It would not be the first time in Miss Passenger's experience that that had happened. She had not forgotten that county match when, with the score at one all and three minutes to go, her goalkeeper, who had recently severed relations with the man of her choice, suddenly burst into tears during a hot rally in the goalmouth, and, covering her face with her hands, let a sitter go past her into the net.
'You're making a mistake, Butterwick.'
'Oh, Jane!'
‘Well, you are.'
‘I don't want to talk about it'
Miss Passenger sighed again.
'Just as you please,' she said regretfully. 'Anyway,, what I was going to say was that your Bodkin gave me this parcel to give to you. I gather that it contains a Mickey Mouse of yours.'
Not even the information that the brown paper parcel contained mice in the flesh could have made Gertrude start back with greater aversion.
‘I don't want it!'
‘It isn't my Mickey Mouse. It's Mr Bodkin's. Give it back to him.' 'He's left.’
Then run after him.’
‘No, I'm dashed if I do,' said Miss Passenger. She was amiable, but there are limits. 'I'm not going to chivvy young men about Customs sheds. Life's too short.'
‘You don't think I intend to keep this mouse, do you?'
‘I don't see what else you can do.'
Gertrude bit her lip.
'Would you like it, Jane?'
'No,' said Miss Passenger, with decision. 'No, Butterwick, I would not.’
Through the crowd came Albert Peasemarch, looking helpful.
‘Peasemarch !' cried Gertrude.
‘Miss?'
‘Would you like a mouse?' 'No, miss.'
'Then do you know what hotel Mr Bodkin is going to?'
‘The Piazza, miss. I recommended it. A nice, up-to-date hotel, possessing all the comforts of home and within easy reach of all the theatres and places of public amusement.'
Thank you.'
Thank you, miss. Anything further I can do for you?' 'No, thank you.'
'Very good, miss,' said Albert Peasemarch, and went off to be helpful elsewhere.
'Jane,' said Gertrude, 'I shan't be coming to your hotel with the rest of the team. I'm going to the Piazza.'
'Eh? Why?'
Gertrude's teeth came together with an unpleasant clicking sound.
'Because,' she said, 'Mr Bodkin is there, and I intend to return this Mickey Mouse to him if I have to make him swallow it.'
For the third time since this interview had begun Miss Passenger was unable to check a sigh. 'Don't be a chump, Butterwick.' ‘I'm not a chump.'
'You are, old chap, honestly you are. I know how you're feeling. You're sore, and you have every right to be sore. But why not let bygones be bygones? We women always regret it if we don't make allowances and forgive. I never told you, but I was once engaged to a dear, good fellow, about as smart an inside-right as you ever saw, and I broke it off because one afternoon when we were playing in a mixed game down in the country he kept trying to go through on his own instead of flicking the ball out to me on the wing. A selfish hound, I remember I called him, and I gave him back the ring. Next day, of course, I was sorry, but like an ass I was too proud to say-so, and we parted, and a couple of months later he married a girl who played left-back for Girton. So I appeal to you, old man, be sensible. Don't cancel this fixture. Forgive Bodkin 1'
‘No!’
'You must!’ ‘I won't’
‘Butterwick, you're one of my oldest pals, but I tell you straight you're behaving like a mug.’ ‘I'm not behaving like a mug!'
'You flatter yourself,' said the voice of Reggie Tennyson at her elbow. 'You're behaving like the worst young mug that ever broke biscuit. Gertrude,' said Reggie, 'I've brought Ambrose to have a little talk with you.'
Chapter 22
While these conversations were in progress in Section B of the Customs sheds, in the street outside into which the voyager steps as he comes off the White Star pier Lottie Blossom was standing waiting for Ambrose.
The mind of the New York Customs inspector being the unpleasant, suspicious thing it is, a motion picture star returning to her native land from a visit to Europe usually finds the clearing of her baggage a rather lengthy process. But today Lottie had got through quickly. The official told off to examine her belongings had begun by examining the little wicker-work basket which she was carrying, and after that had seemed unable to put any real heart and thoroughness into his work. His sense of duty was strong enough to make him ask her to unlock her trunks, but his whole attitude when going through them had been that of a man who has had his lesson and feels that prudence is best. Perfunctory about sums it up.
This, taken in conjunction with the fact that she perceived herself to be an object of frank admiration to the group of stevedores and gentlemen of leisure standing by, should have made her happy, for she hated hanging about Customs sheds and was a girl who enjoyed admiration, even from the humblest. Nevertheless, she chafed as she stood there. A frown was on her face, and from time to time she spurned the sidewalk irritably. She was getting tired of waiting for Ambrose.
She was, indeed, on the point of giving him up and hailing a cab to take her to the Hotel Piazza, where she always stayed when in New York, when Mabel Spence came out into the street.
‘Oh, there you are, Lottie,' said Mabel. 'I've a message for you from Ambrose Tennyson. He says not to wait.' 'He does, does he?' said Lottie. 'I wonder what he thinks
I've been doing this last ten minutes, the poor fish! What's keeping him?'
'He and Reggie are wrestling with the Butterwick girl -
'Who's winning?'
'In prayer,’ explained Mabel. ‘I only had a hurried word with Reggie before he jumped back into the ring, but it seems they're trying to get Miss Butterwick to forgive Mr Bodkin.'
'What's Mr Bodkin done?'
'Well, you ought to know. It's about you that all the trouble is.'
Amazement shone from Lottie Blossom's fine eyes. She stared like a girl with a spotless conscience who is completely bewildered.
'Me?’
'That's what Reggie told me.'
'Why, I never so much as touched the man.'
'As pure as the driven snow, are you?'
'Purer. I may have sauntered into his state-room once or twice to pass the time of day, but jiminy Christmas -’
'Well, all right,' said Mabel. 'You don't have to convince me. I'm just an innocent bystander. But that's how the scenario is, and Reggie seems all worked up about it. He's fond of Mr Bodkin. So, anyway, it's no use your pounding the pavement out here. They may be hours. Where are you off to?'
'The Piazza.’
'Then I can't offer you a lift. I'm headed for the Bar building. I've got to see a lawyer.' 'A what?'
'Lawyer. A man skilled in the law. I want legal advice.’
'What for? Has Reggie backed out already, and are you bringing an action for breach?'
Mabel's eyes lost their efficient brightness for an instant and became soft and dreamy.
'Reggie's a precious little pink-and-white lamb -’
'Ugh!' said Lottie, revolted.
‘- and he's just as crazy about me as I am about him. No, what I'm seeing lawyers about is this contract of his. I've got that letter, of course, but -'
'Contract? What are you talking about?’
'Hasn't Reggie told you? Ikey's signed him up for five years to superintend his English sequences, and all we've got so far to hold him to it is a few lines I made him scribble on a bit of paper. And, knowing what Ikey is, I want a regular legal contract drawn up, with as many seals stuck on it as there's room for. I wouldn't put it past Ikey to have written that letter in vanishing ink. Hi, taxi,' said Mabel.
It was not often that Lottie Blossom permitted those with whom she was conversing to utter without interruption speeches as long as the one to which she had just been listening, but the astounding nature of the information which Mabel's w
ords had conveyed had made interruption impossible. She could only gape. Not until her companion had stepped into the cab and closed the door was she able to utter.
'Wait!' she cried, recovering speech and the power of movement simultaneously. She leaped forward and clutched the edge of the window. 'What did you say? Ikey has given Reggie a contract?’
'Yes. As a superintendent of English sequences.’ 'But-'
‘I really must be getting along,' said Mabel. ‘I may have to spend the rest of the afternoon with these people. You know what lawyers are like.'
Gently but firmly detaching Lottie's fingers, she instructed the driver to snap into it, and he did so. The cab rolled off, and Lottie was left to ponder over this extraordinary occurrence alone.
Her mind was in a whirl. If this news was true, strange things must have been happening to Ivor Llewellyn. It was obvious that no balanced person would employ Reggie. Nobody but a Santa Claus would even contemplate it. The only explanation, therefore, that offered itself was that Mr Llewellyn must suddenly have turned into a Santa Claus. He must have been overcome by one of those curious fits of universal benevolence hitherto confined to characters in the novels of Charles Dickens. Yet why? It was not Christmas-time. He could not have been hearing carol-singers.
But wait. Yes, it came back to her now. Once, in the days when she had been in the chorus in musical comedy, she had heard in the dressing-room a fantastic tale of a prominent theatrical manager who, emerging from an automobile accident with an egg-shaped lump on his head, had become a changed man, even to the extent of deliberately refraining from chiselling an author out of his share of the movie rights. That was what must have happened to Ivor Llewellyn, something on those lines. Perhaps he had bumped his head against the bureau while groping for a dropped collar-stud.
She thrilled with joyous excitement. If Ivor Llewellyn had bumped himself badly enough to make him give five-year contracts to Reggie, he was clearly in a mental condition to do the same by Ambrose. This, she felt, was a good thing and must be pushed along. Without delay she must repair to the offices of the Superba-Llewellyn on Seventh Avenue, whither the man always went like a homing pigeon the moment he stepped off the boat, and strike while the iron is hot - slip it across him, in other words, before he had time to come out from under the influence.
There was, however, as it happened, no necessity for her to make the journey to Seventh Avenue, for at this moment the man she was seeking came out into the street, attended by a porter with suit-cases, and passed her by with a jaunty wave of the hand which had doubled up his hrother-in-law George. With this wave of the hand, as if feeling in his benevolence that there must be no stint, Mr Llewellyn threw in a genial smile and a 'Hello, there, Lottie!’ - a smile so genial, in fact, and a 'Hello, there, Lottie!' so gay and cordial that she had no hesitation in making one of her tigrine leaps and seizing him by the lapel of his coat. She was convinced. Once a ten-minute egg, Ivor Llewellyn had become a Cheeryble brother.
'Hey, Ikey!' she cried, beaming up at him with all the confidence of a favourite child about to ask a fond father for chocolate. 'Listen, Ikey, what's all this I hear?'
‘Eh?’
'From Mabel. Mabel's been telling me about your deal with Reggie Tennyson.’
The joviality faded from Mr Llewellyn's face, as if it had been wiped off with a squeegee. Abruptly, he looked tense, anxious, alarmed, like a fly inspecting a piece of fly-paper.
'What did she tell you?'
'She said you had given him a five-year contract.'
Mr Llewellyn's tension relaxed.
'Oh? Yes, that's right.'
'Well, then, what about Ambrose?'
'What do you mean?'
'You know what I mean. If you're giving five-year contracts to the Tennyson family, why leave Ambrose out of the distribution?'
Mr Llewellyn's face darkened. Her words had touched an exposed nerve. It may seem to some a venial fault not to have written 'The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck', but Ivor Llewellyn could not bring himself to forgive Ambrose Tennyson for not having done so. At least, he could not forgive him for not being the right Tennyson. The whole subject of the rightness and wrongness of Tennysons was one on which the president of the Superba-Llewellyn would not be able to think calmly for a long time to come.
'Pshaw!' he cried, stirred to his depths.
‘Eh?'
'I've no use for that fellow.' ‘Ikey!'
‘I wouldn't have him on the lot,' said Mr Llewellyn with deep emotion, 'not if you paid me.'
He detached her fingers - it seemed to Lottie that everybody was detaching her fingers this afternoon - and with a nimbleness which would have surprised anybody who did not know how nimble even the stoutest motion-picture magnate can be when evading people who are asking favours of him, shot into a taxi and was carried off.
It was at this moment that Monty Bodkin came out into the street.
In the parts round about the entrance to the White Star pier New York is admittedly not at its best - indeed, it is to be wondered at that some committee of patriotic citizens has not put up one of those signs, so popular in the rural districts, which urge the visitor not to judge the town by the 'deepo'. Nevertheless, this rather raffish district has a quality which other, showier portions of the city lack.
Technically, the Customs sheds are American soil and should excite all sorts of emotions in the bosom of one who is arriving for the first time in the United States. But in actual fact it is only when such a person comes out through the door at the bottom of that toboggan slide where they shoot down the light baggage that he says to himself: 'At last!' Then, and then only, does he really feel that he is in America and that a new life is beginning for him.
To Monty, as he stood in the doorway, this feeling came particularly vividly. Even more than the ordinary immigrant, he was starting afresh, with the future a blank scroll before him. In returning that Mickey Mouse to Gertrude Butterwick, it was as if he had written 'Finis' to a definite phase of his life. The act had been symbolic. He had not actually said 'Good’ bye to all that,' but that was what it had amounted to.
He was in a new world, with no plans. He might do anything’ He might seek solace in one of those round-the-globe cruises. He might visit the Rocky Mountains and shoot bears. He might bury himself in some distant South Seas island and grow or catch copra - according to whether (a fact which he had never been quite able to grasp) it was a vegetable or some kind of fish. Or he might go into a monastery. It was all uncertain.
Meanwhile, he sniffed New York and thought it smelt funny.
And as he stood there sniffing there was a sudden rush and whir and he found himself blinking under the bright gaze of Lottie Blossom.
'Hey! ‘ she was saying, plainly in the grip of some very strong emotion. She attached herself to the lapel of his coat. 'Hey, listen!'
The sight of Monty had affected Lottie profoundly. In all the swirl of recent events she had never forgotten that, however abruptly Ivor Llewellyn might turn off the milk of human kindness in his bosom, there was one man who could make him turn it on again. And it was this man who stood before her. On the authority of both Reggie and Ambrose she had it that Ivor Llewellyn yearned to secure this bimbo Bodkin's artistic services and would agree to anything in order to obtain his signature to a contract. Undeterred, therefore, by her recent failure to get results by holding the lapel of Mr Llewellyn's coat, she now attached herself to Monty's.
'Hey, listen 1’ she cried. 'You've got to do it 1 You've just got to see?'
There had been a time, only a few brief days since, when Monty Bodkin's immediate reaction to the discovery that Lottie Blossom was adhering to his coat would have been an attempt to brush her off. But now he made no move to do so. He remained listless and inert. It mattered little, he reflected with infinite sadness, if he was festooned from head to foot with Lottie Blossoms.
‘Do what?'he said.
‘Go to Ikey Llewellyn and make him give Ambrose his job back.
If you have a spark of common decency in you, you cant refuse. Look what Ammie is doing for you at this very moment.'
‘Eh?'
‘Isaid: "Look-—
'I know. And I said: "Eh?" I mean, what is he doing?’
‘Squaring you with your Buttersplosh’
Monty stiffened.
The name is Butterwick’
'Well, Butterwick, then. At this very moment Ambrose is in those Customs sheds, working like a beaver trying to make things hotsy-totsy for you with the Butterwick beasel.'
Again Monty stiffened.
'I would prefer that you did not call Miss Butterwick a weasel.' 'Beasel’
'Beasel or weasel, I see little difference. And a fat chance, I fear, there is of any hotsy-totsiness resulting from anything Ambrose can do, though I appreciate the kind thought. All is over. She ...' His voice shook. 'She wouldn't speak to me’
'Oh, that'll be all right. Ambrose will fix that’
Monty shook his head.
'No. The situation is beyond human fixing. The bird has been definitely given. Still, as I say, it is decent of old Ambrose to have a pop’
'Ammie is wonderful in that way’
‘Yes’
‘What a pal!'
The whitest man I know,' agreed Monty moodily. There's nothing he wouldn't do for a friend.' 1 suppose not, no.'
‘Well, then,' said Miss Blossom insinuatingly, tightening her grasp on the coat lapel, 'won't you do this little thing for him? Won't you go and sign up with Ikey and tell him that before you put pen to dotted line Ambrose must have his contract, too? Oh, I know how you feel about it. You hate the idea of becoming a motion picture actor. But have you considered that you'll probably be so lousy that they'll pay to get rid of you at the end of the first week? I mean, it isn't as if you would have to go on acting -’
Luck of the Bodkins Page 26
