I
"Certainly, sir. Your clothes shall be delivered at the Metropole at
nine-forty-five to morrow evenin', sir."
Pondel's dapper little clerk tossed a half-dozen bolts of "trouserings"
upon the polished table, and smiled graciously at the firm's best paying
customer.
"Here, Bulstead! take Mr. McAllister's waist measure--just a matter of
precaution," he added deferentially. "These are somethin' fine,
sir--very fine! When they came in, I says to Mr. Pondel: 'If only Mr.
McAllister could see that woollen! It's a shame,' I says, 'not to save
it for 'im!' An' Mr. Pondel agreed with me at once. 'Very good,
Wessons,' says he. 'Lay aside enough of that Lancaster to make Mr.
McAllister a single-breasted sack suit, and if he don't fancy it I'll
have it made up into somethin' for myself,' he says. Ain't that so, Mr.
Pondel?"
The gentleman addressed had graciously sauntered over to congratulate
Mr. McAllister upon his selections.
"Ah, very good! Very good indeed! How's that, Wessons? Yes, I told him
to keep that piece for you, sir. Lord Bentwood begged for it almost with
the tears in his eyes, as I may say, but I assured him that it was
already spoken for." He patted the cloth with a fat, ring-covered hand.
An atmosphere of exclusive opulence emanated from every inch of his
sleek, pudgy person--from the broad white forehead over the glinting
steel-gray eyes, from the pointed Van Dyke trimmed to resemble that of a
certain exalted personage, from his drab waistcoated abdomen begirdled
with its heavy chain and dangling seals, down to the gray-gaitered
patent leathers. McAllister distrusted, feared, relied upon him.
The clubman wiped his monocle and glanced out through the plate-glass
window. Marlborough Square was flooded with the soft sunshine of the
autumn afternoon. Hardly a pedestrian violated the eminently
aristocratic silence of St. Timothy's.
"Very thoughtful of you, I'm sure," he replied, not grudging Pondel the
extra two guineas which he very well knew the other invariably charged
for these little favors. It were cheap at twice the money to feel so
much a gentleman.
"But this is Saturday, and it's five o'clock now. I don't see how you
can possibly finish all those suits by to-morrow evening. You know I
really didn't intend to order anything but the frock-coat. Perhaps you'd
just better let the rest go. I can get them some other time."
"Not at all, Mr. McAllister; not at all. We are always delighted to
serve you by any means in our power. Did Wessons say they would be
finished to-morrow? Then to-morrow they shall be, sir. I'll set my men
at work immediately. Pedler! Where's Pedler? Send him here at once!"
A hollow-eyed, lank, round-shouldered journeyman parted the curtains
that concealed the rear of the room, and nervously approached his
employer. He blinked at the unaccustomed sunlight, suppressing a cough.
"Did you call me, sir?"
"Yes," replied Pondel with the severity of one granting an undeserved
favor. "This is Mr. McAllister, of whom you have heard us speak so
often. I believe you have cut several of the gentleman's suits. He is to
take the Majestic, which sails early Monday morning, and I have promised
that his clothes shall be ready to-morrow evening. Can you arrange to
stay here to-night and whatever portion of to-morrow is necessary to
finish them?"
A worried look passed over the man's face, and his hand flew to his
mouth to strangle another cough.
"Certainly, sir; that is--of course-- Yes, sir. May I ask how many,
sir?"
"Only three, I believe. I was sure it could be arranged. Please ask
Aggam to assist you. That is all."
"Yes, sir. Very good, sir." Pedler hesitated a moment as if about to
speak, then turned listlessly and plodded back behind the curtains.
"Very obliging man--Pedler. You see, there will be no difficulty, Mr.
McAllister."
"Well, I don't see how on earth you're going to do it!" protested
McAllister feebly. He wanted the clothes badly, now that he had seen the
material. "It's mighty good of you to take all this trouble."
Mr. Pondel made a deprecating gesture.
"We are always glad to serve you, sir!" he repeated, as Wessons escorted
the distinguished customer to the door.
"It's a great privilege to be employed by such a man as Mr. Pondel,"
whispered the salesman. "He thinks an enormous lot of you, sir. Very
fine man--Mr. Pondel."
As the hansom jogged rapidly toward the hotel, McAllister reflected
painfully upon the enormous sums of money that he annually transferred
from his own pockets to those of the lordly tailor. Not that the money
made any particular difference. The clubman was well enough fixed, only
sometimes the bills were unexpectedly large. The three suits just
ordered would average fourteen guineas each. Roughly they would come to
two hundred and twenty-five dollars, plus the duty, which he always paid
conscientiously. And he was getting off easy at that. He remembered
heaps of bills for over two hundred pounds, and that was only the
beginning, for he bought most of his clothes right in New York.
Climbing the steps of his hotel, he wondered vaguely how long Pedler and
the other fellow would have to work to finish the suits. Of course, they
would be paid extra--were probably glad to do it. The chap had a nasty
cough, though. Oh, well, that was their business--not his! So long as he
put up the money, Pondel could look out for the rest.
However, he felt a distinct sense of relief that his own obligations
consisted merely in dressing, dining at the Savoy with Aversly, and then
leisurely taking in the Alhambra afterward. Once in his room, he found
that the once criminally inclined, but now reformed Wilkins, who had
returned to his master's service under a solemn promise of good
behavior, had already laid out his clothes. McAllister rather dreaded
dressing, for the place was one of those heavily oppressive apartments
characteristic of English hotels. Green marble, yellow plush, and black
walnut filled the foreground, background, and middle distance, while a
marble-topped table, placed squarely in the centre of the room, offered
the only oasis in the desert of upholstery, in the form of a single
massive book, bound in brown morocco, and bearing the inscription
stamped upon its cover in heavy gilt:
HOTEL METROPOLE
HOLY BIBLE
NOT TO BE REMOVED
It fascinated him, recalling the chained hairbrush and comb of the
Pacific Coast. There you were offered cleanliness, here godliness, by
the proprietors; only the means thereto were not to be taken away. The
next comer must have his chance.
As the clubman idly lifted the volume, he suddenly realized that this
was the first Bible he had actually touched in over thirty years. The
last time he had owned one himself had been at school when he was
fifteen years old. Something moved him to carry it to the window. The
sun was just dropping over the scarlet chimney-pots of London. Its
burnished glare played upon the red gilt edges of the leaves, as
McAllister mechanically allowed the book to fall open in his hands. He
read these words:
So I returned, and considered all the oppressions that
are done under the sun: and behold the tears of such
as were oppressed, and they had no comforter; and on
the side of their oppressors there was power; but they
had no comforter.
The sun sank; the chimneys deadened against the sky-line. When Wilkins,
ten minutes later, stole in to see if his master needed his assistance,
he found McAllister staring into the darkening west.