I would not describe London if I could. It has been done too often
already, well and ill; and, truth to tell, I was still very young, and
for the greater part of the time spent there, lived too much in a dream
to be able to deal with the realities that surged around me.
My first trip across the ocean was quite uneventful. Never seasick for
a single minute, I enjoyed excellent health; but this did not give me
immunity from the symptoms of others. That any one fails to be seasick
is to be wondered at, indeed, considering that seasickness is the first
subject of conversation between passengers when they become acquainted.
They speak so knowingly of the feelings, the symptoms, the effects and
the causes. The clever ones prophesy who among the passenger list will
be sick, and when they will be sick. Those who have been seasick talk
feelingly of their experience, and go into such details that it is
surprising that any one can maintain a gastric balance. A fair example
of this was a conversation I overheard.
“Ever been across before?”
“No.”
“Then you do not know whether you will be seasick or not?”
“No, I don’t know. I am afraid I will.”
“I’m always sick. It does me good.”
“Does you good? Great Heavens!”
“Oh, yes, I always feel better after it is over, and I am really
beastly sick.”
“Really!”
“Yes, the first day we have a big swell on just watch me.”
“Thanks.”
“But I never miss one meal, so I always have something to come and go
on.”
“That’s nice; you keep a kind of debit and credit account with your
stomach, and the swell strikes the balance.”
“Ah, ah! Very good. I think I’ll go below a bit; beginning to feel
queer now. Good-bye.”
Such conversations are the regular stock-in-trade of some people for
the first few hours on an ocean liner. If such observations are not
inflicted upon you personally, you overhear them, and they do not help
matters.
Our trip to Liverpool was very enjoyable, but flat and uneventful.
Chess in the morning and shuffleboard in the afternoon; a nap, a book,
and perhaps whist in the evening made the time pass pleasantly enough.
There was no one on board who was really worth while to me, and I did
not find Skillmore to my taste at close quarters. After a few weeks in
London my feelings towards him reached the point of absolute dislike
and suspicion. These feelings were more instinctive than founded on any
important detail of his actions. I felt that he was not to be depended
on. Skillmore was an Americanised Canadian, of that smart, flashy type,
called clever and pushing. I cannot state that he was deliberately
dishonest; but certainly the tangle into which he managed to get our
business indicated carelessness, incompetence or intentional trickery,
with an end in view which was never plain to me. A thing that made
me lose confidence in him was that he drank too much. He was not a
drunkard, but a steady tippler, who was good for nothing unless he was
more or less in drink. Wonderful things have been done by men under
the influence of alcohol, but I have always had a dread of it, and am
to-day afraid of drunkards.
I spent several months in London. For a few weeks we stayed at the Old
Tavistock Hotel in Covent Garden, then as our stay seemed likely to
run into months, we rented a furnished house. The renting of the house
in Bayswater was brought about by a chap for whom I formed a great
liking on first sight. I met him through Skillmore, who had been his
schoolmate in Toronto. His name was Jarman, and he was to me a new and
charming type. He lived on his wits by doing apparently what he liked,
when he liked, writing magazine articles, plays, theatrical news and
criticisms, acting sometimes for a few weeks, and doing various other
things in a free “devil-may-care” and brilliant manner which seemed
to me a wonderful feat for a young man to perform in hard and tough
old London town. He lived a precarious Bohemian existence amongst
the most fascinating people I had ever met—singers, actors, writers,
painters and newspaper men who had not yet arrived but were in the
making. Jarman was a drinker, but of a type different from Skillmore,
who never went under the table. I was always sorry to see Jarman drunk,
but in him it did not seem so very horrible. He could get drunk in such
distinguished style, and was always witty and cheerful, and when it was
over that was the end of it. With Skillmore it was different. He was
surly, morose, and heavy. He seemed to be always brooding or scheming;
I never could feel that I knew the man.
The renting of the furnished house in Kildare Gardens, Bayswater,
near Whiteley’s stores, was Jarman’s brilliant suggestion, and we
four—Skillmore, the mechanic, Jarman and myself—lived in great
comfort for very little money, as compared with expenses at an hotel.
This American quartette, I am afraid, gave one house in London a
reputation which may yet hang as a cloud about the highly respectable
neighbourhood of Kildare Gardens. Our house was referred to as “where
the Indians live.” What Jarman considered entertaining in a quiet way
was not looked upon by the neighbours as quiet, and some even went
so far as to doubt our sanity and respectability. Jarman was on all
such occasions master of ceremonies, and without him my stay in London
would have been a dull affair. He knew London thoroughly—bad, good, and
indifferent. His list of acquaintances, who called him Bill, included
every class of society from the aristocrat to the costermonger. Poor,
merry, care-free, generous and loving, Bill Jarman died of pneumonia a
year after I returned home.
While things were going pleasantly enough as to our housekeeping
and our entertainment, our business did not seem to me to make
such progress as it should. Skillmore was very non-committal and
uncommunicative. I could never draw any details from him, and he never
explained the steps he was taking in the business that brought us
to London. Big people in whose hands he pretended to be were by his
account always on the Continent or ill, and my cross-examinations of
him were met with general statements and obvious evasions. This made
me uneasy, and after some weeks of worry I wrote Walter disclosing my
feelings in the matter, advising him to put a limit on his expenditure,
and to call upon Skillmore to make a specific statement of the
condition of our affairs. My letter alarmed Walter, and he immediately
took my advice and put a stop order on funds. I was perhaps hasty in
conclusions, and, not being a man of business but simply an accountant,
should not have been so readily alarmed at the spending of time and
money. But I felt that we could not remain indefinitely in London
spending Walter’s money without being able to show good cause. Cause
I could not show, unless Skillmore could produce some evidence of
progress in the promotion of our patent. As Skillmore failed to satisfy
me, I booked my return passage, giving him a week’s notice of my
intention and demanding all correspondence and documents, which would
show what had so far been done. The stand I took enraged Skillmore, who
possibly was quite honest in his intentions. He handed me a large folio
of papers, and declared his responsibility in the matter at an end. As
he refused to go with me to a solicitor and explain his position, I
went alone, placing the portfolio in the hands of an eminent lawyer,
who shortly gave me a written opinion of the condition of our business.
This report showed a rather uncertain condition of affairs. Skillmore
had, through carelessness or design, so tied us up with patents pending
and options that we could do nothing but sit in patience and await
developments. We were in the hands of a promoter who later became very
well-known indeed, to the cost of a great many, Walter among the rest.
Returning to Montreal with the best face I could put upon the matter,
I made a brave pretence of seeing bright things in the future. In my
heart I knew, however, that I was mixed up with another failure; and so
it turned out. I resolved never again to introduce friends to financial
adventures.
My return home discovered the fact that the German, Leidman, had
practically lived on Walter during the whole five months of my absence,
and had every intention of continuing to live on him till our company
matured and bore fruit. This last, however, I was able to prevent.
Walter took his loss like a philosopher; he did not swear, weep, or
blame me or fortune. He had plenty of money, and the loss of a few
thousand dollars put him to no real inconvenience; but I felt the
burden of my responsibility keenly, especially as through me and
Leidman he became known as a man with money, easily exploited.