Upper Thames Street is not what it used to be in the days when
Fairbrothers' was young. One by one the low, grimy warehouses are
disappearing, to give place to noble edifices with elaborate office
room and electric light. Bit by bit the narrow roadway becomes widened,
and the blocking of traffic less frequent.
The language there is not what it used to be. Ancient carmen, who have
become locally notorious over victories on the question of choking the
narrowest thoroughfare, and who have displayed powers of flowery
repartee that no cabman dare challenge, now ride sorrowfully along in
silence. Not many of them are left; the newness is killing them off and
placing smart young uniformed men in their places.
The public-houses are disappearing, too; at least, the old ones are,
for new ones rise rapidly on the same ground, and "business is carried
on as usual during alterations." The beer there is not what it used to
be; so say the old hands, and they ought to know, for they've taken it
regularly enough, and can speak from experience.
Everything in Upper Thames Street is affected by the march of progress;
and nothing more noticeably than the City man's caterer.
Forty years ago you had no choice but to pick a midday meal at the
nearest tavern or a cook-shop. In the one you met red-faced men who
swore, took snuff, and whipped off a pint of ale like winking; in the
other melancholy clerks, with family cares and whiskers, consumed
boiled beef and carrots in a "dem'd demp," warm atmosphere, and
finished up with light snacks of plum-roll, as greasy and melancholy as
themselves. The young man with the clean collar was not catered for
then as he is to-day. There were young men then, of course--though not
many with clean collars--but they couldn't afford boiled beef, and were
not so educated to beer. Where they lunched is a mystery. I suspect
that the theory of a venerable dock porter, that "they took a bit o'
grub in a handkercher, and ate it by the water-side," is very nearly
correct. I suppose the office-boys of those days did the same thing.
Now the midday lunch is one great, wonderful and far-spreading meal. It
is as various as it is important; the one touch of interest to midday
London. No class of the London worker is neglected; none so obscure,
strange, or eccentric as to be forgotten. Boiled beef and carrots have
fallen into disuse, except among a few obstinate grey-haired clerks,
who would sooner give up clerking than change their habits; tavern
lunches are popular enough, among bucolic book-keepers; but the great
man, the star luncher in the eye of the up-to-date caterer is the young
man with the clean collar.
For him and his kin we have the tea-shop, the dining-rooms, the
restaurant, the café, Lyons', the A.B.C., the Mecca, and others. Snacks
of fish, vegetarian dinners, quick lunches; smart waitresses to serve
him and smile upon him. He sits upon a cushioned seat, looks at himself
in a mirror placed obsequiously before him, hangs his hat on a servile,
gilded knob, and is requested to acquaint the manager with any uncivil
behaviour on the part of the menials of the establishment. When my lord
has finished his meal, which may cost anything from twopence upwards, a
gorgeous smoking-room yawns for his presence, at no extra cost. Here
again the seats are cushioned and the mirrors opposite. Here are
draughts, dominoes, and chess, kept specially for him. All for the
young man with the clean collar, whose pence are worth fawning for--the
best customer of the City caterer.
Upper Thames Street, with its noisy vans and riverside associations,
has not been neglected by the caterer. It has its sprinkling of smart
tea-rooms and restaurants within easy reach. To various of these the
office youths of Fairbrothers' betake themselves daily, and to one in
particular go two members whom we will follow.
Henry Cacklin is a junior clerk of three months' service, a connoisseur
of cigarettes, smart beyond his sixteen years, and a devil with the
girls. His companion, William Budd, is a mere office-boy, sixteen also,
but with less business ability; due no doubt to his excessive interest
in affairs that don't concern him. Cacklin has a strong partiality for
sausage-and-mashed, when he can afford it, which is seldom. When he
cannot it is his habit to look over the menu and inquire as to the
quality of the present batch of sausages, finally deciding that as the
last were so disgustingly bad, he must try a ham sandwich and a cup of
coffee.
Billy Budd, who makes no secret of his desire to have plenty for money,
favours lemonade and the largest penny buns; a selection that arouses
the scorn of Cacklin, who wonders how any "feller" can expect to be
chummy with the waitress on "buns"!
"Rotten tack that!" he says, contemptuously, toying delicately with his
sandwich. "If you had brain work to do, old chap, you'd soon notice the
want of a bit of meat."
"No fear," said Billy. "What about old Busby? I saw him 'aving a bun
and milk yesterday."
"Busby," said Cacklin, with a sneer; "a lot he hurts himself. I'd like
his job at half the price, and keep my grandmother out of the money."
Depreciation of other people's abilities was a sad failing with
Cacklin. He had at various times expressed his willingness to take over
the work of many of his superiors and do it with "one hand tied behind
him," besides showing them "a thing or two" about office work, if they
so desired it.
"Here, what do y' think!" said Billy, suddenly, stuffing his mouth full
of bun, "Saw old Polly last night and his girl. Nice little daisy, too,
she was. Called him 'Thomas'--'Oh, Thomas!'"
Billy was convulsed for a few minutes at his own vulgar wit; much to
the disgust of his companion, whose attitude towards the fair sex was
distinctly _blasé_.
"She's no catch," said Cacklin; "I'd like him to see the little bit of
goods I met up at Richmond last Sunday. Great Scott! old man, she was
rippin'; and quite a kid--only seventeen. She was fair gone, too; I had
a regular howling job to get away from her. Promised to meet her on
Thursday, just to get away!"
Cacklin laughed at the recollection of his own subterfuge, and tipped a
wink to the waitress, who replied with a haughty stare.
"I say," said Billy, turning in his usual way to other people's
affairs; "Early's fairly got it, ain't he?"
"What do you mean by 'fairly got it'?" said Cacklin, annoyed at the
indifference of the waitress.
"Why, got it with her--the missis. They went off together this morning
in a hansom, as chummy as you like. Handed her in, he did, and put it
on like winking when he spoke to the cabman; laughin' and talkin' like
blazes, they were."
Cacklin winked again, but this time at Billy Budd.
"If you want to know anything, my boy," he said, "you put your money on
Early. He knows his book, you take my tip. I've watched the game from
the beginning, and I know a thing or two about it. The others may think
they're fly, and he may bamboozle them; but he'd have to get up before
six to get over me on that lay."
He paused to light a cigarette, and then leant back in his seat.
"Now I'll tell you a bit more," he said, with a knowing squint. "Mr.
George Early's playing up to hook her, and he'll do it, too. Put that
in your cigarette-holder, my son. She'll be Mrs. George Early soon, if
you want to know anything."
"No fear," said Billy.
"Oh?" said Cacklin. "Well, if you like to bet on it I'll lay you a quid
that it comes off. I'll lay you a level quid that he marries her. And
it's a certainty, too, you'd lose the money."
"She wouldn't marry him," said Billy, stolidly.
"Wouldn't she?" said Cacklin. "You don't know anything about women, my
boy. I suppose she hasn't had him up at her 'ouse much the last three
weeks, eh? Only about four times a week. They haven't been up in the
office together much, have they? They ain't been out and about much,
either? I didn't meet 'em at Earl's Court, did I, and Watkins didn't
see 'em go to the Trocadero together, did he? You've had your eyes
shut. Why, he's been following her about, and she's been running after
him when he didn't, ever since the first day he did the bossing up in
her office."
"What about saving her life? Matthews said she was chased by a mad
horse, and Early saved her just as she was going to be trampled to
death."
"Matthews is a silly fool. I know all about his saving her: I've heard
the true story. She's cracked on him over that, and thinks him a hero.
All women are the same. There was a fine gel cracked on me once through
helping her over the road on a wet day. If Early takes my tip, he'll
keep the game up for all it's worth."
"What sort of boss d' you think he'd be?" said Billy.
"Thunderin' good!" said Cacklin, briefly.
"He ought to give us all a rise if he marries her," said William Budd,
ruminating.
"So he will, you can bet," said the junior clerk. "Early's the right
sort of chap to boss the show; he's been putting the other chaps in
their places a bit in the last few weeks. About time, too. He's made
Polly sit up, and Gray's been nearly off his crumpet. A lot of lazy
'ounds, they are; rousing up the other chaps when they sleep all day
themselves."
With this summary verdict on his superiors, Cacklin produced a
draught-board and prepared to give a scientific display of his powers,
in a friendly game with Billy. This game was a regular feature in Mr.
Cacklin's lunch-hour, and usually resulted in his making all the
scientific moves while his opponent won the game; whereupon he would
enter into a lengthy explanation of his slight error in not huffing at
the right time, by which action he would have taken four kings and
literally "romped home."
The present game came to an end in the usual way, Cacklin ascribing his
defeat to his own generosity in giving his opponent "a chance" at a
critical moment.
"Now I'll have a cheque if you _don't_ mind," he said, in sweetly
insinuating tones to the waitress. "I must get back and start the men
at work, and see my lady secretary about her holidays."
"Get back and sweep out the passage, you mean," said the girl, pertly.
Cacklin ignored this rude remark, and lit a fresh cigarette.
"Who was that young feller I saw you with last night?" he said, winking
at Billy.
"Keeper of the monkey-house, of course. Lucky thing he didn't see you."
"Don't be saucy now," said the junior clerk, pleasantly, "or I sha'n't
take you up the river on Sunday. Give him my love this evening, and
mind you're home by ten."
"Take him off," said the girl to Billy; "the coffee's got in his head."