Person and character of Mr. Archibald Maidstone. Irreverent attitude
towards the firm’s publications. Would-be laxity of two constables.
Their tardy performance of an obvious duty. Deplorable condition of
my Sunday trousers. Their effect on Miss Botterill and Mr.
Chrysostom Lorton. The arrival and influence of the Reverend Eugene
Cake. Mr. Maidstone is dismissed and I succeed him. Complete
discomfiture of his three elder children.
I HAVE said that he sat down, and even had that been all, it would have
been a sufficiently unpleasant encounter, although, as I had instantly
seen, it ought certainly to issue in my own immediate commercial
advancement. But he did more, for so firmly did he grip my arm that I
was compelled to sit down beside him, with what reluctance will be the
better imagined when I have briefly described his person and character.
By name Archibald Maidstone, he was a tall, gaunt man with high
cheek-bones and a grey moustache, and in his earlier life he had held
some sort of position in the British mercantile marine. An accident at
sea, however, had deprived him of one of his eyes as well as of the two
middle fingers of his left hand, and for some time he had been the
proprietor of a small and unsuccessful marine store. He had then become
a commercial traveller for a firm of grocers that had subsequently
failed, and had finally, at the age of forty-one, obtained a minor
position in the business of Mr. Chrysostom Lorton.
A married man with several children, he had afterwards been appointed
show-room manager, and it was as his assistant, as I have already said,
that I had entered Mr. Lorton’s employment. From the outset, however,
although I had endeavoured to conceal this, I had both disliked and
distrusted him, and in spite of what I presumed to be a species of
nautical humour, I had found his attitude towards me peculiarly
offensive. I had never been accustomed, for example, as I had been
obliged to point out to him, to be addressed as ‘young-feller-me-lad,’
or ‘the bosun’s mate,’ and I had even been compelled to report him to
Mr. Lorton in order to secure more respectful treatment. I had been
deeply concerned, too, to observe the levity with which, in the absence
of customers, he would handle and describe the sacred publications of
which it was his privilege to be the salesman. ‘Bilge-water for the
Bairns,’ for instance, was a frequent expression of his for our
well-known series of _Talks with the Infants_, and I had even heard him
refer to a parcel of _Claudie’s Temptations_ as “another
half-hundredweight of the Prigs’ Paradise.” Indeed, on one occasion,
ignorant of the presence of the author—the celebrated Non-conformist,
the Reverend Eugene Cake—he had tossed me a window-copy of _Without are
Dogs_, saying that, if they were ‘wise bow-wows,’ they would stay there;
and it was only after a second interview with Mr. Chrysostom Lorton, the
tearful intervention of Mrs. Maidstone, and a complete apology to the
Reverend Cake, that he was allowed to retain his position.
But for the fact, indeed, that his children were still at school and
dependent upon his earnings, and that his wife, who seemed inexplicably
attached to him, had been an invalid for some years, he would most
certainly have been dismissed, and I had always felt that this should
have been done. Nor was I alone in this, for when I ventured to
congratulate him on the successful sale of _Without are Dogs_, the
Reverend Cake had entirely agreed with me in deploring Mr. Maidstone’s
retention in the business.
Such then was the man by whose side I was now sitting upon the damp
pavement, and from whom I only detached myself after a prolonged
struggle, just as a member of the police force came in sight. This was a
stalwart constable of somewhat coarse appearance to whom I immediately
made myself known, and to whose attention I then brought Mr. Maidstone,
who was still seated upon the pavement.
“Ha, I see,” he said, “a bit sideways. Do you happen to know where the
gentleman lives?”
“I don’t know the street,” I said, “nor can I accept your assumption
that such a degenerate can be called a gentleman. But I understand that
his home is in Greenwich.”
“Num shixteen,” said Mr. Maidstone.
The constable bent over him, and raised him to his feet.
“Now, come along,” he said. “Pull yourself together.”
Mr. Maidstone swayed for a moment and then saluted us.
“Happit meetu,” he said. “Num shixteen.”
“Sixteen what?” said the constable.
“Manshtroad,” said Mr. Maidstone. “Shixteen Manshtroad, Grinsh.”
Then he toppled forward into the constable’s arms, but recovered himself
and smiled at us affectionately.
The constable turned to me.
“Well, if I was you, sir, I’d put him in a cab and take him home.”
I stared at him in utter amazement.
“But do you mean to say,” I inquired, “that you aren’t going to take him
in charge?”
“Oh, no need, sir,” he said, “seeing as you know the gentleman—not if
you’ll put him into a cab and take him home.”
“But, my good man,” I said, “how can I do that? It’s a quarter past ten,
and I’m going home to bed.”
“Well, we can’t leave him here,” said the constable, “or he’ll be
getting into trouble. What about givin’ ’im a ’and to your own ’ouse,
sir?”
“To my own house?” I cried. “A person in that condition?”
The constable pushed his helmet back and scratched his forehead.
“Well, it’d be doin’ ’im a good turn, sir,” he said, “seein’ as ’ow the
gentleman’s a friend of yours.”
“On the contrary,” I said, “he’s neither a friend of mine, nor do I
propose to condone his infamy.”
Here Mr. Maidstone caught hold of the constable.
“Shinfamous thing,” he said. “Carncondonit.”
Then he sat down again and began to sing a hymn, just as a second
constable came round the corner; and after conferring for a moment, they
approached me once more with the suggestion that they should conduct Mr.
Maidstone to Angela Gardens.
“You see, sir,” they said, “we don’t want to make no trouble, and maybe
some day you’ll want a ’and yourself.”
For a moment, so casually were the words spoken, I scarcely realized
their astounding import. But when I did so, it was, of course, instantly
clear to me that I must define my position once and for all. Drawing
myself up, therefore, I addressed the two constables with all the
firmness of which I was capable.
“You have chosen to be insolent,” I said, “and for that you may rest
assured I shall report you to your superiors at my earliest convenience.
But I must have you understand, now and for ever, and beyond all
possibility of future cavil, that I entirely and absolutely refuse to
associate myself with any evasion of the law of this land. This person,
whose name is Archibald Maidstone, who is employed by Mr. Chrysostom
Lorton of Paternoster Row, and whose home, if I have interpreted him
rightly, is in Manchester Road, Greenwich, is not only drunk but, as his
actions have proclaimed him, is also disorderly in every sense. As a
Xtian gentleman, therefore, no less than as a citizen, whose trousers
have been soiled by his agency, I demand you that you shall do your duty
by removing him to the appropriate place of detention. And I would
further have you note that I am aware of both your numbers and shall
certainly inform myself of your procedure.”
“Hear, hear,” said Mr. Maidstone, “more. Thashway talk to ’em.
Manshtroad, Grinsh.”
Then the constables conferred again, and stooping over Mr. Maidstone,
lifted him once more from the pavement.
“Very good, sir,” they said, “if you can’t see your way to look after
him, we shall have to take him to the station.”
I bowed to them coldly.
“Since that was so plainly your duty,” I said, “I can only regret your
tardy perception of it.”
It will thus be seen that, harassed as I was by the problem provided for
me by Ezekiel Stool, I was now confronted with the much more immediate
one of purging Mr. Lorton’s business of Mr. Archibald Maidstone. For to
me at any rate it was imperatively clear that such a person could not
possibly remain in it without imperilling the whole of the spiritual
prestige that was perhaps its most lucrative asset. At the same time,
however, as I also saw, the preliminaries to expulsion would require
very careful handling, owing to the choleric temper, the extreme vanity,
and the peculiar limitations of Mr. Chrysostom himself.
After what can well be imagined, therefore, was a restless night, and
not without the profoundest consideration, I decided upon the seat of my
Sunday trousers as the best introduction to the subject in hand; and it
was with this in view that I refrained from dusting or drying them and
carried them to the city with me the next morning.
Nor was I disappointed. For not only did Miss Botterill, my female
inferior, visibly recoil from them, but they instantly caught the eye of
Mr. Chrysostom Lorton as he crossed the show-room on the way to his
office. Indeed, disposed as they were, with the seat uppermost, upon one
corner of the right-hand counter, it would have been difficult for even
the most preoccupied to have passed them without notice, and especially
as the moisture that had been transferred to them from the pavement was
now being illuminated by the morning sun. Nor was the effect of them
upon Mr. Chrysostom Lorton less than it had been upon Miss Botterill.
Starting back, almost as if he had been lassoed, he stood for a moment
staring at them with dilated pupils, and then very softly he approached
them on tip-toe with the point of his umbrella extended before him.
“Good God,” he said, “whose are those?”
With an appropriate gesture I signified their ownership. He turned to
Miss Botterill.
“Fetch me a chair,” he said.
She pushed one towards him with averted eyes. He fell back into it and
waved his hand.
“Take them away,” he said. “Put them somewhere else.”
I removed them from the counter and placed them underneath it.
“Where’s Mr. Maidstone?” he said.
I replied that he had not come.
“I imagine,” I said, “that he has been detained.”
“Detained?” he cried. “Why should he be detained? What should have
detained him? It’s ten past nine.”
“Even so,” I replied.
“Then kindly inform me,” he went on, “why you have taken advantage of
his absence.”
I looked at him gravely.
“I am not aware,” I said, “of having done any such thing.”
“Not aware?” he said. “Not aware, sir? Where’s Miss Botterill? Put this
chair back.”
He rose to his feet and stood glaring at me, still pointing his umbrella
at the counter.
“Then do you mean to tell me,” he said, “that if Mr. Maidstone had been
present, your disgusting wearing apparel would still have been there?”
I bowed my head.
“I cannot say,” I replied. “But it was to call his attention to them
that I had placed them on the counter.”
He lowered his umbrella.
“To call his attention to them? But what has Mr. Maidstone to do with
your trousers?”
“In this particular case,” I said, “a very great deal, since he was
solely responsible for their condition.”
He opened his mouth.
“Mr. Maidstone?” he gasped.
“Mr. Archibald Maidstone,” I said, “your show-room manager.”
“But good God,” he said, “you don’t mean to tell me that he’s in the
habit of borrowing your trousers?”
“Unfortunately,” I replied, “that was not necessary. I was myself
occupying them on the occasion in question.”
“But I don’t understand,” he said. “Where’s Miss Botterill? Bring me
that chair back. I want to sit down.”
She brought back the chair, and just as she did so, the street door
opened to admit a new-comer—none other, indeed, than the Reverend Eugene
Cake, bearing the type-script of his new novel.[11]
Footnote 11:
_Gnashers of Teeth._
It was an important entrance. But Mr. Chrysostom still sat staring at
the counter, and having greeted Mr. Cake rather perfunctorily, demanded
a further inspection of the trousers. Once again therefore I placed them
upon the counter, and once again Miss Botterill recoiled, the Reverend
Eugene Cake recoiling also and dropping the type-script of his novel.
“Now,” said Mr. Chrysostom, “you have already informed me that you were
encased in these nauseating garments, and you have further asserted that
Mr. Maidstone was solely responsible for their present condition. Mr.
Maidstone, you tell me, is probably detained somewhere, and it is now a
quarter past nine. I may be unintelligent. I may be obtuse. I may be
unfit to conduct this business. But I don’t understand it, sir. I don’t
understand it. Where’s Miss Botterill? Get Mr. Cake a chair.”
With her hand over her face, Miss Botterill ran across the show-room and
returned with a chair for Mr. Cake. Mr. Chrysostom glanced at him.
“Are you comfortable, Cake?”
The Reverend Eugene bowed a little stiffly.
“Very well, then,” said Mr. Chrysostom.
“Very well, I repeat. And now you must explain, sir. You must explain. I
don’t want to pre-judge you. I never pre-judge anybody. But I don’t like
it, sir. I don’t like it. And you must allow me to remind you that this
is not the first time that you have obliged me to discuss your
trousers.”
“Sir,” I replied, “I am deeply aware of it, and none can regret it more
than myself, nor the painful circumstances that you have, I think
justly, now compelled me to disclose.”
I then very briefly, but with all essential details, described my
encounter with Mr. Maidstone, concluding with the numbers of the two
constables and a surmise that he was being detained to see the
magistrate.
When I had finished, Mr. Chrysostom was breathing heavily, while Mr.
Cake was engaged in silent prayer. Then they both rose and stood with
their backs to the trousers while Mr. Chrysostom gave his orders.
“Miss Botterill,” he said, “when Mr. Maidstone arrives, you will please
request him to come to my room. Mr. Carp, having removed your trousers,
you will kindly take charge of the show-room.”
Colouring deeply, Mr. Cake touched him on the arm. “I suppose you
refer,” he said, “to the trousers on the counter.”
“Eh, what?” said Mr. Chrysostom. “Yes, yes, of course. The trousers on
the counter. You didn’t suppose——?”
“I endeavoured not to,” said Mr. Cake. “But perhaps it would have been
better to be more explicit.”
Slightly ruffled, however, as was the eminent novelist by the occasion
and manner of his reception, he was completely emphatic, as he
afterwards assured me, on the necessity for dismissing Mr. Maidstone;
and indeed Mr. Chrysostom, as he also informed me, had needed very
little in the way of persuasion.
“In fact, I think I may say,” he said, a couple of hours later, as he
passed through the show-room on his way to the street, “that _Gnashers
of Teeth_ will find a good friend in Mr. Maidstone’s successor.”
I clasped his hand.
“I sincerely hope so,” I said.
“It’s even more powerful,” he said, “than _Without are Dogs_.”
It was in this fashion then that I became show-room manager with an
added, though insufficient emolument, for Mr. Maidstone, when he arrived
the next morning, was at once dismissed after a brief interview.
Explaining at first that he had failed to attend owing to a very violent
bilious headache, he was of course unable, when pressed by Mr.
Chrysostom, to deny the truth of my allegations; and it subsequently
emerged that, after a night in the police station, he had been fined ten
shillings by the local magistrate. Nor did his resentment, when he came
downstairs again, assume the physical character that I had feared,
although I had taken the precaution of keeping Miss Botterill beside me
and holding my police whistle in my left hand. On the contrary, he
seemed to recognize not only the grossness of his delinquency, but the
inevitable nature of the consequences that had so rightly ensued.
“Well, you’ve done me in, laddie,” he said. “But I suppose I deserved
it.”
“I regret to say,” I replied, “that there can be no doubt of it.”
“But it’s going to be hard,” he added, “on the wife and family.”
“The wages of sin,” I said, “are never easy.”
Then Miss Botterill sniffed and pulled out her handkerchief, and Mr.
Maidstone closed the street door, and but for a diverting sequel upon
the following Friday, the incident closed very satisfactorily. Upon that
morning, however, Mr. Maidstone’s three elder children, a girl and two
boys, all apparently under fourteen, entered the show-room and
peremptorily demanded to be taken upstairs to Mr. Chrysostom Lorton. By
names, Polly, Arthur, and George, they had come to apply for their
father’s reinstatement, chiefly, as they alleged, on account of their
mother, whom they described as suffering from pulmonary consumption.
Needless to say, much to their obvious discomfiture, Mr. Chrysostom
refused to see them, and after a brief consultation, they filed out
again very much more humbly than they had come in. Unpleasant children,
it was an amusing episode, and I could not help laughing somewhat
heartily, although Polly, who appeared to be the eldest, made a grimace
at me as she went out.
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