‘Mr Silvers? Don’t I seem to know that name?’
‘I wish I didn’t,’ said the female. ‘There was a palooka, if you want one.’
‘A what?’
‘A palooka. Mr Silvers. Slice him where you like, he was still boloney.’
The rather generous nature of the fluid he was absorbing was making Freddie feel a bit clouded.
‘I don’t altogether follow this. Who is Mr Silvers?’
‘Ed. Silvers. My husband. And is he jealous? Ask me!’
‘Ask who?’
‘Ask me.’
‘Ask you what?’
‘I’m telling you. I left him flat, because he didn’t have no ideals.’
‘Who didn’t?’
‘Mr Silvers.’
‘Your husband?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Ah!’ said Freddie. ‘Now we’ve got it straight.’
He quaffed again. The foundation of the beverage manufactured by Mr Silvers seemed to be neat vitriol, but, once you had got used to the top of your head going up and down like the lid of a kettle with boiling water in it, the effects were far from unpleasant. Mr Silvers may not have had ideals, but he unquestionably knew what to do when you handed him a still and a potato.
‘He made me very unhappy,’ said the female.
‘Who did?’
‘Mr Silvers.’
‘Mr Silvers made you unhappy?’
‘You’re dern tooting Mr Silvers made me unhappy. Entertaining his low suspicions.’
Freddie was shocked.
‘Did Mr Silvers entertain low suspicions?’
‘He certainly did.’
‘Mr Ed. Silvers?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I bet that made you unhappy.’
‘You never said a truer word.’
‘You poor little thing,’ said Freddie. ‘You poor little Mrs Silvers.’
‘Mrs Ed. Silvers.’
‘You poor little Mrs Ed. Silvers. I never heard anything so dashed monstrous in my life. May I pat your hand?’
‘You bet your lavender spats you may pat my hand.’
‘I will,’ said Freddie, and did so.
He even went further. He squeezed her hand. His whole attitude towards her, he tells me, was that of a brother towards a suffering sister.
And at this moment the door flew open, and a number of large objects crashed in. Without any warning the air had suddenly become full of bowler hats.
Freddie, gazing upon them, was conscious of an odd feeling. You know that feeling you sometimes feel of feeling you’re feeling that something has happened which has happened before. I believe doctors explain it by saying that the two halves of the brain aren’t working strictly on the up-and-up. Anyway, that was how Freddie felt at this point. He felt he had seen those bowler hats before – perhaps in some previous existence.
‘What ho!’ he said. ‘Callers, what?’
And then his brain seemed to clear – or the two halves clicked together, or something – and he recognized the Bloke who had interrupted his tête-à-tête with Miss Myra Jennings that morning.
Now the last time Freddie had seen this Bloke, the latter had been bathed in confusion. You pictured his embarrassment. He was now looking far cheerier. He had the air of a bloke in a bowler hat who has won through to his objective.
‘We’re in, boys,’ he said.
The two subsidiary Blokes nodded briefly. One of them said: ‘Sure, we’re in.’ The other said: ‘Hot dog!’
The head Bloke scrutinized Freddie closely.
‘Well, I’m darned!’ he exclaimed. ‘If it isn’t you again! Boys,’ he said, a note of respect creeping into his voice, ‘take a good slant at this guy. Eye him reverently. The swiftest worker in New York. Mark how he flits from spot to spot. You can’t go anywhere without finding him. And he hasn’t even got a bicycle.’
Freddie saw that it was time to draw himself up to his full height and put these fellows in their place. He endeavoured to do so, but something seemed to prevent him.
‘Let me explain,’ he said.
The Bloke sneered visibly.
‘Are you going to tell us we are in the wrong flat again?’
‘My answer to that,’ said Freddie, ‘is yes – and no.’
‘What do you mean, yes and no? This is Flat 4A.’
‘True,’ said Freddie. ‘That point I yield. This is Flat 4A. But I assure you, on the word of an English gentleman, that this lady is a complete stranger to me.’
‘Stranger?’
‘A complete and total stranger.’
‘Oh?’ said the Bloke. ‘Then what’s she doing sitting in your lap?’
And Freddie, with acute astonishment, perceived that this was indeed so. At what point in their conversation it had occurred, he could not have said, but Mrs Ed. Silvers was undeniably nestling on the spot indicated. It was this, he saw now, which had prevented him a moment ago drawing himself up to his full height.
‘By Jove!’ he said. ‘She is, isn’t she?’
‘She certainly is.’
‘Well, well!’ said Freddie. ‘Well, well, well!’
You could have knocked him down with a feather, and he said as much.
Mrs Silvers spoke. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘As Heaven is my witness I never saw this man before.’
‘Then what’s he doing here?’
‘Opening the window.’
‘It’s shut.’
‘I know it’s shut.’
‘Open and shut,’ said the Bloke. ‘Like the case. Eh, boys?’
‘Ah!’ said one of the boys.
‘Uh-huh,’ said the other.
The Bloke eyed Mrs Silvers severely.
‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself, lady,’ he said. ‘Such goings-on. I’m shocked. That’s what I am. Shocked. And the boys are shocked, too.’
Freddie was able to rise now, for the female had ceased to roost. He got up, and would have towered above the Bloke, only it so happened that the latter was about six inches taller.
‘You are aspersing a woman’s name,’ he said.
‘Eh?’
‘Don’t attempt to evade the issue,’ said Freddie, giving him a haughty glance. ‘You are aspersing a woman’s name, and – what makes it worse – you are doing it in a bowler hat. Take off that hat,’ said Freddie.
The Bloke stared at him blankly. He was probably on the point of explaining that detectives’ hats don’t take off, when Freddie – injudiciously, in my opinion – got him in the right eye with one of the nicest wallops you could wish to see.
And after that, Freddie tells me, things got a bit mixed. He is conscious of having done his best, but he thinks he must have had rather the worse of the exchanges, because some little time later he became aware that he was in a prison cell and that one of his ears had swollen to the proportions of a medium-sized cauliflower. Also the black eye and the bees swarming in the head.
And scarcely had he coughed up the fifty dollars to the Clerk of the Court next morning when, coming out into the open and buying a paper, he found the events of the previous afternoon splashed over half a column of the very periodical which, he knew, old Bodsham was in the habit of reading with his morning Java and egg.
And, to show you how overwrought the poor chap must have been, Freddie had actually omitted to take the elementary precaution of giving a false name. He had even gone to the extraordinary length of revealing his middle one – which, though I don’t think we should hold it against him, is Fotheringay.
Well, that finished it. Rightly or wrongly, Freddie decided not to wait for the full returns. There was a boat starting back for England that night, and he leaped aboard it without having ascertained from a personal interview what old Bodsham and Mavis thought of the episode. He is a pretty intuitive chap, Freddie, and he was content to guess.
So now he’s back, and more or less soured and morose. He was saying some pretty harsh things about Woman this morning, some very harsh thin
gs.
And I happen to know that, as the boat docked at Southampton, an extraordinarily pretty girl standing beside him stumbled and dropped her vanity bag. And Freddie, instead of springing to her aid, just folded his arms and looked away with a sombre frown. He says that damsels in distress from now on must seek elsewhere for custom, because he has retired from business.
This fact, he tells me, cannot be too widely known.
2 TRIED IN THE FURNACE
THE ANNUAL SMOKING-CONCERT of the Drones Club had just come to an end, and it was the unanimous verdict of the little group assembled in the bar for a last quick one that the gem of the evening had been item number six on the programme, the knockabout cross-talk act of Cyril (‘Barmy’) Fotheringay-Phipps and Reginald (‘Pongo’) Twistleton-Twistleton. Both Cyril, in the red beard, and Reginald, in the more effective green whiskers, had shown themselves, it was agreed, at the very peak of their form. With sparkling repartee and vigorous by-play they had gripped the audience from the start.
‘In fact,’ said an Egg, ‘it struck me that they were even better than last year. Their art seemed to have deepened somehow.’
A thoughtful Crumpet nodded.
‘I noticed the same thing. The fact is, they passed through a soul-testing experience not long ago and it has left its mark upon them. It also dashed nearly wrecked the act. I don’t know if any of you fellows are aware of it, but at one time they had definitely decided to scratch the fixture and not give a performance at all.’
‘What!’
‘Absolutely. They were within a toucher of failing to keep faith with their public. Bad blood had sprung up between them. Also pique and strained relations. They were not on speaking terms.’
His hearers were frankly incredulous. They pointed out that the friendship between the two artistes had always been a byword or whatever you called it. A well-read Egg summed it up by saying that they were like Thingummy and what’s-his-name.
‘Nevertheless,’ insisted the Crumpet, ‘what I am telling you is straight, official stuff. Two weeks ago, if Barmy had said to Pongo: “Who was that lady I saw you coming down the street with?” Pongo would not have replied: “That was no lady, that was my wife,” – he would simply have raised his eyebrows coldly and turned away in a marked manner.’
It was a woman, of course (proceeded the Crumpet) who came between them. Angelica Briscoe was her name, and she was the daughter of the Rev. P. P. Briscoe, who vetted the souls of the local peasantry at a place called Maiden Eggesford down in Somersetshire. This hamlet is about half a dozen miles from the well-known resort, Bridmouth-on-Sea, and it was in the establishment of the Messrs. Thorpe and Widgery, the popular grocers of that town, that Barmy and Pongo first set eyes on the girl.
They had gone to Bridmouth partly for a splash of golf, but principally to be alone and away from distractions, so that they would be able to concentrate on the rehearsing and building-up of this cross-talk act which we have just witnessed. And on the morning of which I speak they had strolled into the Thorpe and Widgery emporium to lay in a few little odds and ends, and there, putting in a bid for five pounds of streaky bacon, was a girl so lovely that they congealed in their tracks. And, as they stood staring, she said to the bloke behind the counter:
‘That’s the lot. Send them to Miss Angelica Briscoe, The Vicarage, Maiden Eggesford.’
She then pushed off, and Barmy and Pongo, feeling rather as if they had been struck by lightning, bought some sardines and a segment of certified butter in an overwrought sort of way and went out.
They were both pretty quiet for the rest of the day, and after dinner that night Pongo said to Barmy:
‘I say, Barmy.’
And Barmy said:
‘Hullo?’
And Pongo said:
‘I say, Barmy, it’s a bally nuisance, but I’ll have to buzz up to London for a day or two. I’ve suddenly remembered some spots of business that call for my personal attention. You won’t mind my leaving you?’
Barmy could scarcely conceal his bracedness. Within two minutes of seeing that girl, he had made up his mind that somehow or other he must repair to Maiden Eggesford and get to know her, and the problem which had been vexing him all day had been what to do with the body – viz. Pongo’s.
‘Not a bit,’ he said.
‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘Don’t hurry,’ said Barmy heartily. ‘As a matter of fact, a few days’ lay-off will do the act all the good in the world. Any pro. will tell you that the worst thing possible is to over-rehearse. Stay away as long as you like.’
So next morning – it was a Saturday – Pongo climbed on to a train, and in the afternoon Barmy collected his baggage and pushed off to the Goose and Grasshopper at Maiden Eggesford. And, having booked a room there and toddled into the saloon bar for a refresher with the love-light in his eyes, the first thing he saw was Pongo chatting across the counter with the barmaid.
Neither was much bucked. A touch of constraint about sums it up.
‘Hullo!’ said Barmy.
‘Hullo!’ said Pongo.
‘You here?’
‘Yes. You here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’
There was a bit of a silence.
‘So you didn’t go to London?’ said Barmy.
‘No,’ said Pongo.
‘Oh,’ said Barmy.
‘And you didn’t stick on at Bridmouth?’ said Pongo.
‘No,’ said Barmy.
‘Oh,’ said Pongo.
There was some more silence.
‘You came here, I see,’ said Pongo.
‘Yes,’ said Barmy. ‘I see you came here.’
‘Yes,’ said Pongo. ‘An odd coincidence.’
‘Very odd.’
‘Well, skin off your nose,’ said Pongo.
‘Fluff in your latchkey,’ said Barmy.
He drained his glass and tried to exhibit a light-hearted nonchalance, but his mood was sombre. He was a chap who could put two and two together and sift and weigh the evidence and all that sort of thing, and it was plain to him that love had brought Pongo also to this hamlet, and he resented the fact. Indeed, it was at this instant, he tells me, that there came to him the first nebulous idea of oiling out of that cross-talk act of theirs. The thought of having to ask a beastly, butting-in blighter like Reginald Twistleton-Twistleton if he was fond of mutton-broth and being compelled to hit him over the head with a rolled-up umbrella when he replied ‘No, Mutt and Jeff,’ somehow seemed to revolt his finest feelings.
Conversation rather languished after this, and presently Pongo excused himself in a somewhat stiff manner and went upstairs to his room. And it was while Barmy was at the counter listening in a distrait kind of way to the barmaid telling him what cucumber did to her digestive organs that a fellow in plus fours entered the bar and Barmy saw that he was wearing the tie of his old school.
Well, you know how it is when you’re in some public spot and a stranger comes in wearing the old school tie. You shove a hasty hand over your own and start to sidle out before the chap can spot it and grab you and start gassing. And Barmy was just doing this when the barmaid uttered these sensational words:
‘Good evening, Mr Briscoe.’
Barmy stood spellbound. He turned to the barmaid and spoke in a hushed whisper.
‘Did you say “Briscoe”?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘From the Vicarage?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Barmy quivered like a jelly. The thought that he had had the amazing luck to find in the brother of the girl he loved an old schoolmate made him feel boneless. After all, he felt, as he took his hand away from his tie, there is no bond like that of the old school. If you meet one of the dear old school in a public spot, he meant to say, why, you go straight up to him and start fraternizing.
He made a bee-line for the chap’s table.
‘I say,’ he said, ‘I see you’re wearing a . . .’
Th
e chap’s hand had shot up to his tie with a sort of nervous gesture, but he evidently realized that the time had gone by for protective measures. He smiled a bit wryly.
‘Have a drink,’ he said.
‘I’ve got one, thanks,’ said Barmy. ‘I’ll bring it along to your table, shall I? Such a treat meeting someone from the dear old place, what?’
‘Oh, rather.’
‘I think I’d have been a bit after your time, wouldn’t I?’ said Barmy, for the fellow was well stricken in years – twenty-eight, if a day. ‘Fotheringay-Phipps is more or less my name. Yours is Briscoe, what?’
‘Yes.’
Barmy swallowed a couple of times.
‘Er . . . Ah . . . Um . . . I think I saw your sister yesterday in Bridmouth,’ he said, blushing prettily.
So scarlet, indeed, did his countenance become that the other regarded him narrowly, and Barmy knew that he had guessed his secret.
‘You saw her in Bridmouth yesterday, eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘And now you’re here.’
‘Er – yes.’
‘Well, well,’ said the chap, drawing his breath in rather thoughtfully.
There was a pause, during which Barmy’s vascular motors continued to do their bit.
‘You must meet her,’ said the chap.
‘I should like to,’ said Barmy. ‘I only saw her for a moment buying streaky bacon, but she seemed a charming girl.’
‘Oh, she is.’
‘I scarcely noticed her, of course, but rather attractive she struck me as.’
‘Quite.’
‘I gave her the merest glance, you understand, but I should say at a venture that she has a great white soul. In fact,’ said Barmy, losing his grip altogether, ‘you wouldn’t be far out in describing her as divine.’
‘You must certainly meet her,’ said the chap. Then he shook his head. ‘No, it wouldn’t be any good.’
‘Why not?’ bleated Barmy.
‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ said the chap. ‘You know what girls are. They have their little enthusiasms and it hurts them when people scoff at them. Being a parson’s daughter, Angelica is wrapped up at present in the annual village School Treat. I can see at a glance the sort of fellow you are – witty, mordant, ironical. You would get off one of your devastating epigrams at the expense of the School Treat, and, while she might laugh at the wit, she would be deeply wounded by the satire.’
Young Men in Spats Page 3