THE initials “T. A. C.” before young Mr. Anderson’s name stood for
Timothy Alfred Cartwright, his pious but practical parent having, by
this combination, made a bid for the protection of the saints and the
patronage of Cousin Al Cartwright, reputedly a millionaire and a
bachelor. It was hoped in this manner that his position on earth and in
heaven would be equally secure.
What Timothy’s chances are in the hereafter the reader must decide; but
we do know that Cousin Al Cartwright proved both a weak reed and a
whited sepulchre. Timothy’s parents had departed this life two years
after Alfred Cartwright had disappeared from public view, leaving behind
him two years’ work for a committee of Investigating Accounts.
When his surviving parent died, the boy was at school, and if he was not
a prodigy of learning he was at least brilliant in parts.
Though it was with no great regret that he left school, he was old
enough and shrewd enough to realise that a bowing acquaintance with the
differential calculus, and the ability to conjugate the verb “avoir” did
not constitute an equipment, sufficiently comprehensive (if you will
forgive these long words), to meet and defeat such enemies to human
progress as he was likely to meet in this cruel and unsympathetic world.
He had a small income bequeathed by his mother in a will which was
almost apologetic because she left so little, and he settled himself
down as a boarder in the house of a schoolmaster, and took up those
branches of study which interested him, and set himself to forget other
branches of education which interested him not at all.
Because of his ineradicable passion for challenging fate it was only
natural that “T. A. C.” should bear a new significance, and since some
genius had christened him “Take A Chance” Anderson the name stuck. And
he took chances. From every throw with fate he learnt something. He had
acquired some knowledge of boxing at school, and had learnt enough of
the art to enable him to head the school. Such was his faith in himself
and his persuasive eloquence that he induced Sam Murphy,
ex-middle-weight and proprietor of the Stag’s Head, Dorking, to nominate
and support him for a ten-rounds contest with that redoubtable
feather-weight, Bill Schenk.
“Take A Chance” Anderson took his chance. He also took the count in the
first round, and, returning to consciousness, vowed a vow—not that he
would never again enter the ring, but that he would learn something more
of the game before he did. Of course, it was very disgraceful that a man
of his antecedents should become a professional boxer—for professional
he became in the very act of failure—but that worried him not at all.
It is a matter of history that Bill Schenk was knocked out by Kid
Muldoon, and that twelve months after his initiation into the prize ring
“T. Anderson” fought twenty rounds with the Kid and got the decision on
points. Thereafter, the ring knew “Take A Chance” Anderson no more.
He took a chance on race-courses, backing horses that opened at tens and
closed at twenties. He backed horses that had never won before on the
assumption that they must win some time. He had sufficient money left
after this adventure to buy a book of form. He devoted his undoubted
talent to the study of other games of chance. He played cards for
matches with a broker’s clerk, who harboured secret ambitions of going
to Monte Carlo with a system; he purchased on the hire system
wonderfully cheap properties on the Isle of Thanet—and he worked.
For all his fooling and experimenting, for all his gambling and his
chancing, Timothy never let a job of work get past him, if he could do
it, and when he wasn’t working for sordid lucre he was working for the
good of his soul. He went to the races with a volume of Molière’s plays
under his arm, and between events he read, hereby acquiring the respect
of the racing fraternity as an earnest student of form.
So he came by violent, yet to him easy, stages to Movieland—that Mecca
which attracts all that is enterprising and romantic and restless. He
took a chance in a juvenile lead, but his method and his style of
actions were original. Producers are for ever on the look out for
novelty, but they put the bar up against novel styles of acting and
expression. Ellsberger had tried him out because he had known his
father, but more because he had won money over him when he had beaten
Kid Muldoon; but even Ellsberger was compelled to suggest that Timothy
put in two long years “atmosphering” before he essayed an individual
rôle on the screen.
Timothy was not certain whether his train left at ten minutes to seven
or at ten minutes past seven, so he arrived in time for the ten minutes
to seven, which was characteristic of him, because he never took a
chance against the inflexible systems.
He reached New York without misadventure, but on his way westward he
stayed over at Nevada. He intended spending a night, but met a man with
a scheme for running a mail-order business on entirely new lines,
invested his money, and by some miracle managed to make it last a year.
At the end of that time the police were after his partner, and Timothy
was travelling eastward by easy stages.
He came back to New York with fifty-five dollars which he had won from a
Westerner on the last stage of the journey. The track ran for about
twenty miles along the side of the road, the wager between them was a
very simple one; it was whether they would pass more men than women on
the road. The Westerner chose men and Timothy chose women. For every man
they saw Timothy paid a dollar, for every woman he received a dollar. In
the agreed hour they passed fifty-five more women than they passed men
and Timothy was that many dollars richer. There were never so many women
abroad as there were that bright afternoon, and the Westerner couldn’t
understand it until he realised that it was Sunday—a fact which Timothy
had grasped before he had made his wager.
Two months later he was back in London. How he got back he never
explained. He stayed in London only long enough to fit himself up with a
new kit before he presented himself at a solid mansion in Branksome
Park, Bournemouth. Years and years before, Sir John Maxell had written
to him, asking him to call upon him for any help he might require, and
promising to assist him in whatever difficulties he might find himself.
Timothy associated the offer with the death of his father—maybe they
were friends.
He was shown into the sunny drawing-room bright with flowers, and he
looked round approvingly. He had lived in other people’s houses all his
life—schools, boarding-houses, hotels and the like—and an atmosphere
of home came to him like the forgotten fragrance of a garden he had
known.
The servant came back.
“Sir John will see you in ten minutes, sir, but you must not keep him
long, because he has to go out to meet Lady Maxell.”
“Lady Maxell?” asked Timothy in surprise, “I didn’t know he was
married.”
The servant smiled and said:
“The Judge married a year ago, sir. It was in all the newspapers.”
“I don’t read all the newspapers,” said Timothy. “I haven’t sufficient
time. Who was the lady?”
The man looked round, as if fearing to be overheard.
“Sir John married the cinema lady, Miss Sadie O’Grady,” he said, and the
hostility in his tone was unmistakable.
Timothy gasped.
“You don’t say!” he said. “Well, that beats the band! Why, I knew that
da——, that lady in London!”
The servant inclined his head sideways.
“Indeed, sir,” he said, and it was evident that he did not regard
Timothy as being any fitter for human association by reason of his
confession.
A distant bell buzzed.
“Sir John is ready, sir,” he said. “I hope you will not mention the fact
that I spoke of madam?”
Timothy winked, and was readmitted to the confidence of the democracy.
Sir John Maxell was standing up behind his writing table, a fine, big
man with his grey hair neatly brushed back from his forehead and his
blue eyes magnified behind rimless glasses.
“T. A. C. Anderson,” he said, coming round the table with slow steps.
“Surely this is not the little Timothy I heard so much about years and
years ago!”
“That is I, sir,” said Timothy.
“Well, well,” said Maxell, “I should never have known you. Sit down, my
boy. You smoke, of course—everybody smokes nowadays, but it seems
strange that a boy I knew in short breeches should have acquired the
habit. I’ve heard about you,” he said, as Timothy lit his cigar.
“Nothing to my discredit, I hope, sir?”
Maxell shook his head.
“I have heard about you,” he repeated diplomatically, “let it go at
that. Now I suppose you’ve come here because, five years ago, on the
twenty-third of December to be correct, I wrote to you, offering to give
you any help that lay in my power.”
“I won’t swear to the date,” said Tim.
“But I will,” smiled the other. “I never forget a date, I never forget a
letter, I never forget the exact wording of that letter. My memory is an
amazing gift. Now just tell me what I can do for you.”
Timothy hesitated.
“Sir John,” he said, “I have had a pretty bad time in America. I’ve been
running in a team with a crook and I’ve had to pay out every cent I had
in the world.”
Sir John nodded slowly.
“Then it is money you want,” he said, without enthusiasm.
“Not exactly money, sir, but I’m going to try to start in London and I
thought, maybe, you might give me a letter of introduction to somebody.”
“Ah, well,” said Maxell, brightening up, “I think I can do that for you.
What did you think of doing in London?”
“I thought of getting some sort of secretarial job,” he said. “Not that
I know much about it!”
Sir John pinched his lower lip.
“I know a man who may help you,” he said. “We were in the House of
Commons together and he would give you a place in one of his offices,
but unfortunately for you he has made a great deal of money and spends
most of his time at Newmarket.”
“Newmarket sounds good to me,” said Timothy “Why, I’d take a chance
there. Perhaps he’d try me out in that office?”
The Judge permitted himself to smile.
“In Newmarket,” he said, “our friend does very little more, I fear, than
waste his time and money on the race-course. He has half a dozen
horses—I had a letter from him this morning.”
He walked back to his table, searched in the litter, and presently
amongst the papers pulled out a letter.
“As a matter of fact, I had some business with him and I wrote to him
for information. The only thing he tells me is”—this with a gesture of
despair—“that Skyball and Polly Chaw—those are the names of
race-horses, I presume—will win the two big handicaps next week and
that he has a flyer named Swift Kate that can beat anything—I am
quoting his words—on legs over six furlongs.”
He looked up over his glasses at Timothy, and on that young man’s face
was a seraphic smile.
“Newmarket sounds real nice to me,” glowed Timothy.
Remembering the injunctions of the servant, he was taking his adieu,
when his host asked, in a lower voice than that in which the
conversation had been carried on:
“I suppose you have not heard from your cousin?”
Timothy looked at him in astonishment. Had Sir John asked after the
Grand Llama of Tibet he would have been as well prepared to answer.
“Why, no, sir—no—er—is he alive?”
Sir John Maxell looked at him sharply.
“Alive? Of course. I thought you might have heard from him.”
Timothy shook his head.
“No, sir,” he said, “he disappeared. I only met him once when I was a
kid. Was he a friend—er—an acquaintance of yours?”
Sir John was drumming his fingers on the desk and his mind was far away.
“Yes and no,” he said shortly. “I knew him, and at one time I was
friendly with him.”
Suddenly he glanced at his watch, and a look of consternation came to
his face.
“Great heavens!” he cried. “I promised to meet my wife a quarter of an
hour ago. Good-bye! Good-bye!”
He hand-shook Timothy from the room and the young man had to find his
way downstairs without guidance, because the manservant was at that
moment heavily engaged.
From the floor below came a shrill, unpleasant sound, and Timothy
descended to find himself in the midst of a domestic crisis. There were
two ladies in the hall—one a mere silent, contained spectator, the
other the principal actress. He recognised her at once, but she did not
see him, because her attention was directed to the red-faced servant.
“When I ring you on the ’phone, I expect to be answered,” she was
saying. “You’ve nothing to do except to sit round and keep your ears
open, you big, lazy devil!”
“But, my lady, I——”
“Don’t answer me,” she stormed. “If you think I’ve nothing better to do
than to sit at a ’phone waiting till you wake up, why, you’re
mistaken—that’s all. And if Sir John doesn’t fire you——”
“Don’t worry about Sir John firing me,” said the man with a sudden
change of manner. “I’ve just had about as much of you as I can stand.
You keep your bossing for the movies, Lady Maxell. You’re not going to
try any of that stuff with me!”
She was incapable of further speech, nor was there any necessity for it
since the man turned on his heels and disappeared into that mysterious
region which lies at the back of every entrance hall. Then for the first
time she saw Timothy.
“How do you do, Lady Maxell?”
She glared round at the interrupter, and for a moment he thought she
intended venting her anger on him. She was still frowning when he took
her limp hand.
“You’re the Anderson boy, aren’t you?” she asked a little ungraciously.
The old sense of antagonism was revived and intensified in him at the
touch of her hand. She was unchanged, looking, if anything, more pretty
than when he had seen her last, but the hardness at her mouth was
accentuated, and she had taken on an indefinable air of superiority
which differed very little from sheer insolence.
A gold-rimmed lorgnette came up to survey him, and he was nettled—only
women had the power to annoy him.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” he bantered. “I’m sorry your eyesight is
not so good as it was. Studio life is pretty tough on the eyes, isn’t
it?”
She closed her lorgnette with a snap, and turned to the girl.
“You’d better see what Sir John is doing,” she said. “Ask him what he
thinks I am, that I should wait in the hall like a tramp.”
It was then that the girl came out of the shadow and Timothy saw her.
“This is the ward or niece,” he said to himself, and sighed, for never
had he seen a human creature who so satisfied his eye. There is a beauty
which is neither statuesque nor cold, nor to be confounded with
prettiness. It is a beauty which depends upon no regularity of feature
or of colour, but which has its reason in its contradictions.
The smiling Madonna whom Leonardo drew had such contradictory quality as
this girl possessed. For she was ninety per cent. child, and carried in
her face all the bubbling joy of youth. Yet she impressed Timothy as
being strange and unnatural. Her meekness, her ready obedience to carry
out the woman’s instruction, the very dignity of her departure—these
things did not fit with the character he read in her face. Had she
turned curtly to this insolent woman and told her to carry her message
herself, or had she flown up the stairs calling for Sir John as she
went, these things would have been natural.
Lady Maxell turned upon him.
“And see here, Mr. What’s-your-name, if you’re a friend of Sir John,
you’ll forget that I was ever in a studio. There are enough stories
about me in Bournemouth without your adding to the collection.”
“Mother’s little thoroughbred!” said Timothy admiringly; “spoken like a
true little lady.”
In some respects he was wholly undisciplined, and had never learnt the
necessity of refraining from answering back. And the woman irritated
him, and irritation was a novel sensation.
Her face was dark with rage, but it was upon Sir John, descending in
haste to meet his offended wife, that she turned the full batteries of
her anger.
“You didn’t know the time, of course. Your watch has stopped. It is hard
enough for me to keep my end up without you helping to make me look
foolish!”
“My dear,” protested Maxell in a flurry, “I assure you——”
“You can spend your time with this sort of trash,” she indicated
Timothy, and Timothy bowed, “but you keep me waiting like a tailor’s
model at Sotheby’s, of all people in the world, when you know well
enough——”
“My dear,” pleaded the lawyer wearily, “my watch has certainly
stopped——”
“Ah! You make me tired. What are you doing with this fellow? Do you
think I want reminding of movie days? Everybody knows this fellow—a
cheap gambler, who’s been fired out of every studio in England. You
allow your servants to insult me—and now I suppose you’ve brought this
prize-fighter to keep me in my place,” and she pointed scornfully at the
amused Timothy.
Half-way downstairs the girl stood watching the scene in silence, and it
was only when he became conscious of her presence that Timothy began to
feel a little uncomfortable.
“Well, good-bye, Sir John,” he said. “I’m sorry I intruded.”
“Wait,” said the woman. “John, this man has insulted me! I don’t know
what he’s come for, but I suppose he wants something. He’s one of those
shifty fellows that hang around studios begging for money to bet with.
If you raise a hand to help him, why, I’m finished with you.”
“I assure you,” said Sir John in his most pompous manner, “that this
young man has asked for nothing more than a letter of introduction. I
have a duty——”
“Stop!” said the woman. “You’ve a duty to me, too. Hold fast to your
money. Likely as not, you’ll do neither with ‘Take A Chance’ Anderson
floating around.”
It was not her words, neither the contempt in her voice nor the insult
which stung him. The man who went twenty rounds with Kid Muldoon had
learnt to control his temper, but there was a new factor present—a
factor who wore a plain grey dress, and had two big, black eyes which
were now solemnly surveying him.
“Lady Maxell,” he said, “it is pretty difficult to give the lie to any
woman, but I tell you that what you say now is utterly false. I had no
intention when I came to Bournemouth of asking for anything that would
cost Sir John a penny. As to my past, I suppose it has been a little
eccentric, but it is clean, Lady Maxell.”
He meant no more than he said. He had no knowledge of Sadie O’Grady’s
antecedents, or he might not have emphasised the purity of his own. But
the woman went back as though she had been whipped, and Timothy had a
momentary vision of a charging fury, before she flung herself upon him,
tearing at his face, shrieking aloud in her rage. . .
* * * * *
“Phew!” said Timothy.
He took off his hat and fanned himself. It was the first time he had
ever run away from trouble, but now he had almost flown. Those favoured
people who were in sight of Sir John Maxell’s handsome villa, saw the
door swung open and a young man taking the front path in four strides
and the gate in another before he sped like the wind along the street.
“Phew!” said Timothy again.
He went the longest way back to his hotel, to find that a telephone
message had been received from Sir John. It was short and to the point.
“Please don’t come again.”
Timothy read the slip and chuckled.
“Is it likely?” he asked the page who brought the message.
Then he remembered the girl in grey, with the dark eyes, and he fingered
his smooth chin thoughtfully.
“I wonder if it is worth while taking a chance,” he said to himself, and
decided that, for the moment, it was not.