At eleven o’clock the boy set out for No. 24 Trafalgar Square. During
the small hours of that morning his scheme of action had been planned
to the most minute detail, but so weak is the human character even
in the highest moments of its resolve, that on the very threshold of
this enterprise, which the boy knew to be the foremost of his life, he
departed in an almost wanton manner from this programme upon which he
had spent all the powers of his mind.
His visit to the hairdresser; the triumphant effrontery with which
he had asked for his locks to be shorn; the calm fortitude with
which he had submitted to that searching and public operation;
the self-contained manner in which he had given the hairdresser
street-person a large piece of silver for his great kindness and
courtesy, all these achievements had conspired to imbue him with a
valour, which at the very outset of his venture was destined to lead
him into an unwarrantable, an almost foolhardy course.
At the corner of Milton Street, at its juncture with an extremely busy
thoroughfare which he would be compelled to traverse, there was a
recognized halting place for those wonderful vehicles called omnibuses.
At this corner it was their custom to discharge and to accept
passengers.
As he came to the corner an omnibus, painted a bright yellow, chanced
to be standing there. At the sight of it, inflamed with a valour that
was almost insolent and without pausing to reflect upon what his act
involved, he walked, almost with vainglory, straight into the ’bus.
Never before had he dared to enter one alone; such a deed was far from
being contemplated by that programme to which he was pledged to adhere;
but he had cast the die before he had reflected upon his recklessness,
and like an authentic hero in an entrancing tale he was being drawn by
two stout, but comely horses to No. 24 Trafalgar Square.
When the conductor came round for the fares he said to him in a voice
that was a little timid in spite of its boldness, “W-will y-you
p-please stop the omnibus at No. 24 Trafalgar Square.”
“Don’t go to Trafalgar Square,” said the conductor curtly. “Charing
Cross Station.”
This was dreadfully unexpected.
“W-would y-you m-mind asking the h-horses to stop, if y-you
p-p-please,” he stammered.
“Can’t yer jump off?” said the conductor sharply.
“Oh n-n-no,” said the boy.
“S-s-stop where you are then,” said the conductor.
A girl seated opposite began to titter audibly. The other passengers
were content with furtive smiles.
After the lapse of a few minutes, which seemed as long as eternity,
the driver stopped the horses of his own accord. The boy jumped out
of the ’bus. The conviction was upon him already that he would not
be at Trafalgar Square by twelve o’clock. He looked wildly about the
dense throng in which he found himself. Where was he? He had lost his
bearings completely. If he were not at 24 Trafalgar Square by twelve
o’clock his hopes would be shattered for ever. The thought of the
little room rendered him desperate. Yet what could he do? He looked up
at a clock over a jeweller’s shop. It was already twenty-five minutes
past eleven. Only thirty-five minutes more and it would be all over.
All his assurance was gone; and he did not know where he was. Yet
before he started he had planned everything perfectly. He had looked
out the way from Milton Street on a map of the great city; he had
committed every street and turning of the route to memory.
However, the street in which he stood was not unfamiliar. Yes, he had
been in it several times with his father. It was called--it was called
the Strand. Yet he did not know what was its proximity to Trafalgar
Square. He had now no knowledge of where it lay, now that by entering
the omnibus he had wantonly forfeited all the sense of locality he
had acquired. Yet he knew that Square so well. It was there that he
had spent so many delectable hours lately in a noble building, gazing
at the wonderful pictures of the ancient painters. He looked up at a
street corner, and saw the name Craven Street, and then he looked again
at the remorseless hands of the clock. How was it possible to get from
Craven Street to Trafalgar Square in half-an-hour? What could he do?
The road was a maze of obscurity. The programme had passed entirely out
of his mind.
All at once, however, he was touched by inspiration. He knew all about
cabs! And they were recalled to his mind by the sight of a number of
these vehicles standing a few yards away in a row behind some railings.
They were in a place where the traffic made a veritable whirlpool; and
he remembered that he had noted that place before, and that his father
had told him it was the entrance to Charing Cross railway station.
Yes, he knew all about cabs; his father with marvellous foresight had
instructed him in that branch of education. And he had said to him,
“Whenever you lose your way in the great city, be sure that you ask one
of those cab-driver street-persons to take you to your destination.”
There and then the boy felt in his pockets, because he knew that this
hazardous but necessary undertaking could only be accomplished by the
aid of pieces of silver.
Before he had set out on his great adventure, his father had given him
ten pieces of silver. These he now produced and counted carefully.
Then having assured himself that he was furnished with the necessary
means, he set out to reach the row of cabs. With a supreme effort of
the will he dismissed from his thoughts all the frightful risks that he
incurred, and plunged recklessly into the mighty stream that had to be
navigated ere he could reach the row of cabs. But dire necessity armed
him with strange valour.
As he emerged from the whirlpool breathless, but still alive, into the
presence of the row of cabs, he accosted with heart violently beating
the foremost of the cab-driver street-persons, who stood at the door of
his vehicle eating his mid-day meal out of a piece of newspaper.
“I-if y-you p-please, I w-will g-give you these t-ten p-pieces of
s-silver--sh-shillings, you know,” he said, sick with anxiety, “if
you will take me in your c-cab to No. 24 Trafalgar Square by t-twelve
o’clock.”
With eyes of entreaty the boy held out his hand to the cab-driver
street-person, and lying on its open palm were the ten pieces of silver.
The cab-driver street-person’s first act was to look very solemnly at
the pieces of silver, and then at the boy with equal solemnity. Then
with a solemnity which seemed to transcend either of these actions, he
transferred each of the pieces of silver without undignified haste, nor
yet with churlish reluctance, to his own somewhat grimy palm.
“C-can y-you do it?” said the boy hoarsely, “or are the minutes too
few; is the time too little?”
By this, as if attracted by the mien of the cab-driver street-person,
several of his companions had come about him.
“Can I do it, Captain?” said the cab-driver street-person slowly and
more solemnly than ever as he looked at his companions, and balanced a
large piece of cheese very thoughtfully on the end of a clasp-knife.
“We’ll make no promises, Captain, but we’ll try.”
“Oh y-yes, p-please,” said the boy, “d-do t-try.”
“The old hoss don’t purtend to be a flyer, you know, Captain,” said the
cab-driver street-person, as he wrapped up the remainder of his meal
in the newspaper in a fashion so leisurely that the boy could hardly
endure it; “at least not these days, although in his prime he ran
second in the Cesarewitch, but there’s no saying what he can do when he
tries.”
The cab-driver street-person climbed to his perch as the boy was
assisted into the interior of the vehicle by two other cab-driver
street-persons who ensconced him therein, and closed the door upon him
as though he were a pearl of price. They then stood to await the fruit
of their labours with an air of expectancy that was quite politely
dissembled.
“I suppose, Joe,” said one of the driver’s confrères, with a solemnity
that was in nowise inferior to that of the man on the box, “you’ll go
by the Suez Canal and Himalayer Mountains route, what?”
“Yuss,” said the driver as the hansom moved off slowly, “if the old
hoss will stand to the scenery. If he ain’t taking any it will have to
be _viâ_ Mentone and the Lake o’ Geneva.”
To the boy’s dismay, the hansom seemed hardly to move beyond a crawl.
It went along several narrow by-streets off the Strand which he had
never seen before. As he sat in the hansom a faint recollection
returned to him that Trafalgar Square must be “over there.” But the
cab-driver street-person seemed to be taking him in the opposite
direction.
They passed a clock. It was a quarter to twelve. Why didn’t the
horse go faster? Then he remembered with a pang that the cab-driver
street-person had said it was old. How injudicious he had been to
choose an old horse! He should have chosen a young horse when speed
was of such paramount importance. But what was the difference between
a young horse and an old horse? Had his life depended on the answer,
he could not have told. What a lot of obscure knowledge there was to
acquire in the practical sciences! Every step he took alone among the
streets of the great city some new problem confronted him--problems
which no mind could foreshadow unless it experienced them first. Less
than an hour ago, when he left the little room, after striving all
through the long night to foresee every contingency that was likely
to arise, after drawing up the “programme” with such minute care, it
had not entered his head that he would have to ride in a cab, and be
called upon to discriminate between an old horse and a young one.
The poor old animal seemed scarcely to push one leg before the other.
If only he knew the way, and he knew how to get out of the cab, he
would be able to run much faster. Yet the cab and himself and the
driver must be cruel burdens for the poor old horse. He felt a pitiless
street-person to be sitting there, preoccupied with his own affairs,
while he inflicted sufferings upon a dumb animal. But he must, he must,
he must be at No. 24 Trafalgar Square as the clocks gave the hour of
twelve!
What was that! The chimes of a clock. One, two, three, four; four
quarters of the hour! His heart sank. It was all over. The first stroke
of the hour of twelve was striking. His pilgrimage had been made in
vain. He had one more failure to record. He would never, his sinking
heart informed him, be able to retain the little room.
Then he found that the hansom had stopped altogether. The solemn face
of the cab-driver street-person peered at him through a hole in the
roof.
“Here y’are, Captain,” he said, with a pride that was finely
restrained, “number twenty-four. The old ’oss ’as done it on ’is ’ead.”
The boy was out of the vehicle at a bound. He cried to the cabman, “Oh,
t-thank you, oh, t-thank you!”
The fifth stroke of twelve had struck. No. 24 was displayed on a
door six yards away. Beside it was a brass plate inscribed, _Messrs.
Crumpett and Hawker, Publishers_.
In a state of excitement that he found it impossible to allay, the
boy entered through the swing doors. Almost immediately he found his
progress barred by a counter. Behind it a miscellaneous collection
of street-persons, whose sex was unmistakably that of the male, was
writing in books, clicking typewriters, ringing telephones, tying up
parcels.
The boy, knowing he had come to stand on the threshold of nameless
mysteries, awoke to the discovery that he was entirely divested of
the powers of speech and motion. Yet as he stood in bewilderment, not
knowing what to do now that after such infinite vicissitudes he had
come to No. 24 Trafalgar Square at the appointed hour, the occupant of
a tall stool behind a glass partition in the left-hand corner of the
counting-house left that eminence, and at a leisure that was really
remarkable sauntered up to the counter to the applicant.
The individual who had left the high stool was declared, when he
came to stand before the boy, to be no unworthy specimen of his time
and country. In age he might have been twelve or he might have been
forty; yet upon every feature of a small and wizened countenance,
which embodied all the most salient characteristics of the fox and
the ferret, was stamped a not inconsiderable intellectual quality. On
the score of physique this personage was not so well equipped. He was
undersized to the point of the stunted; but Nature, with her liberal
cunning, had granted him ample compensation for his lack of inches. He
had an air. His air had the inimitable aplomb which is the perquisite
of the few.
At first the boy could do nothing but stare in dire confusion at
this somewhat sinister figure. He was dumb, yet his lips were wide
apart, and he was trembling all over. The whole of the ritual that
had undergone such a careful preparation, in which every possible
contingency that could arise had been foreseen and counteracted, had
vanished from his mind as completely as though it had never been in it.
“The tailor’s is next door,” said the wizened boy, after a period
of thoughtful contemplation of him who stood at the other side of
the counter. As he spoke he appeared to pick his words with the cool
delicacy of a connoisseur.
Another period of silence followed this piece of information, which
was broken at last by an ineffectual stammer from the applicant.
“I--I--I d-don’t w-want the t-tailor’s, s-sir,” he said.
“Really,” said the other with a courtesy which, although quite amiable,
was in nowise expansive, “I thought perhaps you might.”
“Oh n-n-no,” said the boy. “I--I--I----”
“Perhaps you are not aware,” said the other with a bland, impersonal
pleasantness, “that this is the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker?”
The mention of the magic name Crumpett and Hawker had a remarkable
effect. Almost as if at the beck of the wand of a sorcerer it restored
to the mind of the applicant the programme which he had forgotten so
completely. From the inmost recesses of a breast-pocket, whence it had
been carefully stowed away, he produced the letter he had received from
that eminent firm of publishers. This he handed across the counter to
the undersized and wizened boy, and accompanied the act by a low bow
that seemed unmistakably to create a favourable impression.
“M-Messrs. C-Crumpett and H-Hawker,” he said, “P-P-P-Publishers, No. 24
Trafalgar Square, have b-bestowed the honour of this c-command upon me.
I--I--I p-present m-myself in obedience to it.”
The undersized and wizened boy having successfully dissembled his
astonishment at this unconventional mode of address, read the contents
of the letter with a lively curiosity, which he dissembled just as
successfully.
“William Jordan, Junior?” he asked.
“Y-Yes, sir,” said the boy.
The undersized and wizened boy began to whistle to himself softly.
“Perhaps you’ll come this way,” he said with a reticence of which he
had every reason to be proud.
He lifted up a movable piece of the counter, and indicated to the
applicant that he might pass through. This the boy did almost
involuntarily. At first, finding himself immersed into so much
publicity, with so many pairs of eyes and strange faces all about
him, he feared that his self-command would go. Yet all this had been
foreseen in that programme that had been devised with such care.
“Courage, Achilles!” he muttered, yet so that none could hear him. And
although he felt that the back of his head was being penetrated by the
ruthless curiosity through which he passed, he followed the undersized
and wizened boy across the counting-house, looking neither to the right
nor to the left.
His mentor opened a door in a glass partition and bade him go within.
“The Chief will send for you presently,” he said with courteous
austerity. “Take a chair.”
Several street-persons, inclining to young manhood, were in the room.
One and all were sitting exceedingly upright on leather-covered chairs.
Apparently these youthful street-persons were stouter and taller and
stronger than himself. They also had that indefinable quality in
their faces that suggested that their outlook on men and things was
more mature. A complete silence was maintained by all; indeed, their
attitude seemed designed to suggest that other than themselves, no
other individual was present in the room.
At first the boy stood nervously in the centre of the room with his hat
in his hand. The other occupants contemplated him with leisurely and
impersonal aloofness. Presently it was borne in upon the boy that it
would call for more courage to stand than to sit, so he sat. He took a
chair, and poised himself upon its extreme verge, striving vainly to
control the beatings of his heart. It seemed as though they must choke
him.
In a little while the undersized and wizened boy entered with the
dignity of one who is accustomed to accept responsibility in great
issues.
“The Chief will see John Wilkins,” he said.
John Wilkins, a muscular specimen of British youth, six feet high, rose
and followed the emissary from high places with an air of slightly
bored indifference.
The boy pressed both hands over his beating heart.
The emissary from high places entered again. He carried a newspaper
that had pictures.
“Care to look at _Punch_?” he said. He handed the newspaper that had
pictures to the boy with an air of carefully defined abstraction which
suggested that he viewed this amenity in the light of a duty.
“Oh, t-t-thank you, t-thank you,” said the boy.
“What’s the screw?” said a handsome, fair-haired fellow to the emissary
from high places.
“The _salary_ is ten shillings a week.” The emissary laid a delicate
emphasis on the second word.
“Oh, is it?” said the fair-haired fellow. “What’s the hours?”
“Eight till seven,” said the wizened boy.
“Half-day Saturday?”
“On Saturday Messrs. Crumpett and Hawker close at six.”
“Oh, do they! What ’oliday?”
“During the first year there is no _holiday_,” said the wizened boy,
speaking very slowly and distinctly, and laying a delicate emphasis
on the last word. “After the first year the holiday, as a rule, is
permanent.”
The wizened boy retired from the room with a calmness that could be
felt.
“Uppish, ain’t he?” said the fair-haired fellow, speaking to nobody in
particular.
The boy turned over the pages of the newspaper. This was of a type
he had never seen before. The pictures bewildered him. He turned
them upside down to see if he could understand them better. He then
concluded that his own mental and moral disorganization had become
embodied, and the newspaper fluttered from his hands. The beating of
his heart was choking him.
The emissary from high places entered again.
“The Chief will see Calverley Brown.”
The fair-haired fellow stood up and followed the emissary with a
precise imitation of the gait and manner of his predecessor.
The emissary entered again and picked up the newspaper from the carpet.
His chin was poised at a supercilious angle.
“When one has no use for _Punch_,” he said with a slowness that made
each word valuable, “it is considered the thing to place it on the
table, or to offer it to one’s friends.”
The boy’s pale cheeks grew vivid, for the almost exaggerated
development of his courtesy enabled him to appreciate that this reproof
was merited.
“I--I--I b-beg your p-p-pardon, sir,” he stammered painfully;
“I--I--I----”
The wizened boy sauntered out without paying the slightest heed to
these apologies. However, the next moment he had sauntered in again.
“The Chief will see Cholmondeley Montgomery Mo-ly----”
“Mullynooks,” said a small, black-haired, black-eyed young man, rising,
with a yawn.
“Mo-ly-know,” said the emissary, articulating the name with great
aplomb in his own manner.
“Neux rhymes with dukes,” said the young man with black eyes with an
air of condescension. “And you got both my first names wrong, but it is
of no consequence.”
“I agree with you,” said the emissary with a devastating emphasis, “it
_is_ of no consequence. And it is not considered the thing to keep
fancy names without one is up to them socially.”
Cholmondeley Montgomery Molyneux retired with an air of such supreme
indifference, and of such inimitable _flair_, that those of his
predecessors were made to appear as but the poorest of imitations.
There was now only one other person remaining in the room, one whose
youthfulness had been merged some years in a robust and full-blooded
manhood.
“Cocky young swine, ain’t he?” said this paladin to the boy with a
great and sudden friendliness. “I should have to put it across him if I
had to do with him much.”
“I--I--I b-beg your p-pardon, sir,” stammered the boy. Under his breath
he repeated several words of the English tongue which he then heard for
the first time.
“Stow the polite, matey,” said the other with an increasing
friendliness. “A cove can’t live up to it when he’s off duty.”
“Stow the polite, matey,” the boy muttered under his breath. What a
baffling tongue was this with which he had to grapple!
The emissary from high places entered again.
“The Chief will see William Ewart Gladstone Smith,” he said. “And he
desires that each applicant will have his references ready.”
The boy was now left alone. He found it impossible to control his
excitement. He rose from his chair, now that no one else was present,
and walked up and down the carpeted floor like a wild animal in a cage.
What was meant by “references?” This was yet another new development;
it had not been included in the programme. How much he had yet to
learn in the practical sciences before he could hope to move about
the great world out of doors in freedom and security! Even a man like
William Ewart Gladstone Smith, who looked just an ordinary common
street-person, made use of a vocabulary that was quite beyond his
experience.
The wizened and undersized boy entered again.
“The Chief will see William Jordan, Junior,” he said.
Not knowing where he was, nor what he was doing, the boy turned to
follow the emissary from high places. He was led through another door
out into an ill-lit passage.
“Come in here a minute,” said the emissary.
He led the way into a small, dark room. Producing a clothes-brush, he
began to wield it upon the applicant scrupulously.
“There’s a hair-brush,” he said, “if you’d like to brush your hair.”
The applicant thanked him inarticulately. As if he were in a dream he
began to manipulate the hair-brush. All this was not in the programme.
“The Chief,” said the wizened boy impressively, “is Octavius Crumpett,
M.A., D.C.L. (Oxon.). Be careful of your aitches. Articulate your words
correctly. If your references are all right you stand an outsider’s
chance. The others were a scratch lot.”
Having uttered these cabalistic remarks, the emissary led the way up a
steep flight of stairs. The applicant followed dizzily. His eyes were
growing dark. He could scarcely see. “Courage, Achilles,” he muttered
faintly as he came to the landing at the top.
The emissary gave a smart, resounding knock upon a closed door. He then
opened it briskly and noiselessly, and in a similar fashion stepped
within. “William Jordan, Junior,” he said in his clear voice, and with
his great aplomb of manner. At the same moment he gave the boy a little
push into the room and closed the door upon him.
The boy stood upon the threshold. He could see nothing. There was a
curious singing in his ears. All about him was quite dark.
“Good-morning,” said a deep, slow, pleasant voice. It boomed like a
bell.
The boy did not speak, but bowed very low, yet he was not in the least
conscious that he did so. This act, however, restored to him the sense
of vision. He could see; although an intolerable noise of singing was
still in his ears.
A somewhat ponderous, double-chinned, exceedingly handsome and
prosperous gentleman was standing with the back of his ample form to
the fire. The skirts of his frock-coat were outspread, and two white
and rotund hands held them apart. He was dressed with a care that
was almost religious. His hair was groomed immaculately; his short
side-whiskers had been treated by the hand of a master. He wore a
glass in the right eye. Everything about him, even the pearl which
gave distinction and rigidity to his necktie, was a testimonial to
his status. And upon the countenance of this gentleman was a simper
of such an urbane expansiveness, that its function apparently was to
be antiseptic to a dignity which, without this precaution, must have
proved too much for human nature’s daily food.
“You wrote a nice letter,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, “a very nice
letter. Did you write it without aid?”
“Y-y-yes, s-sir,” said the boy. He felt a thrill of joy to know that
the power of speech had returned.
“A most creditable letter,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett with the benign
purr of an unusually well-nurtured feline. “A little unconventional,
perhaps--but no matter. May I ask where you were educated?”
“I--I--I d-don’t t-think I k-know, sir,” the boy stammered. This
question was not in the programme.
“Curious,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, purring more benignly than
ever--“Curious not to know where one was educated. Yet, perhaps it is
immaterial. One board school must be very like another. What is your
age?”
The boy’s heart gave a leap. This question was unmistakably in the
programme.
“E-eighteen y-years and f-fifteen days, sir,” he said.
“How odd,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, whose delightful simper expanded
to the region of the smile. “What a curious computation. One had no
idea that the Board School was so precise in these matters. I must
mention this to my friend Arnold. By the way, I showed my friend
Arnold your nice letter. He did not consider it typical of the Board
School. He said the style had a flavour of latinity. Do they provide
for instruction in Latin in the Board School curriculum?”
“I--I--I d-don’t t-think I know, sir,” said the boy. The question was
not in the programme.
“Then perhaps we might assume that they don’t,” said Mr. Octavius
Crumpett. “Perhaps the pleasing flavour of latinity in your epistolary
style is due to one of those mysterious side currents of descent which
continually perplex the best biographers.”
Mr. Octavius Crumpett’s manner of saying this seemed to be designed to
suggest that if his natural power of mind had betrayed him into saying
anything unusual, he hoped it would be understood that the solecism of
which he was guilty was not due to ignorance of the foremost practice,
but was rather the fruit of uncontrollable natural forces.
“You do not look very robust,” he said, looking at the frail figure
steadily through the glass that rendered his right eye so formidable.
“Are you used to hard work?”
“I have determined, sir, to inure my frame to the hardest labour,” said
the boy. This question was in the programme.
“The English they impart at the Board School,” said Mr. Octavius
Crumpett, “is sound and wholesome, if a trifle bookish. I think some
of our public schools might copy their methods with advantage. I must
speak to Arnold. I wish your chest was a bit broader, my boy,” he said
kindly, “and that your cheeks were not so pale, and your eyes were not
so sunken, because in other respects you do not seem to be unworthy of
the traditions of this house. Do you mind showing me your finger-nails?”
This request was not in the programme, but by now the boy had obtained
sufficient self-command to enable him to pluck off his gloves
nervously. Of late he had been compelled to wear gloves constantly
because he could never keep his hands warm.
In the detached but efficient manner of one accustomed to immolate
his private feelings upon the altar of duty, Mr. Octavius Crumpett
scrutinized each of the cold and fragile hands, through which shone the
delicate veins.
“They are nicely kept,” he said; “they are kept very nicely indeed.
I may say that the other applicants, notwithstanding the character
of their testimonials, had not a scrupulous regard for personal
decency. It would give me great pleasure personally to see you in the
counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker”--there was an accession of pride
to the mellifluous accents of Mr. Octavius Crumpett--“for you strike
one as an exceedingly _gentleman-like_ and _well-conditioned_ boy, but
in a physical sense nature does not seem to have been so much your
friend. However, Mr. Jordan, perhaps you will be good enough to touch
that bell.”
From his station before the fire Mr. Octavius Crumpett indicated a
bell on his table; and although Mr. Jordan had never touched a bell
before in his life, he was able to understand what was required of him,
for now all his faculties seemed to be strung up to a point of almost
perilous receptivity; and, further, he was able to reel across the
carpet, and, by a miraculous intervention on the part of providence,
was able to make the bell give forth an audible sound.
The visible and actual proof of that which he had accomplished was
furnished by the entrance of the undersized and wizened boy.
“Mr. Dodson,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, “I shall be obliged if you
will ask Mr. Walkinshaw to have the kindness to come up-stairs.”
Mr. Dodson withdrew with the air of an ambassador.
The boy’s gaze was one of intense entreaty as he looked through the
sacred mists which veiled the Olympian form of Mr. Octavius Crumpett.
That emblem of a monumental culture still stood with the skirts of his
coat outspread before the fire. Its genial warmth seemed still to make
him purr and simper in every crease and fold of his chaste portliness.
At every breath he drew he seemed to approximate more nearly to an
extraordinarily fine and handsome feline, which finds itself in
unusually luxurious surroundings.
His meditations, which must have been those of an optimist, were
curtailed by the entrance of a thin, formal, intellectual, yet slightly
melancholy gentleman, whose refined and sensitive features were yet
stamped with the simper of a large content. Perhaps this cachet of
those who take a large view of things had not always been upon that
refined countenance, but many years’ association with a foremost
practitioner of the amenities of life had had an indelible effect.
Habit had become nature. Mr. Walter Pater Walkinshaw might once have
had his modest doubts as became any other private gentleman; but he
was as fundamentally sound as the great house of Crumpett and Hawker
itself. Of the simper there could be no doubt; for in mien, in manner,
in deportment he was designed to suggest that, like the wizened boy
himself, he had been modelled carefully upon a superb original which at
this moment was standing with its coat-tails held away from the fire.
“Mr. Walkinshaw,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, “I have interviewed the
applicants; and, after giving every consideration to each candidate
among those of whom we decided to limit our choice, I have come to the
conclusion that Mr. William Jordan, Junior, is most fitted to enter the
counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker. Unfortunately he is not very
robust. Have you any views, Mr. Walkinshaw?”
Presumably in these high altitudes these very dangerous implements were
permitted to the English gentleman. Or, perhaps, it was that with his
fine instinct, Mr. Octavius Crumpett had divined that in any case the
views of Mr. Walkinshaw would be orthodox. For after that gentleman had
proceeded very earnestly to scrutinize the shrinking countenance of Mr.
William Jordan, Junior, his views concurred with those that had been
already expressed by the head of the firm.
“No, sir,” said Mr. Walkinshaw; “not very robust.”
“May I ask, Mr. Walkinshaw,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, “are the
duties of an arduous nature which are incident to the career of a handy
youth? I am afraid I have no first-hand knowledge.”
The simper of Mr. Octavius Crumpett was of a most winning character.
“No, sir, I dare say not,” said Mr. Walkinshaw, taking the extreme
course of permitting himself to lapse sufficiently from the deportment
of his model as to indulge in a hearty laugh. But the circumstances
seemed to demand it. “I think I am correct, sir,” continued Mr.
Walkinshaw, “in saying that the duties usually incident to the career
of a handy youth are not in any sense of the word light ones. But in
the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker they may admit of mitigation.”
“Could you tell me, Mr. Walkinshaw, what would be asked of one who
sustained that character in the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker?”
said the head of that great house with a sweetness that was a happy
mingling of the cherub and the seraph.
“His chief duty would consist, sir, in pasting labels on rejected
manuscripts,” said Mr. Walkinshaw; “and he would be called upon to fill
in his time by addressing envelopes, carrying ledgers, copying letters,
keeping the counting-house tidy, and in trying to be of general
service.”
“Do you feel that you could sustain these responsibilities?” said Mr.
Octavius Crumpett to the applicant.
“I will not fail, sir,” said the boy.
The manner in which he expressed this determination seemed favourably
to impress both gentlemen.
“I think, Mr. Walkinshaw,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, in a voice
that was charged with emotion, “in the circumstances we shall be
almost justified in introducing Mr. William Jordan, Junior, into the
counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker.”
“I concur, sir,” said Mr. Walkinshaw, in a voice whose own emotion was
attuned with supreme good breeding to that of his chief. “I concur.”
“I hope, Mr. Jordan,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, whose beautiful
and vibrant tones had acquired a paternal inflection, “that you will
contrive to maintain the excellent impression you have already created.
For let me assure you, Mr. Jordan, it is easier for the average youth
to become an Extension Lecturer than it is for him to occupy a stool in
the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker. Good-morning, Mr. Jordan.”
Mr. Octavius Crumpett concluded by thrusting out his right hand so
suddenly and so unexpectedly, that the boy shrank away from him as
though he were expecting to receive a blow.
“Shake it,” whispered Mr. Walkinshaw in his ear.
The boy grasped the firm white hand with a timidity that would not have
been out of place had it been the fore-paw of a polar bear. However,
his trepidation seemed further to prepossess him in the favour of
both gentlemen. It was not always that those of his callow years had
this nice but lively discrimination of the fine shades of the social
cosmogony into which unsmiling Fate had projected them.
Mr. Walter Pater Walkinshaw conducted in person down the steep stairs
the latest addition to the clerical staff of Messrs. Crumpett and
Hawker. He led him into the counting-house, into the midst of that
concourse of fellow-labourers in what was now to be his vineyard
through which he had already passed.
As Mr. Walter Pater Walkinshaw did this he said, with an impressiveness
of which the occasion seemed to be worthy, “Above all, Mr. Jordan, it
behoves you to remember that the humblest occupant of a stool in the
counting-house of Messrs. Crumpett and Hawker is _ab ovo_ a candidate
for election to the Athenæum Club under the rule _honoris causâ_.”
Unfortunately, Mr. Jordan’s limited acquaintance with the practical
sciences did not permit him to realize the golden vista which thus
early in life had come to unfold itself before him.
With this exhortation Mr. Walter Pater Walkinshaw relinquished his
charge into the safe keeping of the undersized and wizened boy.
“Mr. Dodson,” said Mr. Walkinshaw, “be good enough to assume
responsibility for Mr. William Jordan, Junior. Be good enough to
inspire him, as far as in you lies, with the particular tone that
tradition exacts from all who are associated, even in the humblest
capacity, with this eminent and old-established publishing house. His
main duty, Mr. Dodson, will, as you know, consist in tying up, sealing,
and labelling rejected MSS. See to it that he observes particular care
in using black wax in all cases of rejection. In the less frequent,
the much less frequent instances of acceptance, he will, of course,
observe the rule of using red sealing wax. That is, of course, for
fiction only. For biography and travel he will, of course, use yellow,
and I need not remind you that for poetry and _belles lettres_ he will
invariably use purple.”
“Oh yes, sir,” said the wizened boy, with an air of great intelligence,
“Mr. Jordan shall be initiated into everything.”