THE HUNDRED-POUND NOTE--_continued_
Mudd departed and Bobby made for the coffee-room.
He entered and looked around. A good many people were breakfasting in
the big room, the ordinary English breakfast crowd at a big hotel;
family parties, lone men and lone women, some reading letters, some
papers, and all, somehow, with an air of divorcement from home.
Simon was there, seated at a little table on the right and enjoying
himself. Now, and in his right mind, Simon gave Bobby another shock.
Could it be possible that this pleasant-faced, jovial-looking gentleman,
so well-dressed and _à la mode_, was Uncle Simon? What an improvement!
So it seemed at first glance.
Simon looked up from his sausages--he was having sausages, saw
Bobby--and with his unfailing memory of pleasant things, even dimly
seen, recognised him as the man of last night.
"Hullo," said Simon, as the other came up to the table, "there you are
again. Had breakfast?"
"No," said Bobby. "I'll sit here if I may." He drew a chair to the
second place that was laid and took his seat.
"Have sausages," said Simon. "Nothing beats sausages."
Bobby ordered sausages, though he would have preferred anything else. He
didn't want to argue.
"Nothing beats sausages," said Uncle Simon again.
Bobby concurred.
Then the conversation languished, just as it may between two old friends
or boon companions who have no need to keep up talk.
"Feeling all right this morning?" ventured Bobby.
"Never felt better in my life," replied the other. "Never felt better in
my life. How did you manage to get home?"
"Oh, I got home all right."
Simon scarcely seemed to hear this comforting declaration; scrambled
eggs had been placed before him.
Bobby, in sudden contemplation of a month of this business, almost
forgot his sausages. The true horror of Uncle Simon appeared to him now
for the first time. You see, he knew all the facts of the case. An
ordinary person, unknowing, would have accepted Simon as all right, but
it seemed to Bobby, now, that it would have been much better if his
companion had been decently and honestly mad, less uncanny. He was
obviously sane, though a bit divorced from things; obviously sane, and
eating scrambled eggs after sausages with the abandon of a schoolboy on
a holiday after a long term at a cheap school; sane, and enjoying
himself after a night like that--yet he was Simon Pettigrew.
Then he noticed that Simon's eyes were constantly travelling, despite
the scrambled eggs, in a given direction. A pretty young girl was
breakfasting with a family party a little way off--that was the
direction.
There was a mother, a father, something that looked like an uncle, what
appeared to be an aunt, and what appeared to be May dressed in a washing
silk blouse and plain skirt.
November was glancing at May.
Bobby remembered Miss Rossignol and felt a bit comforted; then he began
to feel uncomfortable: the aunt was looking fixedly at Simon. His
admiration had evidently been noted by Watchfulness; then the uncle
seemed to take notice.
Bobby, blushing, tried to make conversation, and only got replies.
Then, to his relief, the family, having finished breakfast, withdrew,
and Simon became himself again, cheerful and burning for the pleasures
of the day before him, the pleasures to be got from London, money, and
youth.
His conversation told this, and that he desired to include Bobby in the
scheme of things, and the young man could not help remembering
Thackeray's little story of how, coming up to London, he met a young
Oxford man in the railway carriage, a young man half-tipsy with the
prospect of a day in town and a "tear round"--with the prospect, nothing
more.
"What are you going to do now?" asked Bobby, as the other rose from the
table.
"Shaved," said Simon; "come along and get shaved; can't go about like
this."
Bobby was already shaved, but he followed the other outside to a
barber's and sat reading a _Daily Mirror_ and waiting whilst Simon was
operated on. The latter, having been shaved, had his hair brushed and
trimmed, and all the time during these processes the barber spake in
this wise, Simon turning the monologue to a duologue.
"Yes, sir, glorious weather, isn't it? London's pretty full, too, for
the time of year--fuller than I've seen for a long time. Ever tried face
massage, sir? Most comforting. Can be applied by yourself. Can sell you
a complete outfit, Parker's face cream and all, two pound ten. Thank
you, sir. Staying in the Charing Cross 'Otel? I'll have it sent to your
room. Yes, sir, the 'otel is full. There's a deal of money being spent
in London, sir. Raise your chin, sir, a leetle more. Ever try a Gillette
razor, sir? Useful should you wish to shave in a 'urry; beautiful
plated. This is it, sir--one guinea--shines like silver, don't it? Thank
you, sir, I'll send it up with the other. Yes, sir, it's most convenient
havin' a barber's close to the 'otel. I supply most of the 'otel people
with toilet rekisites. 'Air's a little thin on the top, sir; didn't mean
no offence, sir, maybe it's the light. Dry, that's what it is; it's the
'ot weather. Now, I'd recommend Coolers' Lotion followed after
application by Goulard's Brillantine. Oh, Lord, no, sir! _Them_
brillantines is no use. Goulard's is the only real; costs a bit more,
but then, cheap brillantine is rewin. Thank you, sir. And how are you
off for 'air brushes, sir? There's a pair of bargains in that
show-case--travellers' samples--I can let you have, silver-plated, as
good as you'll get in London and 'arf the price. Shine, don't they? And
feel the bristles--real 'og. Thank you, sir. Two ten--one one--one
four--two ten--and a shillin' for the 'air cut and shave. No, sir, I
can't change an 'undred-pound note. A ten? Yes, I can manage a ten.
Thank you, sir."
Seven pounds and sixpence for a hair-cut and shave--with accompaniments.
Bobby, tongue-tied and aghast, rose up.
"'Air cut, sir?" asked the barber.
"No, thanks," replied Bobby.
Simon, having glanced at himself in the mirror, picked up his straw hat
and walking-stick, and taking the arm of his companion, out they walked.
"Where are you going?" asked Bobby.
"Anywhere," replied the other; "I want to get some change."
"Why, you've got change!"
Simon unlinked, and in the face of the Strand and the passers-by
produced from his pocket two hundred-pound notes, three or four
one-pound notes, and a ten-pound note; searching in his pockets to see
what gold he had, he dropped a hundred-pound note, which Bobby quickly
recovered.
"Mind!" said Bobby. "You'll have those notes snatched."
"That's all right," said Simon.
He replaced the money in his pocket, and his companion breathed again.
Bobby had borrowed five pounds from Tozer in view of possibilities.
"Look here," said he, "what's the good of staying in London a glorious
day like this? Let's go somewhere quiet and enjoy ourselves--Richmond or
Greenwich or somewhere. I'll pay expenses and you need not bother about
change."
"No, you won't," said Simon. "You're going to have some fun along with
me. What's the matter with London?"
Bobby couldn't say.
Renouncing the idea of the country, without any other idea to replace it
except to keep his companion walking and away from shops and bars and
girls, he let himself be led. They were making back towards Charing
Cross. At the _Bureau de Change_ Simon went in, the idea of changing a
hundred-pound note pursuing him. He wanted elbow-room for enjoyment, but
the Bureau refused to make change. The note was all right; perhaps it
was Simon that was the doubtful quantity. He had quite a little quarrel
over the matter and came out arm-in-arm with his companion and flushed.
"Come along," said Bobby, a new idea striking him. "We'll get change
somewhere."
From Charing Cross, through Cockspur Street, then through Pall Mall and
up St. James's Street they went, stopping at every likely and unlikely
place to find change. Engaged so, Simon at least was not spending money
or taking refreshment. They tried at shipping offices, at insurance
offices, at gun-shops and tailors, till the weary Bobby began to loathe
the business, began to feel that both he and his companion were under
suspicion and almost that the business they were on was doubtful.
Simon, however, seemed to pursue it with zest and, now, without anger.
It seemed to Bobby as though he enjoyed being refused, as it gave him
another chance of entering another shop and showing that he had a
hundred-pound note to change--a horrible foolish satisfaction that put a
new edge to the affair. Simon was swanking.
"Look here,", said the unfortunate, at last, "wasn't there a girl you
told me of last night you wanted to send flowers to? Let's go and get
them; then we can have a drink somewhere."
"She'll wait," said Simon. "Besides, I've sent them. Come on."
"Very well," said Bobby, in desperation. "I believe I know a place
where you can get your note changed; it's close by."
They reached a cigar merchant's. It was the cigar merchants and
moneylenders that had often stood him in good stead. "Wait for me," said
Bobby, and he went in. Behind the counter was a gentleman recalling
Prince Florizel of Bohemia.
"Good morning, Mr. Ravenshaw," said this individual.
"Good morning, Alvarez," replied Bobby. "I haven't called about that
little account I owe you though--but cheer up. I've got you a new
customer--he wants a note changed."
"What sort of note?" asked Alvarez.
"A hundred-pound note; can you do it?"
"If the note's all right."
"Lord bless me, yes! I can vouch for that and for him; only he's strange
to London. He's got heaps of money, too, but you must promise not to
rook him too much over cigars, for he's a relative of mine."
"Where is he?" asked Alvarez.
"Outside."
"Well, bring him in."
Bobby went out. Uncle Simon was gone. Gone as though he had never been,
swallowed up in the passing crowd, fascinated away by heaven knows
what, and with all those bank-notes in his pocket. He might have got
into a sudden taxi or boarded an omnibus, or vanished up Sackville
Street or Albemarle Street; any passing fancy or sudden temptation would
have been sufficient.
Bobby, hurrying towards St. James's Street to have a look down it,
stopped a policeman.
"Have you seen an old gentleman--I mean a youngish-looking gentleman--in
a straw hat?" asked Bobby. "I've lost him." Scarcely waiting for the
inevitable reply, he hurried on, feeling that the constable must have
thought him mad.
St. James's Street showed nothing of Simon. He was turning back when,
half-blind to everything but the object of his search, he almost ran
into the arms of Julia Delyse. She was carrying a parcel that looked
like a manuscript.
"Why, Bobby, what is the matter with you?" asked Julia.
"I'm looking for someone," said Bobby distractedly. "I've lost a
relative of mine."
"I wish it were one of mine," said Julia. "What sort of relative?"
"An oldish man in a straw hat. Walk down a bit; you look that side of
the street and I'll watch this; he _may_ have gone into a shop--and I
_must_ get hold of him."
He walked rapidly on, and Julia, sucked for a moment into this whirlpool
of an Uncle Simon that had already engulfed Mudd, Bobby, and the good
name of the firm of Pettigrew, toiled beside him till they came nearly
to the Park railings.
"He's gone," said Bobby, stopping suddenly dead. "It's no use; he's
gone."
"Well, you'll find him again," said Julia hopefully. "Relatives always
turn up."
"Oh, he's sure to turn up," said the other, "and that's what I'm
dreading--it's the way he'll turn up that's bothering me."
"I could understand you better if I knew what you meant," said Julia.
"Let's walk back; this is out of my direction."
They turned.
Despite his perplexity and annoyance, Bobby could not suppress a feeling
of relief at having done with the business for a moment; all the same,
he was really distressed. The craving for counsel and companionship in
thought seized him.
"Julia, can you keep a secret?" asked he.
"Tight," said Julia.
"Well, it's my uncle."
"You've lost?"
"Yes; and he's got his pockets full of hundred-pound bank-notes--and
he's no more fit to be trusted with them than a child."
"What a delightful uncle!"
"Don't laugh; it's serious."
"He's not mad, is he?"
"No, that's the worst of it. He's got one of these beastly new
diseases--I don't know what it is, but as far as I can make out it's as
if he'd got young again without remembering what he is."
"How interesting!"
"Yes, you would find him very interesting if you had anything to do with
him; but, seriously, something has to be done. There's the family name
and there's his business." He explained the case of Simon as well as he
could.
Julia did not seem in the least shocked.
"But I think it's beautiful," she broke out. "Strange--but in a way
beautiful and pathetic. Oh, if _only_ a few more people could do the
same--become young, do foolish things instead of this eternal grind of
common sense, hard business, and everything that ruins the world!"
Bobby tried to imagine the world with an increased population of the
brand of Uncle Simon, and failed.
"I know," he said, "but it will be the ruin of his business and
reputation. Abstractly, I don't deny there's something to be said for
it, but in the concrete it don't work. Do think, and let's try to find a
way out."
"I'm thinking," said Julia.
Then, after a pause:
"You must get him away from London."
"That was my idea, but he won't go, not even to Richmond for a few
hours. He won't leave London."
"There's a place in Wessex I know," said Julia, "where there's a
charming little hotel. I was down there for a week in May. You might
take him there."
"We'd never get him into the train."
"Take him in a car."
"Might do that," said Bobby. "What's the name of it?"
"Upton-on-Hill; and I'll tell you what, I'll go down with you, if you
like, and help to watch him. I'd like to study him."
"I'll think of it," said Bobby hurriedly. The affair of Uncle Simon was
taking a new turn; like Fate, it was trying to force him into closer
contact with Julia. Craving for someone to help him to think, he had
welded himself to Julia with this family secret for solder. The idea of
a little hotel in the country with Julia, ever ready for embracements
and passionate scenes, the knowledge that he was almost half-engaged to
her, the instinct that she would suck him into cosy corners and
arbours--all this frankly frightened him. He was beginning to recognise
that Julia was quite light and almost brilliant in the street when
love-making was impossible, but impossibly heavy and dull, though
mesmeric, when alone with him with her head on his shoulder. And away in
the distance of his mind a deformed sort of common sense was telling him
that if once Julia got a good long clutch on him she would marry him; he
would pass from whirlpool to whirlpool of cosy corner and arbour over
the rapids of marriage with Julia clinging to him.
"I'll think of it," said he. "What's its name?"
"The Rose Hotel, Upton-on-Hill--think of Upton Sinclair. It's a jolly
little place, and such a nice landlord; we'd have a jolly time, Bobby.
Bobby, have you forgotten yesterday?"
"No," said Bobby, from his heart.
"I didn't sleep a wink last night," said the lady of the red hair. "Did
you?"
"Scarcely."
"Do you know," said she, "this is almost like Fate. It gives us a
chance to meet under the same roof quite properly since your uncle is
there--not that I care a button for the world, but still, there are the
proprieties, aren't there?"
"There are."
"Wait for me," said she. "I want to go into my publishers' with this
manuscript."
They had reached a fashionable publishers' office that had the
appearance of a bank premises. In she went, returning in a moment
empty-handed.
"Now I'm free," said she; "free for a month. What are you doing to-day?"
"I'll be looking for Uncle Simon," he replied. "I must rush back to the
Charing Cross Hotel, and after that--I must go on hunting. I'll see you
to-morrow, Julia."
"Are you staying at the Charing Cross?"
"No, I'm staying at B12, the Albany, with a man called Tozer."
"I wish we could have had the day together. Well, to-morrow, then."
"To-morrow," said Bobby.
He put her into a taxi and she gave the address of a female literary
club, then when the taxi had driven away he returned to the Charing
Cross Hotel.
There he found Mudd, who had just returned.