BUSINESS AS USUAL.
"Business as usual!" said Mr Pamphlett heartily to his clerk Mr
Hendy, as he let himself in at 9.40 by the side door of the Bank.
Mr Hendy lived on the premises, which his wife served as caretaker,
with a "help" to do the scrubbing.
Mr Hendy, always punctual, stood ready in the passage, awaiting his
master. He received Mr Pamphlett's top-hat and walking-stick, helped
him off with his black frock-coat, helped him on with the light
alpaca jacket in which during the hot weather Mr Pamphlett combined
banking with comfort.
"Business as usual!" said Mr Pamphlett, slipping into the alpaca.
"That's the motto. Old England's sound, Hendy!"
"Yes, sir: leastways, I hope so."
"Sound as a bell. It's money will put us through this, Hendy, as it
always has. We mayn't wear uniforms"--Mr Pamphlett smoothed down the
alpaca over his stomach--"but we're the real sinews of this War."
Mr Hendy--a slight middle-aged man, with fluffy straw-coloured hair
which he grew long above his ears, to compensate for the baldness of
his cranium--answered that he was glad Mr Pamphlett took it in so
hearty a fashion, but for his part, if it wasn't for the Missus, he
was dying to enlist and have a slap at the Germans. Mr Pamphlett
laughed and entered his private office. Here every morning he dealt
with his correspondence; while Hendy, in the main room of the Bank,
unlocked the safe, fetched out the ready cash and the ledgers, and
generally made preparations before opening the door for business on
the stroke of ten.
Five or six letters awaited Mr Pamphlett. One he recognised by
envelope and handwriting as a missive from headquarters: and he
opened it first, wondering a little, pausing, as he broke the seal,
to examine the post-marks. "Yesterday had been Bank Holiday. . . .
But, to be sure, in these times the Head Office would very likely be
neglecting Bank Holidays, the clerks working at high pressure. . . ."
But no: the London post-mark bore date "Aug. 1." The letter had been
received and delivered at Polpier on the 2nd, and had been lying in
the bank letter-box for two whole days. He broke the seal in some
trepidation: for he had spent the last sixty hours or so of national
emergency on a visit with Mrs Pamphlett to her brother-in-law, a
well-to-do farmer, who dwelt some twelve miles inland. Here Mr
Pamphlett, after punctual and ample meals, had gently stimulated
digestion with hot brandy-and-water (which never comes amiss, even in
August, if you happen to be connected with farming and have duly kept
the Sabbath), and had sat with one leg crossed over the other,
exchanging--rather by his composed bearing than in actual words--
confidence in Britain's financial stability against confidence in her
agriculture. His presence had somewhat eased a trying situation at
Lawhilly Farm, where his young fool of a nephew--an only son, too--
fired by the war, had gone so far as to distress his parents with
talk of enlisting.
"Business as usual!" had been Mr Pamphlett's advice to the young man.
"There was, for a day or two--I won't deny it--a certain--er--
tendency to what I may call _nervousness_ in the City. Can we wonder
at it, holding as we do so many--er--threads?" Mr Pamphlett held up
his two hands, and spread them as though they contained a skein of
wool to be unwound. "But the Chancellor of the Exchequer took steps.
Opposed as I am in a general way to the present Government, I am free
to admit that, at this juncture, the Chancellor of the Exchequer
realised his responsibilities and--er--took steps. Markets may--er--
fluctuate for some weeks to come--may, as I would put it, exhibit a
certain amount of--er--unsteadiness. But we shall tide that over,
easily--as I am advised, quite easily. Great Britain's credit is
solid; that's the word, _solid_: and if that--er--solidarity holds
true of our monetary system with"--here Mr Pamphlett expanded and
contracted his fingers as if gathering gossamers--"its delicate and
far-reaching complexities. . . That was an excellent duck, James,"
said he, turning to his brother-in-law. "I don't remember when I've
tasted a better."
"Maria believes in basting, I thank God," said his brother-in-law,
Farmer Pearce acknowledging the compliment. "'Tis a more
enterprisin' life you lead by the sea, if your business calls you
that way. You pick up more money--which is everything in these
days--and you see the ships and yachts going to and fro, and so
forth. But you can't breed ducks for table. Once they get nigh to
tidal water, though it be but to the head of a creek, the flesh turns
fishy, and you can't prevent it. We must set it down to Natur', I
suppose. But inland ducks for me!"
"Maria has a great gift with the stuffing, too. . . . You're spoilt,
Ebenezer--and so too is Obed here--up in this fat of the land, though
you don't know it. Eh?" said Mr Pamphlett sharply as his nephew
Obed, who had been sitting by and listening sulkily, made an
impatient movement,--"But as I was going on to say, if we, that hold
(as I may put it) the threads of commerce in these times, believe in
sitting solid, why surely the same applies--only more so--to
agriculture."
"Which is the backbone of Old England," interposed Farmer Pearce,
"an' always has been."
"There's two ends to most backbones," put in young Obed, who had been
tracing patterns with his fingers on the surface of the mahogany
table. "And I don't pretend to have the cleverer one. But I don't
want the other to be kicked into doin' summat; which is what'll
happen to us farmin' chaps if we don't start enlistin'."
"The aggericultural community," persisted his father, who had picked
up that resonant term at meetings of the Farmers' Union, "is, an'
always has been, the backbone of England."
"Then 'tis time we showed it, in the Yeomanry."
"I wish you'd hold your tongue on that word; when you know your
mother never hears it spoke but she wakes me up at night with the
palpitations. . . . We _be_ showin' it, I tell 'ee. We _be_ doin'
something for our country in this here crisis. Why, didn' Squire
Tresawna ride over but yesterday an' commandeer Tory an' Pleasant?--
that's my two best waggon-hosses," the farmer explained to his
brother-in-law. "An' didn' he say as most likely he'd be over again,
inside a fortni't, after light draught hosses for the Artillery?
I don't murmur, for my part. We must all be prepared to make
sacrifices in these times. But all I say is, you can't pick up
draught hosses--light _or_ heavy--off a greengrocer, nor yet off a
bird-fancier; an' the man who says you can, I'll tell him to his face
he's no better than a liar," concluded Farmer Pearce, suddenly
growing crimson in the face, and smiting the table with unnecessary
heat.
"If the hosses be goin', why should the men linger?" young Obed
urged. "An' I don't see what you sacrificed either, over Tory an'
Pleasant; for you told me yourself the Squire gave a very fair price
for 'em."
"Well, an' I should hope so! You don't reckon as I was goin' to make
Government a present of 'em, do 'ee?--a man rated up to the ears, as
I be!" Here he glanced nervously at his brother-in-law, who (as a
town-dweller) held the monstrous belief that farmers enjoyed their
share, and even a little more, of relief from rating, and had more
than once shown argumentative fight on this subject in the piping
times of peace. But Mr Pamphlett tactfully ignored the challenge.
"Listen to me, Obed," he put in. "By what I hear from London, as
well as what I read in the papers, the most serious question before
this country just now is to maintain--or, as I might put it, to keep
up--an adequate supply of foodstuffs. To which end," pursued Mr
Pamphlett, in the weighty periods of the "leading article" from which
he had gathered this information, "it appears to us--I mean, to me--
that our agricultural friends would be well advised, at this
juncture, in considering the advisability, as well as the
feasibility, of restoring a quantity of their pasture-land to an
arable condition, and cultivating it _as_ such. The Board of
Agriculture, it is understood, will shortly issue a circular--er--on
these lines. Now you cannot effect the change thus indicated without
labour--"
"Or hosses."
"That there Board of Agriculture," put in the farmer, "is always
settin' up to know us farmers' business better than we d'know it
ourselves. Grow wheat--must we? All very well, an' for my country's
good I'm willin' enough, provided it can be done at a profit.
Will Government guarantee _that?_ . . . No, brother Pamphlett: what
you say about your callin', I says about mine. 'Business as usual'--
that's my word: an' let Obed here be a good son to his mother an'
bide at home, defyin' all the Germans in Christendom."
Mr Pamphlett, then, had spent his week-end in rural comfort, and with
the consciousness of being useful--a steadying influence in a
household threatened by youthful restlessness, which (Heaven knew)
might so easily turn to recklessness. His wife, too, was devotedly
attached to her sister, whose heart had always been liable to
palpitations. But he realised at sight of the letter, which had been
lying so long in the box, that a phrase is not everything: that
"business as usual," while it might serve as a charm or formula
against panic in the market-place, and even sustain in private many a
doubting soul accustomed to take things on trust, was an incantation
something less than adequate to calm the City of London, or the Bank
directors and their confidential clerks, who maybe had been working
in a frenzy through Sunday and Bank Holiday in their closed offices
at headquarters. For a moment Mr Pamphlett realised this, and it
gave him a scare. In the act of opening the letter he cast his eyes
around on the chance that a telegram had followed the letter,
demanding to know the cause that took him from his post at this
crisis. But there was no telegram. The envelope held two
enclosures. He scanned them hurriedly: the blood came back to his
face, and he was a man again.
The first enclosure merely acknowledged, in conventional words, the
receipt of certain returns posted by him last Friday. The second
ran--
New Bank Premises: Polpier Branch.
Dear Sir,--With reference to the above, the Board has had under
consideration your letter of the 23rd ult.; and directs me to
say that, in the present unsettled situation abroad, and the
consequent need of strict watchfulness over capital expenditure
(however small), it may be wise to defer the issuing of tenders,
as suggested by you, until further notice. The Board has, in
its confidence, entrusted you with almost complete discretion in
this matter; and possibly you may find it difficult, at this
juncture, to delay matters as suggested. If so, please
advise.--
Yours faithfully,
Walter P. Schmidt,
Managing Director.
So _that_ was all right! It might defer building operations, but it
need not defer his dealing with Nanjivell, his own tenant, who paid
nothing. He could turn Nanjivell out, and then--well, whenever the
Bank chose to start building, the Directors (having gone so far)
would no doubt consider the length of time the premises had been
standing idle.
His brow cleared. He opened the next letter, with the handwriting of
which he was familiar enough. One Retallack, a speculative builder,
suggested a small increase on his overdraft, offering security.
This would not do, in War time. Mr Pamphlett dealt with it at once--
Dear Sir,--You are doubtless aware that the outbreak of a
European War compels the Banking Houses to look jealously after
all advances, or extensions of credit, even the smallest.
It is not so much a question of declining this new request on
your part as of reconsidering very carefully the present
position of your account. I will satisfy myself concerning this
and advise you without delay.--I am, dear sir, yours faithfully,
Alfred Pamphlett,
Manager.
"Business as usual"--Mr Pamphlett repeated it many times to himself
as he went through the rest of his correspondence. His spirit--in
revulsion after his brief scare--soared almost to gaiety. He walked
into the main room of the Bank as Hendy started to pull the
door-bolts.
"We don't open for business to-day, Hendy."
Hendy had shown himself flatly incapable of understanding the
Moratorium; what it was or how it worked. Mr Pamphlett, for his
part, was uncertain about the details. But he explained them to
Hendy.
Then he returned to his private office, pausing by the rack in the
passage to draw from the tail pocket of his frock-coat there a folded
copy of _The Western Morning News_. There was something furtive in
his action: he would have started guiltily had he been surprised in
it, even by the meek Hendy.
Business--well, business could not be altogether as usual in these
times. As a rule Mr Pamphlett read his paper through, before and
during breakfast, and left it at home for Mrs Pamphlett to scan the
births, deaths, and marriages, the "wanteds," the Court Circular, and
any report there might happen to be of a colliery explosion (she
specialised in colliery explosions: they appealed to her as combining
violent death with darkness) before interviewing the cook.
But to-day, with all Europe in the melting-pot--so to speak--Mr
Pamphlett had broken his rule. He craved to know the exact speed at
which Russia was "steam-rolling." There was a map in the paper,
and it might repay study.
Before studying the map his eye fell on a paragraph headed "Rise in
Prices." He paused and spent some time over this.
He was still conning it when the door opened, and Hendy appeared.
Mr Pamphlett muttered "Consols," and refolded the newspaper hastily.
"Nanjivell is here to see you, sir: at the side door. 'Says he must
speak to you in private."
"Oh . . . confound Nanjivell! I've had enough of that man. . . .
Very well; but tell him I can't spare a moment over five minutes."
Hendy ushered in Nicky-Nan, who hobbled forward to the table, hat in
hand.
"Good-morning, Nanjivell!" said Mr Pamphlett.
"'Mornin', sir."
"Another plea, I suppose?--when you had my word on Saturday that I'd
done with you."
"'Tain't that."
"Then what is it? . . . For I hardly suppose 'tis to pay up--rent
_and_ arrears."
"One--two--three--four--five--six--seven!" Nicky-Nan dived in his
pocket for the fistful of coins, picked them out carefully, and laid
them one by one on the table. "I'll take the change an' a receipt,
if you please."
"How came you by this money?" asked the Bank Manager, after a pause,
staring at the gold.
"What the hell is that to you?" demanded Nicky-Nan.
For a moment Mr Pamphlett made no reply. Then he leaned forward and
picked up one of the coins.
"I asked," he said, "because one of these happens to be a
guinea-piece--a spade guinea, and scarcely worn at all."
"'Tis as good as a sovereign's worth, hey?"
"Certainly: worth more in fact."
"I'll trust 'ee for the difference then," said Nicky-Nan. "As for
how I came by it, I came by it honest, an' that's enough. A man o'
my family may have a bit o' hoard put by--by his forefathers."
"I see," said Mr Pamphlett thoughtfully. "Hendy shall make out the
receipt. But this doesn't include costs of the ejectment order, you
know."
"I'll bring 'em to-morrow, if you'll let me know the amount."
"Hendy shall give you a note of it. . . No--to be fair, the
ejectment order still stands against you. I have power to turn you
out to-morrow."
"But you won't!"
"If you use that tone with me, my man, I certainly will. If you take
your receipt and clear out, I may relent so far as to give you a
short grace."
When Nicky-Nan had taken his leave, Mr Pamphlett picked up the spade
guinea and considered it curiously. It had a beautifully sharp
impression, and might have been minted yesterday. He thought it
would go very well on his watch-chain.
Then he opened the paper again, sought out the paragraph headed "Rise
in Prices," and read it through, pausing now and again to pencil a
note or two on the back of an envelope.
On his way homeward in the dinner-hour he called at Mrs Pengelly's
shop and gave that good woman an order for groceries. The size of it
almost caused her to faint. It ran into double figures in pounds
sterling.
"Business _as_ usual!" repeated Mr Pamphlett to himself complacently,
as he pursued his way up the hill.