THE BICYCLE MANUFACTURER
Sec.1
So Kipps embarked upon his engagement, steeled himself to the high
enterprise of marrying above his breeding. The next morning found him
dressing with a certain quiet severity of movement, and it seemed to his
landlady's housemaid that he was unusually dignified at breakfast. He
meditated profoundly over his kipper and his kidney and bacon. He was
going to New Romney to tell the old people what had happened and where
he stood. And the love of Helen had also given him courage to do what
Buggins had once suggested to him as a thing he would do were he in
Kipps' place, and that was to hire a motor car for the afternoon. He had
an early cold lunch, and then, with an air of quiet resolution, assumed
a cap and coat he had purchased to this end, and thus equipped strolled
around, blowing slightly, to the motor shop. The transaction was
unexpectedly easy, and within the hour Kipps, spectacled and wrapped
about, was tootling through Dymchurch.
They came to a stop smartly and neatly outside the little toy shop.
"Make that thing 'oot a bit, will you," said Kipps. "Yes, that's it."
"Whup," said the motor car. "Whurrup!"
Both his Aunt and Uncle came out on the pavement. "Why, it's Artie,"
cried his Aunt, and Kipps had a moment of triumph.
He descended to hand claspings, removed wraps and spectacles, and the
motor driver retired to take "an hour off." Old Kipps surveyed the
machinery and disconcerted Kipps for a moment by asking him in a knowing
tone what they asked him for a thing like that. The two men stood
inspecting the machine and impressing the neighbours for a time, and
then they strolled through the shop into the little parlour for a drink.
"They ain't settled," old Kipps had said to the neighbours. "They ain't
got no further than experiments. There's a bit of take-in about each.
You take my advice and wait, me boy, even if it's a year or two, before
you buy one for your own use."
(Though Kipps had said nothing of doing anything of the sort.)
"'Ow d'you like that whiskey I sent?" asked Kipps, dodging the old
familiar bunch of children's pails.
Old Kipps became tactful. "It's a very good whiskey, my boy," said old
Kipps. "I 'aven't the slightest doubt it's a very good whiskey and cost
you a tidy price. But--dashed if it soots me! They put this here Foozle
Ile in it, my boy, and it ketches me jest 'ere." He indicated his centre
of figure. "Gives me the heartburn," he said, and shook his head rather
sadly.
"It's a very good whiskey," said Kipps. "It's what the actor manager
chaps drink in London, I 'appen to know."
"I dessay they do, my boy," said old Kipps, "but then they've 'ad their
livers burnt out, and I 'aven't. They ain't dellicat like me. My stummik
always _'as_ been extrey dellicat. Sometimes it's almost been as though
nothing would lay on it. But that's in passing. I liked those segars.
You can send me some of them segars...."
You cannot lead a conversation straight from the gastric consequences of
Foozle Ile to Love, and so Kipps, after a friendly inspection of a rare
old engraving after Morland (perfect except for a hole kicked through
the centre) that his Uncle had recently purchased by private haggle,
came to the topic of the old people's removal.
At the outset of Kipps' great fortunes there had been much talk of some
permanent provision for them. It had been conceded they were to be
provided for comfortably, and the phrase "retire from business" had been
very much in the air. Kipps had pictured an ideal cottage, with a
creeper always in exuberant flower about the door, where the sun shone
forever and the wind never blew and a perpetual welcome hovered in the
doorway. It was an agreeable dream, but when it came to the point of
deciding upon this particular cottage or that, and on this particular
house or that, Kipps was surprised by an unexpected clinging to the
little home, which he had always understood to be the worst of all
possible houses.
"We don't want to move in a 'urry," said Mrs. Kipps.
"When we want to move, we want to move for life. I've had enough moving
about in my time," said old Kipps.
"We can do here a bit more, now we done here so long," said Mrs. Kipps.
"You lemme look about a bit _fust_," said old Kipps.
And in looking about old Kipps found perhaps a finer joy than any mere
possession could have given. He would shut his shop more or less
effectually against the intrusion of customers, and toddle abroad
seeking new matter for his dream; no house was too small and none too
large for his knowing enquiries. Occupied houses took his fancy more
than vacancies, and he would remark, "You won't be a livin' 'ere
forever, even if you think you will," when irate householders protested
against the unsolicited examination of their more intimate premises....
Remarkable difficulties arose of a totally unexpected sort.
"If we 'ave a larger 'ouse," said Mrs. Kipps with sudden bitterness, "we
shall want a servant, and I don't want no gells in the place larfin' at
me, sniggerin' and larfin' and prancin' and trapesin', lardy da! If we
'ave a smaller 'ouse, there won't be room to swing a cat."
Room to swing a cat it seemed was absolutely essential. It was an
infrequent but indispensable operation.
"When we _do_ move," said old Kipps, "if we could get a bit of
shootin'----. I don't want to sell off all this here stock for nothin'.
It's took years to 'cumulate. I put a ticket in the winder sayin'
'sellin' orf,' but it 'asn't brought nothing like a roosh. One of these
'ere dratted visitors pretendin' to want an air gun, was all we 'ad in
yesterday. Jest an excuse for spyin' round and then go away and larf at
you. No-thanky to everything, it didn't matter what.... That's 'ow _I_
look at it, Artie."
They pursued meandering fancies about the topic of their future
settlement for a space and Kipps became more and more hopeless of any
proper conversational opening that would lead to his great announcement,
and more and more uncertain how such an opening should be taken. Once
indeed old Kipps, anxious to get away from this dangerous subject of
removals, began: "And what are you a-doin' of in Folkestone? I shall
have to come over and see you one of these days," but before Kipps could
get in upon that, his Uncle had passed into a general exposition of the
proper treatment of landladies and their humbugging, cheating ways, and
so the opportunity vanished. It seemed to Kipps the only thing to do was
to go out into the town for a stroll, compose an effectual opening at
leisure, and then come back and discharge it at them in its consecutive
completeness. And even out of doors and alone, he found his mind
distracted by irrelevant thoughts.
Sec.2
His steps led him out of the High Street towards the church, and he
leant for a time over the gate that had once been the winning post of
his race with Ann Pornick, and presently found himself in a sitting
position on the top rail. He had to get things smooth again, he knew;
his mind was like a mirror of water after a breeze. The image of Helen
and his great future was broken and mingled into fragmentary reflections
of remoter things, of the good name of Old Methusaleh Three Stars, of
long dormant memories the High Street saw fit, by some trick of light
and atmosphere, to arouse that afternoon....
Abruptly a fine, full voice from under his elbow shouted, "What--O Art!"
and, behold, Sid Pornick was back in his world, leaning over the gate
beside him, and holding out a friendly hand.
He was oddly changed and yet oddly like the Sid that Kipps had known. He
had the old broad face and mouth, abundantly freckled, the same short
nose, and the same blunt chin, the same odd suggestion of his sister Ann
without a touch of her beauty; but he had quite a new voice, loud and a
little hard, and his upper lip carried a stiff and very fair moustache.
Kipps shook hands. "I was jest thinking of _you_, Sid," he said, "jest
this very moment and wondering if ever I should see you again, ever.
And 'ere you are!"
"One likes a look 'round at times," said Sid. "How are _you_, old chap?"
"All right," said Kipps. "I just been lef'----"
"You aren't changed much," interrupted Sid.
"Ent I?" said Kipps, foiled.
"I knew your back directly I came 'round the corner. Spite of that 'at
you got on. Hang it, I said, that's Art Kipps or the devil. And so it
was."
Kipps made a movement of his neck as if he would look at his back and
judge. Then he looked Sid in the face. "You got a moustache, Sid," he
said.
"I s'pose you're having your holidays?" said Sid.
"Well, partly. But I just been lef'----"
"_I'm_ taking a bit of a holiday," Sid went on. "But the fact is, I have
to give _myself_ holidays nowadays. I've set up for myself."
"Not down here?"
"No fear! I'm not a turnip. I've started in Hammersmith, manufacturing."
Sid spoke offhand as though there was no such thing as pride.
"Not drapery?"
"No fear! Engineer. Manufacture bicycles." He clapped his hand to his
breast pocket and produced a number of pink handbills. He handed one to
Kipps and prevented him reading it by explanations and explanatory dabs
of a pointing finger. "That's our make, my make to be exact, The Red
Flag, see?--I got a transfer with my name--Pantocrat tyres, eight
pounds--yes, _there_--Clinchers ten, Dunlop's eleven, Ladies' one pound
more--that's the lady's. Best machine at a democratic price in London.
No guineas and no discounts--honest trade. I build 'em--to order. I've
built," he reflected, looking away seaward--"seventeen. Counting orders
in 'and.... Come down to look at the old place a bit. Mother likes it at
times."
"Thought you'd all gone away----"
"What! after my father's death? No! My mother's come back, and she's
living at Muggett's cottages. The sea air suits 'er. She likes the old
place better than Hammersmith ... and I can afford it. Got an old crony
or so here.... Gossip ... have tea.... S'pose _you_ ain't married,
Kipps?"
Kipps shook his head, "I----" he began.
"_I_ am," said Sid. "Married these two years and got a nipper. Proper
little chap."
Kipps got his word in at last. "I got engaged day before yesterday," he
said.
"Ah!" said Sid airily. "That's all right. Who's the fortunate lady?"
Kipps tried to speak in an offhand way. He stuck his hands in his
pockets as he spoke. "She's a solicitor's daughter," he said, "in
Folkestone. Rather'r nice set. County family. Related to the Earl of
Beaupres----"
"Steady on!" cried Sid.
"You see, I've 'ad a bit of luck, Sid. Been lef' money."
Sid's eye travelled instinctively to mark Kipps' garments. "How much?"
he asked.
"'Bout twelve 'undred a year," said Kipps, more offhandedly than ever.
"Lord!" said Sid, with a note of positive dismay, and stepped back a
pace or two.
"My granfaver it was," said Kipps, trying hard to be calm and simple.
"'Ardly knew I _'ad_ a granfaver. And then--bang! When o' Bean, the
solicitor, told me of it, you could 'ave knocked me down----"
"_'Ow_ much?" demanded Sid, with a sharp note in his voice.
"Twelve 'undred pound a year--'proximately, that is...."
Sid's attempt at genial unenvious congratulation did not last a minute.
He shook hands with an unreal heartiness and said he was jolly glad.
"It's a blooming stroke of Luck," he said.
"It's a bloomin' stroke of Luck," he repeated; "that's what it is," with
the smile fading from his face. "Of course, better you 'ave it than me,
o' chap. So I don't envy you, anyhow. _I_ couldn't keep it, if I did
'ave it."
"'Ow's that?" said Kipps, a little hipped by Sid's patent chagrin.
"I'm a Socialist, you see," said Sid. "I don't 'old with Wealth. What
_is_ Wealth? Labour robbed out of the poor. At most it's only yours in
Trust. Leastways, that 'ow _I_ should take it." He reflected. "The
Present distribution of Wealth," he said and stopped.
Then he let himself go, with unmasked bitterness. "It's no sense at
all. It's jest damn foolishness. Who's going to work and care in a
muddle like this? Here first you do--something anyhow--of the world's
work, and it pays you hardly anything, and then it invites you to do
nothing, nothing whatever, and pays you twelve hundred pounds a year.
Who's going to respect laws and customs when they come to damn silliness
like that?" He repeated, "Twelve hundred pounds a year!"
At the sight of Kipps' face he relented slightly.
"It's not you I'm thinking of, o' man; it's the system. Better you than
most people. Still----"
He laid both hands on the gate and repeated to himself, "Twelve 'undred
a year.... Gee-Whizz, Kipps! You'll be a swell!"
"I shan't," said Kipps with imperfect conviction. "No fear."
"You can't 'ave money like that and not swell out. You'll soon be too
big to speak to--'ow do they put it?--a mere mechanic like me."
"No fear, Siddee," said Kipps with conviction. "I ain't that sort."
"Ah!" said Sid, with a sort of unwilling scepticism, "money'll be too
much for you. Besides--you're caught by a swell already."
"'Ow d'you mean?"
"That girl you're going to marry. Masterman says----"
"Oo's Masterman?"
"Rare good chap I know--takes my first floor front room. Masterson says
it's always the wife pitches the key. Always. There's no social
differences--till women come in."
"Ah!" said Kipps profoundly. "You don't know."
Sid shook his head. "Fancy!" he reflected, "Art Kipps!... Twelve 'Undred
a Year!"
Kipps tried to bridge that opening gulf. "Remember the Hurons, Sid?"
"Rather," said Sid.
"Remember that wreck?"
"I can smell it now--sort of sour smell."
Kipps was silent for a moment with reminiscent eyes on Sid's still
troubled face.
"I say, Sid, 'ow's Ann?"
"_She's_ all right," said Sid.
"Where is she now?"
"In a place ... Ashford."
"Oh!"
Sid's face had become a shade sulkier than before.
"The fact is," he said, "we don't get on very well together. _I_ don't
hold with service. We're common people, I suppose, but I don't like it.
I don't see why a sister of mine should wait at other people's tables.
No. Not even if they got Twelve 'Undred a Year."
Kipps tried to change the point of application. "Remember 'ow you came
out once when we were racing here?... She didn't run bad for a girl."
And his own words raised an image brighter than he could have supposed,
so bright it seemed to breathe before him and did not fade altogether,
even when he was back in Folkestone an hour or so later.
But Sid was not to be deflected from that other rankling theme by any
reminiscences of Ann.
"I wonder what you will do with all that money," he speculated. "I
wonder if you will do any good at all. I wonder what you _could_ do. You
should hear Masterman. He'd tell you things. Suppose it came to me, what
should I do? It's no good giving it back to the state as things are.
Start an Owenite profit-sharing factory perhaps. Or a new Socialist
paper. We want a new Socialist paper."
He tried to drown his personal chagrin in elaborate exemplary
suggestions....
Sec.3
"I must be gettin' on to my motor," said Kipps at last, having to a
large extent heard him out.
"What! Got a motor?"
"No!" said Kipps apologetically. "Only jobbed for the day."
"'Ow much?"
"Five pounds."
"Keep five families for a week! Good Lord!" That seemed to crown Sid's
disgust.
Yet drawn by a sort of fascination he came with Kipps and assisted at
the mounting of the motor. He was pleased to note it was not the most
modern of motors, but that was the only grain of comfort. Kipps mounted
at once, after one violent agitation of the little shop-door to set the
bell a-jingle and warn his Uncle and Aunt. Sid assisted with the great
furlined overcoat and examined the spectacles.
"Good-bye, o' chap!" said Kipps.
"Good-bye, o' chap!" said Sid.
The old people came out to say good-bye.
Old Kipps was radiant with triumph. "'Pon my Sammy, Artie! I'm a goo'
mind to come with you," he shouted, and then, "I got something you might
take with you!"
He dodged back into the shop and returned with the perforated engraving
after Morland.
"You stick to this, my boy," he said. "You get it repaired by someone
who knows. It's the most vallyble thing I got you so far, you take my
word."
"Warrup!" said the motor, and tuff, tuff, tuff, and backed and snorted
while old Kipps danced about on the pavement as if foreseeing complex
catastrophes, and told the driver, "That's all right."
He waved his stout stick to his receding nephew. Then he turned to Sid.
"Now, if you could make something like that, young Pornick, you _might_
blow a bit!"
"I'll make a doocid sight better than _that_ before I done," said Sid,
hands deep in his pockets.
"Not _you_," said old Kipps.
The motor set up a prolonged sobbing moan and vanished around the
corner. Sid stood motionless for a space, unheeding some further remark
from old Kipps. The young mechanic had just discovered that to have
manufactured seventeen bicycles, including orders in hand, is not so big
a thing as he had supposed, and such discoveries try one's manhood....
"Oh well!" said Sid at last, and turned his face towards his mother's
cottage.
She had got a hot teacake for him, and she was a little hurt that he was
dark and preoccupied as he consumed it. He had always been such a boy
for teacake, and then when one went out specially and got him one----!
He did not tell her--he did not tell anyone--he had seen young Kipps. He
did not want to talk about Kipps for a bit to anyone at all.