The Rector halted in the middle of the street and shook me by the
hand.
"Ideal!" he said. "I'll fix it with the Council. You go and ask
_him_."
V
I repaired to the Home of The Oracle that same evening. It was
destined to be a memorable visit.
Something unusual in the atmosphere impressed itself on my senses the
moment Ada Weeks opened the door to me. Miss Weeks's manner could
never at any time be described as genial: at its very best it was
suggestive of an indulgent sergeant-major. But this evening Ada
resembled a small, lean cat, engaged in a rear-guard action with
dogs. Her green eyes blazed: one felt that she would like to arch
her back and spit.
"Pettigrew and Mould is here," she said. "Hang up your own hat: I
can't leave them." And she vanished into the front room.
Messrs. Pettigrew and Mould were a sore trial to Mr. Baxter. They
did not consult The Oracle regularly, but when they did they made
trouble. Their efforts appeared mainly to be directed towards
embarrassing their host by asking frivolous questions, and then
humiliating him in the presence of his disciples by the manner in
which they received his answers.
The attitude of Mr. Pettigrew, the druggist, was understandable; for
he was a mean little man, and jealous. He possessed diplomas and
certificates of his own: he was steeped in all the essences of the
Pharmacopoeia: yet none did him reverence. The townspeople purchased
cough mixtures and patent pills from him with no more respect than if
they had been sausages or yards of tape. Even when he assumed an air
of portentous solemnity and retired behind his carved oak screen with
a prescription, most of his customers took it for granted that he
filled up the bottle from a water-tap and added colouring matter and
a dash of something unpleasant to the taste. Probably they were not
far wrong. But wrong or right, it never occurred to any of them to
treat Mr. Pettigrew as an Oracle, or Savant, or Philosopher; and Mr.
Pettigrew undoubtedly felt very badly about it.
Mr. Mould was our local undertaker--which was unfortunate, for nature
had intended him for a low comedian. Under a professionally
chastened exterior he concealed the sense of humour and powers of
repartee of a small boy of ten. To him Mr. Baxter, with his studied
little mannerisms and his pedantic little courtesies, was fair game.
When I entered the parlour these two worthies were heavily engaged in
their favourite sport of philosopher-baiting. The philosopher
himself, I noticed, was looking very old and very tired. I had not
seen him for a week, and I was secretly shocked at his appearance.
"You're not looking well," I said, as I shook hands. "You ought not
to be entertaining your friends to-night."
"Indeed," replied my host, with the ghost of a smile, "my friends
have been entertaining me. Mr. Mould has been amusing us all. Has
he not, Ada?"
"If I was his wife," replied Miss Weeks, with a glare which would
have permanently disheartened any comedian less sure of himself than
Mr. Mould, "I should die of laughing--at myself!"
This dark saying was accepted by the undertaker as a compliment.
"I certainly venture to claim," he observed complacently, "that we
pulled our respected friend's leg pretty neatly to-night." Pettigrew
sniggered.
"What was the joke?" I asked, without enthusiasm.
"Well, me and Mr. Pettigrew here," began the undertaker, "knowing Mr.
Baxter's fondness for giving information and advice, brought him a
little poser last time we came here. We asked him if he could find
anything in his library about an ancient Greek party called Cinchona.
He said he would look Mr. Cinchona up. This evening he had his
little lecture all ready for us. Highly enjoyable, it was.
Cinchona, it seems, was one of the less-known figures in Ancient
Greek Mythology--wasn't that it, Pettigrew?"
Pettigrew grinned, and clicked. He was an unpleasant-looking
creature, with false teeth which did not fit.
"In fact," continued Mould, with immense relish, "poor old Cinchona
was such a little-known figure that most people--common uneducated
druggists, like Mr. Pettigrew--thought Cinchona was the name of the
bark they make quinine from. Haw, haw, haw!"
The two humourists roared outright this time. Mr. Baxter, with the
unruffled courtesy of perfect breeding, smiled again, though I could
see he was much put out. Jobson, the heavy-shouldered artisan from
the factory, sat gazing at him in a puzzled and rather reproachful
manner. One could see that he felt his master ought to have known
all about Cinchona.
"An interesting coincidence," commented the old man gently. "The
drug cinchona is, of course, well known scientifically, but
classically, Cinchona the demi-god is hardly known at all. In fact,
he is only mentioned once or twice in the whole of ancient
literature. I have been dipping into my Homer"--he indicated the
familiar volume in his hand--"and I find--"
"May I look for myself?" asked Pettigrew suddenly; and before even
Ada could spring to the old man's side he had snatched the book and
opened it. Baxter put out his hand anxiously.
"Let me find the passage for you, Mr. Pettigrew," he said. "I do not
know whether you are familiar with ancient Greek--"
"No," said Mr. Pettigrew grimly, looking up from the book, "I am not.
But I _am_ familiar with modern German. This book is printed in
German!"
"The marginal comments are in German, of course," said the old man
quickly. "The thoroughness of German research is proverbial. Give
me back the book, pray!" I noticed he was breathing very shortly.
Ada Weeks settled the question by wrenching the volume out of
Pettigrew's hand and locking it into The Liberry.
"You can go!" she announced. "We only entertain gentlemen here."
Pettigrew took up his hat: Mould rose and did likewise. The rest of
the company fidgeted uncomfortably in their seats. It was a
particularly unpleasant moment.
"Good-night, Mr. Baxter," said Pettigrew, moving towards the door,
which Miss Weeks was obligingly holding wide open for him.
"Sometimes I wonder," he sniggered, turning again, "whether you are
quite as ripe a scholar as you would have some of the less educated
people in this town believe."
"Ripe? He's over-ripe--rotten!" announced Mould confidently.
Mr. Baxter rose suddenly from his armchair.
"Gentlemen," he said, "you insult me in my own house. It is your
privilege to do so. You are my guests--"
I thought it time to interfere. I crossed the room, gently lowered
my old friend into his seat again, and turned to the company. They
were all on their feet by this time.
"Now look here," I announced, in what I have always hoped is a breezy
voice, "you people really must keep your debates academic. Here you
are, all flying straight up in the air over some twopenny-ha'penny
point of scholarship, and exciting one of my most valued patients"--I
patted Baxter solemnly on the shoulder--"to an attack of insomnia!
You mustn't do it, you know--especially just now!"
"What do you mean, just now?" asked Ada quickly. She shot an
apprehensive glance at her grandfather's drawn features.
"I mean this. You know the opening of Crake Hall takes place on
Saturday?"
Every one looked up, surprised at the diversion.
"Yes: what of it?" said Pettigrew.
"You know that an Address of Welcome and Grateful Thanks is to be
read to Mr. Crake by a representative citizen of the town?"
"Yes," said Pettigrew again; and he said it with an intensity which
gave him away badly.
"Well, Mr. Baxter here--our very dear and esteemed friend Mr.
Baxter"--I spoke the words deliberately, and felt the old shoulder
suddenly stiffen under my hand--"has been unanimously selected by the
Council"--I breathed a prayer that the Rector might not have failed
me--"to read that Address! That is why I am thoroughly angry with
you all for tiring him out with your conundrums. He is not a young
man, or a strong man; and I want to have him in first-class trim for
his appearance on Saturday. Home to bed, all of you!"
"Outside!" commanded Miss Weeks; and shepherded the entire company
into the passage, closing the door behind her.
Baxter and I were left alone. I took my stand on the worn
hearth-rug, with my back to the fire, lingering over the lighting of
my pipe with the uneasy self-consciousness of the Englishman who has
just participated in a scene. My old friend's thin hands were
extended upon the arms of his chair; his head was sunk upon his
breast. I decided to say something cheerful.
"Well," I remarked, "I think the Council's invitation came to you at
a very appropriate moment."
Baxter raised his head, and I noticed that he seemed to have grown
many years older.
"I fear you have done me an ill service, sir," he said.
"Unintentionally, of course!" he hastened to add.
"In what way?"
"I cannot accept the Council's invitation."
"Why not? I'll have you fit and well by Saturday."
"It's not that, sir. I cannot do it."
"Why not?"
"Because--because I happen to be an impostor!"
"Oh, come! You must not take things too much to heart. A man can be
a sound scholar without knowing very much about Greek or German."
"It's not that, sir."
"What, then?"
"I can neither read nor write."