meditations tended to loosen certain moral tendencies in himself. He set
out on the morrow in a peculiarly equivocal frame of mind, wavering
between conflicting impulses, but already predisposed to temporize with
his conscience if by so doing he could advance what he considered to be
the larger issues of business considerations. These first concessions,
curiously enough, were not made at the instance of the great Mr. Clappe,
however, but at that of a certain Mr. Cherish whom he met during that
day. He was a breezy, amiable person, and the manager of the
International Hardwood Company. He was just going out to lunch as Mr.
Pinwell called, and being in a particularly buoyant mood, owing to a
successful business deal, he took hold of our hero’s arm and drew him
into the street. As they walked along he asked what it was that Pinwell
wanted, and that gentleman immediately expatiated on the virtues of the
goods he had at his disposal. While talking he found himself almost
unconsciously led into the bar of a public-house called “The Queen of
Roumania.” And when asked by Mr. Cherish, “What he was going to have,” a
sudden desperate instinct of adventure came over him, and he called for
whisky. When it was brought he drank it in little sips, and thought it
the most detestable drink he had ever tasted. But he determined to see
the matter through, and salved his conscience with the reflection that
it was just “in the way of business.” He certainly had to acknowledge
that after drinking it he felt a certain elevated sense of assurance. He
talked to Mr. Cherish quite unselfconsciously and listened to him with
concentrated attention. This mental attitude was quickened by the
discovery that Mr. Cherish was actually in need of certain embroideries
that Dollbones were in a position to supply. It would be quite a big
order. He promised to bring samples of the embroideries on the following
day, and took his departure. During the afternoon he felt a sudden
reaction from the whisky and was very tired. He went home early,
complaining to his wife of “a bad headache, as though something had
disagreed with him.” Nevertheless the prospect of securing the order for
the embroideries excited him considerably, and he went so far as to tell
her that he hoped things were soon going to take a turn for the better.
He arrived at his appointment the next day to the minute, carrying a
very heavy valise stuffed with machine embroideries. He was kept waiting
by Mr. Cherish for nearly an hour, and was then ushered into his
presence. Mr. Cherish was still in a very jovial mood and had another
gentleman with him. He shook Mr. Pinwell’s hand and immediately told him
three obscene stories that he had just heard--Mr. Cherish was reputed to
have the largest repertoire of obscene stories in the trade--and the
other gentleman also told two. Pinwell laughed at them to the best of
his ability, although they did not appear to him to be particularly
humorous. He then felt peculiarly uncomfortable in that for the life of
him he could not think of a story in reply. He never could remember
these stories. So he opened his valise and displayed the tapestries. The
other two gentlemen took a desultory interest in them as tapestries, but
a rapacious interest in them as regards value. They were figured
tapestries and the price was four pounds seventeen and sixpence a yard.
Mr. Cherish mentioned casually that they would want about seventy
yards. And then Mr. Pinwell made the rapidest mental calculation he had
ever made in his life. Seventy yards at £4,17_s._ 6_d._ would be
£341,5_s._ which, at two per cent, would mean just on seven pounds for
himself! It was dazzling! Seven gold sovereigns! However, the order was
not yet given. The two gentlemen talked about it at some length, and
looked up other quotations. At last Mr. Cherish said:
“Well, I think we’ll go and see what the ‘Queen of Roumania’ has got up
her sleeve.”
Mr. Pinwell and the other gentleman laughed, and they all went out. Mr.
Pinwell dreaded the prospect of drinking more whisky, but--seven golden
sovereigns! enough to pay that bill of Batson’s and to buy the children
all the clothes they wanted! He knew in any case the etiquette of the
trade, and when they arrived in the resplendent bar it was he who
insisted on ordering “three Scotch whiskies and a split soda.” On the
arrival of these regenerating beverages the other two gentlemen resumed
their sequence of improper stories. And it was just after the glasses
had been re-charged at the instance of Mr. Cherish that he suddenly
recollected a story he had heard nearly twenty years ago. It was a
disgusting story, and it had impressed itself on his memory for the
reason that it struck him when he heard it as being so incredibly vulgar
that he could not understand how any one could appreciate it. But as he
neared the end of his second glass of whisky it suddenly flashed into
his mind that here was the story that Mr. Cherish and his friend would
like. He had by this time arrived at an enviable state of
unselfconsciousness, and he told the story as well as he had ever told
anything in his life. The result amazed him. The other two gentlemen
roared with laughter, and Mr. Cherish tilted his hat back and slapped
his leg.
“Gawd’s truth! that’s a damn good story, Pinwell!” he cried out several
times.
Other people came into the bar, and Mr. Pinwell found himself something
of a hero. Every one seemed to know Mr. Cherish, and he introduced him,
and on several occasions said, “I say, Pinwell, tell Mr. Watson that
story about the sea captain.”
The story was an unqualified success, and seemed in some way to endear
him to Mr. Cherish. That gentleman became more confidential and
confiding, and they talked about business.
Mr. Pinwell believed he drank four whiskies-and-sodas that afternoon. In
any case, he arrived home feeling very bilious and ill. He told his wife
he had felt faint, and had taken some brandy--“Thank heaven,” he
thought, “she doesn’t know the difference in smell between brandy and
whisky!” He said he would go to bed at once, he thought, and he kissed
her in rather a maudlin fashion, and said he knew she would be glad to
hear that he had that afternoon taken an order for £341--that would mean
nearly seven pounds to them! Enough to buy clothes for the children and
pay Batson’s bill; he laughed a little hysterically after that, and
rolled into bed.
On the following day he was very unwell and unable to get up, and Mrs.
Pinwell wrote to the firm and explained that her husband had got his
feet wet on his rounds and had contracted a chill. She also inclosed his
order-book.
It was three days before he was well enough to resume his rounds, and
then he avoided the company of Mr. Cherish and set out on a pilgrimage
to the meaner parts of the district. But the orders there seemed few
and far between, and a feeling of depression came over him.
On the 21st of the month he was bidden to the presence of Mr. Rodney.
That gentleman said that the firm was still dissatisfied with his
efforts, but on the strength of the order he had secured from the
International Hardwood Co. they were willing to keep him on for another
month’s trial. But unless at the end of that time he had secured further
orders of a similar nature, he must consider his engagement at an end.
It would be tedious and extremely disconcerting to follow the precise
movements of Thomas Pinwell during the ensuing four weeks. It need only
be said that, utterly discouraged by his lonely peregrinations in the
paths of honest effort, he eventually once more sought the society of
young Mr. Senner and Mr. Cherish. In their company he discovered what
might be called “a cheering fluidity.” He found that whisky made him so
ill that he simply could not drink it, but he drank ale, stout, brandy,
and gin. None of these things agreed with him, but he found that by
drinking as little as possible and ringing the changes on them he could
just manage to keep going. The direct result of this moral defection was
that his circle of business acquaintances increased at an enormous rate.
He gradually got to know the right place and the right hour to catch the
right people. His efforts on behalf of Messrs. Dollbones during the
following three months were eminently satisfactory, and his own
commissions amounted to no mean sum. Neither was his conscience
seriously affected by this change of habit. He considered it an
inevitable development of his own active progress “in the way of
business.” The very word “business” had a peculiarly mesmerizing effect
upon him. It was a fetish. He looked upon it as an acolyte might look
upon the dogma of some faith he blindly believed in. He believed that
people were in some mysterious way pale adjuncts to the idea that
whatever happens, “Business” must go on. He would stand in the corner of
the bar of “The Queen of Roumania” and look across the street at the
Camling Town public wash-houses, a mid-Victorian Gothic building in
stucco and red brick, and then, turning his mild watery eyes towards
Senner junior, he would say:
“It’s a wonderful thing--business, you know, Mr. Senner, a very
wonderful thing indeed. Now look at the wash-houses! They simply have
been the result of business. No progress is made, nothing is done except
through business. If it weren’t for business we should all be
Barbarians.”
And then he would take a little sip at the gin-and-water in front of
him.
After copious trials he found that gin affected him less than any of the
other drinks, so he stuck to that. He did not like it, but he found that
people simply would not do business with him in Camling Town unless he
drank and stood drinks. It was very trying, and the most trying part was
the necessity of concealing these aberrations from his wife. When he
first started he was conscious that he often returned home smelling of
the disgusting stuff. He tried cloves, but they were not very effective.
Then one day he had a brilliant inspiration. He was unwell again. It
happened very often now--at least once a week--and the doctor gave him
some medicine. Then it occurred to him that medicine might smell like
anything else. He would keep up the medicine. His wife was very
unsuspecting. He hated deceiving her. He had never deceived her about
anything, but he thought, “Women don’t understand business. It is for
her benefit that I take it.”
Sunday was a great joy to him. He would take the children out for a walk
in the morning while his wife cooked the dinner. In the afternoon he
would have a nap; but the greatest luxury of the day seemed to him that
he need drink nothing except water.
At the end of six months there came a proud day when Mr. Rodney informed
him that Mr. Hylam was quite satisfied with his progress, and his
ordinary salary was raised to two pounds. It was summertime, and the
accumulation of his commissions justified the family moving into larger
rooms, one of which was to be a bathroom. But Mr. Pinwell was beginning
to feel his health very much affected, and he looked forward with
intense avidity to the two weeks’ holiday which was his due in
September. In July he achieved a great triumph. He met and got into the
good graces of the great Mr. Clappe. As Senner junior predicted, that
gentleman had quite forgotten their previous meeting, and it happened in
the company of the good Mr. Cherish. They all met in the bar of “The
Cormorant,” and after several drinks Cherish said:
“I say, Pinwell, tell Mr. Clappe that story about the sea captain!”
Mr. Pinwell complied, and when he had finished he saw the shiny bags of
flesh on Mr. Clappe’s face shaking. He was evidently very much amused,
although his eyes looked hard and tired. He said hoarsely:
“Damn good! What’s yours?”
Mr. Pinwell did not fail on this occasion, and asked for some gin. And
directly he noticed that the great man’s glass was nearly empty, he
insisted on ordering some more all round. He found Mr. Clappe an
expensive client. He drank prodigiously, in a splendid nonchalant
manner, hardly noticing it, or taking any interest in who paid for it.
It took Mr. Pinwell several weeks, and cost him the price of several
whole bottles of whisky, before he became sufficiently established in
favor to solicit orders. But once having arrived there, the rest was
easy, for Mr. Clappe had the reputation of being “loyal to his pals,”
and he had the power of placing very large orders.
There came a day when Mr. Pinwell received an order for over eight
hundred pounds’ worth of goods, and for the first time in his life he
got very drunk. He arrived home in a cab very late at night and was just
conscious enough to tell his wife that he had been taken ill, and some
one had given him some brandy, and it had gone to his head. She helped
him to bed, and seemed rather surprised and alarmed.
On the following day he was very ill, and a doctor was sent for. He
examined him carefully, and looked stern. Out in the hall he said to
Mrs. Pinwell:
“Excuse me, Mrs. Pinwell, but does your husband drink rather a lot?”
“Drink!” exclaimed the lady. “My Tom!... Why, he’s practically a
teetotaler.”
The doctor looked at her thoughtfully and murmured, “Oh!” Then, as he
turned to go, he said:
“Well, we’ll pull him through this, I hope, but he must be very careful.
You must advise him never to touch alcohol in any form. It’s poison to
him,” and he left Mrs. Pinwell speechless with indignation.
Mr. Pinwell’s illness proved more obstinate than was anticipated, and it
was some weeks before he was well enough to get about. When he arrived
at that stage the firm of Dollbones were considerate enough to suggest
that he might take his holiday earlier than had been arranged, and go
away at once.
Consequently, on a certain fine morning in August, Mr. and Mrs. Pinwell,
with the two children, set out for a fortnight’s holiday to Herne Bay.
The firm paid his salary while he was away, and in addition he had now
nearly thirty-five pounds in the bank, and all his debts were paid. It
was many years since the family had been in such an affluent position,
and everything pointed to the prospect of a joyous and beneficial time.
And so indeed, to a large extent, it was. Mr. Pinwell felt very shaky
when he arrived, and he spent most of his time sitting in a deck chair
on the sands, watching the children, while his wife sat on the sands by
his side, sewing. The fresh breezes from the Channel made him very
sleepy at first, but he gradually got used to them. It was extremely
pleasant sitting there listening to the waves breaking on the shore and
watching the white sails of yachts gliding hither and thither; very
pleasant and very refreshing. It was only after some days that when he
was left alone a certain moroseness came over him. He could not explain
this to himself; it seemed so unreasonable. But he felt a curious and
restless desire and an irritability. These moods became more pronounced
as the week advanced, in spite of the fact that his strength returned to
him. He had moods when he wished to be alone and the children tired him.
On the fifth day, he and his wife were strolling up from the beach late
in the afternoon, and they were nearing their lodgings when he suddenly
said:
“I think I’ll just stroll round and get a paper.”
“Oh! Shall I come with you?” his wife asked.
“No, no, my dear. Don’t. Er--I’ll just stroll round by myself--”
He seemed so anxious to go by himself that she did not insist, and he
sauntered round the corner. He looked back to see that she had gone in,
and then he walked rather more quickly round into the High Street. He
hummed to himself and glanced rather furtively at the contents of the
newspaper bills, then, after looking up and down the street, he suddenly
darted into the saloon bar of the principal hotel....
After his second glass of gin-and-water a feeling of comfortable
security crept over him. After all, it was a very ingratiating
atmosphere this, ingratiating and sociable. He glanced round the bar and
carried on a brief but formal conversation with a florid individual
standing near him. He hesitated for a moment whether he would tell him
the story about the sea captain, but on second thoughts decided to
reserve it to a more intimate occasion. Besides, he must not be away
long.
After that it became a habit with Mr. Pinwell for the rest of the
holiday for him at some time during the day, and occasionally twice or
three times during the day, to “go for a stroll round by himself.” His
wife never for one moment suspected the purpose of these wanderings,
though she was informed that he was taking another bottle of the
medicine.
When they returned to town Mr. Pinwell certainly seemed better and more
eager about his work. It may be that he had the measure of his
constitution more under control. He knew what was the least damaging
drink he could take, and he knew how much he dare consume without
immediately disastrous results. He gradually became a well-known
habitué of all the best-known saloon bars in the neighborhood of his
rounds. His character altered. He always remained mild and unassertive,
but his face became pinched and thin, and he began to enjoy the
reputation of being a “knowing one.” He did not make a fortune in his
solicitations for orders for gimp, trimmings, buttons, and embroidery,
but he certainly earned a very fair competence. In two years’ time he
was entirely intimate with every buyer of importance in the Camling Town
district and out as far as the “Teck Arms” at Highgate. The family still
occupied the larger rooms (with the bathroom) that they had moved to,
and both the girls attended the Camling Town Collegiate School for
Girls, and showed every promise of being worthy and attractive members
of society.
It was not till the end of the second year that two events following
rapidly on each other’s heels tended to disturb the normal conditions
of the Pinwell family. A letter arrived one day from a lawyer. It
appeared that a brother of Mr. Pinwell’s whom he had not seen for twelve
years, and who had owned a farm in Northamptonshire, had died intestate.
He was not married, and Tom Pinwell was his only living relative. Under
the circumstances he inherited the whole of his brother’s property. When
this had been assessed it was proved to be worth £140 per year. Needless
to say this news brought great joy to the traveler’s family. Visions of
great splendor opened out before them, wealth, comfort, security. The
day after the settlement was made, Tom Pinwell entertained Mr. Cherish,
Mr. Clappe, and a few others of his friends to a supper at “The Queen of
Roumania,” and the next day he was taken very ill. He lay in a critical
state for ten days, nursed with a sort of feline intensity by his wife.
The doctor then said that he might recover--he was a different doctor to
the one who had so exasperated Mrs. Pinwell with his outrageous
suggestions--but that he would be an invalid all his life. He would have
to live on special food and must not touch either sweets or alcohol in
any form.
On a certain evening Mr. Pinwell showed traces of convalescence and was
allowed to sit up in bed. His wife as usual sat by his bedside,
knitting. He seemed more cheerful than he had ever been before, and Mrs.
Pinwell took the opportunity of saying:
“What a blessing it is, dear, about this money!”
“Yes, dear,” answered her spouse.
“Do you know, Tom,” she said suddenly, “there is a thing I’ve wanted to
do all my life. And now perhaps is the opportunity.”
“What is that, my dear?”
“To go and live in the country.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Think of it! When you’re better, we can go and get a little cottage
somewhere, with a bit of a garden, you know--grow our own vegetables and
that. You can live fine in some parts of the country for £140 a year.
You’ll be able to give up this nasty tiring old business. It’ll be
lovely.”
“Yes, my dear.”
Mr. Pinwell’s voice sounded rather faint, and she busied herself with
his beef-tea. Nothing more was said about the idea that night. But
gradually, as he got stronger, Mrs. Pinwell enlarged on the idea. She
talked about the flowers they could grow, and the economy of having your
own fowls and potatoes. It would have to be right in the country, but
not _too_ far from a village or town, so that the girls could continue
their schooling and meet other girls. To all of this Mr. Pinwell agreed
faintly, and he even made a suggestion that he thought Surrey was nicer
than Buckinghamshire.
Mr. Pinwell was confined to his bedroom for nearly two months. And then
one day a letter came from Messrs. Dollbones. It was to say that in view
of the short time that Mr. Pinwell had been in their service they could
not see their way to continue paying his salary after the end of the
month, unless he were well enough to continue his work.
Mrs. Pinwell said:
“No, and they needn’t continue to pay it at all, for all we care!”
A troubled look came over her husband’s face, and he said:
“Um--they’ve treated me very well, Emma, very well indeed. There’s many
firms don’t pay their employees at all when they’re ill.”
“Well, then, they jolly well ought to,” answered Mrs. Pinwell. “People
get ill through doing the firm’s work.”
Mr. Pinwell sniffed. It was the one subject upon which he and his wife
were inclined to differ. Mrs. Pinwell did not understand business; she
had no reverence for it.
By the end of the month Mr. Pinwell was up again and going for short
walks up and down the street. One day he said:
“Let me see, my dear--next Thursday is the first of the new month, isn’t
it?”
“Yes,” answered Mrs. Pinwell. “And thank goodness you haven’t got to go
back to that horrid old business!”
Mr. Pinwell said nothing at the time, but a few hours later he said:
“Er--I’ve been thinking, my dear. I rather think I ought perhaps
to--er--to try and see if I could go for a little while on Thursday. You
see, the firm have treated me very generously, very generously
indeed--and--er--business is business.”
“What does it matter?” answered his wife. “I’m sure they’ve got some one
else doing your job by now. Besides, you’re not strong enough.”
Mr. Pinwell fidgeted with his watch-chain and walked up the street.
During the next two days Mrs. Pinwell could tell that he was fretting.
He seemed distracted and inclined to be irritable. He gave
demonstrations of his walking powers and stayed out longer and moved
more quickly. He got into such a state on the Wednesday evening, that in
a weak moment Mrs. Pinwell made the mistake of her life.
She agreed that he might try and go the next day just for an hour or so,
but he was to come home directly he felt tired.
Tom started out on the Thursday morning, and he seemed in a great state
of elation. In spite of his weakness he insisted on taking one of his
bags of samples. He walked more quickly down the street than she had
seen him walk for a long time. Mrs. Pinwell then turned to her household
duties. She was disappointed, but not entirely surprised, that her
husband did not come home to lunch, but at half-past three a sudden
curious feeling of alarm came over her. She tried to reason with herself
that it was all nonsense; nothing had happened, Tom was a little
late--that was all. But her reason quailed before some more insidious
sense of calamity. The children came home from school at a quarter-past
four, and still he had not returned. She gave them their tea and somehow
their gay chatter irritated her for the first time. She would not convey
to them her sense of fear. She washed up the tea-things and busied
herself in the house.
It was a quarter to six when Tom came home. He staggered into the hall.
His eyes had a strange look she had not seen before. He was trembling
violently. She did not ask any questions. She took his arm and led him
into the bedroom and untied his collar and tie. He lay on the bed and
his teeth chattered. She got him a hot-water bottle and gradually
undressed him. Then she sent one of the girls for the doctor.
In the meantime he started talking incoherently, although he repeated on
one or two occasions, “I’ve taken another bottle of the medicine, Emm’.”
The doctor was on duty in the surgery when the child called, and he did
not come round till half-past eight.
When he looked at Pinwell and took his pulse, he said:
“What’s he been doing?”
“He’s been out,” said Mrs. Pinwell. “He said he’d taken another bottle
of the medicine.”
“Medicine? what medicine?” The doctor seemed to examine the lips of the
sick man very closely, then he shook his head. He turned to Mrs. Pinwell
as though he were going to make a statement, then he changed his mind.
It did not require any great astuteness to determine from the doctor’s
face that the case was critical. He gave the patient a powder, and after
a few instructions to Mrs. Pinwell he went, and said he would return
later in the evening. After the doctor had gone, Mr. Pinwell was
delirious for an hour, and then he sank into a deep sleep. The doctor
returned just after eleven. He examined him and said that nothing more
could be done that night. He would return in the morning. In the
meantime, if things took a more definite turn, they could send for him.
Tom Pinwell lay unconscious for nearly twenty-four hours, sometimes
mumbling feverishly, at other times falling into a deep coma. But
suddenly, late on the following evening, he seemed to alter. His face
cleared, and he sighed peacefully. Mrs. Pinwell noticed the change and
she went up close to the bed. He looked at her and said suddenly:
“I don’t think it would do, my dear, to go and live in the country.”
“No, no, dear; all right. We’ll live where you like.”
“You see,” he said after a pause, “business has to be gone through....
There was Judkins & Co., they treated me very fair, then they went
bankrupt. It was very unfortunate, very unfortunate indeed.... I
wouldn’t like these people--what’s their name, Emma?...”
“Dollbones.”
“Ah, yes, Dollbones!... Dollbones. No, I wouldn’t like them to think I’d
let them in like. Just because I had a little money.... It’s a very
serious thing--business....”
Mr. Pinwell seemed about to say something, but he smiled instead and
looked up at the ceiling. He became very still after that, and Mrs.
Pinwell placed a book so that the candle-light should not shine on his
face. All through the night she sat there watching and doing the little
things the doctor had told her to. But he was very still. Once he
sighed, and on another occasion she thought he said: