MR. TROTTER FALLS INTO A NEW POSITION
THE sagacity of M. Mirabeau went far toward nullifying the
hastily laid plans of Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis. It was he who
suggested a prompt effort to recover the two marked bills that
Trotter had handed to his landlady earlier in the day.
Prince Waldemar de Bosky, with a brand new twenty-dollar bill in his
possession,--(supplied by the excited Frenchman)--boarded a Lexington
Avenue car and in due time mounted the steps leading to the front door
of the lodging house kept by Mrs. Dulaney. Ostensibly he was in search
of a room for a gentleman of refinement and culture; Mrs. Dulaney's
house had been recommended to him as first class in every particular.
The landlady herself showed him a room, fourth-floor front, just vacated
(she said) by a most refined gentleman engaged in the phonograph
business. It was her rule to demand references from prospective lodgers,
but as she had been in the business a great many years it was now
possible for her to distinguish a gentleman the instant she laid eyes on
him, so it would only be necessary for the present applicant to pay the
first week's rent in advance. He could then move in at once.
With considerable mortification, she declared that she wouldn't insist
on the "advance,"--knowing gentlemen as perfectly as she did,--were it
not for the fact that her rent was due and she was short exactly that
amount,--having recently sent more than she could spare to a sick sister
in Bridgeport.
De Bosky was very amiable about it,--and very courteous. He said that,
so far as he knew, all gentlemen were prepared to pay five dollars in
advance when they engaged lodgings by the week, and would she be so good
as to take it out of the twenty-dollar bill?
Mrs. Dulaney was slightly chagrined. The sight of a twenty-dollar bill
caused her to regret not having asked for two weeks down instead of one.
"If it does not inconvenience you, madam," said de Bosky, "I should like
the change in new bills. You have no idea how it offends my artistic
sense to--" He shuddered a little. "I make a point of never having
filthy, germ-disseminating bank notes on my person."
"And you are quite right," said she feelingly. "I wish to God I could
afford to be as particular. If there's anything I hate it's a dirty old
bill. Any one could tell that you are a real gentleman, Mr.--Mr.--I
didn't get the name, did I?"
"Drexel," he said.
"Excuse me," she said, and moved over a couple of paces in order to
place the parlour table between herself and the prospective lodger.
Using it as a screen, she fished a thin flat purse from her stocking,
and opened it. "I wouldn't do this in the presence of any one but a
gentleman," she explained, without embarrassment. As she was twice the
size of Prince Waldemar and of a ruggedness that challenged offence, one
might have been justified in crediting her with egotism instead of
modesty.
Selecting the brightest and crispest from the layer of bank notes, she
laid them on the table. De Bosky's eyes glistened.
"The city has recently been flooded with counterfeit fives and tens,
madam," he said politely. This afforded an excuse for holding the bills
to the light for examination.
"Now, don't tell me they're phoney," said Mrs. Dulaney, bristling. "I
got 'em this morning from the squarest chap I've ever had in my--"
"I have every reason to believe they are genuine," said he, concealing
his exultation behind a patronizing smile. He had discovered the
tell-tale marks on both bills. Carefully folding them, he stuck them
into his waistcoat pocket. "You may expect me tomorrow, madam,--unless,
of course, destiny should shape another end for me in the meantime. One
never can tell, you know. I may be dead, or your comfortable house may
be burned to the ground. It is--"
"For the Lord's sake, don't make a crack like that," she cried
vehemently. "It's bad luck to talk about fire."
"In any event," said he jauntily, "you have my five dollars. Au revoir,
madam. Auf wiedersehn!" He buttoned Mr. Bramble's ulster close about his
throat and gravely bowed himself out into the falling night.
In the meantime, Mr. Bramble had substituted two unmarked bills for
those remaining in the possession of Thomas Trotter, and, with the
return of Prince Waldemar, triumphant, M. Mirabeau arbitrarily
confiscated the entire thirty dollars.
"These bills must be concealed at once," he explained. "Temporarily they
are out of circulation. Do not give them another thought, my dear
Trotter. And now, Monsieur Bookseller, we are in a proper frame of mind
to discuss the beefsteak you have neglected to order."
"God bless my soul," cried Mr. Bramble in great dismay. His
unceremonious departure an instant later was due to panic. Mrs. O'Leary
had to be stopped before the tripe and tunny fish had gone too far.
Moreover, he had forgotten to tell her that there would be two extra for
dinner,--besides the extra sirloin.
On the following Monday, Thomas Trotter entered the service of Mrs.
Millidew, and on the same day Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis returned to New
York after a hasty and more or less unpremeditated visit to Atlantic
City, where he experienced a trying half hour with the unreasonable Mr.
Carpenter, who spoke feelingly of a personal loss and most unfeelingly
of the British Foreign Office. Every nation in the world, he raged, has
a foreign office; foreign offices are as plentiful as birds'-nests. But
Tom Trotters were as scarce as hen's-teeth. He would never find another
like him.
"And what's more," he interrupted himself to say, glowering at the
shocked young man, "he's a gentleman, and that's something you
ain't,--not in a million years."
"Ass!" said Mr. Smith-Parvis, under his breath.
"What's that?" roared the aggrieved one.
"Don't shout like that! People are beginning to stare at--"
"Thank the Lord I had sense enough to engage a private detective and not
to call in the police, as you suggested. That would have been the limit.
I've a notion to hunt that boy up and tell him the whole rotten story."
"Go ahead and do it," invited Stuyvie, his eyes narrowing, "and I will
do a little telling myself. There is one thing in particular your wife
would give her ears to hear about you. It will simplify matters
tremendously. Go ahead and tell him."
Mr. Carpenter appeared to be reflecting. His inflamed sullen eyes
assumed a misty, faraway expression.
"For two cents I'd tell you to go to hell," he said, after a long
silence.
"Boy!" called Mr. Smith-Parvis loftily, signalling a passing bell-hop.
"Go and get me some small change for this nickel."
Mr. Carpenter's face relaxed into a sickly grin. "Can't you take a
joke?" he inquired peevishly.
"Never mind," said Stuyvie to the bell-boy. "I sha'n't need it after
all."
"What I'd like to know," mused Mr. Carpenter, later on, "is how in
thunder the New York police department got wind of all this."
Mr. Smith-Parvis, Junior, wiped a fine moisture from his brow, and said:
"I forgot to mention that I had to give that plain-clothes man fifty
dollars to keep him from going to old man Cricklewick with the whole
blooming story. It seems that he got it from your bally private
detective."
"Good!" said the other brightly. "You got off cheap," he added quickly,
catching the look in Stuyvie's eye.
"I did it to spare Cricklewick a whole lot of embarrassment," said the
younger man stiffly.
"I don't get you."
"He never could look me in the face again if he found out I was the man
he was panning so unmercifully the other night at our own dinner table."
He wiped his brow again. "'Gad, he'd never forgive himself."
Which goes to prove that Stuyvie was more considerate of the feelings of
others than one might have credited him with being.
* * * * *
Mrs. Millidew was very particular about chauffeurs,--an idiosyncrasy, it
may be said, that brought her into contact with a great many of them in
the course of a twelvemonth. The last one to leave her without giving
the customary week's notice had remained in her employ longer than any
of his predecessors. A most astonishing discrepancy appeared in their
statements as to the exact length of time he was in her service. Mrs.
Millidew maintained that he was with her for exactly three weeks; the
chauffeur swore to high heaven that it was three centuries.
She had Thomas Trotter up before her.
"You have been recommended to me by Mr. Cricklewick," she said,
regarding him with a critical eye. "No other reference is necessary, so
don't go fumbling in your pockets for a pack of filthy envelopes. What
is your name?"
She was a fat little old woman with yellow hair and exceedingly black
and carefully placed eyebrows.
"Thomas Trotter, madam."
"How tall are you?"
"Six feet."
"I am afraid you will not do," she said, taking another look at him.
Trotter stared. "I am sorry, madam."
"You are much too tall. Nothing will fit you."
"Are you speaking of livery, madam?"
"I'm speaking of a uniform," she said. "I can't be buying new uniforms
every two weeks. I don't mind a cap once in awhile, but uniforms cost
money. Mr. Cricklewick didn't tell me you were so tall. As a matter of
fact, I think I neglected to say to him that you would have to be under
five feet nine and fairly thin. You couldn't possibly squeeze into the
uniform, my man. I am sorry. I have tried everything but an English
chauffeur, and--you _are_ English, aren't you?"
"Yes, madam. Permit me to solve the problem for you. I never, under any
circumstances, wear livery,--I beg your pardon, I should say a uniform."
"You never what?" demanded Mrs. Millidew, blinking.
"Wear livery," said he, succinctly.
"That settles it," said she. "You'd have to if you worked for me. Now,
see here, my man, it's possible you'll change your mind after you've
seen the uniform I put on my chauffeurs. It's a sort of maroon--"
"I beg your pardon, madam," he interrupted politely, favouring her with
his never-failing smile. Her gaze rested for a moment on his white, even
teeth, and then went up to meet his deep grey eyes. "A cap is as far as
I go. A sort of blue fatigue cap, you know."
"I like your face," said she regretfully. "You are quite a good-looking
fellow. The last man I had looked like a street cleaner, even in his
maroon coat and white pants. I--Don't you think you could be persuaded
to put it on if I,--well, if I added five dollars a week to your wages?
I like your looks. You look as if you might have been a soldier."
Trotter swallowed hard. "I shouldn't in the least object to wearing the
uniform of a soldier, Mrs. Millidew. That's quite different, you see."
"Suppose I take you on trial for a couple of weeks," she ventured,
surrendering to his smile and the light in his unservile eyes.
Considering the matter settled, she went on brusquely: "How old are you,
Trotter?"
"Thirty."
"Are you married? I never employ married men. Their wives are always
having babies or operations or something disagreeable and unnecessary."
"I am not married, Mrs. Millidew."
"Who was your last employer in England?"
"His Majesty King George the Fifth," said Trotter calmly.
Her eyes bulged. "What?" she cried. Then her eyes narrowed. "And do you
mean to tell me you didn't wear a uniform when you worked for him?"
"I wore a uniform, madam."
"Umph! America has spoiled you, I see. That's always the way.
Independence is a curse. Have you ever been arrested? Wait! Don't
answer. I withdraw the question. You would only lie, and that is a bad
way to begin."
"I lie only when it is absolutely necessary, Mrs. Millidew. In police
courts, for example."
"Good! Now, you are young, good looking and likely to be spoiled. It
must be understood in the beginning, Trotter, that there is to be no
foolishness with women." She regarded him severely.
"No foolishness whatsoever," said he humbly, raising his eyes to heaven.
"How long were you employed in your last job--ah, situation?"
"Not quite a twelve-month, madam."
"And now," she said, with a graciousness that surprised her, "perhaps
you would like to put a few questions to me. The cooks always do."
He smiled more engagingly than ever. "As they say in the advertisements
of lost jewellery, madam,--'no questions asked,'" he said.
"Eh? Oh, I see. Rather good. I hope you know your place, though," she
added, narrowly. "I don't approve of freshness."
"No more do I," said he, agreeably.
"I suppose you are accustomed to driving in--er--in good society,
Trotter. You know what I mean."
"Perfectly. I have driven in the very best, madam, if I do say it as
shouldn't. Beg pardon, I daresay you mean smart society?" He appeared to
be very much concerned, even going so far as to send an appraising eye
around the room,--doubtless for the purpose of satisfying himself that
_she_ was quite up to the standard.
"Of course," she said hastily. Something told her that if she didn't nab
him on the spot he would get away from her. "Can you start in at once,
Trotter?"
"We have not agreed upon the wages, madam."
"I have never paid less than forty a week," she said stiffly. "Even for
bad ones," she added.
He smiled, but said nothing, apparently waiting for her to proceed.
"Would fifty a week suit you?" she asked, after a long pause. She was a
little helpless.
"Quite," said he.
"It's a lot of money," she murmured. "But I like the way you speak
English. By the way, let me hear you say: 'It is half after four, madam.
Are you going on to Mrs. Brown's.'"
Trotter laid himself out. He said "hawf-paast," and "fou-ah," and
"Meddem," and "gehing," in a way that delighted her.
"I shall be going out at three o'clock, Trotter. Be on time. I insist on
punctuality."
"Very good, madam," he said, and retreated in good order. She halted him
at the door.
"Above all things you mustn't let any of these silly women make a fool
of you, Trotter," she said, a troubled gleam in her eyes.
"I will do my best, madam," he assured her.
And that very afternoon she appeared in triumph at the home of her
daughter-in-law (the _young_ Mrs. Millidew) and invited that widowed
siren to go out for a spin with her "behind the stunningest creature you
ever laid your eyes on."
"Where did you get him?" inquired the beautiful daughter-in-law, later
on, in a voice perfectly audible to the man at the wheel. "He's the best
looking thing in town. Don't be surprised if I steal him inside of a
week." She might as well have been at the zoo, discussing impervious
captives.
"Now, don't try anything like that," cried Mrs. Millidew the elder,
glaring fiercely.
"I like the way his hair kinks in the back,--and just above his ears,"
said the other. "And his skin is as smooth and as clear--"
"Is there any drive in particular you would like to take, madam?" broke
in Trotter, turning in the seat.
"Up--up and down Fifth Avenue," said Mrs. Millidew promptly.
"Did you ever see such teeth?" cried Mrs. Millidew, the younger,
delightedly.
Trotter's ears were noticeable on account of their colour.