I. FORMING THE NIGHT CLUB
II. THE COMING OF SALLIE
III. THE PRIME MINISTER DECIDES TO ADVERTISE
IV. THE BOY
V. THE BARABBAS CLUB
VI. I FAIL THE NIGHT CLUB
VII. A SURPRISE BEHIND THE VEIL
VIII. THE MAKING OF A MAN OF GENIUS
IX. MRS. BILTOX-JONES'S EXPERIMENT
X. THE NIGHT CLUB VISITS BINDLE
XI. THE GENERAL BECOMES A MEMBER
XII. THE MATER
XIII. THE ROMANCE OF A HORSEWHIPPING
XIV. GINGER VISITS THE NIGHT CLUB
XV. A DRAMATIC ENGAGEMENT
XVI. THE MOGGRIDGES' ZEPPELIN NIGHT
XVII. SALLIE AT THE WHEEL
*THE NIGHT CLUB*
*CHAPTER I*
*FORMING THE NIGHT CLUB*
The idea originated with Bindle, who is never so happy as when listening
to or telling a story. Sooner or later he will so guide conversation as
to challenge from someone a reminiscence, or failing that, he will
himself assume the burden of responsibility, and tell of how he
engineered one of his "little jokes," as he calls them.
"I likes to 'ear 'im tellin' the tale," Bindle remarked one evening, as
we sat in Dick Little's flat. Dick had just finished an extravagant and
highly-coloured account of an Oxford "rag." "Fancy young gentlemen
be'avin' like that," Bindle continued, "instead o' learnin' to be
parsons. P'raps that's why they looks such gentle Jims when they gets
into a stiff collar," and Bindle buried a wink in his tankard.
A number of us had formed the habit of drifting into Dick Little's flat
in Chelsea on Sunday evenings for a smoke, a drink and a yarn. That was
in Dick's bachelor days and when he was working night and day at "Tims"
(St. Timothy's Hospital). There would be Jocelyn Dare, the writer and
inveterate hater of publishers, Jack Carruthers, who tolerated everybody
except Mr. Lloyd George, sometimes Tom Little, Dick's brother, and about
a dozen others, including a lot of men from "Tims."
One Sunday evening in May, when the air was heavily-scented with
blackthorn and laburnum, Bindle and I arrived on Dick Little's doorstep
within two seconds of each other.
"Hullo, J.B.," I hailed as he was closing the outer door of the
mansions. We always call him "J.B.," following Dick Little's lead.
"Cheerio, sir," he responded, holding the door open for me to pass and,
giving vent to an elaborate sigh of relief, added: "I'm glad to get in,
that I am. I never feels safe till I gets 'ere. Lord! 'ow them young
women do make eyes at me. I s'pose it's the Spring. It ain't safe for
me to be out, it ain't really, sir."
We were the first arrivals, and it was during the next ten minutes that
Bindle made his proposal.
"Why shouldn't we 'ave a little club, sir, wot does nothink but tell the
tale?" he asked.
That was the inception of the whole idea. Dick grasped hold of it
eagerly. He is a doctor and doing his best to kill himself with
hospital work, and I think he saw in Bindle's suggestion a welcome
change after a strenuous week's work. We discussed the matter during
the next ten minutes, and, when the other fellows arrived, they were
told of the new order of things and, with one voice, acclaimed Bindle a
genius. It must be confessed that the men from "Tims" are unrivalled in
their capacity for acclamation--they revel in the robustious. It
frequently involves Dick Little in difficulties with his neighbours,
especially with a choleric old general who lives in the flat beneath.
"I always wanted a night club," explained Bindle when he had
disentangled his limbs from the eager hands that had hoisted him
shoulder-high. "It 'ud sort o' cheer Mrs. B. up to know that 'er ole
man was goin' to 'ell quicker than wot she thought."
After that it was always "The Night Club." We seemed to adopt the name
as a matter of course.
We arranged to meet on Sunday evenings at nine o'clock. Each member of
the Club was liable to be called upon to tell a story, after being given
a reasonable notice.
"Didn't we ought to 'ave rules, sir," enquired Bindle of Dick Little.
"Once you start making rules you are undone," broke in Tom Little, "for
you have to frame other rules to modify those already made. At
Oxford----"
"Is it to be a cock and hen club?" interrupted Carruthers.
"A cock an' wot club, sir?" enquired Bindle, pausing in the act of
lighting his pipe. "A cock an' wot club?"
"Are ladies to be----" Carruthers got no further. Bindle deliberately
replaced the match in the box, which with his pipe he returned to his
jacket pocket. Then with great solemnity and deliberation he rose and
walked towards the door.
"Hullo! J.B.," cried Dick Little. "What's up?"
"If you're goin' to 'ave 'ens, sir, this 'ere cock's off, see?"
"Come back, you silly ass," laughed Tom Little.
Bindle paused irresolutely and looked from face to face. "Is it 'ens or
no 'ens, sir?" he enquired of Dick Little.
"Why, no hens, of course," shouted Jim Colman, one of Tim's men, giving
Bindle a thump between the shoulders that would have made most men
wince.
"Right-o, gentlemen; then this 'ere cock withdraws 'is resignation, an'
all's serene again," and Bindle returned to his seat and the occupation
of kindling his pipe.
Thus it was that women were barred from the Night Club.
The first meeting, however, ended in a fiasco. A fellow named Roger
Blint had been called upon to tell a yarn, which proved him to be
utterly devoid of narrative skill. It was something about a man who was
jilted by a girl and, in consequence, went to the war, returning a few
months later with his breast a rainbow of ribbons and his pockets
jingling with medals, crosses and stars. We were all much depressed.
After the others had gone Bindle, Dick Little and I conferred together,
and it was decided by a majority of two to one that I was first to hear
the stories, write them out and read them to the club.
I protested that I was too busy; but Bindle had finally over-ruled my
expostulations.
"No, one ain't never too busy to do a little bit more," he said. "I
once 'ad a special kind o' performin' fleas, wot was the busiest things
I ever seen; yet they wasn't too busy to give me a nip or two now and
then. You got to do it, sir," and I felt I had.
We developed into a curiously motley crowd. One night Bindle brought
Ginger along, and Ginger had remarked "I don't 'old wiv them sort o'
clubs." He refused all other invitations. We had among us a retired
policeman, a man who kept a coffee-stall, Angell Herald, the famous
publicity agent, the Honourable Anthony Charles Windover (now Lord
Windover), and many others. Had we accepted all the nominations, we
should have been an uncomfortably mixed crowd. Dick Little was
particularly anxious to introduce a "Polish" barber whose name was
Schmidt, on the strength of his having exhibited in his shop-window the
following notice:--
"I am an alleged Russian subject,"
but we had blackballed the worthy Schmidt.
"Because a cove says a funny thing," remarked Bindle, "doesn't always
mean 'e's funny. Sometimes 'e can't 'elp it, poor chap."
As a result of the story about Sallie, Jack Carruthers' sister, she
became the only woman ever admitted to the Night Club. There was not a
man in the assembly but was desperately in love with her from the moment
he heard the tale. Never was a queen more deferred to and fussed over
than Sallie. To Bindle she was "the sport of sports." "She ain't
always flapping 'er petticoats," he said admiringly. "Yer wouldn't know
you 'ad a bit o' skirt 'ere except when yer looks at 'er face."
Bindle was Sallie's cavalier. If the atmosphere seemed to get too thick
with smoke, it was he who threw up the window, or propped open the door
until it cleared. When Jack Carruthers was not present, it was always
Bindle who put Sallie into her taxi; it was an understood thing. One
night the Boy, quite unthinkingly, endeavoured to usurp Bindle's
prerogative. Bindle had looked him up and down for a moment and
remarked cheerily: "All right, 'Mr. 'Indenburg,' you jest wait till I've
finished, then I'll come and take you 'ome."
Bindle is a journeyman pantechnicon-man, with an unquenchable thirst for
fun. He is small, bald-headed, red-nosed, cheery. To him life is one
long-drawn-out joke. He is blessed with a wife and brother-in-law
(Alfred Hearty, the Fulham greengrocer), whose godliness is
overpowering. Bindle is a cockney by birth and in feeling. He loves
mischief for its own sake; but underneath there is always gentleness and
consideration for the unfortunate, and a kindly philosophy without which
laughter is an insult to life.
Of the other members of The Night Club little need be said. Most of
them are doing war-work in some shape or form. Windover is a captain on
the Staff, Carruthers is in the R.N.R., Dare is in munitions, his heart
"plucked" him for the army, and the rest are doing their bit to the best
of their ability. To one and all Sunday is a relaxation from a
strenuous week of work, and the presiding spirit of our assemblies is
our unanimously-elected chairman, Joseph Bindle.
Although Bindle is a laughing philosopher, he has several streaks of
granite in his composition: among them independence. One of the first
questions raised was that of drinks. Dick Little, whose generosity is
embarrassing, had said that was his affair.
"Very well, sir," was Bindle's comment; "then you breaks up the Night
Club."
Enquiry elicited from Bindle the announcement that unless we all paid
our share, he "wasn't taking anythink." From that time it became an
understood thing that each member became responsible for one evening's
refreshments. We had fought Bindle as long as possible, but he was
adamant.
It was quite by chance we discovered later that when his turn came to
pay, he had worked overtime for a whole week so that Mrs. Bindle should
not go short on account of his pleasures.
Bindle had suggested that when the time came a selection of the stories
might be printed. It was explained to him that short stories do not
sell; the British public does not like, and will not read, them.
Bindle had pondered over this for a while and, finally, had said with
decision: "Then we'll make 'em read ours. Me an' Mrs. B. don't neither
of us seem to fancy cold mutton, an' when there's a bit over you should
jest see wot she can do with it. She can turn it into anythink from
stewed rabbit to mince pies." Then turning to me he continued: "You
done me proud in that other little 'ymn book o' yours, sir, although
'Earty and Mrs. B. don't seem quite to 'ave recovered from the shock o'
bein' famous, and now you can tell all about our Night Club.
"You jest tell about Miss Sallie, sir, ah' Young 'Indenburg, the Cherub
(Bindle's name for Angell Herald), an' Mr. Gawd Blast (Jocelyn Dare);
why them alone 'ud make any book famous. Then you might add jest a sort
of 'int, yer know, sir, that I'd be in it an' then, wot-o!" Bindle did
a few fancy steps towards his tankard and took a good pull. "With Miss
Sallie, Young 'Indenburg, an' me, sir, you got the real thing."
That settled the matter, and here is the book, short stories disguised
as a book of consecutive interest, just as Mrs. Bindle's cold mutton
masquerades as "stewed rabbit" or "mince pies." It's a fraud, a
palpable fraud, but as Bindle says, we all keep "a-poppin' up like
U-boats, that people'll sort o' get fond of us."
Many will say I should have been firmer; but the man who can withstand
Bindle when he is set upon having his own way is a being of finer moral
fibre than I.
The hour, when it came, for deciding which stories should be included
and which omitted, would, I thought, be the last of the Night Club.
Nobody agreed upon anything. Sallie refused to allow the story to be
told of how she did what the whole power of Germany has failed to
do--tricked the British Navy. At the mere suggestion of printing even a
covert reference to himself, the Boy became almost hysterical. Angell
Herald, on the other hand, felt that all his yarns should go in, and
said so, intimating also that he had several others. Furthermore he
hinted that he might get us some advertisements to go at the end of the
volume, _provided_ it satisfied him!
Finally it was agreed that Dare and I should decide what stories were to
be included, and from our verdict there was to be no appeal. Bindle's
last words on the subject were--
"You jest put me an' Miss Sallie on the cover an' you'll see."
*CHAPTER II*
*THE COMING OF SALLIE*
When the Night Club was formed it was definitely agreed that it should
be for men only, like the best stories and the most delightful women;
yet at the third sitting Sallie Carruthers became the one and only woman
member. The circumstance was so unexpected that it can be understood
only as a result of a thorough description of Sallie, and the difficulty
is to know where to begin--the end is always the same, a precipitate
falling-in-love with her.
It is all very tedious for Sallie, who does not seem to like being
fallen-in-love-with. To use her own expression, "It spoils it." What
it is that it spoils she does not seem able to explain, and if pressed
she replies despairingly, "Oh! everything."
To a man Sallie is an enigma. She seems desirous of rebuking Nature.
She claims from a man comradeship and equality, and he who is not
prepared to concede this had better keep out of her way. If some poor
wretch, not knowing Sallie's views, happen to be with her in the country
and pause to help her over a stile, he never does so more than once.
Sallie's eyes will smile her thanks and convey a reproach at the same
time. On the other hand, in a drawing-room or at a theatre, Sallie
would not be likely to overlook the slightest omission.
There is about her a quality that is as personal as it is irresistible.
I have never known her fail to get what she wanted, just as I have never
known her to appear to want what she gets. If Sallie asks me to take
her up the river on the Sunday I have invited Aunt Jane to lunch, I
explain things to Sallie, and there the matter appears to end; yet on
that self-same Sunday Sallie and I go up the river, and on the Monday I
have a letter from Aunt Jane saying that I am quite right to take every
care of an internal chill!
To describe Sallie is impossible. She has very large, expressive, grey
eyes, exceedingly long lashes, carmine lips, nondescriptive features,
masses of dark brown hair that grows low down upon her forehead, and the
quality of attracting the attention of everybody in her vicinity. She
dresses well, is the victim of moods, seems to eat nothing, and is as
straight as the Boat Race.
With a word or a glance she can annihilate or intoxicate. I call to
mind one occasion, when what might have been a delightful dinner was
being ruined by a bounder, who monopolised the conversation with
pointless stories. Sallie waited her chance.
"I have a grandfather," began the bounder.
"Have you?" enquired Sallie in a tone full of sweetness and meaning.
The man subsided.
One day Sallie rang me up, and by the impatient "There? There??
There??? Oh, bother!" I knew that something important was in the air.
"I am," I replied.
"What?"
"Here, of course," I replied.
"I've got it," said Sallie; "I've got it."
"Heavens!" I responded. "How did you catch it? Hadn't you better go to
bed?"
"You're not a bit funny. Aren't you glad I've got it?" she queried.
"Certainly, very glad if you are."
"Jack gave it to me."
"Really? Has he got it too? What is it?"
"A car, of course!"
Now this was characteristic of Sallie. I did not even know that she
desired a car; probably her brother Jack, who gives her everything but
the good advice she so sadly needs, was as ignorant as I. Most likely
he had planned the whole thing as a surprise, just as I once gave Sallie
a punt as a "surprise," and learned later that for a month previously
she had been taking lessons in punting. But that's just Sallie.
"It's so wonderful," Sallie went on to explain. "It does such funny
things. Sometimes it barks like a dog--(I shivered, I knew what that
meant for the car)--and sometimes it purrs just like Wivvles." Wivvles
is a Persian kitten of no manners and less----but Wivvles can wait.
At times Sallie is very trying, although unconsciously. She has a habit
of taking the first syllable of her friends' surnames and adding a "y."
Windover, for instance, becomes "Winny." Poor Graves, who is very fat
and moist, she calls "Gravy," and it hurts him just as it hurts dear old
Skillington, who is long and learned, to hear himself referred to as
"Skilly." It would, however, hurt them both far more if Sallie were
allowed to guess their real feelings.
Having to some extent explained Sallie, I must proceed to tell the story
that resulted in her becoming a member of the Night Club.
Bindle had arranged that I should tell the first story, and in honour of
Jack Carruthers, who is Dick Little's particular pal, and a foundation
member of the Club, I decided to tell how Sallie had once personated an
admiral's daughter and what came of it.
*I*
On coming down to breakfast one June morning I found awaiting me a
telegram. It was from Jack Carruthers at Sheerness, and read:--
"got hilda here bring malcolm sallie dora for week end cruise meet you
sheerness pier four oclock friday jack"
"I'll be damned if I do," I cried aloud.
"I b-b-beg your p-p-pardon, sir?" said Peake, who entered at that moment
bearing before him the eternal eggs, bacon and kidneys. Peake is
entirely devoid of culinary imagination.
"I remarked, Peake," I replied with great distinctness, "that I'll be
damned if I do."
"Yes, sir," he responded, as he placed the dish of reiterations on the
table before me; "b-b-b-but you said 'addock on W-w-Wednesdays and
F-f-fridays, sir: this is only T-t-tuesday."
"I wasn't referring to fish, Peake," I said severely, "but to Mr.
Carruthers and the _Hilda_. He has invited me to take another cruise
with him."
A look of fear came into Peake's eyes. I had recently threatened to
take him with me on the next occasion that I sailed with Carruthers.
Peake is an excellent servant; but he has three great shortcomings: he
has no imagination, stutters like a machine-gun, and is a wretched
sailor. For stuttering he has tried every known cure from the
Demosthenian pebble to patent medicines, and for sea-sickness he has
swallowed the contents of innumerable boxes and bottles. The result is
that he stutters as much as ever, and during a Channel crossing is about
as useful as a fishing-rod. It has never come to my knowledge that he
has sought a cure for his lack of imagination.
"I b-b-beg pardon, sir. I thought you m-m-meant the breakfast.
S-s-shall I pack your things, sir?" he questioned, as he stood regarding
me wistfully, his hand on the handle of the door.
"What I said, Peake, was that I'll be damned if I do, which does not
involve packing. You will not pack my things, and please don't again
suggest doing so; it annoys me intensely. That is all."
Peake withdrew with the air of a man who has heard, but does not
believe. I was convinced that he was already planning how he should
spend his time during my absence. I ate my breakfast in silence, read
the shipping casualties to steady my determination to decline
Carruthers' invitation, and smoked four cigarettes.
Being unable to get my mind away from the _Hilda_ and her skipper, I
determined, therefore, to go out at once and send him a telegram of curt
refusal. With my fifth cigarette between my lips I set forth.
The reason for my determination was Dora coupled with Malcolm. Dora
bores me, and when Malcolm tries to flirt with her, which he does in a
manner that reminds me of a cod making love to a trout, I become
demoralised. Dora is Sallie's pal and the wife of some man or other whom
I have met and forgotten: no one would think of burdening his mind with
anything belonging to Dora that she is not actually wearing at the
moment. Dora is extremely modish and regards a husband as she would a
last year's frock.
In the Earl's Court Road I encountered Sallie. She was engaged in
meditatively prodding with the forefinger of her right hand the lifeless
carcass of a chicken. I approached unseen.
"We should reverence the dead, my friend," I remarked gravely. She
turned suddenly, with a little cry of pleasure that digested the kidneys
and dismissed Malcolm and the _Hilda_ from my overburdened mind.
"Oh, I _am_ glad to see you," she said, "awfully glad. Can you remember
whether a good chicken should be blue or yellow? I know it's _one_ of
the primary colours, because that's why I remember it?" And she knit
her brows as, with a puzzled expression of doubt, she regarded the row
of trussed birds upon the poulterer's slab.
"You are confusing the primary colours with the primary pigments.
They----"
"Please try and help me," she pleaded; "I'm so worried. The housekeeper
has gone to see a sick relative, and I have to forage for food. It's
awful. I hate eating."
Sallie looked so wretched, and her grey eyes so luminous and pathetic,
that I took the chickens in hand, purchased two saffron-coloured
specimens at a venture, and we proceeded to the fishmonger's.
Sallie's shopping completed, I told her of Jack's wire and my
determination.
"Oh! but we _must_ go," she said with conviction. "We can't let him
down."