Produced by Al Haines
BONES
IN LONDON
By
EDGAR WALLACE
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED
LONDON AND MELBOURNE
1921
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I.--BONES AND BIG BUSINESS
II.--HIDDEN TREASURE
III.--BONES AND THE WHARFINGERS
IV.--THE PLOVER LIGHT CAR
V.--A CINEMA PICTURE
VI.--A DEAL IN JUTE
VII.--DETECTIVE BONES
VIII.--A COMPETENT JUDGE OF POETRY
IX.--THE LAMP THAT NEVER WENT OUT
X.--THE BRANCH LINE
XI.--A STUDENT OF MEN
XII.--BONES HITS BACK
BONES IN LONDON
CHAPTER I
BONES AND BIG BUSINESS
There was a slump in the shipping market, and men who were otherwise
decent citizens wailed for one hour of glorious war, when Kenyon Line
Deferred had stood at 88 1/2, and even so poor an organization as
Siddons Steam Packets Line had been marketable at 3 3/8.
Two bareheaded men came down the busy street, their hands thrust into
their trousers pockets, their sleek, well-oiled heads bent in dejection.
No word they spoke, keeping step with the stern precision of soldiers.
Together they wheeled through the open doors of the Commercial Trust
Building, together they left-turned into the elevator, and
simultaneously raised their heads to examine its roof, as though in its
panelled ceiling was concealed some Delphic oracle who would answer the
riddle which circumstances had set them.
They dropped their heads together and stood with sad eyes, regarding
the attendant's leisurely unlatching of the gate. They slipped forth
and walked in single file to a suite of offices inscribed "Pole
Brothers, Brokers," and, beneath, "The United Merchant Shippers'
Corporation," and passed through a door which, in addition to this
declaration, bore the footnote "Private."
Here the file divided, one going to one side of a vast pedestal desk
and one to the other. Still with their hands pushed deep into their
pockets, they sank, almost as at a word of command, each into his
cushioned chair, and stared at one another across the table.
They were stout young men of the middle thirties, clean-shaven and
ruddy. They had served their country in the late War, and had made
many sacrifices to the common cause. One had worn uniform and one had
not. Joe had occupied some mysterious office which permitted and,
indeed, enjoined upon him the wearing of the insignia of captain, but
had forbidden him to leave his native land. The other had earned a
little decoration with a very big title as a buyer of boots for Allied
nations. Both had subscribed largely to War Stock, and a reminder of
their devotion to the cause of liberty was placed to their credit every
half-year.
But for these, war, with its horrific incidents, its late hours, its
midnight railway journeys by trains on which sleeping berths could not
be had for love or money, its food cards and statements of excess
profits, was past. The present held its tragedy so poignant as to
overshadow that breathless terrifying moment when peace had come and
found the firm with the sale of the Fairy Line of cargo steamers
uncompleted, contracts unsigned, and shipping stock which had lived
light-headedly in the airy spaces, falling deflated on the floor of the
house.
The Fairy Line was not a large line. It was, in truth, a small line.
It might have been purchased for two hundred thousand pounds, and
nearly was. To-day it might be acquired for one hundred and fifty
thousand pounds, and yet it wasn't.
"Joe," said the senior Mr. Pole, in a voice that came from his
varnished boots, "we've got to do something with Fairies."
"Curse this War!" said Joe in cold-blooded even tones. "Curse the
Kaiser! A weak-kneed devil who might at least have stuck to it for
another month! Curse him for making America build ships, curse him
for----"
"Joe," said the stout young man on the other side of the table, shaking
his head sadly, "it is no use cursing, Joe. We knew that they were
building ships, but the business looked good to me. If Turkey hadn't
turned up her toes and released all that shipping----"
"Curse Turkey!" said the other, with great calmness. "Curse the Sultan
and Enver and Taalat, curse Bulgaria and Ferdinand----"
"Put in one for the Bolsheviks, Joe," said his brother urgently, "and I
reckon that gets the lot in trouble. Don't start on Austria, or we'll
find ourselves cursing the Jugo-Slavs."
He sighed deeply, pursed his lips, and looked at his writing-pad
intently.
Joe and Fred Pole had many faults, which they freely admitted, such as
their generosity, their reckless kindness of heart, their willingness
to do their worst enemies a good turn, and the like. They had others
which they never admitted, but which were none the less patent to their
prejudiced contemporaries.
But they had virtues which were admirable. They were, for example,
absolutely loyal to one another, and were constant in their mutual
admiration and help. If Joe made a bad deal, Fred never rested until
he had balanced things against the beneficiary. If Fred in a weak
moment paid a higher price to the vendor of a property than he, as
promoter, could afford, it was Joe who took the smug vendor out to
dinner and, by persuasion, argument, and the frank expression of his
liking for the unfortunate man, tore away a portion of his ill-gotten
gains.
"I suppose," said Joe, concluding his minatory exercises, and reaching
for a cigar from the silver box which stood on the table midway between
the two, "I suppose we couldn't hold Billing to his contract. Have you
seen Cole about it, Fred?"
The other nodded slowly.
"Cole says that there is no contract. Billing offered to buy the
ships, and meant to buy them, undoubtedly; but Cole says that if you
took Billing into court, the judge would chuck his pen in your eye."
"Would he now?" said Joe, one of whose faults was that he took things
literally. "But perhaps if you took Billing out to dinner, Fred----"
"He's a vegetarian, Joe"--he reached in his turn for a cigar, snipped
the end and lit it--"and he's deaf. No, we've got to find a sucker,
Joe. I can sell the _Fairy May_ and the _Fairy Belle_: they're little
boats, and are worth money in the open market. I can sell the wharfage
and offices and the goodwill----"
"What's the goodwill worth, Fred?"
"About fivepence net," said the gloomy Fred. "I can sell all these,
but it is the _Fairy Mary_ and the _Fairy Tilda_ that's breaking my
heart. And yet, Joe, there ain't two ships of their tonnage to be
bought on the market. If you wanted two ships of the same size and
weight, you couldn't buy 'em for a million--no, you couldn't. I guess
they must be bad ships, Joe."
Joe had already guessed that.
"I offered 'em to Saddler, of the White Anchor," Fred went on, "and he
said that if he ever started collecting curios he'd remember me. Then
I tried to sell 'em to the Coastal Cargo Line--the very ships for the
Newcastle and Thames river trade--and he said he couldn't think of it
now that the submarine season was over. Then I offered 'em to young
Topping, who thinks of running a line to the West Coast, but he said
that he didn't believe in Fairies or Santa Claus or any of that stuff."
There was silence.
"Who named 'em _Fairy Mary_ and _Fairy Tilda_?" asked Joe curiously.
"Don't let's speak ill of the dead," begged Fred; "the man who had 'em
built is no longer with us, Joe. They say that joy doesn't kill, but
that's a lie, Joe. He died two days after we took 'em over, and left
all his money--all our money--to a nephew."
"I didn't know that," said Joe, sitting up.
"I didn't know it myself till the other day, when I took the deed of
sale down to Cole to see if there wasn't a flaw in it somewhere. I've
wired him."
"Who--Cole?"
"No, the young nephew. If we could only----"
He did not complete his sentence, but there was a common emotion and
understanding in the two pairs of eyes that met.
"Who is he--anybody?" asked Joe vaguely.
Fred broke off the ash of his cigar and nodded.
"Anybody worth half a million is somebody, Joe," he said seriously.
"This young fellow was in the Army. He's out of it now, running a
business in the City--'Schemes, Ltd.,' he calls it. Lots of people
know him--shipping people on the Coast. He's got a horrible nickname."
"What's that, Fred?"
"Bones," said Fred, in tones sufficiently sepulchral to be appropriate,
"and, Joe, he's one of those bones I want to pick."
There was another office in that great and sorrowful City. It was
perhaps less of an office than a boudoir, for it had been furnished on
the higher plan by a celebrated firm of furnishers and decorators,
whose advertisements in the more exclusive publications consisted of a
set of royal arms, a photograph of a Queen Anne chair, and the bold
surname of the firm. It was furnished with such exquisite taste that
you could neither blame nor praise the disposition of a couch or the
set of a purple curtain.
The oxydized silver grate, the Persian carpets, the rosewood desk, with
its Venetian glass flower vase, were all in harmony with the panelled
walls, the gentlemanly clock which ticked sedately on the Adam
mantelpiece, the Sheraton chairs, the silver--or apparently so--wall
sconces, the delicate electrolier with its ballet skirts of purple silk.
All these things were evidence of the careful upbringing and artistic
yearnings of the young man who "blended" for the eminent firm of
Messrs. Worrows, By Appointment to the King of Smyrna, His Majesty the
Emperor ---- (the blank stands for an exalted name which had been
painted out by the patriotic management of Worrows), and divers other
royalties.
The young man who sat in the exquisite chair, with his boots elevated
to and resting upon the olive-green leather of the rosewood
writing-table, had long since grown familiar with the magnificence in
which he moved and had his being. He sat chewing an expensive
paper-knife of ivory, not because he was hungry, but because he was
bored. He had entered into his kingdom brimful of confidence and with
unimagined thousands of pounds to his credit in the coffers of the
Midland and Somerset Bank.
He had brought with him a bright blue book, stoutly covered and
brassily locked, on which was inscribed the word "Schemes."
That book was filled with writing of a most private kind and of a
frenzied calculation which sprawled diagonally over pages, as for
example:
Buy up old houses . . . . . . . . . say 2,000 pounds.
Pull them down . . . . . . . . . . . say 500 pounds.
Erect erect 50 Grand Flats . . . . . say 10,000 pounds.
Paper, pante, windows, etc. . . . . say 1,000 pounds.
------
Total . . . . . . . . . . . . 12,000 pounds.
50 Flats let at 80 pounds per annum. 40,000 lbs.
Net profit . . . . . . . . . . . . . say 50 per cent.
NOTE.--For good middel class familys steady steady people. By this
means means doing good turn to working classes solving houseing problem
and making money which can be distribbuted distribbutted to the poor.
Mr. Augustus Tibbetts, late of H.M. Houssa Rifles, was, as his
doorplate testified, the Managing Director of "Schemes, Ltd." He was a
severe looking young man, who wore a gold-rimmed monocle on his grey
check waistcoat and occasionally in his left eye. His face was of that
brick-red which spoke of a life spent under tropical suns, and when
erect he conveyed a momentary impression of a departed militarism.
He uncurled his feet from the table, and, picking up a letter, read it
through aloud--that is to say, he read certain words, skipped others,
and substituted private idioms for all he could not or would not
trouble to pronounce.
"Dear Sir," (he mumbled), "as old friends of your dear uncle, and so on
and so forth, we are taking the first opportunity of making widdly
widdly wee.... Our Mr. Fred Pole will call upon you and place himself
widdly widdly wee--tum tiddly um tum.--Yours truly."
Mr. Tibbetts frowned at the letter and struck a bell with unnecessary
violence. There appeared in the doorway a wonderful man in scarlet
breeches and green zouave jacket. On his head was a dull red tarbosh,
on his feet scarlet slippers, and about his waist a sash of Oriental
audacity. His face, large and placid, was black, and, for all his
suggestiveness of the brilliant East, he was undoubtedly negroid.
The costume was one of Mr. Tibbetts's schemes. It was faithfully
copied from one worn by a gentleman of colour who serves the Turkish
coffee at the Wistaria Restaurant. It may be said that there was no
special reason why an ordinary business man should possess a bodyguard
at all, and less reason why he should affect one who had the appearance
of a burlesque Othello, but Mr. Augustus Tibbetts, though a business
man, was not ordinary.
"Bones"--for such a name he bore without protest in the limited circles
of his friendship--looked up severely.
"Ali," he demanded, "have you posted the ledger?"
"Sir," said Ali, with a profound obeisance, "the article was too
copious for insertion in aperture of collection box, so it was
transferred to the female lady behind postal department counter."
Bones leapt up, staring.
"Goodness gracious, Heavens alive, you silly old ass--you--you haven't
posted it--in the post?"
"Sir," said Ali reproachfully, "you instructed posting volume in exact
formula. Therefore I engulfed it in wrappings and ligatures of string,
and safely delivered it to posting authority."
Bones sank back in his chair.
"It's no use--no use, Ali," he said sadly, "my poor uncivilized savage,
it's not your fault. I shall never bring you up to date, my poor silly
old josser. When I say 'post' the ledger, I mean write down all the
money you've spent on cabs in the stamp book. Goodness gracious alive!
You can't run a business without system, Ali! Don't you know that, my
dear old image? How the dooce do you think the auditors are to know
how I spend my jolly old uncle's money if you don't write it down, hey?
Posting means writing. Good Heavens"--a horrid thought dawned on
him--"who did you post it to?"
"Lord," said Ali calmly, "destination of posted volume is your
lordship's private residency."
All's English education had been secured in the laboratory of an
English scientist in Sierra Leone, and long association with that
learned man had endowed him with a vocabulary at once impressive and
recondite.
Bones gave a resigned sigh.
"I'm expecting----" he began, when a silvery bell tinkled.
It was silvery because the bell was of silver. Bones looked up, pulled
down his waistcoat, smoothed back his hair, fixed his eye-glass, and
took up a long quill pen with a vivid purple feather.
"Show them in," he said gruffly.
"Them" was one well-dressed young man in a shiny silk hat, who, when
admitted to the inner sanctum, came soberly across the room, balancing
his hat.
"Ah, Mr. Pole--Mr. Fred Pole." Bones read the visitor's card with the
scowl which he adopted for business hours. "Yes, yes. Be seated, Mr.
Pole. I shall not keep you a minute."
He had been waiting all the morning for Mr. Pole. He had been weaving
dreams from the letter-heading above Mr. Pole's letter.
Ships ... ships ... house-flags ... brass-buttoned owners....
He waved Mr. Fred to a chair and wrote furiously. This frantic
pressure of work was a phenomenon which invariably coincided with the
arrival of a visitor. It was, I think, partly due to nervousness and
partly to his dislike of strangers. Presently he finished, blotted the
paper, stuck it in an envelope, addressed it, and placed it in his
drawer. Then he took up the card.
"Mr. Pole?" he said.
"Mr. Pole," repeated that gentleman.
"Mr. _Fred_ Pole?" asked Bones, with an air of surprise.
"Mr. Fred Pole," admitted the other soberly.
Bones looked from the card to the visitor as though he could not
believe his eyes.
"We have a letter from you somewhere," he said, searching the desk.
"Ah, here it is!" (It was, in fact, the only document on the table.)
"Yes, yes, to be sure. I'm very glad to meet you."
He rose, solemnly shook hands, sat down again and coughed. Then he
took up the ivory paper-knife to chew, coughed again as he detected the
lapse, and put it down with a bang.
"I thought I'd like to come along and see you, Mr. Tibbetts," said Fred
in his gentle voice; "we are so to speak, associated in business."
"Indeed?" said Bones. "In-deed?"
"You see, Mr. Tibbetts," Fred went on, with a sad smile, "your lamented
uncle, before he went out of business, sold us his ships. He died a
month later."
He sighed and Bones sighed.
"Your uncle was a great man, Mr. Tibbetts," he said, "one of the
greatest business men in this little city. What a man!"
"Ah!" said Bones, shaking his head mournfully.
He had never met his uncle and had seldom heard of him. Saul Tibbetts
was reputedly a miser, and his language was of such violence that the
infant Augustus was invariably hurried to the nursery on such rare
occasions as old Saul paid a family visit. His inheritance had come to
Bones as in a dream, from the unreality of which he had not yet
awakened.
"I must confess, Mr. Tibbetts," said Fred, "that I have often had
qualms of conscience about your uncle, and I have been on the point of
coming round to see you several times. This morning I said to my
brother, 'Joe,' I said, 'I'm going round to see Tibbetts.' Forgive the
familiarity, but we talk of firms like the Rothschilds and the Morgans
without any formality."
"Naturally, naturally, naturally," murmured Bones gruffly.
"I said: 'I'll go and see Tibbetts and get it off my chest. If he
wants those ships back at the price we paid for them, or even less, he
shall have them.' 'Fred,' he said, 'you're too sensitive for
business.' 'Joe,' I said, 'my conscience works even in business
hours.'"
A light dawned on Bones and he brightened visibly.
"Ah, yes, my dear old Pole," he said almost cheerily, "I understand.
You diddled my dear old uncle--bless his heart--out of money, and you
want to pay it back. Fred"--Bones rose and extended his knuckly
hand--"you're a jolly old sportsman, and you can put it there!"
"What I was going to say----" began Fred seriously agitated.
"Not a word. We'll have a bottle on this. What will you
have--ginger-beer or cider?"
Mr. Fred suppressed a shudder with difficulty.
"Wait, wait, Mr. Tibbetts," he begged; "I think I ought to explain. We
did not, of course, knowingly rob your uncle----"
"No, no, naturally," said Bones, with a facial contortion which passed
for a wink. "Certainly not. We business men never rob anybody. Ali,
bring the drinks!"
"We did not consciously rob him," continued Mr. Fred desperately, "but
what we did do---- ah, this is my confession!"
"You borrowed a bit and didn't pay it back. Ah, naughty!" said Bones.
"Out with the corkscrew, Ali. What shall it be--a cream soda or
non-alcoholic ale?"
Mr. Fred looked long and earnestly at the young man.
"Mr. Tibbetts," he said, and suddenly grasped the hand of Bones, "I
hope we are going to be friends. I like you. That's my peculiarity--I
like people or I dislike them. Now that I've told you that we bought
two ships from your uncle for one hundred and forty thousand pounds
when we knew--yes, positively knew--they were worth at least twenty
thousand pounds more--now I've told you this, I feel happier."
"Worth twenty thousand pounds more?" said Bones thoughtfully.
Providence was working overtime for him, he thought.
"Of anybody's money," said Fred stoutly. "I don't care where you go,
my dear chap. Ask Cole--he's the biggest shipping lawyer in this
city--ask my brother, who, I suppose, is the greatest shipping
authority in the world, or--what's the use of asking 'em?--ask
yourself. If you're not Saul Tibbetts all over again, if you haven't
the instinct and the eye and the brain of a shipowner--why, I'm a
Dutchman! That's what I am--a Dutchman!"
He picked up his hat and his lips were pressed tight--a gesture and a
grimace which stood for grim conviction.
"What are they worth to-day?" asked Bones, after a pause.
"What are they worth to-day?" Mr. Fred frowned heavily at the ceiling.
"Now, what are they worth to-day? I forget how much I've spent on
'em--they're in dock now."
Bones tightened _his_ lips, too.
"They're in dock now?" he said. He scratched his nose. "Dear old Fred
Pole," he said, "you're a jolly old soul. By Jove that's not bad!
'Pole' an' 'soul' rhyme--did you notice it?"
Fred had noticed it.
"It's rum," said Bones, shaking his head, "it is rum how things get
about. How did you know, old fellow-citizen, that I was going in for
shippin'?"
Mr. Fred Pole did not know that Bones was going in for shipping, but he
smiled.
"There are few things that happen in the City that I _don't_ know," he
admitted modestly.
"The Tibbetts Line," said Bones firmly, "will fly a house-flag of
purple and green diagonally--that is, from corner to corner. There
will be a yellow anchor in a blue wreath in one corner and a capital T
in a red wreath in the other."
"Original, distinctly original," said Fred in wondering admiration.
"Wherever did you get that idea?"
"I get ideas," confessed Bones, blushing, "some times in the night,
sometimes in the day. The fleet"--Bones liked the sound of the word
and repeated it--"the fleet will consist of the _Augustus_, the
_Sanders_--a dear old friend of mine living at Hindhead--the
_Patricia_--another dear old friend of mine living at Hindhead, too--in
fact, in the same house. To tell you the truth, dear old Fred Pole,
she's married to the other ship. And there'll be the _Hamilton_,
another precious old soul, a very, very, very, very dear friend of mine
who's comin' home shortly----"
"Well, what shall we say, Mr. Tibbetts?" said Fred, who had an early
luncheon appointment. "Would you care to buy the two boats at the same
price we gave your uncle for them?"
Bones rang his bell.
"I'm a business man, dear old Fred," said he soberly. "There's no time
like the present, and I'll fix the matter--_now!_"
He said "now" with a ferociousness which was intended to emphasize his
hard and inflexible business character.
Fred came into the private office of Pole & Pole after lunch that day,
and there was in his face a great light and a peace which was almost
beautiful.
But never beamed the face of Fred so radiantly as the countenance of
the waiting Joe. He lay back in his chair, his cigar pointing to the
ceiling.
"Well, Fred?"--there was an anthem in his voice.
"Very well, Joe." Fred hung up his unnecessary umbrella.
"I've sold the _Fairies_!"
Joe said it and Fred said it. They said it together. There was the
same lilt of triumph in each voice, and both smiles vanished at the
identical instant.
"_You've_ sold the _Fairies_!" they said.
They might have been rehearsing this scene for months, so perfect was
the chorus.
"Wait a bit, Joe," said Fred; "let's get the hang of this. I
understand that you left the matter to me."
"I did; but, Fred, I was so keen on the idea I had that I had to nip in
before you. Of course, I didn't go to him as Pole & Pole----"
"To him? What him?" asked Fred, breathing hard.
"To What's-his-name--Bones."
Fred took his blue silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his
face.
"Go on, Joe," he said sadly
"I got him just before he went out to lunch. I sent up the United
Merchant Shippers' card--it's our company, anyway. Not a word about
Pole & Pole."
"Oh, no, of course not!" said Fred.
"And, my boy,"--this was evidently Joe's greatest achievement, for he
described the fact with gusto--"not a word about the names of the
ships. I just sold him two steamers, so and so tonnage, so and so
classification----"
"For how much?"
Fred was mildly curious. It was the curiosity which led a certain
political prisoner to feel the edge of the axe before it beheaded him.
"A hundred and twenty thousand!" cried Joe joyously. "He's starting a
fleet, he says. He's calling it the Tibbetts Line, and bought a couple
of ships only this morning."
Fred examined the ceiling carefully before he spoke.
"Joe," he said, "was it a firm deal? Did you put pen to paper?"
"You-bet-your-dear-sweet-life," said Joe, scornful at the suggestion
that he had omitted such an indispensable part of the negotiation.
"So did I, Joe," said Fred. "Those two ships he bought were the two
_Fairies_."
There was a dead silence.
"Well," said Joe uneasily, after a while, "we can get a couple of
ships----"
"Where, Joe? You admitted yesterday there weren't two boats in the
world on the market."
Another long silence.
"I did it for the best, Fred."
Fred nodded
"Something must be done. We can't sell a man what we haven't got.
Joe, couldn't you go and play golf this afternoon whilst I wangle this
matter out?"
Joe nodded and rose solemnly. He took down his umbrella from the peg
and his shiny silk hat from another peg, and tiptoed from the room.
From three o'clock to four Mr. Fred Pole sat immersed in thought, and
at last, with a big, heavy sigh, he unlocked his safe, took out his
cheque-book and pocketed it.
Bones was on the point of departure, after a most satisfactory day's
work, when Fred Pole was announced.
Bones greeted him like unto a brother--caught him by the hand at the
very entrance and, still holding him thus, conducted him to one of his
beautiful chairs.
"By Jove, dear old Fred," he babbled, "it's good of you, old
fellow--really good of you! Business, my jolly old shipowner, waits
for no man. Ali, my cheque-book!"
"A moment--just a moment, dear Mr. Bones," begged Fred. "You don't
mind my calling you by the name which is already famous in the City?"
Bones looked dubious.
"Personally, I prefer Tibbetts," said Fred.
"Personally, dear old Fred, so do I," admitted Bones.
"I've come on a curious errand," said Fred in such hollow tones that
Bones started. "The fact is, old man, I'm----"
He hung his head, and Bones laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.
"Anybody is liable to get that way, my jolly old roysterer," he said.
"Speakin' for myself, drink has no effect upon me--due to my jolly old
nerves of iron an' all that sort of thing."
"I'm ashamed of myself," said Fred.
"Nothing to be ashamed of, my poor old toper," said Bones honestly in
error. "Why, I remember once----"
"As a business man, Mr. Tibbetts," said Fred bravely, "can you forgive
sentiment?"
"Sentiment! Why, you silly old josser, I'm all sentiment, dear old
thing! Why, I simply cry myself to sleep over dear old Charles
What's-his-name's books!"
"It's sentiment," said Fred brokenly. "I just can't--I simply can't
part with those two ships I sold you."
"Hey?" said Bones.
"They were your uncle's, but they have an association for me and my
brother which it would be--er--profane to mention. Mr. Tibbetts, let
us cry off our bargain."
Bones sniffed and rubbed his nose.
"Business, dear old Fred," he said gently. "Bear up an' play the man,
as dear old Francis Drake said when they stopped him playin' cricket.
Business, old friend. I'd like to oblige you, but----"
He shook his head rapidly
Mr. Fred slowly produced his cheque-book and laid it on the desk with
the sigh of one who was about to indite his last wishes.
"You shall not be the loser," he said, with a catch in his voice, for
he was genuinely grieved. "I must pay for my weakness. What is five
hundred pounds?"
"What is a thousand, if it comes to that, Freddy?" said Bones.
"Gracious goodness, I shall be awfully disappointed if you back out--I
shall be so vexed, really."
"Seven hundred and fifty?" asked Fred, with pleading in his eye.
"Make it a thousand, dear old Fred," said Bones; "I can't add up
fifties."
So "in consideration" (as Fred wrote rapidly and Bones signed more
rapidly) "of the sum of one thousand pounds (say £1,000), the contract
as between &c., &c.," was cancelled, and Fred became again the
practical man of affairs.
"Dear old Fred," said Bones, folding the cheque and sticking it in his
pocket, "I'm goin' to own up--frankness is a vice with me--that I don't
understand much about the shippin' business. But tell me, my jolly old
merchant, why do fellers sell you ships in the mornin' an' buy 'em back
in the afternoon?"
"Business, Mr. Tibbetts," said Fred, smiling, "just big business."
Bones sucked an inky finger.
"Dinky business for me, dear old thing," he said. "I've got a thousand
from you an' a thousand from the other Johnny who sold me two ships.
Bless my life an' soul----"
"The other fellow," said Fred faintly--"a fellow from the United
Merchant Shippers?"
"That was the dear lad," said Bones.
"And has he cried off his bargain, too?"
"Positively!" said Bones. "A very, very nice, fellow. He told me I
could call him Joe--jolly old Joe!"
"Jolly old Joe!" repeated Fred mechanically, as he left the office, and
all the way home he was saying "Jolly old Joe!"