leather glove from his right hand. He now slipped off the glove from the other hand and displayed what appeared to be two diamond rings of unusual magnificence. Mr. Dumphry at once decided they were much too good to be true.

Mr. Ranley took the rings from his fingers and laid them down on the table in front of Mr. Dumphry.

“Oblige me,” he said, “by slipping those into your pocket. Take them to any jeweller who is accustomed to deal with objects of importance. Ask him what he will give for them. I think you will be satisfied.”

“No, no, no,” said Mr. Dumphry. “Really, this is not the way one does things. How could I devise any form of receipt for these rings that would be satisfactory?”

“I want no receipt,” said Mr. Ranley, smiling. “Today is Tuesday. On Thursday morning at this hour I shall call here again. That gives you ample time to discover what the rings are worth, and on Thursday morning you can return them to me. I said I would prove my complete confidence in you — this is the proof. Remember that though I am a stranger to you, you are much less a stranger to us. Our inquiries were not confined to the usual trade channels. I assure you, Mr. Dumphry, that I shall not feel one moment’s nervousness about those rings of mine. But I think I have already had the five minutes for which I asked.”

“Still, unless you are in a hurry, there seems to me to be more to be said.”

“No, I am not in any hurry.”

“Very well, then. You tell me that you want me to be in Moscow during September, and what fee you offer, and you press on me evidence that you can pay it. But you do not tell me what I am to do — the one thing I gather is that there is some risk in it. Now that is the very first thing I want to know. There are things which nothing could tempt me to do.”

“We are well aware of it and ask you to do nothing that an honourable man could not undertake. I cannot at present give you names and details, but I can give you a rough idea of what we want.”

“Well, let me have it.”

“There is at the present moment living in Moscow a man whom almost all the world supposes to be dead. He is of exalted rank, and before the revolution was possessed of great wealth. He now has taken a name that is common enough among Russian peasants, and lives in a little shop with a living-room behind it on the ground floor of a small house in Moscow. In the old days his hobby was fine wood-work and he became very proficient in it. He now makes his living by it, manufacturing and selling cases and boxes for cigarettes. He has no servant and does everything for himself. The authorities know who he is and, as you may imagine, keep a close eye on him. But so long as he does nothing to arouse suspicion, he is safe enough. Any letter which he sends or receives in the ordinary course is opened and read. Now this man has friends who are anxious to convey to him secretly a message of great importance. It will be written in cypher — an impregnable cypher — and we ask you to take it to Moscow and deliver it.”

“It doesn’t sound difficult,” said Mr. Dumphry.

“Alas! It is not as easy as it sounds. I think I should tell you that we tried to get this message through once before and failed. We were not careful enough of our choice of an agent The letter was never delivered. It was written in a cypher which defies detection; otherwise the august person for whom it was intended would not now be making his cigarette-cases. And our agent never returned.”

“Good heavens I You mean he was killed?”

“I cannot say. But he never returned. He could not give us away. He did not know the real names of his employers nor the real name of the person to whom he was taking the letter, nor anything of the contents of the letter. Nor will you know any of these things — at any rate, until your return. But this man unfortunately met a friend in Moscow, and we know that the two spoke English at a restaurant. No doubt something indiscreet was said. Madness I You will not make mistakes of that kind.”

“I can keep my mouth shut. But why should it take me the whole of September to deliver the letter?”

“It won’t. You need not be in Moscow for more than twelve days, and it is only on the last day, when you are on the point of departure, that you will deliver the letter. The first days will be devoted to proving that you are harmless and even beneficent. You will have business to do and orders to place with three or four firms in Moscow — that will all be arranged for you — and you will actually do that business. On the last day you will hide the cypher letter among paper money in your pocket book. You will then for the first time go down the street where the wood-worker lives. On the point of passing his shop you will pause, as if attracted by the cigarette-cases displayed there. You will enter, haggle a little with him, speaking French. Finally you put the case you have chosen in your pocket, and hand over the money — in which the letter is hidden. He will understand, but no sign of any mutual understanding will be given. If anybody is watching he must be able to detect nothing. And then, my friend, get back to England just as quickly as ever you can.”

“I suppose,” said Mr. Dumphry, “you don’t expect any definite answer at once.”

“Oh no. Take your own time. You need not even give your final answer on Thursday unless it’s ready.”

“You see, I might want to talk over the whole matter with one or two friends of mine.”

“To that I should most strongly object,” said Mr. Ranley. “The objection is in your own interests. The fewer people who know what you are going to do, the safer you will be. It is also quite unnecessary. You are not a child in matters of business, Mr. Dumphry. You’ve shown that already. You are quite competent to come to a decision in this matter on your own judgement. Naturally you will wish to mention it to your wife and family. And I have no objection if you will limit yourself as to what you say. You may say that you think of going on an expedition to Russia in September and that you hope it will be very profitable, but that there is a slight element of risk in it. Beyond that you positively must not go.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Dumphry. “I have the utmost confidence in the discretion of my family, but after all, this is not entirely my affair and I will observe your limitations. You — er — mentioned a decoration. Does Russia bestow decorations nowadays?” “Probably not. That makes no difference. The decoration, about which I would rather not say more at present, will be bestowed on you by a foreign country, but it will not be Russia.”

“I see,” said Mr. Dumphry. “Is there anything more to be said at present?”

“Nothing, I think. I can only thank you for having given me so much of your time. By Thursday morning you will have had the rings valued and quite possibly you will then have come to a decision. Good morning, Mr. Dumphry.”

After his visitor had gone Mr. Dumphry found it a little bit difficult to concentrate on ordinary routine work. His state of mind was slightly excited and pleasurably excited. However, his sense of duty carried him through the morning. After luncheon he had a taxicab called for him and drove off to the office of Mr. Edwin Clew. Mr. Clew, with whom Mr. Dumphry had already had dealings extending over some years, was a diamond merchant in Hatton Garden.

Mr. Clew occasionally carried valuable stones loose in his trousers pocket. The uninstructed observer might have supposed that Mr. Clew was careless. He never was. But at the same time he never took any care which he judged to be unnecessary. He received Mr. Dumphry genially.

“Well, now,” said Mr. Clew. “What can I do for you? This isn’t the time of year when I want you to comb out the snags in my balance sheet.”

“I want you,” said Mr. Dumphry, “to cast your eye over a couple of rings I’ve got here. They’re not my property. They belong to a friend — I should say an acquaintance — of mine. I am not an expert in these matters and it won’t surprise me if you tell me they’re rubbish.”

Mr. Clew looked at the two rings and then carried them over to the window where he examined them more carefully. He brought them back and laid them down on the table.

“Well, Mr. Dumphry,” he said, “these are unusual. I think I am correct in describing them as white Brazilian diamonds of a very fine quality.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Dumphry. “And what are they worth?”

“I cannot tell you that without taking the stones out of their settings, but I don’t mind taking a sporting risk. If you are empowered to sell these two rings I’ll write you a cheque for £1,500 now.”

“I’m not empowered,” said Mr. Dumphry. “Of course, I don’t know what my friend will be prepared to do about it. I can only ask him.”

“May I take it if he wishes to sell them I shall have the first offer?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Dumphry. “I think I might promise that. But I am by no means certain that he even wants to sell them. I should perhaps tell you that he is a man I never saw in my life before this morning.”

“And he leaves you to carry those rings about in your waistcoat pocket! Well, I’m not surprised. You’re all right. And that’s a thing that somehow one knows at sight.”

When Mr. Dumphry reached home that evening he summoned Mrs. Dumphry, Queenie and Barbara and asked them to promise absolute secrecy as to what he was going to communicate to them.

“It is not a condition which I made myself,” he said, “but I am bound to abide by it. To you, and to you alone, am I permitted to say one word about the extraordinary thing which may possibly happen, and even to you at present I doubt if I can say as much as you will think satisfactory. But you must not press me with questions. I will tell you all I can, and if subsequently I can tell you more, I will do so. But I am in the position of an agent and I must be guided by those who employ me. To start with, I may possibly spend next September in Russia.”

He went on to tell them the rest so far as it was permitted, and no further.

Queenie said it looked as if it might be most awful sport. Barbara said: “Well, there seems to be a good deal hanging to it. You want to think twice before you turn a thing like that down. What’s the risk you speak of? Risk that you won’t be paid?”

“No. I satisfied myself to some extent as to that this afternoon. It is a personal risk if I failed in the exercise of my discretion and in carrying out my orders exactly. I don’t think I should fail.”

But Mrs. Dumphry was by no means pleased. “Well,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “I’m sure you know best. But personally I do not like Russia and never have liked Russia. My cousin George very nearly met his death by eating caviare which had been kept too long, and, as it happens, only last week I read a translation of a novel written about Russia by a Russian, and so I do know something about it. The Russians are a melancholy people. How could it be otherwise, seeing that they drink tea at all hours of the day and night, with vodka and pickled herrings in between? If you do go, you will have to promise me, Ernest, to be very careful about your digestion.”

“That will be all right. At the principal hotels I believe you can live very much as in this country.”

“Then again, tactful though you are, how are you to do business with people who always commit suicide if they feel at all upset? And the climate seems to be admitted on all hands to be a disgrace. You can wear nothing there that you could wear anywhere else. And how are you to speak Russian, when the language is so difficult that even most of the actual Russians have to give it up and speak French instead?”

“In that case, I might speak French.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Dumphry admitted, “that might be a way of dealing with it. It had not occurred to me. But I doubt if I shall have one moment free from anxiety all the time you are away.”

“Well, well,” said Ernest, “we won’t meet trouble half-way. It’s quite possible that I shan’t go at all.”

No doubt Mrs. Dumphry had learned something from her Russian novel. For instance, she knew now that a moujhik was a peasant — and not, as she had previously supposed, some kind of cow. But Mrs. Dumphry’s troubles were not those of Ernest. Ernest had a bad night. His mind was haunted by two pictures. In the first he had just returned to England and was terribly famous. His photograph appeared on the picture-page of all the newspapers. Armies of reporters besieged him, but he modestly declined any interview and stated that he had merely done his duty and too much fuss was being made about it. His business swelled up until he had to turn it into a limited company. Finally he retired and became the Amateur Golf Champion. And very nice, too.

But that was only one picture, and the other was not so nice. In the other he was flung down steep stone steps into a noisome underground cell, and hurt himself in the process. Water dripped from the walls of the cell and formed a pool on the floor, and from every corner the sharp eyes of rats watched him. There was no other furniture. For three days he had nothing to eat but a slice of dry rye bread. His secret expedition had failed, and he would never see England again. He could hear the click of the heels of the firing-party in the courtyard above. This was the punishment of ambition. It was too, too awful.

After hours of this mental see-saw, he fell asleep. He woke unrefreshed, and had only one egg for breakfast instead of his customary two — a circumstance which gravely perturbed Mrs. Dumphry.

At the office Mr. Dumphry opened the morning mail. The last letter was of special interest. With iron determination he first of all called in Miss Stetson and dealt with the other letters. Then he said to Miss Stetson:

“There is a possibility that a Dr. Pinkham will call to see me this morning or there might be a man from Scotland Yard. I’ll see either of them if I’m disengaged. If not, give them a newspaper and let them wait.”

And then Mr. Dumphry turned back to the letter which he had set aside. It was from Edwin Clew, and said as follows:

Shortly after you left me we were circularized as to the two diamond rings you showed me. I got the Yard on the telephone and talked to a man I know there and I don’t think you’ll be bothered about it.

It seems that a man called Ranley, a lunatic in the charge of a Dr. Pinkham at Weybridge, escaped the other day and was traced to London, where they lost sight of him. He was wearing those two rings at the time, and he had very little money with him, so the fear is that he may have disposed of them foolishly. He was lucky to come your way. However, I’ve given them your address and Dr. Pinkham will probably be round this morning and tell you all about it.

This letter made Mr. Dumphry rather angry. He rang up Clew at once and thanked him. Then he prepared to receive Dr. Pinkham, or, if necessary, the whole of Scotland Yard, and to pulverize the whole lot of them. Nearly every man is at his worst when he loses his temper. Mr. Dumphry, on the contrary, on these occasions was at his very best. At eleven o’clock Dr. Percival Pinkham was announced. He was a large rubicund gentleman who looked very worried.

“Sit down, won’t you, Dr. Pinkham,” said Mr. Dumphry as if absent-mindedly. “I shall be ready for you in a minute.”

As a matter of fact, he kept Dr. Pinkham waiting at least three minutes while he read and re-read a letter which was not of the slightest interest to him. When he put it down with a sigh and said: “Well, Dr. Punkham, what can I do for you?”

“Pinkham,” said Dr. Pinkham.

“Yes. Dr. Pinkham. Sorry. Go on.”

“The facts of the case that I am about to relate to you,” said Dr. Pinkham, “are really very remarkable. I doubt if anything more extraordinary has been recorded even in the history of—”

“Pardon me,” said Mr. Dumphry. “I have an appointment at 11.15. Just the facts, please.”

“Oh yes. Certainly. A gentleman called John Ranley, engaged in the film business, both speculatively and as a scenario writer, became suddenly very rich. He had been a failure all his life and now he had one enormous success after another. Unfortunately this proved too much for his mental balance and his family found it necessary to place him in my care. I take one resident patient. The principal trouble with him is that he now not only goes on composing these scenarios, but imagines them to be true, and that he himself is actually taking part in them. In many ways he is as sane as you or I. He gives no trouble, no violence, nothing of that kind. Up to the day before yesterday I should have said that he was perfectly satisfied and had no desire to leave me. I did the best I could to make him happy and I think I was not wholly unsuccessful.”

He paused for Mr. Dumphry to say the right thing.

“Yes,” said Mr. Dumphry.

“Well, the night before last this Mr. Ranley escaped from my charge. You will quite understand that if I had been looking for anything of the kind it could never have happened.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Dumphry.

“It was not till yesterday morning that I managed to trace him as far as London. Naturally I have been very much worried. He had very little money with him, and though he is an extremely wealthy man with money to burn, he has no power to write cheques at present. But he was wearing two very valuable diamond rings of which, fortunately, I had a description. The fear was that in his desire to raise money for his personal expenses he might sacrifice one or more of those rings for an absurd sum, or that they might be stolen from him. I went straight to Scotland Yard, the description was circulated, and last night I was informed that you, Mr. Dumphry, had taken those two rings to a Mr. Clew of Hatton Garden to be valued.”

“You needn’t say a Mr. Clew. There’s only one in that profession. He’s a friend of mine.”

“Certainly. I intended no offence. And so naturally this morning I have come to you.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Dumphry. “What can I do for you?”

“To begin with, you could probably tell me where Mr. Ranley is.”

“No, I can’t. Don’t know it myself.”

“Well, well. Inquiries are still going on of course. I think there will be no trouble about that. Perhaps in the meantime you would hand over to me the rings which were entrusted to you, and I will give you a proper formal receipt for them.”

“Nothing of the kind,” said Mr. Dumphry. “You come here as Dr. Pinkham. You may be. You probably are. But I can’t be expected to know it. Those rings will be returned by me to the man who entrusted them to me, or to his legally empowered representative, and to nobody else.”

“But really, Mr. Dumphry, if I may say so, this is absurd. I can assure you that Scotland Yard is perfectly satisfied as to my identity.”

“Very likely. It doesn’t interest me.”

“Well, suppose I brought officers from Scotland Yard to talk to you on the subject?”

“I don’t think they’d come. If they did, I think I can promise you that they would wish afterwards that they had stopped away. However, time is short and I don’t want to bother you. Tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock Mr. Ranley said he would return to my office, and, if he does, I shall then hand over the rings to him. What you, or Scotland Yard, or anybody else does after that doesn’t concern me.”

“Then if I’m in the street outside at eleven, I shall be able to catch him. You feel sure he’ll come?”

“No. Never saw the man till yesterday. He’s your patient. You ought to know a great deal better than I do whether he keeps his appointments or not.”

“Well, I shall try it at any rate. Good morning, Mr. Dumphry, and thank you very much.”

“’Morning.”

Anger is a childish and temporary derangement of the reason. Mr. Dumphry was angry because he had been taken in by John Ranley. He ceased to be angry because he had kept his end up with Dr. Pinkham. With returning placidity he even wondered if he had not been unduly brusque with Dr. Pinkham. He had.

On his return home he announced definitely that he had given up his Russian plan altogether.

“And I’m very, very glad to hear it, Ernest,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “This caviare, unless perfectly fresh, of which no man can be certain in a foreign country, is only too likely to cause—”

“Yes, yes, my dear. But it’s cash, not caviare, that I’ve been considering. Today I’ve had very grave reason to doubt if the other party would — or even could — carry out its obligations. The thing has become suspect. I may make mistakes in business, but I don’t sacrifice the substance for the shadow. The other side has not completely given up hope. I expect one of the principals to call at my office tomorrow, but it won’t be a long interview. I’ve come to my decision. It was just one of those things that look very promising but crumble to pieces when you go into them.”

He said nothing about diamond rings. He did not mention lunatics. Without making one statement which could have been called absolutely untrue he managed to lie plausibly and considerably. Such, no doubt, may be the result of a prolonged study of balance sheets.

At ten minutes to eleven next morning Mr. Dumphry unlocked the office safe and took from it two valuable rings which he placed on his own writing-table. He then looked out of the window and was not altogether surprised to see a taxicab waiting in front of his door. He concluded, quite correctly, that Dr. Pinkham was lurking inside that taxicab.

It was five minutes past eleven when Mr. Ranley was announced. He was just as smart and debonair as on his previous visit, but he looked slightly troubled.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Dumphry,” he said. “I’m very sorry. It’s no fault of mine. Only this morning a cable reached us that the great personage whom you would have met on our behalf has passed away. He is dead.”

“Sorry,” said Mr. Dumphry cheerfully. “In that case our business is at an end, and it only remains for me to return you your rings, Mr. Ranley. They’re very fine rings, so I’m told. I’m afraid this is a disappointment to you.”

“It is,” said Mr. Ranley. “And troubles never come singly. Only just now I picked up on the pavement outside a brilliant old friend of mine, Dr. Pinkham. I’ve put him into a taxi and I shall see him back to Weybridge. A man who might have done much.”

“What’s the matter with him?” asked Mr. Dumphry.

Mr. Ranley tapped his forehead

“And,” he added, “it all comes from drink. It’s the curse of so many of these medical men. I may be able to pull him through or I may not. I can’t say. In the meantime, Mr. Dumphry, I’ve occupied a very great deal of your valuable time. I expect to pay for it and I should like to pay for it. If you will tell me the amount which would be satisfactory to you, I will send a cheque on to you. I have not my cheque-book on me at the moment.”

“That’s all right,” said Mr. Dumphry. “We’ll talk about that later. I’m very pleased to have been of any assistance to you. Good morning, Mr. Ranley.”

Mr. Ranley slipped the rings on his fingers.

“Good morning, Mr. Dumphry. Thank you very much for all you’ve done. And now I must go and
see to my unfortunate friend outside.”

•   •   •

Several weeks later, when Mr. Dumphry had almost forgotten the incident, a letter arrived for him from Mr. Ranley.

I am sure, (wrote Mr. Ranley) that you will be pleased to hear that under the care of Dr. Pinkham I have now completely recovered from my illness.

I realize that it was a very fortunate thing that chance took me to the office of a man of your scrupulous honour and integrity. I realize also that I wasted a great deal of your time with my silly scenario.

I have been talking the matter over with my family and also with my solicitor, and we all are in agreement. If you would be good enough to consent to accept the enclosed cheque for £52 10s. I could not regard it as payment for what you did for me, but hope that you will at any rate receive it as evidence that I am not wholly ungrateful.

Mr. Dumphry did receive it.

On returning home he said that he had had what might perhaps be called a windfall resulting from that Russian business. If Mrs. Dumphry, Barbara and Queenie cared to go up to London next morning and buy themselves a hat apiece in Bond Street or somewhere, and then pick him up at the office to go to lunch at the Splendid, he’d be delighted.

And the invitation was accepted with cordiality.

10

COMMANDER DUMPHRY
AND THE
MONUMENTO TRAP

A quite ordinary man may receive in one morning’s mail a book catalogue, a bulb catalogue; an offer from Messrs. Cameron, Bruce & Bull to send him £500 by return of post on his note of hand alone; a letter requesting a subscription to a hospital in West Africa; another from a complete stranger who says that he once met the ordinary man’s aunt, and would like a loan of £15, repayable in one month, to save his home; and yet one more to point out the advantage of becoming a member of an unknown proprietary club at a reduced subscription.

And what does the ordinary man do? He may perhaps wonder for one moment why so many stamps are expended in circulating literature which is bound to fail to reach its objective. He then deposits the lot in a suitable receptacle for waste-paper. And that is that.

But Mr. Dumphry was not quite an ordinary man. True, at his office no letter which did not concern his business ever got through to him, but anything sent to his private address was quite likely to receive his attention. He would search the book catalogue for the bargain which he never found, and he would be amused with the quaint English which the wily Dutchman had inserted in his bulb catalogue to increase the probability that it would be read. Mr. Dumphry neither lent nor borrowed money. But when the Order of Minor Mercies sent him its superb literature, he not only read it but he was very favourably impressed.

The Order of Minor Mercies sent out its little budget from an office in the West End of London. It boasted a Bishop as its patron and a retired Colonel as its secretary. Its printed appeal was excellently printed on the best paper, and the letter addressed by the secretary to Ernest Dumphry, Esq., personally, was typed in perfection.

The object of the Order, said the printed appeal, was to encourage in every way the practice of those mercies which, precisely because they were minor, were so often neglected. Many people, kindly and humane in other respects, used methods of killing flies, wasps, and moths which were simply revolting in their cruelty. Such, for instance, was the use of the tape or paper covered with some highly-adhesive but non-poisonous material. Flies caught by these devices were held prisoner, and only after hours of struggle and torture did death relieve them. Again, jars containing sugared beer were hung from fruit-trees, and in them wasps and beautiful moths often suffered a very lingering and painful death; the very sight of one of those jars which had been left out for two or three summer days was horrible and revolting. Nor were our methods of destroying mice and rats much better. No doubt there were traps that were supposed to kill instantly, but did they always do it? Often one of these wretched animals, caught by a leg or tail, would bite off the member by which it was held and limp away to its hole to die in protracted agony. An eloquent and informative passage about Buddha followed.

The last two pages of the pamphlet got down to cold business. The tariff was moderate. For an annual ten-and-six you became a registered member of the Order, and were entitled to one copy of such literature as the Order might from time to time produce. Raise it to one guinea and you became a Fellow, entitled to two copies, and with the right to sign F.O.M.M. after your name. There were also to be Commanders of the Order. The number of these was to be strictly limited, and no one was eligible except on direct invitation from the Committee. Commanders alone were entitled to wear the White Cordon and Crystal Jewel of the Order. Incidentally, they were also entitled to pay an entrance fee of two guineas and an annual subscription of the same sum, and were expected to give some of their leisure time to propaganda work in their district.

The typed letter said: “I have the honour to inform you that my Committee have, after due consideration, decided to invite you to become a Commander of this Order. The privileges attaching to this rank are set forth on p. 12 of the enclosed pamphlet. The Order has been in existence for less than a year, but it has already received such high and influential support that full recognition is ultimately expected.”

Had Mr. Dumphry been considering this solely as a business proposition it is certain that he would have found holes in it. He would have wanted the names of the Committee. He would have wanted publication of accounts. He would have reflected that some Bishops are a little too prone to lend their honourable names to what is professedly a good object without sufficient examination, and the commendatory letters from celebrities quoted in the pamphlet might have been explained in much the same way. The last two pages of the pamphlet would certainly have suggested that somebody was, vulgarly speaking, on the make. And the secretary’s letter would rather have confirmed that view.

But he was not looking at the business end. The object professed was undoubtedly good, and it was one that appealed strongly to Mr. Dumphry’s kindly heart. He put the matter before his family, and met with support.

“I should say that these people are right,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “Of course we have to destroy insects and vermin, but that’s no reason why we shouldn’t make it as pleasant for them as we can. It’s a thing I’ve often thought of. As long as an insect is small enough, we don’t seem to regard its feelings, and that no doubt is why sometimes these very large elephants attack human beings, for everything in life is comparative.”

And Mr. Dumphry, who after all had had long practice, understood precisely what Mrs. Dumphry meant.

“I call it a jolly good idea,” said Barbara. “I believe some of the science merchants stuff you up that insects can’t feel, but I’ve seen them give a fair imitation of it. I should join up to this Order thing, if I were you, father.”

But Queenie was critical.

“It’s all right in a way,” said Queenie. “I hate cruelty as much as anybody. Why, if I swipe a spider off the wall, I always look on the floor for it, and put my hoof on it to make sure. Still, I don’t pay a subscription to be allowed to do it. And I don’t wait to sling the silver-plated jigmaroo of the Order round my neck before I do it either. And why should anybody?”

“You seem,” said her father, with a mild approach to severity, “to be under some misapprehensions. You do not pay your subscription for permission to be humane. Office rent and salaries have to be paid. The expenses of the propaganda must be considerable. The Insignia of the Order — which may not be worn by anybody under the rank of Commander, and would be worn by him only with evening dress on special ceremonial occasions — consists not of a silver-plated jigmaroo, but of a White Cordon with a Crystal Jewel.”

“Sorry,” said Queenie.

“And not only that,” added her mother. “I do not, and cannot, like the sight of a squashed spider on a carpet. You should slide a sheet of paper under it, and throw it out into the garden.”

At this point Mr. Dumphry was inclined to become merely a member of the Order at a modest expenditure of ten-and-six, and to refuse the more expensive honour that was offered him. But that evening Mrs. Dumphry studied the pamphlet with far more care than Ernest had given to it, and it — so to speak — fired her blood.

“You know, Ernest, it’s no good half doing a thing. There is an annual dinner of the Order, and there is also an evening reception in the summer.”

“I hadn’t noticed that.”

“Yes. Page eight. No doubt some important and influential people will be present, and it might be very interesting. If you took one of the girls or perhaps myself there, it would be more satisfactory to be escorted by a Commander of the Order wearing the White Cordon with the Crystal Etcetera, though I am sure nobody could ever accuse me of snobbery. It is simply that we should like to see you in a position of some dignity. To my mind the Committee pay you a great compliment in sending you this special invitation, and it would be ungracious of you to refuse it.”

“Yes, but four guineas,” said Mr. Dumphry doubtfully.

“Only two next year. Of course, if you tell me we can’t possibly afford it—”

“I wouldn’t go so far as that,” said Ernest. And in the end he let himself be persuaded, and sent off his cheque. It is not impossible that he himself had become a little dazzled by the rays of that Crystal Jewel.

By return of post he received a formal receipt, in an envelope which was addressed “Commander Dumphry, O.M.M.” It was accompanied by a letter of respectful congratulation from the secretary, ending as follows:

“You are now, of course, entitled to wear the Insignia of the Order, the prepaid fee for which is ten shillings and sixpence. This includes the cost of packing and registered postage.”

Mr. Dumphry did not like it. Even that address on the envelope gave him qualms. What on earth would the postman think? And what would the postman say? The pamphlet had distinctly said that, pending full and authoritative recognition, the titles and insignia should be used only in affairs of the Order. But the post-office was distressingly public. He might be asked why he was Commander Dumphry and what he commanded, and it would be unpleasant. Still less did Mr. Dumphry like being milked of a further ten-and-six. He had expected that his four guineas would cover the cost of the insignia. However, he had let himself in for it now, and he reluctantly sent the money.

But the first real blow came when the insignia arrived. In the absence of her lord, Mrs. Dumphry, in accordance with instructions, opened the parcel. She took the contents to Mr. Smithson, the local jeweller who superintended the watches of the Dumphry family. She said nothing whatever to her daughters. Habitually good-humoured, she now seemed depressed.

“Ernest,” she said, when she was alone with him, “this has been a lesson to me. As always happens, you were right and I was wrong. I should never have advised you to become a Commander of the Order of Minor Mercies, and I regret it.”

“What — what’s the matter?”

“The insignia — if they can be so called. They came by registered post, and when I opened the box my heart sank. Why they should register such rubbish, I can’t think.”

“The White Cordon?” Mr. Dumphry began.

“Is nothing but twenty inches of very narrow white watered silk riband of poor quality. To this is slung a small heart of ordinary glass by a brass ring. I’m not depending on my own judgement, for I took the thing to Smithson. It looks like a child’s toy. You’d never dream of wearing it. I’ve said nothing to the girls.”

Mr. Dumphry inspected the insignia himself and thought deeply.

“Well,” he said finally, “this, of course, is rather a blow, and I think you were quite wise to say nothing to the girls about it. But of course the Order of Minor Mercies is more or less of a charitable organization, and very likely may consider that any swindle in the good cause is justified. Of course, if I ever became a member of the Committee, a position for which I suppose a Commander of the Order would be eligible, I should deal very strongly with the matter. What I feel at present is that we cannot treat these people exactly as if they were a business organization. You had better put the insignia away somewhere — I do not suppose I shall ever wear them — and we will wait to see what happens before I do anything final. There can be no doubt at present that the Order is engaged in what I might call sharp practice. But there may be an explanation for it and it may be corrected.”

Mr. Dumphry then wrote a brief and stern letter to the secretary to say that the insignia were rubbish, and that the Committee were totally unjustified in charging any sum approaching ten-and-sixpence for them. To this letter he never received any answer. The Order had not been in existence for very long, but probably it had already become a little used to trouble about the insignia.

In the meantime Mr. Dumphry conscientiously carried out his own duties. Without actually mentioning the Order of Minor Mercies, he protested frequently against the cruel methods employed in the destruction of insects and small vermin. Some flippantly minded people even found him rather a bore on the subject.

And then one bright still morning Mrs. Dumphry was approached by her cook.

“We’ve got mice,” said the cook. “We’ve got one at least, for I saw his tail, and there may have been more. Of course, I’ve always seen this coming ever since Kootcha was taken from us and never replaced.”

Kootcha was an elderly cat, lazy and obese. She had been named Kootcha by Queenie because Queenie maintained that when you looked at her face you couldn’t call her anything else. Kootcha was mostly asleep when she was not eating, and had never caught a mouse in her life. She did not go for her food when, by the happy ordinances of Providence, the food came to her.

“But,” said the cook, “she kept them down. One way or another, they got to know that Kootcha was there and no mouse ever showed its face inside my kitchen. And now I suppose we must try traps.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “but don’t get any just yet. It is a point on which Mr. Dumphry takes strong views, and I should like to consult him about it. Some of these traps are rather cruel, and Mr. Dumphry would never permit that.”

Mrs. Dumphry explained the situation to her husband.

“The pamphlet we had from the Order says that the Order is prepared to supply members at cost price with traps which are guaranteed painless and instantaneous. But of course in view of the insignia one feels that one must be careful. What do you think about it yourself, Ernest?”

“Give them a chance,” said Ernest. “You can write the letter yourself. Of course, if it should tum out to be another swindle, that finishes it. I’ve had no propaganda literature from them. I’ve heard nothing whatever about the annual dinner or evening reception. In fact, I haven’t heard that they’re doing any of the things they said they were doing. If this mousetrap is another do, I shall simply cut my loss and turn the whole thing down.”

“And I brought you into this,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “I can never forget that.”

She sent in her application, and received with the usual businesslike promptitude of the Order the following reply by return of post:

“MADAM: Re Mouse-traps. We are in receipt of your letter and have today despatched to you one of our Monumento traps. This clever machine provides for the instant electrocution of any mouse or rat that enters it. It is attached to the ordinary electric light service and uses no current except for the few seconds when it is in active operation. It will last a lifetime. The cost of this should have been prepaid, but as your need seems to be somewhat urgent, and in view of the high position that Commander Dumphry occupies in our Order, we have sent you the trap at once, merey-requesting a remittance of the cost price, ten-and-sixpence, by return of post. The price may seem to you to be somewhat high, but of course electrical apparatus, scientifically planned and thoroughly well made, is always somewhat expensive.”

Mr. Dumphry himself opened the parcel. It was not at first sight satisfying, and he was a little inclined to be bitter. “Ten-and-six for that lot,” he said. “They don’t seem to know that there are sums under ten-and-six-pence. You are sure that they are not charging another ten-and-sixpence for the paper of directions? Oh, well, that’s something.”

But when he came to examine the machine and the paper of directions, a change came over him. He had always been inclined to fall in love with apparatus, and this was indubitably apparatus.

“But after all,” he said, “it is an ingenious idea. You fit the plug into the electric supply, and luckily we have all arrangements for that in the kitchen. The current comes into action only for the few seconds when the plunger, which you see is marked B here, comes into contact with the container which, if you follow along the dotted line, you see is marked C. It might quite possibly be a very good thing. I wonder nobody has ever thought of it before.”

“Well,” owned Mrs. Dumphry, “I can generally understand a thing when it’s let alone, but anything like directions or explanations seem to confuse my mind.”

“Oh, nonsense,” said Mr. Dumphry. “I’ll give a little demonstration with the machine after dinner, without, of course, connecting it to the electric light so that we shall all understand it.”

He began his demonstration with dignity. “This,” he said, “is the Monumento trap intended to catch mice or rats.”

“Why Monumento?” asked Queenie.

“Do not interrupt your father,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “If memento, then why not Monumento? It’s obvious.”

Mr. Dumphry continued his demonstration until the actual moment when the plunger made contact with the receiver and the mythical rat was in consequence dead.

“All right,” said Queenie. “It seems quite nice, especially if the mice and rats have read the directions. You see, they’ve got to enter at this entrance. Suppose they get fuddled and go in at the other end?”

“In that case,” said Mr. Dumphry, “they would be entirely unable to approach the bait. You may be quite sure that the elementary instincts of the animal have been considered by the inventor.”

The machine was duly connected up and set that night. The mouse had only to follow his natural instincts and he was dead instantly. But, for one reason or another, nothing happened that night. The cook became a little restive.

“Hardly seems worth while,” she said, “to make things to have them eaten by vermin. I never did believe in this electricity, anyway. Never had it till I came here.”

On the second night the Monumento trap again failed to produce results. It was certainly a little complicated, and one must not be too hard on the mice. The cook, having to go out that morning, purchased a trap for twopence out of her hard-earned savings, set it at eleven o’clock, broke the neck of the mouse in it at 3.30, and put the mouse in the dustbin and said nothing whatever about it. The Monumento trap was then set for the third night in succession, Mr. Dumphry explaining that it was, of course, an unusual object and possibly these little animals would be shy of it until they had become more accustomed.

That night was an occasion. It was Queenie’s birthday, and she had many friends. They all came in that evening and there was dancing in the studio. At 9.30 precisely all the lights, both in the studio and the house, went out simultaneously, and Mr. Dumphry found it difficult to conceal that he was very much annoyed. Candles were produced in lamentable insufficiency, and Mrs. Dumphry said she supposed it was one of those lightning strikes of which we hear so much.

“I don’t think so,” said Mr. Dumphry; “the lights are all right down the road. What’s happened is that our fuse has gone, and why it should have gone I can’t tell you. I’ll get to the telephone.”

It was, of course, long after business hours, but the electrician whom Mr. Dumphry generally employed valued his custom and himself came up on his motor-bicycle, and in a few minutes restored the illumination. It was not till next morning when Mrs. Dumphry and the cook were in conference that the real cause of the accident transpired.

“I don’t hold with electricity and never did,” said the cook. “In houses where they have it, it’s not, of course, for me to offer any objection. Otherwise it’s altogether too much touch and go. You never know where you have it. Now last night, just moving round my kitchen, it happened that my foot caught that new trap. Something went click and a blue spark at least six foot long shot out across the kitchen and then all was darkness. I’m not a nervous woman, but that’s not the kind of thing I should care to go through often.”

Mr. Dumphry was now awake and was determined to cut his loss. He wrote to the secretary of the Order to say he declined to pay for the Monumento trap, which was apparently constructed by an absolute ignoramus in electrical knowledge, that he was wholly dissatisfied with the way in which the Order seemed to be conducted, and that he wished his name to be removed from the list of members at once. The Order could have its Monumento trap back again either by calling for it or by enclosing sufficient stamps to cover packing and postage.

He informed his family bitterly that he found the whole thing was a swindle. The idea of the Order was good, and blackguards had traded upon it. Apparently the only thing the Monumento trap had ever caught was himself. He hoped he would hear no further allusion to the subject.

But, after a lapse of time, his letter to the secretary was returned to him through the Dead Letter Office; and he was destined to hear one further allusion to it, for that evening his friend, Mr. Pierce Eveleigh, came round for a smoke and a drink in a sardonic frame of mind, induced by dissatisfaction with the selection of the English eleven.

“And apart from that,” said Mr. Pierce Eveleigh, “I ask myself what we’re coming to. Dishonesty everywhere. Some weeks ago I got a letter from a supposed Order of Minor Mercies. The idea itself was good enough, and yet I could see the whole thing was a trick. Next day, happening to be in the neighbourhood, I called at their office and found that it was merely an accommodation address. They were going to make me Commander of my district. Four guineas, I think it was, I had to pay. Obviously a trap.”

“Quite so,” said Mr. Dumphry. “A Monument to — I mean, monumental trap. Glad you had the sense to keep out of it, Pierce.”

•   •   •

Mr. Dumphry employed a gardener three days a week. He was a young man and he got married. In due course his wife presented him with a daughter. He was a good and hard-working gardener, and he was a man of very pleasant manners, and Mrs. Dumphry thought she ought to do something about it.

“That’s all right,” said Ernest. “I’ve no objection to giving him a few shillings.”

“I don’t think I need give actual money,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “I’ve no doubt I shall be able to find some trifle that we’ve put by.”

And that is how Mr. Dumphry’s gardener’s infant rides about in her pram shamelessly adorned with the White Cordon and Crystal Jewel of a Commander of the Order of Minor Mercies.

11

HOW MR. DUMPHRY
BUILT A HOUSE

The exhibition which was held at Wembley had in its first year few more ardent supporters than Mr. Ernest Dumphry. Mrs. Dumphry accompanied him once, and once only. She did not like much walking and she did not like Railodok cars which seemed to be constructed to make it extremely difficult for her either to enter or get out. The girls accompanied Mr. Dumphry more frequently, but the girls nearly always trekked straight for the Amusement Park and did not leave it until driven forth by hunger. It was Mr. Dumphry’s proud boast that in a score or more of visits he had never once entered the Amusement Park. Amusements were frivolity. Mr. Dumphry was consciously supporting the British Empire and incidentally he spent quite a good deal of money on it.

Never did he return home from the exhibition without some story of a fresh wonder that he had discovered there. This was comparatively inexpensive, but he brought home many other things — lychees, and bamboo shoots, and tea, and Oriental slippers, and a sandalwood box, and curry powder, and various delights. He also purchased and had sent to him three bottles of an unusual wine. He had got the name of it in English at the exhibition but he had forgotten it. The bottle itself bore a magnificent and wordy label, but the words were those of a foreign tongue, and Mr. Dumphry could not translate them.

He told his friend, Pierce Eveleigh, of this purchase and asked him to come over to supper that night to give his opinion. Neither Pierce nor Mrs. Eveleigh could read the inscription on the bottles. However, the cork was drawn and the wine was tasted. Mr. Dumphry was the first to give his opinion. He said:

“I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything quite like this before. What do you make of it?”

Mouse, the frivolous wife of Pierce Eveleigh, said she thought it must be some kind of Buddhist weed-killer. Mr. Pierce Eveleigh said if it was all the same he thought he would sooner go on with whisky and soda.

Two bottles of this curious wine still repose in Mr. Dumphry’s cellar, and I believe no reasonable offer for them would be refused.

Ernest Dumphry maintained that the greatest miracle of the exhibition was the Queen’s Dolls’ House. He visited it three times and always timed himself from the moment when he took his place in the queue to the moment when he emerged in the open air again. He noted the times in his pocket-book and never failed to report them, with appropriate comments, on his return. The longer the circuit took him, the better pleased did Mr. Dumphry appear — which may seem strange to the unthinking but is easy work for the psychologist. But Mr. Dumphry also heard the East a-calling. He frequented Burma. India impressed him greatly. To hear Mr. Dumphry talk about the Taj Mahal was a liberal miseducation.

It was expected by his family that Mr. Dumphry would show as much enthusiasm during the second year of the exhibition. He did not. He went once only, and on that occasion fortune was not kind to him. It rained all day. His boots were not comfortable. He was dissatisfied with his luncheon. Somebody stole his tie-pin. When he was leaving, an excited Sealyham bit him in the trousers. The trousers were not seriously damaged, the dog was punished, and the dog’s owner was most apologetic. Still, things in general left him with a feeling that the commerce of the British Empire was asking too much of him.

He was far too logical to suppose that a second visit would of necessity be as disastrous as the first. In fact he sometimes said that he felt he really ought to look in at Wembley again. But, as it happened, he never went, and the exhibition had already been closed for some weeks when the seed of Wembley, after long delay, suddenly germinated and came to fruition in the fertile mind of Ernest Dumphry.

The circumstances favourable to the germination were as follows. At the conclusion of his day’s work, Mr. Dumphry stood on a railway platform, awaiting his homeward train. A business acquaintance, a man of just observation, saluted him, saying: “Evening, Dumphry. Days are drawing in now.”

“They are indeed,” said Dumphry.

In the train Mr. Dumphry reflected that he really ought to find some sound occupation for those long winter evenings. There was dancing in the studio, of course, and he loved it. There was the wireless. There were novels from the library. But when they were all over, what was left? Nothing. Nothing tangible, at any rate. Mr. Dumphry was seized with a desire to do and to have something to show for it. A few moments later he found in his evening paper a chance reference to the Queen’s Dolls’ House. That settled it. Instantly the idea germinated. By the time he reached home he bore with him the fruit of the idea — more or less mature.

“For some time past,” he announced to his family, “I’ve been thinking of some suitable manual occupation for myself for these long winter evenings. I’ve decided to make a small model of this house, much on the lines of the Queen’s Dolls’ House, but of course less elaborate. I venture to think it is rather a novel idea. Do any of you know of anyone who has in his house a small model of his house?”

“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Dumphry fervently. “And you’re going to do it all yourself with your own hands?”

“I am,” said Mr. Dumphry. “Is there any objection?”

“Well,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “it doesn’t seem like you, somehow. If a sash-cord breaks, or a door jams, or the light wants a new fuse, you always send out for somebody to do it. It is almost as if you had a distaste for that kind of thing yourself, as is no doubt very natural in a man principally employed in brain work.”

“I admit it,” said Mr. Dumphry; “I have been lazy. But because I won’t do a thing, that doesn’t mean that I can’t do it. Is there any other objection?”

“Of course you’d want tools for making it,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “We have two screwdrivers and a big thing to force cases open with, and a hammer and tacks, and that really is all. There was a pair of pliers, but cook broke off one of the handles in trying to clear the scullery sink, though why you should use pliers for clearing a sink, I really don’t know, as I told her. I suppose the tools we’ve got wouldn’t be enough.”

“Perhaps not,” said Mr. Dumphry; “I must see what can be arranged. At the same time there are wonderful stories of what prisoners in their cells have been able to accomplish even with nothing more than a broken pocketknife.”

“I know,” said Queenie. “They sharpen their collar-studs on their toenails and then cut a hole in two-inch sheet-iron and escape.”

“Queenie,” said Mrs. Dumphry gravely, “I think you are exaggerating.”

“Very likely,” admitted Queenie. “Anyhow, I think the model would be rather a lark. You would let me do the painting of it, wouldn’t you, father?”

“Well,” said Mr. Dumphry, “that’s a detail. I might perhaps permit that to be taken out of my hands. The only objection I can see to the scheme is one which has not been mentioned yet. That objection is Pierce Eveleigh. As an architect he designed his own house in this road, and several others. But, as it happens, he did not design ‘The Rest House.’ He might think it unfriendly of me to make a model of my own house instead of one which he himself designed. However, I’ll step across this evening and sound him about it.”

He found Pierce Eveleigh in the best of tempers.

“Mind about it?” said Pierce. “Why on earth should I? ‘The Rest House,’ if you don’t mind my saying so, is simple and perfectly commonplace. If you want to start making models, it’s just the house for you to begin with. As a matter of fact, I’d sooner you didn’t copy one of mine for some little time to come. I don’t want to praise myself, but when I’m given a free hand my work is always distinctive.”

So, in a sense, it was. At any rate, it was like nothing else on earth.

“If you made a model of one of my houses,” Pierce continued, “it’s almost certain that there would be a blunder somewhere. The correct proportions would be lost. Details would be omitted or over-emphasized perhaps. There are many ways in which you could go wrong. Then of course if you showed your model as a copy of a house by Pierce Eveleigh, that wouldn’t do me any good.”

“Yes, I see that,” said Mr. Dumphry humbly.

“Now then,” said Pierce, “what about your drawings and plans? Have you got those out yet?”

“As a matter of fact,” said Dumphry, “I hadn’t thought about that at all. You see, being in my own house, I could always measure up bit by bit, and then reduce to scale as I went on.”

Pierce Eveleigh smiled sardonically.

“Then you’d make an unholy mess of it,” he said. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you, just to give you a start and a little encouragement. I’ve got a pupil, a youth called Willis. He’s quite clever, though he’s not as clever as he thinks he is. I’ll give him the job of getting out those plans. It’ll be something for him to do. You won’t mind if he comes round to take his measurements, and so on?”

“He’ll be very welcome at any time,” said Mr. Dumphry. “I’m really very much obliged to you, Pierce. In beginning a new work like this, it’s just as well to start on a sound basis.”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Pierce. “It may help to keep the young man out of trouble for a bit. He needs something to do.”

Mr. James Willis was an austere young man in spectacles. At a first interview Mr. Dumphry explained vaguely and in non-technical language what it was he wanted. Then Willis stated precisely and in strictly technical language, which Mr. Dumphry did not understand, what he intended to do. And Mr. Dumphry said that would be all right; so naturally he believed that the plans were got out under his personal direction and supervision.

The solemn youth paid perhaps rather more visits to “The Rest House” than were strictly necessary and was almost morbidly slow and conscientious in executing his drawings. For this Queenie was, all unconsciously, to blame. It was not till Queenie showed him the very funny caricature that she had drawn of him, that hope wilted and the pace of the architectural drawings accelerated.

The completed work filled Mr. Dumphry at first with joy, as he contemplated its neatness and accuracy, and then with utter dismay as it brought his difficulties home to him. There was far, far more to do than he had ever supposed. He had, in spite of his Wembley experiences, imagined that his model would be a sort of box in which he would merely have to cut holes to represent doors and windows. But there was a complicated roof with chimney-stacks. There was a porch. There were pipes. There were countless little projections which the builder seemed to have put in out of malice. There were bay-windows. “Simple and commonplace,” Pierce Eveleigh had said. Preposterous ass! And who was the fool who had jabbered about the wonderful work that prisoners in their cells managed to execute with broken pocketknives? He knew the answer to that question, and it depressed him the more.

Was there any way out of it? Would it be possible, on one excuse or another, to procrastinate until everybody had forgotten it? He feared not. Queenie was looking forward to painting that model. Barbara wanted to make the curtains for the windows of it. Pierce Eveleigh had, via James Willis, made the plans for it and would expect to see the finished work. And Pierce Eveleigh would be very critical. His wife had spoken of it. Probably the entire circle was waiting — waiting to see the ghastly mess that Ernest Dumphry would make of it.

He opened the door of his study, and for the first time in his life he really saw a door. It had panels, it fitted into a frame, and the frame had mouldings. And he, Ernest Dumphry, had supposed that all that was required was to cut out with a fretsaw one flat piece of wood of approximately the right shape and get somebody to do the fiddling work of putting on the hinges. Why on earth did we load our life with these complications? Looking through the open door of his study, he saw a staircase, and for the first time in his life he really saw a staircase. At the foot of it, as it approached the hall, that staircase gave a curve round, with the malicious intention of baffling anybody who proposed to make a copy of it on a reduced scale. It seemed to him that, counting in the stair-rail and the pillars supporting it, about one thousand and six separate pieces of wood went to the construction of an ordinary staircase in an ordinary house two storeys high. Those pieces would have to be made to scale, and would take him all the rest of his life, and poison the whole of it, and finally drive him mad. And this complexity was all unnecessary. If only people used ladders instead of staircases. Mr. Dumphry felt that he could make quite a reasonable model of a ladder. We were over-civilized — simply rotten with it.

With these gloomy thoughts Ernest closed the door and returned to his easy chair. And that easy chair, which should merely have provided repose for his body, now seemed to rise up against him and to put ideas into his head to torture him further. The very furniture of the rooms would have to be reproduced in its proportion. In the Queen’s Dolls’ House this had been done. But could Mr. Dumphry do it? If, for instance, he had gum, cardboard, plasticine, a nice piece of wire from a soda-water bottle, and some crinkly paper from a bonbon, could he therewith concoct even a plausible imitation of the chair in which he was sitting? The answer was definitely and forever in the negative. There were possibly people who had this strange gift, but Mr. Dumphry was well aware that he was not one of them and never would be.

Something would have to be done — something drastic.

Mr. Dumphry rang the bell and commanded whisky and soda. It was at least a quarter of an hour before his usual time for it, but in view of his extreme mental agony this may perhaps be excused

As he sipped and smoked Mr. Dumphry’s brow gradually cleared. He procured a tape-measure from Mrs. Dumphry’s work-basket and took the measurements of a box of cigars. He smiled sweetly. His first great idea had come to him. It was not final deliverance but it did rescue him from a great mass of trouble.

It was at breakfast on the following morning that he first began the display of the great idea. “I have been thinking, Barbara,” he said, “about your notion of doing the curtains for the windows. It’s bothered me quite a good deal, for in one way it’s quite right and in another way it’s not.”

“How do you mean, Dad?” said Barbara.

“Well, it’s like this. As I explained at the very start, I’m not making this an elaborate model on the lines of the Queen’s Dolls’ House. In that case there’s a perfect army of people all working at it and in my case I must depend on myself alone. So, as I think I’ve already explained, I am cutting out the inside of the house altogether. I am merely making a model of the four outside walls. I shall probably arrange it so that the roof will either be hinged or will lift off altogether, and I can keep my cigar-boxes in the interior. Now the trouble is this. These curtains are certainly seen from the outside, and so far as that is concerned they fall entirely within my scheme. But they are fixed on the inside, and it was never my intention to finish the inside in any way. What do you think I should do about it?”

Barbara was strongly of the opinion that she should make the curtains. She carried her point.

Mrs. Dumphry seemed to be quite satisfied. But she had a great capacity for being quite satisfied where Ernest was concerned.

The only voice raised in criticism, if it could be called criticism, was that of Queenie. She pointed out that Mr. James Willis had made just as careful plans of the inside of the house as he had of the outside.

“No doubt,” said Mr. Dumphry, “no doubt. I ought to have watched him more closely than I did. I could have told him at once that nothing of the kind was ever contemplated. I’m going through his other plans now because no doubt there will be errors that I shall have to check, and then I think I might really get on with the work.”

Even with only the four outside walls to deal with Mr. Dumphry had no very clear notion of how he was going to get on with the work, but he had already had one bright idea as to the interior of the building, and an equally bright idea as to the outside was, given time, not impossible. Naturally it would have to be a different idea. It might be possible to decide to cut out the interior of the house. He could not see his way to cutting out the exterior as well.

Ernest Dumphry was perhaps a lucky man. The bright idea arrived that evening and it originated in a bill which was slipped into his letter-box. The bill, for fourteen-and-six, was from Mr. Crittle for some small repairs which he had executed for Mr. Dumphry.

Mr. Crittle dealt in antiques. He was a clever man and he employed clever workmen. If the antique which came into his hands had some portions of it wanting, Mr. Crittle would restore those portions and it would be extremely difficult, without the closest examination, to detect that any restoration had taken place. Mr. Crittle had worked for Mr. Dumphry on several occasions and he valued Mr. Dumphry’s custom. Dumphry paid well and promptly and very seldom disputed any charge. Mr. Crittle had said more than once to his friends that Mr. Dumphry was a gentleman, and Crittle was a judge of antiques.

The great idea slowly dawned on Mr. Dumphry. He did not mention it to his family at breakfast because that would have been premature. But he left for the office ten minutes before his usual time and he carried with him certain plans, the work of Mr. James Willis, and he called in at Mr. Crittle’s on the way.

His first step was to discharge his debt of fourteen-and-six. This being done, he unrolled the plans.

“I wonder, Mr. Crittle,” he said, “if this is at all in your line. I got annoyed with the appearance of cigar boxes in my study. It struck me that I might make a little model of my house to go over them and cover them up.”

“Quite so, sir,” said Mr. Crittle. “A novel idea, if I may say so.”

“Well,” said Mr. Dumphry, “I have got out my plans to scale and that’s as far as I’ve gone at present. Just cast your eye over them.”

Mr. Crittle examined the plans carefully.

“They do you very great credit, sir,” said Crittle. “I shouldn’t have thought that anybody not being an actual professional was capable of such work. They ought to make the whole thing perfectly easy.”

“But they don’t, Mr. Crittle. Not for me, at any rate. I’m no carpenter and I’ve never pretended to be. I haven’t even got the tools, the ordinary tools that a carpenter requires. Now what I was going to suggest was this. Could you make the actual model?”

“I could, sir. With those plans I could whip it all out in half no time.”

“Well, Mr. Crittle,” said Mr. Dumphry, “I should like you to do it, but there are one or two other things I want as well. I may never wish to make a model in my life — probably I never shall — but I want to know what tools are used, what the names of them are, and how to manage them. I may even like to try my hand at some part of the work myself. Unfortunately I have not very much time at my disposal. I could probably be at your workshop for an hour in the evening or any time on Saturday.”

“I see,” said Mr. Crittle. “Makes it a little difficult, sir, don’t it? It’s not that I mind doing the overtime. I work all hours. All I mean is that I couldn’t make as cheap a job of it doing it that way as if I just suited myself and, so to speak, rattled it off.”

“Quite so,” said Mr. Dumphry, “quite so. I see your point. I should be willing to pay reasonably for what I want. You see, Mr. Crittle, even if I’m never going to do a thing myself, I like to feel that I can do it.”

And Mr. Crittle politely conveyed his opinion that this was the right spirit.

On his return that evening Mr. Dumphry reported as follows.

“Ah, by the way, about that model. When I came to look into it I saw that I should need a great many more carpenter’s tools for the construction of it than we have here. It was not worth while to buy them just for this one single job, so I’ve made an arrangement with Crittle. I shall do the work in his workshop and with his tools. Possibly, even, I may get a hint or two from him.”

During the next fortnight Mr. Dumphry certainly learned much. He even occasionally did a very little bit of the work himself and it did not always need to be done over again.

When the model was delivered by Crittle’s boy at “The Rest House” it excited great enthusiasm and Mr. Dumphry became quite uneasy at the frequency with which he was told that he really was wonderful.

“You must remember,” he said, protesting, “that this model owes a great deal to Mr. Crittle. Every bit of it was constructed with his material and his tools. Many of those tools I had never even heard of before, and in demonstrating them to me no doubt he did a great deal of the actual work.”

Barbara and Queenie seemed quite ready to accept this statement. Not so Mrs. Dumphry.

“That’s just like you, Ernest,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “You never will take any credit for yourself if you can possibly help it. James Willis, I suppose, is to have the credit for the plans, though I know for a fact that you spent hours of time studying them and correcting them, and now you’re trying to give that wretched man Crittle at least half the credit for making the model. It won’t do. You really are too modest.”

Queenie painted the model under her father’s supervision. That is to say, he told her one day that he was not quite sure that she had got the red of the tiles correctly. Queenie did not actually alter it, but said that it depended a good deal on the light you looked at it in. He asked her if she did not think that she had made the green of the front door a shade too yellow, and she replied that she did not. Her treatment of the creepers on the porch in front of the house was quite clever and realistic. By the time Queenie had finished her part of the model, and Barbara’s curtains had been affixed to the interior, the whole thing seemed to be ripe for exhibition and a justifiable cause for pride. Mr. Pierce Eveleigh was the first person to whom the model was submitted and it is doubtful if Mr. Pierce Eveleigh was in any way deceived.

“What have you left out the inside of the house for, Ernest? You had the plans for it.”

“I know,” said Dumphry, “I know. I ought to have kept a closer eye on that young Willis. As I think I told you at the time, I really wanted a model of the outside walls as a cover for my cigar-boxes.”

“You didn’t tell me,” said Eveleigh.

“I’d intended to. I’m sorry. But, however, what do you think of the finished article?”

“Quite good. Perhaps a little bit too good, eh?”

“Well, I couldn’t buy a whole set of tools to make the thing with, so I hired the tools from Crittle.”

“And that isn’t all you hired, not by a long way. Practically the whole of this is a great deal too neat for you, you know, Ernest. Did you paint it yourself?”

“The thing was painted under my direction and supervision, but Queenie especially asked to be allowed to do that and I let her do it.”

“I think you were wise. Then you yourself have really done nothing, except perhaps these fiddling little curtains.”

“As a matter of fact, Barbara did the curtains. She was so keen on it that I really couldn’t disappoint her.”

“Well,” said Pierce Eveleigh, “there isn’t a doubt that you’ve got a great deal better model this way than you would have done the other.”

“I never for a moment pretended that I’d done every fraction of the work myself, nor did I ever intend to do it. However, have a drink, Pierce.”

“Thank you, I think I will. After all, the model does credit to what I think you call your direction and supervision.”

But if Mr. Eveleigh was a little unsatisfactory in one direction, perhaps Mrs. Dumphry was even more unsatisfactory in exactly the opposite direction. She was the granite rock. Her beliefs were beliefs. Waves of facts crashed against them and made no effect whatever. Some three weeks later Mr. Dumphry, approaching his study, heard Mrs. Dumphry addressing a lady visitor on the subject of the model.

“Yes, Mr. Dumphry, without any previous training, made the whole thing with his own hands. Of course I don’t say that in any pedantic sense. I believe there was a boy helped him with the plans, but of course Ernest corrected them. I well remember him telling me that the boy made his threes very much too much like fives. My daughters did help a little, but it amounted to nothing. The direction and supervision were always there. He practically did the whole thing himself. And when you consider that none of it is part of his profession and that he had never even attempted anything of the kind before, you must admit that it was rather remarkable.”

The visitor agreed with enthusiasm. Mr. Dumphry’s blood ran cold. Suppose he was to be asked to make another model?

Mr. Dumphry tackled his wife afterwards and remonstrated with her, but in vain.

“It won’t do, Ernest,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “and it’s no good saying it will, because it won’t. I was in the house all the time the model was being made and I saw what I saw and I came to my own conclusions. I know your modesty. It’s just like you. You would give anybody the credit except yourself, but you cannot deceive me. I know what I know.”

She did. She also knew what she didn’t know, being a good woman.

12

MR. DUMPHRY PLAYS
THE ENDLESS GAME

Peter Hannaford, an elderly bachelor of independent means, was a distant cousin of Mr. Dumphry’s and a very popular person with Mr. Dumphry’s family. and household. Sometimes Mr. Hannaford entertained the Dumphry family to dinner and the theatre in town. Sometimes he joined them on their annual holiday. At least twice a year he spent a prolonged weekend in Tessel Road. He had appointed himself supernumerary and unofficial uncle to Queenie and Barbara. They accepted him with joy. Like most self-indulgent men, Peter was generous, kind and tolerant.

Barbara said of him: “He is a No. I present-giver, is Uncle Pete. He doesn’t load you up with truck that’s only meant to do you good anyway, such as books.” She had an aunt who always presented her with books every birthday, and Barbara was inclined to be bitter about it.

Queenie said that Uncle Peter might be a little queer, and as a matter of fact was a little queer, but he always kept himself up to date and had generally got something new going. Mr. Dumphry said that when you got to know Peter thoroughly you found that he was a mental tonic and you were intellectually braced and uplifted by any conversation with him. Mrs. Dumphry said that it was sad that a man of such strong domestic tastes should never have been married, but no doubt somehow or other there was a broken heart to account for it. Here it is to be feared the lady was wrong. There had been many regrettable incidents in Peter’s somewhat stormy youth, but no broken heart had been registered.

The stamp of approval had also been set on Peter Hannaford in the kitchen of the Rest House.

“A gentleman worth cooking for,” said the cook, and she knew no higher form of praise.

Peter was spending a rather protracted weekend with the Dumphrys. It started on Friday evening. After dinner Peter assumed a majestic size in easy-chairs. He was taller and heavier than his host, and seemed to gravitate naturally towards the most majestic furniture. Suddenly and à propos of nothing he asked if any of them by any chance ever played the Endless Game.

They had not, and they were eager for further information about it.

“Well,” said Peter, “it’s not very much known as yet, but I’ve been playing it quite a good deal with a few friends of mine. It’s called the Endless Game, and theoretically, I suppose, that’s what it ought to be. But in actual practice it stops far short of that and one of the players becomes the winner.”

“What do you do?” asked Queenie sharply. “It’s all very simple. The first person writes down and reads out a simple statement. The next person writes down and reads out something which might have been the cause of the fact recorded in the first statement. The third person writes down the cause of the fact recorded in the step before him, and so on. You begin with a simple statement. Every following step begins with the word ‘because.’ For example, statement: ‘A man broke his leg.’ First step: ‘Because he fell off a wall.’ Second step: ‘Because he slipped.’ Third step: ‘Because the nails in his shoes had worn smooth.’ Fourth step: ‘Because he was in the habit of walking from Hampstead to the City every morning.’ Got the idea of it?”

He was assured that they had.

“Well, I’ve known a game to run up to as far as fifty-one steps. And now comes the point which generally cuts the game short. At any time any player may challenge any other player to reproduce the steps in the reverse order. For example, the man challenged would have to say: ‘A man was in the habit of walking from Hampstead to the City every morning, and so the nails in his shoes wore quite smooth and he slipped while he was on a wall and fell and broke his leg.’ Got it?”

Once again he was assured that they had got it.

“I don’t think there’s much else in the way of rules,” said Peter. “The same step may not be used twice. For example, I make the statement that a sheep had thick wool. Queenie here, on my left, writes that this was because its parents had thick wool, but it is not open to the next person to use the same explanation again. They might, of course, refer to the importation of Merino sheep into England and the effect of it. Also, every cause given must be possible. It need not be probable, but it must be possible. If anybody had written, for example, that the nails in the man’s shoes had been worn smooth because he walked from Lancaster to London every morning, that would obviously have been impossible. There is only one penalty and it is the same in every case. Anybody who repeats a cause or gives an impossible cause, or fails to relate the story backwards with absolute accuracy when challenged, is cut out of the game. The last person left in is the winner. But there is just this to be remembered. If you challenge a person to tell the story from the other end and he fails, he can in turn challenge you to do the same thing. And if you fail, then both go out. But if the person challenged succeeds, then he is the winner.”

“I want to play that game right now,” said Barbara. “I believe I have a special gift for it.”

“‘M’yes,” said Mr. Dumphry. “Seems to me that it would certainly be a useful exercise in the logical faculties. I’ll get a writing-block and pencils.”

“I think,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “I may ask you to leave me out. I’m never any good at any game in which the mind is employed, though I enjoy watching it as much as anybody.”

“But perhaps you would give us a start,” suggested Uncle Peter.

“Well, I think I might manage that, if it needn’t be anything very important.”

“If you like, it can be the least important thing you’ve noticed today. It can be absolutely anything.”

“That seems to make it easier.”

Mrs. Dumphry took the writing materials, and meditated profoundly. Then she wrote, carefully and deliberately: “A small white stone lay in the middle of Tessel Road.”

She read it out, and seemed pleased that it was approved.

“Now we’ll begin,” said Peter. “You, Queenie, write the first step.”

“Because a woman kicked it there,” wrote Queenie, and handed the block to her father.

“Because she was in a bad temper,” wrote Mr. Dumphry promptly.

“Because her husband had taken to drink,” wrote Barbara.

“Because he had lost his favourite cow,” wrote Uncle Peter.

It was now Queenie’s turn again. “Because the poor beast ate an old sardine-tin and some greasy newspaper,” she wrote.

“I am sorry for this,” said Uncle Peter. “This game is serious, and its rules are enforced with the utmost rigour. Neither sex, nor age, nor beauty can be taken into consideration. Conceivably a cow might inadvertently eat newspaper, and if it were a newspaper I have in mind, this might cause death. But I am quite sure that I voice the opinion of this meeting when I say that a cow would not eat, and also could not eat, a sardine-tin. You know well the penalty for giving an impossible reason. By the rules of this game you are now extinct.”

“M’lord,” said Queenie, in a voice which appeared to be broken with emotion, “I am very young, and I have never been in trouble before. Can I not apologize to the cow, withdraw the sardine-tin, and leave the newspaper?”

“You cannot. You are extinct. It would be open to the next player to cut out the tin and leave the paper, if he were so dastardly and unenterprising as to prefer this instead of thinking out a new step for himself.”

Mr. Dumphry did prefer it.

“Because,” wrote Barbara, “Willie had carelessly left the newspaper in the field in which the cow was browsing.”

“Because he knew no better,” was the next step.

“Because his parents had never taught him,” followed.

“Because they both died when he was an infant,” wrote Barbara.

“Because they were drowned at sea,” added Uncle Peter.

“Because the captain scuttled the ship,” declared Mr. Dumphry, with a fine flash of romance.

Barbara was not absolutely certain what “scuttled ” meant. She yielded to sudden temptation, wrote “Because there’s a ‘b’ in ‘both,’” and was instantly sent to join her sister in extinction. The game had now resolved itself into a duet between the two men, and the following steps followed in quick succession.

“Because the owner had bribed him to do so.”

“Because the owner was desperately in need of the insurance money.”

“Because he had lost heavily in a speculation in cotton.”

“Because the entire cotton crop of America unexpectedly failed.”

“And now, Ernest Dumphry,” said Peter impressively, “I shall challenge you to tell me, from memory in narrative form, without omitting any one step, how the failure of the entire cotton crop of America came to alter the position of a small white stone in this road — Tessel Road. If you succeed, then I pay the penalty of my temerity and you have won the game. If you fail, you can then challenge me.”

“Certainly,” said Ernest, “certainly. It sounds terrific. The failure of the American cotton crop alters the position of a small stone in a road of an English suburb. But for the fact that we have logically demonstrated it, I should have said that it was impossible. However,” he added with simple nobility, “I will do my best if you will kindly allow me a moment or two of complete silence in which to collect my thoughts.”

Mr. Dumphry folded his hands over the lower part of his waistcoat, threw his head back, and closed his eyes. After a minute of sepulchral silence he opened his eyes again and fixed them on a point in the ceiling.

“Am I permitted to make any slight additions to the story?” he asked.

“Additions? Yes,” said Peter. “They merely rank as trimming and are not unusual. But you must not omit any one step.”

Mr. Dumphry, with his eyes fixed still on that point in the ceiling, began to address it in solemn and measured tones.

“The unexpected failure of the entire cotton crop of America caused heavy loss to a man who had been speculating in cotton. The man was a ship-owner and it does not appear that he had any special knowledge to justify him in selling a bear of cotton. As too often happens, he endeavoured to remedy error by crime. He succeeded in insuring a ship far above its actual value, knowing that if the ship were lost this would provide him with the money of which he was desperately in need. But how was he to make it sure that the ship would be lost? Briefly, he bribed the scoundrel of a captain to scuttle the vessel, and this was done. We may believe that no loss of human life was actually intended, but in the hurry and confusion of the occasion, a young married couple perished in the — er — waters. (Um — ah-yes.) This death was the more tragic, because they had left behind in England an infant son, named William. Brought up with but little care by a distant relative, Willie never had the advantage of parental instruction. If he took his frugal luncheon out with him into the fields, he knew no better than to leave the untidy debris of the repast lying about. Thus one day he left in a field in which a cow was grazing the newspaper that had wrapped his sandwiches. The poor animal, actuated less by appetite than by idle curiosity, approached the newspaper and consumed it. In the evening she showed every sign of uneasiness and, though professional assistance was summoned, before the morning she was dead. (Yes, yes — er — um.) The owner of the beast was inconsolable, for he had made a pet of that cow. He gave way to drink. This infuriated his wife, and one afternoon, in a bad temper, as she passed down Tessel Road, she saw a small white stone lying on the path. Yielding to sudden impulse, she kicked it savagely into the middle of the road.”

Ernest Dumphry had won. He rose to his feet triumphant amid general applause. Peter put down the writing-block with which he had been checking his statements, and shook him by the hand.

“We should have had the Press photographers here,” said Peter. “Imagine the picture. Mr. Ernest Dumphry (left) Winner of the Endless Game, being congratulated by the loser, Mr. Peter Hannaford.”

“Inset, Miss Queenie Dumphry,” suggested that young lady.

“The first to be disqualified,” said Uncle Peter severely.

“But,” added Queenie, “as Dad said, ‘actuated less by appetite than by idle curiosity.’ ”

“Like the other cow,” said Barbara, and fled, with Queenie after her.

“Speaking in all seriousness,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “I think I never saw such a wonderful performance, It was not only the prodigious feat of memory, Ernest, but you spoke the whole thing as if it were a piece out of a printed book.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Dumphry modestly, “perhaps I softened down a little of the crudity of the original story — that was instinctive. But the memory effort is really trivial. There is a continuous chain of effect and cause. The thing remembers itself. In fact it surprises me that the record is only fifty-one. Why, I suppose I did twenty-five or thirty tonight myself.”

“No,” said Peter, “I challenged when we reached fifteen steps.”

“I suppose you did the fifty-one record yourself?”

“Dear me, no! I’ve never gone beyond forty, and I only did that once. The record is held by Lady Adela Davisham, playing with the young Chicago millionaire, Clarence H. Finch. I was not present at the time, but I knew several people who were. It must have been interesting. The start was the simple statement that Charles Bugg fell off his push-bike in the Mile End Road. When the thirtieth step had been reached, there was still one other player left in, Mr. Ilkley Borlace, the famous surgeon, and he — mistakenly, as I think — challenged Finch. Finch is a very experienced player and has given much time to the game, and is a practical certainty for thirty steps. So Borlace was cut out. At fifty-one Finch challenged Lady Adela. She had, of course, the advantage that she had already heard thirty of the steps repeated in the reverse order, but that is one of the chances of the game. She pulled it off and holds the record. It is not even an easy matter to build up a series of fifty-one steps. The safest way is to make each step personal; if you introduce the processes of nature you probably block the series — as we might have done just now with the cotton crop. If you even write ‘Because it had rained all day,’ the series is not likely to live for more than one step further.”

“I see that point. Well, perhaps you’ll think me too ambitious, but fifty-one does not seem to me a high record. I won’t say I could beat it, but I should very much like to try one of these days.”

Mrs. Dumphry, who had been looking out into the garden, now turned away from the window. “I see,” she said, “that those girls have put the lights on in the studio, and I rather think that I hear the gramophone going. Shall we join them?”

“By all means,” said Uncle Peter. “Good idea.” Uncle Peter was a large and heavy man but he was light of foot. Mrs. Dumphry herself was technically a better dancer than either Barbara or Queenie. One is always finding good dancers where one least expects it. It was not till eleven o’clock that they returned to the house.

“Well,” said Mr. Dumphry as he administered whisky and soda, “dancing is rather tiring work. I don’t think I shall make any attempt at the Endless Game tonight. But tell me, are there any rules beyond those we have heard which we shall have to observe in trying for a record?”

“Queenie was asking me that just now,” said Uncle Peter. “I don’t think there’s anything except the time limit. You get two minutes in which to think of any step, and if you’re challenged you can spend thirty seconds for each step in thinking — that is to say, if I challenge you when we reach fifty-two, you can spend twenty-six minutes in silent thought, which certainly seems a liberal allowance. In practice you very rarely find that the time limit comes in at all.” And then the conversation drifted to other subjects, principally to plans for the morrow. There would be golf in the morning. There was a matinée in London in the afternoon.

“And by the evening,” said Mr. Dumphry, “I expect we shall all be pretty well worn out.”

But the resultant exhaustion did not take place. True, Mrs. Dumphry and the two girls went upstairs rather earlier than usual, but both Ernest and Uncle Peter still remained fresh and vigorous.

“I’ll tell you what, Peter,” said Mr. Dumphry. “If it wouldn’t bore you horribly, I should rather like to make a shot at the record in the Endless Game tonight. No doubt I shan’t do it, but it can’t do any harm to try.”

“It wouldn’t bore me in the least. I should be rather glad to tell Lady Adela, who’s rather too full of herself, that I know a man who beat her record for the Endless Game when he’d only played it once before. It would keep her humbler for a bit. You get your blessed writing-block and I’ll give myself a drink if I may.”

“By all means,” said Mr. Dumphry. “I ought to have remembered it. You won’t mind if I don’t join you just yet? For a great mental effort like this I think it essential to keep the head as clear as possible.”

They tossed up as to who should make the opening statement, and for some time the game went on in silence. But it was a failure. They came to an ignominious stop at the twenty-third step. Mr. Dumphry repeated the twenty-three steps glibly, but still twenty-three is not fifty-two.

“We’ll try it again,” said Peter, “and this time we must be more careful to keep the series going.” This time they proceeded more slowly and reached their objective. After the fifty-second step Peter said:

“And now, Dumphry, I challenge you.”

The night was still. The atmosphere seemed favourable for extreme mental concentration. Mr. Dumphry took ten minutes for reflection before he started, but when he started he made no mistake. He went on slowly and methodically from the fifty-second step safely home to the original statement.

Uncle Peter shook him warmly by the hand. “I congratulate you, Ernest. You must have some special gift for this game. I don’t think there are many other people who could have done it.”

“Well,” said Mr. Dumphry modestly, “no doubt my business experience helped me. I’ve been dealing with cause and effect for years and years, and it seems to me that the one suggests the other always.”

He gave himself that long-deferred drink, administered another to Uncle Peter, and continued:

“If you don’t mind, Peter, I should rather like to have a written statement from you about this. You see, you were the only witness of the performance. No doubt we shall be playing this game several times again, and if I should claim that I once scored fifty-two at it, it would be pleasant to have your evidence to support me.”

“Certainly,” said Peter, took the writing-block, and wrote the necessary document. He then went on to speak of the industrial situation, but Mr. Dumphry was not to be lured. The one and only thing he could now talk about was the Endless Game, and he gave a careful and detailed explanation of the methods he adopted in playing it. But the surprising thing is that Peter only yawned once, and even then it would have taken an expert to detect it.

However, the clock struck one, and Mr. Dumphry, full of triumph and glory, and in imagination crowned with laurels, consented to go to bed.

Much in the same way does the poor sheep, ignorant of its impending fate, trip blithely to the slaughter-house.

•   •   •

On Sunday morning breakfast in the Dumphry household was nominally at 9 a.m. Mrs. Dumphry, who regarded meal-times almost as a religious function, was always ready at that time. But she seldom found any to keep her company before 9.30. Mr. Dumphry himself, businesslike though he was, did not use the word “unpunctuality” until 10.15. After all, Sunday is a day of rest.

On the Sunday that followed Mr. Dumphry’s memorable success, Mrs. Dumphry was joined at 9.15 by Mr. Peter Hannaford, who seemed to be in his customary health and spirits. Mrs. Dumphry at once began to talk about her husband’s wonderful performance of the night before.

“He’s like that, you know,” she explained. “If he sets himself to do anything, especially where the mind is concerned, he always does it. Difficulties simply don’t exist for him.”

Mr. Hannaford replied politely.

“He has carefully kept the written copy of the fifty-two steps, and your attestation, and he proposes to write a few pages himself on the circumstances and the methods he employed. He will have these all bound up together, and I am sure they will make a most interesting record and one of which we may well be proud.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Peter, as he carved ham for himself at the sideboard.

But inwardly he was depressed. He had mentioned the Endless Game to the Dumphry family carelessly, and without any intention of doing himself any harm. Peter had never in his life tried to do himself any harm — very much the reverse — not being a morbid man. And now it looked as if, in consequence of his rash act, he would have to talk about Ernest’s lucky triumph, and the Endless Game, and nothing else, for the remainder of his visit. He had agreed to accompany Ernest and Pierce Eveleigh on their Sunday walk, and he would have to listen while Ernest told the whole story over again to the celebrated architect. And Peter was fed up with that story — bored stiff with it — sick to death of it.

At that moment Mr. Dumphry entered, plus-foured for the approaching walk, and very bright and sunny. He carried papers in his hand and put them down beside his plate.

“G’morning, Peter,” he said gaily. “Slept well? That’s right. I didn’t get off at once myself. Sentences seemed to be going on in my head, and they all began with ‘because.’ Because I’d been playing the Endless Game so long. Because I wished to beat the record. Because I felt sure that fifty-one was too low. Ha-ha! ”

Peter smiled dutifully.

“I have one or two documents here,” said Ernest, “but I won’t trouble you with them till after breakfast. I merely want you to initial each page on which the fifty-two steps are written. Where a record has been established, it’s just as well to put it beyond the possibility of any dispute.”

But before Peter could answer, Barbara and Queenie entered. They were charmingly dressed, and they were pretty girls, but they looked very weary and worn. They proceeded to distribute customary, and almost official, osculation.

Then Barbara, waving aside all offers of breakfast, placed before Peter certain papers of varying size, the last of them being in fact the back of an envelope.

“Uncle Pete,” she said, “do be an angel and run your eye over those, and tell us if they’re O.K.”

Peter made a rapid examination.

“Dear me!” he said. “This is a series of fifty-four steps, and they obey the rules of the Endless Game. No mistake at all that I can see. Barbara, I congratulate you.”

“Oh, I didn’t do it. I’ve never done more than twelve. Queenie did it, and did it with lots of time to spare. So Lady Adela’s record is in the soup, ain’t it?”

“One moment,” said Mr. Dumphry. “Just let me have a glimpse at these supposed fifty-four steps.”

At his first glance, his anxious brow cleared.

“Sorry, Queenie,” he said, “but I am afraid this won’t do. The opening statement is ‘Mr. Cutch, the french-polisher, always made his strawberry jam with raspberries.’ I should disqualify that as being an impossibility.”

“No, no, no,” said Uncle Peter. “There you’re wrong, Ernest. No step may be impossible, but the opening statement may be absolutely anything. I thought I made that clear.”

“Oh, well, well,” said Mr. Dumphry indulgently. “I fancy I recall something of the kind now. I’m delighted at your success, Queenie. I did fifty-two steps myself last night. It was all I had set myself to do. Perhaps I could have done another ten, and perhaps I couldn’t. We shall never know. It’s only a game anyway. It would be quite easy to make too much of it.”

The thought that Mr. Dumphry had already made too much of it did occur to Mr. Hannaford’s mind.

“Tell us all about it, Queenie,” he said.

“Oh, it wasn’t anything. Barbara and I went up to bed early, and then we wished we hadn’t because we didn’t feel as tired as we thought we were So we collected all the writing-paper we could find and started on the Endless Game. It was ages and ages before we got a series of fifty-four steps. Matter of fact it was striking two when I did the trick, and I suppose that’s why I look like a decayed cabbage this morning.”

Queenie took the papers which recorded her fifty-four steps and tore them across.

“Shan’t want these any more now,” she said happily.

Mr. Dumphry took the papers which he had proposed that Uncle Peter should initial and he tore them across also. He had, he calculated, held the record at the Endless Game for just about one and a quarter hours, but he never even mentioned it, and felt that he was a large-minded man.

Peter Hannaford was delivered. During the Sunday walk and the luncheon at the Red Lion many subjects were discussed, but there was not even the slightest mention of the Endless Game.

•   •   •

A few days after his departure Uncle Peter sent to each of his nieces a slave bangle of plain gold The inside of Queenie’s bangle was engraved as follows:

“Queenie Dumphry. E.G. record 54.” And the date followed.

“Now what the dickens does that mean?” said Queenie.

And Barbara had to remind her.

13

THAT GAMBLER DUMPHRY

Mr. Dumphry was in the habit of taking two Sunday newspapers. The first of these was a paper after his own heart. It was serious almost to the point of being portentous.

In the arts and sciences the paper was strong. It always made Mr. Dumphry feel intellectual, and he liked a little intellectuality on Sunday.

The second paper was principally composed of pictures, and Mr. Dumphry bought it chiefly to keep the family off the other one. While they admired the photographs he tucked his own twopennyworth of solemnity under his arm and vanished.

It happened that one Sunday Mr. Titmus, the news-agent, took into his employ a new boy, and the new boy’s delivery of the papers was rather hectic. Mr. Dumphry’s own special organ was correctly delivered. Instead of the usual illustrated Sunday paper there came a copy of “The Sunday Flashlight,” which also purveys a vast number of photographs. What with the theatre and the bathing season every number gives a generous provision of more or less undraped beauty.

“I can’t think what that man Titmus is doing,” said Mr. Dumphry. “He knows perfectly well what papers I take on Sunday and he should instruct his boys properly.”

“I’ll make a point of speaking to him about rt myself,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “It is most annoying.”

“Do. On second thoughts I’ll just have a look at this paper myself before you take it away.”

As Mr. Dumphry turned its pages a headline attracted his attention: “Our Hundred Guinea Prize.”

Even if one is a chartered accountant and doing quite well at it, a hundred guineas is a nice round sum and merits a little attention. It happened that the prize was offered for a postcard addressed to the Sporting Editor of “The Sunday Flashlight” containing a forecast in the correct order of the first three horses in the Cambriwitch, to be run on the following Wednesday. All postcards were to be received by the first post on Wednesday morning.

Mr. Dumphry was inclined to consider this competition. He knew one end of a horse from the other perfectly well, but it would be an exaggeration to say that he knew much more than this. He had never taken any interest in racing. However, often and often had he heard that the forecast of experts of the daily press had been mistaken. A fluke might succeed where wisdom failed. If he did not win it would mean the loss of only one penny stamp, and if he did win he thought he could find a use for a hundred guineas. He proceeded to acquire information.

He read the racing article in “The Sunday Flashlight” and was told that, barring accidents, the author did not see how Tintop could possibly lose. He turned then to his own favourite paper, where even the racing article had a quiet pontifical dignity.

“I shall not myself,” said the writer, “expect to see the favourite Tintop in the first three. It is my opinion, as I said last week, that Wandering Lamb will win, with Campion and Sirius close up.”

Well, if everybody held exactly the same opinion and that opinion happened to be correct, then the hundred guineas would have to be cut up very small for a division. Mr. Dumphry reserved his judgement. After all, it would be time enough if he sent in his forecast on Tuesday evening. In the meantime he consulted other newspapers. One of them had apparently two sporting correspondents and they both gave different horses, which seemed to Mr. Dumphry to be grossly unfair. He went so far as to buy a copy of a sporting paper called “The Dead Cert,” which claimed to have given many profitable winners in its previous issue. This assured him that anything which could beat Bingo would win. Mr. Dumphry had not so far heard of Bingo. This perplexed him. The possession of a copy of “The Dead Cert” was a source of embarrassment. He did not dare to leave it in the waste-paper basket either at home or at his office. It might have created quite a wrong impression. Finally, he left it under the seat of a railway-carriage. When the time came for him to send up his postcard he felt that he could trust no expert at all. He put himself absolutely in the hands of the goddess of chance. He wrote the names of the horses down on slips of paper, folded them up, put them in his hat, agitated the hat, and took the first three that he happened to draw out. He did not expect to win, of course, and had merely done the thing for amusement.

At 11.30 on Wednesday morning Mr. Albert Henn called by appointment at Mr. Dumphry’s office. Mr. Henn was the chairman and managing director of Pease, Baxter & Co., Ltd. The letter which made the appointment also intimated that the company proposed to make a change in their chartered accountants. “It may surprise you, Mr. Dumphry,” said Henn, “to hear that we are making a change. The firm which acts for us has done so for many years and we have had no serious fault to find. But old Mr. Bredenatch is now retiring and his son comes into partnership. I should not feel easy, and my fellow-directors would not feel easy, if we employed that gambler, young Bredenatch. It is notorious that he bets regularly and that he attends race-meetings. I don’t of course know what your view on such a subject would be.”

“Well,” said Mr. Dumphry, “I don’t think I ever had a bet in my life, and I have certainly never attended a race-meeting. It is not the sort of thing that interests me. But I should think it possible that a man with good self-control might do both and yet continue to conduct his business satisfactorily.”

“I can’t agree with you,” said Mr. Henn. “I can’t have it and I won’t have it. What are we here for? In my firm we believe in work. Once a man takes to gambling there is always the risk that he won’t know where to stop. Anybody who is employed in my office is told when he is engaged that no betting is permitted, and if it is found out that he has made any bet, even for a small sum, he will be instantly dismissed. He takes his post on that distinct understanding. With what sort of consistency then can we have anything to do with that gambler Bredenatch? The position would be ridiculous. Why, my own office-boys might criticize me — and with very good reason too. No, no, Mr. Dumphry. It’s generous of you to try to find an excuse for a professional rival, and I appreciate it. But in any case that gambler goes. And now, Mr. Dumphry, I want to talk business.”

The business-talk went on for some time, and very much to the satisfaction of Mr. Dumphry. He sat in deep thought for a few minutes after Mr. Henn had gone, and then, as the clock struck, he rose to go out to lunch. The sun was shining. The prosperity of Mr. Dumphry was increasing. Everything was a warm rosy pink. And something special in the way of lunch seemed indicated. A grilled sole and a slice of Camembert cheese could not be called excessive. But the silver tankard beside Mr. Dumphry was a wicked camouflage. That tankard was not filled without a previous removal of gilt foil and wire from a cork. It was very, very seldom that Mr. Dumphry indulged himself in that way.

His mind was wholly occupied with his business. It had grown of late. Mr. Dumphry himself did things which he felt he should not do — things which could be quite safely left to intelligent subordinates. If he had a partner and a larger office, he could confine himself to the chief direction. It was a thought that had already occurred to him. He was slow and reluctant to make any change in business. Now it seemed to him that a change would be forced upon him. He put it all down to luck. It hardly occurred to him that it could be assigned to extreme care, sufficient knowledge and ability, rigid principles and high character. For it is in the nature of us that We are rarely proud of the things that we can really do, but are quite likely to be a little conceited about the things we wish we could do.

Mr. Dumphry’s mind had strayed far away from “The Sunday Flashlight.” He had completely forgotten that he had ever, to satisfy a whim, sent in an entry for the Hundred Guineas Competition. He was reminded of it, however, when he came out from luncheon by newsboys who shouted “Winner of the Cambriwitch.” Mr. Dumphry expended a penny; if the paper had cost twopence it is doubtful if he would have bought it at all.

But when he came to look at the news in the Stop Press he was amazed. The first three horses in the Cambriwitch were the three which he had given in the order in which he had placed them. Well, things never come singly. This would mean a hundred guineas for Mr. Dumphry. It was as if it had been destined that everything should go right for him that day.

But when he got back to his office and began to think things over, his views changed. He remembered that in that number of “The Sunday Flashlight” he had seen an interview, accompanied by a portrait, with the engaging bricklayer who had won the previous Hundred Guineas Competition. It seemed likely to him that a similar interview would be demanded with him, and it would be difficult to take a hundred guineas from a newspaper and at the same time to refuse so small a return. The publicity would be perfectly disgusting, and it might be not only disgusting, but dangerous. What on earth would Mr. Albert Henn say? It would be useless to point out to him that he had neither made a bet nor witnessed a race. There would be definite evidence that he had interested himself in racing. He could imagine Mr. Albert Henn speaking scathingly of that gambler Dumphry and expressing his gratitude that he had found the hypocrite out before he came up for election. Mr. Henn would talk. Business would drop away. These things cannot be kept secret. He would no longer be trusted. He would lose one appointment after another. In two years he would be a ruined man. And all for the sake of a hundred guineas that he could not even pretend he urgently needed.

He had made a mistake. In business, Pease, Baxter & Co. made the nether millstone look like wet blotting-paper. When the Board’s ethical principles also came into action they were hard enough to cut thin slices from diamonds. And Mr. Henn was practically the board and also the general meeting. Until the bright star of Henn appeared above the horizon, there were years when the dividend was passed and even two-and-a-half seemed luxury. Henn it was who brought the share-holders out of the wilderness into a fruitful land of twelve with an occasional bonus. In Henn they trusted, and what Henn told them to do they did. Against this very powerful and highly ethical gentleman it was vain to contend. That gambler Dumphry would never be elected.

The idea occurred to the wretched man that he might go to the office of “The Sunday Flashlight,” see the editor, and beg to be allowed, though he had won, to withdraw from the competition. But he knew he was not the type of man that ever succeeds in seeing the editor. The janitor of the office would eye him with contempt and suspicion, and make him fill up a form, and after a long wait he might be granted two minutes by the editor’s secretary’s assistant. This would be a young man who would listen to him without concealing his impatience and weariness, and then say:

“Well, I’ll put it to the editor. Can’t promise anything. If he wants to publish your name and address he’s got the right — one of the conditions of the competition. G’morning.”

And in the next number of the paper his name and address would appear with some facetious observations about the eccentricity of the chartered accountant who refused a hundred guineas.

No, that idea must be abandoned. It would be unlikely to do him good, and might make bad worse. The only hope left to that gambler Dumphry was that nobody would call Mr. Henn’s attention to “The Sunday Flashlight.” It was a very slight hope; there is always somebody able to interfere maliciously and glad to do it.

Mr. Dumphry’s imagination, now in a thoroughly morbid condition, went on. It was quite probable that on the following night when he returned home he would be told that there were two gentlemen waiting to see him. Gentlemen would not have been the word he would now have used himself. They would be the interviewer and the caricaturist from “The Sunday Flashlight.” The caricaturist would make a drawing exaggerating every slight defect of his face and figure and holding him up to the ridicule of the vulgar. The interviewer would lure from him statements which he never meant to make and would break his word as to keeping them out of the interview.

Mr. Dumphry rose from his seat and paced the room. A certain amount of spirit came back to him. No, prize or no prize, he would not be interviewed and he would not be caricatured, and he would even refuse a copy of his photograph. That was definite, and he would leave explicit orders as soon as he got home. He might or might not be a ruined man. With his previous high character he might manage to live the thing down. But at any rate he would not submit to the vulgarity of public insult and misrepresentation. There was apparently no way out of it. Nothing could save him, but at any rate he would go into the thing like a gentleman.

And, as he paced the room, he saw through his window on the opposite side of the street somebody putting up a new evening bill of a newspaper. That bill merely said: “Cambriwitch: Remarkable Sensation.” Mr. Dumphry resumed his seat at his writing-table and rang his bell.

“Smith,” he said to the clerk, “I wish you’d just go out and get me the latest edition of some evening paper. I want the market figures to correct an account.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Smith, and presently returned with the paper in question. Mr. Dumphry turned hurriedly to the City page and as soon as the clerk was out of the room consulted another section. This told him that the winner of the Cambriwitch had been disqualified. Therefore Mr. Dumphry had not won. Therefore all the disasters with which he had been torturing himself would not take place. He breathed a sigh of intense relief.

Mr. Dumphry had no pity for the owner and trainer of the disqualified animal nor for the disappointment of those who had backed it. He never even thought of them. He was too much occupied with his own wonderful escape. Then and there he registered a solemn vow that he would never take part in such a competition again. The risk was too great. The probability was that one would not win, but there was always the terrible possibility that one might. He shuddered as he thought how near he had come to such a disastrous victory.

His spirits rose rapidly. Never now could Mr. Albert Henn speak of “That gambler, Dumphry.” His character was restored to its pristine whiteness. He was genial and beaming as he passed through the outer office on his way home. And this was observed by two of his clerks.

“Governor looks pretty cheerful tonight,” said the first.

“Expect he backed the winner for the Cambriwitch,” said the second bitterly. His bitterness may be excused, he himself having squandered a shilling on a piece of cats-meat in the Also Ran.

Mr. Dumphry’s gaiety was also noticeable at dinner that night. He said that he hated to talk shop after business hours, and that he would not give any details, but that he rather thought he had done a very good day’s work. He made no reference to his very unusual libation at lunch, and the competition had already passed from his mind — the sponge had gone over the slate.

Mrs. Dumphry said there was no such thing as luck, but that for a man with Ernest’s remarkable type of mind success was, sooner or later, a certainly.

On Thursday Mr. Dumphry had a further and very satisfactory interview with Mr. Albert Henn.

On Friday Mr. Dumphry addressed his staff. He said that he had no wish to interfere with their personal liberty, and he regarded any unnecessary interference with personal liberty as a bad mistake. But in the matter about which he had to speak it was not only their personal liberty but the business itself which was concerned. He referred to betting. He drew a picture of the man in a responsible post who loses at betting, borrows the firm’s money to pay his losses, intending to repay, bets and loses again, and takes more money — till finally disclosure and absolute ruin come upon him.

For the future then betting would be prohibited and anybody who was found to have made a bet would be instantly dismissed. The rule might sound harsh, but other firms had found it necessary to adopt it. For instance, Pease, Baxter & Co. had enforced it for years.

It cannot be said that the announcement was popular, but Mr. Dumphry received no resignations. One saddened clerk said that the boss in some foxy way must have found out that he had planked a shilling on that three-legged cripple for the Cambriwitch. “For,” said the conscience-stricken criminal, “he never took his eyes off me the whole time he was talking. Very foxy he is.”

Mr. Dumphry was not, as a matter of fact, sufficiently foxy to have found out what had taken place between a junior clerk (whose very name he did not always remember) and a street bookmaker in Bromley. But perhaps he was not wholly free from foxiness — or shall we call it tact? He proposed to tell Mr. Albert Henn that he had adopted in his own office the wise betting prohibition of Pease, Baxter & Co. He thought he might be able to use it advantageously in other cases. And he remained perfectly satisfied with himself — until the following morning.

Mr. Dumphry did not go to his office on Saturday mornings if he could help it, and he generally managed to help it. On this particular Saturday he felt that he could certainly help it, and lingered a little over his breakfast — a meal which on business days was generally somewhat staccato and abrupt.

His daughter Queenie entered, saluted everybody present, gave herself an out-size helping of porridge, seated herself, and ripped open the letter which she found by her plate. She read it carefully with wonder growing in her large eyes. And then she uttered with emphasis one simple word:

“Gosh!”

“Really, Queenie,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “is it necessary to use such very strong language?”

“Sorry, mummie,” said Queenie, “but it was the only word I could think that seemed to express it. It’s a fair knock-out — I mean of course that it’s most surprising. Now just listen, all of you, and I’ll tell you.”

“Come into a fortune?” asked Barbara.

“No, but it’s rather on those lines. Don’t interrupt.

Last Sunday Titmus’s boy shed ‘The Sunday Flashlight’ at this house. There was a Hundred Guinea Competition, and all you had to do was to put down on a postcard the names of the first three horses in some race or other — I forget what it was called. So just for a lark I had a shot at it, taking any names I liked in the list. After that I forgot all about it till I got this.”

She read out:

“Dear Madam, — Sunday Flashlight Hundred Guinea Competition. No. 29. Forty-three correct forecasts were received for this competition, of which yours was one. We therefore enclose cheque for £2 6s. 8d., your share of the prize, with our congratulations. No acknowledgement other than the endorsement of the cheque is wanted or expected.”

“And,” added Queenie, “the cheque’s actually here, pinned to the letter.”

“Good!” said Barbara. “You’re a capitalist and a profiteer. Lend me five shillings.”

“Your application should be made in writing, when it will be duly considered,” replied Queenie coldly “State sex and age, if any.”

Meanwhile Mr. Dumphry’s face, screened by the leader page of the only newspaper which he thought worth looking at, had been convulsed by a varying series of emotions. At first when he believed that Queenie had actually won the hundred guineas, horror filled him and his eyes perceptibly protruded. Plans came to him swift as light. On no account must Queenie be interviewed. He must carry her off with him to London at once before the interviewer arrived and take with him every single photograph of Queenie that there was in the house, and there were very many. If any undue prominence were given to her in the paper he decided to make a clean breast of it. He would even point it out to Mr. Albert Henn as one of the terrible things that a parent may have to go through. He could imagine himself saying that Queenie was but a child, knew nothing about horses and cared less, and had only entered for the competition for the fun of it. He had spoken very seriously to her about it and nothing of the kind would occur, again. He would also explain that it was merely owing to a mistake by a newsboy that any copy of “The Sunday Flashlight” had ever come into his house.

When he had reached this point Queenie began to read out the editorial letter, and relief came. As forty-three forecasts had been successful it seemed to him highly improbable that there would be forty-three interviews. What would happen would be merely that the names and addresses of the forty-three would be given in small print. It was not likely that Mr. Henn would ever read that small print. Even if he did he might come to no unfavourable conclusion. Mr. Henn had so far got Mr. Dumphry’s business address alone. Tessel Road would mean nothing to him. He had had a narrow shave, but once more fortune had been kind to him.

Later in the morning he was gardening with more enthusiasm than discretion when Queenie came out to him bearing with her the letter and cheque.

“Look here, Dad,” said Queenie. “What do I do about this? It’s a cheque all right, but what I want is the money for it. Mummie says she’s nearly sure that it has to go into a bank and I haven’t got any bank.”

Mr. Dumphry examined the cheque.

“Well, my dear,” he said. “I think I can venture to cash this for you. You put a twopenny stamp on the back. You see they mark the place where the stamp goes. You sign your name across the stamp.”

“What’s that for?” asked Queenie.

“It’s one of the forms of highway robbery practised by the Government. If you do that I’ll cash your cheque for you.”

“Thanks very much,” said Queenie. “It’s awfully kind of you.”

“There’s just one point,” said Mr. Dumphry, resting his willing foot on his spade. “I should very much prefer that you never did anything of the kind again without first consulting me. It might have been quite a serious matter for me in my business.”

“I don’t see how,” said Queenie. “Why, I thought you’d quite likely have a shot at it yourself. There’s no harm in it, is there?”

“Perhaps not. No actual harm. But a chartered accountant has to be entirely above suspicion. I don’t know whether I’ve ever told you that I have a rule in my office that nobody is allowed to make any bet on a horse-race. Suppose you’d been the only winner. An interview with you, accompanied by a photograph, would possibly have appeared in ‘The Sunday Flashlight.’”

“That would have been awfully jolly,” said Queenie wistfully. “but I’m afraid there’s no chance of it. They wouldn’t do the whole forty-three of us.”

“No chance of it? I don’t want there to be any chance of it. What would my employees think if they saw such an interview and photograph with my daughter. Why, they’d think I had one set of regulations for the office and another for my own house.”

“But, Dad, mine wasn’t a bet. I didn’t risk anything except the postcard, and even that I sneaked from Barbara.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Dumphry. “We won’t go into that. You won’t do it any more, will you?”

“Of course I won’t if you don’t like it. Now I’ll just hop off and thingamise this cheque so that you can give me the money for it. Shan’t be a second.”

Mr. Dumphry went to his coat which was hanging on the bough of a tree, took two pound notes from his pocket-book, supplemented them as required from his trousers pocket, and handed the money to Queenie.

“There you are, my dear,” he said. “You can leave the cheque in the library when you’ve endorsed it.”

•   •   •

Mr. Dumphry found among the papers on the breakfast-table on Sunday morning a copy of “The Sunday Flashlight,” and it was not by accident this time that it had been delivered. He found exactly what he had expected, that the names and addresses of the forty-three successful competitors were given in one paragraph of small print. Queenie Dumphry appeared as Miss M. Damphry, and though Tessel Road was mentioned, the Rest House was not. Queenie was always called Queenie, but her real name was Mary and she used the correct initial for formal purposes. Damphry was a misprint. Chances of any discovery seemed to be remote indeed.

And then a little farther on a name and address caught Mr. Dumphry’s eye and very nearly paralysed him. Among the forty-three winners was Mr. Albert Henn, Farndale Court, Harrow. Mr. Dumphry had to read it three times before he could believe it. And then he fell into meditation, rather deep and very dazed. Somebody offered him the excessive sum of a penny for his thoughts.

“I was thinking,” said Mr. Dumphry, “there’s hardly anybody ever knows what anybody else is going to do about anything.”

“You know,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “that same thought has often occurred to me, though I couldn’t have expressed it so well.”

14

MR. STURGE,
MR. COPSHAW,
AND
MR. DUMPHRY’S BOOTS

Many years ago, at the time when Mr. Ernest Dumphry first acquired the lease of the Rest House, Tessel Road, he was not as careful as he might have been about the vesture of his lower extremities — or, as some people would say, his boots and shoes. One may as well tell the truth and get it over — he did not even possess one pair of boot-trees.

There were no doubt reasons for this. Both of Mr. Dumphry’s feet were of medium stock-size and gave him no trouble whatever. He could walk into any boot-shop, try on a pair, and if necessary walk away in them without discomfort. When the soles of these boots gave out, he had them re-soled locally. He continued to have them re-soled on occasion as long as it was humanly possible and then again he stepped into any boot-shop and bought another pair of boots.

At this epoch Mr. Dumphry was an economical man. He was not by a long way in possession of the income to which he subsequently attained, and he was paying for the expensive education of a small bunch of daughters. His ready-made boots at that time cost him eighteen to twenty-one shillings. And when he heard of men who paid three or four guineas for boots made to order, he snorted with disgust and said that he did not know to what the country was coming. He would also observe upon the rapidity of the separation between fools and their money. Mrs. Dumphry, as always, fully agreed with him.

“It’s simply a pity,” she said, “that there are not more men with your sensible way of thinking.”

It was tragedy which occurred to Mr. Dumphry in January, 1920, which first changed his views and broke through his routine.

On a dark Wednesday afternoon in that month Mr. Dumphry entered a big boot-shop and said that he required a pair of boots. In five minutes he selected a pair which seemed to be just what he wanted. He paid for them. The boots were packed in a box, the box was wrapped in paper with a loop of string to facilitate carriage, and Mr. Dumphry walked away with them.

Apart from the fact that the boots which he ordinarily wore on business-days were now well past their maturity, there were special reasons. On Thursday afternoon Mr. Dumphry was to meet for the first time in business a man who would, if Mr. Dumphry had been shabby and unkempt, have made an unfavourable note of it. Moreover, on the following Saturday Mr. Dumphry was to have the pleasure of lunching with his wife’s mother. The dear old lady professed to be almost stone-blind, but Mr. Dumphry had not found that this prevented her from noticing at once any defect in his apparel or himself.

On Thursday morning Ernest put on those new boots. They fitted well, they looked well. He travelled up to London in them and started to walk to his office as usual.

Suddenly he stumbled and nearly fell. His first impression was that he had a stroke of paralysis in his left leg, but a glance downward corrected this. What had happened was that the entire heel of his left boot had come off. There it lay on the pavement a yard away from him.

It seemed to him that the street became immediately packed with people, and that they all looked at him and smiled pleasantly. He dived for the missing heel, retrieved it and slipped it into his coat pocket. He tried to look as if the right-hand coat pocket were really the natural and proper place in which to carry the heel of your left-hand boot. The expression is complicated, and he had not previously practised it. People went on smiling pleasantly.

He tried two or three steps. No. Walking had become an impossible undignified limp. It would have to be a taxi. A second before, thousands and thousands of taxies had streamed past him — or so he seemed to remember. And now there was not one in the street. Mr. Dumphry stood on the kerb and waited. At last a cab switched in from a side-street and Mr. Dumphry hailed it vigorously. The cab-man, having his flag down, gave Mr. Dumphry one look of sorrow and contempt as he went past him.

And just then a shabby-looking old man touched Mr. Dumphry on his arm. “You’ll excuse me speaking to you, sir, but ’appening to glawnce down at your feet just now I see that the ’eel’s of your left boot. That might mean a nawsty accident if you don’t happen to know it.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Dumphry wearily. “I know all about it.”

“Only anxious to ’elp you,” said the elderly man, somewhat aggrieved.

“That’s why I thanked you,” said Mr. Dumphry, bitterly.

A taxicab now drove up, unoccupied and piloted by a smiling driver. Mr. Dumphry directed the man to drive him to that particular boot-shop.

He entered the boot-shop with as much dignity as can be managed by a man who has got a heel on only one of his boots. He sat down and an aproned attendant came up immediately and asked him what he could do for him.

“Send the manager to me,” said Mr. Dumphry. “I’m in a hurry this morning and don’t want to be kept waiting.”

When, after a couple of minutes — for a manager naturally has his self-respect to think about — the black-coated manager appeared, Mr. Dumphry had removed his left boot, taken the heel of it out of his pocket, and exposed them on the floor.

“Good morning, sir,” said the manager cheerfully, “I understand you wish to see me.”

“I bought the boots that I am now wearing at this shop yesterday afternoon. I put them on for the first time this morning. As you see, the heel came off in the street. Might have broken my neck. Got anything to say about it?”

“Extremely sorry, sir,” said the manager. “We’ve never had such a thing happen before in all the years that we’ve been here.”

He examined the boot and the heel carefully.

“Looks to me, sir,” he said, “as if the mistake were not all on one side.”

“No,” said Dumphry. “I made a mistake when I bought my boots here, and I made another when I tried to walk in them.”

“What I mean to say, sir, is that the heel of that boot must have been shockingly mishandled for it to happen.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. The boots were never taken out of the box until I put them on this morning.”

“So far as you know, sir,” said the manager, “so far as you know. But one can’t always depend on one’s servants. A maid will often use the heel of a boot instead of a hammer for driving a nail in, or mending a picture-frame or some such.”

“Well, make up your mind,” said Mr. Dumphry. “Either give me a new pair of boots for this rubbish or give me back the money I paid for them.”

“Well,” said the manager, “if we took back the boots and gave you the money you’d have to walk away in your socks you know, sir, unless you’ve got a spare pair of boots in your pocket. As for giving you a new pair, we couldn’t quite do that. You see, you’ve worn them, sir, and we couldn’t put them back into stock. However, we’re always glad to meet a customer in every way. There’s a good repairer here on the premises. If you can wait just a few minutes he’ll fix that heel on again for you.”

“It won’t do,” said Mr. Dumphry; “if in three minutes you don’t give me a new pair in place of the rubbish you sold me, I’ve got a taxicab waiting and I drive straight off to my solicitor. It’ll be a nice advertisement for you when it comes into court, won’t it?”

The manager shrugged his shoulders and gave up. He turned to the man in the apron.

“Serve this gentleman,” he said. “No charge.”

Mr. Dumphry had triumphed. Honour and the soundest principles of commerce had been successfully vindicated by him. And yet his confidence in the ready-made boot had been cruelly shaken. What had happened once might happen again. For many days he did not venture to put his boots on at all without first testing them to see if the heels were firmly attached, and he felt bitterly that even the test might tend to weaken the attachment.

Possibly the deciding point came when he read in an evening paper in some fashion notes for men the statement that a gentleman might easily be known by his hat and his boots. The statement was not original and it was also very inaccurate. A gentleman may be known much more easily by the fact that he happens to be a gentleman. However, Mr. Dumphry was very much impressed. He felt that he could not continue this haphazard method of procuring his boots. He would have to pay more attention to it even if he had to pay more money.

On the following Saturday afternoon Mr. Pieroe Eveleigh looked in to see if he could borrow a piece of cucumber from Mr. Dumphry. (Friends in Tessel Road did borrow the most extraordinary things from one another.) He also pointed out to Mr. Dumphry a photograph in the local newspaper of a house which he had recently designed in his best manner. It was a small house, but extremely decorated, and looked like a cross between a pagan temple and a rabbit-hutch. Pleased with public recognition and the loan of cucumber Pierce Eveleigh was quite willing to be obliging.

Mr. Dumphry, looking down at his friend’s boots, saw at a glance that they were far far better than his own, and observed as much.

“Yes,” said Mr. Eveleigh, “I have these boots built locally for me and the man who builds them is a real artist. He is also a bit of a mystery. His name is Ezekiel Sturge and he lives at 22, Burton Street. There is no indication at 22, Burton Street that the old man makes boots at all. As a matter of fact I believe he makes them only for a favoured few. He works in London all day. I’ve tried to find out what he works at but he always shirks the question. In the evening and on Saturday afternoons he makes boots. Boots are his favourite recreation. You might almost say that he has a genius for boots. He’s made mine for the last twenty years and there’s never been anything wrong with them.”

“Do you think he’d make for me?”

“He might. And again, he might not. At any rate I’ll give you a line of introduction and you can but try. Mind you, you’ll find him a bit of a character. He’s independent in his manners and almost domineering where boots are concerned. He may keep you waiting for some time before he delivers the goods. He kept me waiting three months for a pair once and his only explanation was that he’d been busy. He charges enough. Three and a half or four guineas for a pair. But he uses the best materials and they wear a very long time. In fact, I’m pretty certain it’s an economy to go to him.”

He wrote a line in pencil on one of his visiting-cards and gave it to Mr. Dumphry.

“Thanks,” said Mr. Dumphry. “I’ll go round there after tea this afternoon and see what I can do with him.”

He did. Ezekiel Sturge lived in a very small detached house, with a narrow strip of garden in front of it. The house was neat and newly-painted. Ezekiel grew no flowers in his front garden, because the boys of the neighbourhood had decided that anything growing in any front garden was ipso facto their property. The short flagged path that led to the front-door with its very bright knocker, was flanked on either side by a few square feet of grass. The path was clean, and the grass had been most carefully kept, being in fact superior to the grass of Mr. Dumphry’s own lawn.

And the spirit of efficiency, thus announced on the exterior of the house, seemed to permeate it. The door was opened to Mr. Dumphry by a middle-aged woman, who looked both shrewd and kindly. She spoke with a Scots accent. She received his credentials, said she would fetch Mr. Sturge from his workshop in the garden, and showed Mr. Dumphry into a book-lined room. It contained no aspidistra, no chromo-lithograph, and no family portraits. This was wonderful. Mr. Dumphry’s hopes rose high.

And then Mr. Ezekiel Sturge entered, putting the final touch to the collar of a recently assumed coat. He had not waited to remove his apron nor to wash the marks of his toil from his hands. His spectacles were large and heavily-rimmed. His forehead was vast and he was nearly bald. He was of medium height, thin, and slightly bent. His expression was serious and thoughtful. From that pocket of his coat where the gay and careless keep their handkerchiefs, there protruded a variety of implements of precision for the measurement of the human foot.

“I understand,” said Ezekiel, after salutations, “that you wish me to make a pair of boots for you.”

“That is so,” said Mr. Dumphry cheerfully. “In fact, if you can do as well for me as you have done for my friend, Mr. Eveleigh, I shall hope to get all my boots made by you.”

“A month ago I should have said it was impossible,” said Ezekiel, “for, as I expect Mr. Eveleigh has told you, I have not very much time to give to my business here. However, as it happens, General Binderwood is now passing away, if he has not already gone. Yesterday they said it was only a question of hours. I have made for him for years.”

“And you think,” said Mr. Dumphry, “that I might step into his — that I might take his place.”

“Possibly,” said Ezekiel, “possibly. I was engaged on a pair of boots for him when you called just now.”

“But he’ll never wear them.”

“No,” said Ezekiel. “That’s a sad thought, to be making a pair of boots for a dead man. However, they were ordered and I’ve no doubt his executors will do the right thing.”

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Dumphry, “somebody else will be able to wear them.”

“I don’t think so,” said Ezekiel. “You see, General Binderwood had a very interesting foot. Never in my life have I seen such bunions on a human foot as he had. You would never have guessed it if you had seen him when he was wearing my boots. Not that they ever pinched him. It was a matter of arrangement. A little compromise here, and a little give and take there, as you might say. However, if you’ve no objection, sir, I’ll begin to take your measurements.”

Ezekiel knelt down and began to remove Mr. Dumphry’s boots for him.

“Of course these are ready-made boots,” said Mr. Dumphry humbly.

“Yes,” said Ezekiel, “I noticed that as soon as I came into the room.”

“They seem to fit me fairly well.”

“You won’t think so after you’ve worn a pair of mine. So many people think that if a boot doesn’t hurt them it must fit them. These boots wouldn’t fit anybody. They’re just what you might call an approximation so that practically anybody can wear them. Look at the crease here. Look at the bagginess there. That’s made by a machine, that is, not by a man with a conscience.”

He took a large sheet of white paper from a drawer and laid it in front of Mr. Dumphry.

“Now then,” he said, “if you will kindly stand up with your feet on that.”

Mr. Dumphry did as he was directed and Ezekiel made a pencil outline of the feet. When Mr. Dumphry saw that pencil outline he nearly fainted. He had no conception that the soles of his feet were anything at all like that when he stood up.

Ezekiel took the weapons of precision from his breast-pocket and began his measurements. He was very careful. He tested every measurement twice before he wrote it down. It seemed to Mr. Dumphry he measured every single thing about a human foot which could by any possible chance be measured.

“Well,” said Mr. Dumphry, “do you think, Mr. Sturge, you’ll be able to do anything with it?”

“Certainly I shall,” said Ezekiel. “You feet, sir, if I may say so, are just a little commonplace. There’s no striking feature about them — nothing for an artist to contend with.”

“And when shall I get the boots?”

“I couldn’t promise a day. First, I must finish the pair for General Binderwood — there’s not much more to do — and I expect to deliver them at his house on the day of the funeral, because the executors are likely to be there then and mine is strictly a ready-money business. I shall take your pair next, and it might be a month or six weeks before you get them. Careful work cannot be hurried. I must do myself justice.”

“Quite so. Quite so,” Mr. Dumphry agreed.

“And perhaps,” said Ezekiel, removing his vast spectacles and blinking his eyes, “you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Dumphry, if I gave you a word or two of advice, just as I did to your friend Mr. Eveleigh when he came to me first.”

“Certainly. I should be glad to have it.”

Ezekiel cleared his throat. He gave almost the impression of one who addresses a meeting.

“Very well then,” he said. “You are at present at the parting of the ways. You are leaving the crowded road which is marked ‘Ready-made’ and wisely choosing the more select ‘Bespoke’ road. What you want to know is how to add to the appearance of the new boots and how to lengthen their lives.”

Boot-trees were essential. Just as the boots fitted the feet, so the trees should fit the boots. Boots could not be properly polished except on trees, nor could they keep their shape. Mr. Sturge could supply the trees. Mr. Dumphry ordered them.

Then there was the question of the polish. It did not do to walk into a shop and buy just any commercial brand. What was good for one kind of leather was bad for another. Mr. Sturge could always supply the right polish for any pair of boots he made. Mr. Dumphry ordered some.

Nor was the polish any good if it were applied with brushes that had been used for other kinds. Mr. Sturge could sell you a set in a box — convenient, and not expensive. Mr. Dumphry ordered a box.

Lastly, leather had to be wet when it was worked. For that reason boots should be given time to dry out and get seasoned. Six months was not too long to give. Most gentlemen ordered several pairs, so that by the time one pair was finished another pair was ripe and ready.

But Mr. Dumphry was not quite hypnotized up to this point. He said that if the first pair proved satisfactory he might give a further order, and then he fled. He was destined to give many further orders. Mr. Dumphry was satisfied beyond his wildest expectations. For the first time in his life he had boots which really fitted him. And yet his feet looked inches smaller in them than in the baggy machine-made predecessors.

“I hope,” said Mr. Dumphry, “that you’ll make all my boots in future.”

“I hope so,” said Ezekiel. “I don’t know why I shouldn’t. I met General Binderwood in the street this morning and was talking to him?-”

“But you told me the General was dead.”

“I don’t think so. He should have been. According to the advice of the best specialists he ought to have been. But he’s about again now. Still of course he’s old and he’s not strong. He said himself that he’d never be able to wear out all the boots he’d got. I think we may leave him out of the account.”

Mr. Dumphry ordered two more pairs of boots as a start. As a business man he should not perhaps have been surprised that he got a very much better article for 73s. 6d. than he did for 21s. In his very first year with Mr. Sturge he produced figures that certainly seemed to show that it was rather cheaper for him to get his boots from Mr. Sturge. The figures of Mr. Dumphry the enthusiast would probably not have satisfied Mr. Dumphry the chartered accountant.

However, his wife agreed with him.

“It’s exactly what I’ve always thought and always maintained,” she said. “If you get the best quality, it nearly always works out the cheapest in the end. It’s a pity other men don’t see that as you do.” And for some time afterwards the years remained changeless. Boots came in from Mr. Sturge to Mr. Dumphry, cheques went from Mr. Dumphry to Mr. Sturge, and everything was for the best.

And then — it was shortly after Mr. Dumphry took to dancing — there arose on the horizon a Mr. Victor Copshaw.

Mr. Dumphry met Mr. Copshaw first at a dance and was greatly impressed with him. Subsequently it became quite usual for Mr. Dumphry to travel up to London in the same carriage with Mr. Copshaw. On such occasions Copshaw generally made Dumphry feel rather shabby. Copshaw would have made the Queen of Sheba feel shabby. His white spats, his sponge-bag trousers, the orchid in his buttonhole, the delicate colour scheme of his necktie and handkerchief — all these were noticeable. And perhaps that helped to bolster him up in his favourite weakness, which was omniscience. Mr. Copshaw always knew, and he made no secret of it. If he made any statement which was highly doubtful he always put it outside the pale of criticism by beginning “Of course, as everybody knows …”

‘Of course, he said to Mr. Dumphry one day, “there is only one shop in London where you can buy an umbrella. I mean of course an umbrella, a real one. It may seem extraordinary that it should be so, but it is so and everybody knows it.”

On another occasion he said: “It seems curious but there is only one shop in London at which you can buy a dress tie. I mean a real pukka dress tie. I’ve asked plenty of men if they can tell me of any other shops but none of them can. It’s a well-known fact.”

There was also, according to Copshaw, only one shop in London where a gentleman of taste could get his hair cut, and only one at which he could buy a silk-hat.

So when Mr. Dumphry, in the first flush of his enthusiasm for the dance, decided to order a pair of evening shoes from Mr. Sturge, it was not surprising that he met with serious opposition from Mr. Victor Copshaw.

“I’ll tell you what it is, Dumphry,” said Victor, “the boots you’re wearing are good walking boots. They are practically as good as mine. If in one or two minor points I prefer my own, it is merely a question of taste. But precisely because your firm makes good walking-boots, they cannot be expected to make good evening shoes. The two things are totally different. Of course everybody knows that the only shop in London where you get the really perfect evening shoe is Folker and Fish in Bond Street.”

Mr. Dumphry resisted feebly and said he would think it over. But that afternoon he happened to be strolling down Bond Street and he paused before a window in which, on green plush with a mirror behind it and three electric lights on either side, was exhibited a pair of very beautiful evening shoes. He glanced down at the name of the shop, and it was Folker and Fish. In another moment he had given way and entered.

He felt guilty of the grossest disloyalty to old Ezekiel. He was plunging, he knew, into the wildest extravagance, but to such degradation does the society of a man like Victor Copshaw bring one.

A young man in the shop, considerably better dressed than Mr. Dumphry, talked to him pleasantly, showed him photographs of different evening shoes, and assisted him to make his choice of a model.

“Now then, sir,” he said, “you really are rather fortunate. I shall be able to put this job in the hands of the best workman we’ve ever had. He has been with us for twenty years or more and it is hardly too much to say that he is an artist. I’ll fetch him up for you.”

The young man went to the back of the shop, lifted a trapdoor, and called down it:

“Sturge, come up a minute, please.”

For a moment Dumphry stood rooted to the spot, wondering what on earth to do and say next. Then, as the well-known head of Ezekiel Sturge appeared above the trapdoor, fortunately not looking in Mr. Dumphry’s direction, Mr. Dumphry turned and fled. Some twenty yards away he looked cautiously back from his taxicab and saw the elegant young man and the aproned Ezekiel standing in the doorway of Messrs. Folker and Fish looking up and down the street in blank amazement.

He was saved. Ezekiel could not have seen him. So Ezekiel worked for Folker and Fish all day and took on jobs on his own account in the evening. Yet as he thought it over Mr. Dumphry became rather bothered. He could not feel perfectly certain that Ezekiel had not seen him. That look of perplexity might have been assumed. In that case had Ezekiel given him away to the glorious young man in the shop? Things might conceivably be very unpleasant.

On his return home he felt that he must know for certain one way or the other. He went round to Ezekiel’s house and was confronted by him. Ezekiel showed no sign of perturbation whatever.

Mr. Dumphry said: “Good evening, Mr. Sturge. I want you to make me a pair of evening shoes.” He would not have been surprised if Mr. Sturge had replied: “No thank you. Not after what has occurred.” But what Mr. Sturge actually said was: “Certainly, sir, with pleasure.”

Mr. Sturge took off his large spectacles and blinked his eyes and addressed the meeting.

“I think we’ve met before today, Mr. Dumphry, under rather embarrassing circumstances. I’ve not given away your name and that young shop-ornament, Mr. Mellor, has no idea who you are.”

“It was a mistake on my part,” said Mr. Dumphry.

“It would have been. If you’d stayed I shouldn’t have recognized you. I should have made those shoes and you’d have paid Folker and Fish 30 percent more for them than you would pay me. But we needn’t go into that. I didn’t give you away and I want you not to give me away. Nobody here knows that I work for Folker and Fish, and I don’t want them to know. You see, my job is a very good one and my agreement is that while I’m working for them I won’t work for anybody else. I take that to mean that I’m not to work for any other shop, and I don’t. But I work for myself and there might easily be a misunderstanding about it.”

“Quite so, I see,” said Mr. Dumphry. “But there’s one thing I don’t understand. I made quite certain that you never saw my face.” “I didn’t.”

“Then how did you come to recognize me?”

“My eyes at the time were just about on the level of the floor and I saw your boots as you went through the door. I’ve been making those boots for some years now. I knew them.”

15

MR. DUMPHRY
DOES NOT
LIVE BY SCHEDULE

“The tulips in Hyde Park this year are spoken of very highly in the newspapers,” said Mr. Dumphry, as he carved the Sunday sirloin. “One writer calls them ‘the children of the sun’ — a pretty thought, to my mind. Slightly on the hard side, I fear, and Kenton should be spoken to about it.” (The last sentence applied to the beef, not to the tulips. Mr. Kenton supplied the beef.)

“Of course,” Mr. Dumphry continued, “in Hyde Park they have exceptional facilities. Rightly or wrongly, I am told that if any bulb goes blind or does not grow the correct height it is turned out, and its place supplied from a reserve grown in pots. This must give perfect regularity. At the same time I am not sure that it is quite cricket.”

“No,” said Queenie. “Sounds more like gardening.”

“Yes, but you see what I mean. It is almost a point of honour that if you put in a bulb you take what comes up, whether you like it or not. You are not given a second chance. If, as seems probable, Hyde Park has a second chance, then it is not competing with such men as Pierce Eveleigh and myself on even terms. Still, the result seems to be so beautiful, that I think I shall run up to town for an hour this afternoon and have a look at it. The horseradish sauce is excellent. Anybody care to come with me?”

But the society of Queenie and Barbara was much in demand, especially on Saturdays and Sundays, and both the girls were already engaged. Mrs. Dumphry always preferred to spend a quiet Sunday afternoon. This sounded better than saying that she liked a post-prandial nap on Sundays, but meant the same thing. So Mr. Dumphry, a man of great energy, went up to town alone.

In the Park the tulips were all a-blowing. So also were the orators by the Marble Arch. But Mr. Dumphry gave his attention to the tulips first. No doubt he was actuated by a love of beauty, but there was also another idea lurking at the back of his head. Pierce Eveleigh grew some tulips, and so also did Dumphry. This year Pierce’s tulips were indisputably better than Ernest’s, and Pierce had already alluded to the fact two or three times in conversation. It rankled. The next time Pierce approached the subject, Ernest proposed to talk about the Hyde Park tulips. In comparison with their glory, profusion, and magnificence, Pierce’s little lot would be as a dropped teaspoon to a full-sized Alpine avalanche. And that would teach him. Mr. Dumphry made a few pencil notes in the course of his inspection.

Mr. Dumphry now had time to turn to the orators. The particular orator to whom he turned was an elderly gentleman whose white hair was very much longer than it should have been. He also wore a pointed beard. But this man was a spell-binder. He had been born like that. The whole of his gifts went into it. He did not shout, as most of his neighbouring orators did, but his voice carried and got the stuff over every time. He spoke from a small platform to which was appended a notice that he represented the Rational Life Association.

He did not flatter his hearers. He called them fools, imbeciles, numskulls, fatheads, one-eyed cockroaches, and used various other terms of invective and contempt. Apparently his audience enjoyed it.

They smiled in a shy, foolish way when he launched some particularly devastating term at them. The whole truth is that the man was a spell-binder. He was one of the few who are gifted with that special ability. He could talk to people and he could make it work. His platform was quite well attended and Mr. Dumphry recognised that many of them were not there for the first time.

“I am speaking,” said the venerable gentleman, “to those who live the ordinary life.” He tapped his massive forehead. “There is something here,” he said, “which would prevent them from living the ordinary life. They have got it and they make no use of it. Well, you’ve got to use it. If you just listen to me I’ll show you how to double your happiness, improve your health, get on to an income three times higher than you are earning now. No special secret of mine. What I ask you to do is to live the rational life, to make some use of your think-box instead of leaving it out of action for twelve hours a day. If you don’t want the money, you fatheads, then get out. Go and listen to the noisy gentleman on my right-hand. He’ll just about suit you. He’s never done any thinking in his life and he’ll show you how to do the same.”

He proceeded to analyse and to lash the ordinary life. He spoke of men whose only form of exercise was to bash a football referee, and who never did that unless they had enough blockheads to support them to prevent any accusation of courage. He spoke of the folly of betting.

“You don’t know what’s going to win the two-thirty,” he said. “The owner don’t know, the trainer don’t know, the jockey don’t know, and the horse don’t know and if he did he wouldn’t tell you. You don’t bet — you just make a small contribution to the bookmaker.”

He said that they fooled away their time, they had no knowledge of the classics, they had no appreciation of the arts. There were chances open to them everywhere in London and they did nothing. They were a set of purblind stoats and they knew nothing, they learned nothing, and they never would learn anything. And probably there was not one of them who would not be better, happier, and more prosperous if he would only use such brains as he had got.

“You waste your time,” he declared. “I don’t need to tell you so. You know it. Any man who is not up, washed, and dressed by seven in the morning ought to be taken out and shot. I myself was up at six this morning and reading Sartor Resartus for the third time. Look down your day, find out those holes where time runs to waste, and fill them up with something better, something that will do you good. We must begin at the beginning.”

And already Mr. Ernest Dumphry was much impressed. This man spoke like an educated man. It might and should have occurred to Mr. Dumphry that for a man who commanded the sources of wealth this orator might have been wealthy enough to buy himself a frock-coat somewhat less seedy than that which he was at present exhibiting. But this did not occur to Mr. Dumphry. He was already hypnotised.

“Begin at the beginning,” said the orator firmly. “Make out your time schedule. Make it out for every day in the week with twenty-four squares representing the twenty-four hours of each day. Don’t be in too much of a hurry. Fill in slowly as you go along. Time? What is it?”

The last question suggested to Mr. Dumphry that he should look at his watch, which he did and found that he would have to hurry somewhat to catch his homeward train. He hurried.

But all the way home the shabby orator was still holding him. He could see now that he was simply fooling away his life. The schedule would have to begin and he would have to live by it. He had a brain. Why not use it?

The first intimation his family received was at breakfast the next day.

“The priceless treasures of literature,” said Mr. Dumphry, “are within the grasp of all of us and yet we neglect them. I have on my shelves the complete works of Sir Walter Scott and those of George Eliot. I wonder how often any volume of them is taken down from the shelves.”

“I think I can tell you that,” said Mrs. Dumphry brightly. “Every book in this house is taken down and dusted twice a year, spring and autumn.”

This ought to have satisfied Mr. Dumphry. If you possess the classics and take them down and dust them twice a year, that is all that should be asked of you.

But Mr. Dumphry was not satisfied.

“I find,” he said, “that six days a week I fool away an hour of my time, half an hour in going up to town and half an hour in coming back. That is going to stop absolutely. In future that time will be devoted to works in classical literature, such as Keats, or to works of a definitely instructional and informative character.”

He put his horrible threat into execution on the following morning.

He got through his morning paper at the house before starting for the station. But he left it with the regretful conviction that there were things in it which he ought to have read and that he had not read them. The literature which he took with him into the train consisted of a library copy of The Crime of the Eight Roads by A. Paton Whiffle, and a very small book, his own property, entitled French as the French Speak It. He decided to begin on the novel and as soon as he found that bored him, to change over to the special French.

When he reached the terminus the conductor came up to him and said, more in sorrow than in anger,

“All chinge.” Mr. Dumphry closed the novel rapidly, noted that the carriage had emptied, said “Dear me!”, and got out.

It is greatly to his credit that he never opened the book in those hours from ten to one which were due to business. He felt nearly certain now that it was not the gigantic and murderous-looking negro who had really murdered the piano-tuner, but that it was the meek and quiet little postman. He presumed he could settle that question during the hour, one to two, which would be scheduled “Luncheon.” He took the book out to luncheon with him and returned at 3.15, which was regrettable, but assured himself that the guilty man was in reality the dark-browed detective engaged on the case. Again Mr. Dumphry’s iron will asserted itself. He did not so much as open the book until he was in the train for his return journey, and even then he only went three stations beyond his objective.

He had to wait twenty minutes for a train back. He found his household extremely agitated. He admitted frankly what had happened.

“Mind you,” he said, “the book’s rubbish. I had not read two pages of it before I found that out. Still, I had just to see if my solution of the mystery was the correct one, and so I read on. Stupid mistake. It mustn’t occur again.”

After dinner, which was too late for any schedule, Mr. Dumphry said he would just pick that book up again and get it off his mind. He then found that he had left it behind in the train. He was annoyed. It was a library book and would have to be replaced.

Seeing a copy of The Crime of the Eight Roads on the bookstall at the station next morning, he bought it. He would have to buy it sometime, and he wanted to see if there was, as to which there was no doubt in his own mind, sufficient evidence to hang the detective. He finished the book before reaching the terminus. The detective had not murdered the piano-tuner. The piano-tuner had committed suicide. And considering their profession it is remarkable that more of them do not do it.

Mr. Dumphry found that there was not very much for him to do that morning at the office. This gave him leisure to reflect on his present efforts to guide his life by the light of reason alone. Was he succeeding?

Truth compelled him to admit that he was not. There had been one hopeful feature. Today he had resumed strenuous physical exercises before breakfast. For weeks he had neglected them simply because they had come to bore him stiff. His brain told him contemptuously that he might as well say that his morning bath bored him stiff, and Dumphry had meekly obeyed his brain and overcome his laziness. Loud applause.

But what about his decision to read classical or educational works in the train? It was true he had carried French as the French Speak It up with him. But the information it contained did not soak through the coat-pocket and become absorbed into the system. It was necessary to read the book and he had not even opened it. The one thing he had read was a trashy novel which had led him into error. Disgraceful!

And he could see where his mistake had been. The venerable orator had instructed him to begin at the beginning — first to make his schedule and then to live by it. He had not done this. Spasmodic and ill-considered efforts were bound to fail. There must be a schedule. He must begin upon it at once.

He therefore summoned to his presence a young clerk with a very serious expression.

“I wish you,” said Mr. Dumphry, “to procure a sheet of thin white cardboard with a good writing surface, and to cut from it eight cards the size of this envelope. Seven of these cards are to be headed with the days of the week, and each is to be divided into twenty-four squares ruled out in red ink. The eighth card is to be left blank. Do it at once and as neatly as you can. You understand?”

“Perfectly, sir. I can go out to get the white card?”

“Of course. Of course.”

It is doubtful whether the first establishment which the young clerk visited really stocked white cardboard. But a small Bass was pushed across the counter to him, and he seemed to know what to do with it. He found the white card at another place, and then having first finished his cigarette he returned to bondage. He was a quick worker and very neat and accurate. Before Mr. Dumphry went out to lunch he had the cards spread out on his table before him, and expressed his approval of them. He gathered them together, put an elastic band round them, and placed them in his note-case which they fitted perfectly. He felt good. He had taken the first sound step towards the rational life. The one blank card was reserved for Admitted Exceptions, for the lynx-eyed Dumphry foresaw there would be some. On the very next day, for instance, he was to lunch with old Harker, and he might not be back before three-fifteen — a rare occasion but one for which due allowance must be made. Mr. Dumphry was going to make his brain his guide in life; he was going to live strictly by schedule; but he was not going to be pedantic and narrow. Oh, dear, no — nothing of that sort!

Today he left for luncheon as the clock struck one and was back again as the clock struck two. This was as perfectly schedule as could be, and gave him satisfaction. And during his luncheon he came to several decisions.

First and foremost, there would have to be a rough copy of the schedule. Nothing would go down on the neat and final cards until it had been duly tried and tested. Then the question of classification was to be considered. For instance, was dancing to be classed as social amusement or as exercise? On warm evenings he had certainly felt it to be exercise. And how many times round the studio dancing would be the equivalent of one mile walking? He would put the problem to Barbara who had an almost morbid taste for mathematics. In a fortnight the rough draft should be tested and completed, and ready to be copied on the cards. He had already made one or two notes for it in his pocket-book. Under Admitted Exceptions was written:

1. On one day in any month the luncheon hour may be disregarded altogether.

2. If on any other day the luncheon hour should be exceeded, the excess must be made up from subsequent luncheon hours.

Nothing pedantic there. Kindness coupled with firmness, that was what it was. Mr. Dumphry looked forward eagerly to the new life when his brain would direct his every action and inclinations and weaknesses would be powerless before the schedule.

Suffused with the glow of virtue he was no sooner seated in his evening train than he took out French as the French Speak It and studied assiduously for the five minutes before he fell asleep. However, he did better in the up train next morning; the study of French lasted the whole journey.

As the hour of luncheon approached, he became conscious that he was hungry. He was to lunch with Harker, a man who thoroughly understood the subject, and the prospect was pleasant. He would largely exceed the luncheon hour, but that did not matter for provision had already been made for it. Vide Admitted Exceptions, No. I. All was well.

In the hall of the Cabinet Club, old Harker shook Mr. Dumphry genially by the hand and presented him to another guest, Mr. Tallibut Eden, the managing director of a railway.

“And now,” said old Harker, “we’re only waiting for Tudill — Charles Tudill. You may have heard of him.”

“I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting him,” said Dumphry, “but I’ve often seen his name in the papers. Barrister, isn’t he?”

“That’s the man. Making pots of money. He’s a member here, and we don’t see as much of him as we ought, for he’s a glutton for work. Rather a melancholy beggar, but very much knows how to live, and is quite a good sort really. Politically, we’re not the same colour, but that don’t matter. As far as that goes, I’m an old friend of Tallibut Eden here, but I don’t like his trains.”

“Ah, they’re not bad trains,” said Mr. Eden complacently. “And we keep on improving.”

And then Charles Tudill joined the group — a big, rather clumsy, rather fat man of fifty, round-faced and clean-shaven, and looking tired and sad.

“Though I’ve not met you before,” said Mr. Dumphry, “I’ve seen your name in many important cases. And I hope it will never be your duty to cross-examine me.”

“I hope not,” said Tudill, “but of course one never knows.”

“Charles, behave yourself decently,” said Harker.

“What’s the matter?” said Tudill. “I merely meant that if I ever did cross-examine Mr. Dumphry the discredit would be entirely mine. You should think before you speak. Got anything fit to eat today?”

“No,” said Harker, grinning. “You think a lot too much about your food and a lot too much about yourself. Let’s come on to lunch, shall we?”

“Plain-spoken chap, our host,” said Tudill, “but however—”

They passed on to the table reserved for Mr. Harker. Dumphry was seated between his host and Eden. But for some reason it was Charles Tudill who principally interested him.

And as Mr. Dumphry ate the smoked salmon and sipped the Meursault he reflected that here was a chance for him. He was lunching with three men all of whom had been eminently successful. They might possibly tell him how much of the success they owed to a schedule.

And soon the conversation concentrated on railways. Harker had seemed to push it in that direction: Tudill undoubtedly did. Mr. Tallibut Eden spoke at length and with conviction on his special subject. Tudill was clearly much interested. Old Harker put up a sprightly opposition from the point of view of the ticket-holder. It chanced that Mr. Dumphry knew quite a good deal about railways, and his contributions to the conversation were neither ill-informed nor unintelligent. Mr. Eden observed it.

“I can talk to you, Mr. Dumphry,” said Eden. “Even when we disagree, you’re a reasonable man and you know what you’re talking about. But I can’t argue with our excellent host. Either he wants the railways to do the impossible, or to do something at about half-cost — which is equally impossible. He’s a solicitor and ought to know better.”

Mr. Harker smiled placidly. And Mr. Dumphry was distinctly pleased.

Thus encouraged, he soon found an opportunity to introduce his special subject.

“I’ve been thinking lately,” he said, “of making out a schedule by which I could live — nothing pedantic of course, but the kind of thing which would tell me precisely what I ought to be doing at any hour of the day. My idea was that at present probably I waste much time or at any rate do not employ it in the most profitable way. Now if one had a series of cards, one for each day in the week, ruled out in squares with the employment for each hour indicated, it seemed to me that would prove rather an illuminating guide. What do you think?”

Harker sipped his glass meditatively. “If you want to know what I really think — and of course you do,” said Harker — “I think the whole thing’s perfectly childish.”

“It’s seldom I agree with Harker,” said Mr. Eden, “but I think he’s in the right here. You see, life is elastic. One has to be always altering and accommodating as different things come along. I won’t say that a schedule’s never useful. As a matter of fact, I run my trains by schedule.”

“And they never keep to time,” said Mr. Harker.

“That is as it may be. But I shouldn’t certainly dream of attempting to run myself by schedule. It would decrease my efficiency.”

“Dear me!” said Mr. Dumphry, “it looks as though I were on the wrong track, doesn’t it? What do you think about it, Mr. Tudill?”

“I’m afraid,” said Tudill, “that I also am in the opposition. It is not my experience that good resolutions are much use. The good never need them, and the bad never keep them. It’s a subject about which I’ve thought a good deal. Several young men have come to me and asked for advice about their careers. I tell them that there isn’t any. They may be the kind that will make a career, or the kind that won’t. But if they are the kind that won’t, then advice won’t help them.”

“In the face of such a body of opinion,” said Mr. Dumphry, “I see I must give up my project.”

And the talk slid into other subjects.

However, when luncheon was over and they had adjourned to the smoking-room for coffee and old brandy it chanced that Mr. Dumphry found himself in earnest converse with Charles Tudill, while Harker and Eden continued their amicable dispute on the subject of railways.

“There was a point which rather struck me in what you were saying at lunch, Mr. Tudill,” said Dumphry. “You said that the good men did not need good resolutions and the bad men never kept them. No doubt that is so. But then how many of us are either good or bad? Most of us are middling. I should certainly describe myself as middling.”

“Oh, well,” said Tudill. “I don’t want to lay down any hard and fast law. If the middling can get any good out of schedules and stuff of that kind by all means let them. At the same time, Mr. Dumphry, from what our host told me of you before we met, I should not describe you as a middling man at all. You’ve got a good progressive business, you’re a good family man. What more do you want?”

“Well,” said Dumphry, “I want to get the best out of myself that I can.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Tudill. “You’re all right. All this tuppenny-ha’penny advice and direction for life is based on a misconception. They tell a man to do this and to do the other. Now the thing of supreme importance is not what a man does but what he is. These rules are dealing with results instead of causes. Ninety-nine times in a hundred if a man does the right thing it is not because he has been advised to do it but because, being the man he is, he actually prefers to do it. There is a friend of mine who is supposed to be rather a blackguard. He is certainly a self-indulgent man, but being what he is he has not got the cold vices. I’m certain he never did anything dishonest in his life. He cannot even tell the ordinary social lie. He is so constituted that he would sooner be taken out and shot than do either. The idea revolts him. You see, it’s not what he does, but what he is, as I told you before.”

“Then how is it,” said Mr. Dumphry, “that so much is written which is intended as a guide to life and insists so strongly on what we do without touching on the question behind it — what we are?”

“Well, submit it to a practical test. Look at the life of the successful men, the men who really get on. Do any of them use schedules and resolutions and things? No, they’re too busy. And they’re not self-conscious enough either. Look at the four of us who met today at lunch. Harker and Eden are successful men and neither of them has ever attempted to live by schedule. You’re a successful man yourself, Mr. Dumphry, so Harker tells me, and I might perhaps claim that I’m not an absolute failure myself. But we owe none of it to the nursery talk about a schedule of life. Give it up, Mr. Dumphry. You don’t need it.”

And Mr. Tudill lit another cigarette.

When Mr. Dumphry went back to the office he was much shaken in his resolution. At times he felt that he would at any rate give the thing a fair trial, and at other times that money spent on white cardboard of a good writing surface was an unnecessary expense. It was not till he was on the way to the station that final conviction came to him. He observed a slight crowd in the street and went up to it. The first figure he noticed was that of an old gentleman, extremely inebriated and unsteady in his walk. He had venerable white hair hanging down on his coat collar and Mr. Dumphry had no difficulty whatever in recognizing him. There was a policeman on each side of him.

In most London crowds there is a well-informed man and on this occasion the well-informed man addressed himself to Mr. Dumphry.

“Don’t suppose you know who that is,” said the well-informed. “‘Grandfather’ is what we always call him. Curious old chap he is, too. Does a lot of good work in the world, I believe. He makes a little bit by lecturing for the Rational Lifers on Saturdays and Sundays and the rest of the week he’s a jobbing gardener when he feels like it. Every now and then he gets overtook the same as at present, but that’s a thing which might happen to you or me or anybody.”

And this seemed to Mr. Dumphry to settle it absolutely. The night was rather chilly for the time of year and a fire was commanded in Mr. Dumphry’s drawing-room. Part of the fuel of that fire consisted of eight cards taken from Mr. Dumphry’s note-case. He reserved the elastic band, being a careful man.

16

MR DUMPHRY,
MR. MATCHEM,
AND
MRS. TRESSER’S DOG

“I think,” said Mr. Dumphry, laying aside his newspaper, “that one of the most disgraceful things in our civilization is the way in which money is collected for charity. There’s a case here in which at a bazaar a lottery was held. Lotteries are illegal. The police took the matter up and I see that the people got off with a small fine. There was even an expression of regret that it was necessary to convict at all. There was actually a bishop on the committee of the bazaar. I want to know what we’re coming to. If I’d run a similar lottery on my own account I should have been made to pay a long price for it. It looks as if there was one law for the good and another for the bad.”

“Generally is,” said Queenie.

“Try to break yourself,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “of that habit of interrupting your father when he’s talking.”

“But that’s not all,” resumed Mr. Dumphry. “There are many lotteries which are just enough disguised to escape the law. You are given, say, the names of twenty-four different cough remedies and have to place the first twelve in the order of their popularity. First prize £1,000 motorcar, second prize £500 in cash, and so forth and so on. The whole thing’s a swindle to my mind. Nobody can possibly place the first twelve in their order of popularity by any effort of skill. You might just as well toss a penny for the prize. And then again, where does the money for the prizes come from? It comes from the entries. That is to say, it has to be deducted from the charity. It is like a cynical declaration that nobody will give anything for a good cause unless they have a chance to make something out of it for themselves on the way. I’m sick of it.”

“But I don’t see how you’re going to alter it,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “because human nature being what it is, it’s almost certain to be like that, isn’t it?”

“Possibly. But one of these days I shall do something about it. No business could possibly be conducted in the way in which charities conduct their business. I’m by no means certain that I should not begin by prohibiting bazaars altogether.”

“Don’t do it just yet, dad,” said Queenie. “You see, the bazaar at St. Andrew’s starts on Thursday, and I’ve promised to sell. So’s Eileen and a whole lot of others.”

“Well,” said Mr. Dumphry indulgently, “I think I might go so far as to promise not to get all bazaars prohibited before Thursday. At the same time it’s a subject I’ve thought a good deal about and I’m quite certain that the general methods of charity will have to be tackled in the near future.”

After the following Thursday Queenie, who had worn a perfectly new dress, returned late in the evening, weary but joyous.

“I sold buttonholes,” she replied in response to inquiries. “Eileen and Amy Meek and I each were given a tray of thirty buttonholes. We were to sell them at a shilling apiece or as much more as we could get. At the end of the show we compared figures to see which of us had got in most.”

“And I expect you won,” said her father. “No, I didn’t. I only made an average of one-and-fourpence a buttonhole. Eileen won easily. She got three pounds for her lot. She’d hit on a very good stunt. I only wish I’d thought of it myself.”

“And what was the stunt?” asked her father.

“Well, you see, we didn’t tackle the young men much. They’ve got no money, poor dears. They make as much splash as they can for eighteenpence and then they clear out. For the buttonhole game old gentlemen are several times the best market. Eileen’s stunt was this. She’d catch an old gentleman and say: ‘Only one shilling for this beautiful buttonhole. Five shillings if I kiss it before I sell it to you.’ And they fell into it. Shoals of them fell into it. Some of them offered her a guinea if she’d kiss them instead of the flower. But there of course there was nothing doing. Anyhow, she did jolly well and I’m only sorry I didn’t think of it myself. Poor Amy Meek was last of the three. She’d only got threepence over the thirty shillings. Got as nice a nature as anybody I know, but of course she’s not exactly what you’d call pretty.”

“I cannot say I approve of it,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “I’m surprised that Eileen should have been so forward. There is a flirtatiousness about it of which I disapprove utterly. Nothing of the kind could have happened in my young days.”

And certainly it was a little difficult at the moment to imagine that Mrs. Dumphry could ever have been guilty of such light conduct.

“And I also disapprove,” said Mr. Dumphry. “Eileen is as nice a girl as I know and yet in the cause of charity she deliberately uses a sex attraction in order to make money. Mind you, she’s not to blame. It happens often. You see the same thing every flag-day. Young women and pretty girls sell the flowers. I suppose if the sales were entrusted entirely to fat old gentlemen the results would drop by about fifty per cent. And it’s a disgrace to us, it’s a perfect disgrace.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “We do have to have these flag-days, don’t we?”

“And why do we?” said Mr. Dumphry. “Can’t I be trusted to subscribe what I can afford to any good cause which I approve without having to buy an artificial flower?”

“It’s this way,” said Queenie. “If you put the flower in your coat, then that shows you’ve paid and you don’t get troubled any more.”

“It brings it all down to a very low level,” said Mr. Dumphry. “I may wish to contribute to a certain charity but I don’t wish to brag that I have done so. The wearing of the flower or flag is practically bragging. And that is repugnant to me.”

“Still,” said Queenie, “every flag-day you always get one, you know, dad.”

Mr. Dumphry stroked his chin reflectively.

“M’yes,” he said. “That is in a sense true. Matter of fact, I generally do as you say. But it is quite recently that I have brought my mind to bear on the subject. I have done as others did. And I can assure you that now I have brought my mind to bear upon it I see that from the point of view of strict business this flag collection is quite insufficiently guarded.”

“Then again,” said Queenie, “I’m a bit fed-up with all this jaw about sex-attraction.”

“That,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “might have been more elegantly expressed.”

“Yes, mummie, I see. Sorry. What I mean to say is that as often as not sex-attraction don’t come in at all. Any woman even would be more likely to buy a flag from a charming girl than from an old gentleman with too much waistcoat. And the strictest business seems to know it. If it wants to sell its vacuum-cleaners from door to door, it employs people who know all about it, but the preference goes to people of attractive manners and appearance. Because of course that sort are already half-way there, whereas the others would have to go the whole distance.”

“There may be something in what you say,” Mr. Dumphry admitted. “In fact, I believe there is. Still the divergence between the methods of charity and those of business is far too wide. I must give it my serious consideration.”

“And then what are you going to do about it?” asked Queenie.

“That perhaps it is rather too early to say. It is only recently that I could be said to have given my mind to the subject at all. There are many considerations which have to be taken into account. For instance, I should not wish to run counter to the Charity Organization, or that my efforts should in any way overlap theirs. It would be better, no doubt, if the organization had more money to spend on publicity, and its excellent work were better known. Still, it does seem to me that it is a pressing subject. Consider too — just consider — the system of collecting by envelopes. A printed envelope is left at your house one day, and you are asked to put in your contribution to the charity indicated, and to hand it over to a collector who will call on the following day. From the business point of view this is open to the gravest objections. Quite possibly we do not give to collections of the kind. By the way, do we?”

“Almost always,” said Mrs. Dumphry complacently. “Such very good causes. Of course one can’t give to everything, but one can put threepence into an envelope when one would hesitate to offer the actual coppers. Generally, I know the collector myself or at any rate I know who she is and all about her.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Dumphry. “Quite so. That is all right. You are assured of the bona fides of the collector. But many people are not so assured. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not attacking charities — on the contrary I think I support them as far as I can every year of my life. But I am attacking the dirty dogs who exploit the charities for their own ends. And what I ask the charities to do is to take such proper business precautions as to make this exploitation impossible.”

“Seems fair enough,” said the judicial Queenie. “But how? I mean, what are you going to do?”

“Well, that is too early to decide absolutely. But it is quite possible that I may devote my spare time during the next few days to the composition of a letter on the subject suitable for appearance in The Times newspaper.”

“Why not?” asked Queenie.

“Well, there seems to be no great certainty about it. Of course The Times might give my letter a column length and also have a leader on the subject. At the same time it might not. You never know, you see. I might think of something better.”

On the following day there was a local flag-day. Mr. Dumphry purchased a penny flag for one shilling from quite a pretty girl. Mrs. Dumphry slipped half a crown into an envelope which had been pushed into the letter-box for subsequent collection. Queenie Dumphry bestowed twopence of her fortune on a blind beggar in the street. In fact, the Dumphry practice had not yet soared to the level of the Dumphry preaching.

On his return home on Friday evening Mr. Dumphry had news to communicate.

“You remember,” he said, “that a few days ago I had something to say on the marked contrast between charity methods and business methods. It is quite possible that I may have to undertake rather an important work in connection with this.”

“How do you mean?” asked Queenie.

“Well, this afternoon I was having a talk with the head of a large publishing firm with which we do business. As it happened I was led to talk on the subject of charities, and I said to him very much what I’ve said to you.

“‘You ought to do a book on this, Dumphry,’ he said to me. ‘Your ideas seem to me very sound. You might call it “Charity and Business.” Needn’t be such a very long book. ’Course you’d have to collect your material and have your authorities for any statement you made. It’s just the sort of book that I think my firm would like to publish.’”

“Ooh!” said Queenie. “How much money are they going to give you for it?”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Dumphry, “we didn’t quite reach that point. In fact, it is by no means certain that the firm would take my book. Still, there seems to be a very fair chance and it’s quite likely the work would interest me.”

“You must do it, dad,” said Queenie.

“I quite agree,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “If it is to be done at all, nobody could do it better. Far too many authors seem to me to be wasting their time on trashy fiction at present without the slightest idea of being of any real use in the world.”

“I shall certainly think it over,” said Mr. Dumphry. “It is work which might interest me very much. At the same time, if I do it we must put our own house in order first. Nobody must be able to reproach me with my own practice. There must be no more wearing of flags for me, no more putting money into envelopes left at the door. And of course I need hardly say nothing must be given to any street beggar. Perhaps it is not necessary to mention that last. The statistics on the subject are quite definite.”

Queenie looked up at the ceiling and said nothing.

“Bazaars and any lotteries,” continued Mr. Dumphry, “would be absolutely taboo. We should continue to give to charities, but we should send our offerings direct to the charities and receive proper official receipts. That is really the only common-sense way to do it, and that is the way in which it must be done in my household if I decide to undertake this book.”

There was no immediate pressure on him to come to a decision. As he thought it over, he could see things in favour of his authorship, but he could also see things which to his mind were unfavourable. The work that would have to be done seemed to increase as he looked more closely into it. It might even encroach on his legitimate business, and that was not a thing that Mr. Dumphry would contemplate for one moment.

On Saturday morning Mr. Dumphry proceeded for exercise and meditation along the walk beside the river. It was a broad gravel walk and on one side of it was a stretch of green turf on which iron seats were disposed. They were intended for the benefit of citizens of the neighbourhood, and in the summer were mostly occupied by tramps. As Mr. Dumphry turned off from the main road on to the walk he saw on the nearest seat a small and withered old man in clothes which were very shabby but not ragged. A comfortable-looking fox-terrier was asleep at the man’s feet and the man held the end of the dog’s lead between his brownish-yellow fingers. The man rather interested Mr. Dumphry. He went the length of the walk and returned, and this time sat down on the seat beside him. The dog woke up and showed himself of a friendly disposition.

“Yes,” said the old man as Mr. Dumphry patted the dog’s head, “he’s kind with strangers, is Tim. Thinks no harm of anybody. Reckon it’s the way he was brought up. Nobody’s ever struck him, and — so far as I know — nobody’s ever used a harsh word to him. He’s a good dog, Tim is, and the friend of the whole world. Ain’t you, Tim?”

Tim’s tail acknowledged the compliment.

“He looks in better condition than you do,” said Mr. Dumphry.

“May be,” said the old man. “Many a day he’s had a full meal when I’ve gone hungry. Let’s hope things will be better when I get back to work again.”

“And what work do you do?”

“I’m a gardener, when I’m up to it, and I think I may say that I knows the work. At the best job I ever had, I’d ten men working under me. But my health give way, and I’ve come down to the jobbing now. I hope to be ready for work again on Monday. I suppose you ain’t got a little work, sir, as you could put in my way?”

“I already have a gardener. I might be able to hear of something for you.”

“And very kind of you. It’s this dog-licence that breaks my heart. I wish there was no such thing.”

“You’ve not got a licence?”

“No, sir. I can’t honestly say that I have. It ain’t my fault. When a poor man’s on his back for a fortnight, that eats up all his little savings. And you know how the law is. If you’ve got no licence, you can’t have no dog — not if he’s the only friend you’ve got on earth.”

“You mean you’ll have to sell Tim.”

“I could never do that sir. I couldn’t and I wouldn’t. Some unexpected help may come my way. And if all’s hopeless, there’s always one way out for a dog — aye, and for a man too.”

“Come, come,” said Mr. Dumphry, “you mustn’t talk like that. Let me see now.”

He rose, and thrust his hand into the pocket in which he kept his silver.

And at the same moment a policeman stepped out from the trees behind the seat. Mr. Dumphry and that policeman had frequently interchanged passing salutations.

“Half a moment, sir,” said the policeman. “I shouldn’t give that man nothing.”

“That you, Mr. Jickle?” asked the old man bitterly. “And has you no better manners than to come bullocking in, when two gentlemen are having a private conversation?”

“Less of it,” said Mr. Jickle wearily. “And don’t you move neither. This time I might want you to come a little walk along of me.”

“Move? Why should I move? I done no wrong and said no wrong. Besides, I’m expecting a lady-friend here any minute now.”

“Did this man beg from you, Mr. Dumphry?”

“Well, no,” said Mr. Dumphry. “I can’t say he did. He asked for work.”

“There you are,” said the old man. “The gentleman’s give you your answer. And now perhaps you’ll hop it before you make any more bloomers.”

“You hold your jaw,” said Jickle.

“I was about to give him something,” added Mr. Dumphry, “because he seemed in such distress about getting a licence for this dog of his.”

“That’s the limit. That’s not his dog. He’s only minding it for Mrs. Tresser, who’s stepped across into the library — there’s her name on the collar.”

“Don’t get excited,” said the old man. “It’s not my dog, and I never said it was.”

“You certainly let me suppose so,” said Mr. Dumphry gravely.

The old man shook his head. “Do you remember me telling you I wouldn’t sell the dog?”

“You said so, but—”

“Well, the only reason I could have for not selling it was that it weren’t mine to sell. Stands to reason. Just look at the beggar — an overfed, soft-hearted bag of tripe like that. No man in his senses would own him. Kind of dog that would kiss a policeman, he is.”

And at this moment Mrs. Tresser, a smiling middle-aged lady, appeared on the scene. The old man stood upright, touched his cap most respectfully, and handed her the dog’s lead. The dog also rose and yawned.

“And how’s little doggie been behaving?” asked Mrs. Tresser in a voice that was both bright and syrupy.

“Like a perfect gentleman, same as he always does,” said the old man with conviction. “Thank you very much,” he added, as he pocketed the proffered sixpence. “It’s very kind of you, ma’am. And I hope and pray you may never want a sixpence as bad as I wanted that one. Thank you, lady.”

He again touched his cap, and watched the lady and dog move off. Then he tumed once more to his enemy.

“And now, Mr. Jickle,” he said, “if you has no further remarks to offer, I’ll be getting on to have my little drop of dinner. You’ve made me late for it, as it is.”

“Coming back to it,” said the policeman stolidly, “coming back to it, if you hadn’t got a dog, why did you tell this gentleman you wanted a licence?”

“Because I did. I’ll try to put it in simple language so as you can understand it. I has a chance of buying through a friend of mine a real good ’un very cheap. He’s a fox-terrier, well-bred and very nippy. Perhaps he’s a bit too much on the sharp side. At any rate my friend had to decide whether he’d keep his family or keep the dog. Rightly or wrongly, he decided to keep the family. Then there was trouble from people who’d made the mistake of walking past his house, and quite likely he’d get an order to destroy. So he said he’d let me have the dog at my own risk for a shilling. The shilling I could do, but I couldn’t go further. So I said I’d take the dog if I could raise the money for the licence. My friend had no licence, but a subject of police persecution, same as my self, has to be careful. Give me the licence and I’ll get the dog. That’s all there is to it.”

“Clear out,” said the despondent policeman, “and don’t you come hanging about Riverside Walk too much or I may take you yet. I’m not sure as I oughtn’t to take you now.”

“Thank you for your kind words,” said the old man as he headed in the direction of the nearest public-house.

“Curious character,” declared Mr. Dumphry.

“He’s a bit too much for me, sir,” said the policeman. “He’s a bit too much for all of us. We’ve got him convicted seven or eight times but more often than not he’s managed to get off. I shouldn’t call him clever, neither — slippery, but not clever. And he’s got the gift of the gab, as you might say.”

“What’s his work?” asked Mr. Dumphry. “He told me he was a gardener.”

“The last job I knowed him to apply for was to tie salmon flies for a private gentleman. He’s never seen a salmon except outside the fishmongers’ and he’s never seen a fly except a house-fly. He makes his living mostly by cadging. His name’s ’Erbit Matchem, and his wife’s a respectable woman — does the high-class laundry work and could be comfortable enough but for what he pinches off of her. You see, it ain’t too easy to get him. I’ve never heard him use a word of bad language as long as I’ve known him, nor nobody else neither. I’ve never seen him drunk in my life. Mind you, he’ll put away enough to wash a tramcar, but he can walk straight and talk straight at the end of it — some kind of a disease I should think. He’s often hanging round the police-court and he’s got to know a bit more than most about the law. As for work, I’ve never known him do a day’s work in his life and I don’t suppose he ever will. Lots of better men than he is have been hung before this.”

“This is a sad account you give me of him,” said Mr. Dumphry, “a very sad account.”

“Well, sir, if you’ll excuse me for saying so,” said Jickle, “you’re just a little too kind-hearted, and it’s the same with Mrs. Tresser, and it’s the same with others. They gives a man like ’Erbit his chance. If you read what the Charity Organization has to say about these cadgers—”

“I know, I know,” said Mr. Dumphry. “It’s very seldom I’m deceived and I’m glad you happened to be there to put me right.”

A florin passed swiftly from Mr. Dumphry’s pocket to Mr. Jickle’s hand.

At home Mr. Dumphry said nothing whatever about the incident. It was true that he had not parted with one single penny to Mr. Herbert Matchem but it was also true that he would certainly have done so if the policeman had not intervened. Clearly a man who was to write on charity and business must be above all human weakness. If he ever wrote such a book it was quite likely that Jickle and even Matchem might make mock of it. Ernest Dumphry did not enjoy being made a mock of.

Well, he could wait. After all, people’s memories were very short. It was unlikely that he would ever see Matchem again, and Jickle might possibly be transferred to some other post. It would mean delay but that did not greatly matter. Indeed, the incident of the morning had more than ever convinced Mr. Dumphry that something would have to be done.

Mr. Dumphry had not finished with Mr. Matchem yet. As he sat at breakfast on Monday morning the maid informed him that a man was at the back door who wished to see him, and said he had an appointment. No thought of Matchem entered Mr. Dumphry’s head. He could not remember having given any appointment for Monday. One sometimes forgot. So he went out into the garden and there, to his disgust, encountered Matchem.

Matchem, aged but alert, carried a broom at the slope over his left shoulder. The handle of the broom was quite good. The rest of it was worn down beyond the possibility of its ever being any use to anybody. But Matchem seemed to regard it as the hall-mark of the high-class hard-working gardener who at one time had ten men under him.

“Good morning, sir,” said Matchem cheerfully. “You see I’m a man of my word. When we met down at Riverside Walk I told you I was going back to work on Monday morning and you promised to have a job ready for me.”

“Never promised you anything,” said Dumphry sulkily. “What are you doing with that thing on your shoulder?”

“That’s my broom, sir. Been a good friend to me for many a year, that has. Sometimes I’ve been out to houses where they’ve had no broom and so I generally bring my own along. Perhaps you’d say where you’d like me to start.”

“This won’t do,” said Dumphry firmly. “I made you no promise whatever. I said I would ask my friends if they had any work for you, and at present I’ve nothing to offer you at all.”

The old man stroked his chin reflectively. “I see, sir,” he said. “And did you ask your friends as you said you would?”

He seemed to have a diabolical instinct for a most inconvenient question.

“I did not,” said Mr. Dumphry stoutly. “After what Jickle told me about you I’d no inclination to help you in any way whatever.”

“That man may be in trouble for defamation of character yet. It seems a pity you didn’t come to me, Mr. Dumphry, and say that, man to man, at the time. You’d have saved me a good deal in the way of labour and expense. It was only from the policeman that I heard what your name really was. Then I went round to the public reading-room to get your address and there was a line of eight people waiting for the use of the local directory so that took me some two hours when I might have been minding Mrs. Tresser’s dog and earning money. Then again, there’s this broom. I’d lent that to a man who called himself my friend and I couldn’t get it back from him until I paid him three-halfpence he said I owed him, though I had no recollection. Then I’ve had the long walk up to your house and that’s fair wore me out, being just risen as I am from a bed of sickness. And now I’ve got to go back. All for nothing. Time thrown away, money thrown away, health thrown away, chances thrown away, and all because I was weak enough to trust a gentleman’s word. It’s very ’ard. You must be made of granite rock, sir, to treat any human being the way you’ve treated me. Heaven forgive you. I’ll make no trouble. I’m going.”

“You see,” said Mr. Dumphry severely, “you’ve deceived me. Jickle told me that you’re a married man, and yet you said that you hadn’t a friend in the world.”

“No doubt,” said Matchem promptly. “And many a married man would say the same thing if he had the truth and the courage. I’m not wanting to trouble you. Coming to another point, you seemed to be rather struck with that dog of Mrs. Tresser’s. He’s a mild, well-grown dog. It would never surprise me if he took a prize at a show one of these days. If you cared to buy him, I think I could promise you the first offer.”

“I don’t want the dog,” said Mr. Dumphry firmly, “and I don’t want you. And if I ever did buy the dog, I’d never do it through your agency. Understand that at once. And I never promised you work — of that I’m confident. Nothing but your own stupidity could ever have made you suppose so. However, if it’s cost you anything, I’m not a hard man and I’m willing to pay you a shilling on the distinct understanding that you never show your face here any more. ”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” said Mr. Matchem humbly.

He received the shilling, and turned it over in his hand.

“It don’t look much,” he said, “not when you come to think of all I’ve done. Still, if there’s no more coming—”

“And there certainly is not,” said Mr. Dumphry.

“Then in that case I’ll say adieu.” Suddenly Mr. Matchem went into a fit of laughter — a prolonged, ugly, senile cackle.

“Don’t see what you’ve got to grin at,” said Mr. Dumphry angrily.

“No, you wouldn’t. It was just that the thought crossed my mind — and not for the first time neither — how like you is to that dog of Mrs. Tresser’s. Why, you’re a pair, you two are — ought to be sitting on the mantelpiece, one at each end. Still, I can’t afford to stand here laughing and joking with you all the morning. I’ve got work to do in the world, even if you ain’t. I’ll get on.”

And off he marched, still carrying his old broom at the slope, and looking far more pleased with himself than he had any moral right to be.

When Mr. Dumphry arrived at business, the opinion was commonly expressed that the boss seemed to have got out of bed the wrong side that morning. But gradually his placidity returned. And when at five minutes to one Mr. Winter, the head of that large publishing firm, called he found Mr. Dumphry quite genial.

“Well, Dumphry,” said Winter, “I want you to come out to lunch with me, and then we can have a talk about this book of yours.”

“I’m afraid I should be getting my lunch under false pretences. I’ve decided that I can’t do that book — I couldn’t find the time for it without neglecting my business here.”

“Well, in any case I’d like to talk it over with you. Come along.”

Mr. Winter accepted readily Mr. Dumphry’s withdrawal from authorship.

“Of course,” said Mr. Winter generously, “no man can do more than he can. Your business is going ahead. You know it, and I know it, and everybody knows it. Against my own interests I must admit you’re right. At the same time I like your idea for this book, and I still mean to do it. And I can put my hand on a good man to do the actual writing. I suppose you have no objection.”

“None whatever.”

Mr. Dumphry also agreed to furnish Mr. Winter with a typescript of his plan for the book as he had expounded it at their previous meeting. And so everybody was pleased.

But Mr. Dumphry’s pleasure wilted considerably on his return home.

“A most extraordinary thing has happened while you’ve been away, Ernest.”

“Indeed? What was it?”

“You remember that old man who called at breakfast-time this morning, and said he had an appointment with you.”

“Yes. He had no appointment. I bundled him off about his business, and pretty short too. He hasn’t had the cheek to come here again?”

“He called about five this afternoon. He’d got a dog with him on a lead, and the dog was panting, rather as if suffering from over-exercise. He was a nice-tempered dog and seemed to take to everybody. Cook, who knows about dogs, thinks he was — or must have been at one time — a fox-terrier.”

“Yes, yes. Never mind the dog. What had the man to say for himself?”

“Oh, he was quite open about it. He said you wanted to buy the dog in the morning, but wouldn’t go beyond five shillings. And he said he’d decided to let you have it at your own figure. So if I’d give him the money, he’d leave the dog.”

“I hope you didn’t do it.”

“No, indeed. I told him you’d never said anything to me about any dog, and I couldn’t take the responsibility. And then he seemed to come over very curious. He said that you and that dog never ought to have been separated, and became quite hysterical, slapping his leg, and laughing in the silliest way. So I sent him off. Do you think he’s wrong in the head?”

“Can’t say,” said Dumphry. “He’s wrong every other way. Seems to have told you a pretty pack of lies anyhow.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “seeing that the man came all the way up here on your business, I gave him sixpence, knowing that would be your wish.”

“It would be my wish,” said Mr. Dumphry, “in the case of any decent man having legitimate business with me. Of course you did not know that this man was a fraud, and sixpence is nothing to bother about. All the same I’m sorry he had it — he spends every penny he can cadge on drink, so the police tell me.”

“Dear me!” said Mrs. Dumphry. “That is very sad. Of course I was not aware of that.”

“Well, if that man comes up here again, he’s to be ordered off the premises at once. You can tell the servants so. And if he won’t go, send somebody for the police. I’ve finished with him.”

And for a week fate permitted Mr. Dumphry to believe he really had finished with him. And then he found that he had flattered himself.

It chanced that Mr. Dumphry took gentle exercise along Riverside Walk and, not wishing to overdo it, rested for a few minutes on a public seat in the sun. And there came up to him a smiling and middle-aged lady leading by a string a much over-fed dog. Mr. Dumphry thought he recognized the lady, and he was quite certain that he recognized the dog.

“I beg your pardon,” said the lady in a fruity voice, “but you are Mr. Dumphry, are you not?”

“I am,” said Mr. Dumphry without enthusiasm.

“Then if you could spare me two minutes, there is something I really ought to say to you.”

“Very well. If you’d put the dog on the other side of you, he wouldn’t be able to jump up on me.”

“Certainly. Come along, doggie darling. We don’t put our muddy paws up on a gentleman’s nice clean trousers, do we? No, no, that’s naughty.”

“You were saying?” said Mr. Dumphry coldly.

“Quite so. Everybody speaks of you, if I may mention it, as a gentleman of the very highest character, and I personally have no suspicion of you in the matter. None whatever. But it does show how one may do harm, even when one least intends it, does it not?”

“I may be able to answer that, madam, when I know what you are talking about.”

“Ah, yes. (Mother must not begin at the wrong end, must she, doggie?) But of course when you told Matchem you’d give ten pounds for my dog any day—”

“When I — well, go on. Finish the story.”

“It was putting temptation in the way of a poor man. He knew that it was of no use to try to buy him from me. Not for all the gold of—”

“So he stole the dog.”

“No, no. He intended to steal him. But just as he was getting near your house, a wave of conscience seemed to come over him and he felt he couldn’t do it. He turned round, and brought the darling back to me, and confessed everything. There were tears in his eyes. And I gave him five shillings just to show that honesty was the best policy Of course—”

“Yes,” said Mr. Dumphry rising. “I think that’s all you need to say. I never offered Matchem ten pounds, or ten pence, or any other sum for your dog. I’ve never wanted your dog, and I don’t want him now. Matchem brought the dog to my house in my absence, and tried to sell him for a few shillings, and of course failed to get them and was sent off. The sooner you hand the dirty scoundrel over to the police the better. Good afternoon, madam.”

Mr. Dumphry raised his hat in a stately manner and moved off.

Mrs. Tresser and the dog followed immediately behind him, and Mr. Dumphry could hear her honeyed accents as she addressed the dog.

“Naughty Matchem. Naughty, naughty. Good little doggies won’t love him any more. No, no, no l Never no more. Bite him and scratch him. Naughty, naughty.”

Mr. Dumphry resisted a quite natural impulse to hurl Mrs. Tresser into the river and kick the dog in after her. But he quickened his pace in order that he might be out of hearing.

It is said that misfortunes never come singly. It certainly seemed so to Mr. Dumphry when as he neared home he swung round a corner and found himself face to face with Mr. Herbert Matchem.

Matchem looked serious — even to the point of sadness. His appearance and circumambient atmosphere suggested that he had slept in his clothes in ditches for the last six nights and had not been too particular in his choice of the ditches.

“Good evening, sir,” said Matchem in a voice of sepulchral solemnity. “Could you spare me a few seconds?”

“No,” said Mr. Dumphry firmly. “Clear out.”

“Very good, sir,” said Matchem humbly. “That will be just as you please. I was only anxious to tell you that I’m sorry — very sorry.”

“So you ought to be,” said Dumphry.

“And so I am,” said Matchem. “I’ve said things to you, sir, that I never ought to have said. I could bite my tongue out now when I come to think of them.”

The immediate risk of such crude surgery was lessened by the fact that Herbert Matchem possessed no teeth.

“I let myself be carried away and forgot my manners, and I’m sorry to say it’s not the first time that’s happened. But what I said is nothing to what I done. That’s what breaks my heart, for I know better. The first time I threw my eye over you, Mr. Dumphry, I said to myself: ‘That’s a fine upstanding man, and every inch a sportsman.’ Same as what anybody else would say as ever saw you. And yet I tried to sell you Mrs. Tresser’s dog. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t even my dog at the time, though that might have been arranged. And I might have known that you wouldn’t want to buy an animated lump of fat like that. Why, when I was looking after that dog I had to scare the blue tits off his back to stop them from making their dinner on him. I might have known you wouldn’t even look at him. You’d be training your sporting dogs for the shooting season, you would. I blame myself very much.”

“Cut it out,” said Mr. Dumphry wearily. “You say you’re sorry. You may be sorrier before I’ve finished with you. If that’s all you’ve got to say—”

“But it’s not, sir. It’s not enough for me to say I’m sorry. So far as my means go I want to make restitution.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I mean every word I say, sir. When you come to break in your dogs for the grouse or the rabbits or the fox hunting or what not, you will find that what you needs particularly is a good dog-lead. I’ve got one in my pocket that I’ve brought up special for you. It’s got the swivel attachment that comes in useful. I won’t say it’s absolutely new — as a matter of fact it’s been in my family for some years — but it’s as good as new. And it’ll stand examination too. There’s no name on it anywhere or any private mark. I’m not asking you for money, sir. I’m offering you that dog-lead as a simple present to show my sorrow for what is past. I don’t say that if you offered me a few coppers for it I’m rich enough to be able to refuse, but if you want it for nothing then you can have it for nothing.”

And suddenly Mr. Dumphry remembered that Mrs. Tresser was leading her dog by a string. He formed his own conclusions and drew a bow at a venture.

“I don’t want your beastly dog-lead,” he said, “and I should advise you to take it back to Mrs. Tresser whom you stole it from.”

“Very good,” said Mr. Matchem with dignity. “Very good indeed. I’ve put up with enough of your insolence for one afternoon already, but when it comes to an attack on my personal honour, that’s a different matter. If I don’t have an apology and suitable reparation from you in the space of five minutes I shall go and put this in the hands of my solicitors.”

“Do,” said Dumphry, and moved off. A policeman was coming down the road and that may have been one of the reasons why Herbert Matchem did not pursue the subject.

No doubt our proverbs are in the charge of optimists as well as pessimists. Mr. Dumphry may have been right in deciding that troubles never come singly, but he was yet to discover that it is darkest before the dawn.

He dined placidly, having no fear of Mr. Matchem’s solicitors before his eyes. Afterwards he took in the studio a reasonable amount of exercise in the form of dancing. He was back in the house by ten and at ten precisely a rather awe-stricken parlourmaid announced that a policeman by the name of Jickle would be glad to have two or three minutes’ talk with Mr. Dumphry if convenient.

“Ah!” said Mr. Dumphry. “Jickle. I remember him. Quite so, by all means. Show him into the library, and you might put an extra glass on the tray there.”

Mr. Jickle was in uniform but had just come off duty.

“I hope, sir,” he said, “you will excuse me for coming in like this. But as a matter of fact I’ve just come on a bit of news that you might be glad to hear. We’ve got that man Matchem at last.”

“Really,” said Mr. Dumphry. “This is excellent. And what have you got him for?”

“It’s dog-stealing this time and as clear a case as anybody could wish to have. He was caught in the act and the witnesses are good.”

“And what do you suppose he will get?” asked Mr. Dumphry.

“I couldn’t say,” said Jickle. “There’s a fair amount of previous convictions against him and I should think he’ll be no trouble to anybody for some time to come.”

“I’m very glad to hear it,” said Dumphry. “You’ll have a whisky and soda, Jickle, won’t you?”

“Thank you very much, sir. Of course if I were on duty it wouldn’t be strictly speaking all right, but then I’m not. Thank you, sir. Your very good health.”

Jickle put down his glass and resumed. “I should think you might remember, sir, an occasion when I stepped out from behind some bushes and stopped you from paying for a dog licence for this Matchem what hadn’t no dog at the time.”

“Yes,” said Dumphry, “I remember that.” “Well, of course I don’t know how you feel about it, sir. If you was to give evidence to that effect it might do me a bit of good as a zealous officer on the alert and all such. But no doubt there are gentlemen who don’t care to figure in any police-court case, and we’ve got evidence enough to convict anyhow.”

“I see,” said Mr. Dumphry. “I must say that this is a case in which I should prefer not to appear. I might almost seem — to people who did not thoroughly understand it — to have carried my generosity to rather a foolish point. Have a cigar, Jickle.”

Mr. Dumphry proffered the box of cigars which was reserved especially for charitable uses, and the unsuspecting Jickle took one.

“No doubt,” said Mr. Dumphry, “if I were not called upon I should very much prefer it and I should be prepared — er — to make some slight acknowledgement.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jickle. “I think I can promise you you’ll hear no more about it.”

And a few minutes later Mr. Jickle left the house enriched by two outsize drinks, one alleged cigar, and five shillings of Mr. Dumphry’s best money.

17

THE DUMPHRY
PARTNERSHIPS

there was a feeling in Mr. Dumphry’s staff at the office that there was something in the air. Things were not quite as usual. There were minor signs and portents. It was whispered that a change was expected; it was believed that the change would be drastic; its nature was unknown.

Mr. Paton and Miss Welsh lunched together at the Red Tulip — which is quite a good little restaurant — and talked matters over. Mr. Paton was a serious young man and wore tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles; he was very clever and understood the care and working of the most complex calculating machines. Miss Welsh was a very efficient secretary and stenographer.

“Then,” said Miss Welsh, “you don’t think there’s anything wrong with the business?”

“I don’t think. I know there isn’t. It’s very much the other way.”

“I didn’t really suppose there was myself. Still, several times lately he’s written quite long letters with his own hand — yes, and posted them himself — and that’s a thing I’ve never known him do before. And every day now letters come for him marked ‘Private.’ Something or other is being kept back for some reason or other, and of that I feel quite certain.”

“Well, my name’s not Nosey Parker, but I’ve noticed one or two things. Do you remember a Mr. Chesney White who came in yesterday afternoon — tall, smart-looking man of forty? He was with the boss for half an hour I should think.”

“Yes, I remember. What about it?”

“Do you know who he is?”

“No.”

“Well, it happens that I do. Chesney White is the manager of the company which owns the block where our offices are. In our office we’re short of room, as the boss has said openly and often. Now, the other day I was talking to a man from Norringe and Perks who have the floor just above us, and he told me that his people were clearing out next quarter day. That all points to an extension on our part, don’t it?”

“It might. But that doesn’t explain everything.”

Mr. Dumphry’s own household also found something to explain. No longer did Mr. Dumphry seem disposed to fly off along the line of any enthusiasm that might offer itself. He seemed more concentrated and even preoccupied. He gave the impression of one with an unfinished job on his mind. Sometimes — and this was quite a new feature — he brought work back with him in the evening, and, lest he should become drowsy, renounced the two or three glasses of claret that he generally drank at dinner, and afterwards retired to his study, from which no sound of harp, viol, sackbut, or gramophone could lure him to dance in the studio.

But his family was not perturbed. Never had Mr. Dumphry shown himself in better temper and spirits. He admitted that he was working hard and that there were things to clear up, but it was obvious that these did not worry him in the least.

Then one night at dinner he made a portentous announcement.

“My dear,” he said to Mrs. Dumphry, “we’ve nothing fixed for Thursday week, have we?”

They had not. The family very rarely had anything fixed for Thursday week.

“Well then,” said Mr. Dumphry, “I shall be bringing a young friend of mine down to dine that night. His name’s John Elder. He’s a young man, but he has some means and position and a good character, and I think you’ll like him. You should. At any rate I do. I want him to meet some of my friends here, so ask Pierce Eveleigh and his wife. We might have that amusing vampire, Eileen, to make the number up to eight.”

“Quite a dinner party,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “I wonder if we shall be up to it.”

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Dumphry. “It need be nothing very elaborate. A few oysters, a sole, a bird, and a sweet would be ample. And of course you could get in a professional waitress. That’s simple enough; we’ve done it before. I’ll see after the wine myself.”

“Well, we’ll do our best,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “You’ve not mentioned this Mr. John Elder before.”

“No,” said Mr. Dumphry. “It is only quite recently that we’ve become closely associated. He’s got a small car and he says he’ll drive me down on Thursday evening. You and the girls can talk to him and amuse him for the few minutes while I’m dressing. Matter of fact, I shall be rather glad to hear what you think of him.”

On this important Thursday evening when Mr. Dumphry had changed rapidly and descended to the drawing-room, he found Elder getting on uncommonly well with his wife and daughters. He was a modest and good-looking young man and not only anxious but able to please. He was not by any means without humour, and already seemed to be on jesting terms with Barbara and Queenie. To Queenie the task of preparing the cocktails was now assigned. Mr. and Mrs. Pierce Eveleigh arrived, Mr. Eveleigh wearing a somewhat Byronic necktie, and Mouse, as usual, looking as if she were wearing a new dress for the first time and rather liked it. Eileen followed and got her eyelashes to work all over the place as she generally did. She habitually gave the impression that the person to whom she was talking, particularly if it happened to be a man, was the only person in the world to whom she wished to talk, or had ever wished to talk.

At dinner Mr. Pierce Eveleigh started almost immediately on the subject of Waterloo Bridge. Waterloo Bridge was very much to the fore at the moment. It was not so much a bridge as an epidemic and nearly every architect in the land was down with it. It was said that all of them except two had written letters to the papers on the subject and quite a fair proportion of them, or rather over, had been published. Mr. Eveleigh illustrated his own theory with that which was before him.

“This,” he said, selecting a wine-glass, “is the Strand. Here again” — and he placed his fish-knife in position — “we have the River Thames. Now the whole question seems to me to be perfectly simple.”

His plan was quite good, but curiously enough nobody afterwards could remember anything of it.

“That’s all there is to say about it,” he concluded. “If the matter were placed in my hands, that’s what I should do about it.”

Meanwhile things had moved on a little and Pierce was using the River Thames on a sole and sipping Chablis from the Strand.

“Really,” said Mr. Dumphry, “somebody will have to come to my help. Here’s Mouse here telling me that she and every other woman is possessed of miraculous powers.”

“Oh, come, I didn’t say that exactly,” said Mouse. “What I said was that women have got a kind of sixth sense which men never have. Women know things without knowing how they know them. I’ve got the gift myself. Now could you add up a column of figures without adding them up?”

“No,” said Mr. Dumphry, “but I’m only a chartered accountant. Nor could you.”

“I don’t say I’d get the result exactly. But if somebody else has got the result I very often know whether it’s right or wrong without counting up at all. Here’s an instance that often happens at the bridge-table. I happen to be standing beside old Mrs. Hoover when she has finished adding up her score and I say, ‘My dear, you’ve got your addition wrong,’ although I haven’t attempted to count it up myself. And whenever I say that she always has got it wrong. It never fails.”

“Perhaps she never gets it right,” suggested Eileen. “I have known cases of that.”

“Then again,” said Mrs. Eveleigh, unperturbed. “I open the week’s books. Generally, of course, they are all right. But sometimes there’s a mistake and I always know it without counting.”

“You must come and give a demonstration of this at my office,” said Mr. Dumphry. “I’ll have Einstein and the Lord Mayor and a bunch of distinguished bankers to meet you and see it.”

“No,” said Mouse. “If I were to give a demonstration I couldn’t do it at all. I feel that about it. As it is, I don’t pretend that I can always do it. I only say I very often can.”

“I think you’re quite right,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “I am a little bit that way myself. We had a young gardener here, the man that we still have. I couldn’t help feeling that there was something going on. Mind, I’d heard nothing and I’d seen nothing, but I went up to him one day and said: ‘Porter, I think you’re going to get married.’ And he confessed it at once. Now Ernest had seen quite as much of the man as I had, if not more, and yet the idea had never even occurred to him. Then there was a case of a cook many years ago. She applied for the place here. Splendid testimonials and everything‘seemed satisfactory. Then she came for her personal interview and I saw at once that she was dishonest. I didn’t keep her here more than two or three minutes. I made some excuse why she would not suit and got rid of her. I never saw her again.”

“Then, my dear,” said Mr. Dumphry, “how did you know she was dishonest?”

“I cannot tell you how. I did know. That is what’s so wonderful about it.”

“Look here, Elder,” said Mr. Dumphry, “aren’t you going to support our sex? It’s no good asking Mr. Eveleigh because he’s frightened.”

“No,” said Elder, “I’ve nothing for you. I think probably Mrs. Dumphry’s quite right. Women notice a great deal more than men do. Very often they notice unconsciously and when the net result comes into consciousness the process has been forgotten.”

“Sounds like a piece out of psychoanalysis,” said Eileen sweetly.

After dinner Mr. Dumphry’s married daughter and her husband arrived, and due consideration was given to the 1900 port. And then all went over to dance at the studio. It was a great night, and was kept up, so to speak, till all hours. At any rate, it was a quarter past eleven before the last guest, John Elder, left, the tail light of his car being watched out of sight by the assembled family.

Barbara and Queenie, happy and weary, went up to bed. But that debauchee, Dumphry, was insatiable. He carried off his wife to the study, mixed for himself a whisky-and-soda, and lit a cigar. Mrs. Dumphry took a drink of precisely the same kind but for the omission of the whisky.

“Well, now, Ernest,” said Mrs. Dumphry, a little anxiously, “how do you think it all went?”

“Splendidly. You had everything well thought out and well arranged, as you always do. Apart from that, what did you think of my friend, John Elder?”

“A young man in a thousand,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “Polite and attentive to everybody, and in spite of that seeming to be enjoying himself all the time. But everybody liked him. And as for his looks, you should have heard what Barbara and Eileen had to say.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Dumphry, “and he also has some very solid qualities. I’m glad you liked him. I’m now going to tell you a little piece of news which so far I have told nobody else — I shall very shortly be taking John Elder into partnership in my business.”

“Well,” Mrs. Dumphry said resignedly, “that must be for you to say. I am sure you have good reasons. The great reduction in our income must be met in a proper way and without any grumbling.”

“I don’t understand,” said Ernest. “So far as I know, there will be no reduction of our income, and there is every probability that there will be a considerable increase.”

“But how can that be? I have never gone deeply into business, but even as a girl I did well in simple arithmetic. At present you have all the profits from the business, haven’t you?”

“Certainly.”

“But if you make this Mr. Elder a partner, then, as the word implies, he takes a part, whether it’s a half or a quarter or whatever it is. And of course he takes it from you. It seems surprising you never thought of that.”

Mr. Dumphry showed magnificent patience and restraint.

“But,” he said, “a man who wishes to get a partnership expects to pay for it in one way or another — money, or the introduction of new business, or something like that. John Elder will introduce a great deal of new business of the very first class — his father is a recently-retired banker and the connection is very good.”

“Then,” said Mrs. Dumphry triumphantly, “if he’s already got this business, why does he want yours?”

Further exemplary patience on the part of Mr. Ernest Dumphry. He presented an obvious consideration.

“You see, my dear,” he said cheerfully, “when two men are in the same business, it saves money if, instead of working separately, they work together. It saves in office-rent, staff salaries, lighting and heating — many such ways. It comes to a good deal in a year.”

“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “It really gave me rather a shock at first — in fact, you might have said all that before. Anyhow, I feel now that I can safely leave it all to you.”

“Yes, yes,” said Ernest, “there’s no need for you to worry about these little business arrangements. Now next Wednesday John Elder wants us all to lunch with him at the Blitz Grill-room and go on to a matinée afterwards.”

“It would be delightful. But he is a young man, and it would be very expensive for him. Ought we?”

“He’s not so lamentably young — he’s thirty-three, though certainly he looks younger. I know something of his affairs and I think I can promise you that he can very Well afford that — and a good deal more, if there were any occasion.”

“In that case it’s very kind and nice of him. We should be glad to come of course.”

“And I was to ask you what play you would prefer.”

“Not Shakespeare. He was the best and greatest, of course, and it’s not for me to say. But when you get as much Shakespeare at school as I did, it destroys the taste for it. Eileen was speaking very highly of that new piece ‘Flim-Flam’ tonight. However, I’ll ask the girls, and see what they would prefer.”

The clock on the mantelpiece struck the inevitable hour.

“Dear me!” said Dumphry, as he finished his drink. “This is a dissipation. This won’t do at all. I want to be at the office by ten sharp tomorrow. However, it’s not every night that one announces the approach of a new partner. Tell the girls? Certainly. By all means. It was merely that I wished you to be the first to hear of it. And by the way you can ask John Elder here nowadays as often as you like — quite informally — lunch or supper on Sundays an impromptu dance at any time — tennis when the summer comes — anything, in fact.”

“I see What you mean,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “and of course I shall do what you Wish, and I like this John Elder very much, and he’s an excellent dancer. Still, Ernest, you must really think what you’re doing. Do you want it or do you not want it? Because, if you don’t, it would be far better to break off all these social engagements as soon as possible.”

“Upon my soul,” said Dumphry, genuinely and honestly, “I’ve not got the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Surely, you must have. You must have seen that John Elder was in love with Queenie — very much in love with Queenie — and that she in her way was very fond of him. If he is to come here frequently, there will certainly be an engagement between them. You may not wish that.”

Mr. Dumphry sat down again suddenly.

“I never heard such nonsense!” he exclaimed. “So far as I know, the two never met before tonight.”

“So far as I know, they never did. But what’s that got to do with it? These things happen.”

“I grant they’re possible, but they don’t happen very often. If there’d been anything at all in what you say, I feel quite certain I should have noticed it. _ To begin with, he danced more with you than he did with Queenie.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “that’s true. It was one of the things that struck me.”

“Still, let us be reasonable. As a matter of fact, I asked Queenie directly what she thought of John Elder and all she said was: ‘He’s all right. Dances well too.’ Nothing there to show great love or admiration or anything, was there?”

“No,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “But then you know what girls are, or ought to know. If they really feel anything very much they hardly ever say it. For that matter, Queenie never even mentioned the man’s name to me. When Barbara and Eileen were raving about the man’s good looks she turned away and yawned as if it were not a thing that interested her.”

“Very likely. No doubt. That would seem to me to show that he really did not interest her.”

“You men,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “you’re so clever — in most ways you’re far cleverer than I. I never could take your place in the City. And yet in the simplest things so many of you seem to me to be like babies. There was a lot of truth in what Mouse said at dinner about a woman having a sixth sense. I may not be able to tell you exactly how I know it, but I do know it. Unless you take the strongest measures possible and take them at once, John Elder and Queenie will be man and wife. I say that definitely and you may laugh at me afterwards if I am wrong. In fact I should say that they arrived at some beginning of an understanding together even this evening.”

“Well,” said Mr. Dumphry, “can you at any rate tell me what you’re going on? You can’t say that a girl’s fallen in love with a man simply because she does not show the slightest sign of interest in him. And as for the man, I’ve already told you that he seemed to be paying much more attention to some of the others than he did to Queenie.”

“That’s all on the surface,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “That means nothing. If Queenie had shown an enormous enthusiasm for John Elder tonight I wouldn’t have given him a farthing for his chances. It’s surprising, Ernest, that you, with daughters of your own, don’t know better. Besides, you’ve seen other couples get engaged and get married. You must have noticed that there is a way in which a man looks at only one woman, and that’s the woman he loves. And the same thing’s true about the woman too.”

“Never seen anything of the kind,” said Dumphry. “However, it doesn’t matter. If I’m right and there’s nothing whatever between John Elder and Queenie, I shall be quite satisfied.”

“And suppose there is?”

“Well, I wasn’t looking for anything of the kind, but if there is — I say if — then I should be rather more than satisfied.”

“And that was all I wanted to know,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “Why couldn’t you have said that before? Because, of course, it’s no good arguing that I don’t know a thing when I really do know it. There couldn’t be. And now we really must go up to bed.”

Next morning Mr. Dumphry did his best to dismiss the subject from his mind. He was profoundly satisfied with Mrs. Dumphry. She understood and practised the art of housekeeping to perfection. He was very fond of her. But still Mr. Dumphry was a business man and did not believe in any of this rubbish about a sixth sense. Mrs. Dumphry’s first observations on the subject of his partnership with John Elder had not shown any deep grasp of the situation, and it was quite possible that she was no better versed in the love-affairs of other people. But, he had to acknowledge, if she knew nothing in this respect, he himself knew just about as much.

Next day he saw John Elder at his office in the morning and also in the afternoon. At the first meeting John Elder made a pleasant allusion to Mr. Dumphry’s “charming family.” But what less could a polite man have done? By the end of the afternoon Mr. Dumphry was quite disposed to dismiss his wife’s ideas from his mind and to believe that there was nothing whatever in them.

With regard to some at least of the impending changes Mr. Dumphry now abandoned any attempt at secrecy. There was no longer any necessity for it, for all arrangements had now been definitely fixed. In a few days the arrival of workmen would prevent any possibility of it.

Miss Welsh arrived for luncheon at her customary table at the Red Tulip.

“Shall I turn down a chair for your gentleman-friend?” asked the waitress. She was quite aware that Mr. Paton’s name was Paton, but ever preferred what she considered the more genteel expressions.

“Do, please,” said Miss Welsh, absorbed in the bill-of-fare.

She had hardly made her selection before Mr. Paton arrived. With a pleased expression in the eyes behind the big glasses, he looked like a triumphant owl.

“Do you remember,” asked Mr. Paton, “that some days ago we spoke of impending changes at the office?”

“Oh, yes. What about it?”

“Well, without breaking any confidence, I am now in a position to tell you that my forecast was correct to the smallest detail. We are taking over Norringe and Perks’s place, and connecting up with our own office by building our own private staircase on the inside. Norringe and Perks are leaving a fortnight before their time, and then the new staircase is to be put in and the whole place redecorated. And of course there will be furniture to buy and so on, and one way or another I should say that it was going to cost somebody something. You can depend on my information, for I’ve just had it direct from the boss.”

“Yes. Very likely. He told me all about it when I was taking the letters about two hours ago. I suppose you don’t know anything about this Mr. John Elder who seems to be at the office pretty well all day and every day now.”

“I shouldn’t like to say that I actually knew anything. I might have formed my own theory, but it’s no use to talk about that, is it?”

“Not a bit,” said Miss Welsh disappointingly.

The only guest outside the Dumphry family at John Elder’s luncheon party was his father, the recently retired bunker. Mr. Dumphry had met him often before. A white-haired, genial man of a little over sixty, the ex-banker now lived for the most part in the country, where he divided his time pleasantly between the golf-course and his own excellent library.

The father was Mr. Elder. The son was therefore addressed as Mr. John Elder, though it took time. On one occasion Barbara, speaking hurriedly and without care, addressed him simply as John, and was instantly apologetic, and somewhat confused.

“Don’t you worry about it, Barbara,” said John Elder. “I like it.”

“Looks to me, Barbara,” said her father, smiling, “as if you were developing the manners of what in my young days was called a forward minx.”

“Don’t,” said Barbara. “Take me home and bury me.”

“It’s my fault really, Barbara,” said the elder Elder. “If I were not alive, this would never have happened. I shall take the privilege of the aged and address you as Barbara always.”

“Please do,” said Barbara fervently.

John Elder was an excellent host. As Mr. Dumphry took his place in one of the two cars that were waiting to take them to the theatre, he decided definitely that Mrs. Dumphry was wrong. There now seemed to be a possibility that it might be Barbara. — yes, Mr. Dumphry was not blind. Oh, no! But Queenie had been more quiet than usual.

Slowly the car rolled along Piccadilly. Mr. Dumphry chatted pleasantly with his wife, and Barbara, and with the elder Elder. It did not occur to the innocent man that the car immediately behind him would be occupied by John Elder and Miss Queenie Dumphry, enfin seuls. But Mrs. Dumphry missed nothing.

Mr. John Elder was an excellent host. But with all the money and good-will in the world you cannot expect to secure six adjacent seats in the third row of the stalls, at a very popular revue, at very short notice. The utmost that John had been able to accomplish — so he said, apologetically — was four adjacent seats in the third row and two adjacent seats in a row some way back. Naturally, he insisted on taking for himself one of the inferior seats — Queenie accompanied him in the other. And Mr. Dumphry began to realise that the judgements of his wife were not wholly to be despised.

After the theatre the elder Elder had to rush off to catch his train. The remaining five packed themselves into a car which did not hold more than six comfortably, and went off to tea at the bottom of St. James’s Street. Naturally, at tea they talked much of the play, of which John and Queenie, though they did their best to join in the talk, seemed to have been deficient in observation.

“Must have been asleep the whole time,” said Barbara contemptuously.

That car was still waiting when they came out again.

“And your own little car,” said Mrs. Dumphry to her host, “do you generally take it out for a run on Sundays?”

“Almost always,” said John.

“I wonder,” she said, “if you’d care to run over for Sunday luncheon — just the usual family sort of luncheon — next Sunday.”

“Care to? I should simply love it.”

“Then that’s settled. You’ve given us all a most lovely time,” said Mrs. Dumphry as she stepped into the car.

“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Dumphry. “You’ve entertained us nobly.”

And Barbara cordially repeated the same expression of gratitude, and Queenie said nothing whatever. Mr. Dumphry suggested the name of the London terminus to which they should be driven.

“Why?” said John. “This chap knows your address, and will drive you up to your own doorstep with pleasure. I’ve bought him by the day anyhow, and so you’re practically stealing my money if you don’t use him. Good-bye everybody. Good-bye, Miss Dumphry.”

And perhaps his hand and Miss Dumphry’s remained clasped a few seconds longer than convention strictly required.

On the way back Mr. and Mrs. Dumphry and Barbara chatted with animation. Queenie lay back with her eyes closed.

And after a while Mrs. Dumphry touched Queenie’s knee.

“Not over-tired, darling, are you?” she asked.

Queenie opened her eyes and smiled seraphically. “Not the least bit tired, Mummie,” she said. “Just heavenly happy and thinking about things.” And the long-lashed eyes closed once more.

That night as Mr. and Mrs. Dumphry sat in the study she said with a sudden challenge:

“Well now, and which of us is right?”

“I couldn’t say,” said Mr. Dumphry, who had at all events to keep his self-respect. “There certainly did seem to be indications that John Elder desired the society of Queenie. That I admit fully. But Queenie is polite to everybody. There was nothing whatever to show that she was anxious for the society of John.”

“It’s wonderful,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “how quite clever men like you don’t seem to see a single thing. However, John Elder will be down again on Sunday and I hope that you’ll leave it to me.”

“Certainly, yes, by all means,” said Mr. Dumphry. “Of course, we don’t want to seem to be absolutely chucking Queenie at him.”

“No,” said Mrs. Dumphry, “but that doesn’t come in in this case, my dear. Just leave it to me. This is one of the things that I really do understand.”

Mrs. Dumphry made no plans whatever except as regards food. She considered it extremely probable that John Elder would stay to supper if pressed, and she made her arrangements accordingly. For the rest she relied on her unaided instinct.

John Elder arrived at twelve on Sunday morning, a little apologetic, but saying that he had managed to get through the traffic rather quicker than he had expected.

“That’s splendid,” said Mrs. Dumphry. “I wonder if you’d care to give one of the girls a little run round in your car before lunch.”

“Why, that would be delightful,” said John. “I’ll start her up again.”

“Barbara,” called Mrs. Dumphry. There was no answer.

“What on earth is that girl doing?” said Mrs. Dumphry. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking Queenie.”

“I should love to,” said John.

He took her and he was ten minutes late for lunch. But the fact that he had picked up a puncture and had to change a wheel was quite enough to account for that.

In the afternoon it appeared that Mr. Dumphry and Queenie were the only two people who could guide John Elder on the track through Derstham Woods, which, Mrs. Dumphry observed, were far too beautiful to be missed.

Mr. Dumphry himself frankly pleaded a tendency on the part of the middle-aged to drop asleep after luncheon on Sunday. This plea not being available to Queenie, she nobly volunteered for the task. She may probably have missed her way in the woods. At any rate, the two of them did not get back until half an hour after they had been expected. It took very little pressure to induce John Elder to remain to supper.

And now Mr. Dumphry really was impressed. He had known that Elder was engaged for golf that morning and lunch afterwards and that he was engaged again for a dinner-party that night. But then Mr. Elder was on the telephone and thoroughly understood the use of it in all times of difficulty and adversity.

On the following Tuesday evening John Elder and Mr. Dumphry sat together in Mr. Dumphry’s office.

“Well,” said Mr. Dumphry, “everything has been settled to the last detail. At eleven tomorrow in this office we sign the Deed and I hope you’ll permit me to say that I shall welcome you very heartily as my partner.”

“Yes,” said Elder, “yes.”

He rose from his chair and paced the room as he talked. “There’s just one more thing, Dumphry,” he said, “and it wouldn’t be fair not to say it. I needn’t tell you What my position is. You’ve gone into that very properly already. I want to marry your daughter Queenie at once. You may perhaps have guessed it.”

“There seemed to me to be some sort of possibility,” said Mr. Dumphry, speaking slowly. “I don’t think there is anybody that I should prefer for her. But you must remember that your acquaintance with her is very brief.”

“I wanted her the first time I saw her,” said Elder, “and I’ve wanted her more and more ever since. I always shall do. I’m not telling you that I’m Worthy of her in any way. I don’t suppose any man is. Still, there it is. What do you think?”

“I couldn’t put any compulsion on Queenie in anything of this kind.”

“In this case,” said John, “I think perhaps I may say that it wouldn’t be necessary.”

“Got as far as that, have you?” asked Mr. Dumphry.

He walked over to the window and looked out.

“That’s your car there, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“Well, I think it would be all right, but you might like to have a word with my wife first. How would it be if you drove me down and stayed to supper?”

“Absolutely perfect,” said John. “Just half a minute.”

He was already engaged for that evening, but he drew the telephone towards him and therein uttered one of the most monumental lies that the Recording Angel ever wiped out with a tear.

“Now we’re ready,” he said.

In a few seconds they were away in the car, and Mr. Dumphry’s forecast was correct. It was very much all right.