What Timothy’s chances are in the hereafter the reader must decide; but we do know that Cousin Al Cartwright proved both a weak reed and a whited sepulchre. Timothy’s parents had departed this life two years after Alfred Cartwright had disappeared from public view, leaving behind him two years’ work for a committee of Investigating Accounts.
When his surviving parent died, the boy was at school, and if he was not a prodigy3 of learning he was at least brilliant in parts.
Though it was with no great regret that he left school, he was old enough and shrewd enough to realise that a bowing acquaintance with the differential calculus4, and the ability to conjugate5 the verb “avoir” did not constitute an equipment, sufficiently6 comprehensive (if you will forgive these long words), to meet and defeat such enemies to human progress as he was likely to meet in this cruel and unsympathetic world.
He had a small income bequeathed by his mother in a will which was almost apologetic because she left so little, and he settled himself down as a boarder in the house of a schoolmaster, and took up those branches of study which interested him, and set himself to forget other branches of education which interested him not at all.
Because of his ineradicable passion for challenging fate it was only natural that “T. A. C.” should bear a new significance, and since some genius had christened him “Take A Chance” Anderson the name stuck. And he took chances. From every throw with fate he learnt something. He had acquired some knowledge of boxing at school, and had learnt enough of the art to enable him to head the school. Such was his faith in himself and his persuasive7 eloquence8 that he induced Sam Murphy, ex-middle-weight and proprietor9 of the Stag’s Head, Dorking, to nominate and support him for a ten-rounds contest with that redoubtable10 feather-weight, Bill Schenk.
“Take A Chance” Anderson took his chance. He also took the count in the first round, and, returning to consciousness, vowed11 a vow—not that he would never again enter the ring, but that he would learn something more of the game before he did. Of course, it was very disgraceful that a man of his antecedents should become a professional boxer—for professional he became in the very act of failure—but that worried him not at all.
It is a matter of history that Bill Schenk was knocked out by Kid Muldoon, and that twelve months after his initiation12 into the prize ring “T. Anderson” fought twenty rounds with the Kid and got the decision on points. Thereafter, the ring knew “Take A Chance” Anderson no more.
He took a chance on race-courses, backing horses that opened at tens and closed at twenties. He backed horses that had never won before on the assumption that they must win some time. He had sufficient money left after this adventure to buy a book of form. He devoted13 his undoubted talent to the study of other games of chance. He played cards for matches with a broker’s clerk, who harboured secret ambitions of going to Monte Carlo with a system; he purchased on the hire system wonderfully cheap properties on the Isle14 of Thanet—and he worked.
For all his fooling and experimenting, for all his gambling15 and his chancing, Timothy never let a job of work get past him, if he could do it, and when he wasn’t working for sordid16 lucre17 he was working for the good of his soul. He went to the races with a volume of Molière’s plays under his arm, and between events he read, hereby acquiring the respect of the racing18 fraternity as an earnest student of form.
So he came by violent, yet to him easy, stages to Movieland—that Mecca which attracts all that is enterprising and romantic and restless. He took a chance in a juvenile19 lead, but his method and his style of actions were original. Producers are for ever on the look out for novelty, but they put the bar up against novel styles of acting20 and expression. Ellsberger had tried him out because he had known his father, but more because he had won money over him when he had beaten Kid Muldoon; but even Ellsberger was compelled to suggest that Timothy put in two long years “atmosphering” before he essayed an individual r?le on the screen.
Timothy was not certain whether his train left at ten minutes to seven or at ten minutes past seven, so he arrived in time for the ten minutes to seven, which was characteristic of him, because he never took a chance against the inflexible21 systems.
He reached New York without misadventure, but on his way westward22 he stayed over at Nevada. He intended spending a night, but met a man with a scheme for running a mail-order business on entirely24 new lines, invested his money, and by some miracle managed to make it last a year. At the end of that time the police were after his partner, and Timothy was travelling eastward25 by easy stages.
He came back to New York with fifty-five dollars which he had won from a Westerner on the last stage of the journey. The track ran for about twenty miles along the side of the road, the wager26 between them was a very simple one; it was whether they would pass more men than women on the road. The Westerner chose men and Timothy chose women. For every man they saw Timothy paid a dollar, for every woman he received a dollar. In the agreed hour they passed fifty-five more women than they passed men and Timothy was that many dollars richer. There were never so many women abroad as there were that bright afternoon, and the Westerner couldn’t understand it until he realised that it was Sunday—a fact which Timothy had grasped before he had made his wager.
Two months later he was back in London. How he got back he never explained. He stayed in London only long enough to fit himself up with a new kit27 before he presented himself at a solid mansion28 in Branksome Park, Bournemouth. Years and years before, Sir John Maxell had written to him, asking him to call upon him for any help he might require, and promising29 to assist him in whatever difficulties he might find himself. Timothy associated the offer with the death of his father—maybe they were friends.
He was shown into the sunny drawing-room bright with flowers, and he looked round approvingly. He had lived in other people’s houses all his life—schools, boarding-houses, hotels and the like—and an atmosphere of home came to him like the forgotten fragrance30 of a garden he had known.
The servant came back.
“Sir John will see you in ten minutes, sir, but you must not keep him long, because he has to go out to meet Lady Maxell.”
“Lady Maxell?” asked Timothy in surprise, “I didn’t know he was married.”
The servant smiled and said:
“The Judge married a year ago, sir. It was in all the newspapers.”
“I don’t read all the newspapers,” said Timothy. “I haven’t sufficient time. Who was the lady?”
The man looked round, as if fearing to be overheard.
“Sir John married the cinema lady, Miss Sadie O’Grady,” he said, and the hostility31 in his tone was unmistakable.
“You don’t say!” he said. “Well, that beats the band! Why, I knew that da——, that lady in London!”
The servant inclined his head sideways.
“Indeed, sir,” he said, and it was evident that he did not regard Timothy as being any fitter for human association by reason of his confession33.
A distant bell buzzed.
Sir John Maxell was standing36 up behind his writing table, a fine, big man with his grey hair neatly37 brushed back from his forehead and his blue eyes magnified behind rimless38 glasses.
“T. A. C. Anderson,” he said, coming round the table with slow steps. “Surely this is not the little Timothy I heard so much about years and years ago!”
“That is I, sir,” said Timothy.
“Well, well,” said Maxell, “I should never have known you. Sit down, my boy. You smoke, of course—everybody smokes nowadays, but it seems strange that a boy I knew in short breeches should have acquired the habit. I’ve heard about you,” he said, as Timothy lit his cigar.
Maxell shook his head.
“I have heard about you,” he repeated diplomatically, “let it go at that. Now I suppose you’ve come here because, five years ago, on the twenty-third of December to be correct, I wrote to you, offering to give you any help that lay in my power.”
“I won’t swear to the date,” said Tim.
“But I will,” smiled the other. “I never forget a date, I never forget a letter, I never forget the exact wording of that letter. My memory is an amazing gift. Now just tell me what I can do for you.”
Timothy hesitated.
“Sir John,” he said, “I have had a pretty bad time in America. I’ve been running in a team with a crook40 and I’ve had to pay out every cent I had in the world.”
Sir John nodded slowly.
“Then it is money you want,” he said, without enthusiasm.
“Not exactly money, sir, but I’m going to try to start in London and I thought, maybe, you might give me a letter of introduction to somebody.”
“Ah, well,” said Maxell, brightening up, “I think I can do that for you. What did you think of doing in London?”
“I thought of getting some sort of secretarial job,” he said. “Not that I know much about it!”
Sir John pinched his lower lip.
“I know a man who may help you,” he said. “We were in the House of Commons together and he would give you a place in one of his offices, but unfortunately for you he has made a great deal of money and spends most of his time at Newmarket.”
“Newmarket sounds good to me,” said Timothy “Why, I’d take a chance there. Perhaps he’d try me out in that office?”
The Judge permitted himself to smile.
“In Newmarket,” he said, “our friend does very little more, I fear, than waste his time and money on the race-course. He has half a dozen horses—I had a letter from him this morning.”
He walked back to his table, searched in the litter, and presently amongst the papers pulled out a letter.
“As a matter of fact, I had some business with him and I wrote to him for information. The only thing he tells me is”—this with a gesture of despair—“that Skyball and Polly Chaw—those are the names of race-horses, I presume—will win the two big handicaps next week and that he has a flyer named Swift Kate that can beat anything—I am quoting his words—on legs over six furlongs.”
He looked up over his glasses at Timothy, and on that young man’s face was a seraphic smile.
“Newmarket sounds real nice to me,” glowed Timothy.
Remembering the injunctions of the servant, he was taking his adieu, when his host asked, in a lower voice than that in which the conversation had been carried on:
“I suppose you have not heard from your cousin?”
Timothy looked at him in astonishment41. Had Sir John asked after the Grand Llama of Tibet he would have been as well prepared to answer.
“Why, no, sir—no—er—is he alive?”
Sir John Maxell looked at him sharply.
“Alive? Of course. I thought you might have heard from him.”
Timothy shook his head.
“No, sir,” he said, “he disappeared. I only met him once when I was a kid. Was he a friend—er—an acquaintance of yours?”
Sir John was drumming his fingers on the desk and his mind was far away.
“Yes and no,” he said shortly. “I knew him, and at one time I was friendly with him.”
Suddenly he glanced at his watch, and a look of consternation42 came to his face.
“Great heavens!” he cried. “I promised to meet my wife a quarter of an hour ago. Good-bye! Good-bye!”
He hand-shook Timothy from the room and the young man had to find his way downstairs without guidance, because the manservant was at that moment heavily engaged.
From the floor below came a shrill43, unpleasant sound, and Timothy descended44 to find himself in the midst of a domestic crisis. There were two ladies in the hall—one a mere45 silent, contained spectator, the other the principal actress. He recognised her at once, but she did not see him, because her attention was directed to the red-faced servant.
“When I ring you on the ’phone, I expect to be answered,” she was saying. “You’ve nothing to do except to sit round and keep your ears open, you big, lazy devil!”
“But, my lady, I——”
“Don’t answer me,” she stormed. “If you think I’ve nothing better to do than to sit at a ’phone waiting till you wake up, why, you’re mistaken—that’s all. And if Sir John doesn’t fire you——”
“Don’t worry about Sir John firing me,” said the man with a sudden change of manner. “I’ve just had about as much of you as I can stand. You keep your bossing for the movies, Lady Maxell. You’re not going to try any of that stuff with me!”
She was incapable46 of further speech, nor was there any necessity for it since the man turned on his heels and disappeared into that mysterious region which lies at the back of every entrance hall. Then for the first time she saw Timothy.
“How do you do, Lady Maxell?”
She glared round at the interrupter, and for a moment he thought she intended venting47 her anger on him. She was still frowning when he took her limp hand.
“You’re the Anderson boy, aren’t you?” she asked a little ungraciously.
The old sense of antagonism48 was revived and intensified49 in him at the touch of her hand. She was unchanged, looking, if anything, more pretty than when he had seen her last, but the hardness at her mouth was accentuated50, and she had taken on an indefinable air of superiority which differed very little from sheer insolence51.
A gold-rimmed lorgnette came up to survey him, and he was nettled—only women had the power to annoy him.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” he bantered52. “I’m sorry your eyesight is not so good as it was. Studio life is pretty tough on the eyes, isn’t it?”
She closed her lorgnette with a snap, and turned to the girl.
“You’d better see what Sir John is doing,” she said. “Ask him what he thinks I am, that I should wait in the hall like a tramp.”
It was then that the girl came out of the shadow and Timothy saw her.
“This is the ward23 or niece,” he said to himself, and sighed, for never had he seen a human creature who so satisfied his eye. There is a beauty which is neither statuesque nor cold, nor to be confounded with prettiness. It is a beauty which depends upon no regularity53 of feature or of colour, but which has its reason in its contradictions.
The smiling Madonna whom Leonardo drew had such contradictory54 quality as this girl possessed55. For she was ninety per cent. child, and carried in her face all the bubbling joy of youth. Yet she impressed Timothy as being strange and unnatural56. Her meekness57, her ready obedience58 to carry out the woman’s instruction, the very dignity of her departure—these things did not fit with the character he read in her face. Had she turned curtly59 to this insolent60 woman and told her to carry her message herself, or had she flown up the stairs calling for Sir John as she went, these things would have been natural.
Lady Maxell turned upon him.
“And see here, Mr. What’s-your-name, if you’re a friend of Sir John, you’ll forget that I was ever in a studio. There are enough stories about me in Bournemouth without your adding to the collection.”
“Mother’s little thoroughbred!” said Timothy admiringly; “spoken like a true little lady.”
In some respects he was wholly undisciplined, and had never learnt the necessity of refraining from answering back. And the woman irritated him, and irritation61 was a novel sensation.
Her face was dark with rage, but it was upon Sir John, descending62 in haste to meet his offended wife, that she turned the full batteries of her anger.
“You didn’t know the time, of course. Your watch has stopped. It is hard enough for me to keep my end up without you helping63 to make me look foolish!”
“My dear,” protested Maxell in a flurry, “I assure you——”
“You can spend your time with this sort of trash,” she indicated Timothy, and Timothy bowed, “but you keep me waiting like a tailor’s model at Sotheby’s, of all people in the world, when you know well enough——”
“My dear,” pleaded the lawyer wearily, “my watch has certainly stopped——”
“Ah! You make me tired. What are you doing with this fellow? Do you think I want reminding of movie days? Everybody knows this fellow—a cheap gambler, who’s been fired out of every studio in England. You allow your servants to insult me—and now I suppose you’ve brought this prize-fighter to keep me in my place,” and she pointed64 scornfully at the amused Timothy.
Half-way downstairs the girl stood watching the scene in silence, and it was only when he became conscious of her presence that Timothy began to feel a little uncomfortable.
“Wait,” said the woman. “John, this man has insulted me! I don’t know what he’s come for, but I suppose he wants something. He’s one of those shifty fellows that hang around studios begging for money to bet with. If you raise a hand to help him, why, I’m finished with you.”
“I assure you,” said Sir John in his most pompous66 manner, “that this young man has asked for nothing more than a letter of introduction. I have a duty——”
“Stop!” said the woman. “You’ve a duty to me, too. Hold fast to your money. Likely as not, you’ll do neither with ‘Take A Chance’ Anderson floating around.”
It was not her words, neither the contempt in her voice nor the insult which stung him. The man who went twenty rounds with Kid Muldoon had learnt to control his temper, but there was a new factor present—a factor who wore a plain grey dress, and had two big, black eyes which were now solemnly surveying him.
“Lady Maxell,” he said, “it is pretty difficult to give the lie to any woman, but I tell you that what you say now is utterly67 false. I had no intention when I came to Bournemouth of asking for anything that would cost Sir John a penny. As to my past, I suppose it has been a little eccentric, but it is clean, Lady Maxell.”
He meant no more than he said. He had no knowledge of Sadie O’Grady’s antecedents, or he might not have emphasised the purity of his own. But the woman went back as though she had been whipped, and Timothy had a momentary68 vision of a charging fury, before she flung herself upon him, tearing at his face, shrieking69 aloud in her rage. . .
“Phew!” said Timothy.
He took off his hat and fanned himself. It was the first time he had ever run away from trouble, but now he had almost flown. Those favoured people who were in sight of Sir John Maxell’s handsome villa70, saw the door swung open and a young man taking the front path in four strides and the gate in another before he sped like the wind along the street.
“Phew!” said Timothy again.
He went the longest way back to his hotel, to find that a telephone message had been received from Sir John. It was short and to the point.
“Please don’t come again.”
“Is it likely?” he asked the page who brought the message.
Then he remembered the girl in grey, with the dark eyes, and he fingered his smooth chin thoughtfully.
“I wonder if it is worth while taking a chance,” he said to himself, and decided72 that, for the moment, it was not.
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收听单词发音
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1
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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calculus
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| n.微积分；结石 | |
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conjugate
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| vt.使成对，使结合；adj.共轭的，成对的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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redoubtable
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| adj.可敬的；可怕的 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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initiation
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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lucre
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| n.金钱，财富 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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eastward
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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mansion
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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fragrance
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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confession
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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standing
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neatly
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rimless
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| adj.无边的 | |
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discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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venting
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| 消除； 泄去； 排去； 通风 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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51
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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bantered
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| v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的过去式和过去分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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54
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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