★ 11 ★::A Gentleman of Leisure
At the Turn of the Road
On the after the meeting at the Savoy when Jimmy, having sent Spike off to the tailor’s, was with a of and at his flat, Lord Dreever called.
“Thought I should you in,” his lordship. “Well, laddie, how goes it? Having breakfast? Eggs and bacon! Great Scot, I couldn’t touch a thing!”
The was out by his looks. The son of a hundred was pale, and his were fish-like.
“A I’ve got stopping with me—taking him to Dreever with me to-day—man I met at the club—fellow named Hargate. Don’t know if you know him? No? Well, he was still up when I got last night, and we up playing pills—he’s at pills; something frightful; I give him thirty—till five this morning. I cheap. Wouldn’t have got up at all, only I’m to catch the two-fifteen to Dreever. It’s the only good train.”
He into a chair.
“Sorry you don’t up to breakfast,” said Jimmy, helping himself to marmalade. “I am to be among those up when the goes. I’ve on a of water and a of bird-seed in my time. That of thing makes you to take you can get. Seen the papers?”
“Thanks.”
Jimmy his and a pipe. Lord Dreever the paper.
“I say,” he said, “what I came about was this. What have you got on just now?”
Jimmy had that his friend had in to return the five-pound note he had borrowed, but his a complete on the subject. Jimmy was to later that this of memory where financial were was a leading in Lord Dreever’s character.
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“To-day, do you mean?” said Jimmy.
“Well, in the near future. What I is, why not put off that Japan you spoke about and come to Dreever with me?”
Jimmy reflected. After all, Japan or Dreever, it very little difference. And it would be a place about which he had read so much.
“That’s very good of you,” he said. “You’re sure it will be all right? It won’t be your arrangements?”
“Not a bit. The more the merrier. Can’t you catch the two-fifteen? It’s notice.”
“Heavens, yes. I can pack in ten minutes. Thanks very much.”
“Stout fellow. There’ll be and all that of rot. Oh! by the way, are you any good at acting? I mean, I there are going to be private of sorts. A man called Charteris is them up. Cambridge man; to the Footlights. Always up theatricals. Rot, I call it; but you can’t stop him. Do you do anything in that line?”
“Put me for what you like, from Emperor of Morocco to Confused Noise Without. I was on the stage once. I’m particularly good at shifting scenery.”
“Good for you. Well, so long. Two-fifteen from Paddington, remember. I’ll meet you there. I’ve got to go and see a now.”
“I’ll look out for you.”
A to Jimmy. Spike! He had Spike for the moment. It was that the Bowery boy should not be of again. He was the one link with the little house One Hundred and Fiftieth Street. He not the Bowery boy at the flat. A rose in his mind of Spike alone in London with Savoy Mansions as a for his operations. No; Spike must be to the country. He not to see Spike in the country. His would be pathetic. But it was the only way.
Lord Dreever matters.
“By the way, Pitt,” he said, “you’ve got a man of sorts, of course? One of those who to pack your collars! Bring him along, of course.”
“Thanks,” said Jimmy. “I will.”
The had been settled when the door opened and the of discussion. Wearing a of 67mingled and bashfulness, and looking very and in one of the off the stage, Spike for a moment in the to let his into the spectator; then into the room.
“How do you, boss?” he genially, as Lord Dreever in at this being.
“Pretty nearly blind, Spike,” said Jimmy. “What you those? We use electric light here.”
Spike was full of news.
“Say, boss, clothing-store’s a wonder, sure. De old what me give me de when I came in foist. ‘What’s doin’?’ he says. ‘To de you! de hook!’ But I hands out de you give me, an’ tells him how I’m here to a suit, an’ gee! if he don’t out by de mile. Give me a toist, it did, him. ‘It’s up to youse,’ says de mug. ‘Choose somet’ing. You pays de money, an’ we de rest.’ So I says is de one, and I put de plunks, an’ here I am, boss.”
“I noticed that, Spike,” said Jimmy. “I see you in the dark.”
“Don’t you like de duds, boss?” Spike anxiously.
“They’re the last word,” said Jimmy. “You’d make Solomon in all his look like a cyclist.”
“Dat’s right,” Spike. “Dey’se de limit.”
And, to the presence of Lord Dreever, who had been him in blank since his entrance, the Bowery boy to a on the carpet.
This was too much for the brain of his lordship.
“Good-bye, Pitt,” he said; “I’m off. Got to see a man.”
Jimmy saw him to the door.
Outside, Lord Dreever the of his right hand on his forehead.
“I say, Pitt,” he said.
“Halloa!”
“Who the devil’s that?”
“Who? Spike? Oh, that’s my man.”
“Your man! Is he always like that?—I going on like a music-hall comedian, dancing, you know? And, I say, what on earth language was that he was talking? I couldn’t one word in ten.”
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“Oh, that’s American—the Bowery variety.”
“Oh! Well, I it’s all right if you it. I can’t. By Gad!” he off, with a chuckle, “I’d give something to see him talking to old Saunders, our at home. He’s got the manners of a duke.”
“Spike should those,” said Jimmy.
“What do you call him?”
“Spike.”
“Rummy name, isn’t it?”
“Fashionable in the States; for Algernon.”
“He chummy.”
“That’s his bringing-up. They’re all like that in America.”
“Jolly country.”
“You’d love it.”
“Well, so long.”
“So long.”
On the step Lord Dreever halted.
“I say, I’ve got it!”
“Good for you; got what?”
“Why, I I’d that chap’s before, only I couldn’t place him. I’ve got him now. He’s the Johnny who came into the last night—chap you gave a to.”
Spike’s was one of those which, without being beautiful, themselves on the memory.
“You’re right,” said Jimmy. “I was if you would him. Would you a cigar or a cocoanut? The is, he’s a man I once over in New York, and when I came across him over here he was so wanting a of help that I took him on again. As a of I needed somebody to look after my things, and Spike can do it as well as else.”
“I see. Not my him, was it? Well, I must be off. Good-bye. Two-fifteen at Paddington. Meet you there. Book for Dreever if you’re there me.”
“Right. Good-bye.”
Jimmy returned to the dining-room. Spike, who was as much as he of himself in the glass, with his grin.
“Say, who’s de gazebo, boss? Ain’t he de was last night?”
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“That’s the man. We’re going with him to the country to-day, Spike, so be ready.”
“On your way, boss. What’s dat?”
“He has us to his country house, and we’re going.”
“What? Bote of us?”
“Yes. I told him you were my servant. I you aren’t offended.”
“Nit. What’s to be at, boss?”
“That’s all right. Well, we’d be packing. We have to be at the station at a to two.”
“Sure.”
“And, Spike.”
“Yes, boss?”
“Did you any other what you’ve got on?”
“Nit. What do I want more one suit?”
“I approve of your simplicity,” said Jimmy, “but what you’re is a town suit, excellent for the Park or the Marchioness’s Thursday crush, but metropolitan. You must something else for the country, something dark and quiet. I’ll come and help you choose it, now.”
“Why, won’t go in de country?”
“Not on your life, Spike. It would the mind. They’re particular about that of thing in England.”
“Dey’s to de bad,” said the of Beau Brummell, with discontent.
“And there’s just one thing more, Spike. I know you’ll me it. When we’re at Dreever Castle you will of a good of and other things. Would it be too much to ask you to your professional instincts? I mentioned this in a of way, but this is a particular case.”
“Ain’t I to at all, den?” Spike.
“Not so much as a salt-spoon,” said Jimmy firmly. “Now we’ll a and go and choose you some more clothes.”
Accompanied by Spike, who came an of looking almost in new (“small gent’s”—off the peg), Jimmy at Paddington with a of an hour to spare. Lord Dreever appeared ten minutes later, by a man of about Jimmy’s age. He was tall and thin, with cold and tight, thin lips. His him in the way do fit one man in a thousand. They were the best part of him. His 70general gave one the idea that his did him little good, and his less. He had no conversation.
This was Lord Dreever’s friend Hargate—the Hon. Louis Hargate. Lord Dreever the two acquainted; but as they hands Jimmy had an that he had the man before, but where or in what he not remember. Hargate appeared to have no of him, so he did not mention the matter. A man who has a life often sees which come to him later on, from their context. He might have passed Lord Dreever’s friend in the street. But Jimmy had an idea that the other had in some which at the moment had had an importance.
What that was had him. He the thing from his mind. It was not his memory about.
Judicious had them a to themselves. Hargate, having read the paper, to sleep in the corner. Jimmy and Lord Dreever, who sat opposite one another, into a conversation.
At Reading Lord Dreever’s took a turn. Jimmy was one of those men manner confidences. His to his of to the family.
“Have you met my Uncle Thomas?” he inquired. “You know Blunt’s Stores? Well, he’s Blunt. It’s a company now, but he still it. He married my aunt. You’ll meet him at Dreever.”
Jimmy said he would be delighted.
“I you won’t,” said the last of the Dreevers, with candour. “He’s a man—the limit. Always like a hen. Gives me a time, I can tell you. Look here, I don’t mind telling you—we’re pals—he’s set on my marrying a rich girl.”
“Well, that all right. There are hobbies. Any particular rich girl?”
“There’s always one. He me on to one after another. Quite girls, you know, some of them, only I want to somebody else—that girl you saw me with at the Savoy.”
“Why don’t you tell your uncle?”
“He’d have a fit. She hasn’t a penny. Nor have I, what I from him. Of course, this is ourselves.”
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“Of course.”
“I know thinks there’s money to the title; but there isn’t—not a penny. When my Aunt Julia married Sir Thomas the whole was well in pawn. So you see how it is.”
“Ever think of work?” asked Jimmy.
“Work?” said Lord Dreever reflectively. “Well, you know, I shouldn’t mind work, only I’m if I can see what I do. I shouldn’t know how. Nowadays you want a education, and so on. Tell you what, though, I shouldn’t mind the Diplomatic Service. One of these days I shall have a at my uncle to put up the money. I I shouldn’t be at that. I’m a quick of at times you know. Lots of have said so.”
He his modestly, and proceeded.
“It isn’t only my Uncle Thomas,” he said; “there’s Aunt Julia too. She’s about as much the limit as he is. I when I was a kid she was always on me. She still. Wait till you see her. Sort of woman who makes you that your hands are the colour of and the size of of mutton, if you know what I mean. And talks as if she were at you. Frightful!”
Having himself of which criticism, he yawned, back, and was presently asleep.
It was about an hour later that the train, which had been taking itself less for some time, stopping at all of minor importance, and a to dawdle, again. A with the “Dreever” in large that they had their destination.
The station-master Lord Dreever that her had come to meet the train in the car, and was now waiting in the road outside.
Lord Dreever’s fell.
“Oh, Lord!” he said. “She’s in to the letters. That means she’s come in the runabout, and there’s only room for two of us in that. I to that you were coming, Pitt. I only about Hargate. Dash it, I shall have to walk.”
His proved correct. The car at the station-door was small. It was designed to seat four only.
Lord Dreever Hargate and Jimmy to the 72lady in the tonneau, and then there was an silence.
At this point Spike came up, amiably, with a magazine in his hand.
“Gee!” said Spike. “Say, boss, de what piece must have livin’ out in de woods. Say, dere’s a who wants to de heroine’s what’s locked in a drawer. So mug—what do you t’ink he does?” Spike laughed shortly, in professional scorn. “Why——”
“Is this a friend of yours, Spennie?” Lady Julia politely, the red-haired coldly.
“It’s——”
He looked at Jimmy.
“It’s my man,” said Jimmy. “Spike,” he added, in an undertone, “to the woods. Chase yourself. Fade away.”
“Sure,” said the Spike. “Dat’s right. It ain’t up to me to come buttin’ in. Sorry, boss. Sorry, gents. Sorry, loidy. Me for the tall grass.”
“There’s a of sorts,” said Lord Dreever, pointing.
“Sure,” said Spike, affably. He away.
“Jump in, Pitt,” said Lord Dreever. “I’m going to walk.”
“No, I’ll walk,” said Jimmy. “I’d rather. I want a of exercise. Which way do I go?”
“Frightfully good of you, old chap,” said Lord Dreever. “Sure you don’t mind? I do walking. Right-O! You keep on.”
Jimmy them out of and started to at a pace. It was an for a country walk. The sun was just to the time as or evening. Eventually it that it was and its beams. After London the country was fresh and cool. Jimmy an content. It to him just then that the only thing doing in the world was to settle with three and a cow and pastoral.
There was a marked of traffic on the road. Once he met a and once a of sheep with a dog. Sometimes a would out into the road, stop to listen, and into the opposite hedge, all hind-legs and white scut. But for these he was alone in the world.
And there to be in upon him the that he had his way.
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It is difficult to judge when one is walking but it to Jimmy that he must have five miles by this time. He must have the way. He had come straight; he not have come straighter. On the other hand, it would be in with the which the Earl of Dreever in place of a mind that he should have to mention some turning. Jimmy sat by the roadside.
As he sat there came to him from the road the of a horse’s trotting. He got up. Here was somebody at last who would direct him.
“Halloa!” he said. “Accident? And, by Jove, a side-saddle!”
Jimmy stopped the horse, and it the way it had come. As he the in the road he saw a girl in a riding-habit him. She stopped when she of him, and to walk.
“Thank you so much,” she said, taking the from him. “Dandy, you old thing!”
Jimmy looked at her flushed, face, and staring. It was Molly McEachern.
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