Part 7

Tom started out on the Thursday morning, and he seemed in a great state of elation. In spite of his weakness he insisted on taking one of his bags of samples. He walked more quickly down the street than she had seen him walk for a long time. Mrs. Pinwell then turned to her household duties. She was disappointed, but not entirely surprised, that her husband did not come home to lunch, but at half-past three a sudden curious feeling of alarm came over her. She tried to reason with herself that it was all nonsense; nothing had happened, Tom was a little late--that was all. But her reason quailed before some more insidious sense of calamity. The children came home from school at a quarter-past four, and still he had not returned. She gave them their tea and somehow their gay chatter irritated her for the first time. She would not convey to them her sense of fear. She washed up the tea-things and busied herself in the house.

It was a quarter to six when Tom came home. He staggered into the hall. His eyes had a strange look she had not seen before. He was trembling violently. She did not ask any questions. She took his arm and led him into the bedroom and untied his collar and tie. He lay on the bed and his teeth chattered. She got him a hot-water bottle and gradually undressed him. Then she sent one of the girls for the doctor.

In the meantime he started talking incoherently, although he repeated on one or two occasions, “I’ve taken another bottle of the medicine, Emm’.”

The doctor was on duty in the surgery when the child called, and he did not come round till half-past eight.

When he looked at Pinwell and took his pulse, he said:

“What’s he been doing?”

“He’s been out,” said Mrs. Pinwell. “He said he’d taken another bottle of the medicine.”

“Medicine? what medicine?” The doctor seemed to examine the lips of the sick man very closely, then he shook his head. He turned to Mrs. Pinwell as though he were going to make a statement, then he changed his mind. It did not require any great astuteness to determine from the doctor’s face that the case was critical. He gave the patient a powder, and after a few instructions to Mrs. Pinwell he went, and said he would return later in the evening. After the doctor had gone, Mr. Pinwell was delirious for an hour, and then he sank into a deep sleep. The doctor returned just after eleven. He examined him and said that nothing more could be done that night. He would return in the morning. In the meantime, if things took a more definite turn, they could send for him.

Tom Pinwell lay unconscious for nearly twenty-four hours, sometimes mumbling feverishly, at other times falling into a deep coma. But suddenly, late on the following evening, he seemed to alter. His face cleared, and he sighed peacefully. Mrs. Pinwell noticed the change and she went up close to the bed. He looked at her and said suddenly:

“I don’t think it would do, my dear, to go and live in the country.”

“No, no, dear; all right. We’ll live where you like.”

“You see,” he said after a pause, “business has to be gone through.... There was Judkins & Co., they treated me very fair, then they went bankrupt. It was very unfortunate, very unfortunate indeed.... I wouldn’t like these people--what’s their name, Emma?...”

“Dollbones.”

“Ah, yes, Dollbones!... Dollbones. No, I wouldn’t like them to think I’d let them in like. Just because I had a little money.... It’s a very serious thing--business....”

Mr. Pinwell seemed about to say something, but he smiled instead and looked up at the ceiling. He became very still after that, and Mrs. Pinwell placed a book so that the candle-light should not shine on his face. All through the night she sat there watching and doing the little things the doctor had told her to. But he was very still. Once he sighed, and on another occasion she thought he said:

“That was very amusin’ about that invoice of Barrel and Beelswright, Mr. Cherish ... oh, dear me!”

About dawn, thoroughly exhausted with her vigil, Mrs. Pinwell fell into a fitful sleep, sitting up in her chair. She only slept for a few minutes, and then awakened with a start. The short end of candle was spluttering in its socket, and its light was contending with the cold blue glimmer of the early day. She shivered, her frame racked by physical fatigue, and her mind benumbed by the incredible stillness of the little room.

* * * * *

“Consequently, ladies and gentlemen, after placing £17,500 in the reserve fund, for the reasons which I have indicated to you, I feel justified in recommending a dividend of 12½ per cent. on the ordinary shares.”

The big man with the square chin dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief and took a sip of water as he resumed his seat. A faint murmur of approval and applause ran round the room; papers rustled, and people spoke in low, breathless voices. Twelve and a half per cent.! It was a good dividend, a very good dividend! A hundred different brains visualized rapidly what it meant to them personally. To some it meant a few extra luxuries, to others comforts, and to some a distinct social advance. If Dollbones could only keep this up!

Sir Arthur Schelling was seconding the adoption of this report, but it was a mere formality. No one took any interest in the white-haired financier, except to nudge each other and say, “That’s Schelling. They say he’s worth half a million.” It was a curiously placid meeting, there was no criticism, and every one seemed on the best of terms. It broke up, and the share-holders dispersed into little knots, or scattered to spread the good news that Dollbones were paying twelve and a half per cent.

Sir Arthur took the chairman’s hand and murmured:

“I must congratulate you, Hylam. An excellent report!”

The large man almost blushed with pleasure, and said:

“It’s very kind of you, Sir Arthur. Are you lunching in town?”

“I was going to suggest that you lunch with me at the Carlton. I have my car here.”

“Oh! thank you very much. I shall be delighted.”

Mr. Hylam turned and gave a few instructions to his lawyer and his private secretary, and handed various papers to each; then he followed his host out of the Cannon Street Hotel.

They got into the great car, and each man lighted a well-merited cigar. As they drove through the city, Sir Arthur discussed a few details of the balance-sheet, and then added:

“I really think you have shown a remarkable genius of organization in conducting this business, Hylam. It is a business which I should imagine requires considerable technical knowledge and great--er--tact.”

Mr. Hylam laughed deprecatingly and muttered:

“Oh, we have our little difficulties!” He puffed at his cigar and looked out of the window.

“So many--er--varieties of employees, I should imagine?” said Sir Arthur.

“Yes, you’re right, sir. There are varieties. I’ve had a lot of difficulty with the travelers this year.” He gave a vicious puff at his cigar and stamped on the ash on the floor, and suddenly exclaimed:

“Drunken swine!”

Sir Arthur readjusted his gold-rimmed pince-nez and looked at his friend.

“Is that so indeed?”

“Yes,” answered Mr. Hylam. “I don’t know how it is. They nearly all drink. In one district alone, I’ve had two travelers practically drink themselves to death, one after the other.”

“I’m very distressed to hear that,” said Sir Arthur; “very distressed. It’s a very great social evil. My wife, as you may know, is on a board of directorship of the Blue Riband Evangelists. They do a lot of good work. They have a branch in Camling Town. They have pleasant evenings, you know--cocoa and bagatelle, and so on; and lectures on Sunday. But, I don’t know, it doesn’t seem to eradicate the evil.”

“No; I’m afraid it’s in the blood with many of them,” said the managing director.

“Yes, that’s very true. I often tell my wife I’m afraid she wastes her time. It seems inexplicable. I can’t see why they should do it. What satisfaction can it be to--er--drink to excess? And then it must hamper them so in the prosecution of their work. It seems in a way so--ungrateful, to the people who employ them, I mean. Ah! here we are at the Carlton! Champneys, come back for me at--er--three-thirty. Yes, it’s a great social evil, a very great social evil indeed!”

THE END