Chapter I: The Boom-Maker

My friend Captain O’Hagan frequently is misunderstood; his studied singularity of appearance is falsely ascribed to a desire for notoriety. Whereas he eschews and abominates publicity of any kind, and merely seeks to establish a visible distinction betwixt the aristocrat and the plebeian.

The ever-increasing facilities for airing one’s grievances in long primer, he contends, are destructive of that chaste reserve once characteristic of our race. I agree with O’Hagan. He declares that we love to be interviewed.

“Is it not true, Raymond,” he cries, “that for the sake of seeing her photograph (retouched) in the columns of a daily paper, Mrs. Brown-Jones will reveal to the blushing public the secret of her corsets? Does she not draw attention to the graceful contour of her form, and she (the mother of a family) take the man in the street into her confidence, imparting to him intimate particulars respecting her wardrobe which, if used indiscreetly, would prove most compromising?

“Alas, O’Hagan,” I reply, “it is so.”

He throws himself back in his chair, purple-lined cloak widely flying; picturesque, hatless head raised in scorn. He is the focus of a hundred gazes.

“A young lady,” he continues, “whom one might assume from her picture in the advertisement column to be not wholly destitute of modesty, will inform edified readers that ‘until Mrs. Hodge brought me a box of Nippo Ointment my face was one red mass of pimples!’ She will declare that formerly she was unable to sleep at night owing to the itching of her back!”

His scorn is terrible; superbly fearful. Advertisement is anathema.

We are seated in the Park, wherein at the moment no one else is talked of but my distinguished friend. Those who have the honour of his acquaintance acquire a new popularity with the less fortunate. Several countesses and a charming duchess have repassed us no fewer than nine times. But O’Hagan, serenely insensible to the admiration which he excites in so many bosoms, lounges regally aloof, as one upon a lofty minaret who scarce glances down to the throngs beneath him.

An author of “costume” romances passes. His studiously cultivated resemblance to Napoleon III. usually earns him a buzz of acknowledgment. This morning he moves amid the chill of unrecognition, and raises his prominent moustache fiercely and rudely as he glares at my companion, who usurps all homage.

“That fellow stares in an unwarrantable manner,” says O’Hagan; and taking my arm, he proceeds in the same direction.

We overtake the author, despite my lagging footsteps; for I perceive that my friend is bent upon some extravagant act.

“Pardon me, sir!”

The author turns, glaring.

“But are you connected with the house of Buonaparte?”

The author, puzzled, faintly gratified:

“Not directly, sir. But what——”

“I regret that, sir. I cherish an antipathy from the family which I may term hereditary. Your reply deprives me of the pleasure of trimming your _moustachios_!”

The man is stricken speechless. It is such an encounter as he has portrayed (on paper) a score of times. But in the actuality it finds him lacking.

“For your whole appearance is most distasteful to me,” concludes the Captain. “Good morning.”

(We proceed.)

A trembling voice which says something about “a letter from my solicitor,” reaches our ears, faintly.

“The solicitor again, Raymond!” laughs O’Hagan. “Never the friend to measure the length of one’s blade! Your knights of the pen make sorry cavaliers!”

I grant it. And the worst of my bad dreams is that wherein—unaccompanied by the magnificent and terrible O’Hagan—I encounter some of those whom he has browbeaten in my presence!

But, as I think I already have stated, O’Hagan sometimes is misunderstood.

At a certain club, of which O’Hagan is not a member, my friend was introduced to an American gentleman who proclaimed himself a press agent.

(“I like Americans—real, full-blooded, whole-hearted Americans,” O’Hagan has told me. “I can even appreciate how, in an American, commercial acumen and gentility may be wedded. My great grand-uncle, Edmond, distinguished himself, as you remember, in the Civil War.”

His great grand-uncle, Edmond, is a favourite source of anecdote; but the impression left upon my mind is that a more truculent, bloodthirsty swashbuckler never breathed God’s air.)

“I am very delighted to have met you, Captain O’Hagan,” said the press agent, whose name was Alex. Dewson. “I would like to put up a proposition right now!”

O’Hagan fumbled, impressively, for the broad black ribbon upon which depends his monocle. He raised the glass, and, holding it at some little distance from his right eye, surveyed the speaker. O’Hagan’s right eye, magnified by the pebble, can show, on occasions, as a large grey orb of intolerance.

“You interest me, Mr. Dewson.”

“I’ll interest you some more yet, sir!” declared Dewson, with cheery confidence. “It’s likely you’ll have heard of a little author called Ronald Brandon?”

He spoke the words waggishly; as one might say: “You may have heard a little Stratford fellow, called Shakespeare, mentioned?”—or, “You’ve perhaps seen the name of a rather likely figure painter, known as Michelangelo?”

In point of fact, Ronald Brandon really _was_ a “little” author; and, as it happened, O’Hagan never had heard of him. He has never heard of _any_ modern fictionists; he regards them _all_ with immeasurable contempt. Mr. Dewson’s question was purely a rhetoric question, however, and he proceeded without pausing for a reply:

“His new book (it’ll break all the windows) is ‘Jules Sanquin, Duellist.’ He’s placed his press work in my hands, and I’ve been looking for an introduction to you, Captain, for over a week! I can put up a proposition to net you a pile!”

“Indeed!” said O’Hagan, icily.

(“Such people as Dewson,” he has confided to me, “are calculated to bring disgrace upon a national character. He was the type of man who would have sought an audience with His Holiness the Pope, and ‘put up a proposition’ to boom St. Peter’s.”)

“My client, as you’ll know,” continued the irrepressible press agent, “is top-hole as a swordsman. Took out the team a year ago that beat the Frenchmen.”

Captain O’Hagan stared.

“They tell me _you’re_ pretty handy,” resumed Dewson; “so here’s the goods in a nutshell: I’ll send down a shorthand-typist to your chambers to take a few notes; put a sound man to work; and in a week or a fortnight ‘My Affaires of Honour and Gallantry, by Captain the Hon. Bernard O’Hagan,’ will be in the press! I can promise you an _advance_ of £500, my dear sir! Meanwhile, you insult Brandon, and meet him with rapiers on the French coast—press, cinema men, etc., in attendance. Out comes ‘Jules Sanquin, Duellist’—five editions subscribed. Out comes ‘My Affaires of Honour and Gallantry’—libraries gasping! How d’you like the title? _Affaires_—see? French. Get the literary flavour right on the cover! How d’you like the proposition?”

The intolerant grey eye scrutinized the brogues upon Mr. Dewson’s feet and rose by gradations to the Stetson felt adorning the apex of his commercial brain.

“Is this delightful scheme a child of your own fecundity, Mr. Dewson, or has Mr. Ronald Brandon any share in its parentage?”

“I’m out raising no man’s laurel wreaths,” declared Dewson. “The proposition’s Brandon’s. How does it appeal to you?

“That portion of the ‘proposition,’” said O’Hagan, with frigid courtesy, “which has reference to a meeting on the French coast appeals to me keenly!”

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