Produced by Annie McGuire. This book was produced from
scanned images of public domain material from the Google
Print project.
HER LADYSHIP'S ELEPHANT
By DAVID DWIGHT WELLS. With cover by WM. NICHOLSON, 10th Impression.
12mo. $1.25.
A very humorous story, dealing with English society, growing out of
certain experiences of the author while a member of our Embassy in
London. The elephant's experiences, also, are based on facts.
_The Nation_: "He is probably funny because he cannot help it.... Again
and again excites spontaneous laughter, is such a boon that its author
must consent to be regarded as a benefactor of his kind without
responsibility."
_New York Tribune_: "Mr. Wells allows his sense of humor to play about
the personalities of half a dozen men and women whose lives, for a few
brief, extraordinary days, are inextricably intertwined with the life of
the aforesaid monarch of the jungle.... Smacks of fun which can be
created by clever actors placed in excruciatingly droll situations."
_Philadelphia Times_: "As breezy a bit of fiction as the reading public
has lately been offered. Amusing from the first page to the last, unique
in conception, and absolutely uproarious in plot."
_New York Commercial Advertiser_: "A really delicious chain of
absurdities which are based upon American independence and impudence;
... exceedingly amusing."
_Outlook_: "Full of amusing situations."
_Buffalo Express_: "So amusing is the book that the reader is almost too
tired to laugh when the elephant puts in his appearance."
HENRY HOLT & CO.
New York.
HIS LORDSHIP'S LEOPARD
_A TRUTHFUL NARRATION OF
SOME IMPOSSIBLE FACTS_
BY
DAVID DWIGHT WELLS
_Author of "Her Ladyship's Elephant"_
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1900
Copyright, 1900,
BY
HENRY HOLT & CO.
WARNING!
The ensuing work is a serious attempt to while away an idle hour. The
best criticism that the author received of "Her Ladyship's Elephant" was
from an old lady who wrote him that it had made her forget a toothache;
the most discouraging, from a critic who approached the book as _serious
literature_ and treated it according to the standards of _the higher
criticism_.
The author takes this occasion to state that he has never been guilty of
writing literature, serious or otherwise, and that if any one considers
this book a fit subject for the application of the higher criticism, he
will treat it as a just ground for an action for libel.
If the _minimum opus_ possesses an intrinsic value, it lies in the
explanation of the whereabouts of a Spanish gunboat, which, during our
late unpleasantness with Spain, the yellow journalists insisted was
patrolling the English Channel, in spite of the fact that the U. S.
Board of Strategy knew that every available ship belonging to that
nation was better employed somewhere else.
Should this _expose_ ruffle another English see, so much the worse for
the Bishop.
CONTENTS.
PART I.
_AMERICA_.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
IN WHICH CECIL BANBOROUGH ACHIEVES FAME, AND THE "DAILY LEADER" A
"SCOOP" 3
CHAPTER II.
IN WHICH CECIL BANBOROUGH ATTEMPTS TO DRIVE PUBLIC OPINION 18
CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH CECIL BANBOROUGH DRIVES A BLACK MARIA 36
CHAPTER IV.
IN WHICH THE BLACK MARIA RECEIVES A NEW INMATE 54
CHAPTER V.
IN WHICH THE PARTY RECEIVES A NEW IMPETUS 72
CHAPTER VI.
IN WHICH THE BISHOP OF BLANFORD RECEIVES A BLACK EYE 92
CHAPTER VII.
IN WHICH A LINE IS DRAWN AND CROSSED 107
CHAPTER VIII.
IN WHICH A LOCKET IS ACCEPTED AND A RING REFUSED 131
PART II.
_ENGLAND_.
CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH MRS. MACKINTOSH ADMIRES JONAH 151
CHAPTER II.
IN WHICH THE ENEMY ARRIVES 173
CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH PEACE IS PROPOSED AND WAR DECLARED 198
CHAPTER IV.
IN WHICH THE BISHOP IS ABDUCTED 222
CHAPTER V.
IN WHICH THE BISHOP EATS JAM TART, AND MISS MATILDA HUMBLE-PIE 250
CHAPTER VI.
IN WHICH MISS ARMINSTER PROPOSES TO MARRY AGAIN 269
CHAPTER VII.
IN WHICH MISS ARMINSTER VERIFIES THE PROVERB 288
PART I.
_AMERICA_.
CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH CECIL BANBOROUGH ACHIEVES FAME AND THE "DAILY LEADER" A
"SCOOP."
Cecil Banborough stood at one of the front windows of a club which faced
on Fifth Avenue, his hands in his pockets, and a cigarette in his mouth,
idly watching the varied life of the great thoroughfare. He had returned
to the city that morning after a two weeks' absence in the South, and,
having finished his lunch, was wondering how he could manage to put in
the time till the 4:30 express left for Meadowbrook. 2 P.M., he
reflected ruefully, was an hour when New York had no use and no
resources for men of leisure like himself.
Yet even for a mere onlooker the panorama of the street was of unusual
interest. The avenue was ablaze with bunting, which hurrying thousands
pointed out to their companions, while every street-corner had its
little group of citizens, discussing with feverish energy and gestures
of ill-concealed disquietude the situation of which the gay flags were
the outward and visible sign. For in these latter days of April, 1898, a
first-class Republic had, from purely philanthropic motives, announced
its intention of licking a third-rate Monarchy into the way it should
go. Whereat the good citizens had flung broadcast their national emblem
to express a patriotic enthusiasm they did not feel, while the wiser
heads among them were already whispering that the war was not merely
unjustifiable, but might be expensive.
All these matters, important as they doubtless were, did not interest
Cecil Banborough, and indeed were quite dwarfed by the fact that this
uncalled-for war had diverted the press from its natural functions, and
for the time being had thrown utterly into the shade his new sensational
novel, "The Purple Kangaroo." His meditations were, however,
interrupted by the sound of voices using perfectly good English, but
with an accent which bespoke a European parentage.
"'The Purple Kangaroo,'" said one. "It is sufficiently striking--_Si,
Senor_?"
"It serves the purpose well, _mi amigo_," replied the other. "It is, as
you say, striking; indeed nothing better could be devised; while its
reputation--" And the voices died away.
Cecil swung rapidly round. Two gentlemen, slight, swarthy, and evidently
of a Latin race, were moving slowly down the long drawing-room. They
were foreigners certainly, Spaniards possibly, but they had spoken of
his book in no modified terms of praise. He drew a little sigh of
satisfied contentment and turned again to the street. Ah, if his father,
the Bishop of Blanford, could have heard!
The two foreigners had meanwhile continued their conversation, though
out of earshot. The elder was speaking.
"As you say, its reputation is so slight," he said, "one of those
ephemeral productions that are forgotten in a day, that it will serve
our purpose well. We must have a password--the less noticeable the
better. When do you return to Washington?"
"The Legation may be closed at any moment now," replied the younger,
seating himself carelessly on the arm of a Morris chair, "and I may be
wanted. I go this afternoon, _a dios y a ventura_."
"Softly; not so loud."
"There's no one to hear. Keep us informed, I say. I'll see to the rest.
We've our secret lines of communication nearly complete. They may turn
us out of their capital, but--we shall know what passes. _Carramba!_
What is that?" For, in leaning back, the speaker had come against an
unresisting body.
Springing up and turning quickly round, he saw that the chair on the arm
of which he had been sitting was already occupied by the slumbering form
of a youngish man with clear-cut features and a voluminous golden
moustache.
"_Madre de Dios!_ Could he have heard?" exclaimed the younger man,
moving away.
"_Malhaya!_ No!" replied the other. "These pigs of Americanos who sleep
at noonday hear nothing! Come!" And, casting a glance of concentrated
contempt at the huddled-up figure, he put his arm through that of his
companion, and together they left the room.
A moment later the sleeper sat up, flicked a speck of dust off his
coat-sleeve, and, diving into a pocket, produced a note-book and blue
pencil and began to write rapidly. Evidently his occupation was a
pleasant one, for a broad smile illumined his face.
"Ah, Marchmont," said Banborough, coming towards him, "didn't know you'd
waked up."
"Was I asleep?"
"Rather. Don't suppose you saw those Spanish Dons who went out just
now?"
"Spaniards?" queried Marchmont, with a preoccupied air. "What about
'em?"
"Oh, nothing in particular, only I supposed that a Spaniard to a yellow
journalist was like a red rag to a bull. You should make them into
copy--'Conspiracy in a Fifth Avenue Club,' etc."
"Thanks," said the other, "so I might. Valuable suggestion." And he
returned his note-book to his pocket.
"They did me a good turn, anyway," resumed Banborough. "They were
talking about my book--thought it would serve its purpose, was very
striking, said nothing better could be devised; and they were
foreigners, too. I tell you what it is, Marchmont, the public will wake
up to the merits of 'The Purple Kangaroo' some day. Why doesn't the
_Daily Leader_ notice it?"
"My dear Cecil, give me the space and I'll write a critique the fulsome
flattery of which will come up to even your exacting demands. But just
at present we're so busy arousing popular enthusiasm that we really
haven't time."
"You never do have time," replied Banborough, a trifle petulantly,
"except for sleeping after lunch."
"Ah, that's all in the day's work. But tell me. You're an Englishman;
why didn't you publish your book in your own country?"
"I may be green, but I don't impart confidences to an American
journalist."
"Nonsense! I never betray my friends' confidences when it's not worth--I
should say, out of business hours."
The Englishman laughed.
"Oh, if you don't think it worth while," he said, "I suppose there's no
danger, so I'll confess that my literary exile is purely to oblige my
father."
"The Bishop of Blanford?"
"The Bishop of Blanford, who has the bad taste to disapprove of 'The
Purple Kangaroo.'"
"Has he ever read it?"
"Of course not; the ecclesiastical mind is nothing if not dogmatic."
"My dear fellow, I was only trying to assign a reason."
"Chaff away, but it's principally my Aunt Matilda."
"The Bishop, I remember, is a widower."
"Rather. My aunt keeps house for him."
"Ah, these aunts!" exclaimed the journalist. "They make no end of
trouble--and copy."
"It's not so bad as that," said Cecil; "but she rules the governor with
a rod of iron, and she kicked up such a row about my book that I dropped
the whole show."
"Don't correspond with 'em?"
"Not on my side. I receive occasional sermons from Blanford."
"Which remain unanswered?"
Cecil nodded, and changed the subject.
"You know my father's cathedral?" he asked.
"Oh, yes. The verger prevented my chipping off a bit of the high altar
as a memento the last time I was over. You English are so beastly
conservative. Not that the Bishop had anything to do with it."
Banborough laughed, and returned to the charge.
"So I came abroad," he continued, "and approached the most respectable
and conservative firm of publishers I could find in New York."
"Was that out of consideration for the Bishop?"
"I thought it might sweeten the pill. But somehow the book doesn't
sell."
"Advertising, my boy--that's the word."
"The traditions of the firm forbid it," objected Banborough.
"Traditions! What's any country less than a thousand years old got to do
with traditions?" spluttered Marchmont. "I knew a Chicago author who got
a divorce every time he produced a new novel. They sold like hot cakes."
"And the wives?"
"Received ten per cent. of the profits as alimony."
"Talk sense, and say something scandalous about me in the _Leader_. What
possessed you, anyway, to join such a disgraceful sheet?"
"If I'd an entailed estate and an hereditary bishopric, I wouldn't. As
it is, it pays."
"The bishopric isn't hereditary," said Cecil. "I wish it were. Then I
might have a chance of spending my life in the odour of sanctity and
idleness, and the entail is--a dream."
"So you write novels," retorted Marchmont, "that are neither indecent
nor political, and expect 'em to succeed. Callow youth! Well, I must be
off to the office. I've some copy up my sleeve, and if it's a go it'll
give your book the biggest boom a novel ever had."
"Are you speaking the truth?" said the Englishman. "I beg your pardon. I
forgot it was out of professional hours."
"Wait and see," replied the journalist, as he strolled out of the club.
* * * * *
"Hi, Marchmont, I've got a detail for you!" called the editor, making
the last correction on a belated form and attempting to revivify a cigar
that had long gone out.
"Yes?" queried Marchmont, slipping off his coat and slipping on a pair
of straw cuffs, which was the chief reason why he always sported
immaculate linen.
"We're on the track of a big thing. Perhaps you don't know that the
President has delivered an ultimatum, and that our Minister at Madrid
has received his passports?"
"Saw it on the bulletin-board as I came in," said his subordinate
laconically.
"Well, it's a foregone conclusion that the Spanish Legation will
establish a secret service in this country, and the paper that shows it
up will achieve the biggest scoop on record."
"Naturally. But what then?"
"Why, I give the detail to you. You don't seem to appreciate the
situation, man. It's the chance of a lifetime."
"Quite so," replied Marchmont, lighting a cigarette.
"But you can't lose a minute."
"Oh, yes, I can--two or three. Time for a smoke, and then I'll write you
a first-column article that'll call for the biggest caps you have in
stock."
"But I-- What the-- Say, you know something!"
"I know that the secret service has been organised, I know the
organisers, and I know the password."
Here Marchmont's chief became unquotable, lapsing into unlimited
profanity from sheer joy and exultation.
"I'll give you a rise if you pull this off!" he exclaimed, after hearing
the recital of the events at the club. "May I be"--several things--"if I
don't! Now what are you going to do about it?"
"Suppose we inform the nearest police station, have the crowd arrested,
and take all the glory ourselves."
"Suppose we shut up shop and take a holiday," suggested the chief, with
a wealth of scorn.
"Well, what have you to propose?"
"We must work the whole thing through our detective agency."
"But we haven't a detective agency," objected Marchmont.
"But we will have before sunset," said the chief. "There's O'Brien--"
"Yes. Chucked from Pinkerton's force for habitual drunkenness,"
interjected his subordinate.
"Just so," said the editor, "and anxious to get a job in consequence.
He'll be only too glad to run the whole show for us. The city shall be
watched, and the first time 'The Purple Kangaroo' is used in a
suspicious sense we'll arrest the offenders, discover the plot, and the
_Daily Leader_, as the defender of the nation and the people's bulwark,
will increase its circulation a hundred thousand copies! It makes me
dizzy to think of it! I tell you what it is, Marchmont, that
subeditorship is still vacant, and if you put this through, the place is
yours."
The reporter grasped his chief's hand.
"That's white of you, boss," he said, "and I'll do it no matter what it
costs or who gets hurt in the process."
"Right you are!" cried his employer. "The man who edits this paper has
got to hustle. Now don't let the grass grow under your feet, and we'll
have a drink to celebrate."
When the chief offers to set up a _sub_ it means business, and Marchmont
was elated accordingly.
* * * * *
At the Club the Bishop's son still contemplated the Avenue from the
vantage-point of the most comfortable armchair the room possessed.
Praise, he reflected, which was not intended for the author's ear was
praise indeed. No man could tell to what it might lead. No one indeed,
Cecil Banborough least of all, though he was destined to find out before
he was many hours older; for down in the editorial sanctum of the _Daily
Leader_ O'Brien was being instructed:
"And if you touch a drop during the next week," reiterated the chief,
"I'll put a head on you!"
"But supposin' this dago conspiracy should turn out to be a fake?"
objected the Irishman.
"Then," said the reporter with determination, "you'll have to hatch one
yourself, and I'll discover it. But two things are certain. Something's
got to be exposed, and I've got to get that editorship."