Part 7

The Watherston boy was enthusiastic about the swift ride, enthusiastic about the performance he was about to see, enthusiastic at being with his father, enthusiastic over everything. Chelsfield, watching him on the way, thought that no man desired any better company than that of a cheerful son. Arrived at Holborn, he suddenly announced that he had decided to take the complimentary step of giving up the theatre-box and of joining them in their visit to St. George’s Hall. As he lowered the window and put his head out to speak to his man, the boy and father conferred in a whisper.

“Chelsfield!” said the friend, touching his sleeve.

“What now?”

“Let us get out. I want to speak to you privately. Fact is”—on the pavement—“fact is—you know what boys are, and I’m sure you won’t mind—but he tells me that he would rather go with me alone; and, to tell you the truth, I don’t want to share him this evening. You see, he goes back to Rugby to-morrow.”

Chelsfield dismissed his brougham and decided to walk the remainder of the way. He went with head down, and so deep in thought that it startled him when, in a turning from the new highway, he was accosted by one of a long file of men, waiting to march into the shelter for the night. There were about a hundred of them—old, young, middle-aged, all imperfectly shod, hands in pockets. He glanced along the line before replying. The light from a lamp showed the face of one, the youngest of all.

“Right you are,” said the man who had spoken to him, in an amiable tone of voice, “if you ’aven’t got any tobacker, you can’t give us none.”

“I’ll—I’ll go and get some,” he remarked with agitation.

“Good iron!” said the man approvingly.

Chelsfield returned from the Strand breathless, a parcel under his arm, and, removing the string with trembling fingers, began the work of distribution. Some of the men received the ounce gratefully, some mentioned that it was all done for the sake of advertisement, some demanded why he had not also brought pipes, some accepted with a snatch. Chelsfield had not regained full control of his breathing powers when he reached the lamp.

“No, thanks!”

“You—you are not a smoker?”

“I am a smoker; but I don’t accept anything from you.”

Chelsfield took his son’s hand and tried to pull him from his place. “I want to speak to you, dear boy. I’ve something important to say.”

“You said something important to me once,” retorted the other doggedly, “and you don’t have a chance of saying anything important to me again. Be off, before I set the others on to you.” His attitude expressed determination.

Chelsfield’s housekeeper, at breakfast the next morning, asked in her respectful manner what he thought of the comedy he had seen the previous night. Chelsfield told her that he considered it extremely far-fetched.

XI—SCOTTER’S LUCK

HIS opponent, after a good look at the table, adjusted his cue, and, disregarding the murmur of “Whitechapel!” sent spot white into a pocket. Many of the spectators volunteered advice, the while Scotter stood back and glanced self-commiseratingly at the scoring-board.

“That all I am, marker?” he inquired.

“That’s your total figure, my lad.”

Scatter’s opponent took time in aiming at the red, and the suggestion that he had gone to sleep did not induce him to hurry. Striking his own ball gently and rather high up, the two travelled slowly into baulk. Scotter remarked dismally that this was just his luck, and found spot white; he was about to make a wild shot up and down the table when he changed his mind, and, considering angles, drew back his cue and prepared to send his ball at a particular point of the cushion.

“This ought to do it,” he said, “but whether it will or not is more than I can—”

A bell rang. On the instant the men were out of the billiard-room; Scotter the last, because his first neat and orderly idea was to replace his cue in the stand, the second, a time-saving notion, was to leave it resting against the table, and in this confusion of thought a few moments were wasted. As the two horses plunged and reared in the yard, and made a dash through the short avenue of people outside the gates, one or two of his helmeted colleagues expressed the opinion that when the last trump sounded Scotter would be the last to respond, bringing with him an assortment of about ten good and sufficient excuses. Above the clanging and the noise, he was asked whether he had ever been really in time for anything but his meals; he blushed when they declared that girls were probably waiting for him at altars in various churches of London, growing old and cross and tired.

“Where are we bound for?” he asked, to change the subject.

“We’re going to a fire, Scotty, my lad,” it was explained. “Didn’t you know? You thought we were off to an evening party, to have a game of postman’s knock. But no; we’re going to a fire, and we’ve got to put it out soon as we possibly can. Remember that, won’t you? Not to make it burn brighter, but to put it out. It’s done with the aid of a syphon of soda. You take the syphon like this, and you remark to the fire, ‘Say when!’ and then—”

Southampton Row, at the narrow part, blocked with confused traffic; the wild horses had to pretend to be tamed whilst a passage was made. Fire-engines were also coming along Hart Street and from Kingsway; tramcars bobbing up from the tunnel waited politely. The engine managed to reach the street, and a stout superintendent, glancing at his watch, told the men they stood an excellent chance of winning the booby prize.

“For that pretty compliment,” they said, dropping from the engine, “we have to thank you, Mister Sleepy Scotter, Esquire.”

Police keeping the people back; the street already a river, streams of water being sent high up at two houses, neighbours’ faces out with the nearest wearing an expression of anxiety, whilst those a few doors off and opposite showed nothing more than interest. Furniture hurled out of windows, with now and again a smash. The firemen went about their work alertly and swiftly; when an order was given half a dozen hurried to obey. More engines arriving and two ladders. On the second floor of one of the houses a burst of flame that cracked the windows.

“Is everybody out?” demanded an official.

“All out, sir.”

“Sure?”

Mrs. Mather was called. Mrs. Mather, found in tears on the kerb, with children around her, was asked sharply whether these represented her entire family; replied that if they did but stand still she would count them. One, two, three, four, five; yes, sir; we’re all here. Mather himself away on a job at Silvertown. All the dear, blessed youngsters safe, thanks be; might have been a good deal worse. Mrs. Mather had never been in a fire before, but an aunt of hers living up at Sadler’s Wells way once had the misfortune to overturn a lamp—What was that? Six? No, no; the neighbour must be confusing her with another lady. Bless Mrs. Mather’s soul; a parent ought surely to be allowed to know how many children she possessed. There was Tommy, the eldest, next Ethel, next Walter, next Gracie, and then Hubert, then Mrs. Mather, with a gesture of self-reproof, begged to apologise. The neighbour was correct. Mrs. Mather admitted she had overlooked the baby, and, whilst she thought of it, there was the little girl from Forty-eight who came in to mind the kid.

“You’re a light weight, Scotter,” said the Superintendent. “Up you go, and do your very best.”

Scotter went up the escape, bending his head to dodge flames that were darting out from the second floor; up again, and disappeared. There was a crash there of something falling in; the helmeted men below gave a low whistle. That settled poor Scotter’s game of billiards. That relieved him of any difficulty of knowing what to do with plain white and the red left in baulk. That meant a rare old scene later on, with Scotty’s sweetheart coming round to the station.

“Another man up!” ordered the Superintendent.

The second was half-way up, and had been drenched by error, when Scotter reappeared at the top window. He had the baby in a shawl that was tied at his neck; in the left arm he carried a limp little girl; the crowd in the street roared “Hip-pip—hooray!” and Mrs. Mather cried warningly, “Don’t stay up there; come down!”

“That makes your little lot complete, then,” remarked the Superintendent.

“They’re all here now,” conceded the lady. “How I come to overlook the fact that there was one short is more than I can tell you. I’m sure it’s very kind of this gentleman. When baby’s old enough he must thank him.”

“You all right, Scotter?”

“Yes, thank you, sir. Bit singed, but nothing to brag about.”

The crowd lost all its good spirits so soon as the first engine was sent home, and folk told each other regretfully that there were no fires now as in the old days. The waiting horses had recovered breath and began to caper about to impress the crowd with a sense of their importance. People to whom news had come tardily ran up from Clerkenwell Road demanding to know the whereabouts of the fire, and, being told it was out, censured the County Council, their informants, and themselves. Two firemen were selected to remain in charge; the others, dusting knees and rubbing knuckles into eyes, waited for orders.

“Get off back, you lot. Scotter, you did uncommonly well. Just given your name to some newspaper men. Married man? Not yet? I was going to say, if you were, your missus would be proud of you.”

The pace was good on the return journey, but not frantic, and Scotter was told by a dozen experts what to do to the burn on his left wrist. At the station they assisted him in the task of washing, and made a neat bandage; over cups of tea they went through the details of the fire, and extinguished it again. A move was made to the billiard-room.

“Spot white’s turn,” announced one, taking up position at the marking-board. “Plain white and the red both in baulk.” Glancing at the pegs, “Twenty-three plays forty-eight.”

“You’ve got to buck up, Scotter.”

He took careful aim. Sent his ball against the right-hand cushion; it went from this to the top of the table, across to the left, travelled down, and dropped gently into the right-hand lower pocket. Three deducted from his score.

“Don’t know what’s the matter with me,” said Scotter despairingly. “Somehow or other, I can’t do anything right to-day.”

XII—MEANS OF TRANSPORT

THE indignation meeting occurred without any of the printed entreaties usually found needful in order to induce the public to arouse. It seems less strange that only ladies attended, for the sex is notoriously beginning to take an interest in public questions.

Mr. Woods, driving one of his own wagonettes, was talking to the two passengers secured at the railway station four miles off and giving them a short autobiography—“Begun to work, I did, afore I were twelve, I did!”—when he caught sight of the gathering and broke off to express amazement; he gave at once an emphatic but scarcely original declaration that if women secured the vote they would not know what to do with it. The passengers differed from this view, and Mr. Woods, anxious to secure their patronage for the return journey, hastened to admit that he had not had the time to study the question thoroughly. A lady detached herself from the group and, holding her tweed cap on her head, ran across.

“Whatever’s amiss, Jane?”

“It’s a missis,” she added, robbed of breath by indignation and hurry. “That Mrs. Jarrett, as she calls herself. She’s been and opened some Tea Gardens.”

“News to me,” he remarked alarmedly.

“News to all of us. She ain’t been here more than three months, and this morning there’s playcards all over her place.”

“Thought she seemed a nicely spoken person.”

“You wait,” said Jane threateningly, “until we begin to talk to her. She’ll get what I call some home truths if she don’t look out.”

The passengers suggested mildly that their time was limited, and Woods, rendered silent by the extraordinary nature of the information, drove on to the edge of the forest, contenting himself by indicating on the way the cottage where his sister-in-law Jane resided. In the clouded diamond panes it exhibited shyly, as did most of the other cottages, a small card that whispered the word “Teas”; a few bottles of ginger-beer rested on the sill to suggest that the establishment had further resources. After the passengers alighted he drove around by the road that skirted the wood, checking the horse slightly on approaching the house and lawn occupied by the new-comer. Tables had been placed, with striped cloths held by shining clips; a small marquee was being fixed in the corner. The neatly-painted board at the gate gave the title, “Forest Tea Gardens,” adding sentences to the effect that refreshments of the best quality could be obtained at any hour—“Large Parties and Small Parties catered for; proprietress, Clara Jarrett.” As Mr. Woods, unwilling to display curiosity, allowed his horse to go on, an automatic pianoforte started, with great vivacity, a waltz.

“Great thing is,” announced Mr. Woods, speaking from his conveyance to the meeting as though he were a candidate for Parliament—“is not to lose your heads. Keep perfectly calm and cool, and everything’ll come right in the long run.”

“Question is, how long a run is it going to be?” demanded one.

“Provided,” he went on, “provided that we all stick together, she can’t last half-way through the summer.”

“And meanwhile—”

“Meanwhile,” interrupted Woods irritably, “you’ve got to make the best of it. Competition’s bound to exist in this world.”

“How would you like it, Mr. Woods, if somebody—”

“One matter at a time. Let’s keep to the question. What I want you to recognise is that you’ve got a true friend in me. I’ve no partic’lar objection to her; as I said just now to my sister-in-law, she always seemed a nicely spoken person, and I don’t wish to do her any harm whatsoever. But there’s no doubt at all in my mind that so far as we are concerned she’s a interloper.”

The women appeared to find the description too lenient. One announced vehemently that, before Mr. Woods came along, they had almost decided to go in a body and pull down the signboard, demolish the marquee, and in other ways convey the fact that they looked upon the new Tea Gardens with disapproval. Goodness knew, there had never been much profit made out of sixpenny teas; it seemed likely that in the future it would be scarcely worth while to make cakes and keep the kettle boiling. Woods, again begging for moderation, urged they should cease talking for the space of two seconds and listen to him. He, with his cabs and wagonettes, had full control over all the traffic from the station, excepting that small part which took the (as he thought) mistaken course of deciding to walk. Nearly all of these passengers put one inquiry to him or to his men.

“Now do keep quiet until I’ve finished,” prayed Woods. “Only got half a dozen more words to say, and I’m done.”

He, on his side, was prepared to guarantee that the new Tea Gardens should never, by speech or hint, be recommended. If any passenger, having heard of them, mentioned the name, then Mr. Woods or his men could be relied upon to cast discredit ingeniously without bringing themselves within the domain of the laws of libel. On their side, they must be prepared for some special efforts; must make a greater show; endeavour to engage the passing visitor by welcome smiles; take care to keep windows open. He feared they did not always realise the Londoner’s partiality for fresh air.

“And,” asked his sister-in-law defiantly, “are we supposed to keep on friendly terms with her whilst all this is going on?”

“Please yourselves,” replied Mr. Woods generously. “So far as I’m concerned, I shall continue to pass the time of day.”

“And go on bringing her illustrated newspapers, I suppose, from the station?”

“You’ll allow me, Jane, to be the best judge of my own affairs.”

“But you’re setting out to be the best judge of ours as well!”

“I’ve given you good advice,” said Mr. Woods, gathering the reins, “but it’s beyond human power to compel you to take it.”

Confidence in himself was shaken by information conveyed by the two passengers on the return journey. Having forgotten the exact whereabouts of his sister-in-law’s house they had gone into the new Tea Gardens, and their content and satisfaction with the treatment received made subject of conversation throughout the journey. The excellence of the watercress, the surprising freshness of the eggs, the admirable quality of the home-made jam—all these impressed them favourably, and they talked of arranging with friends a picnic on a large scale and without the inconvenience of heavy baskets. Mr. Woods, not being asked for an opinion, gave several; one was in favour of splitting the party up amongst the cottages. He declared this plan would encourage sociability and give an insight into country life. For almost the first time in his professional career Woods found himself told to mind his own business. He invented some compensation by speaking sharply to one of his men whom he charged with the offence of keeping hands in pockets.

The members of the home syndicate received such a quick succession of blows from the new Tea Gardens that they began to experience a kind of dazed resignation, and it became the duty of Mr. Woods to order them to awake. The automatic pianoforte was followed by engagement from town of two young nieces, who were not content with demure costume and long blue pinafore, but must needs, if you please, wear a rather attractive lace cap. After this came a large rocking-horse for the pleasure of children, or, failing children, the content of grown-ups who fancied equestrian exercise and wished to promote digestion. After this, a giant’s stride. After this, a skittle-alley which drew away of an evening many of the best and most regular customers from “The Running Stag.” After this, a lawn-tennis court, with rackets and balls provided without charge to those who had taken the shilling tea. It was in regard to the shilling tea that Woods’s sister-in-law, ignoring him, went direct to the vicar, from whom she received the disappointing information that the words “ad lib.” were not, in themselves, offensive, or calculated to undermine the morality of the village; he added some trenchant remarks concerning the duties of parents, which Jane assumed to refer to other ladies. Jane assured the vicar that she did all that was possible in the distribution of good counsel, and he remarked that it would make a useful change for her to vary the method by accepting it. So far as Mrs. Jarrett and Sundays were concerned, she and her nieces came to church in the mornings; they worked hard in the afternoon, and they rested in the evening. The vicar, admitting that he might be considered either very old-fashioned or very new-fashioned, declared this a good manner of spending the day, and gave a short account of Sundays in the early part of the seventeenth century. Woods, to whom this was reported, said, guardedly, that the events referred to occurred before he came to town.

The fly-master had, at this period, troubles of his own which decreased his interest in regard to the rivalry in the tea trade. The first news came from one of the nieces back from a visit to town on an occasion when Woods, at the foot of the hill, stepped down to walk and encourage his horse. The detached position which he had assumed since the beginning of the dispute had been modified because Jane’s daughter told one of his young men (and the young man told Mr. Woods) that Jane had announced an opinion to the effect that her brother-in-law found the money to finance the Tea Gardens, a suggestion so unfair and so preposterous that he declared his intention of allowing them to fight their battles without further assistance from him; henceforth, he proposed to take up a strictly impartial attitude. Consequently, he had recommenced the bringing of illustrated newspapers, and more than once he and Mrs. Jarrett discussed impending marriages in high life, conduct of the German Emperor, accidents caused by motor-cars, and other topical subjects. The niece, taking charge of the roll of journals, had distributed amongst the passengers some of Mrs. Jarrett’s neatly printed cards, had pointed out to them a notable church and conspicuous dwellings. Leaning over the side of the conveyance, she gave the information already referred to.

“You Londoners will have your lark,” he commented. “Your aunt’s just the same.”

“But I’m serious.”

“You don’t take me in. When you say you’re serious is jest when you’re trying to chaff.”

“They told me so up at Paddington, at any, rate,” she declared. “Friend of mine is in one of the head offices, and he assured me it was a positive fact.”

The two held further conversation as the horse, arrived on the level, jogged on again; she held the reins whilst he noted in his pocket-book some names and addresses which remained in her memory. Woods, greatly disturbed, had to be reminded by her, when the destination was reached, of the formality of collecting fares.

Within the space of a fortnight confirmation came. Down at the railway station small posters were exhibited, and quite a crowd assembled to read them and to chaff Woods on the disaster awaiting him, it being a notorious fact that nothing so much cheers A, B, C, and D as to discover that E is on the edge of calamity. On blank walls along the route the bills appeared. At Mrs. Jarrett’s Tea Gardens—this proved the most stinging smack—a new board was erected bearing the words:

“TERMINUS FOR MOTOR OMNIBUSES.”

Woods, with a set face, ordered the full strength of his stables to assemble at the station on the first morning to meet the train due just before eleven. The flies and wagonettes took up position; the large new omnibus, on rushing up with uniformed driver and boy conductor, found itself obliged to be satisfied with a place near the cloakroom entrance. As passengers came out Woods and his men attacked them much in the way that highwaymen would have behaved a hundred years before.

“Sixpence all the way!” they shouted. “Here you are, lady! Cheaper than the motor! Here you are, lady, sixpence all the way!”

Perhaps the fierce onslaught was an error in tactics. Perhaps it would have been wiser not to draw attention to the presence of a swifter mode of conveyance. Perhaps the natural independence of Londoners induced them to consider before coming to a decision. A messenger sent to the new omnibus returned with the news that the fare was eightpence—fourpence cheaper than the old fare, but obviously twopence dearer than Mr. Woods’s new tariff.

“Oh, it’s worth it!” cried young ladies. “Do let’s go by motor. We shall get there ever so much quicker.”

Woods likened them, rather bitterly, to sheep. On the two first passengers clambering up to the outside seats the others made a quick rush to secure the remaining places; the inside was filled by those who did not wish to separate from friends, and the new omnibus, after half a minute of irresolution that almost induced Woods to believe in the efficacy of prayer, flew away through the station gates and up the main street of the village, and away out of sight. His men gathered around Mr. Woods and prophesied a breakdown; made recommendations. He ordered them to do nothing but obey orders, and went off to sulk in the smoke-room of the Railway Hotel.

From which tent he was summoned an hour and a half later by a constable of the town, who said definitely:

“Mr. Woods, sir, this won’t do.”

“Go away!” commanded the fly proprietor irritably; “I don’t want your sympathy.”