“And now you should go to bed. I expect you’d rather go home: but, if you don’t fancy the walk, I’ll put you up here.”
I said I would rather go home and arranged to ‘report for duty’ in two days’ time.
Then he saw me out of the flat, and I stumbled to Shepherd’s Market after the way of a reveller whose wine has gone to his legs.
I think I may be forgiven. I had worked from four that morning till four that afternoon: that evening my world had crashed: and another world had risen out of the ruins, before I had picked myself up.
2: Tulip Lane
The next day I returned to Sussex, to pack what stuff I had there and take my leave of the men who had taught me so well.
The Secretary, whom I saw first, was kind enough to deplore my decision to cut short my course: but I told him that the post which I had hoped to secure had been suddenly filled, and that, as such posts were today extremely rare, I must not pursue a shadow, but seek what substance I could in some other walk of life.
“I see your point,” he said. “But it’s wicked waste. And I can’t see you as a bank-clerk.”
“Neither can I,” said I. “A porter at Covent Garden is more in my line. When d’you think the Director can see me? I’d like to catch the four o’clock train.”
The Secretary looked at me thoughtfully, stroking his chin.
“He’s busy just now,” he said slowly. “Say half-past two.”
I thanked him and went off to pack – and to bid farewell to the many friends I had made, both of men and beasts.
At half-past two I entered the Director’s room.
“Ah, Bagot,” says he, “sit down. I’ve only five minutes to spare, so we’ve got to be quick.” I did as he said, and he threw himself back in his chair. “Cairns tells me you feel you should go, and, in view of what has happened, I think you’re right. Well, I’m very sorry to lose you, and if I’d a place to spare, I’d ask you to join the staff. But, though I can’t do that, I do not agree with you that ‘a porter at Covent Garden is in your line.’ A talent must sometimes be buried; but it must not be defaced. So I’ve written a letter here for you to present yourself to some people I know.” I made to interrupt, but he put up a hand. “I happen to know they’re short of a man like you. They’re an old-fashioned firm of surveyors, and most of their work has to do with the countryside. Reports and valuations of farms and estates. That means you’d be out and about two-thirds of your time. Two days a week in the office – not more than that. What the screw will be, I don’t know: but, unless they’re already suited, I think they’ll jump at you when they read what I’ve said.”
Rebuff such kindness, I could not. How many eminent men would have done so much for a beggar they scarcely knew? Besides, I could hardly explain that I was without the law.
I stammered my thanks somehow, received the letter he gave me, shook his generous hand and bowed myself out.
As I made my way to my quarters, I reflected that Mansel would help me to hand such benevolence back.
I think I slept in the train, for I do not remember the journey and I know I was still very tired. And Shepherd’s Market seemed dreary, after the give and take of the genial Common Room. As much as anything else, this sent me early to bed, and I should have been asleep by a quarter to ten, if something had not happened to blow my dullness to bits.
As most people do, I suppose, I always empty my pockets before I undress, and among the things I took out was the letter the Director had given me, to show to the firm he knew.
As I laid it down on my table, I thought, had things been different, how grateful I should have been for the chance it gave: but now I should never present it, because I had already accepted a post of another kind.
Then I saw the superscription – and I think that my heart stood still.
C V Lacey Esq.
Howson and Dewlap,
Surveyors,
22 Sermon Square,
London, EC
Not 7, or 12, or 20 – but 22.
My first idea was to go straight to Jonathan Mansel at Cleveland Row. Then I saw that I must not do this, because, if his flat was watched, I might be recognized later in Sermon Square. So I wrote him a careful letter and took it myself to the post.
I told him what had happened and what I proposed to do, and I begged for an early answer, because I wished to do nothing until I had his consent.
When I came back from the post, I did not retire, but paced my room for ages, revolving this prank of Fortune’s and all it might mean to our cause.
To put it no higher than this – if Sermon Square was a link between Barabbas and us, it was now no longer a link which we need be afraid to touch. As Howson and Dewlap’s clerk, I should be free of the precincts the enemy used. More. My credentials were flawless: no one in Sussex had known that I was St Omer’s friend. In a word, our first problem was solved, for now we could safely approach the only place in the world from which we could start.
Of course I went further than that. But the foolish hopes which I dandled were very soon overtaken by much more practical fears. With a shock, I perceived that the post upon which I was counting might well be already filled…that Mansel might be out of Town, when my letter arrived…and, what was a thousand times worse, that I might have been seen with Mansel and Chandos at Scott’s. This last reflection brought the sweat on to my face, for, if I had been so seen, my appearance at Sermon Square would snap that link out of hand. And then we should be done…
When I had worn myself out in this fruitless way, at last I saw the wisdom of going to bed, and this made me wild with myself for wasting two hours of slumber, with such a morrow in view. But, despite the state I was in, I slept very well, and a letter from Mansel arrived before I was dressed.
That fact will show perhaps better than anything I can set down how highly efficient Jonathan Mansel was. He had had my letter at eight, and exactly half an hour later my orders were at my door – careful, considered orders, as I shall show. Most men think, and then act: but he could act whilst he was thinking and could begin to put into practice a plan he had not yet made.
Who it was that bore the letter, I never knew – except that it was not Carson or anyone else connected with Cleveland Row.
With one shoe on and one off, I read the following words.
My dear Bagot,
It’s perfectly clear that you’re going to pull your weight.
Present your letter this morning, as soon as you can. If the post is already filled, say you’ll work for a month for nothing, if only they’ll take you on. Swear they’ll never regret it. Beg and pray. You have simply got to get in.
Once you are taken on, forget that you ever met me. Put your back into your job, and think about nothing else. Welcome the days when your work keeps you out of Town. You’ve got to be down in the saddle, before you play any tricks.
By four this afternoon you will be a member of the City Conservative Club, Mark Lane. (This is five minutes’ walk from Sermon Square.) From there you can always telephone to Minerva 4343. Ring up that number this evening, to say how you have got on. And always acknowledge my letters to that address.
Read through this letter again, and then burn it up.
Yours ever,
Jonathan Mansel.
I read the letter through twice, thrust it into my pocket and put on my second shoe. Then I rang twice – for breakfast, finished dressing and went off to buy my paper at a neighbouring shop – a thing I always did before breakfast, when I was sleeping in Town. By the time I was back in my rooms, my breakfast was served, but, before I sat down, I read Mansel’s letter again and then put it into the fire. I ate and drank and I fancy I read the news. Then I put on my hat and went out and called the first taxi I saw, to take me to Sermon Square.
But all these things I did subconsciously. One sentence of Mansel’s letter obsessed my mind. ‘You have simply got to get in.’
I cannot better Mansel’s description of Sermon Square – �
��a short, well-lighted, blind alley, some thirty feet wide.’ It ran up from Pigeon Street to an old churchyard, where grass and leaning tomb-stones were pointing an artless fable which no one had time to read, Here a four-foot passage led down a flight of steps and presently past a tavern, into Mark Lane. The square itself was quiet, though all about it, of course, the roar of the City’s traffic made itself heard. At the churchyard end of the square there was just enough room for a car, which was not too long, to be turned about; provided this space was kept clear, there was room for four cars to be berthed along one side of the square: but once those berths were taken, chauffeurs could come and go, but they could not wait.
22 Sermon Square was the very last house – that is to say, it abutted upon the churchyard, and its doorway faced the passage of which I have spoken above. Its number was misleading, for there were but ten houses in all; but since they were none of them ancient, the numbers, no doubt, had survived the much smaller dwellings which they had displaced. Each house had a common staircase which served four floors, and a row of plates on the jamb of the open doorway declared the names of the firms to be found within.
Howson and Dewlap’s office was on the ground floor. I must confess that when first I saw the name, I wished that my drive to the City had taken as long again. On the way I had tried to prepare the case I might have to present, but I am no advocate and I could think of no way of gilding the downright suggestion which Mansel had told me to make. Of course, if the post was still vacant, my letter of recommendation should carry me in: but I had a definite feeling that I should have no such luck, but should have to fight for a concession which a business man and a stranger would see no reason to give. But I knew that, now I was there, to wait, so to speak, on the brink would only make matters worse, so I settled my tie and my hat and then walked into a room at the foot of the stairs.
A clerk of about twenty-five looked up from behind a counter as I came in: then he returned to his business of filling a fountain pen. I watched him patiently. But when, the pen being ready, he drew a newspaper towards him and began to fill in his answers to some competition there set, I saw that he found my politeness stuff for contempt.
“Attend to me, please,” I said sharply. “Is Mr Lacey in?”
The clerk looked up.
“Have you got an appointment?” he said.
“No, I haven’t. I’ve got a letter.” I laid this down on the counter. “I wish him to have it at once.”
The clerk rose and came to the bar. Taking the letter up, he turned it about. Finding the envelope open, he drew out the sheet and read it – a thing that I had not done. And then he looked up, to meet the look in my eye… I like to think that that shook him, for he hastily stuffed the sheet back and made his way round the counter and up to some private door. He knocked and was told to come in, and when he reappeared, he asked me to take a seat. But, so far as he was concerned, the damage was done. If the post I desired had been filled, I meant to take his.
And so I did.
Charles Vincent Lacey was a quiet, keen-eyed man, some sixty years old: but if his hair was grey, his manner was young, and he had that easy dignity which no one can ever acquire.
“Mr Bagot,” he said, “I’m sorry. You’re just too late. The post was filled yesterday morning, and that’s the truth. I’m really very sorry. From what Colonel Ascot says, you’d have suited us very well.”
“I think I might have,” said I. “I’m not afraid of work and I want to get on. And here I could have done that. I should have been learning daily… I’ve another job in view, but that’ll mean standing still – or, what is worse, sliding back. Still, it’s thirty shillings a week, and I’ve got to live.”
“Thirty shillings a week?” said Lacey. “What job is that?”
“Office-boy,” said I, “to a stock-broking firm. I don’t mind the work a bit, and I’ll lay that I do it better than some I’ve seen. But I wish it was in other surroundings.” I pointed to a book on a shelf. “They don’t read Thacker on Drainage in Mincing Lane.”
“But this is all wrong,” cried Lacey. “Why, I pay that waster outside three pounds a week.”
“All’s fair in war,” said I. “He isn’t worth that.”
Lacey stared upon me, finger to lip. “Am I to understand that you want his job?”
“With all my heart,” said I. “I don’t mind wiping his eye and I shouldn’t be wasted here.”
“I’d see to that,” said Lacey. “Are you sure you mean what you say? An office boy’s pretty small fry. He has to say ‘Sir,’ and he doesn’t sit down in my room.”
“I’ll do my duty,” I said, “wherever I am. But I’d much sooner do it here than in Mincing Lane.”
“Hours nine to six,” said Lacey, “and Saturdays nine to one.”
I smiled.
“I’m used to a day,” said I, “that begins at five.”
Lacey gave a short laugh.
“The thing’s unheard of,” said he, “but when can you come?”
I got to my feet.
“That rests with you, sir,” said I. “Today, tomorrow, Monday – whenever you please.”
“Let’s make it Monday,” he said. “Report to Mr Bonner that morning at nine o’clock.”
“Very good, sir. I’m very grateful.”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Lacey. “The boot’s on the other leg.”
“Good day, sir,” said I, smiling.
“Good day, Bagot. I don’t think you’ll stand it long, but that’s your look-out.”
I bowed myself out.
As I came abreast of the counter—
“Get the job?” said the clerk.
“No,” said I. “It’s gone.”
“Yes, I knew it had,” he sneered, “when I showed you in. But I thought you might as well buy it. Perhaps that’ll teach you to order people about.”
“I’m much obliged,” said I – and spoke no more than the truth.
The remnants of my compunction had been destroyed.
Now, much as I longed to do so, unless I disobeyed Mansel, I could not report my good news till the end of the day, and since it was only just ten and I had nothing to do, I decided to study my surroundings and make myself at home with a district which till now I had never seen. I, therefore, purchased a map and spent the whole of the day exploring the busy environs of Sermon Square. Since I did not go far afield, by half-past five that evening I knew the neighbourhood well and could leave or approach my office by five or six different ways. For a furlong from Sermon Square, I knew every court and alley and how they ran, and I remember thinking that I was probably doing as pickpockets used to do, so that if they were chased by some victim, they would stand a much better chance of making good their escape.
And then, at a quarter to six, I somewhat nervously entered the City Conservative Club.
I need have had no concern.
When I gave the porter my name, he smiled and thanked me and gave me a note and a letter addressed to me. Then he asked if I would not like to see over the house, and when I said ‘ Yes,’ he instantly summoned a page and told him to take me round.
The inspection did not take long, for the rooms were few, but the atmosphere was delightful after the strife without. Comfort and peace prevailed wherever I went, and the house itself was unbelievably fine. Its panelling, staircase and ceilings were precious things, and I afterwards learned that it had been the city mansion of some great lord.
As I had expected, the note was from the Secretary, informing me of my election and stating the fees which were due. The letter was from Mansel and covered a banker’s draft for five hundred pounds.
I don’t know how you’re placed, so I send you this. You shall pay me back when you get your twelve thousand pounds. Sorry to be so abrupt, but we must not take any risks and I like to think that you’d do the same by me.
J M
Some clock was striking six when I entered a telephone-box which was cunningly set in a closet under the g
lorious stair.
“Minerva 4343.”
After a moment I heard a voice that I knew.
“Who is that speaking?” it said.
“This is John Bagot,” said I.
“At last,” said Lady Audrey. “What have you done?”
“All’s well,” said I.
“Thank God for that. I had a dreadful feeling the job would be gone.”
“It was,” said I, “but – they gave me another, instead.”
“Good for the remount,” said she. “What is it and when d’you start?”
“Office-boy,” said I. “And on Monday next.”
“Dear God,” says she. “Was that the best you could do?”
As soon as I could speak—
“I’m sorry,” said I, “but they hadn’t a partnership free.”
“It can’t be helped. Did you get a letter tonight?”
“I did,” said I.
“All right. Now listen to this. You can always get me here between half-past six and eight. And that is when I shall ring up, if I want to get you.”
“I’ll always be here,” said I.
I heard her sigh.
“This waiting business,” she said. “How long will it be?”
She spoke as though thinking aloud, and such was her tone it must have touched anyone’s heart. Indeed, in that moment I knew that I would ten times rather she took me unfairly to task than let me be a witness of her distress.
“Not very long,” said I. “And I haven’t wasted today. I know this country backwards for quarter of a mile.”
“Good man,” said she – and made me feel suddenly rich. “I’d give five years of my life to have our job.”
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