The pictures that have occupied two chapters, flashed and vanished,
lasting a few moments only. It was Kay’s voice that interrupted them:
“This is my partner, Mr. Blackwood,” he was saying, as he came from the
dining-room door, accompanied by an undersized little man with sharp,
beady eyes set in a face like a rat’s, with deep lines upon a skin as
white as paper. I shook hands with Billy Bingham, proprietor of the
Hub, the man whose disreputable character had made it a disgrace to the
City of Churches.
Of the conversation that followed, though I heard every word of it,
only a blurred memory remained when we left the building half an hour
later. I was in two worlds--innocent Kent and up-to-date Toronto--while
Kay and Bingham talked. Mysterious phrases chased pregnant business
terms in quick succession: Goodwill, stock in hand, buying liquor at
thirty days, cash value of the licence, and heaven knows what else
besides. Kay was marvellous, I thought. The sporting goods business had
apparently taught him everything. Two hundred per cent. profit, rapid
turn over, sell out at top price, were other vivid sentences I caught
in part, while I stared and listened, feigning no doubt a comprehension
that was not mine. The glow of immense success to come, at any rate,
shone somehow about the nasty face of that cunning little Billy
Bingham, as he painted our future in radiant colours. Kay was beaming.
“A short period of horror,” I remember thinking, for the sanguine fires
lit me too, “and we shall be independent men! It’s probably worth it.
Canada’s a free country. What’s impossible at home is possible here.
Opportunities must be seized...!”
Then Bingham’s white face retreated, his beady eyes became twin points
of glittering light, and another picture slid noiselessly before
them. Euston Station a few short months ago, myself tightly wedged in
a crowded third-class carriage, the train to Liverpool slowly moving
out, and my father’s tall figure standing on the platform--this picture
hid the Hub and Bingham and John Kay. The serious blue eyes, fixed
on mine with love and tenderness, could not conceal the deep anxiety
they betrayed for my future. Behind them, though actually at the Manor
House, Crayford, fixed on a page of the Bible, or perhaps closed in
earnest prayer, the eyes of my mother rose up too.... The train moved
faster, the upright figure and the grave, sad face, though lit by a
momentary smile of encouragement, were hidden slowly by the edge of the
carriage window. I was too shy to wave my hand, and far too sensitive
of what the carriage-full of men would think if I moved to the window
and spoke, or worse, gave the good-bye kiss I burned to give. So the
straight line of that implacable wooden sash slid across both face and
figure, cutting our stare cruelly in the middle.
It was the last time I saw my father; a year later he was dead; and ten
years were to pass before I saw my mother again. Before this--to look
ahead for a second--some enterprising Toronto friend, with evangelical
tact, wrote to my father ... “your son is keeping a tavern,” and my
father, calling my brother into his study where he laid all problems
before his God with prayer, told him in a broken voice and with tears
in his eyes: “He is lost; his soul is lost. Algie has gone to--Hell!”...
My vision faded. My broad-shouldered friend and his little rat-faced
companion stood with their elbows on the bar. I saw six small glasses
and a big dark bottle. Three of the former were filled to the brim with
neat rye whisky, the other three, “the chasers” as they were called,
held soda-water.
“Drink hearty,” rasped Bingham’s grating voice, as he tossed down his
liquor at a gulp, Kay doing the same, then swallowing the soda-water.
I moved to the swing-doors. I had never touched spirits, and loathed
the mere smell of them. I cannot pretend that any principle was
involved; it was simply that the mere idea of swallowing raw whisky
gave me nausea. I saw Kay give me a quick look. “He’ll be offended if
you don’t take something,” it said plainly. I was, besides, familiar
with the customs of the country, at any rate in theory.
“Have something else,” invited Bingham, “if you don’t like it straight.”
I shook my head, mumbling something about it’s being too early in the
day, and I shall never forget the look that came into that cunning
little face. But he was not offended. He put his hand on Kay’s arm.
“Now, see here,” he said with seriousness, “that’s dead right. That’s
good business every time. Never drink yourselves, and you’ll make it a
success. Your partner’s got the right idea, and I tell you straight:
never touch a drop of liquor till after closing hours. You’ll be
asked to drink all day long. Everybody will want to drink with the
new management. Every customer that walks in will say ‘What’s yours?’
before you even know his name. Now, see here, boys, listen to me--you
_can’t_ do it! You’ll be blind to the world before eleven o’clock. _I_
tell you, and I _know_!”
“How are you to refuse?” asked Kay.
“I’ll give you a tip: drink tea!”
“Tea!”
“Have your bottle of tea. Tell your bar-tenders. It’s the same colour
as rye whisky. No one’ll ever know. The boss can always have his own
private bottle. Well, yours is tea. See?” And he winked with a leer
like some intelligent reptile.
We shook hands, as he saw us into the street.
“You’ll take a cheque, I suppose?” I heard Kay say just before we moved
off.
“A marked cheque, yes,” was the reply. The phrase meant that the bank
marked the cheque as good for the amount.
“It’s all fixed then,” returned Kay.
“All fixed,” said Bingham, and the swing-doors closed upon his
unpleasant face as we went out into the street.