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 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mixed Grill
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Mixed Grill

Author: W. Pett Ridge

Release date: August 16, 2018 [eBook #57704]

Language: English

Credits: This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MIXED GRILL ***

This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler

MIXED GRILL

BY
W. PETT RIDGE
AUTHOR OF “MORD EM’LY,” ETC.

“If you can’t make up your mind what to

order,” said the City waiter, “how about trying
the mixed grill? You may not like all of it, but
what you don’t care for you can easily leave!”

HODDER AND STOUGHTON

NEW YORK AND LONDON

Printed in 1913
 CONTENTS

PAGE

I Third Person Singular 1

II A Benevolent Character 17
III The Wonderful Start 29
IV Slow Recovery 44
V Loose Cash 57
VI Price of James McWinter 88
VII A Case of Suspicion 111
VIII Question of Temperature 130
IX Foreign Affairs 148
X Before Lunch 160
XI Counter Attractions 176
XII Hero of Hammerton Street 189
XIII Damages for Libel 202
XIV The Rest Cure 218
XV Reward for Courage 242
 I—THIRD PERSON SINGULAR

I met him when I was in town at a party, where he and I were about
the only grownups; he took a good deal of trouble over the
youngsters, doing conjuring tricks to amuse them, and singing songs
at the pianoforte that made them laugh. Later in the evening, when
some of the kids had been fetched, he and I became friendly, and
we had a most interesting chat. He agreed with my views regarding
the Australian team of the previous summer; he was in full sympathy
concerning the difficulty of making one pair of white gloves do for
two evenings. I asked for his name and address.
“Don’t think I have a card to spare, old chap,” he said, in his easy
way. “Daresay we shall meet again.”
“I’d awfully like to make sure of it,” I said. “My mother may want
you to run down to our place.”
“That’s a different matter. Here’s a pencil; write it on something. Or
allow me. I’m coming back here at ten,” he went on. “You won’t be
gone before that, I hope?”
“I must,” I replied. “My governess will call at half-past nine to take
me home.”
“What an existence we men about town do live, to be sure. Always
hurrying from one place to another.”
“If my mother writes to you, Mr. Cartwright,” I said, offering my
hand, “you won’t fail to come along.”
My mater is peculiar; she has a fixed and permanent idea that any
suggestion coming from me must necessarily be overruled and
treated as of no serious importance; I fancy this comes from the
feeling, often expressed by her, that she has to be both father and
mother. It is rather a lonely life for her, with only my governess and
the servants for company. I have heard the maids saying more than
once to each other that they wondered mistress did not marry
again. “She could well afford to,” remarked cook.
I do think I showed cleverness and tact—something very like high
diplomacy. I reminded my mother of the parties I had attended, and
said I felt glad there was no necessity for us to have our house
turned upside down and to give an evening in return. At lunch time
I referred to the matter again. Later I said good-night to her, and
once more made similar allusion to the subject.
Cards of invitation went out the next day, and my governess started
on the preparation of a charade. My governess is not, if I may say
so, possessed of incredible cleverness, and after writing out the
charade and starting rehearsals, she found she had forgotten the
word, and as no one could guess it, and she appeared unable to
think of another, it became evident that we could not rely upon this
as a source of entertainment. It was then I announced to my
mother that I had already sent a note to a friend of mine, a man
whose equal for entertaining a party was rarely encountered, and
that I expected a reply from him in the course of a post or two. She
blamed me for taking the step without asking permission, and
praised me for coming to the rescue with such an excellent idea.
“Did you say Cartwright—Mr. Cartwright, dear?”
“Yes, mother. Do you know him?”
“I don’t think I have met the name.”
When Mr. Cartwright’s postcard arrived, and the maid put it by the
side of my plate, my mother, glancing down the table before opening
her own letters, asked quickly from whom it had come, and when I
told her she contradicted me, quoting, rather excitedly, the usual
Biblical and historical cases where severe punishment had been
given for the telling of lies, or commendation awarded for the
statement of exact truth. I ventured to repeat the information, and
passed the card to her as a document in support; she looked at it,
cried a little, and asked me to forgive her for being so cross. I
begged her not to mention it.
“Just for the moment,” she explained, “it took me back about twelve
years.”
“Before my time, mother?”
“Yes. You were not thought of then. Does your friend sign himself
Cartwright?”
“My dear mother, how else could he sign himself?”
“Send him another line, and say that your mother is looking forward
to the pleasure of making his acquaintance.”
“You must tell me how to spell some of the words,” I said.
The carriage was to meet some of the guests who came from
London, and I went down to the station myself and arranged with
one of the cabmen there, so that Mr. Cartwright should be brought
up alone and without being crowded by the children. My mother
said I could ask him to stay the night, and ordered a room at the
hotel; but he wrote to say he had another engagement in town, and
he desired to catch the seven fifty-four back. I remarked that this
showed how popular he was in society; my mother gave a word
approving businesslike habits. It seemed exactly like Mr. Cartwright
that he should arrive in the cab at the precise hour arranged.
“Had a good journey?” I cried, running to him in the hall as he was
getting out of his thick overcoat. “I was afraid, somehow, that you’d
back out of it at the last moment.”
“Never disappoint the public,” he replied cheerfully. “Sometimes I
disappoint myself, but that is another matter.”
I asked what he had in his large bag.
“Brought down a figure; thought perhaps a little ventriloquism would
be a novelty.”
“Anything you do will be sure to be appreciated. I’ve been thinking
ever since I met you of the perfectly splendid way you entertained at
that party.”
“Good man!”
“And I do feel it’s most awfully kind of you to come all this distance
just to oblige me. Let’s go upstairs, shall we, Mr. Cartwright? I’ll
take you to the room that used to be called the nursery.”
He got rid of his overcoat there, and, asking me for a pair of
scissors, went carefully with them around the edge of his shirt cuffs.
I inquired whether he had been going out to many parties since I
last saw him: he replied that he had no right to complain; there
were plenty of exceedingly clever people about and he could only
regard himself as cleverish. I exhibited the soldiers that mother had
given me for my birthday. He took the blue men, I took the red, and
he was Napoleon and I Wellington. We sat upon the floor, and he
was so very good as to show me exactly what happened at the
battle of Waterloo, an incident of peculiar interest to me, because it
occurred on one of the few dates I am able to retain in my memory.
“But, Mr. Cartwright, how is it you know so much about this?” He
was moving some dominoes up from the right to represent the
approach of Blucher and the German troops.
“Used to be a soldier man,” he replied.
“Why ever didn’t you stay in the army, and become a Field Marshal?”
“By Jove!” he cried, “that would have been a rattling good idea.
Wonder I didn’t think of it at the time.”
“Is it too late now?”
“Surely not,” he answered promptly, “for such an exceptionally
fortunate person as I am. Anyway, so far as 1815 is concerned,
Blucher, you see, had Grouchy to compete with—this double-six is
Grouchy, with thirty-five thousand men—but Blucher outmarched
him, came up, and—” He swept the rest of his blue men down with
a wave of the hand, and hummed “Rule, Britannia.”
I expressed a wish that he had selected the reds, so that he might
have won; but he remarked in a change of mood that anything like
success in any game would, by reason of its novelty, have given him
serious alarm. I asked how the time was going.
“Lent my watch to a relative,” he mentioned. “A rather distant
relative; but I see a good deal of him, from the waist upwards.”
And he went to the mantelpiece to inspect the clock.
“Little man,” in a sharp voice, “who is this?”
“That? Oh, that’s dear mother.”
He looked at it closely, whistled a tune softly.
“I shall have to catch an earlier train,” he announced suddenly. “I’m
sorry. You make my apologies to every one, and say the muddle
was entirely mine.”
“But you can’t, Mr. Cartwright. There’s nothing before the six
minutes to eight.”
My governess came in, and he replaced the frame quickly. My
governess has sometimes complained that the house is lacking in
male society; she took advantage of this opportunity to talk with
great vivacity, and, in tones very different from those she uses in
addressing me, inquired with affectation concerning the theatres in
town, and entertainments generally. Fearing she would try Mr.
Cartwright’s patience, as she has often tried mine, I endeavoured to
detach her; but the task proved one beyond my abilities, and she
went on to submit, with deference, that what was required was an
increase of merriment in life, a view that, coming from her, amazed
me into silence. Mr. Cartwright answered that in his opinion life was
full of rollicking fun, completely furnished with joy.
“What a gift,” cried my governess, “to be able always to see the
cheerful side! It means, of course, that you have been singularly
free from anything like disaster. Tell me, now, what is the nearest to
a sad experience that you ever had?”
“I expect we ought to be getting downstairs,” he remarked.
In the hall I introduced Mr. Cartwright, with pride, to my mother.
“Charmed to meet you,” she said, offering her hand. My mother can
be very pleasant, and if, at the moment, she gave signs of agitation,
it was not to be wondered at; I myself felt nervous. “My boy tells
me that you are going to be so very kind—” She appeared unable to
go on with the sentence.
“I was glad,” he said, “to find he had not forgotten me. It isn’t
everybody who has a good memory.”
“It isn’t everybody who cares to possess one,” she said, with some
spirit. “I have heard of cases where men forget their real names.”
“I have heard of cases,” he remarked, “where women have been in a
great hurry to change theirs.”
It struck me they were not hitting it off, as one might say, and I took
his hand and led him into the drawing-room, where the children
were having refreshment between the dances. He made himself at
home with them at once, danced a quadrille with the smallest girl,
consulted with my governess about the playing of some
accompaniments, and amused her by a remark which he made. A
man who could make my governess laugh was a man capable of
anything. Going to the end of the room, he took a figure of a boy in
a Tam o’ Shanter cap out of his bag, and, setting it upon his knee,
started absolutely the best entertainment I have seen in the whole
course of my existence. We all rested on the floor; my mother stood
near the doorway, but I was too much interested in Mr. Cartwright’s
performance to pay attention to her. When I did look around once,
to get her to join in the applause, I found she was looking hard at
my friend, trying, I suppose, to find out how he did it. He began to
sing, with the figure making absurd interruptions that sent us all into
fits of laughter; my mother, still serious, took a chair. Mr. Cartwright
had a good voice; I don’t know whether you would call it a baritone
or a tenor, but it was so pleasant to listen to that I half agreed with
a sensible girl sitting just in front of me, who said she wished the
figure would cease interfering.
“Lor’ bless my soul,” said the figure, “thought you’d never get that
note, Mr. Cartwright. Only just managed it.” And, in a confidential
way, “Aren’t you a rotten singer, though? Don’t you think so, strictly
between ourselves? Have you ever tried selling coke? That would
be about your mark, you know!”
We clapped hands and stamped feet when he finished, and even the
girls declared they would rather hear something more from him than
go on with the dances. He looked at his watch, and I called out to
him that he was all right for his train; he had a quarter of an hour to
spare. He came back to the pianoforte. There he touched the keys,
making a selection in his mind.
“No, no!” cried my mother, as the prelude to a song began. “Please,
not that one!”
He changed the air at once, and went off into an Irish song. You
know the kind of tune—one that makes you keep on the move all
the time you are listening. About a ball given by Mrs. O’Flaherty,
where the fiddler, once started, declined to stop, and the couples
kept on with the hop, hop, hop, so that the dance lasted for I forget
how long—three weeks, I think. The couples gradually became
tired, the tune went slower and slower.
“Mr. Cartwright,” cried my governess, in her high voice, “you ought
to be a professional.”
“I am a professional,” he replied.
I rushed like mad out into the hall. I wanted to get the opportunity
of thinking as hard and as swiftly as possible. There was no time to
lose; the station cab stood outside the door, waiting for him I went
up, three stairs at a time, and opened the door of my room; it had
been used as a temporary cloak-room, and jackets and hats were
littered all over the place. As I threw these about—everything had
been moved by the servants with some idea of making elaborate
preparations—it struck me it was not unlike a nightmare; one of
those nightmares where you are in a most terrific hurry, and
everything slips away and eludes you. I could have cried with
annoyance at the thought that Mr. Cartwright was now preparing to
leave, asking for me, perhaps, and certainly wondering when and
how he was to receive his fee for making the special visit from
town. In my excitement I took the pillow and threw it into the air;
underneath I found my money-box, and some other articles which
had been shifted from the dressing-table. I seized one of my dumb-
bells, smashed the box, counted out the money with trembling
fingers.
“Four and three,” I said to myself. “I shall give him four shillings,
and tell him I’ll send the rest on.”
I slid down two flights. As I neared the landing above the hall I
could hear that music had started afresh and dancing had
recommenced. I was engaged to a rather sensible girl—already
referred to—for the polka, and she would be looking out for me; but
for the moment I was too full of troubles of my own to consider
those of other people. The front door was open, and my mother
was waving her hand.
“Mr. Cartwright!” I called out, running past her. “Mr. Cartwright! Oh,
do let me speak to you for a minute.”
“Can’t stop, old boy,” he said from the cab. He seemed rather quiet.
“But I must speak to you. Mother, may I go down to the station
with him? Oh, you are a good sort,” as she nodded her consent. I
jumped in, and the cab started.
I felt so thankful when I saw in his hand an envelope with some
pieces of gold, and I felt proud of her. I might have guessed mother
would know how to do the right thing.
“Little man!” He was looking at a slip of paper with some pencilled
words which the envelope also contained. “Do you ever take advice,
I wonder?”
“Do you, Mr. Cartwright?”
“I find it easier to give. People have been filling me up with it ever
since I was about your age, and some of it has been good, but I
have always done exactly as I pleased.”
“I suppose that’s the best plan.”
“No!” he replied. “It has some advantages, but not many.”
“But aren’t you”—I scarcely knew how to phrase it—“aren’t you
exactly what you want to be, Mr. Cartwright? You’re so good-
humoured and jolly.”
He gave a gasp and looked at the window.
“I don’t lose my temper now,” he said. “I used to, and the last time
I lost with it everything that was worth having. Here’s the advice I
want to give you. Forget me, but try to remember this. Quarrel, if
you must quarrel, with the people who don’t matter. Never quarrel
with your friends. I had fierce words once with the best friend a
man ever had.”
“What was his name?”
“It has taken her twelve years to forgive me, and in that time I’ve
gone to pieces. All just for the luxury of five minutes of wild talk.
Here’s the station; my wife will be waiting for me at the other end,
to take the money I’ve earned.” He laughed in a peculiar way.
“Goodbye, old chap. Not too big for this, are you?” He placed his
hands on either side of my face. “I wish—oh, I wish you were my
boy!”
My mother asked me, when I got back and told her, to show her
exactly where he had kissed me, and she pressed her lips for some
moments to the place on my forehead. Then we went in and
brightened up the party.
 II—A BENEVOLENT CHARACTER

A youth came into the small tobacconist’s and inquired, across the
counter, whether there happened to be in the neighbourhood a
branch establishment of a well-known firm (mentioned by name)
dealing in similar goods and guaranteeing to save the consumer
thirty-three per cent. He required the information, it appeared,
because he contemplated buying a packet of cigarettes.

No, said the proprietor (after he finished his speech and the youth
had gone), not quite the limit. Near to the edge, I admit; but
remembering my friend, Mr. Ardwick, I can’t say it’s what you’d call
the highest possible. It was a privilege to know Ardwick; he was,
without any doubt whatsoever, a masterpiece. I’ve give up all hopes
of ever finding his equal.
He was a customer here at the time Mrs. Ingram had the shop—and
when I say customer, of course I don’t mean that he ever handed
over a single halfpenny. Mrs. Ingram had only been a widow for
about a twelvemonth, and naturally enough she liked gentlemen’s
society; and Ardwick, after he got his compensation out of the
County Council—that, by the by, was one of his triumphs—he had
nothing else to do, and he became very much attached to that chair
what you’re sitting on now. He’d call in to have a look at the
morning paper, and read it through from start to finish; later in the
day he’d call to see the evening paper, and keep tight hold of it till
he’d come to the name of the printers at the foot of the last page.
Between whiles he’d pretend to make himself handy at dusting the
counter, and help himself to a pipe of tobacco, out of the shag-jar.
It was a pretty sight to see old Ardwick, before he left of an evening,
talk, as he filled a pocket with matches out of the stand, about the
way the rich robbed the poor.
Having caught sight of Mrs. Ingram’s pass-book that she was
sending to the bank—he offered to post it, and walked all the way to
Lombard Street and stuck to the twopence—Ardwick makes up his
mind to take the somewhat desperate step of proposing to Mrs. I.
“Very kind of you,” she says, “but I fancy, Mr. Ardwick, you’re a
shade too stingy to run in double harness with me. Poor Ingram,”
she says, “was always freehanded with his money, and if I should
ever get married again it will have to be to some one of a similar
disposition. But thank you all the same,” she says, “for asking!”
Ardwick ran across his friend Kimball in Downham Road that evening
and lent him a match, and said Kimball was the very party he
wanted to meet. They had a long, confidential sort of talk together
outside the fire-station, and they came to such high words that a
uniformed man, who was talking to one of his girls, threatened to
turn the hose on them. The two strolled down Kingsland Road in a
cooler frame of mind, and when they said “Good-night” at the canal
bridge Kimball promised to do the best for Mr. Ardwick that lay in his
power. Kimball explained that he was not going to do it out of
friendship, but mainly because his wife had recently docked his
allowance, and, in consequence, he felt a grudge against the sex in
general.
“I promise you,” said Mr. Ardwick, still shaking his hand, “that you
won’t lose over the transaction.”
“Knowing you as I do,” remarked Kimball, “I quite recognise that it’ll
take a bit of doing to make anything out of it.”
Mr. Ardwick was in the shop, here, the following afternoon. Mrs.
Ingram felt surprised to see him at that hour, and she locks up the
till pretty smartly and moves the box of World-Famed Twopenny
Cheroots.
“Something you said, Mrs. Ingram,” he began, “has been worryin’ of
me, and I’ve called round to talk it over. You seem to have got the
impression in your mind that I’m, if anything, a trifle close with my
money. I should like to convince you, ma’am, that you are doing me
an injustice, and to prove it I’m going to adopt a very simple plan.”
“Have you brought back that watch of mine I gave you to get
mended?”
“One topic at a time,” urged Mr. Ardwick. “My idea of benevolence is
something wider and broader than that of most people.” He glanced
at the clock. “What I propose to do is this. To the first customer
what enters this shop after half-past three I shall present the sum of
five pound.”
“Five what?”
“Five quid,” he said, in a resolute sort of manner. “The first one,
mind you, after half-past three. It wants two minutes to the half-
hour now. All you’ve got to do, ma’am, is to stand where you are,
and to judge whether I’m a man of a generous disposition or
whether I’m the opposite.”
As the clock turned the half-hour an old woman came in and put
down four farthings for snuff; when she had gone Mr. Ardwick
mentioned that he knew for a fact that the clock was a trifle fast.
An elderly gentleman in workhouse clothes came for a screw of
tobacco; Mr. Ardwick pointed out to Mrs. Ingram that he never
proposed to extend his offer to those supported by the State.
Kimball arrived at twenty-five minutes to, and Mr. Ardwick glared at
him privately for not keeping the appointment. Kimball bought a
box of wooden matches, and was leaving the shop when Mr. Ardwick
called him.
“My man,” he said, “your face and your general appearance suggest
you are not one of those who are termed favourites of fortune. Tell
me, now, have you ever been the recipient, so to speak, of a stroke
of luck?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir,” said Kimball, answering very respectfully.
“Never had a windfall of any kind? No sudden descent of manna
from above? Very well, then.” Mr. Ardwick took out his cheque-book
and asked Mrs. I. for pen and ink. “Be so kind as to give me your
full name, and it will be my pleasure to hand you over a handsome
gift. I hope you will lay out the sum to the best advantage, and I
trust it may prove a turning-point, a junction as it were, in your life!”
Mr. Ardwick was talking across the counter to Mrs. Ingram about the
pleasures of exercising charity, and the duty of those who possessed
riches towards them who had none, when a most horrible idea
seemed to occur to him, and he darted out of the shop like a streak
of lightning. In Kingsland Road he just caught a motor-omnibus that
was going towards the City, and on the way through Shoreditch he
complained, whilst he mopped his forehead, because the conductor
did not make the bus go quicker. Near Cornhill there was a block of
traffic, and he slipped down and ran for his life. As he came near
the bank he caught sight of Kimball descending the steps. Mr.
Ardwick threw himself, exhausted, across a dustbin on the edge of
the pavement, and burst into tears.
He mentioned to me afterwards that it was not so much the loss of
the money that affected him as the knowledge that a fellow man
had broke his word. That was what upset Mr. Ardwick. He tried to
explain all this at the time to a City constable.
“You get away home,” advised the City constable, “and try to sleep it
off. That’s your best plan. Unless you want me to take you down to
Cloak Lane for the night.”
Mr. Ardwick felt very much hurt at this insinuation on his character,
because, partly on account of his principles and partly because he
hated giving money away, he was strict teetotal; but the remark
furnished him with an idea, and he acted on it without a moment’s
delay. He returned to Dalston Junction, and there, by great good
luck, he found Kimball—Kimball smoking a big cigar and trying to
persuade a railway-porter to accept one. Mr. Ardwick went up to
him and took the cigar.
“I congratulate you ’eartily,” he said, slapping Kimball on the
shoulder in a jolly sort of way. “There isn’t many that could brag of
having done Samuel Ardwick in the eye, but I always admit it when I
come across my superior. There’s only one favour I want you to
grant.”
“You gave me the cheque, and I’ve got a perfect right to it. What
we may have agreed upon beforehand has nothing whatever to do
with the matter.”
“All I ask you to do,” went on Mr. Ardwick, “is to allow me to
celebrate the occasion by inviting you to have a little snack at a
restaurant close by. A meal, I mean. A proper dinner. Food, and a
bottle of something with it.”
“This don’t sound like you,” remarked Kimball.
“I shan’t make the offer twice,” warned Mr. Ardwick.
Kimball strolled along with him rather reluctantly and somewhat
suspiciously up Stoke Newington Road. Mr. Ardwick stopped outside
an Italian eating-place, had a good look at the prices of everything
in a brass frame near the doorway, gave a deep sigh, and led the
way in.
It was here that, in my opinion, Mr. A. made a blunder; he admitted
himself to me later that he was not acquainted with the quality of
the wine or the capacity of his friend Kimball. The foreign waiter,
being told confidentially that price was an object, recommended a
quarter-bottle of what he called Vin Ordinaire at sevenpence. It was
only when Kimball was starting on the fourth of these that Mr.
Ardwick discovered he could have sent out for a full bottle at the
cost of one-and-nine. He himself took no food and no beverage of
any description, but just sat back, smoking the cigar, totting up the
expenses, and keeping a watchful eye on his guest.
“Is it a fruity wine?” asked Mr. Ardwick, when the last quarter-bottle
was opened. Kimball lifted up his glass.
“I shouldn’t like to say there was much of that about it,” he
answered. “As a matter of fact, it doesn’t taste of anything.”
“But surely it goes to your head!”
“It goes to my head,” agreed Kimball, “because I put it there; but it
don’t seem to have any effect on the brain. Sheer waste of my time,
so far as I can gather.”
“Look here!” said Mr. Ardwick, with a determined effort. “I want to
have a quiet talk with you. I’ve stood this very excellent meal, and
it’s only right you should do something for me in return.”
“Anything within reason.”
“I’m not the man to ask you to do anything else. You’ve had your
little joke at my expense and now my suggestion is that you hand
across the five pounds, and we’ll both have a good laugh over the
transaction. I admit you played your part uncommonly well. You
ran it rather close, and if you’d been a minute or so later, my lad,
you’d have found the bank closed, and then I could have stopped
payment.”
“I got there,” said Kimball, “at one minute past four, and the doors
were shut!”
Mr. Ardwick settled up, and told Kimball exactly what he thought of
him.
“Imposing on generosity,” he said heatedly—“that’s your game!”
He went off home to write a letter to the bank, and to recognise that
matters had, after all, turned out better than he might have
expected. In the evening he made his usual call here, dressed up
special, and evidently anxious to find out what sort of an effect his
display of benevolence had made on Mrs. I.
“I can’t help seeing,” she said confidentially, taking the evening
paper from another customer and handing it to Mr. Ardwick, “that
I’ve, all along, done you an injustice. I liked your conversation, and
I had no fault to find with your general behaviour; but somehow I
had an idea that you rather over-did the economical.”
“If I come across a really deserving case,” remarked Mr. Ardwick
modestly, “I’m prepared to give away my last penny. I don’t say I
scatter my money broadcast, but when I do give I give liberally and
with both hands.”
“I was telling the poor man,” said Mrs. Ingram, “that he ought to feel
very much indebted to you. You’ve stood him on his feet, so to
speak, and, whatever it may lead to, he’s only got you to thank.”
“Don’t make too much of a mere trifle.”
“I advised him to put half of it away in the Post Office, and use the
other half to rig himself out in a new suit and look respectable.”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Mr. Ardwick, rather anxiously, “but when
did you say all this to him?”
“About a hour or so ago,” she replied, “when he came in and asked
me to change the cheque for him. Knowing all the circumstances, of
course I didn’t hesitate a single moment!”

I was doing a bit of debt-collecting at the time, said the proprietor of

the tobacconist’s shop, and that was how I became acquainted with
Mrs. Ingram. She felt grateful over my success with what was
undoubtedly a tough job, and one word led to another, and
eventually I consented to propose to her. She’ll be down directly.
Wait and have a glance at her, and tell me if you think I acted wisely.

III—THE WONDERFUL START

Dazed by sudden introduction to a distinguished company, he glanced
eagerly and confusedly around in the hope of finding some one who
would give him a smile of encouragement. The most distinguished
of all, seated opposite to him, acknowledged his bow and gave the
order that a chair should be offered, and this was accepted.
Conversation did not immediately turn upon his affairs, and the
delay enabled him to lean back and compose his mind; presently, no
doubt, the others would switch discussion to the subject which
excused his presence in this magnificent building. It had a strong
scent of newness, a suggestion of the slate pencils used for the
purpose of calculations in his early youth, calculations which were so
often incorrect that he remembered how frequently in setting down
a total he instinctively rubbed it out, under the impression that
whatever he had written must be wrong. He did not become really
clever in the management of figures until his London life began in
Tooley Street, and that seemed a good many centuries ago. What
was it, ’80 or ’81? February of ’80 it must have been; early part of
February. Thirty-two years, that made him forty-six. He could
remember the start quite clearly.
* * * * *
As he stepped out into a wooden shed that was called London
Bridge Station, a matronly woman, to whom he gave assistance in
finding an outside porter for her deal box, referred to him in a
sentence of thanks as a smart little nipper, and this, an auspicious
compliment, sent him to the barrier and out into Railway Approach
with a good conceit of himself. In the telegraph-office he wrote on a
form in a confident way, as though he had been used all his life to
the dispatching of telegrams:
“Arrived safely. Good journey. Best love.—Ben.”
The clerk on the other side of the counter mentioned that it would
stand a better chance of reaching its destination if the name and
address of the recipient were filled in. This constituted something in
the nature of a check, and in the adjoining parcels-office he
endeavoured to apply a remedy by knocking peremptorily with
twopence and demanding instant attention.
“In a hurry?” asked the porter, nettled. “Because, if so, you’d better
wait till your hurry’s over. Bad enough to be ordered about by
grown-ups; I’m certainly not going to be dictated to by slips of
boys. D’you hear?”
He urged that no harm had been intended.
“What you intend,” said the porter, giving a snatch at the parcel,
“and what you do are very different things. Now then, don’t stand
there all day gazing! What d’you want me to do with this? Boil it, or
what?”
The lad answered, with respect, that he desired it should be sent by
Parcels Delivery to the Peckham address given on the label; the man
inspected very carefully, in the evident hope of discovering some
flaw or defect that would enable him to decline the commission. He
had to be content with throwing it, with a whirl, through the air into
a corner, snatching at the twopence and giving a curt order, “Now be
off with you!” To the question concerning the whereabouts of Tooley
Street, he replied that if the lad could fly, he might reach it in two
seconds; assuming him not to be so exceptionally gifted, the time
could be given as two minutes.
“Thank you, very much indeed, sir, for all your kindness.”
The man looked at him narrowly, to make certain that this remark
was not intended as chaff, and, reassured on the point, came out of
the office and walked with him down the slope, where they faced a
large corner public-house plastered over with orange bills and,
above, a banner which said imperatively “Vote for Clarke.”
The porter explained the meaning of all this, and made two
prophecies: first, that Dizzy would, as a result of the day’s election,
get a valentine; second, that Gladstone might be taken down a
notch. Returning confidence for confidence, the lad told him this
was his first day in London, and his father had urged him to be
honest and straight. They parted on excellent terms.
The incident proved a faithful sample of the happenings of a
wonderful day. On the first floor of the number which he held in his
memory, the surroundings were so much at variance with early
anticipations that he feared he had made some disastrous blunder,
until Mr. Cruttwell, head of the firm, slapped him joyously on the
shoulder, declaring he had arrived just in time to see the fun. The
office was rather dark, because the windows were covered with
election bills, but gas flared generously. Everybody, from the head
down to a clerk only slightly older than the new lad, smoked pipes or
cigars; some appeared inclined to smoke both at once. The head,
raising his voice that it might be heard above the clatter, introduced
him, and six men came over at once, saying:
“How do, young Stansfield? Wish you could manage this for me.”
And the lad found himself in the very thick of it, so to speak, without
a moment’s delay. Cheering from the street below came now and
again, startling him and causing him to rush to the windows in the
endeavour to ascertain the cause; gentlemen with silk hats at the
backs of their heads ran up two stairs at a time to ask how things
were going, or to give news of how things were going, bringing
tasks or appealing for them, roaring suggestions or shouting advice,
talking privately in one corner and illustrating their arguments by
pencilling figures on the wallpaper.
At eleven o’clock Mr. Cruttwell took him out, and, carrying a square
brown-paper parcel of cards, he made the acquaintance of
Southwark under lively circumstances. Mr. Cruttwell did not seem to
know exactly what to be doing, but his plan was never to cease
doing something, and he constantly appealed to the lad.
“Come along, come along, come along! Don’t lag, my boy, don’t
lag!” or, “Now then, slowcoach! Have you gone to sleep again?
Keep your eyes open, for goodness’ sake, or we shall never win!”
A most unfair suggestion, for the only founded charge against young
Stansfield was that he stared at everything going on; shops arrested
him, sandwichmen proved an effective bar to progress. In waiting
outside a leather merchant’s in St. Thomas’s Street, a detachment of
Borough youths of about his own age came up with a threatening
air.
“Who you for?” they demanded menacingly.
“Find out!” he answered.
“Want your ’ead punched?”
“Yes!” he said.
Disinclined to comply with any request, they conferred amongst
themselves.
“What’s inside that parcel? What’s inside that parcel? Going to tell
us, or ain’t you?”
He began to feel terrified, and looked around for assistance. The
people who were standing by did not seem to have any prejudices
on one side or the other, and he was preparing to use his left arm as
a guard and the parcel in his right hand as a weapon, when Mr.
Cruttwell fortunately reappeared. The lads scampered off.
“You’re a plucky little chap,” said Mr. Cruttwell, in good humour after
his call and slightly more rosy in complexion. “Some country
youngsters would have been afraid.”
He proceeded to give a short political lecture as they strolled back
under the arches to Tooley Street, asserting that the manner in
which Stansfield had tackled the Borough lads should be the method
adopted by Great Britain in dealing with Russia. Prince Gortschakoff
might have counted himself clever, and was, no doubt, uncommonly
wily, but we, too, had men just as ingenious, and this Gortschy had
discovered, and others would discover to their cost. Mr. Cruttwell
began to use oratorical gesture, and in one fine sweep of the arm
sent the lad’s bowler hat into the roadway, restoring it with an
apology that made the owner feel on a manly level with the best.
“Don’t go out to lunch,” said Mr. Cruttwell, “in case anything crops
up. Send for it, and charge it to the office!”
* * * * *
He awoke from these thoughts on hearing his name mentioned, but
some one interrupted with a deferential, “Will you excuse me, my
lord, if I—” Leaning back, he went on with the glance over his
shoulder at the past.
* * * * *
Easy to recall everything that stood on the table at the lunch in
Tooley Street, partly because he assisted at the preparation. Acting
under orders, he spread the sheets of a financial paper and, still
obeying commands, accepted a sovereign, and, scurrying across the
roadway, went up the steps, bolted over the Approach (with a
dreadful fear that he might be run down by twenty omnibuses), and
at the hotel made cautious purchases, rejecting so many cold fowls
that the lady who served him called the manageress, demanding
whether, as she had always understood, the birds were to be sold in
chronological order, or whether a customer was to be permitted to
make selection. The manageress decided that both parties to the
contest were right, and encouraged the young woman with the
reminder that, in view of the pressure of the day, everything that
could be called eatable would probably be sold out before closing
time.
So young Stansfield, taking the parcels and dear life in his hands,
made once more the risky journey across the Approach. This over,
the skating horses on the descent of Tooley Street gave him no
terrors.
“No, no, no!” whispered one of the other juniors. “You mustn’t sit
down with them, my rustic friend. We shall have to wait on them,
and what they leave we—” He gave the remainder of the sentence
in pantomime.
“Then I hope they won’t overdo it,” remarked the lad. “I begin to
feel peckish.”
As lunch proceeded, the juniors cutting bread and filling glasses,
men wearing favours who looked in at the doorway, crying, “Hallo,
hallo! Feeding-time at the Zoo, eh?” were immediately invited to
take knife and fork and help themselves, which they did with such
enthusiasm that the juniors were near to the edge of tears, when Mr.
Cruttwell stood up and said:
“Now, then, let’s bustle about, or we shan’t get our man in!”
The three clerks under twenty appeared to have some idea of
compelling young Stansfield to attend upon them, but he pointed
out that this arrangement would leave nobody to wait upon him, and
he expressed a strong and decided preference for the principle of
share and share alike. They gave in, robbing the act of some of its
grace by pointing out that this must on no account be taken as a
precedent, and that his good fortune in beginning London life on
such a wonderful day did not mean that his business career would
consist entirely of a beanfeast.
They also introduced him, rather severely, to certain table manners
which he had not hitherto met, and he found himself greatly
obstructed by a rule which prevented one from holding the leg of a
fowl and dispensing with the assistance of a knife. The remains of a
very fine old Stilton struck him as possessing a flavour entirely
different from the American or Dutch to which he had been
accustomed at home; the drawback was that you could not eat
much of it.
“Do you smoke, Stansfield?”
“I’m not a slave to it!”
“You soon will be,” they prophesied. “Find the matches for us.”
As they puffed at their pipes, he read the financial journal spread
upon the table, beginning with a casual attention, presently
becoming interested. One or two points were dim to him, and he
asked questions, but the others were either not completely
informed, or they preferred to reserve the knowledge for private use,
and they failed to explain to him why, if the newspaper people were
aware that certain investments could not fail to be remunerative, the
newspaper people gave the valuable tip away, instead of reserving it
for their own personal benefit.
The three appeared more at home on another question, and he,
having once drawn Silvio in a Derby sweepstake, could contribute
something to this discussion. They told him a useful man was
always to be found near the cab-rank in front of the Brighton
Company’s station, to whom a shilling or more could be safely
confided.
The talk on this subject became animated; they gave the new lad
some absolutely safe and certain news concerning a horse running
in the next month, news which had come to them in a roundabout
way, but starting, so they declared, from the brother of a jockey
whose name they mentioned with bated breath. Young Stansfield
suggested it would look well if they were to affect some engagement
on business affairs; but the rest said, “Not for Joe!” They, however,
agreed, very handsomely, that he could do as he pleased.
He cleared the table, filled waste-paper baskets with remnants, set
desks in order, placed empty bottles out of the way. Thus he proved
the only one who was giving any signs of work when Mr. Cruttwell
returned, in a state of some disturbance because of news he had
received concerning the prospects of one of the two opposition
candidates. Mr. Cruttwell distributed blame on the others by praising
young Stansfield.
“This lad is going to get on in the world!” he asserted emphatically.
“I flatter myself I’m a judge of character, and I don’t have to look
twice at anybody. Simply disgraceful the way you youngsters loaf
about and take no interest in anything but how to avoid work. Now
then, set to, all of you, and follow his example. No wonder trade’s
so bad. I shall be in again directly, and if I find any of you lolling
about I shall simply—”.
They reproved the lad severely for marring an otherwise perfect day,
and he hastened to inform them he had no more considerable taste
for labour than that which they possessed; his only idea had been to
avoid, by use of ingenuity, the disaster that had fallen upon them.
He knew as well as they that nothing was to be gained by a too
persistent attention to the desk, and he hoped time would succeed
in persuading them he was worthy of their companionship.
They gave in reluctantly, and before the seniors returned had given
him some useful hints, which he stored carefully in the recesses of
his brain.
The arrangement made by his mother was that he should reach
Peckham by seven o’clock, and he felt anxious to do this, for Aunt
Mabel was a cheery, irresponsible person who, on her rare visits to
the country, always brought a budget of amusing songs and some
excellent riddles; there seemed good reason to hope that life at
Peckham would be free from the close and rigid supervision
exercised at home. But the others said the announcement of the
election result would be the event of a lifetime, something that
might never happen again, and he stayed on till a late hour, enjoying
the noisy crowds and the turbulent rushes, and responding to
shouted appeals for three cheers. When the poll was declared, he
joined in the exultant shrieks of triumph, and a stout old lady from
Long Lane insisted upon teaching him an Irish jig. Mr. Cruttwell
found him, shook hands heartily, and told him the nation was
perfectly sound at heart.
As he went in the direction of Peckham he found in his pocket the
change given at the International Hotel. It had not been asked for,
it would probably not now be asked for. Before reaching Bricklayers’
Arms he came to the decision to invest a part, and to back
Vendetta. A wonderful beginning!
* * * * *
His name was again mentioned. He stood up, gripping the bar in
front of him.
“Benjamin Stansfield,” recited the clerk, seated below the judge,
“you are charged for that you—feloniously and fraudulently—” A
rumble of words. “How say you, Benjamin Stansfield: are you guilty,
or not guilty?”
“Guilty!” he replied.
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