Chapter 4
JULIAN EVERSLEIGH_(James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)_
I determined to celebrate the occasion by dining out, going to atheatre, and having supper afterwards, none of which things wereordinarily within my means. I had not been to a theatre since I hadarrived in town; and, except on Saturday nights, I always cooked my owndinner, a process which was cheap, and which appealed to the passionfor Bohemianism which I had not wholly cast out of me.
The morning paper informed me that there were eleven musical comedies,three Shakespeare plays, a blank verse drama, and two comedies ("lastweeks") for me to choose from. I bought a stall at the Briggs Theatre.Stanley Briggs, who afterwards came to bulk large in my small world,was playing there in a musical comedy which had had even more than thecustomary musical-comedy success.
London by night had always had an immense fascination for me. Comingout of the restaurant after supper, I felt no inclination to return tomy lodgings, and end the greatest night of my life tamely with a bookand a pipe. Here was I, a young man, fortified by an excellent supper,in the heart of Stevenson's London. Why should I have no New ArabianNight adventure? I would stroll about for half an hour, and give Londona chance of living up to its reputation.
I walked slowly along Piccadilly, and turned up Rupert Street. A magicname. Prince Florizel of Bohemia had ended his days there in histobacconist's divan. Mr. Gilbert's Policeman Forth had been discoveredthere by the men of London at the end of his long wanderings throughSoho. Probably, if the truth were known, Rudolf Rassendyl had spentpart of his time there. It could not be that Rupert Street would sendme empty away.
My confidence was not abused. Turning into Rupert Court, a dark andsuggestive passage some short distance up the street on the right, Ifound a curious little comedy being played.
A door gave on to the deserted passageway, and on each side of it stooda man--the lurcher type of man that is bred of London streets. The dooropened inwards. Another man stepped out. The hands of one of thelurchers flew to the newcomer's mouth. The hands of the other lurcherflew to the newcomer's pockets.
At that moment I advanced.
The lurchers vanished noiselessly and instantaneously.
Their victim held out his hand.
"Come in, won't you?" he said, smiling sleepily at me.
I followed him in, murmuring something about "caught in the act."
He repeated the phrase as we went upstairs.
"'Caught in the act.' Yes, they are ingenious creatures. Let meintroduce myself. My name is Julian Eversleigh. Sit down, won't you?Excuse me for a moment."
He crossed to a writing-table.
Julian Eversleigh inhabited a single room of irregular shape. It wassmall, and situated immediately under the roof. One side had a windowwhich overlooked Rupert Court. The view from it was, however,restricted, because the window was inset, so that the walls projectingon either side prevented one seeing more than a yard or two of thecourt.
The room contained a hammock, a large tin bath, propped up against thewall, a big wardrobe, a couple of bookcases, a deal writing-table--atwhich the proprietor was now sitting with a pen in his mouth, gazing atthe ceiling--and a divan-like formation of rugs and cube sugar boxes.
The owner of this mixed lot of furniture wore a very faded blue sergesuit, the trousers baggy at the knees and the coat threadbare at theelbows. He had the odd expression which green eyes combined with redhair give a man.
"Caught in the act," he was murmuring. "Caught in the act."
The phrase seemed to fascinate him.
I had established myself on the divan, and was puffing at a cigar,which I had bought by way of setting the coping-stone on my night'sextravagance, before he got up from his writing.
"Those fellows," he said, producing a bottle of whisky and a syphonfrom one of the lower drawers of the wardrobe, "did me a doubleservice. They introduced me to you--say when--and they gave me----"
"When."
"--an idea."
"But how did it happen?" I asked.
"Quite simple," he answered. "You see, my friends, when they call on melate at night, can't get in by knocking at the front door. It is ashop-door, and is locked early. Vancott, my landlord, is a baker, and,as he has to be up making muffins somewhere about five in themorning--we all have our troubles--he does not stop up late. So peoplewho want me go into the court, and see whether my lamp is burning bythe window. If it is, they stand below and shout, 'Julian,' till I openthe door into the court. That's what happened tonight. I heard my namecalled, went down, and walked into the arms of the enterprisinggentlemen whom you chanced to notice. They must have been very hungry,for even if they had carried the job through they could not haveexpected to make their fortunes. In point of fact, they would havecleared one-and-threepence. But when you're hungry you can see nofurther than the pit of your stomach. Do you know, I almost sympathisewith the poor brutes. People sometimes say to me, 'What are you?' Ihave often half a mind to reply, 'I have been hungry.' My stars, behungry once, and you're educated, if you don't die of it, for alifetime."
This sort of talk from a stranger might have been the prelude to anappeal for financial assistance.
He dissipated that half-born thought.
"Don't be uneasy," he said; "you have not been lured up here by theruse of a clever borrower. I can do a bit of touching when in the mood,mind you, but you're safe. You are here because I see that you are apleasant fellow."
"Thank you," I said.
"Besides," he continued, "I am not hungry at present. In fact, I shallnever be hungry again."
"You're lucky," I remarked.
"I am. I am the fortunate possessor of the knack of writingadvertisements."
"Indeed," I said, feeling awkward, for I saw that I ought to beimpressed.
"Ah!" he said, laughing outright. "You're not impressed in the least,really. But I'll ask you to consider what advertisements mean. First,they are the life-essence of every newspaper, every periodical, andevery book."
"Every book?"
"Practically, yes. Most books contain some latent support of a fashionin clothes or food or drink, or of some pleasant spot or phase ofbenevolence or vice, all of which form the interest of one or other ofthe sections of society, which sections require publicity at all costsfor their respective interests."
I was about to probe searchingly into so optimistic a view of modernauthorship, but he stalled me off by proceeding rapidly with hisdiscourse.
"Apart, however, from the less obvious modes of advertising, you'llagree that this is the age of all ages for the man who can write puffs.'Good wine needs no bush' has become a trade paradox, 'Judge byappearances,' a commercial platitude. The man who is ambitious andindustrious turns his trick of writing into purely literary channels,and becomes a novelist. The man who is not ambitious and notindustrious, and who does not relish the prospect of becoming a loaferin Strand wine-shops, writes advertisements. The gold-bearing area isalways growing. It's a Tom Tiddler's ground. It is simply a question ofpicking up the gold and silver. The industrious man picks up as much ashe wants. Personally, I am easily content. An occasional nuggetsatisfies me. Here's tonight's nugget, for instance."
I took the paper he handed to me. It bore the words:
CAUGHT IN THE ACT
CAUGHT IN THE ACT of drinking Skeffington's Sloe Gin, a man will always present a happy and smiling appearance. Skeffington's Sloe Gin adds a crowning pleasure to prosperity, and is a consolation in adversity. Of all Grocers.
"Skeffington's," he said, "pay me well. I'm worth money to them, andthey know it. At present they are giving me a retainer to keep my workexclusively for them. The stuff they have put on the market is neitherbetter nor worse than the average sloe gin. But my advertisements havegiven it a tremendous vogue. It is the only brand that grocers stock.Since I made the firm issue a weekly paper called _Skeffington'sPoultry Farmer_, free to all country customers, the consumption ofsloe gin has been enormous among agricul
turists. My idea, too, ofsupplying suburban buyers gratis with a small drawing-book, skeletonillustrations, and four coloured chalks, has made the drink popularwith children. You must have seen the poster I designed. There's areduced copy behind you. The father of a family is unwrapping a bottleof Skeffington's Sloe Gin. His little ones crowd round him, laughingand clapping their hands. The man's wife is seen peeping roguishly inthrough the door. Beneath is the popular catch-phrase, "Ain't mothergoing to 'ave none?"
"You're a genius," I cried.
"Hardly that," he said. "At least, I have no infinite capacity fortaking pains. I am one of Nature's slackers. Despite my talent fordrawing up advertisements, I am often in great straits owing to mynatural inertia and a passionate love of sleep. I sleep on theslightest provocation or excuse. I will back myself to sleep againstanyone in the world, no age, weight, or colour barred. You, I shouldsay, are of a different temperament. More energetic. The Get On or GetOut sort of thing. The Young Hustler."
"Rather," I replied briskly, "I am in love."
"So am I," said Julian Eversleigh. "Hopelessly, however. Give us amatch."
After that we confirmed our friendship by smoking a number of pipestogether.
Not George Washington — an Autobiographical Novel Page 7