During the week which followed, the behaviour of William Jordan,
Junior, was very closely scrutinized by his fellow-labourers in the
vineyard of No. 24 Trafalgar Square. One and all were freely inoculated
with the “traditions of the house.” Each member of the counting-house
staff, from Mr. Dodson, who might be of any age and standing, to Mr.
Walter Pater Walkinshaw, Mr. Aristophanes Luff, Mr. Leslie Stephen
Sandars, and Mr. T. B. Macaulay Jenkins, who unmistakably were of one
particular period and degree, were infected by a generous jealousy
for the name and fame “of the first publishing house in London, and
therefore of the civilized world.”
“It ain’t, you know,” Mr. James Dodson communicated to William Jordan,
Junior, in his second or unofficial manner, “but Octavius thinks so,
and what Octavius thinks the staff has got d---- well to believe.”
Mr. William Jordan, Junior, was honoured with this confidence while
proceeding to a luncheon to be partaken of in Mr. Dodson’s company, and
by his express invitation, at the refreshment buffet annexed to the
Brontë Hotel, which was situated in a by-street off Trafalgar Square.
Mr. Dodson, who needless to say selected this house of refreshment and
led the way thereto, ordered of a gorgeous lady in a scarlet blouse
and large yellow earrings, whom he addressed as “Chrissie” with that
inimitable _flair_ that never forsook him on public occasions, “two
lean ham-sandwiches and two tankards of half-and-half with plenty of
top.”
The reception accorded by Mr. William Jordan, Junior, to these viands,
for which the buffet of the Brontë Hotel was justly famous, filled Mr.
Dodson with astonishment and Chrissie with consternation not unmingled
with protest.
“Your fat friend needn’t look as though he’s tasted vitriol,” said the
lady in the scarlet blouse, as the boy recoiled with horror at the
moment he was saluted by the fumes from the tankard. “That’s the best
half-and-half in London, young man, and he who says it is not is a
perverter of the truth.”
“Is--is it h-hemlock?” gasped the boy, as tragically he replaced the
tankard upon the marble slab.
With that presence of mind for which he was notorious, Mr. Dodson bent
across the counter and whispered something in the ear of the lady
in the scarlet blouse, which was not audible to Mr. William Jordan,
Junior. To lend colour to his statement, in whatever it might consist,
Mr. Dodson tapped his forehead in an impersonal and mystical manner.
“Get him a small milk, Chrissie,” said Mr. Dodson with a most engaging
air, which had long been the despair and the envy of his wide circle of
acquaintance.
When this beverage had been produced and the lady in the scarlet
blouse had been thanked profusely, but not altogether mollified by
the recipient of this signal act of condescension, both she and Mr.
Dodson gazed at him curiously while he looked nervously at the plate
containing the ham-sandwich which had been set before him.
“If you’d like a bit of bread-and-butter, you can have it you know,”
said the lady in the scarlet blouse.
“Oh, t-thank you, t-thank you, if you will have the g-g-great
kindness,” said the boy. He was relieved beyond expression; yet his
embarrassment at being addressed publicly by a mysterious kind of
creature of whom his friends, the ancient authors, had invariably
formed such remarkable opinions, caused a deep tawny blush to
overspread his pale and hollow cheeks.
“You may well look so fat,” said the lady in the scarlet blouse, with
her indignation melting. She felt that his agitation was a frank
testimonial to the impact of her own overpowering personality.
During these transactions, Mr. Dodson, having dispatched his own
ham-sandwich and “tankard of half-and-half with plenty of top” with
great success, proceeded to deal in like manner with those of his
strange companion. And further, at the conclusion of these operations
he disclosed, mainly for the information of the lady in the scarlet
blouse, the true basis upon which two such diverse elements as Mr.
James Dodson and Mr. William Jordan, Junior, were wont to co-operate.
“Luney,” he said to the boy, while he fixed the lady in the scarlet
blouse with a steady and unsmiling gaze, “you can lend me two and a
kick _pro tem._ Matchbox has gone down in the big race, and he carried
my shirt.”
“I--I b-beg your p-pardon, sir,” stammered the boy. The limit to
his knowledge in the practical sciences had presented itself rather
abruptly.
“Lend me half-a-dollar, you cuckoo,” said Mr. Dodson sternly, “and
don’t be so darnation polite.”
“I--I b-beg your p-pardon, sir,” stammered the boy, “I--I d-don’t
t-think I k-know what you mean.”
The lady in the scarlet blouse regarded him with eyes of wonder. Mr.
Dodson, however, still retained his self-possession in the presence of
an unknowingness that transcended all that had previously come within
his purview.
“He comes of a rather good family,” said Mr. Dodson in an eloquent
aside to the lady in the scarlet blouse.
“Oh, does he?” said the lady in the scarlet blouse, opening her lazy
eyes a little wider--“a gilt mug.”
“What silver have you got about you, Luney?” said Mr. Dodson.
This request was sufficiently intelligible to the boy to cause him to
produce a collection of silver pieces which his father insisted on
his carrying about with him. Mr. Dodson selected five shillings in a
leisurely and impartial manner.
“I’ll make it a dollar,” he said, “and mind, my son, that you don’t
forget to ask me for it. I’ve got such a weak memory for small things
that one of these days I shall forget to attend my own funeral.”
Upon this utterance, which the boy was fain to consider as very
remarkable, Mr. Dodson disbursed the sum of one shilling and sixpence
to the lady in the scarlet blouse, and at the same time took the
opportunity of transferring a dahlia, which approximated to the size
of a small cauliflower, from his own person to the ample bosom of this
already sufficiently gorgeous creature.
“So long, Chrissie,” he said. “See you at the Tivoli at a quarter to
nine.”
With a great air, which the lesser luminaries of his circle were apt to
interpret as swagger, Mr. Dodson made for the door.
“Come on, Luney,” said he, “let me take you back to your governess.”
This speech, delivered in a very audible manner, was not altogether for
the guidance of Mr. William Jordan, Junior, but rather for that of two
young gentlemen of a similar type to Mr. Dodson himself, who at that
moment were entering the buffet.
“’Ow are yer, Jimmy?” said one of these with a nod of easy familiarity.
Mr. Dodson gave a curt nod to embrace them both, and looked them down
with a cold, straight glance.
“Cheek,” said Mr. Dodson, in a half-audible aside to Mr. William
Jordan, Junior. “Infernal cheek!”
“Who’s Jimmy touting around with this morning?” said the first of these
gentlemen to the lady in the scarlet blouse.
“A gilt mug,” said that superb creature coldly from behind her dahlia.
“Thought as much,” said the first gentleman with a quizzical look at
his companion. “Between you and me and the mustard pot, Chrissie, it’s
my opinion Jimmy Dodson gets a bigger snob every day.”
“Jimmy’s all right,” said the lady. “If either of _you_ had got half
_his_ style, you’d do.”
“Yes, I suppose we should.”
Each of the young men gave a sigh that was so imperfectly repressed,
that it lent poignant expression to the unattainable.