THE LION MAKES HIS SIGN
Tea was finished, the remains of it were cleared away, and the heavy
curtains drawn over the big windows overlooking Trafalgar Square.
Having turned on all the electric lights he could find, the Writer led
Ridgwell and Christine by either hand towards the door.
"The Lord Mayor has arrived," he whispered, "I can hear him coming up
the stairs. Now as he comes into the door let us all bow down with a
low curtsey, and say, 'Welcome, Sir Simon Gold, Lord Mayor of London.'"
"Bless him, he is still puffing up the stairs," whispered the Writer,
"so we shall have time to rehearse it once before he gets here. Now
then, all together," urged the Writer. "That's fine; why, you children
make obeisance better than I do, but of course I was forgetting you had
both been to the Pleasant-Faced Lion's party. That must, of course,
have been an education in itself. Now then, get ready."
Outside somebody who was puffing and panting somewhat heavily could be
heard exclaiming between these exertions in a cheery voice: "Good
gracious me, why ever does the boy live in such a place? These stairs
will be the death of me; positively fifty of them if there is one.
Really at my time of life it is most unreasonable; he ought to have a
lift put in, I will make it my business to see he doesn't live up here
in the clouds any longer, whether he always wants to see Lal or whether
he doesn't."
The Writer grinned at the children, and Ridgwell and Christine gave a
faint chuckle by way of an answer. At last the door was flung open and
the pleasantest-faced old gentleman it would be possible to find
anywhere, with round pink cheeks, merry eyes, a snowy white upturned
moustache and white hair to match, peering through big gold-rimmed
spectacles like a cheerful night-owl, stood in the doorway.
Thereupon the three people inside the room bobbed down in a most
profound curtesy, and there was a perfectly timed and simultaneous
chorus from three voices, "Welcome, Sir Simon Gold, Lord Mayor of
London."
"Bless my soul," said the Lord Mayor, "very impressive, upon my word;
but as His Majesty the King has only knighted me twenty minutes ago,
how on earth did you come to hear of it?"
"Magic," said the Writer. "Besides, Lal prophesied the event."
"Who are the children?" asked the Lord Mayor.
"Friends of Lal's and myself," replied the Writer, "and very anxious to
see you in your robes."
"They are all in this bag," vouchsafed the Mayor, "and it may be vanity
upon my part, but I brought them up on purpose to stand in front of the
window so that Lal could have a good look at them and see the effect of
his own handiwork. And now, you rascal," demanded the Lord Mayor of
the Writer as he helped himself to a comfortable chair, "what excuses
have you got to give me for not coming near either Mum or myself for
ages, and for taking up your abode in this absurdly high flat which is
as bad as mounting the Monument?"
"I have my excuses all labelled and wrapped up, Dad, and you and Mum
must accept them when you have looked at them."
Thereupon the Writer fished out of the mysterious odd-fashioned
cupboard two packets very neatly done up, and placed them in the hands
of genial old Sir Simon.
The old gentleman opened the first packet with evident pleasure; it was
a well-bound book fresh from the printer's press.
"Open it, Dad, and see whom it is dedicated to," suggested the Writer;
"you will find it upon the first page."
"Beautiful," murmured the old gentleman, whilst his hands trembled
slightly as he held the book and read out, "Dedicated to my dear Dad,
to whom I owe everything--created Lord Mayor of the City of London in
the year----"
The old gentleman coughed and wiped his spectacles carefully, and even
suspiciously, for they appeared to be quite misty. "Oh, you bad boy,"
he burst out unexpectedly. "How dare you write books and become
famous, when you ought to have been sitting upon a stool behind a glass
partition as a junior partner in my counting-house? However, I believe
Lal was right, he usually is; he said we should disagree, and that the
youngest one would be in the right, and upon my word, my dear boy, I
never believed how very right he was until to-day. Bless me, I'm proud
of you."
"And I'm proud of you, Dad," was the Writer's answer.
"Goodness alive," declared the old man, as he turned and beamed upon
Ridgwell and Christine by turns, "do you children know, those were the
very words this rascal here used sixteen years ago, when he deposited a
lot of ridiculous prizes that nobody ever wanted to read in my lap when
I was asleep in front of the fire in my library. Bless me, history
does repeat itself."
"And prophecies come true," added the Writer.
"Tut, tut," said Sir Simon, "there was one prophecy our friend Lal made
that never came true. How about that absurd statement of his that you
would find Dick Whittington? That was all a lot of riddle-me-ree, as
you may say, thrown in like the cheap-jack's patter to mystify all of
us."
"You haven't opened the second parcel," quietly remarked the Writer;
"but when I read in some of the papers three years ago that you had
started collecting valuable old china, I always determined you should
have this piece."
"It all sounds very mysterious," replied the old gentleman, as he
gingerly prepared to take off the outside wrappings.
It was at this point that Ridgwell could contain himself no longer, for
he felt as if he were present upon a Christmas Day before the gifts
were opened.
"It's worth more than a hundred guineas," shouted Ridgwell.
"Then it is simply disgraceful extravagance," replied Sir Simon, "and I
shall certainly not accept it."
"I am sure you will," ventured Christine, "it is the thing that he
values most of anything he has got."
The last wrapping was undone, and the beautifully coloured and modelled
Dick Whittington was disclosed to view. There was not even a spot or
trace of ink anywhere upon his enamelled coat, the tree-stump, the
milestone or the three-cornered hat, he had been washed and cleaned for
the cabinet with a vengeance, and looked as beautiful and as spick and
span as the day the artist had turned him out to an admiring world.
"Bless my heart!" exclaimed Sir Simon, as he viewed the treasure with
the keen admiration of a connoisseur. "Why, it is perfect; I don't
believe there is another one in existence like it. Where did you get
it, and who is it meant to be?"
"Why, Dick Whittington, of course, Dad; so you see Lal was right after
all."
Sir Simon placed the little figure carefully upon the table, and
folding his hands regarded the Writer severely. "Do you happen to know
that it was this particular piece of Lal's nonsense that has worried me
more than anything else all these years?"
"It worried me for a long time until I found out his trick," confessed
the Writer.
"Yes, but mine is a most disheartening story," declared Sir Simon, "and
nearly succeeded in alienating me from all my friends; and as for Mum,
I dare not so much as mention Lal's name to her for fear of having my
nose snapped off; she never did and never will believe in him, declares
that the whole thing is a preposterous lot of nonsense, and declines
even to discuss the subject with me at all. You know, my dear boy,
that Mum is very sensible upon other points, but about Lal she is
openly scornful and secretly adamantine; in fact, the mere mention of
Lal is like poison to her, and he was entirely responsible for the only
difference we have ever had in our married lives."
"Light a cigar, Dad, before you start; and what will you have by way of
a drink?"
The Writer had opened other compartments in the mysterious old oak
cabinet that seemed to possess more doors than a Chinese temple.
"These Coronas I remembered you used to smoke, so I got some."
"Excellent," declared Sir Simon, "and, let me see, why, bless me what a
lot of bottles you have there. I hope you don't drink them all. Some
of that green stuff, my dear boy, if you please, Crème-de-Menthe; yes,
I think a couple of liqueurs of that would be most beneficial to me
after the most indigestible banquet we all partook of at the Mansion
House to-day. The stuff is largely made up of peppermint, I'm sure;
and, of course, peppermint, when it is tastily got up like this
liqueur, is very good for indigestion, isn't it?"
The Writer lighted the old gentleman's cigar, and placing the
Crème-de-Menthe upon the table, filled a tiny liqueur glass to the brim.
"Of course," commenced Sir Simon, "from the very first nothing would
induce Mum to believe that the Pleasant-Faced Lion, our old friend Lal,
ever had anything to do with my life, or ever influenced me in any way.
You know, my boy, it is one of women's weaknesses to invariably believe
that they do more than they really do. She declared that everything in
my life was owing to your influence and to hers."
"Mine?" asked the Writer in astonishment.
"So Mum always insisted, and so she always undoubtedly believed, and
when the time came that you ran away,--yes, you dog, for you did run
away, don't deny it,--well, what with sorrow for the loss of you, and
trouble with your mother, for she declared I had driven you from home
by not encouraging you to write, and women are most illogical and
unreasonable when they once get a fixed idea into their heads,--well,
between one and the other of you I had a very bad time. The fact
remained that you were gone, never gave us any address, and I got all
the blame for it. But the thing that annoyed Mum more than anything
else was my everlasting habit of going to the Pantomimes."
The Writer laughed. "Well, I never knew before, Dad, that Pantomimes
were a special weakness of yours."
"Neither were they, my boy, but as sure as ever Christmas came, and the
inevitable Pantomimes also, so did I go to every one; not only in
London, but every city of the United Kingdom." Here Sir Simon, as if
overcome with emotion, groaned aloud. "My boy, pity me; I believe I am
the only person still alive who has ever sat out every single Pantomime
that has been written for ten years, and oh! what twaddle they were."
"But what on earth did you go to them for?" asked the Writer, aghast.
"To find you."
"Me? Good heavens, at a Pantomime? Dad, were you dreaming?"
"Yes," answered old Sir Simon, shaking his white head at the
recollection. "I was dreaming of what Lal had prophesied--that you
would make your name and fortune when you met Dick Whittington, and
then you would come back to us. And the more I thought of it, the more
I was convinced that there was only one possible way of meeting Dick
Whittington in the world to-day, and that would be when some lady--and
they were always ladies, plain, fair, ugly, tall, lean, fat,
pretty--who appeared as that character--met you whilst impersonating
Dick. You rascal, I believed that you would meet one of these female
Dick Whittingtons, would ever after write the rubbishy Pantomimes in
which she appeared every Christmas season, train up your children to be
Pantaloons and Harlequins, and have the audacity to appeal to me to
keep the family after having christened the eldest child after me.
There is not one single lady," continued the Lord Mayor, as he mopped
the perspiration from his face, "from here to Aberdeen, and back to
Liverpool and Manchester, who has ever played Dick Whittington that I
have not treated to either port wine or champagne (for those were the
refreshments they all seemed to favour most) in the hope of finding
you; I have spent more than ten times the reputed worth of that Dick
Whittington inkstand, in railway fares and buying stalls and
programmes. Yet the worst of all to relate is, that when Mum saw the
programmes underlined upon my return, she accused me of being enamoured
of these extraordinary ladies who stalked the stage in the most
indescribable costumes, accompanied by cats. My boy, I know every
ridiculous speech, every stupid gag spoken by every Lord Mayor in all
those Pantomimes by heart, and the one dread of my life is that I shall
one day come out with some of it in one of my speeches at either the
Guildhall or the Mansion House."
The Writer lay back in his chair and roared with laughter.
"Poor old Dad, I had no idea you were undergoing such an awful penance!"
"You think it funny, do you?" asked the Lord Mayor indignantly.
"I think it is the funniest thing I have ever heard, but I am sure that
all the blame rests with Lal for playing us such a trick."
"Humph! Well, Mum didn't think so, and every time Christmas came there
was a coldness between us. Perhaps she will be convinced when I take
her this inkstand and explain what it is," wound up Sir Simon
triumphantly; "she will believe in Lal then, and believe in me at the
same time."
Some two hours later Ridgwell and Christine, having viewed the Lord
Mayor in his state robes, were safely despatched home in a carriage
with the Writer's housekeeper in charge, but not before old Sir Simon
had promised to send one of his state coaches, attended by servants in
livery, to fetch them to the Mansion House Children's Ball.
Upon taking his departure, Ridgwell had inquired most particularly if
the state coach would drive up to their door for them. The Lord Mayor
assured him that this would be the case.
"I believe," declared Ridgwell, as he said good-bye and made his
departure, "that all the neighbours will believe we have something to
do with fairies."
"I shouldn't wonder," chuckled Sir Simon, "and I will get the Lady
Mayoress to send you both two costumes that will help the illusion
enormously."
"I do wonder what they will be like," mused Christine; "I do so love
dressing up."
"So does the Lady Mayoress, my dear," laughed Sir Simon, "so I am sure
both of you will get on capitally together, and really she is the life
and soul of a children's gathering. I don't know how I should get on
without her."
"It certainly seems very strange," remarked Sir Simon, when at length
he and the Writer were left alone, "that Lal has not given any sort of
sign; this is undoubtedly the night of all nights that he ought to show
he is pleased."
Sir Simon helped himself to a third cigar, and a second
Crème-de-Menthe, and after drawing back the curtains, looked anxiously
down into Trafalgar Square for at least the twentieth time that evening.
The lights of London twinkled gaily, lighting the Square up in
fairy-like brilliancy of colours. Signs were to be seen in plenty;
they burst from the tall roofs of houses, in coloured electric lights,
which worked out advertisements for Foods, Patent Medicines, brands of
Cigarettes, brands of Whisky; nearly everything, in fact, that one
could not be reasonably in need of at that time of night; but still the
Pleasant-Faced Lion remained obdurate and made no sign at all of ever
having been alive.
"There is one thing that both Mum and I insist upon," commenced Sir
Simon.
"What's that, Dad?"
"Directly we leave the Mansion House, and I may say at once that
although it is undoubtedly very stately, and all that sort of thing, we
neither of us feel at home there, and for my part, I would as soon live
in the British Museum--directly we leave, I insist that you come back
to your old home and live with us, and complete the old happy party we
three used to make."
"All right, Dad, I'll do that, I promise you."
"And now that you have made a name and fortune for yourself in spite of
my doing everything I could to prevent you----"
"No, no, Dad, that isn't fair, and really, you know, I don't believe we
could help ourselves, everything has come about exactly as Lal arranged
it."
"I am very angry with Lal and his tricks, and if I thought he would
listen to me for one minute, I would go down now and--Good gracious
alive!" broke off Sir Simon, as he stared somewhat wildly out of the
window; "what's that?"
"What's what?" inquired the Writer inconsequently, from his easy-chair
at the other end of the room.
Sir Simon rubbed his eyes, then he looked out of the window again, then
he rubbed his spectacles in case by any chance they were deceiving him.
"My dear boy," faltered Sir Simon, "is that--is'
that--ahem!--Crème-de-Menthe you gave me exceptionally strong by any
chance?"
"No, same as it always is, Dad; why?"
"Then I'm not mistaken, Lal's eyes have gone a _bright_ green, the same
colour as the liqueur in that bottle. Green," shouted Sir Simon, "and
they are blazing like fireworks. Look! look at them."
The Writer rushed across the room to the window.
There could be no doubt about it that the calm eyes of the
Pleasant-Faced Lion, which were wont to gaze haughtily upon the more
commonplace things around him in Trafalgar Square, had suddenly changed
to the colour of living emeralds, and were terrible to behold.
"Great Scott!" muttered the astonished Writer, "I have never seen him
look like that. He's angry about something."
"He's more than angry--he's furious," suggested the Lord Mayor
nervously. "What on earth can be the reason of it? Why, yes, I see.
Why, how dare she!" spluttered Sir Simon. "There's a woman dancing,
positively waltzing round the Square with his wreath of water-lilies I
put there for him! I'll stop her, she must bring it back at once."
Without another word, Sir Simon rushed for the door and downstairs with
the most surprising speed, followed closely by the Writer, who
considered his old friend ought not to be deserted upon such a mission.
"Ho! hi! stop thief," puffed the Lord Mayor, as he toiled three parts
round Trafalgar Square after the corybantic lady, who was dancing on
ahead with the huge wreath held with both arms, swaying over her, as
she danced a sort of bacchanal in front of the enraged Sir Simon.
"Hi!" panted the Lord Mayor, as after frantic efforts he came
alongside. "Woman, bring that wreath back at once; how dare you take
it away!"
"Oh, go on, ole dear," retorted the lady good-humouredly; "ain't it
making me much 'appier than an old lion? Why, bless you, it put me in
mind of the days when I used to play Alice in Pantomimes. Lead, I used
to play, once, yes, s'welp me if I wasn't. What 'arm am I a-doing?
Oh, look 'ere, if you're going to get snuffy, 'ere, take your ole
wreath. I'm blowed if you don't look as if you come out of a Pantomime
yourself, in them red robes! 'Ave yer been playing in a Pantomime?"
"Certainly not," replied Sir Simon, somewhat stiffly.
"Why, now I sees the light on your face, I knows you quite well; 'ow do
yer do, ole sport? I'm Alice; don't you remember little Alice in the
Pantomime of Dick Whittington ten years ago at Slocum Theatre Royal?
Why, you gave me a bouquet, and stood me two glasses of port."
The Lord Mayor groaned.
"Little Alice," he queried vaguely; "let me see, little Alice?"
"Yes," averred the lady, who must have weighed fully eighteen stone,
"shake hands, old pal."
The Lord Mayor felt thoroughly uncomfortable, more particularly as the
Writer joined him at that moment.
"Ahem! an old Pantomime friend," explained Sir Simon.
"Yes, my dears," continued the lady, "and I don't get no Pantomimes
now, been 'ard up, I 'ave, for a long time, can't even get chorus now;
but bless your 'earts! coming along to-night, when I gets to Trafalgar
Square, I somehow could 'ave declared I saw that there Lion a-laughing
at me, and then when I sees the wreath, blessed if I didn't want to
dance once again all of a sudden. Look 'ere, old sport, you used to
have plenty of the shinies in the old days, you used to chuck the 'oof
about a bit; I remember you was a-looking for some bloke who
wrote--that you had an idea in your 'ead all us girls wanted to marry."
The distressed Lord Mayor fumbled in his pockets and produced two
sovereigns.
"Thank you, ole dear," observed the lady, as she pocketed the gold with
alacrity, "you was always one of the best; and Cissie Laurie, that's
me, you know--Cissie--who used to play Alice, will always swear you are
a tip-top clipper. Lor! when I sees you in them robes, and you ain't
told me yet why you've got 'em on----
"An inadvertency," stuttered the Lord Mayor; "most unfortunate."
"Well, when I sees you in them robes it puts me in mind of the dear old
Pantomime, when little Alice flings herself at the Lord Mayor's feet,"
and here, overcome with past recollections of the drama, the fat lady
sunk upon her knees, and dramatically clasping the robes of Sir Simon,
to that worthy old gentleman's utter confusion and consternation, at
the same time gave forth aloud the doggerel lines that had once
accompanied the incident in the play--
"Oh! Dad, I'm your Alice, in whom you're disappointed,
And here is Dick Whittington, whose nose was out-of-jointed,
Though your heart be as cold as an icicle king's,
Forgive us and say we are nice 'ikkle things."
"Oh, hush! hush! dreadful," implored the Lord Mayor, endeavouring in
vain to extricate himself from the dramatic lady's clutches.
At this moment a gruff judicial voice, which sent an immediate thrill
down the worthy Lord Mayor's back, broke in upon the scene.
"Now, then, what's all this? Move on, there!"
A dark blue policeman stood in the pale blue moonlight.
The Lord Mayor only shivered.
The dramatic lady was equal to the occasion.
"Aren't we a picture?" she asked coquettishly.
"Get up, then," commanded the policeman dryly, "and be a movin' one."
"All right, don't get huffy, dear, we're professionals."
"So I should think," observed the policeman shortly.
The Writer thought this a most propitious moment to seize the Lord
Mayor by the arm, and hurry him in the direction of his own rooms,
across the almost deserted centre of the Square, without waiting for
any further conversation of any description.
The policeman stared after them suspiciously as they moved away.
"What's he doing in them things?" inquired the policeman of the lady.
"Lor', 'ow should I know? I guess he's a good sort, though, he gave me
some money."
"Oh, did he?" remarked the policeman in a sepulchral voice. "Well, I
hope he came by it honestly, that's all."
"Oh, that old chap's all right, old tin-feet," retorted the once time
Lady of the Drama. "I only think 'e's a bit balmy in his 'ead, that's
all. So-long, I'm off 'ome!"
"Balmy in his head, eh?" grumbled the policeman gruffly. "Ah, I
thought there was a funny look about him; yes. Well, I had better
follow him up, and see that he doesn't get up to no mischief of any
sort."
"I say, Dad," suggested the Writer, "you had better let me carry the
wreath, whilst you lake off those robes; you know they attract a lot of
attention, even at this time of night."
"I am afraid they do," confessed the Mayor. "What a dreadful and
degrading scene! That upsetting fragment of a pantomime enacted in the
open air, too, which is only a specimen of the stuff I was compelled to
listen to for so many years!"
"She evidently regarded you as an old friend, and a patron of the
theatre," laughed the Writer, "without in any way guessing your
identity."
"It was a terrible situation," groaned the Lord Mayor; "however shall I
be able to tell Mum about such an incident when I arrive home?"
The worthy Lord Mayor got no further either in his remarks or in
removing his bright robes, for as they approached the position occupied
by the Pleasant-Faced Lion, Sir Simon became aware of another figure
standing menacingly in front of it.
A short, thick-set man in a sailor's dress was holding his hands to his
head, and regarding the Lion with his mouth and eyes wide open, whilst
an expression of horrified wonder and astonishment appeared to have
petrified his face into a sort of ghastly mask of perpetual
astonishment.
Whilst the sailor continued to stare and mutter, the Lion's eyes could
be seen to shoot out the most brilliant green fires; they looked like
the flashing of two wonderful green emeralds.
The Lord Mayor quickened his pace almost to a run. "Look, look! what's
the thing that man is flourishing about in his hand?"
"It's a big sailor's knife," replied the Writer uneasily.
"Quick, quick!" shouted the Lord Mayor, "he is going to do Lal some
harm with it! Good heavens! he's swarmed up the pedestal and he is
positively contemplating cutting Lal's eyes out. Stop, you villain,"
shouted the Lord Mayor, whilst he ran towards the spot. "Come down at
once; how dare you touch that beautiful Lion's eyes!"
Without so much as turning his head, and apparently heedless of any
remarks addressed to him, the sailor continued to flourish his
ugly-looking knife, shouting meanwhile in the Lion's face as he did so--
"Emeralds, bloomin' emeralds here in London under my very nose. I'll
'ave 'em out," yelled the sailor. "I'll have 'em out in no time. I've
come from Hindia, where they've got jools like these 'ere in the
hidols' eyes. I couldn't get at them there, but I can get these 'ere,"
whereupon the sailor made a frantic jab with his knife at the
Pleasant-Faced Lion's right eye.
He had no time, or indeed any opportunity of continuing his unpleasant
execution, for the enraged Lord Mayor had seized the wide ends of the
sailor's trousers and had dragged him down with such abruptness and
goodwill that the over-venturesome son of Neptune, dropping his knife,
lay upon the ground volunteering expressions which at least had the
merit of showing that his travels must have been indeed varied and
extensive to have left him in possession of such a widely stocked
vocabulary.
"I'll have you up for attempting to mutilate the beautiful statues of
London," shouted the enraged Lord Mayor.
The Writer restrained the sailor's more or less ineffectual efforts to
get at the Lord Mayor, but the Writer found it singularly impossible to
control the shouted execrations of that abusive mariner, among a few of
whose remarks could be mentioned, by way of sample, that he wanted to
know why an old bloke dressed like an etcetera Mephistopheles meant by
coming along from a blighted Covent Garden Ball and interfering with
him; that if he, the mariner, could once get at
the--ahem!--Mephistopheles in question, he would never go to a fancy
ball again as long as he lived, as he would not have a head to go with,
and his legs wouldn't ever be any use to him again as long as he lived.
The Writer being sufficiently athletically active to control, or at any
rate postpone, these amiable intentions of the mariner, the Lord Mayor
was afforded a few brief seconds to climb up and examine his favourite.
Flinging the wreath of water-lilies around the Lion's mane to get it
out of the way, the Lord Mayor clasped his old favourite Lal round the
neck, uttering words of consolation and affection.
The Lion's eyes had changed from their bright emerald colour to a dull
topaz yellow, which in turn subsided to their wonted colouring during
the Lord Mayor's affectionate address.
The countenance of the Lion gradually resumed its ordinary
pleasant-faced expression, and two large tears fell upon the Lord
Mayor's outstretched hands.
The worthy Lord Mayor was quite overcome with emotion at this obvious
sign from the Pleasant-Faced Lion!
"Dear old Lal," murmured the Lord Mayor, "dear, faithful, loving soul,
these are the first tears I have ever known you shed. Are they tears
of gratitude because we have rescued you from this ruffian with a
knife, who would have destroyed your noble sight? Or are they tears of
pity? Speak to me, Lal; if they are tears of pity, they will open the
gates of----"
"A police station," interrupted a cold, judicial voice, and the good
Lord Mayor turned to find what the Writer, although fully occupied with
the mariner, had seen approaching with consternation and alarm, the
same policeman who had spoken to them before, followed by a small crowd
of late night loafers, who were already starting to exchange remarks
and jeer at the somewhat unusual scene.
"Just you come down," said the constable, in his severest and most
judicial tones.
The Lord Mayor prepared to climb down, looking somewhat crestfallen,
whilst the unsympathetic crowd uttered a faint, ironical cheer.
"This is the second time to-night I have spoken to you," said the
constable. "Now, as you have been behaving most strangely and
attracting a crowd, I'll just trouble you for your name and address,"
and the constable unfolded an uncomfortable-looking pocket-book, bound
in an ominous-looking black case, produced the stump of a pencil and
prepared to take notes. "Now then, out with it, what's your name?"
"Gold," faltered the Lord Mayor, fumbling vainly for a visiting card,
which he was unable to find.
The stolid constable misunderstood the action. "No, you don't bribe
me," said the constable loftily.
"I was not attempting to," objected the Lord Mayor.
"Well, what's your name, then?"
"Gold," repeated the Lord Mayor.
"Oh, I see," muttered the constable; "what else?"
"Simon Gold."
"What else?" pursued the remorseless officer of the law.
"Sir Simon Gold," groaned the helpless Lord Mayor.
"What address?"
"The Mansion House."
"Here, I don't want none of your jokes," vouchsafed the constable
sternly; "this is no joking matter, as you will find out when you're
charged afore the magistrate."
The worthy Sir Simon's plump cheeks flushed red with anger at the bare
mention of such an indignity. "How dare you suggest such a thing to
me?" spluttered Sir Simon. "Do you know who I am? I am the Lord Mayor
of London."
This remark was greeted with a loud cheer from the rapidly gathering
crowd.
The constable smiled a maddening smile.
"A likely tale," observed the constable. "Why, I was present keeping
the crowd off when his Worship, the Lord Mayor of London, opened his
Home to-day; he returned hours ago; and I think myself it's some sort
of Home as you have got to return to, and I don't leave you until I
find out which Home it is."
Whether the mention of the word Home suggested sudden possibilities to
the Writer, or whether, like Ulysses of old, he longed so ardently for
a return to that blissful abode that he even stooped to emulate the
sort of stratagem Ulysses might have adopted in similar circumstances
will never be known. Yet the fact remains that the Writer turned the
fortunes of war for the time being.
He drew the constable quickly upon one side and spoke rapidly and
earnestly to him for some moments. At the end of these whispered
explanations the constable closed his pocket-book with a snap, and
pointed across the way in the direction of the Writer's chambers.
The Writer nodded.
The constable touched his forehead significantly at the side of his
helmet.
Once again the Writer nodded.
"Very well," said the constable, "if you are the one who looks after
him, you can go; better get him home as quickly as you can."
Amidst a parting ironical cheer the Writer hastily seized the worthy
Lord Mayor by the arm and broke through the assembled crowd with all
possible speed.
As they passed upon their way one small incident, however, caused the
Writer grave misgiving.
A tall man who had undoubtedly watched the whole proceeding nodded to
him and remarked sarcastically, as he passed--
"Good-night; a really most interesting and illuminating episode."
Having safely gained his own abode, the Writer gazed apprehensively out
of the window.
The sailor could still be seen supporting himself against the pedestal
of the Lion's statue, the policeman appeared to be engaged upon a new
crusade of note-taking. The small crowd was melting away, but the
sinister face of the sarcastic man could be seen wreathed in a cynical
smile of triumph.
The Writer whistled, and drawing the curtains close, turned up the
electric light and anticipated the worst.
The Lord Mayor sank into the most comfortable chair he could select,
and helped himself to a drink; he felt he needed one badly at that
moment.
"What a dreadful and degrading scene," lamented Sir Simon. "Good
gracious, if anybody had seen me who recognised me, I should never have
heard the last of it."
The Writer lit a cigar thoughtfully, and passed the box to Sir Simon.
"I am afraid, Dad, we never shall hear the last of it," prophesied the
Writer gloomily.
"What do you mean?" inquired Sir Simon.
"Did you notice that man who spoke to me at the edge of the crowd, who
had presumably seen the whole thing?"
"Of course not," replied Sir Simon; "how on earth could I notice
anybody under such distressing circumstances? Who was he? what about
him?"
"That was the famous Mr. Learnéd Bore."
"What, the man who is always advertising himself?"
"Yes," agreed the Writer, "and unfortunately he has the power to do so
through the medium of the newspapers; his letters to London are one of
the features of the Press," added the Writer significantly.
"Don't tell me," entreated the Lord Mayor, with an imploring look in
his eyes, "that he will make me, the Lord Mayor of London, a subject
for his heartless gibes."
"He's certain to write two columns about it in one of to-morrow or the
next day's papers," declared the Writer hopelessly. "Do you suppose
such a man would waste such material and copy as that for one of his
satirical eruptions?"
The Lord Mayor groaned aloud at the very thought of this new terror,
which threatened to descend like the sword of Damocles and crush all
the joy of his new civic dignity. With trembling hands he folded his
bright robe and glittering chain of office; the Lord Mayor felt that he
could no longer bear the sight of them.
"What on earth I can say to Mum for being out as late as this I don't
know," lamented the Mayor dolefully; "she will, of course, believe I
have been to another Pantomime; she always taxes me with having gone to
a Pantomime whenever I stay out late. However," sighed the Mayor, "I
shall show her the Dick Whittington which has really been the cause of
all the trouble."
It may have been that Sir Simon was still unusually agitated from the
scene he had recently passed through, to say nothing of the vague
foreboding caused by the knowledge that Mr. Learnéd Bore might
conceivably do anything within the next few days. There is a
possibility that his hand trembled; whatever may have been the cause,
as Sir Simon lifted the little Dick Whittington from the table, he let
it fall. As it crashed upon the hard polished floor it broke into a
dozen pieces, and the merry little figure of Dick Whittington was
hopelessly shattered. Sir Simon looked blankly at the Writer.
The Writer looked blankly back at Sir Simon.
As poor Sir Simon ruefully picked up the pieces, he looked disconsolate
enough to be upon the verge of tears. The Writer, although keenly
affected by the loss, tried, although unsuccessfully, to comfort him.
"Never mind, Dad, it can't be helped, and I suppose Dick Whittington
has served his day."
"To think I have broken the most perfect specimen in the world," moaned
Sir Simon; "that you must have denied yourself greatly to give me, and
to think I shall never be able to convince Mum now, or even mention it,
for she wouldn't believe one word of the story. Besides," wound up Sir
Simon, "it is so dreadfully unlucky to break china. Call me a cab, my
dear boy," implored the old gentleman, "a four-wheeler, if possible; I
really dare not go home in a taxi, I feel some other dreadful accident
would happen to me if I did."
Upon his way home Sir Simon ruminated upon the events of the evening.
He found himself unable to make up his mind which portion of the
adventure had been the most discomforting to him. Finally, upon
approaching the Mansion House, he caught himself indulging in
speculation and uttering his thoughts aloud.
"I wonder what possible story he could have told the policeman, to get
me out of that dreadful situation so quickly; and I wonder," mused Sir
Simon, "why the policeman tapped his head in that curious manner; he
must have told him something that appealed to him at once. I dare say
even policemen have their feelings, and looking back upon matters
calmly, I suppose my conduct must perhaps have appeared a little out of
the ordinary. However, if I ever come across that constable again, I
must try and make him a little present."
Sir Simon little realised that he was to meet the constable again very
soon, and certainly never realised where, otherwise it is safe to
assume that the good Sir Simon would never have slept the tranquil
sleep he did that night, full of peaceful dreams, over which the
Pleasant-Faced Lion presided like the protecting guardian watch-dog
that the good Lord Mayor always believed him to be.