Even a stranger to the big town walking for the first time through
London, sees on the sides of the houses many names with which he has
long been familiar. His precognition has cost the firms those names
represent much money in advertising. The stranger has had the names
before him for years in newspapers and magazines, on the hoardings and
boards by the railway side, paying little heed to them at the time; yet
they have been indelibly impressed on his brain, and when he wishes
soap or pills his lips almost automatically frame the words most
familiar to them. Thus are the lavish sums spent in advertising
justified, and thus are many excellent publications made possible.
When you come to ponder over the matter, it seems strange that there
should ever be any real man behind the names so lavishly advertised;
that there should be a genuine Smith or Jones whose justly celebrated
medicines work such wonders, or whose soap will clean even a guilty
conscience. Granting the actual existence of these persons and probing
still further into the mystery, can any one imagine that the excellent
Smith to whom thousands of former sufferers send entirely unsolicited
testimonials, or the admirable Jones whom _prima donnas_ love
because his soap preserves their dainty complexions--can any one credit
the fact that Smith and Jones have passions like other men, have
hatreds, likes and dislikes?
Such a condition of things, incredible as it may appear, exists in
London. There are men in the metropolis, utterly unknown personally,
whose names are more widely spread over the earth than the names of the
greatest novelists, living or dead, and these men have feeling and form
like unto ourselves.
There was the firm of Danby and Strong for instance. The name may mean
nothing to any reader of these pages, but there was a time when it was
well-known and widely advertised, not only in England but over the
greater part of the world as well. They did a great business, as every
firm that spends a fortune every year in advertising is bound to do. It
was in the old paper-collar days. There actually was a time when the
majority of men wore paper collars, and, when you come to think of it,
the wonder is that the paper-collar trade ever fell away as it did,
when you consider with what vile laundries London is and always has
been cursed. Take the Danby and Strong collars for instance, advertised
as being so similar to linen that only an expert could tell the
difference. That was Strong's invention. Before he invented the
Piccadilly collar so-called, paper collars had a brilliant glaze that
would not have deceived the most recent arrival from the most remote
shire in the country. Strong devised some method by which a slight
linen film was put on the paper, adding strength to the collar and
giving it the appearance of the genuine article. You bought a
pasteboard box containing a dozen of these collars for something like
the price you paid for the washing of half a dozen linen ones. The
Danby and Strong Piccadilly collar jumped at once into great
popularity, and the wonder is that the linen collar ever recovered from
the blow dealt it by this ingenious invention.
Curiously enough, during the time the firm was struggling to establish
itself, the two members of it were the best of friends, but when
prosperity came to them, causes of difference arose, and their
relations, as the papers say of warlike nations, became strained.
Whether the fault lay with John Danby or with William Strong no one has
ever been able to find out. They had mutual friends who claimed that
each one of them was a good fellow, but those friends always added that
Strong and Danby did not "hit it off."
Strong was a bitter man when aroused, and could generally be counted
upon to use harsh language. Danby was quieter, but there was a sullen
streak of stubbornness in him that did not tend to the making up of a
quarrel. They had been past the speaking point for more than a year,
when there came a crisis in their relations with each other, that ended
in disaster to the business carried on under the title of Danby and
Strong. Neither man would budge, and between them the business sunk to
ruin. Where competition is fierce no firm can stand against it if there
is internal dissension. Danby held his ground quietly but firmly,
Strong raged and cursed, but was equally steadfast in not yielding a
point. Each hated the other so bitterly that each was willing to lose
his own share in a profitable business, if by doing so he could bring
ruin on his partner.
We are all rather prone to be misled by appearances. As one walks down
Piccadilly, or the Strand, or Fleet Street and meets numerous
irreproachably dressed men with glossy tall hats and polished boots,
with affable manners and a courteous way of deporting themselves toward
their fellows, we are apt to fall into the fallacy of believing that
these gentlemen are civilised. We fail to realise that if you probe in
the right direction you will come upon possibilities of savagery that
would draw forth the warmest commendation from a Pawnee Indian. There
are reputable business men in London who would, if they dared, tie an
enemy to a stake and roast him over a slow fire, and these men have
succeeded so well, not only in deceiving their neighbours, but also
themselves, that they would actually be offended if you told them so.
If law were suspended in London for one day, during which time none of
us would be held answerable for any deed then done, how many of us
would be alive next morning? Most of us would go out to pot some
favourite enemy, and would doubtless be potted ourselves before we got
safely home again.
The law, however, is a great restrainer, and helps to keep the death-
rate from reaching excessive proportions. One department of the law
crushed out the remnant of the business of Messrs. Danby and Strong,
leaving the firm bankrupt, while another department of the law
prevented either of the partners taking the life of the other.
When Strong found himself penniless, he cursed, as was his habit, and
wrote to a friend in Texas asking if he could get anything to do over
there. He was tired of a country of law and order, he said, which was
not as complimentary to Texas as it might have been. But his remark
only goes to show what extraordinary ideas Englishmen have of foreign
parts. The friend's answer was not very encouraging, but, nevertheless,
Strong got himself out there somehow, and in course of time became a
cowboy. He grew reasonably expert with his revolver and rode a mustang
as well as could be expected, considering that he had never seen such
an animal in London, even at the Zoo. The life of a cowboy on a Texas
ranch leads to the forgetting of such things as linen shirts and paper
collars.
Strong's hatred of Danby never ceased, but he began to think of him
less often.
One day, when he least expected it, the subject was brought to his mind
in a manner that startled him. He was in Galveston ordering supplies
for the ranch, when in passing a shop which he would have called a
draper's, but which was there designated as dealing in dry goods, he
was amazed to see the name "Danby and Strong" in big letters at the
bottom of a huge pile of small cardboard boxes that filled the whole
window. At first the name merely struck him as familiar, and he came
near asking himself "Where have I seen that before?" It was some
moments before he realised that the Strong stood for the man gazing
stupidly in at the plate-glass window. Then he noticed that the boxes
were all guaranteed to contain the famous Piccadilly collar. He read in
a dazed manner a large printed bill which stood beside the pile of
boxes. These collars it seemed, were warranted to be the genuine Danby
and Strong collar, and the public was warned against imitations. They
were asserted to be London made and linen faced, and the gratifying
information was added that once a person wore the D. and S. collar he
never afterwards relapsed into wearing any inferior brand. The price of
each box was fifteen cents, or two boxes for a quarter. Strong found
himself making a mental calculation which resulted in turning this
notation into English money.
As he stood there a new interest began to fill his mind. Was the firm
being carried on under the old name by some one else, or did this lot
of collars represent part of the old stock? He had had no news from
home since he left, and the bitter thought occurred to him that perhaps
Danby had got somebody with capital to aid him in resuscitating the
business. He resolved to go inside and get some information.
"You seem to have a very large stock of those collars on hand," he said
to the man who was evidently the proprietor.
"Yes," was the answer. "You see, we are the State agents for this make.
We supply the country dealers."
"Oh, do you? Is the firm of Danby and Strong still in existence? I
understood it had suspended."
"I guess not," said the man. "They supply us all right enough. Still, I
really know nothing about the firm, except that they turn out a first-
class article. We're not in any way responsible for Danby and Strong;
we're merely agents for the State of Texas, you know," the man added,
with sudden caution.
"I have nothing against the firm," said Strong. "I asked because I once
knew some members of it, and was wondering how it was getting along."
"Well, in that case you ought to see the American representative. He
was here this week ... that's why we make such a display in the window,
it always pleases the agent ... he's now working up the State and will
be back in Galveston before the month is out."
"What's his name? Do you remember?"
"Danby. George Danby, I think. Here's his card. No, John Danby is the
name. I thought it was George. Most Englishmen are George, you know."
Strong looked at the card, but the lettering seemed to waver before his
eyes. He made out, however, that Mr. John Danby had an address in New
York, and that he was the American representative of the firm of Danby
and Strong, London. Strong placed the card on the counter before him.
"I used to know Mr. Danby, and I would like to meet him. Where do you
think I could find him?"
"Well, as I said before, you could see him right here in Galveston if
you wait a month, but if you are in a hurry you might catch him at
Broncho Junction on Thursday night."
"He is travelling by rail then?"
"No, he is not. He went by rail as far as Felixopolis. There he takes a
horse, and goes across the prairies to Broncho Junction; a three days'
journey. I told him he wouldn't do much business on that route, but he
said he was going partly for his health, and partly to see the country.
He expected to reach Broncho Thursday night." The dry goods merchant
laughed as one who suddenly remembers a pleasant circumstance. "You're
an Englishman, I take it."
Strong nodded.
"Well, I must say you folks have queer notions about this country.
Danby, who was going for a three days' journey across the plains,
bought himself two Colts revolvers, and a knife half as long as my arm.
Now I've travelled all over this State, and never carried a gun, but I
couldn't get Danby to believe his route was as safe as a church. Of
course, now and then in Texas a cowboy shoots off his gun, but it's
more often his mouth, and I don't believe there's more killing done in
Texas than in any other bit of land the same size. But you can't get an
Englishman to believe that. You folks are an awful law-abiding crowd.
For my part I would sooner stand my chance with a revolver than a
lawsuit any day." Then the good-natured Texan told the story of the
pistol in Texas; of the general lack of demand for it, but the great
necessity of having it handy when it was called for.
A man with murder in his heart should not hold a conversation like
this, but William Strong was too full of one idea to think of prudence.
Such a talk sets the hounds of justice on the right trail, with
unpleasant results for the criminal.
On Thursday morning Strong set out on horse-back from Broncho Junction
with his face towards Felixopolis. By noon he said to himself he ought
to meet his former partner with nothing but the horizon around them.
Besides the revolvers in his belt, Strong had a Winchester rifle in
front of him. He did not know but he might have to shoot at long range,
and it was always well to prepare for eventualities. Twelve o'clock
came, but he met no one, and there was nothing in sight around the
empty circle of the horizon. It was nearly two before he saw a moving
dot ahead of him. Danby was evidently unused to riding and had come
leisurely. Some time before they met, Strong recognised his former
partner and he got his rifle ready.
"Throw up your hands!" he shouted, bringing his rifle butt to his
shoulder.
Danby instantly raised his hands above his head. "I have no money on
me," he cried, evidently not recognising his opponent. "You may search
me if you like."
"Get down off your horse; don't lower your hands, or I fire."
Danby got down, as well as he could, with his hands above his head.
Strong had thrown his right leg over to the left side of the horse,
and, as his enemy got down, he also slid to the ground, keeping Danby
covered with the rifle.
"I assure you I have only a few dollars with me, which you are quite
welcome to," said Danby.
Strong did not answer. Seeing that the firing was to be at short range,
he took a six-shooter from his belt, and, cocking it, covered his man,
throwing the rifle on the grass. He walked up to his enemy, placed the
muzzle of the revolver against his rapidly beating heart, and leisurely
disarmed him, throwing Danby's weapons on the ground out of reach. Then
he stood back a few paces and looked at the trembling man. His face
seemed to have already taken on the hue of death and his lips were
bloodless.
"I see you recognise me at last, Mr. Danby. This is an unexpected
meeting, is it not? You realise, I hope, that there are here no judges,
juries, nor lawyers, no _mandamuses_ and no appeals. Nothing but a
writ of ejectment from the barrel of a pistol and no legal way of
staying the proceedings. In other words, no cursed quibbles and no
damned law."
Danby, after several times moistening his pallid lips, found his voice.
"Do you mean to give me a chance, or are you going to murder me?"
"I am going to murder you."
Danby closed his eyes, let his hands drop to his sides, and swayed
gently from side to side as a man does on the scaffold just before the
bolt is drawn. Strong lowered his revolver and fired, shattering one
knee of the doomed man. Danby dropped with a cry that was drowned by
the second report. The second bullet put out his left eye, and the
murdered man lay with his mutilated face turned up to the blue sky.
A revolver report on the prairies is short, sharp, and echoless. The
silence that followed seemed intense and boundless, as if nowhere on
earth there was such a thing as sound. The man on his back gave an
awesome touch of the eternal to the stillness.
Strong, now that it was all over, began to realise his position. Texas,
perhaps, paid too little heed to life lost in fair fight, but she had
an uncomfortable habit of putting a rope round the neck of a cowardly
murderer. Strong was an inventor by nature. He proceeded to invent his
justification. He took one of Danby's revolvers and fired two shots out
of it into the empty air. This would show that the dead man had
defended himself at least, and it would be difficult to prove that he
had not been the first to fire. He placed the other pistol and the
knife in their places in Danby's belt. He took Danby's right hand while
it was still warm and closed the fingers around the butt of the
revolver from which he had fired, placing the forefinger on the trigger
of the cocked six-shooter. To give effect and naturalness to the
tableau he was arranging for the benefit of the next traveller by that
trail, he drew up the right knee and put revolver and closed hand on it
as if Danby had been killed while just about to fire his third shot.
Strong, with the pride of a true artist in his work, stepped back a
pace or two for the purpose of seeing the effect of his work as a
whole. As Danby fell, the back of his head had struck a lump of soil or
a tuft of grass which threw the chin forward on the breast. As Strong
looked at his victim his heart jumped, and a sort of hypnotic fear took
possession of him and paralysed action at its source. Danby was not yet
dead. His right eye was open, and it glared at Strong with a malice and
hatred that mesmerised the murderer and held him there, although he
felt rather than knew he was covered by the cocked revolver he had
placed in what he thought was a dead hand. Danby's lips moved but no
sound came from them. Strong could not take his fascinated gaze from
the open eye. He knew he was a dead man if Danby had strength to crook
his finger, yet he could not take the leap that would bring him out of
range. The fifth pistol-shot rang out and Strong pitched forward on his
face.
The firm of Danby and Strong was dissolved.