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Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
LOVE AND THE IRONMONGER
by
F. J. RANDALL
London: John Lane, The Bodley Head
New York: John Lane Company. MCMVIII
William Clowes and Sons, Limited, London and Beccles.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. WHAT CAME TO GEORGE EARLY THROUGH A KEYHOLE 9
II. A YOUNG MAN IN SEARCH OF BAD HABITS 20
III. GEORGE EARLY PROVES THAT KNOWLEDGE IS POWER 30
IV. THREE WORMS THAT TURNED 45
V. A NEW LODGER IN LEYTONSTONE 56
VI. LAMB CHOPS AND TOMATO SAUCE 71
VII. AN ERRING HUSBAND IMPROVES AGAINST HIS WILL 86
VIII. GEORGE EARLY HOLDS FORTUNE IN HIS ARMS 97
IX. THE MAN WHO LAUGHED LAST AND LOUDEST 116
X. HERO WORSHIP 126
XI. CUPID TAKES A HAND 135
XII. AN IRONMONGER IN LOVE 144
XIII. A FORTNIGHT'S HOLIDAY 155
XIV. "TOMMY MORGAN" 165
XV. AUNT PHOEBE SURPRISES HER NEPHEW 180
XVI. GEORGE EARLY AND THE GIANT ALCOHOL 193
XVII. ADVICE GRATIS 204
XVIII. THE DISADVANTAGES OF TRYING TO BE GOOD 220
XIX. A SHOT THAT MISSED FIRE 230
XX. A DARK MAN OF FOREIGN APPEARANCE 240
XXI. FOLLOW MY LEADER 248
XXII. BLIND MAN'S BLUFF 265
XXIII. FIRST STOP, HASTINGS 279
XXIV. A STRAWBERRY MARK 299
XXV. NAME O' PHOEBE 307
_LOVE AND THE IRONMONGER_
_A PLAIN TALE OF UPPER THAMES STREET_
CHAPTER I--_What came to George Early through a Keyhole_
The offices of Fairbrother and Co. were in the full swing of business
when George Early sauntered in and took his accustomed place at a small
desk.
"What time do you call this?" asked the head clerk severely, looking up
from a ledger.
George looked at his watch.
"Half-past eight," he said intelligently; "that makes me half an hour
late, doesn't it? Matter of fact, old chap, I----"
"That'll do," said the head clerk; "just you keep your place. And keep
your time, too," he added warningly, "or else there'll be a vacancy in
this office."
He marched off with a ledger under his arm, and George, with a wink at
his nearest colleague, pulled a morning paper from an inner pocket and
consulted the sporting column.
Fairbrothers' was an easy-going firm, that had the reputation of being
good to its employees. If a man once got a seat on an office-stool
there he was considered to have a berth for life, supposing of course
that the iron trade and Upper Thames Street continued to exist.
Fairbrothers' never dismissed a man unless he was a downright rogue,
and in such a case it was believed that they secretly looked after him
if he happened to be in a very bad way.
Nobody in the office minded much what was said unless Old Joe
Fairbrother, the venerable head of the concern, happened to say it. If
there was a threat of dismissal from anybody else the threatened man
affected contrition and laughed up his sleeve. And although this
general air of safety was as soothing to Thomas Parrott, the head
clerk, as to anybody else, that admirable man's sense of duty compelled
him to occasionally sound a warning note to his subordinates.
This morning the head clerk was in a bad temper, and found fault with
everybody, especially with George Early.
"Who's been upsetting Polly?" asked George, looking round; "seems to
have got 'em, doesn't he?"
"Wants a cracker," said the shorthand clerk; "got a bad attack of the
pip."
"If he'd like his poll scratched," said George, impudently, "he's only
got to say so."
A red-haired junior chimed in.
"It ain't that," he said; "Polly's looking for a new perch. Thinks Old
Joe'll be wanting a manager soon."
Any reference to the head of the firm interested George.
"What's the matter with Old Joe?" he asked.
"Matter? What ain't the matter? you mean. Got one foot in the grave and
the other on the edge. The poor old chap's fairly breaking up."
George turned thoughtfully to his work, but his mind ran on other
things; the decay of the head of the firm opened up possibilities of
promotion. A manager would be wanted soon.
To jump from the position of clerk to manager was unusual, but unusual
things of that sort had a fascination for George Early. The work would
just suit him; he always felt he was born to command. Compared with the
other men in the office, George was quite a new hand; but the other men
had less imagination and less confidence, and if they chose to follow
the method of rising step by step it was their own affair.
The offices of Fairbrother and Co. were large and roomy, and occupied
the lower part of an old-fashioned building in Upper Thames Street,
adjoining a warehouse and a wharf. On the first floor facing the street
and next to the showrooms was a large, handsome room. This was the
private office of old Joseph Fairbrother, and no robber's cave with its
glittering treasures had a greater fascination for any ambitious young
man than had this apartment for George Early. The large roomy armchairs
and the big safe appealed to him strongly. He liked to picture himself
sitting in the biggest chair and sternly inquiring why certain orders
had not been despatched a week ago; and he never went inside the door
without the hope of coming out with an increase of salary.
The private office now became to George what the deserted wing of a
country mansion is to the family ghost. If there was anything to go
upstairs, he got it by hook or crook, and became the envoy. He liked to
go best when the old gentleman was there, and when he wasn't George
would look round the room, admire the handsome furniture, and stay as
long as he dared. Sometimes he would carry up two letters and find that
the room was empty. Then he would bring one down to make a second
journey.
One morning he went up without anything at all. On this occasion he had
seen Old Fairbrother in the lower office preparing to go out. George
glanced around quickly, hoping that an umbrella or something of the
sort had been left behind, so that he might dash after the retreating
brougham. There was nothing.
"Just my luck!" he murmured, crossing to the window.
He looked out into the street, and, seeing that the brougham had
departed, selected the biggest armchair, and from its depths
thoughtfully perused the court column of a daily newspaper lying at
hand.
Unfortunately he became so absorbed that he did not hear the familiar
rattle of his employer's brougham as it returned and drew up outside,
and it was not till the head of the firm was half-way up the stairs
that he scented danger.
With alacrity George looked for means of escape, and at once turned to
that which seemed easy and safe. This retreat was a private staircase
which led direct from the room to the upper floors of the warehouse. He
skipped across and closed the door behind him quickly and softly.
A second later old Joseph Fairbrother entered the room, and, as he did
so, George Early found himself in another fix, for instead of passing
through the door of the private staircase he had entered a tiny,
box-like room which stood beside it. This room had no other outlet, and
the venturesome clerk was a prisoner until his master chose to take
himself off.
The young man selected the keyhole as a means of learning what was
happening. It was a large keyhole, and he had ample means of proving
that, so far as looks went, "Old Joe" had "one foot in the grave," as
had been affirmed. To-day he looked older and more decrepit than usual,
and for five minutes he did nothing but sit and look at the fire.
At the end of that time somebody else entered the room. George waited
anxiously for the other party to come within range, and when he did so
it proved to be Parrott.
"Sit down, Mr. Parrott," said Joseph Fairbrother; "one moment--hand me
a cigar, please, and take one yourself."
The head clerk nervously helped himself to a cigar, and followed the
lead of his chief as he lit up.
For another five minutes the old gentleman gazed abstractedly into the
fire, finally shifting his gaze to the face of Parrott, who looked at
everything in the room except his employer.
"Mr. Parrott," said Old Fairbrother, solemnly, "do you know why I have
brought you here?"
The head clerk looked up with a start and coughed. He did not know why
he had been brought there.
"Then I'll tell you," said his master. "I have made my will, Parrott,
and I'm going to talk about a little legacy I have left you."
Parrott didn't know what to do, so he looked as bright as he could, and
cleared his throat, as if to reply.
"Wait a minute," said the old gentleman, lifting a finger; "don't you
thank me till you know what you're getting. I've had my eye on you,
Parrott, for a good many years; I've watched you grow from a boy
upwards, and I've noticed your good points and your bad ones. You're
not the only one I have watched, but you're the only one I'm going to
talk about now. When I have had my little say with you, there are
others I shall talk to."
He took a long pull at his cigar, and allowed his eyes to rest on the
uncomfortable Parrott, who seemed somewhat more doubtful of the issue
of the interview than he had been a while ago.
"You're not my ideal of a man, Parrott," he continued; "but, of course,
we all have our faults. You're a good man at your duty, and you believe
in others doing their duty, which is right enough. There are not many
in the office that love you, and I dare say you put it down to their
selfishness and ignorance, or perhaps to envy. It isn't that, Parrott;
it is you they don't like. They like a man who's sociable and one of
them, and who's affable and generous. They don't like you because
you're mean."
This home-thrust sent the colour rushing to the face of the head clerk,
and the blood of his ancestors prompted him to get up and say--
"Really, sir, I----"
"All right, all right," interrupted his master, "this is just between
ourselves. I don't say that you are all to blame. These things are
sometimes born in us, and we are not always able to root them out. Now,
don't you interrupt me, but listen to what I've got to say.
"You are a mean man, Parrott; but I am of opinion that you are mean by
habit, and not by nature. Habits are things that we can get rid of if
we choose. I want you to get rid of your habit.
"You know me, and you know that if I can use my wealth to reform a man,
I will do it. I might leave a lot of money to societies, and still do
little good with it; I might distribute it over a large surface so that
it benefited nobody. That's not my way. I should be doing more good by
making sure of three or four men. You need reforming, Parrott, because
meanness is a curse, and no man who has it badly, as you have, will
ever be the ideal of his fellow-creatures.
"I have made my will, and I have left you an income to begin on the day
of my death. You will not have long to wait. When I die you will
receive the sum of five hundred pounds yearly so long as you live."
Parrott nearly jumped out of his chair with joy.
"Stop a bit!" cried Old Fairbrother; "there are a few conditions tacked
on to this. First and foremost is this: You will receive this income on
condition that you get rid of your habit of meanness. That is to say,
if a man asks you for a loan of half a crown, or half a sovereign, or,
in fact, wants to borrow anything from you, you shall lend it him. My
lawyer will have the matter in hand, Parrott, and if it can be proved
that you cling to your habit of meanness, and do not oblige a man when
asked to do so, your income ceases.
"I shall not interfere with your position here. It will be the same
when my successor takes the management. And this contract will be known
to nobody but ourselves and my lawyer. Now, what do you say? Will five
hundred pounds a year help you to get rid of that habit of yours? Don't
be afraid to say so if you would rather not have the legacy."
George Early listened in amazement, as the head clerk murmured his
thanks; and his astonishment was further increased by the astounding
ingenuity of "Old Joe," who laid bare the plan of the legacy in its
minutest detail. The lawyers were to follow their own methods in
keeping observation on the legatees, and in due course would warn them
of a breach of agreement. Three warnings were accorded before the
legacy was lost.
"Not a word to any one, mind," said Joseph Fairbrother, as Parrott
prepared to depart. "Just put yourself in training, that's all. Send
Mr. Busby to me."
The head clerk departed, and a few minutes later Busby came in.
Albert Busby was the firm's cashier, one of the oldest of the staff,
yet still a young man, being under forty. In appearance he was the most
pious of black-haired Sunday School teachers; in reality it was
difficult to get a word of truth from his lips. Lying was not part of
his business, but distinctly a hobby, and it came as naturally to him
as if he had been taught from birth.
Old Fairbrother offered Busby a cigar, then delineated his character in
the same way as he had done that of Parrott A legacy of £500 a year
awaited Busby if he chose to give up his habit of lying and stick to
the truth. Of course, Busby readily consented. He said for the future
no lie should ever pass his lips.
"You'll lose the money if it does," said "Old Joe," laconically.
The third and last man to be interviewed was Gray--Jimmy Gray, the
accountant. Gray's face told its own tale, and those who couldn't read
it had only to note Gray's movements, which were too often in the
direction of a public-house.
The drink habit had Gray fairly in its toils, but he was willing to
give it up for £500 a year, and he honestly believed he could.
When "Old Joe" stood alone once more, he took another long look at the
fire. Then he gave a sigh, a smile, a shrug of the shoulders, and ended
by putting on his hat and departing.
As soon as he was safely out of earshot, George Early stretched himself
and walked thoughtfully into the middle of the big room.
Having arrived there, he gave voice to three words, audibly and
distinctly: "Well, I'm hanged!"
Planting himself before the fire, he went musingly over the whole scene
again. It was astounding. Three legacies of five hundred pounds a year
each! George Early could scarcely realize the significance of it.
Presently, as he carefully thought over the matter, he began to smile,
then to laugh; and when he finally returned to his office-stool, by way
of a tour through the warehouse, he was bubbling over with mirth.