BOOK III

BEING

I

Barnes Common seemed a very large place. The Sailor was afraid he

would not be able to keep on much longer, but he had learned endurance

in his six years before the mast. Weeks and months together he had

just kept on keeping on while he had sailed the terrible seas. At that

time there was no magic talisman to hold him to his course, there was

neither hope nor faith of the world to be. But now it was otherwise.

Surely he had no reason to give in, just as a new heaven and a new

earth were opening before his eyes.

He came presently to a row of houses. A road was beyond and traffic

was passing along it. The hope of a coffee stall sprang to his mind.

He walked doggedly along the road, until at a point where it was merged

in an important thoroughfare he came upon a cabman's shelter. And

there within, in answer to his faith, were the things he sought.

Through the open door was a fire, a smell of steaming fluids, of frying

meats, and an honest bench on which to enjoy them.

He asked no leave, but stumbled in and at the beck of his powerfully

stimulated senses ordered a kingly repast, and spread both hands before

the fire. Sausages and mashed potatoes were brought to him and he sat

down to eat, just as a very cheerful looking cabman entered with a face

of professional red, and wearing apparel not unworthy of an arctic

explorer.

The cabman ordered a cup of cocoa and a "doorstep," and that justice

might be done to them sat on the bench by the young man's side. A

little while they ate in silence, for both were very hungry. Then

under the influence of food and a good fire the cabman talked. His

sociability enabled the Sailor to ask an important question.

"Can you tell me, mister, of lodgings, clean and decent, for a single

man?"

"What sort o' lodgings are you wantin', mister?" The cabman was

favorably impressed by the young man's air of politeness.

"Lodgings clean and decent," said the Sailor.

"I know that," said the cabman urbanely, "but what do you want to pay

fur 'em?"

The Sailor reflected. There were nineteen sovereigns and twelve

half-sovereigns in his belt; all the same, he was enough of a landsman

to know the value of money.

"I want to live cheap," he said, with extreme simplicity. "Just as

cheap as I can, and be clean and decent, too."

The cabman let his large wise eyes flow over the Sailor, and quietly

took his measure as became a veteran of the town.

"Ever tried Bowdon House?"

The Sailor shook his head.

The cabman ruminated.

"Tizzey a day fur your cubicle an' the use o' the kitchen fire."

The young man was not insulted, although the cabman feared he might

have been, so good were his clothes, so gravely courteous his aspect.

"O' course," said the cabman, "it ain't Buckingham Palace, it's no use

purtendin' it is."

"So long as it's clean and decent," said the Sailor.

"I give you my word for that. Never stayed there myself, but I know

them as has."

The Sailor nodded.

"O' course, it ain't the Sizzle. I don't say that all on 'em moves in

high circles, that would be tellin' a lie, but if you don't mind all

sorts there's wuss homes, they tell me, in this metropolus, than Bowdon

House."

The young man said he would try it, anyway, if it wasn't far.

"It's at the back o' Victoria," said the cabman. "Can't miss it if you

go sharp to the left at the second turnin' past the station."

Henry Harper had to confess that he didn't know the way to Victoria

Station.

"It's quite easy," said the cabman. "Buss 14 that goes by here will

set you down at Victoria. Then do as I say, or ask a bobby to put you

right."

Armed with these instructions, Henry Harper presently set out for

Bowdon House. Feeling much better for a good meal and human

intercourse, he found it without difficulty. Bowdon House was a large

and somber building. Its exterior rather abashed the Sailor. But a

sure instinct warned him that now he could not afford to be abashed by

anything. Therefore he entered and boldly paid the sum of sixpence for

a vacant cubicle.

The beds might not be equal to the Sizzle, but they were clean and

decent undoubtedly, and not too hard for a sailor. You could have a

bath for a penny, you could keep your own private frying pan, you were

allowed the use of the kitchen range to cook any food you liked to buy,

and a comfortable place was provided where you could sit and eat it.

The company was mixed, it was true, as the cabman had said, but these

were solid advantages, and the chief of them at the moment, in the

opinion of Henry Harper, was that you could go to bed when you liked

and stay there forever if only you continued to pay your six-pence a

night.

The first thing the young man did was to have a hot bath. He then

hired for a penny a nightgown, as clean and decent as his cubicle, and

within a very short time was in a sleep so long and deep that it

banished entirely the new fear that had crept into his brain.

About five o'clock in the evening he awoke a new man. After a toilet

as careful as the absence of a razor and a hairbrush would permit, he

found his way to the common room. He felt extremely hungry, but the

outlay of another six-pence, brought him a pot of tea, some brown bread

and butter, and a slice of meat pie.

There was only one other patron in the common room, and he at once

attracted Henry Harper's curiosity. This individual was engaged in

toasting a muffin at the large and clear fire, and even with the

Sailor's experience of Miss Foldal in this kind, he had never seen one

of these delightful articles dealt with in a manner of such sacerdotal

delicacy.

A blue china plate was warming before the fire, and the muffin was

presently placed on it, soaked in butter in true Miss Foldal style, and

brought to table piping hot. The young man had chosen a place as near

the fire as he could get, and the muffin expert took a place opposite,

poured out a brew of tea from his own blue china teapot, and to the

Sailor's amazement squeezed a little lemon juice into it.

This Sybarite was eating his first piece of muffin with an air of

feminine elegance when he suddenly caught the young man's eye. The

limpid glance seemed to stimulate his own blue orb to a mild and calm

curiosity. The Sybarite looked the young man up and down, but

continued to eat his muffin with a kind of apostolic pleasantness,

which somehow recalled to Henry Harper the Reverend Rogers and a

certain famous tea-party at the Brookfield Street Mission Hall in his

distant youth.

Presently, to Henry Harper's grave surprise, the muffin eater was

pleased to discourse a little of men and things.

The Sailor in his genuine modesty was flattered, moreover he was

charmed. Never in all his wanderings had he heard a man discourse in

this way. It might have been Klondyke himself--at times there was an

odd resemblance to that immortal in the occasional grace notes of the

Sybarite. Yet it was a suggestion rather than a resemblance. This was

a kind of composite of Klondyke and the Reverend Rogers, a Klondyke

raised to a higher intellectual power.

Of course, this was only one aspect of the Sybarite, and that the least

important, because with every allowance for the sacred memory of the

Reverend Rogers, the person opposite was quite the most wonderful

talker Henry Harper had ever heard in his life.

Had the Sailor heard the music of Palestrina, which at that period was

a pleasure to come, he might have imagined he was listening to it. The

voice of the Sybarite was measured yet floating, his phrases were

endless yet perfectly rounded and definite, there was a note of

weariness, older than the world, yet there was a charm, a lucidity, a

mellow completeness that was perfectly amazing. The Sailor, with a

wonderful talisman now burning bright in his soul, was enchanted.

This remarkable person owned, with a sort of frankness which was not

frankness at all, that there were just two things he could do of

practical utility. One, it seemed, was to toast a muffin with anybody,

the other was to make the perfect cup of tea. Here he ended and here

he began. He had also the rather unacademic habit of quoting dead

languages in a manner so remarkably impressive as to bewilder the

Sailor.

Henry Harper listened with round eyes. He devoured the Sybarite. His

talisman seemed to tell him that he was on the verge of worlds denied

to the common run of men. This remarkable person had even a private

language of his own. He used words and phrases so charged with

esoteric meanings that they somehow seemed to make the Aladdin's lamp

burn brighter in the Sailor's soul. He had a knowledge of books

comprehensive and wonderful, of all ages and countries apparently, yet

when the young man ventured to ask timidly, but with a sort of pride in

his question, whether he had read the "Pickwick Papers," the answer

overthrew him completely.

"God forbid," said the Sybarite.

Henry Harper was utterly defeated. And yet he was charmed. Here was a

depth far beyond Miss Foldal, who had suggested that he should get a

ticket for the Free Library in order to be able to read Charles Dickens.

"I suppose, sir"--the "sir" would have had the sanction of Ginger, the

perfect man of the world--"I suppose, sir, you don't think much of

Charles Dickens?"

After all, that was what the Sybarite really meant.

"Not necessarily that. He is simply not in one's ethos, don't you

know."

The Sailor was baffled completely, but in some way he was a shrewd

young man. He had soon decided that it would be wiser to listen than

attempt to talk himself.

The Sybarite was fastidious but he was not shy. He liked to speak out

of the depths of his wisdom to a fit audience if the spirit was on him.

He knew that he talked well, even beautifully; the immortal flair of

the artist was there; and in this strange young man with the deep eyes

was the perfect listener, and that was what the soul of the Sybarite

always demanded.

The Sailor listened with a kind of fascinated intensity; also he

watched all that the Sybarite did with a sense of esthetic delight.

His lightest movements, like his voice, were ordered, feline,

sacramental. It made no difference whether he was toasting muffins,

buttering them, or merely eating them; whether he was pouring out tea

or conveying it in a blue china cup to his lips, it was all done in a

manner to suggest the very poetry of motion. And when it came to a

matter of rolling a cigarette, which it presently did, the almost

catlike grace of the long and slender hands that were so clean and kept

so perfectly, touched a chord very deep in the Sailor.

The name of this wonderful person, as the Sailor learned in the course

of the next two days, was Mr. Esme Horrobin. He had been formerly a

fellow and tutor of Gamaliel College, Oxford; he let out much

pertaining to himself in the most casual way in an exegesis which was

yet so neutral that it seemed to be more than wisdom itself. Also he

did not shrink from impartial consideration of an act which

circumstances had imposed upon him.

"It was one's duty to resign, I assure you." As the enchanted hours

passed, the discourse of the Sybarite grew more intimate, so rapt and

so responsive was the young man with the deep eyes in his elemental

simplicity. "It was most trying to have to leave one's warm bed in the

middle of winter at eight o'clock, to breakfast hastily, merely for

what? Merely to sustain an oaf from the public schools in a death

grapple with an idyll of Theocritus. There's a labor of Sisyphus for

you. We Horrobins are an old race; who knows what mysteries we have

profaned in the immortal past! I hope I make myself clear."

Mr. Horrobin was not making himself at all clear, but the Sailor was

striving hard to keep track of him. The Sybarite, a creature of

intuitions when in the full enjoyment of "his personal ethos," was

ready to help him to do so.

"We Horrobins are what is called in the physical world born-tired. We

are as incapable of continuous effort as a dram drinker is of total

abstinence. This absurd cosmos of airships and automobiles bores us to

tears. A mere labor of Sisyphus, I assure you, my dear fellow. The

whole human race striving to get to nowhere as fast as it can in order

to return as quickly as possible. And why? I will tell you. Man

himself has profaned the mysteries. The crime of Prometheus is not yet

expiated on our miserable planet. Take my own case. I am fit for one

thing only, and that is to lie in bed smoking good tobacco with my

books around me, translating the 'Satyricon' of Petronius Arbiter. It

seems an absurd thing to say, but given the bed, the tobacco, the

books, and the right conjunction of the planetary bodies, which in

these matters is most essential, and I honestly believe I am able to

delve deeper into the matchless style of Petronius than any other

person living or dead."

The Sailor was awed. The "Satyricon" of Petronius Arbiter was whole

worlds away from Miss Fordal.

"Whether I shall ever finish my translation is not of the slightest

importance. Personally, I am inclined to think not. That is one's own

private labor of Sisyphus. It won me a fellowship and ultimately lost

it me. Let us assume that I finish it. There is not a publisher or an

academic body in Europe or America that would venture to publish it.

Rome under Nero, my dear fellow, the feast of Trimalchio. And assuming

it is finished and assuming it is published, it will be a thing

entirely without value, either human or commercial. And why? Because

there is no absolute canon of literary style existing in the world. It

is one labor of Sisyphus the more for a man to say this is Petronius to

a world for whom Petronius can never exist. Do I make myself clear?"

The Sailor was silent, but round eyes of wonder were trained upon the

blue-eyed, yellow-bearded face of Mr. Esme Horrobin. The Sybarite,

agreeably alive to the compliment, sighed deeply.

"It may have been right to resign one's fellowship, yet one doesn't say

it was. It may not have been right, yet one doesn't say it was not.

At least, a fellowship of Gamaliel in certain of its aspects is better

than bear-leading the aristocracy, and a person of inadequate resources

is sometimes driven even to that."

The next morning, the Sailor retrieved his bag from the cloak room at

Marylebone Station, to which he went by bus from Victoria without much

difficulty. He felt wonderfully better for his day's rest, and much

fortified by the society of Mr. Esme Horrobin. Friendship had always

been precious to Henry Harper. There was something in his nature that

craved for it, yet he had never been able to satisfy the instinct

easily. But this inspired muffin eater opened up a whole world of new

and gorgeous promise now that he had Aladdin's lamp to read him by.

Mr. Esme Horrobin was what Klondyke would have called a high-brow. But

he was something more. He was a man who had the key to many hidden

things.

When the Sailor had brought his bag to Bowdon House, the first thing he

did was to find Marlow's Dictionary. Miss Foldal had presented him

with her own private copy of this invaluable work, and the name Gwladys

Foldal was to be seen on the flyleaf. "Ethos" was the first word he

looked up, but it was not there. He then sought "oaf," whose

definition was fairly clear. Then he went on to "bear-leading" and to

"aristocracy." These proved less simple. Their private meanings were

plain, more or less, but to correlate them was beyond the Sailor's

powers, nor did it fall within the scope of Marlow's Dictionary to

explain what the Sybarite meant when he spoke of bear-leading the

aristocracy.

II

Henry Harper's acquaintance with Mr. Esme Horrobin had important

consequences. That gentleman's interest deepened almost to a mild

liking for the young man. He was a type new to the Sybarite; and he

might have taken pleasure in his primitive attitude to life had it been

possible for such a developed mind to take pleasure in anything.

The company at Bowdon House was certainly mixed, but Mr. Esme Horrobin

was a miracle of courtesy to all with whom he came in contact. He had

a smile and a nod for a bricklayer's laborer, a bus conductor out of a

billet, a decayed clerk or a reformed pickpocket. No matter who they

were, his charming manners intrigued them, but also kept them at their

distance. When he fell into the language of democracy, which he

sometimes did for his own amusement, it was always set off by an access

of the patrician to his general air. By this simple means he

maintained the balance of power in the body politic. He had grasped

the fact that every man is at heart a snob. Even the young man who had

followed the sea accepted Mr. Esme Horrobin's estimate of Mr. Esme

Horrobin.

Indeed, the Sailor was absorbing Mr. Esme Horrobin at every pore. He

felt it to be a liberal education to sit at the same table, and when he

went to his cubicle there were at least half a dozen carefully

remembered words to look up in Marlow's Dictionary. But it would not

do to linger in the land of the lotus. He must find a means of earning

a living.

It occurred to the Sailor on the morning of his third day at Bowdon

House, that he might ask Mr. Horrobin for a little advice on the

matter. But he did not find it easy to do so. The young man was very

shy. It was one thing to listen to Mr. Horrobin, but quite another to

talk to him. However, after tea on the third evening, when no one was

by, he screwed up courage and boldly asked whether Mr. Horrobin knew of

a billet for a chap who didn't mind hard work, or how such a thing

could be obtained.

Frankly Mr. Horrobin did not. It was the first time in his life that

he had been met by any such problem. The problem for Mr. Horrobin had

always been of a very different kind. His tone seemed to express the

unusual when he asked the young man if he had any particular form of

occupation in view.

"I'd like something to do with literature, sir," said Henry Harper,

venturing timidly upon a new word.

"Ah." Mr. Horrobin scratched a yellow-whiskered chin. It was very

ironical that a young man who had asked whether he read Dickens should

now seek advice upon such a matter.

"Do you mean reading literature, my dear fellow, writing literature, or

selling literature?"

The young man explained very simply that it was the selling of

literature he had in mind.

"Ah," said Mr. Esme Horrobin gravely. But he had a kind heart. And if

he really took to a person, which he very seldom did, he had the sort

of disposition that is mildly helpful. And he had taken to this young

man, therefore he felt inclined to do what he could for him.

Mr. Horrobin rolled and lit a cigarette. After five minutes' hard

thought inspiration came. Its impact was almost dramatic, except that

in no circumstances was Mr. Esme Horrobin ever dramatic.

"I really think," he said, "I must give you a line to Rudge, my

bookseller, in the Charing Cross Road. He is a man who might help you;

at least he may know a man who might help you. Yes, a little line to

Rudge. Pray remind me tomorrow."

The young man was filled with gratitude. But he allowed his hopes to

run too high. Even a little line to Rudge the bookseller was not a

thing to compass in this offhand way. Tomorrow in the mouth of Mr.

Esme Horrobin was a very comprehensive term. It was Tomorrow that he

was going to complete his translation of the "Satyricon" of Petronius;

it was Tomorrow that he would return to the world in which he was born;

it was Tomorrow that he would rise earlier and forswear the practice of

smoking and reading in bed. Therefore, with the promised letter to

Rudge the bookseller burning a hole in his mind the young man spent a

very anxious tomorrow waiting for Mr. Esme Horrobin to emerge from his

cubicle.

"No use asking for Mr. Orrobin," he was told finally by the groom of

the chambers, a man old and sour and by nature the complete pessimist.

"It's one of his days in bed. He'll not put his nose outside his

cubicle until tea time."

That discreet hour was on the wane before Mr. Horrobin was to be seen

at work with a kettle, a caddy, and a toasting fork. Even then he was

in such conversational feather that it was nearly three hours later

before the young man was able to edge in a timid reminder.

"I have not forgotten," said Mr. Horrobin, all charm and amenity. "But

remind me tomorrow. I will write most gladly to Rudge. He is quite a

good fellow."

The Sailor grew desperate. It seemed impossible to live through a

second tomorrow of this kind.

"If I get a bit of paper and an envelope and a pen and ink, will you

have any objection to writing the letter now, sir?"

"My dear fellow"--the grace notes were languid and delicate--"I shall

be delighted. But why tonight? It hardly seems worth while to trouble

about it tonight."

But the young man rose from the common room table with almost a

sensation of fear upon him, and ran to his cubicle, where all the

materials for a little line to Rudge the bookseller had been in

readiness since eight o'clock that morning.

Mr. Horrobin smiled when they were brought to him, a smile half

weariness, half indulgent patronage. Even then it was necessary to

consume two more cigarettes before he could take the extreme course of

addressing Rudge the bookseller. Finally, he was addressed as follows:

Mr. Esme Horrobin presents his compliments to Mr. Rudge, and will be

glad if he can find employment on his staff, or on that of any

bookselling friends, for the bearer, whom he will find clean,

respectful, obliging, and anxious to improve himself.

The letter was composed with much care and precision, and written in a

hand of such spiderlike elegance as hardly to be legible,

notwithstanding that every "t" was crossed and every comma in its

place. Then came the business of sealing it. Mr. Horrobin produced a

tiny piece of red sealing wax from some unsuspected purlieu of himself;

a prelude to a delicately solemn performance with a wax vesta, which he

took from a silver box at the end of his watch chain, and a signet ring

which he gracefully removed from a finger of his right hand.

III

The next morning, before nine o'clock, armed with a red-sealed document

addressed in a kind of ultra-neat Chinese, "To Mr. Rudge, Bookseller,

Charing Cross Road," the Sailor set out upon one phase the more of an

adventurous life.

It was not easy to find the Charing Cross Road, and when even he had

done so, Mr. Rudge was not there. Booksellers were in abundance on

both sides of the street. Mr. Hogan was there, Messrs. Cook and Hunt,

Messrs. Lewis and Grieve; in fact, there were booksellers by the score,

but Mr. Rudge was not of these. In the end, however, patience was

rewarded. There was a tiny shop on the right near the top of the long

street, which bore the magic name on its front in letters so faded as

to be almost undecipherable.

Only one person was in the shop, a small and birdlike man to whom Henry

Harper presented Mr. Horrobin's letter. The recipient was apparently

impressed by it.

"Mr. Horrobin, I see," said Mr. Rudge the bookseller--the small and

birdlike man was not less than he--in a tone of reverence as he broke

the seal.

A man of parts, Mr. Rudge was proud of an acquaintance which might

almost be considered non-professional. When out of funds, Mr. Horrobin

would sell Mr. Rudge a classic at a very little below its original

cost, and when in funds would buy it back at a price somewhat less than

that at which he had sold it. Mr. Rudge did not gain pecuniarily by

the transaction, but in the course of the deal Mr. Horrobin would

discourse so charmingly upon the classics in general that Mr. Rudge

felt it was as good as a lecture at the Royal Institution. Although

not a scholar himself in the academic sense, he had a ripe regard for

those who were. In the mind of his bookseller, Mr. Horrobin stood for

Culture with a very large letter.

Mr. Rudge was not in urgent need of an assistant. But he had felt

lately that he would like one. He was getting old. It seemed a

special act of grace that Mr. Horrobin should have sent him this young

man.

Perhaps it was Mr. Rudge's reverence for Mr. Horrobin which committed

him to a bold course. It was stretching a point, but Mr. Horrobin was

Mr. Horrobin, and in the special circumstances it seemed the part of

homage for pure intellect to do what he could for the bearer. Thus,

after a few minutes' consideration of the matter, Henry Harper was

engaged at a salary of twenty-five shillings a week to be in attendance

at the shop from eight till seven, and eight till two Saturdays.

This was a stroke of real luck. A special providence had seemed to

watch over the Sailor ever since he had left the _Margaret Carey_. The

situation that had been offered was exactly the one he would have

chosen. The mere sight of a shop crammed with treasures ancient and

mysterious was like a glimpse of an enchanted land. The previous day

he had bought a copy of the "Arabian Nights" for a shilling. Such

facility had he now gained in reading that he had dipped into its pages

with a sharp sense of delight. No. 249, Charing Cross Road, was a

veritable Cave of the Forty Robbers.

These endless rows of shelves were magic casements opening on

fairyland. The Sailor felt that the turning point of his life had

come. A cosmos of new worlds was spread before him now. Moreover, it

was his to enter and enjoy.

He had come, as it seemed, miraculously, upon a period of expansion and

true growth. His duties in the shop were light. This was one of those

quiet businesses that offer many intervals of leisure. Also Mr. Rudge,

as became one with a regard for the things of the mind, gave his

assistant a chance "to improve himself" in accordance with Mr.

Horrobin's suggestion. Perhaps that happy and fortunate phrase had a

great deal to do with the new prosperity. Mr. Rudge had been flattered

by such a request coming from a man of such distinction; he felt he

must live up to it by allowing Henry Harper to improve himself as much

as possible.

The Sailor had entered Elysium. But he had the good sense to walk

warily. He knew now that it was over-reading, the danger against which

Ginger had solemnly warned him, that had brought about the Blackhampton

catastrophe. He must always be on his guard, yet now the freedom was

his of all these magic shelves, it was by no means easy to stick to

that resolve.

Mr. Rudge dwelt at the back of the shop. Most of his time was passed

in a small, dark, and stuffy sitting-room, where he ate his meals and

applied himself to Culture at every reasonable opportunity. Now that

he had an assistant, he was able to bestow more time than ever upon the

things of the mind. He spent half his days and half his nights taking

endless notes, in a meticulous hand, for a great work he had conceived

forty-two years ago when he had migrated from Birmingham to the

metropolis. This _magnum opus_ was to be called "A History of the

World," and was to consist of forty volumes, with a supplementary

volume as an index, making forty-one in all. Each was to have four

hundred and eighty pages, which were to be divided into twenty-four

chapters. There were to be no illustrations.

Four decades had passed since the golden hour in which this scheme was

born. In a spare room above the shop were a number of large tin trunks

full of notes for the great work, all very carefully coded and

docketed. These were the fruits of forty-two years' amazing industry.

Every year these labors grew more comprehensive, more unceasing. But

the odd thing was that only the first sentence of the first volume of

the opus was yet in being. It ran, "'In the beginning,' says Holy

Writ, 'was the Word.'" And even that pregnant sentence had yet to be

put on paper. At present, it lay like the text of the History itself,

in the head of the author.

With Henry Harper to mind the shop, the historian was able to devote

more time to the work of his life. This was a fortunate matter,

because Mr. Rudge was already within a few months of seventy, and forty

volumes and an index had yet to be written. As a fact, considerable

portions of the index were already in existence; and during Henry

Harper's first week in the front shop it received a valuable accession

in the form of "Bulrushes, Vol. IX., pp. 243-245. Moses in, Vol. III.,

p. 120." Careful and voluminous notes upon Bulrushes, based upon an

unknown work that had lately arrived in a consignment of second-hand

books from Sheffield, went to line the bottom of yet another large

trunk which had been added recently to the attic above the shop.

IV

The day soon came when Henry Harper said good-by to Mr. Horrobin and

Bowdon House. Mr. Rudge took a fancy to him from the first. It may

have been his high credentials partly; no one could have been equipped

with a better start in life than the imprimatur of such a scholar and

such a gentleman as Mr. Esme Horrobin. But at the same time there was

much to like in the young man himself. He was diligent and respectful

and his heart was in his work; also, and perhaps this counted more with

Mr. Rudge than anything else, he was very anxious to improve himself.

And Mr. Rudge, who was an altruist as well as a lover of Culture, was

very anxious to improve him.

Sometimes Mr. Rudge had a feeling of loneliness, notwithstanding the

immense labor to which he had dedicated his life. This was due in a

measure to the fact that a nephew he had adopted had taken a sudden

distaste for the Charing Cross Road, and had now been twelve months at

sea. A bedroom he had occupied above the shop was vacant; and the use

of it was presently offered to Henry Harper.

The young man accepted it gratefully. It was one more rare stroke of

luck; he was now free to dwell in the land of faerie all day and all

night. It seemed as if this was to be a golden time.

In a sense it was. Aladdin's lamp was fed continually and kept freshly

trimmed. The Sailor began to make surprising progress in his studies,

and his kind master, when not too completely absorbed in his own

titanic labors after supper, would sometimes help him. In fact, it was

Mr. Rudge who first introduced him to grammar. Klondyke had never

mentioned it. Miss Foldal had never mentioned it. Mr. Horrobin had

never mentioned it. Mr. Rudge it was who first brought grammar home to

Henry Harper.

Reading was important, said Mr. Rudge, also writing, also arithmetic,

but these things, excellent in themselves, paled in the presence of

grammar. You simply could not do without it. He could never have

planned his "History of the World" in forty volumes excluding the

index, let alone have prepared a concrete foundation for such a work,

without a thorough knowledge of this science. It was the key to all

Culture, and Culture was the crown of all wisdom.

On the shelves of the shop were several works on the subject. And Mr.

Rudge soon began to spare an hour after supper every night from his own

labors, in order that Henry Harper might acquire the key to the higher

walks of mental experience.

The young man took far less kindly to grammar than he did to reading,

writing, arithmetic, or even geography, which Miss Foldal considered

one of the mere frills of erudition. He could see neither rhyme nor

reason in this new study; but Mr. Rudge assured him it was so important

that he felt bound to persevere.

Moreover, these efforts brought their reward. They kept him certain

hours each day from the things for which he had a passion, so that when

he felt he could turn to them again his delight was the more intense.

The books he read were very miscellaneous, but Mr. Rudge had too broad

a mind to exercise a censorship. In his view, as became a bookseller

_pur sang_, all books were good, but some were better than others.

For instance, works of the imagination were less good than other

branches of literature. In Volume XXXIX of the "History of the World"

a chapter was to be devoted to Shakespeare, pp. 260-284, wherein homage

would be paid to a remarkable man, but it would be shown that the

adulation lavished upon one who relied so much on imagination was out

of all proportion to that received by Hayden, the author of the

"Dictionary of Dates." Without that epoch-making work the "History of

the World" could not have been undertaken.

Ill-assorted the Sailor's reading might be, but this was a time of true

development. Day by day Aladdin's lamp burned brighter. There was

little cause to regret Blackhampton, dire tragedy as his flight must

ever be. When he had been a fortnight with Mr. Rudge he tried to write

Ginger a letter.

To begin it, however, was one thing; to complete it another. It seemed

so light and callous in comparison with his depth of feeling that he

tore it up. He was disgraced forever in the sight of Ginger and his

peers.

Therefore he decided to write to Miss Foldal instead. But when he took

pen in hand, somehow he lost courage. He could have no interest for

her now. It would be best to forget Blackhampton, to put it, if

possible, out of his life.

Still he felt rather lonely sometimes. Mr. Rudge was wonderfully kind,

but he lived in a world of his own. And the only compensations Henry

Harper now had for the crowded epoch of Blackhampton were the books in

the shop which he devoured ravenously, and the daily visits of the

charlady, Mrs. Greaves.

For many years she had been the factotum of Mr. Elihu Rudge. Every

morning she made his fire, cooked his meals, swept and garnished his

home, and "did for him" generally. She was old, thin, somber and

battered, and she had the depth of a bottomless abyss.

Mrs. Greaves was a treasure. Mr. Rudge depended upon her in

everything. She was an autocrat, but women of her dynamic power are

bound to be. She despised all men, frankly and coldly. In the purview

of Mrs. Caroline Agnes Greaves, man was a poor thing. Woman who could

get round him, who could walk over him, who could set him up and put

him down, merely allowed him to take precedence in order that she might

handle him to better advantage. She had a great contempt for an

institution that was no "use any way," and to this law of nature it was

not to be expected that "a nine pence to the shilling" creature like

Mr. Henry Harper would provide an exception.

V

One evening the Sailor made a discovery. At first, however, he was far

from grasping what it meant. Like many things intimately concerned

with fate, it seemed a trivial and commonplace matter. It was

presently to change the current of his life, but it was not until long

after the change was wrought that he saw the hand of destiny.

After a week of delight he turned the last page of "Vanity Fair" by the

famous author, William Makepeace Thackeray, the rival and contemporary

of Charles Dickens, the author of the "Pickwick Papers." It was within

a few minutes of midnight, and as Mr. Rudge, engaged upon copious notes

of the life of Charles XII of Sweden, made no sign of going to bed,

Henry Harper determined to allow himself one more hour.

Therefore he took a candle and entered the front shop with a sense of

adventure. First he put back "Vanity Fair," Volume II, on its shelf,

and then raising his candle on high, with the eagle glance of stout

Cortez, he surveyed all the new worlds about him. With a thrill of joy

he stood pondering which kingdom he should enter. Should it be "The

Origin of Species," by Charles Darwin, which his master said was an

important work and had been laid under contribution for the History?

Should it be the "Queens of England," by Agnes Strickland, also several

times to be quoted in the History? Or should it be Volume CXLI of

_Brown's Magazine_, 2_s._ 9_d._, re-bound with part of the July number

missing?

By pure chance the choice fell upon _Brown's Magazine_, incomplete as

it was, and in its outward seeming entirely commonplace. He took the

volume from its shelf, beat the dust out of it, and carried it into the

sitting-room.

He began to read at the first page. This happened to be the opening of

a serial story, "The Adventures of George Gregory; A Tale of the High

Seas," by Anon. And the tale proved so entrancing that that night the

young man did not go to bed until it was nearly time to get up again.

Without being aware of it he had found his kingdom. Here were

atmosphere and color, space and light. Here was the life he had known

and realized, set forth in the vicarious glory of the printed page.

For many days to come he could think of little save "The Adventures of

George Gregory." This strange tale of the high seas, over which his

master shook his head sadly when it was shown to him, declaring it to

be a work of the imagination and therefore of very small account, had a

glamour quite extraordinary for Henry Harper. It brought back the

_Margaret Carey_ and his years of bitter servitude. It conjured up Mr.

Thompson and the Chinaman, the Old Man and the Island of San Pedro.

With these august shades raised again in the mind of the Sailor, "The

Adventures of George Gregory" gained an authority they could not

otherwise have had. In many of its details the story was obviously

inaccurate. Sometimes Anon made statements about the _Belle Fortune_,

the name of the ship, and the Pacific Isles, upon one of which it was

wrecked, that almost made Henry Harper doubt whether George Gregory had

ever been to sea at all. However, he soon learned that it was his duty

to crush these unworthy suspicions and to yield entirely to the

wonderful feast of incident spread before him.

Charles Dickens, and even W. M. Thackeray, for all his knowledge of the

world, were poor things compared with Anon. It was a real misfortune

that the part of the July number of _Brown's Magazine_ which was

missing contained an installment of "The Adventures," but there was no

help for it. Moreover, having realized the fact, the gift of the gods,

Aladdin's lamp, came to the assistance of the Sailor.

With the help of the magic talisman it was quite easy to fill in the

missing part which contained the adventures of poor George when

marooned, not on the Island of San Pedro, but on an island in the

southern seas. There would certainly be serpents, and for that reason

he would have to keep out of the trees; and although the July number

was not able to supply the facts, once you had Aladdin's lamp it was a

very simple matter to make good the omission.

One thing leads to another. "The Adventures of George Gregory,"

imperfect as they were, fastened such a grip on the mind of Henry

Harper, that one dull Monday afternoon in March, when he sat in the

shop near the oil-stove waiting for an infrequent customer, a great

thought came to him. Might it not be possible to improve upon George

Gregory with the aid of the talisman and his own experience?

It was a very daring thought, but he was sustained in it by the

conclusion to which he had come: the work of Anon, exciting and

ingenious as it certainly was, was not the high seas as the Sailor had

once envisaged them. The color, the mystery, the discomfort, the

horror were not really there. Even the marooning of poor George upon

the Island of Juan Fernandez did not thrill your blood as it ought to

have done. True, it could be urged that the part containing the

episode was missing; but in no case would it have been possible to

equal in horror and intensity the marooning of Sailor upon the Island

of San Pedro with serpents in every tree around him, although with

equal truth it might be urged by the skeptical that the incident never

took place at all.

"Never took place at all!" lisped Aladdin's lamp in magic syllables.

"Pray, what do you mean? It certainly took place in your experience,

and in the opinion of your learned master who is writing a history of

the world in forty volumes, that is the only thing that matters."

A flash of the talisman was soon to raise a bottle of ink and a quire

of foolscap. Therefore one evening after supper, Mr. Rudge, still at

Charles XII of Sweden, was startled painfully when "The Adventures of

Dick Smith on the High Seas," by Henry Harper, Chapter One, was shown

to him. It was a fall, but his master was too kind to say so. These

misspent hours could have been used for a further enrichment of the

mind. He might have added to his knowledge of grammar. He might have

ventured upon the study of shorthand itself, a science of which Mr.

Rudge never ceased to deplore his own ignorance. However, he said

nothing, and went on with the great work.

Thus, not realizing the true feelings of his master, the young man

continued to supplement the entrancing but incomplete "Adventures of

George Gregory" with his own experience. The strange tale grew at the

back of the genie who tended the lamp, and with it grew the soul of

Henry Harper. In this new and wonderful realm he had entered it seemed

that the Sailor had surely found his kingdom. Deep down in himself

were latent faculties which he had not known were there. They were now

springing forth gloriously into the light.

All his life he had been a dreamer of dreams; now the power was his of

making them come true, he had a world of his own in which to live. He

was only half awake as yet to the world around him; and this arrest of

growth was for a time his weakness and his strength. It is impossible,

it is said, to touch pitch and not be defiled. The worth of that

aphorism was about to be tried by the clairvoyant soul of Henry Harper.

At this time, while he was drawing very painfully and yet rapturously

upon his inner life, he was like an expanding flower. All his leisure

was not spent in the back parlor at No. 249, Charing Cross Road. There

were hours when he walked abroad into the streets of the great city.

Much was hidden from his eyes as yet. The truth was it was not his own

great city in which he walked. He gazed and saw, listened and heard in

a mirage of fanciful ignorance. A life of unimaginable squalor and

hardship had not been able to slay the genie sleeping in that elemental

soul. But it had yet to get its range of values in the many worlds

around it.

One Sunday morning in the spring, in one of his enchanted walks about

the city in the pursuit of knowledge, he chanced to enter Hyde Park.

It was the hour when the churches of the neighborhood disgorged their

fashionable congregations. Here, as he sat near the statue of Achilles

and watched the brilliant throng pass by, a feeling of awe and

bewilderment overcame him. He had never realized before that his

fellow occupants of the planet could be so wonderful. Here was a

significance, a beauty, a harmony of aspect beyond anything he had

imagined to be possible. The fine-ladyhood of Miss Foldal was nothing

in comparison with that queening it all around him. Even the quality

of Mr. Esme Horrobin paled in luster. This was a very remarkable world

into which he had strayed. He had almost a sense of guilt at finding

himself there. With such clothes as he wore and such a humility of

heart as he had, he had clearly no right of entry to this paradise.

But there he was with every nerve alive, and the scene burned itself

vividly into his heart and brain.

These gorgeous beings with their kingliness of mien, these children of

the sun who spoke with the accent of the gods meant much more to the

primitive soul of Henry Harper than as yet it could understand. In the

intoxication of the hour, with the sun and the birds, the trees, the

green earth, the bright flowers paying their homage to the grace and

beauty of his countrywomen, he felt like an angel who has fallen out of

heaven, who after aeons of time in a bottomless hell is permitted to

see again a fair heritage that once was his.

The genie had unlocked another door. Henry Harper was now in a world

of romance. In order to know what these wonderful beings truly were he

listened eagerly for fragments of their talk as they passed by. All of

a sudden there came miraculously a voice that had a tang of ocean in

it. There and then was he flung out of Hyde Park to the deck of the

_Margaret Carey_.

Leaping at the sound of a laugh, a full-chested music the Sailor could

never forget, he saw, a few yards off, the oncoming figures of a man

and a girl. Both were tall and young and splendid; both seemed to be

dressed in the last cry of fashion. Moreover they bore themselves with

the assured grace of a sweet ship under canvas.

The pair were clearly brother and sister, and the figure of the man, at

least, was extraordinarily familiar to Henry Harper. Yet almost before

he had realized them, they were level with him. It was not until they

were actually past the seat on which he sat that there came a flash of

recognition. The man was Klondyke.

For an instant the heart of the Sailor stood still. The immortal had

almost touched his knee, yet he was yards away already. But Klondyke

it was, laughing his great note and rolling out his rich and peculiar

dialect. It was Klondyke in a top hat and a tail coat, looking as if

he had come out of a bandbox. Who could believe that such faultless

magnificence had been washed habitually out of its berth in the

half-deck of the _Margaret Carey_?

He did not look a bit older than when the Sailor had seen him last,

that unhappy six years ago when his friend shook him by the hand, told

him to stick to his reading and writing, and then started to walk

across Asia. And in that time Klondyke did not appear to have changed

at all. He had the same brown, large-featured face, the same keen and

cheerful eye, the same roll in his gait, and that cool, indefinable,

you-be-damned air that was both admired and resented aboard the

_Margaret Carey_.

By the time the Sailor had recovered from his surprise, Klondyke was

out of sight. A strong impulse then came upon Henry Harper to go after

his friend and declare himself. But a feeling of timidity defeated

him. Besides, he understood more fully at this moment than ever before

that there were whole continents between such a man as Klondyke and

such a man as Henry Harper.

VI

The emotions of the Sailor were many and conflicting as he made his way

back to Charing Cross Road to the homely meal which Mrs. Greaves

provided for his master and himself. A long afternoon and evening

followed in which _Dick Smith_ and the brigantine _Excelsior_ roamed

the high seas.

Infinite pains had now brought the narrative to Chapter Six. But for

some days progress was very slow. The figure of Klondyke held the

thoughts of the Sailor. Surely it was cowardice not to have made

himself known. It was treason to assume that his friend, in spite of

the wonderful girl by his side, would not have been glad to see him

again. Yet was it? That was the half formed fear which tormented him.

Klondyke had forgotten his existence: so much was clear because he had

almost touched his knee as he went by. And why should he remember him?

Who was he that he should be remembered by such a man as Klondyke? The

tale of the high seas had a bad week. The Sailor was held in thrall by

an emanation from the past. How Klondyke would have roared had he

known what he was at! Somehow it set the blood tingling in Henry

Harper's ears to reflect that it was he who a few brief years ago had

first introduced him to reading and writing.

Do as he would, it was not a propitious hour for the story of _Dick

Smith_ and the brigantine _Excelsior_. And when the next Sunday came

he had to decide whether or not to go to Hyde Park in the hope of

seeing the immortal. Finally, in a state of utter misgiving, he went.

This time, although he sat a long hour on a seat near the statue of

Achilles, there was never a sign of him. Yet he was content to be

disappointed, for the longer he sat the more clearly he knew that

cowardice would defeat him again should Klondyke and his attendant

nymph appear.

Henry Harper was coming now to a phase in which ladies were to play

their part. Mrs. Greaves had a niece, it seemed. From brilliant

accounts furnished from time to time he learned that she was a

strikingly gifted creature, not only endowed with beauty, but also with

brains in a very high degree.

"Miss Cora Dobbs," in the words of her aunt, "was an actress by

profession, and she had done so well in it that she had a flat of her

own round the corner in the Avenue. Toffs as understood Cora's merit

thought 'ighly of her talent. She could dance and she could sing, and

she earned such good money that she had a nest-egg put by."

Henry Harper was at first too absorbed in his work to pay much

attention to the charlady's discourses upon her niece. Besides, had he

not known Miss Gwladys Foldal who had played in Shakespeare and been

admitted to an intimacy of a most intellectual kind? The indifference

of Mr. Harper seemed to pique Mrs. Greaves. She often recurred to the

subject of Miss Dobbs; moreover, she seemed anxious for the young man

to realize that "although she was the niece of one as didn't pretend to

be anythink, Cora herself was a lady."

Such statements were not really necessary. In the eyes of Mr. Harper

every woman was a lady more or less, even if to that rule there must

always be one signal exception. He had a deep-rooted chivalry for Mrs.

Greaves' sex. He even treated her, flat-chested, bearded and

ferret-like as she was, with an instinctive courtesy which she at once

set down as weakness of character.

For a reason Mr. Harper did not try to fathom--just now he was far too

deep in his task to give much thought to the matter--Mrs. Greaves

seemed most anxious that he should make the acquaintance of Miss Cora

Dobbs. One reason, it is true, she gave. "Mr. Arper was a snail as

was too much in his shell. He wanted a bright and knowing girl like

Cora to tote him around a bit and teach him not to be afraid of life."

Mrs. Greaves had such a contempt for Mr. Harper's sex that her

solicitude was rather strange. As for its two specimens for whom she

"did" daily, the emotion they inspired was one of deadly cynicism. In

her razor-like judgment they were as soft as pap. It was therefore the

more remarkable that she should now take such an interest in the

welfare of the younger man.

What was he writing? Lips of cautious curiosity were always asking the

question. A book! She was greatly interested in books and had always

been since she had "done" for a gentleman who got fifty pounds for

every one that he wrote. What did Mr. Harper expect to get by it?

It had not occurred to Mr. Harper that he would get anything by it.

"Why write it then?" she asked with acrid surprise. Why get up so

early and sit up so late? Why use all that good ink and expensive

paper if he didn't expect to get something out of it?

The young man was writing it because he felt he must.

"I sometimes think you must be a reg'lar soft-biled un," said Mrs.

Greaves, with an air of personal affront. "I do, honest. Wasting your

time like that ... and mine as well!"

At that moment, however, the Sailor was far too deep in Chapter

Eighteen to attend to the charlady. His total lack of interest sent

her in a huff to the back kitchen. Yet she was not cast down

altogether. He was more of a half-bake than she had guessed, that was

all.

VII

Next morning a lady walked into the shop. She was tall and stout,

beaming and fashionable. The first detail of a striking, even

resplendent personality which caught the young man's eye was her boots.

These were long, narrow, perilously high in the heel, they had black

and white checked uppers, and a pair of fat feet had been buttoned into

them.

"I want 'Etiquette for Ladies,' please. It's in the window. A

shilling. Yellow cover."

It was not the voice the young man had heard in Hyde Park, nor was it

the voice of Miss Foldal; on the contrary, it was direct, searching,

rather aggressive in quality. There was ease and confidence in it,

there was humor and archness. It was a voice of hyper-refinement, of

Miss Foldal receiving company, raised to a higher, more dominant power.

"Yes, that's the one. By a Member of the Aristocracy. At least it

says it is. And if it isn't, I get my money back, don't I?"

The flash of teeth and the smile that followed startled the young man

considerably. He blushed to the roots of his hair. This was a new

kind of lady altogether and he didn't know in the least how he was

going to cope with her.

"Thanks very much." Elegantly the sum of one shilling was disbursed

from a very smart reticule.

That, however, was not the conclusion of the incident.

"Excuse me," said the lady, "but you are Mr. Harper, aren't you?"

Blushing again he admitted very humbly that he was.

"Yes, you look clever. I'm Cora Dobbs. You know Auntie, I think."

With a blush deepening to a hue that was quite nice the young man said

he knew Miss Dobbs' aunt.

"She's a rum one, isn't she?" The sudden friendliness was overpowering.

The young man, not knowing what to say, said nothing. Thus far he had

been on the high seas with _Dick Smith_ and the brigantine _Excelsior_,

but he was quickly coming to dry land, to London, to the Charing Cross

Road. So this was the niece of whom Mrs. Greaves thought so much.

Henry Harper could understand the charlady's pride in her, but it was

very surprising that she should be the niece of Mrs. Greaves. She was

something totally different. In manner she was even more refined than

Miss Foldal herself, although in some ways she had a slight resemblance

to his good fairy. But Miss Dobbs had a candor, a humor and a charm

quite new in Henry Harper's very limited social experience. She was

really most agreeable; also her clothes, if not exactly Hyde Park, were

so fine that they must have cost a great deal of money.

So much for Miss Dobbs in the sight of Mr. Harper. As for Mr. Harper

in the sight of Miss Dobbs, that was a very different matter. He was

not bad looking; he was tall, well-made, clean, his eyes were good.

But their queer expression could only mean that he was as weak as water

and as green as grass. Evidently he hardly knew he had come on to the

earth. Also he was as shy as a baby and his trousers wanted ironing

badly.

"I have heard quite a lot about you, Mr. Harper, from my aunt."

It was a little surprising that a creature so fashionable should own an

aunt so much the reverse. Even Mr. Harper, who had hardly begun to get

a sense of perspective, felt the two ladies were as wide asunder as the

poles. Not of course that Mrs. Greaves was an "ordinary" char, he had

her own assurance of that. She was a kind of super-charlady who "did"

for barristers and professional gentlemen, cooked their meals,

supervised their bachelor establishments, and allowed them to share her

pride in a distinguished niece.

Had Mr. Harper been a more sophisticated young man he must have felt

the attitude of the niece to be admirable. There was not a shade of

false shame when she spoke of her aunt. Miss Cora Dobbs was too

frankly of the world to suffer any vicarious embarrassment. She was

amused with a relationship thrust upon her by an ironical providence,

and that was all.

"I hear you are writing a book."

That was a false move. Mr. Harper was only able to blush vividly and

to make a kind of noise at the back of his throat.

"I have a great friend who is writing one." Miss Dobbs hastened to

repair a tactical mistake. "Hers is reminiscences. I am helping with

a few of mine. I dare say Auntie has told you I have been on the

stage?"

Mr. Harper had been told that.

"Don't you think it's a good idea? My friend gives her name because

she married a lord, but I'm to do the donkey work. It would be telling

if I told you her name, but don't you think it's business?"

Mr. Harper thought, not very audibly, that it was.

"One of our girls at the Friv., Cassie Smallpiece, who married Lord

Bargrave, you know..."

... Mr. Harper did not know, but Miss Dobbs had already struck such a

note of intimacy that he somehow felt he ought to have known....

"... Made quite a pot of money out of hers. Of course there was

scandal in Cassie's. Cassie was rather warm pastry. But there'll be

none in ours, although I expect that'll be money out of our pockets."

Mr. Harper hoped such would not be the case.

"Bound to be," said Miss Dobbs. "That's the worst of being a clean

potato, you are always missing your share of the cake."

Mr. Harper was completely out of his depth. He had no reply to make to

this very advanced remark.

Miss Dobbs watched his perplexed face with a narrow-lidded wariness,

behind which glittered the eyes of a goshawk. But she was too wise to

force the pace unduly. With a suddenness that was almost startling,

she said, "Well, ching-a-ling. I'll look in again when you are not so

busy, Mr. Harper. One of these days perhaps you will give me advice

about my reminiscences." And with a smile and a wave of her muff of

excruciating friendliness, Miss Cora Dobbs gave a trip and a waddle,

and the high heels and the black and white check uppers were on the

pavement of the Charing Cross Road.

For at least three minutes, however, after they had gone, _Dick Smith_

and the brigantine _Excelsior_ were left in a state of suspended

animation. The author had to make a great effort before he could

proceed with Chapter Eighteen. A glamour had passed from the earth; at

least from that part of the earth contained by the four walls of No.

249, Charing Cross Road.

VIII

Miss Cora Dobbs was as good as her word. She looked in again; indeed

she formed quite a habit of looking into the shop of Elihu Rudge,

bookseller, whenever she was passing. This seemed to work out on an

average at one morning a week. Her reminiscences could hardly have

induced this friendliness because, strange to say, she never mentioned

them again.

On a first consideration, it seemed more likely due to her deep

interest in the book Mr. Harper was writing, of which her aunt had told

her. Whenever Miss Dobbs looked in she never failed to ask, "How is it

going today?" and she declared she would not be satisfied until a

chapter had been read to her.

Mr. Harper was rather embarrassed by the attentions of Miss Dobbs. He

was a very shy young man, and in regard to his new and strange and

sometimes extremely painful labors he was unreasonably silent. But so

determined was the interest of Miss Dobbs that in the end Mr. Harper

yielded to its pressure. At last he let her see the manuscript. But

even that did not content her. She was set, it seemed, on having some

of the choicest passages read aloud by the author when there was no one

in the shop.

In a way the determination of Miss Dobbs was rather a thorn. Yet it

would have been idle and ungracious for Mr. Harper to pretend that he

was not flattered by this remarkable solicitude for the story of _Dick

Smith_ and the brigantine _Excelsior_. He was very flattered indeed.

For one thing, Miss Dobbs was Miss Dobbs in a way that Miss Foldal had

never been Miss Foldal. She was a force in the way that Ginger was;

her elegance was positive, it meant something. She had a subtle air of

"being out for blood," just as Ginger had when they had paid their

first never-to-be-forgotten visit to Blackhampton. Deep in his heart

the Sailor was a little afraid of Miss Cora Dobbs. Yet he did not know

why he should be. She was extraordinarily agreeable. No one could

have been pleasanter to talk to; she was by far the wittiest and most

amusing lady he had ever met; it was impossible not to like her

immensely; but already a subtle instinct told him to beware.

As for Miss Dobbs, her state of mind would be difficult to render.

Just as Mr. Harper was very simple, Miss Dobbs was extremely complex.

In the first place, there seemed no particular reason why she should

have come into the shop at all. It may have been curiosity. Perhaps

her aunt had aroused it by the statement that Mr. Rudge had "set up a

nice-looking boy as wrote books," and it may have been that the bearing

of the nice-looking boy gave warrant for a continuance of Miss Dobbs'

friendly regard.

On the other hand, it may have been the nature of Mr. Harper's calling

which inspired these punctual attentions. It certainly had

possibilities. Among the friends of Miss Dobbs was a certain Mr.

Albert Hobson who was reputed to earn several thousands a year by his

pen. Again, it may have been the statement of her aunt that the young

man "had follered the sea and had a nest-egg put by." Or again it may

have been the young man himself who appealed to her. His clean

simplicity of mind and of mansion may have had a morbid attraction for

a complexity that was pathological. Of these hypotheses the last may

seem least probable, but the motives of a Miss Cora Dobbs defy

analysis; and in a world in which nothing is absolute she is perhaps

entitled to the benefit of any doubt that may arise concerning them.

In spite of Miss Dobbs, whose attentions for the present were confined

to a few minutes one morning a week, the story of _Dick Smith_ began to

make excellent progress. All the same it was uphill work. The Sailor

was a very clumsy craftsman using the queerest of tools, but oddly

enough he had a remarkable faculty of concentration.

At last came the day when the final chapter was written. And a proud

day it was. In spite of many defeats and misgivings, he was able at

three o'clock of a summer morning to write the magic words, "The End."

Yet it was far from being the end of his labors. He little knew that

he had merely come to Mount Pisgah, and that for many days he must be

content with no more than a glimpse of the Promised Land.

In telling the story of his early years the Sailor had no particular

object in view. Certain mysterious forces were craving expression.

Such a task had not been undertaken at the call of ambition. But now

it was done ambition found a part to play.

On the very morning the story was finished, by an odd chance Miss Dobbs

came into the shop. In answer to her invariable, "Well, what of it?"

she was gravely informed that the end had been reached.

"My! you've been going some, Mr. R. L. Stevenson. Run along and fetch

the last chapter and read it to me and then I'll tell you honestly

whether I think it's as good as Bert Hobson."

Miss Dobbs had the habit of command. Therefore Chapter the Last,

telling of the hero's miraculous deliverance from the Island of San

Pedro, was at once produced. Moreover, it was read to her with naif

sincerity in a gentle voice.

"Hot stuff!" Miss Dobbs dexterously concealed a yawn with a dingy

white glove. "It's It."

The author blushed with pleasure, although he could hardly believe the

story was as good as all that.

"And what are you going to do with it now you've written it?"

To her intense surprise it had not occurred to him to do anything with

it.

"Oh, but that's potty. That's merely potty. Of course you are going

to bring it out as a book."

The author had not thought of doing so.

"Anyhow, it is just the thing for a magazine."

Even a magazine had not entered his mind.

"What are you going to do with it, then?" demanded Miss Dobbs, with

growing incredulity.

This was a question Mr. Harper was unable to answer.

"You are going to do nothing with it?" gasped Miss Dobbs.

"No."

"But it's 'some' story, I assure you it is. If you send it to the

_Rotunda_ or the _Covent Garden_ it may mean big money."

Quite absurdly the financial aspect had not presented itself.

"Well, you're potty," said Miss Dobbs, with despondency. "Don't you

know that Bert Hobson, who writes those stories for the _Rotunda_,

makes his thousands a year?"

Mr. Harper, who had never heard of Bert Hobson or of the _Rotunda_,

seemed greatly surprised.

"Why, you are as green as green," said Miss Dobbs reproachfully. "It's

such a nugget of thrills, you ought to see that it gets published. You

ought really."

But in spite of her conviction it was some time before he felt able to

take her advice. Such unpractical reluctance on the part of genius

gave her pain. It seemed to lower its value. He must be a genius to

have written a book, but it was a great pity that he should confirm the

world's estimate of genius by behaving like one.

Why had he taken so much trouble if he was not going to get a nice fat

check out of it?

He had written it because he felt he must.

It's a very sloppy reason, was the unexpressed opinion of Miss Dobbs.

After such a hopeless admission on the part of the young man with the

queer eyes, Miss Dobbs felt so hurt that she did not appear in the shop

for three weeks. And when at last she came again, she learned that the

story of _Dick Smith_ and the brigantine _Excelsior_ was still in its

drawer and had yet to be seen by anyone.

"You beat Banagher," said Miss Dobbs. And then she suddenly exclaimed,

"Look here, Mr. Harper, give me that story and I'll send it myself to

the _Rotunda_."

Very gently and politely, but quite firmly, Mr. Harper declined to do

so. But in order to appease Miss Dobbs, who was inclined to make this

refusal a personal matter, he solemnly promised that he would send it

to the _Rotunda_ himself, or some other magazine.

Henry Harper took a sudden resolve that night to send the story to the

home of its only true begetter, _Brown's Magazine_. Why he chose that

periodical in preference to the _Rotunda_ was more than he could say.

It may have been a feeling of reverence for the dilapidated Volume CXLI

with part of the July number missing. Some high instinct may have been

at work since the gods must have some kind of machinery to help them in

these matters. At least the material fact was beyond dispute. He

packed the story that evening in neat brown paper, and before taking

down the shutters of the shop the next morning, went out and posted it,

although sure in his own mind that he was guilty of a foolish

proceeding.

Still, there was a lady in the case. But when in the course of the

following day Miss Dobbs looked in again, by some odd perversity she

was inclined to share this view to the full. She had never heard of

_Brown's Magazine_. The _Rotunda_ and the _Covent Garden_ were her

stand-bys. She never read anything else. But she dared say that

Brown's money would be as good as other people's, although _Brown's

Magazine_ certainly would not have the circulation of the _Rotunda_.

Several weeks passed. Miss Dobbs looked in now and again to ask if Mr.

Harper had "had any luck." To this inquiry one invariable answer was

given, and after a time Miss Dobbs seemed to lose something of her

faith. Her interest in the story of Dick Smith and in Mr. Harper

himself began to wane. She had said from the first that _Brown's_ was

a mistake. It should have been the _Rotunda_ or nothing. Miss Dobbs

was a firm believer in beginning at the top; in her opinion it was

easier to come down than it was to go up.

When the fourth week of silence on the part of _Brown's Magazine_ had

been entered upon, she suggested that Mr. Harper should stir them up a

bit. With surprising inconsequence he asked for one more week of

grace. For his own part, he could not help thinking it was a good

sign. Miss Dobbs did not share his view. _Brown's_ had either mislaid

the manuscript, they had not received it, or they had destroyed it; and

in a state verging upon sarcasm she withdrew from the shop with the

final and crushing remark, "that Mr. Harper was a rum one, and she

doubted very much whether he would ever make good."

However, Miss Dobbs, in spite of her knowledge of the world, had to

admit, a week later, that Mr. Harper knew more about _Brown's Magazine_

than she did. For when she looked in on the morning of Saturday to

inquire for news of the ill-fated _Dick Smith_ she was met triumphantly

with a letter which had come by the last post the previous evening.

With quite a thrill she took the letter out of its neatly embossed

envelope and made an attempt to read the following:

12B, Pall Mall,

September 2.

DEAR SIR,

Your story has now been read twice, and the conclusion very reluctantly

come to by the writer is that it would be impossible to use it in

_Brown's Magazine_ in its present form. It bears many marks of

inexperience, but at the same time it has such a strikingly original

quality that the writer would be very glad to have a talk with you

about it. In the meantime the MS is being returned to you.

Yours very truly,

EDWARD AMBROSE.

"I don't call that writing," said Miss Dobbs, who had been utterly

defeated by the hand of the editor of _Brown's Magazine_. "It is just

a fly walking across the paper without having wiped its feet. Read it

to me, Mr. Harper."

Mr. Harper, who had spent nearly an hour the previous evening in making

out the letter, and now knew it by heart, enforced her respect by

reading it aloud as if it had been nothing out of the common.

"Marks of inexperience!" was her comment. "Like his impudence. I

wonder who he thinks he is. You take my advice, Mr. Harper, and send

it to the _Covent Garden_. See what they've got to say about it."

However, before taking that course, Henry Harper felt it would be the

part of wisdom to get in touch with the real live editor who had

expressed a wish to see him. Besides, there had been something in the

letter signed "Edward Ambrose" which had set a chord vibrating in his

heart.

IX

In order to pay a visit to 12B, Pall Mall, Henry Harper had to ask for

leave. This was readily granted by his master, who was even more

impressed by the letter from the editor of _Brown's Magazine_ than was

its recipient.

As became one who had a practical acquaintance with editors and

publishers, Mr. Rudge knew that for more than a century _Brown's

Magazine_ had been a Mecca of the man of letters. Great names were

enshrined in its history. These began with Byron and Scott, and flowed

through the Victorian epoch to the most gifted and representative minds

of the present. Mr. Ambrose himself was a critic of some celebrity;

moreover, _Brown's Magazine_ was still half a crown a month as it

always had been, so that even its subscribers had a sense of

exclusiveness.

Henry Harper was so shy that when the hour came for him to set forth to

12B, Pall Mall, his one desire was to take the advice of Miss Dobbs and

not pay his visit at all. But Mr. Rudge was adamant. Henry must go to

Pall Mall if only for the sake of the firm. Just as the young man was

about to set out, his master emphasized the immense importance of the

matter by appearing on the scene, clothes brush in hand, in order to

give a final touch to his toilet. No discredit must be done to 249,

Charing Cross Road. An unprecedented honor had been conferred upon it.

The reception of Mr. Harper in Pall Mall was of a kind to impress a

sensitive young man of high aspiration and very limited opportunity.

To begin with, Pall Mall is Pall Mall, and No. 12B in every chaste

external was entirely worthy of its local habitation. After a much

bemedaled commissionaire of incredibly distinguished aspect had ushered

the young man into the front office, he was received by a grave and

reverend signior in a frock coat whom Mr. Harper instinctively felt was

the editor himself. Such, however, was not the case. The grave and

reverend one was a trusted member of the staff, whose duty it was to

usher contributors into the Presence, and in the meantime, if delay

arose, to arrange for their well-being.

Before Mr. Harper could be received, he spent some terrible minutes in

a tiny waiting-room, in which he felt he was being asphyxiated. During

that time it was borne in upon him that he would not be equal to the

ordeal ahead. Every minute he grew more nervous. He could never face

it, he was sure. Far better to have taken the advice of the wise Miss

Dobbs, and have been content with the _Covent Garden_.

Before the fateful moment came he was in a state of despair. Why he

should have been was impossible to say. What was Pall Mall in

comparison with the forecastle or the futtock shrouds of the _Margaret

Carey_? What were the commissionaire and the frock-coated gentleman in

comparison with Mr. Thompson and the Old Man? Yet he came within an

ace of flying out of that waiting-room into the street.

The cicerone reappeared, led the young man up a flight of stairs,

opened a door, and announced, "Mr. Harper."

Seated at a writing table in a bay of the large, airy, well-appointed

room, was a gravely genial man, whose face had that subtle look of

power which springs from the play of mind.

He rose at once and offered a welcome of such unstudied cordiality that

Henry Harper forgot that he had ever been afraid of him. The editor of

_Brown's Magazine_ placed a chair for the young man and asked him to

sit down. He then returned to his writing table, leaned back in his

own chair, and half turned to face his visitor.

"Your story interested me enormously." The editor studied very closely

the young man opposite without appearing to do so; and then he said, in

a slightly changed tone, as if a theory previously formed had been

confirmed, "I am sure you have had experience of the sea."

The Sailor knew already that he was going to like Mr. Ambrose

immensely. In a subtle way he was reminded of Klondyke, and more

remotely of Mr. Horrobin, but yet he felt that Mr. Ambrose was not

really like them at all.

As for Edward Ambrose, he had at once fixed in his mind a picture of

great simplicity, of eager intensity, of an earnestness pathetic and

naif. Strange to say, it was almost exactly the one he had been able

to envisage beforehand. If ever a human document had ascended to the

first floor of 12B, Pall Mall, it was here before his eyes.

The Sailor began presently to forget his shyness in a surprising way.

Mr. Ambrose differed from Mr. Horrobin inasmuch that he was ready, even

anxious, to listen. He seemed quite eager that the Sailor should speak

about himself. The story had interested him very much. He felt its

power, and saw great possibilities for a talent, immature as it was,

which could declare itself in a shape so definite.

After a while the Sailor talked with less reserve than perhaps he ought

to have done. But such a man was very hard to resist--impossible for

certain natures. He had a faculty of perception that was very rare, he

was amazingly quick to see and to appreciate; and with this curious

power of realizing all that was worthy there was a knack of

overlooking, of perhaps even blinding himself, to things less pleasing.

The Sailor's speech, queer and semi-literate as it was, exactly

resembled his writing. Here was something rare and strange. The shy

earnestness of the voice, the neat serge suit, well tended but of poor

quality, the general air of clean simplicity without and within; above

all, the haunted eyes of this deep-sea mariner, which had seen so much

more than they would ever be able to tell, fixed towards a goal they

could never hope to attain, were much as Edward Ambrose had pictured

them.

"I want to use your story," said the editor; "but please don't be

offended by what I am going to say."

The look in the face of the Sailor showed it would be quite impossible

for Mr. Ambrose to offend him.

"There are little things, certain rules that have to be learned before

even Genius itself can be given a hearing. And it is vital to master

them. But you are so far on the road, that in a short time, if you

care to go on, I am convinced you will have all the tricks of a craft

which too often begins and ends in trickery and once in a lustrum rises

to power. At least that's my experience." And Mr. Ambrose laughed

with charming friendliness.

"Now," he went on, "I will let you into a secret that all the world

knows. We declined _Treasure Island_. Not in my time, I am glad to

say, but _Brown's Magazine_ declined it. The story is told against us;

and if we can we want to wipe the blot off our escutcheon. And I feel,

Mr. Harper, that if you will learn the rules of the game and not lose

yourself, one day you will help us to do so."

It took the editor some time to explain what he meant. But he did so

at considerable length and with wonderful lucidity. The personality of

this young man appealed to him. And he felt that the author of _Dick

Smith_ had had an almost superhuman task laid upon him. Here was a

competitor in the Olympian games starting from a mark so far behind his

peers that by all the laws he was out of the race before he started to

run it. But was he? Somehow Edward Ambrose felt that if this

dauntless spirit, already many times defeated, but never completely

overthrown, could find the courage to go on, the world would have cause

one day to congratulate _Brown's Magazine_.

The editor took a cordial leave of his strange visitor. "Keep on

keeping on, and see what comes of it. Don't be afraid to use the

knife, but be careful not to cut yourself. That's the particular form

of the eternal paradox assumed by the absolute for the overthrow of the

writing man! It's a riddle each must read in his own way. But

instinct is the master key. Trust it as you have done already, and it

will unlock every door. However, we will talk of that another time.

But you might bear in mind what a great writer said to me here in this

room only last week. 'When you feel anything you may have written is

really fine it is a golden rule to leave it out.' Clear away a few of

the trees, and then we may begin to see the wood. But this doesn't

apply to the Island of San Pedro. Not a word of _that_ can be spared."

The Sailor walked on air as far as the National Gallery. But as he

turned the corner into Charing Cross Road he was brought to earth by a

violent collision with an elderly gentleman. He was not brought

literally to earth because he suffered less than his victim.

Before the elderly gentleman had ceased to blaspheme the young man came

within an ace of an even more emphatic reminder of earth's realities:

at the end of Cranbourn Street an omnibus nearly ran over him. Still,

it is the part of charity to cover his sins, because up till then,

Tuesday, September the fifth had been the day of his life.

X

This mood did not last very long. He was now up against the stern

facts of authorship. The story of _Dick Smith_ would have to be

written again and written differently. In the reincarnation would be

little of the creative rapture of the primal birth. And so little

faith had the Sailor in his powers that he could not help feeling that

too much had been asked of them.

To add to his doubts, he was beset by conflicting advice. Miss Dobbs

was quite angry when she learned the result of the interview with Mr.

Ambrose, which she did the day after it had taken place.

"Wants you to write it again, does he?" she said with a glow of

indignation. "I call that the limit! Now, if you'll be guided by me,

Mr. Harper, which, of course, you ought to have been from the first,

you'll do nothing of the kind. Send it to the _Rotunda_ or the _Covent

Garden_."

Miss Dobbs was so firm and Henry Harper was so oppressed by the

magnitude of his task, that he came very near taking her advice.

It was the intervention of the author of "A History of the World" in

forty volumes with an index that saved the situation. Mr. Rudge was

horrified when he learned that Henry Harper thought of trying his luck

with the _Rotunda_. It was nothing less than an act of _lese-majeste_.

There could be so little ground of comparison between that upstart and

_Brown's_ that in the opinion of Mr. Rudge it was better to be damned

by the fountain of honor, which had published Byron and Scott, than be

accepted and even tricked out with illustrations--there would be no

illustrations in the "History of the World"--by a cheap and flashy

parvenu which bore a similar relation to literature to that a toadstool

bore to horticulture.

Miss Dobbs had force of character, but she was no match for Mr. Rudge

when it came to a question of _Brown's Magazine_ v. the _Rotunda_. He

even went to the length of telling her that she didn't know what she

was talking about. The grave spectacled eyes of the historian flashed

to such purpose that Miss Dobbs was fain to admit "that she never would

have thought the old fool had it in him." But great issues were at

stake. All that he stood for was in the scale. Such an affront should

only be offered to Culture over the dead body of the author of the

"History of the World."

Finally, Henry Harper sat down to rewrite the story of _Dick Smith_ and

the brigantine _Excelsior_. As a fruit of victory, Mr. Rudge ordained

that the young man should return to the study of grammar. It was more

than ever necessary now. He was sure that had he been as well up in

grammar as he ought to have been, the question of rewriting the story

of _Dick Smith_ could never have arisen.

These were trying days. But the Sailor stuck gallantly to his guns.

In spite of the pessimism of Miss Dobbs, who still looked in now and

again, he grappled with an extremely difficult task. Moreover, he did

so very thoroughly. Mr. Ambrose had given him only general rules to go

by; yet these, few and succinct as they were, seemed to cut into the

woof and fabric of his mind.

As the days passed, and the end of Henry Harper's labor seemed farther

off than ever, Miss Dobbs grew more gloomy, but her regard for his

welfare was still considerable. He might have been grateful had it

become less, but he was far too chivalrous to admit such a thought.

Besides, it was not a little surprising that a lady of the standing of

Miss Dobbs should take an interest in such a person as himself.

One day, she invited him to tea at her flat. He _must_ come tomorrow

afternoon, to meet her great friend, Zoe Bonser, who was a Maison Perry

girl, and very nice and clever. Had there been a way of evading this

point-blank invitation, he would certainly have sought it.

Unfortunately there was not. Before issuing her invitation Miss Dobbs

had already taken the precaution of asking casually whether "he was

doing anything Sunday afternoon?"

Mr. Harper grew quite alarmed as soon as he realized what he had done.

The mere thought of the society of promiscuous ladies, however nice and

clever, was enough to frighten him. Miss Dobbs herself, who was

niceness and cleverness personified, had never really broken through

the ice. They were old friends now, but even she, with all the arts of

which she was mistress, had never been able to penetrate the reserve of

this odd young man. If he had not been incapable of deliberately

wounding the feelings of a lady who had shown him such kindness, he

would have boldly refused to meet the nice and clever Miss Bonser,

which with all his soul he longed to do.

Therefore, on Sunday afternoon, he sadly abandoned a chapter of _Dick

Smith_, which was now in a tangle so hopeless that it seemed it would

never come right. After infinite pains had made him as presentable as

a very limited wardrobe allowed, he went to No. 106, King John's

Mansions, the whereabouts of which had already been explained to him

very carefully.

Miss Dobbs' flat was right at the top of a very large, very gloomy, and

very draughty building. Its endless flights of stone stairs--there was

no lift, although it was clearly a case for one--seemed not to have

been swept for a month at least. But this was in keeping with a

general air of cheapness and discomfort. By the time Mr. Harper had

climbed as far as No. 106, and had knocked timidly with a decrepit

knocker upon an uninviting door, he was in a state of panic and

dejection.

Miss Dobbs opened the door herself. As she stood on an ungarnished

threshold, cigarette in hand, flashing rows of fine teeth in welcome,

the young man's first thought was how different she looked without her

hat. His second thought was that its absence hardly improved her. She

looked older, flatter, less mysterious. Even the fluffy and

peroxidized abundance, which came low on the forehead in a quite

remarkable bandeau, somehow gave a maturity to her appearance that he

had not in the least expected.

Miss Dobbs had all the arts of gracious hospitality. She took his

overcoat and hat away from him, and then hustled him genially into what

she called her "boo-door," into the alert but extremely agreeable

presence of the nice and clever Miss Bonser.

Miss Bonser was not exactly what you would call beautiful, but she had

Chick--to adopt the picturesque language of her oldest and dearest

friend in rendering her afterwards to Mr. Henry Harper. She had the

appearance of a thoroughly good sort, except that her eyes were so

terribly wary, although hardly so wary perhaps as those of her hostess,

because that would have been impossible. Still, there was Chick and

refinement, and above all, great cordiality in Miss Bonser.

Cordiality, indeed, was the prevailing note of No. 106, King John's

Mansions. Miss Dobbs addressed Miss Bonser as "dear," Miss Bonser

addressed Miss Dobbs as "dear," and then Miss Dobbs covered Mr. Harper

with confusion by suddenly and unexpectedly calling him "Harry."

"Take a pew, Harry," said Miss Dobbs.

Mr. Harper knew that he alone was intended, because no other gentleman

was there. Nervously he sat down in a creaking and rickety cane chair.

The "Harry" had flattered him a goodish bit, since Miss Dobbs was quite

as much a lady in her home as she was out of it; also she had for a

friend another lady, a very nice and clever one, with a refined voice,

smart clothes, and a great amount of jewelry. She had also the air and

the manners of Society, of which he had learned in the works of the

famous novelist, W. M. Thackeray. The way in which Miss Bonser

produced a private case and offered it to him after choosing a

cigarette for herself, somehow reminded him of "Vanity Fair."

"Harry don't smoke, do you, Harry?" said the hostess, covering Mr.

Harper's extreme confusion with rare tact and spontaneity.

Miss Dobbs then made tea, and by the time Mr. Harper had had two large

and cracked cups of a weak brew and had eaten one piece of buttered

cake, being too shy to eat anything else in spite of great pressure, he

was able to collect himself a little.

"Cora tells me you are writing a book, Harry," said Miss Bonser

conversationally.

Mr. Harper admitted this, although again startled by the Harry.

"You don't mind, do you," said Miss Bonser, in answer to his face.

"'Mister' is so formal. I'm all for being friendly and pleasant

myself. What was I saying? Oh, about the book you are writing. My

best boy, Bert Hobson, the novelist, makes simply pots of money. He's

got a serial running now in the _Covent Garden_. You've read it, I

daresay."

It appeared that Mr. Harper had not read the story.

"Well, you ought reelly." Mr. Harper noticed that Miss Bonser

pronounced the polite word "reelly" exactly as Miss Foldal did,

although a much more fashionable lady in other respects than the good

fairy of Blackhampton. "Start at once. Do it now. It's Albert's top

notch." To Miss Dobbs: "Don't you think so, dear?"

Miss Dobbs was quite of Miss Bonser's opinion.

"What's the name of your book?" asked Miss Bonser.

"'The Adventures of Dick Smith,'" said Mr. Harper nervously.

"It's a very good title, don't you think so, dear?" Miss Dobbs thought

so too.

"I suppose you'll dedicate it to Cora," said Miss Bonser, "as she has

taken such an interest in it."

Mr. Harper had to admit rather shamefacedly that it had not occurred to

him to do that. Miss Bonser was surprised; but Miss Dobbs said she

couldn't think of it. She didn't look for a reward. Miss Bonser said

she was sure of that, yet Mr. Harper felt very uncomfortable because it

was borne in upon him that he had been guilty of a sin of omission. An

awkward silence followed, at least so it appeared to Mr. Harper, but it

was very tactfully terminated by Miss Bonser, who suddenly asked Miss

Dobbs about Harold.

Harold, it seemed, was very keen on Miss Dobbs; in fact, he was her

best boy. He was an architect who lived at Wimbledon, but had just

taken rooms in town. He was a Cambridge man, had a commission in the

Territorials, and was a regular sport. However, this seemed to convey

so little to Mr. Harper that the conversation soon appeared to languish

in regard to Harold.

After this, the young man sat very anxiously in the cane chair, wanting

sorely to get out of it, yet with not enough knowledge of society to be

able to do so. "The Adventures of Dick Smith" were calling him loudly,

yet he had too little courage and too much politeness to venture upon

the headlong flight which above all things he now desired. Presently,

however, his air of mute misery appealed to his hostess, who suddenly

said with great good nature. "Now, don't you be staying, Harry, a

moment longer than you think you ought. I know you want to get back to

your writing." And Miss Dobbs rose and shook hands with him gravely.

Miss Bonser then sat up in her wicker chair and offered her hand at a

very fashionable angle, but said good-by with real friendliness, and

then Mr. Harper made a very awkward exit without either self-possession

or dignity.

"Chase me," said Miss Bonser, as soon as the smiling Miss Dobbs had

returned from letting the young man out of the front door.

"Priceless, isn't he?" Miss Dobbs flung herself with a suppressed

giggle into a wicker chair.

"Well, well," reflected Miss Bonser. "One of these days he may be

useful to bring you in out of the rain."

"If he begins to make good," said Miss Dobbs sagely. "You never know

your luck."

"Cruelty to children, isn't it?"

Miss Dobbs smiled thoughtfully. "Don't you think his eyes are rather

nice?" she said.

"He's got a lot in his face," said Miss Bonser. "That's a face that's

seen things. And I'm not so sure, dear, that he is such a juggins as

we fancy."

"We'll hope not at any rate," said Miss Dobbs coolly.

"Still, I like a man with a punch in him myself."

"Perhaps I'll be able to improve him a bit. He hardly knows he's born

at present."

"That's true, dear," said Miss Bonser, with a rather indiscreet gurgle.

"It's nothing to laugh at, Zoe." To the surprise of her friend, Miss

Dobbs seemed a little hurt.

"Well, well." Miss Bonser flung away the end of her cigarette.

XI

"The Adventures of Dick Smith" continued to make progress. Still, it

was uphill work. But Henry Harper had a tenacity truly

remarkable--"the angelic patience of genius," in the phrase of Balzac.

Not that it ever occurred to the Sailor himself that he was a genius,

or for that matter to Mr. Rudge, who did not believe in genius; yet, a

little ironically, Miss Dobbs informed her friend Miss Bonser more than

once that she would not be surprised if he turned out a bit of one.

Mr. Harper's first visit to King John's Mansions was not his last.

Miss Dobbs saw to that. He was so odd that she was tempted to ask

herself whether this particular game was worth the candle; also her

friends were continually asking each other a similar question on her

behalf. Nevertheless, "Harry" unconsciously formed quite a habit of

going to tea round the corner in the Avenue on Sunday afternoons.

He was chaffed rather unmercifully at times by several of the ladies he

found there, in particular by a certain Miss Gertie Press, by nature so

witty and sarcastic that the young man was genuinely afraid of her.

Still, it was a very valuable experience to have the _entree_ to this

dashing circle, and often when he did not wish to go he forced himself

to do so by sheer power of will, he had such a strong, ever-growing

desire to improve himself and to increase his knowledge of the world.

Miss Gertie Press was a knut. It was about the time that portent was

coming into vogue. She was one of the rather primitive kind to be

found in the second row of the Frivolity chorus of which she was an

ornament. She was extremely good-natured, as all these ladies seemed

to be, at least in Mr. Harper's presence; but could he have heard their

comments when he had returned to his "masterpiece," about which they

were always chaffing him, he might have held other views. "Greased

Lightning" was Miss Press's name for him, he was so extraordinarily

quick in the uptake! "He's got the brains of my boot," said she.

"Your money is on the wrong horse, Cora."

These ladies were really sorry for poor Cora. She must be potty to

trouble herself with a thing like that. But the time came when Cora's

friends began to think differently.

At the end of April, after nearly eight months' hard toil, in the

course of which the "Adventures" had been cut down one half, and the

half that remained had been remodeled and rewritten, and then written

all over again, the Sailor packed up the manuscript, without any

particular emotion except a vague one of simple despair, and sent it to

the editor of _Brown's Magazine_, from whom he had not heard a word

since September 5.

Mr. Rudge, after reading the revised version in a very conscientious

manner, thought the grammar decidedly weak, and felt the thing must

always suffer from being a work of the imagination. In his eyes

nothing could soften that cardinal defect; but he was a liberal-minded

man, and if _Brown's Magazine_ was really interested in that sort of

thing--well, it was no business of his to decry it. There was no

accounting for taste after all, and _Brown's_ was certainly the best

magazine of its kind in existence.

A week passed, and then one evening the replica of a certain envelope

which would ever remain upon the tablets of his memory was dropped

through the slit in the shop door. It was addressed to "Henry Harper,

Esquire," and ran as follows:

DEAR MR. HARPER,

Come and see me as soon as you can and let us have another little talk

about "The adventures of Dick Smith."

Very sincerely yours,

EDWARD AMBROSE.

Henry Harper did not understand the significance of those few and

simple words. Mr. Rudge had a fair juster appreciation of the three

barely legible lines signed "Edward Ambrose." But the next morning,

after further ministrations of his master's clothes brush, the young

man went courageously forth to 12B, Pall Mall.

The bemedaled commissionaire and the bald-headed gentleman had no

terrors for him now. Had he not walked and talked with Zeus himself?

These Olympian sconce bearers could not eat him, and there is always

comfort in that reflection for an imaginative mind. Even a ten

minutes' wait in the room below did not matter.

Mr. Ambrose greeted him with a grip of the hand which seemed to utter a

volume.

"It's a very fine thing," said the editor, without a word of preface,

as if there could be only one thought for either just then. "At least

that's my opinion." He laughed a little at his own vehemence. "Some

people will not agree with me. They'll say it's too crude, they'll say

the colors are laid on too thick. But that to me is its wonderful

merit; it convinces in spite of itself, which is almost the surest test

of genius, although that's a big word. But you've a great faculty.

I'm so glad you've been able to make such a fine thing." His eyes

shone; the charming voice vibrated with simple enthusiasm. "How one

envies a man who can make a thing like that!"

"You needn't, sir," said the Sailor, hardly knowing that he had spoken.

Edward Ambrose fell to earth like an exploded firework. In spite of an

eagerness of temperament which amused his friends, he was not a

vaporer. He, too, had been in deep places, although the strange

kingdoms he had seen were not exactly those of this young man, this

curious, awkward, silent, unforgettable figure.

"No, I expect not," said Mr. Ambrose in a changed tone, after a short

pause. And then he added abruptly, "Now, suppose we sit down and talk

business."

They sat down, but the Sailor had no better idea of talking business

than the table in front of him.

"I want very much to run it as a serial in the magazine," said the

editor.

"I'll be very proud, sir."

"Well, now, what do you think we ought to pay for it? Just for the

serial rights, you know. Of course I ought to explain that you are a

new and untried author, and so on. But to my mind that's cheating.

Either a thing is or it isn't. I dare say I'm wrong ... in a world in

which nothing is certain ... however ... what do you think we ought to

pay for the serial rights?

"I'll leave it to you, sir."

"Well, the magazine can afford to pay three hundred pounds. And we

will talk about the book rights later."

Such a sum was beyond the Sailor's wildest dreams. Truth to tell he

had dreamed very little upon that aspect of the matter. He knew the

value of money, therefore it had never occurred to him that it would be

within the power of a pen and a bottle of ink to bring it to him in

such fabulous quantities. He seemed just now to be living in a dream.

"Three hundred pounds, then," said Mr. Ambrose. "And I wish the

magazine could have paid more without injustice to itself. But its

audience is small, though select--as we hope--at any rate."

The Sailor's manner showed very clearly that no apology was called for.

Such a sum was princely. Gratitude was the emotion uppermost, and he

did his best to express it in his queer, disjointed way.

"I'll always remember your kindness, sir," he said huskily. "I'd never

have been able to make anything of it at all if it hadn't been for you."

"Oh, yes, you would. Not so soon, perhaps, but it's all there.

Anyhow, I'm very glad if I've been a bit of use at the first fence."

The cordial directness of Edward Ambrose made a strong appeal to the

Sailor. He had knocked about the world enough to begin to know

something of men. And of one thing he was already convinced. The

editor was of the true Klondyke breed. He said what he meant, and he

meant what he said. And when this fortunate interview was at an end

and the young man returned to the Charing Cross Road, it was not so

much the fabulous sum which had come to him that made him happy, as the

sure knowledge that he had found a friend. He had found a friend of

the kind for which his soul had long craved.

XII

"Now that Greased Lightning is beginning to make good," said Miss

Gertie Press, "I suppose you'll marry him, my Cora?"

"Shouldn't wonder. Have a banana."

This was persiflage on the part of Miss Dobbs. She meant have a

cigarette.

Miss Press lit the cheap but scented Egyptian that was offered her, and

lay back in the wicker chair with an air of languor which somehow did

not match up with the gaminlike acuteness of her comically ill-natured

countenance.

"That's where long views come in," philosophized Miss Press. "Wish I

could take 'em. But I can't. I haven't the _nous_. We all thought

you was potty to take up with him. But you won't half give us the bird

now he looks like turning out a good investment."

Miss Dobbs smiled at the frankness of her friend. Miss Press was noted

throughout the length and the breadth of the Avenue for her habit of

thinking aloud.

Miss Zoe Bonser, who was eating a tea cake, also smiled. It was Sunday

afternoon, and these three ladies were awaiting the arrival of Mr.

Henry Harper in a rather speculative frame of mind. The previous

Sunday Mr. Harper had not appeared.

It was no longer possible to laugh at the mere name of Greased

Lightning and to pull Cora's leg and chaff her unmercifully. It seemed

that Miss Bonser, having mentioned casually to Mr. Albert Hobson that

she had a friend who had a friend who knew a young fellow whose first

serial was just beginning in _Brown's_, the admired Albert had inquired

immediately:

"What's the name of your young fellow?"

"He's not my young fellow," said Zoe the cautious. "But his

name's--Lord, I've forgotten it!" This was untrue. "But we all think

he's potty."

"His name is not Henry Harper, by any chance?"

Miss Bonser nodded discreetly. She was a little surprised at the set

of the wind.

"But, of course, he's barmy."

"Whatever he is, he's no slouch," said the judicial Mr. Hobson. He

himself was no slouch either, in spite of the company which in hours of

ease he affected. "He'll go far. He's another Stevenson and with luck

one of these days he might be something bigger."

"Don't care if he's a John Roberts or a Dawson," said Zoe; "he's not

fit to be out without his nurse." If the latter part of Mr. Hobson's

statement had meant little to that astute mind, the first part meant a

good deal.

Miss Bonser bore the news to King John's Mansions on the following

Sunday afternoon. It made quite a sensation. Bert Hobson was the

nearest thing to "the goods" which had yet impinged on that refined

circle. He was something more than the average harmless fool about

town; in the opinion of Miss Dobbs and Miss Press, he knew his way

about; and if Albert had really said that Harry was the coming man, he

could not have such a great distance to travel.

"I hope he is not going to give us a miss in baulk now he's got there.

That'll be swank if he does, won't it, Bonser?" Miss Press winked at

Miss Bonser in a serio-comic manner.

"It will, Press," said that lady.

"He'll come. You'll see," said Miss Dobbs, with reasoned optimism.

"He's here now."

In fact, at that moment a mild assault was being delivered by the

decrepit knocker on a faintly responsive front door.

"What was the check that _Brown's_ gave him?" Miss Press asked Miss

Bonser, as Miss Dobbs went forth to receive her guest.

"Three hundred--so she says."

"Do you believe it?"

"Why not?"

"But he's barmy."

"All these writing men are."

"Except Bert."

"Oh, he's barmy in a way, else he wouldn't have taken up with me."

"Yes, that's true, dear. But did he say that about It?"

"Ye-es."

"Well, it's time she had a bit of luck ... if she's really going to

have it. She wants it badly."

"Yes, by God."

At this moment Mr. Henry Harper came into the room. He entered very

nervously with his usual blush of embarrassment. The truth was,

although he had yet to realize it clearly, the undercurrent of sarcasm,

never absent from this refined atmosphere, always hurt him. Mr. Henry

Harper was a very sensitive plant, and these fashionable and witty

ladies did not appear to know that.

"He's a swanker," was the greeting of Miss Press, as she offered her

hand and then withdrew it playfully before Mr. Harper could take it.

"And I never shake hands with a swanker, do I, Bonser?"

"But he's so clever," said Miss Bonser, politely offering hers. "He's

Bert Hobson at his best."

Mr. Harper was so overcome by this reception that he had the misfortune

to knock over the teapot, which had been placed on a small and

ill-balanced Japanese table.

"Damn you!" The voice of the hostess came upon the culprit like the

stroke of a whip. For a moment Miss Dobbs was off her guard. She was

furious at the ruin of her carpet and her hospitality, although the

latter was really the more important as the carpet was ruined already.

"However, it doesn't matter." She hastened to cover the "Damn you"

with a heroic smile. "Take a pew, Harry, and make yourself comfy. I

can easily get some more; it's the slavey's Sunday out." The hostess,

teapot in hand, withdrew from the room with a winning air of

reconstituted amenity.

"If you had been a little gentleman," said Miss Press, as the hostess

left the room, "you would have shot out of your chair, opened the door

for her, carried the teapot to the kitchen, and held the caddy while

she put in more tea. And then you'd have fiddled about with the kettle

while she held the teapot, and poured boiling water over her hand.

After that you'd have gone down on your knees, and then you'd have

kissed it better. At least, that's how you'd have behaved if you had

been a mother's boy in the Guards. Wouldn't he, Bonser?"

"Shut up, Press," said Miss Bonser. "It's a shame to rag as you do."

"But he's a swanker," said Miss Press. "And I don't like swankers."

Mr. Harper was in a state of extreme misery and feeling very pink about

the ears, when the smiling Miss Dobbs reappeared with a fresh pot of

tea. The way in which she contrived to efface the tragic incident was

admirable. She poured out gracefully a cup of tea for Mr. Harper, a

terribly weak cup of tea it was, and pressed half a buttered scone upon

him and smiled at him all the time, perhaps a little anxiously, with

her wonderful teeth. But in spite of these winning attentions, it was

not certain that the young man was going to enjoy himself. That honest

and forthright "Damn you" had brought with it somehow the taste of

Auntie's whip, and he could feel it still. Then, too, these clever and

witty ladies had a way of making him feel ridiculous. Also, they spoke

a language he didn't understand. Moreover, he knew that Miss Press

meant it when she said he wasn't a gentleman. To tell the truth, that

was a fact of which he was growing daily more conscious, and the

jesting remark of Miss Press hurt almost as much as the "Damn you."

"If I was clever, and had a three-hundred-pound serial running in

_Brown's Magazine_," said Miss Press, "I'd be so set up with myself

that I wouldn't give a word to a dog when I came out to a bun-worry.

Would you, Bonser?"

"Shut up, Press," said the benign Miss Bonser. "Little girls should be

seen but not heard--at least, that's what my dear old governess taught

me in the long ago."

"Yes, I knew you was brought up a clergyman's daughter," said Miss

Press, returning stoutly to the charge. "And so was Pressy and so was

Dobby, and so was all of us."

"Play cricket, Pressy," said the hostess, rather plaintively.

For all that he knew, Mr. Harper might have been listening to a dead

language. This may have relieved his mind a little. All the same, it

made it very difficult to take a hand in the conversation, which these

ladies clearly felt to be the duty of a gentleman, whether he was in

the Guards or not.

Suddenly Miss Press caused a portion of Mr. Harper's buttered scone "to

go the wrong way" by placing one of his hands in that of his hostess,

who had taken a seat rather near him.

"Allow me," said Miss Press, rising gallantly from her chair, and

dealing Mr. Harper a succession of hearty buffets in the middle of the

back. "You really are the limit, Enery. You might never have been in

love before."

"Chuck it, Pressy," said Miss Dobbs. "Let my Harry alone. My Harry's

very clever, and his Cora's very proud of him. Aren't I, Harry?" Miss

Dobbs flashed upon the unhappy young man a glance of very high candle

power. She also sighed seraphically.

When Mr. Harper had swallowed his tea, of which one cup sufficed, and

after abandoning any further attempt to deal with his buttered scone,

the hostess gathered the tea things with the aid of her friends. She

then took them to the back premises, declining further help. In spite

of the protests of her guests, Miss Dobbs insisted on this self-denying

course. She left Mr. Henry Harper in their care, and hoped they would

do their best to amuse him during her absence.

XIII

"Harry," said Miss Press, with a dramatic change of tone as soon as the

hostess had retired with the tea things, "Zoe and I have to talk to you

very serious. Haven't we, Zoe?"

Miss Bonser nodded impressively.

"You are not playing fair with Cora, Harry."

During the slight pause which followed this statement, a look of

fawnlike bewilderment flitted across the eyes of the Sailor.

"You are breaking her heart," said Miss Press, with tragic simplicity.

"Yes, dear," came the thrilling whisper of Miss Bonser.

"That's true."

"We are telling you this, Harry," said Miss Press, "because we think it

is something you ought to know. You think so, don't you, dear?"

"I do, dear," said Miss Bonser.

"Cora is one of the best that ever stepped," said Miss Press. "She has

a heart of gold, she is a girl in a thousand. It would be a black

shame to spoil her life. You think that, don't you, dear?"

"Yes, dear," said Miss Bonser emotionally.

Mr. Harper was completely out of his depth. He didn't know in the

least what they were talking about.

"Forgive us, Harry, for taking it upon ourselves in this way," said

Miss Bonser, in a kind, quiet voice. "We are all for a bit of fun, but

we can't stand by and see a good girl suffering in silence, can we,

Gertie?"

"No, dear," said Gertie, with pathos.

Both ladies eyed him cautiously. He was so innocent, he was such a

simple child that they could almost have found it in their hearts to

pity him.

"We feel bound to mention it, Harry," said Miss Press. "Poor Cora

can't take her oats or anything. She has to have a sleeping draught

now."

"And she's getting that thin, poor thing," chimed the plaintive Miss

Bonser.

The Sailor's perplexity grew.

"If you ask me," said Miss Press, suddenly taking a higher note, "it's

up to you, Harry, to play the gentleman." Watching the color change in

his face, she knew she was on the target now. "A gentleman don't play

fast and loose, if you ask me."

"At least, not the sort we are used to," whispered Miss Bonser, in a

superb pianissimo.

"It's Lord Caradoc and Pussy Pearson over again," said Miss Press.

"But Caradoc being the goods married Pussy without making any bones

about it. Harry, it's up to you to follow the example of a real

gentleman. Forgive us for speaking plain."

Henry Harper glanced nervously from one lady to the other. A light was

just beginning to dawn upon him.

"Cora's a straight girl," said Miss Bonser, taking up the parable.

"She's one of the plucky ones, is Cora. It's a hard world for lonely

girls like her, isn't it, Gert?"

"It is, dear," said Gert. "And one like Cora, whose position, as you

might say, is uncertain, can't be too careful. You see, Harry, you

have been coming to her flat for the best part of a year. You've been

with her to the theater and the Coliseum; two Sundays ago she was seen

with you on the river, and--well, she's been getting herself talked

about, and that's all there is to it."

"Cora's a girl in a thousand," chimed Zoe the tactful. "She worships

the ground you walk on, Harry."

A painfully startled look came suddenly into the eyes of the young man.

Both ladies felt the look rather than saw it, and gave another sharp

turn to the screw.

"Of course, you haven't known it, Harry," said Miss Press. "She

wouldn't let you know it. But that's Cora."

"She would rather have died," said Zoe. "You will not breathe a word,

of course, Harry. She would never forgive us if she knew we had let

on."

"That's her pride," said Miss Press.

"And the way that poor thing cried her eyes out when you didn't turn up

at tea time last Sunday as usual, the first time for nearly a year,

well----" Language suddenly failed Miss Bonser. "A pretty job we had

with her, hadn't we, Gert?"

So cunningly had the screw been applied, that Mr. Harper felt dazed.

Suddenly Miss Bonser raised a finger of warning.

"Shush!" It was half a whisper, half a hiss. "Not a word. Here's

Cora."

Miss Dobbs came in so abruptly that she nearly caught the injunction.

And hardly had she entered, when Miss Press and Miss Bonser rose

together and declared that they must really be going.

The hostess made a polite and conventional objection, but both ladies

kissed her effusively and hustled her out into the passage.

"Dobby," Miss Press whispered excitedly, as soon as they had reached

that dark and smelly draught distributor, "we've fairly put the half

Nelson on him. Now go in and fix him up."

Miss Bonser and Miss Press tripped down the many unswept stone stairs

of King John's Mansions, and Miss Dobbs closed the front door of No.

106. She then returned to Mr. Harper in the "boo-door."

"Well, Harry," she said, "why didn't you come last Sunday?"

Had the Sailor been true to his strongest instinct he would have fled.

But he stayed where he was for several reasons, and of these the most

cogent was quite a simple one. There was a will stronger than his own

in the room just then.