Chapter 19
IN THE SOUP_(Sidney Price's narrative continued)_
They give you a small bonus at the "Moon" if you get through a quarterwithout being late, which just shows the sort of scale on which the"Moon" does things. Cookson, down at the Oxford Street Emporium, getsfined regular when he's late. Shilling the first hour and twopenceevery five minutes after. I've known gentlemen in banks, railwaycompanies, dry goods, and woollen offices, the Indian trade, jute,tea--every manner of shop--but they all say the same thing, "We areruled by fear." It's fear that drags them out of bed in the morning;it's fear that makes them bolt, or even miss, their sausages; it's fearthat makes them run to catch their train. But the "Moon's" method is ofa different standard. The "Moon" does not intimidate; no, it entwinesitself round, it insinuates itself into, the hearts of its employees.It suggests, in fact, that we should not be late by offering us thissmall bonus. No insurance office and, up to the time of writing, noother assurance office has been able to boast as much. The same causeis at the bottom of the "Moon's" high reputation, both inside andoutside. It does things in a big way. It's spacious.
The "Moon's" timing system is great, too. Great in its simplicity. Theregulation says you've got to be in the office by ten o'clock. Supposeyou arrive with ten minutes to spare. You go into the outer office(there's only one entrance--the big one in Threadneedle Street) andfind on the right-hand side of the circular counter a ledger. Theledger is open: there is blotting-paper and a quill pen beside it.Everyone's name is written in alphabetical order on the one side of theledger and on the other side there is a blank page ruled down themiddle with a red line. Having made your appearance at ten to ten, youput your initials in a line with your name on the page opposite and tothe left of the division. If, on the other hand, you've missed yourtrain, and don't turn up till ten minutes _past_ ten, you've gotto initial your name on the other side of the red line. In the space onthe right of the line, a thick black dash has been drawn by Leach, thecashier. He does this on the last stroke of ten. It makes the page lookneat, he says. Which is quite right and proper. I see his point of viewentirely. The ledger must look decent in an office like the "Moon."Tommy Milner agrees with me. He says that not only does it look better,but it prevents unfortunate mistakes on the part of those who come inlate. They might forget and initial the wrong side.
After ten the book goes into Mr. Leach's private partition, and you'vegot to go in there to sign.
It was there when I came into the office on the morning after we'd beento talk business with Mr. Cloyster. It had been there about an hour anda half.
"Lost your bonus, Price, my boy," said genial Mr. Leach. And theGeneral Manager, Mr. Fennell, who had stepped out of his own room closeby, heard him say it.
"I do not imagine that Mr. Price is greatly perturbed on that account.He will, no doubt, shortly be forsaking us for literature. WhatCommerce loses, Art gains," said the G.M.
He may have meant to be funny, or he may not. Some of those standingnear took him one way, others the other. Some gravely bowed theirheads, others burst into guffaws. The G.M. often puzzled his staff inthat way. All were anxious to do the right thing by him, but he made itso difficult to tell what the right thing was.
But, as I went down the basement stairs to change my coat in theclerks' locker-room, I understood from the G.M.'s words how humiliatingmy position was.
I had always been a booky sort of person. At home it had been astanding joke that, when a boy, I would sooner spend a penny on_Tit-Bits_ than liquorice. And it was true. Not that I dislikedliquorice. I liked _Tit-Bits_ better, though. So the thing hadgone on. I advanced from _Deadwood Dick_ to Hall Caine and GuyBoothby; and since I had joined the "Moon" I had actually gone a busterand bought _Omar Khayyam_ in the Golden Treasury series. Added towhich, I had recently composed a little lyric for a singer at the"Moon's" annual smoking concert. The lines were topical and weredescriptive of our Complete Compensation Policy. Tommy Milner was thevocalist. He sang my composition to a hymn tune. The refrain went:
Come and buy a C.C.Pee-ee! If you want immunitee-ee From the accidents which come Please plank down your premium. Life is diff'rent, you'll agree _Repeat_ When you've got a C.C.P.
The Throne Room of the Holborn fairly rocked with applause.
Well, it was shortly afterwards that I had received a visit from Mr.Cloyster--the visit which ended in my agreeing to sign whatevermanuscripts he sent me, and forward him all cheques for a considerationof ten per cent. Softest job ever a man had. Easy money. Kudos--I hadalmost too much of it. Which takes me back to the G.M.'s remark aboutmy leaving the office. Since he's bought that big house at Regent'sPark he's done a lot of entertaining at the restaurants. His name'salways cropping up in the "Here and There" column, and naturally he's asubscriber to the _Strawberry Leaf_. The G.M. has everything ofthe best and plenty of it. (You don't see the G.M. with memo. formstucked round his cuffs: he wears a clean shirt every morning of hislife. All tip-top people have their little eccentricities.) And the_Strawberry Leaf_, the smartest, goeyest, personalest weekly, isnever missing from his drawing-room what-not. Every week it's there,regular as clockwork. That's what started my literary reputation amongthe fellows at the "Moon." Mr. Cloyster was contributing a series ofshort dialogues to the _Strawberry Leaf_--called, "In Town."These, on publication, bore my own signature. As a matter of fact, Ihappened to see the G.M. showing the first of the series to Mr. Leachin his private room. I've kept it by me, and I don't wonder the newscreated a bit of a furore. This was it:----
IN TOWN BY SIDNEY PRICE
No. I.--THE SECRECY OF THE BALLET
(You are standing under the shelter of the Criterion's awning. It is 12.30 of a summer's morning. It is pouring in torrents. A quick and sudden rain storm. It won't last long, and it doesn't mean any harm. But what's sport to it is death to you. You were touring the Circus in a new hat. Brand new. Couldn't spot your tame cabby. Hadn't a token. Spied the Cri's awning. Dashed at it. But it leaks. Not so much as the sky though. Just enough, however, to do your hat no good. You mention this to Friendly Creature with umbrella, and hint that you would like to share that weapon.)
FRIENDLY CREATURE. Can't give you all, boysie. Mine's new, too.
YOU. _(in your charming way)_. Well, of course. You wouldn't be a woman if you hadn't a new hat.
FRIENDLY CREATURE. Do women always have new hats?
YOU. _(edging under the umbrella)_. Women have new hats. New women have hats.
FRIENDLY CREATURE. Don't call me a woman, ducky; I'm a lady.
YOU. I must be careful. If I don't flatter you, you'll take your umbrella away.
FRIENDLY CREATURE _(changing subject)_. There's Matilda.
YOU. Where?
FRIENDLY CREATURE. Coming towards us in that landaulette.
YOU. Looks fit, doesn't she?
FRIENDLY CREATURE. Her! She's a blooming rotter.
YOU. Not so loud. She'll hear you.
FRIENDLY CREATURE _(raising her voice)_. Good job. I want her to. _Stumer_!
YOU. S-s-s-sh! What _are_ you saying? Matilda's a duchess now.
FRIENDLY CREATURE. I know.
YOU. But you mustn't say "Stumer" to a duchess unless----
FRIENDLY CREATURE. Well?
YOU. Unless you're a duchess yourself?
FRIENDLY CREATURE. I am. At least I was. Only I chucked it.
YOU. But you said you were a lady.
FRIENDLY CREATURE. So I am. An extra lady--front row, second O.P.
YOU. How rude of me. Of course you were a duchess. I know you perfectly. Gorell Barnes said----
FRIENDLY CREATURE. Drop it. What's the good of the secrecy of the ballet if people are going to remember every single thing about you?
(At this point the rain stops. By an adroit flanking movement you get away without having to buy her a lunch.)
Every
one congratulated me. "Always knew he had it in him," "Found hisvocation," "A distinctly clever head," "Reaping in the shekels"--thatwas the worst part. The "Moon," to a man, was bent on finding out "howmuch Sidney Price makes out of his bits in the papers." Some droppedhints--the G.M., Leach, and the men at the counter. Others, like TommyMilner, asked slap out. You may be sure I didn't tell them a fixed sum.But it was hopeless to say I was getting the small sum which my ten percent. commission worked out at. On the other hand, I dared not pretendI was being paid at the usual rates. I should have gone broke intwenty-four hours. You have no idea how constantly I was given theopportunity of lending five shillings to important members of the"Moon" staff. It struck me then--and I have found out for certainsince--that there is a popular anxiety to borrow from a man who earnsmoney by writing. The earnings of a successful writer are, to thecommon intelligence, something he ought not really to have. And anyone,in default of abstracting his income, may fall back upon taking up histime.
It did, no doubt, appear that I was coining the ready. Besides the_Strawberry Leaf_, _Features_, and _The Key of the Street_ wereprinting my signed contributions in weekly series. _The Mayfair_, too,had announced on its placards, "A Story in Dialogue, by Sidney Price."
This, then, was my position on the morning when I was late at the"Moon" and lost my bonus.
Whilst I went up in the lift to the New Business Room, and whilst I wasentering the names and addresses of inquirers in the Proposal Book, Iwas trying to gather courage to meet what was in store.
For the future held this: that my name would disappear from the papersas suddenly as it had arrived there. People would want to know why Ihad given up writing. "Written himself out," "No staying power," "Asshort-lived as a Barnum monstrosity": these would be the remarks whichwould herald ridicule and possibly pity.
And I should be in just the same beastly fix at the "Hollyhocks" as Iwas at the "Moon." What would my people say? What would Norah say?
There was another reason, too, why a stoppage of the ten per cent.cheques would be a whack in the eye. You see, I had been doing myselfwell on them--uncommonly well. I had ordered, as a present to myparents, new furniture for the drawing-room. I had pressed my father tohave a small greenhouse put up at my expense. He had always wanted one,but had never been able to run to it. And I had taken Norah about agood deal. Our weekly visit to a matinee (upper circle and ices),followed by tea at the Cabin or Lyons' Popular, had become aninstitution. We had gone occasionally to a ball at the Town Hall.
What would Norah say when all this ended abruptly without anyexplanation?
There was no getting away from it. Sidney Price was in the soup.
Not George Washington — an Autobiographical Novel Page 22