THEY came separately, and rather stealthily, to the restaurant in Little
Compton Street, giving a cautious look up and down the street before
entering. Many folk in Soho wear the brims of soft hats flattened down
over eyes, carry hands deep in overcoat pockets, and walk close to shop
windows, hesitating slightly before turning a corner. The restaurant
patrons did not belong to this type. Some of the early-comers spoke to a
constable, and said, exhibiting an envelope, because they mistrusted
their French accent:
“Which do you reckon now is my best way to get to this address?”
The policeman, pointing a gloved hand to the large window that had muslin
curtains of the previous summer, replied:
“If you ain’t careful, sir, it’ll bite you.”
The constable, after the first inquiries, was able to recognise the type
and, interrupting the question, indicated the doorway silently with a nod
of his helmet without interrupting the task of slapping his shoulder; he
mentioned to an anxious younger colleague who came up and put an inquiry
that they were not in his opinion so much Anarchists as country gents out
on the spree. Inside the Restaurant Chicot the head waiter had also
gained experience, and, as the visitors arrived, he said, “Mr. Aumairst,
yes?” and with a bow led the way to a long table, that had originally
been three, at the end of the large room. Chairs leaned forward in the
attitude of saying grace, and these were pulled back by the head waiter,
whilst a short page-boy stood on tiptoe to assist the guests in removing
overcoats, mufflers, and hats. Guarded salutations—“Hullo, Burnham, old
man! What sort of an east wind blew you in here?”—and newcomers examined
the menu card with a puzzled air, giving it all up after a cursory
examination excepting the plum-pudding item, and joined the rest in
taking a seat and in looking over the shoulder.
“I’d no notion we were to be all of us invited. What’s the idea?”
“H. A.” was the reply, in confident tones. “H. A. knows what he’s up
to.”
“I quite feel that about him. Apart from liking to show off, and not
being able to afford to do it, old Amherst is no fool. But whilst I know
that he knows what he’s up to, I can’t say that I always know what he
knows about knowing— See what I mean, don’t you? Is this him, in the
Russian-bear costume?”
Mr. Amherst, in a brand-new fur-lined overcoat, was scarcely the man to
deprive the public of a full view of it, and he resisted the page-boy’s
attempt to take possession at the door. Diners at other tables glanced
up. Two matronly ladies at the corner said something in a foreign
language and suspended the rule which orders that one should not laugh at
one’s own jokes. Men gave their closer attention to the trim young
figure in a small sealskin cap and warm costume who followed so soon as
Mr. Amherst’s whirling arms made it safe to do so.
“Gentlemen,” he said, advancing to the long table, with the air of making
a speech, “I have to apologise for being somewhat late on the Rialto, so
to speak, but— You’ve met my daughter. Waiter, another chair!” They
rose, and she nodded pleasantly, giving to one her muff, another her
cloak, a third her gloves. “I particularly wanted her to come along, and
it occupied some little time to induce her to obey my request. She’s all
I’ve got now, you see.” He sat down heavily at the top of the table.
“Now then, my lad,” to the attendant, in a pained manner, “we all seem to
be waiting, except you. How much longer before the soup comes?”
Miss Amherst, at the other end of the table, explained to neighbours that
her father’s account was inexact in certain particulars. What had really
happened was that she found he intended her to stop at the hotel and dine
alone.
“He generally gets his own way,” remarked one.
“Not if it happens to differ from mine,” she said.
“Did he tell you, by any chance,” lowering voices, and speaking
confidentially, “what the motive was for asking us all here this
evening?”
“I understood it was that you should eat a dinner.” They shook their
heads to convey that the information was not complete, and followed her
lead in the management of the whitebait.
Near Mr. Amherst, the talk, managed and directed by him, was devoted to
the political situation. The host submitted a practical method of
solving the difficulty of which he spoke as one owning the patent rights;
put more briefly than he explained it, it was to convey the principal
members of the party with which he was not in agreement to Newgate on a
convenient Monday morning, and hang them, one after the other. Near Miss
Amherst conversation was on a less remote subject, and her admirable
acquaintance with details enabled them to speak freely. Once she
disputed a question concerning the Tottenham Hotspurs, and, obtaining
silence by rapping a spoon, submitted it for decision to her father.
“My dear,” he answered deferentially, “we don’t want to talk shop. Not
just yet awhile, at any rate.”
His guests glanced meaningly at each other.
“Good gracious!” he cried, to a good-looking waiter with a large black
moustache and a head of hair like a clothes brush, “what are you standing
there gazing at me in such a melancholy way for?”
“Ver’ sorry,” said the young waiter.
“You look it!”
His nearest guests applauded the wit and readiness of the retort. Other
tables cleared; folk hurried off to theatres. The head waiter ordered
the moustached youth to turn off some of the lights.
“Now, gentlemen!” Mr. Amherst, leaning elbows on the table as coffee and
liqueurs were served, cleared his throat, and sent a commanding glance up
and down. “My dear”—to his daughter, who was looking at the waiter—“have
I your attention?”
“Not yet, father.”
“The presence of a lady,” he said to the others, “need not interfere with
the flow of conversation. I want you to make yourselves thoroughly at
home, and do just as you please. We can wish each other a happy New Year
later on in the evening. But first of all there’s one small matter I
wish to bring before your notice.” They put hands to ears, in the
attitude of men anxious to gain every word. He leaned back in his chair
and came forward once more; his chin went out and he fired a name down
the table. They twisted chairs promptly in his direction.
“Yes,” gratified by their astonishment, “big game, I admit, but it’s what
I’m after. Other clubs may be on the same track, and therefore what we
want first of all is absolute secrecy. If you’re prepared to back me up
I’ll promise to see it through, but there must be no cackle, no
chatterboxing, no talking to wives, or what not. Not a single word
uttered away from this table.”
“They won’t let him go.”
“Who said that?” The others, much in the manner of schoolboys, indicated
Burnham.
“I believe,” said Mr. Amherst—“set me right if I’m wrong—but I believe
I’m Chairman. Unless I’m woefully mistaken, I was made Chairman about
four years ago, at a time when the club was right out on the rocks. It
had got a past, but no present. If my memory serves me right, I made it
a small present. I bought shares when no one else was prepared to do so.
And since that time, what has the club done?” He put out the fingers of
one hand and prepared to recite the successes. His daughter coughed.
“I was only going to run through the list, my dear.”
“You can save yourself the trouble,” she said.
“Now, having arrived at this point,” addressing the table, “I ask myself
the question, where are we weak? Where are we deficient? Where are we—”
He was so much annoyed at their impatience in anticipating him by giving
the answer, that he found himself obliged to apply a match to his cigar,
which was still alight.
“Very well, then,” reluctantly. “Discovering this, I look around and I
endeavour to find out the best man available.”
“Mr. Pangbourne,” said Burnham, taking heart, “would no more think—”
Mr. Amherst snapped finger and thumb.
“That for Master Willie Pangbourne,” he shouted. “No, no,” irritably, to
the moustached waiter, “I didn’t call you. Go away and catch flies. I
think, gentlemen,” turning to the others, “that when I tell you I’ve
known young Pangbourne since he was so high, and that not long ago I had
to order him out of my house—”
“Did he go?” asked the quiet voice at the other end.
“In point of fact he didn’t go, Mary, my dear; but I distinctly ordered
him to go. I don’t mind a young man differing from me about politics,
but there’s a way of doing it. What I want to say is that Pangbourne
isn’t everybody. I can bring influence to bear on his directors. I’ve
been accustomed to opposition all my life, and I’m not afraid of it. The
only question is,”—he took a pear from the glass dish and shook it
threateningly—“how to raise the money.”
The guests glanced at each other and became intent upon cigars. One or
two wetted fingers and adjusted an unbroken leaf, thus escaping the
inquiring look sent by Mr. Amherst.
“Tell you what,” he cried, “I’ll put down a trifle to make a start.” He
called to the waiter and said in a loud, distinct voice, “Onker.” The
other seemed puzzled, and the girl translated. The waiter brought ink,
and on it being pointed out, somewhat bitterly, that this, by itself, was
of little use, found pen and paper.
“There you are,” said Mr. Amherst jovially. “Now pass it down this side
and up the other. This is a tiled meeting, remember.” He sat back and
gazed at some cupids painted high up on the walls; the models apparently
engaged after they had dined at the restaurant. A nudge presently at his
elbow told him the list had returned. He put on his pince-nez and
inspected it. “Henry Amherst, £50,” was the first item; the only other
entry was in pencil, “Mary Amherst, threepence.”
“And this,” he said bitterly, “is, I suppose, what you call backing up
the Chairman. Well, you’re the best judges of your own actions. I never
dictate to other people.”
A murmur indicated doubt.
“Idea seems to be, sir,” mentioned Burnham, “that we ought to leave well
alone.” A few shy “Hear hears.” “We’re very much obliged to you, Mr.
Amherst, for your kind hospitality, and we’ve enjoyed meeting at your
festive board—if I may be allowed to use such an expression at this time
of the year—but you must understand we’ve none of us got money to throw
away. We’re devoted to footer, same as you are, and we’ve planked down
as much as we could afford. We’re pretty safe to cut a very fair figure
this year, and—”
“Burnham,” interrupted Mr. Amherst, “you’ll excuse me, but perhaps you
don’t mind if I just say one syllable.” He appeared to be under the
impression that his voice had not hitherto been heard. “I’ve a great
respect for you. You’ve got a shop in the borough that you’ve worked up
from small beginnings, and, so far as I know, you’ve always paid your
way.”
“Come on,” said Burnham desperately. “Let’s hear what you are going to
say on the other side.”
“What I’m going to say on the other side is simply this. That, with all
your estimable qualities, I’ve never, for a single, solitary moment,
looked on you as anything but a fool.”
“Father,” reminded the girl, “these gentlemen are your guests.”
“If you are so jolly keen on it,” said Burnham, with spirit, “and if you
particularly want to strengthen our team next season, why don’t you put
all the money down, and buy James McWinter for us?”
Mr. Amherst struck the table with the side of his large fist.
“Just,” he declared emphatically, “just exactly what I intend to do.”
The waiter came forward in the character of a hat-stand, and Mr. Amherst,
grabbing at the nearest, found his irritation in no way lessened on
discovering that it was headgear of insufficient size. Mary Amherst,
turning to the waiter who stood now arms filled with overcoats, remarked
pleasantly that a night like this must surely make him think of the clear
blue skies and the dazzling sunshine of his native country; the waiter
appeared to have acquired some of the useful idioms of the country, for
he said in appealing undertones, “Half-time, half-time!” The head waiter
came with the bill, which Mr. Amherst, in his annoyance, had forgotten.
Miss Amherst was called upon to check the addition, and it became her
duty to point out that the head waiter had by an excusable oversight in
making a total reckoned the date at the top. This remedied, with profuse
apologies, the party was conducted to the doorway.
“Also I don’t mind telling you,” said her father, speaking outside as
though no interval had occurred since his last decisive remark, “exactly
how much I’m prepared to go up to.” He named a figure. “Not a farthing
more,” he declared resolutely. “What’s that, my dear?”
“Only saying, father, that I was quite sure you couldn’t afford it.”
“That is my business, Mary.”
“It was the business I was thinking about.”
Mr. Amherst, never one to allow pasture land to flourish extensively
under his boots, wrote a letter that night, posted it at the corner of
Trafalgar Square, and walked three times around the pedestal of the
Nelson Statue, partly because he had a great belief in the value of
exercise, partly to enjoy the thought that he had, in sending the note,
started the ball a-rolling. Coming into the hotel he was told by the
porter that Miss Amherst had retired to rest, and he went upstairs
humming cheerfully. The porter, it would seem, had been misinformed, for
later the girl was leaning over the low balcony chatting with a youth who
carried a kit bag. You would have said he was the young waiter at the
Soho Restaurant, only that he wore no moustache and she called him
Willie, which, as one knows, is rarely counted an Italian name.
“It’s all right, dear girl,” he said. “Now that I know his limit, I can
easily arrange.”
“I don’t want him to waste his money,” she explained.
“Leave everything to me,” he begged. “Don’t forget the match to-morrow.
By the by, just go in and borrow a lucifer for me. My box is empty.”
She returned with a supply taken from the smoking-room, and leaning over
the balcony struck one and just managed to reach his cigar. No one was
about, excepting the driver of a four-wheeler on the rank opposite; the
cabman remarked confidentially to his horse: “Romeo and Juliet. Played
nightly all over the blooming world.” The horse waggled his nose-bag to
show that he, too, was acquainted with standard literature.
Mr. Amherst had announced the intention of taking his daughter home by
the eight-thirty the following morning, and she was to knock at the wall
not later than half-past seven; Miss Amherst was able at nine o’clock
breakfast to exhibit her watch and blame it for her omission. She read
from a morning paper the fixtures of the day, repeating the announcement
concerning the match, whereupon her father announced that he was as ready
to be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, and gave her permission to catch
the ten-five, and to travel alone. Miss Amherst agreed, but finding in
another part of the journal an account of a deplorable case of a
communication cord refusing to act, became suddenly terrified and begged
her father to accompany her. He said “No!” There was reason in all
things. Devoted as he was to his daughter, and ready as he might be to
make sacrifices, this was asking too much. He had decided to see James
McWinter play once more, before advancing a further stage in the
negotiations, and the opportunity was one not to be missed.
“But I tell you what, Mary,” he said firmly; “you do some shopping, buy
presents for relatives, and we can both go back together this evening.”
“The best places in London close on Saturday afternoons.”
“Then come to the match with me.”
“I suppose I’d better,” she said.
In London you see no such spectacle as can be witnessed in Midland and
Northern towns, with the entire male population walking solidly in one
direction, returning later in less regular order, and excited or
depressed according to the fate of the home team. All the same, the
compartments of the suburban train were well filled, and Mr. Amherst,
fearful of being delayed, shouted on the crowded platform an instruction
to his daughter.
“Look after yourself!”
An instruction she complied with the more readily because a hand waved to
her from a carriage next to the engine. Half a dozen young men sprang up
and offered places; she thanked them, and, apparently anxious not to be
accused of favouritism, decided to hold by the rack and talk to young
Pangbourne. As the train took a curve he had to hold her by the arm, but
this she did not seem to mind. Pangbourne’s directors were, of course,
to be present at the game. A hurried conference had taken place that
morning in the waiting-room of a London terminal station, and the price
of James McWinter, on Mr. Pangbourne’s urgent suggestion, had been fixed
at a price that far exceeded the limit mentioned by Miss Amherst’s
father.
“That’s capital!” she declared gratefully—“capital in more senses than
one. You see, Willie, I can remember the time when we were hard up at
home, and I recollect how my mother had to scheme and contrive. I don’t
want to find myself going back. And the sum represents such an awful lot
of money. Football’s a good sport, but there are other games.”
“Marriage, for instance?”
“We can talk of that,” she said composedly, “later on. Let’s settle one
matter first. We mustn’t be seen talking to each other, mind.”
Mr. Amherst apologised to his daughter, as they made their way to the
entrance to the ground, for his apparent neglect, and she accepted his
excuses so readily that he felt bound to point out that, in a general
way, he did look after her very carefully, adding that there was no one
else to do this. Everything, said Mr. Amherst, with a touch of
importance and a hint at real affection, devolved upon him, and he was
not the man to flinch responsibilities. She inquired, deferentially,
whether he considered it wise to pay out such a large sum of money for
James McWinter. He replied that James was worth the figure mentioned the
previous night, but not a penny, not a halfpenny more. If the other club
began to haggle and bargain and huckster, he, Mr. Amherst, would
instantly withdraw.
“And what I say,” he declared, “as you very well know, is what I stick
to. My first word is my last word. Is that so, my dear, or isn’t it?”
“You’re an extraordinary man, father.” He appeared content with this
vague admission.
Quite a good number had taken advantage of the hospitable offer to
ladies, and Mr. Amherst, in spite of his recent declaration, showed
relief on encountering the wife of another director, willing and ready to
take charge of his daughter. Silk hat at back of head, he hurried off.
“Highly important business!” he explained. Mrs. Burnham, a matronly
person, confessed that she knew nothing and cared nothing for the game,
but had to affect an interest in order to make opportunity of keeping an
eye on her husband. Husbands required a lot of watching. Husbands were
kittle cattle, if the truth was known. Husbands being what they were,
the wonder was that any married lady remained in possession of her
senses; she herself foresaw clearly the time when she would be taken away
to the County Asylum. Having said all this, and having mentioned that
she counted herself among the few who could respect and keep a secret,
Mrs. Burnham lowered her voice that folk around might not hear, and urged
it was high time Miss Amherst thought of getting married. Mrs. Burnham’s
advice was that Miss Amherst should pick out some desirable young
gentleman of good birth and excellent prospects.
“And then go for him,” recommended the matronly lady, with earnestness.
“Go for him, for all you know. Takes a bit of doing, of course, but it’s
worth while.”
The commencement of the game did not interrupt Mrs. Burnham’s counsel,
but it interfered with the girl’s power of giving attention. Standing on
a chair she watched eagerly, describing the progress in brief ejaculatory
sentences to her chaperon; joined in the appeals of a few members of the
crowd addressed to the visiting team; refrained from giving assistance to
the majority in cheering and encouraging the home side. Privately, she
criticised James McWinter, who, a large young man, appeared to be doing
as little as possible, the while the rest scurried about on the slightly
frosted turfed ground, doing everything in a strenuous manner with no
result. What a football crowd likes is the scoring of goals, and when at
half-time it proved that not one had been recorded on either side, the
two teams, exhausted and limp (with the exception of James McWinter) were
followed by regretful looks; men described what they themselves would
have done, if they were but a few years younger or older, and less
occupied with other affairs. Mr. Amherst bustled around, fanning himself
with his silk hat, and looking greatly perturbed. He mentioned to his
daughter that they (meaning Pangbourne’s directors) had the cheek to ask
so much—quoting the large figure—that he would see them further before
planking down that amount; he went so far as to hint at the well-warmed
direction they could select.
The teams took up their new positions. The whistle sounded. Before Miss
Amherst had disengaged herself from her companion’s inquiries and
counsel, the outside left, amidst erroneous cries of “Off-side!” centred
across to the inside right, who centred again, and James McWinter trapped
the ball, dodged the two backs and shot hard; the goalkeeper fumbled it,
and even supporters of the home side could scarce restrain a cheer. The
other team prepared for a change of tactics, and in exactly four minutes
precisely the same thing happened, and the goalkeeper dealt with the ball
in almost the same manner; tears stood in his eyes; he glanced with
reproach at his gloves, and bowed his head penitently to the observations
of colleagues. Miss Amherst had to apologise more than once when crying
“Shoot!” for kicking the back of a stout gentleman standing just in front
of her. When at the end of the ninety minutes’ traffic the visiting side
had scored five to none, and four of these goals were to be credited to
James McWinter, she turned to her companion. Her father was in a kind of
scrum not far off; she recognised the light in his eyes of one to whom
money was of no consequence, and into her eyes came the light of one
resolved to act promptly. Under cover of the cheering, she made an
enthusiastic and apparently genuine declaration.
“Oh, but, my dear,” cried Mrs. Burnham alarmedly, “you mustn’t talk like
this. This is dreadful. When I said what I did just now, I never meant
you should go and throw yourself away on a great clumsy hulk like that,
earning not more than £4 a week. Besides, his people are meat salesmen.”
“I’m not a vegetarian.”
Mr. Amherst, scarlet, almost blue with eagerness, was hurrying by.
“Not a word, please,” begged the girl, with extravagant signs of
distress, “not a syllable to my father. Promise me you won’t tell him.
My mind’s made up; but I don’t want him to know.”
Mrs. Burnham put out the hooked handle of her umbrella and caught Mr.
Amherst neatly.
“Very sorry,” he panted, “can’t spare a moment.”
“You just come here first,” ordered the lady resolutely. “There’s
something you’ve got to know, and I mean to tell it to you before I go
and look after my husband. I’m not going to be blamed afterwards, and
have you say it was my fault.”
“Do hurry up,” begged Mr. Amherst piteously. “If you knew how urgent it
all was, you wouldn’t chatter on like this. I’m going to give them
whatever they ask for him. He’s a bachelor, and he won’t mind where he
lives.”
“Your daughter,” said Mrs. Burnham, speaking with tragic emphasis, “tells
me—that she’s fallen in love—at first sight—with that six foot
three—called James McSomething—who’s been kicking the ball—like a young
demon—between the two posts. And my advice to you is—keep ’em well
apart—keep ’em hundreds of miles apart from each other!”
* * * * *
Mr. Pangbourne’s club, with the aid of James and the rest, made its way
later into the Second League, and he himself secured three well-paid
official appointments from the Corporation and other bodies, who were
probably actuated by feelings of gratitude; the entire town joined in
giving him and Miss Amherst a notable wedding present. Mr. Amherst, now
honorary secretary of the Bowling Club, has married a lady of forty-five,
hitherto interested only in deep-sea fishermen. And all intend to live
more or less happily ever afterwards.