“Mr. Anderson,” said Goldberg in his best magisterial4 manner, “I took you into my shop because I was short of a man and because I understood that you had had some business experience.”
“I have business experience,” said Timothy carefully, “of a kind.”
“I gave you particular instructions,” said Mr. Goldberg solemnly, “on one very vital point. We carry a full line of all the best proprietorial5 medicines, and our customers can always get them upon application. Each of those medicines we duplicate, as you know, providing the same constituents6 and charging some sixpence to a shilling less—in fact, we are out to save the public from being robbed.”
“I understand you,” said Timothy, “but I don’t see much difference between robbing the public and robbing the patent medicine proprietors7, and all that just-as-good stuff never did impress me, anyway. It stands to reason,” he said, leaning over the desk and speaking with the earnestness of a crusader, “that the advertised article must be more even in quality and it must be good all round. You can’t advertise a bad article and get away with it, except on the first sale, and that doesn’t pay the advertiser. The goods sell the goods, and the advertisement is only to make you take the first lick.”
“I do not want a lecture on advertising8 or on commercial morality,” said Mr. Goldberg with ominous9 calm. “I merely want to tell you that you were overheard by my chief assistant telling a customer not to ‘take a chance’ on one of my own pills.”
“That’s right,” said Timothy, nodding his head vigorously. “Guilty, my lord. What about it?”
“I have had a further complaint,” said Mr. Goldberg, consulting with elaborate ceremony a little notebook. “I understand that you have initiated10 the awful practice of offering to toss customers for their change. People have written me strong letters of complaint about it.”
“Because they lost,” said the indignant Timothy; “what’s wrong about that, anyway, Mr. Goldberg? I don’t pocket the money, and I win twice out of every three times. If a fellow likes to take a chance as to whether he gets sixpence or we get a shilling, why worry?”
“That sort of thing may be all right at a country fair or even in a country shop,” he said, “but it is not good enough for the Parade Drug Store, Bournemouth, and I’ll dispense13 with your services as from this morning.”
“You’re losing a good man,” said Timothy solemnly, but Mr. Goldberg did not seem to take that loss to heart.
All “Take A Chance Anderson’s” jobs ended violently. He never conceived of them ending in any other way, and invariably regarded the sum of money which was received in lieu of notice, or as compensation for breach14 of contract, as being something in the nature of a nest-egg which a kindly15 Providence16 had foreordained, and he was neither cast down nor elated by the crisis in his affairs when, by a fortunate accident, he met Mary Maxell—the fortune was apparent, but the accident belonged to the category which determined17 the hour at which trains leave stations.
Hitherto, on the girl’s part, these meetings had been fraught18 with a certain amount of apprehension19, if not terror. They had begun when Timothy had stopped her on the morning after his quarrel with Lady Maxell, and had made bland20 inquiries21 as to that lady’s condition. Then she had been in a panic and frantically22 anxious to end the interview, and it required all her self-restraint to prevent her flying at top speed from this wicked young man who had been so abominably23 rude.
At their second meeting he had greeted her as an old friend, and she had left him with the illusion of a life-time acquaintance. Hereafter matters went smoothly24, and they went so because Timothy Anderson was unlike any of the other boys she had ever met.
He paid her no compliments, he did not grow sentimental25, he neither tried to hold her hand nor kiss her, nor was he ever oppressed by that overwhelming melancholy26 which is the heritage and pride of youth.
Not once did he hint at an early decline or the possibility of his going away to die in far lands. Instead he kept her in screams of laughter at his interpretation27 of movie plays in the making. He did not ask for a keepsake; the only request he made of her in this direction was one which first took her breath away. Thereafter she never met him unless she had in the bag which slung28 from her wrist one small box of matches; for “Take A Chance” Anderson had never possessed or carried the means of ignition for his cigarette for one whole hour together.
Timothy told her most of what the proprietor of the Parade Drug Store had told him. The girl thought it was a joke, because that was exactly the way Timothy presented the matter.
“But you won’t be going away soon?” she asked.
“Not till I go abroad,” replied Timothy calmly.
“Are you going abroad too?” she asked in surprise.
He nodded.
“I’m going to Paris and Monte Carlo—especially to Monte Carlo,” he said, “and afterwards I may run across to Algeria or to Egypt.”
She looked at him with a new respect. She was less impressed by the great possessions which his plans betrayed than by his confident independence, and dimly she wondered why he was working at a drug-store for low wages and wondered, too, whether he was——
“I wasn’t blushing,” she protested; “I was just wondering whether I could ever afford a trip like that.”
“Of course you can,” said the young man scornfully. “If I can afford it, you can, can’t you? If I go abroad and stay at the best hotels, and go joy rides in the Alps and plan all this when I haven’t got fifteen shillings over my rent——”
“You haven’t fifteen shillings over your rent!” she repeated, aghast. “But how can you go abroad without money?”
“Why, I’d take a chance on that,” he said. “A little thing like money doesn’t really count.”
“I think you’re very silly,” she said. “Oh, there was something I wanted to tell you, Mr. Anderson.”
“You may call me Timothy,” he said.
“I don’t want to call you Timothy,” she replied.
He shook his head with a pained expression.
“We can be very sociable without that familiarity,” she said severely32. “I was just going to tell you something.”
They sat on the grass together, on the shadow fringe of a big oak and the spring sunshine wove its restless arabesques33 on her lap.
“Do you know,” she said after a pause, “that last night I had two queer experiences and I was scared; oh, scared to death!”
“Eating things at night,” said Timothy oracularly, “especially before you go to bed——”
“I wasn’t dreaming,” she said indignantly, “nor was it a nightmare. I won’t tell you if you’re so horrid34.”
“I’m only speaking as an ex-chemist and druggist,” said Timothy gravely; “but please forgive me. Tell me what it is, Mary.”
“Miss Maxell,” she said.
“Miss Mary Maxell,” he compromised.
“First I’ll tell you the least worst,” she began. “It happened about one o’clock in the morning. I had gone to bed awfully35 tired, but somehow I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and walked about the room. I didn’t like putting on the light because that meant drawing down the blinds which I had let up when I went to bed, and the blinds make such a noise that I thought the whole of the house would hear. So I put on my dressing-gown and sat by the window. It was rather chilly36, but my wrap was warm, and sitting there I dozed37. I don’t know how long, but it was nearly an hour, I think. When I woke up I saw a man right in the centre of the lawn.”
Timothy was interested.
“What sort of a man?”
“A coon?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“No, I think it must have been a Moor39. He wore a long white dress that reached down to his ankles, and over that he had a big, heavy black cloak.”
Timothy nodded.
“Well?”
“He went round the corner of the house towards uncle’s private stairway and he was gone quite a long time. My first thought was to awaken40 uncle and tell him, but then I remembered that Sir John had spent a long time in Morocco and possibly he knew that the man was about the house. You see, we have had Moorish41 visitors before, when ships have come to Poole. Once we had a very important man, a Kaid, and Sir John made queer tea for him in glasses with mint and stuff. So I just didn’t know what to do. Whilst I was wondering whether I ought not at least to wake Lady Maxell, he reappeared, walked across the lawn and went down the path which leads to the back entrance—you’re laughing at me,” she said suddenly.
“What you mistake for a laugh,” said Timothy solemnly, “is merely one large smile of pleasure at being in your confidence.”
She was in two minds as to whether she would be angry or pleased, but his tone changed to a more serious one.
“I don’t like the idea of the gaudy42 East wandering loose under your bedroom window in the middle of the night,” he said. “Did you tell Lady Maxell this morning?”
The girl shook her head.
“No, she was up very early and has been out all day. I have not seen her—in fact, she was not at breakfast. Now I’ll tell you the really serious thing that happened, and I do hope, Mr. Anderson, that you won’t be flippant.”
“Trust me,” said Timothy.
The girl had no reason to complain of his attitude when she had described the shooting incident. He was aghast.
“That is terrible!” he said vigorously. “Why, it might have hit you!”
“Of course it might have hit me,” she said indignantly. “That’s the whole point of my story, so far as you are concerned—I mean, so far as I am concerned,” she added hastily.
“So fax as I am concerned too,” said Timothy quietly. “I just hate the idea of anything even frightening you.”
She rose hurriedly.
“I am going to shop now,” she said.
“Mr. Anderson,” she said, ignoring his question, “I don’t want you to think that uncle is feeling badly about you because of what has happened in the house. He spoke44 to me of you last night, and he spoke very nicely. I am worried to death about Sir John. He has made enemies in his life, and I am sure that this shooting affair is the sequel to some old feud45.”
Timothy nodded.
“I should say that is so,” he said.
He looked down at the grass very thoughtfully and then:
“Well, I’ll go home,” he said. “I had better sleep this afternoon if I am to be up all night.”
“Up all night?” she said in surprise. “What is happening? Is there a ball or something?”
“There will be something livelier than a ball,” he said grimly, “if I find anybody in your garden to-night. And Miss Maxell, if you look out of your window and you see a solitary46 figure on sentry-go don’t shoot, because it will be me.”
He stopped her with a gesture.
“Possibly nobody will come to-night,” he said, “and as likely as not I shall be pinched by the police as a suspicious character. But there’s a chance that somebody will come, and that’s the chance I’m going to take.”
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1
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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magisterial
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| adj.威风的，有权威的；adv.威严地 | |
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proprietorial
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| adj.所有（权）的 | |
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constituents
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| n.选民( constituent的名词复数 )；成分；构成部分；要素 | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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brindled
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| adj.有斑纹的 | |
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dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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arabesques
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰( arabesque的名词复数 )；错综图饰；阿拉伯图案；阿拉贝斯克芭蕾舞姿（独脚站立，手前伸，另一脚一手向后伸） | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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43
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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44
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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45
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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46
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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47
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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