But in the intervals of interviewing, when the friends had a few minutes of private conversation, there was a notable lack of gratitude in Sydney’s acknowledgments.
“This is a fine ghastly mess you’ve Ianded me in!” he protested, at the first opportunity. “How do you expect me to look all these people in the face?”
“How? Oh, the usual way — only the usual way, you know! The more usual the better. I don’t find any difficulty!”
“You? No — you’re enjoying it; you’ve the cheek for anything. I’m the sufferer. I’ve had to stand here and yarn to a police-inspector about the beastly business!”
“Yarn! The simple, plain, clear truth! You dined with me last night at the Café Royal, leaving the studio just as usual. And in the morning you came here, also as usual, and found the police in charge. Straightforward enough. Of course, he didn’t ask you anything about me. It seems to me you’ve got the soft job. I’m doing all the work, and as to enjoying it, of course I am! Why aren’t you?”
“Enjoying it! Good heavens, man, I never expected such a row as this; I was a fool to listen to you.”
“Now, there!” Hector Bushell spread his arms in injured protest. “There’s ingratitude! I’ve positively made you the most celebrated painter alive, all in the course of a few hours, and you — you pretend you don’t like it! Oh, come off it! Why, there are thousands of respectable people in this country to-day, who couldn’t name six painters who ever lived, that know all about you — and Gainsborough. I fetched the Press round — did it all!”
“And how’s it all going to end? And where is the picture? Why won’t you tell me that?”
“Well, I was afraid somebody might catch on to a sort of idea that you knew where it was, and I wanted you to be able to say you didn’t, that’s all. Nobody has had any such unworthy suspicions, and so there’s no harm in inviting you to admire the dodge. When I got home last night, with the canvas rolled up under my arm, I just took it to bed with me till the morning. When I woke I thought it over, and I remembered a big roll of old stair-carpet up in a garret where nobody went — a useless old roll that my dear old mother has dragged about with us for years — ever since we lived in Russell Square, in fact. It’s never been touched since it came, and never will be. So I nipped out and up into the garret with the picture, unrolled a few yards of the carpet, slipped the canvas in very carefully, painted side out, rolled up the carpet again, tied it, and shoved it back among the other old lumber. And there it can stay, safe as the Bank, till we want it again!”
“Till we want it again! And when will that be?”
“When we’ve sold it. You leave it to me, my bonny boy. Remember that other Gainsborough that was stolen — the ‘Duchess.’ Would that have fetched such a price if it hadn’t been stolen and boomed up? Not on your life. I’m out to sell that picture for you, and I’m going to do it — to say nothing of immortal glory, which I’m positively shovelling on you where you stand. Hark! There’s another reporter. Keep up that savage, worried look — it’s just the thing for the plundered genius!”
But this visitor was no reporter. It was, indeed, Mr. Higby Fewston, much more alert and affable than yesterday, and eager for news of the picture.
“Is there any chance of getting it?” he asked, with some eagerness. “Have the police got on the track of the thief yet?”
“No, they haven’t yet,” replied Hector Bushell, calmly. “But I should think there was a very good chance of getting the picture, ultimately.”
“I suppose you’ll offer a reward?”
“Well, we’ll have to think it over. It’s a bit early as yet.”
“Tell me now,” Mr. Fewston pursued, with increasing animation, “can the picture be properly repaired? Isn’t it cut out of the frame?”
“Yes, but that’s nothing. It’s easily relined and put back.”
“That’s satisfactory. And now as to the flowers — I think I remember yellow flowers right in the front of the picture. They are cowslips, I hope?”
“Oh, yes — cowslips, of course,” replied Hector, with easy confidence, since cowslips seemed to be required. While Sydney Blenkinsop, who had spotted in a few touches of yellow in the foreground because it seemed to be wanted, and with a vague idea of possible furze-blossoms, or buttercups, gasped and wondered.
“And I suppose more cowslips could be put in, if required, by a competent man?”
“I don’t think any more are required,” put in Sydney Blenkinsop, decidedly.
“No — very likely not — just an inquiry. I did think at the time there seemed to be rather a lot of cowslips for Keston Common, but I do a good deal in the ‘Cowslip’ brand of — the — the article I deal in, and there might be a possibility of reproducing the work as an advertisement. One has to consider all these things, of course; and on the whole I’d like to buy that picture, if you get it back. What about price?”
“Five hundred,” said Hector, promptly, before Sydney could open his mouth.
“Um, rather high, isn’t it?” commented Fewston equably. “I was thinking of, say, three hundred.”
“Well, yes,” Hector responded, just as affably. “Yesterday that might have done, but just now it’s to-day.” And he regarded the margarine magnate with a long, deliberate, placid wink.
“Ah well, I understand, of course,” replied Fewston, who appeared to far better advantage to-day, discussing business, than yesterday, misunderstanding art. “Of course, I quite recognize that all this publicity — naturally Mr. Blenkinsop wants all the benefit possible from it — quite legitimate, of course. But there, the picture isn’t recovered yet. Meantime, I may consider I have the refusal of it contingently, I suppose. You see, Mr. Bushell — you are evidently a man of business — this may be useful to me. A great deal of space is being devoted to Mr. Blenkinsop and his picture in the papers, and I — well, it would be worth my while to be in it, as conspicuously as possible. Do you perceive?”
“I think I see. To-morrow morning’s papers, for instance: ‘We are at liberty to state that Mr. Sydney Blenkinsop’s now famous picture was destined for the galleries of one of the best known of our merchant princes; in fact, that in the event of its hoped-for recovery it is to be purchased by Mr. Higby Fewston, and will make a conspicuous feature of that gentleman’s collection.’ I think that can go in — no doubt even a little more.”
“Excellent I Will you do that? And it is understood that if you get the picture — you say there’s a very good chance — I have first refusal.”
“At five hundred pounds.”
“Three hundred, I think.”
“Wouldn’t do, really, as things go. Consider what the Gainsborough would cost you if you could get that, now that it has been stolen!”
“Well, well, we’ll leave it at four hundred, unless you get a higher offer; it’s rather absurd discussing this, with the picture lost. But I do want to be sure that I get proper publicity in the papers. You’ll see to that, won’t you? You see, this is just the time I want it. I am putting up for the County Council, and — this strictly between ourselves — there is just the possibility that I may be turning my business into a limited company. So all these things help, and I and my family are keeping ourselves forward as much as possible just now. Mrs. Fewston, for instance, is making an appeal for the Stockjobbers’ Almhouses, and running a sale. And this picture — well, if it’s recovered we shan’t quarrel about the price so long as you get me well into the papers in the meantime. You see, I’m perfectly frank — we’ll do our best for each other, mutually.”
And so it was settled between Mr. Fewston and the untiring Bushell, while Sydney Blenkinsop hovered uneasily in the background, a superfluous third party in the disposal of his own picture; which also seemed to be superfluous, so far as its merits were concerned — or even its present possession.
III
MR. HIGBY FEWSTON was well satisfied with the next morning’s newspapers. Hector Bushell saw to it that every office was supplied
with information of the merits and doings of that patron of fine art, and during the day the evening papers interviewed Mr. Fewston himself, to the combined glory of Fewston and Blenkinsop. Mr. Fewston expressed strong opinions as to the inefficiency of the police, and made occasion to allude to his views on the London County Council. Speaking as an art critic Mr. Fewston considered Mr. Blenkinsop certainly the greatest painter of the present time; and the stolen masterpiece was a great loss to him, personally, the intending purchaser. There could be no doubt, in Mr. Fewston’s mind, that the same clever gang had captured the two great pictures — evidently educated criminals of great artistic judgment. And then came certain notable and mysterious hints as to astonishing things that Mr. Fewston might say as to the whereabouts of the plunder, if it were judicious — which at this moment, of course, it was not.
The “boom” went so well that Sydney Blenkinsop himself began to look upon his sudden notoriety with a more complacent eye. In another day or two the affair had run best part of the ordinary course of a newspaper sensation, the Bishop of London had given his opinion on it, and while the Gainsborough column shrank considerably, the Blenkinsop column became a mere paragraph at its foot. It would seem to be the proper moment for the recovery of the picture.
And now it grew apparent that this was the great difficulty. What had been done was easy enough; it had almost done itself — with the constant help of Hector. But to restore the picture — naturally, unsuspiciously, and without putting anybody in gaol — this was a job that grew more difficult the more it was considered. Hector Bushell grew unwontedly thoughtful, and Sydney Blenkinsop began to get ungrateful again. He had been dragged up a blind alley, he said, and now he wanted to know the way out. Hector smoked a great many strong cigars without being able to tell him.
They parted moodily one night toward the end of the week, and the next day Sydney was alone in his studio all the morning. He was growing fidgety and irritable, notwithstanding his new-found eminence, and he wondered what kept Hector away. Was he going to shirk now that the real pinch was coming? Work was impossible, so the partaker in Gainsborough’s glory loafed and smoked and kicked his furniture, and smoked and loafed again. His lunch was brought him from the corner public-house, and he ate what he could of it. Then he took to looking out of door, as is the useless impulse of everybody anxiously awaiting a visitor. He had done it twice, and was nearing the lobby again when the cry of a running newsboy struck his ear. He pulled the door open hurriedly, for in the shout he seemed to hear something like the name Gainsborough. There came the boy, shouting at each studio door as he passed, and waving his papers. Sydney extended his coin and snatched the paper as the boy ran past. It was fact; he had heard the name of Gainsborough, for the thousandth time that week. The picture had been discovered in the thief’s lodgings, but the thief had bolted and was still at large. There was not much of it under the staring headline, but so much was quite clear. The picture was found, but the thief had got away.
Wasn’t there a chance in this? Surely there ought to be. Why didn’t Hector Bushell come? Surely, if they were prompt enough, some little dodge might be built on this combination of circumstances, by which his picture might be brought to light again — this also without the thief. They knew, now, where the thief had been, and that he was gone. This was good news. Hector could certainly make something of that. Where was he?
He was at the door in the Iobby, in the studio, even as the thought passed. Flushed and rumpled, wild of eye, with dust on his coat and a dint in his hat, Hector Bushell dropped into the nearest seat with an inarticulate “G’lor!”
“What’s up?” cried Sydney. “The Gainsborough — do you know? They’ve got it!”
“Blow the Gainsborough — where’s the Blenkinsop? Sydney, it’s a bust up!”
“What is?”
“The whole festive caboodle! The entire bag of tricks! My mother’s been and sent the roll of stair-carpet to the jumble sale!”
“The what?”
“Jumble sale — Mrs. Fewston’s jumble sale; Stockjobbers’ Almhouse fund!”
“Great heavens!” — Sydney leapt for his hat— “where is it? When is it! What—”
“No go!” interrupted Hector, with a feeble wave of the hand. “No go! It’s to-day — I’ve been there. Blazed off there the moment I knew it. They’d sold the carpet to an old woman just before I arrived. Nice girl I know, helping at Mrs. Fewston’s stall, told me that. Just then up came Mrs. Fewston herself, glaring straight over my head as though I was too small and too beastly to look at. A dead cut, if ever I saw one! I felt a bit uneasy at that. But the nice girl told me the name of the old woman who had the carpet and where she lived. So I streaked out after her and caught her two streets off; she was shoving her plunder home in a perambulator. I grabbed it with both hands and offered to buy it. I was a bit wild and sudden, I expect, and the old girl didn’t understand; started screaming, and laid into me with an umbrella. I wasn’t going to wait for a crowd, so I out with the stair-carpet and bowled it open all along the pavement. There was no picture in it — nothing! I kicked it the whole length out, all along the street, and then pelted round the next corner while the old party was tangled up with the other end. Sydney, my boy, Fewston’s got that picture now! The carpet was sent to the house!”
“What in the world shall we do? We’re in a fine sort of mess!”
For a time Hector Bushell had no answer: he was considering many things. Mrs. Fewston’s disdainful cut; the fact that the carpet — and the picture — had been in Fewston’s house since the evening of the day before yesterday. Also he wondered why Fewston had made no sign. He had had a full day and a half to flare up in, if he had felt that way inclined; but there had been no flare. Why? Hector’s faculties gradually ranged themselves and he began to understand. Could Fewston afford to stultify himself after the advertisement he had so eagerly snatched? And there were the interviews in the newspapers! And the County Council election! And the limited company! It grew plain that Mr. Fewston’s interests were not wholly divorced from their own, after all.
“What shall we do?” reiterated Sydney, wildly. “We’re in a most hideous mess!”
“Mess?” repeated Hector, straightening his hat and gradually assuming his customary placidity. “Mess? Oh, I don’t know, after all. I was a bit startled at first, but we haven’t accused anybody, you know. We’re perfectly innocent. If you like to authorize me to get in at your studio window to fetch a picture, why shouldn’t you? And if the police like to jump to conclusions — well, they ought to know better. Lend me a clothes-brush.”
“But what about Fewston?”
“That’s why I want the clothes-brush. He’s in it pretty deep, one way and another, eh? We’ll go round and collect that money.”
CAP’EN JOLLYFAX’S GUN
THE fame of Cap’en Jollyfax’s gun spread wide over Thames mouth and the coasts thereabout, in the years before and after the middle of the nineteenth century. The gun was no such important thing to look at, being a little brass cannon short of a yard long, standing in a neat little circle of crushed cockle-shell, with a border of nicely matched flints, by the side of Cap’en Jollyfax’s white flagstaff, before Cap’en Jollyfax’s blue front door, on the green ridge that backed the marshes and overlooked the sea. But small as Cap’en Jollyfax’s gun might be to look at, it was most amazingly large to hear; perhaps not so deep and thunderous as loud and angry, with a ringing bang that seemed to tear the ear-drums.
Cap’en Jollyfax fired the gun at midnight on Christmas eve, to start the carollers. Again he fired it at midnight between the old year and the new, to welcome the year; on the ninth of January, because that was the anniversary of Nelson’s funeral, and on the twenty-eighth, because that was the date of the battle of Aliwal, then a recent victory. He fired it on the Queen’s birthday, on Waterloo day, Trafalgar day, St. Clement’s day — for Clement was the parish saint — and on the anniversary of the battle of the Nile; and on the fifth of Novemb
er he fired it at intervals all day long, and as fast as he could clean and load it after dark. He also fired it on his own birthday, on Roboshobery Dove’s, Sam Prentice’s, old Tom Blyth’s, and any other casual birthday he might hear of. He fired it in commemoration of every victory reported during the Crimean war and the Indian Mutiny, he fired it to celebrate all weddings, some christenings, and once when they hanged a man at Springfield gaol.
Cap’en Jollyfax was a retired master mariner of lusty girth and wide and brilliant countenance. In the intervals between the discharges of his gun he painted his cottage, his flagstaff, his garden fence and gate, and any other thing that was his on which paint would stay, except the gun, which he kept neatly scoured and polished.
He painted the flagstaff white, the fence green, and the cottage in several colors; and the abiding mystery of Cap’en Jollyfax’s establishment was what ultimately became of the paint. For a new coat succeeded the last very soon after the surface was sufficiently dry, and the consumption of paint was vast; and yet the flagstaff never seemed to grow much thicker, nor did the fence, as a reasonable person would expect, develop into a continuous wall of paint, supported within by a timber skeleton.
Cap’en Jollyfax was a popular man on the whole, though perhaps more particularly so with boys, because of his gun. They would congregate about the fence to watch him clean it and load it, and the happiest of all boys was the one who chanced to be nearest when it was fired, and whose ears were loudest assailed by the rending bang that was so delightful to every boy’s senses. Boys dreamed at night of some impossible adventure by the issue whereof the happy dreamer was accorded the reward of permission to fire Cap’en Jollyfax’s gun; and one boy at least formed a dark project of hoarding pennies, buying powder, escaping by perilous descent from his bedroom window, and firing Cap’en Jollyfax’s gun lawlessly in the depth of night.
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 247