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Piccadilly Jim

by P. G. Wodehouse · English · Gutenberg #2005 · 469,192 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Piccadilly Jim

Author: P. G. Wodehouse


        
Release date: December 1, 1999 [eBook #2005]
                Most recently updated: August 4, 2017

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2005

Credits: Etext produced by Jim Tinsley
        
        HTML file produced by David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PICCADILLY JIM ***




Produced by Jim Tinsley









Piccadilly Jim


by

Pelham Grenville Wodehouse





CHAPTER I

A RED-HAIRED GIRL

The residence of Mr. Peter Pett, the well-known financier, on
Riverside Drive is one of the leading eyesores of that breezy and
expensive boulevard. As you pass by in your limousine, or while
enjoying ten cents worth of fresh air on top of a green omnibus,
it jumps out and bites at you. Architects, confronted with it,
reel and throw up their hands defensively, and even the lay
observer has a sense of shock. The place resembles in almost
equal proportions a cathedral, a suburban villa, a hotel and a
Chinese pagoda. Many of its windows are of stained glass, and
above the porch stand two terra-cotta lions, considerably more
repulsive even than the complacent animals which guard New York's
Public Library. It is a house which is impossible to overlook:
and it was probably for this reason that Mrs. Pett insisted on
her husband buying it, for she was a woman who liked to be
noticed.

Through the rich interior of this mansion Mr. Pett, its nominal
proprietor, was wandering like a lost spirit. The hour was about
ten of a fine Sunday morning, but the Sabbath calm which was upon
the house had not communicated itself to him. There was a look of
exasperation on his usually patient face, and a muttered oath,
picked up no doubt on the godless Stock Exchange, escaped his
lips.

"Darn it!"

He was afflicted by a sense of the pathos of his position. It was
not as if he demanded much from life. He asked but little here
below. At that moment all that he wanted was a quiet spot where
he might read his Sunday paper in solitary peace, and he could
not find one. Intruders lurked behind every door. The place was
congested.

This sort of thing had been growing worse and worse ever since
his marriage two years previously. There was a strong literary
virus in Mrs. Pett's system. She not only wrote voluminously
herself--the name Nesta Ford Pett is familiar to all lovers of
sensational fiction--but aimed at maintaining a salon. Starting,
in pursuance of this aim, with a single specimen,--her nephew,
Willie Partridge, who was working on a new explosive which would
eventually revolutionise war--she had gradually added to her
collections, until now she gave shelter beneath her terra-cotta
roof to no fewer than six young and unrecognised geniuses. Six
brilliant youths, mostly novelists who had not yet started and
poets who were about to begin, cluttered up Mr. Pett's rooms on
this fair June morning, while he, clutching his Sunday paper,
wandered about, finding, like the dove in Genesis, no rest. It
was at such times that he was almost inclined to envy his wife's
first husband, a business friend of his named Elmer Ford, who had
perished suddenly of an apoplectic seizure: and the pity which he
generally felt for the deceased tended to shift its focus.

Marriage had certainly complicated life for Mr. Pett, as it
frequently does for the man who waits fifty years before trying
it. In addition to the geniuses, Mrs. Pett had brought with her
to her new home her only son, Ogden, a fourteen-year-old boy of a
singularly unloveable type. Years of grown-up society and the
absence of anything approaching discipline had given him a
precocity on which the earnest efforts of a series of private
tutors had expended themselves in vain. They came, full of
optimism and self-confidence, to retire after a brief interval,
shattered by the boy's stodgy resistance to education in any form
or shape. To Mr. Pett, never at his ease with boys, Ogden Ford
was a constant irritant. He disliked his stepson's personality,
and he more than suspected him of stealing his cigarettes. It
was an additional annoyance that he was fully aware of the
impossibility of ever catching him at it.

Mr. Pett resumed his journey. He had interrupted it for a moment
to listen at the door of the morning-room, but, a remark in a
high tenor voice about the essential Christianity of the poet
Shelley filtering through the oak, he had moved on.

Silence from behind another door farther down the passage
encouraged him to place his fingers on the handle, but a crashing
chord from an unseen piano made him remove them swiftly. He
roamed on, and a few minutes later the process of elimination had
brought him to what was technically his own private library--a
large, soothing room full of old books, of which his father had
been a great collector. Mr. Pett did not read old books himself,
but he liked to be among them, and it is proof of his pessimism
that he had not tried the library first. To his depressed mind it
had seemed hardly possible that there could be nobody there.

He stood outside the door, listening tensely. He could hear
nothing. He went in, and for an instant experienced that ecstatic
thrill which only comes to elderly gentlemen of solitary habit
who in a house full of their juniors find themselves alone at
last. Then a voice spoke, shattering his dream of solitude.

"Hello, pop!"

Ogden Ford was sprawling in a deep chair in the shadows.

"Come in, pop, come in. Lots of room."

Mr. Pett stood in the doorway, regarding his step-son with a
sombre eye. He resented the boy's tone of easy patronage, all the
harder to endure with philosophic calm at the present moment from
the fact that the latter was lounging in his favourite chair.
Even from an aesthetic point of view the sight of the bulging
child offended him. Ogden Ford was round and blobby and looked
overfed. He had the plethoric habit of one to whom wholesome
exercise is a stranger and the sallow complexion of the confirmed
candy-fiend. Even now, a bare half hour after breakfast, his jaws
were moving with a rhythmical, champing motion.

"What are you eating, boy?" demanded Mr. Pett, his disappointment
turning to irritability.

"Candy."

"I wish you would not eat candy all day."

"Mother gave it to me," said Ogden simply. As he had anticipated,
the shot silenced the enemy's battery. Mr. Pett grunted, but made
no verbal comment. Ogden celebrated his victory by putting
another piece of candy in his mouth.

"Got a grouch this morning, haven't you, pop?"

"I will not be spoken to like that!"

"I thought you had," said his step-son complacently. "I can
always tell. I don't see why you want to come picking on me,
though. I've done nothing."

Mr. Pett was sniffing suspiciously.

"You've been smoking."

"Me!!"

"Smoking cigarettes."

"No, sir!"

"There are two butts in the ash-tray."

"I didn't put them there."

"One of them is warm."

"It's a warm day."

"You dropped it there when you heard me come in."

"No, sir! I've only been here a few minutes. I guess one of the
fellows was in here before me. They're always swiping your
coffin-nails. You ought to do something about it, pop. You ought
to assert yourself."

A sense of helplessness came upon Mr. Pett. For the thousandth
time he felt himself baffled by this calm, goggle-eyed boy who
treated him with such supercilious coolness.

"You ought to be out in the open air this lovely morning," he
said feebly.

"All right. Let's go for a walk. I will if you will."

"I--I have other things to do," said Mr. Pett, recoiling from the
prospect.

"Well, this fresh-air stuff is overrated anyway. Where's the
sense of having a home if you don't stop in it?"

"When I was your age, I would have been out on a morning like
this--er--bowling my hoop."

"And look at you now!"

"What do you mean?"

"Martyr to lumbago."

"I am not a martyr to lumbago," said Mr. Pett, who was touchy on
the subject.

"Have it your own way. All I know is--"

"Never mind!"

"I'm only saying what mother . . ."

"Be quiet!"

Ogden made further researches in the candy box.

"Have some, pop?"

"No."

"Quite right. Got to be careful at your age."

"What do you mean?"

"Getting on, you know. Not so young as you used to be. Come in,
pop, if you're coming in. There's a draft from that door."

Mr. Pett retired, fermenting. He wondered how another man would
have handled this situation. The ridiculous inconsistency of the
human character infuriated him. Why should he be a totally
different man on Riverside Drive from the person he was in Pine
Street? Why should he be able to hold his own in Pine Street with
grown men--whiskered, square-jawed financiers--and yet be unable
on Riverside Drive to eject a fourteen-year-old boy from an easy
chair? It seemed to him sometimes that a curious paralysis of the
will came over him out of business hours.

Meanwhile, he had still to find a place where he could read his
Sunday paper.

He stood for a while in thought. Then his brow cleared, and he
began to mount the stairs. Reaching the top floor, he walked
along the passage and knocked on a door at the end of it. From
behind this door, as from behind those below, sounds proceeded,
but this time they did not seem to discourage Mr. Pett. It was
the tapping of a typewriter that he heard, and he listened to it
with an air of benevolent approval. He loved to hear the sound of
a typewriter: it made home so like the office.

"Come in," called a girl's voice.

The room in which Mr. Pett found himself was small but cosy, and
its cosiness--oddly, considering the sex of its owner--had that
peculiar quality which belongs as a rule to the dens of men. A
large bookcase almost covered one side of it, its reds and blues
and browns smiling cheerfully at whoever entered. The walls were
hung with prints, judiciously chosen and arranged. Through a
window to the left, healthfully open at the bottom, the sun
streamed in, bringing with it the pleasantly subdued whirring of
automobiles out on the Drive. At a desk at right angles to this
window, her vivid red-gold hair rippling in the breeze from the
river, sat the girl who had been working at the typewriter. She
turned as Mr. Pett entered, and smiled over her shoulder.

Ann Chester, Mr. Pett's niece, looked her best when she smiled.
Although her hair was the most obviously striking feature of her
appearance, her mouth was really the most individual thing about
her. It was a mouth that suggested adventurous possibilities. In
repose, it had a look of having just finished saying something
humorous, a kind of demure appreciation of itself. When it
smiled, a row of white teeth flashed out: or, if the lips did not
part, a dimple appeared on the right cheek, giving the whole face
an air of mischievous geniality. It was an enterprising,
swashbuckling sort of mouth, the mouth of one who would lead
forlorn hopes with a jest or plot whimsically lawless
conspiracies against convention. In its corners and in the firm
line of the chin beneath it there lurked, too, more than a hint
of imperiousness. A physiognomist would have gathered, correctly,
that Ann Chester liked having her own way and was accustomed to
get it.

"Hello, uncle Peter," she said. "What's the trouble?"

"Am I interrupting you, Ann?"

"Not a bit. I'm only copying out a story for aunt Nesta. I
promised her I would. Would you like to hear some of it?"

Mr. Pett said he would not.

"You're missing a good thing," said Ann, turning the pages. "I'm
all worked up over it. It's called 'At Dead of Night,' and it's
full of crime and everything. You would never think aunt Nesta
had such a feverish imagination. There are detectives and
kidnappers in it and all sorts of luxuries. I suppose it's the
effect of reading it, but you look to me as if you were trailing
something. You've got a sort of purposeful air."

Mr. Pett's amiable face writhed into what was intended to be a
bitter smile.

"I'm only trailing a quiet place to read in. I never saw such a
place as this house. It looks big enough outside for a regiment.
Yet, when you're inside, there's a poet or something in every
room."

"What about the library? Isn't that sacred to you?"

"The boy Ogden's there."

"What a shame!"

"Wallowing in my best chair," said Mr. Pett morosely. "Smoking
cigarettes."

"Smoking? I thought he had promised aunt Nesta he wouldn't smoke."

"Well, he said he wasn't, of course, but I know he had been. I
don't know what to do with that boy. It's no good my talking to
him. He--he patronises me!" concluded Mr. Pett indignantly.
"Sits there on his shoulder blades with his feet on the table
and talks to me with his mouth full of candy as if I were his
grandson."

"Little brute."

Ann was sorry for Mr. Pett. For many years now, ever since the
death of her mother, they had been inseparable. Her father, who
was a traveller, explorer, big-game hunter, and general sojourner
in the lonelier and wilder spots of the world and paid only
infrequent visits to New York, had left her almost entirely in
Mr. Pett's care, and all her pleasantest memories were associated
with him. Mr. Chester's was in many ways an admirable character,
but not a domestic one; and his relations with his daughter were
confined for the most part to letters and presents. In the past
few years she had come almost to regard Mr. Pett in the light of
a father. Hers was a nature swiftly responsive to kindness; and
because Mr. Pett besides being kind was also pathetic she pitied
as well as loved him. There was a lingering boyishness in the
financier, the boyishness of the boy who muddles along in an
unsympathetic world and can never do anything right: and this
quality called aloud to the youth in her. She was at the valiant
age when we burn to right wrongs and succour the oppressed, and
wild rebel schemes for the reformation of her small world came
readily to her. From the first she had been a smouldering
spectator of the trials of her uncle's married life, and if Mr.
Pett had ever asked her advice and bound himself to act on it he
would have solved his domestic troubles in explosive fashion. For
Ann in her moments of maiden meditation had frequently devised
schemes to that end which would have made his grey hair stand
erect with horror.

"I've seen a good many boys," she said, "but Ogden is in a class
by himself. He ought to be sent to a strict boarding-school, of
course."

"He ought to be sent to Sing-Sing," amended Mr. Pett.

"Why don't you send him to school?"

"Your aunt wouldn't hear of it. She's afraid of his being
kidnapped. It happened last time he went to school. You can't
blame her for wanting to keep her eye on him after that."

Ann ran her fingers meditatively over the keys.

"I've sometimes thought . . ."

"Yes?"

"Oh, nothing. I must get on with this thing for aunt Nesta."

Mr. Pett placed the bulk of the Sunday paper on the floor beside
him, and began to run an appreciative eye over the comic
supplement. That lingering boyishness in him which endeared him
to Ann always led him to open his Sabbath reading in this
fashion. Grey-headed though he was, he still retained both in art
and in real life a taste for the slapstick. No one had ever known
the pure pleasure it had given him when Raymond Green, his wife's
novelist protege, had tripped over a loose stair-rod one morning
and fallen an entire flight.

From some point farther down the corridor came a muffled
thudding. Ann stopped her work to listen.

"There's Jerry Mitchell punching the bag."

"Eh?" said Mr. Pett.

"I only said I could hear Jerry Mitchell in the gymnasium."

"Yes, he's there."

Ann looked out of the window thoughtfully for a moment. Then she
swung round in her swivel-chair.

"Uncle Peter."

Mr. Pett emerged slowly from the comic supplement.

"Eh?"

"Did Jerry Mitchell ever tell you about that friend of his who
keeps a dogs' hospital down on Long Island somewhere? I forget
his name. Smithers or Smethurst or something. People--old ladies,
you know, and people--bring him their dogs to be cured when they
get sick. He has an infallible remedy, Jerry tells me. He makes a
lot of money at it."

"Money?" Pett, the student, became Pett, the financier, at the
magic word. "There might be something in that if one got behind
it. Dogs are fashionable. There would be a market for a really
good medicine."

"I'm afraid you couldn't put Mr. Smethurst's remedy on the
market. It only works when the dog has been overeating himself
and not taking any exercise."

"Well, that's all these fancy dogs ever have the matter with
them. It looks to me as if I might do business with this man.
I'll get his address from Mitchell."

"It's no use thinking of it, uncle Peter. You couldn't do
business with him--in that way. All Mr. Smethurst does when any
one brings him a fat, unhealthy dog is to feed it next to
nothing--just the simplest kind of food, you know--and make it
run about a lot. And in about a week the dog's as well and happy
and nice as he can possibly be."

"Oh," said Mr. Pett, disappointed.

Ann touched the keys of her machine softly.

"Why I mentioned Mr. Smethurst," she said, "it was because we had
been talking of Ogden. Don't you think his treatment would be
just what Ogden needs?"

Mr. Pett's eyes gleamed.

"It's a shame he can't have a week or two of it!"

Ann played a little tune with her finger-tips on the desk.

"It would do him good, wouldn't it?"

Silence fell upon the room, broken only by the tapping of the
typewriter. Mr. Pett, having finished the comic supplement,
turned to the sporting section, for he was a baseball fan of no
lukewarm order. The claims of business did not permit him to see
as many games as he could wish, but he followed the national
pastime closely on the printed page and had an admiration for the
Napoleonic gifts of Mr. McGraw which would have gratified that
gentleman had he known of it.

"Uncle Peter," said Ann, turning round again.

"Eh?"

"It's funny you should have been talking about Ogden getting
kidnapped. This story of aunt Nesta's is all about an
angel-child--I suppose it's meant to be Ogden--being stolen and
hidden and all that. It's odd that she should write stories like
this. You wouldn't expect it of her."

"Your aunt," said Mr. Pett, "lets her mind run on that sort of
thing a good deal. She tells me there was a time, not so long
ago, when half the kidnappers in America were after him. She sent
him to school in England--or, rather, her husband did. They were
separated then--and, as far as I can follow the story, they all
took the next boat and besieged the place."

"It's a pity somebody doesn't smuggle him away now and keep him
till he's a better boy."

"Ah!" said Mr. Pett wistfully.

Ann looked at him fixedly, but his eyes were once more on his
paper. She gave a little sigh, and turned to her work again.

"It's quite demoralising, typing aunt Nesta's stories," she said.
"They put ideas into one's head."

Mr. Pett said nothing. He was reading an article of medical
interest in the magazine section, for he was a man who ploughed
steadily through his Sunday paper, omitting nothing. The
typewriter began tapping again.

"Great Godfrey!"

Ann swung round, and gazed at her uncle in concern. He was
staring blankly at the paper.

"What's the matter?"

The page on which Mr. Pett's attention was concentrated was
decorated with a fanciful picture in bold lines of a young man in
evening dress pursuing a young woman similarly clad along what
appeared to be a restaurant supper-table. An enjoyable time was
apparently being had by both. Across the page this legend ran:

            PICCADILLY JIM ONCE MORE

            The Recent Adventures of Young Mr. Crocker

            of New York and London

It was not upon the title, however, nor upon the illustration
that Mr. Pett's fascinated eye rested. What he was looking at was
a small reproduction of a photograph which had been inserted in
the body of the article. It was the photograph of a woman in the
early forties, rather formidably handsome, beneath which were
printed the words:

            Mrs. Nesta Ford Pett

            Well-Known Society Leader and Authoress

Ann had risen and was peering over his shoulder. She frowned as
she caught sight of the heading of the page. Then her eye fell
upon the photograph.

"Good gracious! Why have they got aunt Nesta's picture there?"

Mr. Pett breathed a deep and gloomy breath.

"They've found out she's his aunt. I was afraid they would. I
don't know what she will say when she sees this."

"Don't let her see it."

"She has the paper downstairs. She's probably reading it now."

Ann was glancing through the article.

"It seems to be much the same sort of thing that they have
published before. I can't understand why the _Chronicle_ takes such
an interest in Jimmy Crocker."

"Well, you see he used to be a newspaper man, and the _Chronicle_
was the paper he worked for."

Ann flushed.

"I know," she said shortly.

Something in her tone arrested Mr. Pett's attention.

"Yes, yes, of course," he said hastily. "I was forgetting."

There was an awkward silence. Mr. Pett coughed. The matter of
young Mr. Crocker's erstwhile connection with the New York
_Chronicle_ was one which they had tacitly decided to refrain from
mentioning.

"I didn't know he was your nephew, uncle Peter."

"Nephew by marriage," corrected Mr. Pett a little hurriedly.
"Nesta's sister Eugenia married his father."

"I suppose that makes me a sort of cousin."

"A distant cousin."

"It can't be too distant for me."

There was a sound of hurried footsteps outside the door. Mrs.
Pett entered, holding a paper in her hand. She waved it before
Mr. Pett's sympathetic face.

"I know, my dear," he said backing. "Ann and I were just talking
about it."

The little photograph had not done Mrs. Pett justice. Seen
life-size, she was both handsomer and more formidable than she
appeared in reproduction. She was a large woman, with a fine
figure and bold and compelling eyes, and her personality crashed
disturbingly into the quiet atmosphere of the room. She was the
type of woman whom small, diffident men seem to marry
instinctively, as unable to help themselves as cockleshell boats
sucked into a maelstrom.

"What are you going to do about it?" she demanded, sinking
heavily into the chair which her husband had vacated.

This was an aspect of the matter which had not occurred to Mr.
Pett. He had not contemplated the possibility of actually doing
anything. Nature had made him out of office hours essentially a
passive organism, and it was his tendency, when he found himself
in a sea of troubles, to float plaintively, not to take arms
against it. To pick up the slings and arrows of outrageous
fortune and fling them back was not a habit of his. He scratched
his chin and said nothing. He went on saying nothing.

"If Eugenia had had any sense, she would have foreseen what would
happen if she took the boy away from New York where he was
working too hard to get into mischief and let him run loose in
London with too much money and nothing to do. But, if she had had
any sense, she would never have married that impossible Crocker
man. As I told her."

Mrs. Pett paused, and her eyes glowed with reminiscent fire. She
was recalling the scene which had taken place three years ago
between her sister and herself, when Eugenia had told her of her
intention to marry an obscure and middle-aged actor named Bingley
Crocker. Mrs. Pett had never seen Bingley Crocker, but she had
condemned the proposed match in terms which had ended definitely
and forever her relations with her sister. Eugenia was not a
woman who welcomed criticism of her actions. She was cast in the
same formidable mould as Mrs. Pett and resembled her strikingly
both in appearance and character.

Mrs. Pett returned to the present. The past could look after
itself. The present demanded surgery.

"One would have thought it would have been obvious even to
Eugenia that a boy of twenty-one needed regular work."

Mr. Pett was glad to come out of his shell here. He was the
Apostle of Work, and this sentiment pleased him.

"That's right," he said. "Every boy ought to have work."

"Look at this young Crocker's record since he went to live in
London. He is always doing something to make himself notorious.
There was that breach-of-promise case, and that fight at the
political meeting, and his escapades at Monte Carlo, and--and
everything. And he must be drinking himself to death. I think
Eugenia's insane. She seems to have no influence over him at
all."

Mr. Pett moaned sympathetically.

"And now the papers have found out that I am his aunt, and I
suppose they will print my photograph whenever they publish an
article about him."

She ceased and sat rigid with just wrath. Mr. Pett, who always
felt his responsibilities as chorus keenly during these wifely
monologues, surmised that a remark from him was indicated.

"It's tough," he said.

Mrs. Pett turned on him like a wounded tigress.

"What is the use of saying that? It's no use saying anything."

"No, no," said Mr. Pett, prudently refraining from pointing out
that she had already said a good deal.

"You must do something."

Ann entered the conversation for the first time. She was not very
fond of her aunt, and liked her least when she was bullying Mr.
Pett. There was something in Mrs. Pett's character with which the
imperiousness which lay beneath Ann's cheerful attitude towards
the world was ever at war.

"What can uncle Peter possibly do?" she inquired.

"Why, get the boy back to America and make him work. It's the
only possible thing."

"But is it possible?"

"Of course it is."

"Assuming that Jimmy Crocker would accept an invitation to come
over to America, what sort of work could he do here? He couldn't
get his place on the _Chronicle_ back again after dropping out for
all these years and making a public pest of himself all that
while. And outside of newspaper work what is he fit for?"

"My dear child, don't make difficulties."

"I'm not. These are ready-made."

Mr. Pett interposed. He was always nervously apprehensive of a
clash between these two. Ann had red hair and the nature which
generally goes with red hair. She was impulsive and quick of
tongue, and--as he remembered her father had always been--a
little too ready for combat. She was usually as quickly
remorseful as she was quickly pugnacious, like most persons of
her colour. Her offer to type the story which now lay on her desk
had been the amende honourable following on just such a scene
with her aunt as this promised to be. Mr. Pett had no wish to see
the truce thus consummated broken almost before it had had time
to operate.

"I could give the boy a job in my office," he suggested.

Giving young men jobs in his office was what Mr. Pett liked doing
best. There were six brilliant youths living in his house and
bursting with his food at that very moment whom he would have
been delighted to start addressing envelopes down-town.

Notably his wife's nephew, Willie Partridge, whom he looked on as
a specious loafer. He had a stubborn disbelief in the explosive
that was to revolutionise war. He knew, as all the world did,
that Willie's late father had been a great inventor, but he did
not accept the fact that Willie had inherited the dead man's
genius. He regarded the experiments on Partridgite, as it was to
be called, with the profoundest scepticism, and considered that
the only thing Willie had ever invented or was likely to invent
was a series of ingenious schemes for living in fatted idleness
on other people's money.

"Exactly," said Mrs. Pett, delighted at the suggestion. "The very
thing."

"Will you write and suggest it?" said Mr. Pett, basking in the
sunshine of unwonted commendation.

"What would be the use of writing? Eugenia would pay no
attention. Besides, I could not say all I wished to in a letter.
No, the only thing is to go over to England and see her. I shall
speak very plainly to her. I shall point out what an advantage it
will be to the boy to be in your office and to live here. . . ."

Ann started.

"You don't mean live here--in this house?"

"Of course. There would be no sense in bringing the boy all the
way over from England if he was to be allowed to run loose when
he got here."

Mr. Pett coughed deprecatingly.

"I don't think that would be very pleasant for Ann, dear."

"Why in the name of goodness should Ann object?"

Ann moved towards the door.

"Thank you for thinking of it, uncle Peter. You're always a dear.
But don't worry about me. Do just as you want to. In any case I'm
quite certain that you won't be able to get him to come over
here. You can see by the paper he's having far too good a time in
London. You can call Jimmy Crockers from the vasty deep, but will
they come when you call for them?"

Mrs. Pett looked at the door as it closed behind her, then at her
husband.

"What do you mean, Peter, about Ann? Why wouldn't it be pleasant
for her if this Crocker boy came to live with us?"

Mr. Pett hesitated.

"Well, it's like this, Nesta. I hope you won't tell her I told
you. She's sensitive about it, poor girl. It all happened before
you and I were married. Ann was much younger then. You know what
schoolgirls are, kind of foolish and sentimental. It was my fault
really, I ought to have . . ."

"Good Heavens, Peter! What are you trying to tell me?"

"She was only a child."

Mrs. Pett rose in slow horror.

"Peter! Tell me! Don't try to break it gently."

"Ann wrote a book of poetry and I had it published for her."

Mrs. Pett sank back in her chair.

"Oh!" she said--it would have been hard to say whether with
relief or disappointment. "Whatever did you make such a fuss for?
Why did you want to be so mysterious?"

"It was all my fault, really," proceeded Mr. Pett. "I ought to
have known better. All I thought of at the time was that it would
please the child to see the poems in print and be able to give
the book to her friends. She did give it to her friends," he went
on ruefully, "and ever since she's been trying to live it down.
I've seen her bite a young fellow's head off when he tried to
make a grand-stand play with her by quoting her poems which he'd
found in his sister's book-shelf."

"But, in the name of goodness, what has all this to do with young
Crocker?"

"Why, it was this way. Most of the papers just gave Ann's book a
mention among 'Volumes Received,' or a couple of lines that
didn't amount to anything, but the _Chronicle_ saw a Sunday feature
in it, as Ann was going about a lot then and was a well-known
society girl. They sent this Crocker boy to get an interview from
her, all about her methods of work and inspirations and what not.
We never suspected it wasn't the straight goods. Why, that very
evening I mailed an order for a hundred copies to be sent to me
when the thing appeared. And--" pinkness came upon Mr. Pett at
the recollection "it was just a josh from start to finish. The
young hound made a joke of the poems and what Ann had told him
about her inspirations and quoted bits of the poems just to kid
the life out of them. . . . I thought Ann would never get over
it. Well, it doesn't worry her any more--she's grown out of the
school-girl stage--but you can bet she isn't going to get up and
give three cheers and a tiger if you bring young Crocker to live
in the same house."

"Utterly ridiculous!" said Mrs. Pett. "I certainly do not intend
to alter my plans because of a trivial incident that happened
years ago. We will sail on Wednesday."

"Very well, my dear," said Mr. Pett resignedly.

"Just as you say. Er--just you and I?"

"And Ogden, of course."

Mr. Pett controlled a facial spasm with a powerful effort of the
will. He had feared this.

"I wouldn't dream of leaving him here while I went away, after
what happened when poor dear Elmer sent him to school in England
that time." The late Mr. Ford had spent most of his married life
either quarrelling with or separated from his wife, but since
death he had been canonised as 'poor dear Elmer.' "Besides, the
sea voyage will do the poor darling good. He has not been looking
at all well lately."

"If Ogden's coming, I'd like to take Ann."

"Why?"

"She can--" he sought for a euphemism.

"Keep in order" was the expression he wished to avoid. To his
mind Ann was the only known antidote for Ogden, but he felt it
would be impolitic to say so."--look after him on the boat," he
concluded. "You know you are a bad sailor."

"Very well. Bring Ann--Oh, Peter, that reminds me of what I
wanted to say to you, which this dreadful thing in the paper
drove completely out of my mind. Lord Wisbeach has asked Ann to
marry him!"

Mr. Pett looked a little hurt. "She didn't tell me." Ann usually
confided in him.

"She didn't tell me, either. Lord Wisbeach told me. He said Ann
had promised to think it over, and give him his answer later.
Meanwhile, he had come to me to assure himself that I approved. I
thought that so charming of him."

Mr. Pett was frowning.

"She hasn't accepted him?"

"Not definitely."

"I hope she doesn't."

"Don't be foolish, Peter. It would be an excellent match."

Mr. Pett shuffled his feet.

"I don't like him. There's something too darned smooth about that
fellow."

"If you mean that his manners are perfect, I agree with you. I
shall do all in my power to induce Ann to accept him."

"I shouldn't," said Mr. Pett, with more decision than was his
wont. "You know what Ann is if you try to force her to do
anything. She gets her ears back and won't budge. Her father is
just the same. When we were boys together, sometimes--"

"Don't be absurd, Peter. As if I should dream of trying to force
Ann to do anything."

"We don't know anything of this fellow. Two weeks ago we didn't
know he was on the earth."

"What do we need to know beyond his name?"

Mr. Pett said nothing, but he was not convinced. The Lord
Wisbeach under discussion was a pleasant-spoken and presentable
young man who had called at Mr. Pett's office a short while
before to consult him about investing some money. He had brought
a letter of introduction from Hammond Chester, Ann's father, whom
he had met in Canada, where the latter was at present engaged in
the comparatively mild occupation of bass-fishing. With their
business talk the acquaintance would have begun and finished, if
Mr. Pett had been able to please himself, for he had not taken a
fancy to Lord Wisbeach. But he was an American, with an
American's sense of hospitality, and, the young man being a
friend of Hammond Chester, he had felt bound to invite him to
Riverside Drive--with misgivings which were now, he felt,
completely justified.

"Ann ought to marry," said Mrs. Pett. "She gets her own way too
much now. However, it is entirely her own affair, and there is
nothing that we can do." She rose. "I only hope she will be
sensible."

She went out, leaving Mr. Pett gloomier than she had found him.
He hated the idea of Ann marrying Lord Wisbeach, who, even if he
had had no faults at all, would be objectionable in that he would
probably take her to live three thousand miles away in his own
country. The thought of losing Ann oppressed Mr. Pett sorely.

Ann, meanwhile, had made her way down the passage to the gymnasium
which Mr. Pett, in the interests of his health, had caused to be
constructed in a large room at the end of the house--a room designed
by the original owner, who had had artistic leanings, for a studio.
The _tap-tap-tap_ of the leather bag had ceased, but voices from
within told her that Jerry Mitchell, Mr. Pett's private physical
instructor, was still there. She wondered who was his companion, and
found on opening the door that it was Ogden. The boy was leaning
against the wall and regarding Jerry with a dull and supercilious
gaze which the latter was plainly finding it hard to bear.

"Yes, sir!" Ogden was saying, as Ann entered. "I heard Biggs
asking her to come for a joyride."

"I bet she turned him down," said Jerry Mitchell sullenly.

"I bet she didn't. Why should she? Biggs is an awful good-looking
fellow."

"What are you talking about, Ogden?" said Ann.

"I was telling him that Biggs asked Celestine to go for a ride in
the car with him."

"I'll knock his block off," muttered the incensed Jerry.

Ogden laughed derisively.

"Yes, you will! Mother would fire you if you touched him. She
wouldn't stand for having her chauffeur beaten up."

Jerry Mitchell turned an appealing face to Ann. Ogden's
revelations and especially his eulogy of Biggs' personal
appearance had tormented him. He knew that, in his wooing of Mrs.
Pett's maid, Celestine, he was handicapped by his looks,
concerning which he had no illusions. No Adonis to begin with, he
had been so edited and re-edited during a long and prosperous
ring career by the gloved fists of a hundred foes that in affairs
of the heart he was obliged to rely exclusively on moral worth
and charm of manner. He belonged to the old school of fighters
who looked the part, and in these days of pugilists who resemble
matinee idols he had the appearance of an anachronism. He was a
stocky man with a round, solid head, small eyes, an undershot
jaw, and a nose which ill-treatment had reduced to a mere
scenario. A narrow strip of forehead acted as a kind of
buffer-state, separating his front hair from his eyebrows, and he
bore beyond hope of concealment the badge of his late employment,
the cauliflower ear. Yet was he a man of worth and a good
citizen, and Ann had liked him from their first meeting. As for
Jerry, he worshipped Ann and would have done anything she asked
him. Ever since he had discovered that Ann was willing to listen
to and sympathise with his outpourings on the subject of his
troubled wooing, he had been her slave.

Ann came to the rescue in characteristically direct fashion.

"Get out, Ogden," she said.

Ogden tried to meet her eye mutinously, but failed. Why he should
be afraid of Ann he had never been able to understand, but it was
a fact that she was the only person of his acquaintance whom he
respected. She had a bright eye and a calm, imperious stare which
never failed to tame him.

"Why?" he muttered. "You're not my boss."

"Be quick, Ogden."

"What's the big idea--ordering a fellow--"

"And close the door gently behind you," said Ann. She turned to
Jerry, as the order was obeyed.

"Has he been bothering you, Jerry?"

Jerry Mitchell wiped his forehead.

"Say, if that kid don't quit butting in when I'm working in the
gym--You heard what he was saying about Maggie, Miss Ann?"

Celestine had been born Maggie O'Toole, a name which Mrs. Pett
stoutly refused to countenance in any maid of hers.

"Why on earth do you pay any attention to him, Jerry? You must
have seen that he was making it all up. He spends his whole time
wandering about till he finds some one he can torment, and then
he enjoys himself. Maggie would never dream of going out in the
car with Biggs."

Jerry Mitchell sighed a sigh of relief.

"It's great for a fellow to have you in his corner, Miss Ann."

Ann went to the door and opened it. She looked down the passage,
then, satisfied as to its emptiness, returned to her seat.

"Jerry, I want to talk to you. I have an idea. Something I want
you to do for me."

"Yes, Miss Ann?"

"We've got to do something about that child, Ogden. He's been
worrying uncle Peter again, and I'm not going to have it. I
warned him once that, if he did it again, awful things would
happen to him, but he didn't believe me. I suppose, Jerry--what
sort of a man is your friend, Mr. Smethurst?"

"Do you mean Smithers, Miss Ann?"

"I knew it was either Smithers or Smethurst. The dog man, I mean.
Is he a man you can trust?"

"With my last buck. I've known him since we were kids."

"I don't mean as regards money. I am going to send Ogden to him
for treatment, and I want to know if I can rely on him to help
me."

"For the love of Mike."

Jerry Mitchell, after an instant of stunned bewilderment, was
looking at her with worshipping admiration. He had always known
that Miss Ann possessed a mind of no common order, but this, he
felt, was genius. For a moment the magnificence of the idea took
his breath away.

"Do you mean that you're going to kidnap him, Miss Ann?"

"Yes. That is to say, _you_ are--if I can persuade you to do
it for me."

"Sneak him away and send him to Bud Smithers' dog-hospital?"

"For treatment. I like Mr. Smithers' methods. I think they would
do Ogden all the good in the world."

Jerry was enthusiastic.

"Why, Bud would make him part-human. But, say, isn't it taking
big chances? Kidnapping's a penitentiary offence."

"This isn't that sort of kidnapping."

"Well, it's mighty like it."

"I don't think you need be afraid of the penitentiary. I can't
see aunt Nesta prosecuting, when it would mean that she would
have to charge us with having sent Ogden to a dogs' hospital. She
likes publicity, but it has to be the right kind of publicity.
No, we do run a risk, but it isn't that one. You run the risk of
losing your job here, and I should certainly be sent to my
grandmother for an indefinite sentence. You've never seen my
grandmother, have you, Jerry? She's the only person in the world
I'm afraid of! She lives miles from anywhere and has family
prayers at seven-thirty sharp every morning. Well, I'm ready to
risk her, if you're ready to risk your job, in such a good cause.
You know you're just as fond of uncle Peter as I am, and Ogden is
worrying him into a breakdown. Surely you won't refuse to help
me, Jerry?"

Jerry rose and extended a calloused hand.

"When do we start?"

Ann shook the hand warmly.

"Thank you, Jerry. You're a jewel. I envy Maggie. Well, I don't
think we can do anything till they come back from England, as
aunt Nesta is sure to take Ogden with her."

"Who's going to England?"

"Uncle Peter and aunt Nesta were talking just now of sailing to
try and persuade a young man named Crocker to come back here."

"Crocker? Jimmy Crocker? Piccadilly Jim?"

"Yes. Why, do you know him?"

"I used to meet him sometimes when he was working on the
_Chronicle_ here. Looks as if he was cutting a wide swathe in dear
old London. Did you see the paper to-day?"

"Yes, that's what made aunt Nesta want to bring him over. Of
course, there isn't the remotest chance that she will be able to
make him come. Why should he come?"

"Last time I saw Jimmy Crocker," said Jerry, "it was a couple of
years ago, when I went over to train Eddie Flynn for his go with
Porky Jones at the National. I bumped into him at the N. S. C. He
was a good deal tanked."

"He's always drinking, I believe."

"He took me to supper at some swell joint where they all had the
soup-and-fish on but me. I felt like a dirty deuce in a clean
deck. He used to be a regular fellow, Jimmy Crocker, but from
what you read in the papers it begins to look as if he was
hitting it up too swift. It's always the way with those boys when
you take them off a steady job and let them run around loose with
their jeans full of mazuma."

"That's exactly why I want to do something about Ogden. If he's
allowed to go on as he is at present, he will grow up exactly
like Jimmy Crocker."

"Aw, Jimmy Crocker ain't in Ogden's class," protested Jerry.

"Yes, he is. There's absolutely no difference between them."

"Say! You've got it in for Jim, haven't you, Miss Ann?" Jerry
looked at her wonderingly. "What's your kick against him?"

Ann bit her lip. "I object to him on principle," she said. "I
don't like his type. . . . Well, I'm glad we've settled this
about Ogden, Jerry. I knew I could rely on you. But I won't let
you do it for nothing. Uncle Peter shall give you something for
it--enough to start that health-farm you talk about so much.
Then you can marry Maggie and live happily ever afterwards."

"Gee! Is the boss in on this, too?"

"Not yet. I'm going to tell him now. Hush! There's some one
coming."

Mr. Pett wandered in. He was still looking troubled.

"Oh, Ann--good morning, Mitchell--your aunt has decided to go to
England. I want you to come, too."

"You want me? To help interview Jimmy Crocker?"

"No, no. Just to come along and be company on the voyage. You'll
be such a help with Ogden, Ann. You can keep him in order. How
you do it, I don't know. You seem to make another boy of him."

Ann stole a glance at Jerry, who answered with an encouraging
grin. Ann was constrained to make her meaning plainer than by the
language of the eye.

"Would you mind just running away for half a moment, Jerry?" she
said winningly. "I want to say something to uncle Peter."

"Sure. Sure."

Ann turned to Mr. Pett as the door closed.

"You'd like somebody to make Ogden a different boy, wouldn't you,
uncle Peter?"

"I wish it was possible."

"He's been worrying you a lot lately, hasn't he?" asked Ann
sympathetically.

"Yes," sighed Mr. Pett.

"Then that's all right," said Ann briskly. "I was afraid that you
might not approve. But, if you do, I'll go right ahead."

Mr. Pett started violently. There was something in Ann's voice
and, as he looked at her, something in her face which made him
fear the worst. Her eyes were flashing with an inspired light of
a highly belligerent nature, and the sun turned the red hair to
which she owed her deplorable want of balance to a mass of flame.
There was something in the air. Mr. Pett sensed it with every
nerve of his apprehensive person. He gazed at Ann, and as he did
so the years seemed to slip from him and he was a boy again,
about to be urged to lawless courses by the superior will of his
boyhood's hero, Hammond Chester. In the boyhood of nearly every
man there is a single outstanding figure, some one youthful
hypnotic Napoleon whose will was law and at whose bidding his
better judgment curled up and died. In Mr. Pett's life Ann's
father had filled this role. He had dominated Mr. Pett at an age
when the mind is most malleable. And now--so true is it that
though Time may blunt our boyish memories the traditions of
boyhood live on in us and an emotional crisis will bring them to
the surface as an explosion brings up the fish that lurk in the
nethermost mud--it was as if he were facing the youthful Hammond
Chester again and being irresistibly impelled to some course of
which he entirely disapproved but which he knew that he was
destined to undertake. He watched Ann as a trapped man might
watch a ticking bomb, bracing himself for the explosion and
knowing that he is helpless. She was Hammond Chester's daughter,
and she spoke to him with the voice of Hammond Chester. She was
her father's child and she was going to start something.

"I've arranged it all with Jerry," said Ann. "He's going to help
me smuggle Ogden away to that friend of his I told you about who
keeps the dog-hospital: and the friend is going to keep him until
he reforms. Isn't it a perfectly splendid idea?"

Mr. Pett blanched. The frightfulness of reality had exceeded
anticipation.

"But, Ann!"

The words came from him in a strangled bleat. His whole being was
paralysed by a clammy horror. This was beyond the uttermost limit
of his fears. And, to complete the terror of the moment, he knew,
even while he rebelled against the insane lawlessness of her
scheme, that he was going to agree to it, and--worst of all--that
deep, deep down in him there was a feeling toward it which did
not dare to come to the surface but which he knew to be approval.

"Of course Jerry would do it for nothing," said Ann, "but I
promised him that you would give him something for his trouble.
You can arrange all that yourselves later."

"But, Ann! . . . But, Ann! . . . Suppose your aunt finds out who
did it!"

"Well, there will be a tremendous row!" said Ann composedly.
"And you will have to assert yourself. It will be a splendid
thing for you. You know you are much too kind to every one, uncle
Peter. I don't think there's any one who would put up with what
you do. Father told me in one of his letters that he used to call
you Patient Pete as a boy."

Mr. Pett started. Not for many a day had a nickname which he
considered the most distasteful of all possible nicknames risen
up from its grave to haunt him. Patient Pete! He had thought the
repulsive title buried forever in the same tomb as his dead
youth. Patient Pete! The first faint glimmer of the flame of
rebellion began to burn in his bosom.

"Patient Pete!"

"Patient Pete!" said Ann inexorably.

"But, Ann,"--there was pathos in Mr. Pett's voice--"I like a
peaceful life."

"You'll never have one if you don't stand up for yourself. You
know quite well that father is right. You do let every one
trample on you. Do you think father would let Ogden worry him and
have his house filled with affected imitation geniuses so that he
couldn't find a room to be alone in?"

"But, Ann, your father is different. He likes fusses. I've known
your father contradict a man weighing two hundred pounds out of
sheer exuberance. There's a lot of your father in you, Ann. I've
often noticed it."

"There is! That's why I'm going to make you put your foot down
sooner or later. You're going to turn all these loafers out of
the house. And first of all you're going to help us send Ogden
away to Mr. Smithers."

There was a long silence.

"It's your red hair!" said Mr. Pett at length, with the air of a
man who has been solving a problem. "It's your red hair that
makes you like this, Ann. Your father has red hair, too."

Ann laughed.

"It's not my fault that I have red hair, uncle Peter. It's my
misfortune."

Mr. Pett shook his head.

"Other people's misfortune, too!" he said.



CHAPTER II

THE EXILED FAN

London brooded under a grey sky. There had been rain in the
night, and the trees were still dripping. Presently, however,
there appeared in the leaden haze a watery patch of blue: and
through this crevice in the clouds the sun, diffidently at first
but with gradually increasing confidence, peeped down on the
fashionable and exclusive turf of Grosvenor Square. Stealing
across the square, its rays reached the massive stone walls of
Drexdale House, until recently the London residence of the earl
of that name; then, passing through the window of the
breakfast-room, played lightly on the partially bald head of Mr.
Bingley Crocker, late of New York in the United States of
America, as he bent over his morning paper. Mrs. Bingley Crocker,
busy across the table reading her mail, the rays did not touch.
Had they done so, she would have rung for Bayliss, the butler, to
come and lower the shade, for she endured liberties neither from
Man nor from Nature.

Mr. Crocker was about fifty years of age, clean-shaven and of a
comfortable stoutness. He was frowning as he read. His smooth,
good-humoured face wore an expression which might have been
disgust, perplexity, or a blend of both. His wife, on the other
hand, was looking happy. She extracted the substance from her
correspondence with swift glances of her compelling eyes, just as
she would have extracted guilty secrets from Bingley, if he had
had any. This was a woman who, like her sister Nesta, had been
able all her life to accomplish more with a glance than other
women with recrimination and threat. It had been a popular belief
among his friends that her late husband, the well-known Pittsburg
millionaire G. G. van Brunt, had been in the habit of
automatically confessing all if he merely caught the eye of her
photograph on his dressing table.

From the growing pile of opened envelopes Mrs. Crocker looked up,
a smile softening the firm line of her lips.

"A card from Lady Corstorphine, Bingley, for her at-home on the
twenty-ninth."

Mr. Crocker, still absorbed, snorted absently.

"One of the most exclusive hostesses in England. . . . She has
influence with the right sort of people. Her brother, the Duke of
Devizes, is the Premier's oldest friend."

"Uh?"

"The Duchess of Axminster has written to ask me to look after a
stall at her bazaar for the Indigent Daughters of the Clergy."

"Huh?"

"Bingley! You aren't listening. What is that you are reading?"

Mr. Crocker tore himself from the paper.

"This? Oh, I was looking at a report of that cricket game you
made me go and see yesterday."

"Oh? I am glad you have begun to take an interest in cricket. It
is simply a social necessity in England. Why you ever made such a
fuss about taking it up, I can't think. You used to be so fond of
watching baseball and cricket is just the same thing."

A close observer would have marked a deepening of the look of
pain on Mr. Crocker's face. Women say this sort of thing
carelessly, with no wish to wound: but that makes it none the
less hard to bear.

From the hall outside came faintly the sound of the telephone,
then the measured tones of Bayliss answering it. Mr. Crocker
returned to his paper.

Bayliss entered.

"Lady Corstorphine desires to speak to you on the telephone,
madam."

Half-way to the door Mrs. Crocker paused, as if recalling
something that had slipped her memory.

"Is Mr. James getting up, Bayliss?"

"I believe not, madam. I am informed by one of the house-maids
who passed his door a short time back that there were no sounds."

Mrs. Crocker left the room. Bayliss, preparing to follow her
example, was arrested by an exclamation from the table.

"Say!"

His master's voice.

"Say, Bayliss, come here a minute. Want to ask you something."

The butler approached the table. It seemed to him that his
employer was not looking quite himself this morning. There was
something a trifle wild, a little haggard, about his expression.
He had remarked on it earlier in the morning in the Servants'
Hall.

As a matter of fact, Mr. Crocker's ailment was a perfectly simple
one. He was suffering from one of those acute spasms of
home-sickness, which invariably racked him in the earlier Summer
months. Ever since his marriage five years previously and his
simultaneous removal from his native land he had been a chronic
victim to the complaint. The symptoms grew less acute in Winter
and Spring, but from May onward he suffered severely.

Poets have dealt feelingly with the emotions of practically every
variety except one. They have sung of Ruth, of Israel in bondage,
of slaves pining for their native Africa, and of the miner's
dream of home. But the sorrows of the baseball bug, compelled by
fate to live three thousand miles away from the Polo Grounds,
have been neglected in song. Bingley Crocker was such a one, and
in Summer his agonies were awful. He pined away in a country
where they said "Well played, sir!" when they meant "'at-a-boy!"

"Bayliss, do you play cricket?"

"I am a little past the age, sir. In my younger days . . ."

"Do you understand it?"

"Yes, sir. I frequently spend an afternoon at Lord's or the Oval
when there is a good match."

Many who enjoyed a merely casual acquaintance with the butler
would have looked on this as an astonishingly unexpected
revelation of humanity in Bayliss, but Mr. Crocker was not
surprised. To him, from the very beginning, Bayliss had been a
man and a brother who was always willing to suspend his duties in
order to answer questions dealing with the thousand and one
problems which the social life of England presented. Mr.
Crocker's mind had adjusted itself with difficulty to the
niceties of class distinction: and, while he had cured himself of
his early tendency to address the butler as "Bill," he never
failed to consult him as man to man in his moments of perplexity.
Bayliss was always eager to be of assistance. He liked Mr.
Crocker. True, his manner might have struck a more sensitive man
than his employer as a shade too closely resembling that of an
indulgent father towards a son who was not quite right in the
head: but it had genuine affection in it.

Mr. Crocker picked up his paper and folded it back at the
sporting page, pointing with a stubby forefinger.

"Well, what does all this mean? I've kept out of watching cricket
since I landed in England, but yesterday they got the poison
needle to work and took me off to see Surrey play Kent at that
place Lord's where you say you go sometimes."

"I was there yesterday, sir. A very exciting game."

"Exciting? How do you make that out? I sat in the bleachers all
afternoon, waiting for something to break loose. Doesn't anything
ever happen at cricket?"

The butler winced a little, but managed to smile a tolerant
smile. This man, he reflected, was but an American and as such
more to be pitied than censured. He endeavoured to explain.

"It was a sticky wicket yesterday, sir, owing to the rain."

"Eh?"

"The wicket was sticky, sir."

"Come again."

"I mean that the reason why the game yesterday struck you as slow
was that the wicket--I should say the turf--was sticky--that is
to say wet. Sticky is the technical term, sir. When the wicket is
sticky, the batsmen are obliged to exercise a great deal of
caution, as the stickiness of the wicket enables the bowlers to
make the ball turn more sharply in either direction as it strikes
the turf than when the wicket is not sticky."

"That's it, is it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thanks for telling me."

"Not at all, sir."

Mr. Crocker pointed to the paper.

"Well, now, this seems to be the box-score of the game we saw
yesterday. If you can make sense out of that, go to it."

The passage on which his finger rested was headed "Final Score,"
and ran as follows:

                SURREY

             First Innings

    Hayward, c Wooley, b Carr ....... 67
    Hobbs, run out ................... 0
    Hayes, st Huish, b Fielder ...... 12
    Ducat, b Fielder ................ 33
    Harrison, not out ............... 11
    Sandham, not out ................. 6
    Extras .......................... 10

    Total (for four wickets) ....... 139

Bayliss inspected the cipher gravely.

"What is it you wish me to explain, sir?"

"Why, the whole thing. What's it all about?"

"It's perfectly simple, sir. Surrey won the toss, and took first
knock. Hayward and Hobbs were the opening pair. Hayward called
Hobbs for a short run, but the latter was unable to get across
and was thrown out by mid-on. Hayes was the next man in. He went
out of his ground and was stumped. Ducat and Hayward made a
capital stand considering the stickiness of the wicket, until
Ducat was bowled by a good length off-break and Hayward caught at
second slip off a googly. Then Harrison and Sandham played out
time."

Mr. Crocker breathed heavily through his nose.

"Yes!" he said. "Yes! I had an idea that was it. But I think I'd
like to have it once again, slowly. Start with these figures.
What does that sixty-seven mean, opposite Hayward's name?"

"He made sixty-seven runs, sir."

"Sixty-seven! In one game?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why, Home-Run Baker couldn't do it!"

"I am not familiar with Mr. Baker, sir."

"I suppose you've never seen a ball-game?"

"Ball-game, sir?"

"A baseball game?"

"Never, sir."

"Then, Bill," said Mr. Crocker, reverting in his emotion to the
bad habit of his early London days, "you haven't lived. See
here!"

Whatever vestige of respect for class distinctions Mr. Crocker
had managed to preserve during the opening stages of the
interview now definitely disappeared. His eyes shone wildly and
he snorted like a war-horse. He clutched the butler by the sleeve
and drew him closer to the table, then began to move forks,
spoons, cups, and even the contents of his plate about the cloth
with an energy little short of feverish.

"Bayliss!"

"Sir?"

"Watch!" said Mr. Crocker, with the air of an excitable high
priest about to initiate a novice into the Mysteries.

He removed a roll from the basket.

"You see this roll? That's the home plate. This spoon is first
base. Where I'm putting this cup is second. This piece of bacon
is third. There's your diamond for you. Very well, then. These
lumps of sugar are the infielders and the outfielders. Now we're
ready. Batter up? He stands here. Catcher behind him. Umps behind
catcher."

"Umps, I take it, sir, is what we would call the umpire?"

"Call him anything you like. It's part of the game. Now here's
the box, where I've put this dab of marmalade, and here's the
pitcher, winding up."

"The pitcher would be equivalent to our bowler?"

"I guess so, though why you should call him a bowler gets past
me."

"The box, then, is the bowler's wicket?"

"Have it your own way. Now pay attention. Play ball! Pitcher's
winding up. Put it over, Mike, put it over! Some speed, kid! Here
it comes, right in the groove. Bing! Batter slams it and streaks
for first. Outfielder--this lump of sugar--boots it. Bonehead!
Batter touches second. Third? No! Get back! Can't be done. Play
it safe. Stick around the sack, old pal. Second batter up.
Pitcher getting something on the ball now besides the cover.
Whiffs him. Back to the bench, Cyril! Third batter up. See him
rub his hands in the dirt. Watch this kid. He's good! He lets
two alone, then slams the next right on the nose. Whizzes around
to second. First guy, the one we left on second, comes home for
one run. That's a game! Take it from me, Bill, that's a _game!_"

Somewhat overcome with the energy with which he had flung himself
into his lecture, Mr. Crocker sat down and refreshed himself with
cold coffee.

"Quite an interesting game," said Bayliss. "But I find, now that
you have explained it, sir, that it is familiar to me, though I
have always known it under another name. It is played a great
deal in this country."

Mr. Crocker started to his feet.

"It is? And I've been five years here without finding it out!
When's the next game scheduled?"

"It is known in England as Rounders, sir. Children play it with a
soft ball and a racquet, and derive considerable enjoyment from
it. I had never heard of it before as a pastime for adults."

Two shocked eyes stared into the butler's face.

"Children?" The word came in a whisper.

"A racquet?"

"Yes, sir."

"You--you didn't say a soft ball?"

"Yes, sir."

A sort of spasm seemed to convulse Mr. Crocker. He had lived five
years in England, but not till this moment had he realised to the
full how utterly alone he was in an alien land. Fate had placed
him, bound and helpless, in a country where they called baseball
Rounders and played it with a soft ball.

He sank back into his chair, staring before him. And as he sat
the wall seemed to melt and he was gazing upon a green field, in
the centre of which a man in a grey uniform was beginning a
Salome dance. Watching this person with a cold and suspicious
eye, stood another uniformed man, holding poised above his
shoulder a sturdy club. Two Masked Marvels crouched behind him in
attitudes of watchful waiting. On wooden seats all around sat a
vast multitude of shirt-sleeved spectators, and the air was full
of voices.

One voice detached itself from the din.

"Pea-nuts! Get y'r pea-nuts!"

Something that was almost a sob shook Bingley Crocker's ample
frame. Bayliss the butler gazed down upon him with concern. He
was sure the master was unwell.

The case of Mr. Bingley Crocker was one that would have provided
an admirable "instance" for a preacher seeking to instil into an
impecunious and sceptical flock the lesson that money does not of
necessity bring with it happiness. And poetry has crystallised
his position in the following stanza.

    An exile from home splendour dazzles in vain.
    Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again;
    The birds singing gaily, that came at my call,
    Give me them, and that peace of mind dearer than all.

Mr. Crocker had never lived in a thatched cottage, nor had his
relations with the birds of his native land ever reached the
stage of intimacy indicated by the poet; but substitute "Lambs
Club" for the former and "members" for the latter, and the
parallel becomes complete.

Until the time of his second marriage Bingley Crocker had been an
actor, a snapper-up of whatever small character-parts the gods
provided. He had an excellent disposition, no money, and one son,
a young man of twenty-one. For forty-five years he had lived a
hand-to-mouth existence in which his next meal had generally come
as a pleasant surprise: and then, on an Atlantic liner, he met
the widow of G. G. van Brunt, the sole heiress to that magnate's
immense fortune.

What Mrs. van Brunt could have seen in Bingley Crocker to cause
her to single him out from all the world passes comprehension:
but the eccentricities of Cupid are commonplace. It were best to
shun examination into first causes and stick to results. The
swift romance began and reached its climax in the ten days which
it took one of the smaller Atlantic liners to sail from Liverpool
to New York. Mr. Crocker was on board because he was returning
with a theatrical company from a failure in London, Mrs. van
Brunt because she had been told that the slow boats were the
steadiest. They began the voyage as strangers and ended it as an
engaged couple--the affair being expedited, no doubt, by the fact
that, even if it ever occurred to Bingley to resist the onslaught
on his bachelor peace, he soon realised the futility of doing so,
for the cramped conditions of ship-board intensified the always
overwhelming effects of his future bride's determined nature.

The engagement was received in a widely differing spirit by the
only surviving blood-relations of the two principals. Jimmy, Mr.
Crocker's son, on being informed that his father had plighted his
troth to the widow of a prominent millionaire, displayed the
utmost gratification and enthusiasm, and at a little supper which
he gave by way of farewell to a few of his newspaper comrades and
which lasted till six in the morning, when it was broken up by
the flying wedge of waiters for which the selected restaurant is
justly famous, joyfully announced that work and he would from
then on be total strangers. He alluded in feeling terms to the
Providence which watches over good young men and saves them from
the blighting necessity of offering themselves in the flower of
their golden youth as human sacrifices to the Moloch of
capitalistic greed: and, having commiserated with his guests in
that a similar stroke of luck had not happened to each of them,
advised them to drown their sorrows in drink. Which they did.

Far different was the attitude of Mrs. Crocker's sister, Nesta
Pett. She entirely disapproved of the proposed match. At least,
the fact that in her final interview with her sister she
described the bridegroom-to-be as a wretched mummer, a despicable
fortune-hunter, a broken-down tramp, and a sneaking, grafting
confidence-trickster lends colour to the supposition that she was
not a warm supporter of it. She agreed wholeheartedly with Mrs.
Crocker's suggestion that they should never speak to each other
again as long as they lived: and it was immediately after this
that the latter removed husband Bingley, step-son Jimmy, and all
her other goods and chattels to London, where they had remained
ever since. Whenever Mrs. Crocker spoke of America now, it was in
tones of the deepest dislike and contempt. Her friends were
English, and every year more exclusively of England's
aristocracy. She intended to become a leading figure in London
Society, and already her progress had been astonishing. She knew
the right people, lived in the right square, said the right
things, and thought the right thoughts: and in the Spring of her
third year had succeeded in curing Bingley of his habit of
beginning his remarks with the words "Say, lemme tell ya
something." Her progress, in short, was beginning to assume the
aspect of a walk-over.

Against her complete contentment and satisfaction only one thing
militated. That was the behaviour of her step-son, Jimmy.

It was of Jimmy that she spoke when, having hung the receiver on
its hook, she returned to the breakfast-room. Bayliss had
silently withdrawn, and Mr. Crocker was sitting in sombre silence
at the table.

"A most fortunate thing has happened, Bingley," she said. "It was
most kind of dear Lady Corstorphine to ring me up. It seems that
her nephew, Lord Percy Whipple, is back in England. He has been
in Ireland for the past three years, on the staff of the Lord
Lieutenant, and only arrived in London yesterday afternoon. Lady
Corstorphine has promised to arrange a meeting between him and
James. I particularly want them to be friends."

"Eugenia," said Mr. Crocker in a hollow voice, "do you know they
call baseball Rounders over here, and children play it with a
soft ball?"

"James is becoming a serious problem. It is absolutely necessary
that he should make friends with the right kind of young men."

"And a racquet," said Mr. Crocker.

"Please listen to what I am saying, Bingley. I am talking about
James. There is a crude American strain in him which seems to
grow worse instead of better. I was lunching with the Delafields
at the Carlton yesterday, and there, only a few tables away, was
James with an impossible young man in appalling clothes. It was
outrageous that James should have been seen in public at all with
such a person. The man had a broken nose and talked through it.
He was saying in a loud voice that made everybody turn round
something about his left-scissors hook--whatever that may have
been. I discovered later that he was a low professional pugilist
from New York--a man named Spike Dillon, I think Captain Wroxton
said. And Jimmy was giving him lunch--at the _Carlton!_"

Mr. Crocker said nothing. Constant practice had made him an adept
at saying nothing when his wife was talking.

"James must be made to realise his responsibilities. I shall have
to speak to him. I was hearing only the other day of a most
deserving man, extremely rich and lavishly generous in his
contributions to the party funds, who was only given a
knighthood, simply because he had a son who had behaved in a
manner that could not possibly be overlooked. The present Court
is extraordinarily strict in its views. James cannot be too
careful. A certain amount of wildness in a young man is quite
proper in the best set, provided that he is wild in the right
company. Every one knows that young Lord Datchet was ejected from
the Empire Music-Hall on Boat-Race night every year during his
residence at Oxford University, but nobody minds. The family
treats it as a joke. But James has such low tastes. Professional
pugilists! I believe that many years ago it was not unfashionable
for young men in Society to be seen about with such persons, but
those days are over. I shall certainly speak to James. He cannot
afford to call attention to himself in any way. That
breach-of-promise case of his three years ago, is, I hope and
trust, forgotten, but the slightest slip on his part might start
the papers talking about it again, and that would be fatal. The
eventual successor to a title must be quite as careful as--"

It was not, as has been hinted above, the usual practice of Mr.
Crocker to interrupt his wife when she was speaking, but he did
it now.

"Say!"

Mrs. Crocker frowned.

"I wish, Bingley--and I have told you so often--that you would
not begin your sentences with the word 'Say'! It is such a
revolting Americanism. Suppose some day when you are addressing
the House of Lords you should make a slip like that! The papers
would never let you hear the end of it."

Mr. Crocker was swallowing convulsively, as if testing his larynx
with a view to speech. Like Saul of Tarsus, he had been stricken
dumb by the sudden bright light which his wife's words had caused
to flash upon him. Frequently during his sojourn in London he had
wondered just why Eugenia had settled there in preference to her
own country. It was not her wont to do things without an object,
yet until this moment he had been unable to fathom her motives.
Even now it seemed almost incredible. And yet what meaning would
her words have other than the monstrous one which had smitten him
as a blackjack?

"Say--I mean, Eugenia--you don't want--you aren't trying--you
aren't working to--you haven't any idea of trying to get them to
make me a Lord, have you?"

"It is what I have been working for all these years!"

"But--but why? Why? That's what I want to know. Why?"

Mrs. Crocker's fine eyes glittered.

"I will tell you why, Bingley. Just before we were married I had
a talk with my sister Nesta. She was insufferably offensive. She
referred to you in terms which I shall never forgive. She affected
to look down on you, to think that I was marrying beneath me. So
I am going to make you an English peer and send Nesta a newspaper
clipping of the Birthday Honours with your name in it, if I have
to keep working till I die! Now you know!"

Silence fell. Mr. Crocker drank cold coffee. His wife stared with
gleaming eyes into the glorious future.

"Do you mean that I shall have to stop on here till they make me
a lord?" said Mr. Crocker limply.

"Yes."

"Never go back to America?"

"Not till we have succeeded."

"Oh Gee! Oh Gosh! Oh Hell!" said Mr. Crocker, bursting the bonds
of years.

Mrs. Crocker though resolute, was not unkindly. She made
allowances for her husband's state of mind. She was willing to
permit even American expletives during the sinking-in process of
her great idea, much as a broad-minded cowboy might listen
indulgently to the squealing of a mustang during the branding
process. Docility and obedience would be demanded of him later,
but not till the first agony had abated. She spoke soothingly to
him.

"I am glad we have had this talk, Bingley. It is best that you
should know. It will help you to realise your responsibilities.
And that brings me back to James. Thank goodness Lord Percy
Whipple is in town. He is about James' age, and from what Lady
Corstorphine tells me will be an ideal friend for him. You
understand who he is, of course? The second son of the Duke of
Devizes, the Premier's closest friend, the man who can
practically dictate the Birthday Honours. If James and Lord Percy
can only form a close friendship, our battle will be as good as
won. It will mean everything. Lady Corstorphine has promised to
arrange a meeting. In the meantime, I will speak to James and
warn him to be more careful."

Mr. Crocker had produced a stump of pencil from his pocket and
was writing on the table-cloth.

    Lord Crocker
    Lord Bingley Crocker
    Lord Crocker of Crocker
    The Marquis of Crocker
    Baron Crocker
    Bingley, first Viscount Crocker

He blanched as he read the frightful words. A sudden thought stung
him.

"Eugenia!"

"Well?"

"What will the boys at the Lambs say?"

"I am not interested," replied his wife, "in the boys at the
Lambs."

"I thought you wouldn't be," said the future baron gloomily.



CHAPTER III

FAMILY JARS

It is a peculiarity of the human mind that, with whatever
apprehension it may be regarding the distant future, it must
return after a while to face the minor troubles of the future
that is immediate. The prospect of a visit to the dentist this
afternoon causes us to forget for the moment the prospect of
total ruin next year. Mr. Crocker, therefore, having tortured
himself for about a quarter of an hour with his meditations on
the subject of titles, was jerked back to a more imminent
calamity than the appearance of his name in the Birthday
Honours--the fact that in all probability he would be taken again
this morning to watch the continuation of that infernal
cricket-match, and would be compelled to spend the greater part
of to-day, as he had spent the greater part of yesterday, bored
to the verge of dissolution in the pavilion at Lord's.

One gleam of hope alone presented itself. Like baseball, this
pastime of cricket was apparently affected by rain, if there had
been enough of it. He had an idea that there had been a good deal
of rain in the night, but had there been sufficient to cause the
teams of Surrey and Kent to postpone the second instalment of
their serial struggle? He rose from the table and went out into
the hall. It was his purpose to sally out into Grosvenor Square
and examine the turf in its centre with the heel of his shoe, in
order to determine the stickiness or non-stickiness of the
wicket. He moved towards the front door, hoping for the best, and
just as he reached it the bell rang.

One of the bad habits of which his wife had cured Mr. Crocker in
the course of the years was the habit of going and answering
doors. He had been brought up in surroundings where every man was
his own door-keeper, and it had been among his hardest tasks to
learn the lesson that the perfect gentleman does not open doors
but waits for the appropriate menial to come along and do it for
him. He had succeeded at length in mastering this great truth,
and nowadays seldom offended. But this morning his mind was
clouded by his troubles, and instinct, allaying itself with
opportunity, was too much for him. His fingers had been on the
handle when the ring came, so he turned it.

At the top of the steps which connect the main entrance of
Drexdale House with the sidewalk three persons were standing. One
was a tall and formidably handsome woman in the early forties
whose appearance seemed somehow oddly familiar. The second was a
small, fat, blobby, bulging boy who was chewing something. The
third, lurking diffidently in the rear, was a little man of about
Mr. Crocker's own age, grey-haired and thin with brown eyes that
gazed meekly through rimless glasses.

Nobody could have been less obtrusive than this person, yet it was
he who gripped Mr. Crocker's attention and caused that home-sick
sufferer's heart to give an almost painful leap. For he was
clothed in one of those roomy suits with square shoulders which
to the seeing eye are as republican as the Stars and Stripes. His
blunt-toed yellow shoes sang gaily of home. And his hat was not
so much a hat as an effusive greeting from Gotham. A long time
had passed since Mr. Crocker had set eyes upon a biped so
exhilaratingly American, and rapture held him speechless, as one
who after long exile beholds some landmark of his childhood.

The female member of the party took advantage of his
dumbness--which, as she had not unnaturally mistaken him for the
butler, she took for a silent and respectful query as to her
business and wishes--to open the conversation.

"Is Mrs. Crocker at home? Please tell her that Mrs. Pett wishes
to see her."

There was a rush and scurry in the corridors of Mr. Crocker's
brain, as about six different thoughts tried to squash
simultaneously into that main chamber where there is room for
only one at a time. He understood now why this woman's appearance
had seemed familiar. She was his wife's sister, and that same
Nesta who was some day to be pulverised by the sight of his name
in the Birthday Honours. He was profoundly thankful that she had
mistaken him for the butler. A chill passed through him as he
pictured what would have been Eugenia's reception of the
information that he had committed such a bourgeois solecism as
opening the front door to Mrs. Pett of all people, who already
despised him as a low vulgarian. There had been trouble enough
when she had found him opening it a few weeks before to a mere
collector of subscriptions for a charity. He perceived, with a
clarity remarkable in view of the fact that the discovery of her
identity had given him a feeling of physical dizziness, that at
all costs he must foster this misapprehension on his
sister-in-law's part.

Fortunately he was in a position to do so. He knew all about what
butlers did and what they said on these occasions, for in his
innocently curious way he had often pumped Bayliss on the subject.
He bowed silently and led the way to the morning-room, followed
by the drove of Petts: then, opening the door, stood aside to
allow the procession to march past the given point.

"I will inform Mrs. Crocker that you are here, madam."

Mrs. Pett, shepherding the chewing child before her, passed into
the room. In the light of her outspoken sentiments regarding her
brother-in-law, it is curious to reflect that his manner at this,
their first meeting, had deeply impressed her. After many months
of smouldering revolt she had dismissed her own butler a day or
so before sailing for England, and for the first time envy of her
sister Eugenia gripped her. She did not covet Eugenia's other
worldly possessions, but she did grudge her this supreme butler.

Mr. Pett, meanwhile, had been trailing in the rear with a hunted
expression on his face. He wore the unmistakable look of a man
about to be present at a row between women, and only a wet cat in
a strange back-yard bears itself with less jauntiness than a man
faced by such a prospect. A millionaire several times over, Mr.
Pett would cheerfully have given much of his wealth to have been
elsewhere at that moment. Such was the agitated state of his mind
that, when a hand was laid lightly upon his arm as he was about
to follow his wife into the room, he started so violently that
his hat flew out of his hand. He turned to meet the eyes of the
butler who had admitted him to the house, fixed on his in an
appealing stare.

"Who's leading in the pennant race?" said this strange butler in
a feverish whisper.

It was a question, coming from such a source, which in another
than Mr. Pett might well have provoked a blank stare of
amazement. Such, however, is the almost superhuman intelligence
and quickness of mind engendered by the study of America's
national game that he answered without the slightest hesitation.

"Giants!"

"Wow!" said the butler.

No sense of anything strange or untoward about the situation came
to mar the perfect joy of Mr. Pett, the overmastering joy of the
baseball fan who in a strange land unexpectedly encounters a
brother. He thrilled with a happiness which he had never hoped
to feel that morning.

"No signs of them slumping?" enquired the butler.

"No. But you never can tell. It's early yet. I've seen those boys
lead the league till the end of August and then be nosed out."

"True enough," said the butler sadly.

"Matty's in shape."

"He is? The old souper working well?"

"Like a machine. He shut out the Cubs the day before I sailed!"

"Fine!"

At this point an appreciation of the unusualness of the
proceedings began to steal upon Mr. Pett. He gaped at this
surprising servitor.

"How on earth do you know anything about baseball?" he demanded.

The other seemed to stiffen. A change came over his whole
appearance. He had the air of an actor who has remembered his
part.

"I beg your pardon, sir. I trust I have not taken a liberty. I was
at one time in the employment of a gentleman in New York, and
during my stay I became extremely interested in the national
game. I picked up a few of the American idioms while in the
country." He smiled apologetically. "They sometimes slip out."

"Let 'em slip!" said Mr. Pett with enthusiasm. "You're the first
thing that's reminded me of home since I left. Say!"

"Sir?"

"Got a good place here?"

"Er--oh, yes, sir."

"Well, here's my card. If you ever feel like making a change,
there's a job waiting for you at that address."

"Thank you, sir." Mr. Crocker stooped.

"Your hat, sir."

He held it out, gazing fondly at it the while. It was like being
home again to see a hat like that. He followed Mr. Pett as he
went into the morning-room with an affectionate eye.

Bayliss was coming along the hall, hurrying more than his wont.
The ring at the front door had found him deep in an extremely
interesting piece of news in his halfpenny morning paper, and he
was guiltily aware of having delayed in answering it.

"Bayliss," said Mr. Crocker in a cautious undertone, "go and tell
Mrs. Crocker that Mrs. Pett is waiting to see her. She's in the
morning-room. If you're asked, say you let her in. Get me?"

"Yes, sir," said Bayliss, grateful for this happy solution.

"Oh, Bayliss!"

"Sir?"

"Is the wicket at Lord's likely to be too sticky for them to go
on with that game to-day?"

"I hardly think it probable that there will be play, sir. There
was a great deal of rain in the night."

Mr. Crocker passed on to his den with a lighter heart.

            *       *       *       *       *

It was Mrs. Crocker's habit, acquired after years of practice and
a sedulous study of the best models, to conceal beneath a mask of
well-bred indifference any emotion which she might chance to
feel. Her dealings with the aristocracy of England had shown her
that, while the men occasionally permitted themselves an
outburst, the women never did, and she had schooled herself so
rigorously that nowadays she seldom even raised her voice. Her
bearing, as she approached the morning-room was calm and serene,
but inwardly curiosity consumed her. It was unbelievable that
Nesta could have come to try to effect a reconciliation, yet she
could think of no other reason for her visit.

She was surprised to find three persons in the morning-room.
Bayliss, delivering his message, had mentioned only Mrs. Pett. To
Mrs. Crocker the assemblage had the appearance of being a sort of
Old Home Week of Petts, a kind of Pett family mob-scene. Her
sister's second marriage having taken place after their quarrel,
she had never seen her new brother-in-law, but she assumed that
the little man lurking in the background was Mr. Pett. The guess
was confirmed.

"Good morning, Eugenia," said Mrs. Pett.

"Peter, this is my sister, Eugenia. My husband."

Mrs. Crocker bowed stiffly. She was thinking how hopelessly
American Mr. Pett was, how baggy his clothes looked, what
absurdly shaped shoes he wore, how appalling his hat was, how
little hair he had and how deplorably he lacked all those graces
of repose, culture, physical beauty, refinement, dignity, and
mental alertness which raise men above the level of the common
cock-roach.

Mr. Pett, on his side, receiving her cold glance squarely between
the eyes, felt as if he were being disembowelled by a clumsy
amateur. He could not help wondering what sort of a man this
fellow Crocker was whom this sister-in-law of his had married. He
pictured him as a handsome, powerful, robust individual with a
strong jaw and a loud voice, for he could imagine no lesser type
of man consenting to link his lot with such a woman. He sidled in
a circuitous manner towards a distant chair, and, having lowered
himself into it, kept perfectly still, pretending to be dead,
like an opossum. He wished to take no part whatever in the coming
interview.

"Ogden, of course, you know," said Mrs. Pett.

She was sitting so stiffly upright on a hard chair and had so
much the appearance of having been hewn from the living rock that
every time she opened her mouth it was as if a statue had spoken.

"I know Ogden," said Mrs. Crocker shortly. "Will you please stop
him fidgeting with that vase? It is valuable."

She directed at little Ogden, who was juggling aimlessly with a
handsome _objet d'art_ of the early Chinese school, a glance similar
to that which had just disposed of his step-father. But Ogden
required more than a glance to divert him from any pursuit in which
he was interested. He shifted a deposit of candy from his right
cheek to his left cheek, inspected Mrs. Crocker for a moment with a
pale eye, and resumed his juggling. Mrs. Crocker meant nothing in
his young life.

"Ogden, come and sit down," said Mrs. Pett.

"Don't want to sit down."

"Are you making a long stay in England, Nesta?" asked Mrs.
Crocker coldly.

"I don't know. We have made no plans."

"Indeed?"

She broke off. Ogden, who had possessed himself of a bronze
paper-knife, had begun to tap the vase with it. The ringing note
thus produced appeared to please his young mind.

"If Ogden really wishes to break that vase," said Mrs. Crocker in
a detached voice, "let me ring for the butler to bring him a
hammer."

"Ogden!" said Mrs. Pett.

"Oh Gee! A fellow can't do a thing!" muttered Ogden, and walked
to the window. He stood looking out into the square, a slight
twitching of the ears indicating that he still made progress with
the candy.

"Still the same engaging child!" murmured Mrs. Crocker.

"I did not come here to discuss Ogden!" said Mrs. Pett.

Mrs. Crocker raised her eyebrows. Not even Mrs. Otho Lanners,
from whom she had learned the art, could do it more effectively.

"I am still waiting to find out why you did come, Nesta!"

"I came here to talk to you about your step-son, James Crocker."

The discipline to which Mrs. Crocker had subjected herself in the
matter of the display of emotion saved her from the humiliation
of showing surprise. She waved her hand graciously--in the manner
of the Duchess of Axminster, a supreme hand-waver--to indicate
that she was all attention.

"Your step-son, James Crocker," repeated Mrs. Pett. "What is it
the New York papers call him, Peter?"

Mr. Pett, the human opossum, came to life. He had contrived to
create about himself such a defensive atmosphere of non-existence
that now that he re-entered the conversation it was as if a
corpse had popped out of its tomb like a jack-in-the-box.

Obeying the voice of authority, he pushed the tombstone to one
side and poked his head out of the sepulchre.

"Piccadilly Jim!" he murmured apologetically.

"Piccadilly Jim!" said Mrs. Crocker. "It is extremely impertinent
of them!"

In spite of his misery, a wan smile appeared on Mr. Pett's
death-mask at this remark.

"They should worry about--!"

"Peter!"

Mr. Pett died again, greatly respected.

"Why should the New York papers refer to James at all?" said Mrs.
Crocker.

"Explain, Peter!"

Mr. Pett emerged reluctantly from the cerements. He had supposed
that Nesta would do the talking.

"Well, he's a news-item."

"Why?"

"Well, here's a boy that's been a regular fellow--raised in
America--done work on a newspaper--suddenly taken off to England
to become a London dude--mixing with all the dukes, playing
pinochle with the King--naturally they're interested in him."

A more agreeable expression came over Mrs. Crocker's face.

"Of course, that is quite true. One cannot prevent the papers
from printing what they wish. So they have published articles
about James' doings in English Society?"

"Doings," said Mr. Pett, "is right!"

"Something has got to be done about it," said Mrs. Pett.

Mr. Pett endorsed this.

"Nesta's going to lose her health if these stories go on," he
said.

Mrs. Crocker raised her eyebrows, but she had hard work to keep a
contented smile off her face.

"If you are not above petty jealousy, Nesta . . ."

Mrs. Pett laughed a sharp, metallic laugh.

"It is the disgrace I object to!"

"The disgrace!"

"What else would you call it, Eugenia? Wouldn't you be ashamed if
you opened your Sunday paper and came upon a full page article
about your nephew having got intoxicated at the races and fought
a book-maker--having broken up a political meeting--having been
sued for breach-of-promise by a barmaid . . ."

Mrs. Crocker preserved her well-bred calm, but she was shaken.
The episodes to which her sister had alluded were ancient
history, horrors of the long-dead past, but it seemed that they
still lived in print. There and then she registered the resolve
to talk to her step-son James when she got hold of him in such a
manner as would scourge the offending Adam out of him for once
and for all.

"And not only that," continued Mrs. Pett. "That would be bad enough
in itself, but somehow the papers have discovered that I am the
boy's aunt. Two weeks ago they printed my photograph with one of
these articles. I suppose they will always do it now. That is why I
have come to you. It must stop. And the only way it can be made to
stop is by taking your step-son away from London where he is
running wild. Peter has most kindly consented to give the boy a
position in his office. It is very good of him, for the boy cannot
in the nature of things be of any use for a very long time, but we
have talked it over and it seems the only course. I have come this
morning to ask you to let us take James Crocker back to America
with us and keep him out of mischief by giving him honest work.
What do you say?"

Mrs. Crocker raised her eyebrows.

"What do you expect me to say? It is utterly preposterous. I have
never heard anything so supremely absurd in my life."

"You refuse?"

"Of course I refuse."

"I think you are extremely foolish."

"Indeed!"

Mr. Pett cowed in his chair. He was feeling rather like a nervous
and peace-loving patron of a wild western saloon who observes two
cowboys reach for their hip-pockets. Neither his wife nor his
sister-in-law paid any attention to him. The concluding exercises
of a duel of the eyes was in progress between them. After some
silent, age-long moments, Mrs. Crocker laughed a light laugh.

"Most extraordinary!" she murmured.

Mrs. Pett was in no mood for Anglicisms.

"You know perfectly well, Eugenia," she said heatedly, "that
James Crocker is being ruined here. For his sake, if not for
mine--"

Mrs. Crocker laughed another light laugh, one of those offensive
rippling things which cause so much annoyance.

"Don't be so ridiculous, Nesta! Ruined! Really! It is quite true
that, a long while ago, when he was much younger and not quite used
to the ways of London Society, James was a little wild, but all
that sort of thing is over now. He knows"--she paused, setting
herself as it were for the punch--"he knows that at any moment
the government may decide to give his father a Peerage . . ."

The blow went home. A quite audible gasp escaped her stricken
sister.

"What!"

Mrs. Crocker placed two ringed fingers before her mouth in order
not to hide a languid yawn.

"Yes. Didn't you know? But of course you live so out of the world.
Oh yes, it is extremely probable that Mr. Crocker's name will
appear in the next Honours List. He is very highly thought of by
the Powers. So naturally James is quite aware that he must behave
in a suitable manner. He is a dear boy! He was handicapped at
first by getting into the wrong set, but now his closest friend
is Lord Percy Whipple, the second son of the Duke of Devizes, who
is one of the most eminent men in the kingdom and a personal
friend of the Premier."

Mrs. Pett was in bad shape under this rain of titles, but she
rallied herself to reply in kind.

"Indeed?" she said. "I should like to meet him. I have no doubt
he knows our great friend, Lord Wisbeach."

Mrs. Crocker was a little taken aback. She had not supposed that
her sister had even this small shot in her locker.

"Do you know Lord Wisbeach?" she said.

"Oh yes," replied Mrs. Pett, beginning to feel a little better.
"We have been seeing him every day. He always says that he looks
on my house as quite a home. He knows so few people in New York.
It has been a great comfort to him, I think, knowing us."

Mrs. Crocker had had time now to recover her poise.

"Poor dear Wizzy!" she said languidly.

Mrs. Pett started.

"What!"

"I suppose he is still the same dear, stupid, shiftless fellow?
He left here with the intention of travelling round the world,
and he has stopped in New York! How like him!"

"Do you know Lord Wisbeach?" demanded Mrs. Pett.

Mrs. Crocker raised her eyebrows.

"Know him? Why, I suppose, after Lord Percy Whipple, he is James'
most intimate friend!"

Mrs. Pett rose. She was dignified even in defeat. She collected
Ogden and Mr. Pett with an eye which even Ogden could see was not
to be trifled with. She uttered no word.

"Must you really go?" said Mrs. Crocker. "It was sweet of you to
bother to come all the way from America like this. So strange to
meet any one from America nowadays. Most extraordinary!"

The _cortege_ left the room in silence. Mrs. Crocker had touched
the bell, but the mourners did not wait for the arrival of
Bayliss. They were in no mood for the formalities of polite
Society. They wanted to be elsewhere, and they wanted to be there
quick. The front door had closed behind them before the butler
reached the morning-room.

"Bayliss," said Mrs. Crocker with happy, shining face, "send for
the car to come round at once."

"Very good, madam."

"Is Mr. James up yet?"

"I believe not, madam."

Mrs. Crocker went upstairs to her room. If Bayliss had not been
within earshot, she would probably have sung a bar or two. Her
amiability extended even to her step-son, though she had not
altered her intention of speaking eloquently to him on certain
matters when she could get hold of him. That, however, could
wait. For the moment, she felt in vein for a gentle drive in the
Park.

A few minutes after she had disappeared, there was a sound of
slow footsteps on the stairs, and a young man came down into the
hall. Bayliss, who had finished telephoning to the garage for
Mrs. Crocker's limousine and was about to descend to those lower
depths where he had his being, turned, and a grave smile of
welcome played over his face.

"Good morning, Mr. James," he said.



CHAPTER IV

JIMMY'S DISTURBING NEWS

Jimmy Crocker was a tall and well-knit young man who later on in
the day would no doubt be at least passably good-looking. At the
moment an unbecoming pallor marred his face, and beneath his eyes
were marks that suggested that he had slept little and ill. He
stood at the foot of the stairs, yawning cavernously.

"Bayliss," he said, "have you been painting yourself yellow?"

"No, sir."

"Strange! Your face looks a bright gamboge to me, and your
outlines wobble. Bayliss, never mix your drinks. I say this to
you as a friend. Is there any one in the morning-room?"

"No, Mr. James."

"Speak softly, Bayliss, for I am not well. I am conscious of a
strange weakness. Lead me to the morning-room, then, and lay me
gently on a sofa. These are the times that try men's souls."

The sun was now shining strongly through the windows of the
morning-room. Bayliss lowered the shades. Jimmy Crocker sank onto
the sofa, and closed his eyes.

"Bayliss."

"Sir?"

"A conviction is stealing over me that I am about to expire."

"Shall I bring you a little breakfast, Mr. James?"

A strong shudder shook Jimmy.

"Don't be flippant, Bayliss," he protested. "Try to cure yourself
of this passion for being funny at the wrong time. Your comedy is
good, but tact is a finer quality than humour. Perhaps you think
I have forgotten that morning when I was feeling just as I do
to-day and you came to my bedside and asked me if I would like a
nice rasher of ham. I haven't and I never shall. You may bring me
a brandy-and-soda. Not a large one. A couple of bath-tubs full
will be enough."

"Very good, Mr. James."

"And now leave me, Bayliss, for I would be alone. I have to make
a series of difficult and exhaustive tests to ascertain whether I
am still alive."

When the butler had gone, Jimmy adjusted the cushions, closed his
eyes, and remained for a space in a state of coma. He was trying,
as well as an exceedingly severe headache would permit, to recall
the salient events of the previous night. At present his memories
refused to solidify. They poured about in his brain in a fluid
and formless condition, exasperating to one who sought for hard
facts.

It seemed strange to Jimmy that the shadowy and inchoate vision of
a combat, a fight, a brawl of some kind persisted in flitting
about in the recesses of his mind, always just far enough away to
elude capture. The absurdity of the thing annoyed him. A man has
either indulged in a fight overnight or he has not indulged in a
fight overnight. There can be no middle course. That he should be
uncertain on the point was ridiculous. Yet, try as he would, he
could not be sure. There were moments when he seemed on the very
verge of settling the matter, and then some invisible person
would meanly insert a red-hot corkscrew in the top of his head
and begin to twist it, and this would interfere with calm
thought. He was still in a state of uncertainty when Bayliss
returned, bearing healing liquids on a tray.

"Shall I set it beside you, sir?"

Jimmy opened one eye.

"Indubitably. No mean word, that, Bayliss, for the morning after.
Try it yourself next time. Bayliss, who let me in this morning?"

"Let you in, sir?"

"Precisely. I was out and now I am in. Obviously I must have
passed the front door somehow. This is logic."

"I fancy you let yourself in, Mr. James, with your key."

"That would seem to indicate that I was in a state of icy
sobriety. Yet, if such is the case, how is it that I can't
remember whether I murdered somebody or not last night? It isn't
the sort of thing your sober man would lightly forget. Have you
ever murdered anybody, Bayliss?"

"No, sir."

"Well, if you had, you would remember it next morning?"

"I imagine so, Mr. James."

"Well, it's a funny thing, but I can't get rid of the impression
that at some point in my researches into the night life of London
yestreen I fell upon some person to whom I had never been
introduced and committed mayhem upon his person."

It seemed to Bayliss that the time had come to impart to Mr. James
a piece of news which he had supposed would require no imparting.
He looked down upon his young master's recumbent form with a
grave commiseration. It was true that he had never been able to
tell with any certainty whether Mr. James intended the statements
he made to be taken literally or not, but on the present occasion
he seemed to have spoken seriously and to be genuinely at a loss
to recall an episode over the printed report of which the entire
domestic staff had been gloating ever since the arrival of the
halfpenny morning paper to which they subscribed.

"Do you really mean it, Mr. James?" he enquired cautiously.

"Mean what?"

"You have really forgotten that you were engaged in a fracas last
night at the Six Hundred Club?"

Jimmy sat up with a jerk, staring at this omniscient man. Then
the movement having caused a renewal of the operations of the
red-hot corkscrew, he fell back again with a groan.

"Was I? How on earth did you know? Why should you know all about
it when I can't remember a thing? It was my fault, not yours."

"There is quite a long report of it in to-day's _Daily Sun_, Mr.
James."

"A report? In the _Sun_?"

"Half a column, Mr. James. Would you like me to fetch the paper?
I have it in my pantry."

"I should say so. Trot a quick heat back with it. This wants
looking into."

Bayliss retired, to return immediately with the paper. Jimmy took
it, gazed at it, and handed it back.

"I overestimated my powers. It can't be done. Have you any
important duties at the moment, Bayliss?"

"No, sir."

"Perhaps you wouldn't mind reading me the bright little excerpt,
then?"

"Certainly, sir."

"It will be good practice for you. I am convinced I am going to be
a confirmed invalid for the rest of my life, and it will be part
of your job to sit at my bedside and read to me. By the way, does
the paper say who the party of the second part was? Who was the
citizen with whom I went to the mat?"

"Lord Percy Whipple, Mr. James."

"Lord who?"

"Lord Percy Whipple."

"Never heard of him. Carry on, Bayliss."

Jimmy composed himself to listen, yawning.



CHAPTER V

THE MORNING AFTER

Bayliss took a spectacle-case from the recesses of his costume,
opened it, took out a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, dived into the
jungle again, came out with a handkerchief, polished the
spectacles, put them on his nose, closed the case, restored it to
its original position, replaced the handkerchief, and took up the
paper.

"Why the hesitation, Bayliss? Why the coyness?" enquired Jimmy,
lying with closed eyes. "Begin!"

"I was adjusting my glasses, sir."

"All set now?"

"Yes, sir. Shall I read the headlines first?"

"Read everything."

The butler cleared his throat.

"Good Heavens, Bayliss," moaned Jimmy, starting, "don't gargle.
Have a heart! Go on!"

Bayliss began to read.

         FRACAS IN FASHIONABLE NIGHT-CLUB

             SPRIGS OF NOBILITY BRAWL

Jimmy opened his eyes, interested.

"Am I a sprig of nobility?"

"It is what the paper says, sir."

"We live and learn. Carry on."

The butler started to clear his throat, but checked himself.

         SENSATIONAL INTERNATIONAL CONTEST

                   BATTLING PERCY

                     (England)

                         v

                    CYCLONE JIM

                     (America)

           FULL DESCRIPTION BY OUR EXPERT

Jimmy sat up.

"Bayliss, you're indulging that distorted sense of humour of
yours again. That isn't in the paper?"

"Yes, sir. Very large headlines."

Jimmy groaned.

"Bayliss, I'll give you a piece of advice which may be useful to
you when you grow up. Never go about with newspaper men. It all
comes back to me. Out of pure kindness of heart I took young Bill
Blake of the _Sun_ to supper at the Six Hundred last night. This is
my reward. I suppose he thinks it funny. Newspaper men are a low
lot, Bayliss."

"Shall I go on, sir?"

"Most doubtless. Let me hear all."

Bayliss resumed. He was one of those readers who, whether their
subject be a murder case or a funny anecdote, adopt a measured
and sepulchral delivery which gives a suggestion of tragedy and
horror to whatever they read. At the church which he attended on
Sundays, of which he was one of the most influential and
respected members, children would turn pale and snuggle up to
their mothers when Bayliss read the lessons. Young Mr. Blake's
account of the overnight proceedings at the Six Hundred Club he
rendered with a gloomy gusto more marked even than his wont. It
had a topical interest for him which urged him to extend himself.

"At an early hour this morning, when our myriad readers
were enjoying that refreshing and brain-restoring sleep so
necessary to the proper appreciation of the _Daily Sun_ at
the breakfast table, one of the most interesting sporting
events of the season was being pulled off at the Six
Hundred Club in Regent Street, where, after three rounds
of fast exchanges, James B. Crocker, the well-known
American welter-weight scrapper, succeeded in stopping
Lord Percy Whipple, second son of the Duke of Devizes,
better known as the Pride of Old England. Once again the
superiority of the American over the English style of
boxing was demonstrated. Battling Percy has a kind heart,
but Cyclone Jim packs the punch."

"The immediate cause of the encounter had to do with a
disputed table, which each gladiator claimed to have
engaged in advance over the telephone."

"I begin to remember," said Jimmy meditatively. "A pill with
butter-coloured hair tried to jump my claim. Honeyed words
proving fruitless, I soaked him on the jaw. It may be that I was
not wholly myself. I seem to remember an animated session at the
Empire earlier in the evening, which may have impaired my
self-control. Proceed!"

"One word leading to others, which in their turn led to
several more, Cyclone Jim struck Battling Percy on what
our rude forefathers were accustomed to describe as the
mazzard, and the gong sounded for

                "ROUND ONE

"Both men came up fresh and eager to mix things, though it
seems only too probable that they had already been mixing
more things than was good for them. Battling Percy tried a
right swing which got home on a waiter. Cyclone Jim put in
a rapid one-two punch which opened a large gash in the
atmosphere. Both men sparred cautiously, being hampered in
their movements by the fact, which neither had at this
stage of the proceedings perceived, that they were on
opposite sides of the disputed table. A clever Fitzsimmons'
shift on the part of the Battler removed this obstacle,
and some brisk work ensued in neutral territory. Percy
landed twice without a return. The Battler's round by a
shade.

                "ROUND TWO

"The Cyclone came out of his corner with a rush, getting
home on the Battler's shirt-front and following it up with
a right to the chin. Percy swung wildly and upset a bottle
of champagne on a neighbouring table. A good rally
followed, both men doing impressive in-fighting. The
Cyclone landed three without a return. The Cyclone's
round.

                "ROUND THREE

"Percy came up weak, seeming to be overtrained. The
Cyclone waded in, using both hands effectively. The
Battler fell into a clinch, but the Cyclone broke away
and, measuring his distance, picked up a haymaker from the
floor and put it over. Percy down and out.

"Interviewed by our representative after the fight,
Cyclone Jim said: 'The issue was never in doubt. I was
handicapped at the outset by the fact that I was under the
impression that I was fighting three twin-brothers, and I
missed several opportunities of putting over the winning
wallop by attacking the outside ones. It was only in the
second round that I decided to concentrate my assault on
the one in the middle, when the affair speedily came to a
conclusion. I shall not adopt pugilism as a profession.
The prizes are attractive, but it is too much like work.'"

Bayliss ceased, and silence fell upon the room.

"Is that all?"

"That is all, sir."

"And about enough."

"Very true, sir."

"You know, Bayliss," said Jimmy thoughtfully, rolling over on the
couch, "life is peculiar, not to say odd. You never know what is
waiting for you round the corner. You start the day with the
fairest prospects, and before nightfall everything is as rocky
and ding-basted as stig tossed full of doodlegammon. Why is this,
Bayliss?"

"I couldn't say, sir."

"Look at me. I go out to spend a happy evening, meaning no harm
to any one, and I come back all blue with the blood of the
aristocracy. We now come to a serious point. Do you think my
lady stepmother has read that sporting chronicle?"

"I fancy not, Mr. James."

"On what do you base these words of comfort?"

"Mrs. Crocker does not read the halfpenny papers, sir."

"True! She does not. I had forgotten. On the other hand the
probability that she will learn about the little incident from
other sources is great. I think the merest prudence suggests that
I keep out of the way for the time being, lest I be fallen upon
and questioned. I am not equal to being questioned this morning.
I have a headache which starts at the soles of my feet and gets
worse all the way up. Where is my stepmother?"

"Mrs. Crocker is in her room, Mr. James. She ordered the car to
be brought round at once. It should be here at any moment now,
sir. I think Mrs. Crocker intends to visit the Park before
luncheon."

"Is she lunching out?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, if I pursue the excellent common-sense tactics of the
lesser sand-eel, which as you doubtless know buries itself tail
upwards in the mud on hearing the baying of the eel-hounds and
remains in that position till the danger is past, I shall be able
to postpone an interview. Should you be questioned as to my
whereabouts, inflate your chest and reply in a clear and manly
voice that I have gone out, you know not where. May I rely on
your benevolent neutrality, Bayliss?"

"Very good, Mr. James."

"I think I will go and sit in my father's den. A man may lie hid
there with some success as a rule."

Jimmy heaved himself painfully off the sofa, blinked, and set out
for the den, where his father, in a deep arm-chair, was smoking a
restful pipe and reading the portions of the daily papers which
did not deal with the game of cricket.

Mr. Crocker's den was a small room at the back of the house. It
was not luxurious, and it looked out onto a blank wall, but it
was the spot he liked best in all that vast pile which had once
echoed to the tread of titled shoes; for, as he sometimes
observed to his son, it had the distinction of being the only
room on the ground floor where a fellow could move without
stubbing his toe on a countess or an honourable. In this peaceful
backwater he could smoke a pipe, put his feet up, take off his
coat, and generally indulge in that liberty and pursuit of
happiness to which the Constitution entitles a free-born
American. Nobody ever came there except Jimmy and himself.

He did not suspend his reading at his son's entrance. He muttered
a welcome through the clouds, but he did not raise his eyes.
Jimmy took the other arm-chair, and began to smoke silently. It
was the unwritten law of the den that soothing silence rather
than aimless chatter should prevail. It was not until a quarter
of an hour had passed that Mr. Crocker dropped his paper and
spoke.

"Say, Jimmy, I want to talk to you."

"Say on. You have our ear."

"Seriously."

"Continue--always, however, keeping before you the fact that I am
a sick man. Last night was a wild night on the moors, dad."

"It's about your stepmother. She was talking at breakfast about
you. She's sore at you for giving Spike Dillon lunch at the
Carlton. You oughtn't to have taken him there, Jimmy. That's what
got her goat. She was there with a bunch of swells and they had
to sit and listen to Spike talking about his half-scissors hook."

"What's their kick against Spike's half-scissors hook? It's a
darned good one."

"She said she was going to speak to you about it. I thought I'd
let you know."

"Thanks, dad. But was that all?"

"All."

"All that she was going to speak to me about? Sure there was
nothing else?"

"She didn't say anything about anything else."

"Then she _doesn't_ know! Fine!"

Mr. Crocker's feet came down from the mantelpiece with a crash.

"Jimmy! You haven't been raising Cain again?"

"No, no, dad. Nothing serious. High-spirited Young Patrician
stuff, the sort of thing that's expected of a fellow in my
position."

Mr. Crocker was not to be comforted.

"Jimmy, you've got to pull up. Honest, you have. I don't care for
myself. I like to see a boy having a good time. But your
stepmother says you're apt to queer us with the people up top,
the way you're going on. Lord knows I wouldn't care if things
were different, but I'll tell you exactly how I stand. I didn't
get wise till this morning. Your stepmother sprang it on me
suddenly. I've often wondered what all this stuff was about, this
living in London and trailing the swells. I couldn't think what
was your stepmother's idea. Now I know. Jimmy, she's trying to
get them to make me a peer!"

"What!"

"Just that. And she says--"

"But, dad, this is rich! This is comedy of a high order! A peer!
Good Heavens, if it comes off, what shall I be? This title
business is all so complicated. I know I should have to change my
name to Hon. Rollo Cholmondeley or the Hon. Aubrey Marjoribanks,
but what I want to know is which? I want to be prepared for the
worst."

"And you see, Jimmy, these people up top, the guys who arrange
the giving of titles, are keeping an eye on you, because you
would have the title after me and naturally they don't want to
get stung. I gathered all that from your stepmother. Say, Jimmy,
I'm not asking a lot of you, but there is just one thing you can
do for me without putting yourself out too much."

"I'll do it, dad, if it kills me. Slip me the info!"

"Your stepmother's friend Lady Corstorphine's nephew . . ."

"It's not the sort of story to ask a man with a headache to
follow. I hope it gets simpler as it goes along."

"Your stepmother wants you to be a good fellow and make friends
with this boy. You see, his father is in right with the Premier
and has the biggest kind of a pull when it comes to handing out
titles."

"Is that all you want? Leave it to me. Inside of a week I'll be
playing kiss-in-the-ring with him. The whole force of my sunny
personality shall be directed towards making him love me. What's
his name?"

"Lord Percy Whipple."

Jimmy's pipe fell with a clatter.

"Dad, pull yourself together! Reflect! You know you don't
seriously mean Lord Percy Whipple."

"Eh?"

Jimmy laid a soothing hand on his father's shoulder.

"Dad, prepare yourself for the big laugh. This is where you throw
your head back and roar with honest mirth. I met Lord Percy
Whipple last night at the Six Hundred Club. Words ensued. I fell
upon Percy and beat his block off! How it started, except that we
both wanted the same table, I couldn't say. 'Why, that I cannot
tell,' said he, 'but 'twas a famous victory!' If I had known,
dad, nothing would have induced me to lay a hand upon Perce, save
in the way of kindness, but, not even knowing who he was, it
would appear from contemporary accounts of the affair that I just
naturally sailed in and expunged the poor, dear boy!"

The stunning nature of this information had much the same effect
on Mr. Crocker as the announcement of his ruin has upon the Good
Old Man in melodrama. He sat clutching the arms of his chair and
staring into space, saying nothing. Dismay was written upon his
anguished countenance.

His collapse sobered Jimmy. For the first time he perceived that
the situation had another side than the humorous one which had
appealed to him. He had anticipated that Mr. Crocker, who as a
general thing shared his notions of what was funny and could be
relied on to laugh in the right place, would have been struck,
like himself, by the odd and pleasing coincidence of his having
picked on for purposes of assault and battery the one young man
with whom his stepmother wished him to form a firm and lasting
friendship. He perceived now that his father was seriously upset.
Neither Jimmy nor Mr. Crocker possessed a demonstrative nature,
but there had always existed between them the deepest affection.
Jimmy loved his father as he loved nobody else in the world, and
the thought of having hurt him was like a physical pain. His
laughter died away and he set himself with a sinking heart to try
to undo the effect of his words.

"I'm awfully sorry, dad. I had no idea you would care. I wouldn't
have done a fool thing like that for a million dollars if I'd
known. Isn't there anything I can do? Gee whiz! I'll go right
round to Percy now and apologise. I'll lick his boots. Don't you
worry, dad. I'll make it all right."

The whirl of words roused Mr. Crocker from his thoughts.

"It doesn't matter, Jimmy. Don't worry yourself. It's only a
little unfortunate, because your stepmother says she won't think
of our going back to America till these people here have given me
a title. She wants to put one over on her sister. That's all
that's troubling me, the thought that this affair will set us
back, this Lord Percy being in so strong with the guys who give
the titles. I guess it will mean my staying on here for a while
longer, and I'd liked to have seen another ball-game. Jimmy, do
you know they call baseball Rounders in this country, and
children play it with a soft ball!"

Jimmy was striding up and down the little room. Remorse had him
in its grip.

"What a damned fool I am!"

"Never mind, Jimmy. It's unfortunate, but it wasn't your fault.
You couldn't know."

"It was my fault. Nobody but a fool like me would go about
beating people up. But don't worry, dad. It's going to be all
right. I'll fix it. I'm going right round to this fellow Percy
now to make things all right. I won't come back till I've squared
him. Don't you bother yourself about it any longer, dad. It's
going to be all right."



CHAPTER VI

JIMMY ABANDONS PICCADILLY

Jimmy removed himself sorrowfully from the doorstep of the Duke
of Devizes' house in Cleveland Row. His mission had been a
failure. In answer to his request to be permitted to see Lord
Percy Whipple, the butler had replied that Lord Percy was
confined to his bed and was seeing nobody. He eyed Jimmy, on
receiving his name, with an interest which he failed to conceal,
for he too, like Bayliss, had read and heartily enjoyed Bill
Blake's spirited version of the affair of last night which had
appeared in the _Daily Sun_. Indeed, he had clipped the report out
and had been engaged in pasting it in an album when the bell
rang.

In face of this repulse, Jimmy's campaign broke down. He was at a
loss to know what to do next. He ebbed away from the Duke's front
door like an army that has made an unsuccessful frontal attack on
an impregnable fortress. He could hardly force his way in and
search for Lord Percy.

He walked along Pall Mall, deep in thought. It was a beautiful
day. The rain which had fallen in the night and relieved Mr.
Crocker from the necessity of watching cricket had freshened
London up.

The sun was shining now from a turquoise sky. A gentle breeze
blew from the south. Jimmy made his way into Piccadilly, and
found that thoroughfare a-roar with happy automobilists and
cheery pedestrians. Their gaiety irritated him. He resented
their apparent enjoyment of life.

Jimmy's was not a nature that lent itself readily to
introspection, but he was putting himself now through a searching
self-examination which was revealing all kinds of unsuspected
flaws in his character. He had been having too good a time for
years past to have leisure to realise that he possessed any
responsibilities. He had lived each day as it came in the spirit
of the Monks of Thelema. But his father's reception of the news
of last night's escapade and the few words he had said had given
him pause. Life had taken on of a sudden a less simple aspect.
Dimly, for he was not accustomed to thinking along these lines,
he perceived the numbing truth that we human beings are merely as
many pieces in a jig-saw puzzle and that our every movement
affects the fortunes of some other piece. Just so, faintly at
first and taking shape by degrees, must the germ of civic spirit
have come to Prehistoric Man. We are all individualists till we
wake up.

The thought of having done anything to make his father unhappy
was bitter to Jimmy Crocker. They had always been more like
brothers than father and son. Hard thoughts about himself surged
through Jimmy's mind. With a dejectedness to which it is possible
that his headache contributed he put the matter squarely to
himself. His father was longing to return to America--he, Jimmy,
by his idiotic behaviour was putting obstacles in the way of that
return--what was the answer? The answer, to Jimmy's way of
thinking, was that all was not well with James Crocker, that,
when all the evidence was weighed, James Crocker would appear to
be a fool, a worm, a selfish waster, and a hopeless, low-down
skunk.

Having come to this conclusion, Jimmy found himself so low in
spirit that the cheerful bustle of Piccadilly was too much for
him. He turned, and began to retrace his steps. Arriving in due
course at the top of the Haymarket he hesitated, then turned down
it till he reached Cockspur Street. Here the Trans-Atlantic
steamship companies have their offices, and so it came about that
Jimmy, chancing to look up as he walked, perceived before him,
riding gallantly on a cardboard ocean behind a plate-glass
window, the model of a noble vessel. He stopped, conscious of a
curious thrill. There is a superstition in all of us. When an
accidental happening chances to fit smoothly in with a mood,
seeming to come as a direct commentary on that mood, we are apt
to accept it in defiance of our pure reason as an omen. Jimmy
strode to the window and inspected the model narrowly. The sight
of it had started a new train of thought. His heart began to
race. Hypnotic influences were at work on him.

Why not? Could there be a simpler solution of the whole trouble?

Inside the office he would see a man with whiskers buying a
ticket for New York. The simplicity of the process fascinated
him. All you had to do was to walk in, bend over the counter
while the clerk behind it made dabs with a pencil at the
illustrated plate of the ship's interior organs, and hand over
your money. A child could do it, if in funds. At this thought his
hand strayed to his trouser-pocket. A musical crackling of
bank-notes proceeded from the depths. His quarterly allowance had
been paid to him only a short while before, and, though a willing
spender, he still retained a goodly portion of it. He rustled the
notes again. There was enough in that pocket to buy three tickets
to New York. Should he? . . . Or, on the other hand--always look
on both sides of the question--should he not?

It would certainly seem to be the best thing for all parties if
he did follow the impulse. By remaining in London he was injuring
everybody, himself included. . . . Well, there was no harm in
making enquiries. Probably the boat was full up anyway. . . . He
walked into the office.

"Have you anything left on the _Atlantic_ this trip?"

The clerk behind the counter was quite the wrong sort of person
for Jimmy to have had dealings with in his present mood. What
Jimmy needed was a grave, sensible man who would have laid a hand
on his shoulder and said "Do nothing rash, my boy!" The clerk
fell short of this ideal in practically every particular. He was
about twenty-two, and he seemed perfectly enthusiastic about the
idea of Jimmy going to America. He beamed at Jimmy.

"Plenty of room," he said. "Very few people crossing. Give you
excellent accommodation."

"When does the boat sail?"

"Eight to-morrow morning from Liverpool. Boat-train leaves
Paddington six to-night."

Prudence came at the eleventh hour to check Jimmy. This was not a
matter, he perceived, to be decided recklessly, on the spur of a
sudden impulse. Above all, it was not a matter to be decided
before lunch. An empty stomach breeds imagination. He had
ascertained that he could sail on the _Atlantic_ if he wished to.
The sensible thing to do now was to go and lunch and see how he
felt about it after that. He thanked the clerk, and started to
walk up the Haymarket, feeling hard-headed and practical, yet
with a strong premonition that he was going to make a fool of
himself just the same.

It was half-way up the Haymarket that he first became conscious
of the girl with the red hair.

Plunged in thought, he had not noticed her before. And yet she
had been walking a few paces in front of him most of the way. She
had come out of Panton Street, walking briskly, as one going to
keep a pleasant appointment. She carried herself admirably, with
a jaunty swing.

Having become conscious of this girl, Jimmy, ever a warm admirer
of the sex, began to feel a certain interest stealing over him.
With interest came speculation. He wondered who she was. He
wondered where she had bought that excellently fitting suit of
tailor-made grey. He admired her back, and wondered whether her
face, if seen, would prove a disappointment. Thus musing, he drew
near to the top of the Haymarket, where it ceases to be a street
and becomes a whirlpool of rushing traffic. And here the girl,
having paused and looked over her shoulder, stepped off the
sidewalk. As she did so a taxi-cab rounded the corner quickly
from the direction of Coventry Street.

The agreeable surprise of finding the girl's face fully as
attractive as her back had stimulated Jimmy, so that he was keyed
up for the exhibition of swift presence-of-mind. He jumped
forward and caught her arm, and swung her to one side as the cab
rattled past, its driver thinking hard thoughts to himself. The
whole episode was an affair of seconds.

"Thank you," said the girl.

She rubbed the arm which he had seized with rather a rueful
expression. She was a little white, and her breath came quickly.

"I hope I didn't hurt you," said Jimmy.

"You did. Very much. But the taxi would have hurt me more."

She laughed. She looked very attractive when she laughed. She had
a small, piquant, vivacious face. Jimmy, as he looked at it, had
an odd feeling that he had seen her before--when and where he did
not know. That mass of red-gold hair seemed curiously familiar.
Somewhere in the hinterland of his mind there lurked a memory,
but he could not bring it into the open. As for the girl, if she
had ever met him before, she showed no signs of recollecting it.
Jimmy decided that, if he had seen her, it must have been in his
reporter days. She was plainly an American, and he occasionally
had the feeling that he had seen every one in America when he had
worked for the _Chronicle_.

"That's right," he said approvingly. "Always look on the bright
side."

"I only arrived in London yesterday," said the girl, "and I
haven't got used to your keeping-to-the-left rules. I don't
suppose I shall ever get back to New York alive. Perhaps, as you
have saved my life, you wouldn't mind doing me another service.
Can you tell me which is the nearest and safest way to a
restaurant called the Regent Grill?"

"It's just over there, at the corner of Regent Street. As to the
safest way, if I were you I should cross over at the top of the
street there and then work round westward. Otherwise you will have
to cross Piccadilly Circus."

"I absolutely refuse even to try to cross Piccadilly Circus.
Thank you very much. I will follow your advice. I hope I shall
get there. It doesn't seem at all likely."

She gave him a little nod, and moved away. Jimmy turned into that
drug-store at the top of the Haymarket at which so many Londoners
have found healing and comfort on the morning after, and bought
the pink drink for which his system had been craving since he
rose from bed. He wondered why, as he drained it, he should feel
ashamed and guilty.

A few minutes later he found himself, with mild surprise, going
down the steps of the Regent Grill. It was the last place he had
had in his mind when he had left the steamship company's offices
in quest of lunch. He had intended to seek out some quiet,
restful nook where he could be alone with his thoughts. If
anybody had told him then that five minutes later he would be
placing himself of his own free will within the range of a
restaurant orchestra playing "My Little Grey Home in the
West"--and the orchestra at the Regent played little else--he
would not have believed him.

Restaurants in all large cities have their ups and downs. At this
time the Regent Grill was enjoying one of those bursts of
popularity for which restaurateurs pray to whatever strange gods
they worship. The more prosperous section of London's Bohemia
flocked to it daily. When Jimmy had deposited his hat with the
robber-band who had their cave just inside the main entrance and
had entered the grill-room, he found it congested. There did not
appear to be a single unoccupied table.

From where he stood he could see the girl of the red-gold hair.
Her back was towards him, and she was sitting at a table against
one of the pillars with a little man with eye-glasses, a handsome
woman in the forties, and a small stout boy who was skirmishing
with the olives. As Jimmy hesitated, the vigilant head-waiter,
who knew him well, perceived him, and hurried up.

"In one moment, Mister Crockaire!" he said, and began to scatter
commands among the underlings. "I will place a table for you in
the aisle."

"Next to that pillar, please," said Jimmy.

The underlings had produced a small table--apparently from up
their sleeves, and were draping it in a cloth. Jimmy sat down and
gave his order. Ordering was going on at the other table. The
little man seemed depressed at the discovery that corn on the cob
and soft-shelled crabs were not to be obtained, and his wife's
reception of the news that clams were not included in the
Regent's bill-of-fare was so indignant that one would have said
that she regarded the fact as evidence that Great Britain was
going to pieces and would shortly lose her place as a world
power.

A selection having finally been agreed upon, the orchestra struck
up "My Little Grey Home in the West," and no attempt was made to
compete with it. When the last lingering strains had died away
and the violinist-leader, having straightened out the kinks in
his person which the rendition of the melody never failed to
produce, had bowed for the last time, a clear, musical voice
spoke from the other side of the pillar.

"Jimmy Crocker is a WORM!"

Jimmy spilled his cocktail. It might have been the voice of
Conscience.

"I despise him more than any one on earth. I hate to think that
he's an American."

Jimmy drank the few drops that remained in his glass, partly to
make sure of them, partly as a restorative. It is an unnerving
thing to be despised by a red-haired girl whose life you have
just saved. To Jimmy it was not only unnerving; it was uncanny.
This girl had not known him when they met on the street a few
moments before. How then was she able to display such intimate
acquaintance with his character now as to describe him--justly
enough--as a worm? Mingled with the mystery of the thing was its
pathos. The thought that a girl could be as pretty as this one
and yet dislike him so much was one of the saddest things Jimmy
had ever come across. It was like one of those Things Which Make
Me Weep In This Great City so dear to the hearts of the
sob-writers of his late newspaper.

A waiter bustled up with a high-ball. Jimmy thanked him with his
eyes. He needed it. He raised it to his lips.

"He's always drinking--"

He set it down hurriedly.

"--and making a disgraceful exhibition of himself in public! I
always think Jimmy Crocker--"

Jimmy began to wish that somebody would stop this girl. Why
couldn't the little man change the subject to the weather, or
that stout child start prattling about some general topic? Surely
a boy of that age, newly arrived in London, must have all sorts
of things to prattle about? But the little man was dealing
strenuously with a breaded cutlet, while the stout boy, grimly
silent, surrounded fish-pie in the forthright manner of a
starving python. As for the elder woman, she seemed to be
wrestling with unpleasant thoughts, beyond speech.

"--I always think that Jimmy Crocker is the worst case I know of
the kind of American young man who spends all his time in Europe
and tries to become an imitation Englishman. Most of them are the
sort any country would be glad to get rid of, but he used to work
once, so you can't excuse him on the ground that he hasn't the
sense to know what he's doing. He's deliberately chosen to loaf
about London and make a pest of himself. He went to pieces with
his eyes open. He's a perfect, utter, hopeless WORM!"

Jimmy had never been very fond of the orchestra at the Regent
Grill, holding the view that it interfered with conversation and
made for an unhygienic rapidity of mastication; but he was
profoundly grateful to it now for bursting suddenly into _La
Boheme_, the loudest item in its repertory. Under cover of that
protective din he was able to toy with a steaming dish which his
waiter had brought. Probably that girl was saying all sorts of
things about him still but he could not hear them.

The music died away. For a moment the tortured air quivered in
comparative silence; then the girl's voice spoke again. She had,
however, selected another topic of conversation.

"I've seen all I want to of England," she said, "I've seen
Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament and His Majesty's
Theatre and the Savoy and the Cheshire Cheese, and I've developed
a frightful home-sickness. Why shouldn't we go back to-morrow?"

For the first time in the proceedings the elder woman spoke. She
cast aside her mantle of gloom long enough to say "Yes," then
wrapped it round her again. The little man, who had apparently
been waiting for her vote before giving his own, said that the
sooner he was on board a New York-bound boat the better he would
be pleased. The stout boy said nothing. He had finished his
fish-pie, and was now attacking jam roll with a sort of morose
resolution.

"There's certain to be a boat," said the girl. "There always is.
You've got to say that for England--it's an easy place to get back
to America from." She paused. "What I can't understand is how,
after having been in America and knowing what it was like, Jimmy
Crocker could stand living . . ."

The waiter had come to Jimmy's side, bearing cheese; but Jimmy
looked at it with dislike and shook his head in silent negation.
He was about to depart from this place. His capacity for
absorbing home-truths about himself was exhausted. He placed a
noiseless sovereign on the table, caught the waiter's eye,
registered renunciation, and departed soft-footed down the aisle.
The waiter, a man who had never been able to bring himself to
believe in miracles, revised the views of a life-time. He looked
at the sovereign, then at Jimmy, then at the sovereign again.
Then he took up the coin and bit it furtively.

A few minutes later, a hat-check boy, untipped for the first time
in his predatory career, was staring at Jimmy with equal
intensity, but with far different feelings. Speechless concern
was limned on his young face.

The commissionaire at the Piccadilly entrance of the restaurant
touched his hat ingratiatingly, with the smug confidence of a man
who is accustomed to getting sixpence a time for doing it.

"Taxi, Mr. Crocker?"

"A worm," said Jimmy.

"Beg pardon, sir?"

"Always drinking," explained Jimmy, "and making a pest of
himself."

He passed on. The commissionaire stared after him as intently as
the waiter and the hat-check boy. He had sometimes known Mr.
Crocker like this after supper, but never before during the
luncheon hour.

Jimmy made his way to his club in Northumberland Avenue. For
perhaps half an hour he sat in a condition of coma in the
smoking-room; then, his mind made up, he went to one of the
writing-tables. He sat awaiting inspiration for some minutes,
then began to write.

The letter he wrote was to his father:


Dear Dad:

I have been thinking over what we talked about this
morning, and it seems to me the best thing I can do is to
drop out of sight for a brief space. If I stay on in
London, I am likely at any moment to pull some boner like
last night's which will spill the beans for you once more.
The least I can do for you is to give you a clear field
and not interfere, so I am off to New York by to-night's
boat.

I went round to Percy's to try to grovel in the dust
before him, but he wouldn't see me. It's no good
grovelling in the dust of the front steps for the benefit
of a man who's in bed on the second floor, so I withdrew
in more or less good order. I then got the present idea.
Mark how all things work together for good. When they come
to you and say "No title for you. Your son slugged our pal
Percy," all you have to do is to come back at them with "I
know my son slugged Percy, and believe me I didn't do a
thing to him! I packed him off to America within
twenty-four hours. Get me right, boys! I'm anti-Jimmy and
pro-Percy." To which their reply will be "Oh, well, in
that case arise, Lord Crocker!" or whatever they say when
slipping a title to a deserving guy. So you will see that
by making this getaway I am doing the best I can to put
things straight. I shall give this to Bayliss to give to
you. I am going to call him up on the phone in a minute to
have him pack a few simple tooth-brushes and so on for me.
On landing in New York, I shall instantly proceed to the
Polo Grounds to watch a game of Rounders, and will cable
you the full score. Well. I think that's about all. So
good-bye--or even farewell--for the present.

J.

P.S. I know you'll understand, dad. I'm doing what seems
to me the only possible thing. Don't worry about me. I
shall be all right. I'll get back my old job and be a
terrific success all round. You go ahead and get that
title and then meet me at the entrance of the Polo
Grounds. I'll be looking for you.

P.P.S. I'm a worm.


The young clerk at the steamship offices appeared rejoiced to see
Jimmy once more. With a sunny smile he snatched a pencil from his
ear and plunged it into the vitals of the Atlantic.

"How about E. a hundred and eight?"

"Suits me."

"You're too late to go in the passenger-list, of course."

Jimmy did not reply. He was gazing rigidly at a girl who had just
come in, a girl with red hair and a friendly smile.

"So you're sailing on the _Atlantic_, too!" she said, with a glance
at the chart on the counter. "How odd! We have just decided to go
back on her too. There's nothing to keep us here and we're all
homesick. Well, you see I wasn't run over after I left you."

A delicious understanding relieved Jimmy's swimming brain, as
thunder relieves the tense and straining air. The feeling that he
was going mad left him, as the simple solution of his mystery
came to him. This girl must have heard of him in New
York--perhaps she knew people whom he knew and it was on hearsay,
not on personal acquaintance, that she based that dislike of him
which she had expressed with such freedom and conviction so short
a while before at the Regent Grill. She did not know who he was!

Into this soothing stream of thought cut the voice of the clerk.

"What name, please?"

Jimmy's mind rocked again. Why were these things happening to him
to-day of all days, when he needed the tenderest treatment, when
he had a headache already?

The clerk was eyeing him expectantly. He had laid down his pencil
and was holding aloft a pen. Jimmy gulped. Every name in the
English language had passed from his mind. And then from out of
the dark came inspiration.

"Bayliss," he croaked.

The girl held out her hand.

"Then we can introduce ourselves at last. My name is Ann Chester.
How do you do, Mr. Bayliss?"

"How do you do, Miss Chester?"

The clerk had finished writing the ticket, and was pressing
labels and a pink paper on him. The paper, he gathered dully, was
a form and had to be filled up. He examined it, and found it to
be a searching document. Some of its questions could be answered
off-hand, others required thought.

"Height?" Simple. Five foot eleven.

"Hair?" Simple. Brown.

"Eyes?" Simple again. Blue.

Next, queries of a more offensive kind.

"Are you a polygamist?"

He could answer that. Decidedly no. One wife would be
ample--provided she had red-gold hair, brown-gold eyes, the right
kind of mouth, and a dimple. Whatever doubts there might be in
his mind on other points, on that one he had none whatever.

"Have you ever been in prison?"

Not yet.

And then a very difficult one. "Are you a lunatic?"

Jimmy hesitated. The ink dried on his pen. He was wondering.


                    *   *   *


In the dim cavern of Paddington Station the boat-train snorted
impatiently, varying the process with an occasional sharp shriek.
The hands of the station clock pointed to ten minutes to six. The
platform was a confused mass of travellers, porters, baggage,
trucks, boys with buns and fruits, boys with magazines, friends,
relatives, and Bayliss the butler, standing like a faithful
watchdog beside a large suitcase. To the human surf that broke
and swirled about him he paid no attention. He was looking for
the young master.

Jimmy clove the crowd like a one-man flying-wedge. Two fruit and
bun boys who impeded his passage drifted away like leaves on an
Autumn gale.

"Good man!" He possessed himself of the suitcase. "I was afraid
you might not be able to get here."

"The mistress is dining out, Mr. James. I was able to leave the
house."

"Have you packed everything I shall want?"

"Within the scope of a suitcase, yes, sir."

"Splendid! Oh, by the way, give this letter to my father, will
you?"

"Very good, sir."

"I'm glad you were able to manage. I thought your voice sounded
doubtful over the phone."

"I was a good deal taken aback, Mr. James. Your decision to leave
was so extremely sudden."

"So was Columbus'. You know about him? He saw an egg standing on
its head and whizzed off like a jack-rabbit."

"If you will pardon the liberty, Mr. James, is it not a little
rash--?"

"Don't take the joy out of life, Bayliss. I may be a chump, but
try to forget it. Use your willpower."

"Good evening, Mr. Bayliss," said a voice behind them. They both
turned. The butler was gazing rather coyly at a vision in a grey
tailor-made suit.

"Good evening, miss," he said doubtfully.

Ann looked at him in astonishment, then broke into a smile.

"How stupid of me! I meant this Mr. Bayliss. Your son! We met at
the steamship offices. And before that he saved my life. So we
are old friends."

Bayliss, gaping perplexedly and feeling unequal to the
intellectual pressure of the conversation, was surprised further
to perceive a warning scowl on the face of his Mr. James. Jimmy
had not foreseen this thing, but he had a quick mind and was
equal to it.

"How are you, Miss Chester? My father has come down to see me
off. This is Miss Chester, dad."

A British butler is not easily robbed of his poise, but Bayliss
was frankly unequal to the sudden demand on his presence of mind.
He lowered his jaw an inch or two, but spoke no word.

"Dad's a little upset at my going," whispered Jimmy
confidentially. "He's not quite himself."

Ann was a girl possessed not only of ready tact but of a kind
heart. She had summed up Mr. Bayliss at a glance. Every line of
him proclaimed him a respectable upper servant. No girl on earth
could have been freer than she of snobbish prejudice, but she
could not check a slight thrill of surprise and disappointment at
the discovery of Jimmy's humble origin. She understood everything,
and there were tears in her eyes as she turned away to avoid
intruding on the last moments of the parting of father and son.

"I'll see you on the boat, Mr. Bayliss," she said.

"Eh?" said Bayliss.

"Yes, yes," said Jimmy. "Good-bye till then."

Ann walked on to her compartment. She felt as if she had just read
a whole long novel, one of those chunky younger-English-novelist
things. She knew the whole story as well as if it had been told
to her in detail. She could see the father, the honest steady
butler, living his life with but one aim, to make a gentleman of
his beloved only son. Year by year he had saved. Probably he had
sent the son to college. And now, with a father's blessing and
the remains of a father's savings, the boy was setting out for
the New World, where dollar-bills grew on trees and no one asked
or cared who any one else's father might be.

There was a lump in her throat. Bayliss would have been amazed if
he could have known what a figure of pathetic fineness he seemed
to her. And then her thoughts turned to Jimmy, and she was aware
of a glow of kindliness towards him. His father had succeeded in
his life's ambition. He had produced a gentleman! How easily and
simply, without a trace of snobbish shame, the young man had
introduced his father. There was the right stuff in him. He was
not ashamed of the humble man who had given him his chance in
life. She found herself liking Jimmy amazingly . . .

The hands of the clock pointed to three minutes to the hour.
Porters skimmed to and fro like water-beetles.

"I can't explain," said Jimmy. "It wasn't temporary insanity; it
was necessity."

"Very good, Mr. James. I think you had better be taking your seat
now."

"Quite right, I had. It would spoil the whole thing if they left
me behind. Bayliss, did you ever see such eyes? Such hair! Look
after my father while I am away. Don't let the dukes worry him.
Oh, and, Bayliss"--Jimmy drew his hand from his pocket--"as one
pal to another--"

Bayliss looked at the crackling piece of paper.

"I couldn't, Mr. James, I really couldn't! A five-pound note! I
couldn't!"

"Nonsense! Be a sport!"

"Begging your pardon, Mr. James, I really couldn't. You cannot
afford to throw away your money like this. You cannot have a
great deal of it, if you will excuse me for saying so."

"I won't do anything of the sort. Grab it! Oh, Lord, the train's
starting! Good-bye, Bayliss!"

The engine gave a final shriek of farewell. The train began to
slide along the platform, pursued to the last by optimistic boys
offering buns for sale. It gathered speed. Jimmy, leaning out the
window, was amazed at a spectacle so unusual as practically to
amount to a modern miracle--the spectacled Bayliss running. The
butler was not in the pink of condition, but he was striding out
gallantly. He reached the door of Jimmy's compartment, and raised
his hand.

"Begging your pardon, Mr. James," he panted, "for taking the
liberty, but I really couldn't!"

He reached up and thrust something into Jimmy's hand, something
crisp and crackling. Then, his mission performed, fell back and
stood waving a snowy handkerchief. The train plunged into the
tunnel.

Jimmy stared at the five-pound note. He was aware, like Ann
farther along the train, of a lump in his throat. He put the note
slowly into his pocket.

The train moved on.



CHAPTER VII

ON THE BOAT-DECK

Rising waters and a fine flying scud that whipped stingingly over
the side had driven most of the passengers on the _Atlantic_ to the
shelter of their staterooms or to the warm stuffiness of the
library. It was the fifth evening of the voyage. For five days
and four nights the ship had been racing through a placid ocean
on her way to Sandy Hook: but in the early hours of this
afternoon the wind had shifted to the north, bringing heavy seas.
Darkness had begun to fall now. The sky was a sullen black. The
white crests of the rollers gleamed faintly in the dusk, and the
wind sang in the ropes.

Jimmy and Ann had had the boat-deck to themselves for half an
hour. Jimmy was a good sailor: it exhilarated him to fight the
wind and to walk a deck that heaved and dipped and shuddered
beneath his feet; but he had not expected to have Ann's company
on such an evening. But she had come out of the saloon entrance,
her small face framed in a hood and her slim body shapeless
beneath a great cloak, and joined him in his walk.

Jimmy was in a mood of exaltation. He had passed the last few
days in a condition of intermittent melancholy, consequent on the
discovery that he was not the only man on board the _Atlantic_ who
desired the society of Ann as an alleviation of the tedium of an
ocean voyage. The world, when he embarked on this venture, had
consisted so exclusively of Ann and himself that, until the ship
was well on its way to Queenstown, he had not conceived the
possibility of intrusive males forcing their unwelcome attentions
on her. And it had added bitterness to the bitter awakening that
their attentions did not appear to be at all unwelcome. Almost
immediately after breakfast on the very first day, a creature with
a small black moustache and shining teeth had descended upon Ann
and, vocal with surprise and pleasure at meeting her again--he
claimed, damn him!, to have met her before at Palm Beach, Bar
Harbor, and a dozen other places--had carried her off to play an
idiotic game known as shuffle-board. Nor was this an isolated
case. It began to be borne in upon Jimmy that Ann, whom he had
looked upon purely in the light of an Eve playing opposite his
Adam in an exclusive Garden of Eden, was an extremely well-known
and popular character. The clerk at the shipping-office had lied
absurdly when he had said that very few people were crossing on
the _Atlantic_ this voyage. The vessel was crammed till its sides
bulged, it was loaded down in utter defiance of the Plimsoll law,
with Rollos and Clarences and Dwights and Twombleys who had known
and golfed and ridden and driven and motored and swum and danced
with Ann for years. A ghastly being entitled Edgar Something or
Teddy Something had beaten Jimmy by a short head in the race for
the deck-steward, the prize of which was the placing of his
deck-chair next to Ann's. Jimmy had been driven from the
promenade deck by the spectacle of this beastly creature lying
swathed in rugs reading best-sellers to her.

He had scarcely seen her to speak to since the beginning of the
voyage. When she was not walking with Rolly or playing
shuffle-board with Twombley, she was down below ministering to
the comfort of a chronically sea-sick aunt, referred to in
conversation as "poor aunt Nesta". Sometimes Jimmy saw the little
man--presumably her uncle--in the smoking-room, and once he came
upon the stout boy recovering from the effects of a cigar in a
quiet corner of the boat-deck: but apart from these meetings the
family was as distant from him as if he had never seen Ann at
all--let alone saved her life.

And now she had dropped down on him from heaven. They were alone
together with the good clean wind and the bracing scud. Rollo,
Clarence, Dwight, and Twombley, not to mention Edgar or possibly
Teddy, were down below--he hoped, dying. They had the world to
themselves.

"I love rough weather," said Ann, lifting her face to the wind.
Her eyes were very bright. She was beyond any doubt or question
the only girl on earth. "Poor aunt Nesta doesn't. She was bad
enough when it was quite calm, but this storm has finished her.
I've just been down below, trying to cheer her up."

Jimmy thrilled at the picture. Always fascinating, Ann seemed to
him at her best in the role of ministering angel. He longed to
tell her so, but found no words. They reached the end of the
deck, and turned. Ann looked up at him.

"I've hardly seen anything of you since we sailed," she said. She
spoke almost reproachfully. "Tell me all about yourself, Mr.
Bayliss. Why are you going to America?"

Jimmy had had an impassioned indictment of the Rollos on his
tongue, but she had closed the opening for it as quickly as she
had made it. In face of her direct demand for information he
could not hark back to it now. After all, what did the Rollos
matter? They had no part in this little wind-swept world: they
were where they belonged, in some nether hell on the C. or D.
deck, moaning for death.

"To make a fortune, I hope," he said.

Ann was pleased at this confirmation of her diagnosis. She had
deduced this from the evidence at Paddington Station.

"How pleased your father will be if you do!"

The slight complexity of Jimmy's affairs caused him to pause for
a moment to sort out his fathers, but an instant's reflection
told him that she must be referring to Bayliss the butler.

"Yes."

"He's a dear old man," said Ann. "I suppose he's very proud of
you?"

"I hope so."

"You must do tremendously well in America, so as not to
disappoint him. What are you thinking of doing?"

Jimmy considered for a moment.

"Newspaper work, I think."

"Oh? Why, have you had any experience?"

"A little."

Ann seemed to grow a little aloof, as if her enthusiasm had been
damped.

"Oh, well, I suppose it's a good enough profession. I'm not very
fond of it myself. I've only met one newspaper man in my life,
and I dislike him very much, so I suppose that has prejudiced
me."

"Who was that?"

"You wouldn't have met him. He was on an American paper. A man
named Crocker."

A sudden gust of wind drove them back a step, rendering talk
impossible. It covered a gap when Jimmy could not have spoken.
The shock of the information that Ann had met him before made him
dumb. This thing was beyond him. It baffled him.

Her next words supplied a solution. They were under shelter of
one of the boats now and she could make herself heard.

"It was five years ago, and I only met him for a very short
while, but the prejudice has lasted."

Jimmy began to understand. Five years ago! It was not so strange,
then, that they should not recognise each other now. He stirred
up his memory. Nothing came to the surface. Not a gleam of
recollection of that early meeting rewarded him. And yet
something of importance must have happened then, for her to
remember it. Surely his mere personality could not have been so
unpleasant as to have made such a lasting impression on her!

"I wish you could do something better than newspaper work," said
Ann. "I always think the splendid part about America is that it
is such a land of adventure. There are such millions of chances.
It's a place where anything may happen. Haven't you an
adventurous soul, Mr. Bayliss?"

No man lightly submits to a charge, even a hinted charge, of
being deficient in the capacity for adventure.

"Of course I have," said Jimmy indignantly. "I'm game to tackle
anything that comes along."

"I'm glad of that."

Her feeling of comradeship towards this young man deepened. She
loved adventure and based her estimate of any member of the
opposite sex largely on his capacity for it. She moved in a set,
when at home, which was more polite than adventurous, and had
frequently found the atmosphere enervating.

"Adventure," said Jimmy, "is everything."

He paused. "Or a good deal," he concluded weakly.

"Why qualify it like that? It sounds so tame. Adventure is the
biggest thing in life."

It seemed to Jimmy that he had received an excuse for a remark of
a kind that had been waiting for utterance ever since he had met
her. Often and often in the watches of the night, smoking endless
pipes and thinking of her, he had conjured up just such a vision
as this--they two walking the deserted deck alone, and she
innocently giving him an opening for some low-voiced, tender
speech, at which she would start, look at him quickly, and then
ask him haltingly if the words had any particular application.
And after that--oh, well, all sorts of things might happen. And
now the moment had come. It was true that he had always pictured
the scene as taking place by moonlight and at present there was a
half-gale blowing, out of an inky sky; also on the present
occasion anything in the nature of a low-voiced speech was
absolutely out of the question owing to the uproar of the
elements. Still, taking these drawbacks into consideration, the
chance was far too good to miss. Such an opening might never
happen again. He waited till the ship had steadied herself after
an apparently suicidal dive into an enormous roller, then,
staggering back to her side, spoke.

"Love is the biggest thing in life!" he roared.

"What is?" shrieked Ann.

"Love!" bellowed Jimmy.

He wished a moment later that he had postponed this statement of
faith, for their next steps took them into a haven of comparative
calm, where some dimly seen portion of the vessel's anatomy
jutted out and formed a kind of nook where it was possible to
hear the ordinary tones of the human voice. He halted here, and
Ann did the same, though unwillingly. She was conscious of a
feeling of disappointment and of a modification of her mood of
comradeship towards her companion. She held strong views, which
she believed to be unalterable, on the subject under discussion.

"Love!" she said. It was too dark to see her face, but her voice
sounded unpleasantly scornful. "I shouldn't have thought that you
would have been so conventional as that. You seemed different."

"Eh?" said Jimmy blankly.

"I hate all this talk about Love, as if it were something
wonderful that was worth everything else in life put together.
Every book you read and every song that you see in the
shop-windows is all about Love. It's as if the whole world were
in a conspiracy to persuade themselves that there's a wonderful
something just round the corner which they can get if they try
hard enough. And they hypnotise themselves into thinking of
nothing else and miss all the splendid things of life."

"That's Shaw, isn't it?" said Jimmy.

"What is Shaw?"

"What you were saying. It's out of one of Bernard Shaw's things,
isn't it?"

"It is not." A note of acidity had crept into Ann's voice. "It is
perfectly original."

"I'm certain I've heard it before somewhere."

"If you have, that simply means that you must have associated
with some sensible person."

Jimmy was puzzled.

"But why the grouch?" he asked.

"I don't understand you."

"I mean, why do you feel that way about it?"

Ann was quite certain now that she did not like this young man
nearly as well as she had supposed. It is trying for a
strong-minded, clear-thinking girl to have her philosophy
described as a grouch.

"Because I've had the courage to think about it for myself, and
not let myself be blinded by popular superstition. The whole
world has united in making itself imagine that there is something
called love which is the most wonderful happening in life. The
poets and novelists have simply hounded them on to believe it.
It's a gigantic swindle."

A wave of tender compassion swept over Jimmy. He understood it
all now. Naturally a girl who had associated all her life with
the Rollos, Clarences, Dwights, and Twombleys would come to
despair of the possibility of falling in love with any one.

"You haven't met the right man," he said. She had, of course, but
only recently: and, anyway, he could point that out later.

"There is no such thing as the right man," said Ann resolutely,
"if you are suggesting that there is a type of man in existence
who is capable of inspiring what is called romantic love. I
believe in marriage. . . ."

"Good work!" said Jimmy, well satisfied.

" . . . But not as the result of a sort of delirium. I believe in
it as a sensible partnership between two friends who know each
other well and trust each other. The right way of looking at
marriage is to realise, first of all, that there are no thrills,
no romances, and then to pick out some one who is nice and kind
and amusing and full of life and willing to do things to make you
happy."

"Ah!" said Jimmy, straightening his tie, "Well, that's
something."

"How do you mean--that's something? Are you shocked at my views?"

"I don't believe they are your views. You've been reading one of
these stern, soured fellows who analyse things."

Ann stamped. The sound was inaudible, but Jimmy noticed the
movement.

"Cold?" he said. "Let's walk on."

Ann's sense of humour reasserted itself. It was not often that it
remained dormant for so long. She laughed.

"I know exactly what you are thinking," she said. "You believe
that I am posing, that those aren't my real opinions."

"They can't be. But I don't think you are posing. It's getting on
for dinner-time, and you've got that wan, sinking feeling that
makes you look upon the world and find it a hollow fraud. The
bugle will be blowing in a few minutes, and half an hour after
that you will be yourself again."

"I'm myself now. I suppose you can't realise that a pretty girl
can hold such views."

Jimmy took her arm.

"Let me help you," he said. "There's a knothole in the deck.
Watch your step. Now, listen to me. I'm glad you've brought up
this subject--I mean the subject of your being the prettiest girl
in the known world--"

"I never said that."

"Your modesty prevented you. But it's a fact, nevertheless. I'm
glad, I say, because I have been thinking a lot along those lines
myself, and I have been anxious to discuss the point with you.
You have the most glorious hair I have ever seen!"

"Do you like red hair?"

"Red-gold."

"It is nice of you to put it like that. When I was a child all
except a few of the other children called me Carrots."

"They have undoubtedly come to a bad end by this time. If bears
were sent to attend to the children who criticised Elijah, your
little friends were in line for a troupe of tigers. But there
were some of a finer fibre? There were a few who didn't call you
Carrots?"

"One or two. They called me Brick-Top."

"They have probably been electrocuted since. Your eyes are
perfectly wonderful!"

Ann withdrew her arm. An extensive acquaintance of young men told
her that the topic of conversation was now due to be changed.

"You will like America," she said.

"We are not discussing America."

"I am. It is a wonderful country for a man who wants to succeed.
If I were you, I should go out West."

"Do you live out West?"

"No."

"Then why suggest my going there? Where do you live?"

"I live in New York."

"I shall stay in New York, then."

Ann was wary, but amused. Proposals of marriage--and Jimmy seemed
to be moving swiftly towards one--were no novelty in her life. In
the course of several seasons at Bar Harbor, Tuxedo, Palm Beach,
and in New York itself, she had spent much of her time foiling
and discouraging the ardour of a series of sentimental youths who
had laid their unwelcome hearts at her feet.

"New York is open for staying in about this time, I believe."

Jimmy was silent. He had done his best to fight a tendency to
become depressed and had striven by means of a light tone to keep
himself resolutely cheerful, but the girl's apparently total
indifference to him was too much for his spirits. One of the
young men who had had to pick up the heart he had flung at Ann's
feet and carry it away for repairs had once confided to an
intimate friend, after the sting had to some extent passed, that
the feelings of a man who made love to Ann might be likened to
the emotions which hot chocolate might be supposed to entertain
on contact with vanilla ice-cream. Jimmy, had the comparison been
presented to him, would have endorsed its perfect accuracy. The
wind from the sea, until now keen and bracing, had become merely
infernally cold. The song of the wind in the rigging, erstwhile
melodious, had turned into a damned depressing howling.

"I used to be as sentimental as any one a few years ago," said
Ann, returning to the dropped subject. "Just after I left
college, I was quite maudlin. I dreamed of moons and Junes and
loves and doves all the time. Then something happened which made
me see what a little fool I was. It wasn't pleasant at the time,
but it had a very bracing effect. I have been quite different
ever since. It was a man, of course, who did it. His method was
quite simple. He just made fun of me, and Nature did the rest."

Jimmy scowled in the darkness. Murderous thoughts towards the
unknown brute flooded his mind.

"I wish I could meet him!" he growled.

"You aren't likely to," said Ann. "He lives in England. His name
is Crocker. Jimmy Crocker. I spoke about him just now."

Through the howling of the wind cut the sharp notes of a bugle.
Ann turned to the saloon entrance.

"Dinner!" she said brightly. "How hungry one gets on board ship!"
She stopped. "Aren't you coming down, Mr. Bayliss?"

"Not just yet," said Jimmy thickly.



CHAPTER VIII

PAINFUL SCENE IN A CAFE

The noonday sun beat down on Park Row. Hurrying mortals, released
from a thousand offices, congested the sidewalks, their thoughts
busy with the vision of lunch. Up and down the canyon of Nassau
Street the crowds moved more slowly. Candy-selling aliens jostled
newsboys, and huge dray-horses endeavoured to the best of their
ability not to grind the citizenry beneath their hooves.
Eastward, pressing on to the City Hall, surged the usual dense
army of happy lovers on their way to buy marriage-licenses. Men
popped in and out of the subway entrances like rabbits. It was a
stirring, bustling scene, typical of this nerve-centre of New
York's vast body.

Jimmy Crocker, standing in the doorway, watched the throngs
enviously. There were men in that crowd who chewed gum, there
were men who wore white satin ties with imitation diamond
stick-pins, there were men who, having smoked seven-tenths of a
cigar, were eating the remainder: but there was not one with whom
he would not at that moment willingly have exchanged identities.
For these men had jobs. And in his present frame of mind it
seemed to him that no further ingredient was needed for the
recipe of the ultimate human bliss.

The poet has said some very searching and unpleasant things about
the man "whose heart has ne'er within him burned as home his
footsteps he has turned from wandering on some foreign strand,"
but he might have excused Jimmy for feeling just then not so much
a warmth of heart as a cold and clammy sensation of dismay. He
would have had to admit that the words "High though his titles,
proud his name, boundless his wealth as wish can claim" did not
apply to Jimmy Crocker. The latter may have been "concentred all
on self," but his wealth consisted of one hundred and
thirty-three dollars and forty cents and his name was so far from
being proud that the mere sight of it in the files of the New
York _Sunday Chronicle_, the record-room of which he had just been
visiting, had made him consider the fact that he had changed it
to Bayliss the most sensible act of his career.

The reason for Jimmy's lack of enthusiasm as he surveyed the
portion of his native land visible from his doorway is not far to
seek. The _Atlantic_ had docked on Saturday night, and Jimmy,
having driven to an excellent hotel and engaged an expensive room
therein, had left instructions at the desk that breakfast should
be served to him at ten o'clock and with it the Sunday issue of
the _Chronicle_. Five years had passed since he had seen the dear
old rag for which he had reported so many fires, murders,
street-accidents, and weddings: and he looked forward to its
perusal as a formal taking _seisin_ of his long-neglected country.
Nothing could be more fitting and symbolic than that the first
morning of his return to America should find him propped up in
bed reading the good old _Chronicle_. Among his final meditations
as he dropped off to sleep was a gentle speculation as to who was
City editor now and whether the comic supplement was still
featuring the sprightly adventures of the Doughnut family.

A wave of not unmanly sentiment passed over him on the following
morning as he reached out for the paper. The sky-line of New
York, seen as the boat comes up the bay, has its points, and the
rattle of the Elevated trains and the quaint odour of the Subway
extend a kindly welcome, but the thing that really convinces the
returned traveller that he is back on Manhattan Island is the
first Sunday paper. Jimmy, like every one else, began by opening
the comic supplement: and as he scanned it a chilly discomfort,
almost a premonition of evil, came upon him. The Doughnut Family
was no more. He knew that it was unreasonable of him to feel as
if he had just been informed of the death of a dear friend, for
Pa Doughnut and his associates had been having their adventures
five years before he had left the country, and even the toughest
comic supplementary hero rarely endures for a decade: but
nevertheless the shadow did fall upon his morning optimism, and
he derived no pleasure whatever from the artificial rollickings
of a degraded creature called Old Pop Dill-Pickle who was offered
as a substitute.

But this, he was to discover almost immediately, was a trifling
disaster. It distressed him, but it did not affect his material
welfare. Tragedy really began when he turned to the magazine
section. Scarcely had he started to glance at it when this
headline struck him like a bullet:

            PICCADILLY JIM AT IT AGAIN

And beneath it his own name.

Nothing is so capable of diversity as the emotion we feel on
seeing our name unexpectedly in print. We may soar to the heights
or we may sink to the depths. Jimmy did the latter. A mere
cursory first inspection of the article revealed the fact that it
was no eulogy. With an unsparing hand the writer had muck-raked
his eventful past, the text on which he hung his remarks being
that ill-fated encounter with Lord Percy Whipple at the Six
Hundred Club. This the scribe had recounted at a length and with
a boisterous vim which outdid even Bill Blake's effort in the
London _Daily Sun_. Bill Blake had been handicapped by
consideration of space and the fact that he had turned in his
copy at an advanced hour when the paper was almost made up. The
present writer was shackled by no restrictions. He had plenty of
room to spread himself in, and he had spread himself. So liberal
had been the editor's views in the respect that, in addition to
the letter-press, the pages contained an unspeakably offensive
picture of a burly young man in an obviously advanced condition
of alcoholism raising his fist to strike a monocled youth in
evening dress who had so little chin that Jimmy was surprised
that he had ever been able to hit it. The only gleam of
consolation that he could discover in this repellent drawing was
the fact that the artist had treated Lord Percy even more
scurvily than himself. Among other things, the second son of the
Duke of Devizes was depicted as wearing a coronet--a thing which
would have excited remark even in a London night-club.

Jimmy read the thing through in its entirety three times before
he appreciated a _nuance_ which his disordered mind had at first
failed to grasp--to wit, that this character-sketch of himself
was no mere isolated outburst but apparently one of a series. In
several places the writer alluded unmistakeably to other theses
on the same subject.

Jimmy's breakfast congealed on its tray, untouched. That boon
which the gods so seldom bestow, of seeing ourselves as others
see us, had been accorded to him in full measure. By the time he
had completed his third reading he was regarding himself in a
purely objective fashion not unlike the attitude of a naturalist
towards some strange and loathesome manifestation of insect life.
So this was the sort of fellow he was! He wondered they had let
him in at a reputable hotel.

The rest of the day he passed in a state of such humility that he
could have wept when the waiters were civil to him. On the Monday
morning he made his way to Park Row to read the files of the
_Chronicle_--a morbid enterprise, akin to the eccentric behaviour
of those priests of Baal who gashed themselves with knives or of
authors who subscribe to press-clipping agencies.

He came upon another of the articles almost at once, in an issue
not a month old. Then there was a gap of several weeks, and hope
revived that things might not be as bad as he had feared--only to
be crushed by another trenchant screed. After that he set about
his excavations methodically, resolved to know the worst. He
knew it in just under two hours. There it all was--his row with
the bookie, his bad behaviour at the political meeting, his
breach-of-promise case. It was a complete biography.

And the name they called him. Piccadilly Jim! Ugh!

He went out into Park Row, and sought a quiet doorway where he
could brood upon these matters.

It was not immediately that the practical or financial aspect of
the affair came to scourge him. For an appreciable time he
suffered in his self-esteem alone. It seemed to him that all
these bustling persons who passed knew him, that they were
casting sidelong glances at him and laughing derisively, that
those who chewed gum chewed it sneeringly and that those who ate
their cigars ate them with thinly-veiled disapproval and scorn.
Then, the passage of time blunting sensitiveness, he found that
there were other and weightier things to consider.

As far as he had had any connected plan of action in his sudden
casting-off of the flesh-pots of London, he had determined as
soon as possible after landing to report at the office of his old
paper and apply for his ancient position. So little thought had
he given to the minutiae of his future plans that it had not
occurred to him that he had anything to do but walk in, slap the
gang on the back, and announce that he was ready to work. Work!--on
the staff of a paper whose chief diversion appeared to be the
satirising of his escapades! Even had he possessed the moral
courage--or gall--to make the application, what good would it be?
He was a by-word in a world where he had once been a worthy
citizen. What paper would trust Piccadilly Jim with an
assignment? What paper would consider Piccadilly Jim even on
space rates? A chill dismay crept over him. He seemed to hear the
grave voice of Bayliss the butler speaking in his car as he had
spoken so short a while before at Paddington Station.

"Is it not a little rash, Mr. James?"

Rash was the word. Here he stood, in a country that had no
possible use for him, a country where competition was keen and
jobs for the unskilled infrequent. What on earth was there that
he could do?

Well, he could go home. . . . No, he couldn't. His pride revolted
at that solution. Prodigal Son stuff was all very well in its
way, but it lost its impressiveness if you turned up again at
home two weeks after you had left. A decent interval among the
husks and swine was essential. Besides, there was his father to
consider. He might be a poor specimen of a fellow, as witness the
_Sunday Chronicle_ _passim_, but he was not so poor as to come
slinking back to upset things for his father just when he had
done the only decent thing by removing himself. No, that was out
of the question.

What remained? The air of New York is bracing and healthy, but a
man cannot live on it. Obviously he must find a job. But what
job?

What could he do?

A gnawing sensation in the region of the waistcoat answered the
question. The solution--which it put forward was, it was true,
but a temporary one, yet it appealed strongly to Jimmy. He had
found it admirable at many crises. He would go and lunch, and it
might be that food would bring inspiration.

He moved from his doorway and crossed to the entrance of the
subway. He caught a timely express, and a few minutes later
emerged into the sunlight again at Grand Central. He made his way
westward along Forty-second Street to the hotel which he thought
would meet his needs. He had scarcely entered it when in a chair
by the door he perceived Ann Chester, and at the sight of her all
his depression vanished and he was himself again.

"Why, how do you do, Mr. Bayliss? Are you lunching here?"

"Unless there is some other place that you would prefer," said
Jimmy. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting."

Ann laughed. She was looking very delightful in something soft
and green.

"I'm not going to lunch with you. I'm waiting for Mr. Ralstone
and his sister. Do you remember him? He crossed over with us. His
chair was next to mine on the promenade deck."

Jimmy was shocked. When he thought how narrowly she had escaped,
poor girl, from lunching with that insufferable pill Teddy--or
was it Edgar?--he felt quite weak. Recovering himself, he spoke
firmly.

"When were they to have met you?"

"At one o'clock."

"It is now five past. You are certainly not going to wait any
longer. Come with me, and we will whistle for cabs."

"Don't be absurd!"

"Come along. I want to talk to you about my future."

"I shall certainly do nothing of the kind," said Ann, rising. She
went with him to the door. "Teddy would never forgive me." She
got into the cab. "It's only because you have appealed to me to
help you discuss your future," she said, as they drove off.
"Nothing else would have induced me . . ."

"I know," said Jimmy. "I felt that I could rely on your womanly
sympathy. Where shall we go?"

"Where do you want to go? Oh, I forget that you have never been
in New York before. By the way, what are your impressions of our
glorious country?"

"Most gratifying, if only I could get a job."

"Tell him to drive to Delmonico's. It's just around the corner on
Forty-fourth Street."

"There are some things round the corner, then?"

"That sounds cryptic. What do you mean."

"You've forgotten our conversation that night on the ship. You
refused to admit the existence of wonderful things just round the
corner. You said some very regrettable things that night. About
love, if you remember."

"You can't be going to talk about love at one o'clock in the
afternoon! Talk about your future."

"Love is inextricably mixed up with my future."

"Not with your immediate future. I thought you said that you were
trying to get a job. Have you given up the idea of newspaper
work, then?"

"Absolutely."

"Well, I'm rather glad."

The cab drew up at the restaurant door, and the conversation was
interrupted. When they were seated at their table and Jimmy had
given an order to the waiter of absolutely inexcusable
extravagance, Ann returned to the topic.

"Well, now the thing is to find something for you to do."

Jimmy looked round the restaurant with appreciative eyes. The
summer exodus from New York was still several weeks distant, and
the place was full of prosperous-looking lunchers, not one of
whom appeared to have a care or an unpaid bill in the world. The
atmosphere was redolent of substantial bank-balances. Solvency
shone from the closely shaven faces of the men and reflected
itself in the dresses of the women. Jimmy sighed.

"I suppose so," he said. "Though for choice I'd like to be one of
the Idle Rich. To my mind the ideal profession is strolling into
the office and touching the old dad for another thousand."

Ann was severe.

"You revolt me!" she said. "I never heard anything so thoroughly
disgraceful. You _need_ work!"

"One of these days," said Jimmy plaintively, "I shall be sitting
by the roadside with my dinner-pail, and you will come by in your
limousine, and I shall look up at you and say '_You_ hounded me
into this!' How will you feel then?"

"Very proud of myself."

"In that case, there is no more to be said. I'd much rather hang
about and try to get adopted by a millionaire, but if you insist
on my working--Waiter!"

"What do you want?" asked Ann.

"Will you get me a Classified Telephone Directory," said Jimmy.

"What for?" asked Ann.

"To look for a profession. There is nothing like being
methodical."

The waiter returned, bearing a red book. Jimmy thanked him and
opened it at the A's.

"The boy, what will he become?" he said. He turned the pages.
"How about an Auditor? What do you think of that?"

"Do you think you could audit?"

"That I could not say till I had tried. I might turn out to be
very good at it. How about an Adjuster?"

"An adjuster of what?"

"The book doesn't say. It just remarks broadly--in a sort of
spacious way--'Adjuster.' I take it that, having decided to
become an adjuster, you then sit down and decide what you wish to
adjust. One might, for example, become an Asparagus Adjuster."

"A what?"

"Surely you know? Asparagus Adjusters are the fellows who sell
those rope-and-pulley affairs by means of which the Smart Set
lower asparagus into their mouths--or rather Francis the footman
does it for them, of course. The diner leans back in his chair,
and the menial works the apparatus in the background. It is
entirely superseding the old-fashioned method of picking the
vegetable up and taking a snap at it. But I suspect that to be a
successful Asparagus Adjuster requires capital. We now come to
Awning Crank and Spring Rollers. I don't think I should like
that. Rolling awning cranks seems to me a sorry way of spending
life's springtime. Let's try the B's."

"Let's try this omelette. It looks delicious." Jimmy shook his
head.

"I will toy with it--but absently and in a _distrait_ manner, as
becomes a man of affairs. There's nothing in the B's. I might
devote my ardent youth to Bar-Room Glassware and Bottlers'
Supplies. On the other hand, I might not. Similarly, while there
is no doubt a bright future for somebody in Celluloid, Fiberloid,
and Other Factitious Goods, instinct tells me that there is none
for--" he pulled up on the verge of saying, "James Braithwaite
Crocker," and shuddered at the nearness of the pitfall.
"--for--" he hesitated again--"for Algernon Bayliss," he
concluded.

Ann smiled delightedly. It was so typical that his father should
have called him something like that. Time had not dimmed her
regard for the old man she had seen for that brief moment at
Paddington Station. He was an old dear, and she thoroughly
approved of this latest manifestation of his supposed pride in
his offspring.

"Is that really your name--Algernon?"

"I cannot deny it."

"I think your father is a darling," said Ann inconsequently.

Jimmy had buried himself in the directory again.

"The D's," he said. "Is it possible that posterity will know me
as Bayliss the Dermatologist? Or as Bayliss the Drop Forger? I
don't quite like that last one. It may be a respectable
occupation, but it sounds rather criminal to me. The sentence for
forging drops is probably about twenty years with hard labour."

"I wish you would put that book away and go on with your lunch,"
said Ann.

"Perhaps," said Jimmy, "my grandchildren will cluster round my
knee some day and say in their piping, childish voices, 'Tell us
how you became the Elastic Stocking King, grandpa!' What do you
think?"

"I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You are wasting
your time, when you ought to be either talking to me or else
thinking very seriously about what you mean to do."

Jimmy was turning the pages rapidly.

"I will be with you in a moment," he said. "Try to amuse yourself
somehow till I am at leisure. Ask yourself a riddle. Tell
yourself an anecdote. Think of life. No, it's no good. I don't
see myself as a Fan Importer, a Glass Beveller, a Hotel Broker,
an Insect Exterminator, a Junk Dealer, a Kalsomine Manufacturer,
a Laundryman, a Mausoleum Architect, a Nurse, an Oculist, a
Paper-Hanger, a Quilt Designer, a Roofer, a Ship Plumber, a
Tinsmith, an Undertaker, a Veterinarian, a Wig Maker, an X-ray
apparatus manufacturer, a Yeast producer, or a Zinc Spelter." He
closed the book. "There is only one thing to do. I must starve in
the gutter. Tell me--you know New York better than I do--where is
there a good gutter?"

At this moment there entered the restaurant an Immaculate Person.
He was a young man attired in faultlessly fitting clothes, with
shoes of flawless polish and a perfectly proportioned floweret in
his buttonhole. He surveyed the room through a monocle. He was a
pleasure to look upon, but Jimmy, catching sight of him, started
violently and felt no joy at all; for he had recognised him. It
was a man he knew well and who knew him well--a man whom he had
last seen a bare two weeks ago at the Bachelors' Club in London.
Few things are certain in this world, but one was that, if
Bartling--such was the Vision's name--should see him, he would
come over and address him as Crocker. He braced himself to the
task of being Bayliss, the whole Bayliss, and nothing but
Bayliss. It might be that stout denial would carry him through.
After all, Reggie Bartling was a man of notoriously feeble
intellect, who could believe in anything.

The monocle continued its sweep. It rested on Jimmy's profile.

"By Gad!" said the Vision.

Reginald Bartling had landed in New York that morning, and
already the loneliness of a strange city had begun to oppress
him. He had come over on a visit of pleasure, his suit-case
stuffed with letters of introduction, but these he had not yet
used. There was a feeling of home-sickness upon him, and he ached
for a pal. And there before him sat Jimmy Crocker, one of the
best. He hastened to the table.

"I say, Crocker, old chap, I didn't know you were over here. When
did you arrive?"

Jimmy was profoundly thankful that he had seen this pest in time
to be prepared for him. Suddenly assailed in this fashion, he
would undoubtedly have incriminated himself by recognition of his
name. But, having anticipated the visitation, he was able to say
a whole sentence to Ann before showing himself aware that it was
he who was addressed.

"I say! Jimmy Crocker!"

Jimmy achieved one of the blankest stares of modern times. He
looked at Ann. Then he looked at Bartling again.

"I think there's some mistake," he said. "My name is Bayliss."

Before his stony eye the immaculate Bartling wilted. It was a
perfectly astounding likeness, but it was apparent to him when
what he had ever heard and read about doubles came to him. He was
confused. He blushed. It was deuced bad form going up to a
perfect stranger like this and pretending you knew him. Probably
the chappie thought he was some kind of a confidence johnnie or
something. It was absolutely rotten! He continued to blush till
one could have fancied him scarlet to the ankles. He backed away,
apologising in ragged mutters. Jimmy was not insensible to the
pathos of his suffering acquaintance's position; he knew Reggie
and his devotion to good form sufficiently well to enable him to
appreciate the other's horror at having spoken to a fellow to
whom he had never been introduced; but necessity forbade any
other course. However Reggie's soul might writhe and however
sleepless Reggie's nights might become as a result of this
encounter, he was prepared to fight it out on those lines if it
took all summer. And, anyway, it was darned good for Reggie to
get a jolt like that every once in a while. Kept him bright and
lively.

So thinking, he turned to Ann again, while the crimson Bartling
tottered off to restore his nerve centres to their normal tone at
some other hostelry. He found Ann staring amazedly at him, eyes
wide and lips parted.

"Odd, that!" he observed with a light carelessness which he
admired extremely and of which he would not have believed himself
capable. "I suppose I must be somebody's double. What was the
name he said?"

"Jimmy Crocker!" cried Ann.

Jimmy raised his glass, sipped, and put it down.

"Oh yes, I remember. So it was. It's a curious thing, too, that
it sounds familiar. I've heard the name before somewhere."

"I was talking about Jimmy Crocker on the ship. That evening on
deck."

Jimmy looked at her doubtfully.

"Were you? Oh yes, of course. I've got it now. He is the man you
dislike so."

Ann was still looking at him as if he had undergone a change into
something new and strange.

"I hope you aren't going to let the resemblance prejudice you
against _me_?" said Jimmy. "Some are born Jimmy Crockers, others
have Jimmy Crockers thrust upon them. I hope you'll bear in mind
that I belong to the latter class."

"It's such an extraordinary thing."

"Oh, I don't know. You often hear of doubles. There was a man in
England a few years ago who kept getting sent to prison for
things some genial stranger who happened to look like him had
done."

"I don't mean that. Of course there are doubles. But it is
curious that you should have come over here and that we should
have met like this at just this time. You see, the reason I went
over to England at all was to try to get Jimmy Crocker to come
back here."

"What!"

"I don't mean that _I_ did. I mean that I went with my uncle and
aunt, who wanted to persuade him to come and live with them."

Jimmy was now feeling completely out of his depth.

"Your uncle and aunt? Why?"

"I ought to have explained that they are his uncle and aunt, too.
My aunt's sister married his father."

"But--"

"It's quite simple, though it doesn't sound so. Perhaps you
haven't read the _Sunday Chronicle_ lately? It has been publishing
articles about Jimmy Crocker's disgusting behaviour in
London--they call him Piccadilly Jim, you know--"

In print, that name had shocked Jimmy. Spoken, and by Ann, it was
loathly. Remorse for his painful past tore at him.

"There was another one printed yesterday."

"I saw it," said Jimmy, to avert description.

"Oh, did you? Well, just to show you what sort of a man Jimmy
Crocker is, the Lord Percy Whipple whom he attacked in the club
was his very best friend. His step-mother told my aunt so. He
seems to be absolutely hopeless." She smiled. "You're looking
quite sad, Mr. Bayliss. Cheer up! You may look like him, but you
aren't him he?--him?--no, 'he' is right. The soul is what counts.
If you've got a good, virtuous, Algernonish soul, it doesn't
matter if you're so like Jimmy Crocker that his friends come up
and talk to you in restaurants. In fact, it's rather an
advantage, really. I'm sure that if you were to go to my aunt and
pretend to be Jimmy Crocker, who had come over after all in a fit
of repentance, she would be so pleased that there would be
nothing she wouldn't do for you. You might realise your ambition
of being adopted by a millionaire. Why don't you try it? I won't
give you away."

"Before they found me out and hauled me off to prison, I should
have been near you for a time. I should have lived in the same
house with you, spoken to you--!" Jimmy's voice shook.

Ann turned her head to address an imaginary companion.

"You must listen to this, my dear," she said in an undertone. "He
speaks _wonderfully!_ They used to call him the Boy Orator in his
home-town. Sometimes that, and sometimes Eloquent Algernon!"

Jimmy eyed her fixedly. He disapproved of this frivolity.

"One of these days you will try me too high--!"

"Oh, you didn't hear what I was saying to my friend, did you?"
she said in concern. "But I meant it, every word. I love to hear
you talk. You have such _feeling!_"

Jimmy attuned himself to the key of the conversation.

"Have you no sentiment in you?" he demanded.

"I was just warming up, too! In another minute you would have
heard something worth while. You've damped me now. Let's talk
about my lifework again."

"Have you thought of anything?"

"I'd like to be one of those fellows who sit in offices, and sign
checks, and tell the office-boy to tell Mr. Rockerfeller they can
give him five minutes. But of course I should need a check-book,
and I haven't got one. Oh well, I shall find something to do all
right. Now tell me something about yourself. Let's drop the
future for awhile."


        *       *       *       *       *


An hour later Jimmy turned into Broadway. He walked pensively,
for he had much to occupy his mind. How strange that the Petts
should have come over to England to try to induce him to return
to New York, and how galling that, now that he was in New York,
this avenue to a prosperous future was closed by the fact that
something which he had done five years ago--that he could
remember nothing about it was quite maddening--had caused Ann to
nurse this abiding hatred of him. He began to dream tenderly of
Ann, bumping from pedestrian to pedestrian in a gentle trance.

From this trance the seventh pedestrian aroused him by uttering
his name, the name which circumstances had compelled him to
abandon.

"Jimmy Crocker!"

Surprise brought Jimmy back from his dreams to the hard
world--surprise and a certain exasperation. It was ridiculous to be
incognito in a city which he had not visited in five years and to
be instantly recognised in this way by every second man he met.
He looked sourly at the man. The other was a sturdy,
square-shouldered, battered young man, who wore on his homely
face a grin of recognition and regard. Jimmy was not particularly
good at remembering faces, but this person's was of a kind which
the poorest memory might have recalled. It was, as the
advertisements say, distinctively individual. The broken nose,
the exiguous forehead, and the enlarged ears all clamoured for
recognition. The last time Jimmy had seen Jerry Mitchell had been
two years before at the National Sporting Club in London, and,
placing him at once, he braced himself, as a short while ago he
had braced himself to confound immaculate Reggie.

"Hello!" said the battered one.

"Hello indeed!" said Jimmy courteously. "In what way can I
brighten your life?"

The grin faded from the other's face. He looked puzzled.

"You're Jimmy Crocker, ain't you?"

"No. My name chances to be Algernon Bayliss."

Jerry Mitchell reddened.

"'Scuse me. My mistake."

He was moving off, but Jimmy stopped him. Parting from Ann had
left a large gap in his life, and he craved human society.

"I know you now," he said. "You're Jerry Mitchell. I saw you
fight Kid Burke four years ago in London."

The grin returned to the pugilist's face, wider than ever. He
beamed with gratification.

"Gee! Think of that! I've quit since then. I'm working for an old
guy named Pett. Funny thing, he's Jimmy Crocker's uncle that I
mistook you for. Say, you're a dead ringer for that guy! I could
have sworn it was him when you bumped into me. Say, are you doing
anything?"

"Nothing in particular."

"Come and have a yarn. There's a place I know just round by
here."

"Delighted."

They made their way to the place.

"What's yours?" said Jerry Mitchell. "I'm on the wagon myself,"
he said apologetically.

"So am I," said Jimmy. "It's the only way. No sense in always
drinking and making a disgraceful exhibition of yourself in
public!"

Jerry Mitchell received this homily in silence. It disposed
definitely of the lurking doubt in his mind as to the possibility
of this man really being Jimmy Crocker. Though outwardly
convinced by the other's denial, he had not been able to rid
himself till now of a nebulous suspicion. But this convinced him.
Jimmy Crocker would never have said a thing like that nor would
have refused the offer of alcohol. He fell into pleasant
conversation with him. His mind eased.



CHAPTER IX

MRS. PETT IS SHOCKED

At five o'clock in the afternoon some ten days after her return
to America, Mrs. Pett was at home to her friends in the house on
Riverside Drive. The proceedings were on a scale that amounted to
a reception, for they were not only a sort of official
notification to New York that one of its most prominent hostesses
was once more in its midst, but were also designed to entertain
and impress Mr. Hammond Chester, Ann's father, who had been
spending a couple of days in the metropolis preparatory to
departing for South America on one of his frequent trips. He was
very fond of Ann in his curious, detached way, though he never
ceased in his private heart to consider it injudicious of her not
to have been born a boy, and he always took in New York for a day
or two on his way from one wild and lonely spot to another, if he
could manage it.

The large drawing-room overlooking the Hudson was filled almost
to capacity with that strange mixture of humanity which Mrs. Pett
chiefly affected. She prided herself on the Bohemian element in
her parties, and had become during the past two years a human
drag-net, scooping Genius from its hiding-place and bringing it
into the open. At different spots in the room stood the six
resident geniuses to whose presence in the home Mr. Pett had such
strong objections, and in addition to these she had collected so
many more of a like breed from the environs of Washington Square
that the air was clamorous with the hoarse cries of futurist
painters, esoteric Buddhists, _vers libre_ poets, interior
decorators, and stage reformers, sifted in among the more
conventional members of society who had come to listen to them.
Men with new religions drank tea with women with new hats.
Apostles of Free Love expounded their doctrines to persons who
had been practising them for years without realising it. All over
the room throats were being strained and minds broadened.

Mr. Chester, standing near the door with Ann, eyed the assemblage
with the genial contempt of a large dog for a voluble pack of
small ones. He was a massive, weather-beaten man, who looked very
like Ann in some ways and would have looked more like her but for
the misfortune of having had some of his face clawed away by an
irritable jaguar with whom he had had a difference some years
back in the jungles of Peru.

"Do you like this sort of thing?" he asked.

"I don't mind it," said Ann.

"Well, I shall be very sorry to leave you, Ann, but I'm glad I'm
pulling out of here this evening. Who are all these people?"

Ann surveyed the gathering.

"That's Ernest Wisden, the playwright, over there, talking to
Lora Delane Porter, the feminist writer. That's Clara
What's-her-name, the sculptor, with the bobbed hair. Next to
her--"

Mr. Chester cut short the catalogue with a stifled yawn.

"Where's old Pete? Doesn't he come to these jamborees?"

Ann laughed.

"Poor uncle Peter! If he gets back from the office before these
people leave, he will sneak up to his room and stay there till
it's safe to come out. The last time I made him come to one of
these parties he was pounced on by a woman who talked to him for
an hour about the morality of Finance and seemed to think that
millionaires were the scum of the earth."

"He never would stand up for himself." Mr. Chester's gaze hovered
about the room, and paused. "Who's that fellow? I believe I've
seen him before somewhere."

A constant eddying swirl was animating the multitude. Whenever
the mass tended to congeal, something always seemed to stir it up
again. This was due to the restless activity of Mrs. Pett, who
held it to be the duty of a good hostess to keep her guests
moving. From the moment when the room began to fill till the
moment when it began to empty she did not cease to plough her way
to and fro, in a manner equally reminiscent of a hawk swooping on
chickens and an earnest collegian bucking the line. Her guests
were as a result perpetually forming new ententes and
combinations, finding themselves bumped about like those little
moving figures which one sees in shop-windows on Broadway, which
revolve on a metal disc until, urged by impact with another
little figure, they scatter to regro

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