McAllister and His Double

by Edward P. Hendrick

  McAllister's Data of Ethics

  I

  "Certainly, sir. Your clothes shall be delivered at the Metropole atnine-forty-five to morrow evenin', sir."

  Pondel's dapper little clerk tossed a half-dozen bolts of "trouserings"upon the polished table, and smiled graciously at the firm's best payingcustomer.

  "Here, Bulstead! take Mr. McAllister's waist measure--just a matter ofprecaution," he added deferentially. "These are somethin' fine,sir--very fine! When they came in, I says to Mr. Pondel: 'If only Mr.McAllister could see that woollen! It's a shame,' I says, 'not to saveit for 'im!' An' Mr. Pondel agreed with me at once. 'Very good,Wessons,' says he. 'Lay aside enough of that Lancaster to make Mr.McAllister a single-breasted sack suit, and if he don't fancy it I'llhave it made up into somethin' for myself,' he says. Ain't that so, Mr.Pondel?"

  The gentleman addressed had graciously sauntered over to congratulateMr. McAllister upon his selections.

  "Ah, very good! Very good indeed! How's that, Wessons? Yes, I told himto keep that piece for you, sir. Lord Bentwood begged for it almost withthe tears in his eyes, as I may say, but I assured him that it wasalready spoken for." He patted the cloth with a fat, ring-covered hand.An atmosphere of exclusive opulence emanated from every inch of hissleek, pudgy person--from the broad white forehead over the glintingsteel-gray eyes, from the pointed Van Dyke trimmed to resemble that of acertain exalted personage, from his drab waistcoated abdomen begirdledwith its heavy chain and dangling seals, down to the gray-gaiteredpatent leathers. McAllister distrusted, feared, relied upon him.

  The clubman wiped his monocle and glanced out through the plate-glasswindow. Marlborough Square was flooded with the soft sunshine of theautumn afternoon. Hardly a pedestrian violated the eminentlyaristocratic silence of St. Timothy's.

  "Very thoughtful of you, I'm sure," he replied, not grudging Pondel theextra two guineas which he very well knew the other invariably chargedfor these little favors. It were cheap at twice the money to feel somuch a gentleman.

  "But this is Saturday, and it's five o'clock now. I don't see how youcan possibly finish all those suits by to-morrow evening. You know Ireally didn't intend to order anything but the frock-coat. Perhaps you'djust better let the rest go. I can get them some other time."

  "Not at all, Mr. McAllister; not at all. We are always delighted toserve you by any means in our power. Did Wessons say they would befinished to-morrow? Then to-morrow they shall be, sir. I'll set my menat work immediately. Pedler! Where's Pedler? Send him here at once!"

  A hollow-eyed, lank, round-shouldered journeyman parted the curtainsthat concealed the rear of the room, and nervously approached hisemployer. He blinked at the unaccustomed sunlight, suppressing a cough.

  "Did you call me, sir?"

  "Yes," replied Pondel with the severity of one granting an undeservedfavor. "This is Mr. McAllister, of whom you have heard us speak sooften. I believe you have cut several of the gentleman's suits. He is totake the Majestic, which sails early Monday morning, and I have promisedthat his clothes shall be ready to-morrow evening. Can you arrange tostay here to-night and whatever portion of to-morrow is necessary tofinish them?"

  A worried look passed over the man's face, and his hand flew to hismouth to strangle another cough.

  "Certainly, sir; that is--of course-- Yes, sir. May I ask how many,sir?"

  "Only three, I believe. I was sure it could be arranged. Please askAggam to assist you. That is all."

  "Yes, sir. Very good, sir." Pedler hesitated a moment as if about tospeak, then turned listlessly and plodded back behind the curtains.

  "Very obliging man--Pedler. You see, there will be no difficulty, Mr.McAllister."

  "Well, I don't see how on earth you're going to do it!" protestedMcAllister feebly. He wanted the clothes badly, now that he had seen thematerial. "It's mighty good of you to take all this trouble."

  Mr. Pondel made a deprecating gesture.

  "We are always glad to serve you, sir!" he repeated, as Wessons escortedthe distinguished customer to the door.

  "It's a great privilege to be employed by such a man as Mr. Pondel,"whispered the salesman. "He thinks an enormous lot of you, sir. Veryfine man--Mr. Pondel."

  As the hansom jogged rapidly toward the hotel, McAllister reflectedpainfully upon the enormous sums of money that he annually transferredfrom his own pockets to those of the lordly tailor. Not that the moneymade any particular difference. The clubman was well enough fixed, onlysometimes the bills were unexpectedly large. The three suits justordered would average fourteen guineas each. Roughly they would come totwo hundred and twenty-five dollars, plus the duty, which he always paidconscientiously. And he was getting off easy at that. He rememberedheaps of bills for over two hundred pounds, and that was only thebeginning, for he bought most of his clothes right in New York.

  Climbing the steps of his hotel, he wondered vaguely how long Pedler andthe other fellow would have to work to finish the suits. Of course, theywould be paid extra--were probably glad to do it. The chap had a nastycough, though. Oh, well, that was their business--not his! So long as heput up the money, Pondel could look out for the rest.

  However, he felt a distinct sense of relief that his own obligationsconsisted merely in dressing, dining at the Savoy with Aversly, and thenleisurely taking in the Alhambra afterward. Once in his room, he foundthat the once criminally inclined, but now reformed Wilkins, who hadreturned to his master's service under a solemn promise of goodbehavior, had already laid out his clothes. McAllister rather dreadeddressing, for the place was one of those heavily oppressive apartmentscharacteristic of English hotels. Green marble, yellow plush, and blackwalnut filled the foreground, background, and middle distance, while amarble-topped table, placed squarely in the centre of the room, offeredthe only oasis in the desert of upholstery, in the form of a singlemassive book, bound in brown morocco, and bearing the inscriptionstamped upon its cover in heavy gilt:

  HOTEL METROPOLE HOLY BIBLE NOT TO BE REMOVED

  It fascinated him, recalling the chained hairbrush and comb of thePacific Coast. There you were offered cleanliness, here godliness, bythe proprietors; only the means thereto were not to be taken away. Thenext comer must have his chance.

  As the clubman idly lifted the volume, he suddenly realized that thiswas the first Bible he had actually touched in over thirty years. Thelast time he had owned one himself had been at school when he wasfifteen years old. Something moved him to carry it to the window. Thesun was just dropping over the scarlet chimney-pots of London. Itsburnished glare played upon the red gilt edges of the leaves, asMcAllister mechanically allowed the book to fall open in his hands. Heread these words:

  So I returned, and considered all the oppressions that are done under the sun: and behold the tears of such as were oppressed, and they had no comforter; and on the side of their oppressors there was power; but they had no comforter.

  The sun sank; the chimneys deadened against the sky-line. When Wilkins,ten minutes later, stole in to see if his master needed his assistance,he found McAllister staring into the darkening west.

  II

  The bell on St. Timothy's tolled twelve o'clock as McAllister's hansom,straight from the Alhambra, clacked into the moonlit silence ofMarlborough Square. A soft breath of distant gardens hung on the coolair. The chimneys rose from the house-tops sharp against a pale blue skyglittering with stars. Here and there a yellow window gleamed for amoment under the eaves, then vanished mysteriously. It was a night forlovers,--calm, still, ecstatic,--for hayfields under the harvestmoon,--for white, ghostly reaches of the Thames,--for poetry,--for theexquisite enjoyment of earth's nearest approach to heaven.

  The trap above McAllister's head opened.

  "Beg pardon, sir. W'ere did you s'y, sir?"

  "I said _Pondel's_," replied McAllister, rather sharply. He knew thecabby must think him a lunatic, but he didn't care. He intended to dothe decent thing. Hang it! The fellow could mind his own
business.

  The hansom crossed the street and reined up in the shadow. All was dark,silent, deserted. Only the brass plate beside the door reflectedstrangely the moonlight across the way.

  "'Ere's Pondel's, sir." The cabby got down and crossed the sidewalk tothe door.

  "All shut hup!" he commented. "Close at six."

  A dark figure emerged quickly from, a neighboring shadow.

  "'Ere! Wot is it you want?" demanded the bobby, accosting the cabmanwith tentative and potential roughness.

  "Gent wants Pondel's. I dunno w'y. Ax 'im yerself!" responded cabby inan injured tone.

  The bobby turned to the hansom.

  "This shop's closed at six o'clock," he announced. "Wot do you want?"

  McAllister felt ten thousand times a fool. The beauty of the night, theodoriferous quiet, the peace of the deserted square, all made his errandseem monstrously idiotic. The universe was wheeling silently across thehousetops; respectable men and women were in their beds; onlynight-hawks, lovers, policemen were abroad. It was as if a worm wereraising objection to some cardinal law. Why should he try to upset theorder and regularity of the London night, clattering into thisslumbering section, startling a respectable somnolent policeman, makingan ass of himself before his cabby--because somewhere a fellow wasworking overtime on his trousers. He imagined that as soon as he hadmade his explanation the bobby and the driver would collapse withmerriment, and hale him to a mad-house. But McAllister set his teeth. Hewas fighting for a principle. He wouldn't "welch" now. He clambered outof the hansom.

  "I want to find Pondel, because he's got some fellows working on myclothes, and I don't propose to have anybody working for me on Sunday.Understand? It's _Sunday_. I don't intend to have folks working on myclothes when they ought to be in bed."

  He spoke brokenly, defiantly, catching his breath between words, almostready to cry; then waited for his auditors to fall upon each other'snecks in derisive mirth. He forgot, however, that he was in London. Thesituation was one apposite to American humor, but evoked no sense ofamusement in the policeman. He treated McAllister's explanation withvast respect. Our hero gained confidence. The bobby regretted that theplace seemed closed; ventured to express his approval of the clubman'saltruistic effort; dilated upon it to the cabby, who was correspondinglyimpressed. McAllister, immensely cheered, held forth on the wrongs oflabor at some length, and, finding a sympathetic audience, producedcigars. The three proved, as it were, a little group of humanitariansunited in a common purpose. Then, suddenly, inconsequently, inexcusably,a man coughed. The sound was muffled, but unmistakable. It came from apoint directly beneath their feet. The bobby rapped sharply on thepavement several times.

  "Hi there, you!" he called. "Hi there, you in Pondel's. Come an' openhup!"

  They could hear a dull murmur of conversation, the cough was repeated, abench dragged across a floor, some fastening was slowly loosed, and ayellow gleam of light shot up through the shadow as a scuttle opened inthe sidewalk. A lean, scrawny figure thrust itself upward, sleepilyrubbing its eyes, collarless, its shirt open at the breast, its hairtousled, coughing. McAllister, now confident that he had the support ofhis companions, addressed the ghost, in whom he recognized Pedler, thejourneyman from behind the curtains. The clubman's face, however, wasconcealed in shadow from the other.

  "You're working for Pondel, aren't you?"

  The ghost coughed again, and shivered, although the air was warm.

  "Yes," it answered huskily.

  "Are you working on some clothes for a gentleman who's sailing onMonday?"

  "Yes," it repeated.

  "Then don't, any more," chirped McAllister encouragingly. "Those clothesare for me, and I don't want you to work any longer. You ought to be inbed."

  "Wotcher givin' us?" grumbled Pedler. "G'wan! Leave us alone!" Hestarted to descend. But the bobby stepped forward.

  "Look 'ere," he said roughly. "Don't you understand? It's just as thegentleman s'ys. You don't _'ave_ to work any more to-night. You can go'ome."

  "I s'y, wotcher givin' us?" repeated the other. "I cawn't go 'ome. Mr.Pondel's horders is to st'y 'ere until the clothes is finished. M'ybeit's as you s'y, but I cawn't go 'ome."

  At this juncture a child began to cry drowsily below, and a woman'svoice could be heard striving to comfort it.

  "You don't mean you've got a baby down there!" exclaimed McAllister.

  "Only little Annie," replied Pedler. "An' the old woman."

  "Anyone else?"

  "Aggam."

  "Let's go down," suggested the bobby. "_I_ can make 'em understand." Theghost descended, dazed, and McAllister, the bobby, and last of all, thecabman, followed down a creaking ladder into a sort of vault under thecellar. A small oil wick gave out a feeble fluctuating light. On oneside, cross-legged, sat a shrivelled-up, little old man, his brown beardstreaked with gray, stitching. He did not look up, but only worked thefaster. A thin woman crouched on a broken chair, holding a little girlin her lap.

  "There, there, Annie, don't cry. The bobby's not arter _you_. It's allright, darlin'!"

  Strewn about the cement floor lay the bolts of Lancaster whichMcAllister had selected, together with patterns, scissors, andunfinished garments.

  "Excuse the child, sir," apologized the woman. "She's just a bitsleepy."

  "Well," said McAllister, his indignation rising at the scene, and shameburning in his cheeks, "go right home. I won't have you working on theseclothes any more." How he wished Pondel was there to get a piece of hismind!

  Jim looked wearily at Aggam.

  "Wot d'ye s'y, Aggam?"

  The other kept on stitching.

  "I gets my horders from Pondel," he replied, shortly, "an' I don't tykeno horders from no one helse!"

  "But look here," cried McAllister, "the clothes are _mine_, ain't they?Pondel hasn't anything to do with it! And _I_ tell you to _go home_."

  "Yes," grunted Aggam. "An' then you loses your job, does yer? I don'twant no toff mixin' into _my_ affairs. I minds my business, they canmind theirs!"

  "I s'y, that's no w'y to speak to the gentleman!" exclaimed the bobby indisgust. "'E's only tryin' to do yer a fyvor! 'Aven't yer got nomanners?"

  "_I_ minds _my_ business, let _'im_ mind _'is'n_!" repeated Aggamstolidly.

  "Well, _I_ must _s'y_," ejaculated the cabby, "they're a bloomin'grateful lot!"

  The tall man seemed to resent this last from one of his own station.

  "I appreciates wot the gent wants," he said weakly, "but it's just likeAggam s'ys. Wot can _we_ do? The gent cawn't tell us to go 'ome!"

  The child began to cry again. McAllister was exasperated almost to thepoint of profanity.

  "Don't you _want_ to go home?" he exclaimed.

  The woman laughed a hollow, mirthless laugh.

  "Annie an' me 'ave st'y'd 'ere all the evenin' just to be with Jim. 'E'sawful sick. An' 'e'll 'ave to st'y 'ere all d'y to-morrer. Do we _want_to go 'ome!"

  Her husband dashed his shirt-sleeve across his eyes.

  "Don't Nell," he muttered. "I ain't sick. I can work. You go 'ome withthe kid."

  McAllister thrust a handful of bank-notes toward her.

  "Where does old Pondel live?" he inquired of the bobby.

  "Out in Kew somewheres," replied the officer.

  The woman was staring blankly at the money. Suddenly she dropped thelittle girl and began to sob. Jim broke into a fit of harsh coughing.The cabman climbed up the ladder. The temperature of the vault seemedinsufferable to McAllister.

  "I suppose you'll go home if Pondel says so?" he suggested.

  "Just watch us!" growled Aggam.

  "Take that child home, anyhow, and put it to bed," ordered the clubman."I'll be back in an hour or so."

  As he climbed up through the scuttle into the sweet, soft moonlight, andstarted to enter the hansom, the bobby held out his hand.

  "Excuse me, sir. I 'ope you'll pardon the liberty, but, would you mind,I've got a brother in America--Smith's the naime--'e lives in a plaic
ecalled Manitoba. Do you 'appen to know 'im?"

  "I'm sorry," replied our friend, grasping the other's hand. "I never ranacross him."

  "Where to now?" asked the cabby.

  "To Kew," replied McAllister.

  They swung out of the square, leaving the bobby standing in the shadowof Pondel's.

  "I'll look out for 'em while you're gone," called the latterencouragingly.

  They crossed Bond Street, followed Grosvenor Street into Park Lane, andplunging round Hyde Park corner, past the statue to England's greatestsoldier, they entered Kingsbridge. McAllister, all awake from his recentexperience, saw things that he had never observed before--bedraggledflower-girls in gaudy hats, with heart-rending faces; drunken laborersstaggering along upon the arms of sad-featured women; young girls,slender, painted, strolling with an affectation of light-heartednessalong the glittering sidewalks. On they jogged, past narrow streetswhere, amid the flare of torches, the entire population of theneighborhood swarmed, bargained, swore, and quarrelled; where littlechildren rolled under the costers' carts, fighting for scraps anddecaying vegetables; and where their passage was obstructed by thethrongs of miserable humanity for whom this was their only park, theironly club. It being Saturday night, the butchers were selling off theirremnants of meat, and their shrill cries could be heard for blocks.Several times the horse shied to avoid trampling upon some old hag who,clutching her wretched purchase to her breast, hurried homeward before adrunken lout should snatch it from her. McAllister had never imaginedthe like. It was with a sigh of relief that they left the HammersmithRoad behind and at last reached the residential districts. In about anhour they found themselves in Kew. A cool breeze from the country fannedhis cheek. On either hand trim little villas, with smooth lawns, linedthe road, and the moonlit air was fragrant with the smell of damp grass,violets, and heliotrope. Here and there could be heard the tinkle of acottage piano, and the laughter of belated merry-makers on the verandas.

  They located Mr. Pondel's villa without difficulty. Standing back somethirty yards from the street, its well-kept garden full of floweringshrubs and carefully tended beds of geraniums, it was a residencetypical of the London suburb, with fretwork along the piazza roof, astone dog guarding each side of the steps, and salmon-pink curtains atthe parlor windows. The door stood open, a Japanese lamp burned in thehallway, and the murmur of voices floated out from the door leading intothe parlor. McAllister once again felt the overwhelming absurdity of hisposition. Over his shoulder, as he stood by the hyacinths at the door,floated the same big moon in the same soft heaven. Damp and fragrant,the wind blew in from the lawn and swayed the portieres in the narrowhall, behind which, doubtless, sat the lordly Pondel, friend ofnoblemen, adviser of royalty, entrenched in his castle, a unit in animpregnable system. The whinny of the cab-horse beyond the hedgerecalled to McAllister the necessity for action. He realized that he waslosing moral ground every instant.

  The bell jangled harshly somewhere in the back of the house. A man'svoice--Pondel's--muttered indistinctly; there was a feminine whisper inresponse; someone placed a glass on a table and pushed back a chair. Aclock in the neighborhood struck two, and Pondel emerged through theportieres--Pondel in a wadded claret-colored dressing-gown embroideredwith birds of Paradise, in carpet slippers, with a meerschaum pipe,watery eyes, and slightly disarranged hair. It was rather dim in thehallway, and he did not recognize his visitor.

  "What is it? What do you want?" The inquiry was abrupt and a littlethick.

  "Good evening, Mr. Pondel," stammered McAllister. "I hope you'll excuseme for disturbing you at this hour. It's about the clothes."

  "W'o is it?" Pondel peered into his guest's flushed face. "W'y Mr.McAllister, what are you doin' way out 'ere? Excuse my appearance--alittle pardonable neglishay of a Saturday evenin'. Come right in, won'tyou? Great honor, I'm sure. Though, if you'll believe it, I once 'ad thehonor of a call from his Grace the Duke of Bashton right in this very'all. Excuse me w'ile I announce your presence to Mrs. Pondel."

  McAllister said something about having to go at once, but Pondelshuffled through the curtains, almost immediately sweeping them backwith a lordly gesture of welcome.

  "This way, Mr. McAllister." Our miserable friend entered the parlor."Elizabeth, hallow me to present Mr. McAllister--one of my oldestcustomers."

  Elizabeth--a fat vision of fifty-five, with peroxide hair, and a softpink of unchanging hue mantling her elsewhere mottled cheeks--arosegraciously from the table where she and her husband had been playingdouble-dummy bridge, and courtesied.

  "Chawmed, I'm sure. What a beautiful evenin'! Won't you si' down?"murmured the enchantress.

  McAllister took a chair, and Pondel pressed whiskey and water upon him.Oh, Mr. McAllister, needn't be afraid of it; it was the real old thing;Lord Langollen had sent him a dozen. Lizzie would take a nip with'em--eh, Lizzie? A gen'elman didn't take that long trip every evenin',and a little refreshment would not only do him good, but, as the Yankeessaid, would show there was no 'ard feelin', eh? He must really take justa drop. Say when!

  Lizzie poured out a glass for the much-embarrassed guest. She was in aflowered kimona, even more "neglishay" than her husband, but the bowerin which the goddess reclined was a perfect pearl of the decorator'sart. Cupids, also "neglishay," toyed with one another around a clusterof electric burners in the ceiling, gay streamers of painted blossomsdangling from their hands and floating down the walls. Gilt chairs, awhite and gilt sofa, and a brown etching in a Florentine frame on eachwall, were the most conspicuous articles of furniture. At the windowsthe brilliant salmon-pink curtains bellied softly in the breeze thatstole into the chamber and diluted the gentle odor of Parma violetswhich exuded from the dame in the kimona. To Pondel, McAllister'spresence was an evidence of his power; and his pride, tickled mightily,put him in an exquisite good humor. Certainly the occasion required fromhim, the host, a proper felicitation.

  "'Ere's to our better acquaintance," said the tailor, raising his glasssententiously. "Lizzie, drink to Mr. McAllister!"

  The three drank solemnly. Then the voluble tailor addressed himself tothe task of entertaining his distinguished guest. McAllister could catchat no opening to explain his visit. Pondel chatted gayly of Paris, theContinent, and familiarly of the races and the _beau monde_. Apparentlyhe knew (by their first names) half the nobility of England, and heendeavored to place his customer equally at his ease with them. Heventured that he knew how most young Americans spent their time inLondon and Paris; dropped with a wink, that in spite of his presentuxoriousness he had been a bit of a dog himself, and ended by suggestinganother toast to "A short life and a merry one." The lady of the kimona,grammatically not so strong as her husband, contented herself withexpansive smiles and frequent recurrence to the tumbler.

  "I must explain my visit," finally broke in McAllister. "It's about theclothes."

  Pondel smiled condescendingly.

  "My dear Mr. McAllister, you don't need to worry in the slightest.They'll be done promptly to-morrow evenin', take my word for it."

  McAllister flushed. How in Heaven's name could he ever make the tailorunderstand?

  "I've decided I don't want 'em!" he stammered.

  Pondel's glass went to the table with a bang, and he gazed blankly athis customer. The clubman, not realizing the implication, did notproceed.

  "That's all right," finally responded Pondel a trifle coldly. "There'sno hurry about settlement. You can take a year, if necessary."

  Mrs. Pondel slipped unobtrusively out of the room, leaving a trail ofperfume behind her.

  "Oh!" exclaimed our friend, catching his breath: "It isn't that. But yousee I can't have those men working over night and to-morrow on myaccount. It's--it's against my principles."

  Pondel brightened. A load had been taken from his heart. So long asMcAllister's bank account was good, any idiosyncrasy the American mightexhibit did not matter. He had always regarded McAllister, however, as aman of the world, and had esteemed him accordingly. He perceived that heh
ad been mistaken. His customer was merely a religious crank. He had hadexperience with them before.

  "Pooh! That's all right," said he resuming his former cordiality. "Why,they like to earn the extra money. They're all devoted to my interests,you know."

  "Well, I don't want them to work any longer on my clothes," repeatedMcAllister helplessly.

  "I understand," replied Mr. Pondel, rather loftily. "I'm afraid,however, it's too late to stop them now. The cloth 'as been cut, andthey would not stop contrary to my direction."

  "That's the point," returned McAllister, "I want you to change yourorders."

  "But, my dear sir," expostulated the tailor, "you can't expect me to goto London this time of night! Besides, they're nearly done by this time.It's impossible!"

  "I'll manage that," exclaimed McAllister. "I've been down to the shopalready, and they're waiting for me now to come back with yourpermission to go home; they wouldn't go without it."

  "Dear, dear!" replied the tailor, changing his tactics. "How muchinterest you have taken in their welfare! How kind and thoughtful ofyou! No, they're faithful men; they wouldn't think of disobeying orders.But what a shame I didn't know of it before! Why, they might 'ave beenat 'ome and in their beds. However, I sha'n't forget 'em at the end ofthe month. Mr. McAllister, I respect you. I have never known of a moreunselfish act. Permit me to say it, sir, you are a Christian--a trueChristian. I wish there were more like you, sir!"

  McAllister arose to his feet. His one thought now was to escape asquickly as possible. The sight of Pondel's smiling countenance filledhim with unutterable disgust. Suppose the fellows at the club could seehim sitting in this pursy tailor's parlor, with his scented wife, andgilded chairs--

  The tailor, however, was anxious to restore the cordiality of theirrelations, and slopped over in his eagerness to show how kind he was tohis men, and how considerate of their well-being. He took McAllister'sarm familiarly as he showed him to the door.

  "Yes," he added confidentially, "this is a very good locality. Only thebest people live in this neighborhood. Rather a neat little property."He proffered McAllister a cigar. The clubman wanted to kick him for amiserable, dirty cad.

  "Right back!" he said to the cabby, hardly replying to the tailor'sgood-night.

  London was asleep. Even the streets through which he had driven to Kewwere hushed in preparation for the sodden Sunday to come. The moon hadlowered over the housetops, and St. Timothy's was in the shadow as onceagain he drew up in front of Pondel's.

  "Back already, sir?" The bobby stepped out to meet him.

  "Yes," replied McAllister wearily. "And those fellows down there aregoing home."

  The bobby rapped on the scuttle. Once more Pedler's head protruded abovethe sidewalk.

  "Mr. Pondel says you're to go home," said McAllister.

  "The gent's been all the way to Kew for you," interjected the bobby.

  "Hi, Aggam!" exclaimed Jim, huskily. "Th' gentleman says we are to go'ome, Mr. Pondel says." He disappeared. Aggam could be heard mutteringbelow. Presently the light was extinguished, and both emerged from thescuttle and put on their coats. McAllister felt sleepily exultant.Pedler pushed the scuttle into place.

  "Well," said McAllister after an awkward pause, "can I give you a lift?Which way do you go? I tell you what: you come back with me to thehotel, and then the hansom can take you both home."

  Pedler and Aggam looked doubtfully at one another.

  "Oh, come on, you fellows!" exclaimed McAllister, all his natural goodspirits returning with a rush. "Get in there, now!"

  Pedler and Aggam climbed in, and McAllister directed the driver to go tothe Metropole, after stuffing a sovereign into the hand of his friend,the policeman. The stars were still marching across the sky, and thebreeze had freshened. Every window was dark; no one was astir. Theyheard only the echoes of their horse's hoof-beats. Yet the restlesssilence that precedes the dawn was in the air.

  "I lives miles aw'y from 'ere," said Pedler after a meditated period.

  "So do I," supplemented Aggam.

  "I don't care," replied McAllister. "I've had this cab all night,anyhow, and I want to celebrate. You see, this is the first time I evergot ahead of my tailor."

  Another long pause ensued. They were not a talkative lot, surely.McAllister's flow of language absolutely deserted him. He could think ofno subject of conversation whatever. Pedler finally came to hisassistance.

  "I'm thirty-seven year old, an' this is the fust time I've ever riddenin a 'ansom."

  "Jiminy!" exclaimed McAllister. "You don't say so! What luck!"

  "Fust time for me, too," added Aggam.

  After this burst of confidence the three rode in utter silence. At theMetropole the clubman jumped out and bade his companions good-night.

  As the cabby gathered up the reins preparatory to a fresh start, Aggamleaned forward rather apologetically.

  "You must hexcuse me," he remarked, "but I don't want to sail hunderfalse colors, and I feel as if I hort to s'y that while I'm a Socialist,I 'ave no particular sympathy with Sabbatarianism."

  "Well, neither have I," replied McAllister encouragingly, an answerwhich probably puzzled Mr. Aggam for a fortnight.