"It will," thought Jerry Garnet grimly, "but it will have to go on
wanting as far as I'm concerned."
The next entry he found was a perfectly inscrutable lyric outburst.
There are moments of annoyance,
Void of every kind of joyance,
In the complicated course of Man's affairs;
But the very worst of any
He experiences when he
Meets a young, but active, lion on the stairs.
Sentiment unexceptionable. But as to the reason for the existence of
the fragment, his mind was a blank. He shut the book impatiently. It
was plain that no assistance was to be derived from it.
His thoughts wandered back to the idea of leaving London. London might
have suited Dr. Johnson, but he had come to the conclusion that what
he wanted to enable him to give the public of his best (as the
reviewer of the _Academy_, dealing with his last work, had expressed a
polite hope that he would continue to do) was country air. A farmhouse
by the sea somewhere ... cows ... spreading boughs ... rooks ...
brooks ... cream. In London the day stretches before a man, if he has
no regular and appointed work to do, like a long, white, dusty road.
It seems impossible to get to the end of it without vast effort. But
in the country every hour has its amusements. Up with the lark.
Morning dip. Cheery greetings. Local color. Huge breakfast. Long
walks. Flannels. The ungirt loin. Good, steady spell of work from
dinner till bedtime. The prospect fascinated him. His third novel was
already in a nebulous state in his brain. A quiet week or two in the
country would enable him to get it into shape.
He took from the pocket of his blazer a letter which had arrived some
days before from an artist friend of his who was on a sketching tour
in Devonshire and Somerset. There was a penciled memorandum on the
envelope in his own handwriting:
_Mem._ Might work K. L.'s story about M. and the W--s's into comic
yarn for one of the weeklies.
He gazed at this for a while, with a last hope that in it might be
contained the germ of something which would enable him to turn out a
morning's work; but having completely forgotten who K. L. was, and
especially what was his (or her) story about M., whoever he (or she)
might be, he abandoned this hope and turned to the letter in the
envelope.
The earlier portions of the letter dealt tantalizingly with the
scenery. "Bits," come upon by accident at the end of disused lanes and
transferred with speed to canvas, were described concisely but with
sufficient breadth to make Garnet long to see them for himself. There
were brief _résumés_ of dialogues between Lickford (the writer) and
weird rustics. The whole letter breathed of the country and the open
air. The atmosphere of Garnet's sitting room seemed to him to become
stuffier with every sentence he read.
The postscript interested him.
"... By the way, at Yeovil I came across an old friend of yours.
Stanley Featherstonhaugh Ukridge, of all people. As large as
life--quite six foot two, and tremendously filled out. I thought he
was abroad. The last I heard of him was that he had started for Buenos
Ayres in a cattle-ship. It seems he has been in England sometime. I
met him in the refreshment room at Yeovil station. I was waiting for a
down train; he had changed on his way to town. As I opened the door I
heard a huge voice in a more or less violent altercation, and there
was S. F. U., in a villainous old suit of gray flannels (I'll swear it
was the same one that he had on last time I saw him), and a
mackintosh, though it was a blazing hot day. His pince-nez were tacked
onto his ears with wire as usual. He greeted me with effusive shouts,
and drew me aside. Then after a few commonplaces of greeting, he
fumbled in his pockets, looked pained and surprised.
"'Look here, Licky,' he said. 'You know I never borrow. It's against
my principles. But I _must_ have a shilling, or I'm a ruined man. I
seem to have had my pocket picked by some scoundrelly blackguard. Can
you, my dear fellow, oblige me with a shilling until next Tuesday
afternoon at three-thirty? I never borrow, so I'll tell you what I'll
do. I'll let you have this (producing a beastly little three-penny-bit
with a hole in it) until I can pay you back. This is of more value to
me than I can well express, Licky, my boy. A very, very dear friend
gave it to me when we parted, years ago. It's a wrench to part with
it. But grim necessity ... I can hardly do it.... Still, no, no, ...
you must take it, you must take it. Licky, old man, shake hands!
Shake hands, my boy!'
"He then asked after you, and said you were the noblest man--except
me--on earth. I gave him your address, not being able to get out of
it, but if I were you I should fly while there is yet time."
"That," said Jerry Garnet, "is the soundest bit of advice I've heard.
I will."
"Mrs. Medley," he said, when that lady made her appearance.
"Sir?"
"I'm going away for a few weeks. You can let the rooms if you like.
I'll drop you a line when I think of coming back."
"Yes, sir. And your letters. Where shall I send them, sir?"
"Till further notice," said Jerry Garnet, pulling out a giant
portmanteau from a corner of the room and flinging it open, "care of
the Dalai Lama, No. 3 Younghusband Terrace, Tibet."
"Yes, sir," said Mrs. Medley placidly.
"I'll write you my address to-night. I don't know where I'm going yet.
Is that an A. B. C. over there? Good. Give my love to that bright
young spirit on the top floor, and tell him that I hope my not being
here to listen won't interfere in any way with his morning popular
concerts."
"Yes, sir."
"And, Mrs. Medley, if a man named ----"
Mrs. Medley had drifted silently away. During his last speech a
thunderous knocking had begun on the front door.
Jerry Garnet stood and listened, transfixed. Something seemed to tell
him who was at the business end of that knocker.
He heard Mrs. Medley's footsteps pass along the hall and pause at the
door. Then there was the click of the latch. Then a volume of sound
rushed up to him where he stood over his empty portmanteau.
"Is Mr. Garnet in?"
Mrs. Medley's reply was inaudible, but apparently in the affirmative.
"Where is he?" boomed the voice. "Show me the old horse. First floor.
Thank you. Where is the man of wrath?"
There followed a crashing on the stairs such as even the young
gentleman of the top floor had been unable to produce in his nocturnal
rovings. The house shook.
And with the tramping came the thunderous voice, as the visitor once
more gave tongue.
"Garnet! GARNET!! GARNET!!!"