The first thing that struck George Early on his arrival at the office
next morning, was the extreme seriousness of the three legatees. Gray
looked so sober and miserable that George was surprised at it passing
unnoticed. For once Busby sat quietly in his office-seat, instead of
entertaining Gray with some fictional incident of the night before. And
Parrott was too occupied with his thoughts to give black looks to the
late comers.
"A nice lot they are to get £500 a year!" thought George. "I call it a
sin. It's a dead waste of money!"
He strolled over to Gray's desk. "Morning, Mr. Gray," he said affably.
"Good morning," said Gray, in a voice hoarse with temperance.
"Back that little thing yesterday?" asked George, in a whisper. "You
know--Flower-of-the-Field for the Sub.?"
"No," said Gray.
"I did it," whispered George--"ten to one. Bit o' luck, wasn't it?"
Gray assented, and George leaned over the desk to be out of hearing of
Busby. He touched Gray on the hand with one forefinger.
"I've got a drop of Scotch in the desk," he said; "real old stuff.
Going to have a nip?"
A flash of eagerness came into Gray's eyes, and then died away.
"No, thanks," he said hastily; "I don't think I will. The fact is, I--I
don't feel up to it this morning."
"Blue ribbon?" asked George, opening his eyes in wonder.
"No--oh no," answered Gray, with some confusion; "no, nothing of that."
"Then have a drop," said George, enjoying the struggles of his victim.
"It's ten years old, and strong enough to break the bottle. Got it from
a friend of mine who works in a distillery."
Gray's eyes glistened; but George moved off to Busby's desk before he
had time to give way.
Busby looked up and nodded, then went on with his work. This was
something out of the ordinary for Busby, who rarely missed an
opportunity to gossip. George Early chuckled to himself and began to
sharpen a pencil.
"Saw you last night, Mr. Busby," he said presently. "Nice little girl,
that sister-in-law of yours. Fine figure she has, too."
Busby rubbed his chin a moment, and became deeply interested in his
work.
"She's not my sister-in-law," he said slowly.
"No?" said George, surprised. "Now, look here, you told me that little
girl was your wife's sister. You don't mean to say she's--she's no
relation?"
Busby made no reply, and George began to chuckle audibly.
"You sly dog!" he laughed. "Well, you are a sly dog! Fancy you trotting
out a nice little girl like that! And I'll bet your wife doesn't know
it. I'll bet she doesn't--does she?"
Busby frowned and flicked over some papers. "I say, Early, just you
clear off; I've got a lot to do this morning," he whispered.
"Oh, get out!" said George. "You know I want to hear all about it. You
are a lucky beggar! Did you kiss her? I'll bet you kissed her a few
times. So would I. And, fancy, your wife knowing all about it, too!"
"She doesn't!" blurted out Busby, with reckless truthfulness.
"Not know it?" cried George. "Well, you are a devil! Come on, old chap,
tell us the yarn. I suppose you took her out for the evening--eh? The
little minx! And she knows you're a married man."
"She doesn't!" cried Busby, with another burst of frankness.
"Great Scott!" said George. "Did she----"
"Look here, Early," began Busby, growing red in the face; "didn't I
tell you I was busy?"
George Early gave another audible chuckle, and went back to his stool,
after pinching Busby's arm as a token of his appreciation of such
devilry. Before settling himself, he looked over towards the desk of
the head clerk; but that estimable man was evidently not in a mood for
conversation.
"I'll touch his tender spot later on," said George to himself. "They
are all taking it very seriously; and so would I if I had the chance.
£500 a year for keeping sober! Good Heavens! It makes me mad to think
of it."
Work was out of the question with George that morning, his head was
full of legacies. "I wonder if Old Joe would spring another five
hundred if he found a good case," he mused. "There'd be no harm in
trying him, anyway."
There seemed to be something in this idea, so George endeavoured to fix
upon a sound serviceable vice likely to arouse the interest of the head
of the firm. "I might become a chronic borrower," he thought; "that's a
pretty bad habit. A man who borrows money is always a nuisance to his
friends and acquaintances. But whether it's worth five hundred or not
is another question. There are several objections, I'm afraid. I dare
say Old Joe would prefer to have a borrower here to help Polly reform;
besides he'd know that as soon as people stop lending the habit ceases.
That's no good."
George wrote down all the vices he could think of without being able to
find one strong enough. There were plenty of second and third-rate
failings, but not one that might be called of the first water. "It's
just like those selfish brutes," he said bitterly, "to monopolize the
only decent bad habits there are! I shouldn't wonder if the artful
hounds got wind of it a long time ago, and went about drinking and
telling lies under Old Joe's nose just to get the money. Men like those
are capable of anything."
In this unenviable state of mind George Early went out to a bread-shop,
and gloomily watched all the lunchers in the hope of discovering some
objectionable practice that he had missed. The only habit that seemed
to be noticeable was flirtation, and as George was doubtful of its
viciousness he finished his coffee and strolled towards Billingsgate.
Here the first really healthy suggestion came to him. He got it by
treading on the toe of a market porter, who cursed him with a
volubility that only time and a natural leaning that way could have
made perfect. Instead of replying with some graceful oaths of his own,
George felt inclined to invite his unknown friend to a drink.
"Swearing's a habit," said George chuckling, "and a damn bad habit too.
Yes, by St. Christopher, that ought to do for Old Joe! There's
something rich about a vice like that, and if it doesn't hit him in the
eye straight away he's not the benevolent old man I take him to be."
Somebody ran into George as he entered the office, and Mr. Early
promptly rattled out a string of oaths, just by way of practice.
The language that afternoon was such as Fairbrothers' had never
known since the firm started. George swore at the office-boys
and his fellow-clerks for no apparent reason; and whenever he had
occasion to make a remark naturally inoffensive, he seasoned it with
unparliamentary expressions. He deftly mixed his obscenity with a good
humour that was unmistakable, so that no person could say his language
was anything but a vicious habit.
"This suits me down to the ground," thought George; "I should never
have believed I could pick up anything so quickly; it's easier than
learning French."
When George Early started on a thing he didn't do it by halves. In the
present case he made such rapid progress that he was firmly convinced
the following morning would see him proficient.
He remembered with pleasure that it was the morning on which Joseph
Fairbrother was to show some fair Sunday School teachers over the
building. Nothing could be better. On their arrival he would drop some
tame expletives sufficient to arouse the attention of the lady
visitors; on their departure he would try something a little stronger.
Some of them would be sure to point out his depravity to the principal,
and as soon as that charitable gentleman began to keep his ears open
George felt sure he could give him all the language he wanted.
That night the ambitious clerk wallowed in an atmosphere of profanity.
He cursed the 'bus conductor and the 'bus driver, and the passengers,
according to their size and fighting weight. He swore at every one who
pushed against him, and a good many who didn't. He cursed dogs and
telegraph-boys, and even lamp-posts. Once he nearly said something rude
to a policeman, and only just pulled up in time to save himself.
His landlady objected to swearing, so George got through the evening
meal quickly, and sallied forth to the saloon of a neighbouring inn.
There he meant to go into training in earnest, and he hoped also to
pick up a few choice expressions that would make a pleasant variation
in the day's vocabulary.
He made a bad start by swearing at the landlord, who threatened to put
him outside; but luckily a sailor came in and backed him up, and swore
at the landlord himself in four different languages. After this George
got along like a house on fire.
His education advanced so rapidly that the next morning it was as much
as he could do to speak without being offensive. He carefully laid his
plans for the day as he rode to the City; he determined to put in a
good morning's work about the office so that everybody might know
swearing was his special vice, in case Old Joe made early inquiries;
then he would spread the report that all his family used bad language,
so that people might talk about it.
"Bit of luck I went to Billingsgate yesterday," he thought, as he
jumped off the bus. "When I come into the five hundred I'll go down and
find the chap who did me a good turn and give him a day out."
He sauntered into the office three-quarters of an hour late, and began
to whistle a ribald tune as he took off his coat.
Somebody called out to him in a stage whisper. George took no notice,
but swore at his hat when it dropped off the hook.
"Early," said the voice again. "Early!"
"Well, what the devil do you want?" said George, in a loud voice.
"S--sh!" cried the voice again, and George looked round to see a group
of solemn-looking faces.
"Hallo!" he cried, looking from one to another, "what's the trouble?"
"S--sh!" cried Busby, lifting his hand. "Mr. Fairbrother's dead."
"What?" cried George, aghast. "Well, I'm hanged!" he said, looking
round at the group. "If that isn't just my luck!"
* * * * *
For the second time, George Early was unable to tackle his morning
work. He could only sit gloomily at his desk and use up the language he
had learned overnight in reviling Fate for treating him so
scandalously.
Then he began to go over the events of the interviews again, and soon
his countenance cleared so considerably that he was able to discuss the
lamentable decease of the firm's head without a pang. Not only did his
spirits rise, but they became positively hilarious towards midday; so
much so that he shocked all those--and they were many--who felt gravity
to be the order of the moment.
"Where's Polly?" asked George, as the lunch-hour approached. He was
directed to the head clerk's private office, and into this he went at
once, closing the door behind him. Parrott was busy with a sheaf of
correspondence, and he looked up to see George Early standing easily a
few yards away.
"Got a few minutes to spare?" asked George, coming forward, and leaning
on the desk.
The head clerk frowned; he resented familiarity.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"Oh, it's just a small matter," said George; "I want to borrow half a
crown."
Parrott dropped the letters he was holding, and looked up in amazement.
"What?" he said faintly.
"Half a crown," said George; "I want to borrow one."
Parrott looked at George, and George looked at Parrott. Then Parrott
put his hand slowly in his pocket, pulled out some coins, and put a
half-crown on the edge of the desk.
George whipped it up, and put it in his pocket.
"Thanks, old chap," he said, and went out of the office whistling,
while the head clerk sat staring at the half-open door like a man in a
trance.