II

Between Thursday evening, when hostilities began, and Saturday morning,

Mr. Smeeth had tried unsuccessfully once or twice to make his peace

and to replace this strange polite woman by his real wife. On Saturday

morning he determined to do no more; she could have her sulk, if she

wanted it; he would simply make the best of his position as a sort of

super-lodger. He trotted down Chaucer Road, on his way to the tram,

hardening his heart. The morning, which already had a companionable

Saturday look about it, smiled upon him, if only faintly. For a day

in late January, it was beginning well; no fog, snow or rain; but a

slight sparkle and nip of frost and the early ghost of a sun somewhere

above. Mr. Smeeth was very fond of Saturday; he liked the morning in

the office (he always had a pipe at about half-past eleven, unless he

was very busy), and he liked the afternoon out of the office. It was

difficult for him to forget that his wife had quarrelled with him, but

he hardened his heart and did his best to forget. Unfortunately--as he

knew only too well, for he had said it often enough--it never rains but

it pours. This treacherous Saturday was destined to give him a series

of shocks, of varying degrees of severity.

The first, and slightest, of these shocks arrived when he walked over

to his desk, rubbing his hands as usual and exchanging a remark or

two with everybody. His inkwells had not been filled up, and no fresh

blotting-paper had been put on his desk.

“Hello!” he cried, looking round. “Where’s Stanley?”

“Hasn’t turned up,” replied Turgis.

“Well, well, well, well,” said Mr. Smeeth fussily. “Does anybody know

what’s happened to him? Is he ill or something?”

Nobody knew. Miss Sellers thought he had probably caught a cold,

because she was sure she had heard him sneeze several times while he

was copying the letters the night before. Turgis said with gloomy

satisfaction that he had probably been knocked down and run over while

trying to shadow somebody on his way to the office.

“I don’t suppose for a minute he has,” said Mr. Smeeth sharply. “But

you needn’t seem so pleased about it, Turgis. Not a nice way of saying

a thing like that at all. I don’t like to hear anybody talking like

that in this office. Don’t know what has come over you lately, Turgis.”

And it was true. He hadn’t liked the way Turgis had looked and talked

for some time now.

The mystery of Stanley was cleared up when Mr. Dersingham, very much

the Saturday man in plus fours, arrived to go through the letters,

for among these was one from Stanley’s father, apparently a man of

few words, who announced that Stanley was needed badly by his uncle,

just returned to the ironmongering in Homerton, where the boy would

be nearer home and have a better chance of getting on than in Angel

Pavement--and sorry no better notice given but half fortnight’s wages

due could be kept but please send Insurance Card all filled in--_Yrs

truly, Thos. Poole._

“That means getting another boy,” said Mr. Dersingham. “I’m sorry about

that one, too. He was a lazy little devil like all of ’em, but he

looked rather bright, didn’t he?”

“Wasn’t a bad boy at all, Mr. Dersingham,” said Mr. Smeeth,

meditatively. “I’m sorry he’s left us, too. We might get a lot worse.

He fancied himself as a budding detective, Stanley did--we used to pull

his leg about shadowing people and all that.”

“Did he? A detective, eh? And I never knew that. He’d got that from

reading about ’em, you know. I’m fond of a good detective yarn myself.

But I never wanted to be one when I was a boy. They weren’t quite

so much the thing then, were they? I remember I wanted to be an

explorer--you know, expeditions across the desert and all that sort of

thing. All the exploring I’ve done lately, Smeeth, has been looking

for some of those mouldy Jew cabinet-making places in back streets in

North London. Ah--well!” And for a moment the large pink face of Mr.

Dersingham looked clouded, as if he had suddenly discovered that life

was quite different from what he imagined it would be when he was in

the Fourth at Worrell.

“We live and learn, sir, don’t we?” said Mr. Smeeth vaguely.

“Do we? I dunno. People always say we do, don’t they? But I dunno. I

doubt it sometimes, I do, Smeeth, honestly,” the other replied, first

glancing at Mr. Smeeth and then looking out of the window, through

which nothing could be seen but a ramshackle roof and a few chimney

pots beyond. A queer melancholy, quite unlike the proper spirit of any

office on Saturday morning, invaded the room, and for a minute the pair

of them were lost in it.

“Well, well,” cried Mr. Dersingham with a sudden briskness, “you’ll

have to see about getting another boy. I’m sorry about that, though.

That boy might have been a useful chap later on. He’s missed a good

opening. If that other fellow, Turgis, had gone, I don’t think I’d have

minded very much. How’s he getting on, that fellow? I don’t see much

of him, but I must say I don’t like the look of him these days. He

slouches about, looking like nothing on earth. What’s the matter with

him?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Dersingham. I’ve noticed it, too. There’s been

something wrong with him lately. He does his work, but only after a

fashion, and it’s not a fashion I like, I must say. Something on his

mind, I should say.”

“And a thoroughly nasty mind too, by the look of him! Well, look here,

Smeeth, you’d better take him on one side and have a good talk to him.

Tell him I’m not satisfied with him and you’re not satisfied with him,

and that if he doesn’t buck up pretty soon, he’ll have to clear out.

Tell him he’s a fool to himself, too, with the business growing as it

is and all sorts of chances coming along for smart fellows. You know

the kind of thing to say. Threaten him with the sack, if you like;

I don’t mind. I shouldn’t care if I saw the last of the fellow this

morning. I never did think much of him. Got a Bolshie look about him.

All right, then, Smeeth--see about that, and about getting another boy.

And I shall be off in about half an hour or so, and Mr. Golspie won’t

be in, this morning. So just--er--carry on, will you.”

Mr. Smeeth was really sorry that Stanley had gone, and not merely

because it meant getting another boy and showing him what to do. He

realized now that he had liked Stanley and would miss that freckled

snub nose of his, that sandy bullet head, and all the ridiculous

detective talk. But that was not all. Nobody knew better than Mr.

Smeeth that office boys come and go, are here to-day and gone

to-morrow, but nevertheless this sudden departure of Stanley troubled

him, if only because he disliked change of any kind and found himself

visited by a vague mistrust, a flicker or two of apprehension, whenever

it occurred. Stanley had become part of the office for him, and now

Stanley had gone. It was not important, but still, he did not like it.

“If we finish in good time this morning,” he said to Turgis, after

he had told them all about Stanley and had handed over the copying

and posting of the letters to little Poppy Sellers, “I want to have a

little talk with you, Turgis. You’re not in a great hurry to get away,

are you?”

Turgis wasn’t. Indeed, the outside world appeared to have lost as much

favour with him as the office had.

It was an easy morning. At twelve, Miss Matfield had nothing more to

do, and was allowed to go, looking rather more pleased with herself and

the world than she usually did. Turgis lounged up and gave Miss Sellers

a hand with the copying, for which he received several grateful glances

from the brown eyes beneath the fringe. Mr. Smeeth, sending out a

fragrant drift of Benenden’s Own Mixture, fussed about and locked up,

then gave the letters to Poppy and packed her off.

“Now then,” he said to Turgis, as soon as they were alone.

“Yes, Mr. Smeeth?” replied Turgis mournfully.

Mr. Smeeth looked at him, and perhaps saw him clearly for the first

time for weeks. There were dark rings under his eyes, and the eyes

themselves had a queer reddish look, as if their owner was not getting

enough sleep. He never had much colour, but now he was very pale, and

the bony ridge of his rather large nose shone as it caught the light,

as if the skin had been drawn back from it at each side. The lad didn’t

look at all well. Mr. Smeeth, who knew that Turgis lived in lodgings

and was a lonely sort of chap, felt sorry for him.

“Here, Turgis,” he said, “there’s plenty of time. We’ll go out and talk

there. Can you drink a glass of beer?”

Turgis, pleased and flattered by this invitation, said that he could.

“Well, we’ll go across the road and have a glass of beer there. Do us

no harm. Everything’s locked up, I think, isn’t it? All right, then.

We’ll go.” And so they went down the stairs, Mr. Smeeth kept up a

cheerful clatter of talk: “I’ll just pop round the corner to Benenden’s

to get some tobacco first. Always get my tobacco there, have done for

years. His own mixture, y’know--mixes it himself. Better than this

ounce packet stuff. You get it fresh. You don’t smoke a pipe, do you?

Cigarettes, eh? You ought to try a pipe. Cheaper and a better smoke and

better for your health, too. I’ve tried to get my boy George to start a

pipe, but he won’t drop his cigarettes. Gaspers all the time. Too much

trouble just to fill and light a pipe, that’s it. I wonder how these

_Kwik-Work_ people are going on? Always seem to be busy enough, but I

never knew anybody that used their blades. I stick to the old-fashioned

razor. I’ve used the same two for twenty years. I call it a silly waste

of money buying these safety razor blades. No wonder they give the

razors away nowadays. They know once you’ve got the razor you’ll have

to keep on buying their blades. That’s the catch, you see. Well, just

wait a minute. I’ll call on my old friend, Mr. Benenden.”

But he didn’t, because his old friend Mr. Benenden was not there.

Behind the counter was a plump young woman with bright ginger hair,

and if Cleopatra herself in full regalia had been standing there, Mr.

Smeeth could not have stared at her in greater astonishment.

“Yes?” said the plump young woman.

To explain what he wanted in T. Benenden’s, when year after year he

had merely had to put his pouch on the counter, was in itself so novel

an action that Mr. Smeeth found himself at a loss to perform it.

“But--where’s Mr. Benenden?”

The young woman smiled. “You a regular customer here?” she asked.

“I should think I am,” said Mr. Smeeth. “I’ve been coming in here, week

in and week out, for Mr. Benenden’s Own Mixture for years. It made me

jump to see anybody else here. What’s happened? He’s not given it up,

has he?”

“No, he’s not given it up,” she explained. “He’s in hospital. He got

knocked down by a car last night in Cheapside, and they took him to St.

Bartholomew’s.”

“Well, you surprise me! I’m sorry to hear that. Is he bad?”

“We don’t know yet. He didn’t seem so bad last night, because he got a

message through to my mother and she went to see him and he gave her

the key here and asked if I’d look after the shop for him, because he

knew I wasn’t doing anything and I’d worked once in a tobacconist’s

before--well, tobacconist’s and sweets’, it was, not like this,

y’know--so it didn’t sound as if it was bad, with him being able to

talk and arrange things like that, but the doctor told my mother it was

worse than it looked, for all that, and it might be a nasty long job,

and she’s going again to-day. I’m his niece, you see.”

“Poor old chap! I _am_ sorry about this,” said Mr. Smeeth, who was

indeed genuinely distressed. “You must let me know how he goes on.” He

had to point out to her the tin canister that held T. Benenden’s Own

Mixture and had even to tell her the price of it. When he rejoined

Turgis outside, he could talk of nothing else for the next five

minutes. This one morning, not content with removing Stanley from

Angel Pavement for ever, had gone and swept Benenden out of sight, put

a plump young woman with ginger hair behind that counter, and turned

Benenden into a mysterious suffering figure in a hospital. Benenden

and Angel Pavement had been inseparable in his mind for years, and now

the thought of Benenden not being there, no longer waiting, tie-less,

behind his dusty counter, gave the whole place a queer look. Turgis

had been in the shop many a time for cigarettes, but, being one of

the “packet o’ gaspers” customers, he could not really claim to be

acquainted with Benenden. By the time Mr. Smeeth had finished talking

to him about the tobacconist, the pair of them were in the private bar

of the _White Horse_ across the road and had two glasses of bitter

placed in front of them.

Mr. Smeeth had not been in this bar since that night, two or three

months before, when Mr. Golspie took him in, gave him a double whisky

and a cigar, and talked about the business. It was still as cosy as

ever, but this time it was not so quiet. It was entirely dominated by

a large man with an enormous red face, who roared and spluttered and

coughed and wheezed very loudly at his two companions, men of ordinary

size, who could only make ordinary noises back at him. All conversation

in the bar was provided with a thundering accompaniment by this large

man. There was no escaping him.

“You see, Turgis,” said Mr. Smeeth, “I thought I’d better have a little

talk to you, because, for one thing, I’ve been noticing a few little

things myself, and for another thing, Mr. Dersingham’s been saying

something to me about you. If you remember, I said something when we

had a little talk a month or two ago.”

“I remember that, Mr. Smeeth. When you said they’d been thinking of

giving me the push.”

“That’s right. Well, Mr. Dersingham talked to me about you this

morning--rather in the same strain, Turgis, and I said I’d have a talk

to you.”

“But what have I done wrong?” cried Turgis bitterly. “Why’s he always

picking on me? I do my work all right, don’t I? You’ve never said

anything about it to me, Mr. Smeeth. Seems to me they want to get rid

of me whether I’ve done anything wrong or not----”

“Outch-ch-ch-ch,” went the large man. “Wait a minute, Charlie, wait a

minute, let me tell it. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. ’Ere, this

is it. Simmy come up to me, that morning, and I’m standing as I might

be ’ere, see--and old Simmy---- Just a minute, Charlie, let me tell

it----”

“This is the point, Turgis,” said Mr. Smeeth earnestly. “And, mind you,

I’m talking in a friendly way. Nobody’s got anything against you at

all. Put that out of your head. But as Mr. Dersingham says--you’ve got

to buck up. Just lately, you’ve not been taking your work in the right

spirit at all. I know you’re not a lazy chap and I know you can do your

work all right, but if I hadn’t known it, I don’t mind telling you, I

might have come to a wrong conclusion just lately. Now, we all have

our troubles. I’ve plenty of my own, I can tell you,” he continued,

with the air of a modest hero, “though you mightn’t think it. That’s

because I’ve learned not to bring ’em to the office with me. I’m old

enough and experienced enough not to let my troubles interfere with my

work. You’re not, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. My opinion is,

Turgis--you’ve not been feeling up to the mark lately.”

“That is so, Mr. Smeeth,” said Turgis. “You’re right there. I haven’t.”

“Didn’t he, Charlie?” roared the large man, drowning everybody. “He

did. It’s as true as I’m standing ’ere. Next time you see Simmy, you

say to ’im ‘What price Lady Flatiron at Newbury?’--that’s all. Just say

that. Laugh! O Gord! Outch-ch-ch-ch-ch.” The enormous face was purple

now.

“It’s no business of mine, Turgis,” said Mr. Smeeth in his ear, “and

I’m only asking in a friendly spirit. But it’s my opinion you’ve got

yourself into trouble somehow. If it isn’t that, you’d better go round

and see a doctor. Perhaps you’re just not feeling well.”

“I’m not feeling so well, Mr. Smeeth, but it isn’t that, really. It’s

just--oh, I dunno--well, you see, Mr. Smeeth, it’s a girl. That’s

what’s been bothering me just lately.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it? Ought you to be marrying her or something of

that sort? No? Nothing like that, eh? Oh, well, had a bit of a quarrel,

eh?”

“Yes, in a way,” replied Turgis, guardedly, looking very uncomfortable.

“Oh, well, don’t you let that bother you,” cried Mr. Smeeth,

astonished to discover that this was nothing but a lovers’ tiff. “I

know what it is, of course. You’re talking to an old married man now,

my boy. I’ve got a son nearly as old as you. It doesn’t matter how

you’ve quarrelled, you don’t want to take it as hard as that. Bless

me!--you’ll be making yourself ill over it.”

“That’s what I think sometimes,” said Turgis bitterly.

“Ridiculous! It’ll soon blow over. And if it doesn’t, why, go and find

another girl who isn’t so quarrelsome. I can tell you this, if she’s

quarrelsome now, she’ll be past living with, if you’re not careful,

later on. You’re too sensitive about it, Turgis--that’s your trouble.”

Turgis produced a smile that was abject misery itself, the tortured

ghost of a grin.

“No, no, not at all,” the large man shouted. “We’ve ten minutes yet.

Plenty of time for another. What is it? Same again? Three double

Scotches, miss. I ’aven’t told you yet what ’appened the other night,

’ave I? I mean, with Jack Pearce and old Joe, down at Staines--oh

dear!--splooch-ooch-ooch-ooch-ooch!”

“He seems to be enjoying himself all right,” said Turgis. “I don’t

know how some of these chaps do it--spending money all day, no work,

knocking about all the time, and not giving a damn for anybody. How do

they do it, Mr. Smeeth?”

“Don’t ask me,” replied Mr. Smeeth, a trifle irritably, as if he too

had felt a sudden spasm of envy at the thought of this rich careless

life, but would not admit it to himself. “Racing chaps, I suppose. Easy

come and easy go--that’s their motto. All right while it lasts--but how

long does it last?”

“How long does anything last?” Turgis muttered.

“Now that’s silly talk from a young fellow like you,” said Mr. Smeeth.

“It’s that sort of talk that lets you down with everybody. Now listen

to me. I believe if you’ll only smarten yourself up a bit, don’t be so

gloomy, look as if you didn’t hate the sight of everybody----”

“I don’t, Mr. Smeeth, honestly I don’t.”

“--and settle down to your work properly, there’s a good steady job

waiting for you with Twigg and Dersingham. As Mr. Dersingham said, only

this morning, what with all this new business, the firm’ll be growing

and expanding, and that’ll be just the opportunity for a young fellow

like yourself.”

Turgis swallowed desperately. “I’m not so sure about that,” he declared.

“What d’you mean?” cried Mr. Smeeth, staring at him.

“I don’t think it’s all so rosy as all that. I’ve been thinking it

over. All this new business--and as far as I can see, it’s about all

the business we’re doing--came with Mr. Golspie.” He brought out this

name with a sudden jerk.

“Well, what if it did? You’re not telling me anything now, Turgis. I

know that as well as you do--and better.”

“If he goes, what happens then, Mr. Smeeth?”

“If he goes? That would depend. A lot might happen, or nothing might

happen. But, anyhow, Mr. Golspie’s not going.”

“I think he is--soon, too.”

Mr. Smeeth stared at him. Turgis was obviously quite serious. “Where

did you get that idea from?”

“I think he is.”

“What’s the good of talking like that! You think he is! Why should

he now? What’s the object? He’s making plenty of money out of the

business, as I know better than you do. He’s making a surprising

amount, for a trade like this--I don’t mind telling you. He’d been a

fool if he did go, unless, of course--well----” And Mr. Smeeth thought

of several possibilities, but kept them to himself. “No, that’s silly

talk, Turgis. What put that into your head?”

“It isn’t silly, Mr. Smeeth,” cried Turgis, goaded into saying more

than he had ever intended to say. “I _know_ he’s going. At least, I

know he’s not staying with the firm long. I know he doesn’t think much

of Mr. Dersingham either. I know that, too.”

“But where have you got all this from?” Mr. Smeeth was more angry than

alarmed. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. How did you learn it?

You’re not trying to be funny, are you?”

“Well,” roared the large man. “Get a move on, eh? You coming to eat

with me, Charlie? That’s right. See you Monday, Tom, eh? Course I’ll

be there. You betcher life, boy! Wouldn’t miss it. Am I what? Oh--you

wicked feller, Tom, you wicked feller! So long, boy. Morning, miss.

Morning, Sam.” And the silence he left behind him was almost startling.

In this silence, Mr. Smeeth and Turgis looked at one another. Then

Turgis turned his eyes elsewhere, but Mr. Smeeth continued looking at

him.

“I don’t make head or tail of this, Turgis.”

Turgis frowned, shut his mouth tight for once, and moved uneasily.

Finally, he said: “I--heard something, Mr. Smeeth, that’s all. I can’t

tell where I heard it or anything. I’m sorry I spoke now.”

Mr. Smeeth saw that Turgis was terribly in earnest. There could be no

doubt about that. “Do you mean to say you won’t tell me where you heard

it, how you heard it, or anything?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Smeeth. I oughtn’t to have said anything. I can’t tell

you any more, honestly I can’t. Don’t mention it to anybody, please,

Mr. Smeeth. If you do, you might get me into trouble, though I haven’t

done anything really wrong, I haven’t, honestly. Only I did hear that

about Mr. Golspie.”

“When was that? You can tell me so much, anyhow.”

“Not long before Christmas, a week or two.”

“Mr. Golspie was away then, was he?”

“Yes,” Turgis admitted sullenly. “It was while he was away.”

“Then somebody told you while Mr. Golspie was away,” said Mr. Smeeth

sharply, not taking his eyes off the unhappy Turgis for a second. He

thought quickly. “It must have been his daughter, that time when you

took the money to her. You got talking and then she told you. Is that

it?”

Turgis said nothing, but he had no need to, for his face replied for

him. “Well, what did she say exactly?” Mr. Smeeth continued, far more

concerned now that he knew Mr. Golspie’s daughter was the informant.

“Come on, Turgis, you might as well tell me now. What did she say?”

“I don’t remember any more,” Turgis mumbled miserably. “That was all.

It was nothing. I oughtn’t to have said anything. Mr. Smeeth, please

don’t you say anything, please don’t, will you? Promise.”

“All right. I don’t suppose there’s anything in it. I know what these

girls are. They’ll say anything. Well----”

“Yes, I must be getting on now,” said Turgis. “And thank you for

telling me--you know about what Mr. Dersingham said. I’ll do my best,

Mr. Smeeth. I’m a bit worried just now, that’s all.”

As his tram climbed the swarming City Road, Mr. Smeeth considered

this Golspie gossip. It made him feel uneasy, although he was still

ready to dismiss it as girls’ nonsense. It seemed unlikely that Mr.

Golspie would leave them, but then it seemed unlikely that Stanley

would be spirited away by an uncle in Homerton and that Benenden would

be lying in Bart’s Hospital. There was no connection between these

events, as Mr. Smeeth knew very well, but the sudden disappearance of

Stanley and Benenden had left him with a feeling of insecurity. They

made him realise the fact that things simply happened and that he had

no control over them, no more than he would have if the tram suddenly

left the lines and charged the nearest shop. In the dark hollows of

his mind, apprehension stirred again. He decided to talk all this over

with his wife, who, perhaps because she was so unreasonable, had got

something that he had never had, a large confidence in life. With all

her faults, there was nobody like Edie for him at these times, when he

felt a bit down in the mouth. Then he remembered that they were still

not on proper speaking terms, and that, in her present state of mind,

he could no more talk to her about what he felt than he could talk to

the strange woman sitting in front of him in the tram. “We just would

be quarrelling now, wouldn’t we!” he cried to himself, with that gloomy

satisfaction, that faint sweetness which comes with the last bitter

drop, known only to the pessimist. Life could do many dreadful things

to Herbert Norman Smeeth, but it couldn’t take him in. He was one of

those people who are always there first, who are standing at the grave

before the doctor has even begun shaking his head.