"Is it a bad one?" I said.
"It's just one of my headaches," said the lady of the house.
"But some of your headaches," I said, "are different from others.
Some----"
"This," she said, "is one of the different ones."
"Is it like those you have when Mrs. Martlet comes to collect on behalf
of the Chimney-Sweeps' Aid Society? I mean, will it yield to treatment
in about an hour?"
"No," she groaned; "it's even worse than those. It's all over my head."
"Oh, but if that's the sort I'm all sympathy. Only tell me what I can
do. Are cold compresses any good? Or the doctor? It might be measles,
you know. All the best people have measles now. Real measles, I mean;
not the German sort. Shall I start isolating you? They tell me I'm a
first-class isolater."
"No," she said, "don't do that. It sounds so heartless."
"Well," I said, "if there's anything else in reason I'm your man."
"I want you," she said, "to go to London."
"To London?" I said. "Of course I'll go. It's the very place I'm wanting
to go to. In fact, I was going there anyhow; only when you said you'd
got a headache I thought I'd stay here and help to cool your brow."
"But why," she murmured, "were you going to London anyhow?"
"Because," I said, "I've bought a season ticket. When the
ticket-collector comes round I shan't fumble in all my pockets, or
scrabble on the floor, or get red and nervous. I shall just sit tight
without looking at him and whisper 'Season' from behind my penny
_Times._ I've always wanted to be like that, and now I am it."
"But will you get your money's worth out of it?"
"Yes," I said, "if I have to travel up and down three times a day to do
it."
"And will you be an angel?" she said.
"I am. My wings are fully grown."
"Then I want you to fly for me to Jobson's."
"To Jobson's?" I said in a voice of vague alarm.
"Yes, Jobson's. The great Stores in the Bothwell Road."
"But I shall get lost," I said. "I haven't got a head for Stores.
Perhaps if I sew my address into the back of my waistcoat I might
venture, but it's an awful undertaking. And how does one dress for
Stores?"
"Oh, anyhow," she said. "And when you get there I want you to order some
stockings for the girls--about four pairs each--and three warm
undervests for John."
"But what about the size?" I said.
"You won't have any difficulty. Mention their ages, or take up a few old
sample stockings and an undervest with you. They won't be heavy to
carry. Now leave me to my headache."
Not long afterwards I was in London, having travelled up gently but
firmly as a season-ticket holder. With a beating heart I made my way to
the imposing block of buildings known as Jobson's and entered its
portals. As I did so I realised in a flash of shame that I had left my
parcel of samples in the train. I had known it would be so. I am not
accustomed to carry brown paper parcels in railway carriages, and of
course I had forgotten it. As I failed afterwards to get it back I have
the satisfaction of knowing that someone has been badly disappointed. To
carry off a parcel and then to find that it contains three stockings,
all with holes in the toes and knees, and one small undervest buttonless
and torn into strips up the back, must be a bitter blow.
Jobson's, when I entered it, was a scene of great animation. Crowds of
customers, nearly all women, were standing about or moving purposefully
in various directions. Brisk and harassed attendants, male and female,
were rushing hither and thither. Confusion and purchase reigned supreme.
Keeping a tight hold on myself I wandered on until, by some mistake, I
found myself in the Ladies' Dress department.
"Yes, Sir?" said one of the girls in a tone of surprised interrogation.
"Can I order a dress?" I said nervously. "A lady's dress, you know. For
my wife," I added hastily, for a look of cold disapproval had shown
itself on the attendant's face. "She has a bad headache or she would
have come herself. Or is there an Ironmongery department?"
"Second floor. You can go in the lift," said the girl.
The Ironmongery department was attractive beyond description. Fire-irons
glittered, fenders gleamed, and there was a lawn-mower which gaped so
pathetically that I was all but forced to buy it.
"Is anyone looking after you, Sir?" said a gentleman with the air and
manners of a diplomatist.
"No," I said; "I want a stocking or two."
"Hosiery department on the ground floor. You can go in the lift;" and he
too left me.
Down I went again, plunged head-first through the Ladies' Dress
department, and came to an anchor amongst the pipes, cigars, cigarettes
and tobacco. Here I bought two pipes, a cigar-cutter, and five
match-stands of a very novel design. Having thus paid my footing, I
addressed the salesman.
"Take me," I said, "to the Hosiery department."
"Straight on, Sir," he said, "and turn to the right before you get to
the musical instruments."
"No, no," I said, "that won't do. I have been trying to get there all
day by myself and have failed. I am so very musical. If I go alone I
shall be drawn in among the flutes and harmoniums. Conduct me to the
hosiery or I shall return the match-stands."
Moved by my appeal he conducted me, and at last reached my haven and
made my purchases. When I got home, the headache was gone, and in its
place there was a critical spirit which prophesied that all the
stockings would certainly be of the wrong size and quality, while the
undervests would be equally useless. About the pipes, cigar-cutter and
the match-stands I preferred to say nothing at all.
On the whole the visit to Jobson's was a failure. R. C. L.
* * * * *