THE TRUTH ABOUT GEORGE 25
sidered himself justified in chalking him up on the score-board as one and a half or even two. But George had the dogged, honest MuUiner streak in him, and he refused to quibble.
He nerved himself for action, and cleared
his throat.
*' Ah-h'rm ! " said George.
And, having opened the ball, he smiled a winning smile and waited for his companion to make the next move.
The move which his companion made was in an upwards direction, and measured from six to eight inches. She dropped her paper and regarded George with a pale-eyed horror. One pictures her a little in the position of Robinson Crusoe when he saw the footprint in the sand. She had been convinced that she was completely alone, and lo ! out of space a voice had spoken to her. Her face worked, but she made no remark.
George, on his side, was also feeling a little ill at ease. Women always increased his natural shyness. He never knew what to say to them.
Then a happy thought struck him. He
had just glanced at his watch and found the hour to be nearly four-thirty. Women, he knew, loved a drop of tea at about this time, and fortunately there was in his suitcase a full thermos-flask.
" Pardon me, but I wonder if you would care for a cup of tea ? " was what he wanted to say, but, as so often happened with him when in the presence of the opposite sex, he could get no farther than a sort of sizzUng sound like a cockroach calling to its young.
The woman continued to stare at him. Her eyes were now about the size of regulation standard golf-balls, and her breathing suggested the last stages of asthma. And it was at this point that George, struggling for speech, had one of those inspirations which frequently come to Mulliners. There flashed into his mind what the specialist had told him about singing. Say it with music— that was the thing to do.
He delayed no longer.
" Tea for two and two for tea and me for you and you for me "
He was shocked to observe his companion turning Nile-green. He decided to make his meaning clearer.
THE TRUTH ABOUT GEORGE 27
" I have a nice thermos. I have a full thermos. Won't you share my thermos, too ? When skies are grey and you feel you are blue, tea sends the sun smiling through. I have a nice thermos. I have a full thermos. May I pour out some for you ? "
You will agree with me, I think, that no invitation could have been more happily put, but his companion was not responsive. With one last agonised look at him, she closed her eyes and sank back in her seat. Her hps had now turned a curious grey-blue colour, and they were moving feebly. She reminded George, who, like myself, was a keen fisherman, of a newly-gaffed salmon.
George sat back in his corner, brooding. Rack his brain as he might, he could think of no topic which could be guaranteed to interest, elevate, and amuse. He looked out of the window with a sigh.
The train was now approaching the dear old famihar East Wobsley country. He began to recognise landmarks. A wave of sentiment poured over George as he thought of Susan, and he reached for the bag of buns which he had bought at the refreshment room
at Ippleton. Sentiment always made him hungry.
He took his thermos out of the suit-case, and, unscrewing the top, poured himself out a cup of tea. Then, placing the thermos on the seat, he drank.
He looked across at his companion. Her eyes were still closed, and she uttered little sighing noises. George was half inclined to renew his offer of tea, but the only tune he could remember was " Hard-Hearted Hanna, the Vamp from Savannah," and it was difficult to fit suitable words to it. He ate his bun and gazed out at the familiar scenery. Now, as you approach East Wobsley, the train, I must mention, has to pass over some points ; and so violent is the sudden jerking that strong men have been known to spill their beer. George, forgetting this in his preoccupation, had placed the thermos only a few inches from the edge of the seat. The result was that, as the train reached the points, the flask leaped like a live thing, dived to the floor, and exploded.
Even George was distinctly upset by the sudden sharpness of the report. His bun sprang from his hand and was dashed to
THE TRUTH ABOUT GEORGE 29 fragments. He blinked thrice in rapid succession. His heart tried to jump out of his mouth and loosened a front tooth.
But on the woman opposite the effect of the untoward occurrence was still more marked. With a single piercing shriek, she rose from her seat straight into the air like a rocketing pheasant; and, having clutched the communication-cord, fell back again. Impressive as her previous leap had been, she exceDed it now by several inches. I do not know what the existing record for the Sitting High-Jump is, but she undoubtedly lowered it; and if George had been a member of the Olympic Games Selection Committee, he would have signed this woman up im-mediatelv.
It is a curious thing that, in spite of the railway companies' sporting wiUingness to let their patrons have a tug at the extremely moderate price of five pounds a go, very few people have ever either pulled a communication-cord or seen one pulled. There is, thus, a widespread ignorance as to what precisely happens on such occasions.
The procedure, George tells me. is as
follows : First there comes a grinding noise, as the brakes are applied. Then the train stops. And finally, from every point of the compass, a seething mob of interested onlookers begins to appear.
It was about a mile and a half from East Wobsley that the affair had taken place, and as far as the eye could reach the countryside was totally devoid of humanity. A moment before nothing had been visible but smiling cornfields and broad pasture-lands; but now from east, west, north, and south running figures began to appear. We must remember that George at the time was in a somewhat overwrought frame of mind, and his statements should therefore be accepted with caution ; but he tells me that out of the middle of a single empty meadow, entirely devoid of cover, no fewer than twenty-seven distinct rustics suddenly appeared, having undoubtedly shot up through the ground.
The rails, which had been completely unoccupied, were now thronged with so dense a crowd of navvies that it seemed to George absurd to pretend that there was any unemployment in England. Every member of the labouring classes throughout the
THE TRUTH ABOUT GEORGE 31
country was so palpably present. Moreover, the train, which at Ippleton had seemed sparsely occupied, was disgorging passengers from every door. It was the sort of mob-scene which would have made David W. Griffith scream with deHght ; and it looked, George says, hke Guest Night at the Royal Automobile Club. But, as I say, we must remember that he was overwrought.
It is difficult to say what precisely would have been the correct behaviour of your polished man of the world in such a situation. I think myself that a great deal of sang-froid and address would be required even by the most self-possessed in order to pass off such a contretemps. To George, I may say at once, the crisis revealed itself immediately as one which he was totally incapable of handling. The one clear thought that stood out from the welter of his emotions was the reflection that it was advisable to remove himself, and to do so without delay. Drawing a deep breath, he shot swiftly off the mark.
All we Mulliners have been athletes ; and George, when at the University, had been noted for his speed of foot. He ran now as
B
he had never run before. His statement, however, that as he sprinted across the first field he distinctly saw a rabbit shoot an envious glance at him as he passed and shrug its shoulders hopelessly, I am inchned to discount. George, as I have said before, was a little over-excited.
Nevertheless, it is not to be questioned that he made good going. And he had need to, for after the first instant of surprise, which had enabled him to secure a lead, the whole mob was pouring across country after him ; and dimly, as he ran, he could hear voices in the throng informally discussing the advisability of lynching him. Moreover, the field through which he was running, a moment before a bare expanse of green, was now black with figures, headed by a man with
a beard who carried a pitchfork. George swerved sharply to the right, casting a swift glance over his shoulder at his pursuers. He disliked them all, but especially the man with the pitchfork.
It is impossible for one who was not an eye-witness to say how long the chase continued and how much ground was covered by the interested parties. I know the East
THE TRUTH ABOUT GEORGE 33
Wobsley country well, and I have checked George's statements ; and, if it is true that he travelled east as far as Little-Wigmarsh-in-the-Dell and as far west as Higgleford-cum-Wortlebury-beneath-the-Hill, he must undoubtedly have done a lot of running.
But a point which must not be forgotten is that, to a man not in a condition to observe closely, the village of Higgleford-cum-Wortle-bury-beneath-the-Hill might easily not have been Higglef ord - cum - Wortlebury - beneath-the-Hill at all, but another hamlet which in many respects closely resembles it. I need scarcely say that I allude to Lesser-Snods-bury-in-the-Vale.
Let us assume, therefore, that George, having touched Little-Wigmarsh-in-the-Dell, shot off at a tangent and reached Lesser-Snodsbury-in-the-Vale. This would be a considerable run. And, as he remembers flitting past Farmer Higgins's pigsty and the Dog and Duck at Pondlebury Parva and splashing through the brook Wipple at the point where it joins the River Wopple, we can safely assume that, wherever else he went, he got plenty of exercise.
But the pleasantest of functions must
end, and, just as the setting sun was gilding the spire of the ivy-covered church of St. Barnabas the Resihent, where George as a child had sat so often, enhvening the tedium of the sermon by making faces at the choirboys, a damp and bedraggled figure might have been observed crawhng painfully along the High Street of East Wobsley in the direction of the cosy little cottage known to its builder as Chatsworth and to the village tradesmen as " MuUiner's.''
It was George, home from the hunting-field.
Slowly George MuUiner made his way to the famiUar door, and, passing through it, flung himself into his favourite chair. But a moment later a more imperious need than the desire to rest forced itself upon his attention. Rising stiffly, he tottered to the kitchen and mixed himself a revivifying whisky-and-soda. Then, refilhng his glass, he returned to the sitting-room, to find that it was no longer empty. A slim, fair girl, tastefully attired in tailor-made tweeds, was leaning over the desk on which he kept his Dictionary of English Synonyms.
THE TRUTH ABOUT GEORGE 35
She looked up as he entered, startled.
" Why, Mr. MulUner ! " she exclaimed. " What has been happening ? Your clothes are torn, rent, ragged, tattered, and your hair is all dishevelled, untrimmed, hanging loose or negligently, at loose ends ! "
George smiled a wan smile.
" You are right," he said. " And, what is more, I am suffering from extreme fatigue, weariness, lassitude, exhaustion, prostration, and languor."
The girl gazed at him, a divine pity in her soft eyes.
"I'm so sorry," she murmured. " So very sorry, grieved, distressed, afflicted, pained, mortified, dejected, and upset."
George took her hand. Her sweet sympathy had effected the cure for which he had been seeking so long. Coming on top of the violent emotions through which he had been passing all day, it seemed to work on him like some healing spell, charm, or incantation. Suddenly, in a flash, he realised that he was no longer a stammerer. Had he wished at that moment to say, " Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers," he could have done it without a second thought.
But he had better things to say than that.
" Miss Blake—Susan—Susie." He took her other hand in his. His voice rang out clear and unimpeded. It seemed to hira incredible that he had ever yammered at this girl like an overheated steam-radiator. ** It cannot have escaped your notice that I have long entertained towards you sentiments warmer and deeper than those of ordinary friendship. It is love, Susan, that has been animating my bosom. Love, first a tiny seed, has burgeoned in my heart till, blazing into flame, it has swept away on the crest of its wave my diffidence, my doubt, my fears, and my foreboding, and now, like the topmost topaz of some ancient tower, it cries to all the world in a voice of thunder : ' You are mine ! My mate ! Predestined to me since Time first began ! ' As the star guides the mariner when, battered by boihng billows, he hies him home to the haven of hope and happiness, so do you gleam upon me along life's rough road and seem to say, * Have courage, George ! I am here ! ' Susan, I am not an eloquent man—I cannot speak fluently as I could wish—but these simple words which you have just heard
THE TRUTH ABOUT GEORGE 37 come from the heart, from the unspotted heart of an EngHsh gentleman. Susan, I love you. Will you be my wife, married woman, matron, spouse, help-meet, consort, partner or better half ? "
*' Oh, George ! " said Susan. " Yes, yea, ay, aye! Decidedly, unquestionably, indubitably, incontrovertibly, and past all dispute ! "
He folded her in his arms. And, as he did so, there came from the street outside —faintly, as from a distance—the sound of feet and voices. George leaped to the window. Rounding the comer, just by the Cow and Wheelbarrow pubUc-house, licensed to sell ales, wines, and spirits, was the man with the pitchfork, and behind him followed a vast crowd.
" My darhng," said George. " For purely personal and private reasons, into which I need not enter, I must now leave you. Will you join me later ? "
" I will follow you to the ends of the earth," replied Susan, passionately.
" It will not be necessary," said George. ** I am only going down to the coal-cellar. I shall spend the next half-hour or so there.
If anybody calls and asks for me, perhaps you would not mind telling them that I am out."
" I will, I will," said Susan. " And, George, by the way. What I really came here for was to ask you if you knew a hyphenated word of nine letters, ending in k and signifying an implement employed in the pursuit of agriculture."
" Pitch-fork, sweetheart," said George. " But you may take it from me, as one who knows, that agriculture isn't the only thing it is used in pursuit of."
And since that day (concluded Mr. Mulhner) George, believe me or beheve me not, has not had the shghtest trace of an impediment in his speech. He is now the chosen orator at all political raUies for miles around ; and so offensively self-confident has his manner become that only last Friday he had his eye blacked by a hay-corn-and-feed merchant of the name of Stubbs. It just shows you, doesn't it ?
A SLICE OF LIFE
THE conversation in the bar-parlour of the Anglers' Rest had drifted round to the subject of the Arts : and somebody asked if that film-serial, " The Vicissitudes of Vera," which they were showing down at the Bijou Dream, was worth seeing.
" It's very good," said Miss Postle-thwaite, our courteous and efficient barmaid, who is a prominent first-nighter. " It's about this mad professor who gets this girl into his toils and tries to turn her into a lobster."
" Tries to turn her into a lobster ? " echoed we, surprised.
" Yes, sir. Into a lobster. It seems he collected thousands and thousands of lobsters and mashed them up and boiled down the juice from their glands and was just going to inject it into this Vera Dalrymple's spinal
39 B 2
column when Jack Frobisher broke into the house and stopped him."
" Why did he do that ? "
" Because he didn't want the girl he loved to be turned into a lobster."
*' What we mean," said we, " is why did the professor want to turn the girl into a lobster?"
" He had a grudge against her."
This seemed plausible, and we thought it over for a while. Then one of the company shook his head disapprovingly.
" I don't like stories like that," he said. " They aren't true to hfe."
*' Pardon me, sir," said a voice. And we were aware of Mr. Mulliner in our midst.
" Excuse me interrupting what may be a private discussion," said Mr. Mulhner, " but I chanced to overhear the recent remarks, and you, sir, have opened up a
subject on which I happen to hold strong views—to wit, the question of what is and what is not true to hfe. How can we, with our hmited experience, answer that question ? For all we know, at this very moment hundreds of young women all over the country may be in the process of being turned into lobsters
Forgive my warmth, but I have suffered a good deal from this sceptical attitude of mmd which is so prevalent nowadays. I have even met people who refused to beUeve my story about my brother Wilfred, purely because it was a little out of the ordinary run of the average man's experience."
Considerably moved, Mr. MulHner ordered a hot Scotch with a slice of lemon.
** What happened to your brother Wilfred ? Was he turned into a lobster ? "
" No," said Mr. Mulhner, fixing his honest blue eyes on the speaker, " he was not. It would be perfectly easy for me to pretend that he was turned into a lobster ; but I have always made it a practice—and I always shall make it a practice—to speak nothing but the bare truth. My brother Wilfred simply had rather a curious adventure."
My brother Wilfred (said Mr. Mulhner) is the clever one of the family. Even as a boy he was always messing about with chemicals, and at the University he devoted his time entirely to research. The result was that while still quite a young man he had won an established reputation as the
inventor of what are known to the trade as MuUiner's Magic Marvels—a general term embracing the Raven Gipsy Face-Cream, the Snow of the Mountains Lotion, and many other preparations, some designed exclusively for the toilet, others of a curative nature, intended to alleviate the many ills to which the flesh is heir.
Naturally, he was a very busy man : and it is to this absorption in his work that I attribute the fact that, though—hke all the MuUiners—a man of striking personal charm, he had reached his thirty-first year without ever having been involved in an affair of the heart. I remember him telUng me once that he simply had no time for girls.
Meet Mr. Mulliner Page 2