Part 5

“Good, very good. Well, look here, Smeeth, I shan’t be back this afternoon. Nothing important, is there? You just carry on then--and then--er--you know, finish off, sign anything that wants signing, then finish off, lock up, go home.”

“That’ll be all right, Mr. Dersingham. There’s nothing very important. But what about that business we talked about this morning? Yes, Turgis and Miss Matfield?”

“All done with,” and the telephone seemed to chuckle. “No need to bother about that, not the slightest. Turgis stays. Miss Matfield stays. D’you know, Smeeth, that that girl’s father played scrum half with the Alsations? He did--same fella, Matfield. No, she stays. Both stay.”

“I’m very glad, sir,” said Mr. Smeeth, who really was glad, though perhaps he was mostly puzzled. There seemed to be no sense in all this.

“Explain ev’rything in the morning, Smeeth,” continued the voice of Mr. Dersingham. “Only person who goes is Goath.”

“What! I didn’t catch that, sir.”

“Goath, Goath. We’ve done with him. Goath’s finished with. Don’t want to see him again. If he comes for his money, pay him at once, d’you understand, Smeeth, at once, up to end of month. Then tell him--to clear--right out, right out.”

“But--but what’s happened, Mr. Dersingham? I don’t understand.”

“Explain ev’rything in the morning. But you understand about Goath, eh? Pay the blighter off if he comes, finish with him. You understand that, eh? Righto. Carry on then, ol’ man.”

Bewildered, Mr. Smeeth laid down the receiver and walked over to his desk. He had hardly time to collect his thoughts and to begin to wonder whether he ought to say something to the others, when the door flew open, almost like a vertical trap-door, to shoot into the middle of the office, where it suddenly stopped dead, the figure of a man. It was Goath. His ancient overcoat was still hanging from his shoulders as if it hardly belonged to him, but, on the other hand, his bowler hat, instead of being at the back of his head, was now tilted forward, giving him an unusual and almost sinister look. His face was purpler than ever; his eyes were glaring; and his mouth was opening and shutting, as if he were an indignant fish. To say of Goath that he had been drinking was to say nothing, for he was obviously always drinking, but this time he had plainly had more than usual or had been mixing his liquors. And his appearance, his manner, everything about him, was so extraordinary that everybody in the office stopped work at once to look at him.

“Smeeth,” the apparition cried in a thick, hoarse voice, “you pay me my money, d’y’ear. Sala’y to end of mun’ an’ commission to yesserday. I’ve finished wi’ Twigg an’ Dersi’am, finished, finished--com-pletely.” Here he produced a magnificent cutting gesture that nearly upset his balance. “I’ve finished wi’ them. They finished wi’ me. All over.”

“Mr. Dersingham’s just told me, Goath,” said Mr. Smeeth, looking at him in astonishment. “And I’ll give you your money if you really want it now----”

“Mus’ ’ave it. Finished--com-pletely, com-pletely.”

“But what’s happened?”

“I’ll tell you what’s ’appened,” replied Goath with tremendous solemnity, lowering his head so far that it looked as if his hat would fall off. “Go--Golspie, tha’s wha’s ’appened--Gol-sss-pie.”

“Who’s that? Do you mean----”

“Feller came s’mornin’.”

“But what about him?”

Goath now threw back his head and looked defiant. “Mister Wha’sit bloody Gol-spie,” he announced with great deliberation, “tha’s the feller. An’ he’s a--devil. I tol’ him, I tol’ him ‘Thirry years--thirry _years_--in the trade, tha’s me.’ An’ wha’ did he say to tha’? Wha’ did he bloody well say?”

“Here, old man, steady, steady,” Mr. Smeeth cautioned him.

“Don’t mind me,” said Miss Matfield coolly. “Go on, Mr. Goath. What did he say? Tell us all about it.”

“Never mind wha’ he said,” cried Goath aggressively, glaring round at them all. “Does’n’ ma’er wha’ _’e_ said. Who is ’e? Where’s ’e come from? With ’is drinks an’ cigars! All ri’--very nice--drinks an’ cigars--but anybody can buy drinks an’ cigars, an’ _do_ buy drinks an’ cigars _and_ big lunches. It’s wha’ _I_ say--thirry years, don’ forge’ tha’, thirry years--wha’ _I_ say tha’ ma’ers. An’ I say--wha’s the game?--where’s’e get this stuff from?--who tol’ ’im to come here?”

“Yes, but what’s this chap doing?” Mr. Smeeth asked. “That’s what I want to know.”

“Bullyin’ an’ twistin’, tha’s wha’ ’e’s doin’,” replied Goath promptly, taking off his hat. “An’ he’s got Mr. Dersi’am like tha’, jus’ like tha’.” And, to the intense delight of Stanley, one hand fell heavily on the hat. “It’s jus’ like wha’s it--y’know--wha’s it, wha’s it?” And to show what he did mean, Goath glared harder than ever and then wiggled his fingers in front of his eyes, directing them at Miss Matfield, who let out a sudden peal of laughter.

“Hypnotism,” suggested Turgis.

“Tha’s ri’, boy, tha’s ri’. Hyp-no-tism. Jus’ like tha’. But not me,” he continued, speaking very slowly and more distinctly now, “not me. I tell ’em what I think. Begins tellin’ me I oughter to do this an’ oughter do that, an’ I won’t ’ave it. I know the trade an’ I speak my mind. An’ another thing. If I don’t like a feller, I don’t like ’im, and that finishes it. That feller comes ’ere, very well, I don’t, I finish.”

“Is he coming here?” demanded Mr. Smeeth.

“You’ll see, you’ll see, Smeeth. I say no more. Finish. You just let me ’ave my money.”

“All right, Goath,” said Mr. Smeeth, who had been jotting down some figures for the last minute or two. “I won’t keep you a minute. Then you’d better get straight home, old man----”

“Have no ’ome,” Goath announced. “Lodgings.” He lurched up to the desk, which was high enough for him to rest his elbows on the edge of it. “That’s the way, Smeeth, a nice lil cheque. I tell you, Smeeth, ol’ man, you’ve always been decent to me, an’ now I’m sorry for you.”

“Well, I’m sorry too, Goath, and I must say I don’t understand what’s happening at all. Mr. Dersingham rang up and told me you were leaving. Are you sure it’s not all a mistake? I mean, you chaps seem to have--er--had rather a lot to-day, you know, and in the morning you might all feel different about it.”

With an effort Goath stood erect, and then held out his hand to Mr. Smeeth. “No, no, I’ve finished. Shake hands, ol’ man. See you again sometime. Meet some day--still in the trade, y’know, can’t change after thirty years--have to stick to the trade. Goo’-bye, all.” And Goath, after removing the dent from his hat with one fierce jab, crammed it on the back of his head and, with a final wave of the hand, departed.

“Well, this beats me,” Mr. Smeeth confessed. “I can’t make head or tail of it, I really can’t.”

“It looks as if that other chap is taking his place, don’t you think?” said Turgis. “Though I must say he didn’t look as if he wanted that sort of job. I mean, he looked too smart and bossy.”

“No, I don’t think that’s it,” Mr. Smeeth told him.

“Thank the Lord, we’ve seen the last of Mr. Goath, anyhow!” cried Miss Matfield fervently. “I loathed the sight of him, he always looked so dirty and dilapidated. I’m sure he was a rotten man to have going round calling on people.”

“But what if the other chap comes?” said Turgis, grinning. “You didn’t like the look of him, did you?”

“I should think not! I never thought of that.” She groaned as she stuck another sheet of paper into the typewriter. “What a life!”

“That’s right, let’s get finished. Turgis, Stanley, come on, get a move on,” said Mr. Smeeth sharply. And down below, in Angel Pavement, now a deep narrow pool of darkness sharply spangled with electric lights, you could hear a little host of other people finishing for the night, a final clatter of typewriters, a banging of doors, the hooting of homing cars, the sound of footsteps hurrying up the street towards liberty.

_Chapter Two_: MR. SMEETH IS REASSURED

I

Mr. Smeeth, still puzzling and pondering over the sullen departure of Goath and the arrival of this mysterious Mr. Golspie, put his books away for the night, and, as his habit was, pulled out his pipe and tobacco pouch. The others had gone, and the office was in darkness except for the solitary light above his desk. His pouch, one of those oilskin affairs, was nearly empty, and he had to take out the last crumbs in order to get a decent pipeful. He had just lit up, blown out the first few delicious clouds, and switched off his light, when the telephone rang sharply, urgently, in the gloom. As he groped back to the receiver, he felt almost frightened. What was coming now? He found himself wishing he had gone earlier, just a little earlier, but nevertheless he had not the strength of mind to ignore the telephone’s peremptory challenge.

“Hello?” he began.

A huge voice cut him short, came roaring out of the dark. “Look ’ere, Charlie, what abart makin’ it fifty? Carm on, yer gotter do it, ol’ son, yer can’t get away from it----”

“Wait a moment,” Mr. Smeeth told him. “This is Twigg and Dersingham. Who do you----”

“I know, _I know_,” the voice continued, smashing its way across London and entirely ignoring Mr. Smeeth’s protest. “I know wotcher goin’ to say, but it’ll ’ave to be fifty this time. I been talkin’ ter Tommy Rawson s’afternoon, an’ ’e says yer’ll be lucky if yer get it at that. ‘Tell Charlie from me,’ ’e says, ‘’e won’t touch it under fifty an’ ’e’ll be lucky if ’e gets it at that.’ Tommy’s own words them. An’ I agree, _I agree_. Nar then, what d’yer say, Charlie?”

“You’ve got the wrong number,” cried Mr. Smeeth.

“What’s that? I want Mr. ’Iggins.”

“There’s no Mr. Higgins here. This is Twigg and Dersingham.”

“Wrong number again,” said the voice, disgusted. “Ring off--for gord’s sake.”

Mr. Smeeth, relieved, rang off with pleasure, and departed, chuckling a little. Who was Charlie, and what was it he had to pay fifty for, and why did Tommy Rawson think he’d be lucky if he got it? “Might easily be crooks,” he concluded, with a little romantic thrill, worthy of Stanley himself, and then smiled at himself. More likely to be fellows buying second-hand cars, loads of scrap iron, or something like that. At the bottom of the stairs, he ran into the tall fellow with the broad-brimmed hat, who was just coming out of his _Kwik-Work Razor Blade_ place.

The tall man nodded. “Turning colder.”

“Just a bit,” replied Mr. Smeeth heartily. These little encounters and recognitions pleased him, making him feel that he was somebody. “Not so bad, though, for the time of year.”

“That’s right. Business good?”

“So-so. Not so good as it might be.” And then Mr. Smeeth let the tall man stride away down Angel Pavement, for he remembered that he was out of tobacco and so turned into the neighbouring shop, the one occupied by T. Benenden.

Mr. Smeeth was one of T. Benenden’s regular customers, a patron (perhaps the only one) of T. Benenden’s Own Mixture (_Cool Sweet Smoking_). “No,” he liked to tell some fellow pipe-smoker, “I don’t fancy your ounce-packet stuff. I like my tobacco freshly mixed, y’know, and so I always get it from a little shop near the office. It’s the chap’s own mixture and so it’s always fresh. Oh, fine stuff!--you try a pipeful--and very reasonable. Been getting it for years now. And the chap I get it from is a bit of a character in his way.” Saying this made Mr. Smeeth feel that he was a connoisseur of both tobacco and human nature, and it gave an added flavour to his pipe, which could do with it after being charged with nothing but T. Benenden’s own mixture. It was hardly possible that he was right about the tobacco being “freshly mixed,” for though mixed--and well mixed--it may have been, it could not come from T. Benenden’s little shop, with its hundreds of dusty dummy packets, its row of battered tin canisters, its dilapidated weight scales, its dirty counter, its solitary wheezing gas mantle, its cobwebs and dark corners, and still be fresh. On the other hand, he was certainly right when he described T. Benenden himself as a bit of a character in his way.

T. Benenden’s way was that of the philosophical financier turned shopkeeper. He was an oldish man who wore thick glasses (which only magnified eyes that protruded far enough without their help), a straggling pepper-and-salt beard, one of those old-fashioned single high collars and a starched front, and no tie. When Mr. Smeeth first visited the shop, years ago, he was at once startled and amused by this absence of tie, jumping to the conclusion that the man had forgotten his tie. Now, he would have been far more startled to see Benenden _with_ a tie. He had often been tempted to ask the chap why he wore these formal collars and fronts and yet no tie, but somehow he had never dared. Benenden himself, though he was ready to talk on many subjects, never mentioned ties. Either he deliberately ignored them or he had never noticed the part these things were now playing in the world, simply did not understand about ties. What he did like to talk about, perhaps because his shop was in the City, was finance, a sort of Arabian Nights finance. He sat there behind his counter, steadily smoking his stock away, and peered at old copies of financial periodicals or the City news of ordinary papers, and out of this reading, and the bits of gossip he heard, and the grandiose muddle of his own mind, he concocted the most astonishing talk. It was difficult to buy an ounce of tobacco from him without his making you feel that the pair of you had just missed a fortune.

As soon as he recognised Mr. Smeeth, T. Benenden very deliberately pulled down his scales and then placed on the counter the particular dirty old canister set apart for his own mixture. “The usual, I suppose, Mr. Smeeth?” he said, picking up the pouch and then smoothing it out on the counter. “I saw your chief this morning, the young fellow--Mr. Dersingham. Came in for some _Sahibs_. Got somebody with him too, new to me, well set up gentleman, with a good cigar in his mouth, a very good cigar. You’ll know who I mean?”

“He called this morning at the office,” said Mr. Smeeth.

“Well, I didn’t say anything,” Benenden continued, very seriously as he weighed out the tobacco. “It’s not my business to say anything. I _don’t_ say anything. But I keep my eyes open. And I said to myself, the minute they went out, ‘This looks to me as if Twigg and Dersingham’s are moving on a bit. This has the look of a merging job, or a syndicate job, or a trust job. And,’ I said, ‘if Mr. Smeeth does happen to come in for the usual, I’ll put it straight to him. It’s no concern of mine, but he’ll tell _me_. I’ll test my judgment,’ I said.”

“Sorry, Mr. Benenden,” said Mr. Smeeth, smiling at him, “but I’ve nothing to tell you. I don’t rightly know what’s happening, but you can depend on it, it’s nothing in that line.”

“Then,” cried Benenden, quite passionately, rolling up the pouch and then slapping it down on the counter, “you’re wrong. I don’t mean you, Mr. Smeeth, I mean the firm. That’s the way things are going all the time now, Mr. Smeeth, big combinations--merging away till you don’t know where you are--and sweeping the deck, until--dear me--there isn’t a picking, not a crumb, left. You see what I mean? Now there’s a bit here in one of the papers--I was just reading it when you came in--and I don’t suppose you’ve seen it. Just a minute and I’ll find it. Now here it is. Suppose, Mr. Smeeth, just suppose,” and here T. Benenden leaned across the counter and his eyes seemed colossal, “I’d come to you a fortnight since, a week since, and said to you, ‘What about picking up a bit on South Coast Laundries?’--what would you have said?”

“I’d have said it takes me all my time to pay my own laundry bill,” Mr. Smeeth replied, much amused by this retort of his.

T. Benenden made a slight gesture of contempt to show that this was mere trifling. Then he looked very solemn, very impressive. “You’d have said, ‘I can’t be bothered with South Coast Laundries. I’m not touching ’em--don’t want ’em--take your South Coast Laundries away. And you’d have been right--as far as you could see, _then_. But what happens, what happens? Read your paper. It’s there, under my very ’and. Along comes a big merger--a bit of syndicate and trust work--and up they go, right up to the top--bang! Now--you see--you can’t touch ’em. And there’s a feller here--you can see it in the paper--who’s been clearing anything out of it--a hundred thousand, two hundred thousand--a clean sweep, made for life. And he’s not the only one, not a bit of it! And we sit here, pretending to laugh at South Coast Laundries or whatever it might be, and what are we doing? We’re missing it, that’s what we’re doing, we’re missing it.” Here, a dramatic pause.

“And if your Mr. Dersingham isn’t careful,” Benenden concluded, still impressive even if a trifle vague now, “_he’s_ going to miss it. He wants to keep his eyes open. There’s one or two bits in this paper I’d like to show him. Let’s see, what was it you gave me? Half a crown, wasn’t it? That’s right then--one and six change. And good-night to _you_, Mr. Smeeth.” And T. Benenden, after stooping down to the tiny gas-jet to relight his pipe, retired to his corner to ruminate.

Mr. Smeeth made his way to Moorgate, where, as usual, he bought an evening paper and then climbed to the upper deck of a tram. There, when he was not being bumped by the conductor, jostled by outgoing and incoming passengers, thrown back or hurled forward by the tram itself, an irritable and only half tamed brute, he stared at the jogging print and tried to acquaint himself with the latest and most important news of the day. An excitable column and a half told him that a young musical comedy actress, whom he had never seen and had no particular desire to see, had got engaged, that it had been quite a romance, that she was very very happy and not sure yet whether she would leave the stage or not. Mr. Smeeth, not caring whether she left the stage or dropped dead on it, turned to another column. This discussed the problem of careers for married women, a problem that had been left absolutely untouched since the morning papers came out, ten hours before. It did not interest Mr. Smeeth, so he tried another column. This reported an action for divorce, in which it appeared that the petitioning wife had only been allowed a hundred and fifty pounds a year on which to dress herself. The judge had said that this seemed to him--a mere bachelor (laughter)--an adequate allowance, but the paper had collected the opinions of well-known society hostesses, who all said it was not adequate. Mr. Smeeth, who found he could not share the editor’s passionate interest in this topic, now tried another page, which promptly informed him that evening gowns would certainly be longer this winter, and then went on to tell him, to the tune of three solid columns, that the modern business girl (with her latch-key) had quite a different attitude towards marriage and therefore must not be confused with her grandmother (Victorian, with no latch-key). Mr. Smeeth, feeling sure that he had read all this before, passed on, and arrived at the sports page, where the prospects of certain women golfers were discussed at considerable length. Never having set eyes on any of these Amazons and not being interested in golf, Mr. Smeeth next tried the gossip columns. The tram was swaying now and the print fairly dancing, so that it was at the cost of some eye-strain and a slight headache that he learned from these paragraphs that Lord Winthrop’s brother, who was over six feet, intended to spend the winter in the West Indies, that the youngest son of Lady Nether Stowey could not only be seen very frequently at the Blue Pigeon Restaurant but was also renowned for the way in which he painted fans, that the member for the Tewborough Division, who must not be mistaken for Sir Adrian Putter, now in Egypt, had perhaps the best collection of teapots of any man in the House, and that he must not imagine, as so many people did, that Chingley Manor, where the fire had just occurred, was the Chingley Manor mentioned by Disraeli, for it was not, and the paragraphist, who seemed to go about a great deal, knew them both well. Indeed, he and his editor seemed to know all about everybody and everything, except Mr. Smeeth and all the other staring men on the tram, and the people they knew, and all their concerns and all the things in which they were interested. Nevertheless, Mr. Smeeth reflected, as he carefully folded the paper, there were a lot of things in it that his wife would like to read. They seemed to have stopped writing penny papers for men.

Mr. Smeeth occupied a six-roomed house (with bath) in a street full of six-roomed houses (with baths), in that part of Stoke Newington that lies between the High Street and Clissold Park--to be precise, at the postal address: 17, Chaucer Road, N. 16. Why the late Victorian speculative builder had fastened on Chaucer is a mystery, unless he had come to the conclusion that the Canterbury Pilgrims, who have never vanished from this island, might come to rest in the twentieth century behind his brick walls. But there it was, Chaucer Road, and Mr. Smeeth had once tried his hand at Chaucer, but what with one thing and another, the queer spelling and all that, had not made much of him. All that he remembered now was that Chaucer had called birds “Smally foulies,” and to this day, when he was in a waggish mood, Mr. Smeeth liked to bring in “smally foulies,” only to be countered with “You and your ‘smelly foulies!’” from a delighted Mrs. Smeeth. Towards 17, Chaucer Road, Mr. Smeeth now stepped out, swinging his folded newspaper, through the alternating lamplight and gloom, the crisping air, of the autumn evening. Dinner, with a cup of tea to follow, awaited him, for during the week, Mr. Smeeth, like a wise man, preferred to dine when work was done for the day.

II

“Cut some off for George,” said Mrs. Smeeth, “and I’ll keep it warm for him. He’s going to be late again. You’re a bit late yourself to-night, Dad.”

“I know. We’ve had a funny day to-day,” replied Mr. Smeeth, but for the time being he did not pursue the subject. He was busy carving, and though it was only cold mutton he was carving, he liked to give it all of his attention.

“Now then, Edna,” cried Mrs. Smeeth to her daughter, “don’t sit there dreaming. Pass the potatoes and the greens--careful, they’re hot. And the mint sauce. Oh, I forgot it. Run and get it, that’s a good girl. All right, don’t bother yourself. I can be there and back before you’ve got your wits together.”

Mr. Smeeth looked up from his carving and eyed Edna severely. “Why didn’t you go and get it when your mother told you. Letting her do everything.”

His daughter pulled down her mouth and wriggled a little. “I’d have gone,” she said, in a whining tone. “Didn’t give me time, that’s all.”