Chapter XVI: Part 16

“I should think I am,” said Mr. Smeeth. “I’ve been coming in here, week in and week out, for Mr. Benenden’s Own Mixture for years. It made me jump to see anybody else here. What’s happened? He’s not given it up, has he?”

“No, he’s not given it up,” she explained. “He’s in hospital. He got knocked down by a car last night in Cheapside, and they took him to St. Bartholomew’s.”

“Well, you surprise me! I’m sorry to hear that. Is he bad?”

“We don’t know yet. He didn’t seem so bad last night, because he got a message through to my mother and she went to see him and he gave her the key here and asked if I’d look after the shop for him, because he knew I wasn’t doing anything and I’d worked once in a tobacconist’s before--well, tobacconist’s and sweets’, it was, not like this, y’know--so it didn’t sound as if it was bad, with him being able to talk and arrange things like that, but the doctor told my mother it was worse than it looked, for all that, and it might be a nasty long job, and she’s going again to-day. I’m his niece, you see.”

“Poor old chap! I _am_ sorry about this,” said Mr. Smeeth, who was indeed genuinely distressed. “You must let me know how he goes on.” He had to point out to her the tin canister that held T. Benenden’s Own Mixture and had even to tell her the price of it. When he rejoined Turgis outside, he could talk of nothing else for the next five minutes. This one morning, not content with removing Stanley from Angel Pavement for ever, had gone and swept Benenden out of sight, put a plump young woman with ginger hair behind that counter, and turned Benenden into a mysterious suffering figure in a hospital. Benenden and Angel Pavement had been inseparable in his mind for years, and now the thought of Benenden not being there, no longer waiting, tie-less, behind his dusty counter, gave the whole place a queer look. Turgis had been in the shop many a time for cigarettes, but, being one of the “packet o’ gaspers” customers, he could not really claim to be acquainted with Benenden. By the time Mr. Smeeth had finished talking to him about the tobacconist, the pair of them were in the private bar of the _White Horse_ across the road and had two glasses of bitter placed in front of them.

Mr. Smeeth had not been in this bar since that night, two or three months before, when Mr. Golspie took him in, gave him a double whisky and a cigar, and talked about the business. It was still as cosy as ever, but this time it was not so quiet. It was entirely dominated by a large man with an enormous red face, who roared and spluttered and coughed and wheezed very loudly at his two companions, men of ordinary size, who could only make ordinary noises back at him. All conversation in the bar was provided with a thundering accompaniment by this large man. There was no escaping him.

“You see, Turgis,” said Mr. Smeeth, “I thought I’d better have a little talk to you, because, for one thing, I’ve been noticing a few little things myself, and for another thing, Mr. Dersingham’s been saying something to me about you. If you remember, I said something when we had a little talk a month or two ago.”

“I remember that, Mr. Smeeth. When you said they’d been thinking of giving me the push.”

“That’s right. Well, Mr. Dersingham talked to me about you this morning--rather in the same strain, Turgis, and I said I’d have a talk to you.”

“But what have I done wrong?” cried Turgis bitterly. “Why’s he always picking on me? I do my work all right, don’t I? You’ve never said anything about it to me, Mr. Smeeth. Seems to me they want to get rid of me whether I’ve done anything wrong or not----”

“Outch-ch-ch-ch,” went the large man. “Wait a minute, Charlie, wait a minute, let me tell it. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. ’Ere, this is it. Simmy come up to me, that morning, and I’m standing as I might be ’ere, see--and old Simmy---- Just a minute, Charlie, let me tell it----”

“This is the point, Turgis,” said Mr. Smeeth earnestly. “And, mind you, I’m talking in a friendly way. Nobody’s got anything against you at all. Put that out of your head. But as Mr. Dersingham says--you’ve got to buck up. Just lately, you’ve not been taking your work in the right spirit at all. I know you’re not a lazy chap and I know you can do your work all right, but if I hadn’t known it, I don’t mind telling you, I might have come to a wrong conclusion just lately. Now, we all have our troubles. I’ve plenty of my own, I can tell you,” he continued, with the air of a modest hero, “though you mightn’t think it. That’s because I’ve learned not to bring ’em to the office with me. I’m old enough and experienced enough not to let my troubles interfere with my work. You’re not, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. My opinion is, Turgis--you’ve not been feeling up to the mark lately.”

“That is so, Mr. Smeeth,” said Turgis. “You’re right there. I haven’t.”

“Didn’t he, Charlie?” roared the large man, drowning everybody. “He did. It’s as true as I’m standing ’ere. Next time you see Simmy, you say to ’im ‘What price Lady Flatiron at Newbury?’--that’s all. Just say that. Laugh! O Gord! Outch-ch-ch-ch-ch.” The enormous face was purple now.

“It’s no business of mine, Turgis,” said Mr. Smeeth in his ear, “and I’m only asking in a friendly spirit. But it’s my opinion you’ve got yourself into trouble somehow. If it isn’t that, you’d better go round and see a doctor. Perhaps you’re just not feeling well.”

“I’m not feeling so well, Mr. Smeeth, but it isn’t that, really. It’s just--oh, I dunno--well, you see, Mr. Smeeth, it’s a girl. That’s what’s been bothering me just lately.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it? Ought you to be marrying her or something of that sort? No? Nothing like that, eh? Oh, well, had a bit of a quarrel, eh?”

“Yes, in a way,” replied Turgis, guardedly, looking very uncomfortable.

“Oh, well, don’t you let that bother you,” cried Mr. Smeeth, astonished to discover that this was nothing but a lovers’ tiff. “I know what it is, of course. You’re talking to an old married man now, my boy. I’ve got a son nearly as old as you. It doesn’t matter how you’ve quarrelled, you don’t want to take it as hard as that. Bless me!--you’ll be making yourself ill over it.”

“That’s what I think sometimes,” said Turgis bitterly.

“Ridiculous! It’ll soon blow over. And if it doesn’t, why, go and find another girl who isn’t so quarrelsome. I can tell you this, if she’s quarrelsome now, she’ll be past living with, if you’re not careful, later on. You’re too sensitive about it, Turgis--that’s your trouble.”

Turgis produced a smile that was abject misery itself, the tortured ghost of a grin.

“No, no, not at all,” the large man shouted. “We’ve ten minutes yet. Plenty of time for another. What is it? Same again? Three double Scotches, miss. I ’aven’t told you yet what ’appened the other night, ’ave I? I mean, with Jack Pearce and old Joe, down at Staines--oh dear!--splooch-ooch-ooch-ooch-ooch!”

“He seems to be enjoying himself all right,” said Turgis. “I don’t know how some of these chaps do it--spending money all day, no work, knocking about all the time, and not giving a damn for anybody. How do they do it, Mr. Smeeth?”

“Don’t ask me,” replied Mr. Smeeth, a trifle irritably, as if he too had felt a sudden spasm of envy at the thought of this rich careless life, but would not admit it to himself. “Racing chaps, I suppose. Easy come and easy go--that’s their motto. All right while it lasts--but how long does it last?”

“How long does anything last?” Turgis muttered.

“Now that’s silly talk from a young fellow like you,” said Mr. Smeeth. “It’s that sort of talk that lets you down with everybody. Now listen to me. I believe if you’ll only smarten yourself up a bit, don’t be so gloomy, look as if you didn’t hate the sight of everybody----”

“I don’t, Mr. Smeeth, honestly I don’t.”

“--and settle down to your work properly, there’s a good steady job waiting for you with Twigg and Dersingham. As Mr. Dersingham said, only this morning, what with all this new business, the firm’ll be growing and expanding, and that’ll be just the opportunity for a young fellow like yourself.”

Turgis swallowed desperately. “I’m not so sure about that,” he declared.

“What d’you mean?” cried Mr. Smeeth, staring at him.

“I don’t think it’s all so rosy as all that. I’ve been thinking it over. All this new business--and as far as I can see, it’s about all the business we’re doing--came with Mr. Golspie.” He brought out this name with a sudden jerk.

“Well, what if it did? You’re not telling me anything now, Turgis. I know that as well as you do--and better.”

“If he goes, what happens then, Mr. Smeeth?”

“If he goes? That would depend. A lot might happen, or nothing might happen. But, anyhow, Mr. Golspie’s not going.”

“I think he is--soon, too.”

Mr. Smeeth stared at him. Turgis was obviously quite serious. “Where did you get that idea from?”

“I think he is.”

“What’s the good of talking like that! You think he is! Why should he now? What’s the object? He’s making plenty of money out of the business, as I know better than you do. He’s making a surprising amount, for a trade like this--I don’t mind telling you. He’d been a fool if he did go, unless, of course--well----” And Mr. Smeeth thought of several possibilities, but kept them to himself. “No, that’s silly talk, Turgis. What put that into your head?”

“It isn’t silly, Mr. Smeeth,” cried Turgis, goaded into saying more than he had ever intended to say. “I _know_ he’s going. At least, I know he’s not staying with the firm long. I know he doesn’t think much of Mr. Dersingham either. I know that, too.”

“But where have you got all this from?” Mr. Smeeth was more angry than alarmed. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. How did you learn it? You’re not trying to be funny, are you?”

“Well,” roared the large man. “Get a move on, eh? You coming to eat with me, Charlie? That’s right. See you Monday, Tom, eh? Course I’ll be there. You betcher life, boy! Wouldn’t miss it. Am I what? Oh--you wicked feller, Tom, you wicked feller! So long, boy. Morning, miss. Morning, Sam.” And the silence he left behind him was almost startling.

In this silence, Mr. Smeeth and Turgis looked at one another. Then Turgis turned his eyes elsewhere, but Mr. Smeeth continued looking at him.

“I don’t make head or tail of this, Turgis.”

Turgis frowned, shut his mouth tight for once, and moved uneasily. Finally, he said: “I--heard something, Mr. Smeeth, that’s all. I can’t tell where I heard it or anything. I’m sorry I spoke now.”

Mr. Smeeth saw that Turgis was terribly in earnest. There could be no doubt about that. “Do you mean to say you won’t tell me where you heard it, how you heard it, or anything?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Smeeth. I oughtn’t to have said anything. I can’t tell you any more, honestly I can’t. Don’t mention it to anybody, please, Mr. Smeeth. If you do, you might get me into trouble, though I haven’t done anything really wrong, I haven’t, honestly. Only I did hear that about Mr. Golspie.”

“When was that? You can tell me so much, anyhow.”

“Not long before Christmas, a week or two.”

“Mr. Golspie was away then, was he?”

“Yes,” Turgis admitted sullenly. “It was while he was away.”

“Then somebody told you while Mr. Golspie was away,” said Mr. Smeeth sharply, not taking his eyes off the unhappy Turgis for a second. He thought quickly. “It must have been his daughter, that time when you took the money to her. You got talking and then she told you. Is that it?”

Turgis said nothing, but he had no need to, for his face replied for him. “Well, what did she say exactly?” Mr. Smeeth continued, far more concerned now that he knew Mr. Golspie’s daughter was the informant. “Come on, Turgis, you might as well tell me now. What did she say?”

“I don’t remember any more,” Turgis mumbled miserably. “That was all. It was nothing. I oughtn’t to have said anything. Mr. Smeeth, please don’t you say anything, please don’t, will you? Promise.”

“All right. I don’t suppose there’s anything in it. I know what these girls are. They’ll say anything. Well----”

“Yes, I must be getting on now,” said Turgis. “And thank you for telling me--you know about what Mr. Dersingham said. I’ll do my best, Mr. Smeeth. I’m a bit worried just now, that’s all.”

As his tram climbed the swarming City Road, Mr. Smeeth considered this Golspie gossip. It made him feel uneasy, although he was still ready to dismiss it as girls’ nonsense. It seemed unlikely that Mr. Golspie would leave them, but then it seemed unlikely that Stanley would be spirited away by an uncle in Homerton and that Benenden would be lying in Bart’s Hospital. There was no connection between these events, as Mr. Smeeth knew very well, but the sudden disappearance of Stanley and Benenden had left him with a feeling of insecurity. They made him realise the fact that things simply happened and that he had no control over them, no more than he would have if the tram suddenly left the lines and charged the nearest shop. In the dark hollows of his mind, apprehension stirred again. He decided to talk all this over with his wife, who, perhaps because she was so unreasonable, had got something that he had never had, a large confidence in life. With all her faults, there was nobody like Edie for him at these times, when he felt a bit down in the mouth. Then he remembered that they were still not on proper speaking terms, and that, in her present state of mind, he could no more talk to her about what he felt than he could talk to the strange woman sitting in front of him in the tram. “We just would be quarrelling now, wouldn’t we!” he cried to himself, with that gloomy satisfaction, that faint sweetness which comes with the last bitter drop, known only to the pessimist. Life could do many dreadful things to Herbert Norman Smeeth, but it couldn’t take him in. He was one of those people who are always there first, who are standing at the grave before the doctor has even begun shaking his head.

III

This treacherous Saturday, however, was still capable of giving him another shock, from an unexpected quarter. Mrs. Smeeth was out when he arrived home, and he had a solitary dinner, with Edna flitting about and trying to keep out of his way. After dinner, he smoked his pipe and pottered about for half an hour or so, and then, as the afternoon sent some gleams of pale sunlight creeping, like a returned convalescent, into Chaucer Road, he went out for a walk. Fate, which had for once an easy task, directed him to Clissold Park, where his shock was awaiting him.

The fifty green acres of Clissold Park are surrounded by miles and miles of slates and bricks, chimney-pots and paving stones, and so, in the middle of it, placed there perhaps as a sign that the round green world of mountains, forests and oceans still exists somewhere, or at least once had an existence, there are a number of animals and bright birds. If you are a Stoke Newington ratepayer, you have only to turn a corner or two to catch the soft shining glances of deer, to meditate upon the spectacle of birds so fantastically fashioned and coloured that it is impossible to believe that both they and North London are equally real, that one or the other is not a crazy dream. You stand there, a litter of peanut shells and paper bags all round you, with a Stoke Newington dinner inside you struggling with your digestive juices, and you suddenly hear a scream from the jungle and a green and scarlet wing from the Orinoco is flashed at you.

There are links, however, between these two worlds. One of them was standing beside Mr. Smeeth, and wore a short grey beard and a dusty bowler. “Yus,” he remarked, looking at the gorgeous birds, then at Mr. Smeeth, then at the birds again, and doing it masterfully, as if to keep both the birds and Mr. Smeeth there, “yus, I been where them things comes from. Common as sparrers there, yer might say. Bigger than these, too--yus, and brighter colours on ’em. Yus, I been where them birds comes from.”

“Is that so?” said Mr. Smeeth. “And when was this? Not lately, I’ll bet.”

“And you’d win, mister. Forty years ago, that was, in good old Queen Victoria’s time. Ah, yer little devils!” he cried, addressing the birds now. “What d’yer think o’ that, eh? Forty years ago. I left the sea thirty-five years ago, mister, but I’d stopped going to them places five years before I left the sea for good an’ all. Yus, the last five years I was on the North Atlantic run, and you don’t see any o’ them little dazzlers up there--fog and icebergs is what you see up there, mister. But I’ve seen the time when I’ve brought them things ’ome, proper old sailor style. Yus, I have. If yer don’t believe me, ask the pleece; they know everything there is to know, isn’t that so, Sergeant?”

Mr. Smeeth discovered that an acquaintance of his, a Stoke Newington man and a very good hand at a whist drive, Sergeant Gailey of the local division, had strolled up. “Now then, Mr. Lee, telling lies again! Dear, dear, dear! Oh, it’s you, Mr. Smeeth, is it? You’re the victim, this time.”

“That’ll do, Sergeant,” retorted Mr. Lee amiably, “yer only giving away your ignorance. Yer’ve seen nothing yet, and I don’t think yer ever will now. Good afternoon.” And off he toddled.

“You know him, don’t you, Mr. Smeeth?” said Sergeant Gailey. “Oh, he’s a rum old devil. Keeps a second-hand shop--furniture and curios and all that stuff--down by the Green. His daughter runs it now, but it’s his shop, and he’s better off than you’d think, that old devil is. Won’t part with nothing, you know, but his reminiscences and good advice. He’s a character.”

“When he started, I thought he was going to try and cadge a bob,” said Mr. Smeeth, moving away slowly with the sergeant.

“He’d have it all right if you offered it him, though he could buy you and me up, Mr. Smeeth, a good many times. But how are you getting on, these days? Here, what’s the name of that boy of yours?”

“You mean George?”

“That’s right. George Smeeth, Chaucer Road--eh? I saw the name a day or two ago, and thought it must be that boy of yours. We’re having him up at the North London next week, Tuesday, I think.”

“At the North London!” Mr. Smeeth stopped, and gaped at him. “Do you mean the police court?”

“That’s right. Case comes on on Tuesday, I think. What, didn’t you know?”

“No, of course, I didn’t know,” cried Mr. Smeeth in horrified amazement. “Do you mean--my boy George?”

“Here, steady, steady, Mr. Smeeth! We’re not charging him. He’s only up as a witness.”

Mr. Smeeth breathed again, but he was still puzzled and worried, and the sergeant, noticing this, began to explain.

“I don’t know why he’s not told you. It’s one of these car stealing jobs. We’re always getting ’em now. What with cars running over people and then skipping off, and cars in these smash-and-grab outfits, and cars being lost and pinched--coo!--we get a proper packet of cars! I don’t know what the Force did in the old horse traffic days. ’Owever, this is one of the car stealing jobs and by a bit o’ luck _and_ judgment, we traced this particular car to that garage where your lad’s been working lately. Chap o’ the name of Barrett runs it, and between you and me, we’ve had an eye on him for some time. Well, he bought this car--a good car, nearly new; I don’t remember the make, but it was a _good_ car, worth money--for fifteen quid. He doesn’t deny it. Now we’re taking the line that he bought that car knowing it to be stolen, not the property o’ the chap that offered it to him. It’s our belief he’s done this before, and a good many times, too. As I say, we’ve had an eye on him. If he’s not a wrong ’un, I give it up. Whether we’ll get him this time or not, I don’t know. I wasn’t on the case myself. But that fifteen quid’ll take a bit of explaining. They’ll be saying they get cars given ’em soon.”

“But where does George come in?” said Mr. Smeeth, who did not care what happened in the car-stealing world, but cared a great deal about his son.

“Oh, that’s nothing. He worked there, see, and was there when the car went into the garage, and so on. We’ve nothing against him, of course. He’ll only be asked to say what he saw.”

“Thank goodness for that! You gave me a fright, I can tell you, Sergeant. I don’t mean by that, mind you, that I thought for a minute my boy’d be mixed up in anything dishonest. I don’t see as much of him as I ought these days, and he just goes his own way, but I know the boy’s as straight as you like.”

“I’ll bet he is,” said Sergeant Gailey with a certain forced heartiness, which he immediately dropped for a more serious, cautionary tone. “But, all the same, Mr. Smeeth, he ought to have told you, you know. And another thing. You get him away from that garage and that chap Barrett. He’s in bad company there. Doesn’t matter if Barrett walks out of that court next Tuesday with the case against him in bits; never mind about that; you get your boy out of it and away from that chap. If we can’t prove it this time, we’ll prove it next time, and there always is a next time with those cocky birds. I wouldn’t let a boy of mine put his nose in a dump like that.”

“Don’t you worry about that, Sergeant,” cried Mr. Smeeth, his voice trembling with excitement. “George doesn’t stay there another day. I should think not! And I’m very much obliged to you for telling me, Sergeant, very much obliged.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Smeeth. Thought you ought to know. Which way you going now?”

“Straight home. That’s my way now,” replied Mr. Smeeth, and he went as fast as he could go to Chaucer Road. He was still rather alarmed and astonished, for police court affairs were remote from his experience and he had a horror of them, but he was chiefly indignant, indignant at the thought that this business, which took George to court and might take his employer to gaol, should have been kept from him. Did his wife know all about it, and had she deliberately hidden it out of his sight? He could hear her saying to George, “Now don’t you say a word to your father about this. You know what he is.” Yes, something like that. If she really had done that, then they _would_ have a quarrel. This was serious. My word, what a life! You never knew what was happening.

He arrived home to find his wife still absent and Edna and her friend, Minnie Watson, screaming with laughter in the dining-room. “Just a minute, Edna, I want you,” he said sternly. She followed him into the other room.

“Where’s George?”

“I don’t know, Dad. Working, I suppose, down at the garage. What’s the matter?”

“Did you know anything about this police court business?”

Edna stared at him, her chocolate-stained mouth open. “What police court business? What are you talking about, Dad? Has it something to do with George?”

“Never mind about that. You don’t know anything about it, eh?” It certainly didn’t look as if she did, but Mr. Smeeth told himself wearily that you could never tell, not with children like these, such a strange secretive lot. “All right, it doesn’t matter. Where is this garage? You can tell me that, I suppose?”

She gave him precise directions, and ten minutes later he was there, confronting a queer George in greasy overalls, who was doing something incomprehensible to the inside of a car. He was probably astonished to see his father, but he only raised his eyebrows and grinned. George had ceased for some time to show any signs of surprise.

Telling himself that this was his son, who had been a child only yesterday, Mr. Smeeth looked sternly at him, and summoning all the forces of parental authority, he said curtly: “Just clean yourself up and get your hat and coat on, George.”

“What d’you mean, Dad? What’s up? Anything wrong at home?”

“No, there isn’t, but just do what I tell you.”

“Well, I don’t understand.”

“Oh, come outside if you’re going to argue about it,” said Mr. Smeeth impatiently, and led the way out into the street. “It’s the police court business. I’ve just heard all about it.”

“Oh--I see,” said George slowly.

“I’m glad you do see. I’d like to have seen a bit earlier,” said his father bitterly. “Why didn’t you tell me? Have to have a police sergeant telling me what’s happening to my own son!”

“Well, you needn’t go at me, Dad. I’ve done nothing, and they’ll tell you I haven’t.”

“I know all about that. And you’re not going to do anything either. That’s why I came round. You’re finishing here now, George. I was warned not to let you stop on--though I didn’t need any warning. I’m not going to have you mixed up with this sort of business. So you can just tell them you’re finishing now, this minute.”

“Oh, I can’t do that, Dad. We’re busy.”

“I don’t care how busy you are, George. You’ve got to stop.”

“Oh, all right--if you feel like that about it. But look here, Dad, I must finish that job I’m doing now.”

“How long will that take you?”

“Ten minutes. Quarter of an hour. Shouldn’t be longer.”

“All right,” said Mr. Smeeth grimly, “I’ll wait.” And he waited twenty minutes; but at the end of that time George came out, washed and brushed and without his overalls.

“I might have lost the week’s money, walking out like that,” he told his father, “but they paid up--like good sports.”

“Who are ‘they’?”

“There’s another chap running this besides Barrett, a chap called McGrath--proper motor mechanic, he is.”

“And is he a wrong ’un, too?”

“Not more than most. McGrath’s all right.”

“Tell me this, George,” said Mr. Smeeth, halting and looking very earnestly at his son, “did your mother know anything about this police court business?”

“Course she didn’t, Dad. I wasn’t going to tell _her_.”

“I see,” said Mr. Smeeth, relieved to find there had been no general conspiracy. “But why didn’t you tell _me_, boy? I can’t understand you keeping a thing like this to yourself.”

They were walking on again now. “Oh, I didn’t want to bother you about it,” replied George coolly. “I knew there’d be a lot of gassing and fussing if I did. And there was nothing to get excited about. I hadn’t done anything. They weren’t running _me_ in, were they?”

It was incredible. Mr. Smeeth gave it up. Here was this boy of his, who had been playing with clockwork trains on the floor only the day before yesterday, so to speak, and now he could talk in this strain, as cool as you please, as if he were Sergeant Gailey or somebody! Mr. Smeeth waited a minute or two, then said very quietly: “About that car, George--did you know it was stolen?”

George grinned; no wincing, shrinking, anything of that kind; just a plain grin. “I didn’t _know_, but I had a few ideas of my own about it. And about one or two others, too.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you’d a good idea of what was going on there and you didn’t do anything about it?” Mr. Smeeth was shocked and astounded.

“What could I do about it, Dad? If I’d been dragged into it, that would have been different. But they didn’t try. And you needn’t worry--I wouldn’t have had it. Buying cars that have been pinched like that is a mug’s game, if you ask me. Barrett’s a fool, though he’s not a bad sort, really, and he’s treated me all right. Doesn’t know anything about cars though, not like McGrath does. I believe he _had_ to take over some of those cars. I saw one or two fellows who called to see him, and I didn’t like the look of them at all--real toughs, they were. But mind you, Dad, I don’t _know_ anything about those cars, don’t forget that.”

The boy talked about buying stolen cars as if it was simply a little weakness on Barrett’s part, a silly hobby. He didn’t seem to be in the least shocked or frightened. Mr. Smeeth could not make it out at all. It was just as if he had brought up a boy who had suddenly turned into an Indian. The boy was all right, really; he had left the garage without making a fuss; but, nevertheless, his point of view appeared to be whole worlds away from anything his father could understand. “I must say I don’t like to hear you talking like that, George,” he said. “Seems to me you don’t understand the seriousness of this business. It’s criminal, this is, work for the police, and you talk about it as if it was a tea-party or something. Talk like that, and you don’t know where you’ll land yourself.”

“That’s all right, Dad,” said George tolerantly. “Don’t you worry. I can look after myself.”

“Well, you’re going to do it outside that place now,” Mr. Smeeth told him.

“Oh, I meant to leave there soon, anyhow,” George remarked airily.

“I should think so! And the next job you find for yourself, I hope, will be in a concern that the police aren’t interested in. You’d better tell me something about it, first. Easy to get yourself a bad name, y’know, boy, even if you don’t do anything wrong yourself.”

George, who seemed to live in a world in which bad names didn’t count, a world his father didn’t know, made no reply, but merely whistled softly as he walked along. When they arrived home, tea was waiting for them, with Mrs. Smeeth sitting behind the teapot. She was surprised to see George walk in with his father. Mr. Smeeth gave her a look that said “Quarrel or no quarrel, you’ve got to recognize that this is serious,” and cut short her inquiries by remarking, “We’ll have a talk about this afterwards, Mother.”

As soon as the two children were out of the room, he told her what had happened, and she gave him all her attention, realizing at once that this affair transcended any quarrel.

“You did right, Dad,” she told him, when he had finished.

“I hope you realize,” he added, not without bitterness, “that this means the boy may be out of a job for some time, and that means both of them earning nothing. It’s all right, of course, but still--we’ll have to be careful.”

“George’ll soon get something. He always does,” she said confidently. “I shouldn’t wonder if he hasn’t got a better job in his eye now. You were right to do what you did, but you leave him alone now and don’t worry. He’ll find something.”

This seemed a good opportunity to tell what had happened during the earlier part of this eventful day, with special reference to the disturbing rumour about Mr. Golspie. But she wouldn’t listen. She turned herself again into a woman who had quarrelled with him, merely listened to a few words with a distant politeness, excused herself and then gathered up the tea things in a very grand, dignified manner, rather like a duchess visiting a poor cottager. Mr. Smeeth was left to smoke his pipe, alone, a solitary little figure in a huge, dark, mysterious world of cracking walls and slithering foundations, with echoes and rumours of catastrophe in every wind.

IV

On Tuesday morning, Mr. Golspie and Mr. Dersingham spent more than an hour talking together in the private office, and Mr. Smeeth, whose chief duty during that time was to examine a number of replies to Twigg & Dersingham’s advertisement for an office boy, found it difficult to concentrate his attention upon these rather monotonous letters, all in round handwriting that began well, but always wobbled towards the end. He was curious to know what was happening in the private office. Now and again he had heard voices raised, and once the door had opened, so that Mr. Golspie’s booming tones had come flying out into the general office, but the next minute the door had been closed again. Just after half-past eleven, the bell in the private office rang dramatically. Miss Sellers, now the junior, answered it, and came back to say: “Mr. Smeeth, Mr. Dersingham wants to see you.”

The private office was filled with cigar and cigarette smoke, and Mr. Golspie, who stood in front of the fire, his legs wide apart, clearly dominating the scene. Mr. Dersingham, sitting at his table, was rather rumpled and flushed and obviously not at ease.

“A-ha!” Mr. Golspie cried, “here’s Smeeth. He’s the man. He’ll tidy us up a bit. You know, Smeeth, if I’d been as tidy as you, as good at putting down little figures every day, never forgetting ’em, adding ’em up, I’d have been a rich man now.”

“Well, I’m not a rich man, Mr. Golspie,” said Mr. Smeeth, smiling nervously.

“No, but I didn’t say--if I could do that and nothing else, d’you follow me? What I meant was, if I could do what you do, _plus_ what I can already do. I’d be a very rich man now, and you wouldn’t find me in a dustbin, eh? Now if you want to make money, Dersingham, _really_ make money, pile up a big fortune, you’ve only to be like me and like Smeeth here both together, two in one. Quite simple.”

Mr. Dersingham nodded vaguely. He was not interested in this talk and did not like the sound of it, for Mr. Golspie’s voice had dropped into a jeering tone. He caught Mr. Smeeth’s eye, and then began: “Look here, Smeeth, Mr. Golspie and I have come to a new arrangement. I’ll just explain it----”

“Oh, I’ll explain it,” Mr. Golspie broke in roughly. “It’s simple enough. Up to now, I’ve been drawing commission on all this Baltic stuff as soon as it’s delivered to your customers, haven’t I? That’s right. Well, that’s too slow for me. I don’t want to have to wait for my money like that. Some of these new orders are spread over months.”

“Yes, and don’t forget how long we’ll have to wait for our money, Golspie,” said Mr. Dersingham, “or rather, I’ll have to wait for mine.”

“Quite so, sir,” said Mr. Smeeth, who knew how long it took to get accounts settled better than they did.

“That’s up to you,” Mr. Golspie replied, in his hearty brutal way. “I don’t want to point out again that if it hadn’t been for me there’d have been no orders and no money to come in, whether it comes in this year or next.”

“Yes, yes, that’s all right, Golspie. I agree. You needn’t harp on it, needn’t rub it in.”

“Rub it in!” Golspie laughed. “You’re talking now as if you were sore somewhere. There’s nothing to rub in but a lot of good new business. Anyhow, Smeeth, this is the point. I can’t wait now for all this big lot of orders to be delivered. I want my commission on the orders as they stand. They’ve gone through; the stuff’s on the other side all right, as you know; and your people are here all right; so I want my cut now. I’m not as good as you at figures, but that’s what I make it, right up to date.” He handed over a slip of paper. “That’s a rough total, of course.”

It may have been a rough total, but what leaped to Mr. Smeeth’s eye was the fact that it was a surprisingly large total.

“Pretty big, eh? Bigger than you thought, eh? That shows you the business that’s come into this office just lately.”

“It does, Mr. Golspie,” said Smeeth, glancing down at the figure again.

“Yes, that’s true.” Mr. Dersingham’s face cleared at the thought. “Jolly good. Of course, it’s--what-is-it?--phenomenal--a sudden rush, y’know, because they’ve been booking this stuff of yours ahead as fast as they can.”

“Don’t blame ’em,” said Mr. Golspie, looking at his cigar.

“You want me to check this, I suppose?” said Mr. Smeeth, glancing from one to the other.

Mr. Golspie yawned. “That’s it. When can you have it done, with the figures right bang up to date, Smeeth? By to-morrow morning, eh? All right. And you’ll see how you can arrange the payment, Dersingham, eh? Yes, yes, I know how it is--you told me--but if you can split it into three, say, and let me have the first cheque this week and the other two as soon as you can, that’ll do me. I’ll leave you to work it out. I’ll be looking in this afternoon.”

They said nothing until they heard the outer door close behind him and his footsteps die away on the landing. They seemed to be in a much larger room now. Mr. Dersingham himself was much larger. “Get a chair, Smeeth,” he said, and lit another cigarette. They looked at one another through the sudden spurt of smoke from it.

Mr. Dersingham gave a short laugh. “Friend Golspie’s putting the screw on this morning. My God! Smeeth--I’ll tell you candidly--and this is very much between ourselves, you understand--that chap’s getting on my nerves. He’s such a damned outsider, he really is. He’s brought all this business here, it’s true, but--my God!--he doesn’t let you forget it either. If we hadn’t been in such a rotten bad way before he came, well--I don’t know--I think I’d have told him to take his stuff somewhere else. Don’t repeat a word of this, Smeeth, for the love of Mike! But that’s just how I feel, and I must let steam off for a minute. He gets worse. Talk about rough riding or whatever they call it! He’s the complete bouncing bounder. Business may be business, but give me a gentleman to deal with in it, every time. Friend of mine, Major Trape--we were at Worrell together--met the chap at my house, just after he came and I asked him to dinner, the first _and_ the last time, and Trape summed him up after half an hour, and several times since he’s said to me that he wouldn’t have a chap like that working with him, sharing the same office, not if he brought a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of business in his pocket. He’s getting worse, too. Ouf!”

“Well, Mr. Dersingham, you’ve got to meet all kinds in business, haven’t you?” said Mr. Smeeth, astonished at this outburst.

“Looks like it,” replied Mr. Dersingham bitterly. He remained silent for a minute, and his face gradually cleared. “Still, there’s no doubt we’re doing the business. Golspie’s total--and I don’t suppose it’s far out, even though it is rough--surprised me, and of course he’s drawn a fair amount of commission, on the actual deliveries here, already, hasn’t he?”

“I suppose this new arrangement’s all right,” said Mr. Smeeth dubiously.

“If you mean it’s a damned nuisance, I agree with you, Smeeth. It’s that all right. Look what we’ve got to pay him, and he wants it all these next two or three weeks--says he’s a lot of old debts to meet, though God knows where they are. That’s what I want to talk to you about. We’ll have to go into this pretty carefully. I don’t know how much you expect to get in these next two weeks, but I imagine we’ll have to ask the bank to help us out. That’ll be all right, of course, because I can explain to Townley there how we stand.”

Mr. Smeeth nodded. “Well, I suppose it’s all right, sir,” he said once more, still dubiously.

“What do you mean, Smeeth?” Mr. Dersingham was impatient.

“Well,” he hesitated, “I don’t quite know. I’m just wondering if it’s all right.”

“Oh, don’t keep saying that,” cried Dersingham angrily. “Of course it’s all right. I’m not a fool. It’s a nuisance, and I wouldn’t do it if I could help it, but it’s all right. Plenty of fellows who work on commission have this arrangement and get their money as soon as the order goes through.”

“I suppose they do, Mr. Dersingham. But you’re thinking of ordinary travellers, aren’t you, sir, chaps who just get a very small commission, not like this?”

“No, I’m not. I’m thinking of other fellows who--er--work in a big way,” said Mr. Dersingham rather vaguely.

“Suppose Mr. Golspie leaves us? I can’t help thinking about that, you know, sir.”

“Why should he? My hat!--he’s doing well, isn’t he? He’s making more out of this firm than I am, just now. No, I know what you’re thinking, Smeeth, and I know what you’re going to say. You mean, there’s nothing to prevent him walking over to some other firm in our business, if they made it worth his while. Or another thing. He might sell out the whole agency--he’s got a tight grip on that, y’know, Smeeth; I know that for a fact--for this Baltic stuff to somebody else, and then clear out.”

“That’s right, sir. I thought of both those things.”

“And so did I, Smeeth. Don’t you worry about that. I don’t blame you for being cautious--does you credit, and I know you’re a good safe chap--but you mustn’t think I was born yesterday, you know. I don’t pretend to be one of these born City men, the real old cunning sharks--that’s not my style at all, Smeeth, and if I could afford it, I’d be out of business to-morrow and be in some snug little country place--but I’ve had some experience and I’m no fool, y’know. Oh no!” he cried confidently to Mr. Smeeth and perhaps to the listening gods. “I’ve thought about that for some time, and this morning, when he brought up this commission idea and wanted to clear our account at one swoop, for that’s what it amounts to--though he’s earned it fairly, y’know, we must admit that--I tackled him on those points.”

“Oh, I’m glad about that, Mr. Dersingham,” said Mr. Smeeth, greatly relieved.

“Yes, and he agreed to meet me half-way. I agree to pay this commission over to him as soon as possible, and he’ll sign an agreement, promising not to take the agency elsewhere and to see that we keep the agency on here if he decides to clear out. That’s fair enough, isn’t it? You can’t get away from that. In fact, we stand to gain by this new arrangement, don’t we? We’re only paying out, a little in advance, what’s due to him, and on the other hand, we make the business safe for ourselves. If Golspie goes after he’s signed this agreement--and I’m going over to my solicitors this afternoon to have it drafted out; we’ll do it properly--then he leaves us with the new business in our hands, and all I can say is, the sooner he goes the better. And I’ll tell you another thing, Smeeth. When he’s signed this agreement, he’s going to drop some of his little blighterish tricks, that nasty jeering tone of his, because I’m not going to put up with it any longer. I shan’t need to, after this. By George!” and Mr. Dersingham’s voice had a triumphant ring now and he tried to look like a very crafty man of affairs. “I’d never thought of that, not properly. It didn’t occur to me that, after this, if he doesn’t like it, he can lump it, if you see what I mean. He’ll have to change his tune, thank God!”

“Yes, I see, Mr. Dersingham,” said Mr. Smeeth slowly. “It’s funny he didn’t think of that, too, isn’t it?”

“Oh, he wants his money in his pocket. That’s what he’s thinking about. And then he probably imagines I like that nice cheerful manner of his, and like to be told every day or so that if it hadn’t been for him the firm wouldn’t be paying its way. I tell you, these loud bounders never think what’s going on in other people’s minds.”

“I shouldn’t think Mr. Golspie cared very much, certainly,” said Mr. Smeeth thoughtfully. “But I don’t know that I quite see him in that light, though you know him better than I do, I’ll admit that, Mr. Dersingham. But--I don’t know----”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Smeeth,” said Mr. Dersingham, grinning at him, “there are times when you’re just a bit of an old washerwoman, and I’m not sure this isn’t one of them. No, no, don’t mind that--I know you’re a good chap, and I can honestly say I wouldn’t like to run this show without you. Now, look here, will you work out that total properly, as soon as you can, and let me know what we’re likely to get in these next two weeks, what we’ve got in hand, and so on, and then we’ll settle the whole thing. Right you are.”

The latter part of this speech was all so friendly that Mr. Smeeth could not take offence at the “bit of an old washerwoman.” He left the room feeling that he ought to be convinced, and almost ashamed of himself because he could not share Mr. Dersingham’s sudden burst of confidence. The fact remained, though, that he still felt dubious. There was something in Mr. Dersingham’s tone of voice that made him wince. He did not like this easy dismissal of Mr. Golspie; there was a catch in it somewhere; and he felt that Mr. Dersingham was taking the wrong line with Mr. Golspie. What was it that Turgis had said, reporting the daughter? He wondered if he ought to have mentioned that, but then quickly dismissed the possibility. Mr. Dersingham knew what he was doing. He talked as if he did. Indeed, he talked too much as if he did. Mr. Smeeth, with his apprehensive mind, always felt a slight alarm when anybody was triumphantly confident. You had to be careful.

He settled down at his desk, with the various books in front of him, to work out the exact figures. For the next hour he was lost in them, quite happy, at home in this familiar little world of unchanging numerals and balancing columns, this world in which you had only to have patience enough and everything worked out beautifully, perfectly.

V

“And how’s Mr. Benenden?” Mr. Smeeth asked. He had called in the shop as he returned from lunch on Wednesday, and had found the plump niece still behind the counter there.

She remembered him, and at once smiled at the prospect of a little chat and then looked sad because the subject would be her stricken uncle. After that, she compromised neatly between the two. “He’s not as well as he might be, thank you,” she replied. “Now they’ve got him in there and had a good look at him, they’ve found a lot of things wrong with him. He never would go to a doctor himself, didn’t believe in them, he said--you know--silly. No, it isn’t just with him being knocked down like that, though that was bad enough, but they examined him, you see, and now they say he’s not in a good way at all. They may have to operate.”

“That’s bad, isn’t it? What’s wrong exactly?”

“Now I couldn’t tell you. You know what they are in these hospitals. If they know themselves, they don’t let on. I went to see him on Sunday, and I told him about the shop and who’d been in and all that. You’re not Mr. Bromfield, are you?”

“No. My name’s Smeeth.”

“Mr. Smeeth. Yes, that’s right. He mentioned you as well.”

“Did he now?” Mr. Smeeth felt all the gratification of a person who has been singled out, no matter by whom. “Asked if I’d been in, I suppose, eh? Well, I wish you’d tell him how sorry I am to hear he’s laid up. Tell him I say that Angel Pavement doesn’t seem the same place without him. And I hope he’s stirring again soon.”

“Yes, I will.” The plump young woman hesitated a moment. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Smeeth, if you just happened to have a spare half-hour this afternoon, perhaps you might like to go and see him. It’s visiting day up there to-day, you know. Three to four. My mother’s going about half-past three, but if you could have a look at him, just to give him a word or two and pass the time of day, sometime before then, just after three, he’d be ever so pleased. But perhaps you’re busy.”

“I don’t know.” Mr. Smeeth thought it over, then looked at his watch. “I think I will, you know. It wouldn’t take me long to slip round to Bart’s. Where shall I find him?”

She gave him elaborate directions. He remembered then that he had wanted to have a word with Brown & Gorstein, whose place was just off Old Street. He could go round to Bart’s first, and then up to Brown & Gorstein’s. It did not look like being a very busy afternoon, and he had still three-quarters of an hour in which to clear up a few odds and ends of jobs in the office before he went.

At three o’clock he came out into Little Britain, beneath the innumerable blue-curtained windows of Bart’s new building. As he crossed the road, something huge in the sky, to the left, caught his eye and made him stop and look that way when he reached the other pavement. It was the dome of St. Paul’s, and never before had he seen it look so massive and majestic; it was almost frightening. He had never seen the dome from that distance and that particular angle before, and it was as if he was seeing it for the first time. He might have been in a strange city. For once his sense of wonder was quickened, and after that, throughout the afternoon, until he returned to the office, it never slept. The wide space between the main entrance to the hospital and Smithfield Market was filled with carts coming from the market, a very decided smell of meat, and a narrowing stream of people, mostly women carrying paper bags and little bunches of flowers, who were pouring into the hospital entrance. It was all very strange to him, for he had not been near a hospital for years and had never visited one of this size before. It was like walking into a fantastic little town, a strange city within the city. He went through an archway and found himself in a great courtyard or quadrangle with a fountain in it. Here there was all the bustle of a market-place, but not of any market-place he had ever seen before. Doctors in white coats and bare-headed students ran in and out of the many doorways; nurses fluttered snowily across the quadrangle; and now and then he caught a glimpse of a patient, strapped and rigid on a stretcher, being wheeled away to God knows where. One passed him close, and he saw a face cut out of yellow bone and staring unfathomable eyes. It was terrifying. The whole place, this little town of white uniforms and mysterious silent traffic within the roaring city, terrified him. He could have sworn that the little pain somewhere inside began tick-ticking again; and for a moment or two it seemed to him astonishing that he should still be one of the uneasy invaders swarming in here, one of the workers, eaters, drinkers, smokers, pleasure lovers, movers about, from outside. Any day now, he felt, he would be on one of those stretchers.