ONE IN THE EYE
_(Sidney Price’s narrative continued)_
“Serpose I oughtn’t ter ’ave let on, that’s it, ain’t it?” from Tom
Blake.
“Seemed to me that if one of the three gave the show away to the other
two, the compact made by each of the other two came to an end
automatically,” from myself.
“The reason I have broken my promise of secrecy is this: that I’m
determined we three shall make a united demand for a higher rate of
payment. You, of course, have your own uses for the money, I need mine
for those humanitarian objects for which my whole life is lived,” from
the Reverend.
“Wot ’o,” said Blake. “More coin. Wot ’o. Might ’ave thought o’ that
before.”
“I’m with you, sir,” said I. “We’re entitled to a higher rate, I’ll
make a memo to that effect.”
“No, no,” said the Reverend. “We can do better than that. We three
should have a personal interview with Cloyster and tell him our
decision.”
“When?” I asked.
“Now. At once. We are here together, and I see no reason to prevent our
arranging the matter within the hour.”
“But he’ll be asleep,” I objected.
“He won’t be asleep much longer.”
“Yus, roust ’im outer bed. That’s wot I say. Wot ’o for more coin.”
It was now half-past two in the morning. I’d missed the 12:15 back to
Brixton slap bang pop hours ago, so I thought I might just as well make
a night of it. We jumped into our overcoats and hats, and hurried to
Fleet Street. We walked towards the Strand until we found a
four-wheeler. We then drove to No. 23, Walpole Street.
The clocks struck three as the Reverend paid the cab.
“Hullo!” said he. “Why, there’s a light in Cloyster’s sitting-room. He
can’t have gone to bed yet. His late hours save us a great deal of
trouble.” And he went up the two or three steps which led to the front
door.
A glance at Tom Blake showed me that the barge-driver was alarmed. He
looked solemn and did not speak. I felt funny, too. Like when I first
handed round the collection-plate in our parish church. Sort of empty
feeling.
But the Reverend was all there, spry and business-like.
He leaned over the area railing and gave three short, sharp taps on the
ground floor window with his walking-stick.
Behind the lighted blind appeared the shadow of a man’s figure.
“It’s he!” “It’s him!” came respectively and simultaneously from the
Reverend and myself.
After a bit of waiting the latch clicked and the door opened. The door
was opened by Mr. Cloyster himself. He was in evening dress and
hysterics. I thought I had heard a rummy sound from the other side of
the door. Couldn’t account for it at the time. Must have been him
laughing.
At the sight of us he tried to pull himself together. He half succeeded
after a bit, and asked us to come in.
To say his room was plainly furnished doesn’t express it. The apartment
was like a prison cell. I’ve never been in gaol, of course. But I read
“Convict 99” when it ran in a serial. The fire was out, the chairs were
hard, and the whole thing was uncomfortable. Never struck such a shoddy
place in my natural, ever since I called on a man I know slightly who
was in “The Hand of Blood” travelling company No. 3 B.
“Delighted to see you, I’m sure,” said Mr. Cloyster. “In fact, I was
just going to sit down and write to you.”
“Really,” said the Reverend. “Well, we’ve come of our own accord, and
we’ve come to talk business.” Then turning to Blake and me he added,
“May I state our case?”
“Most certainly, sir,” I answered. And Blake gave a nod.
“Briefly, then,” said the Reverend, “our mission is this: that we three
want our contracts revised.”
“What contracts?” said Mr. Cloyster.
“Our contracts connected with your manuscripts.”
“Since when have the several matters of business which I arranged
privately with each of you become public?”
“Tonight. It was quite unavoidable. We met by chance. We are not to
blame. Tom Blake was——”
“Yes, he looks as if he had been.”
“Our amended offer is half profits.”
“More coin,” murmured Blake huskily. “Wot ’o!”
“I regret that you’ve had your journey for nothing.”
“You refuse?”
“Absolutely.”
“My dear Cloyster, I had expected you to take this attitude; but surely
it’s childish of you. You are bound to accede. Why not do so at once?”
“Bound to accede? I don’t follow you.”
“Yes, bound. The present system which you are working is one you cannot
afford to destroy. That is clear, because, had it not been so, you
would never have initiated it. I do not know for what reason you were
forced to employ this system, but I do know that powerful circumstances
must have compelled you to do so. You are entirely in our hands.”
“I said just now I was delighted to see you, and that I had intended to
ask you to come to me. One by one, of course; for I had no idea that
the promise of secrecy which you gave me had been broken.”
The Reverend shrugged his shoulders.
“Do you know why I wanted to see you?”
“No.”
“To tell you that I had decided to abandon my system. To notify you
that you would, in future, receive no more of my work.”
There was a dead silence.
“I think I’ll go home to bed,” said the Reverend.
Blake and myself followed him out.
Mr. Cloyster thanked us all warmly for the excellent way in which we
had helped him. He said that he was now engaged to be married, and had
to save every penny. “Otherwise, I should have tried to meet you in
this affair of the half-profits.” He added that we had omitted to
congratulate him on his engagement.
His words came faintly to our ears as we tramped down Walpole Street;
nor did we, as far as I can remember, give back any direct reply.
Tell you what it was just like. Reminded me of it even at the time:
that picture of Napoleon coming back from Moscow. The Reverend was
Napoleon, and we were the generals; and if there were three humpier men
walking the streets of London at that moment I should have liked to
have seen them.