IV

Certainly, if Mrs. Thompson could not accept the bulk of Archibald

Bence's compliments, she might justly pride herself on being always

anxious to spot merit among her people. Unaided by any advice, she had

quickly spotted the young man in the Carpets department.

Making her tour of inspection one day, she was drawn towards the wide

entrance of Carpets by the unseemly noise of a common female voice.

Looking into Carpets, she found the shrewish wife of an old farmer

raging and nagging at everybody, because she could not satisfy herself

with what was being offered to her. Half the stock was already on the

floor; Number One and Number Two were at their wits' ends, becoming

idiotic, on the verge of collapse; Number Three had just come to their

rescue.

"Oh, take it away.... No--not a bit like what I'm asking for." And the

virago turned to her hen-pecked husband. "You were a fool to bring me

here. I told you we ought to have gone to London."

"But madam knows the old saying. One may go farther and fare worse. I

can assure you, madam, there's nothing in the London houses that we

can't supply here."

"Oh, yes, you're glib enough--but if you've got it, why don't you bring

it out?"

"If madam will have patience, I guarantee that we will suit her--yes, in

less than three minutes."

The young man spoke firmly yet pleasantly; and he looked and smiled at

this ugly vixenish customer as though she had been young, gracious, and

beautiful.

Mrs. Thompson did not intervene: she stood near the entrance, watching

and listening.

"Now, madam, if you want value for your money, look at this.... No?...

Very good. This is Axminster--genuine Axminster,--and very charming

colouring.... No?... What does madam think of _this_?... No?"

He spun out the vast webs; with bowed back and quick movements of both

hands he trundled the enormous rollers across the polished floor; he ran

up the ladders and jerked the folded masses from the shelves; he flopped

down the cut squares so fast that the piled heaps seemed to grow by

magic before the customer's chair.

Doubtless he knew that he was being observed, but he showed no knowledge

of the fact. As he hurried past Mrs. Thompson, she noticed that he was

perspiring. He dabbed his white forehead with his handkerchief as he

passed again, trundling a roll with one hand.

Mrs. Thompson felt astounded by his personal strength. Mr. Mears was

strong, a man of comparatively huge girth and massive limbs; he could

lift big weights; but Mears in his prime could not have shifted the

carpet rolls as they were shifted by this slim-waisted stripling.

Two minutes gone, and the querulous, nagging tones were modulated to the

note of vulgar affability. Two minutes--thirty seconds, and the customer

had decided that her carpet should be one of the three which she was

prodding at with her umbrella. She asked Mr. Marsden to help her in

making the final selection.

Mr. Marsden was standing up now, Numbers One and Two clumsily hovering

about him, while he talked easily and confidentially to the 'mollified

customer. And while he talked, Mrs. Thompson scrutinized him carefully.

He could not be more than twenty-seven--possibly less. He was

gracefully although so strongly built, of medium height, with an

excellent poise of the head. His hair was brownish, stiff, cut very

short; his small stiff moustache was brushed up in the military fashion;

his features were of the firmest masculine type--nose perhaps a shade

too thick and not sufficiently well modelled. She could not see the

colour of his eyes.

But his manner! It was the salesman's art in its highest and rarest

form. He had charmed, fascinated, hypnotised the troublesome customer.

She bought her carpets, and two door mats; she smiled and nodded and

prattled; she seemed quite sorry to say good-bye to Mr. Marsden.

"I shall tell my friends to come here," and then she giggled stupidly.

"And I shall tell them to ask for you."

Without entering Carpets, Mrs. Thompson walked away. She did not utter a

word then; but she had determined to promote Number Three, to give him

more scope, and to see what she could make of him.

She moved him through the Woollens, the Cretonnes; and then again,

upstairs into Crockery.

Crockery, which had of late betrayed sluggishness, was one side of a

large department. Beginning with common pots and pans, it shaded off

into glass and china; and on this side ran up to the big money which was

properly demanded for the most delicate porcelain and ornamental

ware--such as best English dinner services and modern _Sevres_

candelabra. Young Marsden was given charge of the cheaper and

quicker-selling stuff, while Miss Woolfrey, a freckled, sandy lady of

forty, remained for the present in control of the expensive side. But

she was not a titular head; Mears and Mrs. Thompson herself

superintended her, allowing her little discretion, and instructing her

from day to day.

After a week Marsden, the newcomer, got a distinct move on the sluggish

earthenware; and, after three weeks, Mears rather grudgingly confessed

that the whole department appeared to be brisker, livelier, more what

one would wish it to be.

On the whole, then, Mrs. Thompson was well pleased with her protege. She

spoke to him freely, encouraged him by carefully chosen words of

approval.

One day, while talking to a desk-clerk, she saw him in an adjacent

mirror that gave one a round-the-corner view of Glass and China. He was

standing with a trade catalogue in his hands, surrounded by Miss

Woolfrey and three girls. He seemed to be expounding the catalogue, and

the women seemed to exhibit a docile attention.

Mrs. Thompson went in and talked to them.

There had been an accident, and Mr. Marsden was looking up the trade

price of the destroyed article. Poor Miss Woolfrey had broken a

cut-glass decanter--she got upon the steps to fetch it down, and it was

heavier than she expected.

"Why," inquired Mrs. Thompson, "didn't you ask someone to help you?"

"I never thought till it was too late, and I'd found out my mistake."

There was no need to offer apologies to the proprietress, because all

breakages of this character were made good out of an insurance fund to

which all the employees subscribed. The whole shop was therefore

interested in each smash, since everybody would pay a share of the

damage.

"Mr. Marsden," said Miss Woolfrey, "has so very kindly priced it for me.

He will send on the order at once. So it shall be replaced, ma'am,

without delay."

The three interested girls lingered at Mr. Marsden's elbows; they

watched his face; they hung upon his words. Miss Woolfrey continued to

thank him for all the trouble he was taking.

Mrs. Thompson walked away, thinking about Mr. Marsden. These women were

too obviously subject to the young man's personal fascination; their

silly glances were easy to interpret; and middle-aged Miss Woolfrey and

the three immature underlings had all betrayed the same weakness. This

implied a situation that must be thought out. Lady-killers, though

useful with the customers, may cause a lot of trouble with the staff.

There was no indication of the professional heart-disturber in the young

fellow's general air. Mrs. Thompson had found his manner scrupulously

correct--except that, as she remembered now, there was perhaps something

too hardy in the way he kept his eyes fixed on her face. She attributed

this to sheer intentness, mingled with juvenile simplicity. Most of the

older men instinctively dropped their eyes in her presence.

After a little thought she called Mears behind the glass, and

interrogated him. "Behind the glass" was a shop term for all the sacred

region masked by the glass partitions, and containing counting-house,

clerks' and secretary's offices, managerial and the proprietorial

departments.

"If you want the plain fact," said Mr. Mears, "there's little difference

in the pack of 'em."

"Do you mean they are _silly_ about him?"

"Yes," said Mears scornfully. "Spoony sentimental--talking ridiculous

over him."

"But is _he_ all right with the girls? What is _his_ attitude?... Find

out for me."

Mrs. Thompson was always wisely strict on this most important point of

shop discipline. No playing the fool between the young ladies and young

gentlemen under the care of Mrs. Thompson.

"I will not permit it," she said sternly; and she laid her open hand

upon the desk, to give weightier emphasis to the words. "We must have

no condoning of that sort of thing. If I catch him at it--if I catch

anyone, out he goes neck and crop."

In the course of a few days Mr. Mears reported, still grudgingly, that

young Marsden's demeanour towards the young ladies was absolutely

perfect. Stoical indifference, calm disregard, not even a trace of that

flirting or innocently philandering tone which is so common, and to

which one can scarcely object.

"Good," said Mrs. Thompson. "I'm glad to hear it--because now I shan't

be afraid of advancing him."

"But," said Mears, "you _have_ advanced him. You aren't thinking of

putting him up again?"

"I am not sure. Something must be done about Miss Woolfrey. I will think

about it."

It was not long before Mears, young Marsden and Miss Woolfrey were all

summoned together behind the glass. The typewriting girl had been sent

out of the room; Mrs. Thompson sat in front of her bureau, looking like

a great general; Mr. Mears, at her side, looked like a glum

aide-de-camp; the young man looked like a soldier who had been beckoned

to step forward from the ranks. He stood at a respectful distance, and

his bearing was quite soldierlike--heels together, head well up, the

broad shoulders very square, and the muscular back straight and flat.

His eyes were on the general's face.

Sandy, freckled Miss Woolfrey merely looked foolish and frightened. She

caught her breath and coughed when Mrs. Thompson informed her that Mr.

Marsden was to be put in charge of the whole department.

"Over my head, ma'am?"

"It will make no difference to you. Your salary will be no less. And

yours, Mr. Marsden, will be no more. But you will have fuller scope."

Miss Woolfrey feebly protested. She had hoped,--she had naturally

hoped;--in a customary shop-succession the post should be hers.

"Miss Woolfrey, do you feel yourself competent to fill it? Hitherto you

have been under the constant supervision of Mr. Mears. But do you

honestly feel you could stand alone?"

"I'd do my best, ma'am."

"Yes," said Mrs. Thompson cordially, "I'm sure you would. But with the

best will in the world, there are limits to one's capacity. I have come

to the conclusion that this is a man's task;" and she turned to the

fortunate salesman. "Mr. Marsden, you will not in any way interfere with

Miss Woolfrey--but you will remember that the department is now in your

sole charge. If I have to complain, it will be to you. If things go

wrong, it is you that I shall call to account."

Nothing went wrong in China and Glass. But sometimes Mrs. Thompson

secretly asked herself if she or Mears had been right. Had she acted

wisely when pushing an untried man so promptly to the front?

During these pleasant if enervating months of May and June she watched

him closely.

Somehow he took liberties. It was difficult to define. He talked humbly.

His voice was always humble, and his words too--but his eyes were bold.

Something of aggressive virility seemed to meet and attempt to beat down

that long-assumed mastership to which everyone else readily submitted.

In the shop she was a man by courtesy--the boss, the cock of the walk;

and she was never made to remember, when issuing orders to the men who

served her, that she was not really and truly male.

All this might be fancy; but it made a slight want of ease and comfort

in her intercourse with Mr. Marsden--a necessity felt only with him, an

instinct telling her that here was a servant who must be kept in his

place.

Once or twice, when she was examining returns with him, his assiduous

attention bothered her.

"Thank you, Mr. Marsden, I can see it for myself."

And there was a certain look in his eyes while he talked to

her--respectfully admiring, pensively questioning, familiar,--no, not to

be analysed. But nevertheless it was a look that she did not at all care

about.

The eyes that he used so hardily were of a lightish brown, speckled with

darker colour; and above them the dark eyebrows grew close together,

making almost an unbroken line across his brow. She saw or guessed that

his beard would be tawny, if he let it grow; but he was always

beautifully shaved. High on his cheeks there were tiny russet hairs,

like down, that he never touched with the razor.

All through May China and Glass did better and better. Miss Woolfrey,

meekly submitting to fate, worked loyally under the new chief. "If

anyone had to be put above me," said poor Miss Woolfrey, "I'd rather it

was him."

When a truly excellent week's returns were shown in June, Mrs. Thompson

took an opportunity of praising Mr. Marsden generously. And again, after

he had bowed and expressed his gratification, she saw the look that she

did not care about.

She read it differently now. It was probably directly traceable to the

arrogance bred of youth and strength--and perhaps a fairly full measure

of personal conceit. Although so circumspect with the other sex, he had

a reliance on his handsome aspect. Perhaps unconsciously he was always

falling back on this--because hitherto it might never have failed him.

It was Enid who made her think him handsome. Till Enid used the word,

she would have thought it too big.

One morning she had brought her daughter to the China department in

order to select a wedding-present for a girlfriend. Miss Woolfrey was

serving her, but Mr. Marsden came to assist. Then Mrs. Thompson saw how

he looked at Enid.

Some sort of introduction had been made--"Enid, my dear, Mr. Marsden

suggests this vase;" and the girl had immediately transferred her

attention from the insipid serving woman to the resourceful serving-man.

Mr. Marsden showed her more and more things--"This is good value. Two

guineas--if that is not beyond your figure. Or this is a quaint

notion--Parrots! They paint them so natural, don't they?" And Mrs.

Thompson saw the look, and winced. With his eyes on the girl's face, he

smiled--and Enid began to smile, too.

"What is the joke, Mr. Marsden?" Mrs. Thompson had spoken coldly and

abruptly.

"Joke?" he echoed.

"You appear to be diverted by the idea of my daughter's purchase--when

really it is simply a matter of business."

"Exactly--but if I can save you time by--"

"Thank you, Miss Woolfrey is quite competent to show us all that we

require;" and Mrs. Thompson turned her broad back on the departmental

manager.

Enid, when leaving China and Glass, glanced behind her, and nodded to

Mr. Marsden.

"Mother," she whispered, "how handsome he is.... But how sharply you

spoke to him. You quite dropped on him."

"Well, my dear, one has to drop on people sometimes; and Mr. Marsden is

just a little disposed to be pushing."

"Oh," said Enid, "I thought he was such a favourite of yours."

Alone in her room, Mrs. Thompson felt worried. A thought had made her

wince. This young man carried about with him an element of vague danger.

Of course Enid would never be foolish; and he would never dare to aspire

to such a prize; still Enid should get her next wedding present in

another department--or in another shop, if she must have china.

It was only a brief sense of annoyance or discomfort, say five minutes

lost in a busy day. Mrs. Thompson dismissed it from her mind. But Mr.

Marsden brought it back again.

Towards closing time, when she was signing letters at the big bureau, he

came behind the glass and entered her room.

"What is it?" said Mrs. Thompson, without looking up.

"Mrs. Thompson, I want to make an apology and a request."

At the sound of his voice she perceptibly started. His presence down

here was unusual and unexpected.

"I have been making myself rather unhappy about what happened when you

and Miss Thompson were in my department."

"Nothing happened," said Mrs. Thompson decisively.

"Oh, yes, ma'am, and I offer an apology for my mistake."

"Mr. Marsden," said Mrs. Thompson, with dignity, "there is not the

slightest occasion for an apology. Please don't make mountains out of

molehills."

"No--but I am in earnest. It is your own great kindness that led me to

forget. And I confess that I did for a moment forget the immense

difference of social station that lies between us. A shopman should

never speak to his employer--much less his employer's relatives--in a

tone implying the least friendliness or equality."

"Mr. Marsden, you quite misunderstand."

"You were angry with me?"

"No," said Mrs. Thompson firmly. "To be frank, I was not exactly pleased

with you--and I took the liberty of showing it. That is a freedom to

which I am accustomed."

"Then I humbly apologise."

"I have told you it is unnecessary.... That will do, Mr. Marsden;" and

she took up her pen again.

"But may I make one request--that when I am unfortunate enough to

deserve reproof, it may be administered privately and not in public?"

"Mr. Marsden, I make no conditions. If people are discontented with my

methods--well, the remedy lies in their own hands."

"Isn't that just a little cruel?"

"It is my answer to your question."

"I don't think, ma'am, you know the chivalrous and devoted feeling that

runs through this shop. There's not a man in it to whom your praise and

your blame don't mean light and darkness."

Mrs. Thompson flushed.

"Mr. Marsden, you are all very good and loyal. I recognize that. But I

don't care about compliments."

"Compliments!... When a person is feeling almost crushed with the burden

of gratitude--"

"But, Mr. Marsden, gratitude should be shown and not talked about."

"And I'll show mine some day, please God."

Mrs. Thompson turned right round on her revolving chair, and spoke very

gently. "I am sorry that you should have upset yourself about such a

trifle."

Then Mr. Marsden asked if he might come down behind the glass for

direction and orders when he felt in doubt or perplexity. A few words

now and then would be helpful to him.

Mrs. Thompson hesitated, and then answered kindly.

"Certainly. Why not? I am accessible here to any of the staff--from Mr.

Mears to the door boy. That has always been a part of my system."

After this the young man appeared from time to time, craving a draught

of wisdom at the fountain-head. The department was doing well, and he

never brought bad news.

But he was a little too much inclined to begin talking about himself;

telling his story--an orphan who had made his own way in the world;

describing his efforts to improve a defective education, his speaking at

a debating society, his acting with the Kennington Thespian Troupe.

"Your elocution," said Mrs. Thompson, "no doubt profited by the pains

you took.... But now, if you please--"

Mrs. Thompson, with business-like firmness, stopped all idle chatter. A

hint was enough for him, and he promptly became intent on matters of

business.

He worked hard upstairs. He was the first to come and the last to go.

Once or twice he brought papers down to the dark ground floor when Mrs.

Thompson was toiling late.

One night he showed her the coloured and beautifully printed pictures

that had been sent with the new season's lists.

"There. This is my choice."

She laid her hand flat on a picture; and he, pushing about the other

pictures and talking, put his hand against hers. He went on talking, as

if unconscious that he had touched her, that he was now touching her.

She moved her hand away, and for a moment an angry flame of thought

swept through her brain. Had it been an accident, or a monstrous

impertinence? He went on talking without a tremor in his voice; and she

understood that he was absolutely unconscious of what he had done. He

was completely absorbed by consideration of the coloured prints of tea

and dinner services.

Mrs. Thompson abruptly struck the desk bell, drew back her chair, and

rose.

"Davies," she called loudly, "bring your lantern. I am going through....

Don't bother me any more about all that, Mr. Marsden. Make your own

selections--and get them passed by Mr. Mears. Good-night."

V

Miss Enid had again taken up riding, and she seemed unusually energetic

in her efforts to acquire a difficult art. During this hot dry weather

the roads were too hard to permit of hacking with much pleasure; but

Enid spent many afternoons in Mr. Young's fine riding school. She was

having jumping lessons; and she threw out hints to Mrs. Thompson that

next autumn she would be able not only to ride to meet, but even to

follow hounds.

"Oh, my darling, I should never have a moment's peace of mind if I knew

you were risking your pretty neck out hunting."

"I could easily get a good pilot," said Enid; "and then I should be

quite safe."

One Thursday afternoon--early-closing day--Mr. Marsden, who happened to

know that Enid would be at the school, went round to see his friend Mr.

Whitehouse, the riding-master. He looked very smart in his blue serge

suit, straw hat, and brown boots; and the clerk in Mr. Young's office

quite thought he was one of the governor's toffs come to buy horses.

Mr. Marsden sent his card to Mr. Whitehouse; and then waited in a

sloping sanded passage, obviously trodden by four-footed as well as

two-footed people, from which he could peep into the dark office, a

darker little dressing-room, and an open stable where the hind quarters

of horses showed in stalls. There was a queer staircase without stairs,

and he heard a sound of pawing over his head--horses upstairs as well

as downstairs. The whole place looked and smelt very horsey.

The riding-master's horse was presently led past him; the lesson was

nearly over, and the young lady was about to take a few leaps. A groom

told him that he might go in.

The vast hall had high and narrow double doors to admit the horses; and

inside, beneath the dirty glass roof, it was always twilight, with

strange echoes and reverberations issuing from the smooth plastered

walls; at a considerable height in one of the walls there was a large

window, opening out of a room that looked like the royal box of a

theatre.

This hall had been the military school; it remained as a last evidence

of the demolished barracks, and the town was proud of its noble

dimensions--a building worthy of the metropolis.

"How d'ye do," said the riding-master, a slim, tall, elegant young man

in check breeches and black boots. "Come and stand by us in the middle."

There was another tall young man, who wore drab breeches and brown

gaiters on his long thin legs, and who was helping a stableman to drag

the barred hurdle across the tan and put it in position against the

wall.

"Now, Miss Thompson.... Steady. Steady. Let her go."

Enid on a heavily bandaged bay mare came slowly round, advanced in a

scrambling canter, and hopped over the low obstacle.

"Very good."

She looked charming as she came round again--her usually cold pale face

now warm and red, a wisp of her dark hair flying, the short habit

showing her neatly booted legs.

"Very good."

"I am lost in admiration," said Marsden; and the strange young man

stared hard at him.

"Oh, is that you, Mr. Marsden," said Enid. "I didn't know I had an

audience."

Then she jumped again. This time, in obedience to the directions of Mr.

Whitehouse, she rode at the hurdle much faster; the mare cocked her

ears, charged, and she and Enid sailed over the white bar in grand

style.

But the thud of hoofs, the tell-tale reverberations roused the invisible

Mr. Young, and brought him to the window of the private box.

"Not so fast--not nearly so fast," shouted Mr. Young. "There's no skill

or sense in that.... Mr. Whitehouse, I can't understand you. D'you want

that mare over-reaching herself?" And Mr. Young's voice, dropping in

tone, still betrayed his irritation. "Who are these gentlemen? We can't

have people in the school during lessons."

"All right," said the young man in the brown gaiters. "I've come to look

at the new horse--the one you bought from Griffin."

"Very good, Mr. Kenion. I didn't see who you were.... But who's the

other gentleman?"

"He is a friend of mine," said Mr. Whitehouse.

"Well, that's against our rules--visitors in lessons. You know that as

well as I do."

"I am quite aware of your rules," said Mr. Whitehouse curtly. "But the

lesson is finished.... That will be sufficient, Miss Thompson. Three

minutes over your hour--and we don't want to tire you."

Mr. Young snorted angrily, and disappeared. The strange young man

assisted Miss Enid to dismount and went out with her, the bandaged mare

following them with the helper.

"Who," asked Marsden, "was that spindle-shanked ass?"

"Oh, he's not a bad boy," said the riding-master patronisingly. "And he

can ride, mind you--which is more than most hunting men can."

"Is he a hunting man? What's his name?"

"Mr. Kenion.... Look here, don't hurry off. I want to have a yarn with

you."

"But Mr. Young--"

"Oh, blast Mr. Young. I want to talk to you, my boy, about the ladies."

"Do you?" Marsden half closed his eyes, and showed his strong teeth in a

lazy smile. "What do you think of our young lady?"

"Miss Thompson?" Mr. Whitehouse shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, not bad."

Then long thin Mr. Kenion returned.

"Let's try the new crock over your sticks," said Mr. Kenion languidly.

"I suppose he _is_ a crock--or he wouldn't be here?"

"I won't bias your judgment," said Mr. Whitehouse as he strolled across

the tan. "See for yourself," and he rang a noisy bell. "But I must make

you known to each other;" and he introduced Mr. Marsden as "one of the

managers at Thompson's."

Mr. Young's new purchase was brought in, and Mr. Kenion rode it. The

horse at first appeared to resent the silly jumping performance; but

Marsden heard the work of the rider's unspurred heels on the animal's

flanks, watched the effective use Mr. Whitehouse made of his whip as he

ran behind, and soon saw the hurdle negotiated in flying fashion, again

and again--and faster and faster.

"_Not_ so fast! God bless my soul, I think you must all be mad this

afternoon." Old Young had come to his window, furious. "Mr. Kenion, I'm

surprised at you, yes, I am, sir."

"How can I judge of a horse without trying him?"

"Well, I don't want my horses tried like that. You may buy 'em or leave

'em."

"All right," said Mr. Kenion, laughing. "Come out and have a drink.

You've stood me a ride, and I'll stand you a drink."

Mr. Kenion, Mr. Young, and the jumping horse all disappeared, and

Marsden and the riding-master were left together on the tan. Here, in

the dim twilight that the glass roof made of this bright June day, they

had a long quiet chat about women.

"Dicky," said the riding-master, "I'm going to talk to you like a Dutch

uncle."

"Fire away."

"All for your own good. See?... Now I suppose when you want a mash, you

don't think of looking outside the shop."

"I never have a mash inside it."

"Is that so?" Mr. Whitehouse seemed astonished. "Why, I thought you

smart managers with all those shop girls round you were like so many

grand Turks with their serrallyhos."

"Not much. That's against etiquette--and a fool's game into the bargain.

You're safe to be pinched--and, second, you get so jolly sick of being

mewed up with 'em all day that you never want to speak to 'em out of

hours."

"Then how do you get along? The customers?"

"Yes," said Marsden; and he stroked his moustache, and smiled.

"Customers are often very kind."

"Not real ladies?"

"We don't ask their pedigrees. Go down St. Saviour's Court any fine

evening, and see the domestic servants waiting in their best clothes.

It'll remind you of Piccadilly Circus;" and both gentlemen laughed.

"There's a parlourmaid," continued Marsden, "out of Adelaide

Crescent--who is simply a little lump of all right. Venetian red hair--a

picture."

"Red hair," said Mr. Whitehouse reflectively. "They say with us, a good

horse has no colour. That means, if the horse is a good 'un, never mind

his colour;--and I suppose it's true of women.... I don't object to

chestnut horses--or red-haired gells.... But, look here, Master Dick, I

tell you frank, you're wasting your opportunities."

"You can't teach me anything, old man."

"Can't I? Never turn a deaf ear to a friendly tip--a chance tip may

alter a man's life. That's a motto with me--and I'm acting on it this

moment, myself."

Then Mr. Whitehouse told his friend that he was about to leave

Mallingbridge forever. Mallingbridge was too small; he intended to throw

himself into the larger world of London. He had very nearly fixed up an

engagement with the big Bayswater people; it was practically a settled

thing.

"That's why I checked the old bloke like I done just now. Mr. Young he

twigs there's something up; but he doesn't know what's in store for him.

The minute I've got my job definite, I shall open my chest to him--tell

him once for all what I think of him. 'E won't forget it;" and the

riding-master laughed confidently.

"I'm sorry you're going."

"Thanks. But why am I lighting out so determined and sudden, instead of

vegetating here half me life? Well--because I got a straight tip, and

all by chance."

"How was that?"

"About a month ago a chap comes in here with a lady for a lesson.

Captain Mellish--Meller--I forget the name. Anyhow, he was a son of a

gun of a swell to look at--sploshing it about up at the Dolphin; and he

brings in this actress from the theatre--not a chorus gell, mind you,

but the leading performer--who was drawing her hundred quid a week, so

they said. Well, he evidently fancied he was a bit of a horseman

himself, and he keeps chipping in. When I told her to get her hands

back, and hold her reins long, he says, 'yes, but you'll want to hold a

horse shorter by the head, if he balks at his fences.' I answered

without hesitation, 'I'm very well aware of refusing horses,' I said,

'and also how easy it is to hang on by a horse's mouth when you land

over a fence.... But,' I said, 'let me know who is giving the

lesson--you or me. Wait, miss,' I said, 'if the Captain has other

directions to give you.' She rounded on him at once, asking him to shut

his head. He turned it off with a laugh, and gave me a slap on the back.

'Have it your own way, Mr. Riding-Master.' You'll understand, he said

that sneering.

"But I believe he thought the more of me before the lesson was over.

Anyhow, when his tart had gone to the dressing-room to change her

things, he and I got yarning here--exactly as if it had been you and

me--like we're doing now.

"Mind you, he was a wrong 'un. You couldn't talk friendly to him without

twigging that. But, Holy Moses, he was fairly up to snuff.... We went

yarning on, and presently he says, 'It beats me why a knowledgeable

young chap like you should bury himself as a mere servant. Take my tip,'

he says, 'Get hold of a bit of money, and light out on your own.'...

'And how am I to get the money?' I asked him.

"'Get it from the ladies,' he says. 'Take my tip. I suppose you make

love to all your pupils--you fellows always do. Well, make 'em pay.' I'm

giving you what he said, word for word. 'You're wasting yourself,' he

says. 'See? You're only young once. You've got something to bring to

market, and you're letting it go stale every hour.'

"Then he run on about what women can do for a man nowadays--and he

_knew_, mind you. He'd _been_ there. Who makes the members of

parliament, the bishops, the prime ministers? Why, women. Leave them out

of your plans--if you want to labour in the sweat of your brow till you

drop. But if not, take the tip. It's the women that give a man his

short-cut to ease and comfort. See?"

"Yes," said Mr. Marsden. "I see that--but I don't see anything new in

it."

"Dicky," said Mr. Whitehouse solemnly, "it's a straight tip.... But

you'll never profit by it, my boy, until you stop messing about with

your dressed-up slaveys, and light out for something bigger."

"I have told you," said Marsden, smiling, "that you can't teach me

anything."

"You're too cock-sure," said Mr. Whitehouse, almost sadly; "but you're

just wasting yourself.... Here's the tip of a life-time. I've thought it

all out, and I see my own line clear. Drop the gells--and go for the

matrons. Pick your chance, and go for it hammer and tongs.... It's what

I shall do meself. Bayswater is full of rich Jewesses--some of 'em

fairly wallowing in it. And I shan't try to grab some budding beauty. I

shall pick a ripe flower."

"I wish you luck."

"Same to you, old pal. But you won't find it the way you're trying just

now;" and Mr. Whitehouse laughed enigmatically. "I can't teach you

anything, but I can give you a parting warning.... D'you think I don't

twig what you were after to-day--wanting to see me especial--and coming

round here,--and losing yourself in admiration of Miss Thompson? And I

don't say you mightn't have pulled it off, if you'd started a bit

earlier. But you're too late. Mr. Kenion has got there first."

"Is that true--bar larks?"

"You may bet your boots on it. He's here every time she comes. After the

lessons he sees her home--by a round-about way. The only reason he

didn't go with her this afternoon is because the shop is shut, and

they're afraid of meeting the old lady.... No, my little boy, your Miss

Enid is booked."