Arthur's manner. But perhaps he had scowled (or bitten his lip), and
she had not noticed it. Apparently he had struck Mr Shute, an unbiased
spectator, as gloomy. Perhaps at some moment when her eyes had been on
her work - She hoped for the best.
Whatever his feelings may have been during the afternoon, Arthur was
undeniably cheerful that evening. He was in excellent spirits. His
light-hearted abandon on the Wiggle-Woggle had been noted and commented
upon by several lookers-on. Confronted with the Hairy Ainus, he had
touched a high level of facetiousness. And now, as he sat with her
listening to the band, he was crooning joyously to himself in
accompaniment to the music, without, it would appear, a care in the
world.
Maud was hurt and anxious. In a mere acquaintance this blithe attitude
would have been welcome. It would have helped her to enjoy her evening.
But from Arthur at that particular moment she looked for something
else. Why was he cheerful? Only a few hours ago she had been - yes,
flirting with another man before his very eyes. What right had he to be
cheerful? He ought to be heated, full of passionate demands for an
explanation - a flushed, throaty thing to be coaxed back into a good
temper and then forgiven - all this at great length - for having been in
a bad one. Yes, she told herself, she had wanted certainty one way or
the other, and here it was. Now she knew. He no longer cared for her.
She trembled.
'Cold?' said Arthur. 'Let's walk. Evenings beginning to draw in now.
Lum-da-diddley-ah. That's what I call a good tune. Give me something
lively and bright. Dumty-umpty-iddley-ah. Dum tum - '
'Funny thing - ' said Maud, deliberately.
'What's a funny thing?'
'The gentleman in the brown suit whose hands I did this afternoon - '
'He was,' agreed Arthur, brightly. 'A very funny thing.'
Maud frowned. Wit at the expense of Hairy Ainus was one thing - at her
own another.
'I was about to say,' she went on precisely, 'that it was a funny
thing, a coincidence, seeing that I was already engaged, that the
gentleman in the brown suit whose hands I did this afternoon should
have asked me to come here, to the White City, with him tonight.'
For a moment they walked on in silence. To Maud it seemed a hopeful
silence. Surely it must be the prelude to an outburst.
'Oh!' he said, and stopped.
Maud's heart gave a leap. Surely that was the old tone?
A couple of paces, and he spoke again.
'I didn't hear him ask you.'
His voice was disappointingly level.
'He asked me after you had gone out to lunch.'
'It's a nuisance,' said Arthur, cheerily, 'when things clash like that.
But perhaps he'll ask you again. Nothing to prevent you coming here
twice. Well repays a second visit, I always say. I think - '
'You shouldn't,' said a voice behind him. 'It hurts the head. Well,
kid, being shown a good time?'
The possibility of meeting Mr Shute had not occurred to Maud. She had
assumed that, being aware that she would be there with another, he
would have stayed away. It may, however, be remarked that she did not
know Mr Shute. He was not one of your sensitive plants. He smiled
pleasantly upon her, looking very dapper in evening dress and a silk
hat that, though a size too small for him, shone like a mirror.
Maud hardly knew whether she was glad or sorry to see him. It did not
seem to matter much now either way. Nothing seemed to matter much, in
fact. Arthur's cheery acceptance of the news that she received
invitations from others had been like a blow, leaving her numb and
listless.
She made the introductions. The two men eyed each other.
'Pleased to meet you,' said Mr Shute.
'Weather keeps up,' said Arthur.
And from that point onward Mr Shute took command.
It is to be assumed that this was not the first time that Mr Shute had
made one of a trio in these circumstances, for the swift dexterity with
which he lost Arthur was certainly not that of a novice. So smoothly
was it done that it was not until she emerged from the Witching Waves,
guided by the pugilist's slim but formidable right arm, that Maud
realized that Arthur had gone.
She gave a little cry of dismay. Secretly she was beginning to be
somewhat afraid of Mr Shute. He was showing signs of being about to
step out of the role she had assigned to him and attempt something on a
larger scale. His manner had that extra touch of warmth which makes all
the difference.
'Oh! He's gone!' she cried.
'Sure,' said Mr Shute. 'He's got a hurry-call from the Uji Village.
The chief's cousin wants a hair-cut.'
'We must find him. We must.'
'Surest thing you know,' said Mr Shute. 'Plenty of time.'
'We must find him.'
Mr Shute regarded her with some displeasure.
'Seems to be ace-high with you, that dub,' he said.
'I don't understand you.'
'My observation was,' explained Mr Shute, coldly, 'that, judging from
appearances, that dough-faced lemon was Willie-boy, the first and only
love.'
Maud turned on him with flaming cheeks.
'Mr Welsh is nothing to me! Nothing! Nothing!' she cried.
She walked quickly on.
'Then, if there's a vacancy, star-eyes,' said the pugilist at her side,
holding on a hat which showed a tendency to wobble, 'count me in.
Directly I saw you - see here, what's the idea of this road-work? We
aren't racing - '
Maud slowed down.
'That's better. As I was saying, directly I saw you, I said to myself,
"That's the one you need. The original candy kid. The - "'
His hat lurched drunkenly as he answered the girl's increase of speed.
He cursed it in a brief aside.
'That's what I said. "The original candy kid." So - '
He shot out a restraining hand. 'Arthur!' cried Maud. 'Arthur!'
'It's not my name' breathed Mr Shute, tenderly. 'Call me Clarence.'
Considered as an embrace, it was imperfect. At these moments a silk
hat a size too small handicaps a man. The necessity of having to be
careful about the nap prevented Mr Shute from doing himself complete
justice. But he did enough to induce Arthur Welsh, who, having sighted
the missing ones from afar, had been approaching them at a walking
pace, to substitute a run for the walk, and arrive just as Maud
wrenched herself free.
Mr Shute took off his hat, smoothed it, replaced it with extreme care,
and turned his attention to the new-comer.
'Arthur!' said Maud.
Her heart gave a great leap. There was no mistaking the meaning in the
eye that met hers. He cared! He cared!
'Arthur!'
He took no notice. His face was pale and working. He strode up to Mr
Shute.
'Well?' he said between his teeth.
An eight-stone-four champion of the world has many unusual experiences
in his life, but he rarely encounters men who say 'Well?' to him
between their teeth. Mr Shute eyed this freak with profound wonder.
'I'll teach you to - to kiss young ladies!'
Mr Shute removed his hat again and gave it another brush. This gave him
the necessary time for reflection.
'I don't need it,' he said. 'I've graduated.'
'Put them up!' hissed Arthur.
Almost a shocked look spread itself over the pugilist's face. So might
Raphael have looked if requested to draw a pavement-picture.
'You aren't speaking to ME?' he said, incredulously.
'Put them up!'
Maud, trembling from head to foot, was conscious of one overwhelming
emotion. She was terrified - yes. But stronger than the terror was the
great wave of elation which swept over her. All her doubts had
vanished. At last, after weary weeks of uncertainty, Arthur was about
to give the supreme proof. He was going to joust for her.
A couple of passers-by had paused, interested, to watch developments.
You could never tell, of course. Many an apparently promising row never
got any farther than words. But, glancing at Arthur's face, they
certainly felt justified in pausing. Mr Shute spoke.
'If it wasn't,' he said, carefully, 'that I don't want trouble with the
Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, I'd - '
He broke off, for, to the accompaniment of a shout of approval from the
two spectators, Arthur had swung his right fist, and it had taken him
smartly on the side of the head.
Compared with the blows Mr Shute was wont to receive in the exercise of
his profession, Arthur's was a gentle tap. But there was one
circumstance which gave it a deadliness all its own. Achilles had his
heel. Mr Shute's vulnerable point was at the other extremity. Instead
of countering, he uttered a cry of agony, and clutched wildly with both
hands at his hat.
He was too late. It fell to the ground and bounded away, with its
proprietor in passionate chase. Arthur snorted and gently chafed his
knuckles.
There was a calm about Mr Shute's demeanour as, having given his
treasure a final polish and laid it carefully down, he began to advance
on his adversary, which was more than ominous. His lips were a thin
line of steel. The muscles stood out over his jaw-bones. Crouching in
his professional manner, he moved forward softly, like a cat.
And it was at this precise moment, just as the two spectators,
reinforced now by eleven other men of sporting tastes, were
congratulating themselves on their acumen in having stopped to watch,
that Police-Constable Robert Bryce, intruding fourteen stones of bone
and muscle between the combatants, addressed to Mr Shute these
memorable words: ''Ullo, 'ullo! 'Ullo, 'ullo, 'ul-_lo_!'
Mr Shute appealed to his sense of justice.
'The mutt knocked me hat off.'
'And I'd do it again,' said Arthur, truculently.
'Not while I'm here you wouldn't, young fellow,' said Mr Bryce, with
decision. 'I'm surprised at you,' he went on, pained. 'And you look a
respectable young chap, too. You pop off.'
A shrill voice from the crowd at this point offered the constable all
cinematograph rights if he would allow the contest to proceed.
'And you pop off, too, all of you,' continued Mr Bryce. 'Blest if I
know what kids are coming to nowadays. And as for you,' he said,
addressing Mr Shute, 'all you've got to do is to keep that face of
yours closed. That's what you've got to do. I've got my eye on you,
mind, and if I catch you a-follerin' of him' - he jerked his thumb over
his shoulder at Arthur's departing figure - 'I'll pinch you. Sure as
you're alive.' He paused. 'I'd have done it already,' he added,
pensively, 'if it wasn't me birthday.'
* * * * *
Arthur Welsh turned sharply. For some time he had been dimly aware that
somebody was calling his name.
'Oh, Arthur!'
She was breathing quickly. He could see the tears in her eyes.
'I've been running. You walked so fast.'
He stared down at her gloomily.
'Go away,' he said. 'I've done with you.'
She clutched at his coat.
'Arthur, listen - listen! It's all a mistake. I thought you - you didn't
care for me any more, and I was miserable, and I wrote to the paper and
asked what should I do, and they said I ought to test you and try and
make you jealous, and that that would relieve my apprehensions. And I
hated it, but I did it, and you didn't seem to care till now. And you
know that there's nobody but you.'
'You - The paper? What?' he stammered.
'Yes, yes, yes. I wrote to _Fireside Chat_, and Dr Cupid said that
when jealousy flew out of the window indifference came in at the door,
and that I must exhibit pleasure in the society of other gentlemen and
mark your demeanour. So I - Oh!'
Arthur, luckier than Mr Shute, was not hampered by a too small silk
hat.
It was a few moments later, as they moved slowly towards the
Flip-Flap - which had seemed to both of them a fitting climax for
the evening's emotions - that Arthur, fumbling in his waist-coat pocket,
produced a small slip of paper.
'What's that?' Maud asked.
'Read it,' said Arthur. 'It's from _Home Moments_, in answer to a
letter I sent them. And,' he added with heat, 'I'd like to have five
minutes alone with the chap who wrote it.'
And under the electric light Maud read
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS
_By the Heart Specialist_
Arthur W. - Jealousy, Arthur W., is not only the most wicked, but the
most foolish of passions. Shakespeare says:
_It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock
The meat it feeds on._
You admit that you have frequently caused great distress to the young
lady of your affections by your exhibition of this weakness. Exactly.
There is nothing a girl dislikes or despises more than jealousy. Be a
man, Arthur W. Fight against it. You may find it hard at first, but
persevere. Keep a smiling face. If she seems to enjoy talking to other
men, show no resentment. Be merry and bright. Believe me, it is the
only way.
BY ADVICE OF COUNSEL
The traveller champed meditatively at his steak. He paid no attention
to the altercation which was in progress between the waiter and the man
at the other end of the dingy room. The sounds of strife ceased. The
waiter came over to the traveller's table and stood behind his chair.
He was ruffled.
'If he meant lamb,' he said, querulously, 'why didn't he say "lamb",
so's a feller could hear him? I thought he said "ham", so I brought
ham. Now Lord Percy gets all peevish.'
He laughed bitterly. The traveller made no reply.
'If people spoke distinct,' said the waiter, 'there wouldn't be half
the trouble there is in the world. Not half the trouble there wouldn't
be. I shouldn't be here, for one thing. In this restawrong, I mean.' A
sigh escaped him.
'I shouldn't,' he said, 'and that's the truth. I should be getting up
when I pleased, eating and drinking all I wanted, and carrying on same
as in the good old days. You wouldn't think, to look at me, would you
now, that I was once like the lily of the field?'
The waiter was a tall, stringy man, who gave the impression of having
no spine. In that he drooped, he might have been said to resemble a
flower, but in no other respect. He had sandy hair, weak eyes set close
together, and a day's growth of red stubble on his chin. One could not
see him in the lily class.
'What I mean to say is, I didn't toil, neither did I spin. Ah, them was
happy days! Lying on me back, plenty of tobacco, something cool in a
jug - '
He sighed once more.
'Did you ever know a man of the name of Moore? Jerry Moore?'
The traveller applied himself to his steak in silence.
'Nice feller. Simple sort of feller. Big. Quiet. Bit deaf in one ear.
Straw-coloured hair. Blue eyes. 'Andsome, rather. Had a 'ouse just
outside of Reigate. Has it still. Money of his own. Left him by his pa.
Simple sort of feller. Not much to say for himself. I used to know him
well in them days. Used to live with him. Nice feller he was. Big. Bit
hard of hearing. Got a sleepy kind of grin, like this - something.'
The traveller sipped his beer in thoughtful silence.
'I reckon you never met him,' said the waiter. 'Maybe you never knew
Gentleman Bailey, either? We always called him that. He was one of
these broken-down Eton or 'Arrer fellers, folks said. We struck up a
partnership kind of casual, both being on the tramp together, and after
a while we 'appened to be round about Reigate. And the first house we
come to was this Jerry Moore's. He come up just as we was sliding to
the back door, and grins that sleepy grin. Like this - something.
"'Ullo!" he says. Gentleman kind of gives a whoop, and hollers, "If it
ain't my old pal, Jerry Moore! Jack," he says to me, "this is my old
pal, Mr Jerry Moore, wot I met in 'appier days down at Ramsgate one
summer."
'They shakes hands, and Jerry Moore says, "Is this a friend of yours,
Bailey?" looking at me. Gentleman introduces me. "We are partners," he
says, "partners in misfortune. This is my friend, Mr Roach."
'"Come along in," says Jerry.
'So we went in, and he makes us at home. He's a bachelor, and lives all
by himself in this desirable 'ouse.
'Well, I seen pretty quick that Jerry thinks the world of Gentleman.
All that evening he's acting as if he's as pleased as Punch to have
him there. Couldn't do enough for him. _It_ was a bit of _all_
right, I said to meself. It was, too.
'Next day we gets up late and has a good breakfast, and sits on the
lawn and smokes. The sun was shining, the little birds was singing, and
there wasn't a thing, east, west, north, or south, that looked like
work. If I had been asked my address at that moment, on oath, I
wouldn't have hesitated a second. I should have answered, "No. 1, Easy
Street." You see, Jerry Moore was one of these slow, simple fellers,
and you could tell in a moment what a lot he thought of Gentleman.
Gentleman, you see, had a way with him. Not haughty, he wasn't. More
affable, I should call it. He sort of made you feel that all men are
born equal, but that it was awful good of him to be talking to you, and
that he wouldn't do it for everybody. It went down proper with Jerry
Moore. Jerry would sit and listen to him giving his views on things by
the hour. By the end of the first day I was having visions of sitting
in that garden a white-baked old man, and being laid out, when my time
should come, in Jerry's front room.'
He paused, his mind evidently in the past, among the cigars and big
breakfasts. Presently he took up his tale.
'This here Jerry Moore was a simple sort of feller. Deafies are like
that. Ever noticed? Not that Jerry was a real deafy. His hearing was a
bit off, but he could foller you if you spoke to him nice and clear.
Well, I was saying, he was kind of simple. Liked to put in his days
pottering about the little garden he'd made for himself, looking after
his flowers and his fowls, and sit of an evening listening to Gentleman
'olding forth on Life. He was a philosopher, Gentleman was. And Jerry
took everything he said as gospel. He didn't want no proofs. 'E and
the King of Denmark would have been great pals. He just sat by with his
big blue eyes getting rounder every minute and lapped it up.
'Now you'd think a man like that could be counted on, wouldn't you?
Would he want anything more? Not he, you'd say. You'd be wrong. Believe
me, there isn't a man on earth that's fixed and contented but what a
woman can't knock his old Paradise into 'ash with one punch.
'It wasn't long before I begin to notice a change in Jerry. He never
had been what you'd call a champion catch-as-catch-can talker, but now
he was silenter than ever. And he got a habit of switching Gentleman
off from his theories on Life in general to Woman in particular. This
suited Gentleman just right. What he didn't know about Woman wasn't
knowledge.
'Gentleman was too busy talking to have time to get suspicious, but I
wasn't; and one day I draws Gentleman aside and puts it to him
straight. "Gentleman," I says, "Jerry Moore is in love!"
'Well, this was a nasty knock, of course, for Gentleman. He knew as
well as I did what it would mean if Jerry was to lead home a blushing
bride through that front door. It would be outside into the cold, hard
world for the bachelor friends. Gentleman sees that quick, and his jaw
drops. I goes on. "All the time," I says, "that you're talking away of
an evening, Jerry's seeing visions of a little woman sitting in your
chair. And you can bet we don't enter into them visions. He may dream
of little feet pattering about the house," I says, "but they aren't
ours; and you can 'ave something on that both ways. Look alive,
Gentleman," I says, "and think out some plan, or we might as well be
padding the hoof now."
'Well, Gentleman did what he could. In his evening discourses he
started to give it to Woman all he knew. Began to talk about Delilahs
and Jezebels and Fools-there-was and the rest of it, and what a mug a
feller was to let a female into 'is cosy home, who'd only make him
spend his days hooking her up, and his nights wondering how to get back
the blankets without waking her. My, he was crisp! Enough to have given
Romeo the jumps, you'd have thought. But, lor! It's no good talking to
them when they've got it bad.
'A few days later we caught him with the goods, talking in the road to
a girl in a pink dress.
'I couldn't but admit that Jerry had picked one right from the top of
the basket. This wasn't one of them languishing sort wot sits about in
cosy corners and reads story-books, and don't care what's happening in
the home so long as they find out what became of the hero in his duel
with the Grand Duke. She was a brown, slim, wiry-looking little thing.
_You_ know. Held her chin up and looked you up and down with eyes
the colour of Scotch whisky, as much as to say, "Well, what
_about_ it?" You could tell without looking at her, just by the
feel of the atmosphere when she was near, that she had as much snap and
go in her as Jerry Moore hadn't, which was a good bit. I knew, just as
sure as I was standing there on one leg, that this was the sort of girl
who would have me and Gentleman out of that house about three seconds
after the clergyman had tied the knot.
'Jerry says, "These are my friends, Miss Tuxton - Mr Bailey and Mr
Roach. They are staying with me for a visit. This is Miss Jane Tuxton,"
he says to us. "I was just going to see Miss Tuxton home," he says,
sort of wistful. "Excellent," says Gentleman. "We'll come too." And we
all goes along. There wasn't much done in the way of conversation.
Jerry never was one for pushing out the words; nor was I, when in the
presence of the sect; and Miss Jane had her chin in the air, as if she
thought me and Gentleman was not needed in any way whatsoever. The
only talk before we turned her in at the garden gate was done by
Gentleman, who told a pretty long story about a friend of his in Upper
Sydenham who had been silly enough to marry, and had had trouble ever
since.
'That night, after we had went to bed, I said to Gentleman,
"Gentleman," I says, "what's going to be done about this? We've got
about as much chance, if Jerry marries that girl," I says, "as a couple
of helpless chocolate creams at a school-girls' picnic." "If," says
Gentleman. "He ain't married her yet. That is a girl of character,
Jack. Trust me. Didn't she strike you as a girl who would like a man
with a bit of devil in him, a man with some go in him, a you-be-darned
kind of man? Does Jerry fill the bill? He's more like a doormat with
'Welcome' written on it, than anything else."
'Well, we seen a good deal of Miss Jane in the next week or so. We
keeps Jerry under - what's it the heroine says in the melodrama? "Oh,
cruel, cruel, S.P. something." Espionage, that's it. We keeps Jerry
under espionage, and whenever he goes trickling round after the girl,
we goes trickling round after him.
'"Things is running our way," says Gentleman to me, after one of these
meetings. "That girl is getting cross with Jerry. She wants Reckless
Rudolf, not a man who stands and grins when other men butt in on him
and his girl. Mark my words, Jack. She'll get tired of Jerry, and go
off and marry a soldier, and we'll live happy ever after." "Think so?"
I says. "Sure of it," said Gentleman.
'It was the Sunday after this that Jerry Moore announces to us,
wriggling, that he had an engagement to take supper with Jane and her
folks. He'd have liked to have slipped away secret, but we was keeping
him under espionage too crisp for that, so he has to tell us.
"Excellent," said Gentleman. "It will be a great treat to Jack and
myself to meet the family. We will go along with you." So off we all
goes, and pushes our boots in sociable fashion under the Tuxton table.
I looked at Miss Jane out of the corner of my eye; and, honest, that
chin of hers was sticking out a foot, and Jerry didn't dare look at
her. Love's young dream, I muses to myself, how swift it fades when a
man has the nature and disposition of a lop-eared rabbit!
'The Tuxtons was four in number, not counting the parrot, and all male.
There was Pa Tuxton, an old feller with a beard and glasses; a fat
uncle; a big brother, who worked in a bank and was dressed like Moses
in all his glory; and a little brother with a snub nose, that cheeky
you'd have been surprised. And the parrot in its cage and a fat yellow
dog. And they're all making themselves pleasant to Jerry, the wealthy
future son-in-law, something awful. It's "How are the fowls, Mr
Moore?" and "A little bit of this pie, Mr Moore; Jane made it," and
Jerry sitting there with a feeble grin, saying "Yes" and "No" and
nothing much more, while Miss Jane's eyes are snapping like Fifth of
November fireworks. I could feel Jerry's chances going back a mile a
minute. I felt as happy as a little child that evening. I sang going
back home.
'Gentleman's pleased, too. "Jack," he says to me when we're in bed,
"this is too easy. In my most sanguinary dreams I hardly hoped for
this. No girl of spirit's going to love a man who behaves that way to
her parents. The way to win the heart of a certain type of girl," he
says, beginning on his theories, "the type to which Jane Tuxton
belongs, is to be rude to her family. I've got Jane Tuxton sized up and
labelled. Her kind wants her folks to dislike her young man. She wants
to feel that she's the only one in the family that's got the sense to
see the hidden good in Willie. She doesn't want to be one of a crowd
hollering out what a nice young man he is. It takes some pluck in a man
to stand up to a girl's family, and that's what Jane Tuxton is looking
for in Jerry. Take it from one who has studied the sect," says
Gentleman, "from John o' Groat's to Land's End, and back again."
'Next day Jerry Moore's looking as if he'd only sixpence in the world
and had swallowed it. "What's the matter, Jerry?" says Gentleman. Jerry
heaves a sigh. "Bailey," he says, "and you, Mr Roach, I expect you both
seen how it is with me. I love Miss Jane Tuxton, and you seen for
yourselves what transpires. She don't value me, not tuppence." "Say not
so," says Gentleman, sympathetic. "You're doing fine. If you knew the
sect as I do you wouldn't go by mere superficial silences and
chin-tiltings. I can read a girl's heart, Jerry," he says, patting him
on the shoulder, "and I tell you you're doing fine. All you want now
is a little rapid work, and you win easy. To make the thing a cert,"
he says, getting up, "all you have to do is to make a dead set at her
folks." He winks at me. "Don't just sit there like you did last night.
Show 'em you've got something in you. You know what folks are: they
think themselves the most important things on the map. Well, go to
work. Consult them all you know. Every opportunity you get. There's
nothing like consulting a girl's folks to put you in good with her."
And he pats Jerry on the shoulder again and goes indoors to find his
pipe.
'Jerry turns to me. "Do you think that's really so?" he says. I says,
"I do." "He knows all about girls, I reckon," says Jerry. "You can go
by him every time," I says. "Well, well," says Jerry, sort of
thoughtful.'
The waiter paused. His eye was sad and dreamy. Then he took up the
burden of his tale.
'First thing that happens is that Gentleman has a sore tooth on the
next Sunday, so don't feel like coming along with us. He sits at home,
dosing it with whisky, and Jerry and me goes off alone.
'So Jerry and me pikes off, and once more we prepares to settle down
around the board. I hadn't noticed Jerry particular, but just now I
catches sight of his face in the light of the lamp. Ever see one of
those fighters when he's sitting in his corner before a fight, waiting
for the gong to go? Well, Jerry looks like that; and it surprises me.
'I told you about the fat yellow dog that permeated the Tuxton's
house, didn't I? The family thought a lot of that dog, though of all
the ugly brutes I ever met he was the worst. Sniffing round and
growling all the time. Well, this evening he comes up to Jerry just as
he's going to sit down, and starts to growl. Old Pa Tuxton looks over
his glasses and licks his tongue. "Rover! Rover!" he says, kind of
mild. "Naughty Rover; he don't like strangers, I'm afraid." Jerry looks
at Pa Tuxton, and he looks at the dog, and I'm just expecting him to
say "No" or "Yes", same as the other night, when he lets out a nasty
laugh - one of them bitter laughs. "Ho!" he says. "Ho! don't he? Then
perhaps he'd better get further away from them." And he ups with his
boot and - well, the dog hit the far wall.
'Jerry sits down and pulls up his chair. "I don't approve," he says,
fierce, "of folks keeping great, fat, ugly, bad-tempered yellow dogs
that are a nuisance to all. I don't like it."
'There was a silence you could have scooped out with a spoon. Have you
ever had a rabbit turn round on you and growl? That's how we all felt
when Jerry outs with them crisp words. They took our breath away.
'While we were getting it back again the parrot, which was in its cage,
let out a squawk. Honest, I jumped a foot in my chair.
'Jerry gets up very deliberate, and walks over to the parrot. "Is
this a menagerie?" he says. "Can't a man have supper in peace without
an image like you starting to holler? Go to sleep."
'We was all staring at him surprised, especially Uncle Dick Tuxton,
whose particular pet the parrot was. He'd brought him home all the way
from some foreign parts.
'"Hello, Billy!" says the bird, shrugging his shoulders and puffing
himself up. "R-r-r-r! R-r-r-r! 'lo, Billy! 'lo, 'lo, 'lo! R-r WAH!"
'Jerry gives its cage a bang.
'"Don't talk back at me," he says, "or I'll knock your head off. You
think because you've got a green tail you're someone." And he stalks
back to his chair and sits glaring at Uncle Dick.
'Well, all this wasn't what you might call promoting an easy flow of
conversation. Everyone's looking at Jerry, 'specially me, wondering
what next, and trying to get their breath, and Jerry's frowning at the
cold beef, and there's a sort of awkward pause. Miss Jane is the first
to get busy. She bustles about and gets the food served out, and we
begins to eat. But still there's not so much conversation that you'd
notice it. This goes on till we reaches the concluding stages, and then
Uncle Dick comes up to the scratch.
'"How is the fowls, Mr Moore?" he says.
'"Gimme some more pie," says Jerry. "What?"
'Uncle Dick repeats his remark.
'"Fowls?" says Jerry. "What do you know about fowls? Your notion of a
fowl is an ugly bird with a green tail, a Wellington nose, and - gimme a
bit of cheese."
'Uncle Dick's fond of the parrot, so he speaks up for him. "Polly's
always been reckoned a handsome bird," he says.
'"He wants stuffing," says Jerry.
'And Uncle Dick drops out of the talk.
'Up comes big brother, Ralph his name was. He's the bank-clerk and a
dude. He gives his cuffs a flick, and starts in to make things jolly
all round by telling a story about a man he knows named Wotherspoon.
Jerry fixes him with his eye, and, half-way through, interrupts.
'"That waistcoat of yours is fierce," he says.
'"Pardon?" says Ralph.
'"That waistcoat of yours," says Jerry. "It hurts me eyes. It's like an
electric sign."
'"Why, Jerry," I says, but he just scowls at me and I stops.
'Ralph is proud of his clothes, and he isn't going to stand this. He
glares at Jerry and Jerry glares at him.
'"Who do you think you are?" says Ralph, breathing hard.
'"Button up your coat," says Jerry.
'"Look 'ere!" says Ralph.
'"Cover it up, I tell you," says Jerry. "Do you want to blind me?" Pa
Tuxton interrupts.
'"Why, Mr Moore," he begins, sort of soothing; when the small brother,
who's been staring at Jerry, chips in. I told you he was cheeky.
'He says, "Pa, what a funny nose Mr Moore's got!"
'And that did it. Jerry rises, very slow, and leans across the table
and clips the kid brother one side of the ear-'ole. And then there's a
general imbroglio, everyone standing up and the kid hollering and the
dog barking.
'"If you'd brought him up better," says Jerry, severe, to Pa Tuxton,
"this wouldn't ever have happened."
Pa Tuxton gives a sort of howl.
'"Mr Moore," he yells, "what is the meaning of this extraordinary
behaviour? You come here and strike me child - "
'Jerry bangs on the table.
'"Yes," he says, "and I'd strike him again. Listen to me," he says. "You
think just because I'm quiet I ain't got no spirit. You think all I can
do is to sit and smile. You think - Bah! You aren't on to the hidden
depths in me character. I'm one of them still waters that runs deep.
I'm - Here, you get out of it! Yes, all of you! Except Jane. Jane and me
wants this room to have a private talk in. I've got a lot of things to
say to Jane. Are you going?"
'I turns to the crowd. I was awful disturbed. "You mustn't take any
notice," I says. "He ain't well. He ain't himself." When just then the
parrot cuts with another of them squawks. Jerry jumps at it.
'"You first," he says, and flings the cage out of the window. "Now
you," he says to the yellow dog, putting him out through the door. And
then he folds his arms and scowls at us, and we all notice suddenly
that he's very big. We look at one another, and we begins to edge
towards the door. All except Jane, who's staring at Jerry as if he's a
ghost.
'"Mr Moore," says Pa Tuxton, dignified, "we'll leave you. You're
drunk."
'"I'm not drunk," says Jerry. "I'm in love."
'"Jane," says Pa Tuxton, "come with me, and leave this ruffian to
himself."
'"Jane," says Jerry, "stop here, and come and lay your head on my
shoulder."
'"Jane," says Pa Tuxton, "do you hear me?"
'"Jane," says Jerry, "I'm waiting."
'She looks from one to the other for a spell, and then she moves to
where Jerry's standing.
'"I'll stop," she says, sort of quiet.
'And we drifts out.'
The waiter snorted.
'I got back home quick as I could,' he said, 'and relates the
proceedings to Gentleman. Gentleman's rattled. "I don't believe it," he
says. "Don't stand there and tell me Jerry Moore did them things. Why,
it ain't in the man. 'Specially after what I said to him about the way
he ought to behave. How could he have done so?" Just then in comes
Jerry, beaming all over. "Boys," he shouts, "congratulate me. It's all
right. We've fixed it up. She says she hadn't known me properly before.
She says she'd always reckoned me a sheep, while all the time I was one
of them strong, silent men." He turns to Gentleman - '
The man at the other end of the room was calling for his bill.
'All right, all right,' said the waiter. 'Coming! He turns to
Gentleman,' he went on rapidly, 'and he says, "Bailey, I owe it all to
you, because if you hadn't told me to insult her folks - "'
He leaned on the traveller's table and fixed him with an eye that
pleaded for sympathy.
''Ow about that?' he said. 'Isn't that crisp? "Insult her folks!" Them
was his very words. "Insult her folks."'
The traveller looked at him inquiringly.
'Can you beat it?' said the waiter.
'I don't know what you are saying,' said the traveller. 'If it is
important, write it on a slip of paper. I am stone-deaf.'
ROUGH-HEW THEM HOW WE WILL
Paul Boielle was a waiter. The word 'waiter' suggests a soft-voiced,
deft-handed being, moving swiftly and without noise in an atmosphere of
luxury and shaded lamps. At Bredin's Parisian Cafe and Restaurant in
Soho, where Paul worked, there were none of these things; and Paul
himself, though he certainly moved swiftly, was by no means noiseless.
His progress through the room resembled in almost equal proportions the
finish of a Marathon race, the star-act of a professional juggler, and
a monologue by an Earl's Court side-showman. Constant acquaintance
rendered regular habitues callous to the wonder, but to a stranger the
sight of Paul tearing over the difficult between-tables course, his
hands loaded with two vast pyramids of dishes, shouting as he went the
mystic word, 'Comingsarecominginamomentsaresteaksareyessarecomingsare!'
was impressive to a degree. For doing far less exacting feats on the
stage music-hall performers were being paid fifty pounds a week. Paul
got eighteen shillings.
What a blessing is poverty, properly considered. If Paul had received
more than eighteen shillings a week he would not have lived in an
attic. He would have luxuriated in a bed-sitting-room on the second
floor; and would consequently have missed what was practically a
genuine north light. The skylight which went with the attic was so
arranged that the room was a studio in miniature, and, as Paul was
engaged in his spare moments in painting a great picture, nothing could
have been more fortunate; for Paul, like so many of our public men,
lived two lives. Off duty, the sprinting, barking juggler of Bredin's
Parisian Cafe became the quiet follower of Art. Ever since his
childhood he had had a passion for drawing and painting. He regretted
that Fate had allowed him so little time for such work; but after all,
he reflected, all great artists had had their struggles - so why not
he? Moreover, they were now nearly at an end. An hour here, an hour
there, and every Thursday a whole afternoon, and the great picture was
within measurable distance of completion. He had won through. Without
models, without leisure, hungry, tired, he had nevertheless triumphed.
A few more touches, and the masterpiece would be ready for purchase. And
after that all would be plain sailing. Paul could forecast the scene so
exactly. The picture would be at the dealer's, possibly - one must not
be too sanguine - thrust away in some odd corner. The wealthy
connoisseur would come in. At first he would not see the masterpiece;
other more prominently displayed works would catch his eye. He would
turn from them in weary scorn, and then!... Paul wondered how big the
cheque would be.
There were reasons why he wanted the money. Looking at him as he
cantered over the linoleum at Bredin's, you would have said that his
mind was on his work. But it was not so. He took and executed orders as
automatically as the penny-in-the-slot musical-box in the corner took
pennies and produced tunes. His thoughts were of Jeanne Le Brocq, his
co-worker at Bredin's, and a little cigar shop down Brixton way which
he knew was in the market at a reasonable rate. To marry the former and
own the latter was Paul's idea of the earthly paradise, and it was the
wealthy connoisseur, and he alone, who could open the gates.
Jeanne was a large, slow-moving Norman girl, stolidly handsome. One
could picture her in a de Maupassant farmyard. In the clatter and
bustle of Bredin's Parisian Cafe she appeared out of place, like a cow
in a boiler-factory. To Paul, who worshipped her with all the fervour
of a little man for a large woman, her deliberate methods seemed all
that was beautiful and dignified. To his mind she lent a tone to the
vulgar whirlpool of gorging humanity, as if she had been some goddess
mixing in a Homeric battle. The whirlpool had other views - and
expressed them. One coarse-fibred brute, indeed, once went so far as to
address to her the frightful words, ''Urry up, there, Tottie! Look
slippy.' It was wrong, of course, for Paul to slip and spill an order
of scrambled eggs down the brute's coatsleeve, but who can blame him?
Among those who did not see eye to eye with Paul in his views on
deportment in waitresses was M. Bredin himself, the owner of the
Parisian Cafe; and it was this circumstance which first gave Paul the
opportunity of declaring the passion which was gnawing him with the
fierce fury of a Bredin customer gnawing a tough steak against time