HE had been away so long that few people remembered him, but his last
exploit before leaving ensured that in the minds of those few he remained
clear and definite. His wife, when she set out to meet him, was
accompanied by a Reception Committee of three, and as they waited outside
the large building where he had been staying for the last few months (his
hosts kept several important establishments in various parts of the
country and he had spent part of the time at one, part at others), as
they waited, I say, under the avenue of trees well away from the front
door—having, as a point of delicacy, no desire to be seen by the servants
about the place—they speculated on the probable improvement in his
personal appearance. Members of the Committee recalled precedents where
So-and-so went away stout and unhealthy on a vacation of similar length,
and came back so trim and brown that his own sweetheart would not have
known him had she remained in the neighbourhood.
“Here he is!” cried the wife suddenly. “I could tell him, bless ’is
heart, in a thousan’.”
“That ain’t him!”
“He’s got a short beard, at any rate,” urged the wife, admitting her
error grudgingly as the visitor was claimed and marched off by another
lady.
“They all ’ave. Try to use your intelligence, why don’t you!”
“Well,” said the wife, pointing her umbrella at a sharp-eyed man, who,
coming out of the large doorway, glanced around suspiciously, “well, at
least that’s not my Jim.” The sharp-eyed man came across the open space
towards them, still keeping a look-out on either side. “He’s mistaking
us for his own people. My Jim’s a better-looking man than him.”
“If you say that again, Meria,” remarked the arriving man in tones that
could not be mistaken, “I shall have to— Now then, now then! I don’t
want no kissing!”
He was dressed in a suit for which he had not been measured, and his
boots were scarcely a precise fit; he shambled along with his friends,
responding gruffly to their polite inquiries and complaining
bitterly—first, that they should have come to meet him; second, that so
many friends were absent. Informed that some of these were no longer
alive, he declined to accept this as a sufficient excuse, describing them
as a cantankerous lot, ever thoughtless where the feelings of others were
concerned. They stopped quite naturally at the first place of
refreshment, and he criticised the beverage set before him, declaring
that had he known beer could be so bad, he would not have worried his
thoughts so much about it during recent years. He was equally
dissatisfied with his first pipe of tobacco, which he had some trouble to
light, and when he heard that his sister had married a respectable
fruiterer, off Bethnal Green Road, he made no attempt to conceal his
annoyance with the way the world had been managed during his absence.
“Once I turn my back for a moment—” he said disgustedly. “Who’s got the
pub at the corner of our street?”
“I’ve moved, James,” explained his wife apologetically.
“Moved? Who told you to move?”
“The landlord, dear.”
“Don’t you begin ‘dearing’ of me,” he retorted threateningly. “Why
wasn’t I asked?”
“There was no opportunity, James.”
“Bah!” he said, in the manner of one who can find no other repartee. He
turned to the men. “What ’ave you three come all the way down ere’ for?
On the make, I s’pose?”
“We are not on the make,” said the leader precisely. “Recollecting what
you was put away for, we have come down ’ere to offer you, as something
in the nature of a hero, a ’earty welcome on your return to what we may
venture to term your ’earth and ’ome.” James relaxed the sternness of
his demeanour, and took another sip from his glass, this time without
making a wry face. “We’re a-going to make a fuss of you, old man.”
“Don’t go overdoing it,” he said grudgingly.
They reached Hoxton at about noon, not because the way was long, but
because the Committee, possessing funds, desired to do the thing well. A
neighbour had taken charge of the arrangements for dinner, and the three
men, arrived at the door in Hammerton Street, mentioned gracefully that
the reunited pair would in all probability like to be left alone for a
few hours, and withdrew; first, however, warning James that he would be
expected at the Green Man that evening at eight o’clock precisely, at
which hour a few select friends would be present to wish him success in
his future career.
“Whad ye mean by my future career?” he demanded. “What are you three
a-getting at now?”
“It’s all right, old chap,” they answered soothingly. “Only a form of
speech, you know.”
“Be a bit more careful how you pick your words,” he retorted
threateningly. “I ’aven’t come back to be ragged by such as you.”
He was still rather surly that evening when he made his appearance at the
Green Man; he explained to one who was formerly his closest friend that
he had been enjoying a bit of a talk with the wife. Surroundings in the
clubroom were, however, so congenial that before long he showed guarded
signs of amiability, albeit he found grounds for annoyance in the fact
that some of his old companions had prospered, and had given up what was
referred to as the old game to engage on sport that, relatively speaking,
was of an honest, law-abiding character. His best friend indeed owned a
large gold chain and a watch at the end of it; he was now a bookmaker by
profession, not, of course, a literary person, but one who made money.
On James suggesting they might perhaps go into partnership together in
the racecourse business, the closest friend said, with some reserve, that
it was an occupation requiring years of patient study, and the fact of
James having been out of the movement so long barred him both from
participating in the profits or sharing the losses.
“See what I mean, don’t you?” asked the bookmaker. “Chuck that what
you’re smoking away, and have a real cigar!”
“I shan’t give you another opportunity,” said James curtly. “Should have
thought you would have been glad of a pretty sharp man for your right
’and.”
“But you’ve been rusting,” pointed out the bookmaker. (“Now you’ve been
and bitten off the wrong end.”)
Nothing, however, could exceed the geniality of the hosts. Thick crusty
sandwiches rested on the deal tables; there was no stint, so far as the
guest of the evening was concerned, in regard to liquids. Everybody
crowded around him in a flattering way and everybody shook him by the
hand several times; a few promising younger men, who were brought up and
introduced, showed themselves highly sensible of the honour, and asked
eagerly what adventure he thought of going in for next.
“’Aven’t quite made up me mind,” he replied cautiously.
The younger men winked knowingly at each other, saying that James was a
deep one and no mistake, adding that an ability to keep one’s head shut
was a gift to be envied. They had singing later. Songs were given which
for James (who had no musical tastes) should at least have possessed the
charm of novelty; the slang contained in them and in the public speech of
many of those present was to him quite incomprehensible. They repeated
unceasingly that they wished him well, and the bookmaker made a speech
just before closing time in which he pointed out that every man-jack
present was prepared to give James a helping hand. Never should it be
said of them that they had refused a helping hand to one of the best. A
helping hand was due to such a hero and a helping hand he should have.
“Friends, one and all,” said James. (He refused for some minutes to make
a speech, but gave in to encouragement.) “Friends, one and all.”
A cry of “So you said!” and reproving shouts of “Order!”
“I’ve been away from you fer a few year owin’ to—owin’ to circs not
altogether under my control” (the room laughed uproariously), “but I’m
back in the midst of you once more, and I can tell you one thing, and
that ain’t two, I’m jolly glad of it! I’ve had quite enough penal to
last me my time. I’m full up of it! I’ve reached me limit! It’s no
catch, I tell you!” (Murmurs of sympathy.) “If there’s any one ’ere
that’s acquired a taste for it, they’re welcome to my share. I don’t
know that I have much more to say. I ’aven’t had much practice at public
speaking of late. Once you begin to ’old forth in there” (here he gave a
vague jerk of the head), “why, they let you know it. Anyway, it’s no use
’arping on the past, and in regard to the promise of a ’elping ’and to
which you, Mr. Chairman, have so kindly referred, and to me being a hero,
there’s only one thing I want to say, and that is this: I shall keep you
to it!”
The club-room seemed to think the last sentence had an ungracious sound,
and there would have been an inclination to hedge only that the
white-sleeved potman arrived at that moment with a dictatorial shout of
“Now you cheps! Time!” and the party had to break up. Out in the
street, James’s arm was again in request, and his hand was shaken so
often with so many assurances of admiration and enthusiastic comradeship,
that he went off towards Hammerton Street quite dazed and not sure
whether he had won a battle, or saved lives from drowning. The men
cheered him as he left and began to chant an appropriate song, but a
policeman came up, and the crowd, not wishful for argument with the
force, said respectfully, “It’s all right, Mr. Langley, sir; we’re just
on the move,” and disappeared.
Womenfolk came round to Hammerton Street the next day asking to be
permitted to see him, and James’s wife would have taken another day off,
but James said there had been quite enough gadding about for her already,
and insisted she should go to work. He sunned himself at the front door
with a fine pretence of not knowing that he was being observed, the while
women on the opposite side of the pavement held up their babies to see
him and whispered admiring comments.
“You’d never think it to look at him, would you, now?”
“I recollect his case as well as anything. It was before I was married
to my present ’usband, but I can recollect it all just as though it was
only yesterday. I remember so well saying to my young sister—I was on
speaking terms with her just then—I remember saying, ‘Ah, well!’ I said.
Just like that!”
“She’s kept herself to herself, mind you, all the time he’s been away. I
will say that for her!”
“Wonder what he’ll be up to now. He’s turning something over in his
mind, I lay!”
The hero could not help being pleased with all this attention, and after
he had taken his dinner at a coffee-shop, where the waitress, informed of
his distinguished reputation, stood back and watched him over an
illustrated paper, he put on a collar and again lounged at the doorway.
The crowd was not so great now, and consisted for the greater part of
children who played tip-cat, and gave no notice to him excepting when his
presence interfered with the game. Disappointed with his audience, James
went indoors and, taking off his collar, indulged in the unaccustomed
luxury of an afternoon nap. When his wife returned from work it struck
him that she was slightly more argumentative in manner than she had been
on the first day; in the course of debate she threw out a most
disconcerting hint in regard to a job of work, news of which had come to
her ears.
“Look ’ere, my gel!” said James definitely. “You may as well understand
me fust as last. A man with so many friends as I’ve got won’t want to
work for many a long day yet.”
Nevertheless the idea gave him perturbation and he went round to the
Green Man to meet the friends referred to and receive from them
reinforcement of his hopes and views. There were only two or three in
sight, and these were outside the house; they hailed him with a casual
cry of, “’Ullo, James! Your turn to stand drinks, ain’t it?” and having
brought some money out, the savings of his compulsory retreat, he found
himself compelled to entertain them.
“And what you think of doing now, James?” they asked. (“Here’s luck!”)
“Well,” he said slowly, “I s’pose eventually I shall ’ave to find, as the
missis says, something or other. But not yet for a month or two.”
“You’ll probably discover a chance of—”
“No,” said James with emphasis. “Not me! No more jobs on the cross for
this child. Risks are too great.”
“But you don’t mean to say that you’re going to chuck it?” The men were
so much amazed that their glasses remained in mid-air.
“If you guess again,” said James stolidly, “you’ll be wrong.”
He looked about in Hoxton the rest of the evening for friends, and looked
about in vain. The next day he called on his closest friend, the
bookmaker; the bookmaker was just off to Kempton Park and in peril of
losing a train at Waterloo. He had heard, it seemed, of James’s
decision, and James could trace no sign of the generous friendship
previously expressed. To James’s suggestion that he should accompany the
bookmaker to Kempton Park, and enjoy a day at the other’s expense, the
reply came prompt and definite. “That be ’anged for a tale!” said the
bookmaker.
On the following Monday James went to ask about the job of work to which
his wife had referred; all his worst fears were confirmed when he found
himself successful in obtaining it.
“Drawback of being an ’ero is,” said James gloomily, “that it don’t last
much more than about five minutes.”