Piccadilly. Piccadilly has a restful aspect in the small hours. Some men
were cleaning the road with water from a long hose. The swishing of the
torrent on the parched wood was musical.
Just beyond the gate of Hyde Park, to the right of the road, stands a
cabman’s shelter. Conversation and emotion had made Lord Dreever
thirsty. He suggested coffee as a suitable conclusion to the night’s
revels.
“I often go in here when I’m up in town,” he said. “The cabbies don’t
mind. They’re sportsmen.”
The shelter was nearly full when they opened the door. It was very warm
inside. A cabman gets so much fresh air in the exercise of his
professional duties that he is apt to avoid it in private life. The air
was heavy with conflicting scents. Fried onions seemed to be having the
best of the struggle for the moment, though plug tobacco competed
gallantly. A keenly analytical nose might also have detected the
presence of steak and coffee.
A dispute seemed to be in progress as they entered.
“You don’t wish you was in Russher,” said a voice.
“Yus, I do wish I was in Russher,” retorted a shrivelled mummy of a
cabman who was blowing patiently at a saucerful of coffee.
“Why do you wish you was in Russher?” asked the interlocutor,
introducing a Massa Bones and Massa Johnsing touch into the dialogue.
“Because you can wade over yer knees in bla-a-ad there,” said the mummy.
“In wot?”
“In bla-a-ad—ruddy bla-a-ad. That’s why I wish I wos in Russher.”
“Cheery cove that,” said Lord Dreever. “I say, can you give us some
coffee?”
“I might try Russia after Japan,” said Jimmy meditatively.
The lethal liquid was brought. Conversation began again. Other experts
gave their views on the internal affairs of Russia. Jimmy would have
enjoyed it more if he had been less sleepy. His back was wedged
comfortably against the wall of the shelter, and the heat of the room
stole into his brain. The voices of the disputants grew fainter and
fainter.
He had almost dozed off when a new voice cut through the murmur and woke
him. It was a voice he knew, and the accent was a familiar accent.
“Gents, excuse me.”
He looked up. The mists of sleep shredded away. A ragged youth with a
crop of fiery red hair was standing in the doorway, regarding the
occupants of the shelter with a grin, half whimsical, half defiant.
Jimmy recognized him. It was Spike Mullins.
“Excuse me,” said Spike Mullins, “is dere any gent in dis bunch of
professional beauts wants to give a poor orphan dat suffers from a
painful toist something to drink? Gents is courteously requested not to
speak all in a crowd.”
“Shet that blanky door,” said the mummy cabman sourly.
“And ’op it,” added his late opponent. “We don’t want none of your sort
’ere.”
“Den you ain’t my long-lost brudders, after all,” said the newcomer
regretfully. “I t’ought youse didn’t look handsome enough for dat. Good
night to youse, gents.”
“Shet that door, can’t yer, when I’m tellin’ yer!” said the mummy, with
increased asperity.
Spike was reluctantly withdrawing when Jimmy rose.
“One moment,” he said.
Never in his life had Jimmy failed to stand by a friend in need. Spike
was not, perhaps, exactly a friend, but even an acquaintance could rely
on Jimmy when down in the world. And Spike was manifestly in that
condition.
A look of surprise came into the Bowery boy’s face, followed by one of
stolid woodenness. He took the sovereign which Jimmy held out to him
with a muttered word of thanks, and shuffled out of the room.
“Can’t see what you wanted to give him anything for,” said Lord Dreever.
“Chap’ll only spend it getting tight.”
“Oh, he reminded me of a man I used to know.”
“Did he? Barnum’s what-is-it, I should think,” said his lordship. “Shall
we be moving?”
★ 10 ★
_Jimmy Adopts a Lame Dog_
A black figure detached itself from the blacker shadows and shuffled
stealthily to where Jimmy stood on the doorstep.
“That you, Spike?” asked Jimmy, in a low voice.
“Dat’s right, boss.”
“Come on in.”
He led the way up to his rooms, switched on the electric light, and shut
the door. Spike stood blinking at the sudden glare. He twirled his
battered hat in his hands. His red hair shone fiercely.
Jimmy inspected him out of the corner of his eye, and came to the
conclusion that the Mullins finances must be at a low ebb. Spike’s
costume differed in several important details from that of the ordinary
well-groomed man about town. There was nothing of the _flâneur_ about
the Bowery boy. His hat was of the soft black felt fashionable on the
East Side of New York. It was in poor condition, and looked as if it had
been up too late the night before. A black tail-coat, burst at the
elbows and stained with mud, was tightly buttoned across his chest, this
evidently with the idea of concealing the fact that he wore no shirt—an
attempt which was not wholly successful. A pair of grey flannel trousers
and boots, out of which two toes peeped coyly, completed the picture.
Even Spike himself seemed to be aware that there were points in his
appearance which would have distressed the editor of the _Tailor and
Cutter_.
“’Scuse these duds,” he said. “Me man’s bin an’ mislaid de trunk wit me
best suit in. Dis is me number two.”
“Don’t mention it, Spike,” said Jimmy. “You look a perfect _matinee_
idol. Have a drink?”
Spike’s eyes gleamed as he reached for the decanter. He took a seat.
“Cigar, Spike?”
“Sure. T’anks, boss.”
Jimmy lit his pipe. Spike, after a few genteel sips, threw off his
restraint and finished the rest of his glass at a gulp.
“Try another?” suggested Jimmy.
Spike’s grin showed that the idea had been well received.
Jimmy sat and smoked in silence for a while. He was thinking the thing
over. He felt like a detective who has found a clue. At last he would be
able to discover the name of the _Mauretania_ girl. The discovery would
not take him very far, certainly, but it would be something. Possibly
Spike might even be able to fix the position of the house they had
broken into that night.
Spike was looking at him over his glass with silent admiration. This
flat, which Jimmy had rented for a year, in the hope that the possession
of a fixed abode might help to tie him down to one spot, was handsomely,
even luxuriously, furnished. To Spike every chair and table in the room
had a romance of its own as having been purchased out of the proceeds of
that New Asiatic Bank robbery, or from the revenue accruing from the
Duchess of Havent’s jewels. He was dumb with reverence for one who could
make burglary pay to this extent. In his own case the profession had
rarely provided anything more than bread and butter and an occasional
trip to Coney Island.
Jimmy caught his eye, and spoke.
“Well, Spike,” he said. “Curious that we should meet like this?”
“De limit,” agreed Spike.
“I can’t imagine you three thousand miles from New York. How do you know
the cars still run both ways on Broadway?”
A wistful look came into Spike’s eyes.
“I t’ought it was time I give old Lunnon a call. T’ings was getting too
fierce in Noo York. De cops was layin’ for me. Dey didn’t seem like as
if they had any use for me. So I beat it.”
“Bad luck,” said Jimmy.
“Fierce,” agreed Spike.
“Do you know, Spike,” said Jimmy, “I spent a great deal of time before I
left New York looking for you.”
“Gee, I wish you’d found me. And did youse want me to help on some lay,
boss?”
“Well, no, not that. Do you remember that night we broke into that house
up-town—the police-captain’s house?”
“Sure.”
“What was his name?”
“What, de cop’s? Why, McEachern, boss.”
“Mac what? How do you spell it?”
“Search me,” said Spike, simply.
“Say it again. Fill your lungs and enunciate slowly and clearly. Be
bell-like. Now.”
“McEachern.”
“Ah! And where was the house? Can you remember that?”
Spike’s forehead wrinkled.
“It’s gone,” he said at last. “It was somewheres up some street up de
town.”
“That’s a lot of help,” said Jimmy. “Try again.”
“It’ll come back some time, boss, sure.”
“Then I’m going to keep an eye on you till it does. Just for the moment
you’re the most important man in the world to me. Where are you living?”
“Me? Why, in de Park. Dat’s right. One of dem swell detached benches wit
a southern exposure.”
“Well, unless you prefer it, you needn’t sleep in the Park any more. You
can pitch your moving tent with me.”
“What, here, boss?”
“Unless we move.”
“Me fer dis,” said Spike, rolling luxuriously in his chair.
“You’ll want some clothes,” said Jimmy. “We’ll get those to-morrow.
You’re the sort of figure they can fit off the peg. You’re not too tall,
which is a good thing.”
“Bad t’ing for me, boss. If I’d bin taller I’d have stood for being a
cop, and bin buying a brown-stone house on Fifth Avenue by this. It’s de
cops makes de big money in little old Manhattan, dat’s who it is.”
“The man who knows!” said Jimmy. “Tell me more, Spike. I suppose a good
many of the New York force do get rich by graft?”
“Sure. Look at old man McEachern.”
“I wish I could. Tell me about him, Spike. You seemed to know him pretty
well.”
“Me? Sure. Dere wasn’t a worse grafter dan him in de bunch. He was out
for the dough all the time. But, say, did youse ever see his girl?”
“What’s that?” said Jimmy sharply.
“I seen her once.” Spike became almost lyrical in his enthusiasm. “Gee,
she was a bird. A peach for fair. I’d have left me happy home for her.
Molly was her monaker. She——”
Jimmy was glaring at him.
“Drop it!” he cried.
“What’s dat, boss?” said Spike.
“Cut it out!” said Jimmy savagely.
Spike looked at him amazed.
“Sure,” he said, puzzled, but realising that his words had not pleased
the great man.
Jimmy chewed the stem of his pipe irritably, while Spike, full of
excellent intentions, sat on the edge of his chair drawing sorrowfully
at his cigar and wondering what he had done to give offence.
“Boss?” said Spike.
“Halloa!”
“Boss, what’s doin’ here? Put me next to de game. Is it de old lay?
Banks and jools from duchesses! You’ll be able to let me sit in on de
game, won’t you?”
“I’d quite forgotten I hadn’t told you about myself, Spike. I’ve
retired.”
The horrid truth sank slowly into the other’s mind.
“Say! What’s dat, boss? You’re cuttin’ it out?”
“That’s it. Absolutely.”
“Ain’t youse swiping no more jools?”
“Not me.”
“Nor usin’ de what’s-its-name blow-pipe?”
“I have sold my oxyacetylene blow-pipe, given away my anaesthetics, and
am going to turn over a new leaf and settle down as a respectable
citizen.”
Spike gasped. His world had fallen about his ears. His excursion with
Jimmy, the master cracksman, in New York had been the highest and
proudest memory of his life, and now that he had met him again in
London, he had looked forward to a long and prosperous partnership in
crime. He was content that his own share in the partnership should be
humble. It was enough for him to be connected, however humbly, with such
a master. He had looked upon the richness of London, and he had said
with Blucher, “What a city to loot!”
And here was his idol shattering his visions with a word.
“Have another drink, Spike,” said the Lost Leader sympathetically. “It’s
a shock to you, I expect.”
“I t’ought, boss——”
“I know, I know. These are life’s tragedies. I’m very sorry for you; but
it can’t be helped.”
Spike sat silent, with a long face. Jimmy slapped him on the shoulder.
“Cheer up,” he said. “How do you know that living honestly may not be
splendid fun? Numbers of people do it, you know, and enjoy themselves
tremendously. You must give it a trial, Spike.”
“Me, boss? What, me too?”
“Rather. You’re my link with——I don’t want to have you remembering that
address in the second month of a ten-year spell at Dartmoor. I’m going
to look after you, Spike, my son, like a lynx. We’ll go out together and
see life. Buck up, Spike! Be cheerful! Grin!”
After a moment’s reflection the other grinned, howbeit faintly.
“That’s right,” said Jimmy. “We’ll go into society, Spike, hand in hand.
You’ll be a terrific success in society. All you have to do is to look
cheerful, brush your hair, and keep your hands off the spoons, for in
the best circles they invariably count them after the departure of the
last guest.”
“Sure,” said Spike, as one who thoroughly understood this sensible
precaution.
“And now,” said Jimmy, “we’ll be turning in. Can you manage sleeping on
the sofa one night? Some fellows would give their bed up to you.
However, I’ll have a bed made up for you to-morrow.”
“Me!” said Spike. “Gee! I’ve been sleepin’ in de Park all de last week.
Dis is to de good, boss.”
★ 11 ★
_At the Turn of the Road_
On the morning after the meeting at the Savoy when Jimmy, having sent
Spike off to the tailor’s, was dealing with a combination of breakfast
and lunch at his flat, Lord Dreever called.
“Thought I should find you in,” observed his lordship. “Well, laddie,
how goes it? Having breakfast? Eggs _and_ bacon! Great Scot, I couldn’t
touch a thing!”
The statement was borne out by his looks. The son of a hundred earls was
pale, and his eyes were markedly fish-like.
“A fellow I’ve got stopping with me—taking him down to Dreever with me
to-day—man I met at the club—fellow named Hargate. Don’t know if you
know him? No? Well, he was still up when I got back last night, and we
stayed up playing pills—he’s rotten at pills; something frightful; I
give him thirty—till five this morning. I feel frightfully cheap.
Wouldn’t have got up at all, only I’m due to catch the two-fifteen down
to Dreever. It’s the only good train.”
He dropped into a chair.
“Sorry you don’t feel up to breakfast,” said Jimmy, helping himself to
marmalade. “I am generally to be found among those lining up when the
gong goes. I’ve breakfasted on a glass of water and a bag of bird-seed
in my time. That sort of thing makes you ready to take whatever you can
get. Seen the papers?”
“Thanks.”
Jimmy finished his breakfast and lit a pipe. Lord Dreever laid down the
paper.
“I say,” he said, “what I came round about was this. What have you got
on just now?”
Jimmy had imagined that his friend had dropped in to return the
five-pound note he had borrowed, but his lordship maintained a complete
reserve on the subject. Jimmy was to discover later that this weakness
of memory where financial obligations were concerned was a leading trait
in Lord Dreever’s character.
“To-day, do you mean?” said Jimmy.
“Well, in the near future. What I mean is, why not put off that Japan
trip you spoke about and come down to Dreever with me?”
Jimmy reflected. After all, Japan or Dreever, it made very little
difference. And it would be interesting seeing a place about which he
had read so much.
“That’s very good of you,” he said. “You’re sure it will be all right?
It won’t be upsetting your arrangements?”
“Not a bit. The more the merrier. Can’t you catch the two-fifteen? It’s
fearfully short notice.”
“Heavens, yes. I can pack in ten minutes. Thanks very much.”
“Stout fellow. There’ll be shooting and all that sort of rot. Oh! by the
way, are you any good at acting? I mean, I believe there are going to be
private theatricals of sorts. A man called Charteris is getting them up.
Cambridge man; belongs to the Footlights. Always getting up theatricals.
Rot, I call it; but you can’t stop him. Do you do anything in that
line?”
“Put me down for what you like, from Emperor of Morocco to Confused
Noise Without. I was on the stage once. I’m particularly good at
shifting scenery.”
“Good for you. Well, so long. Two-fifteen from Paddington, remember.
I’ll meet you there. I’ve got to go and see a fellow now.”
“I’ll look out for you.”
A sudden thought occurred to Jimmy. Spike! He had forgotten Spike for
the moment. It was vital that the Bowery boy should not be lost sight of
again. He was the one link with the little house somewhere beyond One
Hundred and Fiftieth Street. He could not leave the Bowery boy at the
flat. A vision rose in his mind of Spike alone in London with Savoy
Mansions as a base for his operations. No; Spike must be transplanted to
the country. He could not seem to see Spike in the country. His boredom
would probably be pathetic. But it was the only way.
Lord Dreever facilitated matters.
“By the way, Pitt,” he said, “you’ve got a man of sorts, of course? One
of those frightful fellows who forget to pack your collars! Bring him
along, of course.”
“Thanks,” said Jimmy. “I will.”
The matter had scarcely been settled when the door opened and revealed
the subject of discussion. Wearing a broad grin of mingled pride and
bashfulness, and looking very stiff and awkward in one of the brightest
tweed suits ever seen off the stage, Spike stood for a moment in the
doorway to let his appearance sink into the spectator; then advanced
into the room.
“How do dese strike you, boss?” he inquired genially, as Lord Dreever
gaped in astonishment at this bright being.
“Pretty nearly blind, Spike,” said Jimmy. “What made you get those? We
use electric light here.”
Spike was full of news.
“Say, boss, dat clothing-store’s a willy wonder, sure. De old mug what
showed me round give me de frozen face when I came in foist. ‘What’s
doin’?’ he says. ‘To de woods wit you! git de hook!’ But I hands out de
plunks you give me, an’ tells him how I’m here to get a dude suit, an’
gee! if he don’t haul out suits by de mile. Give me a toist, it did,
watching him. ‘It’s up to youse,’ says de mug. ‘Choose somet’ing. You
pays de money, an’ we does de rest.’ So I says dis is de one, and I put
down de plunks, an’ here I am, boss.”
“I noticed that, Spike,” said Jimmy. “I could see you in the dark.”
“Don’t you like de duds, boss?” inquired Spike anxiously.
“They’re the last word,” said Jimmy. “You’d make Solomon in all his
glory look like a tramp cyclist.”
“Dat’s right,” agreed Spike. “Dey’se de limit.”
And, apparently oblivious to the presence of Lord Dreever, who had been
watching him in blank silence since his entrance, the Bowery boy
proceeded to execute a mysterious shuffling dance on the carpet.
This was too much for the overwrought brain of his lordship.
“Good-bye, Pitt,” he said; “I’m off. Got to see a man.”
Jimmy saw him to the door.
Outside, Lord Dreever placed the palm of his right hand on his forehead.
“I say, Pitt,” he said.
“Halloa!”
“Who the devil’s that?”
“Who? Spike? Oh, that’s my man.”
“Your man! Is he always like that?—I mean going on like a frightful
music-hall comedian, dancing, you know? And, I say, what on earth
language was that he was talking? I couldn’t understand one word in
ten.”
“Oh, that’s American—the Bowery variety.”
“Oh! Well, I suppose it’s all right if you understand it. I can’t. By
Gad!” he broke off, with a chuckle, “I’d give something to see him
talking to old Saunders, our butler at home. He’s got the manners of a
duke.”
“Spike should revise those,” said Jimmy.
“What do you call him?”
“Spike.”
“Rummy name, isn’t it?”
“Fashionable in the States; short for Algernon.”
“He seemed pretty chummy.”
“That’s his independent bringing-up. They’re all like that in America.”
“Jolly country.”
“You’d love it.”
“Well, so long.”
“So long.”
On the bottom step Lord Dreever halted.
“I say, I’ve got it!”
“Good for you; got what?”
“Why, I knew I’d seen that chap’s face somewhere before, only I couldn’t
place him. I’ve got him now. He’s the Johnny who came into the shelter
last night—chap you gave a quid to.”
Spike’s was one of those faces which, without being essentially
beautiful, stamp themselves on the memory.
“You’re quite right,” said Jimmy. “I was wondering if you would
recognise him. Would you prefer a cigar or a cocoanut? The fact is, he’s
a man I once employed over in New York, and when I came across him over
here he was so evidently wanting a bit of help that I took him on again.
As a matter of fact I needed somebody to look after my things, and Spike
can do it as well as anybody else.”
“I see. Not bad my spotting him, was it? Well, I must be off. Good-bye.
Two-fifteen at Paddington. Meet you there. Book for Dreever if you’re
there before me.”
“Right. Good-bye.”
Jimmy returned to the dining-room. Spike, who was examining as much as
he could of himself in the glass, turned round with his wonted grin.
“Say, who’s de gazebo, boss? Ain’t he de mug youse was wit last night?”
“That’s the man. We’re going down with him to the country to-day, Spike,
so be ready.”
“On your way, boss. What’s dat?”
“He has invited us to his country house, and we’re going.”
“What? Bote of us?”
“Yes. I told him you were my servant. I hope you aren’t offended.”
“Nit. What’s dere to be offended at, boss?”
“That’s all right. Well, we’d better be packing. We have to be at the
station at a quarter to two.”
“Sure.”
“And, Spike.”
“Yes, boss?”
“Did you get any other clothes besides what you’ve got on?”
“Nit. What do I want wit more dan one dude suit?”
“I approve of your rugged simplicity,” said Jimmy, “but what you’re
wearing is a town suit, excellent for the Park or the Marchioness’s
Thursday crush, but essentially metropolitan. You must get something
else for the country, something dark and quiet. I’ll come and help you
choose it, now.”
“Why, won’t dis go in de country?”
“Not on your life, Spike. It would unsettle the rustic mind. They’re
fearfully particular about that sort of thing in England.”
“Dey’s to de bad,” said the baffled disciple of Beau Brummell, with deep
discontent.
“And there’s just one thing more, Spike. I know you’ll excuse me
mentioning it. When we’re at Dreever Castle you will find yourself
within reach of a good deal of silver and other things. Would it be too
much to ask you to forget your professional instincts? I mentioned this
before in a general sort of way, but this is a particular case.”
“Ain’t I to get busy at all, den?” queried Spike.
“Not so much as a salt-spoon,” said Jimmy firmly. “Now we’ll whistle a
cab and go and choose you some more clothes.”
Accompanied by Spike, who came within an ace of looking almost
respectable in new blue serge (“small gent’s”—off the peg), Jimmy
arrived at Paddington with a quarter of an hour to spare. Lord Dreever
appeared ten minutes later, accompanied by a man of about Jimmy’s age.
He was tall and thin, with cold eyes and tight, thin lips. His clothes
fitted him in the way clothes do fit one man in a thousand. They were
the best part of him. His general appearance gave one the idea that his
meals did him little good, and his meditations rather less. He had
practically no conversation.
This was Lord Dreever’s friend Hargate—the Hon. Louis Hargate. Lord
Dreever made the two acquainted; but even as they shook hands Jimmy had
an impression that he had seen the man before, but where or in what
circumstances he could not remember. Hargate appeared to have no
recollection of him, so he did not mention the matter. A man who has led
a wandering life often sees faces which come back to him later on,
absolutely detached from their context. He might merely have passed Lord
Dreever’s friend in the street. But Jimmy had an idea that the other had
figured in some episode which at the moment had had an importance.
What that episode was had escaped him. He dismissed the thing from his
mind. It was not worth harrying his memory about.
Judicious tipping had secured them a compartment to themselves. Hargate,
having read the evening paper, went to sleep in the far corner. Jimmy
and Lord Dreever, who sat opposite one another, fell into a desultory
conversation.
At Reading Lord Dreever’s remarks took a somewhat intimate turn. Jimmy
was one of those men whose manner invites confidences. His lordship
began to unburden his soul of certain facts relating to the family.
“Have you ever met my Uncle Thomas?” he inquired. “You know Blunt’s
Stores? Well, he’s Blunt. It’s a company now, but he still runs it. He
married my aunt. You’ll meet him at Dreever.”
Jimmy said he would be delighted.
“I bet you won’t,” said the last of the Dreevers, with candour. “He’s a
frightful man—the limit. Always fussing round like a hen. Gives me a
fearful time, I can tell you. Look here, I don’t mind telling you—we’re
pals—he’s dead set on my marrying a rich girl.”
“Well, that sounds all right. There are worse hobbies. Any particular
rich girl?”
“There’s always one. He sticks me on to one after another. Quite nice
girls, you know, some of them, only I want to marry somebody else—that
girl you saw me with at the Savoy.”
“Why don’t you tell your uncle?”
“He’d have a fit. She hasn’t a penny. Nor have I, except what I get from
him. Of course, this is strictly between ourselves.”
“Of course.”