THE PLOVER LIGHT CAR
The door of the private office opened and after a moment closed. It
was, in fact, the private door of the private office, reserved
exclusively for the use of the Managing Director of Schemes Limited.
Nevertheless, a certain person had been granted the privilege of
ingress and egress through that sacred portal, and Mr. Tibbetts, yclept
Bones, crouching over his desk, the ferocity of his countenance
intensified by the monocle which was screwed into his eye, and the
terrific importance of his correspondence revealed by his disordered
hair and the red tongue that followed the movements of his pen, did not
look up.
"Put it down, put it down, young miss," he murmured, "on the table, on
the floor, anywhere."
There was no answer, and suddenly Bones paused and scowled at the
half-written sheet before him.
"That doesn't look right." He shook his head. "I don't know what's
coming over me. Do you spell 'cynical' with one 'k' or two?"
Bones looked up.
He saw a brown-faced man, with laughing grey eyes, a tall man in a long
overcoat, carrying a grey silk hat in his hand.
"Pardon me, my jolly old intruder," said Bones with dignity, "this is a
private----" Then his jaw dropped and he leant on the desk for
support. "Not my---- Good heavens!" he squeaked, and then leapt
across the room, carrying with him the flex of his table lamp, which
fell crashing to the floor.
"Ham, you poisonous old reptile!" He seized the other's hand in his
bony paw, prancing up and down, muttering incoherently.
"Sit down, my jolly old Captain. Let me take your overcoat. Well!
Well! Well! Give me your hat, dear old thing--dear old Captain, I
mean. This is simply wonderful! This is one of the most amazin'
experiences I've ever had, my dear old sportsman and officer. How long
have you been home? How did you leave the Territory? Good heavens!
We must have a bottle on this!"
"Sit down, you noisy devil," said Hamilton, pushing his erstwhile
subordinate into a chair, and pulling up another to face him.
"So this is your boudoir!" He glanced round admiringly. "It looks
rather like the waiting-room of a _couturière_."
"My dear old thing," said the shocked Bones, "I beg you, if you please,
remember, remember----" He lowered his voice, and the last word was in
a hoarse whisper, accompanied by many winks, nods, and pointings at and
to a door which led from the inner office apparently to the outer.
"There's a person, dear old man of the world--a young person--well
brought up----"
"What the----" began Hamilton.
"Don't be peeved!" Bones's knowledge of French was of the haziest.
"Remember, dear old thing," he said solemnly, wagging his inky
forefinger, "as an employer of labour, I must protect the young an'
innocent, my jolly old skipper."
Hamilton looked round for a missile, and could find nothing better than
a crystal paper-weight, which looked too valuable to risk.
"'_Couturière_,'" he said acidly, "is French for 'dressmaker.'"
"French," said Bones, "is a language which I have always carefully
avoided. I will say no more--you mean well, Ham."
Thereafter followed a volley of inquiries, punctuated at intervals by
genial ceremony, for Bones would rise from his chair, walk solemnly
round the desk, and as solemnly shake hands with his former superior.
"Now, Bones," said Hamilton at last, "will you tell me what you are
doing?"
Bones shrugged his shoulders.
"Business," he said briefly. "A deal now and again, dear old officer.
Make a thousand or so one week, lose a hundred or so the next."
"But what are you doing?" persisted Hamilton.
Again Bones shrugged, but with more emphasis.
"I suppose," he confessed, with a show of self-deprecation which his
smugness belied, "I suppose I am one of those jolly old spiders who sit
in the centre of my web, or one of those perfectly dinky little tigers
who sit in my jolly old lair, waiting for victims.
"Of course, it's cruel sport"--he shrugged again, toying with his ivory
paper-knife--"but one must live. In the City one preys upon other
ones."
"Do the other ones do any preying at all?" asked Hamilton.
Up went Bones's eyebrows.
"They try," he said tersely, and with compressed lips. "Last week a
fellow tried to sell me his gramophone, but I had a look at it. As I
suspected, it had no needle. A gramophone without a needle," said
Bones, "as you probably know, my dear old musical one, is wholly
useless."
"But you can buy them at a bob a box," said Hamilton.
Bones's face fell.
"Can you really?" he demanded. "You are not pulling my leg, or
anything? That's what the other fellow said. I do a little gambling,"
Bones went on, "not on the Stock Exchange or on the race-course, you
understand, but in Exchanges."
"Money Exchanges?"
Bones bowed his head.
"For example," he said, "to-day a pound is worth thirty-two francs,
to-morrow it is worth thirty-four francs. To-day a pound is worth four
dollars seventy-seven----"
"As a matter of fact, it is three dollars ninety-seven," interrupted
Hamilton.
"Ninety-seven or seventy-seven," said Bones irritably, "what is four
shillings to men like you or me, Hamilton? We can well afford it."
"My dear chap," said Hamilton, pardonably annoyed, "there is a
difference of four shillings between your estimate and the rate."
"What is four shillings to you or me?" asked Bones again, shaking his
head solemnly. "My dear old Ham, don't be mean."
There was a discreet tap on the door, and Bones rose with every
evidence of agitation.
"Don't stir, dear old thing," he pleaded in a husky whisper. "Pretend
not to notice, dear old Ham. Don't be nervous--wonderful young
lady----"
Then, clearing his throat noisily, "Come in!" he roared in the tone
that a hungry lion might have applied to one of the early Christian
martyrs who was knocking by mistake on the door of his den.
In spite of all injunctions, Hamilton did look, and he did stare, and
he did take a great deal of notice, for the girl who came in was well
worth looking at. He judged her to be about the age of twenty-one.
"Pretty" would be too feeble a word to employ in describing her. The
russet-brown hair, dressed low over her forehead, emphasized the
loveliness of eyes set wide apart and holding in their clear depths all
the magic and mystery of womanhood.
She was dressed neatly. He observed, too, that she had an open book
under her arm and a pencil in her hand, and it dawned upon him slowly
that this radiant creature was--Bones's secretary!
Bones's secretary!
He stared at Bones, and that young man, very red in the face, avoided
his eye.
Bones was standing by the desk, in the attitude of an after-dinner
speaker who was stuck for the right word. In moments of extreme
agitation Bones's voice became either a growl or a squeak--the bottom
register was now in exercise.
"Did--did you want me, young miss?" he demanded gruffly.
The girl at the door hesitated.
"I'm sorry--I didn't know you were engaged. I wanted to see you about
the Abyssinian----"
"Come in, come in, certainly," said Bones more gruffly than ever. "A
new complication, young miss?"
She laid a paper on the desk, taking no more notice of Hamilton than if
he were an ornament on the chimney-piece.
"The first instalment of the purchase price is due to-day," she said.
"Is it?" said Bones, with his extravagant surprise. "Are you certain,
young miss? This day of all days--and it's a Thursday, too," he added
unnecessarily.
The girl smiled and curled her lip, but only for a second.
"Well, well," said Bones, "it's a matter of serious importance. The
cheque, jolly old young miss, we will sign it and you will send it off.
Make it out for the full amount----"
"For the three thousand pounds?" said the girl.
"For the three thousand pounds," repeated Bones soberly. He put in his
monocle and glared at her. "For the three thousand pounds," he
repeated.
She stood waiting, and Bones stood waiting, he in some embarrassment as
to the method by which the interview might be terminated and his
secretary dismissed without any wound to her feelings.
"Don't you think to-morrow would do for the cheque?" she asked.
"Certainly, certainly," said Bones. "Why not? To-morrow's Friday,
ain't it?"
She inclined her head and walked out of the room, and Bones cleared his
throat once more.
"Bones----"
The young man turned to meet Hamilton's accusing eye.
"Bones," said Hamilton gently, "who is the lady?"
"Who is the lady?" repeated Bones, with a cough. "The lady is my
secretary, dear old inquisitor."
"So I gather," said Hamilton.
"She is my secretary," repeated Bones. "An extremely sensible young
woman, extremely sensible."
"Don't be silly," said Hamilton. "Plenty of people are sensible. When
you talk about sensible young women, you mean plain young women."
"That's true," said Bones; "I never thought of that. What a naughty
old mind you have, Ham."
He seemed inclined to change the subject.
"And now, dear old son," said Bones, with a brisk return to his
what-can-I-do-for-you air, "to business! You've come, dear old thing,
to consult me."
"You're surprisingly right," said Hamilton.
"Well," said Bones, trying three drawers of his desk before he could
find one that opened, "have a cigar, and let us talk."
Hamilton took the proffered weed and eyed it suspiciously.
"Is this one that was given to you, or one that you bought?" he
demanded.
"That, my jolly old officer," said Bones, "is part of a job lot that I
bought pretty cheap. I've got a rare nose for a bargain----"
"Have you a rare nose for a cigar, that's the point?" asked Hamilton,
as he cut off the end and lit it gingerly.
"Would I give you a bad cigar?" asked the indignant Bones. "A gallant
old returned warrior, comrade of my youth, and all that sort of thing!
My dear old Ham!"
"I'll tell you in a minute," said Hamilton, and took two draws.
Bones, who was no cigar smoker, watched the proceedings anxiously.
Hamilton put the cigar down very gently on the corner of the desk.
"Do you mind if I finish this when nobody's looking?" he asked.
"Isn't it all right?" asked Bones. "Gracious heavens! I paid fifty
shillings a hundred for those! Don't say I've been done."
"I don't see how you could be done at that price," said Hamilton, and
brushed the cigar gently into the fireplace. "Yes, I have come to
consult you, Bones," he went on. "Do you remember some eight months
ago I wrote to you telling you that I had been offered shares in a
motor-car company?"
Bones had a dim recollection that something of the sort had occurred,
and nodded gravely.
"It seemed a pretty good offer to me," said Hamilton reflectively.
"You remember I told you there was a managership attached to the
holding of the shares?"
Bones shifted uneasily in his chair, sensing a reproach.
"My dear old fellow----" he began feebly.
"Wait a bit," said Hamilton. "I wrote to you and asked you your
advice. You wrote back, telling me to have nothing whatever to do with
the Plover Light Car Company."
"Did I?" said Bones. "Well, my impression was that I advised you to
get into it as quickly as you possibly could. Have you my letter, dear
old thing?"
"I haven't," said Hamilton.
"Ah," said Bones triumphantly, "there you are! You jolly old rascal,
you are accusing me of putting you off----"
"Will you wait, you talkative devil?" said Hamilton. "I pointed out to
you that the prospects were very alluring. The Company was floated
with a small capital----"
Again Bones interrupted, and this time by rising and walking solemnly
round the table to shake hands with him.
"Hamilton, dear old skipper," he pleaded. "I was a very busy man at
that time. I admit I made a mistake, and possibly diddled you out of a
fortune. But my intention was to write to you and tell you to get into
it, and how I ever came to tell you _not_ to get into it--well, my poor
old speculator, I haven't the slightest idea!"
"The Company----" began Hamilton.
"I know, I know," said Bones, shaking his head sadly and fixing his
monocle--a proceeding rendered all the more difficult by the fact that
his hand never quite overtook his face. "It was an error on my part,
dear old thing. I know the Company well. Makes a huge profit! You
can see the car all over the town. I think the jolly old Partridge----"
"Plover," said Hamilton.
"Plover, I mean. They've got another kind of car called the
Partridge," explained Bones. "Why, it's one of the best in the market.
I thought of buying one myself. And to think that I put you off that
Company! Tut, tut! Anyway, dear old man," he said, brightening up,
"most of the good fish is in the sea, and it only goes bad when it
comes out of the sea. Have you ever noticed that, my dear old
naturalist?"
"Wait a moment. Will you be quiet?" said the weary Hamilton. "I'm
trying to tell you my experiences. I put the money--four thousand
pounds--into this infernal Company.
"Eh?"
"I put the money into the Company, I tell you, against your advice.
The Company is more or less a swindle."
Bones sat down slowly in his chair and assumed his most solemn and
business-like face.
"Of course, it keeps within the law, but it's a swindle, none the less.
They've got a wretched broken-down factory somewhere in the North, and
the only Plover car that's ever been built was made by a Scottish
contractor at a cost of about twice the amount which the Company people
said that they would charge for it."
"What did I say?" said Bones quietly. "Poor old soul, I do not give
advice without considering matters, especially to my dearest friend. A
company like this is obviously a swindle. You can tell by the
appearance of the cars----"
"There was only one car ever made," interrupted Hamilton.
"I should have said car," said the unperturbed Bones. "The very
appearance of it shows you that the thing is a swindle from beginning
to end. Oh, why did you go against my advice, dear old Ham? Why did
you?"
"You humbug!" said the wrathful Hamilton. "You were just this minute
apologising for giving me advice."
"That," said Bones cheerfully, "was before I'd heard your story. Yes,
Ham, you've been swindled." He thought a moment. "Four thousand
pounds!"
And his jaw dropped.
Bones had been dealing in large sums of late, and had forgotten just
the significance of four thousand pounds to a young officer. He was
too much of a little gentleman to put his thoughts into words, but it
came upon him like a flash that the money which Hamilton had invested
in the Plover Light Car Company was every penny he possessed in the
world, a little legacy he had received just before Bones had left the
Coast, plus all his savings for years.
"Ham," he said hollowly, "I am a jolly old rotter! Here I've been
bluffing and swanking to you when I ought to have been thinking out a
way of getting things right."
Hamilton laughed.
"I'm afraid you're not going to get things right, Bones," he said.
"The only thing I did think was that you might possibly know something
about this firm."
At any other moment Bones would have claimed an extensive acquaintance
with the firm and its working, but now he shook his head, and Hamilton
sighed.
"Sanders told me to come up and see you," he said. "Sanders has great
faith in you, Bones."
Bones went very red, coughed, picked up his long-plumed pen and put it
down again.
"At any rate," said Hamilton, "you know enough about the City to tell
me this--is there any chance of my getting this money back?"
Bones rose jerkily.
"Ham," he said, and Hamilton sensed a tremendous sincerity in his
voice, "that money's going to come back to you, or the name of Augustus
Tibbetts goes down in the jolly old records as a failure."
A minute later Captain Hamilton found himself hand-shook from the room.
Here for Bones was a great occasion. With both elbows on the desk, and
two hands searching his hair, he sat worrying out what he afterwards
admitted was the most difficult problem that ever confronted him.
After half an hour's hair-pulling he went slowly across his beautiful
room and knocked discreetly on the door of the outer office.
Miss Marguerite Whitland had long since grown weary of begging him to
drop this practice. She found it a simple matter to say "Come in!" and
Bones entered, closing the door behind him, and stood in a deferential
attitude two paces from the closed door.
"Young miss," he said quietly, "may I consult you?"
"You may even consult me," she said as gravely.
"It is a very curious problem, dear old Marguerite," said Bones in a
low, hushed tone. "It concerns the future of my very dearest
friend--the very dearest friend in all the world," he said
emphatically, "of the male sex," he added hastily. "Of course,
friendships between jolly old officers are on a different plane, if you
understand me, to friendships between--I mean to say, dear old thing,
I'm not being personal or drawing comparisons, because the feeling I
have for you----"
Here his eloquence ran dry. She knew him now well enough to be neither
confused nor annoyed nor alarmed when Bones broke forth into an
exposition of his private feelings. Very calmly she returned the
conversation to the rails.
"It is a matter which concerns a very dear friend of yours," she said
suggestively, and Bones nodded and beamed.
"Of course you guessed that," he said admiringly. "You're the jolliest
old typewriter that ever lived! I don't suppose any other young woman
in London would have----"
"Oh, yes, they would," she said. "You'd already told me. I suppose
that you've forgotten it."
"Well, to cut a long story short, dear old Miss Marguerite," said
Bones, leaning confidentially on the table and talking down into her
upturned lace, "I must find the whereabouts of a certain rascal or
rascals, trading or masquerading, knowingly or unknowingly, to the best
of my knowledge and belief, as the----" He stopped and frowned. "Now,
what the dickens was the name of that bird?" he said. "Pheasant,
partridge, ostrich, bat, flying fish, sparrow--it's something to do
with eggs. What are the eggs you eat?"
"I seldom eat eggs," said the girl quietly, "but when I do they are the
eggs of the common domestic fowl."
"It ain't him," said Bones, shaking his head. "No, it's--I've got
it--Plover--the Plover Light Car Company."
The girl made a note on her pad.
"I want you to get the best men in London to search out this Company.
If necessary, get two private detectives, or even three. Set them to
work at once, and spare no expense. I want to know who's running the
company--I'd investigate the matter myself, but I'm so fearfully
busy--and where their offices are. Tell the detectives," said Bones,
warming to the subject, "to hang around the motor-car shops in the West
End. They're bound to hear a word dropped here and there, and----"
"I quite understand," said the girl.
Bones put out his lean paw and solemnly shook the girl's hand.
"If," he said, with a tremble in his voice, "if there's a typewriter in
London that knows more than you, my jolly old Marguerite, I'll eat my
head."
On which lines he made his exit.
Five minutes later the girl came into the office with a slip of paper.
"The Plover Motor Car Company is registered at 604, Gracechurch
Street," she said. "It has a capital of eighty thousand pounds, of
which forty thousand pounds is paid up. It has works at Kenwood, in
the north-west of London, and the managing director is Mr. Charles O.
Soames."
Bones could only look at her open-mouthed.
"Where on earth did you discover all this surprising information, dear
miss?" he asked, and the girl laughed quietly.
"I can even tell you their telephone number," she said, "because it
happens to be in the Telephone Book. The rest I found in the Stock
Exchange Year Book."
Bones shook his head in silent admiration.
"If there's a typewriter in London----" he began, but she had fled.
An hour later Bones had evolved his magnificent idea. It was an idea
worthy of his big, generous heart and his amazing optimism.
Mr. Charles O. Soames, who sat at a littered table in his
shirt-sleeves, was a man with a big shock of hair and large and heavily
drooping moustache, and a black chin. He smoked a big, heavy pipe,
and, at the moment Bones was announced, his busy pencil was calling
into life a new company offering the most amazing prospects to the
young and wealthy.
He took the card from the hands of his very plain typist, and
suppressed the howl of joy which rose to his throat. For the name of
Bones was known in the City of London, and it was the dream of such men
as Charles O. Soames that one day they would walk from the office of
Mr. Augustus Tibbetts with large parcels of his paper currency under
each arm.
He jumped up from his chair and slipped on a coat, pushed the
prospectus he was writing under a heap of documents--one at least of
which bore a striking family likeness to a county court writ--and
welcomed his visitor decorously and even profoundly.
"In _re_ Plover Car," said Bones briskly. He prided himself upon
coming to the point with the least possible delay.
The face of Mr. Soames fell.
"Oh, you want to buy a car?" he said. He might have truly said "the
car," but under the circumstances he thought that this would be
tactless.
"No, dear old company promoter," said Bones, "I do not want to buy your
car. In fact, you have no cars to sell."
"We've had a lot of labour trouble," said Mr. Soames hurriedly.
"You've no idea of the difficulties in production--what with the
Government holding up supplies--but in a few months----"
"I know all about that," said Bones. "Now, I'm a man of affairs and a
man of business."
He said this so definitely that it sounded like a threat.
"I'm putting it to you, as one City of London business person to
another City of London business person, is it possible to make cars at
your factory?"
Mr. Soames rose to the occasion.
"I assure you, Mr. Tibbetts," he said earnestly, "it is possible. It
wants a little more capital than we've been able to raise."
This was the trouble with all Mr. Soames's companies, a long list of
which appeared on a brass plate by the side of his door. None of them
were sufficiently capitalised to do anything except to supply him with
his fees as managing director.
Bones produced a dinky little pocket-book from his waistcoat and read
his notes, or, rather, attempted to read his notes. Presently he gave
it up and trusted to his memory.
"You've got forty thousand pounds subscribed to your Company," he said.
"Now, I'll tell you what I'm willing to do--I will take over your
shares at a price."
Mr. Soames swallowed hard. Here was one of the dreams of his life
coming true.
"There are four million shares issued," Bones went on, consulting his
notebook.
"Eh?" said Mr. Soames in a shocked voice.
Bones looked at his book closer.
"Is it four hundred thousand?"
"Forty thousand," said Mr. Soames gently.
"It is a matter of indifference," said Bones. "The point is, will you
sell?"
The managing director of the Plover Light Car Company pursed his lips.
"Of course," he said, "the shares are at a premium--not," he added
quickly, "that they are being dealt with on 'Change. We have not
troubled to apply for quotations. But I assure you, my dear sir, the
shares are at a premium."
Bones said nothing.
"At a small premium," said Mr. Soames hopefully.
Bones made no reply.
"At a half a crown premium," said Mr. Soames pleadingly.
"At par," said Bones, in his firmest and most business-like tones.
The matter was not settled there and then, because matters are not
settled with such haste in the City of London. Bones went home to his
office with a new set of notes, and wired to Hamilton, asking him to
come on the following day.
It was a great scheme that Bones worked out that night, with the aid of
the sceptical Miss Whitland. His desk was piled high with technical
publications dealing with the motor-car industry. The fact that he was
buying the Company in order to rescue a friend's investment passed
entirely from his mind in the splendid dream he conjured from his
dubious calculations.
The Plover car should cover the face of the earth. He read an article
on mass production, showing how a celebrated American produced a
thousand or a hundred thousand cars a day--he wasn't certain which--and
how the car, in various parts, passed along an endless table, between
lines of expectant workmen, each of whom fixed a nut or unfixed a nut,
so that, when the machine finally reached its journey's end, it left
the table under its own power.
Bones designed a circular table, so that, if any of the workmen forgot
to fix a bar or a nut or a wheel, the error could be rectified when the
car came round again. The Plover car should be a household word. Its
factories should spread over North London, and every year there should
be a dinner with Bones in the chair, and a beautiful secretary on his
right, and Bones should make speeches announcing the amount of the
profits which were to be distributed to his thousands of hands in the
shape of bonuses.
Hamilton came promptly at ten o'clock, and he came violently. He flew
into the office and banged a paper down on Bones's desk with the
enthusiasm of one who had become the sudden possessor of money which he
had not earned.
"Dear old thing, dear old thing," said Bones testily, "remember dear
old Dicky Orum--preserve the decencies, dear old Ham. You're not in
the Wild West now, my cheery boy."
"Bones," shouted Hamilton, "you're my mascot! Do you know what has
happened?"
"Lower your voice, lower your voice, dear old friend," protested Bones.
"My typewriter mustn't think I am quarrelling."
"He came last night," said Hamilton, "just as I was going to bed, and
knocked me up." He was almost incoherent in his joy. "He offered me
three thousand five hundred pounds for my shares, and I took it like a
shot."
Bones gaped at him.
"Offered you three thousand five hundred?" he gasped. "Good heavens!
You don't mean to say----"
Consider the tragedy of that moment. Here was Bones, full of great
schemes for establishing a car upon the world's markets, who had in his
head planned extensive works, who saw in his mind's eye vistas of long,
white-covered festive boards, and heard the roar of cheering which
greeted him when he rose to propose continued prosperity to the firm.
Consider also that his cheque was on the table before him, already made
out and signed. He was at that moment awaiting the arrival of Mr.
Soames.
And then to this picture, tangible or fanciful, add Mr. Charles O.
Soames himself, ushered through the door of the outer office and
standing as though stricken to stone at the sight of Bones and Hamilton
in consultation.
"Good morning," said Bones.
Mr. Soames uttered a strangled cry and strode to the centre of the
room, his face working.
"So it was a ramp, was it?" he said. "A swindle, eh? You put this up
to get your pal out of the cart?"
"My dear old----" began Bones in a shocked voice.
"I see how it was done. Well, you've had me for three thousand five
hundred, and your pal's lucky. That's all I've got to say. It is the
first time I've ever been caught; and to be caught by a mug like
you----"
"Dear old thing, moderate your language," murmured Bones.
Mr. Soames breathed heavily through his nose, thrust his hat on the
back of his head, and, without another word, strode from the office,
and they heard the door slam behind him. Bones and Hamilton exchanged
glances; then Bones picked up the cheque from the desk and slowly tore
it up. He seemed to spend his life tearing up expensive cheques.
"What is it, Bones? What the dickens did you do?" asked the puzzled
Hamilton.
"Dear old Ham," said Bones solemnly, "it was a little scheme--just a
little scheme. Sit down, dear old officer," he said, after a solemn
pause. "And let this be a warning to you. Don't put your money in
industries, dear old Captain Hamilton. What with the state of the
labour market, and the deuced ingratitude of the working classes, it's
positively heartbreaking--it is, indeed, dear old Ham."
And then and there he changed the whole plan and went out of
industrials for good.