Chapter III: Part 3

Assuming that you stay at Zwinger’s, this is what happens. The carrier of your bag (who looks like a fisherman, and walks as a fisherman, but is not a fisherman) throws it down outside the restaurant, and, sinking on one of the green iron chairs, groans aloud a protest against the scheme by which one has to work ere one can gain five pence; he rolls a cigarette of black tobacco, and strikes a match which makes other customers choke and cough. Then comes, leisurely, one of the Misses Zwinger, accepting salutations with the austere air of a lady bored by deference. Miss Zwinger, without asking the desires or wishes of the new arrival, engages in swift and shrill altercation with a dog, hitherto inoffensive, and occupied with the duties of explorer at the kerb; the dog goes, but, at a safe distance, expresses an opinion by four sharp barks, that bring from every corner of the triangular market-place, and especially from the Town Hall at the base, several dogs, to whom he explains the grievance.

“You require?”

Miss Zwinger calls her sister from the sanded floor interior to help with the task of fending off an insurgent boarder. The restaurant is full; you may be able to engage a furnished room opposite; why not go to the hotel out in the forest? It is preferred, at this season, to take only those who wish to stay for a month; would a double-bedded room suit? Finally, having finished the duet, they leave, with a twirl of skirts, giving the centre of the stage, so to speak, to a short, grim, black-capped man who, hands deep in trousers pockets, talks as one giving an imitation of distant thunder. Outside clients rise from their chairs, inside customers put down ribald journals with pictures intended to be amusing, and stroll out to enjoy themselves. Here comes the final test of the novice.

I have seen young couples, husbands and wives, or brothers and sisters, come from the narrow lane and, recognising Zwinger’s, say instantly:

“Oh, my goodness! This will never do!”

Others (and these especially when ladies have been of the party) retire after the contest with the Misses Zwinger. Some, enduring this encounter, turn and run, trembling and affrighted, on being faced by the uncompromising host himself. A few (mostly artists) survive all of the dangers, and are grudgingly permitted to carry their bags up a narrow wooden staircase, and find a room, the number of which has been screamed at them: in the room they discover a milk jug nearly half-full of water, and a small damp piece of linen riding on the clothes-horse. Apart from these defects, I will say that Zwinger’s, once conquered, gives in, so far as bedroom and meals are concerned, with a fairly good grace.

Dinner in the large room at the back (entrance gained by way of the kitchen) is a good, sufficient meal, to which it is only necessary to bring the appetite to be gained by wandering in the woods, or a brisk ride in tramcars from the sea. Framed paintings on the wall, and paintings on the wall with no frames, some a trifle obscured by age, and possessing the signatures of men no longer youthful. Four tables up and down the room; the table on the right reserved for a set of young women who, at the beginning of the evening meal, talk so persistently of the contributions they have made during the day to the art of England and America, that one’s French neighbour, with serviette tucked in at throat, can, I fear, scarcely hear himself eat his soup.

“Most awfully pleased with what I’ve done to-day. If the light hadn’t begun to go off—”

“I’m like that, too. Sometimes I simply can’t do anything, and then, another time—”

“My dear, the model was too comic for words. Talking all the time. If I’d only understood what he was saying, I could write a book about him, and that’s a fact!”

“Absolutely in love with the place. Could stay here for a whole week, only I must be getting along.”

The serving of the meal has a touch of over-emphasis that sometimes startles those who possess nerves; after a while, one becomes accustomed to the method of banging each dish on the table with a clatter. It is no exaggeration, but the mere truth to say that, a request being made for more bread, a chunk is cut from the yard-long loaves and thrown at the diner; with practice, a certain dexterity can be gained, especially by those expert in the cricket-field. Five courses to the meal, and now and again between two, a considerable interval, whilst the Zwinger family and its dependents have a row in the kitchen, the guests sitting back patiently until the last word is uttered. The nice question of allotting this last word is not easy to decide, for when the rumbling bass of Zwinger has fired what appears to be a parting shot, and the girls return to the dining-room with plates, and guests pull chairs forward, one of the young women may think of another argument, and the two go back to the kitchen, where the dispute recommences. The quarrel finally at an end, the Zwinger ladies come in, scarlet as a result of animated discussion, and they serve the next course with more than usual truculence. Boarders go outside to take their coffee and to smoke, eyed narrowly, as they pass through, by Zwinger, to be joined at tables on the pavement by wonderful youths in corduroy suits, which suggest that they are either artists with a definite aim in life, or porters belonging to the railway of the North.

You can always tell at Zwinger’s a new arrival by the circumstance that, after taking some thought in regard to the arrangement and wording of the phrase, he advances to the counter, where Zwinger scowls in a manner that excuses the acidity of contents of some of the bottles ranged there.

“It makes good weather,” remarks the new arrival, cheerily.

Zwinger replies with an ejaculated grunt.

“Many of the world here?”

Zwinger—a most difficult speaker to report with accuracy—says something like “S-s-t!”

“If you will have the kindness to give me a good cigar.”

Zwinger pushes a box forward, and the perplexed new arrival, tempted, I am sure, to fall back on Ollendorf, and to ask for the new inkstand of his great-uncle, refrains from further speech, and tempts the fates by making selection from the compartment marked 15 c. Outside he, on explaining his grievance, ascertains that there is no need to feel specially dishonoured by the gruffness accorded to him. Zwinger must not be considered with the eye that one gives to, say, the manager of the Carlton away in London. Zwinger (declare the hopeful) may be right enough once you get to know him. Zwinger (admit the candid) is certainly trying, but you have to put up with something in coming to a quiet place of this kind. The tramcars clang, and hoot, and screw across the market-place, and provide a more pleasing subject for conversation.

Disappearance of the curfew bell might have been coincident with the entry of Zwinger into public life. At a quarter past ten, he shows signs of restlessness, jerking commands to the long man-servant, keeping at the doorway a keen eye on the round tables. As each becomes free, Zwinger orders it, with its chairs, to be taken inside, and, although he permits himself to exhibit no signs of gratification, I am certain he feels secretly pleased when small parties of young men come across, and, finding no place, give up their original intention. If they endeavour to pass through the doorway, Zwinger, taking no notice of them, remains there so stolidly that they are compelled to take notice of him. I have seen him snatch newspapers from the hands of those who appeared disinclined to observe the face of the clock: I have observed him give a hint to an occupied chair by kicking it. He turns down the lights, one by one. In desperate cases, where a couple of young Englishmen, with the conventional ideas of the licence enjoyed at restaurants abroad, fill a fresh pipe, I have seen him take a broom, and, with a few resolute strokes, send them choking and half-blinded from the restaurant. When a late-stayer, with an idea of making a good and amiable exit, says, in departing, “Good-night to the company!” Zwinger responds with one of those grunts not to be found in any French or English dictionary. Every one gone, he takes a black cigar from the case, orders the girls to go to bed, and, at the doorway, stands a good half-hour in order to enjoy the satisfaction of saying, when any one arrives, “Closed!”

Bad luck for any resident who returns so late that Zwinger has retired to rest. For him, the restaurant presents no light, and, if he cares to be well-advised, he will give up the attempt at once and spend the hours on the bridge, smelling the tide, and watching the flashlight that sweeps round from a point on the coast. Should he prove obstinate, and persist in knocking, he is engaged on a lengthy sport; the worst thing that can happen is that Zwinger himself, and not the long man-servant, should come down presently to give admission. Cheerful blades have, ere this, on the door being opened, tried to meet Zwinger with a pleasantry, affecting to have brought the milk, or giving an imitation of the crowing of a cock, but a look from Zwinger arrests. Others, less daring and more diplomatic, rush past, snatch their candlestick from the counter, and vanish with the celerity easy to those possessed by sudden fear; the next morning they go out by the side door, take a roundabout route to gain the other side of the market-place, cross the bridge, and hide in the forest. There is a report (which some credit, but I do not) of one young man, leaving after a stay of six weeks, during which time the proprietor exchanged no word with him; in going, he suddenly dropped his kit bag, seized Zwinger by the hand, wrung the hand with enthusiasm for the space of nearly a minute, thanking the astonished Zwinger the while for great amiability and kindness, and genial behaviour; expressing a fervent hope that Zwinger, when visiting Chelsea, would not fail to call at the Art Club in Church Street. The statement is that this was done for a bet. Those who assume it to be true are forced to admit that France, with all its stirring history, has rarely seen a braver act.

Yet I, who write these words, have seen the proprietor for one whole day change his outlook, reverse his manner, alter his deportment. The day came rather late in the season, and nearly every one had left, but corroborative evidence can be called if necessary. The night before, a hint, broad without being deep, was given by the Misses Zwinger to the effect that no guarantee existed that meals would be provided on the day: they pointed out the example which would be adopted by some other boarders, of catching the 10.23 in the morning to a neighbouring town, returning in the evening by the 9.48. Throughout the night, from half-past ten until an hour I am unable to fix, the noise of sawing, the thud of hammer and nails, went on in the restaurant, with all the usual arguments that arise when carpentry has to be done. Clatter and contention, bustle and loud voices; Zwinger, himself, growling now and again to express dissatisfaction with everything. I remember that, by the device of making sympathetic inquiries after rheumatism, it was possible in the morning to get from cook a roll and a cup of coffee, and to escape from the din, which had recommenced, through the convenient side door, and jump on the last carriage of a tram-train that went out to the sea. At one o’clock, the return.

A crowd outside Zwinger’s. A crowd made up of frock-coated men, with red ribbon in buttonhole; men in full evening dress, silk hats (some of which appeared, from their shapes, to be the results of investments in the ’eighties), a few bowler hats coming well down to the ears; boots, in certain instances, shining and pointed, in others more substantial, with dust collected from high-roads. Much lifting of these silk hats and these bowlers, with extraordinary deference on the part of many, beaming condescension on the part of the rest; an evident desire with the prosperous to set the remainder at their ease. Inside the restaurant, long tables set on trestles, that accounted for the turbulent proceedings which had broken the night, flowers in every spare mug, vase, or glass: flags dependent from the ceiling; the Misses Zwinger, costumed as though about to run on in musical comedy. Through the kitchen came, pulling his white tie, and pushing in one side of a shirt-front that immediately bulged out on the other side, Zwinger himself. A new Zwinger, a Zwinger I had never seen before, a smile in every crease of his features, saluting me with a light, friendly touch on the shoulder.

“What magnificent weather! Ah, how fortunate we are! Monsieur will do us the honour to sit down with us? But yes. I count upon you! Marie, Jeannette!”

He gave sprightly orders to his girls, and passed out to be received with something that resembled long-continued cheers. All came in ten minutes later, Zwinger leading the way, and escorting a prosperous man with the figure of an American desk, who, in acknowledging my bow, gave to himself a third chin. Zwinger, having placed him at the top of one of the long tables, bustled around, urging the rest to take their seats, giving a shout of welcome to late comers, and presently taking a chair at the lower end of the second long table with myself on his right, a Mr. Honoré on his left.

“Much flattered!” said Mr. Honoré, accepting the introduction.

“Seated,” declared Zwinger of himself, jovially, “seated between two good friends.”

Red wine stood on the white-clothed tables, and this gave me a moment of depression, until Zwinger, on soup being cleared, whispered to me a reassuring word, and I found that, despite similarity of labels, the contents of the bottles had no resemblance or likeness to the beverage usually supplied. Talk up and down the tables was mainly of births, marriages, and deaths, with, now and again, a description of recent illness. Also, the state of trade and the condition of agriculture, and a few references to politics, so guarded that I knew it could not be a lunch given in the interests of any political party. I asked a question.

“Wait!” said Zwinger, mysteriously.

I give you my word of honour that he winked.

At the end of the meal—a good meal, well-cooked, and served in a way that had nothing of the slap-dash-bang to which one was accustomed in the dining-room—Zwinger went around with cigars, pressing the best and longest upon the acceptance of the company, detained frequently in the course of his tour by affectionate greetings, by honest congratulations on the meal. He spoke in the ear of the Chairman—a Sub-Prefect, so Mr. Honoré assured me, nothing less—and scuttled back to his seat just in time to assume an attitude of listening as the Chairman rose.

We were assembled, said the Chairman, to honour and acclaim once more the day of September, that was ever in our hearts. (Very good.) We were assembled to do honour to those who fought with us on that great day, and fell beside us for the honour and glory of France. (Very good, very good.) We were here— The Chairman called gesture to the aid of eloquence, swinging his left arm with a backward movement; guests leaned forward to miss nothing, their faces becoming flushed as he proceeded, eyes filling as he recited the names of those who had gone from this world since the last meeting. His rapidity of utterance increased: the guests panted as they followed eagerly: one man rose in his excitement, and neighbours pulled him down. At the door of the kitchen, the two girls, bearing trays of coffee, waited, trembling with excitement so that the cups rattled. A perfect cascade of phrases; glory, country, honour, comrades, revenge, every word rushing past the others, and then Zwinger sprang to his feet, echoed the toast wildly, and, holding his glass, clinked it with mine, clinked it with Mr. Honoré’s, saluted the company, drank, and sat down.

* * * * *

The carpenters were early at work the following morning, joining thus to their duties the functions of an alarum clock. As I went out for a stroll at eight, intending to go so far as the fringe of the woods and back, I saw Zwinger walking up and down outside the restaurant, his hands deep in jacket pockets.

“My felicitations,” I said, cheerily, “on the enormous success of—”

Zwinger gave one of his monosyllables that express disinclination for speech, disinclination to listen to speech from other people. Turning, he slippered away.

IX—THE LEADING LADY

TO tell the truth, I was not feeling in my best form. Just before entering the tramcar I had a brief dispute with my mother in regard to the contents of a fruit-shop at the beginning of Gray’s Inn Road. There are many subjects on which the two of us fail to see eye to eye, and frequently a somewhat acrimonious debate ends in triumph on her side. At times, we get along admirably together; at others a recommendation from her that I should not exhibit temper goads me into something like fury. The storm over, I am sorry that it happened. My mother has often remarked that I can be a perfect lady when I like.

“Not a one to nurse a grievance,” she adds. “A couple of minutes and it’s all past and forgotten.”

Our entry into the car was scarcely auspicious, partly because the question of cherries had not vanished from my thoughts, partly because I wanted to go up the steps and my mother was resolved to go inside; the conductor spoke sharply, and my mother resented his tones. He expressed satisfaction in the knowledge that all passengers did not closely resemble us, and my mother retorted that if there were many conductors of his style people would prefer to walk. He said he supposed that she, being a woman, would insist on having the final word, and my mother suggested it must give him a nasty shock to find himself correct for the first time in his life; she added something about his features which struck me as being not in quite the best taste. I tugged at her arm.

“You be quiet!” she said to me sharply. “Perfect worry, that’s what you are. Catch me ever letting you come out again to look at the shops!”

The car started from Holborn on its twopenny journey to Stamford Hill in these circumstances. The conductor, in collecting fares, scowled at me, and I frowned back at him; before going up the steps he looked in again to say ironically that we were a pretty pair. A young man with his sweetheart seated next to us thought the remark was addressed to him, and there ensued a fresh wrangle, at the end of which the youth took the conductor’s number, and half the passengers said the conductor had not gone outside the bounds of common civility; the other half referred to him as a Jack-in-office. The young woman spoke to me and made some complimentary allusion to my looks and general appearance.

“Keep still!” ordered my mother. “I won’t have you talking to Tom, Dick, and Harry.”

I knew that argument was useless; it would have been a waste of time to point out that these names could not be rightly applied to my new friend. She, an amiable person, showed me the Holborn Town Hall, and remarked that she sometimes went to concerts there; the reference must have suggested something to me, for, despite my mother’s efforts to restrain, I lifted up my voice and sang. It was but a simple melody, but the earnestness I put into it seemed to touch the hearts of other passengers, and when I finished they had ceased the dispute regarding the conductor and were nodding to me pleasantly.

“Less noise inside there!” commanded the conductor, returned from upstairs.

“Let her sing if she wants to,” said a matronly woman near the door.

“I’m not a-going to have this tramcar turned into a Queen’s Hall,” he declared, “and you ought to know yourself better than encourage her.”

“I was young myself once.”

“That wasn’t yesterday,” he suggested.

The song had received so much favour that I considered the wisdom of giving them either another or diversifying the entertainment by offering some of my celebrated imitations. These have always been highly successful at home and at the houses of relatives; an uncle of mine remarked on one occasion that they were far and away superior to the originals. I had not, however, previously attempted them before an audience of strangers, and this, for the moment, made me shy and nervous. The moment of hesitation over, I started.

“Now, that’s what I call clever,” said the young man near to us. “Milly, if you could only do something like that I might get reelly fond of you!”

My first idea was to make eyes at him; reflection told me that the love of a man who was so easily influenced could never be worth having, and I reassured the girl with a smile. Glancing up and down the car, I could see that I had now secured complete attention. Men had folded up evening newspapers, and were waiting to see what I would do next; women beamed in my direction and one opposite offered me chocolates. I took the box, but my mother, whose knowledge of the rules of etiquette forms the subject of one of her proudest boasts, said it would be more genteel to select only one of the sweets. I accepted the hint, and my mother—now in good temper, and making no attempt to conceal the fact—remarked to the others that I had always been noted for excellence of behaviour.

I gave next a recitation—one of my own composition—a short but telling piece, with somewhat humorous references to the incident of a cat who found its saucer of milk empty. This went only fairly well; I think I must give more care to voice-production. The matronly lady near the door asked what it was supposed to be all about, and my mother readily furnished a sort of synopsis. Some one begged I would sing again, but, discouraged by the cool acceptance of the recital, I declined, until my mother begged and entreated me not to sing. At the conclusion there was that genuine and hearty applause which every public performer recognises and welcomes.

“Bless my soul!” cried some of the passengers, “Shoreditch Church, already!” They said goodbye to me, and I endeavoured to thank them for their kindness in listening to my poor efforts. One offered me a coin, which I flung upon the floor. I am an amateur, not a professional.

It was as the car went up Stoke Newington Road that I introduced my most diverting item. It has always pleased, but I was not certain that here it would be appreciated. The idea is to begin with a smile, to allow the smile to broaden and become more pronounced; this is followed by a chuckle, and then comes a peal of laughter. My mother identified the early stages, and, trembling with pride, warned the rest to pay special and particular notice. I am not exaggerating when I say that in less than a minute I had the whole car with me—every one amused, some roaring. The conductor put his hand over his face, but was compelled to give way, and he went so far as to admit, very handsomely, that it was the funniest thing he had witnessed outside the Dalston Hippodrome.

“Don’t tire yourself, darling,” begged my mother solicitously, and speaking in aristocratic tones. “Be careful not to overdo it. You know what you’re like when you’ve been excited.”

I pushed her advice aside, and when the car slowed up near the station I do believe all who were going on to the terminus felt honestly sorry to see me preparing to leave. As we stood on the pavement—the conductor had given us a hand, and he apologised for brusqueness of behaviour at the start, explaining that there had been an awkward passenger on the previous journey, and they had come to words—as we stood, I say, on the pavement, every one in the car waved hands, and the young man, I was gratified to notice, blew a kiss.

“Hullo, Ernest!” said my mother. “Here we are at last. Been waiting long?”

“Months and months and months,” replied my father. “What sort of a girl has she been? Baby,” he went on, addressing me, and taking me in his arms, “you may be as clever as your mother tries to make out, but I take me oath you don’t get none the lighter as time goes on!”

X—TIME’S METHOD

“TRAIN rather late, surely,” remarked Mr. Chelsfield deferentially to the Inspector.

“What do you expect?” demanded the official, turning upon him suddenly. “What do you look for at a time like this?”

“My son!” replied the other, with pride. “Me and his mother have give him six months at a boarding-school in Kent, and he’s coming home this afternoon.”

“I don’t mean what you mean.” The Inspector became more calm as he essayed the task known to railway men as knocking sense into the heads of the public. “What I intended to say was that at this time of the year, and with all these specials about, it’s only reasonable to assume that the ordinary trains— See what I’m driving at, don’t you? Steam’s a wonderful invention, but we can’t do impossibilities. Think of the old coaching-days; what must it have been like then?”

“His mother’s waiting at home, else I shouldn’t be so eager.”

“Ah!” said the Inspector, with a touch of either sentiment or condescension. “We all know what women are.”

Mr. Chelsfield, walking along the platform with the Inspector for the sake of company and the encouragement of warmth, had to admit that he felt equally anxious, and offered the present of a cigar which he described as harmless; the official accepted it graciously, and promised to make it the subject of an experiment on the following Sunday afternoon. In return he gave the latest news from Chislehurst, and guaranteed to eat his silk hat if the Emperor recovered. He felt sorry for Napoleon, and expressed the view that it was a pity there was only one son in the family. Nice enough young fellow, it was true; he had shaken hands with the Inspector once, but if anything happened to the Prince Imperial, where would they be? The Inspector’s estimate of the right number in a family coincided with the number in his own.

“This,” said Mr. Chelsfield, with a nod in the direction of the down line—“this is the only one we’ve got. Only one we ever had.”

“Take care not to spoil him. That’s always the risk when there’s only one. Now my six— Here’s the train signalled. Get to the other end of the platform, and then you can’t miss him.”

The platform was long under its wooden roof, and Mr. Chelsfield could not move with the celerity he had shown in the early ’sixties; some of his colleagues at the warehouse said it was rheumatism, but he declared it to be only a slight stiffness of the joints. Passengers were going through the barrier, and, flushed by anxiety, he looked about; presently made a dash through the crowd, seized a lad who wore a mortar-board, and pinched his ear affectionately. On the lad turning and demanding an explanation, Mr. Chelsfield apologised for his error, and hurried off to continue his search.

“Three hours and a half,” said the friendly Inspector later. “That’s what it is before the next. It isn’t worth while waiting if you only live up in Holborn. Hop into a ’bus outside the station.”

“I must,” Mr. Chelsfield admitted concernedly. “I’m bound to go back and tell his mother. She’ll be out of her mind else.”

“Just my argument,” claimed the Inspector. “Now, if you’d got six, like I have—”

Mr. Chelsfield stepped out of the omnibus at Chancery Lane, and, paying the conductor, went along to Bedford Row with some wisps of the straw belonging to the conveyance attached to his boots. He felt himself to be on the edge of a painful scene, and wondered where he should find the sal volatile if it happened to be wanted. The front door of the offices, with its elaborate knocker, was open, and he went slowly downstairs to the living-rooms.

“Well?” said his wife. He shook his head. “Speak up!” she commanded; “I can’t hear when you turn your face to the wall and mumble like that.”

He gave the explanation and waited for signs of collapse.

“You’re a pretty one to send to a railway-station, and no mistake!” she remarked, taking off the tea-cosy. “Another time I must go myself.”

“None for me, mother,” he said desolately. “I couldn’t drink it even if you poured it out. Wonder what’s happened to the boy?”

“How should I know?”

He walked up and down the room, looked through the window at the iron grating, and rubbed his head furiously with a red pocket-handkerchief, the wife watching him with an amused expression. As she took the knife in order to cut the home-made cake, still warm from the oven, he raised his hand as a feeble protest against asking him to taste food.

“Can we have the winder open?” he asked submissively. “This room seems stuffy to me, or else it is that I’m upset. I feel—I feel as though I can’t sit down at this table.”

“Suppose,” said his wife, with a wink—“suppose you have a look underneath it.”

The boy crawled out, smoothed his hair, and submitted a forehead to his parent; the mother came near to choking with delight at the success of her elaborate scheme, and presently leaned head exhaustedly against the antimacassar which protected the back of the horsehair easy-chair. How on earth had they missed each other?—that was what the delighted father wanted to know. Henry must have jumped out of the train and cut away uncommonly sharp. Henry, permitted under the special circumstances to discard convention and begin with cake, working back through the toast to the bread and butter, confessed that he had lost no time.

“But, my lad,” urged his father more seriously, “you knowed that I was coming to meet you.”

“Had another fellow with me,” replied the boy.

“Oh!”—arresting a doubled piece of bread and butter on its way from the plate—“and didn’t you want him to see me?”

“Don’t be silly, father!” interposed the mother. “Henry, my child, ask if you want a second piece.”

“It wasn’t exactly that,” said the boy.

“Then, perhaps, you’ll kindly tell me what was the reason. Come on, now; out with it! I want an answer.”

“Thought perhaps you might kiss me, father. And Watherston standing by.”

“Very natural on the boy’s part,” declared the mother. “You forget that Henry’s growing up. He doesn’t mind it in private, but there comes a time when a boy doesn’t want all this fuss in public.”

“If that was the only reason—” said the father.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full!” ordered his wife. “You never see Henry do it. And one arm off the table, if you please.” Her husband obeyed, taking up an attitude of greater precision and obvious discomfort. “That sounds like Gleeson & Co. going out; I shall have to see about my pail and flannel, and get up there and do their floor.”

“I thought—” began the boy sharply.

“We decided otherwise, my dear,” she said. “We didn’t settle it in a hurry by any means; your father and me talked it over night after night, and eventually we came to a definite conclusion.”

“You see, my lad”—the father took up the explanation—“there was money going out for your schooling, and provisions don’t get no cheaper, and we was both anxious not to touch the little nest-egg we’ve put by. Besides”—with spirit, on noting the crimson look of annoyance on his son’s face—“besides, it’s purely a matter for us to settle. If your mother doesn’t mind going on with the housekeeper work, and if I don’t object to her doing it, why, there’s nothing more to be said.”

The tea-table endured a silence of nearly a minute. The two parents examined the pattern of the oilcloth that covered it.

“Pardon me,” said the boy, with the new manner acquired at the boarding-school, “but am I to understand that my feelings are not to be considered in the matter?”

The mother put out her hand quickly and patted her husband’s arm, upraised to give a gesture that would emphasise his reply. He dropped it, and took a long, loud drink from a saucer that trembled.

“We can talk about this,” she said hurriedly, “another time. We shall have a clear fortnight, Henry, before you start work. Say grace!” They bowed their heads, and joined in the Amen. “Did you make some nice new friends at the boarding-school, my dear? We’ve arranged all about your party for the fifteenth, and I think, by a little scrounging and a hand-round supper, we ought to be able to manage twelve. Including us three, that is. If we go over that, there’s always the risk of having the unlucky number, and that spoils everybody’s pleasure. Come along with me, and we can have a good talk over the arrangements whilst I’m tying on my apern. What I was wondering was whether we should have all boys, old friends of yours about the neighbourhood, or whether to invite a few girls. There’s your friend Jessie,” she bustled on waggishly. “We mustn’t let her feel neglected. Always asks after you, Jessie does.” She lowered her voice. “Your father’s got the idea into his head that the boarding-school may have induced you to be high and mighty, and make you look down on them and us. But of course, my dear, I know better.”

The boy was leaning against the stout oak door later, as his mother cleaned and hearthstoned the steps; two minutes, she remarked, and her work would be over. In reply to his urgent appeal, she gave a promise that so soon as he began to earn money the work should be finished for good. A lad in a mortar-board came through from the direction of Holborn, and strolled up on the other side, examining the numbers. Attracted by the sound of voices, he crossed over and spoke.

“I say, my good woman,” he said, with cheerful condescension, to the kneeling figure, “Number thirty-five, I want. These figures are so confoundedly indistinct. Name, Chelsfield—Henry Chelsfield. Can you tell me where I shall find him?”

“You haven’t fur to go,” she remarked, and beckoned with her handful of flannel. “I must apologise for being caught in my disables,” she went on, levering herself up with the aid of the pail. “Shan’t hear the last of this for a long time. Still, as I say, we’ve all got to live.”

Her son came forward, and, waiting for the introduction, she smoothed her grey hair with the back of a wet hand. The boy’s father came out, too, wearing a tasselled smoking-cap rakishly; to honour the occasion he had lighted the fellow to the cigar given away to the friendly Inspector.

“Hullo, Chelsfield!”

The boy glanced at his mother, looked over a shoulder at his father. He hesitated for a moment, then cleared the damp steps at a single jump, and taking his friend’s arm, led him across the roadway.

“Called round, Chelsfield,” the mortar-board lad said, “called round at once to tell you that I find I’m engaged two deep for the evening you’ve fixed for Drury Lane. Now, what I want to suggest is this. How about you changing your date?”

The father and mother stood just outside the doorway, speaking no word, but listening and waiting. The visitor made a movement to re-cross, but Henry detained him. The mother coughed in order to give a reminder of her presence. The visitor, breaking off in the discussion, recommended that Henry should fetch a cap and stroll with him as far as Gray’s Inn Road and see him into a Favorite omnibus for the return to Islington. Henry ran in, with a mumbled explanation to his parents.

“Quite an old-fashioned bit of London here,” remarked the polite boy.

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Chelsfield, coming forward eagerly. “Oh, yes, sir. People often notice that. Years ago, I b’lieve, quite aristocrats used to live here. London’s changing.”

“Improving,” suggested the lad.

“I reckon the next thirty years will show a lot of difference. Me and the wife,” he continued, with a jerk of the head towards her, “me and her, we recollect ’Olborn, of course, long before the Viaduct was opened. Previous to that—”

Their boy came out between them with a rush.

“Ready, Chelsfield?”

“Quite ready, Watherston,” he replied, nervously and briskly.

“Sorry to have missed seeing your people,” remarked the polite lad, as they went off arm-in-arm. “Perhaps some other time I may have the pleasure.”

“Perhaps!” he said.

* * * * *

The space of time mentioned by old Chelsfield elapsed, but he prevented himself from enjoying the content of a successful prophet by commencing rather absurdly to break up in health almost immediately after venturing upon the tolerably safe anticipation. Amongst the changes of thirty years was the fact that Chelsfield, as a name, had become better known; even the folk who flew through the main streets of London on motor omnibuses, and had to give nearly all their attention to the holding on of hats, could not evade recognition of the hoardings; the Chelsfield posters declined to be ignored. If you closed your eyes to these, you were nearly sure to encounter the name in your daily paper. If you missed it in your daily paper, it came into the letter-box, marked “Very Important.” If you dodged it there, it confronted you on your theatre programme at night. Leaving the theatre and endeavouring to forget the name, you saw it at a popular corner, being written with great deliberation in illuminated letters, as though some invisible giant had made up his mind to grasp the rudiments of education.

Henry Chelsfield himself was not insensible to the determined appeals, and, going home in his electric brougham, he counted them. Thus one evening he found a dreary gap between the Cobden statue and the Britannia, and immediately made memorandum of the circumstance in his note-book, in order that the deplorable omission might be attended to on the following day. All very well for the advertising agents to send him a box for the theatre, but these people had to be kept up to the mark.

“I can be amiable enough,” he said to the clock inside the brougham, “in private affairs, but I’m very different where money matters are concerned.”

Chelsfield might be flattering himself, or he might be telling the truth; anyhow he was a Londoner, with a Londoner’s weakness for orders for the play. That was why he had left his offices early; that was why he proposed to eat at an unusual hour; that was why, on arriving at Hampstead, he ordered the man to bring the brougham round again at half-past seven. He dined alone, with a portrait of a good-looking woman, painted by Herkomer, facing him; at her side a lad, with small eyes rather close to each other. Chelsfield lifted his glass when the two maids had left the room and said:

“Jessie!”

He did not drink a toast to the boy.

Watherston, from a house nearer the Heath, came in as Chelsfield pretended to smoke a cigarette—he had been thinking that one man in a private box would present a lonely figure to the audience; the gallery would say that he had no friends—and Watherston asked to be excused for once from joining in a game of billiards.

“Nothing could have happened better!” cried Chelsfield, arousing himself. “You have only to run home and jump into evening dress, and—”

“My boy wants me to take him to see the conjuring people at St. George’s Hall.”

“You’re not spoiling that lad of yours, I hope, Watherston?”

“I’m not spoiling my lad,” retorted Watherston, speaking with emphasis. The two men gazed at each other with the sudden acerbity of manner that comes at times to the closest friends. Chelsfield’s eyes went presently to the fruit on the table. “Ever hear anything of yours?” demanded Watherston, following up his advantage.

“There’s no doubt whatever,” replied Chelsfield testily, “that he disappeared in South Africa. I don’t want to discuss the matter again. He was older than your boy. And you know as well as I do that after his mother died he went to the bad.”

“You told him to stay there?”

“I can give you and your lad a lift as far as Kingsway,” said Chelsfield, “if that’s of any use.”

“It won’t be much help to us,” replied his friend candidly; “but we shall be company for you.”

The Watherston boy was enthusiastic about the swift ride, enthusiastic about the performance he was about to see, enthusiastic at being with his father, enthusiastic over everything. Chelsfield, watching him on the way, thought that no man desired any better company than that of a cheerful son. Arrived at Holborn, he suddenly announced that he had decided to take the complimentary step of giving up the theatre-box and of joining them in their visit to St. George’s Hall. As he lowered the window and put his head out to speak to his man, the boy and father conferred in a whisper.

“Chelsfield!” said the friend, touching his sleeve.

“What now?”

“Let us get out. I want to speak to you privately. Fact is”—on the pavement—“fact is—you know what boys are, and I’m sure you won’t mind—but he tells me that he would rather go with me alone; and, to tell you the truth, I don’t want to share him this evening. You see, he goes back to Rugby to-morrow.”

Chelsfield dismissed his brougham and decided to walk the remainder of the way. He went with head down, and so deep in thought that it startled him when, in a turning from the new highway, he was accosted by one of a long file of men, waiting to march into the shelter for the night. There were about a hundred of them—old, young, middle-aged, all imperfectly shod, hands in pockets. He glanced along the line before replying. The light from a lamp showed the face of one, the youngest of all.

“Right you are,” said the man who had spoken to him, in an amiable tone of voice, “if you ’aven’t got any tobacker, you can’t give us none.”

“I’ll—I’ll go and get some,” he remarked with agitation.

“Good iron!” said the man approvingly.

Chelsfield returned from the Strand breathless, a parcel under his arm, and, removing the string with trembling fingers, began the work of distribution. Some of the men received the ounce gratefully, some mentioned that it was all done for the sake of advertisement, some demanded why he had not also brought pipes, some accepted with a snatch. Chelsfield had not regained full control of his breathing powers when he reached the lamp.

“No, thanks!”

“You—you are not a smoker?”

“I am a smoker; but I don’t accept anything from you.”

Chelsfield took his son’s hand and tried to pull him from his place. “I want to speak to you, dear boy. I’ve something important to say.”

“You said something important to me once,” retorted the other doggedly, “and you don’t have a chance of saying anything important to me again. Be off, before I set the others on to you.” His attitude expressed determination.

Chelsfield’s housekeeper, at breakfast the next morning, asked in her respectful manner what he thought of the comedy he had seen the previous night. Chelsfield told her that he considered it extremely far-fetched.

XI—SCOTTER’S LUCK

HIS opponent, after a good look at the table, adjusted his cue, and, disregarding the murmur of “Whitechapel!” sent spot white into a pocket. Many of the spectators volunteered advice, the while Scotter stood back and glanced self-commiseratingly at the scoring-board.

“That all I am, marker?” he inquired.

“That’s your total figure, my lad.”

Scatter’s opponent took time in aiming at the red, and the suggestion that he had gone to sleep did not induce him to hurry. Striking his own ball gently and rather high up, the two travelled slowly into baulk. Scotter remarked dismally that this was just his luck, and found spot white; he was about to make a wild shot up and down the table when he changed his mind, and, considering angles, drew back his cue and prepared to send his ball at a particular point of the cushion.

“This ought to do it,” he said, “but whether it will or not is more than I can—”

A bell rang. On the instant the men were out of the billiard-room; Scotter the last, because his first neat and orderly idea was to replace his cue in the stand, the second, a time-saving notion, was to leave it resting against the table, and in this confusion of thought a few moments were wasted. As the two horses plunged and reared in the yard, and made a dash through the short avenue of people outside the gates, one or two of his helmeted colleagues expressed the opinion that when the last trump sounded Scotter would be the last to respond, bringing with him an assortment of about ten good and sufficient excuses. Above the clanging and the noise, he was asked whether he had ever been really in time for anything but his meals; he blushed when they declared that girls were probably waiting for him at altars in various churches of London, growing old and cross and tired.

“Where are we bound for?” he asked, to change the subject.

“We’re going to a fire, Scotty, my lad,” it was explained. “Didn’t you know? You thought we were off to an evening party, to have a game of postman’s knock. But no; we’re going to a fire, and we’ve got to put it out soon as we possibly can. Remember that, won’t you? Not to make it burn brighter, but to put it out. It’s done with the aid of a syphon of soda. You take the syphon like this, and you remark to the fire, ‘Say when!’ and then—”

Southampton Row, at the narrow part, blocked with confused traffic; the wild horses had to pretend to be tamed whilst a passage was made. Fire-engines were also coming along Hart Street and from Kingsway; tramcars bobbing up from the tunnel waited politely. The engine managed to reach the street, and a stout superintendent, glancing at his watch, told the men they stood an excellent chance of winning the booby prize.

“For that pretty compliment,” they said, dropping from the engine, “we have to thank you, Mister Sleepy Scotter, Esquire.”

Police keeping the people back; the street already a river, streams of water being sent high up at two houses, neighbours’ faces out with the nearest wearing an expression of anxiety, whilst those a few doors off and opposite showed nothing more than interest. Furniture hurled out of windows, with now and again a smash. The firemen went about their work alertly and swiftly; when an order was given half a dozen hurried to obey. More engines arriving and two ladders. On the second floor of one of the houses a burst of flame that cracked the windows.

“Is everybody out?” demanded an official.

“All out, sir.”

“Sure?”

Mrs. Mather was called. Mrs. Mather, found in tears on the kerb, with children around her, was asked sharply whether these represented her entire family; replied that if they did but stand still she would count them. One, two, three, four, five; yes, sir; we’re all here. Mather himself away on a job at Silvertown. All the dear, blessed youngsters safe, thanks be; might have been a good deal worse. Mrs. Mather had never been in a fire before, but an aunt of hers living up at Sadler’s Wells way once had the misfortune to overturn a lamp—What was that? Six? No, no; the neighbour must be confusing her with another lady. Bless Mrs. Mather’s soul; a parent ought surely to be allowed to know how many children she possessed. There was Tommy, the eldest, next Ethel, next Walter, next Gracie, and then Hubert, then Mrs. Mather, with a gesture of self-reproof, begged to apologise. The neighbour was correct. Mrs. Mather admitted she had overlooked the baby, and, whilst she thought of it, there was the little girl from Forty-eight who came in to mind the kid.

“You’re a light weight, Scotter,” said the Superintendent. “Up you go, and do your very best.”

Scotter went up the escape, bending his head to dodge flames that were darting out from the second floor; up again, and disappeared. There was a crash there of something falling in; the helmeted men below gave a low whistle. That settled poor Scotter’s game of billiards. That relieved him of any difficulty of knowing what to do with plain white and the red left in baulk. That meant a rare old scene later on, with Scotty’s sweetheart coming round to the station.

“Another man up!” ordered the Superintendent.

The second was half-way up, and had been drenched by error, when Scotter reappeared at the top window. He had the baby in a shawl that was tied at his neck; in the left arm he carried a limp little girl; the crowd in the street roared “Hip-pip—hooray!” and Mrs. Mather cried warningly, “Don’t stay up there; come down!”

“That makes your little lot complete, then,” remarked the Superintendent.

“They’re all here now,” conceded the lady. “How I come to overlook the fact that there was one short is more than I can tell you. I’m sure it’s very kind of this gentleman. When baby’s old enough he must thank him.”

“You all right, Scotter?”

“Yes, thank you, sir. Bit singed, but nothing to brag about.”

The crowd lost all its good spirits so soon as the first engine was sent home, and folk told each other regretfully that there were no fires now as in the old days. The waiting horses had recovered breath and began to caper about to impress the crowd with a sense of their importance. People to whom news had come tardily ran up from Clerkenwell Road demanding to know the whereabouts of the fire, and, being told it was out, censured the County Council, their informants, and themselves. Two firemen were selected to remain in charge; the others, dusting knees and rubbing knuckles into eyes, waited for orders.

“Get off back, you lot. Scotter, you did uncommonly well. Just given your name to some newspaper men. Married man? Not yet? I was going to say, if you were, your missus would be proud of you.”

The pace was good on the return journey, but not frantic, and Scotter was told by a dozen experts what to do to the burn on his left wrist. At the station they assisted him in the task of washing, and made a neat bandage; over cups of tea they went through the details of the fire, and extinguished it again. A move was made to the billiard-room.

“Spot white’s turn,” announced one, taking up position at the marking-board. “Plain white and the red both in baulk.” Glancing at the pegs, “Twenty-three plays forty-eight.”

“You’ve got to buck up, Scotter.”

He took careful aim. Sent his ball against the right-hand cushion; it went from this to the top of the table, across to the left, travelled down, and dropped gently into the right-hand lower pocket. Three deducted from his score.

“Don’t know what’s the matter with me,” said Scotter despairingly. “Somehow or other, I can’t do anything right to-day.”

XII—MEANS OF TRANSPORT

THE indignation meeting occurred without any of the printed entreaties usually found needful in order to induce the public to arouse. It seems less strange that only ladies attended, for the sex is notoriously beginning to take an interest in public questions.