Part 2
"A picture," observed a quiet voice, while Jim was thus engaged, "calculated to melt the heart of any maid."
"Hullo--_Koko!_"
"While I object to that nickname," gravely responded the little man who had entered, as he removed his hat and displayed an almost entirely bald head, "I am compelled to reply to it. Well, how are you, young feller?"
Jim replied in a testy murmur that he felt all right, and proceeded to drag more fragments of cork out of the beer. Meanwhile, the man who had come in laid his hat, gloves, and stick on the far end of the table, and then arranged his tie in front of the mirror over the mantelpiece.
"Doocid dude you are, Koko!" said Jim, looking at his friend over the edge of the glass; "why," springing up, "_you've grown!_"
Now, as the caller was but an inch or two over five feet in height, there was every reason why he should have felt congratulated by this remark.
"No," he said, in a resigned voice, "I haven't grown--I've only got some of my fat off."
As Jim towered high above his friend--his height, if anything, accentuated by the clinging folds of his dressing-gown--the little man gazed admiringly up at the Long 'Un, and deep down in his heart perhaps, heaved a little sigh because of his own smallness. For, alas! Koko had finished growing. He was thirty, and already bald; he was years older than Jim--so was it likely he would grow now? And this was why, and quite naturally, George Somers, reporter on a sporting newspaper--this little, bald, quiet, unassuming man--had come, at first, to notice Jim Mortimer, and afterwards, when they got to know one another, to like him, and, finally, when they became close friends, to give him his whole heart in that sterling regard which men sometimes have for men, when each is sure that the other is worthy of such unflinching esteem.
Koko was neat and dapper in his dress, with nothing awry about him. He was excellently and attractively tidy, with the tidiness that little people have. So well proportioned was he, that his small stature never seemed ridiculous, even when viewed in close juxtaposition to the Long 'Un's great length. Koko was, in countenance, well favoured, with a small, neatly trimmed dark moustache, and rather large, mild eyes. Though generally impassive, his face would at times light up with a wonderful, sudden smile--a smile that it did you good to look upon, a smile that told you that Koko's nature was all gold.
And Koko, you must know, had for some years been inspired with the feeling that it was his particular mission in this world to look after the Long 'Un. Though he had many other duties, and one other hobby, he always found time to keep an almost maternal eye on Jim Mortimer.
"By the way, old boy," said Koko, after a time, "have you unpacked?"
"Only my pyjamas and dressing-gown," said Jim.
"Shall I lend you a hand?"
Mortimer gave a deep laugh.
"Anybody would think I was a blooming kid, Koko, by the way you talk," he said.
"So you are," said Koko, as he made his way to the adjoining bedroom, "in a great many things."
In a leisurely manner the Long 'Un followed after his friend, who was already bending over the unstrapped portmanteau. Mortimer was in a lazy mood, the beer he had consumed having filled him with a feeling of lethargy. Sitting on the end of his bed, he smoked and watched Koko as the latter endeavoured to find his way through the hurly-burly before him--as he took the socks out of the boots in which it was the Long 'Un's custom to pack them, rescued a tin of tooth-powder from the toe of a dancing pump--wherein it had been wedged to ensure safe travelling--fished a razor and shaving-brush out of the sponge-bag, and a sixpenny popular novel from the folds of a fancy waistcoat, put everything into its proper place in the chest of drawers or wardrobe, and at length paused, his task accomplished, in a somewhat flushed and heated condition.
"First-rate valet you'd make, Koko," said the Long 'Un, ungratefully.
Koko, without replying, pushed the empty portmanteau under the bed, and then washed his hands.
"I must be off now," he said simply.
"Oh, hang on a bit," returned Mortimer, as they went back to the sitting-room.
"Must go," said Koko, smoothing his silk hat with his coat sleeve--"work."
"Where?"
"Billiards in the afternoon, fight in the evening."
And with that he quietly departed.
Nobody would have dreamed that this quiet little man with the bald head had attended and described in nimble boxing terminology some of the fiercest combats that have ever been held at the National Milling Club; nobody would have dreamed that the Mr George Somers, whose hobby was the collecting of old, worm-eaten volumes, and whose initials, "G.S.," were so familiar to the readers of the _Book Hunter_, was a well-known figure in swimming-baths, gymnasiums, billiard saloons, football, and cricket grounds the country over, gun clubs, lacrosse clubs, tennis clubs, and weight-lifting clubs. Yet the little man who nosed round bookstalls in Holywell Street (that was), Wych Street (that was), and St Martin's Lane (that is), in search of rare first editions, was identical with the little man who accompanied Jim on many of his freebooting expeditions "up west," and with the little man who attended sporting functions of every kind all the year round, rain or shine, in the proud capacity of the _Sporting Mail's_ "special representative."
When Koko, some hours later, on his return from the billiard match, again looked in on the Long 'Un, he found Mr Mortimer still in his dressing-gown lolling over a book. The table bore the _debris_ of Jim's lunch.
As Koko entered the room, Mortimer threw away his book and yawned sluggishly. Koko walked gently up to him, and stood by the arm of his chair.
"I've got a bit of news for you, Jim."
"Go ahead with it."
"I've found out who that girl is."
"_What?_"
The Long 'Un was out of his chair in a second, all life and fire and eagerness; the transformation was complete.
Koko laughed inwardly; he never laughed out loud.
"Yes, I've found out about her. She's one of the girls at the Milverton Street post-office--she's the girl that takes in the telegrams."
"Are you sure?" exclaimed Jim.
"Certain," said Koko, selecting a cigarette from his little silver case.
Mortimer was struck dumb with delight. For, ever since Koko and he, whilst taking tea at an ABC shop near St Matthew's Hospital, had on three successive occasions observed an extremely handsome girl at a neighbouring table, the Long 'Un had been burning to know the young lady. That was before he went home for a month's vacation. It would appear that Koko, faithful as ever to his friend's interests, had not been idle during that month.
"Come on," exclaimed Jim, "let's go and send off some telegrams. She'll at least be obliged to look at us. That'll be something, won't it?"
"Yes, that'll be something," said Koko; "all right, go and get dressed."
The Long 'Un disappeared into the bedroom, and presently emerged in proper attire.
"You'd better wear your tail coat and top-hat, or I may cut you out," suggested Koko.
With a bellow of laughter, the Long 'Un hurried into his bedroom again, issuing therefrom a minute later clad in the kind of coat and the kind of hat affected by Koko.
"Now," said Koko, as they left Jim's sitting-room, "we start level."
*CHAPTER IV.*
*A HANDMAID TO MERCURY.*
Mortimer was in such haste to reach Milverton Street, that it was all Koko could do, with his short legs, to keep pace with him.
"I shall send one to myself to start with," explained Jim, "and then I shall go in at intervals and send wires to you, and the fellows at the hospital."
"Won't you find it rather expensive?"
"My boy, what is money _for_?" exclaimed the Long 'Un with enthusiasm. "Could I employ it better than in----"
"Yes, a good deal better," retorted Koko; "couldn't you go in and buy halfpenny stamps, and just _glance_ over in her direction?"
"The stamp girl wouldn't like that," returned Mortimer with frank vanity; "but, I say, old man, isn't all this reckoning up of the cost rather sordid?"
"Well, perhaps it is," agreed Koko; "but apart from that, I don't quite see how you can effect anything. She doesn't look the sort of girl you can even discuss the weather with, unless you have been properly introduced to her."
"Never mind that for the present," said Jim. "Try and suggest a suitable telegram for me to send to myself."
"Do you wish to impress her with the fact that you have means?"
"Just as well," said Jim; "I shall have a tidy amount some day, you know."
"Then wire and tell me to put a pot of money for you on a horse."
"And then?"
"Make the next something about shares--'_Buy me ten thousand Canadian Pacifics_,' let us say."
"Well, and what's the third wire to be about? I can't put money on gees or buy shares every time."
"Make her jealous. Send a wire to '_Maggie Mortimer_' at your Pimlico address, and put '_Best love, darling_,' at the end of it," suggested Koko, demurely.
The Long 'Un stopped dead, and faced round on his small companion.
"Look here, Koko," he exclaimed, "I've taken your advice in several--er--affairs of this sort, and they've all turned out badly."
"In each case it was your own fault," said Koko.
"In each case you really managed the business, and it came to nothing. The fact is, you don't know anything about women. You may be all very well at a trotting match----"
"All right," said Koko, shortly, as he turned on his heel, "you can manage this by yourself."
"I apologise," cried Jim.
"In that case," said Koko, relenting, "I'll come. But I don't want you to round on me if it's a failure."
"I promise I won't," the Long 'Un declared, and so once more Koko stretched his short legs to the utmost in order to keep in step with Jim.
Miss Dora Maybury was quite one of the handsomest girls that ever obtained employment--by competitive examination--in the London Post-Office. It was, therefore, not at all surprising that the susceptible Jim Mortimer should have been so affected by her beauty. Dora's hair was chestnut brown; the dreamy depths of her dark eyes were fringed o'er with long lashes, from beneath whose graceful shadow she gazed upon the world with an expression that was at once distracting and unconsciously coquettish; her lips closed in exquisite lines upon teeth that were as white as you could wish them to be; and the whole form of her face--from forehead to chin--was such as the most censorious judge of a human countenance would not have desired to be other than what it was. Dora was tall, too, and of graceful figure--in brief, she was as comely a maid as you could well behold in a year's journeying.
It sometimes occurs that a girl brought up in luxury finds herself suddenly plunged into genteel poverty. Such was the case with Dora. Not so very long since she had lived in a great house, and ridden in carriages; then Fortune, in a sudden freak of fancy, had turned her back upon her, and, as if by a sweep of a fairy's wand, the mansion had changed to much humbler quarters in London, and the carriages into penny and halfpenny omnibuses.
It was natural that the unusually prepossessing girl behind the counter of the post-office in Milverton Street should attract a good deal of attention. Those who had occasion to send away telegrams pretty often--busy, preoccupied men though most of them were--soon came to notice this particular clerk's refined voice and manner. She had not been engaged in post-office work long enough to have acquired the slap-dash, curt style of the lady-clerk who has sat at the telegraphic seat of custom for several years; she was still sufficiently of an amateur, indeed, to display some human interest in many of the messages which were handed in to her. Not that a telegraph clerk is supposed to do this; but Dora could not forbear a smile when she was counting the many words of a wire from a love-sick swain to his lady-love, nor could she feel quite indifferent when a telegram bearing the direst ill-news--news of grave illness or even death--passed through her hands.
But we do not wish to have it supposed that we are holding up Dora Maybury as an angel of pity--or, indeed, as a perfect character in any sense. When business was slack, and Dora had time to think about herself, a pettish and discontented expression might often have been observed to flit across her pretty face. As a post-office clerk, Dora felt that she was not filling her proper niche in the world--and probably a good many other people thought so too.
There were five other girls behind the counter of the Milverton Street post-office, in addition to telegraphists in the room above, several male clerks, and a small gang of telegraph boys. Dora's great friend among the other girls was Rose Cook, a fat, good-natured, sentimental creature, who was at present desperately in love with a gentleman she had met at a dance--a Mr Somers, who wrote for the newspapers. Mr Somers was a friend of some friends of Miss Cook's, and that was how she had come to meet him, and to hear of his very tall friend, Mr Mortimer. But it should be added that Mr Somers had seen very little of Miss Cook, had no idea of the passion that consumed her, and was certainly wholly ignorant of the fact that she was employed in the Milverton Street post-office. He had only been in this particular post-office once in his life, and then he had had eyes for none save the young lady who took in the telegrams.
Now, earlier in this very day that witnessed the journey of the Long 'Un and Koko to Milverton Street, Miss Cook had been bemoaning the fact that "Mr Somers" had actually been in the post-office a few days previously, and had not so much as glanced at her.
"He was looking at _you_--they all do!" she had exclaimed, while discussing the matter at lunch with Dora.
Dora made no reply, but she was thinking over Miss Cook's complimentary complaint later that day, when a very tall man entered the post-office and proceeded to one of the compartments where telegram forms and pointless pencils attached to pieces of string were supplied for the convenience of the public.
Dora noticed that the tall man occasionally glanced towards the door, and presently began to beckon to somebody who was presumably standing in the doorway. After a time the person beckoned to entered the post-office, and, as he did so, Miss Cook, who was sitting next to Dora, gave vent to a little gasp.
"What's the matter, dear?" inquired Dora.
"That--that's--Mr Somers!" exclaimed Miss Cook.
"And who is the other?" asked Dora, who was not greatly impressed by Mr Somers's appearance.
"That must be his friend, Mr Mortimer."
Quite unconscious of the fact that their identity was no secret in the post-office, the Long 'Un and Koko proceeded to compile telegrams.
"What a lot of forms Mr Mortimer is tearing up!" whispered Dora to her friend.
"Evidently sending a telegram to a girl," replied Miss Cook, who was still looking agitated, and whose thoughts were naturally trending in a sentimental direction.
Dora smiled. The sight of Koko standing on tip-toe, and craning his head over the Long 'Un's arm, was certainly smile-inspiring. So Dora smiled.
Presently Mortimer withdrew his head and shoulders from the compartment, and turned towards the counter. It should be added that the various communications suggested by Koko had all been condemned as worthless by the Long 'Un, who, with some pains, had finally evolved the following bald and uninspiring message: "_Annie arrives nine to-night. Please meet. Jim._"
Koko turned towards the counter at the same time as Jim, and as he did so his face underwent a striking change. For there, gazing ardently upon him, sat Miss Rose Cook. In a flash Koko took in the situation, and saw that here was Jim's chance. He could introduce Jim straight away.
It was too late to stop Jim from sending the telegram, for he was already handing in the message and gazing with undisguised admiration at Miss Maybury. And as Miss Maybury bent her beautiful head over the form, and with a swiftly moving--far too swiftly moving--pencil, proceeded to count the words thereon, Jim's heart thumped wildly against his ribs, Jim's brain seemed to reel, and Jim fell head over ears--hopelessly, irretrievably---IN LOVE.
*CHAPTER V.*
*JIM REJOICES.*
Five minutes later Jim Mortimer was sailing down Milverton Street in a state of mild delirium. Instead of having to wait for months for an opportunity of becoming acquainted with the girl whose face had so captivated his fancy, the whole thing had been accomplished in a briefer time than it takes to write of it.
Koko it was who had effected this desirable consummation--Koko who had offered up himself on the altar of friendship. Koko saw as plain as daylight that Miss Cook was exceedingly pleased to see him, and knew that the introduction he contemplated would result in his having to meet with undesirable frequency a lady in whom he took no interest whatever. A few words of greeting were exchanged; then Miss Cook--who had an axe of her own to grind--introduced him to Miss Maybury, and then, as a matter of course, Koko made Mortimer known to the two girls.
Dora Maybury! So that was her name! What a sweet name! _Dora_! The Long 'Un dwelt lovingly on those two dear syllables.
He proceeded to murmur the name in an abstracted manner until they reached St Matthew's Hospital. Here Jim's hosts of friends greeted him in the heartiest fashion, and bottled beer flowed freely in the students' common-room. Koko knew many of Jim's friends, and always enjoyed himself when in the company of the light-hearted happy-go-lucky crew at "Matt's." Jim sat down and rattled off a comic song on a piano which, by reason of much hard usage, had long since lost its purity of tone. Jim played cleverly by ear; and, as he could sing songs by the score, he was consequently the star artiste of "Matt's."
"Chorus, boys!" he roared, and the boys, forming up in a line behind a red-haired youth from Wales--with a voice worthy of his nationality--pranced round the table as they let go the taking refrain at the top of their voices:--
Oh, follow the man from Cook's! The wonderful man from Cook's! And, whether your stay be short or long, You'll see the sights, for he can't go wrong. Oh, follow the man from Cook's! The wonderful man from Cook's! For it's twenty to one that there's plenty of fun, If you follow the man from Cook's!
The last words of the chorus were ringing out into the quadrangle, when a porter entered the room and informed the pianist that a lady wished to see him.
"Lady!" exclaimed Jim.
"Yes, sir; wishes to see you very particular."
"Go on, Long 'Un!" yelled the students, "next verse."
But Jim's head was filled with romantic ideas. What if, for some strange, inexplicable reason, it should happen to be Dora! True, it was not very likely, but he had read in books of things like this happening.
"Half a second, you men," he said; "I've got to see somebody."
"Girl?" queried the red-haired youth from Wales.
But Jim (hoping it was) hurried out without replying to him. He found his fair visitor to be no other than Mrs Freeman, his landlady.
"Mr Mortimer, sir," she said, in some agitation, "this came for you just now, sir. I hope it's not bad news, sir."
For in the homely eyes of the landlady a telegram generally loomed large as a portent of ill. Jim opened the flimsy envelope, and read:
"Annie arrives nine to-night. Please meet. Jim."
Until this moment he had forgotten all about the wire he had sent himself. Now it had reached him in all its imbecile meaninglessness.
Mrs Freeman regarded his face anxiously.
"Not bad news, I 'ope, sir?"
Jim crushed the thing into his pocket somewhat impatiently.
"No; it's all right, thanks, Mrs Freeman. It's--it's nothing. Thanks for bringing it."
And so Mrs Freeman had to retrace her steps to Pimlico, feeling (it must be confessed) somewhat disappointed at the non-tragic contents of the message she had so carefully conveyed to the hospital.
Jim imbibed more beer and sang more songs, and finally, when the party broke up, dragged Koko off to dine at the Trocadero. All through the meal Jim was excessively merry, his bursts of laughter causing many of the diners to glance curiously in his direction. Koko, knowing by long experience that he could do nothing to stem Jim's methods of letting off steam, decided that his place to-night must be by Mortimer's side; so he hastily scribbled a note asking a colleague to report the fight at the National Milling Club for which he (Koko) had been booked, and despatched it to the _Sporting Mail_ office by a special messenger. Koko felt easier in his mind when he had done this; he saw that Jim intended to make a night of it, and that his programme would be a variegated one.
Dinner over, the Long 'Un hailed a hansom, and, Koko having stowed himself away inside, took his place with a brief "Exhibition!" to the driver.
"_Dora!_" breathed Jim, as the cab sped across the Circus and headed for Piccadilly.
"I expect she likes nice, quiet men," said Koko.
"Not she," returned Jim with conviction.
"A nice, quiet, home-loving man--not a man who shouts, and swears, and behaves like an over-grown schoolboy," persisted Mr George Somers.
"You're very severe to-night, my bald-headed young friend," quoth the Long 'Un, with supreme good-humour.
"Never mind about _my_ head," said Koko; "think what _yours_ will be like in the morning."
"But it is to-night!" cried the Long 'Un, "it is to-night, and I mean to go the whole hog. Let the morning take care of itself. It is to-night; I have seen her; I _know_ her; and now I am enjoying myself very much."
"You are also," added Koko, "on the verge of intoxication."
"Very near the verge," whooped the Long 'Un.
The cab was approaching Hyde Park Corner when Jim raised the little trap-door above his head.
"I've changed my mind, cabby; drive back to the Empire."
"Empire? Yessir!"
"You'll be chucked out of there to a certainty," said Koko, despairingly.
"Not me," said Jim.
But at the music-hall Mortimer was politely refused admittance by a man as tall as himself, and considerably broader.
"No, sir; you gave us trouble the last time you were here. I haven't forgotten you, sir."
"But that was Boat Race night," protested Jim.
"No matter, sir; can't let you in."
And the official squared his great shoulders and glanced at another official, almost as big as himself, who was standing a few yards away. Simultaneously Koko gave Jim's sleeve a tug.
"Come on," he said; "no good getting into a row."
Reluctantly Jim turned on his heel; he was in a mood for battle, and he had an idea that, big as the official was, he (Jim) could have rendered a pretty good account of himself had it come to a scrap.
The cab they had employed was lingering in the vicinity of the entrance. Jim hailed it and again gave the order "Exhibition." And in the course of thirty minutes or so, Koko and he found themselves passing through the turnstiles at that popular resort.
Very pleasant it was, too, sauntering through the bazaars and make-believe old streets, and round the band-stands, while eye and ear were charmed with colour and music respectively, and the promenading multitude laughed and chattered, forgetting the day's cares in a spell of enjoyable indolence.
But Jim was bent on celebrating the great event of the day--his introduction to Miss Maybury. He was desirous of applying more rebellious liquor to his young blood, and intimated the fact to a little Swiss waiter.
"_Dora!_" Jim gave the toast and drained his glass at a gulp. Up came Carlo again with a smile of appreciation. "As before," said Jim, and again toasted Dora.