Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  CHAPTER II

  THE dislocation caused in a large office by the retirement of two of its staff is not great, and any inconvenience occasioned is amply atoned for by the consequent promotions. The two clerks left with the good wishes of their fellows, although there was a little uncertainty — due to the bearing of Mr. Pope — as to which of them was the fortunate legatee.

  The secretary entered upon his duties at once. He had innumerable consultations with the lawyers (cheerfully acquiesced in by those excellent men of business), and, with knowledge gleaned from “Every Man His Own Lawyer,” propounded conundrums that took the united intellects of the firm to solve.

  Nor were the lighter branches of his work neglected. Gently but firmly he made the reluctant Carstairs renounce the firm of City tailors who had dressed him for twenty years, and all their works, and piloted him to a West-end house where the charges were three times as great.

  “To be well-dressed is half the battle,” he said severely as he followed Carstairs into a restaurant to recuperate after their labours. “What about that little table at the end?”

  “That’s taken, sir,” said the waiter. “The next one is not engaged.”

  Mr. Pope frowned, and, after a moment’s hesitation, took the proffered chair and began to study the menu. He made his selection after much questioning, using his forefinger in preference to the pitfalls of the French language.

  He broke his roll and looked around him with placid content. The Beech Tree Tavern seemed to belong to a remote and uncongenial past. His gaze roved from pretty women and well-groomed men to the small orchestra in the gallery. He turned with a smile to see the hors d’œuvres at his elbow.

  The occupant of the reserved table appeared just as Mr. Pope was toying with a sweetbread: a tall, well-knit young man of about twenty-five, who took the chair which backed on to Mr. Pope’s with so much vigour that a piece of sweetbread changed its destination at the last moment, and, leaving a well-defined trail down that gentleman’s shirt-front, hid inside his waistcoat.

  “Sorry,” said the young man, moving his chair forward an inch. “They don’t leave much room here.”

  “Plenty of room for people who know how to use it,” said Pope crisply.

  The other smiled amiably and watched with some interest the efforts of Mr. Pope to find the missing morsel. His interest increased as the latter, in a furtive fashion, began to unfasten the buttons of his waistcoat.

  “Surely you’re not going to disrobe here, my good man?” he said, in an unnecessarily distinct voice.

  Mr. Pope, crimson with rage and confusion, turned a deaf ear. For some time he went on with his meal in silence, and then, conversing in a low voice with Carstairs, allowed such words as “wasters,” “over-grown schoolboys,” “boors,” etc., to wander as far afield as the next table.

  His countenance did not relax until the coffee and liqueur stage was reached. He lit a large cigar and, in a moment of forgetfulness, pushed a little farther from the table and leaned back in his chair. Contact was made, as the electricians say, and a strong current of obstinacy passed from Mr. Pope and rooted the feet of the man at the next table to the floor. Carstairs, at first amused, became apprehensive.

  “Don’t make a scene,” he whispered. “You’ll attract attention in a moment.”

  “I’m not doing anything,” rejoined Pope, in a hot whisper. “Let him move back to his own territory.”

  He thrust his back heavily into his chair, determined not to budge an inch. The same idea seemed to possess his adversary, then better feelings prevailed, and with a quiet but sudden movement he hitched his chair forward at least a foot.

  Mr. Pope, by a frantic movement of his arms, retained his balance, but a loud snapping noise indicated disaster. He turned to see the top of his chair and half the back dangling to the floor. His waiter came hastily to the scene of disaster and the manager made a leisurely progress up the room.

  “Another chair, please,” said Carstairs quietly.

  A fresh chair was fetched, and the manager, expressing polite regrets for the shortcomings of the old one, withdrew to his lair to find fault with the waiter. The cause of the mischief, who had taken a languid interest in the proceedings over his right shoulder, lit a fresh cigarette and exchanged glances with Carstairs.

  “Worst of these genuine twentieth-century Chippendale chairs,” he remarked casually. “They won’t stand a strain.”

  “They were not made for twentieth-century manners,” rejoined Carstairs equably.

  The young man flushed. “Do you mean it was my fault?” he inquired.

  “You know it was,” said Carstairs.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said the other, shaking his head. “But” — he nodded in the direction of Pope, and lowered his voice to a penetrating whisper—” he’s got such an aggressive back. Besides, I didn’t think the chair would break; I merely thought that he would come over backwards.”

  Mr. Pope, with a smothered exclamation, turned and regarded him fixedly.

  “However, all’s well that ends well,” pursued the young man. “You’ll allow me to settle for the damage.”

  “No,” said Carstairs.

  “I shan’t feel comfortable unless I do,” urged the other.

  “I don’t see any reason why you should be allowed to feel comfortable,” said Carstairs. “You have done your best to make my friend feel uncomfortable.”

  “He’s all right,” said the young man, nodding comfortably at the glowering Pope. “He’s a sportsman.”

  He turned his chair a little with the air of one disposed for conversation, and, striking a match for his cigarette, applied it first to the end of Pope’s cigar. The owner, paralysed at his impudence, endured the attention in silence, while a faint chuckle from Carstairs cleared the atmosphere. Mr. Pope had finished his second cigar and the restaurant was nearly empty by the time they arose from table and, walking down the room, divided the manager’s bow between them.

  “Bright youngster,” said Carstairs, after their newly made acquaintance had departed.

  Pope assented, but without much enthusiasm. “You gave him your address,” he said accusingly.

  “I like him,” was the reply.

  “And he is one of the sort that is sure to turn up,” added Pope.

  His remark was justified by the arrival of Mr. Jack Knight at Carstairs’ flat three nights later. Being in the neighbourhood, he said, he thought he would just look in and see how Pope was progressing in the furniture-moving line. When he left, at midnight, both men saw him to the lift.

  Within a fortnight he was on the footing of an old and valued friend, and full of advice beyond his years as to the best and most satisfactory mode of disposing of a large income. The endowment of an orphan asylum, coupled with visits to Monte Carlo, would, he thought, satisfy all shades of opinion.

  “Or you might get married,” he said thoughtfully. “There are plenty of women who could get through your income and ask for more.”

  “Meantime,” said Carstairs, “while you are pricing sites for the asylum, and Pope is looking up the trains to Monte Carlo, I am going to look about for a place in the country.”

  “Of course,” said Knight suddenly. “Good heavens! Why didn’t I think of it before? It’s the very thing; it fits in exactly. I’ve been wondering why Fate threw you into my lap in such an informal manner. Now I know.”

  “He is rambling,” said Pope.

  “We are all going to ramble,” retorted Knight. “That is, so far as one can ramble in a motor-car. To-morrow I am going to take you in a car — Carstairs’ — to see the place. A beautiful Elizabethan house in Hampshire that is just made for you.”

  “What’s that got to do with your lap?” inquired Carstairs.

  “Small park, lot of land, and a lake; a little gem of a lake,” pursued the young man. “It’s a little bit of Paradise that has fallen into Hampshire and is waiting for you to pick up.”

  “The place I’m going to
look at is in Surrey,” said Carstairs. “I’m already corresponding about it.”

  “Surrey? Surrey’s no good,” said Knight quickly. “It’s overrun. You come to Hampshire, there’s a good chap.”

  “Afterwards, perhaps, if the place in Surrey is no good,” said Carstairs.

  “But it might be,” said the other, “and in that case you wouldn’t want the Hampshire one.”

  Carstairs acquiesced.

  “There’s something behind it,” growled Pope. “Something to do with his precious lap. He is quite agitated.”

  “You’re right, Pope,” said Carstairs, regarding the young man closely. “If it were anybody else I should say he was blushing.”

  “It’s as near as he will ever get to it,” said Pope.

  “I have got nothing to blush about,” declared Knight firmly. “There’s nothing wrong about being engaged, is there?”

  “Engaged!” said his listeners together, and, “I hope she’s worthy of you,” added Pope.

  “I fail to see the connection between your engagement and my choice of a house,” said Carstairs.

  “Lack of imagination,” said Knight briefly. “She lives down there. If you take that delightful Elizabethan mansion I can come and stay with you. As it is, whenever I want to see her I have to hang about fishing in the beastly little river there. Last four times I caught three puny fish and saw her once — with her guardian.”

  Carstairs looked at him helplessly for a few seconds, and then turned his gaze on Pope.

  “No sense of proportion,” he said at last, “or else morally deficient.”

  “Both,” said Pope, in a deep voice.

  “The house is probably a draughty ruin,” pursued Carstairs, “the so-called lake a duck-pond covered with green slime. He ought to have been a house agent.”

  “Well, I’m going down there to-morrow, anyway,” said Knight. “If you won’t drive me down, I suppose I must go by train — third class.”

  “Why do you have to go fishing?” inquired Carstairs.

  Mr. Knight sighed. “The engagement is not official,” he said, after a pause. “Lady Penrose, her guardian, misunderstands me.”

  “But surely—” began Carstairs.

  “Don’t make obvious jokes,” said Knight wearily. “This is serious. I suppose an old bachelor doesn’t understand; but he might try and learn.”

  “What has the guardian got against you?” asked Carstairs.

  “Poverty,” said Mr. Knight gloomily. “I am an undesirable. Four hundred a year and a distinguished appearance are my sole assets.”

  “When I was your age—” began Car stairs.

  “Oh, my Aunt!” interrupted Mr. Knight, in despairing accents. “My dear Carstairs, I have got three uncles, three stolid, unimaginative uncles, and whenever I go to see them to try and touch them for a little bit they always begin that way. It’s their one opening. Try and say something more agreeable. Tell me the time the car will be ready.”

  “I’m not going to take that house, mind,” said Carstairs.

  “Course not,” said Knight, with a delighted grin. “But you can look at it. There’s no harm in looking, as the lady said when her husband asked her not to go to the bargain sale. You’re a brick, Carstairs. So’s Pope,” he added, after a moment’s reflection. “Will half-past ten be too early for you?”

  “That’ll do,” said Carstairs. “Is the chauffeur to wear a white favour?”

  “He can wear a wreath of roses if he likes,” said Knight. “I don’t mind. I’m so pleased at being able to be of service to you, Carstairs, that I’d put up with anything. By the way, do you mind if I bring a friend with me? Chap named Peplow — great friend of mine. He’s got interests down there, too.”

  “Interests?” repeated Carstairs, in a dazed voice.

  Mr. Knight nodded. “She’s a very nice girl,” he said generously. “Freddie used to come down fishing with me, and the two girls are great friends. He had met her before in town, too.”

  “Do you think I’m running a matrimonial agency?” demanded Carstairs.

  “Not at all,” said Knight, raising his eyebrows. “I’m merely asking you for a lift, that’s all. I’ll tell Peplow he must go by train.”

  “Bring him, by all means,” said Carstairs. “But, mind, I wash my hands of it. I am merely going to look at a house.”

  “Awfully good of you,” said the other. “And, if you remember, that’s just what I wanted you to go down there for. Well, good-bye. If I’m to be up early in the morning I must be off.”

  He took a cigarette from the box and departed, humming the latest air from the latest musical comedy. Carstairs, to avoid the censorious gaze of Pope, got up and helped himself to a whisky and soda.

  The morning was misty, with a glorious sun overhead, as, punctual to the minute, the car drew up and Mr. Knight descended the steps from his front door, accompanied by a young man of somewhat chubby appearance, whom he introduced as Mr. Peplow. To Mr. Pope’s whispered inquiry, “Where are the others?” he turned a deaf ear.

  “Awf’lly good of you,” said Mr. Peplow, climbing into the car as his friend got up in front. “I’m so fond of fishing.”

  “Are your rods down there?” inquired Carstairs, as the car moved off.

  “Jack,” said Mr. Peplow, leaning forward, “we’ve forgotten the rods.”

  “Never mind,” said Mr. Knight.

  “But—” said Mr. Peplow.

  Knight twisted round in his seat. “It’s all right,” he said calmly. “They know all about it. Carstairs wormed it out of me last night.”

  Mr. Peplow sat back in his seat and blushed, and, smoothing a small fair moustache, glanced sideways at his astonished host. A smothered guffaw from Mr. Pope did not add to his comfort.

  “Awf’lly good of you,” he murmured mechanically.

  “Just the day for a run,” said Knight, turning round in his seat again as they left the dwindling suburbs and began to scent the open country. “You ought to be awfully obliged to me, Carstairs.”

  “I am,” was the reply.

  “What is the programme?” inquired Knight. “There’s an awfully decent inn in the village, and I suggest we should lunch there, and then go on to the house afterwards.”

  “That’ll do,” said Carstairs. “And perhaps we shall be able to see the house from the inn. That will save trouble.”

  “I don’t mind trouble,” said Knight, “especially if I can pick my own. Do you mind if I drive a little way?”

  He changed seats, and Mr. Pope, with a smothered exclamation, held on to the side of the car. He leaned across Mr. Peplow to shout to Carstairs, but the wind blew the words down his throat. He huddled back into his seat, and prepared for the worst.

  “Fast?” said Mr. Knight, as he slowed down for a village. “You don’t call that fast, do you? Wait till I get a bit of straight road.”

  “He never has an accident,” said Mr. Peplow proudly,” but he’s had the most marvellous squeaks. Do you remember that brick-cart, Jack?”

  Mr. Knight turned his head to smile, and Mr. Pope’s voice rose in protest.

  “We’ll keep her down to twenty-five or thirty, please,” said Carstairs, leaning forward, “for the sake of the brick-carts.”

  Mr. Knight sighed, and with a couple of fingers on the wheel endeavoured, but in vain, to carry on a conversation with Mr. Pope.

  “We’re nearly there, now,” he said presently. “Keep your eyes open for the scenery.”

  They passed slowly through a winding village street, whose half-timbered houses had drowsed through the centuries. The bell of the general shop clanged, and a bent back disappeared inside the doorway of the Red Lion. The rest of the place slept.

  “Restful!” said Mr. Knight, almost smacking his lips. “Here’s our show.”

  He drew up in front of a sedate old inn a hundred yards beyond the village, and, yielding the wheel to the chauffeur, led the way inside and, nodding to the landlord, passed upstairs.

>   “Now for a fire and a meal,” he said as he ushered them into a comfortable room. “Here’s the fire, and the food will be on the table at one. Observe how beautifully Pope’s legs frame the glowing coals.”

  CHAPTER III

  THE meal at the White Hart was so good that Carstairs had a shrewd suspicion that it had been ordered beforehand by the enterprising Knight. Mr. Pope rose from the table with a sigh, and, throwing the stub of his cigar into the grate, drew an arm-chair on to the hearth-rug and surveyed his friends with misty eyes. Then, to Knight’s indignation, he drew a large silk handkerchief from his pocket and, placing it over his face, composed himself to slumber.

  “Is he ill?” inquired Knight. “I don’t like his breathing. There’s a croupy sound about it that would make me uneasy if I were his mother!”

  The lips below the handkerchief parted, and then, apparently thinking better of it, shut again with a snap.

  “Give him half an hour,” said Carstairs.

  “I’d give him five years if I could,” said Knight fervently, “but, unfortunately, time won’t wait. It’s twenty past two now, and Hawker will be at the house at half-past.”

  “Hawker!” repeated Carstairs.

  “The agent,” explained Mr. Knight. “I didn’t want you to have to come down twice over this affair, so I wired to him to meet you.”

  “Jack thinks of everything,” said Mr. Peplow, turning to Carstairs.

  “Did he think of your engagement?” said Pope, sitting up suddenly and turning to Mr. Peplow.” I mean, did he contrive it to suit his own ends in any way?”

  “Certainly not,” said Peplow, blushing. “It’s — it’s a case of mutual esteem. Besides, we are not engaged. We may be in time.

  It’s only a hope with me at present. It’s—”

  “Don’t tie yourself in knots, Freddie,” said Knight kindly. “He’s not your father; and there’ll be plenty of other people to explain to. Save yourself up for them. All this is sour grapes to Pope. The only time a girl ever smiled at him was when he slipped on a banana skin. Are we all ready, Carstairs?” A little over five minutes in the car brought them to the lodge gates, where a man in a blue baize apron, touching his cap as they turned in, followed them up the drive on foot. The road was a winding one, and when the house suddenly burst into view Carstairs was unable to repress an exclamation.