Part 23

Mrs. Fred let out a piercing shriek. “Oh, yes, tell ’em about him.”

Fred did, but Mr. Smeeth, by a tremendous effort, contrived not to listen, although Fred’s voice more than filled the room. Indeed, there was so much of it that it was possible not to take it in properly. Mr. Smeeth thought about other things, and paid no attention until he suddenly discovered that he was being addressed.

“Yes, do let’s have that,” cried Mrs. Smeeth, her face very red and her eyes moist with laughter. “Y’know, that one you did the other night for me--that man in Birmingham. Laugh! I thought I’d have died. Dad, you remember me telling you? Do listen to this.”

“That’s right, Pa,” roared Fred, with mock severity. “A little of your attention, please, while I endeavour to give you a slight impersonation of--Mis-ter Snook-um of Brum.”

“That wasn’t his real name, you know,” Mrs. Fred screamed, turning on Mr. Smeeth so that he got the full force of it. “That was the name these chaps gave him. Do it properly, Fred, this time. Dress up for it.”

“Shall I? What about it?”

“Yes, go on, do. Like you did that time at Mr. Slingsby’s. I’ll tell you all about that night in a minute,” Mrs. Fred added, with the air of one about to confer a great favour. “That _was_ a night. But go on, Fred.”

“All right,” replied Fred, noisily finishing his whisky. “I will--by special request.”

“Looks as though we’re going to have a performance,” said Dalby, not very pleasantly. There had been rather too much of Fred for his taste.

“That’s right,” Fred shouted at him, not too pleasantly either. “Any objections?”

“Hurry up, Fred,” cried Mrs. Smeeth beaming at him. “We’re all waiting.”

“Allow me one minute in which to change my costume,” Fred replied, “and I will oblige.” And out he went, and the others were moved about to allow a clear space near the door, and Mrs. Dalby and Mrs. Mitty were pressed to take a little more of the Rich Ruby or to have a sandwich or a piece of cake, and Mrs. Dalby had a sandwich and Mrs. Mitty, whose long nose was a much deeper shade of blue than it had originally been, accepted another glass of the Rich Ruby.

“I ought to tell you that this chap he’s going to take off,” Mrs. Fred explained to them, “was a chap Fred had some business dealings with in Birmingham. He owned one of the picture theatres there. He wasn’t a bad sort of chap really, but he was an absolute comic--didn’t mean to be, y’know, didn’t know he was funny--but he _was_, and Fred and the other fellows used to make game of him. To start with, he always talked, you see, with his mouth on one side----”

“Well, so does Fred,” said Mr. Smeeth, bluntly and boldly.

“Now, Dad,” cried Mrs. Smeeth, “how can you say that!”

“That’s right, Mrs. Smeeth,” said Dalby. “He does talk with his mouth on one side. I noticed it myself. Just a habit, you know. Easy to get into. Probably you never notice it now,” he remarked considerately to Mrs. Fred. “You’ve got used to it.”

“Oh, that’s quite different,” she said stiffly. But she did not continue with her explanation. “Wait till he comes in. You’ll see what I mean.”

What Mr. Smeeth did see when Fred came in was that Fred was wearing his best overcoat and hat. He must have chosen these things because they were obviously too small for him and so added to the comic effect. The coat was strained across his shoulders, and the hat, a good grey soft felt, which Mr. Smeeth only wore at the week-end and for special occasions, had been jammed on his head and punched in at the top in a horrible manner. Mr. Smeeth was so annoyed he could hardly sit still.

“Good evening, you people,” said Fred, speaking in a queer voice and throwing his mouth round to the other side. “I’m Mister Snookums of Brum, and I’d loike you to understand that I’m the propreeotor of the Luxydrome Peecture Palaice, situated in one of our main thoroughfares of the city and built ree-gardless of expense. Hem!” Here Fred coughed in a silly way, with a quick movement of one hand to his mouth, a movement that nearly split the seams of the overcoat. His wife and Mrs. Smeeth shrieked with laughter; Dalby and his wife smiled; and Mr. Smeeth merely looked glum. This went on for several minutes, at the end of which, Fred, in a frantic attempt to capture the whole audience, was shouting at the top of his voice, nearly bursting the overcoat, and punching the hat out of any recognisable shape. At last, Mr. Smeeth could stand it no longer.

“Just a minute,” he said, advancing upon Fred. “I’m sorry to interrupt, if you’ve not finished. But, y’know, that’s my hat, my _best_ hat--when you’ve done with it.” And he held out his hand for it.

“All right, old sport,” said Fred, giving it to him and resuming his normal appearance. “No damage done. And ber-lieve me, people,” he added, mopping his brow, “that’s nearly like work. Yes, I think I will, Cousin Edie.” And he made for the whisky.

Edna and Dot returned now from the pictures. It was Dot’s turn to entertain the company. “Oo, I say,” she cried, like a suddenly galvanised doll, “oo, I say, you oughter see Ducie Dellwood in this picture we’ve just seen. A college girl, what they call over there a co-ed.”

“I thought she was sorful,” said Edna. “Didn’t you, Dot?”

“I didn’t like her much. This was her. Watch me, everybody. Just watch me a minute. This was her.” And Dot, after screaming everybody into attention, began jazzing about and rolling her eyes and flinging herself into a chair and then jumping out of it again. “That song’s in this picture, mother,” she gasped. “You know--what is it?--_It’s Necking or Nothing Now_--and Ducie Dellwood sings it--like this.” She stood facing them with her legs apart and knees bent, crooked her elbows, spread out her fingers, then swayed as she sang, or tried to sing in a little nasal voice, what she remembered of the song. Mr. Smeeth, after noticing that Edna was regarding this performance with open admiration, told himself that in spite of the fact that he was a quiet and good-tempered man, he would dearly like to get up and give this Dot girl a good box on the ears and then pack her off to bed.

“Well, I really think we’d better be getting along now,” said Mrs. Dalby.

“Yes, time to be off,” said her husband.

“No, don’t go yet, Mrs. Dalby,” cried Mrs. Smeeth.

“The night is yet young,” roared Fred. “I thought you London people kept it up till all hours. Why, up in Brum, when a few of us got together, some of the bo-hoys and some of the ger-hirls, we used to be settling down to it now, I give you my word.”

“And how much longer does he think he’s going to stay here?” Mr. Smeeth asked himself bitterly, as the irrepressible Fred went roaring on. Mrs. Dalby was firm about going and edged towards the door, smiling at her hostess; Dalby followed her and when they did finally go, Mr. Smeeth, glad to escape even for a minute or two, saw them to the door. The night was beautifully dark and quiet, delighted in its entire lack of Mitties.

“Lively card, all right,” said Dalby, as they halted a moment.

“A bit too lively for me,” said Mr. Smeeth in a low, confidential tone. “A little of him goes a long way, it seems to me. Mrs. Smeeth’s cousin, y’know,” he added, disclaiming all responsibility.

“Well, to be quite truthful, Mr. Smeeth,” Mrs. Dalby declared, “I must say I thought the way they allowed that girl to carry on was ridiculous. My words, if she’d been a girl of mine----!”

“Or mine,” said Mr. Smeeth grimly.

“Still, we’ve had a very enjoyable evening, haven’t we, Tom?” said Mrs. Dalby, who had plainly had nothing of the kind but was a polite woman.

After they had said good night, Mr. Smeeth remained at the door for a few minutes, enjoying the quiet and the cool fresh air. When he returned to the others he made straight for the fire and raked it together with the poker, but did not put any more coal on it. Then he yawned once or twice, and did not try very hard to pretend he was not yawning. Ten minutes later, he told Edna to get upstairs to bed, pointing out very firmly that on any other night she would have been there some time. There were signs then, after Edna had reluctantly and with much wriggling of shoulders taken her departure, that the Mitty family was about to go, but unfortunately George made his appearance and that kept them another half-hour, towards the end of which Mr. Smeeth merely stared at them in despair. When they did go Mrs. Smeeth and George saw them to the door, and Mr. Smeeth stayed where he was.

Somehow the room looked as if fifty people had been eating and drinking and smoking in it for days. There were two sandwiches and a flattened cigarette end on the carpet; somebody had spilled some port on the little table; there was the glass that Fred had broken; there were the forlorn bottles, the dirty glasses, the remnants of food, the cigarette ash, the smoke rapidly going stale: the whole room, the pride of the house and as nice a parlour as you would find in the length of Chaucer Road, looked tipsy, bedraggled, and forlorn, and as its disgusted owner wearily moved about, throwing bits of stuff into the fire and straightening things, he felt as if the Mitty crew had left their sign and mark on it for ever. He threw open the windows and was just in time to hear from outside the last good nights.

His wife came in. “George has gone to bed,” she announced. “I was telling him he seemed quite struck with young Dot.”

Mr. Smeeth grunted.

She followed her usual practice on these occasions, sitting down by the fire with a last sandwich, prepared for a cosy little gossip about the evening. “I’m not going to touch a thing to-night. It’ll have to wait until the morning. Well, well, I must say I’ve enjoyed myself to-night; whether other people have or not.” For a moment her face was alight with reminiscent mirth, that pleasant afterglow of jolly evenings, but it died out as she looked at her husband. “But I must say, too, Dad, I never saw you in such a mood. I expect you thought I wasn’t noticing you, but I was. Couldn’t help it. Quite grumpy you were, half the time, and downright rude, if you ask me, once or twice. Fred’s wife noticed it, too.”

Mr. Smeeth mumbled something to the effect that he did not much care what Fred’s wife noticed.

“Perhaps you’re tired. Are you, boy?” she said, her manner changing. “I thought once or twice you looked tired, and Mrs. Dalby told me _she_ thought you were looking a bit tired to-night.”

“I expect I am,” said Mr. Smeeth.

“Ah, well, that’s different, isn’t it, when you’re tired and you don’t feel in the humour for it? Never mind; next time I expect you’ll be ready to join in the fun. They’ve asked us all down for one night next week--they’ll let us know which night--to meet some people they know who used to be in Birmingham, too.”

“Well, I hope you told them I wasn’t going.”

“Of course I didn’t, Dad. The very idea!”

“Well, I’m not going.”

“Why, what for?”

“Because I’m _not_. If you want to know,” Mr. Smeeth added, his voice trembling, “I’ve had quite enough of ’em here to-night, without going to look for some more.”

His wife looked at him indignantly and sat up straight. “That’s a nice way to talk, isn’t it? What harm have they done you? It’s not Fred’s fault--or his wife’s fault--if you didn’t enjoy yourself to-night.”

“It is. If it’s not their fault, whose fault is it?” Mr. Smeeth retorted. “I can’t stand him--and I can’t stand his wife--and I can’t stand that jazzing girl of theirs either. And the less Edna, or George, for that matter, sees of that little----”

“Now just you be careful what you’re saying,” cried Mrs. Smeeth. “You’ll be saying something in a minute you’ll be sorry for afterwards. Now, Dad, you’re tired to-night, and I expect they were a bit too noisy for you. Fred does get noisy when he gets going, I’ll admit. But you’ll feel different about it in the morning. Let’s go to bed.”

“All right. I’m ready. But understand this, Edie. I’m not going down to Fred Mitty’s this next week or any other week. If you want to go, I can’t stop you, and if you want to ask them here again, I suppose I can’t stop you--though if he starts coming here regularly, drinking the amount of whisky he drank to-night, I’m going to have something to say. But he doesn’t see _me_ again for a long time, I can tell you that.”

“The way you talk!” said Mrs. Smeeth on her way to the door. “But I’m not going to argue with you to-night. I’m tired myself and I’m sure you’re so tired you don’t know what you _are_ saying. I’ll leave you to lock up, Dad.”

No doubt he _was_ tired. He was still trembling a little as he went round, turning off the lights and seeing that both outside doors were locked and bolted; but his mind was made up on the Mitty question. There is a certain pleasure in making up your mind, putting your foot down, taking a firm stand, especially if, like Mr. Smeeth, you do it very rarely, not being a wilful or autocratic man; and as he walked along the dark little hall and climbed the stairs, Mr. Smeeth experienced that pleasure, and the hand that he placed on the banisters was that of a strong determined man, the natural head of a house. Yet even before he had reached the bedroom door there was mixed with that pleasure, absorbing it gradually, an uneasiness, a faint foreboding, a sense of worse things to come.

_Chapter Seven_: ARABIAN NIGHTS FOR TURGIS

I

“Yersh,” said Mr. Pelumpton, staring at Turgis and pulling hard at his little pipe, which replied with a sickening gurgle--“yersh, that’sh what you want, boy, shome short of ’obby, to parsh the time--shee?”

“That’s right,” cried little Mrs. Pelumpton, sitting down but only on the edge of the chair to show that this was a mere breathing-space in the long battle with beds and stairs and dirty plates and potatoes and legs of mutton. “You oughter get out of yourself more, Mr. Turgis--if you catch my meaning. That’s what you’re telling him, isn’t it?”

“Yersh,” said Mr. Pelumpton, who was busy now poking at his pipe with a very large hairpin.

“Oh--I dunno,” said Turgis, vaguely and mournfully.

“Look at Edgar,” Mrs. Pelumpton continued. “What with ’arriering--y’know, a lot of ’em all running together, miles and miles, and not as much on as you might go in the water with if you was at the seaside--though he ’asn’t done much of that lately----”

“Don’t blame him,” Turgis muttered, shuddering. The last thing on earth he wanted was to be a harrier, who not only ran and ran until he nearly dropped but also contrived to look silly. Ugh!

“What with that and now these racing dog dirt tracks----”

“Hear that,” Mr. Pelumpton broke in, pointing a derisive pipe-stem, “d’hear that, Mishter Turgish? Dog dirt tracksh! That’sh a good one. You’ve got it wrong, Mother. Nobody’d pay to shee a dog dirt tracksh; you can shee them any time, outshide in the shtreet. Plenty of ’em round ’er. That makesh me laugh, that doesh.” And to show that it did, he cackled a little.

“It wouldn’t take much to make you laugh. But you know what I mean?” and she turned to Turgis.

“Greyhound racing.”

“That’s right,” cried Mrs. Pelumpton triumphantly. “He goes to see ’em once or twice a week--never misses--and though it costs money----”

“Yersh,” said Mr. Pelumpton. “Think it doesh. It’sh a betting bishnish--shame ash ’orsh racing, a betting bishnish.”

“Oh, is it?” Mrs. Pelumpton was thoughtful. “Well, that’s not as good as it might be, is it? I don’t want Edgar starting with them betting tricks--two to one each way and all that. Never any good came of _that_, in _my_ opinion.”

“A mug’s game,” said Turgis, with the air of a rather gloomy man of the world.

“I thought they just went to see the dogs run about, just a bit of fun,” Mrs. Pelumpton continued, dubiously. Then she brightened. “But I can trust Edgar to behave and not do anything silly.”

“Yersh, yersh. Matter of a bob or two, that’sh all. The boy’sh all right. Mindjew, for _my_ part, I never cared for thish betting game, neither ’orshesh or anything elsh. Wouldn’t touch it. Fellersh ’ave shaid to me, ‘You put all you’ve got on sho-an’-sho--it’sh a shert,’--but I’ve told ’em, ‘No.’ Matter of prinshiple, shee? I don’t want the bookiesh’ money and they’re not going to ’ave my money. What I’ve made,” Mr. Pelumpton added, apparently under the impression that he had made whole fortunes in his time, “I’ve honeshtly earned. There’sh quite enough gambling in the dealing bishnish for me, quite enough.”

“Well, I’d rather see Edgar going up there, even if it means he’s putting his shillings on now and then,” said Mrs. Pelumpton, getting up, “than see him going round the pubs. That’s an expensive ’obby, if you like. And you can’t say you’ve never had a try at that, Dad. If you ever had any principles against the publicans ’aving your money, all I can say is they never took you very far. What you’ve honestly earned you’ve mostly honestly spent, too.” And Mrs. Pelumpton waddled into the kitchen.

“Yersh,” said Mr. Pelumpton, completely ignoring his wife’s speech and now fixing Turgis with his watery stare, “quite enough gambling in the dealing bishnish for me. Now here’sh an inshtansh.”

“Oh, blow you and your instances!” Turgis cried to himself.

“Chesht o’ drawersh going up in Holloway and I’m requeshted to ’ave a look at it. Very pretty piesh, very pretty piesh. Worth money, that piesh. I’m tellin’ you now what I thought, at the time. I went back and shaw Mishter Peek an’ tellsh him that piesh’sh worth a ten pound note if it’sh worth a penny. ‘Go back,’ he shaysh, ‘and go right up to sheven if nesheshary.’ I go back and thish piesh’sh gone. Old Craggy up the road there had bought it--’ad to pay sheven too--an’ I could have kicked myshelf. Well, that’sh what?--oh, eight munsh, ten munsh, a year ago. All right. I’m looking round in old Craggy’sh the other day and what do I shee--the very shame piesh. I shaysh to ’im ‘I know that piesh’ and I told him ’ow and why I did know it. Then I shaysh to him, ‘What you wanting now for that piesh?’ An’ what do you think he shaid?”

“Fifty pounds,” said Turgis promptly. He had heard this type of story many, many times from Mr. Pelumpton.

“Now that’sh jusht where you’re wrong, boy,” cried Mr. Pelumpton, delighted. “Jusht where you’re wrong. Not fifty poundsh but _five_ poundsh, two lesh than he’d given for it. Couldn’t get rid of it--shee?--and had pulled it down and down--and I give you my word, I believe I could have ’ad that piesh from him for _four_--he was sho shick of sheeing it about the shop. And I’d have bought it for sheven, sho would Mishter Peek, sho would you, sho would anybody. It jusht showsh you. The dealing bishnish ish a gamble.”

“If you ask me,” said Turgis, all gloomy and profound, “it’s all a gamble.”

“Well, don’t loosh ’eart, boy, don’t loosh ’eart. Take a ninterest in thingsh like I do. Shtart a nobby----”

“What’s your hobby?” asked Turgis, not too graciously. And he immediately gave himself the answer silently, “Finding free beer, you old soak, that’s your hobby.”

“My work ish my ’obby now,” replied Mr. Pelumpton very solemnly. “In my time I’ve ’ad all manner of ’obbiesh, from pigeonsh to joining the volunteersh, but now my work ish my ’obby. It’sh not only my work but my play, ash you might shay. And if you’re going to make anything at all out of dealing, if you’re going to be a _real_ dealer, that’sh the only way to do it--make it a full time job, wherever you are, be on the look-out, keep your eyesh open, your earsh open, turn thingsh over in your mind. If you’d a bit more money, d’you know what I’d shay to you?”

Turgis could think of several things that Mr. Pelumpton would say to him, the very minute he had some more money, but he was certain that not one of them was in Mr. Pelumpton’s thoughts at the moment. So he merely shook his head.

“What I’d shay to you ish--shtart collecting. In a shmall way, y’know, to begin with. Doeshn’t matter what you collect. And I’d put you on to thingsh. That’sh where you’d be lucky ’cosh you’d ’ave the benefit of my experiensh and knowledge of the trade.”

Turgis did not think he would care very much for collecting, and Mrs. Pelumpton, returning at that moment, wiping her hands on an apron, said that she didn’t think of collecting either. “Just wasting your money and littering the place up, that would be,” she added. “So don’t you go and put ideas into his head, Dad. I’d sooner see you taking an interest in these politics, same as Mr. Park.”

“You know what he ish, Mishter Park?” said her husband. “He’sh a Bolshie, that’sh what he ish.”

“Well, it keeps him quiet enough,” Mrs. Pelumpton retorted. “And sober, too. Never makes any noise or trouble. Nobody will make me believe he’s a real Bolshie, a nice quiet young chap like that. And he’s never been to Russia, never once set eyes on it. He told me so himself.”

“That doeshn’t matter,” said Mr. Pelumpton.

“What does matter then?” asked Mrs. Pelumpton triumphantly.

No doubt her husband could have told her, but he did not choose to; he merely made a contemptuous noise, and then took up the evening paper. Turgis decided to go to bed. It was not late, but there was nothing to do. He was tired of talking to the Pelumptons, though he felt vaguely grateful to them, or at least to Mrs. Pelumpton, for taking an interest in him. What they actually said did not mean much to him--for he did not want any of their silly hobbies and had not the slightest desire to be like either Edgar or Park--but it was pleasant to feel that somebody was interested in him. His father took no interest in him, hadn’t done for years, and he had no other near relations. They didn’t care much about him at the office. Even Poppy-with-the-fringe had kept away from him lately, and the others simply took him for granted. He had no friends. He was just a chap in the crowd. Nearly all his time away from the office was spent in a crowd somewhere, getting back to his lodgings in the packed Tube, returning to the thronged streets afterwards, perhaps eating in some crowded place, then waiting in a queue to get in a picture theatre, making one of a huge audience, wandering along the lamp-lit pavements, and he was for ever surrounded by strange, indifferent or hostile faces, looking into millions of eyes that never lit up with any gleam of recognition, and spending hour after hour in the very thick of packed humanity without exchanging a single word with anybody. His existence was noticed only when he bought something, when he turned himself into a customer.