The bell on St. Timothy's tolled twelve o'clock as McAllister's hansom,
straight from the Alhambra, clacked into the moonlit silence of
Marlborough Square. A soft breath of distant gardens hung on the cool
air. The chimneys rose from the house-tops sharp against a pale blue sky
glittering with stars. Here and there a yellow window gleamed for a
moment under the eaves, then vanished mysteriously. It was a night for
lovers,--calm, still, ecstatic,--for hayfields under the harvest
moon,--for white, ghostly reaches of the Thames,--for poetry,--for the
exquisite enjoyment of earth's nearest approach to heaven.
The trap above McAllister's head opened.
"Beg pardon, sir. W'ere did you s'y, sir?"
"I said _Pondel's_," replied McAllister, rather sharply. He knew the
cabby must think him a lunatic, but he didn't care. He intended to do
the decent thing. Hang it! The fellow could mind his own business.
The hansom crossed the street and reined up in the shadow. All was dark,
silent, deserted. Only the brass plate beside the door reflected
strangely the moonlight across the way.
"'Ere's Pondel's, sir." The cabby got down and crossed the sidewalk to
the door.
"All shut hup!" he commented. "Close at six."
A dark figure emerged quickly from, a neighboring shadow.
"'Ere! Wot is it you want?" demanded the bobby, accosting the cabman
with tentative and potential roughness.
"Gent wants Pondel's. I dunno w'y. Ax 'im yerself!" responded cabby in
an injured tone.
The bobby turned to the hansom.
"This shop's closed at six o'clock," he announced. "Wot do you want?"
McAllister felt ten thousand times a fool. The beauty of the night, the
odoriferous quiet, the peace of the deserted square, all made his errand
seem monstrously idiotic. The universe was wheeling silently across the
housetops; respectable men and women were in their beds; only
night-hawks, lovers, policemen were abroad. It was as if a worm were
raising objection to some cardinal law. Why should he try to upset the
order and regularity of the London night, clattering into this
slumbering section, startling a respectable somnolent policeman, making
an ass of himself before his cabby--because somewhere a fellow was
working overtime on his trousers. He imagined that as soon as he had
made his explanation the bobby and the driver would collapse with
merriment, and hale him to a mad-house. But McAllister set his teeth. He
was fighting for a principle. He wouldn't "welch" now. He clambered out
of the hansom.
"I want to find Pondel, because he's got some fellows working on my
clothes, and I don't propose to have anybody working for me on Sunday.
Understand? It's _Sunday_. I don't intend to have folks working on my
clothes when they ought to be in bed."
He spoke brokenly, defiantly, catching his breath between words, almost
ready to cry; then waited for his auditors to fall upon each other's
necks in derisive mirth. He forgot, however, that he was in London. The
situation was one apposite to American humor, but evoked no sense of
amusement in the policeman. He treated McAllister's explanation with
vast respect. Our hero gained confidence. The bobby regretted that the
place seemed closed; ventured to express his approval of the clubman's
altruistic effort; dilated upon it to the cabby, who was correspondingly
impressed. McAllister, immensely cheered, held forth on the wrongs of
labor at some length, and, finding a sympathetic audience, produced
cigars. The three proved, as it were, a little group of humanitarians
united in a common purpose. Then, suddenly, inconsequently, inexcusably,
a man coughed. The sound was muffled, but unmistakable. It came from a
point directly beneath their feet. The bobby rapped sharply on the
pavement several times.
"Hi there, you!" he called. "Hi there, you in Pondel's. Come an' open
hup!"
They could hear a dull murmur of conversation, the cough was repeated, a
bench dragged across a floor, some fastening was slowly loosed, and a
yellow gleam of light shot up through the shadow as a scuttle opened in
the sidewalk. A lean, scrawny figure thrust itself upward, sleepily
rubbing its eyes, collarless, its shirt open at the breast, its hair
tousled, coughing. McAllister, now confident that he had the support of
his companions, addressed the ghost, in whom he recognized Pedler, the
journeyman from behind the curtains. The clubman's face, however, was
concealed in shadow from the other.
"You're working for Pondel, aren't you?"
The ghost coughed again, and shivered, although the air was warm.
"Yes," it answered huskily.
"Are you working on some clothes for a gentleman who's sailing on
Monday?"
"Yes," it repeated.
"Then don't, any more," chirped McAllister encouragingly. "Those clothes
are for me, and I don't want you to work any longer. You ought to be in
bed."
"Wotcher givin' us?" grumbled Pedler. "G'wan! Leave us alone!" He
started to descend. But the bobby stepped forward.
"Look 'ere," he said roughly. "Don't you understand? It's just as the
gentleman s'ys. You don't _'ave_ to work any more to-night. You can go
'ome."
"I s'y, wotcher givin' us?" repeated the other. "I cawn't go 'ome. Mr.
Pondel's horders is to st'y 'ere until the clothes is finished. M'ybe
it's as you s'y, but I cawn't go 'ome."
At this juncture a child began to cry drowsily below, and a woman's
voice could be heard striving to comfort it.
"You don't mean you've got a baby down there!" exclaimed McAllister.
"Only little Annie," replied Pedler. "An' the old woman."
"Anyone else?"
"Aggam."
"Let's go down," suggested the bobby. "_I_ can make 'em understand." The
ghost descended, dazed, and McAllister, the bobby, and last of all, the
cabman, followed down a creaking ladder into a sort of vault under the
cellar. A small oil wick gave out a feeble fluctuating light. On one
side, cross-legged, sat a shrivelled-up, little old man, his brown beard
streaked with gray, stitching. He did not look up, but only worked the
faster. A thin woman crouched on a broken chair, holding a little girl
in her lap.
"There, there, Annie, don't cry. The bobby's not arter _you_. It's all
right, darlin'!"
Strewn about the cement floor lay the bolts of Lancaster which
McAllister had selected, together with patterns, scissors, and
unfinished garments.
"Excuse the child, sir," apologized the woman. "She's just a bit
sleepy."
"Well," said McAllister, his indignation rising at the scene, and shame
burning in his cheeks, "go right home. I won't have you working on these
clothes any more." How he wished Pondel was there to get a piece of his
mind!
Jim looked wearily at Aggam.
"Wot d'ye s'y, Aggam?"
The other kept on stitching.
"I gets my horders from Pondel," he replied, shortly, "an' I don't tyke
no horders from no one helse!"
"But look here," cried McAllister, "the clothes are _mine_, ain't they?
Pondel hasn't anything to do with it! And _I_ tell you to _go home_."
"Yes," grunted Aggam. "An' then you loses your job, does yer? I don't
want no toff mixin' into _my_ affairs. I minds my business, they can
mind theirs!"
"I s'y, that's no w'y to speak to the gentleman!" exclaimed the bobby in
disgust. "'E's only tryin' to do yer a fyvor! 'Aven't yer got no
manners?"
"_I_ minds _my_ business, let _'im_ mind _'is'n_!" repeated Aggam
stolidly.
"Well, _I_ must _s'y_," ejaculated the cabby, "they're a bloomin'
grateful lot!"
The tall man seemed to resent this last from one of his own station.
"I appreciates wot the gent wants," he said weakly, "but it's just like
Aggam s'ys. Wot can _we_ do? The gent cawn't tell us to go 'ome!"
The child began to cry again. McAllister was exasperated almost to the
point of profanity.
"Don't you _want_ to go home?" he exclaimed.
The woman laughed a hollow, mirthless laugh.
"Annie an' me 'ave st'y'd 'ere all the evenin' just to be with Jim. 'E's
awful sick. An' 'e'll 'ave to st'y 'ere all d'y to-morrer. Do we _want_
to go 'ome!"
Her husband dashed his shirt-sleeve across his eyes.
"Don't Nell," he muttered. "I ain't sick. I can work. You go 'ome with
the kid."
McAllister thrust a handful of bank-notes toward her.
"Where does old Pondel live?" he inquired of the bobby.
"Out in Kew somewheres," replied the officer.
The woman was staring blankly at the money. Suddenly she dropped the
little girl and began to sob. Jim broke into a fit of harsh coughing.
The cabman climbed up the ladder. The temperature of the vault seemed
insufferable to McAllister.
"I suppose you'll go home if Pondel says so?" he suggested.
"Just watch us!" growled Aggam.
"Take that child home, anyhow, and put it to bed," ordered the clubman.
"I'll be back in an hour or so."
As he climbed up through the scuttle into the sweet, soft moonlight, and
started to enter the hansom, the bobby held out his hand.
"Excuse me, sir. I 'ope you'll pardon the liberty, but, would you mind,
I've got a brother in America--Smith's the naime--'e lives in a plaice
called Manitoba. Do you 'appen to know 'im?"
"I'm sorry," replied our friend, grasping the other's hand. "I never ran
across him."
"Where to now?" asked the cabby.
"To Kew," replied McAllister.
They swung out of the square, leaving the bobby standing in the shadow
of Pondel's.
"I'll look out for 'em while you're gone," called the latter
encouragingly.
They crossed Bond Street, followed Grosvenor Street into Park Lane, and
plunging round Hyde Park corner, past the statue to England's greatest
soldier, they entered Kingsbridge. McAllister, all awake from his recent
experience, saw things that he had never observed before--bedraggled
flower-girls in gaudy hats, with heart-rending faces; drunken laborers
staggering along upon the arms of sad-featured women; young girls,
slender, painted, strolling with an affectation of light-heartedness
along the glittering sidewalks. On they jogged, past narrow streets
where, amid the flare of torches, the entire population of the
neighborhood swarmed, bargained, swore, and quarrelled; where little
children rolled under the costers' carts, fighting for scraps and
decaying vegetables; and where their passage was obstructed by the
throngs of miserable humanity for whom this was their only park, their
only club. It being Saturday night, the butchers were selling off their
remnants of meat, and their shrill cries could be heard for blocks.
Several times the horse shied to avoid trampling upon some old hag who,
clutching her wretched purchase to her breast, hurried homeward before a
drunken lout should snatch it from her. McAllister had never imagined
the like. It was with a sigh of relief that they left the Hammersmith
Road behind and at last reached the residential districts. In about an
hour they found themselves in Kew. A cool breeze from the country fanned
his cheek. On either hand trim little villas, with smooth lawns, lined
the road, and the moonlit air was fragrant with the smell of damp grass,
violets, and heliotrope. Here and there could be heard the tinkle of a
cottage piano, and the laughter of belated merry-makers on the verandas.
They located Mr. Pondel's villa without difficulty. Standing back some
thirty yards from the street, its well-kept garden full of flowering
shrubs and carefully tended beds of geraniums, it was a residence
typical of the London suburb, with fretwork along the piazza roof, a
stone dog guarding each side of the steps, and salmon-pink curtains at
the parlor windows. The door stood open, a Japanese lamp burned in the
hallway, and the murmur of voices floated out from the door leading into
the parlor. McAllister once again felt the overwhelming absurdity of his
position. Over his shoulder, as he stood by the hyacinths at the door,
floated the same big moon in the same soft heaven. Damp and fragrant,
the wind blew in from the lawn and swayed the portières in the narrow
hall, behind which, doubtless, sat the lordly Pondel, friend of
noblemen, adviser of royalty, entrenched in his castle, a unit in an
impregnable system. The whinny of the cab-horse beyond the hedge
recalled to McAllister the necessity for action. He realized that he was
losing moral ground every instant.
The bell jangled harshly somewhere in the back of the house. A man's
voice--Pondel's--muttered indistinctly; there was a feminine whisper in
response; someone placed a glass on a table and pushed back a chair. A
clock in the neighborhood struck two, and Pondel emerged through the
portières--Pondel in a wadded claret-colored dressing-gown embroidered
with birds of Paradise, in carpet slippers, with a meerschaum pipe,
watery eyes, and slightly disarranged hair. It was rather dim in the
hallway, and he did not recognize his visitor.
"What is it? What do you want?" The inquiry was abrupt and a little
thick.
"Good evening, Mr. Pondel," stammered McAllister. "I hope you'll excuse
me for disturbing you at this hour. It's about the clothes."
"W'o is it?" Pondel peered into his guest's flushed face. "W'y Mr.
McAllister, what are you doin' way out 'ere? Excuse my appearance--a
little pardonable neglishay of a Saturday evenin'. Come right in, won't
you? Great honor, I'm sure. Though, if you'll believe it, I once 'ad the
honor of a call from his Grace the Duke of Bashton right in this very
'all. Excuse me w'ile I announce your presence to Mrs. Pondel."
McAllister said something about having to go at once, but Pondel
shuffled through the curtains, almost immediately sweeping them back
with a lordly gesture of welcome.
"This way, Mr. McAllister." Our miserable friend entered the parlor.
"Elizabeth, hallow me to present Mr. McAllister--one of my oldest
customers."
Elizabeth--a fat vision of fifty-five, with peroxide hair, and a soft
pink of unchanging hue mantling her elsewhere mottled cheeks--arose
graciously from the table where she and her husband had been playing
double-dummy bridge, and courtesied.
"Chawmed, I'm sure. What a beautiful evenin'! Won't you si' down?"
murmured the enchantress.
McAllister took a chair, and Pondel pressed whiskey and water upon him.
Oh, Mr. McAllister, needn't be afraid of it; it was the real old thing;
Lord Langollen had sent him a dozen. Lizzie would take a nip with
'em--eh, Lizzie? A gen'elman didn't take that long trip every evenin',
and a little refreshment would not only do him good, but, as the Yankees
said, would show there was no 'ard feelin', eh? He must really take just
a drop. Say when!
Lizzie poured out a glass for the much-embarrassed guest. She was in a
flowered kimona, even more "neglishay" than her husband, but the bower
in which the goddess reclined was a perfect pearl of the decorator's
art. Cupids, also "neglishay," toyed with one another around a cluster
of electric burners in the ceiling, gay streamers of painted blossoms
dangling from their hands and floating down the walls. Gilt chairs, a
white and gilt sofa, and a brown etching in a Florentine frame on each
wall, were the most conspicuous articles of furniture. At the windows
the brilliant salmon-pink curtains bellied softly in the breeze that
stole into the chamber and diluted the gentle odor of Parma violets
which exuded from the dame in the kimona. To Pondel, McAllister's
presence was an evidence of his power; and his pride, tickled mightily,
put him in an exquisite good humor. Certainly the occasion required from
him, the host, a proper felicitation.
"'Ere's to our better acquaintance," said the tailor, raising his glass
sententiously. "Lizzie, drink to Mr. McAllister!"
The three drank solemnly. Then the voluble tailor addressed himself to
the task of entertaining his distinguished guest. McAllister could catch
at no opening to explain his visit. Pondel chatted gayly of Paris, the
Continent, and familiarly of the races and the _beau monde_. Apparently
he knew (by their first names) half the nobility of England, and he
endeavored to place his customer equally at his ease with them. He
ventured that he knew how most young Americans spent their time in
London and Paris; dropped with a wink, that in spite of his present
uxoriousness he had been a bit of a dog himself, and ended by suggesting
another toast to "A short life and a merry one." The lady of the kimona,
grammatically not so strong as her husband, contented herself with
expansive smiles and frequent recurrence to the tumbler.
"I must explain my visit," finally broke in McAllister. "It's about the
clothes."
Pondel smiled condescendingly.
"My dear Mr. McAllister, you don't need to worry in the slightest.
They'll be done promptly to-morrow evenin', take my word for it."
McAllister flushed. How in Heaven's name could he ever make the tailor
understand?
"I've decided I don't want 'em!" he stammered.
Pondel's glass went to the table with a bang, and he gazed blankly at
his customer. The clubman, not realizing the implication, did not
proceed.
"That's all right," finally responded Pondel a trifle coldly. "There's
no hurry about settlement. You can take a year, if necessary."
Mrs. Pondel slipped unobtrusively out of the room, leaving a trail of
perfume behind her.
"Oh!" exclaimed our friend, catching his breath: "It isn't that. But you
see I can't have those men working over night and to-morrow on my
account. It's--it's against my principles."
Pondel brightened. A load had been taken from his heart. So long as
McAllister's bank account was good, any idiosyncrasy the American might
exhibit did not matter. He had always regarded McAllister, however, as a
man of the world, and had esteemed him accordingly. He perceived that he
had been mistaken. His customer was merely a religious crank. He had had
experience with them before.
"Pooh! That's all right," said he resuming his former cordiality. "Why,
they like to earn the extra money. They're all devoted to my interests,
you know."
"Well, I don't want them to work any longer on my clothes," repeated
McAllister helplessly.
"I understand," replied Mr. Pondel, rather loftily. "I'm afraid,
however, it's too late to stop them now. The cloth 'as been cut, and
they would not stop contrary to my direction."
"That's the point," returned McAllister, "I want you to change your
orders."
"But, my dear sir," expostulated the tailor, "you can't expect me to go
to London this time of night! Besides, they're nearly done by this time.
It's impossible!"
"I'll manage that," exclaimed McAllister. "I've been down to the shop
already, and they're waiting for me now to come back with your
permission to go home; they wouldn't go without it."
"Dear, dear!" replied the tailor, changing his tactics. "How much
interest you have taken in their welfare! How kind and thoughtful of
you! No, they're faithful men; they wouldn't think of disobeying orders.
But what a shame I didn't know of it before! Why, they might 'ave been
at 'ome and in their beds. However, I sha'n't forget 'em at the end of
the month. Mr. McAllister, I respect you. I have never known of a more
unselfish act. Permit me to say it, sir, you are a Christian--a true
Christian. I wish there were more like you, sir!"
McAllister arose to his feet. His one thought now was to escape as
quickly as possible. The sight of Pondel's smiling countenance filled
him with unutterable disgust. Suppose the fellows at the club could see
him sitting in this pursy tailor's parlor, with his scented wife, and
gilded chairs--
The tailor, however, was anxious to restore the cordiality of their
relations, and slopped over in his eagerness to show how kind he was to
his men, and how considerate of their well-being. He took McAllister's
arm familiarly as he showed him to the door.
"Yes," he added confidentially, "this is a very good locality. Only the
best people live in this neighborhood. Rather a neat little property."
He proffered McAllister a cigar. The clubman wanted to kick him for a
miserable, dirty cad.
"Right back!" he said to the cabby, hardly replying to the tailor's
good-night.
London was asleep. Even the streets through which he had driven to Kew
were hushed in preparation for the sodden Sunday to come. The moon had
lowered over the housetops, and St. Timothy's was in the shadow as once
again he drew up in front of Pondel's.
"Back already, sir?" The bobby stepped out to meet him.
"Yes," replied McAllister wearily. "And those fellows down there are
going home."
The bobby rapped on the scuttle. Once more Pedler's head protruded above
the sidewalk.
"Mr. Pondel says you're to go home," said McAllister.
"The gent's been all the way to Kew for you," interjected the bobby.
"Hi, Aggam!" exclaimed Jim, huskily. "Th' gentleman says we are to go
'ome, Mr. Pondel says." He disappeared. Aggam could be heard muttering
below. Presently the light was extinguished, and both emerged from the
scuttle and put on their coats. McAllister felt sleepily exultant.
Pedler pushed the scuttle into place.
"Well," said McAllister after an awkward pause, "can I give you a lift?
Which way do you go? I tell you what: you come back with me to the
hotel, and then the hansom can take you both home."
Pedler and Aggam looked doubtfully at one another.
"Oh, come on, you fellows!" exclaimed McAllister, all his natural good
spirits returning with a rush. "Get in there, now!"
Pedler and Aggam climbed in, and McAllister directed the driver to go to
the Metropole, after stuffing a sovereign into the hand of his friend,
the policeman. The stars were still marching across the sky, and the
breeze had freshened. Every window was dark; no one was astir. They
heard only the echoes of their horse's hoof-beats. Yet the restless
silence that precedes the dawn was in the air.
"I lives miles aw'y from 'ere," said Pedler after a meditated period.
"So do I," supplemented Aggam.
"I don't care," replied McAllister. "I've had this cab all night,
anyhow, and I want to celebrate. You see, this is the first time I ever
got ahead of my tailor."
Another long pause ensued. They were not a talkative lot, surely.
McAllister's flow of language absolutely deserted him. He could think of
no subject of conversation whatever. Pedler finally came to his
assistance.
"I'm thirty-seven year old, an' this is the fust time I've ever ridden
in a 'ansom."
"Jiminy!" exclaimed McAllister. "You don't say so! What luck!"
"Fust time for me, too," added Aggam.
After this burst of confidence the three rode in utter silence. At the
Metropole the clubman jumped out and bade his companions good-night.
As the cabby gathered up the reins preparatory to a fresh start, Aggam
leaned forward rather apologetically.
"You must hexcuse me," he remarked, "but I don't want to sail hunder
false colors, and I feel as if I hort to s'y that while I'm a Socialist,
I 'ave no particular sympathy with Sabbatarianism."
"Well, neither have I," replied McAllister encouragingly, an answer
which probably puzzled Mr. Aggam for a fortnight.