A DEAL IN JUTE
It is a reasonable theory that every man of genius is two men, one
visible, one unseen and often unsuspected by his counterpart. For who
has not felt the shadow's influence in dealing with such as have the
Spark? Napoleon spoke of stars, being Corsican and a mystic. Those
who met him in his last days were uneasily conscious that the second
Bonaparte had died on the eve of Waterloo, leaving derelict his
brother, a stout and commonplace man who was in turn sycophantic,
choleric, and pathetic, but never great.
Noticeable is the influence of the Shadow in the process of
money-making. It is humanly impossible for some men to be fortunate.
They may amass wealth by sheer hard work and hard reasoning, but if
they seek a shorter cut to opulence, be sure that short cut ends in a
cul-de-sac where sits a Bankruptcy Judge and a phalanx of stony-faced
creditors. "Luck" is not for them--they were born single.
For others, the whole management of life is taken from their hands by
their busy Second, who ranges the world to discover opportunities for
his partner.
So it comes about that there are certain men, and Augustus
Tibbetts--or, as he was named, "Bones"--was one of these, to whom the
increments of life come miraculously. They could come in no other way,
be he ever so learned and experienced.
Rather would a greater worldliness have hampered his familiar and in
time destroyed its power, just as education destroys the more subtle
instincts. Whilst the learned seismographer eats his dinner,
cheerfully unconscious of the coming earthquake, his dog shivers
beneath the table.
By this preamble I am not suggesting that Bones was a fool. Far from
it. Bones was wise--uncannily wise in some respects. His success was
due, as to nine-tenths, to his native sense. His _x_ supplied the
other fraction.
No better illustration of the working of this concealed quantity can be
given than the story of the great jute sale and Miss Bertha Stegg.
The truth about the Government speculation in jute is simply told. It
is the story of an official who, in the middle of the War, was seized
with the bright idea of procuring enormous quantities of jute for the
manufacture of sand-bags. The fact that by this transaction he might
have driven the jute lords of Dundee into frenzy did not enter into his
calculations. Nor did it occur to him that the advantageous position
in which he hoped to place his Department depended for its attainment
upon a total lack of foresight on the part of the Dundee merchants.
As a matter of fact, Dundee had bought well and wisely. It had
sufficient stocks to meet all the demands which the Government made
upon it; and when, after the War, the Department offered its purchase
at a price which would show a handsome profit to the Government, Dundee
laughed long and loudly.
And so there was left on the official hands, at the close of the War, a
quantity of jute which nobody wanted, at a price which nobody would
pay. And then somebody asked a question in the House of Commons, and
the responsible Secretary went hot all over, and framed the reply which
an Under-secretary subsequently made in such terms as would lead the
country to believe that the jute purchased at a figure beyond the
market value was a valuable asset, and would one day be sold at a
profit.
Mr. Augustus Tibbetts knew nothing about jute. But he did read, almost
every morning in the daily newspapers, how one person or another had
made enormous purchases of linen, or of cloth, or of motor chassis,
paying fabulous sums on the nail and walking off almost immediately
with colossal profits; and every time Bones read such an account he
wriggled in his chair and made unhappy noises.
Then one afternoon there came to his office a suave gentleman in
frock-coat, carrying with him a card which was inscribed "Ministry of
Supplies." And the end of that conversation was that Bones, all a
twitter of excitement, drove to a gloomy office in Whitehall, where he
interviewed a most sacred public official, to whom members of the
public were not admitted, perhaps, more than four times a year.
Hamilton had watched the proceedings with interest and suspicion. When
Bones was mysterious he was very mysterious; and he returned that night
in such a condition of mystery that none but a thought-reading
detective could have unravelled him.
"You seem infernally pleased with yourself, Bones," said Hamilton.
"What lamentable error have you fallen into?"
"Dear old Ham," said Bones, with the helpless little laugh which
characterised the very condition of mind which Hamilton had described,
"dear old pryer, wait till to-morrow. Dear old thing, I wouldn't spoil
it. Read your jolly old newspaper, dear old inquirer."
"Have you been to the police court?" asked Hamilton.
"Police court? Police court?" said Bones testily. "Good Heavens, lad!
Why this jolly old vulgarity? No, dear boy, live and learn, dear old
thing!"
Hamilton undoubtedly lived until the next morning, and learnt. He saw
the headlines the second he opened his newspaper.
GREAT DEAL IN JUTE.
PROMINENT CITY MAN BUYS GOVERNMENT SUPPLY OF
JUTE FOR A MILLION.
Hamilton was on his way to the office, and fell back in the corner of
the railway carriage with a suppressed moan. He almost ran to the
office, to find Bones stalking up and down the room, dictating an
interview to a reporter.
"One minute, one minute, dear old Ham," said. Bones warningly. And
then, turning to the industrious journalist, he went on where Hamilton
had evidently interrupted him. "You can say that I've spent a great
deal of my life in fearfully dangerous conditions," he said. "You
needn't say where, dear old reporter, just say 'fearfully dangerous
conditions.'"
"What about jute?" asked the young man.
"Jute," said Bones with relish, "or, as we call it, _Corcharis
capsilaris_, is the famous jute tree. I have always been interested in
jute and all that sort of thing---- But you know what to say better
than I can tell you. You can also say that I'm young--no, don't say
that. Put it like this: 'Mr. Tibbetts, though apparently
young-looking, bears on his hardened old face the marks of years spent
in the service of his country. There is a sort of sadness about his
funny old eyes----' You know what to say, old thing."
"I know," said the journalist, rising. "You'll see this in the next
edition, Mr. Tibbetts."
When the young man had gone, Hamilton staggered across to him.
"Bones," he said, in a hollow voice, "you've never bought this stuff
for a million?"
"A million's a bit of an exaggeration, dear old sportsman," said Bones.
"As a matter of fact, it's about half that sum, and it needn't be paid
for a month. Here is the contract." He smacked his lips and smacked
the contract, which was on the table, at the same time. "Don't get
alarmed, don't get peevish, don't get panicky, don't be a wicked old
flutterer, Ham, my boy!" he said. "I've reckoned it all out, and I
shall make a cool fifty thousand by this time next week."
"What will you pay for it?" asked Hamilton, in a shaky voice. "I mean,
how much a ton?"
Bones mentioned a figure, and Hamilton jotted down a note.
He had a friend, as it happened, in the jute trade--the owner of a big
mill in Dundee--and to him he dispatched an urgent telegram. After
that he examined the contract at leisure. On the fourth page of that
interesting document was a paragraph, the seventh, to this effect:
"Either parties to this contract may, for any reason whatsoever, by
giving notice either to the Ministry of Supplies, Department 9, or to
the purchaser at his registered office, within twenty-four hours of the
signing of this contract, cancel the same."
He read this over to Bones.
"That's rum," he said. "What is the idea?"
"My jolly old captain," said Bones in his lordly way, "how should I
know? I suppose it's in case the old Government get a better offer.
Anyway, dear old timidity, it's a contract that I'm not going to
terminate, believe me!"
The next afternoon Bones and Hamilton returned from a frugal lunch at a
near-by tavern, and reached the imposing entrance of the building in
which New Schemes Limited was housed simultaneously--or perhaps it
would be more truthful to say a little later--than a magnificent
limousine. It was so far ahead of them that the chauffeur had time to
descend from his seat, open the highly-polished door, and assist to the
honoured sidewalk a beautiful lady in a large beaver coat, who carried
under her arm a small portfolio.
There was a certain swing to her shoulder as she walked, a certain
undulatory movement of hip, which spoke of a large satisfaction with
the world as she found it.
Bones, something of a connoisseur and painfully worldly, pursed his
lips and broke off the conversation in which he was engaged, and which
had to do with the prospective profits on his jute deal, and remarked
tersely:
"Ham, dear old thing, that is a chinchilla coat worth twelve hundred
pounds."
Hamilton, to whom the mysteries of feminine attire were honest
mysteries, accepted the sensational report without demur.
"The way you pick up these particular bits of information, Bones, is
really marvellous to me. It isn't as though you go out a lot into
society. It isn't as though women are fond of you or make a fuss of
you."
Bones coughed.
"Dicky Orum. Remember, dear old Richard," he murmured. "My private
life, dear old fellow, if you will forgive me snubbing you, is a matter
on which nobody is an authority except A. Tibbetts, Esq. There's a lot
you don't know, dear old Ham. I was thinking of writing a book about
it, but it would take too long."
By this time they reached the elevator, which descended in time to
receive the beautiful lady in the brown coat. Bones removed his hat,
smoothed his glossy hair, and with a muttered "After you, dear old
friend. Age before honesty," bundled Hamilton into the lift and
followed him.
The elevator stopped at the third floor, and the lady got out. Bones,
his curiosity overcoming his respect for age or his appreciation of
probity, followed her, and was thrilled to discover that she made
straight for his office. She hesitated for a moment before that which
bore the word "Private," and passed on to the outer and general office.
Bones slipped into his own room so quickly that by the time Hamilton
entered he was sitting at his desk in a thoughtful and studious
attitude.
It cannot be said that the inner office was any longer entitled to the
description of sanctum sanctorum. Rather was the holy of holies the
larger and less ornate apartment wherein sat A Being whose capable
little fingers danced over complicated banks of keys.
The communicating door opened and the Being appeared. Hamilton,
mindful of a certain agreement with his partner, pretended not to see
her.
"There's a lady who wishes a private interview with you, Mr. Tibbetts,"
said the girl.
Bones turned with an exaggerated start.
"A lady?" he said in a tone of incredulity. "Gracious Heavens! This
is news to me, dear old miss. Show her in, please, show her in. A
private interview, eh?" He looked meaningly at Hamilton. Hamilton did
not raise his eyes--in accordance with his contract. "A private
interview, eh?" said Bones louder. "Does she want to see me by myself?"
"Perhaps you would like to see her in my room," said the girl. "I
could stay here with Mr. Hamilton."
Bones glared at the unconscious Hamilton.
"That is not necessary, dear old typewriter," he said stiffly. "Show
the young woman in, please."
The "young woman," came in. Rather, she tripped and undulated and
swayed from the outer office to the chair facing Bones, and Bones rose
solemnly to greet her.
Miss Marguerite Whitland, the beautiful Being, who had surveyed the
tripping and swaying and undulating with the same frank curiosity that
Cleopatra might have devoted to a performing seal, went into her office
and closed the door gently behind her.
"Sit down, sit down," said Bones. "And what can I do for you, young
miss?"
The girl smiled. It was one of those flashing smiles which make
susceptible men blink. Bones was susceptible. Never had he been gazed
upon with such kindness by a pair of such large, soft, brown eyes.
Never had cheeks dimpled so prettily and so pleasurably, and seldom had
Bones experienced such a sensation of warm embarrassment--not
unpleasant--as he did now.
"I am sure I am being an awful nuisance to you, Mr. Tibbetts," said the
lady. "You don't know my name, do you? Here is my card." She had it
ready in her hand, and put it in front of him. Bones waited a minute
or two while he adjusted his monocle, and read:
"MISS BERTHA STEGG."
As a matter of fact, he read it long before he had adjusted his
monocle, but the official acknowledgment was subsequent to that
performance.
"Yes, yes," said Bones, who on such occasions as these, or on such
occasions as remotely resembled these, was accustomed to take on the
air and style of the strong, silent man. "What can we do for you, my
jolly old--Miss Stegg?"
"It's a charity," blurted the girl, and sat back to watch the effect of
her words. "Oh, I know what you business men are! You simply hate
people bothering you for subscriptions! And really, Mr. Tibbetts, if I
had to come to ask you for money, I would never have come at all. I
think it's so unfair for girls to pester busy men in their offices, at
the busiest time of the day, with requests for subscriptions."
Bones coughed. In truth, he had never been pestered, and was enjoying
the experience.
"No, this is something much more pleasant, from my point of view," said
the girl. "We are having a bazaar in West Kensington on behalf of the
Little Tots' Recreation Fund."
"A most excellent plan," said Bones firmly.
Hamilton, an interested audience, had occasion to marvel anew at the
amazing self-possession of his partner.
"It is one of the best institutions that I know," Bones went on
thoughtfully. "Of course, it's many years since I was a little tot,
but I can still sympathise with the jolly old totters, dear young miss."
She had taken her portfolio from under her arm and laid it on his desk.
It was a pretty portfolio, bound in powder blue and silver, and was
fastened by a powder blue tape with silver tassels. Bones eyed it with
pardonable curiosity.
"I'm not asking you for money, Mr. Tibbetts," Miss Stegg went on in her
soft, sweet voice. "I think we can raise all the money we want at the
bazaar. But we must have things to sell."
"I see, dear old miss," said Bones eagerly. "You want a few old
clothes? I've got a couple of suits at home, rather baggy at the
knees, dear old thing, but you know what we boys are; we wear 'em until
they fall off!"
The horrified Hamilton returned to the scrutiny of his notes.
"I don't suppose under-garments, if you will permit the indelicacy, my
dear old philanthropist----" Bones was going on, when the girl stopped
him with a gentle shake of her head.
"No, Mr. Tibbetts, it is awfully kind of you, but we do not want
anything like that. The way we expect to raise a lot of money is by
selling the photographs of celebrities," she said.
"The photographs of celebrities?" repeated Bones. "But, my dear young
miss, I haven't had my photograph taken for years."
Hamilton gasped. He might have gasped again at what followed, but for
the fact that he had got a little beyond the gasping stage.
The girl was untying her portfolio, and now she produced something and
laid it on the desk before Bones.
"How clever of you to guess!" she murmured. "Yes, it is a portrait of
you we want to sell."
Bones stared dumbfounded at a picture of himself--evidently a snapshot
taken with a press camera--leaving the building. And, moreover, it was
a flattering picture, for there was a stern frown of resolution on
Bones's pictured face, which, for some esoteric reason, pleased him.
The picture was mounted rather in than on cardboard, for it was in a
sunken mount, and beneath the portrait was a little oblong slip of pale
blue paper.
Bones gazed and glowed. Neatly printed above the picture were the
words: "Our Captains of Industry. III.--Augustus Tibbetts, Esq.
(Schemes Limited)."
Bones read this with immense satisfaction. He wondered who were the
two men who could be placed before him, but in his generous mood was
prepared to admit that he might come third in the list of London's
merchant princes.
"Deuced flattering, dear old thing," he murmured. "Hamilton, old boy,
come and look at this."
Hamilton crossed to the desk, saw, and wondered.
"Not so bad," said Bones, dropping his head to one side and regarding
the picture critically. "Not at all bad, dear old thing. You've seen
me in that mood, I think, old Ham."
"What is the mood?" said Hamilton innocently. "Indigestion?"
The girl laughed.
"Let's have a little light on the subject," said Bones. "Switch on the
expensive old electricity, Ham."
"Oh, no," said the girl quickly. "I don't think so. If you saw the
picture under the light, you'd probably think it wasn't good enough,
and then I should have made my journey in vain. Spare me that, Mr.
Tibbetts!"
Mr. Tibbetts giggled. At that moment the Being re-appeared.
Marguerite Whitland, chief and only stenographer to the firm of Schemes
Limited, and Bones beckoned her.
"Just cast your eye over this, young miss," he said. "What do you
think of it?"
The girl came round the group, looked at the picture, and nodded.
"Very nice," she said, and then she looked at the girl.
"Selling it for a charity," said Bones carelessly. "Some silly old
josser will put it up in his drawing-room, I suppose. You know, Ham,
dear old thing, I never can understand this hero-worship business. And
now, my young and philanthropic collector, what do you want me to do?
Give you permission? It is given."
"I want you to give me your autograph. Sign down there,"--she pointed
to a little space beneath the picture--"and just let me sell it for
what I can get."
"With all the pleasure in life," said Bones.
He picked up his long plumed pen and splashed his characteristic
signature in the space indicated.
And then Miss Marguerite Whitland did a serious thing, an amazingly
audacious thing, a thing which filled Bones's heart with horror and
dismay.
Before Bones could lift the blotting pad, her forefinger had dropped
upon the signature and had been drawn across, leaving nothing more than
an indecipherable smudge.
"My dear old typewriter!" gasped Bones. "My dear old miss! Confound
it all! Hang it all, I say! Dear old thing!"
"You can leave this picture, madam----"
"Miss," murmured Bones from force of habit. Even in his agitation he
could not resist the temptation to interrupt.
"You can leave this picture, Miss Stegg," said the girl coolly. "Mr.
Tibbetts wants to add it to his collection."
Miss Stegg said nothing.
She had risen to her feet, her eyes fixed on the girl's face, and, with
no word of protest or explanation, she turned and walked swiftly from
the office. Hamilton opened the door, noting the temporary suspension
of the undulatory motion.
When she had gone, they looked at one another, or, rather, they looked
at the girl, who, for her part, was examining the photograph. She took
a little knife from the desk before Bones and inserted it into the
thick cardboard mount, and ripped off one of the layers of cardboard.
And so Bones's photograph was exposed, shorn of all mounting. But,
what was more important, beneath his photograph was a cheque on the
Third National Bank, which was a blank cheque and bearing Bones's
undeniable signature in the bottom right-hand corner--the signature was
decipherable through the smudge.
Bones stared.
"Most curious thing I've ever seen in my life, dear old typewriter," he
said. "Why, that's the very banking establishment I patronise."
"I thought it might be," said the girl.
And then it dawned upon Bones, and he gasped.
"Great Moses!" he howled--there is no prettier word for it. "That
naughty, naughty, Miss Thing-a-me-jig was making me sign a blank
cheque! My autograph! My sacred aunt! Autograph on a cheque..."
Bones babbled on as the real villainy of the attempt upon his finances
gradually unfolded before his excited vision.
Explanations were to follow. The girl had seen a paragraph warning
people against giving their autographs, and the police had even
circulated a rough description of two "well-dressed women" who, on one
pretext or another, were securing from the wealthy, but the unwise,
specimens of their signatures.
"My young and artful typewriter," said Bones, speaking with emotion,
"you have probably saved me from utter ruin, dear old thing. Goodness
only knows what might have happened, or where I might have been
sleeping to-night, my jolly old Salvationist, if your beady little eye
hadn't penetrated like a corkscrew through the back of that naughty old
lady's neck and read her evil intentions."
"I don't think it was a matter of my beady eye," said the girl, without
any great enthusiasm for the description, "as my memory."
"I can't understand it," said Bones, puzzled. "She came in a beautiful
car----"
"Hired for two hours for twenty-five shillings," said the girl.
"But she was so beautifully dressed. She had a chinchilla coat----"
"Imitation beaver," said Miss Marguerite Whitland, who had few
illusions. "You can get them for fifteen pounds at any of the West End
shops."
It was a very angry Miss Bertha Stegg who made her way in some haste to
Pimlico. She shared a first-floor suite with a sister, and she burst
unceremoniously into her relative's presence, and the elder Miss Stegg
looked round with some evidence of alarm.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
She was a tall, bony woman, with a hard, tired face, and lacked most of
her sister's facial charm.
"Turned down," said Bertha briefly. "I had the thing signed, and then
a----" (one omits the description she gave of Miss Marguerite Whitland,
which was uncharitable) "smudged the thing with her fingers."
"She tumbled to it, eh?" said Clara. "Has she put the splits on you?"
"I shouldn't think so," said Bertha, throwing off her coat and her hat,
and patting her hair. "I got away too quickly, and I came on by the
car."
"Will he report it to the police?"
"He's not that kind. Doesn't it make you mad, Clara, to think that
that fool has a million to spend? Do you know what he's done? Made
perhaps a hundred thousand pounds in a couple of days! Wouldn't that
rile you?"
They discussed Bones in terms equally unflattering. They likened Bones
to all representatives of the animal world whose characteristics are
extreme foolishness, but at last they came into a saner, calmer frame
of mind.
Miss Clara Stegg seated herself on the frowsy sofa--indispensable to a
Pimlico furnished flat--and, with her elbow on one palm and her chin on
another, reviewed the situation. She was the brains of a little
combination which had done so much to distress and annoy susceptible
financiers in the City of London. (The record of the Stegg sisters may
be read by the curious, or, at any rate, by as many of the curious as
have the _entrée_ to the Record Department of Scotland Yard.)
The Steggs specialised in finance, and operated exclusively in high
financial circles. There was not a fluctuation of the market which
Miss Clara Stegg did not note; and when Rubber soared sky-high, or
Steel Preferred sagged listlessly, she knew just who was going to be
affected, and just how approachable they were.
During the War the Stegg sisters had opened a new department, so to
speak, dealing with Government contracts, and the things which they
knew about the incomes of Government contractors the average surveyor
of taxes would have given money to learn.
"It was my mistake, Bertha," she said at last, "though in a sense it
wasn't. I tried him simply, because he's simple. If you work
something complicated on a fellow like that, you're pretty certain to
get him guessing."
She went out of the room, and presently returned with four ordinary
exercise-books, one of which she opened at a place where a page was
covered with fine writing, and that facing was concealed by a sheet of
letter-paper which had been pasted on to it. The letter-paper bore the
embossed heading of Schemes Limited, the epistle had reference to a
request for an autograph which Bones had most graciously granted.
The elder woman looked at the signature, biting her nether lip.
"It is almost too late now. What is the time?" she asked.
"Half-past three," replied her sister.
Miss Stegg shook her head.
"The banks are closed, and, anyway----"
She carried the book to a table, took a sheet of paper and a pen, and,
after a close study of Bones's signature, she wrote it, at first
awkwardly, then, after about a dozen attempts, she produced a copy
which it was difficult to tell apart from the original.
"Really, Clara, you're a wonder," said her sister admiringly.
Clara made no reply. She sat biting the end of the pen.
"I hate the idea of getting out of London and leaving him with all that
money, Bertha," she said. "I wonder----" She turned to her sister.
"Go out and get all the evening newspapers," she said. "There's bound
to be something about him, and I might get an idea."
There was much about Bones in the papers the younger girl brought, and
in one of these journals there was quite an important interview, which
gave a sketch of Bones's life, his character, and his general
appearance. Clara read this interview very carefully.
"It says he's spent a million, but I know that's a lie," she said.
"I've been watching that jute deal for a long time, and it's nearer
half the sum." She frowned. "I wonder----" she said.
"Wonder what?" asked the younger girl impatiently. "What's the good of
wondering? The only thing we can do is to clear out."
Again Clara went from the room and came back with an armful of
documents. These she laid on the table, and the girl, looking down,
saw that they were for the main part blank contracts. Clara turned
them over and over until at last she came to one headed "Ministry of
Supplies."
"This'd be the form," she said. "It is the same that Stevenhowe had."
She was mentioning the name of a middle-aged man, who, quite
unwittingly and most unwillingly, had contributed to her very handsome
bank balance. She scanned the clauses through, and then flung down the
contract in disgust.
"There's nothing mentioned about a deposit," she said, "and, anyway, I
doubt very much whether I could get it back, even on his signature."
A quarter of an hour later Miss Clara Stegg took up the contract again
and read the closely-printed clauses very carefully. When she had
finished she said:
"I just hate the idea of that fellow making money."
"You've said that before," said her sister tartly.
At six o'clock that evening Bones went home. At nine o'clock he was
sitting in his sitting-room in Clarges Street--a wonderful place,
though small, of Eastern hangings and subdued lights--when Hamilton
burst in upon him; and Bones hastily concealed the poem he was writing
and thrust it under his blotting-pad. It was a good poem and going
well.
It began:
How very sweet
Is Marguerite!
And Bones was, not unreasonably, annoyed at this interruption to his
muse.
As to Hamilton, he was looking ill.
"Bones," said Hamilton quietly, "I've had a telegram from my pal in
Dundee. Shall I read it?"
"Dear old thing," said Bones, with an irritated "tut-tut," "really,
dear old creature, at this time of night--your friends in
Dundee--really, my dear old boy----"
"Shall I read it?" said Hamilton, with sinister calm.
"By all means, by all means," said Bones, waving an airy hand and
sitting back with resignation written on every line of his countenance.
"Here it is," said Hamilton. "It begins 'Urgent.'"
"That means he's in a devil of a hurry, old thing," said Bones, nodding.
"And it goes on to say," said Hamilton, ignoring the interruption.
"'Your purchase at the present price of jute is disastrous. Jute will
never again touch the figure at which your friend tendered, Ministry
have been trying to find a mug for years to buy their jute, half of
which is spoilt by bad warehousing, as I could have told you, and I
reckon you have made a loss of exactly half the amount you have paid.'"
Bones had opened his eyes and was sitting up.
"Dear old Job's comforter," he said huskily.
"Wait a bit," said Hamilton, "I haven't finished yet," and went on:
"'Strongly advise you cancel your sale in terms of Clause 7 Ministry
contract.' That's all," said Hamilton.
"Oh, yes," said Bones feebly, as he ran his finger inside his collar,
"that's all!"
"What do you think, Bones?" said Hamilton gently.
"Well, dear old cloud on the horizon," said Bones, clasping his bony
knee, "it looks remarkably like serious trouble for B. Ones, Esquire.
It does indeed. Of course," he said, "you're not in this, old Ham.
This was a private speculation----"
"Rot!" said Hamilton contemptuously. "You're never going to try a
dirty trick like that on me? Of course I'm in it. If you're in it,
I'm in it."
Bones opened his mouth to protest, but subsided feebly. He looked at
the clock, sighed, and lowered his eyes again.
"I suppose it's too late to cancel the contract now?"
Bones nodded.
"Twenty-four hours, poor old victim," he said miserably, "expired at
five p.m."
"So that's that," said Hamilton.
Walking across, he tapped his partner on the shoulder.
"Well, Bones, it can't be helped, and probably our pal in Dundee has
taken an extravagant view."
"Not he," said Bones, "not he, dear old cheerer. Well, we shall have
to cut down expenses, move into a little office, and start again, dear
old Hamilton."
"It won't be so bad as that."
"Not quite so bad as that," admitted Bones. "But one thing," he said
with sudden energy, "one thing, dear old thing, I'll never part with.
Whatever happens, dear old boy, rain or shine, sun or moon, stars or
any old thing like that"--he was growing incoherent--"I will never
leave my typewriter, dear old thing. I will never desert her--never,
never, never, never, never!
He turned up in the morning, looking and speaking chirpily. Hamilton,
who had spent a restless night, thought he detected signs of similar
restlessness in Bones.
Miss Marguerite Whitland brought him his letters, and he went over them
listlessly until he came to one large envelope which bore on its flap
the all-too-familiar seal of the Ministry. Bones looked at it and made
a little face.
"It's from the Ministry," said the girl.
Bones nodded.
"Yes, my old notetaker," he said, "my poor young derelict, cast
out"--his voice shook--"through the rapacious and naughty old
speculations of one who should have protected your jolly old interests,
it is from the Ministry."
"Aren't you going to open it?" she asked.
"No, dear young typewriter, I am not," Bones said firmly. "It's all
about the beastly jute, telling me to take it away. Now, where the
dickens am I going to put it, eh? Never talk to me about jute," he
said violently. "If I saw a jute tree at this moment, I'd simply hate
the sight of it!"
She looked at him in astonishment.
"Why, whatever's wrong?" she asked anxiously.
"Nothing," said Bones. "Nothing," he added brokenly. "Oh, nothing,
dear young typewriting person."
She paused irresolutely, then picked up the envelope and cut open the
flap.
Remember that she knew nothing, except that Bones had made a big
purchase, and that she was perfectly confident--such was her sublime
faith in Augustus Tibbetts--that he would make a lot of money as a
result of that purchase.
Therefore the consternation on her face as she read its contents.
"Why," she stammered, "you've never done---- Whatever made you do
that?"
"Do what?" said Bones hollowly. "What made me do it? Greed, dear old
sister, just wicked, naughty greed."
"But I thought," she said, bewildered, "You were going to make so much
out of this deal?"
"Ha, ha," said Bones without mirth.
"But weren't you?" she asked.
"I don't think so," said Bones gently.
"Oh! So that was why you cancelled the contract?"
Hamilton jumped to his feet.
"Cancelled the contract?" he said incredulously.
"Cancelled the contract?" squeaked Bones. "What a naughty old
story-teller you are!"
"But you have," said the girl. "Here's a note from the Ministry,
regretting that you should have changed your mind and taken advantage
of Clause Seven. The contract was cancelled at four forty-nine."
Bones swallowed something.
"This is spiritualism," he said solemnly. "I'll never say a word
against jolly old Brigham Young after this!"
In the meantime two ladies who had arrived in Paris, somewhat weary and
bedraggled, were taking their morning coffee outside the Café de la
Paix.
"Anyway, my dear," said Clara viciously, in answer to her sister's
plaint, "we've given that young devil a bit of trouble. Perhaps they
won't renew the contract, and anyway, it'll take a bit of proving that
he did not sign that cancellation I handed in."
As a matter of fact, Bones never attempted to prove it.