At five o’clock, Mr. Dersingham arrived, bursting in like a large
pink bomb. He was breathless, perspiring, and all smiles. “Afternoon,
ev’rybody,” he gasped. “Is there a late spot of tea goin’? Doesn’t
matter if there isn’t. I say, Miss Matfield, just drop ev’rything,
will you, and bring your notebook to my room. I want to dictate some
letters and a circular. Stanley, you get ready to copy the circular.
And, Turgis, you ring up Brown and Gorstein and say I want to speak to
Mr. Gorstein. And Smeeth, I shall want you when I’m through with these
letters, about a quarter of an hour’s time, and will you bring that
statement of the outstanding accounts right up to date and let me know
all about Gorstein’s and Nickman’s payments this last year? Good man!”
Mr. Dersingham liked to signalise his arrival in this fashion--it
looked as if he was starting the day for everybody, and it still looked
like that even if he did it at five o’clock--but now there was a
difference. His voice had a triumphant ring, in spite of the fact that
he was short of breath. There was about his whole manner a Napoleonic
abruptness and self-confidence. He presented the spectacle--rare
enough too--of an Old Worrelian in big business. At one bound the
temperature of the office rose about ten degrees, and Mr. Smeeth, as
he investigated the firm’s somewhat melancholy relations with Brown
& Gorstein and Nickman & Sons, was visited once more by quite wildly
optimistic fancies. Undoubtedly, something had happened.
When at last he was called into Mr. Dersingham’s room, he soon learned
what it was that had happened. It was, as he had suspected more than
once, this Mr. Golspie.
“And the position is this, Smeeth,” Mr. Dersingham continued. “He’s
got the sole agency for all this new Baltic stuff. They won’t sell it
to anybody here but Golspie. It’s good wood, all of it, quite up to
standard, and he can get it at prices, thirty, forty and fifty per
cent. lower than we’ve been paying. I don’t mind telling you that when
he first explained what he was after, I wasn’t keen at all, not a bit
keen. It sounded fishy to me.”
“Does seem a bit queer he should come along like that, doesn’t it, sir?”
“It does, Smeeth, and that’s what I thought. But we’ve been going
round with some of his samples at prices we could sell the stuff at on
his figures, and they’ve been absolutely leaping at them. We can cut
everybody out, absolutely clean cut. We can do more business, Smeeth,
with this new stuff in a fortnight than the firm’s ever done, even in
its best days, in a month. And you know what business we’ve been doing
lately? Awful! A ghastly show! By the way, Smeeth, Goath was partly
to blame for that. Oh yes, he was. Thirty years in the trade and all
that--but the fact is, they were all tired of seeing his depressing old
mug, and he’d given up trying. Golspie soon showed me that, though I
must say I’d had my suspicions for some time.”
“So had I, sir.”
“Exactly! Goath had to be booted out, and as it was he booted himself
out. He’ll be feeling very sorry for himself soon. Now then, this is
what’s happening. Golspie came along here to see me quite by chance.
He’d got this contract, but he wanted some firm already in the trade to
join up with. All this is--er--in--y’know--between ourselves, Smeeth.”
“I understand, sir,” said Mr. Smeeth, flattered and delighted.
“Golspie--Mr. Golspie--doesn’t want a partnership, can’t be bothered
with it. He’s coming in here as a sort of general manager, working on a
jolly good commission. You’ll have to know all about that, of course,
because of the books. It’s a hefty commission all right, but then he’s
bringing all the business really, and he’ll be responsible for getting
the wood over and all that side of it. And the two of us will be
working together, running things here. I’ll go out a good deal myself
for the next few months, and we’ll have to get some fellow--somebody
young and keen--to take Goath’s place.”
“You won’t be cutting down the office staff then?” said Mr. Smeeth,
greatly relieved.
“Cutting it down! We’ll have to jolly well increase it, and quickly
too. That far sample room will have to be cleared out and tidied up
this week, we shall want that. You’d better get another typist to help
Miss Matfield--a young girl will do--as soon as possible. This next
week or two, Smeeth,” and here Mr. Dersingham sprang up and clenched
his fists, just as if he had never seen a decent public school, “we’ve
got to drive it hard, go all out, and I’m depending on you for the
office side of it. You people have got to stand behind me in this. It’s
a great chance for all of us, and, of course, a tremendous stroke of
luck, Golspie’s coming here. He’s going all out himself on this--he’s
that sort of chap, very keen and all that--and we’ve got to keep pace.”
“You can count on me doing my best, Mr. Dersingham,” Mr. Smeeth assured
him fervently. “There’s one or two things I’d like to know about, of
course. F’r’instance, what’s his arrangement with these foreign people
of his about payments?”
“He’s going to talk to you about that, Smeeth. We’ve only just touched
on that, so far.”
“And another thing, sir,” Mr. Smeeth continued, more hesitantly now.
“You know how we stand at the bank just now. If we’re branching out,
we’ve got to have something behind us there.”
“I’ve been looking into that this afternoon,” said Mr. Dersingham. “We
can’t do anything more with the bank at present, but I think I can
borrow a bit to see us through. We’ve got to have something to jolly
well play with, this next month or so, particularly as Mr. Golspie
talks about wanting some of his commission in advance, so to speak.”
Mr. Smeeth looked grave, then coughed. “Do you think that would be
wise, Mr. Dersingham? I mean--er--after all, you’ve no guarantee----”
“You mean--the whole thing may be just a swindle. Come on, isn’t that
it?” cried the other, grinning. “Well of course I thought of that. I
thought of God knows how many swindles yesterday morning, because, as
I said, the whole thing seemed fishy to me, and, between ourselves, I
thought Golspie himself a terrible outsider at first. But I’ve gone
into all that. He doesn’t draw his commission until the stuff has
been delivered to our people, of course, but he wants his money then,
without waiting until the account’s finally settled. Though, by the
way, Smeeth, we’re not going to give these fellows so much rope in
future. With this new stuff on our hands, we can afford to tighten it
up a bit, don’t you think?”
“That’s so, Mr. Dersingham. I’d like to see one or two of these
accounts closed altogether. They’re more bother than they’re worth,”
Mr. Smeeth hesitated. “I’m not quite clear yet about this Mr. Golspie,
sir. Is he going to be in charge of the office?”
“In a way, yes,” the other replied, with the air of a man who had given
this question a great deal of thought. “You can take it, he is. Though
of course it’s still my show----”
“Of course, Mr. Dersingham.”
“Suppose, by any chance, you disagree violently with anything he
suggests, you’ll come to me,” said Mr. Dersingham, looking at that
moment like a large pink conspirator. “But you needn’t tell that to the
other people out there.”
“I see what you mean, sir,” said Mr. Smeeth, who felt that he would see
in time.
“Mr. Golspie has a good deal to learn, of course,” Mr. Dersingham
continued, airily. “He doesn’t know the trade, and he doesn’t know the
City. But--he seems to have knocked up and down all over the place
in his time, and he’s got ideas, y’know, and colossal push. Rum sort
of chap, I must say.” Then he became business-like again. “Now look
here, Smeeth, I want to push off as soon as I can because I want that
money--or some of it--into the bank by to-morrow afternoon. Ask Miss
Matfield to hurry up with those letters so that I can sign ’em. And
just see those circulars get away to-night, will you?”
“I will, Mr. Dersingham.” And Mr. Smeeth turned away, but stopped
before he reached the door. “And if you don’t mind me saying so, sir,
I’m very pleased things are looking up like this. I was beginning to
feel worried, very worried, sir.”
“Thanks, Smeeth! Good man!” You could not mistake the Old Worrelian
now. “Things will be humming here soon, you’ll see. Colossal luck, of
course, his turning up like this! Oh, by the way, he’s probably coming
in soon.”
Mr. Golspie did come in, but only after Mr. Dersingham had gone and
for about half an hour or so, during which he merely asked Mr. Smeeth
a few questions. He came again the next morning, and Mr. Smeeth had
to join him and Mr. Dersingham in a little conference. Mr. Golspie
then returned about half past four, dictated some letters, nosed about
the office, examined the far room, and did some telephoning at Mr.
Dersingham’s table, Mr. Dersingham himself being out visiting Nickman
and Sons. The others had gone, and Mr. Smeeth was putting away his
books for the night, when Mr. Golspie came out of the private office
and began asking more questions, chiefly about accounts. The two of
them stayed there another twenty-five minutes, at the end of which Mr.
Golspie suggested they should round off the proceedings by having a
drink.
When they were at the bottom of the stairs, Mr. Smeeth remembered that
he was nearly out of tobacco (he smoked two and a half ounces of T.
Benenden’s Own Mixture every week) and said he would slip in for some.
Mr. Golspie followed him in, and T. Benenden was so surprised to see
this massive and large-moustached stranger again, in company with Mr.
Smeeth this time, too, that he weighed out the tobacco and put it in
the pouch without saying a word.
“You got any good cigars, _good_ cigars?” Mr. Golspie demanded in his
resonant bass, at the same time staring hard, even harder than the
tobacconist had stared at him.
“Certainly, I have,” replied T. Benenden with dignity. And he produced
two or three boxes.
Mr. Golspie chose two cigars, cut them, then popped one into his own
mouth, stuck the other into Mr. Smeeth’s, and lit the pair of then,
without a word. Then, after blowing a stream of smoke at Benenden, he
said: “How much?”
“Three shillings, for the two.”
Mr. Golspie slapped down two half-crowns on the counter. This was the
tobacconist’s opportunity.
“What about this big Cement slump, gentlemen?” he began. “Where’s that
going to land us----?”
“It’s not going to land me anywhere,” said Mr. Golspie. “Where’s it
going to land you?”
T. Benenden looked rather pained, and still nursed the two shillings
change in his hand. “Well, what I mean is this. That’s a big combine,
isn’t it? A year ago, they were bang at the top, like nearly all
the big combines. All right. But what’s happening now? A slump. And
why----?”
“I don’t know, and I’ll bet you don’t know,” said Mr. Golspie heartily.
Then he gave a short bellow of a laugh. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he
roared, “I’ve been puzzling my head for the last five minutes wondering
what was wrong with you.”
“Me?” T. Benenden was startled.
“Yes, you. Didn’t you notice I was staring at you?” He turned to Mr.
Smeeth. “Couldn’t make it out. I knew there was something wrong. You
see it, don’t you?” He now returned to Benenden, at whom he pointed
a thick brutal finger. “Why, man, you’ve forgotten to put your tie
on. Have a look at yourself. I _knew_ there was something. Is that my
change? That’s correct--two shillings.”
Mr. Smeeth followed him out of the shop, gasping. He had been visiting
Benenden’s shop two or three times a week, year after year, and never
once had he dared mention the word “tie.” And now this chap comes along
with his “You’ve forgotten to put your tie on.” Mr. Smeeth began to
chuckle softly.
Mr. Golspie piloted him across the road and into the private bar of the
_White Horse_.
“Give it a name,” said Mr. Golspie.
“Thanks, Mr. Golspie. Oh--er--just a glass of bitter,” said Mr. Smeeth
modestly, from behind his large cigar.
“Don’t have a glass of bitter. Too cold a night like this and after a
hard day’s work, too. Have a whisky. That’s right. Two double whiskies
and some soda.”
It was quiet and cosy in the _White Horse_. Mr. Smeeth had not been in
for a long time, and he was enjoying this. The fire winked cheerfully
over the grate; the rows of liqueur bottles glimmered and glittered;
the glasses shone softly; there was a pleasant hum of talk; the cigars
plunged them at once into an atmosphere of rich, fragrant, luxurious
conviviality; the whisky tasted good, and washed away that foggy,
smoky, railway tunnel flavour of Angel Pavement; and Mr. Golspie, still
mysterious and masterful but genial now too, was obviously anxious they
should be on friendly terms.
“You’ve got a fellow working in the Midlands and the North, haven’t
you?” Mr. Golspie inquired, after they had both taken a pull at their
whiskies. “What’s he like?”
“Dobson? He’s a decent young chap, and he’s got a good connection up
there. He’s not sold much lately, but it’s not been for the want of
trying.”
“We ought to be hearing from him soon, then,” said Mr. Golspie. “If
he can’t sell these new veneers, he’d better be walking. They sell
themselves. We’ve orders pouring in, just pouring. But, mind you,
Smeeth, we’ve got to get a move on. We’ve got to pile up the orders
now--make hay while the sun shines. We want another man for London and
district, soon as we can get one. And one that’s alive, too, not like
that dreary old devil I booted out the first day. You might as well
send the dustbin round looking for orders. There ought to be three of
us, me, Dersingham, and this other man, whoever he is, doing London and
neighbourhood these next few months. Rush ’em. That’s the way, isn’t
it?”
Mr. Smeeth, taking out his cigar and trying to look keen and
aggressive, said it was.
“I’ll tell you what I believe in,” Mr. Golspie continued, not troubling
to lower his voice, or rather to moderate it, for it was low enough. “I
believe in working like hell and in playing like hell. If you’re going
to work, for God’s sake--work. And if you’re going to enjoy yourself,
well, for the love of Mike, enjoy yourself, get on with it.”
At this point, Mr. Smeeth started back, for suddenly a head, a large
head wearing a very dirty cap, but only about the height of his
shoulder, stuck itself between him and Mr. Golspie. “That’s all very
well, gents,” it said, with an impudent whine, “but what if yer can’t
get work, ’ow yer goin’ ter enjoy yerself then, eh? Wotcher goin’ ter
do then, eh?”
“There’s one thing you can do,” said Mr. Golspie promptly.
“Wha’s that?”
“You can mind your own bloody business,” said Mr. Golspie, pushing
his face out in a most intimidating and disagreeable fashion. The
intruder shrank back at once. “Here y’are,” Mr. Golspie said in a
milder, contemptuous tone, “here’s threepence. Go away and buy yourself
something.”
“Thank yer, mister.” And the head vanished.
“This city’s got more and more rats like that in it every time I come
back to it.”
“There isn’t the work, you know,” said Mr. Smeeth earnestly. “I don’t
say they all want it, but there isn’t the work. I’ll tell you candidly,
Mr. Golspie, it frightens me sometimes to see all the chaps looking for
work. If we’ve to take on a few new people, and we advertise for them,
you’ll see what I mean. Crowds and crowds--ready to work for next to
nothing. It’s a heart-breaking job interviewing them.”
“I dare say,” Mr. Golspie replied, in the tone of a man whose heart is
not easily broken. “But I know this. A man who’s ready to work for next
to nothing is no good to me. I wouldn’t have him as a gift. And that
reminds me, Smeeth. What’s this firm paying you?”
Mr. Smeeth hesitated a moment, then told him.
“And do you think that’s enough?”
Mr. Smeeth hesitated again. “Well, if business was good, I was going to
ask for a rise this Christmas, but as you know, it’s not been good.”
“No, but it’s going to be good, don’t make any mistake about that,”
cried Mr. Golspie. “It’s going to be a dam’ sight better than Twigg and
Dersingham have ever seen it before. Who the devil was Twigg? Never
mind about him, though. I’m going to tell you straight out, I don’t
think you’re getting enough. I know a good man when I see one, and when
people stand by me--you know what I do?--that’s right--I stand by them.
And I’m going to stand by you.”
“Very good of you, Mr. Golspie,” muttered the embarrassed Smeeth.
“The minute these orders that are coming now are turned into solid
business--and, mind you, it means more work and responsibility for you
all along the line--the minute they do, you’re going to get a rise, a
good rise, a hundred or two a year right off, or I’m not Jimmy Golspie.
And we shake hands on that.”
Mr. Smeeth, overwhelmed, found himself shaking hands on it.
“And now,” Mr. Golspie added masterfully, “we’ll just sign and seal
that by having a little quick one.”
“All right. But--er--it’s my turn.”
“Not a bit of it. Not to-night. You haven’t a turn to-night. Wait till
the big rise comes. Two singles, please. Married man, aren’t you,
Smeeth?”
“I am. Wife and two children, boy just out of his teens and girl nearly
eighteen.”
“All I’ve got’s a girl. I’m expecting her over soon. Does this girl of
yours take much notice of you?”
“Not much. Seems to me they don’t, nowadays.”
“You’re right there. That girl of mine doesn’t--the wilful, artful
little devil. She’s been spoilt all her life, and always will be.
Too good-lookin’, that’s her trouble. Doesn’t take after her father,
y’know,” and here Mr. Golspie disturbed the whole bar with a sudden
deep guffaw. “Well, here’s the best! This is a dam’ rum business,
y’know, Smeeth, when you come to think of it. I’ve had a finger in
all sorts of trades, all over the place, and this is a bit more
respectable than some of ’em. But when you think of it--it’s a dam’ rum
trade--selling thin bits of wood to glue on to other bits of wood, eh?”
“I’ve often thought that,” said Mr. Smeeth eagerly, the philosopher
waking in him too. “I’ve often thought--well, I dunno--but this trade’s
like a good deal of the rest of life. Veneers? Well, Mr. Golspie, just
think of them. They’re only there to make a piece of furniture look as
if it was made of better wood than it is made of, a sort of fake. But
everybody knows about it. There’s no deception. And I’ve often thought
a lot of life’s like that, particularly when I’ve gone into company.
You know, everybody setting up to be mahogany and walnut through and
through----”
“And the lot of ’em veneered to hell,” cried Mr. Golspie jovially.
“Never mind, let’s see if we can’t slap all our stuff on to their
rotten chairs and wardrobes and sideboards, and make money and enjoy
ourselves. That’s the game.”
With that, they swung out into the little night of Angel Pavement,
where the diapason of Mr. Golspie could be heard thundering out again
that it was the game. With rich Havana still in his nostrils, the
golden liquor of the glens wandering round his inside like an enchanted
Gulf Stream, and Mr. Golspie’s promises singing their madrigals in his
head, Mr. Smeeth felt for once that it really might be all a game.
Waiting for his tram that night, he bought two evening papers instead
of one, and read neither of them.
_Chapter Three_: THE DERSINGHAMS AT HOME
I
By the middle of the following week, there were several changes at
Twigg & Dersingham’s. The greatest change was in the atmosphere of
the place. Even if you had merely opened the outer door, remaining
on that side of the frosted glass partition, you would have felt the
difference at once. No doubt the typewriters rattled and _pinged_, the
telephone bell rang, voices came through, all in a new and bustling,
optimistic fashion. The very chair you were invited to sit on, when
you waited behind that partition, had been dusted. Mrs. Cross had not
found herself immune from this new influence: she had given the general
office a thorough cleaning. There was no question now of anybody not
having enough work to do. Stanley still went out, indeed he went out
more than ever, but he was compelled to speed up his “shaddering”
methods and was only able to follow men who were in a tremendous hurry.
Mr. Smeeth among his little figures was as busy and happy as a monk
at his manuscript. Turgis, whose duty it was to see that goods were
duly forwarded to and from Twigg & Dersingham’s, became both hoarse
and haughty down the telephone to all manner of forwarding agents, and
spoke to railway goods clerks as if they were strange and unwelcome
dogs. Miss Matfield rattled off her letters with slightly less contempt
and disgust, rather as if they were no longer the effusions of complete
lunatics but were now merely the work of village idiots. And she
had acquired an assistant. The staff of Twigg & Dersingham had been
enlarged at the beginning of this week by the appointment of a second
typist. Miss Poppy Sellers had arrived.
The girls who earn their keep by going to offices and working
typewriters may be divided into three classes. There are those who,
like Miss Matfield, are the daughters of professional gentlemen and
so condescend to the office and the typewriter, who work beneath them
just as girls once married beneath them. There are those who take it
all simply and calmly, because they are in the office tradition, as
Mr. Smeeth’s daughter would have been. Then there are those who rise
to the office and the typewriter, who may not make any more money than
their sisters and cousins who work in factories and cheap shops--they
may easily make considerably less money--but nevertheless are able to
cut superior and ladylike figures in their respective family circles
because they have succeeded in becoming typists. Poppy belonged to
this third class. Her father worked on the Underground, and he and his
family of four occupied half a house not far from Eel Brook Common,
Fulham, that south-western wilderness of vanishing mortar and bricks
that are coming down in the world. This was not Poppy’s first job,
for she was twenty and had been steadily improving herself in the
commercial world since she was fifteen, but it was easily her most
important one. She had been chosen out of a large number of applicants,
had been started at two pounds and ten shillings a week, and had been
told confidentially by Mr. Smeeth, who seemed to her a terrifying
figure, that she had good prospects if she would only learn and work
hard. This Poppy fully intended to do, for--as her testimonials were
compelled to admit--she was a very industrious and conscientious girl.
She was not sufficiently plain to escape entirely the attentions of the
youths who hung about the entrance to the Red Hall Cinema in Walham
Green (and Poppy frequently visited the Red Hall with her friend, Dora
Black, for she liked entertainment), but nobody yet had said that she
was pretty. She was small and slight, had dark hair and brown eyes,
and she aimed, rather timidly, at a Japanese or Javanese or general
Oriental effect, wearing a fringe and all that, but only succeeded
in looking vaguely dingy and untidy. Whenever she despairingly made
a special effort, plying hard the lipstick, being lavish with the
Oriental-effect face-powder, and raising and keeping her eyebrows so
high that it hurt, people asked her if she wasn’t feeling very well.
This failure to achieve the exotic beauty that was--as both she and
Dora Black believed--“her type,” tended to keep poor Poppy slightly
depressed and out of love with herself. During her first few days at
Twigg & Dersingham’s she was like a mouse. She was overawed by the
newness and importance of everything, and she saw that it would be
impossible for her to make a friend of the large, superior, infinitely
knowledgeable, tremendously condescending Miss Matfield. But, like a
mouse, she kept her eyes open, missing nothing, with her busy little
Cockney mind fastening on every crumb of information and gossip. After
three days, Miss Dora Black of Basuto Road, Fulham, knew more, though
at second-hand, about the office staff at Twigg & Dersingham than Mr.
Dersingham himself had learned in three years.
One of Miss Poppy Sellers’ first tasks had been to copy out replies to
the letters answering Twigg & Dersingham’s advertisement in the _Times_
and the _Daily Telegraph_. This was for another man, to take Goath’s
place, though he would have to spend much of his time further afield.
He had to be as unlike Goath as possible in character, but not unlike
him in experience. In short, he had to be “young, keen, energetic,”
and “with some connection in furnishing trade and knowledge of veneers
and inlays.” And the change brought about by Mr. Golspie was such that
Twigg & Dersingham were able to declare that for the right man there
was “a good opening.”
It has been said that the modern English do not like work. It cannot
be said that they do not look for it and ask for it. The day after
this advertisement appeared, the postal heavens opened and a hurricane
of letters fell upon Twigg & Dersingham. Into Angel Pavement all
that day there poured a bewildering stream of replies. It seemed as
if street after street, whole suburbs, had been waiting for this
particular opening. There were, it appeared, dozens of men with vast
connections in the furnishing trade and the most thorough, the most
intimate knowledge of veneers and inlays, and most of these men, though
they had apparently refused scores of offers recently, were only too
willing to assist Messrs. Twigg & Dersingham. Then there were men who
had not perhaps exactly a connection, but had been for years, so to
speak, on the fringe of the furnishing trade, men who had sold pianos,
who had given removing estimates, who had done a little valuing,
who knew something about upholstering. Then there were older men,
ex-officers many of them, who knew about all kinds of things and were
ready to enclose the most astonishing testimonials, who admitted that
the furnishing trade and veneers and inlays were all new to them but
who felt that they could soon learn all there was to know, and in the
meantime were anxious to show how they could command men and to display
their unusual ability to organize. And, last of all, there were the
public school men, fellows who knew nothing about veneers and inlays
and did not even pretend to care about them, but pointed out that they
could drive cars, manage an estate, organise anything or anybody, and
were willing to go out East, being evidently under the impression that
Twigg & Dersingham had probably a couple of tea plantations as well
as a business in veneers and inlays. These correspondents expressed
themselves in every imaginable sort of handwriting and on every
conceivable kind of notepaper, from superior parchment to dirty little
pink bits that had been saved up in a box on the mantelpiece, but in
one particular they were all alike: they were all keen, all energetic.
“This tells you something about the old country, doesn’t it?” said Mr.
Golspie, who always talked as if he came from some newer one. He and
Mr. Dersingham and Mr. Smeeth had been going through the pile.
“It’s only the slump,” said Mr. Dersingham, who was feeling optimistic
these days. “It’s not so bad as it was, is it, Smeeth?”
“I suppose it isn’t, really, Mr. Dersingham.” But Mr. Smeeth sounded
rather doubtful. These letters had given him another glimpse of the
dark gulf. It was a sight that left him feeling shaky.
Mr. Golspie grunted. “Far as I can see from this lot, you can have the
pick of England’s talent for four or five quid a week. There isn’t a
dam’ thing these fellows can’t do--except find work. Well, I’ve got
about four likely ones here. What have you chaps got?”
After a good deal more trouble and talk, they finally narrowed the
possible applications down to ten, and these ten were asked to appear
at the office in the early afternoon, two days later. They all came
at once, and so had to wait their turn on the landing outside, while
Stanley, enjoying himself hugely, dashed in and out to summon them.
Mr. Smeeth, going round to the bank, had to make his way through this
little crowd, and at the first moment, when he stepped outside the
office and the two or three of them nearest the door made way for him
with almost ostentatious smartness, he felt triumphant, proud, a solid
and successful man among a lot of failures. But the very next moment,
this feeling disappeared. They were all very well brushed, in their
best clothes, and were already looking keen and energetic, especially
those nearest the door, who looked the keenest and most energetic,
their faces having already taken on the expression most likely to
impress the mysterious powers within the office. A few of them were
young and had an easy confident look, that of men merely seeking a
change of job. Others were older, less confident, tense or wistful. Mr.
Smeeth bumped into one, the last in the group, who was standing at the
corner near the top of the stairs.
“I beg your pardon,” the man cried, eagerly, anxiously. He was indeed
an anxious man, about Mr. Smeeth’s age and not unlike him, greyish,
lined, brittle; a man with a wife and family and vanishing possessions;
a man who time after time had found himself the last in the group,
waiting at the corner, with the hope inspired by the letter, the letter
that came thunderingly, triumphantly, that morning, like an act of
deliverance, now dying in him.
“My fault,” Mr. Smeeth assured him, stopping, and offering the smile
of a polite culprit. But when their eyes met fairly, this smile
trembled, then fled, leaving Mr. Smeeth himself grave, anxious. He
suddenly felt for this man a swelling sympathy, a deep stir of pity,
that he had not known for many a month. They might have been brothers;
and, indeed, brothers they were for a second or so, peering at one
another in some darkened house of tragedy.
“Good luck!” Mr. Smeeth heard himself saying.
“Thanks,” and there came the ghost of a smile.
Mr. Smeeth never saw him again. He had no luck. The successful
applicant was very different, much younger, a tall fellow with a
remarkably small head, an inquisitive pink nose, and a very wide mouth
that opened to show about twice the ordinary number of teeth. His name
was Sandycroft, and he knew the trade, for though he had never sold
veneers and inlays, he had bought them, having been at one time with
Briggs Brothers. This set him apart from all the other applicants.
Moreover, he appeared to be all keenness and energy, and threw the most
passionate emphasis into the slightest remark he made.
“Mr. Twigg,” he cried, addressing Mr. Golspie, “and Mr. Dersingham, you
can rely on me. I know the trade. I know the people. I know the ropes,
if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“All right,” said Mr. Golspie with his usual genial brutality. “But
don’t go knowing too many ropes. Eh, Dersingham?”
“Oh, quite!” replied Mr. Dersingham, who did not quite follow this, but
looked knowing all the same.
“I understand, sir. I know what you mean. I couldn’t do it, sir. It’s
not in my character. Honesty isn’t everything, but I believe it’s the
first thing. And I’m straight. I believe in being straight, sir.”
“Good!” said Mr. Golspie heartily, for he, too, believed in Sandycroft
and his like being straight.
“And if it’s possible, gentlemen,” Sandycroft continued, looking from
one to the other of them, “I’d like to stay on now and just pick up the
threads, so that I can start right away on the road to-morrow morning.
I’m keen to get going, desperately keen. You know what it is, sir.
After only a week or two doing nothing much, a man like me feels rusty.
I want to get on with it. My wife laughs at me. ‘Have a rest,’ she
says. But no, I’m not like that. I must be getting on with something.”
“Good man,” said Mr. Dersingham approvingly.
“Well, I think we’ll have to be getting on with something, too,” said
Mr. Golspie. “He’d better come round here in the morning and learn what
there is to know about it then, before we send him out.”
“I think he had,” replied Mr. Dersingham. “Look here, you’d better go
home now--break the news to your wife and that sort of thing, eh?--and
then be down about nine or so in the morning. If we’re not here then,
you have a talk to Smeeth--that’s the cashier, out there--and he’ll be
able to tell you something.”
“Very good, sir,” and you would have thought the speaker was about
to salute smartly before retiring. He did not, however, but threw a
keen and energetic glance at Mr. Golspie (whom he had recognised at
once as the dominant partner), then a keen and energetic glance at Mr.
Dersingham, picked up his hat (and in such a manner as to suggest that
he could do some wonderful things even with that, if he wished to),
brought his hat in front of the second button of his overcoat, gave
three brisk nods, then wheeled about and made an exit like a torpedo
from its tube.
Actually, what Mr. Dersingham and Mr. Golspie did get on with was an
invitation to dinner, delivered by Mr. Dersingham and accepted by Mr.
Golspie. It had come to that. There were things about Golspie that did
not please Mr. Dersingham, for he was dogmatic, rough, domineering,
and was apt to jeer and sneer in a way that left Mr. Dersingham’s mind
bruised and resentful. A few terms at Worrell would obviously have made
a great difference to Golspie, who now, in his middle age, showed only
too plainly both by word and deed that he was not a gentleman. From
that there was no escape: Golspie was not a gentleman. But Dersingham
did not think of him as an Englishman who is not a gentleman, a bit
of a bounder, an outsider (and there can be no doubt that Golspie
at times did talk and act like a bounder, a complete outsider); he
contrived to think of him as a kind of foreigner who had acquired an
extraordinary command of the English language. This was not difficult,
because Golspie did seem to have spent most of his time outside England
and to have no roots in this country. And the fact remained that he had
presented the firm of Twigg & Dersingham with a new and glorious lease
of life, as if he were a god, a commercial god with a baldish head and
a large moustache. So the Dersinghams had talked it over and decided
that he must be asked to dinner, properly asked to dinner and not
merely invited to take pot-luck some Sunday. And this meant something,
for though your Old Worrelian who has to hack out his living in the
City will smoke a cigar and drink a whisky or share a couple of club
chops, if necessary, with any fairly decent sort of fellow he meets in
the way of business, he draws the line--his own words--at inviting most
of these fellows into his home, to meet his wife and possibly another
Old Worrelian or two. Thus it says something for Mr. Golspie’s standing
that, in spite of certain pronounced defects, he received such an
invitation, which, by the way, he accepted calmly enough, with no show
of surprise or gratitude.
“There’ll be some other people I think you’d like to know,” said Mr.
Dersingham, “but we won’t make it too formal. Just a black tie, y’know,
black tie.” He said this as people always say it, that is, as if a
white tie weighed a ton and they are letting you down lightly.
“What do you mean? Wear a dinner jacket?”
“That’s the idea,” said Mr. Dersingham, telling himself that really
Golspie was extraordinarily out of touch. “And--er--eightish then, next
Tuesday, eh?”
“Right you are,” replied Mr. Golspie. “Very pleased.”