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=By Ian Hay=
A KNIGHT ON WHEELS.
HAPPY-GO-LUCKY. Illustrated by Charles E. Brock.
A SAFETY MATCH. With frontispiece.
A MAN'S MAN. With frontispiece.
THE RIGHT STUFF. With frontispiece.
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
A KNIGHT ON WHEELS
A
KNIGHT ON WHEELS
BY
IAN HAY
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
=The Riverside Press Cambridge=
1914
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY IAN HAY BEITH
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published September 1914_
TO
H. M. S.
CONTENTS
BOOK ONE
THE MISOGYNISTS
I. ENVIRONMENT 3
II. LE PREMIER PAS 19
III. SAMSON AND DELILAH 31
IV. HEREDITY 46
V. MISTAKEN IDENTITY 59
VI. RENOVARE DOLOREM 66
VII. THE INCONSISTENCY OF UNCLE JOSEPH 78
VIII. THE HAMPSTEAD HEATH CONSPIRACY 90
IX. GENUS IRRITABILE 100
X. THE ECCENTRIC GENTLEMAN 109
XI. RED GABLES 129
XII. THE OFFICIAL DEMISE OF TOMMY SMITH 133
BOOK TWO
_LABOR OMNIA VINCIT_
XIII. THE GOLDEN AGE 141
XIV. THE IRON AGE 174
XV. OMEGA, CERTAINLY NOT 182
XVI. THINGS 194
XVII. PEOPLE 203
XVIII. MY SON TIMOTHY 216
XIX. PLAIN MEN AND FAIR WOMEN 225
XX. THE PROVING OF THE BRAKE 248
BOOK THREE
_OMNIA VINCIT_
XXI. THE BIG THING 263
XXII. THE INARTICULATE KNIGHT 272
XXIII. MAINLY COMMERCIAL 283
XXIV. LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 294
XXV. CONFESSIONAL--MASCULINE AND FEMININE 305
XXVI. THE RIVALS 318
XXVII. SECOND BEST 329
XXVIII. A BRAND FROM THE BURNING 348
XXIX. THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THEOPHILUS 373
XXX. THE SILENT KNIGHT 386
XXXI. THE ELEVENTH HOUR 398
A KNIGHT ON WHEELS
BOOK ONE
THE MISOGYNISTS
A KNIGHT ON WHEELS
CHAPTER I
ENVIRONMENT
THURSDAY morning was always an interesting time for Philip, for it was
on that day that he received letters from ladies.
On Mondays he used to write to them, from the dictation of Uncle Joseph.
On Tuesdays he had an easy time of it, for Uncle Joseph was away all
day, interviewing East End vicars, and Salvation Army officials, and
editors of newspapers which made a speciality of discriminating between
genuine and bogus charities. Uncle Joseph was a well-known figure in the
philanthropic world,--that part of it which works without limelight and
spends every penny it receives upon relieving distress, and knows
nothing of Charity Balls and Grand Bazaars, with their incidental
expenses and middlemen's profits,--and it was said that no deserving
case was ever brought to his notice in vain. He would serve on no
committees, and his name figured on no subscription list; but you could
be quite certain that when Uncle Joseph wrote a cheque that cheque
relieved a real want; for he had an infallible nose for an impostor and
a most uncanny acquaintance with the habits and customs of the great and
prosperous brotherhood of professional beggars.
Hard-worked curates and overdriven doctors, who called--and never in
vain--at the snug but unpretentious house in Hampstead on behalf of some
urgent case, sometimes wondered, as they walked away with a light heart
and a heavy pocket, what Uncle Joseph was worth; for it was said by
those who were supposed to know that his benefactions ran into four
figures annually. As a matter of fact his income from all sources was
exactly seven hundred and fifty pounds a year, and none of this was
spent on charity.
Uncle Joseph had one peculiarity. He transacted no business with the
female sex. If help was required of him, application must be made by a
man.
On Wednesdays Philip wrote--or more usually typed--more letters, but
none to ladies. On this day he addressed himself to gentlemen, tersely
informing such that if they made search in the envelope they would find
a cheque enclosed, "in aid of the most excellent object mentioned in
your letter," which it would be a kindness to acknowledge in due course.
Uncle Joseph used to sign these.
This brings us round to Thursday again; and, as already indicated, this
was Philip's field day. On Thursday morning one James Nimmo, the
factotum of the establishment, used to arrive shortly after breakfast in
a cab, from an excursion into regions unknown, with quite a budget of
letters. They were all from ladies, and were replies to Philip's letters
of Monday. Most of them contained cheques, chaperoned by lengthy
screeds; some enclosed lengthy screeds but no cheques; while a few,
written in a masculine hand, stated briefly that "If my wife is pestered
in this fashion again," Yours Faithfully proposed to communicate with
the police.
Although these letters were all addressed to Philip, Uncle Joseph opened
them himself, ticking off the cheques and postal orders and dictating
the names and addresses of their senders to Philip, who posted them up
in a big book.
On Fridays Philip wrote acknowledging the letters. For a boy of fourteen
he was a very fair stenographer, and could take down the sentences
almost as quickly as Uncle Joseph could dictate them. His typing, too,
was almost first-class, and he possessed the useful, if risky,
accomplishment of being able to write two separate and distinct hands.
Saturday was a particularly delightful day, for then Uncle Joseph and
Philip put all business cares behind them and held high revel. Sometimes
they went up the River; sometimes they went to Lords; and sometimes they
took the train into the country and tramped over the Hog's Back or the
South Downs.
It was upon these occasions that Uncle Joseph would discourse upon
Woman, and wonder, with Philip, why she had been sent into the world.
"There appears to be no parallel to the female mind," Uncle Joseph would
say, "in any of the works of nature. It seems almost incredible that God
should invent such a wonderful piece of mechanism as Man--invent him for
the express purpose of controlling and developing this marvellous world
of ours--and then deliberately stultify his own work and handicap his
own beautifully designed and perfectly balanced engines by linking them
up with others which are conspicuous for nothing but bias and
instability. What a world this might have been, Philip, if _all_ its
inhabitants had been constructed upon a rational plan, instead of only
one half! Why is it, I wonder?"
Philip, who could not remember having spoken to a woman for ten years,
except once or twice across a counter, would shake his head
despondingly.
"Put it another way," continued Uncle Joseph. "What master-mariner,
having set up a carefully designed, perfectly balanced compass upon the
bridge of his ship, would then proceed to surround that compass--upon
the steadiness of which the very life of the ship depends--with a casual
collection of bar-magnets or soft iron bolts? What compass could be
expected to point to the Magnetic North for one moment in such a field
of force? It would not even be a constant field of force; for the
magnets would come and go, or at least wax and wane in attractive power,
altering the resultant intensity from year to year--from day to day,
even. No compass could give a true bearing under such circumstances. And
yet the Supreme Architect of the Universe has done that to us! He
creates man, and having set him to direct the course of this planet,
surrounds him with women! Why, Philip? Why?"
At this Philip would endeavour to look as wise as possible, but once
more would find himself unable to contribute to the debate.
Uncle Joseph would nod his head.
"Quite right, Philip," he would say. "We don't know why, and we never
shall. All we can do is to bow to God's will, accept the situation, and
adopt the best means at our disposal of mitigating our disabilities.
There is only one thing to do. What is it, Philip?"
Philip was always quite ready this time.
"Avoid women," he would reply gravely, "at all times and in all places."
After that they would talk about bird-migration, or high-tension
magnetos--subjects affording easier and more profitable ground for
speculation.
* * * * *
On the particular Thursday morning with which we are dealing, Philip and
Uncle Joseph sat in the library prepared for business. Philip was
installed at the broad writing-table, with a reporter's notebook and a
pencil. Beside him, ready for use, stood the typewriter. Uncle Joseph
sprawled for the moment in an easy-chair, industriously perusing a copy
of the current issue of the "Searchlight," a weekly organ whose editor
possessed an almost indecent acquaintance with the private lives of most
of the rogues and quacks who batten upon the British Public. He even
went so far as to publish an annual list of their names, aliases, and
addresses. Uncle Joseph had figured therein more than once, but not as
Uncle Joseph.
There was a knock at the door, and James Nimmo entered, carrying a
cowhide bag. This he opened, and poured its contents upon the
table--letters of every shape, size, colour, and scent.
"A heavy post this week, James Nimmo," commented Uncle Joseph.
"Mph'm," replied James Nimmo (who was a Scotsman). "Could I get speaking
with you, Colonel?" he added. He called Uncle Joseph "Colonel" because
he was a colonel.
Uncle Joseph looked up sharply.
"Anything wrong?" he asked.
James Nimmo looked at him, and like the Eldest Oyster, shook his heavy
head. Uncle Joseph rightly took this to be a sign of assent.
"Where?" he asked.
"At Commercial Road." (As a matter of fact James Nimmo said "Commaircial
Rod," but it will be simpler to transcribe as we go.)
"I expected it," said Uncle Joseph. He held up the "Searchlight." "These
people say they have been making enquiries. Listen."
_Do any of my readers happen to know anything of the Reverend
Aubrey Buck? He appears to be devoting his undoubted talents to
the furtherance of a crusade against what he calls "The Popish
Invasion of the English Home"; and to that end he is
circularising the country with a passionate appeal for funds. A
copy of this appeal has been forwarded to me by a correspondent.
The head offices of the Anti-Popery League (from which this
document emanates) are situated at 374a Commercial Road. Noting
this illuminating fact, and failing to find any reference to the
establishment in the Post-Office Directory, I last week
despatched a representative to the Commercial Road, to seek out
and interrogate the Anti-Popish Buck. As I expected, 374a
Commercial Road proved to be a small greengrocer's shop--an
"accommodation address" of the most ordinary type--whose
proprietor admitted that he was in the habit of taking in
letters on behalf of some of his customers, but declined any
further information. Enthusiastic but credulous Protestants
should therefore be on their guard. The Reverend Aubrey is
evidently an experienced hand, for his dupes are most
judiciously selected, being entirely maiden ladies of
independent means and advanced Evangelical views. From his
epistolary style I cherish a shrewd suspicion that Aubrey is
nearly related to my old friend Howard Glennie ("Searchlight"
Rogues' Catalogue, No. 847), who--_
"Man, he's a marvel, yon felly!" observed James Nimmo admiringly. He was
referring apparently to the editor of the "Searchlight."
_--Who, not long ago, as regular students of the "Searchlight"
will recollect, spent a very profitable two years raising the
small sum necessary to enable him to make provision for his aged
mother before leaving this country for good, in order to devote
his life to spiritual work in a leper colony--a colony situated
in an island so distant that I was ultimately able to prove, to
the profound chagrin of Howard Glennie, that it did not exist at
all. The name of Aubrey Buck, I may add, not does appear in_
"Crockford."
Uncle Joseph laid down the paper.
"And what do you think of that?" he enquired.
"We shall need to be getting another address," replied James Nimmo.
"We shall have to drop Aubrey Buck, too," said Uncle Joseph. "However,
we can't complain. We have done pretty well out of him. Let me think. I
know! We will turn him into a retired University Don with paralysis in
both legs, who has to do typewriting for a living. He shall send an
appeal for work to every lady novelist in the country. Their name is
legion. In nine cases out of ten they will send money instead of
manuscript."
"And if they do send manuscript?" enquired James Nimmo dubiously.
"We will keep it for a week," replied Uncle Joseph readily, "and then
return it, accompanied by a manly but resigned letter announcing that
the paralysis has spread to the Don's arms as well, and he supposes
there is nothing for it now but the workhouse. That ought to bring in a
double donation. Tell your brother to move from Commercial Road to
Islington. We have never had an address there. Were the other places all
right?"
While James Nimmo proceeded with his report Philip sorted the letters on
the table. The conversation did not interest him--he was accustomed to
it. But the editor of the "Searchlight" would have appreciated it
keenly.
Presently James Nimmo departed, and Uncle Joseph and Philip went through
their correspondence. The letters were arranged into three heaps. The
first addressed itself to _Master T. Smith, care of the Reverend
Vitruvius Smith, 172 Laburnum Road, Balham_. The other two were directed
to _The Honorary Secretary of the International Brotherhood of Kind
Young Hearts, Pontifex Mansions, Shaftesbury Avenue_, and _The Reverend
Aubrey Buck, Head Office, The Anti-Popery League, 374a Commercial Road_,
respectively.
Most of Master T. Smith's envelopes contained postal orders, some of
them accompanied by lengthy epistles which blended heavy-handed
patronage and treacly sentiment in equal proportions. Uncle Joseph read
one or two aloud.
_My dear little Tommy,--I feel that I must send you something in
response to your little letter, which has touched me to the
depths of my heart_.
"Only five shillings," commented Uncle Joseph, referring to the postal
order.
_I hope your father is better, and will soon be about his parish
work again. The expense of his illness must have been very
great, and I cannot wonder that you should have overheard your
mother crying in the night, when she thought you were all fast
asleep. Perhaps it was_ wrong _of you to write to me for help
without consulting your parents; but, as you point out, it
would, indeed, be a splendid surprise if you could go to your
father's study with a little money in your hand and say:--"That
is for household expenses, dear Father, from an anonymous
well-wisher." I think it was clever of you to spell "anonymous"
correctly._
"It was infernally silly of you," amended Uncle Joseph, looking up for a
moment. "However:--
_I feel therefore that I must fall in with your little plot. I
am not allowed by law to send actual coin through the post, or
you should have had a bright new five-shilling piece._ [This
woman ought to be put into a Home.] _So I enclose what is called
a postal order. If you sign your name on it and take it round to
the nearest Post-Office, they will give you five shillings in
exchange._
_Do not apologise for your handwriting. I think it is quite good
for a boy of ten. Give my love to your baby brother._
_Your sincere friend,_
_Jane Roper._
_P.S. I wonder how you heard of me._
"They all want to know that," grunted Uncle Joseph. "None of the silly
creatures seem ever to have heard of directories."
Master Thomas Smith gravely signed the postal order which Uncle Joseph
had pushed over to him, remarking that it was a good thing Miss Roper
had not filled up the name of the post-office.
There were fifteen more letters in a very similar strain. They were not
all read right through, but the name and address of the sender were
always entered in the book and the postal orders were carefully
extracted and filed.
Their total value was found to be seven pounds ten--this despite a
disappointment caused by the last letter in the heap, which bore a small
coronet on the back and promised a cheque at least. It ran:--
_My dear little boy,--I read your letter with great interest and
indignation. It only proves what I have_ always _said, that some
of our noble clergy are shamefully underpaid. I do not send you
any money, for to do so would be to insult a sacred profession,
and I am quite sure that your little plan of offering a
contribution of your own towards your household expenses, though
creditable to your feelings, would meet with your dear father's
deepest disapproval. I will do better than that. I have some
little influence with the kind Bishop of your diocese, and if
you will send me your father's full name and the name of his
church and parish,--all I have at present is your home
address,--I will make strong representations to His Lordship on
your behalf. Indeed, I expect to meet him at dinner next week. I
have been unable to verify your father's name in_ "Crockford's
Clerical Directory," _which I always keep by me. But you see,
there are so many Smiths_--
"Quite so," murmured Uncle Joseph, in tones of deep satisfaction.
--_And the task is too difficult. However, if you will send me
the details I ask for, I feel sure that the dear Bishop will
make a searching enquiry into your father's case._
_Your affectionate friend,_
_Sarah Brickshire._
_P.S. I wonder how such a little boy as you found out my
address._
"Interfering old tabby!" observed Uncle Joseph testily. "If she persists
in this preposterous nonsense we shall have to change your _venue_,
Philip. Now for the Kind Young Hearts!"
To judge by the contents of the second heap of envelopes, the
International Brotherhood of Kind Young Hearts was an institution of
variegated aims and comfortable income. A five-pound note dropped out of
the first letter opened, the sender, in her covering epistle, expressing
her warm admiration for the character of a heroic (but unfortunately
fictitious) individual named Dimitri Papodoodlekos,--or something to
that effect,--an Armenian gentleman of enlightened views and stiff moral
fibre, who, having been converted late in life to the principles of
Wesleyan Methodism, had persisted, in the very heart of the Ottoman
Empire and in the face of all Islam, in maintaining and practising the
tenets of his newly embraced creed until summarily deported from his
native Armenia by direction of the Sultan himself. The writer begged to
enclose a small contribution towards the sum of fifty pounds which she
understood the Brotherhood of Kind Young Hearts was endeavouring to
raise in order to set up the expatriated Papodoodlekos in a cigar-divan
in Stoke Newington.
The next letter contained a postal order for one pound, contributed by a
warm-hearted but gullible female in Leicestershire, as a contribution
towards the sum required to purchase a dress-suit for Samuel Mings, the
Walthamstow garotter, who, having recently completed a term of fifteen
years' penal servitude, was now anxious to atone for past misdeeds by
plunging into a life of intense respectability. Samuel, it seemed, had
decided to follow the calling of a waiter at suburban dinner-parties;
and, being a man of agreeable address and imposing appearance, had
already booked several conditional engagements in the Golder's Green
district. A second-hand dress-suit was now all that was requisite to
ensure for him a permanent residence in the paths of virtue.
It may be mentioned here that sufficient cash to equip Samuel with an
entire Bond Street _trousseau_ was yielded by this post alone.
But the begging-letter writer, charm he never so wisely, draws a blank
sometimes. Presently Uncle Joseph picked up a large grey envelope from
the heap.
"Man's handwriting," he observed.
From the envelope he extracted a letter and a cheque. A casual glance at
the face of the cheque caused him to raise his eyebrows comically and
whistle. Then he skimmed through the letter.
"Here's a fellow with a sense of humour," he said. "What a tonic after
all these women!
_Sir,--My wife, who occasionally permits me to take charge of
her correspondence (especially when she is asked for money), has
handed me your very interesting communication. I learn from it
that the International Brotherhood of Kind Young Hearts is in
need of funds for fifteen different objects--prettily described
by you as "this week's List of Mercy." The list includes:--_
_(1) Appeal on behalf of an Armenian undesirable, who appears to
have evaded the Immigration Laws of this country and so planted
himself in our unhappy midst._
_(2) Appeal on behalf of a retired garotter, who, before setting
up in business as a suburban burglar, evidently desires to study
the architecture and internal arrangements of the residences of
our wealthy_ bourgeoisie.
_(3) Appeal for a sum sufficient to send one thousand slum
children to the seaside._
_This appears to be a laudable object, though it is perhaps
undesirable to despatch children of that age and condition to
the seaside in early December, as you apparently propose to do.
It would, moreover, have established greater confidence in the
minds of your clients if you had mentioned the name of the slum,
the name of the watering-place to which you propose to send the
children, and the nature of your arrangements for conveying and
maintaining them there. If I may say so, there is a lack of
names, places, and figures in your scheme. But perhaps, as in
the case of John Wesley, "the world is your parish."_
_There are twelve other appeals of a similar nature, all equally
hard to resist and all equally entertaining. Subscribers, I
note, are requested to place a mark opposite to the particular
item of your programme to which they wish their contribution to
be devoted. I confess I find my sympathy excited less by some of
the appeals than by the others. For instance, I fear I cannot
support your view of the desirability of providing a one-armed
protege of yours, Albert Edward Skewby, with a hurdy-gurdy. In
my opinion there are only two musicians in history--Bach and
Tchaikowsky--and neither of these sounds to advantage on a
hurdy-gurdy. Besides, Albert probably has another arm inside his
waistcoat. You look and see. Neither can I find it in my heart
to support your Home of Rest for unwanted Doggies. Sausages are
dear enough as it is, and if you are going to corner the market
in this well-meaning but misguided fashion, I fear they will
soon be out of my reach altogether._
_However, some of your other appeals moved me deeply, and I
confess I have experienced great difficulty in making my final
choice. I was strongly attracted at first by the case of the
gentleman who has just terminated a protracted visit to an
inebriates' home, and who, I gather, is anxious to raise a sum
sufficient to enable him to qualify for readmission at an early
date. I nearly succumbed, again, to your appeal on behalf of the
lady who has recently been rendered a widow by reason of the
hasty and ill-considered action of a band of African cannibals.
On second thoughts, however, remembering that the pangs of the
good lady over the loss of her husband must be as nothing in
comparison with those of the unfortunate savages who are
probably still trying to digest him, I held my hand, and passed
on to my final choice--the purchase of an annuity for the aged
and badly-used butler, Lemuel Bloote--(what fun it must be
making up names like that!)_
_Lemuel, I gather, has severed his connection with his
employer--a nobleman to whose family and person the Blootes have
been faithfully attached for more than forty years--owing to an
unfortunate misunderstanding with regard to a valuable and
massive service of Sheffield plate, unaccountably missing from
the baronial strong-room. Lemuel naturally left the court
without a stain upon his character, but wounded pride forbade
him to reenter the service of his aristocratic traducer. Too old
to start life afresh, too self-respecting to beg, he has thrown
himself, you say, upon the compassion of the International
Brotherhood of the Kind Young Hearts. I cannot resist this
appeal. I set my mark against the name of Lemuel Bloote, and beg
you to be so kind as to accept my cheque on his behalf. I do not
know how great a sum is required to purchase an annuity for a
Bloote, so I leave the cheque blank. Kindly fill it up at your
discretion. I make only one stipulation. I am a collector of
Sheffield plate. If Lemuel has not already disposed of his
stock, perhaps you will kindly put me into direct communication
with him._
_Let me close with a word of advice. When you write your next
batch of appeals, do not allow your sense of humour to run away
with you altogether. I admire and respect a cheerful knave, but
let there be moderation in all things._
_Yours faithfully,_
_Julius Mablethorpe._
The cheque was headed _Bank of Expectation_, and bore the somewhat
unexpected signature of the head of the house of Rothschild. It was
drawn to the order of _A. S. Windeller, Esq._, and was dated _April the
First, 2013_.
"I should like to meet that fellow," said Uncle Joseph appreciatively.
"So should I," said Philip.
His uncle looked up.
"Hallo!" he said. "Is your sense of humour beginning to sprout, Philip?
You are growing up, my boy. How old are you?"
"Nearly fifteen," said Philip.
"Well, you don't look it, but you possess certain attainments which a
young man of thirty might envy. In other respects you must be considered
backward. But you are an excellent secretary, you can keep accounts, and
you are exceptionally well up in English literature and modern science.
I have directed you to the best of my ability in the right way of life.
At any rate, I have kept you away from wrong influences. You are healthy
in body and prompt in mind, and you are thoroughly inoculated against
the female virus. Now your sense of humour is developing. You should go
far. But we are wasting time. Let us polish off Aubrey Buck's
correspondence, and then I will dictate to you one or two new letters
which I have drafted. Your attention appears to be wandering. What are
you thinking about?"
"Nothing in particular, Uncle Joseph," said Philip. He took up his pen
briskly.
But for all that he _had_ been thinking about something in particular.
Uncle Joseph's reference to the female virus had brought it to his mind.
It was a little girl in a blue cotton frock.