"Yes, Sir," said my excellent and admirable clerk, PORTINGTON, "he
came here three times, about a month ago. We thought he was mad, so
would not let him in. But the third time he left that parcel and that
letter. You see, Sir, they are tied together, and as there was a bomb
scare on at the time, we did not touch them. That's how it comes, Sir,
that you have not had them earlier."
I must confess I was a little annoyed. I frequently absent myself from
Pump-Handle Court for days and even weeks together, and then I expect
my clerical (I use the adjective in its non-ecclesiastical sense)
representative to forward my correspondence.
"It cannot be helped, PORTINGTON," I replied; "all I care for are the
interests of my clients. If the visitor was one anxious to lay
his case before me, I can only trust he has not suffered by my
unpremeditated absence."
"I do not think he will have to complain of that, Sir. And as to his
case, we don't know whether it is one; none of us like to touch the
parcel, lest it should go off."
"You mean with a report--it must get reported," I suggested, with a
smile. I allow myself a little frolicsome levity at Yuletide. "Well,
where is it?"
"In your room, Sir," and PORTINGTON led the way to my special
apartment.
I found my chamber tenanted by a miscellaneous collection of articles.
Truth to tell I do not use my rooms very frequently, and consequently
it has become a sort of a proverb amongst my co-parceners in
Pump-Handle Court, _à propos_ of anything of a cumbersome character,
"When in doubt, put it into BRIEFLESS'S cupboard." Not that I really
occupy a cupboard; my room (I lay the emphasis on the word) is far
more commodious than the largest specimen of those receptacles.
Consequently, I was not altogether surprised to find collected
together a banjo-case, some curtain rods, a number of framed pictures,
and a damaged bicycle. In the centre of the room was an oblong parcel,
to which was tied an envelope, doubtless containing an enclosure.
With some slight trepidation--I had no wish to accompany Pump-Handle
Court to the skies--I opened the letter. It ran as follows:--
"To A. BRIEFLESS, JUNIOR, ESQ.--Dear and Honoured Sir,--I have long
desired to show you some token of goodwill. I have frequently read
your contributions to the leading legal paper of the day (I refer,
of course, to the _London Charivari_), and have been filled with
admiration at the clearness of your style and the depth of your
knowledge of what may be termed the duplex action of the human heart.
As I happen to be Emperor of CHINA I write anonymously. I have been
ruined by law and the lawyers. You have never represented me or
opposed me. For this I am very, very grateful, and beg you to accept
the accompanying present. It is a ---- But hush, we are observed."
And at this point the document abruptly terminated. I read the letter
to PORTINGTON, and asked his opinion upon it. He replied abruptly he
"considered the writer a lunatic."
"Well, no, I do not think we can go quite so far as that," I observed.
"You see, he seems to have some appreciation of my talents. He may be
a trifle eccentric, but I fancy nothing worse."
Encouraged by this belief in the sanity of my semi-anonymous (I use
the epithet advisedly, as I take it that the incidental claim to the
throne of the Celestial Empire was not urged seriously) correspondent,
I opened the package. The brown paper unwound and a picture was
revealed to us. It had evidently been painted for many years. The
frame (which, in PORTINGTON'S opinion, was the best portion of the
structure) was distinctly old-fashioned. The gilding was tarnished and
the woodwork out of repair.
"What is the subject?" I asked, after three or four minutes' close
inspection.
"I think, Sir," replied my excellent and admirable clerk, "that it's
something to do with a donkey."
PORTINGTON was right. On closer investigation the painting revealed
itself to be the representation of a cottage in the snow, with some
villagers drawing water from a half-frozen pond in the neighbourhood
of a rather intelligent donkey, who was watching their proceedings
with languid interest.
"Certainly it is a donkey," I exclaimed; "and, to my thinking, a very
fine one."
"What shall we do with it, Sir?" asked PORTINGTON. "It's no good here;
shall I give it to the dustman? He would take it away if we asked
him."
For a moment I thought my clerical (I use the adjective in its
non-ecclesiastical sense) representative was indulging in jocularity.
I found I was in error. PORTINGTON was absolutely serious.
"You evidently do not know the value of some of these old frames. Of
course I shall take the picture with me to my private residence."
I carried out my intention. The canvas presentment of the donkey and
accessories was carefully conveyed in a four-wheeler to Justinian
Gardens, where I have rented for some years a very pleasant house.
The lady who has honoured me by taking my name, and whom in my more
playful humour I sportively term my "better seven-eighths," received
me.
"I hope you have brought the music from the Stores," said the lady,
after our first greetings. "I suppose that package came from Victoria
Street?"
"No, my precious one," I replied; I sometimes use terms of endearment
to the members of my domestic circle. "It is a picture given to me by
a grateful client."
"Client!" she exclaimed; "and a grateful one! What a find! But why
bring it here? Haven't we already more pictures than we want? Why at
this moment there's half-a-dozen of extra plates from the Christmas
numbers that you _would_ have framed, waiting to be hung."
"But this, my love, is an oil-painting, with what I judge to be a very
valuable old-fashioned frame."
By this time my present was revealed.
"Why, it's only the picture of a donkey!" exclaimed my better
seven-eighths, with a laugh. "We really don't want that sort of thing
in the hall or reception rooms."
"But it is really very fine!" I urged. "Look at the handling of that
donkey's ears. And the frame, too, is simply magnificent."
"I don't so much mind the frame. We might take out the picture and put
in '_The Arrival of the Boulogne Boat_,' the Christmas supplement to
the _Young Lady's Boudoir_, in its stead. And yet it is just as likely
as not to spoil it. No, I think we had better put picture and frame in
the box-room."
"But my dear," I remonstrated; "this may be a very valuable picture.
The head of the donkey is quite remarkable and ----"
"Now do we want portraits of donkeys about the house? The boxroom or
the dust-hole is the proper place for them."
"I know you objected to my own likeness--you see the connection with
the donkey, dear?" I sometimes make rather humorous remarks during the
continuance of the festive season.
"Don't be silly! But this hideous thing should really go into the
box-room." And so it went. Perhaps on a future occasion I may trace
the further adventures of my grateful client's gift. In my poor
judgment they are distinctly interesting and instructive.
* * * * *