In the course of the following week an announcement was made which
marked an epoch in the history of the great publishing house of
Crumpett and Hawker.
However, before this event had burgeoned forth upon the counting-house
staff, Mr. M. Arnold Dodson, with whose individual destiny it was
concerned, continued to live in that condition of soul-distraction, to
which it would seem even the most philosophic minds are susceptible,
which is known as hope deferred.
All the week Mr. Dodson had waited in vain to be summoned into the
presence of authority, to receive the seal of official recognition
to which he felt his mature talents were unquestionably entitled. He
had set his heart upon the dethronement of young Davis. To that other
accomplished worldling, who in mere point of age was a year older
than himself, he never referred without the prefix “young.” But the
misdemeanour of which that successful adventurer had been convicted, of
smoking in the room of the head of the firm, had not as yet borne the
fruit that Mr. Dodson had confidently predicted. Mr. Davis was still
enthroned in high places, triumphant still in his original deceit;
every morning he appended his signature in the time-book, G. Eliot
Davis, 9.15, not the least among the Olympians whose seat was on the
second storey; while Mr. M. Arnold Dodson, in every way his superior
in moral and mental attainment, still languished in the comparative
obscurity of the counting-house below.
On two occasions during that week had Mr. Dodson walked into the Strand
during the luncheon hour, and had purchased an extremely pungent
cigar, for which he had disbursed the sum of one penny. Armed with this
implement he had stolen up-stairs in the absence of the staff during
the hour of luncheon, and had smoked it grimly and relentlessly in
the middle of the sanctuary of Mr. Octavius Crumpett. Melancholy to
relate, however, in spite of the physical pangs endured by the heroic
Mr. Dodson, who in the very act of informing William Jordan, Junior,
that “that young Davis had been smoking again in Octavius’s room,”
had to make a sudden and somewhat undignified exit to the back of the
building--in spite of such tribulations as these the wicked, in the
person of G. Eliot Davis, continued to flourish in that time-honoured
fashion which has been celebrated by Holy Writ.
“Luney,” said Mr. Dodson, with an unaffected pathos in his voice, when
the second of these heroic efforts to dethrone the unrighteous had
been fraught with no other compensation than that of suffering of a
purely physical kind, which is too often the reward of human nature’s
disinterestedness, “Luney, it fairly turns me sick to see that young
Davis walk up those stairs. I shouldn’t mind, you know, I shouldn’t
mind at all if he had played the game. But he got where he is by a
trick, and it is doing him no kindness to try to gloss it over.”
Upon the delivery of this altogether admirable piece of morality
touched by emotion, Mr. M. Arnold Dodson, for the second time that
afternoon, retired to the back of the building with a haste which
scarcely harmonized with his natural dignity.
As he returned with an unwonted pallor upon a countenance which as a
rule bore evidence of being soundly nourished, whom should he meet, as
if by the irony of circumstance, but Mr. G. Eliot Davis descending the
stairs. For once the eminent philosopher and man of the world seemed to
lack the moral strength to encounter one whom he could only regard in
the light of a successful adventurer. Therefore he strove to escape
without attempting to outface a demeanour, which in his view was flown
to an exaggerated degree with the insolence of office. This afternoon,
however, he was not able to control the fates.
“Dodson,” said Mr. G. Eliot Davis, in the tone which Mr. Dodson made
a point of describing as “insufferable”; “Dodson,” said Mr. Davis,
“perhaps it may interest you to know that Mr. Octavius’s personal
translation of Homer’s Odyssey will be issued to the Trade on Monday
next.”
“Thank you, Davis,” said Mr. Dodson, with the self-command that the
great display on great occasions. “I am glad to know that, very glad
indeed.”
Mr. Dodson’s official duties should have led him there and then into
the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker; but as he stood to watch
the small but stout, erect, and prosperous form of Mr. G. Eliot Davis
saunter out of the front entrance of No. 24 Trafalgar Square, an idea
flashed across that Napoleonic brain.
Therefore, instead of returning to admonish William Jordan, Junior,
for omitting to inscribe the courtesy prefix to the name of a peer’s
daughter in returning the manuscript copy of her verses, Mr. Dodson
also sauntered forth of No. 24 Trafalgar Square. He turned the first
corner and entered the refreshment buffet of the Brontë Hotel.
Presiding over that hall of public entertainment was the lady of the
scarlet blouse and yellow earrings. This afternoon the blouse was
heliotrope, and she wore no earrings.
“Chrissie,” said Mr. Dodson, “I want something to pull me together. It
must be up to proof, but it must leave no odour.”
“I always say you can’t do better than brandy,” said Chrissie, with
the assured yet quiet air of the unmistakable expert. “Of course, some
prefer a John Collins, or an American, or a Dog Toby, but I am not
partial to so much fancy work myself.”
“Same here,” said Mr. Dodson. “But there must be no odour--none
whatever.”
“You shall have a toothful of the Waterloo, as your face seems
familiar,” said Chrissie benignly.
“You are a good sort, Chrissie,” said Mr. Dodson, with a small display
of emotion that became him perfectly. “I shall not forget you.”
“My size is nine and a quarter,” said the lady, as with extreme
precision she measured out a small quantity of a curiously-coloured
liquid from a very mysterious-looking bottle. “Jimmy, I must say you do
look a bit below yourself. Has the moon come up yet?”
“Not yet,” said Mr. Dodson in a tone of amiable deprecation. He was
greatly indebted to the kindness of the lady in the heliotrope blouse,
but her question was alien to his dignity, as was also the situation
in which he found himself. Even at this period of his career all those
attributes were clearly developed which in after years brought him so
much distinction in political life.
“Well, if you will smoke El Destinkers at one and fourpence a hundred,”
said the lady in the heliotrope blouse.
“Chrissie,” said Mr. Dodson impressively, after swallowing the brandy
at a single gulp, “you _should_ know that I am physically incapable of
doing anything of the kind.”
“I can smell it from here,” said the lady in the heliotrope blouse.
“I know it is not considered the thing to contradict a lady,” said Mr.
Dodson, withdrawing two steps from the buffet, “but you appear to have
paid me the compliment of forgetting the commercial traveller who has
just gone out. So long. Be good.”
Mr. Dodson sauntered out of the refreshment buffet of the Brontë Hotel
with the inimitable nonchalance of bearing which many, besides the lady
in the heliotrope blouse, never failed to admire.
Before returning to his official duties at No. 24 Trafalgar Square,
Mr. Dodson went in quest of a chemist, whom he found a few doors up
the street. Of him he purchased a pennyworth of pungent pink lozenges,
which immediately he proceeded to suck. He then re-entered the premises
of the eminent publishing house; but instead of going forthwith to
admonish William Jordan, Junior, he proceeded to wash his face, to part
his hair in the middle with much care, and to re-adjust his necktie.
These preliminaries accomplished, Mr. Dodson walked very slowly and
erectly up to the second storey. He entered the small ante-chamber at
the head of the stairs, which was dedicated to the sole use of the
vigilant guardian of these Olympian altitudes, one G. Eliot Davis.
“Davis,” said Mr. Dodson, peering within, “is Mr. Octavius in his room?”
“Yes, Dodson, he is,” said Mr. Davis.
“Alone, Davis?”
“Alone, Dodson.”
“Thank you, Davis.”
“Don’t mention it, Dodson.”
Upon the conclusion of this exchange of courtesies, which an impartial
observer might have considered as a trifle elaborated on both sides,
Mr. Dodson knocked smartly and boldly, yet withal respectfully, upon
the portals of Mr. Octavius Crumpett. Mr. Dodson entered the august
presence briskly, but closed the door after him with delicacy and with
self-possession.
Mr. Octavius Crumpett was seated at the table in close proximity to
the fire. Every letter and document, every book, every small article
was arranged upon it with scrupulous nicety. The head of the firm was
enjoying the academic pleasure of running a paper-knife through the
close-pressed leaves, within a chaste and scholarly binding, of his
personal translation of the Odyssey, which was to be issued to an
expectant world upon the following Monday.
Mr. Octavius Crumpett looked up urbanely from his insidious and
alluring occupation. A slight frown of perplexity almost seemed to
cloud for a moment that serene brow. In his boundless conscientiousness
Mr. Octavius Crumpett conceived it to be his duty to be able to
remember the name of each individual member of his staff, however lowly
or obscure his station. For an instant he almost feared that he had
forgotten the name of the individual before him. But this moment of
doubt, of almost tremulous perplexity, which did him such credit as a
man, as the head of a house of eminent publishers, as an enlightened
patron of labour, passed almost as soon as it appeared, for a weak wet
glint of the afternoon sun suddenly illumined the wizened countenance
of the young gentleman who stood before him; and as if touched by
inspiration Mr. Octavius Crumpett remembered that the name of the young
gentleman was Matthew Arnold Dodson.
“Well, Mr. Dodson?” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, in that tone and manner
which were ever the despair and admiration of his staff.
Mr. M. A. Dodson, who had already shown his consummate breeding by
waiting for his chief to speak first, as though he were a royalty
incarnate, bowed slightly from his full height, which was hardly more
than four feet ten inches, and said in a very carefully modulated
voice, “I apologize, sir, for my intrusion, but I learn that your
personal translation of the Odyssey is to be issued to the Trade on
Monday next.”
“That is in accord with existing arrangements, I believe,” said Mr.
Octavius Crumpett, with a masterly implication that his well-cut
diction dealt merely with human nature’s daily food.
“Well now, sir,” said Mr. M. A. Dodson, whose mellifluous accent might
have sounded a little ingratiating had it been used by a less able
practitioner, “I am taking the freedom of asking _you_, sir, whether
I might purchase my own private copy this evening. The fact is, sir,”
Mr. M. A. Dodson added, in a burst of humble yet half-whimsical
self-revelation, “I can hardly possess my soul in patience until Monday
next. May I ask, sir, would it be _infra dignitatem_ if I were to
obtain my own copy this evening? I am particularly anxious to have the
opportunity of studying the entire achievement--I feel sure, sir, I
am justified in applying beforehand that much-abused word--before the
journals of professional criticism, which are very excellent in their
way, which I needn’t tell _you_, sir, I read every week, have had the
opportunity of swaying my private judgment.”
Mr. Octavius Crumpett paused, with his solid silver paper-knife
suspended in the air, to listen to this masterful piece of elocution
on the part of Mr. M. A. Dodson. As the delicately enunciated phrases
fell from those gently simpering lips, quite as they would have
proceeded from those of the listener himself, an emotion of pleasure
and gratitude percolated through the entire being of this good and
benign gentleman. That portion of his being which was arrayed in a
waistcoat of immaculate whiteness rose and fell in visible accord with
the internal harmony. The traditions of the house of Crumpett and
Hawker were never so secure as in the keeping of even one of the latest
additions to its clerical staff. By some mysterious means the rarefied
air of that establishment had wrought already upon one of the least
considerable of its members.
“Mr. Dodson,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, speaking with obvious
emotion, “it will--ah, give me _immense_ pleasure if you will accept
the first copy of my--ah, little book.”
“It will delight me, sir, of course, to accept the first copy,” said
Mr. M. A. Dodson, speaking with a quiet dignity and a mature reserve
which became him superbly; “it will _overwhelm_ me with honour, but if
my acceptance of the first copy could in any way be misconstrued--that
is, sir, I mean to say, the freedom I have been guilty of in coming
here this afternoon to speak to you on the subject could be
misconstrued--I should greatly prefer to obtain the first copy by
purchase in the usual manner. And after all, sir,” Mr. M. A. Dodson
concluded, with an arch smile, “if you will permit me to say it, sir,
the labourer is worthy of his hire. If this custom, sir, became in any
sense general of an author giving away his own works, every author,
sir, would either have to become his own publisher, or every publisher
would have to become his own author.”
The glow behind the immaculate waistcoat of Mr. Octavius Crumpett was
heightened to such a degree by these scruples, and by the cultivated
terms in which they gained expression, that the good man was fain to
embody it by beaming like a seraph.
“Pray, my dear Mr. Dodson,” purred his august employer, “do not vex a
nice conscience with scruples that are not in the least necessary. I
shall be _charmed_ if you will allow me to present you with the first
copy of my--ah, little book. Will you kindly ask Mr. Davis to give you
one of the copies set apart for review? and if, Mr. Dodson, you will
take an early opportunity of telling me _precisely_ what you think
about it I shall be honoured indeed, for I perceive, Mr. Dodson, that
you have a real and deep love of letters.”
The manner in which Mr. M. A. Dodson took leave of Mr. Octavius
Crumpett was entirely worthy, in the amplest sense, of two such
ornaments of their age. As the head of the firm watched the close-knit
figure of Mr. M. A. Dodson recede through the door of his room, he
said for his own private delectation: “This house undoubtedly has an
atmosphere of its own. It seems to exude an aroma. That is a very
remarkable youth; a youth of precocious attainment. He talks like a
book.”
Mr. M. Arnold Dodson, with his hand on the door of Mr. G. Eliot Davis,
said to himself, “I never talk to Octavius without wanting to run
straight out into the street to beat out the brains of a little boy in
a sailor suit.”
“Davis,” said Mr. Dodson, entering modestly the sanctum of that worthy,
“Mr. Octavius’s compliments, and will you have the kindness to give M.
Arnold Dodson a review copy of his translation of Homer?”
“Have you a signed order, Dodson, to that effect?” said Mr. Davis, who
cloaked his profound astonishment somewhat ineffectually in a display
of officialdom.
“As you appear to doubt my bona fides, Davis,” said Mr. Dodson, with
leisurely dignity, “perhaps you will have the condescension to verify
them for yourself.”
“Very good, Dodson,” said Mr. Davis, who by now had regained his own
natural self-possession, which was not inconsiderable. “Excuse me for
one moment. Take a chair. Make yourself quite at home.”
“I shall make myself quite at home a good deal sooner than you think,
you young swine,” said Mr. Dodson through clenched teeth, as Mr. Davis
betook himself to the presence of Mr. Octavius Crumpett. “Jack in
office! But your days are numbered, my son, your days are numbered!”
The bewildered Mr. G. Eliot Davis returned and handed a copy of Mr.
Octavius Crumpett’s translation of the Odyssey to Mr. M. Arnold Dodson.
“Davis,” said Mr. Dodson, placing the handsome volume ostentatiously
under his arm, “you are a youth of intellectual gifts, but
unfortunately, like many others of your type, your gifts don’t take you
quite far enough. You will understand a little better what I mean about
this time on Monday. Good afternoon, Davis.”
“Good afternoon, Dodson. Mind the stairs!” said Mr. Davis, as Mr.
Dodson picked his way delicately down them.
“What does Octavius mean, I wonder, by giving _him_ an advance copy?”
mused Mr. Davis, pale with anger. “He knows what two and two make, does
James Dodson. I shouldn’t mind a bit if only he played the game. I wish
Octavius was not such a d----d old fool.”
With this reflection, which it must be conceded was in somewhat
questionable taste, upon the mental attainments and general calibre of
his august employer, Mr. G. Eliot Davis put on his hat, and went his
virtuous way to that hall of public entertainment, the annexe to the
Brontë Hotel, and accepted a cup of tea from the hands of the lady in
the heliotrope blouse.
“Chrissie,” said Mr. Davis, stirring his tea apprehensively, “that
young cad, Jimmy Dodson, cut me out with you, and now he’s trying to
cut me out with Octavius.”
“Well, Percy,” said the lady in the heliotrope blouse, “if that is so
you can go home to mamma. Whatever Jimmy Dodson tries to do he does.”