“Ceteris paribus, I think we'd better be going,” said Penfentenyou,
dealer in crises.
“Ta--take me with you,” said Jimmy. “I've no reputation to lose, but I'd
like to watch 'em from--er--outside the picture.”
“There's always a modus vivendi,” Penfentenyou murmured, and tiptoed
along the hall to a back door, which he opened quite silently. We passed
into a tangle of gooseberry bushes where, at his statesmanlike example,
we crawled on all fours, and regained the hedge.
Here we lay up, secure in our alibi.
“But your firm,”--the woman was wailing to the furniture removals
men--“your firm promised me everything should be in yesterday. And it's
to-day! You should have been here yesterday!”
“The last tenants ain't out yet, lydy,” said one of them.
Lord Lundie was rapidly improving in technique, though organ-grinding,
unlike the Law, is more of a calling than a trade, and he hung
occasionally on a dead centre. Giuseppe, I think, was singing, but I
could not understand the drift of Sir Christopher's remarks. They were
Spanish.
The woman said something we did not catch.
“You might 'ave sub-let it,” the man insisted. “Or your gentleman 'ere
might.”
“But I didn't. Send for the Police at once.”
“I wouldn't do that, lydy. They're only fruit pickers on a beano. They
aren't particular where they sleep.”
“D'you mean they've been sleeping there? I only had it cleaned last
week. Get them out.”
“Oh, if you say so, we'll 'ave 'em out of it in two twos. Alf, fetch me
the spare swingle-bar.”
“Don't! You'll knock the paint off the door. Get them out!”
“What the 'ell else am I trying to do for you, lydy?” the man answered
with pathos; but the woman wheeled on her mate.
“Edward! They're all drunk here, and they're all mad there. Do
something!” she said.
Edward took one short step forward, and sighed “Hullo!” in the direction
of the turbulent house. The woman walked up and down, the very figure
of Domestic Tragedy. The furniture men swayed a little on their heels,
and--
“Got him!” The shout rang through all the windows at once. It was
followed by a blood-hound-like bay from Sir Christopher, a maniacal
prestissimo on the organ, and loud cries, for Jimmy. But Jimmy, at my
side, rolled his congested eyeballs, owl-wise.
“I never knew them,” he said. “I'm an orphan.”
* * * * * * * * *
The front door opened, and the three came forth to short-lived triumph.
I had never before seen a Law Lord dressed as for tennis, with a
stump-leg barrel-organ strapped to his shoulder. But it is a shy bird
in this plumage. Lord Lundie strove to disembarrass himself of his
accoutrements much as an ill-trained Punch and Judy dog tries to escape
backwards through his frilled collar. Sir Christopher, covered with
limewash, cherished a bleeding thumb, and the almost crazy monkey tore
at Giuseppe's hair.
The men on both sides reeled, but the woman stood her ground. “Idiots!”
she said, and once more, “Idiots!”
I could have gladdened a few convicts of my acquaintance with a
photograph of Lord Lundie at that instant.
“Madam,” he began, wonderfully preserving the roll in his voice, “it was
a monkey.”
Sir Christopher sucked his thumb and nodded.
“Take it away and go,” she replied. “Go away!”
I would have gone, and gladly, on this permission, but these still
strong men must ever be justifying themselves. Lord Lundie turned to the
husband, who for the first time spoke.
“I have rented this house. I am moving in,” he said.
“We ought to have been in yesterday,” the woman interrupted.
“Yes. We ought to have been in yesterday. Have you slept there
overnight?” said the man peevishly.
“No; I assure you we haven't,” said Lord Lundie.
“Then go away. Go quite away,” cried the woman.
They went--in single file down the path. They went silently, restrapping
the organ on its wheels, and rechaining the monkey to the organ.
“Damn it all!” said Penfentenyou. “They do face the music, and they do
stick by each other in private life!”
“Ties of Common Funk,” I answered. Giuseppe ran to the gate and fled
back to the possible world. Lord Lundie and Sir Christopher, constrained
by tradition, paced slowly.
Then it came to pass that the woman, who walked behind them, lifted up
her eyes, and beheld the tree which they had dressed.
“Stop!” she called; and they stopped. “Who did that?”
There was no answer. The Eternal Bad Boy in every man hung its head
before the Eternal Mother in every woman.
“Who put these disgusting things there?” she repeated.
Suddenly Penfentenyou, Premier of his Colony in all but name, left Jimmy
and me, and appeared at the gate. (If he is not turned out of office,
that is how he will appear on the Day of Armageddon.)
“Well done you!” he cried zealously, and doffed his hat to the woman.
“Have you any children, madam?” he demanded.
“Yes, two. They should have been here to-day. The firm promised--”
“Then we're not a minute too soon. That monkey escaped. It was a very
dangerous beast. 'Might have frightened your children into fits. All the
organ-grinder's fault! A most lucky thing these gentlemen caught it when
they did. I hope you aren't badly mauled, Sir Christopher?” Shaken as
I was (I wanted to get away and laugh) I could not but admire the
scoundrel's consummate tact in leading his second highest trump. An ass
would have introduced Lord Lundie and they would not have believed him.
It took the trick. The couple smiled, and gave respectful thanks for
their deliverance by such hands from such perils.
“Not in the least,” said Lord Lundie. “Anybody--any father--would have
done as much, and--pray don't apologize--your mistake was quite natural.”
A furniture man sniggered here, and Lord Lundie rolled an Eye of Doom on
their ranks. “By the way, if you have trouble with these persons--they
seem to have taken as much as is good for them--please let me know.
Er--Good morning!”
They turned into the lane.
“Heavens!” said Jimmy, brushing himself down. “Who's that real man
with the real head?” and we hurried after them, for they were running
unsteadily, squeaking like rabbits as they ran. We overtook them in a
little nut wood half a mile up the road, where they had turned aside,
and were rolling. So we rolled with them, and ceased not till we had
arrived at the extremity of exhaustion.
“You--you saw it all, then?” said Lord Lundie, rebuttoning his
nineteen-inch collar.
“I saw it was a vital question from the first,” responded Penfentenyou,
and blew his nose.
“It was. By the way, d'you mind telling me your name?”
Summa. Penfentenyou's Great Idea has gone through, a little chipped
at the edges, but in fine and far-reaching shape. His Opposite Number
worked at it like a mule--a bewildered mule, beaten from behind, coaxed
from in front, and propped on either soft side by Lord Lundie of the
compressed mouth and the searing tongue.
Sir Christopher Tomling has been ravished from the Argentine, where,
after all, he was but preparing trade-routes for hostile peoples, and
now adorns the forefront of Penfentenyou's Advisory Board. This was an
unforeseen extra, as was Jimmy's gratis full-length--(it will be in this
year's Academy) of Penfentenyou, who has returned to his own place.
Now and again, from afar off, between the slam and bump of his shifting
scenery, the glare of his manipulated limelight, and the controlled
rolling of his thunder-drums, I catch his voice, lifted in encouragement
and advice to his fellow-countrymen. He is quite sound on Ties of
Sentiment, and--alone of Colonial Statesmen ventures to talk of the Ties
of Common Funk.
Herein I have my reward.