The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Definite Object, by Jeffery Farnol
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Title: The Definite Object A Romance of New York
Author: Jeffery Farnol
Release Date: June 15, 2005 [eBook #16074]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
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THE DEFINITE OBJECT
A Romance of New York
by
JEFFERY FARNOL
Author of The Broad Highway, The Amateur Gentleman, The Honourable Mr. Tawnish, Beltane the Smith
1917
CHAPTER
I Which Describes, among Other Things, a Pair of Whiskers II Of a Mournful Millionaire Who Lacked an Object III How Geoffrey Ravenslee Went Seeking an Object IV Telling How He Came to Hell’s Kitchen at Peep o’ Day V How Mrs. Trapes Acquired a New Lodger, Despite her Elbows VI How Spike Initiated Mr. Ravenslee into the Gentle Art of Shopping VII Concerning Ankles, Stairs, and Neighbourliness VIII Of Candies and Confidences IX Which Recounts the End of an Episode X Tells How Mr. Ravenslee Went into Trade XI Antagonism is Born and War Declared XII Containing Some Description of a Supper Party XIII Wherein may be Found Some Particulars of the Beautiful City of Perhaps XIV Of a Text, a Letter, and a Song XV Which Introduces Joe and the Old Un XVI Of the First and Second Persons, Singular Number XVII How Geoffrey Ravenslee Made a Deal in Real Estate XVIII How Spike Hearkened to Poisonous Suggestion and Soapy Began to Wonder XIX In which the Poison Begins to Work XX Of an Expedition by Night XXI How M’Ginnis Threatened and—Went XXII Tells of an Early Morning Visit and a Warning XXIII Chiefly Concerning a Letter XXIV How the Old Un and Certain Others had Tea XXV How Spike Made a Choice and a Promise XXVI Which Makes Further Mention of a Ring XXVII Mrs. Trapes Upon the Millennium XXVIII Which should have Related Details of a Wedding XXIX In which Hermione Makes a Fateful Decision XXX How Geoffrey Ravenslee Departed from Hell’s Kitchen XXXI In which Soapy Takes a Hand XXXII Of Harmony and Discord XXXIII Of Tragedy XXXIV Of Remorse XXXV How Geoffrey Ravenslee Came Out of the Dark XXXVI Concerning a Clew XXXVII The Woes of Mr. Brimberly XXXVIII In which Soapy Takes upon Himself a New Role XXXIX The Old Un Advises and Ravenslee Acts XL Concerning a Handful of Pebbles XLI Of a Packet of Letters XLII Tells How Ravenslee Broke his Word and Why XLIII How Spike Got Even XLIV Retribution XLV Of the Old Un and Fate XLVI In which Geoffrey Ravenslee Obtains his Object
CHAPTER I
WHICH DESCRIBES, AMONG OTHER THINGS, A PAIR OF WHISKERS
In the writing of books, as all the world knows, two things are above all other things essential—the one is to know exactly when and where to leave off, and the other to be equally certain when and where to begin.
Now this book, naturally enough, begins with Mr. Brimberly’s whiskers; begins at that moment when he coughed and pulled down his waistcoat for the first time. And yet (since action is as necessary to the success of a book as to life itself) it should perhaps begin more properly at the psychological moment when Mr. Brimberly coughed and pulled down the garment aforesaid for the third time, since it is then that the real action of this story commences.
Be that as it may, it is beyond all question that nowhere in this wide world could there possibly be found just such another pair of whiskers as those which adorned the plump cheeks of Mr. Brimberly; without them he might have been only an ordinary man, but, possessing them, he was the very incarnation of all that a butler could possibly be.
And what whiskers these were! So soft, so fleecy, so purely white, that at times they almost seemed like the wings of cherubim, striving to soar away and bear Mr. Brimberly into a higher and purer sphere. Again, what Protean whiskers were these, whose fleecy pomposity could overawe the most superior young footmen and reduce page-boys, tradesmen, and the lower orders generally, to a state of perspiring humility; to his equals how calmly aloof, how blandly dignified; and to those a misguided fate had set above him, how demurely deferential, how obligingly obsequious! Indeed, Mr. Brimberly’s whiskers were all things to all men, and therein lay their potency.
Mr. Brimberly then, pompous, affable, and most sedate, having motioned his visitor into his master’s favourite chair, set down the tray of decanters and glasses upon the piano, coughed, and pulled down his waistcoat; and Mr. Brimberly did it all with that air of portentous dignity and leisurely solemnity which, together with his whiskers, made him the personality he was.
“And you’re still valeting for Barberton, are you, Mr. Stevens?” he blandly enquired.
“I’ve been with his lordship six months, now,” nodded Mr. Stevens.
“Ah!” said Mr. Brimberly, opening a certain carved cabinet and reaching thence a box of his master’s choicest Havanas, “six months, indeed! And ‘ow is Barberton? I hacted in the capacity of his confidential valet a good many years ago, as I told you, and we always got on very well together, very well, indeed. ‘ow is Barberton?”
“Oh, ‘e ‘d be right enough if it warn’t for ‘is gout which gets ‘im in the big toe now and then, and ‘is duns and creditors and sich-like low fellers, as gets ‘im everywhere and constant! ‘E’ll never be quite ‘imself until ‘e marries money—and plenty of it!”
“A American hair-ess!” nodded Mr. Brimberly. “Precisely! I very nearly married ‘im to a rich widder ten years ago. ‘E’d ‘ave been settled for life if ‘e ‘d took my advice! But Barberton was always inclined to be a little ‘eadstrong. The widder in question ‘appened to be a trifle par-say, I’ll admit, also it was ‘inted that one of ‘er—lower limbs was cork. But then, ‘er money, sir—’er jools!” Mr. Brimberly raised eyes and hands and shook his head until his whiskers quivered in a very ecstasy.
“But a wooden leg—” began Mr. Stevens dubiously.
“I said ‘limb’, sir!” said Mr. Brimberly, his whiskers distinctly agitated, “a cork limb, sir! And Lord bless me, a cork limb ain’t to be sniffed at contemptuous when it brings haffluence with it, sir! At least, my sentiments leans that way.”
“Oh—ditto, certainly, sir! I’d take haffluence to my ‘eart if she came with both le—both of ‘em cork, if it meant haffluence like this!” Mr. Stevens let his pale, prominent eyes wander slowly around the luxuriant splendour of the room. “My eye!” he exclaimed, “it’s easy to see as your governor don’t have to bother about marrying money, cork limbs or otherwise! Very rich, ain’t ‘e, Mr. Brimberly?”
Mr. Brimberly set down the decanter he chanced to be holding, and having caressed each fluffy whisker, smiled.
“I think, sir,” said he gently, “y-es, I think we may answer ‘yes’ to your latter question. I think we may tell you and admit ‘ole-‘earted and frank, sir, that the Ravenslee fortune is fab’lous, sir, stoopendious and himmense!”
“Oh, Lord!” exclaimed Mr. Stevens, and his pale eyes, much wider, now wandered up from the Persian rug beneath his boots to the elaborately carved ceiling above his head. “My aunt!” he murmured.
“Oh, I think we’re fairly comfortable ‘ere, sir,” nodded Mr. Brimberly complacently, “yes, fairly comfortable, I think.”
“Comfortable!” ejaculated the awe-struck Mr. Stevens, “I should say so! My word!”
“Yes,” pursued Mr. Brimberly, “comfortable, and I ventur’ to think, tasteful, sir, for I’ll admit young Ravenslee—though a millionaire and young—’as taste. Observe this costly bricky-brack! Oh, yes, young Har is a man of taste indoobitably, I think you must admit.”
“Very much so indeed, sir!” answered Mr. Stevens with his pallid glance on the array of bottles. “‘Three Star,’ I think, Mr. Brimberly?”
“Sir,” sighed Mr. Brimberly in gentle reproach, “you ‘ere be’old Cognac brandy as couldn’t be acquired for twenty-five dollars the bottle! Then ‘ere we ‘ave jubilee port, a rare old sherry, and whisky. Now what shall we make it? You, being like myself, a Englishman in this ‘ere land of eagles, spread and otherwise, suppose we make it a B and a Hess?”
“By all means!” nodded Mr. Stevens.
“I was meditating,” said Mr. Brimberly, busied with the bottles and glasses, “I was cogitating calling hup Mr. Jenkins, the Stanways’ butler across the way. The Stanways is common people, parvynoo, Mr. Stevens, parvynoo, but Mr. Jenkins is very superior and plays the banjer very affecting. Our ‘ousekeeper and the maids is gone to bed, and I’ve give our footmen leave of habsence—I thought we might ‘ave a nice, quiet musical hour or so. You perform on the piano-forty, I believe, sir?”
“Only very occasional!” Mr. Stevens admitted. “But,” and here his pale eyes glanced toward the door, “do I understand as he is out for the night?”
“Sir,” said Mr. Brimberly ponderously, “what ”e’ might you be pleased to mean?”
“I was merely allooding to—to your governor, sir.”
Mr. Brimberly glanced at his guest, set down the glass he was in the act of filling and—pulled down his waistcoat for the second time.
“Sir,” said he, and his cherubic whiskers seemed positively to quiver, “I presoom—I say, I presoom you are referring to—Young Har?”
“I meant Mr. Ravenslee.”
“Then may I beg that you’ll allood to him ‘enceforth as Young Har? This is Young Har’s own room, sir. These is Young Har’s own picters, sir. When Young Har is absent, I generally sit ‘ere with me cigar and observe said picters. I’m fond of hart, sir; I find hart soothing and restful. The picters surrounding of you are all painted by Young Har’s very own ‘and—subjeks various. Number one—a windmill very much out o’ repair, but that’s hart, sir. Number two—a lady dressed in what I might term dish-a-bell, sir, and there isn’t much of it, but that’s hart again. Number three—a sunset. Number four—moonlight; ‘e didn’t get the moon in the picter but the light’s there and that’s the great thing—effect, sir, effect! Of course, being only studies, they don’t look finished—which is the most hartisticest part about ‘em! But, lord! Young Har never finishes anything—too tired! ‘Ang me, sir, if I don’t think ‘e were born tired! But then, ‘oo ever knew a haristocrat as wasn’t?”
“But,” demurred Mr. Stevens, staring down into his empty glass, “I thought ‘e was a American, your—Young Har?”
“Why, ‘e is and ‘e ain’t, sir. His father was only a American, I’ll confess, but his mother was blue blood, every drop guaranteed, sir, and as truly English as—as I am!”
“And is ‘e the Mr. Ravenslee as is the sportsman? Goes in for boxing, don’t ‘e? Very much fancied as a heavyweight, ain’t ‘e? My governor’s seen him box and says ‘e’s a perfect snorter, by Jove!”
Mr. Brimberly sighed, and soothed a slightly agitated whisker.
“Why, yes,” he admitted, “I’m afraid ‘e does box—but only as a ammitoor, Mr. Stevens, strickly as a ammitoor, understand!”
“And he’s out making a night of it, is ‘e?” enquired Mr. Stevens, leaning back luxuriously and stretching his legs. “Bit of a rip, ain’t ‘e?”
“A—wot, sir?” enquired Mr. Brimberly with raised brows.
“Well, very wild, ain’t he—drinks, gambles, and hetceteras, don’t he?”
“Why, as to that, sir,” answered Mr. Brimberly, dexterously performing on the syphon, “I should answer you, drink ‘e may, gamble ‘e do, hetceteras I won’t answer for, ‘im being the very hacme of respectability though ‘e is a millionaire and young.”
“And when might you expect ‘im back?”
“Why, there’s no telling, Mr. Stevens.”
“Eh?” exclaimed Mr. Stevens, and sat up very suddenly.
“‘Is movements, sir, is quite—ah—quite metehoric!”
“My eye!” exclaimed Mr. Stevens, gulping his brandy and soda rather hastily.
“Metehoric is the only word for it, sir!” pursued Mr. Brimberly with a slow nod. “‘E may drop in on me at any moment, sir!”
“Why, then,” said his guest, rising, “p’r’aps I’d better be moving?”
“On the other ‘and,” pursued Mr. Brimberly, smiling and caressing his left whisker, “‘e may be on ‘is way to Hafghanistan or Hasia Minor at this precise moment—’e is that metehoric, lord! These millionaires is much of a muchness, sir, ‘ere to-day, gone to-morrer. Noo York this week, London or Paris the next. Young Har is always upsetting my plans, ‘e is, and that’s a fact, sir! Me being a nat’rally quiet, reasonable, and law-abiding character, I objects to youthful millionaires on principle, Mr. Stevens, on principle!”
“Ditto!” nodded Mr. Stevens, his glance wandering uneasily to the door again, “ditto with all my ‘eart, sir. If it’s all the same to you, I think p’r’aps I’d better be hopping—you know—”
“Oh, don’t you worry about Young Har; ‘e won’t bother us to-night; ‘e’s off Long Island way to try his newest ‘igh-power racing car—’e’s driving in the Vanderbilt Cup Race next month. To-night ‘e expects to do eighty miles or so, and ‘opes to sleep at one of ‘is clubs. I say ‘e ‘opes an’ expects so to do!”
“Yes,” nodded Mr. Stevens, “certainly, but what do you mean?”
“Sir,” sighed Mr. Brimberly, “if you’d been forced by stern dooty to sit be’ind Young Har in a fast automobile as I ‘ave, you’d know what I mean. Reckless? Speed? Well, there!” and Mr. Brimberly lifted hands and eyes and shook his head until his whiskers vibrated with horror.
“Then you’re pretty sure,” said Mr. Stevens, settling luxurious boots upon a cushioned chair, “you’re pretty sure he won’t come bobbing up when least expected?”
“Pretty sure!” nodded Mr. Brimberly. “You see, this nooest car is the very latest thing in racing cars—cost a fortune, consequently it’s bound to break down—these here expensive cars always do, believe me!”
“Why, then,” said Mr. Stevens, helping himself to one of Mr. Brimberly’s master’s cigars, “I say let joy and ‘armony be unconfined! How about Jenkins and ‘is banjer?”
“I’ll call ‘im up immediate!” nodded Mr. Brimberly, rising. “Mr. Jenkins is a true hartist, equally facetious and soulful, sir!”
So saying, Mr. Brimberly arose and crossed toward the telephone. But scarcely had he taken three steps when he paused suddenly and stood rigid and motionless, his staring gaze fixed upon the nearest window; for from the shadowy world beyond came a sound, faint as yet and far away, but a sound there was no mistaking—the dismal tooting of an automobile horn.
“‘Eavens an’ earth!” exclaimed Mr. Brimberly, and crossing to the window he peered out. Once again the horn was heard, but very much nearer now, and louder, whereupon Mr. Brimberly turned, almost hastily, and his visitor rose hurriedly.
“It’s very annoying, Mr. Stevens,” said he, “but can I trouble you to—to step—er—down—stairs—_with_ the glasses? It’s ‘ighly mortifying, but may I ask you to—er—step a little lively, Mr. Stevens?”
Without a word, Mr. Stevens caught up the tray from the piano and glided away on his toe-points; whereupon Mr. Brimberly (being alone) became astonishingly agile and nimble all at once, diving down to straighten a rug here and there, rearranging chairs and tables; he even opened the window and hurled two half-smoked cigars far out into the night; and his eye was as calm, his brow as placid, his cheek as rosy as ever, only his whiskers—those snowy, telltale whiskers, quivered spasmodically, very much as though endeavouring to do the manifestly impossible and flutter away with Mr. Brimberly altogether; yes, it was all in his whiskers.
Thus did Mr. Brimberly bustle softly to and fro until he paused, all at once, arrested by the sound of a slow, firm step near by. Then Mr. Brimberly coughed, smoothed his winglike whiskers, and—pulled down his waistcoat for the third time. And lo! even as he did so, the door opened, and the hero of this history stood upon the threshold.
CHAPTER II
OF A MOURNFUL MILLIONAIRE WHO LACKED AN OBJECT
Geoffrey Ravenslee was tall and pale and very languid, so languid indeed that the automobile coat he bore across his arm slipped to the floor ere Mr. Brimberly could take it, after which he shed his cap and goggles and dropped them, drew off his gauntlets and dropped them and, crossing to his favourite lounge chair, dropped himself into it, and lay there staring into the fire.
“Ah, Brimberly,” he sighed gently, “making a night of it?”
“Why, sir,” bowed his butler, “indeed, sir—to tell the truth, sir—”
“You needn’t, Brimberly. Excellent cigars you smoke—judging from the smell. May I have one?”
“Sir,” said Brimberly, his whiskers slightly agitated, “cigars, sir?”
“In the cabinet, I think,” and Mr. Ravenslee motioned feebly with one white hand towards the tall, carved cabinet in an adjacent corner.
Mr. Brimberly coughed softly behind plump fingers.
“The—the key, sir?” he suggested.
“Oh, not at all necessary, Brimberly; the lock is faulty, you know.”
“Sir?” said Brimberly, soothing a twitching whisker.
“If you are familiar with the life of the Fourteenth Louis, Brimberly, you will remember that the Grand Monarch hated to be kept waiting—so do I. A cigar—in the cabinet yonder.”
With his whiskers in a high state of agitation, Mr. Brimberly laid by the garments he held clutched in one arm and coming to the cabinet, opened it, and taking thence a box of cigars, very much at random, came back, carrying it rather as though it were a box of highly dangerous explosives, and setting it at his master’s elbow, struck a match.
As Mr. Brimberly watched his master select and light his cigar, it chanced that Young R. raised his eyes and looked at him, and to be sure those eyes were surprisingly piercing and quick for one so very languid. Indeed, Mr. Brimberly seemed to think so, for he coughed again, faint and discreetly, behind his hand, while his whiskers quivered slightly, though perceptibly.
“You’re ‘ome quite—quite unexpected, sir!”
“Brimberly, I’m afraid I am, but I hope I don’t intrude?”
“Intrude, sir!” repeated Mr. Brimberly. “Oh, very facetious, sir, very facetious indeed!” and he laughed, deferentially and soft.
“I blew the horn, but I see he left his hat behind him!” sighed Young R., nodding languidly toward the headgear of Mr. Stevens, which had fallen beneath a chair and thus escaped notice.
“Why, I—indeed, sir,” said Mr. Brimberly, stooping to make a fierce clutch at it, “I took the liberty of showing a friend of mine your—your picters, sir—no offence, I ‘ope, sir?”
“Friend?” murmured his master.
“Name of Stevens, sir, valet to Lord Barberton—a most sooperior person indeed, sir!”
“Barberton? I don’t agree with you, Brimberly.”
“Stevens, sir!”
“Ah! And you showed him my—pictures, did you?”
“Yes, sir, I did take that liberty—no offence, sir, I—”
“Hum! Did he like ‘em?”
“Like them, sir! ‘E were fair overpowered, sir! Brandy and soda, sir?”
“Thanks! Did he like that, too?”
“Why, sir—I—indeed—”
“Oh, never mind—to-night is an occasion, anyway—just a splash of soda! Yes, Brimberly, when the clocks strike midnight I shall be thirty-five years old—”
“Indeed, sir!” exclaimed Brimberly, clasping his plump hands softly and bowing, “then allow me to wish you many, many ‘appy returns, sir, with continued ‘ealth, wealth, and all ‘appiness, sir!”
“Happiness?” repeated Young R., and smiled quite bitterly, as only the truly young can smile. “Happiness!” said he again, “thank you, Brimberly—now take your friend his hat, and have the extreme goodness to make up the fire for me. I love a fire, as you know, but especially when I am mournful. And pray—hurry, Brimberly!”
Forthwith Mr. Brimberly bowed and bustled out, but very soon bustled in again; and now, as he stooped, menial-like, to ply the coal tongs, though his domelike brow preserved all its wonted serenity, no words could possibly express all the mute rebellion of those eloquent whiskers.
“Hanything more, sir?” he enquired, as he rose from his knees.
“Why, yes,” said Young R., glancing up at him, and beneath the quizzical look in those sleepy grey eyes, Mr. Brimberly’s whiskers wilted slightly. “You’re getting a trifle too—er—portly to hop round on your knees, aren’t you, Brimberly? Pray sit down and talk to me.”
Mr. Brimberly bowed and took a chair, sitting very upright and attentive while his master frowned into the fire.
“Thirty-five is a ripe age, Brimberly!” said he at last; “a man should have made something of his life—at thirty-five!”
“Certingly, sir!”
“And I’m getting quite into the sere and yellow leaf, am I not, Brimberly?”
Mr. Brimberly raised a plump, protesting hand.
“‘Ardly that, sir, ‘ardly that!” said he, “we are hall of us getting on, of course—”
“Where to, Brimberly? On where, Brimberly—on what?”
“Why, sir, since you ask me, I should answer—begging your parding—’eavens knows, sir!”
“Precisely! Anyway, I’m going there fast.”
“Where, sir?”
“Heaven knows, Brimberly.”
“Ah—er—certingly, sir!”
“Now, Brimberly, as a hard-headed, matter-of-fact, common-sense being, what would you suggest for a poor devil who is sick and tired of everything and most of all—of himself?”
“Why, sir, I should prescribe for that man change of hair, sir—travel, sir. I should suggest to that man Hafghanistan or Hasia Minor, or both, sir. There’s your noo yacht a-laying in the river, sir—”
His master leant his square chin upon his square fist and still frowning at the fire, gently shook his head.
“My good Brimberly,” he sighed, “haven’t I travelled in most parts of the world?”
“Why, yes, sir, you’ve travelled, sir, very much so indeed, sir—you’ve shot lions and tigers and a helephant or so, and exchanged sentiments with raging ‘eathen—as rage in nothing but a string o’ beads—but what about your noomerous possessions in Europe, sir?”
“Ah, yes,” nodded Young R., “I do possess some shanties and things over there, don’t I, Brimberly?”
“Shanties, sir!” Mr. Brimberly blinked, and his whiskers bristled in horrified reproof. “Shanties!—Oh, dear me, sir!” he murmured. “Shanties—your magnificent town mansion situate in Saint James’s Square, London, as your respected father hacquired from a royal dook, sir! Shanties!—your costly and helegant res-eye-dence in Park Lane, sir!”
“Hum!” said Young R. moodily.
“Then, in Scotland, sir, we ‘ave your castle of Drumlochie, sir—rocks, turrets, battlements, ‘ighly grim and romantic, sir!”
“Ha!” sighed his young master, frowning at his cigar.
“Next, sir,—in Italy we find your ancient Roman villa, sir—halabaster pillows and columns, sir—very historical though a trifle wore with wars and centuries of centoorians, sir, wherefore I would humbly suggest a coat or two of paint, sir, applied beneath your very own eye, sir—”
“No, Brimberly,” murmured Young R., “paint might have attractions—Italy, none!”
“Certingly not, sir, certingly not! Which brings us to your schloss in Germany, sir—”
“Nor Germany! Lord, Brimberly, are there many more?”
“Ho, yes, sir, plenty!” nodded Mr, Brimberly, “your late honoured and respected father, sir, were a rare ‘and at buying palaces, sir; ‘e collected ‘em, as you might say, like some folks collects postage starmps, sir!”
“And a collection of the one is about as useless as a collection of the other, Brimberly!”
“Why, true, sir, one man can’t live in a dozen places all at once, but why not work round ‘em in turn, beginning, say, at your imposing Venetian palazzo—canals, sir, gondoleers—picturesque though dampish? Or your shally in the Tyro-leen Halps, sir, or—”
“Brimberly, have the goodness to—er—shut up!”
“Certingly, sir.”
“To-day is my birthday, Brimberly, and to-night I’ve reached a kind of ‘jumping off’ place in my life, and—between you and me—I’m seriously thinking of—er—jumping off!”
“I crave parding, sir?”
“I’m thirty-five years old,” continued Young R., his frown growing blacker, “and I’ve never done anything really worth while in all my useless life! Have the goodness to look at me, will you?”
“With pleasure, sir!”
“Well, what do I look like?”
“The very hacme of a gentleman, sir!”
“Kind of you, Brimberly, but I know myself for an absolutely useless thing—a purposeless, ambitionless wretch, drifting on to God knows what. I’m a hopeless wreck, a moral derelict, and it has only occurred to me to-night—but”—and here the speaker paused to flick the ash from his cigar—”I fear I’m boring you?”
“No, sir—ho, no, not at all, indeed, sir!”
“You’re very kind, Brimberly—light a cigarette! Ah, no, pardon me, you prefer my cigars, I know.”
“Why—why, sir—” stammered Mr. Brimberly, laying a soothing hand upon his twitching whisker, “indeed, I—I—”
“Oh—help yourself, pray!”
Hereupon Mr. Brimberly took a cigar very much at random, and, while Young R. watched with lazy interest, proceeded to cut it—though with singularly clumsy fingers.
“A light, Mr. Brimberly—allow me!”
So Ravenslee held the light while Mr. Brimberly puffed his cigar to a glow, though to be sure he coughed once and choked, as he met Young R.’s calm grey eye.
“Now,” pursued his master, “if you’re quite comfortable, Mr. Brimberly, perhaps you’ll be good enough to—er—hearken further to my tale of woe?”
Mr. Brimberly choked again and recovering, smoothed his writhing whiskers and murmured: “It would be a honour!”
“First, then, Brimberly, have you ever hated yourself—I mean, despised yourself so utterly and thoroughly that the bare idea of your existence makes you angry and indignant?”
“Why—no, sir,” answered Mr. Brimberly, staring, “I can’t say as I ‘ave, sir.”
“No,” said his master with another keen glance, “and I don’t suppose you ever will!” Now here again, perhaps because of the look or something in Young R.’s tone, Mr. Brimberly took occasion to emit a small, apologetic cough.
“You have never felt yourself to be a—cumberer of the earth, Brimberly?”
Mr. Brimberly, having thought the matter over, decided that he had not.
“You are not given to introspection, Brimberly?”
“Intro—ahem! No, sir, not precisely—’ardly that, sir, and then only very occasional, sir!”
“Then you’ve never got on to yourself—got wise to yourself—seen yourself as you really are?”
Mr. Brimberly goggled and groped for his whisker.
“I mean,” pursued his master, “you have never seen all your secret weaknesses and petty meannesses stripped stark naked, have you?”
“N-naked, sir!” faltered Mr. Brimberly, “very distressing indeed, sir—oh, dear me!”
“It’s a devilish unpleasant thing,” continued Young R., scowling at the fire again, “yes, it’s a devilish unpleasant thing to go serenely on our flowery way, pitying and condemning the sins and follies of others and sublimely unconscious of our own until one day—ah, yes—one day we meet Ourselves face to face and see beneath all our pitiful shams and hypocrisies and know ourselves at last for what we really are—behold the decay of faculties, the degeneration of intellect bred of sloth and inanition and know ourselves at last—for exactly what we are!”
Mr. Brimberly stared at the preoccupation of his master’s scowling brow and grim-set mouth, and, clutching a soft handful of whisker, murmured: “Certingly, sir!”
“When I was a boy,” continued Ravenslee absently, “I used to dream of the wonderful things I would do when I was a man—by the way, you’re quite sure I’m not boring you—?”
“No, sir—certingly not, sir—indeed, sir!”
“Take another cigar, Brimberly—oh, put it in your pocket, it will do to—er—to add to your collection! But, as I was saying, as a boy I was full of a godlike ambition—but, as I grew up, ambition and all the noble things it leads to, sickened and died—died of a surfeit of dollars! And to-day I am thirty-five and feel that I can’t—that I never shall—do anything worth while—”
“But, sir,” exclaimed Mr. Brimberly with a bland and reassuring smile, “you are one as don’t have to do nothing—you’re rich!”
Mr. Ravenslee started.
“Rich!” he cried, and turning, he glanced at Mr. Brimberly, and his square chin looked so very square and his grey eyes so very piercing that Mr. Brimberly, loosing his whisker, coughed again and shifted his gaze to the Persian rug beneath his feet; yet when Young R. spoke again, his voice was very soft and sleepy.
“Rich!” he repeated, “yes, that’s just the unspeakable hell of it—it’s money that has crippled all endeavours and made me what I am! Rich? I’m so rich that my friends are all acquaintances—so rich that I might buy anything in the world except what I most desire—so rich that I am tired of life, the world, and everything in the world, and have been seriously considering a—er—a radical change. It is a comfort to know that we may all of us find oblivion when we so desire.”
“Oblivion!” nodded Mr. Brimberly, mouthing the word sonorously, “oblivion, sir, certingly—my own sentiments exactly, sir—for, though not being a marrying man myself, sir, I regard it with a truly reverent heye and ‘umbly suggest that for you such a oblivious change would be—”
“Brimberly,” said Young R., turning to stare in lazy wonder, “where in the world are you getting to now?”
Mr. Brimberly coughed and touched a whisker with dubious finger.
“Wasn’t you allooding to—hem!—to matrimony, sir?”
“Matrimony! Lord, no! Hardly so desperate a course as that, Brimberly. I was considering the advisability of—er—this!” And opening a drawer in the escritoire, Young R. held up a revolver, whereat Mr. Brimberly’s whiskers showed immediate signs of extreme agitation, and he started to his feet.
“Mr. Ravenslee, sir—for the love o’ Gawd!” he exclaimed, “if it’s a choice between the two—try matrimony first, it’s so much—so much wholesomer, sir!”
“Is it, Brimberly? Let me see, there are about five hundred highly dignified matrons in this—er—great city, wholly eager and anxious to wed their daughters to my dollars (and incidentally myself) even if I were the vilest knave or most pitiful piece of doddering antiquity—faugh! Let’s hear no more of matrimony.”
“Certingly not, sir!” bowed Mr. Brimberly.
“And I’m neither mad, Brimberly, nor drunk, only—speaking colloquially—I’m ‘on to’ myself at last. If my father had only left me fewer millions, I might have been quite a hard-working, useful member of society, for there’s good in me, Brimberly. I am occasionally aware of quite noble impulses, but they need some object to bring ‘em out. An object—hum!” Here Mr. Ravenslee put away the revolver. “An object to work for, live for, be worthy of!” Here he fell to frowning into the fire again and stared thus so long that at last Mr. Brimberly felt impelled to say:
“A hobject, of course, sir! A hobject—certingly, sir!” But here he started and turned to stare toward the windows as from the darkness beyond two voices were uplifted in song; two voices these which sang the same tune and words but in two different keys, uncertain voices, now shooting up into heights, now dropping into unplumbable deeps, two shaky voices whose inconsequent quaverings suggested four legs in much the same condition.
“Brimberly,” sighed his master, “what doleful wretches have we here?”
“Why, sir, I—I rather fancy it’s William and James—the footmen, sir,” answered Mr. Brimberly between bristling whiskers. “Hexcuse me, sir—I’ll go and speak to ‘em, sir—”
“Oh, pray don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Brimberly; sit down and hearken! These sad sounds are inspired by deep potations—beer, I fancy. Be seated, Mr. Brimberly.”
Mr. Brimberly obeyed, and being much agitated dropped his cigar and grovelled for it, and it was to be noted thereafter that as the singers drew nearer, he shuffled on his chair with whiskers violently a-twitch, while his eyes goggled more and his domelike brow grew ever moister. But on came the singing footmen and passed full-tongued, wailing out each word with due effect, thus:
“—my sweet ‘eart’s—me mother The best—the dearest—of—’em all.”
“Hum!” murmured Young R., “I admire the sentiment, Brimberly, but the execution leaves something to be desired, perhaps—”
“If you’ll only let me go out to ‘em, sir!” groaned Mr. Brimberly, mopping himself with a very large, exceeding white handkerchief, “if you honly will, sir!”
“No, Brimberly, no—it would only distress you, besides—hark! their song is ended, and rather abruptly—I rather fancy they have fallen down the terrace steps.”
“And I ‘opes,” murmured Mr. Brimberly fervently, “I do ‘ope as they’ve broke their necks!”
“Of course I ought to have gone out and switched on the lights for them,” sighed Young R, “but then, you see, I thought they were safe in bed, Brimberly!”
“Why, sir,” said Mr. Brimberly, mopping furiously, “I—I ventured to give ‘em a hour’s leave of habsence, sir; I ventured so to do, sir, because, sir—”
“Because you are of rather a venturesome nature, aren’t you, Brimberly?”
“No offence, sir, I ‘ope?”
“None at all, Mr. Brimberly—pray calm yourself and—er—take a little brandy.”
“Sir?”
“Your glass is under the chair yonder, or is it your friend’s?”
Mr. Brimberly goggled toward Mr. Stevens’ betraying glass, picked it up, and sat staring at it in vague and dreamy fashion until, rousing at his master’s second bidding, he proceeded to mix brandy and soda, his gaze still profoundly abstracted and his whiskers drooping with an abnormal meekness.
At this juncture a knock sounded at the door, and a chauffeur appeared, looking very smart in his elegant livery; a thick-set man, mightily deep of chest, whose wide shoulders seemed to fill the doorway, and whose long, gorilla-like arms ended in two powerful hands; his jaw was squarely huge, his nose broad and thick, but beneath his beetling brows blinked two of the mildest blue eyes in the world.
“What is it, Joe?”
“And what time will ye be wantin’ the car in the mornin’, sir?” he enquired.
“The morning, Joe? Who can say what may happen between now and then?”
“Shall I have her round at eleven, sir, or—”
“Eleven will do as well as any other time—let it go at that.”
“You was to see your broker, Mr. Anderson, in the morning over them steamship shares, sir.”
“Shares, Joe, are a vanity; all is vanity—they weary me. Mr. Brimberly yawns, and you look sleepy—good night, Joe; pleasant dreams.”
“Good night, sir!” and touching his right eyebrow, Joe went out, closing the door behind him.
“And now,” said Mr. Ravenslee, puffing languidly at his cigar, “referring to the necessary object, there is a chance that it may be found—even yet, Mr. Brimberly!”
“Object, sir,” murmured Mr. Brimberly, “found, sir—to be sure, sir.”
“Yes; I intend you shall find it for me, Brimberly.”
Mr. Brimberly’s abstraction gave place to sudden amaze.
“Find it—wot, me, sir? Hexcuse me, sir, but did you say—” Mr. Brimberly actually gaped!
“You, Brimberly, of course!”
“But—but wot kind of a hobject—and where, sir?”
“Really,” sighed Young R., “these are quite fool questions for one of your hard-headed common sense! If I knew exactly ‘what’ and ‘where’, I’d go and find it myself—at least, I might!”
“But—’ow in the world, sir—begging your parding I’m sure, but ‘ow am I to go a-finding hobjex as I’ve never seen nor ‘eard of?”
“Brimberly, I pass! But if you manage it in—say a week, I’ll double your wages and give you a—er—a bonus into the bargain; think it over.”
“I—I will, sir—indeed, sir!”
“Very well; you may go.”
“Certingly, sir.” Mr. Brimberly bowed and crossed to the door but, being there, paused. “Double me wages I think it were, sir, and a bonus? Very ‘andsome, very ‘andsome indeed, sir—thank you, sir.” Saying which, Mr. Brimberly bowed himself out, but immediately bowed himself in again.
“Sir,” said he, “if you could give me some hidea, sir—”
“Some what?”
“A few ‘ints, sir, as to the nature of said hobject—whether animal, mineral, or nooter, sir?”
“Well—perhaps ‘animal’ might be the more interesting.”
“Now—as to gender, sir—masculine shall we say, or shall we make it feminine?”
“Oh—either will do! And yet, since you offer so wide a selection, perhaps—er—feminine—?”
“Very good, sir!”
“And you’d better make it singular number, Brimberly.”
“Certingly, sir, much obliged, sir! Will you be wanting me again, sir?”
“Not again, Brimberly.”
“Then good night, sir—thank you, sir!” And Mr. Brimberly went softly forth and closed the door noiselessly behind him.
Being alone, Mr. Ravenslee switched off the lights and sat in the fire-glow.
“Feminine gender, singular number, objective case, governed by the verb—to love—I wonder!”
And he laughed a little bitterly (and very youthfully) as he stared down into the dying fire.
CHAPTER III
HOW GEOFFREY RAVENSLEE WENT SEEKING AN OBJECT
A clock in the hall without struck midnight, but Mr. Ravenslee sat there long after the silvery chime had died away, his chin sunk upon his broad chest, his sombre eyes staring blindly at the fading embers, lost in profound and gloomy meditation. But, all at once, he started and glanced swiftly around toward a certain window, the curtains of which were only partly drawn, and his lounging attitude changed instantly to one of watchful alertness.
As he sat thus, broad shoulders stooped, feet drawn up—poised for swift action, he beheld a light that flashed here and there, that vanished and came again, hovering up and down and to and fro outside the window; wherefore he reached out a long arm in the gloom and silently opened a certain drawer in the escritoire.
Came a soft click, a faint creak, and a breath of cool, fragrant air as the window was cautiously opened, and a shapeless something climbed through, while Mr. Ravenslee sat motionless—waiting.
The flashing light winked again, a small, bright disc that hovered uncertainly and finally steadied upon the carved cabinet in the corner, and the Something crept stealthily thither. A long-drawn, breathless minute and then—the room was flooded with brilliant light, and a figure, kneeling before the cabinet, uttered a strangled cry and leapt up, only to recoil before Mr. Ravenslee’s levelled revolver.
A pallid-faced, willowy lad, this, of perhaps seventeen, who, sinking to his knees, threw up an arm across his face, then raised both hands above his head.
“Ah, don’t shoot, mister!” he gasped. “Oh, don’t shoot—I got me hands up!”
“Stand up!” said Ravenslee grimly, “up with you and shutter that window—you may have friends outside, and I’m taking no chances! Quick—shutter that window, I say.”
The lad struggled to his feet and, crossing to the window, fumbled the shutter into place, his ghastly face turning and turning toward the revolver that glittered in such deadly fashion in Mr. Ravenslee’s steady hand. At length, the shutters barred, the boy turned, and moistening dry lips, spoke hoarsely and with apparent effort.
“Oh, mister—don’t go for to—croak a guy as—as ain’t done nothing!”
“You broke into my house!”
“But I—haven’t took nothin’!”
“Because I happened to catch you!”
“But—but—oh, sir,” stammered the boy, taking off his cap and fumbling with it while he stared wide-eyed at the threatening revolver, “I—I ain’t a real thief—cross me heart and hope to die, I ain’t! Don’t croak me, sir!”
“But why in the world not?” enquired Mr. Ravenslee. “Alone and unaided I have captured a desperate criminal, a bloodthirsty villain—caught him in the very act of burgling a cabinet where I keep my cigars of price—and Mr. Brimberly’s, of course! Consequently to—er—croak you is my privilege as a citizen; it’s all quite just and proper—really, I ought to croak you, you know.”
“I—ain’t desprit, mister,” the boy pleaded, “I ain’t a reg’lar crook; dis is me first try-out—honest it is!”
“But then I prefer to regard you as a deep-dyed desperado—you must be quite—er—sixteen! Consequently it is my duty to croak you on the spot, or hand you over to the police—”
“No, no!” cried the boy, his tremulous hands reached out in a passion of supplication, “not d’ cops—don’t let th’ p’lice get me. Oh, I never took nothin’ from nobody—lemme go! Be a sport and let me beat it, please, sir!”
All Mr. Ravenslee’s chronic languor seemed to have returned as, leaning back in the deep-cushioned chair, he regarded this youthful malefactor with sleepy eyes, yet eyes that missed nothing of the boy’s quivering earnestness as he continued, breathlessly:
“Oh, I ain’t a real crook, I never done nothin’ like this before, an’ I never will again if—if you’ll only let me chase meself—”
“And now,” sighed Mr. Ravenslee, “I’ll trouble you for the ‘phone, yonder.”
“Are ye goin’ to—call in de cops?”
“That is my intention. Give me the ‘phone.”
“No!” cried the boy, and springing before the telephone he stood there, trembling but defiant.
“Give me that telephone!”
“Not much I won’t!”
“Then of course I must shoot you!”
The boy stood with head up-flung and fists tight-clenched; Mr. Ravenslee lounged in his chair with levelled pistol. So they fronted each other—but, all at once, with a sound between a choke and a groan, the lad covered his face.
“Go on!” he whispered hoarsely, “go on—what’s keepin’ you? If it’s the cops or croaking, I—I’d rather croak.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause if I was ever sent to—prison—it ‘ud break her heart, I guess.”
“Her heart?” said Mr. Ravenslee, and lowered the pistol.
“Me sister’s.”
“Ah—so you have a sister?” and Mr. Ravenslee sat up suddenly.
“Lots o’ guys has, but there ain’t a sister like mine in all N’ York—nor nowheres else.”
“Who are you? What’s your name?”
“Spike. Me real name’s Arthur, but Arthur sounds kinder soft an’ sissy; nobody don’t call me Arthur ‘cept her, an’ I don’t mind her.”
“And what’s her name?”
“Hermy—Hermione, sir.”
“Hermione—why, that’s Greek! It’s a very beautiful name!”
“Kind of fits her too!” nodded Spike, warming to his theme. “Hermy’s ace-high on the face and figure question! Why, there ain’t a swell dame on Fift’ Av’ner, nor nowheres else, got anything on Hermy as a looker!”
“And what of your father and mother?”
“Ain’t got none—don’t remember having none—don’t want none; Hermy’s good ‘nuff for me.”
“Good to you, is she?” enquired Mr. Ravenslee.
“Good t’ me!” cried Spike, “good? Well, say—when I think about it I—I gets watery in me lamps, kinder sloppy in me talk, an’ all mushy inside! Good t’ me? Well, you can just bet on that!”
“And,” enquired Mr. Ravenslee sleepily, “are you as good to her?”
Hereupon Spike turned his cap inside out and looked at it thoughtfully. “I—I dunno, mister.”
“Ah! perhaps you—make her cry, sometimes?”
Hereupon Spike began to pick at the lining of his cap and finally answered: “Sometimes, I guess.”
“Would she cry if she could see you now, I wonder?”
Hereupon Spike began to wring and twist his cap in nervous hands ere he answered: “I—I guess she might, perhaps.”
“She must love you a good deal.”
At this, Spike twisted his cap into a ball but spoke nothing; seeing which Mr. Ravenslee proceeded.
“You are luckier than I; there isn’t a soul in the world to do as much for me.”
Spike gulped audibly and, thereafter, sniffed.
“Now suppose,” said Mr. Ravenslee, “let us suppose she found out that the brother she loved so much was a—thief?”
Hereupon Spike unrolled his cap and proceeded to rub his eyes with it, and, when at last he spoke, it was in a voice broken by great sobs.
“Say—cut it out—cut it out! I never meant to—to do it. They got me soused—doped me, I think, else I’d never have done it. I ain’t good, but I ain’t so rotten bad as—what I seem. I ain’t no real crook, but if you wanter croak me for what I done—go ahead! Only don’t—don’t let d’ cops get me, ‘cause o’ Hermy. If you croak me, she’ll think I got it in a scrap, maybe; so if you wanter plug me, go ahead!”
“But what are you shivering for?”
“I—I’m just waitin’, sir,” answered Spike, closing his eyes, “I—I seen a guy shot once!”
Mr. Ravenslee sighed and nodded.
“After all,” said he, “I don’t think I’ll croak you,” and he slipped the revolver into his pocket while Spike watched him in sudden tense eagerness.
“What yer mean to do wi’ me?” he asked.
“That’s the question; what shall I do with you? Let me think.”
“Say,” cried the boy eagerly, “you don’t have to do no thinkin’—leave it all to me! It’s de winder for mine; I’ll chase meself quick—”
“No you don’t! Sit down—sit down, I say!”
Spike sighed and seated himself on the extreme edge of the chair his captor indicated.
“Won’t yer lemme beat it, sir?” he pleaded.
“No, some one else might catch you next time and have the pleasure of—er—croaking you or handing you over to the police—”
“There won’t be no next time, sir!” cried Spike eagerly. “I’ll never do it no more—I’ll cut d’ whole gang, I’ll give Bud M’Ginnis d’ throw-down—on d’ dead level I will, if you’ll only let me—”
“Who’s Bud M’Ginnis?”
“Say,” exclaimed the boy, staring, “don’t yer know that? Why, Bud’s d’ main squeeze with d’ gang, d’ whole cheese, he is—an’ he kind o’ thinks I’m d’ candy-kid ‘cause he’s stuck on me sister—”.
“Ah!” nodded Mr. Ravenslee, frowning a little, “and is she—er—stuck on him?”
“Not so as you could notice it, she ain’t! No, she can’t see Bud with a pair of opry-glasses, an’ he’s a dead game sport, too! Oh, there ain’t no flies on Bud, an’ nobody can lick him, either; but Hermy don’t cotton none, she hasn’t got no use for him, see? But say—” Spike rose tentatively and looked on his captor with eyes big and supplicating.
“Well, what now?”
“Why, I thought if you was tired of me chewing d’ rag and wanted to hit the feathers, I’d just cop a sneak. See, if you’ll only lemme go, I’ll do d’ square thing and get a steady job like Hermy wants me to—honest, I will, sir! Y’ see, me sister’s away to-night—she does needleworks for swell folks an’ stops with ‘em sometimes—so if you’ll only let me beat it, I can skin back an’ she’ll never know! Ah!—lemme go, sir!”
“Well then,” sighed Mr. Ravenslee, “for her sake I will let you go—wait! I’ll let you go and never speak of your—er—little escapade here, if you will take me with you.”
Now at this, Spike gaped and fell back a step.
“Go wi’ me—wi’ me?” he stammered. “You—go wi’ me to Hell’s Kitchen—to Mulligan’s Dump—you! Say, what kind o’ song and dance are you giving me, anyway? Aw—quit yer kiddin’, sir!”
“But I mean it.”
“On—on d’ level?”
“On the level.”
“Holy Gee!” and Spike relapsed into wide-eyed, voiceless wonder.
“Is it a go?” enquired Mr. Ravenslee.
“But—but, say—” stammered the boy, glancing from the elegant figure in the chair around the luxurious room and back again, “but you’re a—a—”
“Just a poor, disconsolate, lonely—er—guy!”
“What!” cried Spike, staring around him again, “with all this? Oh, yes, you’re homeless and starving, you are—I don’t think!”
“Is it a go?”
“But say—whatcher want to go wi’ me for? What’s yer game? Put me wise.”
“I am filled with desire to breathe awhile the salubrious air of Hell’s Kitchen; will you take me?” Now as he spoke, beholding the boy’s staring amaze, Mr. Ravenslee’s frowning brows relaxed, his firm, clean-shaven lips quivered, and all at once curved up into a smile of singular sweetness—a smile before which the hopelessness and fear died out of the boy’s long-lashed eyes, his whole strained attitude vanished, and he smiled also—though perhaps a little tremulously.
“Will you take me, Spike?”
“You bet I will!” exclaimed the boy, his blue eyes shining, “and I’ll do my best to show you I—I ain’t so bad as I—as I seem—an’ we’ll shake on it if you like.” And Spike advanced with his hand outstretched, then paused, suddenly abashed, and drooping his head, turned away. “I—I forgot,” he muttered, “—I’m—you said I was a—thief!”
“You meant to be!” said Mr. Ravenslee, and rising, he stretched himself and glanced at his watch.
“Are you coming wi’ me, sir?” enquired Spike, regarding Mr. Ravenslee’s length and breadth with quick, appraising eyes.
“I surely am!”
“But—but not in them glad rags!” and Spike pointed to Mr. Ravenslee’s exquisitely tailored garments.
“Ah—to be sure!” nodded their wearer. “We’ll soon fix that,” and he touched the electric bell.
“Say,” cried Spike, starting forward in sudden terror, “you—you ain’t goin’ to give me away?”
“No.”
“Cross your heart—hope to die, you ain’t?”
“Across my heart and hope to die, I’m not—and there’s my hand on it, Spike.”
“What?” exclaimed the boy, his eyes suspiciously bright, “d’ you mean you will shake—after—after what I—”
“There’s my hand, Spike!” So their hands met and gripped, the boy’s hot and eagerly tremulous, the man’s cool and steady and strong; then of a sudden Spike choked and turning his back brushed away his tears with his cap. Also at this moment, with a soft and discreet knock, Mr. Brimberly opened the door and bowed himself into the room; his attitude was deferential as always, his smile as respectful, but, beholding Spike, his round eyes grew rounder and his whiskers slightly bristly.
“Ah, Brimberly,” nodded his master, “you are not in bed yet—good!”
“No, sir,” answered Mr. Brimberly, “I’m not in bed yet, sir, but when you rang I was in the very hact, sir—”
“First of all,” said Young R., selecting a cigar, “let me introduce you to—er—my friend, Spike!”
Hereupon Mr. Brimberly rolled his eyes in Spike’s direction, glanced him over, touched either whisker, and bowed—and lo! those fleecy whiskers were now eloquent of pompous dignity, beholding which Spike shuffled his feet, averted his eyes, and twisted his cap into a very tight ball indeed.
But now Brimberly turned his eyes (and his whiskers) on his master, who had taken out his watch.
“Brimberly,” said he, “it is now very nearly two o’clock.”
“Very late, sir—oh, very late, sir—indeed, I was in the very hact of goin’ to bed, sir—I’d even unbuttoned my waistcoat, sir, when you rang—two o’clock, sir—dear me, a most un-‘oly hour, sir—”
“Consequently, Brimberly, I am thinking of taking a little outing—”
“Certingly, sir—oh, certingly!”
“And I want some other clothes—”
“Clothes, sir—yessir. There’s the noo ‘arris tweed, sir—”
“With holes in them, if possible, Brimberly.”
“‘Oles, sir! Beg parding, sir, but did you say ‘oles, sir?”
“Also patches, Brimberly, the bigger the better!”
“Patches! Hexcuse me, sir, but—patches! I beg parding, but—” Mr. Brimberly laid a feeble hand upon a twitching whisker.
“In a word, Brimberly,” pursued his master, seating himself upon the escritoire and swinging his leg, “I want some old clothes, shabby clothes—moth-eaten, stained, battered, and torn. Also a muffler and an old hat. Can you find me some?”
“No, sir, I don’t—that is, yessir, I do. Hexcuse me, sir—’arf a moment, sir.” Saying which, Mr. Brimberly bowed and went from the room with one hand still clutching his whisker very much as though he had taken himself into custody and were leading himself out.
“Say,” exclaimed Spike in a hoarse whisper and edging nearer to Mr. Ravenslee, “who’s His Whiskers—de swell guy with d’ face trimmings?”
“Why, since you ask, Spike, he is a very worthy person who devotes his life to—er—looking after my welfare and—other things.”
“Holy Gee!” exclaimed Spike, staring, “I should have thought you was big ‘nuff to do that fer yourself, unless—” and here he broke off suddenly and gazed on Mr. Ravenslee’s long figure with a new and more particular interest.
“Unless what?”
“Say—you ain’t got bats in your belfry, have you—you ain’t weak in the think-box, or soft in the nut, are ye?”
“No—at least not more than the average, I believe.”
“I mean His Whiskers don’t have to lead you around on a string or watch out you don’t set fire to yourself, does he?”
“Well, strictly speaking, I can’t say that his duties are quite so far-reaching.”
“Who are you, anyway?”
“Well, my names are Geoffrey, Guy, Eustace, Hughson-and—er—a few others, but these will do to go on with, perhaps?”
“Well, I guess yes!”
“You can take your choice.”
“Well, Guy won’t do—no siree—ye see every mutt’s a guy down our way—so I guess we’ll make it Geoff. But, say, if you ain’t weak on the think-machinery, why d’ ye keep a guy like His Whiskers hanging around?”
“Because he has become a habit, Spike—and habits cling—and speaking of habits—here it is!” Sure enough, at that moment Brimberly’s knuckles made themselves discreetly heard, and Brimberly himself appeared with divers garments across his arm, at sight of which Spike stood immediately dumb in staring, awe-struck wonder.
“Ah, you’ve got them, Brimberly?”
“Yessir! These is the best I can do, sir—”
“Say rather—the worst!”
“‘Ere’s a nice, big ‘ole in the coat, sir,” said Mr. Brimberly, unfolding the garment in question, “and the weskit, sir; the pocket is tore, you’ll notice, sir.”
“Excellent, Brimberly!”
“As for these trousis, sir—”
“They seem rather superior garments, I’m afraid!” said Mr. Ravenslee, shaking his head.
“But you’ll notice as they’re very much wore round the ‘eels, sir.”
“They’ll do. Now the hat and muffler.”
“All ‘ere, sir—the ‘at’s got its brim broke, sir.”
“Couldn’t be better, Brimberly!” So saying, Mr. Ravenslee took up the clothes and turned toward the door. “Now I’ll trouble you to keep an eye on—er—young America here while I get into these.”
“Sir,” said Mr. Brimberly, turning his whiskers full upon Spike, who immediately fell to shuffling and wringing at his cap. “Sir—I will, certingly, sir.”
Now when the door had shut after his master, Mr. Brimberly raised eyes and hands to the ceiling and shook his head until his whiskers quivered. Quoth he: “Hall I arsks is—wot next!” Thereafter he lowered his eyes and regarded Spike as if he had been that basest of base minions—a boy in buttons. At last he deigned speech.
“And w’en did you come in, pray?”
“‘Bout a hour ago, sir,” answered Spike, dropping his cap in his embarrassment.
“Ah!” nodded Mr. Brimberly, “about a hour ago—ho! By appointment, I pre-zoom?”
“No, sir—by a winder.”
“A—wot?”
“A winder, sir.”
“A—winder? ‘Eavens and earth—a winder—ow? Where? Wot for?”
“Say, mister,” said Spike, breaking in upon Mr. Brimberly’s astounded questioning, “is he nutty?” And he jerked his thumb toward the door through which Mr. Ravenslee had gone.
“Nutty!” said Mr. Brimberly, staring.
“Yes—I mean is he batty? Has he got wheels?”
“W’eels?” said Mr. Brimberly, his eyes rounder than usual.
“Well, then, is he daffy?—off his trolley?”
“Off ‘is wot?” said Mr. Brimberly, fumbling for his whisker.
“Holy Gee!” exclaimed Spike, “can’t you understand English? Say, is your brother as smart as you?”
“The honly brother as ever I ‘ad was a infant as died and—but wot was you saying about a winder?”
“Nothin’!”
“Come, speak up, you young vagabone—” began Mr. Brimberly, his whiskers suddenly fierce and threatening, but just then, fortunately for Spike, the door swung, open, and Mr. Ravenslee entered.
And lo! what a change was here! The battered hat, the faded muffler and shabby clothes seemed only to show off all the hitherto hidden strength and vigour of the powerful limbs below; indeed it almost seemed that with his elegant garments he had laid aside his lassitude also and taken on a new air of resolution, for his eyes were sleepy no longer, and his every gesture was lithe and quick. So great was the change that Spike stared speechless, and Mr. Brimberly gaped with whiskers a-droop.
“Well, shall I do?” enquired Mr. Ravenslee, tightening his faded neckerchief.
“Do?” repeated Spike, “say—you look all to d’ mustard, Geoff! You—you look as if you could—do things, now!”
“Strangely enough, Spike, I rather feel that way too!” So saying, Mr. Ravenslee took a pipe from the rack, filled it with quick, energetic fingers, and proceeded to light it, watched in dumb amaze by the gaping Brimberly.
“Brimberly,” said he, “I shall probably return to-morrow.”
“Yes, sir,” said he faintly.
“Or the day after.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Or the day after.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Or the day after that; anyhow, I shall probably return. Should any one call—business or otherwise—tell ‘em to call again; say I’m out of town—you understand?”
“Out of town—certingly, sir.”
“Referring to—to the matter we talked of to-night, Brimberly—”
“Meaning the hobject, sir?”
“Precisely! Don’t trouble yourself about it.”
“No, sir?”
“No, Brimberly—I’m going to try and find one for myself.”
“Ho—very good, sir!”
“And now,” said the new Mr. Ravenslee, laying one white, ringless hand on Spike’s shoulder and pointing toward the open door with the other, “lead on—young Destiny!”
CHAPTER IV
TELLING HOW HE CAME TO HELL’S KITCHEN AT PEEP O’ DAY
It was past three o’clock and dawn was at hand as, by devious ways, Spike piloted his companion through that section of New York City which is known to the initiated as “Hell’s Kitchen.” By dismal streets they went, past silent, squalid houses and tall tenements looming grim and ghostly in the faint light; crossing broad avenues very silent and deserted at this hour, on and on until, dark and vague and mysterious, the great river flowed before them only to be lost again as they plunged into a gloomy court where tall buildings rose on every hand, huge and very silent, teeming with life—but life just now wrapped in that profound quietude of sleep which is so much akin to death. Into one of these tall tenement buildings, its ugliness rendered more ugly by the network of iron fire-escape ladders that writhed up the face of it, Spike led the way, first into a dark hallway and thence up many stairs that echoed to their light-treading feet—on and up, past dimly lit landings where were doors each of which shut in its own little world, a world distinct and separate wherein youth and age, good and evil, joy and misery, lived and moved and had their being; behind these dingy panels were smiling hope and black despair, blooming health and pallid sickness, and all those sins and virtues that go to make up the sum total of humanity.
Something of all this was in Geoffrey Ravenslee’s mind as he climbed the dingy, interminable stair behind Spike, who presently halted to get his wind and whisper:
“It ain’t much further now, Geoff, only another two flights and—” He stopped suddenly to listen, and from the landing above a sound reached them, a sound soft but unmistakable—a woman’s muffled sobbing.
Slowly, cautiously, they mounted the stair until in the dim light of a certain landing they beheld a slim figure bowed upon its knees in an agony of abasement before a scarred and dingy door. Even as they stared, the slender, girlish figure sobbed again, and, with a sudden, yearning gesture, lifted a face, pale in the half-light, and kissed that battered door; thereafter, weeping still, she rose to her feet and turned, but seeing Spike, stood very still all at once and with hands clasped tight together.
“Holy Gee!” exclaimed Spike beneath his breath; then, in a hoarse whisper: “Is that Maggie—Maggie Finlay?”
“Oh—is that you, Arthur?” she whispered back. “Arthur—oh, Arthur, I, I’m going away, but I couldn’t go without coming to—to kiss dear mother good-by—and now I’m here I daren’t knock for fear of—father. I’ve been up to your door and knocked, but Hermy’s away, I guess. Anyway, you—you’ll say I came to thank her and—kiss her for the last time, won’t you, Arthur?”
“Sure I will—but where ye goin’, Maggie?”
“A long way, Arthur! I don’t s’pose I shall ever—see this place any more—or you—so, Arthur, will you—kiss me good-by—just once?”
Spike hesitated, but she, quick and light-treading, came down to him and caught his hand and would have kissed that, but he snatched it away and, leaning forward, kissed her tear-stained cheek, and blushed thereafter despite the dark.
“Good-by, Arthur!” she whispered, “and thank you—and dear Hermy—oh, good-by!” So saying, she hurried on past Ravenslee, down the dark stairway, while Spike leaned over the balustrade to whisper:
“Good-by, Maggie—an’ good luck, Kid!” At this she paused to look up at him with great, sad eyes—a long, wistful look, then, speaking no more, hurried on down the stair—down, down into the shadows, and was gone.
“We used to go to school together, Geoff,” the boy explained a little self-consciously, “she never—kissed me before; she ain’t the kissin’ sort. I wonder why she did it to-night? I wonder—”
So saying, Spike turned and led the way on again until they reached the landing above, across which two doors, dark and unlovely, seemed to scowl upon each other. One of these Spike proceeded to open with a latchkey, and so led Ravenslee into the dark void beyond. Spike struck a match and lighted the gas, and, looking about him, Ravenslee stared.
A little, cramped room, sparsely furnished yet dainty and homelike, for the small, deal table hid its bare nakedness beneath a dainty cloth; the two rickety armchairs veiled their faded tapestry under chintz covers, cunningly contrived and delicately tinted to match the cheap but soft-toned drugget on the floor and the self-coloured paper on the walls, where hung two or three inexpensive reproductions of famous paintings; and in all things there breathed an air of refinement wholly unexpected in Hell’s Kitchen. Wherefore Mr. Ravenslee, observing all things with his quick glance, felt an ever-growing wonder. But now Spike, who had been clattering plates and dishes in the kitchen hard by, thrust his head around the door to say:
“Oh, Geoff—I don’t feel like doin’ the shut-eye business, d’ you? How about a cup of coffee, an’ I daresay I might dig out some eats; what d’ ye say?”
“Is this—your sister?” enquired Mr. Ravenslee, taking up a photograph from the little sideboard.
“Yep, that’s Hermy all right—taken las’ year—does her hair different now. How about some coffee, Geoff?”
“Coffee?” said Mr. Ravenslee, staring at the picture, “coffee—certainly—er—thanks! She has—light hair, Spike?”
“Gold!” said Spike, and vanished; whereupon Mr. Ravenslee laid the photograph on the table, and sitting down, fell to viewing it intently.
A wonderful face, low-browed, deep-eyed, full-lipped. Here was none of smiling prettiness, for these eyes were grave and thoughtful, these lips, despite their soft, voluptuous curves, were firmly modelled like the rounded chin below, and, in all the face, despite its vivid youth, was a vague and wistful sadness.
“Oh, Geoff,” called Spike, “d’ ye mind having yer coffee a la milko condenso?”
“Milk?” exclaimed Mr. Ravenslee, starting. “Oh—yes—anything will do!”
“Why, hello!” exclaimed Spike, reappearing with a cup and saucer, “still piping off Hermy’s photo, Geoff?”
“I’m wondering why she looks so sad?”
“Sad?” repeated Spike, setting down the crockery with a rattle, “Hermy ain’t sad; she always looks like that. Y’ see, she ain’t much on the giggle, Geoff, but she’s most always singing, ‘cept when her kids is sick or Mulligan calls—”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, Hermy mothers all the kids around here when they’re sick, an’ lots o’ kids is always getting sick. And when Mulligan comes it’s rent day, an’ sometimes Hermy’s a bit shy on the money—”
“Is she?” said Mr. Ravenslee, frowning.
“You bet she is, Geoff! An’ Mulligan’s an Irishman an’ mean—say, he’s the meanest mutt you ever see. A Jew’s mean, so’s a Chink, but a mean Harp’s got ‘em both skinned ‘way to ‘Frisco an’ back again! Why, Mulligan’s that mean he wouldn’t cough up a nickel to see the Statue o’ Liberty do a Salomy dance in d’ bay. So when the mazuma’s shy Hermy worries some—”
“Don’t you help her?” demanded Mr. Ravenslee.
“Help her—whydef> The main MMC window provides commands and tools for authoring consoles. The authoring features of MMC and the console tree itself may be hidden when a console is in User Mode.<p> “Oh, Hermy dear!” she cried, clasping frail hands, “oh, Hermy, you’ve brought him—you’ve brought me our fairy prince at last!” Now what was there in these childish words to cause Hermione’s eyes to droop so suddenly as she took the bottle from Ravenslee’s hand, or her rounded cheek to flush so painfully as she stooped to meet the child’s eager kiss, or, when she turned away to measure a dose of the medicine, to be such an unconscionable time over it? Observing all of which, Ravenslee forthwith saluted the small invalid with a grave bow, battered hat gracefully flourished. “It is truly an honour to meet you, princess!” said he, and lifting the child’s frail little hand, he touched it to his lips. Thereafter, obeying the mute appeal of that hand, he seated himself upon the narrow bed, while Hermione, soft-voiced and tender, bent above the invalid, who, having obediently swallowed her medicine, leaned back on her pillow and smiled from one to the other. “And now,” said she, drawing Hermione down at her other side and snuggling between, “now please let’s all tell some more fairy tale; an’ please, you begin, Hermy, just where you had t’ leave off last time.” “Why, I—I’m afraid I’ve forgotten, dear,” said Hermione, bending to smooth the child’s pillow. “Forgotten—oh, Hermy! But I ‘member quite well; you got where poor Princess Nobody was climbing the mountain very tired an’ sad an’ carrying her heavy pack, an’ all at once—along came the Prince an’ took her heavy bundle and said he’d love to carry it for her always if she’d let him. An’ poor Nobody knew he was the real Prince at last—the Prince she’d dreamed of an’ waited for all her life, ‘cos he’d got grey eyes so brave an’ true—an’ he was so big an’ strong an’ noble. So he helped her to the top of the mountain, an’ then she thought at last she could see the beautiful City of Perhaps. That’s where you got to—don’t you ‘member, Hermy dear?” Now why should Hermione’s shapely head have drooped and drooped until at last her face was hidden on the pillow? And why should Geoffrey Ravenslee reach to touch the child’s hair with hand so light and tender? “The beautiful City of Perhaps,” said he gently, “why, Princess, where did you learn about that?” “From dear Princess Nobody, oh, Prince!” “And who is she?” “Why, she’s Hermy, Prince—and I’m Princess Somebody. And oh, Hermy dear, you do ‘member where you left off now, don’t you?” “Yes, I remember; but I—don’t feel like telling fairy stories now, dear.” “Oh! are y’ sick?” cried the child anxiously, touching Hermione’s golden hair with loving fingers, “is it a headache like my mumsey gets?” “N-no, dear, only I—I don’t feel like telling any more of our story—to-night—somehow, dear.” “Princess,” said Ravenslee, “do you know much about the wonderful City of Perhaps?” “Oh, yes—an’ I dream about it sometimes, Prince—such beautiful dreams!” “Why, of course,” nodded Ravenslee, “because it is the most beautiful City that ever happened, I guess!” “Oh, it is!” cried the child, “shall I tell you?” “Please do, Princess.” “Well, it’s all made of crystal an’ gold, an’ every one’s happy there and never sick—oh, never! An’ all the children can have ices an’ cream sodas whenever they want an’ lovely doll-carriages with rubber on the wheels an’—an’ everything’s just lovely. Of course every one’s daddy’s got lots an’ heaps an’ piles of money, so they never get behind with the rent an’ never have to set up all night stitching an’ stitching like mumsey an’ Hermy have to sometimes. An’ I’m Princess Somebody, an’ Hermy’s Princess Nobody, an’ we’re on our ways through the valley of gloom, trying to find the beautiful City of Perhaps—but oh, it’s awful hard to find!” she ended, with a weary little sigh. “And yet, Princess, I’m sure we shall find it.” “We? Oh, are you coming too, Prince?” cried the child joyfully. “To be sure I am!” nodded Ravenslee. “Oh, goody, I’m glad—so glad, ‘cause I know we shall find it now!” “Why?” “Well,” answered the child, looking at him with her big, wistful eyes, “‘cause you look like you could find it, somehow. You see, Prince, you’ve got grey eyes so brave an’ true—an’ you’re big an’ strong an’ could carry me an’ Hermy over the thorny places when we get very, very tired—couldn’t you?” “I could!” answered Ravenslee almost grimly, “and I—surely will!” “When we get there, Prince, I want first—a doll-carriage an’ a doll with lovely blue eyes that wink at you, an’ a big box of candy, an’ a new dress for my mumsey, an’ no more work, an’ I want lots an’ lots of flowers for my daddy ‘cause he loves flowers—oh, an’ I want my leg t’ be made well. What d’ you want, Hermy?” “Well, dear, I want to—say good-by to my sewing-machine for ever and ever and ever!” “Why, Hermy!” exclaimed the child, “last time you said you wanted some one who could give you your heart’s desire!” “Perhaps that is my heart’s desire, little Hazel,” said Hermione, rising and taking up the medicine bottle. “An’ what do you want, Prince?” “I want a great deal,” answered Ravenslee, smiling down into the big, soft eyes. “I want some one who—is my heart’s desire now and for ever and ever. Good night, dear little Princess!” “You’ll come again, Prince?” she pleaded, holding up her face to be kissed, “you’ll come again soon?” “As soon as—Princess Nobody will bring me.” “Good night, Hermy dear; you’ll bring our Prince again soon?” “If you wish, dear,” said Hermione, stooping to kiss her in turn. “Why, Hermy—what makes your cheeks so hot to-night?” “Are they?” said Hermione, making pretence to test them with the back of her hand. “Why, yes,” nodded the child, “an’ they look so red an’—” “Of course you believe in fairies, don’t you, Princess?” enquired Ravenslee rather hurriedly. “Oh, yes, Prince, I often see them in my dreams. They just wait till I’m asleep, an’ then they come an’ show themselves. Do you ever see any?” “Well, your highness, I fancy I have lately, and when fairies are around, things are sure to happen; wishes get the habit of coming true. So, little Princess, just go on wishing and dreaming and—watch out!” Then Ravenslee turned and followed Hermione out upon the dingy landing; but as he climbed the stair, there went with him the memory of a little face, very thin and pale, but radiant and all aglow with rapturous hope. Silently as they had come they mounted the stairs, until, reaching the topmost landing, they paused as by mutual consent. “Poor little Hazel!” said Hermione very gently, “if only there were real fairies to spirit her away to where the air is sweet and pure and flowers grow for little hands to gather—the doctor told me it was her only chance.” “Why, then of course she must have her chance!” said Ravenslee with a sleepy nod. “But, Mr. Geoffrey—how?” “Well—er—the fairies—you said something about fairies spiriting—” “The fairies!” said Hermione a little bitterly, “I guess they are too busy over their own affairs to trouble about a poor, little, sick child; besides, what fairy could possibly live five minutes in—Mulligan’s?” “Which leaves us,” said Ravenslee thoughtfully, “which leaves us the beautiful City of Perhaps. It is a wonderful thought, that!” “But only a thought!” she sighed. “Is it? Are you quite sure?” “Well, isn’t it?” she questioned wistfully. “No!” he answered gravely, “the City of Perhaps is very, very real.” “What do you mean?” Once again their hands touched in the shadow, but this time his fingers closed upon her hand, the hand that held the medicine bottle, drawing her nearer in the dimness of that dingy landing. “I mean,” he answered, “that for every one of us there is a City of Perhaps waiting to open its gates to our coming, and I am sure we shall reach it sooner or later, all three of us—the Princess and you and I—yes, even I, when I have done something worth while. And then, Hermione, then—nothing shall keep me from—my heart’s delight—nothing, Hermione!” As he ended, she felt an arm about her in the dimness; an arm fierce and strong that gripped and swept her close—then, as suddenly, loosed her. For a breathless moment he stood with head bowed in seeming humility, then, stooping, he crushed her hand, medicine bottle and all, to lips that burned with anything but humility. “Good night, dear Princess Nobody!” he said, and watched her turn away, nor moved until the door had closed upon her. That night he smoked many pipes, weaving him fancies of the beautiful City of Perhaps, and dreamed dreams of what might be, and his eyes glowed bright and wide, and his mouth grew alternately grim and tender. And, that night, long after he lay asleep, Hermione’s golden head was bowed above her work, but, more than once she stayed her humming sewing-machine to look at one white hand with eyes shy and wistful—the hand that had held the medicine bottle, of course. CHAPTER XIV OF A TEXT, A LETTER, AND A SONG Ravenslee opened his eyes to find his small chamber full of a glory of sun which poured a flood of radiance across his narrow bed; it brought out the apoplectic roses on the wall paper and lent a new lustre to the dim and faded gold frame that contained a fly-blown card whereon was the legend: LOVE ONE ANOTHER And with his gaze upon this time-honoured text, Ravenslee smiled, and leaping out of bed proceeded to wash and shave and dress, pausing often to glance glad-eyed from his open window upon the glory of the new day. And indeed it was a morning of all-pervading beauty, one such that even Mulligan’s, its dingy bricks and mortar mellowed by the sun, seemed less unlovely than its wont, and its many windows, catching a sunbeam here and there, winked and twinkled waggishly. So Ravenslee washed and shaved and dressed, glancing now and then from this transfigured Mulligan’s to the fly-blown text upon the wall, and once he laughed, though not very loudly to be sure, and once he hummed a song and so fell to soft whistling, all of which was very strange in Geoffrey Ravenslee. The sun, it is true, radiates life and joy; before his beneficence gloom and depression flee away, and youth and health grow strong to achieve the impossible; even age and sickness, bathed in his splendour, may forget awhile their burdens and dream of other days. Truly sunshine is a thrice blessed thing. And yet, as Ravenslee tied the neckerchief about his brawny throat, was it by reason of the sun alone that his grey eyes were so bright and joyous and that he whistled so soft and merrily? Having brushed his hair and settled his vivid-hued neckerchief to his liking, he turned, and stooping over his humble bed, slipped a hand beneath the tumbled pillow and drew thence a letter; a somewhat crumpled missive, this, that he had borne about with him all the preceding day and read and reread at intervals even as he proceeded to do now, as, standing in the radiant sunbeams, he unfolded a sheet of very ordinary note paper and slowly scanned these lines written in a bold, flowing hand: Dear Mr. Geoffrey I find I must be away from home all this week; will you please watch over my dear boy for me? Then I shall work with a glad heart. Am I wrong in asking this of you, I wonder? Anyway, I am Your grateful Hermione C. P.S. I hear you are a peanut man. You!! Truly the sun is a thrice-blessed thing—and yet—! Having read this over with the greatest attention, taking preposterous heed to every dot and comma, having carefully refolded it, slipped it into the envelope and hidden it upon his person, he raised his eyes to the spotted text upon the wall. “You’re right,” quoth he, nodding, “an altogether wise precept and one I have had by heart ever since she blessed my sight. I must introduce you to her at the earliest—the very earliest opportunity.” Then he fell to whistling softly again, and opening the door, stepped out into the bright little sitting room. Early though it was, Mrs. Trapes was already astir in her kitchen, and since sunshine is indubitably a worker of wonders, Mrs. Trapes was singing, rather harshly to be sure, yet singing nevertheless, and this was her song: “Said the young Obadiah to the old Obadiah, Obadiah, Obadiah, I am dry. Said the old Obadiah to the young Obadiah, Obadiah, Obadiah, so am I. Said the young—” The song ended abruptly as, opening the door, she beheld her lodger. “Lordy Lord, Mr. Geoffrey,” she exclaimed a little reproachfully, “whatever are you a-doin’ of, up an’ dressed an’ not half-past five yet?” “Enjoying the morning, Mrs. Trapes, and yearning for my breakfast.” “Ah, that’s just like a man; they’re almighty good yearners till they get what they yearns for—then they yearns for somethin’ else—immediate!” “Well, but I suppose women yearn too, sometimes, don’t they?” “Not they; women can only hope an’ sigh an’ languish an’ break their hearts in silence, poor dears.” “What for?” “Would a couple o’ fresh eggs an’ a lovely ham rasher soot ye?” enquired Mrs. Trapes. “They will suit.” “Then I’ll go and fry’ em!” “And I’ll come and look on, if I may,” said he, and followed her into her neat kitchen. “And how,” said Mrs. Trapes, as she prepared to make the coffee, “how’s the peanut trade, Mr. Geoffrey?” “Flourishing, thanks.” “The idea of you a-sellin’ peanuts!” “Well, I’ve only been guilty of it four days so far, Mrs. Trapes.” “Anyway, you’ve disgusted Hermy!” “Ah, so you told her, did you?” “O’ course I did!” “And what did she say?” “Laughed at first.” “She has a beautiful laugh!” said Ravenslee musingly. “An’ then she got thoughtful—” “She’s loveliest when she’s thoughtful, I think,” said Ravenslee. “An’ then she got mad at you an’ frowned—” “She’s very handsome when she frowns!” said Ravenslee. “Oh, shucks!” said his landlady, slapping the ham rasher into the pan. “And she was very angry, was she?” “I should say so!” snorted Mrs. Trapes, “stamped her foot an’ got red in the face—” “I love to see her flush!” said Ravenslee musingly again. “Said she wondered at you, she did! Said you was a man without any pride or ambition—an’ that’s what I say too—peanuts!” “They’re very wholesome!” he murmured. “Sellin’ peanuts ain’t a man’s job, no more than grinding a organ is.” “There’s money in peanuts!” “Money!” said Mrs. Trapes, wriggling her elbow joints. “How much did you make yesterday—come?” “Fifty cents.” “Fifty cents!” she almost screamed, “is that all?” “No—pardon me! There were three pimply youths on Forty-second Street—they brought it up to seventy-five.” “Only seventy-five cents? But you sold out your stock; Tony told me you did.” “Oh, yes, trade was very brisk yesterday.” “And you sold everything for seventy-five cents?” “Not exactly, Mrs. Trapes. You see, the majority of customers on my beat are very—er—small, and their pecuniary capabilities necessarily somewhat—shall we say restricted? Consequently, I have adopted the—er—deferred payment system.” “Land sakes!” said Mrs. Trapes, staring, “d’ye mean ter say—” “That my method of business is strictly—credit.” “Now look-a-here, Mr. Geoffrey, I’m talkin’ serious an’ don’t want none o’ your jokes or jollying.” “Solemn as an owl, Mrs. Trapes!” “Well, then, how d’ you suppose you can keep a wife and children, maybe, by selling peanuts that way or any way?” “Oh, when I marry I shall probably turn my—attention to—er—other things, Mrs. Trapes.” “What things?” “Well—to my wife, in the first place.” “Oh, Mr. Geoffrey, you make me tired!” “Alas, Mrs. Trapes, I frequently grow tired of myself.” Mrs. Trapes turned away to give her attention to the ham. “Did ye see that b’y Arthur yesterday?” she enquired presently over her shoulder. “Yes.” “How’s he like his noo job?” “Well, I can’t say that he seems—er—fired with a passion for it.” “Office work, ain’t it?” “I believe it is.” “Well, you mark my words, that b’y won’t keep it a week.” “Oh, I don’t know,” said Ravenslee, “he seemed quite content.” “You took him to the theayter las’ night, didn’t you? Wastin’ your good money, eh?” “Not very much, Mrs. Trapes,” said her lodger humbly. Mrs. Trapes sniffed. “Anyway, it’s a good thing you had him safe out o’ the way, as it happens.” “Why?” “Because that loafer M’Ginnis was hanging around for him all the evenin’. Even had the dratted imperence to come in here an’ ask me where he was.” “And what did you tell him?” “Tell him?” she repeated. “What did I not tell him!” Her voice was gentle, but what words could convey all the quivering ferocity of her elbows! “Mr. Geoffrey, I told Bud M’Ginnis just exactly what kind o’ a beast Bud M’Ginnis is. I told Bud M’Ginnis where Bud M’Ginnis come from an’ where Bud M’Ginnis would go to. I told Bud M’Ginnis the character of his mother an’ father, very plain an’ p’inted.” “And what did he say?” “He say! Mr. Geoffrey, I didn’t give him a chance to utter a single word, of course. An’ when I’d said all there was to say, I picked up my heaviest flatiron, as happened to be handy, an’ ordered him out; and Mr. Geoffrey, Bud M’Ginnis—went!” “Under the circumstances,” said Ravenslee, “I’m not surprised that he did.” “Ah, but he’ll come back again, Mr. Geoffrey; he’ll find Arthur alone next time, an’ Arthur’ll go along with him, and then—good night! The b’y’ll get drunk an’ lose his job like he did last time.” “Why, then, he mustn’t find Arthur alone.” “And who’s t’ stop him?” “I.” “Mr. Geoffrey, you’re big an’ strong, but M’Ginnis is stronger—and yet—” Mrs. Trapes ran a speculative eye over Ravenslee’s lounging form. “H’m!” said she musingly, “but even if you did happen to lick him, what about th’ gang?” “Echo, Mrs. Trapes, promptly answers, ‘what’?” “Well, Mr. Geoffrey, I can tell ye there’s been more ‘n one poor feller killed around here to my knowing—yes, sir!” “But the police?” “Perlice!” snorted Mrs. Trapes. “M’Ginnis an’ his father have a big pull with Tammany, an’ Tammany is the perlice. Anyways, Mr. Geoffrey, don’t you go having no trouble with Bud M’Ginnis; leave him to some one as is as much a brute-beast as he is.” “But then—what of Spike?” “Oh, drat him! If Arthur ain’t got the horse sense to know who’s his worst enemy, he ain’t worth a clean man riskin’ his life over—for it would be your life you’d risk, Mr. Geoffrey—mark my words!” “Mrs. Trapes, your anxiety on my account flatters me, also I’m glad to know you think me a clean man. But all men must take risks—some for money, some for honour, and some for the pure love of it. Personally, I rather like a little risk—just a suspicion, if it’s for something worth while.” “Mr. Geoffrey, what are you gettin’ at?” “Well, I would remind you that Spike has—a sister!” “Ah!” said Mrs. Trapes, and her lined face took on a sudden anxious expression. “Therefore, I’ve been contemplating—er—tackling Mr. M’Ginnis—at a proper and auspicious time, of course.” “An’ what o’ the gang?” “Oh, drat the gang, Mrs. Trapes.” “But you don’t mean as you’d fight M’Ginnis?” “Well—er—the thought has occurred to me, Mrs. Trapes, though I’m quite undecided on the matter, and—er—I believe my breakfast is burning!” “My land!” ejaculated Mrs. Trapes, turning to snatch the pan from the stove, “I’m afraid the fire’s ketched it a bit, Mr. Geoffrey—” “No matter.” “An’ now there’s the coffee b’ilin’ over!” “Let me help you,” said Ravenslee, rising. “Anyway, your breakfast’s ready, so come an’ eat it while it’s good an’ hot.” “On condition that you eat with me.” “What, eat wi’ you, Mr. Geoffrey—in my best parlour—an’ me in me workin’ clo’es?” “Ah, to be sure—not to be thought of, Mrs. Trapes; then we’ll breakfast here in the kitchen.” “Would ye mind?” “Should love it.” So down they sat together, and Ravenslee vowed the ham was all ham should be and the eggs beyond praise. And when his hunger was somewhat appeased, Mrs. Trapes leaned her bony elbows on the table and questioned him. “You ain’t ever spoke to Hermy, have you, Mr. Geoffrey?” “Very often, lately.” “I mean—you ain’t opened your ‘eart to her—matrimonially, have you?” “No!” “Why, then, I’ll tell you what—there’s been times when I’ve been afraid that for the sake o’ that b’y she’d sacrifice herself to Bud M’Ginnis.” “No, she would never do that, Mrs. Trapes.” “Oh, but she would.” “But, you see, she couldn’t!” “And why not?” “Oh, well, because—er—I should kill him first.” “Land sakes, Mr. Geoffrey!” and Mrs. Trapes actually blenched before the glare in his eyes that was so strangely at odds with his soft, lazy tones. “And that ends it!” he nodded. “Mrs. Trapes, I’ve made up my mind!” “What about?” “Mr. M’Ginnis. I’ll begin to-day.” “Begin what?” “To prepare myself to bestow on him the thrashing of his life!” So saying, Ravenslee stretched lazily and finally got up. “Good morning, Mrs. Trapes!” said he. “But where are ye going?” she demanded. “To my peanuts,” he answered gravely. “‘Man is born to labour,’ you, know.” “But it’s early yet.” “But I have much to do—and she laughed at me for being a peanut man, did she, Mrs. Trapes—she frowned and flushed and stamped her pretty foot at me, did she?” “She did so, Mr. Geoffrey!” “I’m glad!” he answered. “Yes, I’m very glad she frowned and stamped her foot at me. By the way, I like that text in my bedroom.” “Text?” said Mrs. Trapes, staring. “‘Love one another,’” he nodded. “It is a very—very beautiful sentiment—sometimes. Anyway, I’m glad she frowned and stamped at me, Mrs. Trapes; you can tell her I said so if you happen to think of it when she comes home.” And Ravenslee smiled, and turning away, was gone. “Well,” said Mrs. Trapes, staring at the closed door, “of all the—well, well!” Then she sighed, shook her head, and fell to washing up the breakfast things. CHAPTER XV WHICH INTRODUCES JOE AND THE OLD UN The clocks were striking nine as, according to his custom of late, Geoffrey Ravenslee trundled his barrow blithely along Thirty-eighth Street, halting now and then at the shrill, imperious summons of some small customer, or by reason of the congestion of early traffic, or to swear whole-heartedly and be sworn at by some indignant Jehu. At length he came to Eleventh Avenue and to a certain quarter where the whistle of a peanut barrow was seldom heard, and peanuts were a luxury. And here, in a dismal, small street hard by the river, behold Ravenslee halt his gaily painted pushcart, whereat a shrill clamour arises that swells upon the air, a joyous babel; and forth from small and dismal homes, from narrow courts and the purlieus adjacent, his customers appear. They race, they gambol, they run and toddle, for these customers are very small and tender and grimy, but each small face is alight with joyous welcome, and they hail him with rapturous acclaim. Even the few tired-looking mothers, peeping from windows or glancing from doorways, smile and nod and forget awhile their weariness in the children’s delight, as Ravenslee, the battered hat cocked at knowing angle, proceeds to “business.” Shrill voices supplicate him, little feet patter close around him, small hands, eagerly outstretched, appeal to him. Anon rise shrieks and infantile crowings of delight as each small hand is drawn back grasping a plump paper bag—shrieks and crowings that languish and die away, one by one, since no human child may shriek properly and chew peanuts at one and the same time. And in a while, his stock greatly diminished, Ravenslee trundles off and leaves behind him women who smile still and small boys and girls who munch in a rapturous silence. On he went, his oven whistling soft and shrill, his long legs striding between the shafts, until, reaching a certain bleak corner, he halted again, though to be sure there were few people hereabouts and no children. But upon the opposite corner was a saloon, with a large annex and many outbuildings behind, backing upon the river, and Ravenslee, lounging on the handles of his barrow, examined this unlovely building with keen eye from beneath his hat brim, for above the swing doors appeared the words: O’ROURKE’S SALOON He was in the act of lighting his pipe when the doors of the saloon were swung open, and three men came out, in one of whom he recognised the tall, powerful figure and broad shoulders of Bud M’Ginnis; his companions were remarkable, but in very opposite ways, the one being slender and youthful and very smartly dressed, with a face which, despite its seeming youth, was strangely haggard and of an unhealthy pallor, while the other was plethoric, red-faced and middle-aged, a man hoarse of voice and roughly clad, and Ravenslee noticed that this fellow lacked the upper half of one ear. “Saturday night, mind!” said M’Ginnis, loud and authoritative. “But say, Bud,” demanded the smartly dressed youth, “what’s coming to us on that last deal?” “Nix—that’s what you get, Soapy!” The youth’s pale cheek grew livid. “So you’ve got the deck stacked against us, eh, Bud?” said he. “I got a close mouth, Soapy, I guess you don’t want me t’ open it very wide—now or any other old time. Saturday night, mind!” and nodding, M’Ginnis turned away. The youth looked after him with venomous eyes, and his right hand made a sinister movement toward his hip pocket. “Aw—quit it; are ye crazy?” grunted his companion. “Bud’s got us cinched.” “Got us—hell!” snarled the youth. “Bud’s askin’ for it, an’ some day he’s goin’ t’ get it—good!” Toward afternoon, Ravenslee was trundling light-heartedly eastward, his barrow emptied to the last peanut. Having reached Fifth Avenue, he paused to mop his perspiring brow when a long, low automobile, powerfully engined, that was creeping along behind, pulled up with a sudden jerk, and its driver, whose immense shoulders were clad in a very smart livery, pushed up the peak of his smart cap to run his fingers through his close-cropped hair, while his mild blue eyes grew very wide and round. “Crikey!” said he at last. “Is that you, sir, or ain’t it?” “How much?” demanded Ravenslee gruffly. “Crumbs!” said the chauffeur. “Sir, if you—ain’t you, all I say is—I ain’t me!” “Aw—what’s bitin’ ye, bo?” growled Ravenslee. “Well, if this ain’t the rummest go, I’m a perisher!” “Say, now, crank up d’ machine an’ beat it while d’ goin’ ‘s good. How’s that, Joe?” “Lord, Mr. Ravenslee—so you are my guv’nor, and blow me tight—shoving a barrer! I knowed it was you, sir; leastways I knowed your legs an’ the set o’ them shoulders, but—with a barrer! Excuse me, sir, but the idea o’ you pushing a perishing peanut barrer so gay an’ ‘appy-‘earted—well, all I can say is love-a-duck!” “Well now, cut along, Joe, and get ready. I mean to put in some real hard work with you this afternoon.” “Right-o, sir!” nodded Joe eagerly. “Lord, but we’ve missed you terrible—the Old Un an’ me.” “Glad of it, Joe! Tell Patterson to have my bath ready when we’ve finished. Off with you—drive in the Fifth Avenue entrance.” Joe nodded, and the big car turned and crept silently away, while Ravenslee, trundling onward, turned off to the left and so into a very large, exceedingly neat garage where stood five or six automobiles of various patterns in one of which, a luxurious limousine, an old, old man snored blissfully. At the rumble of the barrow, however, this ancient being choked upon a snore, coughed, swore plaintively, and finally sat up. Perceiving Ravenslee, he blinked, rubbed his eyes, and stepping from the car very nimbly despite his years, faced the intruder with a ferocious scowl. He was indeed a very ancient man, though very nattily dressed from spotless collar to shiny patent leather shoes, a small, dandified, bright-eyed man whose broken nose and battered features bore eloquent testimony to long and hard usage. “‘Ook it!” he croaked, with square bony jaw fiercely outthrust. “We don’t want no peanuts ‘ere, d’j ‘ear? ‘Op off, ‘ook it before I break every blessed bone in yer bloomin’ body!” “What, Old Un, don’t you know me, either?” “Lumme!” exclaimed the little old man, blinking beneath hoary brows. “Ho, lor’ lumme, it’s ‘im! Blimy, it’s the Guv’nor—’ow do, Guv!” and shooting immaculate cuffs over bony wrists he extended a clawlike hand. “How are you, Old Un?” “Well, sir, what with the rheumatix an’ a stiff j’int or two an’ a touch o’ lumbager, not to mention all my other ailments, I ain’t quite s’ spry as I was!” “But you look very well!” “That’s where your heyes deceives you, Guv. A great sufferer I be, though patient under haffliction, ho, yus—except for a swear now an’ then which do me a power o’ good—yus! If I was to tell you all the woes as my poor old carkiss is hair to, you could write a book on ‘em—a big ‘un. I got everything the matter wi’ me, I ‘ave, from a thick ear an’ broke nose as I took in Brummagem sixty an’ five years ago to a hactive liver.” “A what?” enquired Ravenslee. “A hactive liver. Lord, Guv, my liver gets that hactive lately as I can’t set still—Joe knows, ax Joe! All as I ain’t got o’ human woes is toothache, not ‘avin’ no teeth to ache, y’ see, an’ them s’ rotten as it ‘ud make yer ‘eart bleed. An’ then I get took short o’ breath—look at me now, dang it!” “Why, then, sit down, Old Un,” said Ravenslee, drawing up a somewhat worn armchair. “Joe and I are going at it hard and fast this afternoon, and I want you to time the rounds.” And he proceeded to remove his garments. “Oh, j’y!” cried the Old Un, hugging himself in bony arms. “Oh, j’yful words. Ah, but you peels like a good un, sir,” he croaked, viewing white flesh and bulging muscle with knowing old eyes, “good an’ long in the arm an’ wide slope o’ shoulder. You might ha’ done well in the ring if you’d been blessed wi’ poverty an’ I’d ‘ad the ‘andling of ye—a world’s unbeat champion, like Joe. A good fighter were I an’ a wonnerful trainer! Ho, yus, I might ha’ made a top-notcher of ye if you ‘adn’t been cursed wi’ money.” “I suppose,” said Ravenslee thoughtfully, “I suppose Joe was one of the best all-round fighting men that ever climbed into a ring?” “Ah—that ‘e were! Joe were better ‘n the best—only don’t let ‘im ‘ear me say so, ‘e ‘d be that puffed up—Lord! But nobody could beat Joe—black, yaller or white; they all tried danged ‘ard, but Joe were a world-beater—y’ see, I trained Joe! An’ to-day ‘e ‘s as good as ever ‘e was. Y’ see, Joe’s allus lived clean, sir, consequent Joe’s sound, wind an’ limb. Joe could go back an’ beat all these fancy bruisers and stringy young champs to-day—if ‘e only would—but don’t let ‘im ‘ear me say so.” “You’re fond of Joe, Old Un?” “An’ why for not, sir—s’ long as ‘e don’t know it? Didn’t ‘e look arter poor old me when ‘e ‘ad money, an’ when ‘e lost everything, didn’t ‘e look arter me still? An’ now ‘e ‘s your shuvver, don’ ‘e keep a roof over me poor old ‘ead like a son—don’t ‘e give me the run o’ jour garridge an’ let me watch ‘im spar wi’ you an’ your gentlemen friends? Ain’t ‘e the best an’ truest-‘earted man as ever drawed breath? Ah, a king o’ men is Joe, in the ring an’ out, sir—only never let ‘im ‘ear me say so—’e ‘d be that proud, Lord! there’d be no livin’ wi’ ‘im—sh, ‘ere ‘e be, sir.” Joe had laid by his chauffeur’s garb and looked even bigger and grimmer in flannels and sweater. “Ho you, Joe,” cried the old man, scowling, “did ye bring me that ‘bacca?” “S’posin’ I didn’t?” demanded Joe. “Then dang ye—twice!” “An’ s’posin’ I did?” “Then—give it ‘ere!” “An’ that’s his gratitood, sir!” growled Joe, shaking his head and giving the packet into the old man’s clutching fingers. “A unnat’ral old bag-o’-bones, that’s what ‘e is, sir!” “Bones!” croaked the Old Un viciously. “Bag-o’-bones am I? Yah—look at ye’self—pork, that’s what you are, all run to pork an’ blubber an’ fat, Joe, me pore lad—” “Fat!” growled Joe. “Y’ know I ain’t fat; y’ know I’m as good a man as ever I was—look at that, you old sarpent!” And he smote himself with mighty fist—a blow to fell an ox. “Fat, am I?” “As—lard!” nodded the old man, filling half an inch of blackened clay pipe with trembling fingers, “as a ‘og—” “Now my crumbs—” began Joe fiercely. “You’re flabby an’ soft, me pore lad,” grinned the old man. “Flabby as a babby an’ soft as a woman an’ fat as a—” Joe reached out very suddenly, and picking up the old man, armchair and all, shook him to and fro until he croaked for mercy. “Lor’ gorramighty!” he panted, as Joe set him down again. “Fat, am I?” demanded Joe, scowling. “Fat as a ‘og—fat as forty bloomin’ ‘ogs!” cried the old man vindictively. “An’ what’s more, your wind’s all gone—you couldn’t go five rounds wi’ a good ‘un!” “Couldn’t I?” “No!” shrieked the Old Un, “you’d be ‘anging on an’ blowing like a grampus!” “Should I?” “Ah—like a grampus!” “Right-o!” nodded Joe, turning away, “no jam for your tea to-night.” “Eh, what—what, would ye rob a pore old man of ‘is jam, Joe—a pore afflicted old cove as is dependent on ye ‘and an’ fut, Joe—a pore old gaffer as you’ve just shook up to that degree as ‘is pore old liver is a-bobbin’ about in ‘is innards like a jelly. Joe, ye couldn’t be so ‘eartless!” “Ah, but I can!” nodded Joe. “An’ if ye give me any more lip, it’ll be no sugar in ye tea—” “No sugar!” wailed the Old Un, then clenching a trembling old fist, he shook it in Joe’s scowling face. “Then dang ye—three times!” he cried. “What’s the old song say? “‘Dang the man with three times three Who in ‘is ‘eathen rage Can ‘arm a ‘armless man like me Who’s ‘ead is bowed wi’ age!’ “An’ there’s for ye. Now listen again: “‘Some men is this an’ some is that, But ‘ere’s a truth I know: A fightin’ cove who’s run to fat Is bound t’ puff an’ blow!’ “An’ there’s for ye again!” Saying which, the Old Un nodded ferociously and proceeded to light his fragmentary pipe. During this colloquy Ravenslee had laid by his shabby clothes and now appeared clad and shod for the ring. “Sir,” said Joe, taking a set of gloves from a locker, “if you are ready to box a round or so—” “Why, no,” answered Ravenslee, “I don’t want to box to-day, Joe.” “Eh?” said Joe, staring, “not?” “I want to fight, Joe.” “To—fight, sir?” repeated Joe. “Fight?” cried the Old Un rapturously. “Oh, music—sweet music t’ me old ears! Fight? Oh, j’yful words! What’s the old song say? “”Appy is the first as goes To black a eye or punch a nose!’” “Get the mufflers on, Joe; get ‘em on an’ don’t stand staring like a fool!” “But, sir,” said Joe, his mild eyes kindling, “d’ ye mean as you want—the real thing?” “To-day,” said Ravenslee, “instead of boxing a round or two with Joe Madden, my chauffeur and mechanic, I want to see how long I can stand up to Joe Madden, undefeated champion of the world.” Joe’s lean cheek flushed and he looked Ravenslee over with eyes of yearning; noted the thin flanks and slender legs that showed speed, the breadth of shoulder and long arms that spoke strength, and the deep, arched chest that showed endurance; Joe looked and sighed and shook his head. “Sir,” said he, “I honour and respect you to that degree as it would be a joy to fight such a man as you and a rare privilege t’ knock you down—but, sir, if I was to knock ye down—” “You’d earn a five-dollar bill.” “Five dollars—for knockin’ you down, sir?” “Every time!” nodded Ravenslee. “But Lord, sir—” “Shut up, Joe, shut up,” snarled the Old Un, hopping out of the armchair. “Don’t gape like a perishin’ fish; come on up-stairs an’ knock the Guv’nor down like ‘e tells ye—an’ ‘arves on the money, mind; it was me as taught ye all you know or ever will, so ‘arves on the money, Joe, ‘arves on the money. Come on, Joe—d’j ‘ear?” “Crumbs!” said Joe. “Look at ‘im. Guv—look at ‘im!” shrieked the old man, dancing to and fro in his impatience, “‘ere’s a chance for ‘im to earn a pore old cove a bit o’ ‘bacca money, an’, what’s better still, t’ show a pore old fightin’ man a bit o’ real sport—an’ there ‘e stands, staring like a perishing pork pig! Blimy, Guv, get behind an’ ‘elp me to shove ‘im up-stairs.” “But, crikey, sir!” said Joe, “five dollars every time I—” “Yus, yus, you bloomin’ hadjective—two dollars fifty for each of us! ‘Urry up, oh, ‘urry up afore ‘e changes ‘is mind an’ begins to ‘edge.” So Joe follows his “Guv’nor” and the Old Un up a flight of stairs and into a large chamber fitted as a gymnasium, where are four roped and padded posts socketed into the floor; close by is a high-backed armchair in which the Old Un seats himself with an air of heavy portent. But when Joe would have ducked under the ropes, the Old Un stayed him with an imperious gesture, and, clambering into the ring, advanced to the centre and bowed gravely as if to a countless multitude. “Gentlemen,” he piped in his shrill old voice, “I take pleasure to introduce Joe Madden, undefeated ‘eavyweight champion o’ the world, an’ the Guv—both members of this club an’ both trained by me, Jack Bowser, once lightweight champion of England an’ hall the Americas. Gentlemen, it will be a fight to a finish—Markis o’ Queensberry rules. Gentlemen—I thank ye.” Having said which, the Old Un bowed again, gravely stepped from the ring, and ensconcing himself in the armchair, drew out a large and highly ornate watch, while Ravenslee and Joe vaulted over the ropes. Behold them facing each other, the brown-skinned fighting man wise in ringcraft and champion of a hundred fights, and the white-fleshed athlete, each alike clean and bright of eye, light-poised of foot, quivering for swift action, while the Old Un looks needfully from one to the other, watch in one bony hand, the other upraised. “Get ready!” he croaked. “Go!” Comes immediately a quick, light tread of rubber-soled feet and the flash of white arms as they circle about and about, feinting, watchful and wary. Twice Ravenslee’s fist shoots out and twice is blocked by Joe’s open glove, and once he ducks a vicious swing and lands a half-arm jolt that makes Joe grin and stagger, whereat the Old Un, standing upon his chair, hugs himself in an ecstasy, and forgetful of such small matters as five-dollar bills, urges, prays, beseeches, and implores the Guv to “wallop the blighter on the p’int, to stab ‘im on the mark, and to jolt ‘im in the kidney-pit.” “Go it, Guv!” he shrieked, “go it! In an’ out again, that’s it—Gorramighty, I never see sich speed. Oh, keep at ‘im, Guv—make ‘im cover up—sock it into ‘im, Guv! Ho, lumme, what footwork—you’re as quick as lightweights—oh, ‘appy, ‘appy day! Go to it, both on ye!” And “to it” they went, with jabs and jolts, hooks and swings, with cunning feints and lightning counters until the place echoed and reechoed to the swift tramp of feet and dull thudding of blows, while the Old Un, hugging himself in long, bony arms, chuckled and choked and rocked himself to and fro in an ecstasy; moreover, when Joe, uttering a grunt, reeled back against the ropes, the Old Un must needs shriek and dance and crow with delight until, bethinking him of his duty, he checked his excitement, seated himself in the armchair again, and announced: “Time! End o’ round one.” And it is to be noticed that as they sit down to take their two minutes’ rest, neither Ravenslee nor Joe, for all their exertions, seem unduly distressed in their breathing. “Sir,” says Joe, looking his pupil over, “you’re uncommon quick on your pins; never knowed a quicker—did you, Old Un?” “No, me lad—never in all me days!” “An’ you’ve sure-ly got a punch, sir. Ain’t ‘e, Old Un?” “Like a perishin’ triphammer!” nodded the Old Un. “Likewise, sir, you’ve a wonderful judgment o’ distance—but, sir, you need experience!” “That’s what I’m after, Joe.” “And you take too many chances; you ain’t larned caution yet.” “That you must teach me, Joe.” “Which I surely will, sir. In the next round, subject to no objection, I propose to knock ye down, sir.” “Which means two dollars fifty for each on us, Joe—mind that,” added the Old Un. “So fight more cautious, sir, do,” pleaded Joe, “and—look out.” “Time!” croaked the Old Un. “Round two! And Guv, look out for yer p’int, cover yer mark, an’ keep a heye on yer kidney-pit!” Once again they faced each other, but this time it was Joe who circled quick and catlike, massive shoulders bowed, knees bent, craggy chin grim and firm-set, but blue eyes serene and mild as ever. A moment’s silent sparring, a quick tread of feet, and Joe feints Ravenslee into an opening, swings for his chin, misses by an inch, and ducking a vicious counter, drives home a smashing body-blow and, staggering weakly, Ravenslee goes down full length. “Shook ye up a bit, sir?” enquired Joe, running up with hands outstretched, “take a rest, now do, sir.” “No, no,” answered Ravenslee, springing to his feet, “the Old Un hasn’t called ‘Time’ yet.” “Not me!” piped the old man, “not bloomin’ likely! Go to it, both on ye—mind, that’s two-fifty for me, Joe!” What need is there to tell the numerous feints, the lightning shifts, the different tricks of in-fighting and all the cunning strategy and ringcraft that Joe brought to bear and carefully explained between rounds? Suffice it that at the end of a certain fierce “mix up”, as Ravenslee sat outstretched and panting, the white flesh of arms and broad chest discovered many livid marks and patches that told their tale; also one elbow was grazed and bleeding, and one knee showed signs of contact with the floor. “Joe,” said he, when his wind was somewhat recovered, “that makes it thirty dollars I owe you, I think?” “Why, sir,” said Joe, who also showed some slight signs of wear, but whose breathing was soft and regular, “why, sir, you couldn’t call that last one a real knockdown—” “You ‘m a liar, Joe, a liar!” cried the Old Un. “Blimy, Guv, Joe’s a-tellin’ you crackers, s’ help me—your ‘ands touched the floor, didn’t they?” “And my knees, too,” nodded Ravenslee, “also my elbow—no, that was last time or the time before.” “Well, then, tell this lying Joe-lad o’ mine as ‘e surely did knock ye down. Lord, Joe!” cried the Old Un, waxing pathetic, “‘ow can ye go takin’ money from a pore old cove like I be. Joe, I blushes for ye—an’—Time, Time there, both on ye!” “But we don’t want any more, do we, sir?” enquired Joe. “Why, yes, I think I can go another round or so.” “There y’ are, Joe, the Guv’s surely a game cove. So get at it, me lad, an’ try an’ knock it up to fifty dollars—’arves, Joe, mind!” “But, sir,” began Joe, eyeing the livid blotches on Ravenslee’s white skin, “don’t ye think—” “Time—oh, Time, Time!” shrieked the Old Un. Whereupon Ravenslee sprang to the centre of the ring, and once again the air resounded with tramp of feet and pant of breath. Twice Ravenslee staggers beneath Joe’s mighty left, but watchful ever and having learned much, Ravenslee keeps away, biding his time—ducks a swing, sidesteps a drive, and blocking a vicious hook—smacks home his long left to Joe’s ribs, rocks him with a swinging uppercut, drives in a lightning left and right, and Joe goes down with a crash. Even while the Old Un stared in wide-eyed, gaping amaze, Joe was on his feet again, serene and calm as ever, only his great chest laboured somewhat, but Ravenslee shook his head. “I guess that’ll be about enough, Joe,” said he. “Guv,” cried the Old Un, seizing Ravenslee’s right hand, boxing glove and all, and shaking it to and fro, “you’re a credit to us, you do us bloomin’ proud—strike me pink, ye do! ‘Ere ‘s Joe ‘ammered you an’ ‘ammered you—look at your bloomin’ chest—lumme! ‘Ere ‘s Joe been knockin’ ye down an’ knockin’ ye down, an’ you comin’ up smilin’ for more an’ gettin’ it—’ere’s Joe been a-poundin’ of ye all over the ring, yet you can finish strong an’ speedy enough to put Joe down—blimy, Guv, you’re a wonder an’ no error!” “I don’t think Joe fought his hardest, Old Un.” “If ‘e didn’t,” cried the old man, “I’ll punch ‘im on the nose so ‘e won’t never smell nothink no more.” “Sir,” said Joe, “in the first round p’raps I did go a bit easylike, but arter that I came at you as ‘ard an’ ‘eavy as I could. I ‘it you where an’ ‘ow I could, barrin’ your face.” “I hope I shall soon be good enough for you to go for my face as well, Joe.” “But, sir—if I give you a black eye—” “How will—say, ten dollars do?” “Ten dollars! For blacking your eye, sir?” “Lumme, Joe!” cried the Old Un, “get back into the ring and black ‘em both—” “Shut up!” said Joe, scowling down into the Old Un’s eager face, “you ‘eartless old bloodsucker, you!” “Bloodsucker!” screamed the old man, “w’ot, me? I’ll punch you on the ear-‘ole, Joe, so’s you never ‘ear nothin’ no more.” “Are you on, Joe?” asked Ravenslee, while the Old Un, swearing softly, unlaced his gloves. “But, crumbs, sir—axin’ your pardon, things’ll come a bit expensive, won’t they? Y’ see—” “So much the better, ye blighted perisher!” snarled the Old Un, “an’ don’t forget as the Guv owes you thirty dollars a’ready—an’ ‘arves, mind.” “Stow it, you old bag o’ wickedness—” “Bag o’—” the Old Un let fall the boxing gloves and turning on Joe, reached up and shook a feeble old fist under the champion’s massive chin. “Look at this, me lad—look at this!” he croaked. “Some day I shall ketch you sich a perishin’ punch as’ll double ye up till kingdom come, me lad, and—Lord, the Guv’s countin’ out our money—” “Thirty of ‘em, Joe,” said Ravenslee, holding out a wad of bills. “Why, sir,” said Joe, backing away, “axing yer pardon, but I’d rayther not—you give me such uncommon good wages, sir, and a bonus every race we run, win or lose—so, sir, I—I’d rayther not—” “Not?” cried the Old Un, “not take money as is ‘arf mine—Oh, kick ‘im, somebody—kick ‘im! Pound ‘im for a pigeon-‘earted perishin’ pork pig—” “That’ll be no sugar in your tea t’night, old viciousness! But, sir, I’d rayther not—” “Don’t ‘eed ‘im, Guv—don’t ‘eed the flappin’ flounder. If ‘e wont obleege ye in a little matter like thirty dollars, I will—I’ll always obleege you—” “That’s enough from you, old tombstones.” “Tombstones!” hissed the Old Un, scowling darkly and squaring his trembling fists, “all right, me lad, ‘ere ‘s where I ketch ye one as’ll flatten ye out till the day o’ doom—” Hereupon Joe caught him above the elbows, and lifting him in mighty hands that yet were gentle, seated the snarling old fellow in the armchair. “Old Un,” said he, shaking his finger, “if ye give me any more of it—off t’ bed I take ye without any tea at all!” The Old Un, cowering beneath that portentous finger, swore plaintively and promptly subsided. “And now,” said Ravenslee, thrusting the money into Joe’s reluctant hand, “when I make a bargain, I generally keep it. I wish all my money had been spent to such good purpose.” “What about me?” whined the old man humbly, “don’t I get none, Joe-lad?” “Not a cent, you old rasper!” “Blimy, Guv, you won’t forget a old cove as ‘ud shed ‘is best blood for ye?” “The Guv’nor don’t want yer blood, old skin-and-bones. And now, come on, sir—” “Stay a minute, Joe, the Old Un generally keeps time for us when we spar rounds.” “That I do, Guv,” cried the old man, “an’ give ye advice worth its weight in solid gold; you owe me a lot, s’ ‘elp me.” “About how much?” “Well, Guv, I ain’t got me ledger-book ‘andy, but roughly speakin’ I should say about five or six ‘undred dollars. But seein’ you ‘s you an’ I’m me—a old man true-‘earted as never crossed nobody—let’s say—fifteen dollars.” “Why, you old—thievin’—vagabone!” gasped Joe, as Ravenslee gravely handed over the money. “Vagabone yourself!” said the Old Un, counting the bills over in trembling fingers. “The Guv wants a bath—take ‘im away—’ook it, d’j ‘ear?” “Has Patterson got everything ready, Joe?” enquired Ravenslee, taking up his clothes. “No, sir,” mumbled Joe, “but I’ll have ye bath ready in a jiffy, sir.” “But where’s Patterson?” “Well, ‘e—’e ‘s out, sir.” “And the footmen?” “They’re out, sir.” “Oh! And the housekeeper—er—what’s her name—Mrs. Smythe?” “Gone to call on her relations, sir.” “Ah! And the maids?” “Mrs. Smythe give ‘em leave of habsence, sir. Y’ see, sir,” said Joe apologetically, “you’re ‘ere so seldom, sir.” “My servants are not exactly—er—worked to death, Joe?” “No, sir.” “Manage to look after themselves quite well?” “Yes, sir.” “It seems I need some one to look after them—and me.” “Yes, sir.” “A woman, Joe—one I can trust and honour and—what d’ ye think?” “I think—er—yes, sir.” “Well—what do you suggest?” “Marry her, sir.” “Joe, that’s a great idea! Shake hands! I surely will marry her—at once—if she’ll have me.” “She’ll have you, sir.” “Do you really think she will, Joe?” “I’m dead certain, sir.” “Joe, shake again. I’ll speak to her when she comes home. To-morrow’s Saturday, isn’t it?” “As ever was, sir.” “Then, Joe—wish me luck; I’ll ask her—to-morrow!” CHAPTER XVI OF THE FIRST AND SECOND PERSONS, SINGULAR NUMBER It was Saturday morning, and Hermione was making a pie and looking uncommonly handsome about it and altogether feminine and adorable; at least, so Ravenslee thought, as he watched her bending above the pastry board, her round, white arms bared to each dimpled elbow, and the rebellious curl wantoning at her temple as usual. “But why kidneys, my dear?” demanded Mrs. Trapes, glancing up from the potatoes she was peeling. “Kidneys is rose again; kidneys is always risin’, it seems to me. If you must have pie, why not good, plain beefsteak? It’s jest as fillin’ an’ cheaper, my dear—so why an’ wherefore kidneys?” “Arthur likes them, and he’ll be hungry when he comes in—” “Hungry,” snorted Mrs. Trapes, “that b’y’s been hungry ever since he drawed the breath o’ life. How’s he gettin’ on with his new job?” “Oh, splendidly!” cried Hermione, flushing with sisterly pride, “they’ve promised him a raise next month.” “What, already?” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, cutting viciously into a potato. “If he don’t watch out, they’ll be makin’ him a partner next.” “Oh, Ann, I wish you were not quite so—so hard on him!” sighed Hermione. “Remember, he’s only a boy!” “You were a woman at his age, earning enough t’ keep ye both—but there! I don’t mean t’ be hard, Hermy; anyway, a man’s never much good till he’s growed up, and then only because some woman teaches him how t’ be.” “What do you say to that, Mr. Geoffrey?” enquired Hermione, pausing, flour-dredger in hand, to glance at him slily under her brows. “I think Mrs. Trapes is a wonderful woman,” he answered. “Ah, now, Mr. Geoffrey, quit y’r jollying,” said Mrs. Trapes, smiling at the potato. “Mrs. Trapes has taught me much wisdom already and, among other things, that I shall never be or do anything worth the while without the aid of a woman—” “Lord, Mr. Geoffrey, I never remember sayin’ no sich thing!” “Not in so many words, perhaps, but you implied it, Mrs. Trapes.” “H’m!” said Mrs. Trapes dubiously. “Consequently, I mean to ask that woman—on the very first opportunity, Miss Hermione.” Seeing that Hermione was silent, all her attention being centred in the dough her white fists were kneading, Mrs. Trapes spoke instead. “D’ ye mean as you want some one t’ look after you—to sew an’ cook an’ wash an’ sew buttons on for ye—I know the sort!” “I certainly do, and—” “Ah, it’s a slave you want, Mr. Geoffrey, and peanut men don’t have slaves—not unless they marries ‘em, and a woman as would marry a peanut man has only herself t’ blame—peanuts!” Hermione laughed, reached for the rolling-pin, and immediately fell to work with it, her head stooped rather lower than was necessary. As for Ravenslee, he lounged in his chair, watching the play of those round, white arms. “But why the kidneys, Hermy? You’ve got to cut out luxuries now, my dear—we all have, I guess; it’ll be dry bread next, I reckon.” “Why so?” enquired Ravenslee lazily. “Why?” cried Mrs. Trapes bitterly, “I’ll tell you why—because me an’ Hermy an’ every one else is bein’ squeezed dry t’ fill the pockets of a thing as calls itself a man—a thievin’ beast on two legs as is suckin’ our blood, gnawin’ our flesh, grindin’ the life out of us—a great fat man as is treadin’ us down under his great boots, down an’ down to slavery—death—an’ worse—it’s such men as him as keeps the flames of hell goin’—fat frizzles well, an’ so will Mulligan, I hope!” “Mulligan?” enquired Ravenslee. “He’s raised the rents on us, Mr. Geoffrey,” sighed Hermione. “Raised the rents?” said Ravenslee, forgetting to lounge. “Sure!” nodded Mrs. Trapes grimly. “I guess he thinks we live too easy an’ luxoorious, so he’s boosted it up a dollar per. A dollar a week don’t sound a whole lot, p’raps, but it sure takes some gettin’; folks expects a deal o’ scrubbin’ an’ sewin’ an’ slavin’ for a dollar—yes, sir.” “We shall have to work a little harder, that’s all, Ann dear.” “Harder? I guess you work hard enough for two—an’ who gets the benefit? Why, Mulligan does. Oh, it’s a great comfort t’ remember the flames of hell, sometimes. Lord, when I think how we have t’ slave t’ make enough t’ live—” “There are others worse than us, Ann.” “Why, yes, there’s poor Mrs. Finlay; she’s got to go, an’ her husband paralysed! There’s little Mrs. Bowker sewed herself pretty well blind t’ keep her home together—she’s got to go. There’s Mrs. Sims with all those children, and the—but there, who cares for the likes o’ them—who cares, eh, Mr. Geoffrey? An’ what might you be dreamin’ over this time?” she enquired, eyeing Ravenslee’s long figure a little contemptuously, for he had fallen to lounging again, sleepy eyes half closed. “I was thinking what a lot of interest we might find in this busy world—if we only would take the trouble to look for it!” he answered. “The fool who complains that his life is empty is blind and deaf and—damnably thick—er—pardon me, I—er nearly got excited.” “Excited?” snorted Mrs. Trapes, “I’d pay good money t’ see you like that!” “You see, I had an idea—a rather original idea!” “Then take care of it, Mr. Geoffrey; nurse it careful, and we’ll have ye doin’ bigger things than push a peanut barrer—peanuts!” “Mrs. Trapes, I’ve got a stranglehold on that idea, for it is rather brilliant.” “There’s that kettle b’ilin’ at last, thank goodness!” sighed Mrs. Trapes, crossing to the stove, “tea’s a luxury, I suppose, but—oh, drat Mulligan, anyway!” So Mrs. Trapes brewed the tea, while Ravenslee gazed at Hermione again, at her shapely arms, her dimpled elbows, her preoccupied face—a face so serenely, so utterly unaware of his regard, of course, until he chanced to look away, and then—Hermione stole a glance at him. “There, my dear,” said Mrs. Trapes after a while, “there’s a cup o’ tea as is a cup o’ tea, brewed jest on the b’ile, in a hot pot, and drawed to perfection! Set right down an’ drink it, slow an’ deliberate. Tea ain’t meant to be swallowed down careless, like a man does his beer! An’ why?” demanded Mrs. Trapes, as they sipped the fragrant beverage, all three, “why ain’t you out with your precious—peanuts, Mr. Geoffrey?” Ravenslee set down his cup and turned to Hermione. “Mrs. Trapes has told you, I think, that I am become—er—an itinerant vendor of the ubiquitous peanut—” “Mr. Geoffrey!” gasped Mrs. Trapes, gulping a mouthful of hot tea and blinking, “I never did! Never in all my days would I allow myself such expressions—Mr. Geoffrey, I’m ashamed at you! An’ that reminds me—it was chicken fricassee, wasn’t it? For your supper, I mean?” “I believe it was.” “Then,” said Mrs. Trapes, rising, “I’ll go an’ buy it. Was you wantin’ anything fetched, Hermy?” “If you wouldn’t mind bringing a bunch of asparagus—” “Sparrergrass!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes in horror-struck tones, “why, it’s anywhere from thirty to sixty cents—” “But Arthur loves it, dear, and now that he’s working so hard—” “Arthur likes!” cried Mrs. Trapes indignantly. “Mr. Geoffrey, it’s been Arthur ever since he was born, an’ her scrinchin’ an’ pinchin’ herself for the sake o’ that b’y. O’ course he likes sparrergrass—so do I—but I make shift with pertatoes or cabbidge or carrots—an’ so should he. Come now, Hermy, you take a bunch o’ carrots instead; carrots is healthy an’ cheap! Come now, is that sparrergrass to be carrots or not?” “Ann, that asparagus is to be—asparagus!” “Such wicked extravagance, an’ all for that b’y. Hermy, I’m surprised at ye!” For a long moment after Mrs. Trapes had departed there was silence, while Ravenslee sat gazing where Hermione stood busy at her pastry again. “Mr. Geoffrey,” said she at last, “I want to thank you for watching over my boy. Arthur told me how good you were to him while I was away. I want you to know how grateful I am—” “What beautiful hands you have, Hermione—and I shall dream of your arms.” “My arms?” she repeated, staring. “They’re so—smooth and white—” “Oh, that’s flour!” said she, bending over the table. “And so—round—” “Oh, Mr. Geoffrey! Can’t you find something else to talk about?” “Why, of course,” he answered, “there are your feet, so slender and shapely—” “In these frightful old shoes!” she added. “Worn out mostly in other peoples’ service,” he nodded. “God bless them!” “They let the wet in horribly when it rains!” she sighed. “So heaven send us dry weather! Then there is your wonderful hair,” he continued, “so long and soft and—” “And all bunched up anyhow!” said she, touching the heavy, shining braids with tentative fingers. “Please don’t say any more, Mr. Geoffrey, because I just know I look a sight—I feel it! And in this old gown too—it’s the one I keep to scrub the floors in—” “Scrub the floors?” he repeated. “Why, of course, floors must be scrubbed, and I’ve had plenty—oh, plenty of experience—now what are you thinking?” “That a great many women might envy you that gown for the beauty that goes with it. You are very beautiful, you know, Hermione.” “And beauty in a woman is—everything, isn’t it?” she said a little bitterly and with head suddenly averted. “Have I offended you?” “No,” she answered without looking around, “only sometimes you are so very—personal.” “Because the First and Second Persons Singular Number are the most interesting persons in the world, and—Hermione, in all this big world there is only one person I want. Could you ever learn to love a peanut man?”
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